In the Chapter on the Moral Influence of Physicians, I have spoken of the intimate relation, in which the physician stands to so many families, and of the strength and tenderness which his attachment to them acquires, by the exercise of an active sympathy during a long series of years. The accumulation of sympathy which thus occurs deepens the sorrow which he feels, as he sees in the case of some member of a family, upon which he has long attended, that his efforts are unavailing, and that the resources of his art are all exhausted. And as the friends gather round the bed of death, though by a habit of self-control he has an air of composure which is generally attributed to want of feeling he makes one of that circle, entering into their griefs as the sympathizing friend, as well as the faithful physician. And the very confidence which is reposed in him, gratifying as it is, sometimes adds poignancy to his grief. ‘You saved _my_ life, and why cant you save my husband?’—said a woman to me in the extremity of her agony, when I told her that it was not possible for her husband to recover. Another circumstance which adds to the sorrow of the physician in such seasons, especially when long acquaintance has created a strong personal attachment, is the total want of preparation with which many come to the hour of death. Even if the physician be not a religious man, this consideration must press upon him at times with a painful interest, if he has the common feelings of humanity. Especially will this be the case, when he is obliged to witness some of those horrible scenes, which sometimes occur in the last hours of a career of vice. The sorrowful scenes, which the physician witnesses occasionally in the ordinary routine of his business, come with a painful frequency, when some fatal epidemic is prevalent in the community. Then night and day his mind is filled with anxiety. The sorrows of bereavement continually call for his sympathy. And in the midst of all this, he avoids solicitude for his own safety, only by forgetting himself in the arduous duties which he performs for others’ welfare. While he sees others fleeing from the pestilence, he must be ever at his post. Though he may see some of his brethren falling around him, humanity demands of him that he should go on in his services to the sick, and to the honor of our profession I believe it may be said, that this demand is very seldom disregarded. During the prevalence of the yellow fever in Philadelphia in 1793, of the thirty-five physicians who remained in the city, eight (nearly one fourth of the whole number, died, and but three escaped an attack of the disease).