In 1835 he visited Europe for the purpose of resting from his arduous labors, and spent several years in traveling extensively in England, on the continent, and in the East.  His great achievements had made him as famous in the Old World as at home, and he was received wherever he went with great distinction.  He was cordially welcomed by the most eminent surgeons of Paris, and Louis Philippe conceived a warm friendship for him.  During his visit to Constantinople, he was called upon to attend professionally the reigning Sultan Abdul Medjid, who was suffering from a tumor in the head.  Dr. Mott successfully removed this tumor, and was afterwards invested by the Sultan with the order of Knight of Medjidechi, of Constantinople.

During his visit to Paris, a circumstance occurred which he related upon his return home, and which will serve to show the extremes to which professional skill and vanity will sometimes carry men.  One of the most eminent surgeons in Paris asked him if he would like to see him perform his original operation.  Dr. Mott replied that nothing would give him more pleasure.  “Then you shall see it to-morrow,” said the Frenchman.  “But stay,” he added, “now I think of it, there is no patient in the hospital who has that malady.  No matter, my dear friend, there is a poor devil in ward No. ——­ who is of no use to himself or any body else, and if you’ll come to-morrow, I’ll operate beautifully on him.”  Dr. Mott at once declined to attend the operation or to countenance in any way so horrible an outrage.

In person Dr. Mott was a thorough gentleman of the old school.  He was an exceedingly handsome man, and was possessed of an erect and well-developed figure.  His hair was as white as snow, and his dress, which consisted of a simple suit of spotless black, with linen of matchless purity, was in the most perfect taste.  He was grave and dignified in his deportment, and polished and courteous in every action.  Even in his most difficult and trying operations the services of the assistants were always promptly acknowledged with scrupulous politeness.  He was possessed of many friends, and was regarded with pride and veneration by his profession throughout the world.

During the last winter of his life he had lectured once or twice at the Medical School, and had performed several operations of importance in his private practice.  Although nearly eighty, he was still erect and vigorous, and was far from considering himself too old for his work.

On the morning of the 15th of April, 1865, he sent for his barber, as was his custom, and submitted himself to the hands of the man who had been his attendant in this capacity for years.  He was sitting in his dressing-room, and, being in fine spirits, began conversing with the barber, who, during the conversation, asked him if he had heard the terrible news of the day.

“What is the news?” asked the doctor.

“President Lincoln was killed last night at the theater in Washington,” was the reply.