in the Middle Ages, when learning, not to say science, had sunk into such an abyss of ignorance that the ability to write one's name lifted one into the ranks of the educated, when human ills were relieved more often with the sword than with the scalpel, the leech was a man apart. His education, his scientific investigations, and even his supposed communion and partnership with the evil one, placed his on a pedestal above other professional callings. Then, as now, though men might scoff at our profession of superior knowledge and skill, when "pallida mors" stalked abroad or knocked at the hovels of the poor or palaces of the rich, all arose to call us blessed. It has been often said that, could a medical man live up to the ethical standards of his profession, his chances without creed or priest would not be small at the last great day. But with all of our high ideals we are only mortal, and we know and have sorrowed at the fact that many of our ethical standards are not lived up to, and that the Hippocratic law is frequently more honored in the breach than in the observance. We have in every community where one or two are gathered together in the name of medicine the man who is everything to your face and everything else behind your back; who damns by faint praise; who sympathizes with you in your sorrows and trials, who visits the family of the patient you have lost to assure them of your skill and to insist that everything was done that could have been done, "but"----and that one harmless little conjunction, meaning nothing in itself, is more eloquent than a thousand terrible adjectives or burning, blistering adverbs or participles. So many things can be said by the pious uplifting of the eyes, the sanctimonious upturning of the palms. He would not for the world leave a doubt in the minds of your people, and, no matter what in his inmost heart he thinks of your mistakes (from his standpoint), it is not his place to injure a brother, but, alas! he is not responsible for the unguarded tongues of his friends, and he usually sees that they do his work well for him. Often it is "if I could only have reached him earlier," which, being interpreted, means a miracle would have been wrought. Almost every community has its miracle worker, its medical resurrectionist. His cases are always a little worse than others, his victories a little more wonderful. Where you have a bronchitis, he has a desperate pneumonia, your transitory albuminuria is with him acute Bright's, and hopeless cases follow him to undo him, only to meet defeat at his skillful hands. You hear that Mr. A. is desperately ill with pneumonia on Monday, and on Friday you meet him on the street, looking hale and hearty, firmly believing that, had Dr. X. been one hour later in reaching him, he would ere this have been gathered to his fathers. Should you mildly suggest that some error in diagnosis might have been made, that even the best of us at times go wrong, and that resolution in