Photographs in my early days were not in use: so philographs must be produced in their stead. Daubs were as common as they are now, so we have a national portrait gallery. Some sort of likeness should be preserved, too, of men who have figured in physic, not so much for their own sake as for the dramatic addition they make to the age; so engaging is it to know how noted people have acted in the private play.

Among medical men, Sir Charles Clark was the best actor: he was every man’s equal. Gay, upright in figure, graceful, of middle stature, he seemed always ready. He acted the least joke, and so made it a good one. He told of how one day in his garden he had a fit and fell on the gravel walk, but jumped up directly and ran away for fear of his being caught by it again.

Sir Astley Cooper, when I knew him, was somewhat aged; he had returned from the fatigues of rest to practice again, much blamed by those who had succeeded him in his position. He had a grand figure; his face was flabby, his manner quiet, commanding, kindly. Every word he said to those who consulted him was treasured up as worth the guinea they put down. He had a laugh that removed any ill-founded fancy at one stroke.

Sir Benjamin Brodie was a little man, thin of feature, with a diffused acuteness of look that rather glowed because earnest. It demanded a good forehead, like his, and a clear eye to carry off this bright expression.

Dr. Chambers was a large, heavy man, with thick lips, full face, prompt though bulky, seeming to carry his advice in his whole body, and taking his fees as if he were relieving his patient.

John Nussey, the court apothecary, was a man who had the confidence of dukes. He was of large figure, doughy complexion, attentive manner: listening all over. He spoke good sense, and slowly, conveying the feeling that he had much more to say if it so pleased him. Not being wastefully communicative, he was sought after for what he yet had to say.

Sir Richard Quain was of a large countenance; his head heavy, but only because it was full. He had a quiet, not uncheerful, but almost complaining way, at times, as if the sick world expected more of his time than he had to give. He almost appeared injured towards evening, in being too much in demand. Without being deaf, his manner was a little like that of one who was: it was so gentle.

Dr. William Gairdner, a good man within himself, had a select practice among such high people as would allow a free-spoken physician to say what he liked to them. He was of the Scotch blood, with not well-shaped features, and with nose not well finished; but a face altogether good-natured, and a smile that drew your chair close up to his. To use an expression that dropped from my clever nurse, he seemed to listen with his eyes. He once said to a man who proposed to settle in London, as physician, “It will not suit you; it is not in you to do as I did the other day, to put your hand on the Lord Chancellor’s shoulder and tell him he was incapable of speaking truth.”

Dr. J. W. B. Williams, great lung-diagnoser as he was, had a busy, moving manner, which was more like that of a manager than of the head of a firm.

Mr. Robert Liston, the surgeon, was as playful in private as a gigantic kitten, and liked to hear his pretty daughter call him silly. He gave one the impression that he could do everything, and knew nothing. It was not very incorrect; his operating powers were due to a wrist with which he could have screwed off a man’s head in the days of decapitation.

Dr. Mark Latham had the knowing head and look peculiar to those of his name. His face was aquiline in its totality, and, like a bird, he thought on both sides of his head, turning it first on one side, then on another, instead of on the simultaneous mean. He received one very heartily; if it were about a consultation the tone was maintained, but if not, he suddenly appeared busy.

Mr. Stone was a delightful family practitioner, with no end of good recipes for the nursery or lady’s chamber. He was a very friendly, considerate man, well up to every mark; and, being already confided in by all, he was without pretension.

Sir Thomas Watson was what may be called a learned physician. He had a nice, clever, collegiate face, quite gentlemanly and good looking, with a show of languor over his town practice, but very bright when summoned to the country, as if the air did him good. He was quite the head of his profession.

Dr. Richard Bright bore a name that covered his entire nature. His countenance and his mind seemed one: the acuteness, humour, brightness of his inner character lost nothing in flowing to his face, and even hands. His words were so exactly like his thoughts, that on our hearing them they became thoughts again, losing nothing in their passage; their self-conservation of force being unfailing.

Dr. J. A. Wilson (he sometimes latinized his initials to Maxilla) was a man to know, to esteem, to honour. He must have improved many a man’s memory to this day, for he was one who could never be forgotten.

Benjamin Travers was a great thinker, and a perfect surgeon. It is difficult to describe him personally, because he was so gentlemanly, so handsome, of such noble bearing.

One may say the same of Sir William Lawrence, his aspect and his work were so classic. Besides, to describe very great men, like him, is an affront to all the rest.

Sir Henry Acland, an Oxford professor, I knew in my time. He had all the graces peculiar to his family. How delightful it must be for a physician, like him, to pass through life in learned elegance and successful ease!

Then there was Dr. Baly, with his round head, and a face that would cheer any man who had still an hour to live. He was a true man, and had all the medical science of the day at his command. But, even more than this, he knew how to manage the sick, how to give them every advantage that tact could devise; in a word, how to save a life if that life was to be saved.

One more, the one whose name among anatomists is the most enduring of all: Dr. Robert Lee. He discovered a new nervous system when anatomy was held to be complete. Some men are a disgrace to society, some societies are a disgrace to men. So was it with the Royal Society in not recognizing Lee’s merit when the Continent was ringing with his name.

These are a few of those whom I knew and esteemed in my day.

Among medical men, I think Stone was the best at anecdote. He might have written another “Gold-headed Cane.” He was fond of his friends, and was hospitable. He enjoyed his profession, his consultations, and he told a story well. As a sample, Dr. ? was called at night to an old lady’s bedside, but was so inebriated as to do little towards ascertaining the state of the case. He retired to the table to prescribe, but he could not; he was too far gone to commit any remedial measures to paper. He tried over and over again, when, in despair, he described his own condition—“D—drunk, by G?!” and left. Early on the following day he received a summons to the lady. “Doctor,” said she, “how did you know what was the matter with me? and why were you so imprudent as to commit it to paper?”

Amongst scientific men of the century we have had Faraday, facile princeps—a man who, when he was doing nothing at all, always looked to me as if he was putting something in its place.

Stokes is the only man who has vied with Faraday, and touched Newton in revealing to us the invisible spectrum.

Then there is Tyndall still, an industrious peeper behind the scenes. It was kind of Faraday to leave him his old coat; but no man could wear it—no tailor could ever make it fit another.

And there is Huxley, who is so great in science, not satisfied with the comfort of believing in nothing himself, but he must strive to share the blessing with all—the blessing of believing in nothing but himself.

Then Darwin, who has been able to climb the hill safely, and reach the summit, with Goethe, Oken, Lamarc, and Geoffrey St. Hilaire on his back.

Then there are scientific men almost too great to be mentioned by name. These tell us the sun will wear out within the period they assign. If I saw them, I should suggest that the sun could not lose energy, because its elements are indestructible. If they asked me what I meant, I should reply that when oxygen and carbon produced heat, and lost it to the earth, they could produce just as much heat again, and that for ever.

“Matter and force,” I should say, “are one, and that one cannot lose or gain.”

If they made no answer, I should add, and then walk away—

“The materials of the sun cannot be diminished, as they can reach no other centre of gravity. But I admit that the sun is open to collision; not, however, within any calculable period of time.”

We should then both speak to some one else.

I now conclude.

In these my reminiscences I have made very free with my reader, and now I heartily wish him “Good day.”