And whom have ye knowen die honestly Without help of the Poticary?—_Heywood._ Dr. Stanforth was considered a model hospital physician—for the students. They were ever the first in his thoughts; to touch one of them was to touch the apple of his eye. He lived for them (and by them), yet he never allowed any of his patients to suspect anything of the kind. There was nothing he grudged his pupils, and they consequently worshipped him. To serve any of his boys he would sacrifice the feelings of any interesting bit of “clinical material” that came in his way, and he boasted that he turned out more proficient practitioners than any one of his colleagues. His methods were startling even to them, and many were the wrinkles he put them up to. His fame in his speciality—gynæcology, was so great, and his really remarkable abilities so well recognised, that nothing he did, startling though it was to the outside world, diminished the crowds of patients who flocked to his consulting rooms. Of course he had the _bonhomie_ and social tact that are needful in attaching young men to a teacher; he was, in addition, able to prove to them that by attending his practice they were acquiring a practical knowledge of their work which they could obtain in no other way. Dr. Stanforth held all his patients at the disposal of any pupil of his who desired to do or see something new. “Do what you like, my lad,” he used to say to a favourite assistant. “You are in these wards to learn all you can, and all my beds are at your service. Would you like to do a gastrotomy? You ought to do one or two before you leave; it’s a very pretty operation. I never knew a case survive more than a week; but there’s nothing like trying, and if you pick out a case that must die any way, you are welcome to use any of my cases that we can get to consent: and with Sister Agnes’ help—Sister is capital at getting consent to anything, aren’t you Sister?—it can generally be managed. Yes, you had better do one or two; it will be a fashionable operation before long. Rabbits do very well with it, better than dogs in my hands; but humans don’t take nicely to it at all. Now, don’t scruple to let me know anything you’d like to do. I owe you something good for keeping that pretty Pemphigus going so nicely while I was on my holiday—very good of you, very good indeed—I sha’n’t forget you; bye-bye.” At what awful cost all this was to the “material” he never troubled to estimate. The scandal at last got too strong for St. Bernard’s, and he was soon promoted “out of the opportunities of his art”—as he complained.