There are some doctors who do not understand the precise relation that the noble profession of undertaking desires to bear to the medical man. I freely confess that I myself was ignorant on this point until quite recently. In a certain neighborhood of this metropolis dwells an undertaker of more than local renown whose reputation has been built up largely by virtue of certain natural attributes that peculiarly fit him for the practice of his profession;--indeed, I have never met a man more to the manner born as regards fitness for his--shall I say, life work, or would “death work” be more appropriate? Mr. Weeps is one of those mournful-looking persons, who seem to be constantly on the verge of tears. His expression is of a most sympathetic nature, and his eyes seem ever ready to exude the saline fluid that is so essential to the expression of sincere sorrow and regret. It might be remarked in passing, that there are numerous theories explanatory of the redness and humidity of those bleary orbs. Personally, I repudiate the onion theory altogether, and incline to the view that Mr. Weeps’ ocular peculiarities are dependent upon a combination of catarrh and polypi obstructing the nasal ducts. The “red eye” theory, advanced by one of his homeopathic constituents, is unworthy of consideration--especially as my lugubrious friend has been superintendent of a Sunday school for ten years and has served two terms as alderman. But, whatever, may be the true explanation, Weeps’ eyes appear to have been especially designed for his vocation. There is no other business--unless it be selling milk--to which those watery orbs could possibly be so well adapted as to undertaking. I cannot claim to be on terms of intimacy with Mr. Weeps, and therefore do not feel warranted in attempting a detailed description of his many physical peculiarities--it would, however, be manifestly unfair to that most estimable gentleman, did I not dwell upon his eyes. In the course of my semi-occasional peregrinations into Mr. Weeps’ neighborhood, it transpired that one of my patients, with malice both prepense and aforethought--and consumption--did leave his little lung behind and hie him heavenward.