In the year 18 - I settled as a physician at one of the wealthiest of our great English towns, which I will designate by the initial L -. I was yet young, but I had acquired some reputation by a professional work which is, I believe, still among the received authorities on the subject of which it treats. I had studied at Edinburgh and at Paris, and had borne away from both those illustrious schools of medicine whatever guarantees for future distinction the praise of professors may concede to the ambition of students. On becoming a member of the College of Physicians, I made a tour of the, principal cities of Europe, taking letters of introduction to eminent medical men; and, gathering from many theories and modes of treatment hints to enlarge the foundations of unprejudiced and comprehensive practice, I had resolved Is fix my ultimate residence in London. But before this preparatory tour was completed my resolve was changed by one of those unexpected events which determine the fate man in vain would work out for himself. In passing through the Tyrol, on my way into the north of Italy, I found in a small inn, remote from medical attendance, an English traveler - seized with acute, inflammation of the lungs, and in a state of imminent danger. I devoted myself to him night and day, and, perhaps more through careful nursing than active remedies, I had the happiness to effect his complete recovery. The traveler proved to be Julius Faber, a physician of great distinction - contented to reside, where he was born, in the provincial city of L , but whose reputation as a profound and original pathologist was widely spread, and whose writings had formed no unimportant part of my special studies. It was during a short holiday excursion, from which he was about to return with renovated vigor, that he had been thus stricken down. The patient so accidentally met with became the founder of my professional fortunes.