John Abernethy was remarkable for his eccentricity, and brevity in his dealings with patients. Sometimes he met his match. The following has been told about him often enough to be true. On one occasion a lady, who doubtless had heard of his _brusque_ characteristic, entered his consulting-room, at Bedford Row, and silently presented a sore finger. As silently the doctor examined and dressed the wound. In the same manner the lady deposited the accustomed fee upon the table, and withdrew. Again she presented the finger for inspection. "Better?" grunted the great surgeon. "Better," quietly answered the lady, deposited the fee, and left, without saying another word. Several visits were thus made, when, on presenting it for the last time, Abernethy said,-- "Well?" "Well," was the lady's only answer, and deposited her last fee. "Well, madam, upon my soul, you are the most sensible lady with whom I ever met," he exclaimed, and very politely bowed her out. CONSISTENT TO THE END. The most eccentric physician who ever lived, and the only one I have read of who carried his odd notions beyond this life, was Messenger Monsey, of whom I have before written in this book. He died at the age of ninety-five. He wrote his own will,--having eighty thousand dollars to dispose of,--and his epitaph. The will was remarkable, and is still preserved. "To a beautiful young lady, named ----," he gave an old battered snuff-box, not containing a shilling, lavishing upon her, at the same time, the most extravagant encomiums on her wit, taste, and elegance; and to another, whom he says he intends to enrich with a handsome legacy, he leaves the gratifying assurance that he changed his mind on finding her "a pert, conceited minx." After railing at bishops, deans, and clergymen, he left an annuity to two of the latter, who did not preach. "My body shall not be insulted with any funeral ceremonies, but after being dissected in the theatre of Guy's Hospital, by the surgeons, for the benefit of themselves and students, the remainder of my carcass may be put into a hole, or crammed into a box with holes, and thrown into the Thames." The main part of his property went to his only daughter. [Illustration: WHAT THE ELEPHANT IS LIKE.] [Illustration: A DOCTOR'S SOLACE.] This is a true copy of his epitaph:-- "Here lie my old bones; my vexation now ends; I have lived much too long for myself and my friends. As to churches and churchyards, which men may call holy, 'Tis a rank piece of priestcraft, and founded on folly. What the next world may be never troubled my pate; And, be what it may, I beseech you, O Fate, When the bodies of millions rise up in a riot, To let the old carcase of Monsey lie quiet." The above reminds me of another epitaph in Greenwood: