“‘O, sneezed, did you?’ retorted Mr. Squeers. ‘Then what did you say “Nothing” for, sir?’
“In default of a better answer to this question, the little boy screwed a couple of knuckles into his eyes, and began to cry; wherefore Mr. Squeers knocked him off the trunk with a blow on one side of the head, and knocked him on again with a blow on the other.”
Robertson was a fact; Squeers was a fable. That’s the difference.
As Dr. Robertson taught neither arithmetic nor writing in his school, the pupils went to King Street, to a Miss Ready, to receive instruction in those branches. This lady, if report is true, wielded the quill and cowhide with equal grace and mercy, and when the case came to hand, did not accept the modern advice, to “spare the boy and spoil the rod.”
When the great surgeon was at the height of his fame, in London, many years afterwards, Miss Ready, still rejoicing in “single blessedness,” called on her former pupil. In introducing his respected and venerable teacher to his wife, Abernethy laconically remarked, “I beg to introduce you to a lady who has boxed my ears many a time.”
An old schoolmate, when eighty-five years old, wrote to the author of “Memoirs of Abernethy,” saying, among other things, “In sports he took the first place, and usually made a strong side; was quick and active, and soon learned a new game.”
It was contrary to his own desire that John Abernethy became a physician. “Had my father let me be a lawyer, I should have known by heart every act of Parliament,” he repeatedly affirmed.
This was not bragging, as the following anecdote will illustrate:—
On a birthday anniversary of Mrs. Abernethy, mother of John, a gentleman recited a long copy of verses, which he had composed for the occasion.
“Ah,” said young Abernethy, “that is a good joke, pretending you have written these verses in honor of my mother. Why, sir, I know those lines well, and can say them by heart.”