To the learned and illustrious the President and Fellows
of the College of Physicians of London.
Harassed with anxious, and in the end not much availing cares, about Christmas last,[1] I sought to rid my spirit of the cloud that oppressed it, by a visit to that great man, the chief honour and ornament of our College, Dr. William Harvey, then dwelling not far from the city. I found him, Democritus like, busy with the study of natural things, his countenance cheerful, his mind serene, embracing all within its sphere. I forthwith saluted him, and asked if all were well with him? "How can it," said he, "whilst the Commonwealth is full of distractions, and I myself am still in the open sea? And truly," he continued, "did I not find solace in my studies, and a balm for my spirit in the memory of my observations of former years, I should feel little desire for longer life. But so it has been, that this life of obscurity, this vacation from public business, which causes tedium and disgust to so many, has proved a sovereign remedy to me."
I answering said, "I can readily account for this: whilst most men are learned through others' wits, and under cover of a different diction and a new arrangement, vaunt themselves on things that belong to the ancients, thou ever interrogatest Nature herself concerning her mysteries. And this line of study as it is less likely to lead into error, so is it also more
- ↑ [This must have been Christmas, 1650, the year after the violent death of the king.—Ed.]
