ing taught. He delighted in those anatomical
conundrums to answer which keeps the student's eyes open and his wits
awake. He was happy as he dexterously performed the tour de maitre of
the old barber-surgeons, or applied the spica bandage and taught his
scholars to do it, so neatly and symmetrically that the aesthetic
missionary from the older centre of civilization would bend over it in
blissful contemplation, as if it were a sunflower. Dr. Lewis had many
other tastes, and was a favorite, not only with students, but in a wide
circle, professional, antiquarian, masonic, and social.

Dr. Otis was less widely known, but was a fluent and agreeable lecturer,
and esteemed as a good surgeon.

I must content myself with this glimpse at myself and a few of my
fellow-students in Boston. After attending two courses of Lectures in
the school of the University, I went to Europe to continue my studies.

You may like to hear something of the famous Professors of Paris in the
days when I was a student in the Ecole de Medicine, and following the
great Hospital teachers.

I can hardly believe my own memory when I recall the old practitioners
and Professors who were still going round the hospitals when I mingled
with the train of students that attended the morning visits. See that
bent old man who is groping his way through the wards of La Charity.
That is the famous Baron Boyer, author of the great work on surgery in
nine volumes, a writer whose clearness of style commends his treatise to
general admiration, and makes it a kind of classic. He slashes away at a
terrible rate, they say, when he gets hold of the subject of fistula in
its most frequent habitat,--but I never saw him do more than look as if
he wanted to cut a good dollop out of a patient he was examining. The
short, square, substantial man with iron-gray hair, ruddy face, and white
apron is Baron Larrey, Napoleon's favorite surgeon, the most honest man
he ever saw,--it is reputed that he called him. To go round the Hotel
des Invalides with Larrey was to live over the campaigns of Napoleon, to
look on the sun of Austerlitz, to hear the cannons of Marengo, to
struggle through the icy waters of the Beresina, to shiver in the snows
of the Russian retreat, and to gaze through the battle smoke upon the
last charge of the red lancers on the redder field of Waterloo. Larrey
was still strong and sturdy as I saw him, and few portraits remain
printed in livelier colors on the tablet