It Is Strange How The Memory Of

We Are All Dietetic Sinners; Only A Small Percent Of What We Eat Nourishes Us; The Balance Goes To Waste And Loss Of Energy.

Even In Populous Districts, The Practice Of Medicine Is A Lonely Road Which Winds Up-hill All The Way And A Man May Easily Go Astray And Never Reach The Delectable Mountains Unless He Early Finds Those Shepherd Guides Of Whom Bunyan Tells, Knowledge, Experience, Watchful, And Sincere.

The Practice Of Medicine Is An Art, Not A Trade; A Calling, Not A Business; A Calling In Which Your Heart Will Be Exercised Equally With Your Head. Often The Best Part Of Your Work Will Have Nothing To Do With Potions And Powders, But With The Exercise Of An Influence Of The Strong Upon The Weak, Of The Righteous Upon The Wicked, Of The Wise Upon The Foolish.

The Extraordinary Development Of Modern Science May Be Her Undoing. Specialism, Now A Necessity, Has Fragmented The Specialities Themselves In A Way That Makes The Outlook Hazardous. The Workers Lose All Sense Of Proportion In A Maze Of Minutiae.

Faith Is A Most Precious Commodity, Without Which We Should Be Very Badly Off.