When the great Mrs. Siddons was at the theatre it was a point of fashion with ladies to faint by the score. Wood’s services were much in requisition, a good deal to his disgust. “This is glorious acting,” said some one to him. “Yes, and a d—d deal o’t too,” growled Sandy, as he sweated from one unconscious fair to the other. Almost as well known as Sandy were his favourite sheep Willie and a raven, which followed him about whenever they could. The most conspicuous figure of the eighteenth-century Edinburgh doctors was William Cullen (1710-1790), who in 1756 was made Professor of Chemistry in the University. One charming thing about those Edinburgh doctors is their breadth of culture: Cullen had the pleasure of reading _Don Quixote_ in the original. When Dugald Stewart was a lad he fell ill, and was attended by Cullen, who recommended the great Spaniard to the ingenious youth. Doctor and patient had many a long talk over favourite passages. Dr. John Brown, afterwards author of the Brunonian system of medicine, was assistant to Cullen, but they quarrelled, and Brown applied for a mastership in the High School. Cullen could scarcely trust his ears. “Can this be oor Jock?” quoth he. Plain speaking was a note of those old Edinburgh medicals. Dr. John Clark was called in to consult as to the state of Lord Provost Drummond, who was ill of a fever. Bleeding seemed his only chance, but they thought him doomed, and it seemed useless to torture him. “None of your idle pity,” said Clark, “but stick the lancet into him. I am sure he would be of that opinion were he able to decide upon his case.” Drummond survived because, or in spite, of the operation. Lord Huntington died suddenly on the bench after having delivered an opinion. Clark was hurried in from the Parliament Close. “The man is as dead as a herring,” said he brutally. Every one was shocked, for even in old Edinburgh plain speaking had its limits. He might have taken a lesson from queer old Monboddo, who said to Dr. Gregory, “I know it is not in the power of man to cure me; all I wish is euthanasia, viz. a happy death.” However, he recovered. “Dr. Gregory, you have given me more than I asked—a happy life.” This was the younger Gregory (1753-1821), Professor of Medicine in the University, as his father had been earlier. He was an eminent medical man, but a great deal more; his quick temper, his caustic wit, his gift of style, made him a dangerous opponent. The public laughed with him whether he was right or wrong. His _History of the Western Islands and Highlands of Scotland_ showed that he had other than medical interests. In 1793, when the Royal Edinburgh volunteers were formed, he became one of them, and he disturbed the temper of Sergeant Gould, who said, “He might be a good physician, but he was a very awkward soldier.” He asked too many questions. “Sir,” said the instructor, “you are here to obey orders and not to ask reasons; there is nothing in the King’s