of the serious illness of Sir Andrew Clark, so truly spoken of by George
Eliot as "the beloved physician." Only the previous day he had presided
at the Annual Harveian Oration as President of the College of
Physicians.

He had more than one warning by severe attacks of illness, and by the
recurrence of very painful symptoms, that he was over-taxing his
strength, but they were unheeded. A patient once told him he had a
horror of having a fit. "Put it away," said Sir Andrew; "I always do."
There was only one person to whose fatigue and exhaustion he was
indifferent that was himself.

It is said that he always hoped to die in his carriage or
consulting-room, and it was in the latter, while talking with a lady
(the Hon. Miss Boscawen) about some charity, that he was seized with the
illness which ended so fatally. In his case it is no morbid curiosity
which makes thousands interested in every detail concerning him.

On one day as many as six hundred people, several of whom were quite
poor patients, called to ask how he was, and daily inquiries from all
parts, including the Royal Family were a proof how much he was
respected. Very peacefully, on Monday, November 6th, about five o'clock,
he passed away, and on the following Saturday, after a service at
Westminster Abbey, he was buried at Essendon, near Camfield, the
property he had so lately bought and where he spent his last holiday.
The world has already been told how the English nation showed their
respect for the President of the College of Physicians, and in him the
profession he so dearly loved was honoured.

What was the reason of this demonstration of respect? Because