The distinguished physician Sir Henry Marsh, used to describe an event which occurred at the beginning of his medical career, many years before he had reached the eminence to which he afterwards attained. He was called in by the family doctor—a country practitioner—to attend upon Colonel H——, struck down suddenly by apoplexy. The fit was a severe one. All efforts to save the sick man proved unavailing; he never rallied, and at the end of a few days, to all appearance breathed his last. On the morning of the funeral, the two medical attendants deemed it right, as a last attention, to go and take leave of the remains of their patient before the coffin was screwed down. The family doctor, a jovial florid personage, on whom professional cares sat lightly, had been a friend, and ofttimes boon-companion, of the deceased. A bottle of port and glasses stood on a table near the coffin. ‘Ah, my poor friend!’ he said, pouring out a bumper and tossing it off; ‘this was his favourite drink. Rare wine, too. He knew what was good, and never spared it. Many a generous glass we have had together. I’ll drink another to his memory,’ he cried; and another, and another followed, until the wine rapidly gulped down, and at so unwonted an hour, began to tell upon the man, and make his eyes glisten and his speech grow thick. ‘Why should you not pledge me now for the last time?’ exclaimed the excited doctor, while he approached the corpse, and, to Sir Henry’s inexpressible disgust at such revolting levity, pressed the glass to the pale lips. The contents went down the colonel’s throat! Sir Henry stood amazed; his eyes, which he was turning away from the unbecoming spectacle, were riveted on the corpse. The jovial doctor, sobered in a moment, staggered back. ‘Can a dead man drink?’ he cried. ‘Give him more—more!’ exclaimed Sir Henry, recovering his presence of mind and seizing the bottle. A tinge so slight that only a medical eye could have detected it, began faintly to suffuse the white face. The doctor tore away the shroud and placed his hand upon the heart. There was no movement; but they lifted the body out of the coffin and proceeded to adopt the measures proper for resuscitation. Meanwhile, the hearse stood at the door; the funeral guests were assembling outside—carriages arriving; while within, all was commotion and suspense—servants hurrying to and fro fetching hot bricks, stimulants, restoratives, in obedience to the doctors’ commands; the latter plying every means skill could devise to keep the flickering spark of life from dying out; and the startled family, half paralysed by the sudden revulsion, standing around, gathered in anxious, silent groups.