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scarcely conscious of the distance between oneself and him. So ready was he to impart knowledge, he seemed only a senior student; so kind was he in his way of doing it, he seemed rather an elder brother.
‘They are all gone into the world of light,’
as says, in one of his most touching poems, a cotemporary of Harvey’s later years, who caring little for academic titles, or for worldly honours, left the turmoil and the throng to pass his life quietly on the banks of Usk, tending the poor as a village doctor, and finding his refreshment and his solace in the composition of those verses which he has left behind for ours. Another and a different illustration this, which Henry Vaughan affords of the benefactors whom we on this day are bound to have in special remembrance.
One thing in common belongs to Sydenham, and Jenner, and Bright, as to so many whom time fails for me to mention here. They were most diligent in seeking out nature by way of experiment, as Harvey has it by an old use of the word which signifies to find out, or learn by experience, not to settle or pre-determine by
