University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XXI

Professors—Personal Characteristics and Traits

John William Mallet—Of the faculty, this professor
was the only one of Irish birth and English parentage, and although
educated in his native land and Germany he had
migrated to our country in early manhood for the purpose of
teaching chemistry—that in which he had gained already a
world-wide reputation. He possessed, however, none of the
more noticeable attributes of the typical Englishman, as he
was rather tall and slender, and without ruddy complexion or
the slightest provincial dialect. He was about forty-five years
of age, six feet high, and weighed one hundred and sixty-five
pounds. His face was of the elongated type, covered mostly
with a good growth of blackish-brown beard and moustache—
the former trimmed occasionally to prevent unnecessary
length; forehead broad and prominent; nose rather large and
well-shaped; eyes clear, bright and bluish-gray; head finely
proportioned, of good size, held thoroughly erect and carrying
a thick suit of brownish-black hair. His voice was strong
and sufficiently deep to be rich and sonorous; language full and
elegant; manners easy, reserved, positive and gentlemanly—
qualities that never failed him during my two years' contact,
be the provocation what it may. He was dignified, possibly
a trifle formal, and while kind to students tolerated not the
slightest familiarity with them. He stood and walked absolutely
erect, with a quick, elastic and quiet, almost noiseless,
step. In conversation he was given to smiling only when

occasion really demanded, which at times ran into audible
laughter, so that with those of his age and liking he became
very agreeable and companionable. He was popular with
students despite the dignified and unbending personality, for in
him we recognized a master mind and hand—such as could
and would guide us properly, as well as do all that was
possible to promote our interest and welfare. He received
from us most universally the one title, "Professor Mallet,"
although a few accepted occasionally the liberty of, "Jack
Mallet." He dressed well, in good taste and quietly, preferring
the cutaway coat and silk hat.

In spite of his three children—John, Robert, Mary—I
fancied the home life more or less retiring, as Mrs. Mallet
was understood not to enjoy perfect health or hearing. I
never called there, nor did others I fancy unless specially invited,
as this was not necessary in order to see the Professor—
as he spent all of his time, except evenings, in the laboratory
where he had a well-ordered office. This was accessible to
all students and here he seemed always glad to see those needing
advice and assistance, as well as others for a social visit
whenever time permitted. During the session, however, he
was continually busy, and could spare few moments for pleasurable
diversion, consequently when occasion demanded did
not hesitate to excuse himself with satisfactory explanation
and apology. So far as in his power he allowed nothing to
conflict with set duties, these being performed accurately with
the stroke of the clock. In the class-room he was absolutely
self-possessed, serious and busy, never ceasing the conversational
side while performing experiments, so that from the
beginning to the end of the hour and a half not the slightest
let-up or opportunity occurred for playing soldier. He neither
recognized nor accepted from himself failure in experiments,
as all such work was verified carefully in advance of the lecture
hour, and at the conclusion seemed always pleased to have
members come up in front of the long table to ask pertinent
questions and to inspect the products upon which he had lectured.
Somehow or another we felt as though behind the table
was his own private area upon which we dare not trespass,
but possibly there was no ground for this, unless it be after
the lecture on fulminates and other explosives, when for safety

sake we considered it best to keep a respectable distance. He
manifested no timidity in performing experiments attended
with most startling reports, or in handling chemicals that with
the slightest abuse would produce serious results; and yet he
was careful, never over-daring or inviting risk—simply did
what he regarded duty and necessary for the best exposition
of his subjects. He lectured without manuscript, but had lying
before him a single sheet of legal-cap paper containing
matter desired, such as headings, divisions and quotations, and
beforehand always placed on the blackboard for class observation
and profit the several needed formulæ of reactions, and
outline drawings of any special apparatus involved in the process
of manufacture. Turning at a slight angle he would
refer to these, in proper connection, with his long pointer,
often without scarcely moving from his lecturing position.
He was not an orator or a flowery speaker—one to lose us
in the giddy maze of expression, as was Professor Smith—
but his clear, concise sentences were uttered abundantly rapid
and seriously, often precluding the taking down of all in our
note-books, even though writing at greatest speed. He reiterated
nothing—that which we missed at the appointed
moment was gone, unless caught through conference or the
notes of others. His usual custom was to consume the first
half hour of each lecture in calling the roll and quizzing, but
for one or two months he tried the experiment of lecturing
twice a week (Monday and Wednesday, 11 to 12.30 o'ck.)
the full hour and a half, devoting the entire third period (Friday)
to a general quiz. This I personally did not like so well,
as it gave less variety, and required such continued high tension,
each after its kind, and as this no doubt was universal,
the innovation possibly has long since ceased to prevail.

He was Americanized to the extent of appreciating a joke
or pun, at which when of merit he laughed heartily. I will
never forget how I placed (misplaced) him one afternoon
while quizzing me on the early industrial process of calico
printing, wherein wooden blocks a foot square, with raised
metal design attached to the under surface carrying the proper
colored dye (ink), were placed together with art and precision
upon plain fabric, then hammered gently to make certain
a perfect impression. Instead of repeating him verba-

tim, "tapping the blocks gently with a hammer," I substituted,
"tapping the blocks with a little mallet," whereupon the class
quickly accepted the pun with a ripple that aroused his own
sense of humor. It was seldom, however, that he sanctioned
in class-room the slightest notice of anything irregular—a diversion,
inattention or noise—as he considered all such marked
evidence of disrespect, and no one felt sufficiently great unto
himself, or defiant, to antagonize his pleasure, or the will of
the large majority that invariably supported him. In the laboratory
he was extremely precise, methodical, industrious and
punctual, and in all others under him he expected the same
good qualities, or a serious endeavor in that direction. Here
he was quick in movement and thought, giving suggestions
and reasons in terse language, tolerating in himself and others
nothing except work—but notwithstanding was of easy approach
and friendly. His assistant, Professor Dunnington,
assumed general charge of us, who as an intermediary left
little need of direct contact unless for personal and specific
reasons. In fact Professor Mallet remained nearly all the
time in his own private laboratory, entering therefrom the
general laboratory only occasionally each day, and then for
the briefest period. The proximity of the two laboratories—
separated by a thin wall with communicating door often left
open—served to preserve the greatest order and quietness
among the students, for none wished to annoy or disturb him
in his continuous painstaking work. I remember in making
a large alcoholic thermometer when sealing the end finally,
the bulb burst with a loud report, only to bring him to the
spot in an instant to inquire the cause and possible damage.
Nothing beyond the ordinary could go on in his domain to
which he was insensible—a fact we soon observed and accepted
as a powerful influence toward forcing us to make the best
of golden moments.

Since leaving the University I have seen Professor Mallet
several times—indeed attended a course of his popular lectures
at the Johns Hopkins University—when always a pleasant
memory and recognition was evinced for his old student. My
last conversation was in his laboratory a few years ago, where
I found him in the midst of work and apparently at a time he
could ill-afford more than a few moments, but these he willingly

gave, taking occasion to acquaint me with some of the
changes and improvements going on in his specific department.

George Frederick Holmes—This gentleman was an English
subject, being born, however, at Demerara, British Guiana,
and might readily have been taken for a foreigner or some
native eccentric personage. He was tall, lean and lank—more
so than any member of the Faculty, although Dr. Cabell shared
honors in height—and of all seemed to give the greatest evidence
of years, in spite of his accepted uniform good health.
He was fifty-five years of age, about six feet one inch high,
and weighed one hundred and fifty pounds. His face was
long and angular, but covered with a growth of grayish-black
beard and moustache; hair of similar color, abundant and worn
long; forehead bold and high; mouth large with firmly appressed
lips; nose thin and of the Roman type; eyes deeply
seated, large and prominent but not strong—one more affected
than the other—and reinforced by gold spectacles, which always
were wiped carefully, without losing time, when beginning
and several times during lecture; voice strong and penetrating,
becoming at times a little thick and husky, but used
frequently with fine effect approximating oratory. His subjects,
History, Literature and Rhetoric, gave opportunity and
range for the higher qualities of the speaker, and realizing this
he endeavored successfully to measure up to the possibilities.
He appeared always in a slight hurry, as though never allowing
sufficient time for various duties and diversions, but this
may have been second nature, acquired through necessity of
excessive work in editing his various books, which were appearing
then one after another as fast as he could do the compiling.
He was rather careless in mode of dress, as to both
fit and fashion, wearing usually a cutaway coat of longish
skirt, poorly shaped pantaloons, low crowned soft black hat,
turn-down collar and the thinnest apology of hand-tied cravats.
But when attired for special functions, in full-dress or frock
coat and silk hat, made an appearance highly creditable.

He invariably came into the class-room, Rotunda basement,
to the left (west), having under arm or in hand several historic
or classical works, and a somewhat worn, medium size
note-book containing his own annotations, commentaries and

memoranda—not any completely written lecture, simply the
skeleton or brief portions. He usually greeted his classes with
a smile, wiped his eyes and glasses, adjusted the latter, and at
once called the roll in a serious manner, yet never refusing
anything susceptible of a little fun. Thus I recall the rhyme
he made one morning at the expense of Mr. Berlin, who frequently
came in late or not at all. Every name was preceded
by Mister, so having called "Mister Berlin" with no response,
he quickly added, giving a twinkle of the eye and a smile, "He
is not in." Of course not being given to such crude liberty
with euphony, we all accepted it with a decided outburst, evidently
to his satisfaction. It is unnecessary to add that for
several weeks thereafter the calling of that gentleman's name
evoked some little disturbance of normal quietness. In classroom
Professor Holmes wasted no time, making every moment
count for something—chiefly discussions and criticisms of subjects
under review, in which we often failed to see value or
take interest. Although highly educated—indeed, a fine
scholar—I did not consider him a teacher of the highest order,
as in quizzing he extenuated errors in a canny manner and
often became so enraptured with his subject while lecturing
as to lose sight of minor violations of class decorum. His
lectures were severely didactic, containing much for which he
did not hold us accountable, and a great deal to be found in
books—it is true differently expressed and often from new
viewpoints. Of course even this quality was highly commendable,
as it required great intuition and research to deduce
through reading and judgment sufficient knowledge to solve
accurately doubtful literary problems—such as the personality
of Shakespeare; whether his reputed writings were his own
product, or that of Bacon or some other Solon, etc. It was
questions of this character he delighted to unfathom—to be
convinced of absolute correctness—and to proclaim the results
with methods by which obtained. He was a great believer in
and searcher for truth, sparing no time and toil to reveal it.

He was rather a rapid speaker, warming up to the demands
as he advanced in the subject, and seemed delighted to hold
students somewhat spellbound as they took in quietly what he
said. He appreciated a recognition of his efforts by others—
a very common element in man's nature—consequently there

was more demonstration and noisy punctuation of well-rounded
sentences and brilliant thoughts in his classes than
in any others. On such occasions, and they were many, no
one can fail recalling, after a continuous round of applause,
how prone he was to hold up his right hand and smile—a
modest invocation for silence, not always heeded until good
and ready, especially when the cause was rich and deserving.
There was very little note-taking under him, possibly less than
with any other professor, as we had specific text-books that
could be followed satisfactorily and considered the lectures
simply an elucidation or extenuation of their contents. But
as a matter of fact his lectures supplemented much that was
important and pertinent to places, persons, scenes, dates and
writings, which, if retained, would have been useful and helpful
to our general store of knowledge. There was, however,
so much in the course, that most of us gladly escaped the retention
of non-essentials for graduation even though knowingly
we became the weaker thereby. Owing to this fact and
his seeming indifference (?) there was more inattention and
whispering in his lectures than those of other professors, for,
unlike them, he became so engrossed, self-centered and oblivious
to external doings as to continue talking despite the
usual disturbing conditions. Sometimes, however, he would
awake to the occasion, pause, scan the room from over his
spectacles, only thereafter to receive perfect respect and order.
Thus it was we happily knew how far to go—simply awaited
his alarm to stop—and dared to overstep his pleasure-mark.

While he often found out what we knew, or did not know,
in his department by the regular process of examination and
quizzing—that which he continually exercised—we none could
judge his attainments in the various subjects he taught. They
were so comprehensive as to demand study along many lines,
and in any one he had given little that ever reached our youthful
hands suggesting great mastery. So far as we were concerned
a very good small History of the United States, a
commendable Series of Readers, and an average English
Grammar marked his authorship—such as in our opinion
might have been compiled by one of less reputed talent. His
voluminous writings and criticisms in educational journals,
encyclopædias, and standard works were either then unknown,

inaccessible or unappreciated by us. The gift of repeating
from memory the stronger parts of famous compositions—
orations, poems, dramas and tragedies—seemed to us almost
essential to one occupying the chair, but all such Professor
Holmes felt satisfied in simply reading. He even rarely gave
the shorter familiar quotations—that which might have reasonably
been expected from one of rare literary taste and
ability. Somehow I always believed the theme or creative
cause—historic side of a work—appealed more to him than
the language or style employed. I knew several ladies attending
Mrs. Long's school, Charlottesville, where a portion
of their weekly work was—assigning the correct authorship to
a number of quotations, each a line or two. Sometimes I was
applied to for assistance, and whenever the various "Quotation
Works" in the Library failed to help me, I would after
class ask Professor Holmes, and he was never able—possibly
inclined—to give me any light beyond: "It sounds a little
like so and so." Usually he would say frankly: "I do not
know—you cannot tell where to find a thing unless you have
seen it there." This struck me as strange, coming from one
of his reputation and position, but possibly I expected too
much. He might have offered to help me out, yet this even
he never did, in spite of my enjoying his friendship in extent
equal to other class-members. For this I gave him no censure,
but accepted it to imply a lack of interest in matters outside
of his course, an extremely busy life, and a thoughtlessness
in extending a helping hand to others. While this characteristic
failed to win hearts or to make him a favorite professor,
it did not create enemies—simply called forth from us
all moderate respect. We had to accept him as a fine critic,
a close and painstaking student, a widely and thoughtfully
read scholar.

I fancy he lived simply and prudently—eating to live rather
than living to eat—and therefore required little exercise, that
which he seldom accepted unless indoors, as he was seen rarely
on the street outside of duty's demand. He seldom attended
the Chapel services at which I was present, but that was condoned
from the fact of us students understanding incorrectly
him to be a Romanist, therefore adverse to Protestant creed—
that which was not true, as he was an Episcopalian.

His home, third pavilion from the Rotunda, East Lawn, was
not recognized in my day a strong factor in the University
social life, although the youngest daughter, Miss Bell, still
enjoyed favor with a certain few and entertained to a limited
extent. It was here that R. M. T. Hunter (Finals of 1875)
and Ralph Waldo Emerson (Finals of 1876) were cared for
pleasantly while visiting the University, and in whose honor
beautiful receptions and other functions were given—that to
Mr. and Miss Emerson being so over-crowded as almost to
defy admission. The University certainly had a faithful and
efficient servant in Professor Holmes, who proudly endeavored
to extend her creditable reputation and add to her good name.
By his teaching, readers, grammars, histories, criticisms and
other writings he became widely and favorably known, often
receiving and accepting invitations, carrying adequate compensation,
to deliver courses of lectures in other institutions.
After an association of forty years he died at the University,
November 4, 1897, and at his request was buried at the Old
Sweet Springs by the wife's side, causing deep regret that his
bones should fail to repose in that sacred enclosure hard by the
spot he spent so much of life, giving to the world his richest,
best and fullest energies.

John Staige Davis—While I cannot claim a strong intimacy
with this Professor, taking in his department only
materia medica—one lecture a week for two-thirds of a session,
1876-77—yet every now and then throughout my University
course I received his medical advice and treatment, a
service that brought a kindly fellowship and a grateful heart.
Indeed, no one could come in touch with him for the briefest
period without feeling impressed with his personality—those
striking characteristics that make the true man. Although
deep in his power of apprehension, penetration, absorption and
retention, yet he was no enigma to others, as they could understand
and comprehend readily his manly nature. He possessed
nothing hidden or secretive, but his ambitions, desires,
intentions, hopes and methods were held in the open—figuratively,
"worn upon the sleeve." Whatever was equitable, honorable,
just, right and best for all concerned—not for himself
alone—was advocated always by him, in fact written legibly

Professor Noah K. Davis, LL.D., at sixty
1830—

See page 436

FACING 412

in his face. One had only to inquire of himself the truth—
not superficial—and merits of a given case or condition in
order to predict the attitude of Professor Davis towards it.
He was, like all wide-awake, observant men, thoroughly conversant
with the corrupt doings of his day, and fully realized
that thereby many seemingly benefited and prospered, but that
was no incentive for him to emulate the example—if anything
it stimulated him all the more to tread the narrow path of
strict integrity and morality. Of course he liked money, but
not in the prevailing spirit of to-day—whether obtained by
methods questionable or otherwise—consequently he could not
have been tempted into any kind of transaction savoring of
indirectness, that which happily his intuition was sufficiently
acute to detect and to vouchsafe always a high sense of honor.
I never saw a person more eager to discharge what he conceived
to be the whole duty—not a part—and this alone made
him a very careful, painstaking imparter of knowledge, never
being satisfied with his part until it was comprehended and
mastered properly by his students. He was just fifty-two
years of age, well-proportioned and compactly built, about five
feet nine inches high, and one hundred and sixty pounds in
weight. His face was full and smooth, with determined vertical
upper lip and strong angular lower jaw; forehead broad,
full, vertical and high; nose of good size and outline; hair
abundant and dark; voice rather fine, soft and effeminate, but
agreeable, penetrating and with volume; language concise,
clear, never over-abundant, but beautifully expressive and explanatory;
manners courtly, affable and friendly—never familiar.
His dress was plain, neat and fresh—mostly black
suits, sack or cutaway coats, turn-down collars, soft felt or
straw hats. In meeting him casually one would not probably
feel himself in the presence of more than an average individual,
as his general appearance and behavior suggested little
other than the polished, refined gentleman—never aiming at
personal show or advantage. Indeed, he was a modest and
retiring man with mild, precise speech, but in thought and expression
how different!—aggressive, impressive, concise, original,
incisive, witty and sarcastic—sarcasm, however, not
willingly intended to injure or offend, but which sometimes
left momentarily a sting upon the deserving and extremely
sensitive. This truly was a natural gift, one, in spite of falling
occasionally on unwonted soil, to discomfort the few, that
made no enemies and always brought some amusement to the
many. There seemed no better place than the class-room for
giving vent to this proclivity, where alone most of us chanced
to meet it, and we invariably expected some manifestation,
especially when quizzing. On one occasion I remember he
asked a stalwart Texan the dose of digitalis tincture, and
upon getting the reply—one to two tablespoonfuls—simply retorted:
"Alas, doctors will differ." Again upon inquiring
the treatment for aconite poisoning, and receiving a lengthy
preamble with a hesitation, he queried: "Well, what next?"
Whereupon the young man continued to a finish, when the
Professor remarked: "Oh, indeed, no need for that, you
would already have caused a funeral." Again when asking
the dose of croton oil he received the reply—one to two teaspoonfuls—and
with uplifted hands coupled with an expression
of sad disappointment, if not disgust, he quietly remarked:
"In this class we have no reference to lower animals—that
quantity would even make a goat pass its horns." This type
of incorrect answers doomed the perpetrators for that day, as,
without further interrogation, they were allowed to rest on
their laurels—sad object lessons for themselves and fellow
classmates. These terse, pithy remarks served as caustic reprimands,
and, beyond avoiding a waste of time at correction
and discussion, forced the lame to seek out for themselves at
the first opportunity correct knowledge, driving it home not
soon to be forgotten. He never referred by word or act to
any of the "flings" passed, but met us afterwards in the same
urbane manner that characterized his life—just as though
nothing beyond the ordinary had occurred. In no place did he
show to greater advantage than the sick-chamber, where it
was my lot—unfortunately several times at examination season—to
fall under his care. One could not forget, even with
effort, his easy manner, beautiful sympathy and paternal watchfulness
at the bedside—always bright, kind, cheery, talkative,
encouraging and inspiring—causing joy at the coming, sorrow
at the going. The middle of one June I found myself with
headache, fever and lost appetite, and, without knowing or
sending for the physician in charge, marched over to the Infirmary,
related my troubles to the matron, Mrs. Brown—a
very sweet, affable, oldish lady, ideal for the position and
known to me through former tender manifestations—and requested
a room as well as medical attention. In the natural
sequence of duty it happened to be Dr. Davis's month, who
upon entering my door first inquired: "How did you get
over here? who told you to come?" Both speech and attitude
were as though somewhat aggrieved—that his prerogative
had not properly been observed—but when I appealingly
looked him in the face with the reply, "Don't criticise the
liberty taken, Doctor, I am so sick," his entire mannerism
changed, so that in a moment he was feeling pulse, looking at
tongue and seeking other diagnostic symptoms. It proved
only a case of remittent fever aggravated by the prevailing hot
weather, consequently ten days saw me well and out again.
During one of the "Finals" we chanced to meet on East
Lawn, near the Rotunda, when he stopped me to say he had
mutual friends, Whiteleys, stopping with him for the occasion
who would be glad to see me. Later in the day I received a
written invitation to a function on the morrow, 4 o'ck, P. M.,
after which he placed the word—sharp. Few men ever lived
who observed and desired promptness more than he, and, realizing
the average youth's proneness to violate the social law
of time by five or ten minutes, he did not hesitate to emphasize
the hour of engagement.

He enjoyed far more than a local reputation, received solicitations
for city practice, and invitations to join Faculties of
other medical institutions, but all such were declined invariably
on the ground that he was doing good and satisfactory
work, was happy and contented, and his own University
needed him most. I met him for the last time in the summer
of 1881 at the Rockbridge Alum Springs, where he was the
resident physician and had been for many years. Having
our party of young friends and seeming plenty to pass the few
weeks together pleasantly I neglected to call at his cottage the
first few days, and did not see him until one morning we found
ourselves on the same path approaching each other. At once
he extended his hand with the query: "Why have you not
been to see us?" His recognition was so cordial that for the
moment I was confused into admitting the truth, "Well, Doctor,

I thought you had long since lost sight of me in the multitude
of students and that it would be a kindness not to
annoy you unnecessarily." At this he disclaimed the possibility
of such forgetfulness, became a trifle generous with
pleasant memories of the past and insistent upon seeing much
of me during my stay. It is scarcely necessary to say that
thereafter we came together frequently, always to interchange
kindly greetings and congenial thoughts that made me feel the
better.

His life was cut off unfortunately in the midst of its greatest
activity, after having served the University he so much loved
twenty-nine years, as professor of anatomy and materia
medica. He died July 17, 1885, in his sixty-first year, and
was buried in the University Cemetery near by many faithful
friends and co-laborers, within the sound of the bell that ever
continues to summon ambitious students to the same old subjects
he so ably taught.

James Lawrence Cabell—Some days after entering the
University I began to feel more or less languid, and, in spite
of symptoms differing somewhat, to apprehend intermittent
fever—that which in the autumn was so prevalent around my
home, and in previous years had given me no little annoyance.
Another more hopeful solution of the malady was that
due to climatic differences, such as was to be apprehended—
indeed, previously commented upon—in going southward for
the first time. As days brought no relief and as my many
duties demanded a sound mind in a sound body, I determined
to seek medical advice, and upon learning that Dr. Cabell was
the visiting physician for October, hastened one morning
shortly after breakfast to his office—first door south of his
home, first pavilion from the Rotunda, East Lawn. I had
never seen him before, and though a stranger, he was not
long in removing all incidental feeling by friendly talk and
interest in me. He inquired minutely concerning my home,
State, family, and finally myself, with the conclusion that my
symptoms were of the trouble surmised—malarial and atmospheric.
He cleared the primæ vicæ, prescribed additionally
a dozen quinine pills and a half-ounce of Fowler's Solution, to
be taken in five-drop doses with a little water, three times

daily—remarking it was poisonous and the quantity must not
be exceeded. I followed his directions to speedy cure, and
the circumstance has always remained vivid from it being
my initiative need of a physician's care—all previous ailments
having been simple and amenable to mother's treatment. Indeed,
she was not only a kindly nurse, but possessed fair acquaintance
with medicines and diseases—children and adult
—causing others besides myself to have abiding faith in her
powers. After this event Dr. Cabell and I always knew each
other, although likely he failed to carry my name until subsequent
circumstances made it more impressive. We saw each
other quite often to exchange courteous recognition, occasionally
to enjoy short conversation, but I had no need for
him professionally until three years later, when, injuring my
foot and hand in the gymnasium, I again called at his office
for medical advice—that which he cheerfully gave, with
speedy curative results.

Dr. Cabell was in his early sixties, six feet one inch high,
and weighed one hundred and eighty pounds. His face was
smooth except a suit of well-clipped whitish side whiskers
that gave him a resemblance to Mr. Chauncey M. Depew. He
was particular in keeping the rest of his face cleanly shaven,
thereby showing a healthy florid complexion. His nose was
of good size and shape; forehead broad and high; hair scarce
and whitish; voice clear, sonorous, and agreeable—used with
deliberation and impressiveness; manners quiet, affable, dignified,
gentlemanly—inspiring; language full, precise, elegant—
forceful; dress neat and becoming, usually black—frock coat
and silk hat. By us students he was recognized to be one of
the most scholarly members of the Faculty—capable of teaching
acceptably any branch of medicine and several in the department
of letters. Upon the death of Professor McGuffey
he took partial charge of the course during the remainder of
the session—the honor being shared by Rev. T. D. Witherspoon,
our chaplain, one of the previous year's creditable graduates
in that department.

Dr. Cabell was a persistent reader and a close student of
all matters educational, contenting himself not alone with
medicine—far less with his branches, physiology and surgery.
His mind was retentive and elastic, making him a veritable

store-house of knowledge—that which coupled with a delightful
personality assured at all times and places a position of
respect, power and eminence. His distinguished appearance,
fine address and magnetism caused the more observant of
multitudes to inquire his name, while those who came in close
contact were impressed by his strong individuality and gathered
inspiration from his manly character. He seemingly possessed
few weak points—none but what was servile to judgment—and
revealed the highest type of the old-time gentleman.
The medical students thought him a very exacting
teacher and believed he only showed mercy when demanded
by unqualified justice. How far this was true I am not prepared
to say, but one thing is certain, that he and Dr. Davis
were faithful watchdogs of their diploma's sanctity—seeing
that no one undeserving possessed it. I distinctly recall one
second-year applicant for graduation receiving several weeks
after his intermediate examination in surgery a note from Dr.
Cabell, stating his failure and expressing surprise at one of
his mental caliber thinking he could ever take a degree in
medicine at the University. This so incensed the young man
that he left at once and finished his medical training elsewhere
a year later. Thus the courtly Cabell could say offensive
things, absolutely without varnish, when he believed the end
justified the means.

The last time I met him was in the summer of 1882, when
coming from the White Sulphur Springs, he joined our train
at Covington, having previously secured in our sleeper a berth
near my own. He was on his way from the Hot Springs to
Washington in connection with duties incident to the National
Board of Health, of which he then was president. The
hour was late, permitting only a short talk, but he gave no
evidence of weakened faculties—still preserved the quick
movement and undaunted energy characterizing him during
my University days, such as belonged to one of more youthful
years. On December 21, 1887, he completed his fifty
years of continued service as "professor of physiology and
surgery" in the University, and as a memorial of the event
and a tribute to his distinguished labors for universal sound
medical education his old pupils, representing thirty States
and countries, and his colleagues, presented to him a beautiful

and costly golden goblet, appropriately inscribed, accompanied
by a congratulatory address. His pupils of that session
did not let the event pass unnoticed—sending him a handsome
cylindrical escritoire as a token of respect and confidence.

In February, 1889, I received a letter from Mrs. Mattie
M. Minor, asking a donation for completing the University
Chapel, with the request that any contribution be forwarded
to Dr. Cabell. I enclosed with check a personal letter, to
which the following is a reply:

Dear Doctor Culbreth: Your favor of the 23rd ins., enclosing your
check for ten dollars as a contribution to the new Chapel at the University,
and generously offering to make a further subscription in a certain contingency,
was duly received yesterday afternoon. The check has been
turned over to the Ladies Chapel Aid Society, and I am authorized to
convey to you their grateful thanks for your actual contribution, for the
promise of further aid if such should be needed, and last but by no means
least for your generous expressions of filial devotion to Alma Mater and
of your purpose to do all in your power to advance her interest. In all of
this I cordially join, and am with sincere regard,

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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