"Ah," said he, "there is no saying too much on the importance of recollecting the course of large arteries: but I will tell you a case. There was an officer in the navy, and as brave a fellow as ever stepped, who in a sea-fight received a severe wound in the shoulder, which opened his axillary artery. He lost a large quantity of blood; but the wound was staunched for the moment, and he was taken below. As he was an officer, the surgeon, who saw he was wounded severely, was about to attend him, before a seaman who had just been brought down. But the officer, though evidently in great pain, said: 'Attend to that man, sir, if you please; I can wait.' Well, his turn came; the surgeon made up his mind that a large artery had been wounded; but, as there was no bleeding, dressed the wound, and went on with his business. The officer lay very faint and exhausted for some time, and at length began to rally again, when the bleeding returned. The surgeon was immediately called, and, not knowing where to find the artery, or what else to do, told the officer he must amputate his arm at the shoulder joint. The officer at once calmly submitted to this additional, but unnecessary suffering; and, as the operator proceeded, asked if it would be long. The surgeon replied that it would soon be over. The officer rejoined: 'Sir, I thank God for it!' But he never spake more." Amidst the death-like silence of the class, Abernethy calmly concluded: "I hope you will never forget the course of the axillary artery." His position was always easy and natural—sometimes homely, perhaps. In the Anatomical Lecture, he always stood, and either leant against the wall, with his hands folded before him, or resting one hand on the table, with the other perhaps in his pocket. In his Surgical Lecture, he usually sat, and very generally with one leg resting on the other. He was particularly happy in a kind of coziness, or friendliness of manner, which seemed to identify him with his audience; as if we were all about to investigate something interesting _together_, and not as if we were going to be "Lectured at" at all. He spoke as if addressing each individual, and his discourse, like a happy portrait, always seemed to be looking you in the face. On very many accounts, the tone and pitch of the voice, in lecturing, are important. First: That it may not be inaudible; nor, on the contrary, too loud. The one of course renders the whole useless; the other is apt to give an impression of vulgarity. We recollect a gentleman who was about to deliver a lecture in a theatre to which he was unaccustomed. He was advised to ascertain the loudness required, and to place a friend in the most distant part, to judge of its fitness; but he declined it as unnecessary. When he had given the lecture, which was a very good one, on a very interesting subject, he was much mortified in finding that he had been inaudible to at least one half of the audience.