Non cum corpore extinguuntur magnæ animæ, placide quiescas! No man who once saw Sir Robert Christison could ever mistake him for any one else. His nature was homogeneous, and curiously consistent. As a physician, though he might not have all the suavity and expressive kindliness of the elder and younger Begbies, nor the-shall we call it ?-mesmeric power of the huge-brained and anomalous Simpson; nor that instant fixture of reliance which Syme's eyes, more even than his words, gave and kept; nor the penetrating look, as of a warlock, of Dr. John Scott, he had much of the best that they had not in such quantity he had the momentum of a strong, clear, well-knowledged mind, determined on doing its best for his patient's good, and that best well worth its name, and, once confided in, he was so for ever. To have such a command of all known drugs, he was singularly simple in his medicines and general treatment. As a lecturer he was, for the subjects he treated, we may say perfect, full of immediate knowledge as distinguished from mediate, orderly in its arrangement, lucid in its exposition rather, perhaps, than luminous, for it did not need that-strong and impressive in its application. His life-long friend. Mr. Syme was sometimes more luminous than lucid, though always full of power over the thought of others, quickening it and making what he said unforgetable. That great, amorphous genius, John Goodsir, was often largely luminous and sometimes sparingly lucid. In his experiments Christison was exquisite, and never failed, unlike his excellent and gifted predecessor, Dr. Andrew Duncan, junr., whom some of us elders may remember setting agoing a process at the beginning of the hour, telling us (unluckily) what we would see, and then casting, all through the lecture, furtive, and at last desperate and almost beseeching glances at the obdurate bottle, till at the close he, with a sad smile, said, 'Gentlemen, the failure of this experiment proves more than its success!' The bent of Christison's mind was scientific and positive rather than philosophic, speculative, or presaging. He was more occupied with what is, than with why it is, or what it may become, and in this region he did his proper work excellently, with a clear decision and thoroughness. He had the natural qualities of a great soldier, and was full of martial ardour and sense. He has sometimes been called distant and cold. He had great natural dignity, and was not of an effusive turn, being warmer inside than out, which is better than the reverse; but that he had tender and deep feelings, as well as strong energy and will, the following cir cumstances may well show. in his lifetime, would have pleasure on that noble face. It refers to what, if said brought a flush of disHis wife, a woman of great beauty, and better, was in her last long illness. She was going to the country for a month, and her husband heard her give orders that a piece of worsted work which she had finished should be grounded and made up as an ottoman, and ready in the drawingroom on her return. A few days before that, he asked if it was completed; it had been totally forgotten. He said nothing; but, getting possession of the piece, he sat up for two or three nights and grounded it with his own hand, had it made up, and set his wife down on it, as she had wished. Is not that beautiful?-a true, manly tenderness, worth much and worth remembering: 'Out of the strong came forth sweetness.' His love of Nature, from her flowers to her precipices and mountains, and his pursuit of her into her wildest fastnesses, 'haunted him like a passion,' increasing with his years. His Highland residences during the latter part of his life gave him great delight, and fed his intrepid, keen, searching spirit. He never saw a big mountain but he heard it, as it were, saying to him, 'Come on-and up;' and on and up he went, scaling the tragic Cobbler and many else. He had a genius for nice handiwork, and took pains with everything he did. The beauty and minuteness of his penmanship we |