MEMOIR 
OF 
ROBLEY DUNGLISON, M.D., L.LD. MEMOIR 
or 
ROBLEY DUNGLISON, M.D.,LL.D. 
READ BEFORE TIIE COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS AT A SPECIAL 
MEETING HELD OCTOBER 20, 1869. 
BY 
S. D. GROSS, M. D., LL. D. 
“Qui omnium rerum atque artiuin rationem naturamque oomprehenderit.” 
Cicero. 
PHILADELPHIA: 
COLLINS, PRINTER, 705 JAYNE STREET. 
1869. M EMOI R 
OF 
110BLEY DUNGLISON, M. 1)., LL. 1). 
To write an appreciative and faithful biography of any man is confess- 
edly a difficult task ; but the embarrassment is vastly increased when, as 
in the present instance, the subject is an intensely earnest, self-reliant, 
highly-cultured, broad-minded, many-sided individual, who, for upwards 
of a third of a century, occupied a conspicuous place in professional and 
public esteem. Dr. Dunglison was no ordinary man ; indeed, in more 
than one sense of the term, he was an illustrious man ; a great scholar, 
an accomplished teacher, a profound physiologist, an acute thinker, a 
facile writer, a lucid, erudite, and abundant author. In all these rela- 
tions he excelled, jutting out prominently above and beyond most of his 
contemporaries, both in the New World and in the Old, and forming, in 
the language of Fitz-Greene Halleck, in his poem of Marco Bozzaris, 
“ One of the few, the immortal names 
That were not born to die.” 
There wras hardly a respectable medical man in this country, during 
the last third of a century, that was not indebted to him, in a greater or 
less degree, for some of his professional information, derived either from 
his works or from his oral instruction. The number of pupils, taught by 
him in the different schools with which he was connected, was perhaps as 
great as that of any lecturer that ever lived. His signature is affixed to 
nearly five thousand diplomas. No physician on this continent has sur- 
passed him in the extent of his erudition, in the variety of his informa- 
tion, or in the magnitude of his labors. 
Robt.f.y Dunglison was born on the 4th of January, 1798. His parents 
were William and Elizabeth Dunglison, the latter of whom was remark- 
able for her intellectual powers, and for the great care which she bestowed 
upon the education and moral training of her promising son. The place 
of his nativity was Keswick, a small town in Cumberland, England, on the 
south bank of the Greta, celebrated chiefly for its manufactures of linsey- 4 
woolsey stuffs, cutlery, and black-lead pencils. The valley in which it is 
situated has long been distinguished for its beautiful lakes and picturesque 
scenery, and is the constant summer resort of thousands of tourists from 
all parts of the world. Greta Hall, for many years the residence of the 
poet Southey, is near the town, and serves to impart additional interest 
to the locality. 
It was here, in this beautiful and romantic spot, so well calculated to 
inspire the mind with grand and noble ideas, that the boy received the 
rudiments of his education, and laid the foundation of his future useful- 
ness and distinction. The original intention was to prepare him for the 
mercantile profession, and then to send him to the West Indies, to his 
uncle, Mr. Joseph Robley, an opulent planter, whose design it was to give 
Him an interest in his estate. Before this plan, however, could be ma- 
tured, his kinsman died ; and, whether from his own natural proclivities 
or through the influence of his friends, he determined to study medicine. 
For this purpose he went to Green Row Academy, a celebrated classical 
institution, where he made himself thorough master of the Greek and 
Latin languages and of the higher branches of an English education. He 
had previously, while a pupil at Brisco Hill, near Wigton, in Cumber- 
land, paid great attention to mathematics and English composition, and 
there are still extant several MS. volumes of his exercises which show 
with what care and neatness he performed his daily scholastic labours. No 
one can examine these exercises without being struck with the remarkable 
order and system which characterize them, and which formed such distin- 
guished traits in his subsequent career. They were unquestionably innate 
qualities of his mind ; and it is equally certain that to them much of his 
brilliant success, as an author and teacher, was due. 
He commenced the study of medicine in his seventeenth year. His 
early pupilage was spent at his native town, in all likelihood as an ap- 
prentice to some obscure practitioner, whose name long since passed away. 
He afterwards went to London, where he served as an assistant to Mr. 
Charles T. Haden, the obstetrician, and personal friend of Sir Astley 
Cooper. During his connection with this gentleman, he attended a 
course of lectures in the University of Edinburgh; but returned at the 
close of the session to London, where, after having visited the Ecole de 
Medecine of Paris, and received instruction in certain specialties, he com- 
pleted his studies, and passed his examination at the Royal College of 
Surgeons and at the Society of Apothecaries. He commenced the prac- 
tice of his profession in 1819. In 1824, he graduated, by examination, 
in the University of Erlangen, the subject of his thesis being Neuralgia.' 
It was about this time that he determined to confine himself exclusively to 
medical and obstetrical practice, especially the latter, for which he seems, 
in his early youth, to have had a peculiar fondness. He was appointed 
physician-accoucheur to the Eastern Dispensary; and in May, 1824, an- 
nounced a course of lectures on practical midwifery for the following au- 
tumn. Before the time, however, arrived, a circumstance occurred which 
completely changed, not only his plans as a metropolitan teacher, but the 
tenor of his whole future life. The immediate cause of this occurrence 
was an invitation from Thomas Jefferson, ex-President of the United 
States, the founder of the University of Virginia, to one of the chairs in 
its medical department. It is well known that most of the original mem- 
bers of the different faculties in the new institution were foreigners, se- 
lected, at the request of the Board of Visitors, by Francis Walker 5 
Gilmer, Esq., who was sent to England for this express purpose. Of all 
the appointments that were thus made none proved eventually so advan- 
tageous to the country as that of Dr. Dunglison; and it reflects no little 
credit upon the sagacity of the agent of the University that his choice 
fell upon a mere youth, hardly twenty-six years of age, who, however, 
had already given great promise of distinction by the publication of a 
monograph on the “ Stomach and Bowel Complaints of Children,” and 
by various contributions to the periodical press, as well as by the display 
of extraordinary energy and unbounded ambition. 
Dr. Dunglison left London with his family on the 27th of October, 
1824, for the United States; but, owing to adverse winds and tides, he 
was detained six weeks in the British Channel, and did not reach Char- 
lottesville until near the middle of the following February, a period 
ulinost of three months. During this protracted voyage, unusually long 
even at that day for a sailing vessel to cross the Atlantic, he lost no time 
in preparing himself more fully, by a course of reading, writing and reflec- 
tion, for his approaching labours in his new field of duty. 
It hail been covenanted with him, prior to his departure from Europe, 
to teach in the University of Virginia anatomy, physiology, surgery, 
materia medica, pharmacy, and the history of medicine; a task which 
could only be performed by a man of extraordinary ability, industry, 
and attainments, and which carries one back to the days of Nathan 
Smith, who, for many years, taught nearly all the branches of medicine 
at Yale and Dartmouth Colleges. It was, in truth, a Herculean task, 
much too varied, extensive, and onerous for any man, however learned or 
industrious. That Prof. Dunglison did it all the justice which it was pos- 
sible for any human being to bestow upon it, it is safe to assert, from 
what is known of his character for honesty and fidelity, and of the repu- 
tation which he earned during his connection with the University as a 
successful and popular teacher. 
Young as he was when he left his home in the Old World, deep and 
heartfelt regret was expressed at his departure, not only by his profes- 
sional friends and admirers, but by the London Medical and Hunterian 
Societies, of which he was at the time the foreign secretary, and which 
complimented him by the passage of a series of resolutions, full of sym- 
pathy and cordial good wishes. 
His residence at the University of Virginia extended over a period of 
nine years, during which he not only delivered, with never-failing punc- 
tuality, his various courses of lectures, but laid the foundation of a 
solid and enduring reputation as a great author. His industry was 
boundless. The first fruits of his labours were, his Human Physiology in 
two portly octavo volumes, and his well-known Medical Dictionary. The 
composition of these works, doubtless greatly facilitated by the conveni- 
ences afforded by the splendid library of the University, rich in the 
medical lore of ancient and contemporary literature, was a wonderful 
achievement for one so young. The motto of his Physiology, adopted 
from Haller, showed the purpose of the author, although the scope of 
the work reached far beyond its meaning: “Vastissimi studii primas 
quasi lineas cireumscripsi.” IIis home at Charlottesville was, in every 
respect, a most charming one, graced by all the elegancies that can adorn 
private life—a refined and highly cultivated circle of friends, mostly 
members of the different professorial staffs of the University; a refined 
and luxurious ease, even in the midst of the most arduous labours, and 6 
the society of books and periodicals, which always lay scattered in profu- 
sion upon his tables, and served, along with music and conversation, to 
beguile his leisure moments. He became the intimate friend and profes- 
sional adviser of the “ Sage of Monticello,” and of James Madison, to the 
latter of whom he dedicated his Human Physiology, and whom he attended 
in his last illness, in 1836, having been expressly summoned from Balti- 
more, where he then resided, the venerable ex-President refusing to take 
any medicine unless prescribed or sanctioned by him. A number of 
interesting mementos, the result of this genial intercourse, are still pre- 
served in the family. 
In 1833, he accepted the chair of Materia Medica, Therapeutics, Hy- 
giene, and Medical Jurisprudence in the University of Maryland ; and 
accordingly, in the autumn of that year, he transferred his residence to 
Baltimore. Although he was surrounded by every comfort, and had 
troops of friends and admirers at Charlottesville, he had long panted for 
a larger field for the exercise of his powers as a medical teacher. He 
was like one whose talents were hidden under a bushel. The medical 
department of the University of Virginia was then, as it is now, an ele- 
mentary school, with no material advantages except the learning, the 
fidelity, and the indomitable industry of its professors. It is, unques- 
tionably, the best rudimentary institution of the kind on this continent; 
but it is, unfortunately, like all kindred inland seminaries, destitute of 
anatomical and clinical facilities, justly considered as of such paramount 
importance in a course of collegiate education in this and other countries. 
These considerations could not fail to have their influence with a man so 
ambitious as Dr. Dunglison. His reception at his new home was all 
that could have been desired, and he entered upon his new labours with 
increased life and alacrity. The session opened with a respectable class 
of students, with whom, as with his colleagues, he soon, as usual, became 
a great favourite. He remained at Baltimore, however, only three years, 
but they were years of great industry and of augmenting fame. 
During this time he composed his work on General Therapeutics, the 
title of which was afterwards changed to General Therapeutics and Materia 
Medica, and his Elements of Hygiene ; brought out a new and much en- 
larged edition of his Human Physiology, and contributed various papers 
to the medical press. In addition to all his labours as a lecturer and a 
writer, he had charge, for a part of every year, of the medical wards of 
the Baltimore Infirmary, an institution under the immediate supervision 
of the Medical Faculty of the University of Maryland ; and attended to 
more or less private practice, chiefly in consultation in obscure cases. His 
residence in Baltimore was eminently pleasant; for long before he left it 
he had drawn around him a delightful and genial coterie of friends, who 
deeply regretted his removal. The number of students in the University 
had materially increased during his connection with it. 
In June, 1836, he was appointed Professor of the Institutesof Medicine 
in the Jefferson Medical College of Philadelphia, a chair expressly created 
for him ; and he left Baltimore in the following September, filled with 
bright anticipations of further usefulness and renown in his new home. 
Owing, however, to various causes, over which he had no control, and 
which it is unnecessary here to specify, the school did not flourish to the 
extent that had been prognosticated, and it was therefore reorganized 
in the spring of 1841, the change being so thorough as to amount almost 
to a complete revolution, inasmuch as only three of the original faculty— 7 
Dunglison, Huston, and Pancoast—were retained. The College now 
entered upon a career of prosperity and reputation unequalled in the 
annals of medical teaching. At the outbreak of the war six hundred 
and thirty students, the largest class ever assembled on this continent, 
graced its ample halls. Pr. Dunglison remained at his post, steadily 
and faithfully working for the interests of the school, until the spring of 
18G8, when ill health compelled him to vacate the chair which he had so 
long and so worthily occupied. The Trustees, in accepting his resigna- 
tion, immediately conferred upon him the well-merited title of Emeritus 
Professor, and accompanied the announcement with a letter expressive 
of their deep regret at the necessity which had led to his withdrawal from 
the Institution. 
Pr. Dunglison was one of the most copious writers of his day in this 
country. To some of his productions allusion has already been made. 
While yet a mere youth he published his “ Commentaries on the Diseases 
of the Stomach and Bowels of Children,” a small octavo volume, which, 
although it never reached a second edition, was quoted in a complimentary 
manner oidy a short time before the death of its author, thus showing that 
it must have possessed considerable, if not marked, merit. He had 
translated Baron Larrey’s Memoir on the Moxa, and Magendie’s Formulary 
of New Remedies, edited Hooper’s Surgical Vade-Mecum, and contri- 
buted largely to various periodicals, medical, literary, and scientific. 
During the early part of his residence in this city other works followed in 
rapid succession. In 1837 appeared the “ Medical Student,” or Aids to 
the Study of Medicine, of which a new edition, much enlarged, was issued 
in 1844. His “New Remedies” was published in 1839, originally in the 
American Medical Library, and subsequently in a separate form. It ran 
through seven editions, the last having left the press in 1850, as an octavo 
of 750 closely-printed pages. The “Practice of Medicine” was issued 
in 1842, in two volumes. It passed through three editions, the last of 
which, six years after, attained the size of nearly 1500 pages. The next 
work was a Dictionary for the Blind, in raised type, on the basis of Wor- 
cester’s English Dictionary, in three huge folio volumes, the joint produc- 
tion of himself and Mr. W. Chapin, Principal of the Blind Asylum of 
Philadelphia. In 1837 he established the American Medical Library and 
Intelligencer, a monthly periodical devoted to the republication of foreign 
medical and surgical works, and the dissemination of medical news. It 
was discontinued in 1842. The portion contributed by him, as editor and 
collator, comprised five volumes. In addition to all this vast labour, lie 
edited, with notes and valuable additions, lloget’s Physiology, Traill’s 
Lectures on Medical Jurisprudence, and Forbes’s Cyclopedia of Practical 
Medicine, the latter in four large octavo volumes, thoroughly revised 
and brought down to the existing state of the science, lie published 
numerous addresses, introductory and valedictory, delivered before his 
classes; appeals to the people of Pennsylvania on the subject of an 
asylum for the insane poor; views ou cleansing the city of Philadelphia 
in cholera times ; letters on the blind in Europe ; and biographical no- 
tices of Peter S. Duponcenu, Prof. Tucker, Judge Kane, and Rev. Dr. 
Bethune, besides numerous other papers which it is needless to mention. 
The first contribution he ever published was an article in the London 
Monthly Magazine for 1817, on a Floating Island in Derwentwater Lake, 
Cumberland. This was followed by a paper, in the same journal, on the 
Wind of a Ball, one on Anthropophagi, and one ou Collectanea Dietetica, 8 
under the signature of “Philos.” In 1822, he published in the Annals 
of Philosophy an article on the Phenomena of Vision produced by di- 
lating the Pupil by Belladonna; and in the following year, in the London 
Quarterly, an elaborate paper on Malaria. During his residence at the 
University of Virginia he published, conjointly with George Long, Esq., 
“An Introduction to the Study of Grecian and Roman Geography.” 
He was one of the founders and editors of the Virginia Literary Museum 
and Journal of Belles-Lettres, Arts, and Sciences, a weekly periodical, 
issued at Charlottesville, in the interest of the University. Although it was 
conducted with marked ability, and had many readers, it was suspended 
at the end of the first year for the want, it would seem, of proper aid 
from the contributors. Dr. Dunglison furnished many of the leading 
and more elaborate articles, the material thus supplied amounting to 
several hundred pages. Most of the articles were of a non-professional 
character, and displayed unusual learning and research—as Fashions in 
Dress in England at the commencement of the Seventeenth Century; Ono- 
matopoeia ; Modern Improved System of Road-making ; Certain Cere- 
monies connected with the Dead; Anthropology; Blondel and Richard 
Lion-Heart; English Provincialisms; Penitentiary Discipline ; Univer- 
sities ; Legends of the English Lakes ; Superstition ; Americanisms ; 
Early German Poetry; Etymological History; Sanscrit Language; An- 
cient and Modern Gymnasia; Cradle of Mankind; English Orthoepy; 
Canals of the Ancients, and Jeffersoniaua. Quite a number of these 
papers were of an exhaustive character. 
This catalogue of his literary labours, which might, if space permitted, be 
much extended, shows that Dr. Dunglison was notonlyavery copious writer, 
but a writer upon a great variety of subjects, both professional and miscel- 
laneous. “ Occasionally,” says one of the most charming of modern authors, 
“ the life of the intellect seems to run itself out in one effort. All the fine 
juice of the vine flows into a single grape.” It was not thus with Dunglison. 
Few men have been more gifted in this respect than he was. He wrote 
with immense rapidity, literally as if his pen had been impelled by steam. 
It was nothing for him, in his riper years, to dash off from ten to fifteen 
pages of printed matter of a morning. It is reported of the late Mr. 
Raymond, of the New York Times, that he often wrote a dozen columns 
for that paper at a single sitting; and our great medical scholar frequently 
accomplished similar exploits. There was, however, this noteworthy 
difference between the two men that, while the pen of the one ran 
smoothly and uninterruptedly over his paper, that of the other was con- 
stantly arrested by the necessity of marginal references ; a labour which 
greatly impedes a writer’s progress, and of which a public journalist is, 
in great degree, if not wholly, ignorant. 
Dunglison wrote not only rapidly but well, possessing singular facility 
of diction and power of utterance. His style was clear and classical, 
the construction of his sentences harmonious, the arrangement of his 
matter orderly and systematic. Always perfect master of his subject, 
and thoroughly versed in the art of composition, it was no labour for him 
to adapt his language to the comprehension of the dullest intellect. 
It has been said that he was a mere compiler of other men’s thoughts 
and language, and that such books as he produced might have been 
written by any one, even much less learned and industrious than himself. 
I cannot share this opinion. Originality is many-sided, and may exhibit 
itself in a great variety of ways. Thus, for instance, a man may confine 9 
himself entirely to experimental investigations, and so reach results pre- 
viously unknown, or at least very imperfectly ascertained ; or he may 
make himself master of facts long recognized and accredited, the pro- 
perty of the world, or of a particular sect, class, or individual, and be 
quite original in the manner in which he arranges, groups, or presents 
them to his reader, and in the significance which he attaches to them. 
Facts long known may be differently interpreted, or applied to new pur- 
poses, and so assume an original character. Steam wa3 known from the 
eurlicst ages, but the fact that it is capable of propelling an engine, and 
thus completely changing the aspect of navigation, commerce, manufac- 
tures, and human intercourse, was first distinctly demonstrated by Watt 
and Fulton less than three-quarters of a century ago. The author of any 
work, exhaustive of the subject of which it treats, must, to a great ex- 
tent, from the very nature of the case, be a compiler; that is, he must 
avail himself of what is known, and he must so elaborate his material as to 
exhibit it in the most advantageous light. A system, as remarked by the 
great Lexicographer, must necessarily be built upon the labours and dis- 
coveries of many minds. It is thus with the physiologist, the physician, 
and the surgeon, not less than with the historian and the scientist. Ilume, 
Gibbon, Macaulay, Milman, Bancroft, Motley, and a hundred others are 
all compilers, as it respects their facts, and original only in regard to 
their interpretation and appreciation. Captious critics, in reading the 
works of Dunglison, give him no credit for his erudition and his honesty. 
They see in his marginal references an evidence, as they suppose, not of 
his desire to acknowledge his indebtedness to the more important sources 
from which he derived assistance, but a demonstration that he was simply 
a copyist of the products of other men’s brains. His writings everywhere 
bear the impress of a strong, vigorous, and discriminative intellectuality, 
a potential masculinity, utterly incompatible with such a narrow-minded 
conclusion. There is in all his works, especially in his luminous treatise 
on Physiology, a strong infusion of the dignity of self-respect, and of that 
independence in the expression of opinions so characteristic of a great 
author. It has been well remarked by a sagacious and voluminous writer, 
Sir Egerton Brydges, “ that he who sets things in a light in which they 
have not been set before, adds to human knowledge.” 
It is a well-known, and, at the same time, a melancholy fact that most 
professional works, however able or learned, have a very ephemeral 
existence. Few survive their authors, especially if the authors them- 
selves attain to anything like a respectable age, and many die out almost 
before the printer’s ink is fairly dried upon their pages. Like the 
sickly fruit of summer, which drops off prematurely, and is unfit for use, 
they fall still-born from the press; or, if read at all, are soon laid igno- 
miniously upon the shelf, to be consulted only at long intervals in the hope, 
perhaps, of extracting from them the little kernel from the thick shell 
that incloses it. Popular as most of Dr. Dunglison’s works have been, 
they have not been exempt from the general fate of such productions. 
At least three of them, long and extensively employed as text-books in 
the schools of this country, rest from their labours. Not one of them 
will ever be reproduced, and yet, as they respectively reflect the existing 
state of the sciences at the period at which they flourished, they will often 
be referred to by the learned and the curious, interested in watching the 
progress of the healing art. The Human Physiology, which passed alto- 
gether through eight editions, the last in I860, is an imperishable work, 10 
to which physiologists, in all time to come, will appeal for an account, at 
once full and reliable, of the facts, true and spurious, which marked the 
state of the science during the lifetime of its illustrious author. It will 
be the mile-stone in after ages in regard to the history of the phy- 
siological science of the nineteenth century that the great work of 
Albert von Haller is in regard to that of the eighteenth. I know of 
no treatises which, in point of systematic arrangement, minuteness of 
detail, scrupulous accuracy, clearness of style and just criticism, are 
at all comparable to these productions, both destined to stand as beacon- 
lights in the World’s Great Library. The Dictionary, Dunglison’s other 
great work, under the supervision of a judicious editor, will maintain its 
place, as a book of daily reference, for an indefinite time. Such a labour, 
as its composition implies, will probably never again be attempted by any 
single writer, however learned, patient, or industrious. It is worthy of 
notice that Dr. Worcester, in his great American Dictionary of the Eng- 
lish language, gives Dr. Dunglison as an authority whenever a medical 
term is employed, a compliment gracefully acknowledged in the preface 
of the work. Dr. Webster also frequently quotes him. 
His Elements of Hygiene was, like the Physiology, a pioneer work. 
Until its publication, in 1835, no comprehensive and exhaustive treatise 
had appeared upon the subject in the English language. The depart- 
ment of hygiene was introduced into the University of Maryland, as a 
part of the duties of the chair of Materia Medica and Therapeutics, 
which he then held in that Institution. At the time when the work ap- 
peared, the subject of hygiene had never been systematically taught in 
our schools, and even now, after the lapse of a third of a century, it is 
most shamefully and unaccountably neglected. In France, since the 
days of the illustrious Halle, it has been a branch of the regular course 
of instruction in all the medical colleges, as well as in those of Germany 
and Italy. 
It is difficult, so soon after the death of Dr. Dunglison, to form any- 
thing like an accurate estimate of the influence of his writings upon his 
own and upon succeeding ages. Considering them as a whole, it is safe 
to assert that his works were more widely disseminated and more exten- 
sively read than those of any medical man in the present century. The 
Physiology passed through eight, the Practice of Medicine through three, 
the Materia Medica through six, the New Remedies through seven, the 
Hygiene through two, and the Dictionary through more than twenty edi- 
tions; of the latter work alone, over fifty thousand copies have been sold. 
Their sale, in fact, was immense, and they were distributed, far and wide, 
through the length and breadth of the country, thus assisting in convey- 
ing information and moulding the opinions and practice of all classes of 
physicians. The Dictionary has always had numerous readers in Great 
Britain, and the only surprise is that it has never been translated into 
some of the more important languages of Europe, as it is incomparably 
superior to any work of the kind ever produced on the other side of the 
Atlantic. 
He commenced his career as an author in the infancy of American 
medical literature. The works of Thacher, Wistar, Coxe, Dorsey, Chap- 
man, Beck, Dewees, Eberle, were the only native systematic productions, 
of any note, that had yet appeared. Our students had relied for their 
text-books, for the most part, upon foreign reprints, in nearly every 
branch of medical education. When the Human Physiology appeared, 11 
tlie only treatise upon the subject in the English language was that of 
I)r. Bostock, a system full of errors and imperfections, which was at once 
replaced by its more elaborate, accurate and philosophical rival. Hooper’s 
Dictionary, so long the popular lexicon of the American student, was 
speedily thrown aside after the publication of the “ Dictionary of Medical 
Science.” His other works, as already stated, had a wide circulation. 
The one entitled New Remedies filled an important void in medical lite- 
rature, and, by successive editions, became a volume of immense labour 
and erudition, thoroughly reflecting the rapid strides of the Materia 
Medica during the last thirty years. 
It will thus be perceived that Dunglison came upon the active stage of 
life at a most opportune period ; at a period when there was an urgent 
need of just such a man, of a man who, by his ample learning, his refined 
scholarship, and his untiring industry, could enrich and ennoble medical 
literature, and thus diffuse a taste for literary pursuits, until then little 
cultivated ou this side of the Atlantic. 
As a lecturer and a teacher he enjoyed a world-wide reputation. Few 
physicians visited Philadelphia without making it a special object to hear 
him. “When does Dunglison lecture?” was the common inquiry of the 
stranger on his arrival in the city. lie was remarkable for his fluency, 
the choice of his language, his mellifluous voice, the ease and grace of his 
manner. It was the possession of these qualities, superadded to a 
thorough mastery of the subject of his discourse, that rendered him such 
an attractive teacher, and caused him to be sought for, far and wide, as a 
professor in different American medical schools. Such were his fluency, 
and his wonderful command of language, that it was often said of him 
that he lectured as if he had been wound up, although no one ever ac- 
cused him of being a mere machine. His great animation, his vivacity, 
his bonhommie, his captivating manner, discountenanced such a conclu- 
sion, and impressed the hearer with the conviction that he sat in the 
presence of an extraordinary man, decidedly the most able and popular 
teacher of physiology of his day in this country. If he had any fault as a 
lecturer, it was that he spoke too much in a monotone, and that he did 
not make enough points, as he proceeded from topic to topic, an expres- 
sion which all teachers know how to appreciate. He never failed to en- 
chain the attention of his class. As a disciplinarian he was a perfect 
model. There was no whispering, no lounging, no disorderly conduct in 
his room ; every student was in his place, and the hour always passed 
rapidly and pleasantly, every one feeling how much he had been instructed 
and edified by the discourse. He was proud of his position as a profes- 
sor. He loved to appear before his pupils, and to unfold before them the 
treasures of his knowledge. “ What,” asked a pupil of his master, 
Thales—“ What recompense can I make to show my gratitude to you for 
vour excellent lessons?” “Teach others,” was the philosopher’s reply. 
Muny of Dunglison’s pupils occupy high positions as professors in our 
medical schools. 
It is a remarkable fact, as he himself repeatedly informed me, that, long 
as he had lectured, he never went before his class without a certain amount 
of preparation. Not less than two hours were generally spent in this 
manner. No man could have been more faithful or more conscientious 
in this respect than he was. To be thoroughly prepared, and up to the 
level of his department, was with him a matter not only of pride but of 
solemn duty. None of his lectures, save that on Death, the last of his 12 
course, were written. A few heads, denotive of the more prominent 
topics of what he purposed to discuss, was all he required during the 
hour. 
Dr. Dunglison never had recourse to vivisections as a means of illus- 
trating his physiological prelections in the presence of his class, so fash- 
ionable in some of the schools in this and other countries, especially con- 
tinental Europe. He had witnessed so many of these disgusting and re- 
volting experiments during his sojourn, as a student, at Paris, in the 
hands of Magendie and Orfila, that he had contracted a positive aversion 
to them; and, although he readily acknowledged their value when per- 
formed with a view of clearing up some new or obscure point in his fa- 
vourite branch of study, his sensitive nature shrank so entirely from the 
infliction of pain upon the dumb, helpless creatures usually selected for 
the purpose, that he rarely engaged in such exercises even in his younger 
days. T often invited him to the operations at my clinics, but he could 
never be induced to be present, evidently dreading the cries and excite- 
ment of the poor patients. Like his illustrious prototype, Albert Yon 
Haller, he could not bear the sight of blood. 
The case of Alexis St. Martin, in whose stomach there existed a fistu- 
lous opening, the result of a gunshot injury, greatly excited his curi- 
osity, and he not only actively assisted in but suggested many of the ex- 
periments performed upon that celebrated person by Dr. Beaumont with 
the view of elucidating the process of digestion, and of ascertaining the 
digestibility of different articles of food. 
As a physician, thoroughly versed in the minute and intricate details 
of the routinist, it is difficult to form a correct estimate of him. He was 
too much of a closet man, too much shut up in his .library, and too much 
given to authorship, to be a great practitioner. He was a medical phi- 
losopher, a savant, rather than a physician. A large practice would have 
been irksome to him ; it would have interfered too much with his studies, 
and he was naturally too sensitive to encounter its responsibilities. At the 
bedside, however, where it was my good fortune occasionally to meet him, 
he was always most judicious, ready in diagnosis, and prompt and decided 
in his therapeutic resources. He had no respect for, or faith in, the 
heroic ; he believed in the powers of nature, and considered it his duty to 
aid her efforts at cure when she was in distress. He despised meddle- 
some medication, and was unsparing in his denunciation of it. It has 
been said, again and again, by his pupils and intimate friends, that he was 
a skeptic ; that he had no confidence in the healing art; that practice was 
a blind and uncertain art, a matter simply of chance and luck. I do not 
think that such a view fairly represents the facts of the case. If he gave 
little medicine, and thus lent currency to the idea that he was an unbe- 
liever in its efficacy, it was because of the great evils which he had wit- 
nessed from the exhibition of large and frequently-repeated doses, so much 
in vogue during the early part of his professional life, and so well cal- 
culated to disgust a man of a rational and philosphical mind. During 
his residence in London, and at the University of Virginia, he had little 
opportunity of acquiring practice. In Baltimore, although he was one of 
the professional attendants of the Infirmary of that name, his patients 
were, like angels’ visits, few and far between. And the same was true of 
Philadelphia, where he spent the greater portion of his riper years. He 
was for a time connected with the Philadelphia Hospital, the duties of 
which he discharged with signal fidelity and punctuality. As a clinical 13 
teacher at the Jefferson Medical College, an office which he held for a 
number of years, he was always eminently happy in the examination and 
diagnosis of his cases, but rarely prescribed much medicine, trusting 
rather to the powers of Nature than to his own efforts in controlling 
morbid action. 
As a scholar, using that term in its more exalted sense, he was without 
a rival in the medical profession of the United States. Indeed, it is 
questionable whether he had any superior anywhere. IIis classical attain- 
ments were profound : he read Greek and Latin as easily as English. 
IIis knowledge of modern languages, especially of the French, Italian, 
and German, was extensive, and was of immeasurable service to him in 
the composition of his numerous works, every one of which, with the 
exception of the Commentaries on the Diseases of the Stomach and 
Bowels of Children, bears the impress of vast research and profound 
erudition. It is difficult fully to realize the extent and variety of his 
knowledge. “ Nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.” Ages will elapse before 
our profession will produce another member so learned and, in all re- 
spects, so accomplished as Dr. Dunglison. The only man abroad at all 
comparable to him in scholarship and medical attainments, is Dr. James 
Copland, author of the Dictionary of Medicine, a work of stupendous 
labour and research, with whose literary pursuits, if he had remained in 
Europe, Dunglison would have become associated, arrangements having 
already been entered into to that effect prior to his departure to America. 
Francis Adams, the translator of Hippocrates and of Paul of iEgineta, 
probably had a more profound acquaintance with Greek and Latin than 
either, but in variety and exteut of knowledge he was greatly their 
inferior. 
Asa journalist and a reviewer, a position which he occupied for six 
years, he was analytical rather than critical, learned rather than contro- 
versial. Assailed by his opponents, he knew how to direct his pen 
without steeping it in bitteruess. He uever forgot the courtesy due the 
editorial tripod. 
If we descend to his private life, it will be found that Dr. Dunglison 
was a delightful companion, a fond and loving husband, a devoted father, 
a faithful citizen, true to the best interest of his adopted country, with a 
warm sympathy for the oppressed of all nations. He adorned the domes- 
tic circle, and imparted a healthful charm to all who came within his in- 
fluence. Born to grace society, he was the idol of his home, and the 
cherished object of attention wherever business or pleasure called him. 
His conversational powers were of a very high order; he possessed great 
general information, and there was no subject, professional or non-profes- 
sioual, upon which he could not talk intelligently, if not exhaustively. 
He had a remarkable fund of anecdotes, and often interspersed his re- 
marks with an apt quotation from the classics, agreeing with Dr. John- 
son that it was a good thing, inasmuch as there is a community of mind 
in it, and that it is the parole of literary men all over the world. Al- 
though an Englishman by birth, he loved his adopted country with all the 
ardour of a genuine patriot, and rejoiced in every measure designed to 
advance its welfare and prosperity. As a medical teacher, engaged in 
the active exercise of his professional duties for upwards of forty years, 
he had an opportunity of studying the imperfections of our systems of 
medical education, and would gladly have afforded his aid in remedying 
them, if it had been possible to obtain the general co-operation of the 14 
schools; without which, as every one acquainted with the subject knows, 
all efforts of the kind must prove unavailing. 
Dr. Dunglison never took any active part in politics, although he sel- 
dom, if ever, omitted to vote on election-day, generally for the men whom 
he supposed to be the best qualified to fill the offices for which they 
were candidates, irrespective of party bias, prejudice, or influence. He 
had, like most right-thinking men, a contempt for physicians who dabble 
in politics, and make themselves noisy and conspicuous on the stump. 
He was for nearly thirty years connected with the Institution for the 
Blind in this city, having for a considerable period served as Vice- 
President of the Board of Managers and Chairman of the Committee of In- 
struction. No one, probably, ever took a more active part than he in 
promoting the welfare and happiness of its inmates, who were all warmly 
attached to him, not a few looking upon him in the light of a devoted 
father. It was for them, more especially, that he prepared, jointly with 
Mr. Chapin, the Dictionary with raised letters already referred to. He 
loved to scatter flowers around their family altar, to ask them questions, 
and to give them advice in regard to their health, education, and mental 
improvement. One of his greatest regrets, during his last cruel illness, 
was that he could no longer visit the Institution ; regrets somewhat miti- 
gated by the frequent and anxious inquiries which the children made 
at his own door, respecting his condition, during that long and sad 
period. 
The poor insane, too, engaged his especial sympathy and attention ; and, 
as already stated, he made several appeals in their behalf to the people 
of Pennsylvania, pointing out the importance of providing them with 
better homes, and a more rational and philosophical mode of management 
than then existed. 
His world-wide reputation secured him many testimonials—altogether 
about one hundred—of respect and esteem from medical, literary and sci- 
entific associations and institutions, both at home and abroad. Some of 
these were showered upon him before he left Europe, thus showing the 
regard in which he was held by his professional brethren even at that early 
age. Yale College, in 1825, conferred upon him the degree of M. D. ; 
and in 1852 he received that of LL.D. from Jefferson College at Can- 
nonsburg, Pennsylvania, a similar degree being bestowed upon him nearly 
at the same time by the Jefferson Medical College of this city. He was 
Vice-President of the American Philosophical Society, Vice-President of 
the Training School for Idiots, President of the Musical Fund Society, 
Vice-President of the Institution for the Blind, Chairman of the Faculty 
of the University of Virginia, and for a number of years Dean of the 
Faculty of the Jefferson Medical College. 
He enjoyed the acquaintance and friendship of many of the most dis- 
tinguished medical men at home and abroad ; and the correspondence 
growing out of these relations would, if published, fiil several large 
volumes. Few important appointments occurred in the medical schools 
of this country concerning which his opinion was not solicited, such was 
the confidence reposed in his judgment and honesty. 
Dr. Dunglison died at his residence in this city on the 1st of April 
last, at the age of seventy-one years. He fell “ like as a shock of com 
fully ripe in his season.” His health for some years past had been slowly 
but surely declining. He had long suffered from attacks of gout, 
which had latterly, in a great degree, disabled him from active exercise. 15 
In the winter of 1866 and ’67, he was almost constantly obliged, by his 
increasing infirmities, to ride to and from the College, although the dis- 
tance from his house was only a few squares, so difficult and painful was 
it for him to walk. After, however, the labours of the session were over, 
he rallied considerably, passed the vacation in comparative comfort, and 
was able to discharge with his accustomed ability the duties of his two 
offices of professor and dean during the following winter. It was truly 
marvellous how, amidst the ravages of disease, racked with pains and 
dyspnoea from valvular obstruction of the heart, he held out so long and 
so manfully. I listened to his last lecture, rendered doubly sad by the 
fact that it was upon death—always the closing lecture of his course— 
which, it was certain, must soon overtake himself. Ilis voice was 
throughout solemn, yet most clear nnd distinct, and he controlled his 
feelings in a wonderful degree, while many of his young auditors, con- 
scious that they were hearing him for the last time, sat mute and melan- 
choly. Profound silence prevailed, and soon the large hall, which the 
venerable professor had graced with his presence for nearly a third of a 
century, knew him no more forever. 
Ilis dyspnoea and difficulty of progression rapidly increased, and he 
was at length obliged to retire to his bed, not to stretch himself out to 
rest his sick and wearied body, but to sit up with his swollen and painful 
limbs hanging upon the floor, as the only posture in which he could find 
ease and comfort, a posture almost as irksome and distressing as the self- 
imposed one of St. Simeon Stylites. In this sad manner he spent the 
last seven months of his precious life, and yet no sigh or groan or com- 
plaint ever escaped his lips. He was thoroughly resigned to his destiny, 
and often alluded with the most perfect composure to his approaching 
end. He knew that his case was hopeless, and therefore positively re- 
fused everything in ftie form of medication, except the occasional use of a 
little morphia, to relieve pain and promote sleep. Fortunately the dys- 
pnoea, which had all along been so prominent a symptom, left him several 
months before his demise. Crippled as he was in body and limb, he was 
sound in intellect, and conscipus of no decay in the faculties of his soul. 
He conversed, almost to the last day of his existence, with his wonted 
powers and elegance of diction. Always cheerful, amiable, and courte- 
ous, he was full of sympathy and good humour, making constant inquiries 
after his friends, and expressing a deep interest in everything relating to 
the outer world. No cloud overshadowed his brain, although his body 
was frightfully emaciated. The physical machine was completely worn 
out. Ilis last words were, “A shade better,” and, soon after he had 
uttered them, he sank back and instantly expired, apparently unconscious 
that he was so near his end. The sufferings attendant upon his protracted 
illness were solaced by the unremitting kindness of his family and friends. 
The dying words of Dunglison forcibly remind one of those of Keats. 
Asked by one who stood at his bedside, just before he expired, how he 
felt, he replied in a feeble voice, “Better, my friend. I feel the daisies 
growing over me.” Haller, the illustrious Swiss physiologist, Dunglison’s 
great exemplar, died feeling his pulse. Turning to his brother physi- 
cian, he said, “ My friend, the artery ceases to beat,” and expired. 
An autopsy, performed at his own desire, a few days after death, revealed 
an astonishing amount of disease. The semilunar valves at the mouth of 
the aorta were converted into dense, rigid membranes, the coronary arte- 
ries were ossified, the heart was considerably hypertrophied, and the aorta 16 
was one sheet of disease, being thickened, calcified, atheromatous, and in 
many places fissured. The gall-bladder contained a large concretion, the 
stomach exhibited evidence of chronic structural lesion, and the kidneys 
were studded with serous cysts. The brain was sound, and weighed 55 
ounces. The funeral took place at St. Stephen’s church, of which he 
had long been an attendant, the coffin being followed from his late resi- 
dence by his family, intimate friends, and late colleagues. The body was 
deposited by the side of her whom he had so long and so tenderly loved, 
at Laurel Hill Cemetery, where a suitable monument will, in due time, 
be erected to mark the spot—not to commemorate his memory, which 
needs no such device. 
In October, 1824, Dr. Dunglison married Harriette, daughter of John 
Leadam, Esq., a medical practitioner of London, a lovely and estimable 
lady, by whom he had seven children, five sons and two daughters, of whom 
five survive. Two of the sons are in the medical profession, one is a 
merchant, and the other, J. Robley, has, for a number of years, been 
connected with the public press. Dr. Richard J. Dunglison is engaged 
upon a biographical memoir of his father, which cannot fail to afford a 
new insight into the character of a man who occupied such a high social, 
literary, and scientific character. Ilis diary, continued through many 
years of his life, will, if it should ever be published, form a most valuable 
contribution to the literature of the country. Mrs. Dunglison died of 
cardiac disease in March, 1853. 
In his personal appearance, Dr. Dunglison was decidedly fortunate. 
When I first saw him, in 1845, he impressed me as a very handsome 
man. Later in life his countenance had somewhat of a careworn ex- 
pression. He had a fine bluish-gray eye, regular features, a well-formed 
mouth, and a lofty forehead, denotive of intellect and intelligence. As 
he advanced in age, his hair, black in early and life, became 
somewhat gray, and the top of the head slightly bald. He was about the 
medium height, with a well-proportioned frame and limbs, a diguified 
mien, graceful manners, and genial disposition. No one could be in his 
company, even for a few minutes, without; feeling that he was in the 
presence of an uncommon man. There was a personal magnetism in him 
which no one who approached him could resist. His features are per- 
petuated in several portraits, one of the most recent of which is that by 
Sully, painted only a short time before his death for the Musical Fund 
Society, whose hall it now graces. 
In his habits he was eminently orderly and systematic. He knew how 
to take care of the minutes, and how to occupy his time to the best ad- 
vantage. Although his life was one of unwearied activity and indefati- 
gable industry, “ incredibili industria, diligentia singulari,” I never saw 
him that he did not seem to have leisure. All his engagements were so 
happily arranged that he had time for everything. He did daily the 
day’s work. No hours were ever “stolen from his meat and sleep,” seldom 
any from his ordinary enjoyments, pleasures, or amusements. Whatever 
he had to do he did at once without delay. This promptness was one of 
the great secrets of his success in life’s great struggle. In eating and 
drinking he was remarkably temperate, although, like most men, he occa- 
sionally took his glass of wine, and perhaps no one ever knew better than 
he how to appreciate a good dinner. At our Wistar parties, those 
charming reunions of the medical, scientific, and literary men of Phila- 
delphia, he was always particularly joyous and attractive by his anecdotes 17 
and bonhommic. TIis house was for many years the abode of an ele- 
gant hospitality. He retired habitually at half past ten o’clock, gene- 
rally pulling out his watch and waiting almost to the minute. During 
his latter years, he invariably, while engaged upon the new editions of 
his Dictionary, strapped up his two interleaved volumes and carried 
them to his bed-room, lest some accident should befall them. He was 
always dressed by seven o’clock in the morning, and breakfasted by a 
quarter of eight, after which he retired to his study, where he spent the 
next three or four hours in earnest work. He then generally took a 
walk, or attended to business, dined at two, and passed the remainder of 
the afternoon among his books. His evenings were spent with his 
family, or at some place of amusement, as the opera, theatre, or concert, 
of all of which he was very fond. In his dress he was scrupulously neat. 
He fdled all the spare moments from his graver occupations in reading 
or writing; the latter generally being in the form of correspondence, or 
in some addition to his works, with a view to new editions. He was 
particularly fond of magazines, books of travels, and works of fiction, 
among which his favourite authors were Thackeray, Lever, and Miss 
Braddon. He hardly ever took up a scientific work for mere study; on the 
contrary, he rather avoided such productions, preferring to read a careful 
review of them by some competent writer in the best magazines, as the 
Edinburgh,or London Quarterly, after which, his interest being awakened, 
he would either buy the book, or get it from the public library. Among 
the last works he ever perused were Humboldt’s Cosmos, Richardson’s 
Clarissa Ilarlowe, and the Pickwick Papers. He was a rapid reader, 
skimming with hasty glances the cream of literature. In his earlier days, 
while actively engaged as a systematic writer, he had a rotatory book- 
stand in his study, filled with w’orks of reference, which he could thus 
reach at any time without rising from his chair. His study had an air 
of comfort and convenience about it, befitting so elegant a scholar, and 
such a devoted lover of books. 
In fact, everything was in harmony with his well-ordered mind. His 
library, numbering upwards of 4000 volumes, comprised all the more im- 
portant medical and scientific works in the principal languages of Europe, 
and was particularly rich in monographs, in dictionaries, medical and 
non-medical, and in treatises on physiology and the cognate branches of 
science. About one-third of it was miscellaneous. He spared no money 
in the purchase of books, the companionship of which afforded him so 
much happiness, and such substantial aid in the establishment of his repu- 
tation as a great scholar and accomplished author. 
It is pleasant to know that this rare collection of books has not been 
desecrated by the auctioneer’s hammer; but that it remains as a pre- 
cious memorial in the possession of a member of the family, who, appre- 
ciating its value, will not fail to employ it for the good of others. If there 
be any one thing more painful than another in the death of a literary or 
scientific man, it is to see his books scattered, like so much chaff, to the 
winds of heaven, as soon as he is cold in the grave. The libraries of 
great men are household gods, not to be lightly shivered by the touch of 
the profane. 
Great men have been celebrated the world overfortheir bad chirography. 
That of Dunglison was peculiarly perverse, as angular and zigzag as a 
worm fence on a Pennsylvania farm. The letters wTere so singularly in- 
curvated and distorted that, when linked together into words, it was ex- 18 
tremely difficult for one unaccustomed to his hand to decipher them. Rufus 
Choate was often unable to read his own writing, and our author, I dare 
say, was occasionally in a similar predicament. As for myself, it was long 
before I could read any of his letters understandingly at the first effort. 
For years it was my habit, when I received any communication from him, 
to run my eye leisurely over it at the first convenient moment, and then 
to put it by for more careful study the next day. 
His religious views breathed a broad catholic spirit, ne was too 
much of a physiologist, and too intimately acquainted with the laws of 
the Universe, to trouble himself about doctrinal matters. Like Luther, 
he knew that the gospel was not written in the Bible alone, but on trees 
and flowers, and clouds and stars. The truly religious man sees God 
everywhere, in all that is sublime and beautiful in nature and in art, and 
is utterly indifferent to the narrow-minded creeds of sectarianism. Up to 
within a short period of his death, he seldom failed to attend divine ser- 
vice on the Sabbath. He was for a long time a vestryman in St. Stephen’s 
Church, with whose former rector, the late Rev. Dr. Ducachet, himself in 
early life a promising member of the medical profession, he was on the 
most intimate terms. 
Another of his familiar friends, a man for whose character he cherished 
a very warm regard, was the late Rev. Dr. Bethune. They were often 
together, and greatly enjoyed each other’s genial humour. Bethune was a 
genuine disciple of Izaac Walton; and, like Dunglison, possessed an in- 
exhaustible fund of anecdote, extending over a wide range of topics, and 
told with irresistible effect. After his removal to Brooklyn, he always 
made the house of his friend his home during his visits to Philadelphia. 
Their last interview occurred only a short time before the death of Be- 
thune, when the latter was already labouring under the premonitory symp- 
toms of the disease which so suddenly carried him off. A beautiful 
tribute, one of the last published productions of his pen, and written, in 
touching terms, soon after the death of his friend, attests the warm regard 
which Dunglison had entertained for him. 
In his friendship he was cautious but sincere and steadfast. I do not 
know that he ever had an enemy. He was free from malice, which, to 
use an expression of Lord Bacon, “ he never bred nor fed.” llis manners 
were always dignified; and, although he was fotid of talking, he was 
never arrogant, ostentatious, or dictatorial; “ neither was he one,” to em- 
ploy the quaint language of another old writer, Dr. Rawley, “that would 
appropriate the speech wholly to himself, or delight to outvie others, but 
leave a liberty to the co-assessors to take their turns. Wherein he would 
draw a man on, and allure him to speak upon such a subject, as wherein 
he was peculiarly skilful, and would delight to speak. And for himself 
he contemned no man’s observations, but would light his torch at every 
man’s candle.” 
Dunglison never indulged, even as a boy, in the ordinary sports and 
pastimes of youth. He loved study and books better than the outer 
world. I doubt whether he ever shot a bird, although he was fond of fish- 
ing, and occasionally tore himself away from his books to cast a hook. 
In early life he was a good pedestrian, and often took long walks, chiefly 
as a means of healthy recreation ; but as he grew old, owing to his gouty 
suffering, exercise became burdensome to him, and he led a strictly seden- 
tary life. For many years he was in the constant habit, at a certain hour 
of the day, of visiting his publishers, at the southeast corner of Fourth 19 
and Chestnut Streets, long known as the business house, first, as far as his 
interests were concerned, of Carey it Lea, then Carey, Lea & Blanchard, 
then Lea & Blanchard, then Blanchard & Lea, and, finally, Henry C. Lea. 
He loved to chat there for half an hour about men and books, or whatever 
might at the moment lie of general interest, when he would walk leisurely 
back, to resume the labours of his study. The different firms here alluded 
to seldom, during his long residence in this city, reprinted a foreign medi- 
cal work without first obtaining his judgment of its merits. This confi- 
dence in the value of his opinion continued down almost to the latest 
day othis last illness. 
Passionately fond of music, he had a highly appreciative ear, and was 
himself, especially in his younger days, a tolerably good performer on the 
piano and the flute. He took for a long time an active part in the man- 
agement of the Musical Fund Society, of which, as previously stated, he 
was for a number of years President. Music, in his opinion, was a 
divine emanation, a gift of Hod, tending to elevate the soul, to purify the 
heart, and to refine the manners. In its more exalted flights, it inspired 
his mind with solemn and religious feeling, and, with Pythagoras, made 
him dream of the music of the spheres. It was deeply rooted in his affec- 
tions. During his last illness the use of the piano was often invoked to 
soothe his pains and to beguile his thoughts. 
The last systematic work which Dr. Dunglison wrote was his Practice 
of Medicine, issued in 184 2. After that time his leisure was fully occu- 
pied in bringing out new editions of his Physiology, Dictionary, Ma- 
teria Medica, and New Remedies, which underwent so many and such 
marked changes, that it was difficult to recognize them, in their new 
forms, as the same productions. The labour spent in this way was im- 
mense, and can only be appreciated by one who is himself an extensive 
author. Most of his works were thus literally duplicated, if not tripli- 
cated and quadrupled. 
After the retirement of the late Dr. Robert M. Huston from the 
Jefferson Medical College, Dr. Dunglison became his successor in the 
office of Dean, and he acted in this capacity until he himself was obliged 
to leave the school. The amount of labour which this new office devolved 
upon him was immense, and doubtless materially contributed to under- 
mine his already failing health, lie was obliged to carry on a most 
onerous correspondence; and, during the sessions of the College, his 
rest and comfort were constantly interrupted by his intercourse with the 
students. Fortunately he was accustomed to work, as well as to systema- 
tize his time, and he was thus enabled, notwithstanding his declining 
health, to manage the affairs of the Institution with consummate ability. 
As Dean, he was exceedingly popular. .The students looked upon him as a 
warm, trust-worthy friend, whose advice they never hesitated to seek when 
they stood in need of it. His colleagues, with whom he was always on the 
most pleasant terms, will not soon forget the petits soupers which for many 
years graced his table at the annual faculty meeting. It was the custom on 
such occasions to audit the Dean’s accounts, and to talk informally over the 
affairs of the school. At half past 9 o’clock the door of the dining-room 
usually flew open, and for the next three hours all was merriment and good 
humour amidst “ the feast of reason and the flow of soul,” enlivened by 
the agreeable conversation of the host, generally coruscating with the 
happiest unecdotes. 
Dunglison, like most professional men, was compelled, in his younger 20 
days, to labour for his support, and it was not until after he had reached his 
fortieth year that his pecuniary circumstances became easy. His income 
in the University of Virginia was barely sufficient for the maintenance of 
his growing family. An annual salary of fifteen hundred dollars, with 
the proceeds from a small class, and a dwelling rent free, constituted his 
chief revenue; for, as yet, his books had not been pecuniarily productive. 
The University of Maryland, in which he remained only three sessions, was 
equally unremunerative; and his chair in the Jefferson Medical College, 
until the reorganization of the Institution in 1841, afforded him no sub- 
stantial emolument. From that time on, however, his pecuniary matters 
assumed a more imposing form. The number of students rapidly aug- 
mented, and for years the income of the Faculty was without a paral- 
lel in the history of medical schools. For many sessions, the pro- 
ceeds of each chair ranged from six to seven thousand dollars, and this 
sum, added to the receipts from his works, now largely sought after as 
text books, placed him not only in very easy and independent circum- 
stances but enabled him to lay the foundation of what, in this country at 
least, may be regarded as a respectable fortune for a medical man. Pro- 
bably no medical author ever reaped so much from the sale of his works. 
Edition after edition was called for, and thus made him rich. Of the 
Dictionary alone upwards of 55,000 copies were issued during his life- 
time, and of all his works 125,000 copies, equal to between 150,000 and 
160,000 volumes. What medical author ever had so many readers? 
It is singular how, apparently, an insignificant circumstance may 
overrule a man’s destiny. Dr. Dunglison had long felt a desire to visit 
Fhirope; but no favourable opportunity for carrying out his wishes occurred 
until April, 1854, nearly a third of a century since his immigration, when 
he sailed from New York on the Pacific, on which he returned in the 
following September. He had intended to remain a few weeks later, and 
had therefore engaged his passage on the Arctic, which was lost on that 
trip with nearly all on board of her. He had been induced to return 
earlier at the earnest solicitation of one of his colleagues, and was thus 
probably saved from a watery grave. He received much attention while 
abroad ; and his health, impaired by incessant labour, was greatly invig- 
orated. 
In summing up the character of Dr. Dunglison biography must accord 
to him extraordinary talents, untiring industry, towering ambition, a 
definite aim in life, vast erudition, undeviating fidelity to his profession, 
and an unblemished character. He was a shrewd observer of men and 
things, an able thinker, and, without any exalted genius, he had a clear 
logical mind, capable of vast and varied labour. The extent and variety 
of his knowledge were prodigious.. He was the most voluminous writer of 
his day on this continent, both in and out of the medical profession, and 
one of its greatest and most accomplished authors. In point of bulk and 
vast erudition the works of all his American contemporaries—Noah 
Webster, Worcester, Cooper, Irving, Bancroft—sink into insignificance. 
His life was a succession of literary triumphs. 
It is not easy to determine how such a man accomplished such a vast 
amount of labour without an intimate knowledge of his character. None 
but a superficial, ignorant person will pretend to affirm that it was the 
result simply of industry, or of*industry combined with order and system. 
These, undoubtedly, had their effect; for without their aid he would have 
worked in vain. He was, as has already been seen, a many-sided man, 21 
with a rare blending of mental qualities, an admirable symmetry of mind 
and character, a delicate and discriminative judgment, a capacious me- 
mory, a fervent love of truth, a keen insight into human nature, an amazing 
coolness and self-control, great powers of endurance, and a remarkable 
freedom from prejudice, eccentricity, and exaggeration. These it was 
which fitted 1iiin for his peculiar stations in life, and made him what he was, 
a beacon light in the world of medical literature, and one of the foremost 
writers and teachers of his day. 
No human character is, or can be, entirely perfect. That of Dunglison 
had its defects, but they were so trivial as in no material degree to impair 
its symmetry. His failings, as they impressed me during a close obser- 
vation of thirteen years of official connection with him, were timidity 
and a spirit of conservatism, which, I sometimes thought, were at variance 
with the requirements of the age in regard to the true interests of medical 
education. Inactivity is not always masterly; conservatism not always 
wisdom. It was a maxim with him to let well alone. He saw no neces- 
sity for any change in the curriculum of instruction in our schools. He 
always thought that seven chairs were quite enough, that it was unwise to 
reduce the number of didactic lectures, and that an independent board of 
examiners, so common in the British schools, and attended with such 
salutary results in regard to the best interests of humanity and of medical 
science, was not adapted to the wants of this country. But justice de- 
mands that I should add that, although he might have warmly opposed a 
measure of reform, he never failed, when carried by the majority, to lend 
it the influence of his name and example, with a grace and dignity so 
characteristic of a true gentleman. * 
It will not be without interest in this connection with his mental or- 
ganization to recall attention to his cerebral developments. His head 
was large and well formed, although the brain weighed only 55 ounces, 
2 ounces more than the ordinary average, as ascertained by Sims, Clen- 
dinning, Tiedemann, and Reid, and 11 ounces less than Cuvier’s, 8 than 
Dr. Abercrombie’s, and than Dupuytren’s. It was generally supposed, 
until recently, that great cerebral bulk was a measure of mental power; 
but it would seem from the researches of the two Wagners, father and 
son, that more depends, in this respect, upon the number, size, and depth 
of the convolutions of the brain than upon its absolute weight and bulk, 
and that superiority of size cannot, in the existing state of our know- 
ledge, be regained as a constant accompaniment of superiority of intel- 
lect. Indeed, *is a matter of daily observation that men of enormous 
heads have often very obtuse minds, utterly incapable of any great per- 
formances ; and, on the other hand, that many persons of extraordinary 
talent and mental vigour have uncommonly small heads ; in other and 
more comprehensive terms, a large brain may be very sluggish, a small 
one very active. The brain does not differ from other organs. It is 
susceptible of the highest improvement by study and'persistent culture. 
A muscular man is not necessarily strong because of his muscular deve- 
lopment, or a non-muscular one necessarily weak. In either case, quality, 
aided by exercise and training, determines the degree of power. In 
Dunglison, the brain, though not unusually large, was composed of the 
noblest material, arranged, like the columns of a Corinthian dome, in the 
most admirable proportions. The harmony and symmetry of his mind 
were perfect, a circumstance which could not have happened if the cere- 
bral organs had not been cast in the finest mould. 22 
Dunglison was born an author. His tendencies as a writer showed 
themselves in his early youth. “As the morning cloud,” as some one 
has beautifully expressed it, “often foreshadows the nature of the ap- 
proaching storm, so the nature of the boyish taste often foreshadows the 
life of the man. In some way or other the man is tracked in the footsteps 
of the child.” 
“ The childhood shows the man, 
As morning shows the day.” 
A feeling of internal power had come early upon him, and he never 
for a moment allowed it to elude his grasp. He buckled himself to his 
life’s work with a full faith in his ability to vanquish obstacles, and to earn 
enduring fame. 
He was the pioneer in physiology in the United States, the first who 
taught the science systematically in our lecture-rooms, and who gave it 
a proper impetus among professional men. Prior to his time it was a 
confused mass, without system or order, little understood, and considered 
as of comparatively little importance as a branch of medical education. 
His work, composed before he had attained his thirty-second year, cre- 
ated a new era in the study of this country, and justly earned for him the 
honourable title of “ Father of American Physiology.” He had chosen 
a noble theme for his life-long labours and contemplations—the progress 
of man from his mother’s womb, through all the varying and intricate 
changes of his being down to the moment of his dissolution by natural and 
adventitious causes—and how nobly and thoroughly he performed his self- 
imposed mission needs no mentioiuhere. If he did not greatly enrich the 
domain of Physiology with new fasts, the results of tedious experiments 
and of torturing confessions—experiments from which his refined and 
sensitive nature recoiled with horror and disgust—he enlarged it by his vast 
erudition, his patient research, and his masterly criticism, thus winnowing 
the grain from the chaff, and placing it in a simple and attractive form 
before the profession and the public. “Though a man cannot,” says Ben 
Johnson, “ invent new things after so many, he may do a welcome work 
yet, to help posterity to judge rightly of the old.” 
Physiology was his first and last love. He taught it publicly for up- 
wards of forty years, and the last lecture which he ever delivered was 
devoted to its elucidation. Such constancy is as rare as it is sublime. 
Great discoveries are as uncommon in our profession as they are in 
other pursuits. Dr. Dunglison never rent the veil conceals the 
mysteries of science; nor was he the founder of any school in medicine or 
of any sect in philosophy. His mission was a more humble yet not a less 
noble one. He was a reformer of the prejudices of his age, and power- 
fully aided not only in emancipating the professional mind from the errors 
of false experience, so common in our day, but in laying a solid and en- 
during foundation of a medical literature destined to exalt the national 
character, and to rival at no distant period, in depth and vigour, that of 
the Old World. Well may the biographer exclaim with the poet— 
“ A life well spent, whose early care it was 
His riper years should not upbraid liis green ; 
lly unperceived degrees he wears away; 
Yet, like tlie sun, seems larger at liis setting.”