Science of anatomy is sufficient for the surgeon; but science of the world is the best passport for the medical man. We require him to cure our bodies—most doctors can do that. But we occasionally require from him medicaments for our minds. This requires the skill of a man of the world. From such premises we conclude that perfection in art is not the keystone of medical fame. The serpent was dedicated to Æsculapius, the emblem of his foresight as well as of his craft. Nor would the symbol misrepresent the physicians of Babylon. Sir Erasistratus will be enabled to discover that Duke Antiochus is fearfully in love with Countess Stratonice. Sir Paulus will gain favour with the patrons of art by the number of statues decorating his country-place at Ægina. Sir Democritus exposes somnambulism, mesmerism, homœopathy, and spirit-rapping. Dr Andrew Machaon displays administrative qualities in the army medical department; while Sir Podalirius, K.C.B., after exhibiting geniality at the mess-table and intrepidity in the field, marries the daughter of King Damætas, and sets up in Grosvenor Square. Dr Chrysippus, who has not yet attained the purple, manages to oppose the dogmatists, and to soar into practice by his agreeable conversation and sparkling jests. Heraclitus is the man-hater, declines to visit sovereigns, and frightens poor women into new diseases by a savage laugh and peremptory brutality. Sir Oribasius, who ushers young peers into the world, endears himself to the mothers by affectionate epithets and profuse gossip; and Sir Sextus Empiricus drives a flourishing trade and a chariot by periodic journeys to the equator, and the administration of stimulants to statesmen. All have some quality independent of their art. Few rely on their craft, and their craft alone, for practice or popularity, competency or knighthood. Writers require an _ars celare artem_; physicians an art to thrust their skill into prominence. In France this is considered charlatanerie; in England it is styled humbug. Yet what great man is, consciously or unconsciously, free from this vice? Has Bumcombe no place in our social, political, scientific, or ecclesiastical system? Some few have tried the narrow, narrow path. They labour in their youth, they labour in their manhood. “They live forgotten—they die forlorn.” An hospital is the scene of their triumphs, a parish-rate forms their emolument. The parson and the overseer compose their society, and the blessings of the poor their fame. Yet there are first-rate men amidst the great physicians of Babylon. Heaven bless them! How would the young Babylonians be born without them, or how could the Babylonian ladies take their strong waters innocuously? But Dr Leadbitter was an exception to every rule. He was devoted to the science of medicine. It absorbed his whole mind; and, indeed, together with dinners and the price-list, formed the staple of his conversation.