"I take every moment I have to spare to write to you, which is not many; but you must excuse me, as I am doing good to my fellow-creatures. At this time, every moment I spend in idleness might probably cost a life. The sickness increases every day, but most of those who die, die for want of good attendance. We cure all we are called to on the first day, who are well attended, but so many doctors are sick, the poor creatures are glad to get a doctor's servant." On the first day of October, at two o'clock in the afternoon, my sister died. I got into my carriage within an hour after she expired, and spent the afternoon in visiting patients. According as a sense of duty, or as grief has predominated in my mind, I have approved, and disapproved of this act, ever since. She had borne a share in my labours. She had been my nurse in sickness, and my casuist in my choice of duties. My whole heart reposed itself in her friendship. Upon being invited to a friend's house in the country, when the disease made its appearance in the city, she declined accepting the invitation, and gave as a reason for so doing, that I might probably require her services in case of my taking the disease, and that, if she were sure of dying, she would remain with me, provided that, by her death, she could save my life. From this time I declined in health and strength. All motion became painful to me. My appetite began to fail. My night sweats continued. My short and imperfect sleep was disturbed by distressing or frightful dreams. The scenes of them were derived altogether from sick rooms and grave-yards. I concealed my sorrows as much as possible from my patients; but when alone, the retrospect of what was past, and the prospect of what was before me, the termination of which was invisible, often filled my soul with the most poignant anguish. I wept frequently when retired from the public eye, but I did not weep over the lost members of my family alone. I beheld or heard every day of the deaths of citizens, useful in public, or amiable in private life. It was my misfortune to lose as patients the Rev. Mr. Fleming and Mr. Graesel, both exhausted by their labours of piety and love among the poor, before they sickened with the disease. I saw the last struggles of departing life in Mr. Powel, and deplored, in his death, an upright and faithful servant of the public, as well as a sincere and affectionate friend. Often did I mourn over persons who had, by the most unparalleled exertions, saved their friends and families from the grave, at the expence of their own lives. Many of these martyrs to humanity were in humble stations. Among the members of my profession, with whom I had been most intimately connected, I had daily cause of grief and distress. I saw the great and expanded mind of Dr. Pennington, shattered by delirium, just before he died. He was to me dear and beloved, like a younger brother.