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Dr. Cabell did not long survive this period, for owing to
impaired health he retired from active professorial duties the
following June, having by the Visitors been given an efficient
assistant, Dr. Paul B. Barringer, who had been trained by him
as well as abroad. Unfortunately, however, Dr. Cabell did
not survive to give form and fashion to his work in another's
hands, as he died August 13th, at Morven, his country home,
a short distance from Charlottesville and the University. His
death was unexpected and seemingly very untimely, being due
to a general failure and some stomach disease preventing
proper assimilation. He was laid at rest in the University
Cemetery, by the side of his wife, who preceded him fifteen
years (1874), and near many others who in life were his
sincere friends and co-workers—faithful unto Death.

The following day, The Sun (Baltimore) gave this short
and deserving editorial: "The Late Dr. Cabell.—The medical
profession has sustained a loss in the death yesterday of
Dr. James L. Cabell, of the University of Virginia, at his
residence near Charlottesville. Dr. Cabell had been professor

of surgery in the University for over fifty years, and there
are hundreds of physicians, scattered over the country, who
learned valuable lessons in his lecture-room. The news of his
death will cause general regret, particularly among members
of the profession of which he was an ornament."

James Francis Harrison—One day, shortly after my
entrance to the University, while walking along West Lawn
to a Latin lecture, I saw, for the first time, this gentleman
standing in the doorway of his office—the door itself being
partly open. The perspective was singularly impressive
from what I considered a strained attitude—severely erect
with spraddled legs and stern expression—answering well to
an ungracefully posed picture in a rough frame. As time
went on, granting many opportunities of passing him on the
street with a bow of recognition, I observed this to be one of
his favorite positions—assuming it frequently for a few moments
as a method of obtaining either fresh air or a general
survey of the campus and possible doings thereon. In spite
of these semi-contacts we never came to meet until after he
succeeded Professor Venable as Chairman, July, 1873. He
occupied the second pavilion from the Rotunda, West Lawn,
his office being the room just north, thus making it very convenient
for students calling to get information, commands or
reprimands, as each after a fashion desired or deserved. His
wife possessed a sweet but sad face, and mingled little with
the social contingent of the University, being prevented, we
understood, by precarious health. But a daughter well beyond
the teens, tall and lank, a brunette of attractive and
striking features, did the honors of the home. A son of good
manners and address was then a student, and enjoyed considerable
popularity in the medical department, from which
he graduated, and like his father became professor in a Southern
institution. The Doctor himself was about sixty years of
age, but seemingly experienced not the slightest impairment
of faculties in spite of visible dermal wrinkles and silvered
strands. He was exceptionally vigorous, active and alert—
well calculated to perform the double duties of Chairman and
his chair. He was about six feet high and weighed one hundred
and eighty pounds. In dress he was somewhat careless,
but on stated occasions so attired himself as to give commanding

appearance and the impression of a strong personality.
His step was firm, positive, rather long and deliberate;
face of the angular, elongated type, mostly covered with
brownish-black beard and moustache worn slightly long and
shaggy; forehead somewhat broad and high; nose large but
thin, with graceful ridge or outline; voice deep, of lower
register, and used generally without kindly modulation—
indeed, I considered him abrupt in speech, very outspoken,
mincing neither word nor sentiment. He expressed boldly
and impressively what he had to say, and there was no need
of mistaking his meaning; yet I never thought he intended
to be harsh or severe—it was simply his individual way and
manner. Having been for years a surgeon in the United
States and Confederate navies, where positive command and
discipline prevailed, and being without that innate gentle refinement
characterizing many of the professors, it was not
strange that his brusque abruptness showed in forceful contrast
with those of a more retiring nature. At the same time
we all recognized in him a good mirthful heart, one who often
came down to the students' level and impressed them as desiring
to be their true friend and adviser. While he was not
a general favorite, he shared our respect and admiration—
none of us harboring the slightest feeling against him. There
was one thing to his credit in common with the other professors—he
always knew his mind, never vacillated or wavered
between opinions.

We did not regard Dr. Harrison much of a student, and
I believe the medical students recognized him the least learned
of their triumvirate, in spite of his rounded experience in general
practice where he seemed bold and fearless—qualities
often counting to advantage at the bedside. Personally I
never happened to be sick any month he was on duty, consequently
cannot speak knowingly of his bearing and impress
in the sick-room—factors of inestimable value to both patient
and physician—but I fancy him to have been cheerful, encouraging
and well calculated to inspire confidence, as he was
moved little by trifles and inclined to make light of that which
others often thought serious. I distinctly remember a friend
dropped into my room one morning very much provoked over
the visit just made to Dr. Harrison for medical advice, when
in describing his malady he laid special stress upon one symptom—"every

time I take a long breath a sharp pain is felt about
my heart." To this the Doctor seriously remarked—"You
don't have to take long breaths; cease annoying yourself with
the effort, breathe normally." After a few moments' conversation,
however, he changed the pleasantry by prescribing
that which soon brought a cure, but not an obliteration of the
undignified command. I never heard but parts—endings—
of several lectures, and the talks he gave on Commencement
Days, when conferring diplomas, but from these I should
not imagine him to have been a winning lecturer or speaker,
as his voice, deep and penetrating, was used in quick, somewhat
jerky sentences without much modulation—qualities that
in time become monotonous and tiresome.

My relationship with him was always most pleasant, and
as Chairman of the Faculty he apparently measured up to the
students' complete satisfaction. I never was before him for
reprimand—that which he did not hesitate to administer to
the deserving—but came near on one occasion when, owing
to a previous engagement, I declined taking a Sunday horseback
ride with some clumbates and others, who rode to Edgehill,
entered the Seminary grounds, waved handkerchiefs at
the young ladies, and indulged in mannerisms open to criticism.
Upon Miss Randolph sending out to inquire what
manner of men they were, each wrote his name on a cigarette
paper, which were handed to the servant, only to realize
them the next afternoon in the hands of Dr. Harrison, to
whom they had been sent by morning's mail with an explanatory
letter. The guilty students needed no reminder of
what they had been summoned to the Chairman's office for, as
filing in one by one they encountered the identical faces upon
which they had gazed the previous day in sportive delight.
The Doctor, much to their surprise, was very lenient—invoking
for the future a proper regard for the University's good
name and a promise not to depart again from gentlemanly
behavior.

We called him mostly "Doctor Harrison," but occasionally
could be heard the more familiar name, "Old Harry." He
continued Chairman and professor until 1886, when he resigned
and moved to Prince William County, where he died
ten years later.

Professor Francis P. Dunnington, B.Sc., at forty-three
1851—

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