"Sir, this is all very fine, on paper--very fine; but it won't do. Anatomy! botany! Nonsense. Why, sir, I know an old woman in Covent Garden who better understands botany; and as for anatomy, no doubt my butcher can dissect a joint quite as well. No, no, young man; this is all stuff. You must go to the bedside; it is only there that you can learn disease." In spite of this mortifying reception, however, Sydenham afterwards took the greatest interest in Dr. Sloane, frequently taking the young man with him in his chariot on going his rounds. In "Lives of English Physicians," the author, in writing of Dr. Sydenham, says, "At the commencement of his practice, it is handed down to us, that it was his ordinary custom, when consulted by patients for the first time, to hear attentively their story, and then reply, "Well, I will consider your case, and in a few days will prescribe something for you;" thereby gaining time to look up such a case. He soon learned that this deliberation would not do, as some forgot to return after "a few days," and to save his fees he was obliged, _nolens volens_, to prescribe on the spot. A further proof of his contemptible opinion of deriving knowledge from books, as expressed above to Dr. Blackmore, is exemplified and corroborated in an address to Dr. Mapletoft (1675). "The medical art could not be learned so well and surely as by use and experience, and that he who would pay the nicest and most accurate attention to the symptoms of distempers, would succeed best in finding out the true means of cure." "Riding on horseback," he says, in one of his books, "will cure all diseases except confirmed consumption." How about curing gout? A very amusing, though painful picture, is drawn by Dr. Winslow, a reliable author of the seventeenth century, in his book, "Physic and Physicians:"-- "Dr. Sydenham suffered extremely from the gout. One day, during the latter part of his life, he was sitting near an open window, on the ground floor of his residence in St. James Square, inspiring the cool breeze on a summer's afternoon, and reflecting, with a serene countenance and great complacency on the alleviation of human misery that his skill enabled him to give. Whilst this divine man was enjoying this delicious reverie, and occasionally sipping his favorite beverage from a silver tankard, in which was immersed a sprig of rosemary, a sneak thief approached, and seeing the helpless condition of the old doctor, stole the cup, right before his eyes, and ran away with it. The doctor was too lame to run after him, and before he could stir to ring and give alarm the thief was well off." [Illustration: MISFORTUNES NEVER COME SINGLY.] This reminds one of a story of an old man who stood in a highway, leaning on his staff, and crying, in a feeble, croaking voice, "Stop thief! stop thief!" "What is the matter, sir?" inquired a fellow, approaching. "O, a villain has stolen my hat from my head, and run away."