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.”
“Your hat!” looking at the bare head; “why didn’t you run after him?”
“O, my dear sir, I can’t run a step. I am very lame.”
“Can’t run! then here goes your wig.” And so saying, the fellow caught the poor old man’s wig, and scampered away at the top of his speed.
Dr. Sydenham died December 29, 1689. He could not be termed a quack, but certainly he was a consummate humbug.
An author, before quoted, after copying a description of the “poor physician” of the age, adds,—
“How it calls to mind the image of Dr. Oliver Goldsmith, when, with a smattering of medical knowledge and a German diploma, he tried to pick out of the miseries and ignorance of his fellow-creatures the means of keeping soul and body together! He, too, poet and doctor, would have sold a pot of rouge to a faded beauty, or a bottle of hair dye, or a nostrum warranted to cure the bite of a mad dog.”