were, with much pomp and circumstance, laid by the side of the great architect, in the consecrated cemetery. DR. WILLIAM HUNTER. The name of Hunter is still of high account in the profession, which was raised and adorned by the talents and virtues of the two brothers. Indeed it is as inseparably connected with the progress of medical science in Great Britain, as is that of Wren with architecture, or that of Erskine with trial by jury. The career of the elder of the distinguished brothers is well worthy of attention, and eminently calculated to stimulate industry. Dr. Hunter was not only a Scotchman, but to some extent a patriot; and an adventurer of mark or likelihood from that country, without a genealogy, would be like the year without the spring, or like the spring without the flowers. It serves to support his pride, and to sustain him in his poverty. In this respect the great physician was not deficient, his grandfather having been a younger son of Hunter of Hunterstone, chief of the name. Moreover, the parentage of this eminent man was respectable; for about the beginning of last century his father resided, in all the pride of territorial dignity, on the small hereditary estate of Long Calderwood, in the county of Lanark. The laird was, no doubt, a frugal-enough swain, with ideas as old-fashioned as the language in which they were expressed; but who lacked not sagacity, nor a stout heart and a strong hand. He had need of such qualities; for, however barren or the reverse might have been his acres, it appears that “the leddy,” though doubtless exemplary and diligent in “doubling his joys and all his cares dividing,” was, if any thing, inconveniently prolific; for with alarming rapidity, as years glided on, he was presented with no less than half a score of children――a progeny surely large enough, in all conscience, to daunt the bravest speculator on the probabilities of the future. In the rustic abode, most likely one of those “thatched mansions” at that period commonly the residence of the lesser proprietors of the soil of North Britain, on the 23d of the merry month of May, 1718――if, indeed, all seasons were not then alike in that impoverished country, where, in the words of the clever but clumsy satirist, “No flowers embalmed the air but one white rose, Which on the tenth of June by instinct blows,”―― William Hunter, destined to be one of the most famous of medical practitioners, anatomists, and lecturers, was born and swaddled, with the usual form and ceremony. He was the seventh child of his parents; and ten years later, in the same place, appeared his brother, who is styled “the Prophet of the Healing Art,” and whose wise countenance, as portrayed by the potent pencil of Reynolds, made Lavater exclaim――“That man thinks for himself!”