In consultation or in ordinary practice, Abernethy was only rough and hasty when something annoyed him. Towards his fellow-practitioners who could give a reason for their opinions or their treatment, he was polite and even deferential. He never recommended interference with judicious plans of cure in order to gain _éclat_ for himself, nor unless some important end were to be obtained. He was no party to concealments or deceptions being practised on the friends of patients, and in many cases told the plainest of plain truths to patients themselves. “Pray, Mr. Abernethy, what is a cure for gout?” was the question of an indolent and luxurious citizen. “Live upon sixpence a day—and earn it,” was the cogent reply. He is reported to have been consulted by the Duke of York; and to have stood before him, as usual, whistling, with his hands in his breeches-pockets. The astonished Duke remonstrated: “I suppose you know who I am.” “Suppose I do,” replied Abernethy, “what of that?” And he advised the Duke, in reference to his complaint: “Cut off the supplies, as the Duke of Wellington did in his campaigns, and the enemy will leave the citadel.” A barrister came to Mr. Abernethy with a small ulcer on his leg, which had proved difficult to heal. Having heard much of his impatience and peculiar manners, he began to pull down his stocking as soon as he entered his consulting-room. “Holloa! holloa! what the devil are you at?” exclaimed the surgeon. “I don’t want to see your leg; that will do, put it up, put it up.” The patient did so, but marked his displeasure by placing only a shilling upon the table when he left. “What is this?” asked Abernethy. “Oh,” replied his patient, “that will do, put it up, put it up,” and coolly retired.