all about it." Our friend sat down accordingly, while Abernethy, standing with his back against the table, thus began: "I take it for granted that, in consulting me, you wish to know what I should do for myself, were I in a predicament similar to yourself. Now, I have no reason to suppose that you are in any particular predicament; and the terrible mischief which you apprehend, depends, I take it, altogether upon the stomach. Mind, -at present, I have no reason to believe that there is anything else the matter with you." (Here my friend was about to disclose sundry dreadful maladies with which he believed himself afflicted, but he was interrupted with "Diddle-dum, diddle-dum, diddle-dum dee!" uttered in the same smooth tone as the previous part of the address-and he was silent.) "Now, your stomach being out of order, it is my duty to explain to you how to put it to rights again; and, in my whimsical way, I shall give you an illustration of my position; for I like to tell people something that they will remember. The kitchen, that is, your stomach, being out of order, the garret (pointing to the head) cannot be right, and egad! every room in the house becomes affected. Repair the injury in the kitchen,-remedy the evil there, -(now don't bother,) and all will be right. This you must do by diet. If you put improper food into your stomach, by Gad you play the very devil with it, and with the whole machine besides. Vegetable matter ferments, and becomes gaseous; while animal substances are changed into a putrid, abominable, and acrid stimulus. (Don't bother again!) You are go ing to ask, What has all this to do with my eye?' I will tell Il you. Anatomy teaches us, that the skin is a continuation of the membrane which lines the stomach; and your own observation will inform you, that the delicate linings of the mouth, throat, nose, and eyes, are nothing more. Now some people acquire preposterous noses, others blotches on the face and different parts of the body, others in ' Peo flammation of the eyes-all arising from irritation of the stomach. ple laugh at me for talking so much about the stomach. I sometimes tell this story to forty different people of a morning, and some won't listen to me, so we quarrel, and they go and abuse me all over the town. I can't help it-they come to me for my advice, and I give it them, if they will take it. I can't do any more. Well, Sir, as to the question of diet, I must refer you to my book. (Here the professor smiled, and continued smiling as he proceeded.) There are only about a dozen pages-and you will find, beginning at page 73, all that it is necessary for you to know. I am christened Doctor My-Book,' and satirized under that name all over England; but who would sit and listen to a long lecture of twelve pages, or remember one half of it, when it was done? So I have reduced my directions into writing, and there they are for any body to follow, if they please. "Having settled the question of diet, we now come to medicine. It is, or ought to be, the province of a medical man to soothe and assist Nature, not to force her. Now, the only medicine I should advise you to take, is a dose of a slight aperient medicine every morning the first thing. I won't stipulate for the dose, as that must be regulated by circumstances, but you must take some; for without it, by Gad! your stomach will never be right. People go to Harrowgate, and Buxton, and Bath, and the devil knows where, to drink the waters, and they return full of admiration at their surpassing efficacy. Now these waters contain next to nothing of purgative medicine; but they are taken readily, regularly, and in such quantities, as to produce the desired effect. You must persevere in this plan, Sir, until you experience relief, which you certainly will do. I am often asked- Well, but, Mr. Abernethy, why don't you practise what you preach?' I answer, by reminding the inquirer of the parson and the sign-post: both point the way, but neither follow its course."-And thus ended a colloquy, wherein is mingled much good sense, useful advice, and whimsicality. As a lecturer, Mr. Abernethy stands unrivalled. His countenance is that of a man of great genius; and a nose of Grecian form adds very considerably to the acute expression of his features; while his light grey eyes, always animated, seem as if they could pierce through the very depths and intricacies of science. His forehead is finely formed, and has afforded Spurzheim (to whose system of craniology Mr. Abernethy to a degree subscribes) many a luxurious feast; while the scowl of deep thought, which has cast a shade of reflection over his brow, is frequently dissipated by the smile of humor or derision. He begins his lecture in an unconstrained familiar tone of voice, gradually getting more animated and eloquent, as he advances toward the pith and marrow of his subject; and, after lopping off all the absurd and useless minutia of the science, and after refuting all inconsistent theories, he arrives at the conclusion, leaving his auditors deeply impressed with his instruction. He is an excellent chemist; and never fails to point out the agency of this science in the operations and functions of the frame. Of John Hunter he never fails to express his admiration and delight; and repeatedly declares that he has done more for the improvement of modern surgery than any other individual whatever. We cannot better conclude this, we fear, imperfect sketch, than by quoting the following eloquent passages from his last physiological lecture before the College of Surgeons, in 1817. "I pity the man who can survey all the wonders of the animal and vegetable kingdoms, who can journey through so delightful a district, and afterwards 'exclaim, All is barren!' Still more do I pity those, though the sentiment is mixed with strong disapprobation of their conduct, who, after having seen much to admire, shall, when they meet with a circumstance which they do not understand, presumptuously dare to arraign the wisdom and benevolence of Nature. In the progress of science, many things, which at one time appeared absurd and productive of evil, have afterwards, upon an accession of knowledge, been found to be most wise and beneficent. I deem no apology requisite, gentlemen, for endeavoring to impress on your minds certain axioms relating to philosophy in general, when they are directly deducible from the subjects of our peculiar studies. I have constantly and carefully avoided every argument foreign to the subject; so that, if occasionally I may have appeared to sermonize, I have quoted both the chapter and verse of my text from the book of Nature. I address you, gentlemen, as students of that great book, and earnestly exhort you to study it with such sentiments as I have endeavored to inculcate. The conviction that everything tends to some immediate or essential good, is the greatest incentive to this study. It was this conviction that excited Hunter to such continual inquiry, or involved him occasionally in the depths and perplexities of intense thought; for he was never satisfied without being able to assign an adequate reason for whatever he observed in the structure and economy of animals. This conviction makes the study of Nature highly interesting; and may, indeed, be said to render labor delightful, or to mitigate the pains attendant on its toil. To those who entertain such sentiments as I have endeavored to inculcate, everything seems animated, beneficent, and useful; they have the happy talent of discovering even Tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” ” Such is Abernethy; and when death shall have buried in oblivion all the blots and shadows of his characterwhen another generation shall have sprung up, and known him only by the triumphant memorials, which he will bequeath to them in his works; then will they couple the names of Hunter and Abernethy together, and regard them as two of the most distinguished benefactors of their race. WELCOME! thrice welcome to my heart, sweet harbinger of bliss! Oh no, not e'en when life was new, and love and hope were young, And o'er the firstling of my flock with raptured gaze I hung, Did I feel the glow that thrills me now, the yearnings fond and deep, Though loved and cherished be the flower that springs 'neath summer skies, Sweet blossom of my stormy hour-star of my troubled heaven! What though my heart be crowded close with inmates dear though few, And should another claimant rise, and clamor for a place, Who knows but room may yet be found, if it wears as fair a face! I listen to thy feeble cry, till it wakens in my breast The sleeping energies of love-sweet hopes, too long represt! It stirs my heart like a trumpet's voice, to strive for thee and thine! It peals upon my dreaming soul, sweet tidings of the birth I cannot shield thee from the blight a bitter world may fling I cannot save thee from the grief to which our flesh is heir, From altered friendship's chilling glance-from hate's envenomed dart; Such faith and love from heaven above, as will leave earth's malice weak. But wherefore doubt that He who makes the smallest bird his care, Dear youngling of my little fold, the loveliest and the last! "Tis sweet to deem what thou may'st be, when long, long years have past; To think, when time hath blanched my hair, and others leave my side, Thou may'st be still my prop and stay, my blessing, and my pride. And when the world has done its worst-when life's fever fit is o'er, Oh! 'tis for offices like these the last sweet child is given, The mother's joy-the father's pride, the fairest boon of heaven; THE PRESENT AND THE FUTURE. "Man never is, but always to be, blest." THERE are few lines which have been more frequently quoted than this, and few sentiments the truth of which has been more universally felt. Men are ever on the anxious and unquiet search after that happiness which sits neglected by their side; and, like Pyrrhus, each one has some kingdom to conquer, before he can enjoy the good he already possesses. I should not repeat here an observation which has a thousand times afforded a subject to the rhetorician and the satirist; but that it has occurred to me, that this disposition to procrastinate our happiness has been much favored and increased by the method of moralizing common to all counsel-giving gentry. The remote consequence of an action is the first object of their consideration; the immediate happiness or unhappiness resulting to the agent, is seldom contemplated. Its effect upon the future is the sole motive they urge: to-day has no value, but in its influence on to-morrow the present is, in all cases, to be sacrificed to the future: it is something to be put out to interest, to be speculated upon after the best calculations of profit and loss. From the earliest to the latest moment of our lives, instructers of all kinds are perpetually representing the future as the rule by which to judge of the prosent. Can it be wondered at, that we should learn to attach but little importance to the latter, and that we should fall into the absurd habit of neglecting the hour before us, to increase the enjoyment of some future hour, which, in its turn, is to be sac rificed for the benefit of its successor? In childhood, we are taught that all our industry is for the advantage of riper years the whole season of youth is a preparation for manhood: in manhood, the habit of expectation is too deeply rooted to be effaced; and old age arrives bidding men prepare for another state of existence, before they have learned to live in this. If it is possible for man to be happy, it is possible for him to be so now; if virtue constitute that happiness, to be virtuous now is the only guarantee of the happiness of the future. Let moralists, then, found more of their discourse on the felicity of the present; let them not throw that into the distance, which ought to be brought as near as possible; let them not wander wide to find motives to that conduct the pleasure of which should be itself the first inducement. The remoter consequences of an action are not, of course, to be overlooked; but, by dwelling upon them almost exclusively, we learn to forget the more immediate ones, and to attach that importance to a time yet to come which would be better attached to the moment that is with us. The great object of every man is, or ought to be, the perfection of his moral character; and, although it may be necessary that, to be fully convinced of this, he should have looked abroad upon the future; yet, the object once recognised, he can only effect it by entrenching himself within the present. It is in vain that he extends his imagination over a well-spent life; the strength of his will is exhausted in resolves which relate not to the present time, and cannot, therefore, be acted upon. His are aspirations, indeed, rather than resolutions. He is an architect who is continually dwelling upon, and embellishing, his plan, but of whose palace not one stone will be laid. Let him limit himself to the hour; let him live by the day; let him think honestly and feel honestly now, and it will soon come that the morrow will take care for itself. With the philosopher as with the libertine, the present hour is worth all the rest. I know of no remedy to the evils of life so constant and so sure as the habit of withdrawing ourselves into that portion of it which is immediately passing before us-of looking near at those very miseries which, when cast into the distance, appear so fearful and overwhelming. By extending our existence over the future, we make each moment bear the burden of many years by failing to look closely at the evils of life, we are ever deceived as to their nature we suffer without gaining experience-we endure without improving in fortitude. A great portion of the miseries of men have their origin in their servile obedience to the opinions of others. They are miseries because society chooses to think or call them such. How shall we be disabused of this error, but by steadfastly regarding the facts themselves, which are reported to be of so cruel a description? Take the example of one who has fallen from opulence into what he calls poverty. He starts every moment at the bitter reflection of what other men are saying of him, and how other men will, in future, greet him. The real outward circumstances, the actual deprivations which he has to sustain, do not press upon him in the least. These he forgets-these he passes over, to torture himself in divining the whispers of society; in picturing to himself a future of the keenest humiliation, of ruined hopes and mortified vanity. Were I the friend of such a one, I would attempt to distract his thoughts by no other method than by fixing them on the external details of his situation. I would draw his attention to the mean apartment in which he dwelt, to his lack of attendance, to his meagre and ill-served fare, to the unpolished and unceremonious deportment of those around him. No deprivation or neglect should pass unnoticed: each circumstance of poverty, as it arose before him, should be dwelt upon and estimated, till he should be able fairly to judge of that situation which he had invested with so much horror, and by learning what he had really lost, discover what had been still left to him. Even physical pain, or, to speak more correctly, the state of unhappiness resulting from physical pain, admits of being alleviated by the same process. It is not the actual amount of suffering which forms the whole, or even the greater part, of the misery of a sick man's chamber. It is the anxious, restless regard which he casts unto the future, the impatient wish for his cure, and the harassing fear that it may be long delayed, that originate the greatest portion of his agony. It is not the malady of the present moment only that he endures: he has extended his sensibility over days and nights to come; and languishes in imagination in the sufferings of many months or years. The general custom is to amuse and support patients with the hope of a speedy cure,-a hope which must often be disappointed, and which only retards the acquisition of the fortitude so necessary to them. I should wish rather that they should fix their attention on the immediate pain that must be endured,should estimate its power over them, and the amount of force which remained to them after having supported it. How often do we find persons of the weakest frame subject to almost continual illness, who, because they no longer seek for support in the hope of remedy, but in a dependance on their own fortitude, pass a life of serenity and cheerfulness amongst suf |