families are sick, whom they choose to honorable offices, whose writings
and teachings they hold in esteem. A man may be much valued by the
profession and yet have defects which prevent his becoming a favorite
practitioner, but no popularity can be depended upon as permanent which
is not sanctioned by the judgment of professional experts, and with these
you will always stand on your substantial merits.

What shall I say of the personal habits you must form if you wish for
success? Temperance is first upon the list. Intemperance in a physician
partakes of the guilt of homicide, for the muddled brain may easily make
a fatal blunder in a prescription and the unsteady hand transfix an
artery in an operation. Tippling doctors have been too common in the
history of medicine. Paracelsus was a sot, Radcliffe was much too fond
of his glass, and Dr. James Hurlbut of Wethersfield, Connecticut, a
famous man in his time, used to drink a square bottle of rum a day, with
a corresponding allowance of opium to help steady his nerves. We
commonly speak of a man as being the worse for liquor, but I was asking
an Irish laborer one day about his doctor, who, as he said, was somewhat
given to drink. "I like him best when he's a little that way," he said;
"then I can spake to him." I pitied the poor patient who could not
venture to allude to his colic or his pleurisy until his physician was
tipsy.

There are personal habits of less gravity than the one I have mentioned
which it is well to guard against, or, if they are formed, to relinquish.
A man who may be called at a moment's warning into the fragrant boudoir
of suffering loveliness should not unsweeten its atmosphere with
reminiscences of extinguished meerschaums. He should remember that the
sick are sensitive and fastidious, that they love the sweet odors and the
pure tints of flowers, and if his presence is not like the breath of the
rose, if his hands are not like the leaf of the lily, his visit may be
unwelcome, and if he looks behind him he may see a window thrown open
after he has left the sick-chamber. I remember too well the old doctor
who sometimes came to help me through those inward griefs to which
childhood is liable. "Far off his coming "--shall I say "shone," and
finish the Miltonic phrase, or leave the verb to the happy conjectures of
my audience? Before him came a soul-subduing whiff of ipecacuanha, and
after him lingered a shuddering consciousness of rhubarb. He had liv