CAREER OF A QUACK DOCTOR.—A REMARKABLE STORY.

Colonist, Volume II, Issue 103, 15 October 1858, Page 4

CAREER OF A QUACK DOCTOR.—A REMARKABLE STORY.

The greater strangeness of truth than fiction was well illustrated at a trial which took; place at the late Perth Spring Circuit.' The circumstances out of which this trial: originated are somewhat: extraordinary. John Glen, an illiterate young man, who; can neither read nor write, and who for: some years past seems to have travelled1 the country as a cleaner of clocks, bethought himself in the month of August ■ last of bettering his prospects by turning; doctor and vendor of medicines. Glen, hovyever, not being a sufficiently euphonious or attractive name,' ho assumed that of Willoughb}'; and, with the view of increasing his sphere of action, and his opportunities of doing good, he caused a number of handbills to be printed, in which it was announced that Dr. Willoughby and Sons, late of the Royal Navy, and from the.Botanical College, Baltimore, United States of America, had two medical establishments—the one in Dundee, and the other in Edinburgh. The bills, of course,, announced that the cures performed by these eminent physicians were almost without parallel, and ah^'a^p^pnate''na^er"'''^

certificates frbhi grateful patients was ap-; pended* Further, it was announced that their meafeines contained no deleterious minerals, tSf were formed from "the gums and balsams rof Eastern climes, where the trees drop balsam, and health sits and makes it sovereign as it flows." Armed with a goodly number of these valuable documents, Glen; br7rather we should sayi Dr. Willoughbyi '.-s3j|JMit on a peripatetic tour for the benefit of suffering mankind in Scotland. Of his doings we know nothing further until the middle of September,1 when we find him at the little village of Guardbridge, in Fifeshire. His advent, however, had been heralded the. day before by a boy distributing his handbills among the primitive inhabitants of the >viliage. One of these found its way into the family of an old pensioner called Sinclair. His daughter Jean had been ailing for some time past, and, confident in the capacity of Dr. Willoughby and Sons, was anxious to try the effect of their invaluable," Verelentic Arabica Tincture." Next day "the Doctor" called upon the Sinclairs, and saw, the daughter^ We may. be sure that he1 was no less profuse in his assertions of the efficacy of his own medicines than his handbills were, and the result was that Jean Sinclair handed over to him a guinea,: in return for which she received two sodawater bottles filled with some fluid, Which no doubt was the Verelentic Arabica Tincture. It-was impossible the medicine should fail, and accordingly in the course; of a week or two Jean was restored to health.

In the meantime the Doctor's visits were anything but few and far between; indeed, he was a daily visitor, and such good use did he make of his time that in three weeks he had asked the hand of his fair patient, and she had consented to become his wife. He had no doubt learned; either from herself or from some of the neighbours, that Jean was "a lass wi' a tocher." Jean, too, was doubtless perfectly satisfied with the worldly position of her future husband, with the profits of the! Dundee and Edinburgh establishments as well as his practice, and a pension of ss. 6d. a-day ("for it would appear that Dr. Willoughby had lost a finger while serving in the navy,) Jean might well look upon him as a very eligible husband. Before this, however, another actor, or rather actress, appeared upon the stage, in the shape of a young lady whom the doctor brought with him one day to the Sinclairs' house. As he had not deemed it necessary to tell his intended wife that his real name was Glen, no more did he think it requisite to mention that this young lady's name was Jessie Buchanan, and that he and she had lived together as man and wife for the preceding seven years; emulating the example of Abraham of old, he introduced her to the Sinclairs as his sister, Miss Jessie Willoughby. This took place on the national fast day,, which was on the 7th of October last. A week after this Jean and; the doctor drove to St. Andrews, |n order to get the marriage bands proclaimed. They were accompanied by Jean's brother, David Sinclair, and the soi-disant Miss Willoughby* They drove to the Cross Keys Inn, where, perhaps, not the least extraordinary part of this eventful history occurred. Jean and Jessie Buchanan having gone shopping* the Doctor suggested to David tliat he should marry his sister at the same time that he married Jean. David seems to have assented, for when the ladies returned, the proposal was made and agreed to, and the whole four proceeded to the session clerk of St. Andrew's, and gave in their names to him that they might be proclaimed on the following Sunday. They then returned to Guardbridge. Next Monday, Jean and the doctor were married in St. Andrew's by the Rev. Dr. Buist; and a day or two after at Cupar the Rev. Dr. Wordie united David Sinclair and Jessie Buchanan alias Willoughby in the bands of holy wedlock. From this time the two newly married couples resided in Mr. Sinclair's house until the end of December, when the doctor and his wife (we mean Jean) removed to Dunfermline, where they established a public-house; David and Jessie remained at Guardbridge, until one fine day /David Sinclair was waited upon by a certain MrJ Allsop. This gentleman, too, travelled the country as a doctor, and somewhat oddly his advertisements bear that he too was "late of the Royal Navy* and frorii the Botanical College, Baltimore, "U.S.". The fact, however, may be mentioned that, when in the witness-box, he declined to in-4 form the prisoner's counsel, Mr. Morrison, in what capacity it was he had served in the navy. It appeared that formerly Allsop had been a friend of Glen's, and they travelled together from place to place for some months, until a dispute arose between them, and Glen gave him a sound beating,^ on, which1 they parted company. Anxious no doubt to repay this trifling debt, Allsop now told David Sinclair what he knew of Glen's past history, and his connection with Jessie Buchanan.

The news led to high words between David and Jessie. Reproached by her new husband, she bethought herself of claiming her first love ;iand, with this view, proceeded to Dunfermline. But the doctor would have nothing to say to her, and Jessie, to be revenged on all parties, went to the session-clerk of St.! Ahdrewys, and communicated the fraud they had committed. The result was that .the worthy; pair were apprehended, and were brt the 6th of this month tried and convicted of the offence of causing false entries to be made in the register of marriages, and received sentence, he of eight months', and she of twelve months' imprisonment, The first reflection which occurs to one in thinking over the facts of this case is, that gross and cruel as was the fraud committed by these adventurers on the Sinclairs, it is doubtful whether the criminal law of this country could have reached them, if they had not assumed the name of Willoughby and been married under it. Glen's marriage with Jesßie * Buchanan being one constituted 'only hy habjt ajid

repute,; no charge of bigamy could have! lain against them ; and but for the operation of the Registration Act, they must have escaped scot-free. , Apart from other points, in this strange case, it is melancholy to reflect that, while there is scarcely a place in Scotland where the services of a properly qualified medical, man may not be obtained, men of Glen's stamp,—unable even to, read or write, and totally-unacquainted with the properties of the drugs they make use of—should find persons credulous enough to believe the falsehoods they tell so unblushingly, .and not only part with their money, but entrust their health, it may be their lives, to their care. The law 06 Scotland permits any man, no matter how ignorant, to follow the practice of medicine, differing in this respect from the law of the sister country. There; any one practising as a physician without a proper qualification, no matter what his learning and skill in the science of medicine may be, is liable in a penalty of £5 for every month he so practices. There may be some question of the expediency of this law, but few persons will dispute the inconvenience of utterly incompetent persons being \ permitted to assume with impunity the style, title, and profession of a " Doctor."-— Scotsman. ■ ... . .. . , > „ • Pascal.— -The' last four years of Pascal's life presented an almost unbroken series of bodily suffering. Incapable of mental exertion his soul was absorbed in devout exercise; and, when his little remaining strength permitted, his delight was to pass from one church to another, to partake of the* various religious solemnites, of which the metropolis afforded an uninterrupted succession. He seemed, at those times, almost to realise the fond aspiration of the Psalmist; and, like the bird; of whose privileges he was envious, to make his habitation in the courts of the Lord! It is touching and instructive to contemplate him in these scenes. Who does not follow with interest one, with whose name Europe was resounding, the victorious polemic, the scourge of error— on whose brow literature and science had twined their bended wreath—whom the world, for his genius and his learning, was eager to court and caress;—to see him thus —his days numbered, the unerring premonitions of decay borrte with him—pierced by the • arrows of the Almighty'—stealing, in sickness and solitude, like the stricken deer, from sanctuary to sanctuary: and finding his only remaining comfort in the services of that church which he had so earnestly sought to purify, but which he yet, perhaps too fondly, too blindly loved; Was he, in that solitude, and amidst those sufferings, really unhappy, and an object of our pity ? He himself was, from his in-! most heart, pitying the unthinking world, upon which he had turned his back. He possessed, in those moments, *apeace that passed all understanding/ *a joy with which no stranger might intermeddle.' He bore within him 'a hope full of jmmorta^ lity;' his was a 'sober certainty?^f bliss." In those services—alloyed Jily>supprstitßon and error, yet changed by the alchemy of his spiritualised mind into the sacred nutriment for which alpne his soulhunr gered—he found the foretaste of those pure and stainless adorations on which he was about eternally to enter; and, in the ' approaching extinction of his earthly hopes; he welcomed the commencement of an existence which was alone commensurate/ with the large desires of his aspring spirit.—f Pearce's Memoir of Pascal , , , 1 Monotony.—*- Monotony is pleasant in it-t self; morally pleasant, and morally useful^ Living in the, same house is monotonous; but three removes, say the wise, are as bad as a fire. I delight in that same monotony. It saves curiosity, anxiety, excitement, disappointment, and a host of bad passions, It gives a man the blessed invigorating feeling that he is at home; that he has roots deep and wide, struck down into all he sees; and that the only Being who will do nothing cruel or-useless can tear them up. It is pleasant to look down on the same parish day after day, and say, Lknow all that lies beneath, and all beneath know me., If I want a friend, I know where to find him; if I want work done,. I know; who will do it. It is pleasant and good: to .-see.-, the same trees year after year; the same birds coming back in spring to the. same shrubs; the same' banks covered with the same flowers; and broken (if they be stiff ones) by the same gasp. Pleasant and good it is to ride the same horse,-to sit in the same chair, to wear the same oldcoat. That '.manjvhp pffered.twenty pounds reward for a lost carpet bag full bfoldbbbtsj was a sage, arid I wish I knew him; -Why should one change one's place, any more! thani oneV wife and one's children ? Is aL hermit-crab, slipping his tail out of brie! strange shell into anbthor, in the hopes of its fitting him, a little better, either a aignif. fied, safe, or graceful animal ? The oftnerj one sees, the better one knows; and the better one knows, the more: one loves.-r--Frdzer's Magazine.In a jolly company each one was to ask : a question. If it was answered the proposer was to pay a forfeit; or if he could not answer it himself, he paid a forfeit. Pat's question was:—'How the little ground squirrel digs his hole without shewr' ing any dirt about the entrance V When, they all gave it up, Pat says :—• Sure, do you see, he begins at the other end of the hole.' One of the rest exclaimed, 'But how does, he get there V «Ah I' said Pat,, ' That's your question—can you answer it yourself ?' . ' The Opinions of Qtfors.— Many a man has ruined himself by bejng too often guided by the opinions of others. Ask the advice of twenty different persons on the same subject, and ten to one you will receive as many different answers, each borne ous with fitting argument to make it appear the better reason. A man that has no reliance upon his own judgment becomes perplexed, endeavors to take a mid-, die path, assimilating as near as possible with the various advices he has received;

and, as a matter of course, fails in the undertaking he may.have in hand. I

Sun Engraving' and Damashening.-r^VL. Negre has lately communicated to^the. Academy of Sciences in Paris '-a. method' for engraving metals by the action of the sun, which, by the subsequent aid of the electrotyping process, 'pr|p jf mi|je^ ,to render! the art of engraving on' copper and steel plates .obsolete. ■ He firgtieoats a metal with a sensitive Varnish,"cQiriposed of gelatine and bichromate of pbtass or of asphal-, turn' dissolved in spirits or in benzoin, and then submits it to the action of light through a negative cliche reversed, or* through an ordinary positive proof, according as it may be desired to obtain an engraving for copperplate printing or for printing with letterpress. After the plate has been sufficiently exposed to the sun's rays, those portions of the sensitive varnish are removed l>y a solvent composed of oil of naphtha, or of petrolium, benzoin, or spirits when the varnish consists of asphaltum, and by means of water when it is composed of gelatine or gum. The plate will then exhibit a reproduction of the photograph, by means of portions of its surface being left bare, and others coated with the insulating varnish. In this state it is regarded, as a. matrix, so to .speak,' and a layer of metal, less oxidisable than that of the plate, is -deposited by electro-galvanic agency upon the exposed portions. Thusj if the plate be: of. zinc, iron, or steel, the -deposited metal is copper, silver, or -gold? but if the plate be of copper, or its alloys, \ tho deposit is gold. Next, the helibgraphic image! formed by the sensitive varnish acted on by the light, and which, in the electro-galvanic process just described, has served the office of an insulating mixture, is removed, but tho design Is still preserved by the contrast of tiie exposed surface of the plate and those of the deposited metal. Subsequently the .design is bitten iri,'that is to, say, thb plate is covered with .a diluted' acid which will corrode the metal of t)ie plate where' it is exposed, but; which will1 -not attack the, deposited metal. If the plate7be of zinc, iron, or.steel, and,the deposited.metal of copper or silver, sulphuric acid is employed^ and nitric acid if the plate be of copper or! silver, and the deposited' metal gold.. .Or the plate may be corrbdep! by being used as an anode, submitted to the action of a galvanic battery in a neutral-solution of a salt of the same, or of a similar metal.—• Building News.

Lamb "on Pig. I*— Dear C, —It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so • well—they are interesting creatures at a certain age. What a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon! You had all some of the crackling—and brain sauce—did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before, tjie crisis? Did the eyes come away kindly, with no (Edipean avulsion ?—was the crackling the color of the ripe pomegranate?—had youno damned complement of boiled^neck.of mutton to blunt the edge of delicate desire?. —did you flesh maiden teeth in it? Not1 that I sent the pig, or can form the remo-; test guess what part Owen (our landlord) could play in the business. I nevjer knew him give anything away in his life—he would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig after all was meant for me—but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the present, somehow, went round to Highgate. To confess an honest' truth, a pig is one of those things I could never think of sending away. Teals, widgeons,, snipes, barn-door fowls; ducks, geese, your1 tamo villatic things—Welch- muttoncollars of brawn—sturgeon, fresh and pickled—your potted char—Swiss cheeses —French pies—early grapes—muscadine^ —J impart as freely to my friends as to myself,—they are but self-extended; but pardon me if I stop somewhere—where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher; smack than the sensual rarity; there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs ;, and I myself am, therein nearest to myself; nay,* I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to' nature, who bestowed such a boon upon me, if, in a churlish mood, I partedwith the precious gift. One of the bitterest' pangs I ever felt of remorse was when a, child—-my kind,old aunt had strained, her pocket strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plumcake upon me. In my way home through the Borough, I met a venerable pld man—not a mendicant-—but thereabouts; a look beggar—not a verbal pethiohist, and, in the coxcombry of taught charity, I! gave away the cake to him. I .walked ,on( a little in all the pride of an evangelical peacock, when' of a sftdden my old aunt's, kindness crossed me—the sum it was io her —the'pleasure that she'had a nghl *to.expect, that I, not the old impostor, should take in eating her cake—the damned ingra^ titude by which, under the color of a Christian virtue, I, had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously, that I think I never suffered the like.' And I was right; it was.a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after.'. The cake has long been masticated, consigned to the dunghill, with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper. But when Providence, -who > is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temptation and ray | fall, I shall endeavour to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose. Yours (short of pig) to command in every thing, C.L.— AUsop's Conversations and Recollections of S. T. Coleridge.

Earnest Agriculturists,—l% {g just,fifty years sinae Mr. Gqke said, in one tfpig annual IJolkam speeches, »«that a Norfolk flock had hitherto been considered, as little more, in-point of profit, than a dung cart:*' He soon taught his tenants, that valuable as was manure, they had! better /keep animals which would at the same time make a return in flesh and fat. His own skill in the difficult art of judging of the qualities of stock was great, and he used to assist his neighbors in parcelling out the ewes to die

rams according, to the shapes of each, that the defects of one parent might, as xnucU as possible, be remedied by the good point* in the other, "I have seen him and the late Duke of Bedford," says Young,, " v pw< on a shepherd's smock, work all day, and not quitj the business till darkness, foroed them to dinner."— Quarterly Review*: Give Your Orders;-— Three parties were brought up at Wellingborough,for a disturbance in a public-house. A part of tbe charge against them was the orders given by them for supper. *. Solomon took his seat first, and placed-his hands on the table, and issued the following order :— 'Waiter, bring me a dish of fried millstones and two church steeples cold, without sugar.'' George next gave his order: —'A pint of town pumps done brown, with a spoon in it.' ' Stephen' was'the next on the list, and ordered as follows:— 'Landlord, bring me a .quart,'of.station I clerks, two fried contractors, and a bootjack.' Mr Driver came at last, arid made the following modest request:—' Landlord, bring me the Thames Tunnel stuffed with sage and onions, and a pint of South Sea bubbles, warm without.' The simple landlord, after considering for a "minute, merely answered,«l ari't got 'em, geniemen,' when a row took place*-. , . One ,Ajdvantage.-^A> witty M.P., cele-» brated for his b'on mote, W said that,'in tlie lateudiacussiortin:Parliamehton;the',t>ill for marriag^ with a^deo&jseii "wife's sister,' all the;eppakers hacf fojpgbtten Taurge that, which,, ifr his opinion, was' the 'test,? if not the only.argument i,n its favor"-namely, rthat by marrying your deceased'wife's sister 7ou',can have only one mother-in-law instead of two. . " •'"/.' \ /J'X A . Credible Witness. —A' witness spoke several times during his testimony or. occurrences during his birth, when af surley judge interrupted hinV:—''Yoamean'fpMy that you can relate occurrences at the time bf your birth, from your own recollectionft" The laugh was turned against'the judge, as the witness replied:—^W%* sir, I cannot say that I romomber_every particular, but I can assure you'that I wasthar;" ' Impropriety iri Milk.-* ',' Madam,"'said a polite traveller to a testy landlady," if I see proper to help myself td this milk; is, tjiere any impropriety in it?" "Idon'tr know , what you meaii;. but if you mean to insinuate, that there it-anything bad iri the milk, I'll give you to understand that you've struck the wrong house. There ain.'t aWj* in the milk, for as soon.as Dorothy. the cat was drowned in it, I went and strained it over. ■ •

FatalFreak.--I\. is reported that, at the Northampton Workhouse, a refractory boy was placed for punishment in the deadhouse, in which a corpse was lying. ; The boy took the corpse out of'the coffin, dressed it in his own clothes, propped it up against the wall, and then got into the coffin, lay down and covered liimself over. In the course of a short timeHhc master , came, looked in at the door, and saw, as he thought, a sulky lad standing against the wall. "Now," said the master! "doybu. v want any supper?" there was no answer, The question was repeated with r the same result. The boy-looked out/"from .the coffin and said, "If he won't have any I will." The master fled under terror, and received such a shock that' it is said he' has since died from the effects. A Wedding in Arkansas. —A recent writer relates a scene which took place at the pastor's house. The young parson having arranged the folks, commenced, :-4- ---• ."John Stribner, do you. take Melindy 1 Woods, in the presence of these witnesses, to be your lawful wedded wife ?" ', " Jhit's wot I'm hyar'for/" answered jir.'Strlliner, cramming his hands into his' breeenes pockets. "■ 'You 'will please' answer Yestfr No." " Yes1 or, No,".' promptly '/returned the gentleman. <«No, no; j say /yes?' " Y-a-a-s, then," casting' a sheepish' look around him. " Melindy Woods.'* " Ya-a-sv" ",Wait a moment please. Wbpds, do you take John Stribneiy in the presence of these witnesses, to be your lawful wedded husband ?" "I ■ reckin." "Then in ', the presence of the. witnesses spoken of, t declare you man and wife, .'cording to thelaws of. Arkansaw and the Gospilljan' wot's thus jined, let no man put in sunder/'5 ; Exemplary Patience. —ln Court,/ Judge Olin was violently attacked by a young and very impertinent attorney, but heard him quite through, and made ho reply. , j^fter the adjournment,, and when all had assembled at the inn, one of the company, referring to the scene in, court, asked the judge why he did not rebuke"the impertinent fellow ? " Permit , me,"' said .the judge, loud enough to call the attention* of all the company, among which was ".the jellow " in question, " permit me ♦© te}l y eu a Wry. My father when he. lived do ( wn in the country, had a dog—a mere puppy, I might say, Well, this puppy would go out every moonlight night, and bark aUne moon for hours together." Here the Judge paused, as if he had done his story., " Well, well, what of it ?" exclaimed half-a-dozen of the audience at once. "Oh, nothing— nothing- whatever! - The maon'.keptrightvn, just as if nothing had happened." ' ' " I wish' I was a ghost; blamed Jf I don't," said a poor fellow :the other night as he sat soliloquising in the. cold. '•.Tjfiey gbe£ /wherever theyr pleases, toll free I they don't owe nobody, nothing, and that's . a comfort. Who ever heard tell ■of >a man who had a bijl agin a ghost? Nobody. They, never has to" tiuy hats and liquor, nor has to run arranto as I do. Their shirts/ neyer get ditW -f\or W* trtmser^ out ftt the Iweesi'as, feyer/liwfcd tell on, GljosU is tho only indenendejat people! knows on. I really wisVl;was one, _ r > - ,"*;. *"7 . An afflicted husband was returnmg from the funeral of his wife, when a friend asked him how he was, " Well/* said he pathetically, " I think I feel the better for that little walk!" /,. ." ~' ." ' L „.* !V:' -> -1-— '. —:—:—J :— :-u ~