"The position of Abernethy was always easy and natural, sometimes almost homely. In the anatomical lecture he always stood, and either leaned against the wall, with his arms folded before him, or rested one hand on the table; sometimes one hand in his pocket. In his surgical lecture he usually sat. He was particularly happy in a kind of cosiness, or friendliness of manner, which seemed to identify him with his audience, as if we were about to investigate something interesting together, and not as though we were going to be 'lectured at,' at all. His voice seldom rose above what we term the conversational, and was always pleasing in quality, and enlivened by a sort of archness of expression." He always kept his eye on the audience, except slightly turning to one side to explain a diagram or subject, "turning his back on no man." "He had no offensive habits. We have known lecturers who never began without making faces;" we might add, "and with many a hem and haw, or nose-blowing." "Not long ago we heard a very sensible lecturer, and a very estimable man, produce a most ludicrous effect by the above. He had been stating very clearly some important facts, and he then observed,-- "'The great importance of these I will now proceed to show--' when he immediately began to apply his pocket-handkerchief most vigorously to his nose, still facing his audience." The ludicrousness of this "illustration" may well be imagined. Of course the students lost their gravity, and laughed and cheered vigorously. Going in to hear Dr. Holmes lecture, at one o'clock one afternoon, recently, the writer was both shocked and astonished, on the occasion of the professor slipping in a pleasing innuendo, by hearing the students cheer with their hands, and stamp with their thick boots on the seats. I shall have occasion to refer to this splendid man, the pleasing lecturer, the skilful operator, the able author, the ripe scholar, the pride of Harvard and the state,--Dr. O. W. Holmes,--in another chapter. THE HOMELESS STUDENT. (Scene from the EARLY LIFE OF A BOSTON PHYSICIAN. By permission.) Standing on the steps of the Astor House, New York, one cheerless forenoon in early June, with my carpet-bag in one hand and my fresh medical diploma in the other, with a heavy weight of sorrow at my heart, and only sixteen cents in my pocket, I presented, to myself at least, a picture of such utter despair as words are inadequate to express.[4]