d you believe it, my friend, that I have
visited as many as fifteen sick people in a day, and what will surprise
you still more, I have lost only one patient, an Irishman, who would
drink a little. I do not flatter myself that I have cured one single
person, but you will think with me that in my quality of Philadelphia
physician I have been very moderate, and that not one of my confreres
have killed fewer than myself."

[Footnote A: James Parton.]

Such acts as these should go far in his favor in estimating his
character, for they are the very height of true heroism.

Mr. Girard was never idle. Work, as has before been said, was a
necessity with him. Nothing would draw him from his labors. His only
recreation was to drive to his little farm, which lay a few miles out of
the city, and engage with his own hands in the work of tilling it. He
was very proud of the vegetables and fruits he raised himself, and took
great interest in improving their growth. During the visit of the
present head of the house of Baring Bros, (then a young man) to this
country, that gentleman supposed he would give Mr. Girard pleasure by
informing him of the safe arrival of one of his ships, the Voltaire,
from India. Engaging a carriage, he drove to the banker's farm, and
inquired for Mr. Girard.

"He is in the hay-loft," was the answer.

"Inform him that I wish to see him," said Mr. Baring; but almost before
the words had left his lips Girard was before him.

"I came to inform you," he said, addressing the banker, "that your ship,
the Voltaire, has arrived safely."

"I knew that she would reach port safely," said Girard; "my ships always
arrive safe. She is a good ship. Mr. Baring, you must excuse me; I am
much engaged in my hay." And so saying, he ascended to the loft again.

To the last he was active. In 1830, having reached the age of eighty, he
began to lose the sight of his eye; yet he would have no assistance. In
attempting to cross a crowded street, he was knocked down by a passing
wagon and injured severely. His ear was cut off, his face bruised, and
his sight entirely destroyed. His health now declined rapidly, and on
the 26th of December, 1831, he died, in the back room of his plain
little house in Water Street.

His immense wealth was carefully divided by his will. He gave to his
surviving brother and eleven of his nieces sums ranging from five to
twenty thousand dollars, and to his remaining niece, who was the mother
of a v