"Just weigh that piece of beef, my friend," said Monsey, stepping up.
"Ten pounds and a half, sir," observed the butcher, after adjusting the scales and weights.
"Here, my good woman," said Monsey, "out with your apron, and put the beef into it, and make haste home to your family."
Blessing the benevolent heart of the eccentric old gentleman, the woman did as she was bid, took possession of her meat, and was speedily out of sight.
"And there, my man," said Monsey, turning to the butcher, "is tenpence halfpenny, the price of your beef."
"What do you mean?" demanded the man.
"Simply that that's all I'll pay you. You said the meat was a penny a pound. At that price I bought it of you—to give to the poor woman. Good morning!"
A fee that Dr. Fothergill took of Mr. Grenville was earned without much trouble. Fothergill, like Lettsom, was a Quaker, and was warmly supported by his brother sectarians. In the same way Mead was brought into practice by the Nonconformists, to whom his father ministered spiritually. Indeed, Mead's satirists affirmed that when his servant (acting on instructions) had called him out from divine service, the parson took his part in the "dodge" by asking the congregation to pray for the bodily and ghostly welfare of the patient to whom his son had just been summoned. Dissenters are remarkable for giving staunch support, and thorough confidence, to a doctor of their own persuasion. At the outbreak of the American war, therefore Grenville knew that he could not consult a better authority than the Quaker doctor, Fothergill, on the state of feeling amongst the Quaker colonists. Fothergill was consequently summoned to prescribe for the politician. The visit took the form of an animated discussion on American affairs, which was brought to a conclusion by Grenville's putting five guineas into the physician's hand, saying—"Really, doctor, I am so much better, that I don't want you to prescribe for me." With a canny significant smile Fothergill, keeping, like a true Quaker, firm hold of the money, answered, "At this rate, friend, I will spare thee an hour now and then."
Dr. Glynn, of Cambridge, was as benevolent as he was eccentric. His reputation in the fen districts as an ague doctor was great, and for some years he made a large professional income. On one occasion a poor peasant woman, the widowed mother of an only son, trudged from the heart of the fens into Cambridge, to consult the doctor about her boy, who was ill of an ague. Her manner so interested the physician, that though it was during an inclement winter, and the roads were almost impassable to carriages, he ordered horses, and went out to see the sick lad. After a tedious attendance, and the exhibition of much port wine and bark (bought at the doctor's expense), the patient recovered, and Glynn took his leave. A few days after the farewell visit, the poor woman again presented herself in the consulting room.
"I hope, my good woman," said Glynn, "your son is not ill again?"