The intellectual attainments of the Doctor, it must be admitted, were not of the highest order. He was a student of men rather than of books. He had journeyed but little along the flowery paths of literature. He never gave "local habitation or name" to the particular Medical College which had honored him with its degree. He was, as he often asserted, of the "epleptic" school of medicine. In reply to my inquiry as to what that really was, he solemnly asservated that it was the only school which permitted its practitioners to accept all that was good, and reject all that was bad, of all the other schools. In his practice he had a supreme contempt for what he called "written proscriptions," and often boasted that he never allowed one of them to go out of his office. He infinitely preferred to compound his own medicines, which, with the aid of mortar and pestle, he did in unstinted measure in his office. On rainy days and during extremely healthy seasons, his stock was thereby largely augmented. In administering his "doses" his generous spirit manifested itself as clearly as along other lines. No "pent-up Utica" contracted his powers. It has been many times asserted, and with apparent confidence, that no patient of his ever complained of not having received full measure. There were no Oliver Twists among his patients. It was a singular fact in all the professional experience of this eminent practitioner, that his patients, regardless of age or sex, were all afflicted with a like malady. Many a time as he returned from a professional visit, mounted on his old roan, with his bushel measure medicine bag thrown across his saddle, in answer to my casual inquiry as to the ailment of his patient, he gave in oracular tones, the one all-sufficient reply, _"only a slight derangement of the nervous system."_ He never quite forgave Mr. Lincoln the reply he once made to an ill-advised interruption of the Doctor during a political speech. "Well, well, Doctor," replied Mr. Lincoln, good-humoredly, "I will take anything from you _except your medicines."_ The Doctor was a bachelor, and his "May of life" had fallen into the sear and yellow leaf at the time of which we write. He was still, however, as he more than once assured me, an ardent admirer of "the opposing sect." In one of his most confidential moods, he disclosed to me the startling fact that he had in early life been the victim of a misplaced confidence. In an unguarded moment he entrusted the idol of his heart to the safe keeping of a friend, in the whiteness of whose soul he trusted as in a mother's love, while he, the confiding Doctor, journeyed westward to seek a home. "He knew not the doctrine of ill-doing, Nor dreamed that any did."