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.]