My father practised on the borders of a forest; and when he was called at night to visit a distant patient, it was the greatest treat to me, then a little boy, to be allowed to saddle my pony and accompany him. My father knew the forest nearly as well as his own garden; but still, in passing bogs in impenetrable darkness, the more refined topography of a forester would be necessary; and it was on one of these occasions that I first heard two words, "Me-ward" and "Abernethy:" the one from our forester guide, which I have never heard since, and the other which I have heard more frequently perhaps than any. The idea I then had of Abernethy was, that he was a great man who lived in London. The next distinct impression I have of him was derived from hearing my father say that a lady, who had gone up to London to have an operation performed, had been sent by him to Mr. Abernethy, because my father did not think the operation necessary or proper; that Mr. Abernethy entirely agreed with him, and that the operation was not performed; that the lady had returned home, and was getting well. I then found that my father had studied under him, and his name became a sort of household word in our family. Circumstances now occurred which occupied my mind in a different direction, and for some years I thought no more of Abernethy. As long as Surgery meant riding across a forest with my father, I thought it a very agreeable occupation; but when I found that it included many other things, I soon discovered there was a profession I liked much better. Some years had rolled away, when, one afternoon in October, about the year 1816, somewhat to my own surprise, I found myself, about two o'clock, walking down Holborn Hill, on my way to Mr. Abernethy's opening lecture at St. Bartholomew's. Disappointed of being able to follow the profession I had chosen, looking on the one I was about to adopt with something very much allied to repulsion, considering everything in this world "flat and unprofitable," and painfully depressed in spirits, I took my seat at the lecture. When Mr. Abernethy entered, I was pleased with the expression of his countenance. I almost fancied that he could have sympathized with the melancholy with which I felt oppressed. When he commenced, I listened with some attention; as he went on, I began even to feel some pleasure; as he proceeded, I found myself entertained; and before he concluded, I was delighted. What an agreeable, happy man he seems! thought I. What a fine profession! What would I give now to know as much as he does! In short, I was converted.