As an author, his style was plain, clear, and smoothly elegant. His argument was always carefully studied and as carefully rendered. He sent manuscript to the printer which required scarcely a letter of correction. Both in writing and speaking, he made the expression of truth his first business. Neither provocation nor temptation could ever lead him aside from that principle. His readings were select. He chiefly read scientific works, old and new. He had great relish for some of the old medical writers—the masters in physic. He had read Bacon, but agreed with Harvey’s criticism that Bacon wrote science like a lord chancellor. He had a notion that there had been a history long previous to any we know of from existing records, in which the sciences generally had risen to a greater perfection than they are at this present. His conversance with Sprengel’s _History of Medicine_ had possibly led him to this opinion. He was fond of general history also, but studied it little. He never read novels, because the hours devoted to them were, he felt, hours thrown away. At the same time, he enjoyed as much as any man ridiculous life-pictures naturally cast. When he came to see me, and leisure was with us, I used often to read to him some of the more amusing passages from Dickens and Thackeray, or from one of the older writers, as Swift. It was a new world to him, and provoked great fun. He would ask to have passages read over again, that he might better realize the conception. He enjoyed vastly any anecdotes about the old men in physic, the Cullens and Meads and Arbuthnotts and Harveys. Any such anecdotes he took into his memory and never forgot them. On such occasions I would, in ridiculous mood, sing him absurd songs to any tune, two or three tunes, or to no tune at all, and without any pretence at voice. At first he would listen with his hands flat together and with a perfect melancholy on his face, as if he could hear it no longer. Bit by bit he would relax, and at last get into a continued laughter. Then I would stop, and he would begin to open out his list of anecdotes, professional and general, upon which the laughter came over to me with compound interest, for of men enriched with stores of droll stories, few could equal him. Nor was he inventive in these narrations; he had simply observed character shrewdly, and described it in its humorous phases. If he had written as he related, he would have ranked as one of the humorists of the age of no second order. He thought severely of the reviewer’s art, and would never of late review any book critically. If a book were good, it carried the review of its own merits. If it were bad, it were better left untouched. He, at all events, with so much original work before him, could not stop to criticize his compeers or their transactions. Let the dead bury their dead; he must march with the living while life gave power.