flattery. From him we learn the remarkable fact that "the king is
subject, like other men, to catch cold." With all his tact, Daquin did
not escape disgrace. Perhaps he made too undisguised a display of his
acquisitive disposition; indeed, he was a notorious beggar. It is
related that one day Louis, being informed of the death of an old
officer, expressed regret, saying that the man had been to him a
faithful servant, with the merit, rare in a courtier, of never having
asked for anything. While making this observation, he fixed his eyes
pointedly on Daquin. The physician, no way disconcerted, naively said,
"May one venture to inquire, sire, what your majesty gave him?" The
king was silenced, for the bashful courtier in question had never
received any royal favor whatsoever. Daquin was dismissed in 1693. He
had asked for the archbishopric of Tours for his son. He had so often
offended, if offence it were considered, in making bold requests, that
it is hardly likely that this application was the real cause of his
disgrace. It was probably rather the consequence of the king's rupture
with Mme. de Montespen, to whom Daquin owed his elevation. It appears
that ever since the king's marriage he had found some difficulty in
maintaining his position, from which it is natural to infer that
adverse influences were at work; indeed, it was a _protégé_, or rather
a friend, of Mme. de Maintenon who was promoted to fill his place--a
circumstance corroborative of this supposition. Fagon appears to have
been a very estimable man, and the attachment and mutual esteem
subsisting between him and his patroness, with whom he had first
become acquainted in his capacity of physician to the Duc de Maine,
never abated. [Footnote 103] He won the confidence also of Louis, and
the favor he enjoyed while still in his position of secondary
physician was much increased at the period of the king's great illness
by a trifling circumstance which made a strong impression on the
monarch's mind. One night all the surgeons and doctors, {687} Daquin
included, had ventured to go to bed. The king had taken a _bouillon_,
and the fever seemed to be subdued. But Fagon, unobserved by the rest,
slipped back and took his post in an arm-chair in the ante-room. He
was thus at hand to comfort and administer a _tisane_ to the sick
monarch, whose fever shortly returned, and who, albeit with the fear
of Daquin greatly before his eyes, ventured to accept the services of
the attentive subaltern. The _tisane_ sent Louis to sleep, and made
Fagon's fortune. Three months afterward he was first in command. He
deserved his elevation to an office which was a post of no slight
honor and profit.  [Footnote 104] He bore his honors meekly, and was
remarkable for a spirit of disinterestedness as rare as it was
creditable to him. Fagon closes the list of the court physicians of
the seventeenth century, and indeed carries us on into the eighteenth.
All reserve being made in his favor, it must be confessed that the
great dramatist's satire was richly deserved by those doctors of
royalty, whose ambitious manoeuvres, intrigues, and paltry rivalries
were enough to excite the indignation of any honest man.

  [Footnote 103: Fagon was the nephew of Guy de la Brosse, the founder
  of the _Jardin du Roi_, now developed into the magnificent Museum of
  Natural Science and himself also an eminent botanist. He was named
  professor of botany at this establishment by Valot, who, as first
  physician to the king, was its superintendent.]

  [Footnote 104: The king's physician ranked with the great officers
  of the crown, and received orders from the sovereign alone, to whom
  he took an oath of fidelity; and he became a count in virtue of his
  office, and transmitted his nobility to his children. He was
  entitled to the same honors and privileges as the high chamberlain.
  He was a councillor of state, and received the usual emoluments.
  When he visited the faculty, he was met at the door by the dean,
  bachelors, and beadles, although he himself might not be a Paris
  doctor. He had, beside, very extensive authority, enjoying a species
  of medical jurisdiction throughout the kingdom.]

We have seen that the independent physician, who stood aloof from
courting the great, could lead an honorable and tranquil life; but it
would be a mistake to conclude that profound peace reigned within the
medical corporation itself. On the contrary, it was the scene of a
bitter internecine war between the men of the new ideas, the men of
progress, and the adherents to tradition and the received system. But
to excite men's passions ideas must assume a concrete form, which then
becomes at once a rallying-point and a watchword. Such in the
seventeenth century were the circulation of the blood and antimony.
Ever since the days of Galen the liver had been held to be the origin
of the veins, and of those organs by which blood is transmitted to the
whole body. Harvey's announcement accordingly raised a universal
commotion in the medical world: perhaps his doctrine would have met
with less opposition but for the discovery of the lacteal veins by an
Italian anatomist, Gasparo Aselli, in the year 1622. These veins, as
most of our readers probably know, originating in the intestines,
receive and convey thence the products of digestion--the chyle. Imbued
with the doctrine of Galen, and deceived by appearances, Aselli, it is
true, believed the liver to be their ultimate destination. Immediately
there was one general outcry against these intrusive vessels: their
non-necessity was put forward as a conclusive objection--a very common
argument, it may be noted, with the old doctors. Really it was not
worth upsetting received notions on their account--the lacteal vessels
were superfluous. Even Harvey, who was among Aselli's opponents,
joined in insisting on this unsatisfactory reason. "It is not
_necessary_," he says, "to seek a fresh channel for the transport of
the chyle in the lacteal veins." It was evident, he said, that the
chyle was carried from the intestines by the mesenteric veins.

But in 1649 Pecquet, a Frenchman, completed the demonstration, by
showing that the lacteal veins do not terminate in the liver, but in a
reservoir, to which his name was given. Now indeed the liver, and
Galen, and the whole edifice of medicine, were threatened; nothing
could be deemed sacred any longer. The liver was not the origin of the
veins, if the blood careered in a circle, having neither beginning nor
end; and the chyle did not go to the liver. {688} "_Quid de nostra
fiet medicina?_" was the sorrowful exclamation of one of the doctors
of the Montpellier faculty when Pecquet had triumphantly expounded his
discovery before them. Ah, there was the difficulty! _Quid de nostra
fiet medicina?_ We are condemning our past--an argument which weighs
powerfully against all conversions. Nothing can afford stronger
evidence of the deep conviction entertained that the whole existing
system was at stake, than the opposition of a physician of so much
eminence, intellectual and scientific, as Riolan, whom alone of all
his adversaries Harvey judged worthy of a rejoinder. It is
astonishing, indeed, to see a man of his stamp reduced to throw
himself on such arguments as the uselessness and degradation of the
liver if the new hypothesis be admitted; to find him urging the
impropriety of allowing impure unelaborated chyle to go straight to
the heart, which under these circumstances it must do--thus converting
that noble seat of vital heat into an ignoble kitchen. And then, once
there, how was the chyle to be got rid of? An absurd list of
suppositions follows, intended to prove, by an exhaustive process, the
sheer impossibility of disposing of the chyle after having arrived at
such an _impasso_. _Ergo_, the chyle _must_ go to the liver. In fact,
it cannot go anywhere else with either reason or propriety. Such are
the contemptible arguments to which even superior minds will stoop
when they battle against evidence. Harvey, however, found many
partisans amongst the Paris faculty. Guy Patin, as we have said, was
not of the number: he was not a deep thinker, and trusted his friend
Riolan. Harvey's followers were called "circulators." Now "circulator"
in Latin means a charlatan--that is enough for Guy Patin. The debate
ceased with Riolan's death: the doctrine had been gradually gaining
ground. In 1678 its victory had been achieved when Louis instituted at
the Jardin des Plantes a special chair of anatomy for propagating the
new discoveries.

The battle about antimony raged still more fiercely, inasmuch as the
question admitted of less tangible proof. There is a legend that this
mineral was first exhibited in a pure state and applied to medical
purposes by Basil Valentine, a Benedictine monk of Erfurt, in the
beginning of the sixteenth century; he gave it to his hogs, who throve
marvellously. This is to be attributed to the arsenic contained in the
drug, which fattens when taken in small quantities--a fact well known
to the peasants of Styria and Lower Austria. Basil next gave it to his
monks, who fell sick; from which he drew the following conclusion:
"This metal suits hogs; it does not suit monks." Hence its name of
antimony. Thirty years later Paracelsus took up the study of antimony,
and endeavored to introduce its use, with that of other minerals, in
medicine. This would have been to break completely with tradition; but
Paracelsus was half-cracked, and not very intelligible. The sixteenth
century was the age of alchemy, especially in Germany, where it was
ardently pursued, in connection with the occult sciences, by men who
rivalled Paracelsus in obscurity. In France transcendental chemistry
found less favor, and there was early a split between the
pseudo-mystics and the chemists. The former cultivated astrology; but
astrology, as an aid to medicine, had quite fallen into disrepute in
the seventeenth century, being abandoned to low vagabond quacks.
Chemistry, however, was making gradual progress and striving to
establish its place in medicine. The sympathy manifested for this
science at Montpellier was quite enough to indispose toward it the
faculty of Paris. The absurd blunders into which its association with
alchemy had betrayed it in times past weighed also on its reputation;
but, above all, the contempt for antiquity manifested by its adepts
was calculated to condemn it in the eyes {689} of the majority of the
physicians, brought up as they were in reverence for all that
chemistry pretended to reform or destroy.

There were not wanting, however, conciliatory spirits, who strove to
effect a compromise between the past and the present, and make room
for the new chemical theories in the received system. It has already
been observed how Galen's theory of the humors of the body had been
elaborated: all medical language was grounded upon it.   [Footnote
105] Disease was the result of the vitiation of these humors, each
humor having its special morbid product. To expel this vitiated humor
was the task of the doctor; but why might not minerals be added to his
pharmacopoeia, without interfering with his principles? This seemed
reasonable; and as a matter of theory the faculty were not unwilling
to let it pass. The difference arose on the practical question. All
were agreed that the peccant humor was to be expelled; but the
faithful followers of Hippocrates attached great importance to
awaiting what was called the _coction_ of the humors. This was the
work of nature, which was employed in making an effort which the
physician was called only to second,--an effort of which fever was but
the symptom. It was esteemed a very nice point to hit off the proper
moment, and not prevent or disturb the crisis which was thus
preparing: hence the need of mild measures. Whoever will refer to the
apothecary's bill in the first scene of Molière's _Malade Imaginaire_
will see that lenifying, softening, tempering, and refreshing, were
the avowed objects of the drugs administered. Such was Hippocratic
medicine; mild, at least, in theory. We must make one exception as
respects bleeding: these enemies of violent measures bled with a
vengeance; they shed torrents of blood. They bled old men of eighty,
and babies two months, nay, even two days old; and this "without
inconvenience,"--so they said. We presume some of the sufferers
survived,--thanks to a strong constitution. Riolan says that there are
twenty-four pounds of blood in the human body, and that twenty can be
lost without causing death; _ergo_, it is keeping within very
reasonable bounds to deprive a man of only the half of his blood.
[Footnote 106]

  [Footnote 105: M. Raynaud, to whose amusing work we are again
  largely indebted, notices that much of this language still survives
  in the diction of the common people. Many of their ideas and forms
  of expression still reflect the old doctrine of humorism; just as
  they have retained many words and idioms now become obsolete in the
  upper and more shifting strata of society.]

  [Footnote 106: The famous Guy de la Brosse refused to be bled. He
  called bleeding the remedy of sanguinary pedants, and said he would
  rather die then submit to the operation. "And he did die," says M.
  Basalis, a brother doctor; adding, "The devil will bleed him in the
  next world, has such a rascal and unbeliever deserves." Such are the
  imprecations hurled at the man who ventured on refusing to die _in
  proper form_. Could Molière have written anything more sublimely
  comic?]

The object of bleeding, of course, was the expulsion of the vitiated
humors supposed to be contained in it; but it is hardly reconcilable
with the doctrine of waiting for their _coction_ to commence
operations by attacking a disease at once with a lancet. But this is
one of Guy Patin's primary convictions, as well as of numbers of his
brethren, and they conscientiously acted on the same. It was otherwise
as respected emetics. Antimony administered in the potent quantities
then used was a most frightful emetic. No one in those days thought of
giving infinitesimal doses, or suspected that what was poisonous in
large, might be salutary in fractional, proportions. It was reserved
for Rasoni to discover that antimony could be thus beneficially
administered. And so the whole question lay between those who held as
a principle that the peccant humor was not to be expelled till after
_coction_, and those who maintained that the sooner the morbific
matter was ejected from the system the better.

It is true that the horrible prostration of strength consequent on
this summary process was sufficient to alarm men's minds, and furnish
a reasonable topic to the opponents of {690} antimony. The quarrel
occupied a whole century; of course we cannot attempt to go into even
its most elementary details. In 1566, the parliament prohibited the
use of this drug. The year 1666 saw it rehabilitated by the same body.
The motive of the first decree was the report of the faculty that
antimony was an incorrigible poison. The idea, as we just now
observed, that diminution of quantity might effect what was
unattainable by correctives, did not occur to the medical mind of that
day. In 1615 there was a fresh unanimous decree against antimony, also
indorsed by parliament; but the scientific world was still on the
search for a _corrective_, and converts, or perverts, were being
secretly made within the very sanctuary of the faculty. In 1638, the
dean, Hardoun de Saint-Jacques, suddenly published an incomplete
pharmaceutic codex, which had been in course of preparation for twelve
years. In this dictionary antimonial wine actually figured in its
alphabetical place. How had the enemy contrived to creep into the
citadel? No one could say. This incident was the occasion of a deluge
of pamphlets, of which the very form and language are, for the most
part, like a dead letter to us. Hippocrates, Holy Scripture, history,
and the fathers, are all called into court. Even the definition of
antimony gives rise to much discussion; and it is gravely argued
whether Adam, when conferring names in Paradise, named this drug, and
if so, what he called it. Even the troubles of the Fronde did not
check this medical civil war. Antimony had quite a literature of its
own. Guy Patin, of course, was inimical, but a little cautious while
the question of his deanship was impending. Afterward he launches out;
he hates chemistry, he hates antimony, he hates Guénaut, who is its
warm advocate, and is beside Cardinal Mazarin's physician (Guy Patin
is always in political opposition). Guénaut, he says, has poisoned his
wife, daughter, and two sons-in-law with this drug; at last he poisons
himself, and dies a martyr to his infatuation. And then the faculty
have twice condemned antimony. That is more than enough for Guy Patin.
However, a great event turned the balance in his favor. During the
campaign of 1658, the king, then twenty years of age, was attacked by
typhus. Valot had been absent a few days, sent by Louis, as the
journal tells us, to settle a quarrel between the physicians and
surgeons who were treating the Maréchal de Castelnau for a mortal
wound--poor marshal! He hastened back to his master, and fell to work
vigorously, sparing neither bleeding nor dosing; but the king got
worse, and Guénaut was sent for. The court-physicians--Valot, Esprit,
Daquin, Yvelin, beside a local doctor--were all there disputing over
the monarch's sinking body. A great consultation is now held, presided
over by the cardinal; and he votes for antimony. It was given. The
king took an ounce, and marvellous are the recorded effects. However,
whether in consequence or in spite of the dose, he recovered. Louis
was at that time his people's darling and idol; they adored their
young monarch, and he had been saved by Guénaut and antimony! Guy
Patin's embarrassment at this crisis is a little ludicrous. The dose,
he urges in extenuation, was small; but he concludes that, after all,
what saved the king "was his innocence, his youth and strength, nine
good bleedings, and the prayers of good people like himself and
others." Defections now became numerous, and the faculty was in a
false position.  In fact, most of the doctors gave antimony in spite
of the two decrees, the last of which interdicted the mention of it.
In 1666 the embargo was finally removed, after a tedious and ponderous
process, as were all processes in those days, before the parliament;
and the doctors were henceforth permitted "to give the said emetic
wine for the cure of maladies, to write and dispute about it,"' etc.,
but it was not lawful for persons to take it {691} without their
advice. The question had been decided in the faculty by ninety-two
doctors against ten. The decree came to sadden the last days of Guy
Patin, and of a few more respectable old stagers, who were unable to
advance with their age.

But this internal conflict was not the only one which the faculty had
to sustain. There was the perennial dispute with the surgeons. Surgery
and medicine are twin sciences, if they be not rather branches of one
and the same. Hippocrates, Galen, Celsus, made no practical
distinction between them; nevertheless, they came to be entirely
separated in mediaeval practice. Two causes may be assigned for this:
the first was the quasi-ecclesiastical character of the medical
profession in early days, which rendered the shedding of blood and
other operations incompatible with the position of men who were either
clerics or bound by clerical rules. Still, though they could not
themselves draw blood, they could prescribe blood-letting and other
sanguinary operations; and this led, of course, to the existence of
another class, paid to carry out their orders. But a second and far
more enduring cause was the strong prejudice existing in feudal times
against manual labor as degrading. In vain might the surgeons urge
that it was absurd to regard as merely mechanical an occupation which
necessitated much scientific knowledge. The university shared the
feelings of the faculty on this point; and while admitting the doctors
into its fellowship, rejected the surgeons. Excluded from this
fraternity of liberal science, the surgeons gave themselves diligently
to professional study. As early as the fourteenth century we meet with
their celebrated confraternity, placed under the patronage of Sts.
Cosmas and Damian, which boasted of its foundation by St. Louis, and
which maintained its existence for five centuries. The quarrel with
the doctors began in the middle of the fifteenth century, and
terminated only on the eve of the Revolution, when St. Cosmas's
College and the faculty were both alike to share the universal
shipwreck of all the ancient institutions.

The surgeons had long been in the habit of availing themselves of the
aid of the barbers in certain ordinary operations, and bleeding was at
last entirely abandoned to their hands. Just, however, as the faculty
wished to depress the surgeons, and the latter were desirous to raise
themselves to an equality with the faculty, so also the surgeons were
resolved to keep down their servants the barbers, who, on their part,
aspired to rise in the professional scale. The policy of the faculty
was to foster their rivalry, and thus keep a check upon both; but as
the nearest enemy is always the most dreaded, the time came when it
was judged prudent to elevate the barbers, whose very inferiority
rendered them less obnoxious, in order the better to make head against
the surgeons; and so the faculty adopted the barbers, in whom it hoped
to find docile clients, in order to mortify its unsubmissive children.
It magnificently compared this measure to the call of the Gentiles and
rejection of ungrateful Israel. But the barbers held their heads up
now, and requested to study anatomy. Here was a difficulty. University
regulations strictly enjoined that all public lessons should be in
Latin; but what was the use of talking Latin to barbers? So the
lecture was to be in Latin, and the explanation in French. Apparently
to facilitate the comprehension of the classic tongue by the
unlearned, the use of that whimsical Latin which Molière has so
happily caricatured then first began. A clever compromise was now
supposed to have been effected. A doctor was to teach in the
amphitheatre of the faculty without touching the body; a surgeon was
to dissect; the barbers were to be present, and try to understand.
This was in 1498.

Further concessions followed; and in 1505 the faculty allowed the
barbers to be inscribed on the dean's {692} register, and, after
passing through an examination, to be formally received as scholars.
They paid, however, for their lessons, and took an oath never to
prescribe an internal remedy, but to have recourse to the doctors for
the medical treatment of their patients. On these conditions the
proudest of scientific corporations extended its protection to, and
even took into a certain fellowship, a profession not only humble, but
so much despised, that in Germany at that period barbers were not
admitted into any trade corporation. The credit of the king's
barber--an important personage, who enjoyed familiar opportunities for
asking favors--had something perhaps to say to the prosperity of this
trade in France. And the barbers continued to prosper; it was their
interest, indeed, to keep well with the faculty, whose protecting hand
once withdrawn, they would helplessly fall back under the cruel
bondage of their old masters. But as time went on, they grew
confident. The troubles of the League unhinged society, and for some
years we find them neglecting to take the oath of fidelity. Meanwhile
surgery had attained a proud position, and at the end of the sixteenth
century was much in advance of the other sciences, both in its spirit
of independent inquiry and in experimental practice.

Many eminent names illustrate its annals at this period. At the head
of the corporation was Ambroise Paré, the restorer--we might almost
say the creator--of modern surgery. He had been a barber's boy in his
youth, and still treated his old associates with much consideration.
Perhaps this honorable notice helped to turn their heads a little, for
they actually began to set up school for themselves, and to maintain
theses. This got them a snub from the faculty, and a prohibition from
parliament, which recalled to their recollection the ancient statute
which permitted their intervention only "_pro furunculis, bocchiis, et
apostumatibus_." But the time was past for enforcing such laws; every
day the barbers more and more emancipated themselves from thraldom;
and in 1629 they obtained the right of having their receptions
presided over by the king's barber or by his lieutenant.

The surgeons meanwhile had left no stone unturned to get admission
into the university, to have a recognized right to lecture publicly,
and to receive the chancellor's benediction. They were several times
granted the king's license to this effect; but the university
disregarded the royal injunction, and even set at naught a Papal bull
which, in 1579, recognized the surgeon's title to the chancellor's
benediction. There was a consequent _appel comme d'abus_ from that
Gallican body to the parliament. Nevertheless, more than one
chancellor was found to comply with the Pope's rescript.

Such, then, was the situation of parties in the beginning of Louie
XIV.'s reign. Three rival corporations existed; in principle united,
but mutually independent. There was the faculty, petrified as it were,
in its immobility, demanding from the others a submission it could not
obtain; there was the corporation of surgeons, intermediary between
the learned bodies and the trading _bourgeoisie_, wearing the gown on
days of ceremony, holding examinations, conferring degrees, but
keeping shop;  [Footnote 107] and there were the barbers, with neither
gown nor school, but living at the expense of the two former classes,
and, by long prescription, freely practising surgery, and even
medicine to a certain extent. The reasons for old distinctions had
passed away--nothing remained but inveterate rivalries. Anatomy was
the perpetual theatre for dissension. The surgeons never had resigned
themselves to the secondary part allotted to them. They claimed {693}
to teach what they understood at least as well as their superiors. But
how to get bodies? The dean of the faculty had an exclusive claim to
those of all executed criminals, and none other were procurable.
Accordingly, whenever an execution occurred there was a regular
scramble for the poor wretch's body. The students of surgery and the
barber-apprentices assembled on the Place de Grève, where they had no
difficulty in finding recruits amongst the rabble. Scarcely had the
executioner done his work, when these bands, armed with swords and
sticks, rushed on the yet warm corpse, which was carried off by the
victors to some shop, in which they barricaded themselves against the
_maréchaussée_. Many of these disgraceful acts went unpunished.
Sometimes the faculty would despatch an official to claim the body; he
was always sent about his business; and then recourse was had to law.
The report of an unfortunate _huissier_, who was actor and victim in
one of these scenes, may be seen in a _procès-verbal_ of the time. He
was sent to seize a body which had been taken to St. Cosmas's. There
he found three professors (in cap and gown!) giving an anatomical
demonstration to a large audience. He was received with yells, and
cruelly beaten. A force coming to his rescue, the students cut up the
corpse into bits rather than let the faculty get it.

  [Footnote 107: They hang up at their windows as a sign three
  emblematic boxes, surmounted with a banner bearing the figures of
  Sts. Cosmas and Damian.]

A common interest and a common hatred of their domineering antagonist
ended by drawing together the two inferior orders, and finally led to
their reunion. The increasing number of the barbers, unrestrained by
any rule, and unrestrainable by any law, threatened to swamp surgery
altogether; and so the men of letters made up their minds to extend
the hand of fellowship to the artisans, and receive them back, not as
slaves any longer, but as brethren. In 1655 the surgeons swallowed
this bitter pill; they took upon themselves the shame of uniting with
the barbers, and the barbers entered on the privileges of the
surgeons. Parliament ratified the contract, and the faculty was
scarcely named in the affair. It was left stranded. Its servants, whom
it had raised from the dust to do its work and fight its battles, had
betrayed it and gone off with arms and baggage to the enemy's camp.
But it was not long without perceiving that it might draw profit from
what seemed a discomfiture. The surgeons had conferred their
privileges on the barbers; in return they had, of course, accepted the
liabilities of their new associates. Now the barbers were bound by
contract to an oath of fidelity, and other obligations of a pecuniary
nature, to the faculty. This body accordingly claimed either that the
union effected should be dissolved, or that both companies should be
subject to the engagements by which the barbers had bound themselves.
It renewed at the same time all its former claims of supremacy, and
its old prohibitions against teaching and conferring degrees, but,
above all, against the assumption of the _cap and gown_.

Three years did this process last, which occupies a voluminous place
in the parliamentary registers. The surgeons eventually lost their
cause; and that which did not a little contribute thereto was the
manifestation of their own miserable internal dissensions. "St. Luke
has been stronger than St. Cosmas!" exclaimed the triumphant Guy Patin
at the news of this great victory. Seventy-two doctors went in
procession, in grand costume, to thank the president, Lamoignon, and
the avocat-général, Talon; and in order to testify their special
gratitude to the latter, it was decreed that, having well merited of
the faculty, he and his family should be attended gratis in
perpetuity. A magnificent edition of Hippocrates in five folio volumes
was presented along with this decree, inclosed in a silver box. For
several days not one of the crest-fallen {694} surgeons was to be seen
in the streets, and six of their number, it is said, fell sick. Gladly
would they now have dissolved the unhappy _mésalliance_ they had
contracted, but it was too late. Both barbers and surgeons, indeed,
alike felt that the defeat was final; but on the latter it must have
fallen with the most crushing severity. Before the close of the year
the chair in which Ambroise Paré had sat--the symbol of departed
greatness--was removed. They had to pay the impost, take the oath of
fidelity--no humiliation was spared them. Thus forced into a
preposterous alliance, which was made the pretext for its degradation,
the surgical profession languished for many years. The faculty on this
occasion certainly committed its worst fault. For paltry questions of
precedence it retarded for a century the progress of surgery, which
did not emerge from the inferior position to which the decree of 1660
had reduced it until time and necessity led to a reconstitution of
surgery and shaving as two distinct professions. It was then that
Louis XV., at the instance of La Peyronie, created the Royal Academy
of Surgery, which furnished so many illustrious names to science in
the eighteenth century, and which would doubtless have extinguished
the old faculty if the Revolution had not saved it the trouble by
destroying them both.

Our space forbids us to notice the other great battle of the faculty
during the period which has immediately fallen under our
consideration--that which it waged and won against the Montpellier
doctors. But the Montpellier school would deserve a notice by itself;
and the interest which gathers round it has been heightened by the
important questions, physiological and philosophical, connected with
its name in the present day.

A word or two more, and we have done. When Molière was about to deal
the faculty its most grievous wound, it was triumphant on all sides.
Yet, as a system, it was already doomed to that destruction which had
fallen on the whole scholastic method in science prevailing in the
middle ages. Hippocrates, it is true, furnished the text-book of
medicine,  but it was Hippocrates virtually commented by Aristotle, as
all the old medical phraseology and medical argumentations abundantly
prove. Much of the ridicule attached to that venerable body against
which Molière has raised an inextinguishable laugh had its origin in
the retention of this language, with all the quiddities of the
schools, and of those curious dialectic exercises which formed the
approved method of mental gymnastics in the middle ages long after
they had been discarded everywhere else. The rest of the ridicule
which falls to the due share of the faculty must be laid to the
account of the selfishness, pride, and egotism inherent in human
nature, but which always strike us more forcibly when exhibited in a
state of things foreign to current ideas and manners.

In conclusion, we would point out what we conceive may be esteemed as
a sound point in the system of that day--its treatment of man as a
whole. There is no divorce with these old doctors between body and
soul. Modern medical science has affected to treat the body apart from
any regard to the spiritual portion of man's nature. While allowing
the immense progress made in medicine and surgery in modern times, we
cannot but feel that a serious error was committed in dividing what
our fathers deemed inseparable. The materialistic errors of the
eighteenth century, and, in particular, the materialism so prevalent
in the learned medical body, are a standing comment on the systems
which made clear decks of those fundamental principles which had come
down to us from the earliest antiquity, and which had received the
sanction of the Christian schools, in whose teaching physiology and
psychology were always closely united; the study of the soul crowning
{695} that of physiology. We witness with satisfaction a strong
reaction amongst many members of the French medical body toward views
which harmonize thoroughly with the old doctrine of the Angel of the
School, laid down long before those modern discoveries which are
beginning slowly to lead men back, not to the pedantry of the olden
time, but to those ancient paths from which our fathers would have
deemed it heresy to wander.

From The Sixpenny Magazine.

HANDWRITING.

Men, like trees, have a curved line which, touching at the
extremities, forms a figure which is the general estimate of their
characters. Individual traits are lost in the harmony of them all. The
hand may be delicate; the face coarse; there may be contradiction
between the eye and the brow, between the motive power and the object
desired; but still the man is a unity unlike any other man, and yet
similar in original traits.

To tell character by confining one's self to one exhibition of a
faculty, would be like trying to tell the climate of a place by
staying there one day. But in the other extreme, the collecting of
facts proves nothing unless there have been opportunities for the
display of other qualities than the ones in which the person is not
interested. I, for instance, always dislike making new acquaintances;
I get sulky whenever it is forced upon me; that does not prove that I
may not be pleasant enough when allowed to act as I please.

One man, with no taste for a certain pursuit, is forced into it, kept
at it, and, as he gives evidence of dislike, is accused of being
almost a fool. Wonderful that in something else he should be a
proficient at the first attempt. Yet it is not the doing a thing, but
the getting pay for it, that is difficult; not the reading of
character, but the applying it. What value is the being able to
understand why men's handwritings vary, save as interesting?

Yet, perhaps, many a reader will glance over this and be inclined to
acquire the skill.

First, does the man write often moderately, or very nicely? Did he
write in a hurry, or not? Lastly, is his temperament nervous or
inclined to be heavy?

Bad writing may arise from haste, nervousness, and want of practice;
but the handwriting of the illiterate is intrinsically different from
that of a nervous scholar. A man who writes badly when in haste must
be a nervous man; so scrawly writing may be reduced to want of
self-command. The man of business asks of the scholar, "Why can't you
sell your labor and become rich?" The scholar may ask, "Why don't you
give your money and write a book?" It is as impossible for one to
change as the other. Poverty of brains can be no more overcome than
poverty of purse. The right plan is for the two to divide. Money for
talent. Ridiculous for money to wait for brains, or brains to be
contemptuous of money. There must be help. Look at the writing! That
nervous sweep of the pen is not the characteristic of a man to sway
material matters; he is not thick-headed enough; the blows crush him.

On the other hand, that round, manly, firm chirography, regular as a
troop of horses, indicates outward show, but there is no brain,
sentiment, intense sensibility behind. {696} A bird is in a quiver of
excitement at the least noise, but a cow stands looking on without the
least alarm. Women write small. Indolence, affectation, and weakness
are indicated, and indolence is nature's guard for nervous persons.

Take particular instances. A is a man of medium size, high forehead,
hair of the Yankee brownish hue, eyes deep-set and rather small, nose
small, mouth firm, chin rather weak. Physically, he is inclined to be
of a nervous, sanguine temperament; hope large, caution large; animal
propensities strong. He is a man of business, writes considerably,
generally about business. His habit of mind exact. Now, what will be
his characteristic handwriting? Ask half a dozen different men who are
interested in judging of character, and compare their answers. His
habits of business will have made his writing to a certain extent
formal. He will have tried to make it a plain hand. His long practice
in keeping books will have taught him to be able to write large or
small; his nervousness will have taught him to use abbreviations; his
solidity and preference for mercantile pursuits will have made him
always more or less subject to self-command. He writes, then, not like
the man of mere intellect, to get his thoughts upon paper for
preservation, but for others to read. He thinks constantly how he will
affect others; how they will understand him. He employs formal
expressions because they are better understood. He says, "Rec'd three
bales goods," instead of telling in many words the same fact, but
writes not obscurely, but with particular care that they shall be
read.

A lawyer will fill out a writ, and, save an undulating line, no one
but the initiated would understand that a legal phrase was implied.
The man of business deals with facts. The facts may be expressed
briefly, in a formal way, hurriedly, but always with the intention of
being read. That some business men do write badly is nothing to this
purpose. I am speaking of the desire in you to write plainly.

Now my man, described, sits down to tell his correspondent that a
certain lot of goods has arrived, all save one package. He writes
rapidly, exactly, and with the wish that the others shall read what he
says at once and without mistake. His nervous power would urge him to
haste and carelessness, but his business education will restrain him.
How will his writing show it? His mind is not particularly active. He
is not thinking what to say, but to explain an understood fact. I
think, all these circumstances taken into consideration, his letters
will be open, frank regular, round, and well-looking, but at the ends
of the longest wider, and at the tops and bottoms of long letters will
be a perceptible twitch as if he grew there first a little impatient
at the delay.

Boldness and delicacy of handwriting may not indicate more than
straight-forwardness or caution. A prudent, secretive man generally
writes fine, generally also boldly. A passionate nature is confined,
and, unless great ability of pencraft is acquired, will rather betray
his interest by weakness and indecision in his letters than by excess
of power. A fine writer is either one who holds himself in control or
a thick-headed nobody, a calm, passionless man, or a mere copyist, for
to pay attention to the mere form, augurs that the man's mind is not
very much excited by his theme.

Writing full of unnecessary thrusts and turns betokens a man undecided
and wavering. A direct up and down style is his who cares nothing for
ornament--prefers comfort with regularity to luxury without. A
slovenly man scrawls his own nature. A timid man writes commandingly,
with unequal heaviness of line. Indolent men avoid trouble and write
small. A bold, careless, obstinate man writes variably, at one time
well, at another ill. Nothing can charm a man, especially if careless
himself, like neatness in the letters of a lady.

{697}

From The Lamp.

ALL-HALLOW EVE; OR, THE TEST OF FUTURITY.

BY ROBERT CURTIS.

CHAPTER XXIII.

The long-wished-for day appointed for this great match had now
arrived, and there was not a man of a hundred in each parish beside
the two leading men who had not on that morning taken his hurl from
the rack before he went to prayers, inspected it, weighed it in his
hand, to ascertain if the _set_ lay fair to the _swipe_, as he placed
it on the ground.

Two o'clock in the afternoon had been appointed for the men to be on
the ground, and punctual to the moment they were seen in two compact
masses beyond opposite ends of the common. They had assembled outside,
and were not permitted to straggle in, in order that their approach
toward each other, in two distinct bodies, amidst the inspiring cheers
of their respective parties, might have the better effect. This great
occasion had been talked of for weeks, and was looked upon, not only
by the players themselves, and the two great men at their heads, but
it might be said by the "public at large," as the most important
hurling-match which had been projected for years in that or perhaps
any other district. The friends of each party, beside hundreds of
neutral spectators, had already occupied the hills round what might be
called the arena.

Conspicuous at the head of the Rathcash men as they advanced with
their green sleeves amidst the cheers of their friends, Tom Murdock
could be seen walking with his head erect, and his hurl sloping over
his shoulder. He kept his right hand disengaged that he might fulfil
the usual custom of giving it to his opponent, in token of goodwill,
ere the game began.

He was undoubtedly a splendid handsome-looking fellow "that day."
Upwards of six feet high, made in full proportion. His shirt tied at
the throat with a broad green ribbon, having the collar turned down
nearly to the shoulders, showed a neck of unsullied whiteness, which
contrasted remarkably with the dark curled whiskers above it. His men,
too, were a splendid set of fellows. Most of them were as tall and as
well made as himself, and none were under five feet ten; there was not
a small man among them--the picked unmarried men of the parish. Their
green sleeves and bare necks, with their hurls across their left
shoulders, as in the case of their leader, elicited thunders of
applause from the whole population of Rathcash upon the hill to their
right.

A deep ditch with a high grass bank lay between the common and the
spot where Emon-a-knock and his men had assembled.

Phil M'Dermott was silent. He was not yet reconciled to the color
which their leader had chosen. Of course he could not account for it,
but he did not half like it. To him it looked sombre, melancholy, and
prophetic. But Phil had sense enough to assume a cheerfulness, if he
did not feel it.

Emon himself, though five feet ten and a half inches high, was about
the smallest man of his party. In every respect they equalled, if they
did not exceed, the Rathcash men.

{698}

"Come, boys," said Emon; "Tom Murdock is bringing on his men; we'll
have to jump the bank. Shall I lead the way?"

"Of course, Emon; an' bad luck to the man of the hundred will lave a
toe on it."

"No, nor a heel, Phil," said the wit.

"Stand back, boys, about fifteen yards," said Emon. "Let me at it
first; and when I am clean over, go at it as much in a line as you
can. Give yourselves plenty of room and don't crowd."

"Take your time, boys," whispered the prophet, "an' let none of us
trip or fall."

"Never fear, Phil," ran through them all in reply.

Emon then drew back a few yards; and with a light quick run he cleared
the bank, giving a slight little steadying-jump on the other side,
like a man who had made a somersault from a spring-board.

The Shanvilla population--the whole of which, I may say, was on the
surrounding hills--rent the air with their cheers, amidst which the
red sleeves were seen clearing the bank like so many young deer. Not a
mistake was made; not a man jumped low or short; not a toe was left
upon it, as the prophet had said--nor a heel, as the wit had added. It
was an enlivening sight to see the red sleeves rising by turns about
eight feet into the air, and landing steadily on the level sward
beyond the bank.

The cheers from Shanvilla were redoubled, and even some of the
Rathcash men joined.

The two parties were now closing each other in friendly approach
toward the centre of the field, where they halted within about six
yards of each other; Tom Murdock and Emon-a-knock a tittle in advance.
They stepped forward, with their right hands a little extended.

"Hallo, Lennon!" said Murdock; "why, you are dressed in silk, man, and
have a cap to match; I heard nothing of that. I could not afford silk,
and our sleeves are plain calico."

"So are ours, and I could afford silk still less than you could; but
my men presented me with these sleeves and this cap, and I shall wear
them."

"Of course, of course, Lennon. But I cannot say much for the color;
blue would have looked much better; and, perhaps, have been more
appropriate."

"I left that for the girls to wear in their bonnets," replied Lennon,
sarcastically. He knew that Winny Cavana's holiday bonnet was trimmed
with blue, and thought it not unlikely that Murdock knew it also.

They then shook hands, but it was more formal than cordial; and
Murdock took a half-crown from his pocket. He was determined to be
down on Emon-a-knock's poverty, for a penny would have done as well;
and he said, "Shall I call, or will you?"

"The challenger generally 'skies,' and the other calls," he replied.

"Here then!" said Murdock, standing out into a clear spot, and curling
the half-crown into the air, eighteen or twenty feet above their
heads.

"Head," cried Lennon; and head it was.

It was the usual method on such occasions for the leader who won the
toss to throw the ball with all his force as high into the air as
possible, and, as a matter of course, as far toward his opponent's
goal as he could. The height into the air was as a token to his
friends to cheer, and the direction toward his opponent's goal was
considered the great advantage of having won the toss.

This was, however, the first occasion in the annals of hurling where
this latter point had been questioned. Emon-a-knock and Phil M'Dermott
were both experienced hurlers; and previous to their having taken the
high bank in such style, from the field outside the common, they had
stepped aside from their men, and discussed the matter thus:

"Phil, I hope we'll win the toss," said Emon.

"That we may, I pray. You'll put the ball a trifle on its way if we
do, Emon."

{699}

"No, Phil, that is the very point I want to settle with you. I have
always remarked that when the winner of the toss throws the ball
toward the other goal, it is always met by some good man who is on the
watch for it; and as none of the opposite party are allowed into their
ground until 'the game is on,' he has it all to himself, and generally
deals it such a swipe as puts it half-way back over the others' heads.
Now my plan is this. If I win 'the toss,' I'll throw the ball more
toward our own goal than toward theirs. Let you be there, Phil, to
meet it; and I have little fear that the first puck you give it will
send it double as far into our opponent's ground as I could throw it
with my hand. Beside, the moment the ball is up, our men can advance
all over the ground, and another good man of ours may help it on. What
say you, Phil?"

"Well, Emon, there's a grate dale of raison in what you say, now that
I think of it; but I never seen it done that way afore."

It had been thus settled between these two best men of Shanvilla; and
Emon, having won the toss, cast his eye over his shoulder and caught a
side glance of Phil M'Dermott in position, with his hurl poised for
action.

Contrary to all experience and all expectation, Emon-a-knock, instead
of casting the ball from him, toward the other goal, threw it as high
as possible, but unmistakably inclining toward his own. Here there was
a murmur of disappointed surprise from Shanvilla on the hill. But it
was soon explained. Phil M'Dermott had it all his own way for the
first puck, which was considered a great object. Never had such an
expedient (_nunc_ dodge) to secure it been thought of before.
M'Dermott had full room to deal with it. There was no one near him but
his own men, who stood exulting at what they knew was about to come.
M'Dermott with the under side of his hurl rolled the ball toward him,
and curling it up into the air about a foot above his head, met it as
it came down with a puck that was heard all over the hills, and drove
it three distances beyond where Emon could have thrown it from his
hand. The object of the backward cast by the leader had now been
explained to the satisfaction of Shanvilla, whose cheers of
approbation loudly succeeded to their previous murmurs of surprise.

"Be gorra, they're a knowing pair," said one of the spectators on the
hill.

But I cannot attend to the game, which is now well "on,"' and tell you
what each party said during the struggle.

Of course the ball was met by Rathcash, and put back; but every man
was now at work as best he might, where and when he could, but not
altogether from under a certain sort of discipline and eye to their
leaders. Now some fortunate young fellow got an open at the ball, and
gave it a puck which sent it spinning through the crowd until stopped
by the other party. Then a close struggle and clashing of hurls, as if
life and death depended on the result. Now, again, some fellow gets an
open swipe at it, and puck it goes over their heads, while a rush of
both parties takes place toward the probable spot it must arrive at;
then another crowded struggle, and ultimately another puck, and it is
seen like a cannon-ball on the strand at Sandymount. Another rush,
another close struggle and clashing of hurls, and puck, puck; now at
the jaws of this goal, now at the jaws of that, while the cheers and
counter-cheers re-echo through the surrounding hills.

It is needless to say that Tom Murdock and Emon-a-knock were
conspicuous in all these vicissitudes of the game. No man took the
ball from either of them if he was likely to get a puck at it _in
time_; but no risk of a counter-puck would be run if an opponent was
at hand to give it. This was the use of the distinguishing colors, and
right curious it was to see the green and red sleeves twisting through
each other and rushing in groups to one spot.

{700}

After all, Emon's color "did not look so bad;" and Shanvilla held
their own so gallantly as the game went on, that betting--for it was a
sort of Derby-day with the parish gamblers--which was six, and even
seven, to four on Rathcash at the commencement, was now even for
choice. Ay, there is one red-haired fellow, with a small eye and a big
one, who shoves three thimbles upon a board at races, has offered five
fippenny-bits to four upon Shanvilla; and well he may, for Emon and
his men had got the ball amongst them, and Emon's orders were to keep
it close--not to puck it at all, now that they had it, but to tip it
along and keep round it in a body. This was quite fair, and would have
been adopted by the other party had they got the chance.

They were thus advancing steadily but slowly. The Rathcash men were on
the outside, but found it difficult, if not impossible, to enter the
solid body of Shanvilla men, who were advancing with the ball in the
middle of them toward Rathcash goal.

"To the front, to the front, boys, or the game is lost!" roared Tom
Murdock, who was himself then watching for an open to get in at the
ball.

Forthwith there was a body of the green-sleeves right before
Shanvilla, who came on with their ball, tip by tip, undaunted.

Still Rathcash was on the outside, and could not put a hurl on the
ball. It was a piece of generalship upon the part of the Shanvilla
leader not often before thought of, and likely to be crowned with
success. The cheers from Shanvilla on the hills were now
deafening--the final struggle was evidently at hand. Rathcash on the
hills was silent, except a few murmurs of apprehension.

"This will never do, boys!" said Tom Murdock, rushing into the center
of Shanvilla and endeavoring to hook the ball from amongst them; but
they were too solid for that, although he had now made his way within
a hurl's length of Emon.

Emon called to his men to stoop in front that he might see the goal
and judge his distance.

"A few yards further, boys," he cried, "and then open out for me to
swipe: I will not miss either the ball or the goal."

"Steady, Emon, steady a bit!" said Phil M'Dermott; "don't you see who
is, I may say, alongside of you? Keep it close another bit."

"In with you, men! what are  you about?" roared Tom Murdock; and half
a score of the green-sleeves rushed in amongst the red. Here the
clashing of hurls was at its height, and the shouts from both sides on
the hill were tremendous. Shanvilla kept and defended their ball in
spite of every attempt of Rathcash to pick it from amongst them; but
nothing like violence was thought of by either side.

Shanvilla seemed assured of victory, and such of them as were on the
outside, and could not get a tip at the ball, kept brandishing their
hurls in the air, roaring at the top of their voices, "Good boys,
Shanvilla, good boys!" "Through with it--through with it!" "Good
boys!"

Emon looked out. Though he did not see the stones, he saw the
goal-masters--one red, the other green--ready expecting the final
puck, and he knew the spot.

"Give me room now, Phil," he whispered, and his men drew back.

Emon curled the ball into the air about the height of his head, and
struck it sure and home. As if from a cannon's mouth it went over the
heads of Rathcash, Shanvilla, and all, and sped right through the
center of the stones--hop--hop--hop--until it was finally lost sight
of in some rushes. But another blow had been struck at the same
moment, and Emon-a-knock lay senseless on the ground, his face and
neck, shirt and sleeves, all the same color, and that color
was--blood.

Tom Murdock's hurl had been poised ready to strike the all the moment
Lennon had curled it into the air. Upon this one blow the whole {701}
game depended. Emon was rather sideways to Tom, who was on his left.
Both their blows were aimed almost simultaneously at the ball, but
Tom's being a second or two late, had no ball to hit; and not being
able to restrain the impetus of the blow, his hurl passed on and took
Emon's head above the top of the left ear, raising a scalp of flesh to
the skull-bone, about three inches in length, and more than half that
breadth.

The cheers of Shanvilla were speedily quashed, and there was a rush of
the red-sleeves round their leader. Phil M'Dermott had taken him in
his arms, and replaced the loose piece of flesh upon Emon's skull in
the most artistic manner, and bound it down with a handkerchief tied
under the chin. He could see that no injury had been done to the bone.
It was a mere sloping stroke, which had lifted the piece of flesh
clean from the skull. But poor Emon still lay insensible, his whole
face, neck, and breast covered with blood.

There was some growling amongst the Shanvilla boys, and those from the
hill ran down with their sticks to join their comrades with their
hurls; while the Rathcash men closed into a compact body, beckoning to
their friends on the hill, who also ran down to defend them in case of
need.

This was indeed a critical moment, and one that, if not properly
managed, might have led to bloodshed of a more extended kind. But Tom
Murdock was equal to the occasion. He gave his hurl to one of his men
the moment he had struck the blow, and went forward.

"Good heaven, boys, I hope he is not much hurt!" he exclaimed.
"Rathcash should lose a hundred games before Shanvilla should be
hurt."

As he spoke he perceived a scowl of doubt and rising anger in the
faces of many of the Shanvilla men, some of whom ground their teeth,
and grasped their hurls tighter in their hands. Tom did not lose his
presence of mind at even this, although he almost feared the result.
He took Emon by the hand and bid him speak to him. Phil M'Dermott had
ordered his men to keep back the crowd to give the sufferer air. Poor
Emon's own remedy in another cause had been resorted to. Phil had
rubbed his lips and gums with whiskey--on this occasion it was near at
hand--and poured a few thimblefuls down his throat. He soon opened his
eyes, and looked round him.

"Thank God!" cried Tom Murdock. "Are you much hurt, Lennon?"

The very return to life had already quashed any cordiality toward Emon
in Tom's heart.

"Not much, I hope, Tom. I was stunned; that was all. But what about
the game? I thought my ear caught the cheers of victory as I fell."

"So they did, Emon," said M'Dermott; "but stop talking, I tell you.
The game is ours, and it was you who won it with that last puck."

"Ay, and it was that last puck that nearly lost him his life,"
continued Tom, knowingly enough. "We both struck at the ball nearly at
the same moment; he took it first, and my hurl had nothing to hit
until it met the top of his head. I protest before heaven, Lennon, it
was entirely accidental."

"I have not accused you of it's being anything else, Murdock; don't
seem to doubt yourself," said Emon in a very low weak voice. But it
was evident he was "coming-to."

Still the Shanvilla men were grumbling and whispering. One of them, a
big black-haired fellow named Ned Murrican, burst out at last, and
brandishing his hurl over his head, cried out:

"Arrah, now, what are we about; boys? Are we going to see our best man
murdered before our eyes, an' be satisfied wid a piper an' a dance? I
say we must have blood for blood!"

"An' why not?" said another. "It was no accident; I'm sure of that."

"What baldherdash!" cried a {702} third; "didn't I see him aim the
blow?" And the whole of Shanvilla flourished their hurls and their
sticks in the air, clashing them together with a terrific noise of an
onslaught.

Tom Murdock's cheeks blanched. He feared that he had opened a
floodgate which he could not stop, and that if there had not been,
there would soon be, murder. His men stood firm in a close body, and
not a word was heard to pass amongst them.

"Don't strike a blow, for the life of you, boys!" he cried, at the
same time he took back his hurl from the man to whom he had given it
to hold, who handed it to him, saying, "Here, Tom, you'll be apt to
want this."

The Shanvilla men saw him take the hurl, and thought it an acceptance
of a challenge to fight. They now began to jump off the ground,
crying, "Whoop, whoop!" a sure sign of prompt action in an Irish row.

At this still more critical moment, Father Farrell, the parish priest
of Shanvilla, who had been sent for in all haste "for the man who was
killed," was seen cantering across the common toward the crowd; and
more fortunately still he was accompanied by Father Roche, the
parish-priest of Rathcash. They were both known at a glance; Shanvilla
on his "strawberry cob," and Rathcash on his "tight little black
mare."

It is needless to say that the approach of these two good men calmed
to all appearance, if not in reality, the exhibition of angry feeling
amongst the two parties.

"Here, your reverence," said one of the Shanvilla men to Father
Farrell,--"here's where the man that was hurt is lying; poor
Emon-a-knock, your reverence."

Father Farrell turned for a moment and whispered to his companion,
"I'll see about the hurt man, and do you try and keep the boys quiet.
I can see that Shanvilla is ready for a fight. Tell them that I'll be
with them in a very few minutes, if the man is not badly hurt. If he
is, my friend, I'm afraid we shall have a hard task to keep Shanvilla
quiet. Could you not send your men home at once?"

"I'll do what I can; but you can do more with your own men than I can.
Rathcash will not strike a blow, I know, until the very last moment."

They then separated, Father Farrell dismounting and going over to
where Emon-a-knock still lay in M'Dermott's arms; and Father Roche up
toward the Rathcash men.

"Boys," said he, addressing them, "this is a sad ending to the day's
sport; but, thank God, from what I hear, the man is not much hurt. Be
steady, at all events. Indeed, you had better go home at once, every
man of you. Won't you take your priest's advice?"

"An' why not, your reverence? to be sure we will, if it comes to that;
but, plaise God, it won't. At worst it was only an accident, an' we're
tould it won't signify. We'll stan' our ground another while, your
reverence, until we hear how the boy is. Sure, there's two barrels of
beer an' a dance to the fore, by-an'-by."

"Well, lads, be very steady, and keep yourselves quiet. I'll visit the
first man of you that strikes a blow with condign--"

"We'll strike no blow, your reverence, if we bant struck first. Let
Father Farrell look to that."

"And so he will, you may depend upon it," said Father Roche.

The Shanvilla men had great confidence in Father Farrell in every
respect, and there was not a man in the parish who would not almost
die at his bidding from pure love of the man, apart from his religious
influence. They knew him to be a good physician in a literal, as well
as a moral, point of view; and he had been proving himself the good
Samaritan for the last seventeen years to every one in the parish,
whether they fell among thieves or not. He had commenced life as a
medical student, but had (prudently, perhaps) preferred the Church.
{703} In memory, however, of his early predilections, he kept a sort
of little private dispensary behind his kitchen; and so numerous were
the cures which nature had effected under his mild advice and harmless
prescriptions, that he had established a reputation for infallibility
almost equal to that subsequently attained by Holloway or Morrison.
Never, however, was his medical knowledge of more use as well as value
than on the present occasion.

Shanvilla grounded their weapons at his approach, and waited for his
report. Father Farrell of course first felt the young man's pulse. He
was not pedantic or affected enough to hold his watch in his other
hand while he did so; but, like all good physicians, he held his
tongue. He then untied the handkerchief, and gently examined the wound
so far as possible without disturbing the work which Phil M'Dermott
had so promptly and judiciously performed. His last test of the state
of his patient was his voice; and upon this, in his own mind, he laid
no inconsiderable stress. In reply to his questions as to whether he
felt sick or giddy, Emon replied, much more stoutly than was expected,
that he felt neither the one nor the other. Father Farrell was now
fully satisfied that there was nothing seriously wrong with him, and
that giving him the rites of the Church, or even remaining longer with
him then, might have an unfavorable effect upon the already excited
minds of the Shanvilla men. He therefore said, smiling, "Thank God,
Emon, you want no further doctoring just now; and I'll leave you for a
few minutes while I tell Shanvilla that nothing serious has befallen
you."

He then left him, and hastened over toward his parishoners, who
eagerly met him half-way as he approached.

"Well, your reverence?" "Well, your reverence?" ran through the
foremost of them.

"It is well, and very well, boys," he replied; "I bless God it is
nothing but a scalp wound, which will not signify. Put by your hurls,
and go and ask the Rathcash girls to dance."

"Three cheers for Father Farrell!" shouted Ned Murrican of the black
curly head. They were given heartily, and peace was restored.

Father Farrell then remounted his strawberry cob, and rode over toward
where Father Roche was with the Rathcash men. They were, "in a
manner," as anxious to hear his opinion of Emon-a-knock as his own men
had been. They knew nothing, or, if they did, they cared nothing, for
any private cause of ill-will on their leader's part toward
Emon-a-knock. They were not about to espouse his quarrel, if he had
one; and, as they had said, they would not have struck a blow unless
in self-defence.

Father Farrell now assured them there was nothing of any consequence
"upon" Emon; it was a mere tip of the flesh, and would be quite well
in a few days. "But, Tom _a-wochal_," he added, laughing, "you don't
often aim at a crow and hit a pigeon."

"I was awkward and unfortunate enough to do so this time, Father
Farrell," he replied. And he then entered into a full, and apparently
a candid, detail of how it had happened.

Father Farrell listened with much attention, bowing at him now and
then, like the foreman of a jury to a judge's charge, to show that he
understood him. When he had ended. Father Farrell placed his hand upon
his shoulder, and, bending down toward him, whispered in his ear, "Oh,
Tom Murdock, but you are the fortunate man this day! for if the blow
had been one inch and a half lower, all the priests and doctors in
Connaught would not save you from being tried for manslaughter."

"Or murder," whispered Tom's heart to himself.

By this time Emon-a-knock, with M'Dermott's help, had risen to his
feet; and leaning on him and big Ned Murrican, crept feebly along
toward the boreen which formed the entrance to the common.

{704}

Father Farrell, perceiving the move, rode after him, and said, as he
passed, that he would trot on and send for a horse and cart to fetch
him home, as he would not allow him to walk any further than the end
of the lane. Indeed, it was not his intention to do so; for he was
still scarcely able to stand, and that not without help.

Before he and his assistants, however, had reached the end of the
lane, Father Farrell came entering back, saying, "All right, my good
lads; there is a jennet and cart coming up the lane for him."

Emon cocked his ear at the word jennet; he knew who owned the only one
for miles around. And there indeed it was; and the sight of it went
well-nigh to cure Emon, better than any doctoring he could get.

TO BE CONTINUED.

--------

From The Month.

INQUIETUS.

  We put him in a golden cage
    With crystal troughs; but still he pined
  For tracts of royal foliage.
    And broad blue skies and merry wind.

  We gave him water cool and dear;
    All round his golden wires we twined
  Fresh leaves and blossoms bright, to cheer
    His restless heart: but still he pined.

  We whistled and we chirped; but he
    Trilled never more his liquid falls,
  But ever yearned for liberty,
    And dashed against his golden walls.

  Again, again, in wild despair,
    He strove to burst his bars aside;
  At last, beneath his pinion fair,
    He hid his drooping head and died!

  And so against the golden bars--
    Life's golden bars--our poor souls smite.
  Pining for tracts beyond the stars.
    Freedom and beauty, truth and light

  Those bars a Father's hands adorn
    With leaves and flowers--earth's loveliest things--
  With crystal draughts; but still we mourn
    With thirsting for the "living springs."

  Nor crystal draughts, nor leaves and flowers,
    The exiled heart can satisfy:
  We shake the bars; and some few hours
    We droop and pine, and then we die,

  We die! But, oh, the prison-bars
    Are shatter'd then: then far away,
  We pass beyond the sky, the stars--
    Beyond the change of night and day.

{705}

From Chambers's Journal.

A KINGDOM WITHOUT A KING.

Lichtenstein is the name of the smallest principality in the great
German "Vaterland," and this has hitherto been the most remarkable
thing that could be said about it, for in the great political world it
has as yet played no part. It appears, however, that its time has now
arrived; and for the benefit of those who might receive this bit of
intelligence with a sceptical smile, I subjoin a few words of
explanation.

In order fully to appreciate this important question, it will be
necessary to commence by going back into the past--if not so far as to
the Flood, at least to some part of the twelfth century.

It will not do to believe that the Lichtensteiners are people of
vulgar extraction. True, their ancestors hardly anticipated that the
house of Lichtenstein would ever be reckoned among the reigning
families of Europe; but this did not affect the nobleness of their
quarterings. The founder of the house was a lively and enterprising
Lombard, and related to the Este family. He went to Germany with the
object of making his fortune, and there he married, 1145 A.D., a
little princess of the house of Schwaben. They had not the slightest
fraction of a principality, but they had plenty of children to educate
and provide for. Their fortune was not very large, but, in his quality
of Lombard, the father exercised the lucrative business of an usurer,
whenever the occasion presented itself. The sovereigns of those times
were often in want of money, and our Lombard supplied them with this
article, proper security being forthcoming. When the time of
restitution arrived, it was not always convenient to the debtors to
pay in cash, and the affair was therefore generally settled by means
of small pieces of land, titles, or privileges. The Lichtensteiners
soon became allied to the greatest German families. In the year 1614,
the Emperor Matthias ceded to them, in settlement of their pecuniary
claims, the principality of Troppau, in Schlesien. Ten years later,
the Emperor Ferdinand II. added to their possessions the principality
of Jagendorff. Then they obtained the title of "Prince of the Holy
Roman Empire;" and by this time they had purchased the districts of
Vadutz and Schnellenberg, on the borders of the Rhine, and close to
the Swiss frontier. These possessions form the actual principality of
Lichtenstein, which has the small town of Vadutz for its capital.

The Congress of Vienna--contrary to its principles of
mediatization--resolved, for reasons which we abstain from
investigating, to maintain Lichtenstein as a sovereign and independent
state, and gave it an entire vote in the German Confederation.

In return for these advantages, Lichtenstein had to provide a
contingent of ninety men and one drummer to the federal army. It is
important not to lose sight of these ninety men and one drummer, for
they play a principal part in the impending question. The subjects of
the principality of Lichtenstein, according to the last census,
numbered 7,150; they are clever people, of a peaceable disposition,
but impressed with no particular awe for authorities. They even have a
slight taint of independence, undoubtedly owing to the close vicinity
of Switzerland.

{706}

A year had scarcely elapsed after the remodelling of the map of Europe
by the Congress of Vienna, when the inhabitants of Lichtenstein
addressed themselves to their sovereign, John I., and declared with
rustic frankness that they had no objection to being ruled by him,
since the Congress had decided it so; but that they found it entirely
superfluous to pay any civil list; beside, they were too few in number
to contribute every year ninety men and one drummer to the federal
army. Prince John was an excellent man, and, moreover, he was
immensely rich. He informed his subjects that he could do very well
without any civil list; and as for the federal contingent, he
concluded a convention with the Austrian government, by which the
latter undertook to furnish it together with its own. With this the
loyal subjects declared themselves satisfied; and everything went on
well until the year 1836, when Prince Aloysius I. ascended the throne.
In the meantime, the natives of Lichtenstein had made various
reflections. The conclusions arrived at were: that a prince, even if
paid nothing, entails sundry expenses on the country where he is
reigning; festivals have to be given, as well as solemn audiences,
illuminations, fire-works, etc.

Accordingly, they sent a deputation to their new lord and master, and
made it obvious, to him that he must indemnify the country for all
expenses of the description alluded to. Aloysius I. was as excellent a
monarch as his predecessor; he admitted the claims of his subjects,
and made an agreement with them concerning an annual indemnity, which
he paid with exemplary regularity.

The Lichtensteiners had now attained the object of their wishes; they
led an existence entirely ideal. They occupied a position unique in
Europe, nay, in the whole world; for, instead of paying for
government, they actually were paid for submission to it. It would now
be supposed that nothing in future could disturb the good
understanding existing between prince and people. But alas! that the
old saying should here find its application--namely, that he who has
got yellow hair, wants it also to be curled.

John II. became Prince of Lichtenstein. One fine morning he said to
himself: "Since I have no civil list, nay, since I--contrary to all
established usages--pay a tribute to my subjects, I ought at least to
have full liberty to live according to my tastes. This small capital
is a bore. I have plenty of money; I will set out for Vienna!" No
sooner said than done. John II. built a magnificent palace in the
capital of Austria, and there he lived in a luxurious style. The
government of the principality he intrusted to a minister, with whom
he corresponded. But when were those stupid Lichtensteiners to be
satisfied? They put their heads together and resolved to send a
deputation to their supreme master in Vienna; and one particular
morning, just as the prince had got out of bed, a dozen of the most
distinguished among his subjects made their appearance. After the
customary reverences and ceremonies, the deputation put forth its
request with becoming solemnity, expressing itself somewhat to the
following effect: "We don't pay your serene highness any civil list;
on the contrary, your serene highness pays an annual indemnity to us.
But your serene highness is in possession of a large fortune, and
spends it in a royal manner, by the which formerly your principality
benefited. If, now, your serene highness continues to reside in
Vienna, you inflict a serious loss upon your subjects; and it appears
therefore to us but just that you should in future inhabit at least
six months of the year your own capital." Several demands of a
political nature were appended to this petition. John II. granted
their request, and issued, moreover, a brand-new constitution, with a
parliament of fifteen members, whom he promised to pay out of his own
pocket.

{707}

But what about the ninety men and the drummer? Well, now the
difficulty arises, for they are exactly the cause of the present
dispute.

Austria having long furnished this contingent, sent, some time ago, a
bill of the resulting expenses to the prince. But the prince thought
that, as he had renounced his claims to a civil list, and even paid
his subjects a round sum every year, it could be no very heavy burden
for the said subjects to pay their own federal contingent. This the
Lichtensteiners obstinately refuse to do; the prince, on the other
side, tired of so much trouble, has expressed his intention to
abdicate, and to cede his dominions to Austria. But against this
scheme his people protest most energetically--they would rather belong
to Switzerland. Beside, if Austria annexes Lichtenstein, then Prussia
will regard the transaction with an envious eye. The prince will
neither pay nor govern. Such is the present state of things, of which
nobody can predict the end.

From The St. James Magazine.

A NOVEL TICKET-OF-LEAVE; OR, MISTAKEN IDENTITY.

"No two things are alike." Such is the dictum of science. "Nature,"
say the wise men, "resembles the charms of Cleopatra, which custom
cannot stale, so infinite is their variety." Even in so humble a thing
as a flock of sheep there is a personal identity, and the shepherd of
Salisbury Plain will vow to you that he can discriminate between the
countenances of each member of his woolly family, and particularize
their features. So with the herdsman and his drove, the trainer and
his stud. But why pursue the theme? Why dwell upon these flocks _qui
passent et ne se resemblent pas?_ Is it to prove that these
resemblances are mere fallacies, and have no real existence; that they
ought to be classed with Sir Thomas Browne's "vulgar errors?" No; but
to lament that whereas each member of a flock of sheep, of a herd of
oxen, or a stud of horses, carries his individuality so markedly, the
privilege is not more extended in the genus _homo_. I solemnly aver
that the number of cases of mistaken identity which have lately come
to my knowledge is not only astounding, but exceedingly embarrassing;
I may add, too, _quorum magna pars fui_; which, being translated,
means, in which I have formed a no inconsiderable portion of the
quorum. It is no pleasant sensation to know that your "counterfeit
presentment" is walking the earth; in fact, it is monstrously
unpleasant. The other day I felt a heavy hand placed rapidly upon my
shoulder, in the most unceremonious and familiar of ways, accompanied
with an equally unceremonious and familiar exclamation: "Why, Perkins,
old boy, _how_ are ye? Haven't seen ye for an age! Glad to see you
again in London! How are all the folks at Nottingham?"

How far this familiar stranger would have gone on in this fluent
strain of amity I know not. It was time to stop his exuberance of
friendship, and acquaint him with the fact that my name was not
Perkins; that I had not come from Nottingham; and, I fear, added, in
the bitterness and irritation of the moment, that I had never been to
Nottingham, and never wished to go there. "Oh, nonsense, Perkins! I'm
not going to be knocked off in that style. How are Mrs. Perkins and
the chicks?" "I tell you again, sir, you are mistaken in your man; my
name {708} is not Perkins." "It may not be Perkins now, but it was
three months ago; and whatever your new name may be, I am not going to
be turned off in this way. Not Perkins! Why, you can't get rid of that
mole on your cheek with your new name; and as to your wig, old fellow,
there never was but that shade of red I ever saw. Come, where shall we
dine?" "I must plainly tell you, sir," I replied to my would-be
friend, "you are carrying your pleasantry too far; and if you do not
leave me at once, I will give you in charge of the police." The
fellow, evidently chagrined, left me to chew the cud of bitter
reflection. "Well, well," were his parting words, "it can't be Perkins
after all; Perkins was a jolly good fellow, and this chap is------" He
had by this time got out of hearing. What an unpleasant rencontre
this! I thought to myself. Then again the subject took another aspect.
What if the real, the true Perkins, should ever be persecuted by _my_
friends as I have been by one of his?

And this leads me on to another incident in the same category, which
occurred still more recently, and might have led to very deplorable
results. In fact, I am not sure that the end is yet. I had business
out of town for a day or two, and returned punctually at the appointed
hour. Whom should I meet on the platform of the terminus but Tom
Cridlins! Now Tom is a great gossip, and an immense favorite with the
ladies. He frequents the theatres and the operas, conversaziones and
balls, and retails all the news and scandal of the day to his fair
friends. Well, I met him accidentally at the terminus; in an instant
he was full of apologies and excuses. "Hope, Sam, done no mischief;
didn't mean it, didn't mean it, 'pon honor; deuced sorry, hope it's
all over." "Why, what's the matter?" "Didn't know you'd gone out of
town, you sly dog. I understand it all. Called at Mrs. Sam's
yesterday; told her--didn't do it intentionally--saw you at the opera
Monday night with Countess Tarascona; magnificent woman; saw at once
made mistake. Why didn't she tell me you'd gone out of town? wouldn't
have breathed a word. 'Pon honor, accidental." "Opera, Tom! I wasn't
at the opera; I have been out of town since Monday morning; you're
mistaken." "Capital joke, that. Why, Sam, think I'm 'flicted with
color-blindness? No, my boy, nothing blinds me but friendship;
wouldn't have said a word had known you didn't want it." Need I say
what a miserable vista was opened up before me? A jealous wife's
jealousy accidentally inflamed in this innocent manner, and even Tom
Cridlins incredulous. These men of the world won't believe in--in
anything.

"Tom," I said, seriously, "this is very unfortunate; but you were
never more mistaken in your life. I have not been at the opera for
weeks." Oh that wicked twinkle of his eye! "Well, my boy, _I_ don't
want to believe you were there; disbelieve anything you like;
only----" "Tom, I can stand this no longer; I must not be played with;
you _must_ admit that I was not at the opera. I can bring the whole
village of Cudgleton to prove an _alibi_." "Glad to hear it, for peace
of home's sake. Mrs. Sam took it very ill, can assure you; sorry,
'ceedingly sorry; but really the countess is a magnificent woman."
"Who the devil cares _now_ about the countess? I affirm that I have
been at Cudgleton from Monday 4 P.M. till this morning 10 A.M. Left by
express, and just arrived." "There's the bell, Sam; must say good-bye;
remember me to your wife; purely accidental; 'ceedingly regret it;
believe every word you say--will back it 'gainst all odds; remember
me to your wife, and tell her _I believe you, my boy_."

"Believe me, my boy!" and that's how Tom Cridlins left
me,--light-hearted and gay-spirited, after having kindled a torch
which Acheron itself could not quench.

{709}

I returned home. Of course Mrs. Sam was _prepared_ to receive me. In
vain I protested; in vain I insisted that Tom Cridlins was laboring
under an illusion; I had brought him to confess as much. "Oh, then,
you have seen him to-day; planning and scheming, I suppose, to get up
a pack of contradictions. I understand; but you are not going to
deceive me. Natural evidence is better than got-up evidence, and I
shall prefer to take Mr. Thomas Cridlins's first statement to his
second. There are some things better fresh, and testimony I take to be
one of those things. Whatever you and Mr. Cridlins may choose to
concoct, for the future I shall believe what I please to believe."

And so on till bedtime. Would that I could say we had had it out even
then! At midnight we were only in the thick of it; and to acquire
renewed vigor for future assaults, Mrs. Sam prudently fell asleep.

But what a time for me! Oh that I could reverse the hand of the clock
eight-and-forty hours, or push it on until this trouble had blown
over! Plague on that man, whoever he is, that looked so like me! Why
was he at the opera? why was he there with a fine woman? Cridlins saw
nothing of the Countess Tarascona--only seen her once--and his foolish
head jumps to the conclusion it must be the countess. Ass that he is!
Why isn't he honestly employed, like other people, instead of idling
about on his five thousand a year, philandering and making mischief?
He can scarcely count the fingers on his hand, yet he can create a
devil of a row between man and wife!

Two o'clock struck. I had fallen into a distempered doze; still it was
somewhat soothing. With the waking reflection came back, not quite so
excited. After all it might have been worse. I remember reading of a
Bishop of Siena who had a sovereign antidote against every attack of
despondency.

"When I am disappointed or vexed, or embarrassed or dissatisfied," he
said, "I look round upon the world and notice how many hundreds and
thousands are worse off than myself, and the result invariably is,
that grumbling and vexation take wings and fly away, and contentment
and cheerfulness return and nestle in my bosom."

What, thought I, as I lay awake,--what if, instead of this conjugal
_contretemps_, I had been wrongly seized for theft and murder, and
unable to prove an _alibi_? Such cases have been. Such cases _have_
been! Why, they have taken place by scores--are taking place, and will
to the end of the chapter. And my imagination vividly portrayed the
mental agonies of the innocent convict. Memory ransacked the dusty
tomes of history to supply fresh food for meditation, fresh fuel to
feed my horror. Does not Pliny cite innumerable instances? Had not the
twin brothers of Ephesus just cause to exclaim, each to his unknown
counterpart, in the anguish and bitterness of his spirit, "Oh, Dromio,
Dromio, wherefore art thou, Dromio?" Does not the "Newgate Calendar"
teem with cases of men's lives perjured by false witnesses, or
sacrificed to a false tissue of circumstances? Did not Richard Coleman
and Clinch and Mackley suffer death for crimes of which they were
subsequently proved to be guiltless, simply because each was mistaken
for the "right man," who was not, and never is, in the "right place."
Was not Hoag tried at New York, in 1804, for bigamy, through a similar
misconception? And did not Redman in 1822, and Robinson in 1824, just
escape the gallows by a hair's-breadth? And were not these instances
enough to scarify any man's imagination, and shiver his every nerve?
My "counterfeit presentment" was evidently wandering about somewhere.
What sort of a character was he? Did ho belong to the dangerous
classes? was he a respectable member of society or an impostor? was he
cunning and clever, and capable of swindling? was he cold-blooded and
resolute, capable {710} of murder? was he passionate and revengeful?
was he anything and everything that could lead a man into a violent
scrape?

No wonder the perspiration ran off my brow as my brain scudded through
the chapter of probabilities and revealed a long gloomy vista of
perils. I bethought me of the police. Should I make known that my
"counterfeit" was abroad "stalking the world around?" Should I seek
the protection of Scotland Yard, and warn them if they heard of a
robbery or a murder, or some other villainy or felony committed by a
man answering to my description, that _I_ was not the culprit? To be
forewarned is to be forearmed; to tell them this might save loss of
time, and spare a world of trouble, inconvenience, and annoyance.
Beside, was it not exactly what my late friend Richter had done? Ah!
by-the-bye, you didn't know Richter--thereby hangs a tale. Richter,
poor fellow, is dead now; but there is a moral attached to his life,
and we, whose eidola are walking the earth, may as well extract it.

Richter was a wealthy _rentier_, living in Vienna; and a thorough
Austrian by birth, education, and nature. Quiet, inoffensive, kindly;
there was nothing striking about him in person or position. He never
meddled with that firebrand--politics; he had never troubled the most
immaculate government of the imperial and royal apostolic Kaiser with
unseasonable and unreasonable comments on its virtues or defects; he
had never violated that most sacred thing, the concordat; had never
offended lord or prince; had hated Hungary, and had always wished
Venice at the bottom instead of on the surface of the sea. He was a
peaceable citizen, obedient to the decrees of his sovereign, and
pursued the even tenor of his life with well-balanced footstep,
inclining to nothing that was likely to lead him or his neighbor into
the dark and dreary desert of trouble and vexation. Nevertheless the
Nemesis of envy marked him for her own; and he was pointed at during
the latter part of his life as one who could set the vast army of
spies and detectives formed and disciplined by that arch-policeman,
Metternich, at absolute defiance.

It was the custom of Herr Richter of an afternoon or morning--as any
one might who had nothing better to do--to stroll up and down the
principal thoroughfares of Vienna, gaze into its splendid shops, and
admire the beauty and the becrinolined silks and satins, muslins and
grenadines, of the stately dames of that ancient and quaint city. One
day--it was in the summer of 1849--Herr Richter was _flâning_ along
the Kätner Strasse, and, impelled neither by curiosity nor
covetousness, but that indefinable something which of directs our
course and shapes our conduct without our consciousness, stopped
before the "Storr and Mortimer" of the Hapsburg capital. Why did he
thrust himself in amongst that band of ragged _gamins_, who, with
gaping mouth and burning eyes, were devouring the splendors of the
plate-glass window, and wistfully wishing that that glittering heap of
rings and chains, brooches and necklaces, cassolettes and lockets,
bracelets and eardrops, emeralds, diamonds, pearls, rubies,
turquoises, etc., were theirs? Why did he mingle with them? He could
not have told you, nor can I. Only he was there, and it was evident
his heart, too, was overflowing, like Mr. Pickwick's, with the milk of
human kindness. "Poor fellows!" such was his train of thought, "you
can never get any of these treasures, though you should toil for a
century;" and then turning away, he muttered aloud, still continuing
his train of thought, "Any of them might be mine in a moment if I
chose." Was he speculating on the iniquitous force of the Austrian
guild laws, or the false system of political economy in vogue in
Austria? was he pondering over the mysteries of _meum et tuum_, or
endeavoring to solve that profound problem, "_La proprieté c'est le
vol?_"

{711}

Possibly yes, possibly no; but just at that moment a strong hand was
laid on his shoulder. "One word with you, if you please," said a low
musical voice, imperative yet polite.

The invitation was irresistible. With the utmost complacency Herr
Richter retired with the gentleman who accosted him underneath one of
those huge gateways, _porte-cochères_, which form the entrance of the
old Vienna houses. The stranger then took a paper from his pocket, and
looking intently, now at its contents, now at the features of Herr
Richter, opened the conversation in a curt and peremptory manner:

"Sir, I am under the painful necessity of requesting you to follow
me."

Herr Richter, incensed, grows restiff.

"Pray, sir, who are you that dare--" and without finishing the
sentence he threw himself into an attitude of defence, if not
defiance.

"Had you not better give less trouble?" coolly asked the stranger. "Am
I to call assistance?"

Rapidly the truth dawned upon the Herr. The stranger, though clad in
the ordinary attire of a _bourgeois_, belonged to that mysterious
body, dreaded by every section of the community, since it received its
orders, so it was universally believed, directly from the cabinet, or
a joint committee of the holy alliance itself. Yes, he must be an
agent of the secret police.

Herr Richter, however, is not hurried off to the star chamber where
political offenders are dealt with, but is conducted to the Scotland
Yard of Vienna--the headquarters of the _gendarmerie_--the central
station for criminal suspects. In Austria it is safer to be classed
with common thieves and felons than to be suspected of meddling with
politics. So the Herr's mind was materially relieved; though
ignominious his fate, on perceiving his destination he scarcely felt
enraged at the indignity offered him.

When they had arrived within the gloomy precincts of the gaol
barracks, things began to explain themselves. There was evident
satisfaction, not to say exultation, on the faces of the officials.
The captor was specially gratified; and waving his warrant, as though
it were an honorable trophy, over the head of his unfortunate prize,
he exclaimed--

"I've captured him at last; I've found him and caught him, this prince
of pickpockets!" and he enacted the passion of triumph so perfectly
that he jeered at and derided in true Teutonic fashion his safe and
sound victim in the most cold-blooded and insolent manner.

"As I was passing down the Kätner Strasse," continued this
self-gratulatory detective, "I saw him looking into a goldsmith's
shop, noting every article in the window, and heard him muttering to
himself, with a most complacent air, 'Any one of them could be mine in
a moment if I chose.'"

A superior officer was then called, and the description in the warrant
being read over, there could be no doubt as to the identity of the
prisoner with the most active and desperate thief in Vienna. The
personal appearance of Herr Richter tallied exactly with the written
portrait in the possession of the Polizer-Haus; type and antitype
could not be more exact.

"Good heavens!" exclaimed the alarmed captive, "I the greatest thief
in Vienna! I am Herr Richter, a gentleman, a man of property, rich
enough to purchase twenty jewellers' shops. I beg you to be careful
how you proceed further."

"Don't excite yourself," retorted the commissioner, "we _shall_ be
careful enough. You won't catch us giving you an opportunity of
escape."

"_Donnerwetter!_" ejaculated the now infuriated _rentier_; "this is
too much of a good thing. Just send round for my banker and he will
tell you who and what I am. I'll sue you, sir--I'll sue you, sir, as
sure as you are born," repeated the Herr, growing more exasperated
every moment.

{712}

The superintendent, like most men of his profession, was well versed
in physiognomy, and could read the features of the human face and
interpret their varied expressions. "This is not feigned anger," he
said to himself.

The banker was sent for, and identified the prisoner as his friend
Herr Richter. As a matter of course the wealthy gentleman escaped the
grasp of the Philistines.

On leaving the beetle-browed gateway of the police barracks the Herr
breathed freely again, rejoicing that matters had turned out no worse
in that empire of suspicion and caprice. He moved along through the
principal thoroughfare of the Austrian capital, pondering over his
recent unpleasant adventure. At length he called a cab to take him to
his club, where he might drown the indignity of the morning in a
bumper of Tokay or Johannisberg, and invite oblivion by devouring a
good dinner. Hardly, however, had he placed his foot on the step than
he was forced deep down into the vehicle by a mysterious personage at
his back, who, whispering to the driver, "To the police station!"
enters the cab also. Speechless and aghast as though a spectre were
the intruder, the unfortunate Herr Richter looked wildly at his
compulsory companion.

"Sir," said the spectre--

"I know all you are going to say," feebly remarked the desperate
Richter, cursing his fate.

"_Of course_ you know," sneered the spectre at his side, who, however,
is no spectre, but a jolly-booking individual in the prime of manhood.
"_Of course_ you know." And with this he dives his hand into his
pocket, and drags forth the fatal warrant.

"All right!" groans out the inevitable captive, with whom despair was
fast degenerating into recklessness. "All right, you need not take the
trouble to read every trait. I have read the account myself. It is
very correct, wonderfully correct, terribly correct."

"For a gentleman of your profession," observed the portly detective,
"you are really very civil. Half a dozen such as you would
marvellously improve the manners of our modern _chevaliers
d'industrie_. I say, old boy," continued the pleasant thief-catcher,
poking the unresisting Herr in the ribs, "you ought to think it over,
and exert yourself to instill a little politeness into your tribe.
It's a large section of the community, you know. If yon get out again,
think over my advice."

The only reply of Herr Richter was a faint, helpless smile.

Arrived at the station, a general shout of laughter greeted the captor
and the captured.

The latter seated himself in a chair, and, composing his thoughts for
a desperate harangue, thus addressed the commissioners present:

"Gentlemen, here I am again, and here I am resolved to remain. As it
is, I should not be safe anywhere else a quarter of an hour until
arrested and taken to the station by _all_ your detectives one after
the other. Calculating from to-day's experience, and forming a
moderate estimate of the rate of locomotion at which I could proceed
under the circumstances, it would take me a fortnight to get home and
bury myself from the now hated gaze of mankind. You will therefore
have the kindness to let me keep you company and make the personal
acquaintance of each member of your force, who will then, I hope, be
able to recognize me when he sees me in the streets."

The commissioner-in-chief regretted that he could not assent to the
Herr's proposition. "Impossible! it would never do, my dear sir," he
informed the astounded Richter, "for a civilian, even a man of your
respectability and appearance, to know all the detectives; the state
itself would be endangered. However," he added very graciously, "I
will give you a certificate, under {713} my hand and seal, that you
are not the man you have been taken for; and this will make, I hope,
as far as lies in my power, the _amende honorable_."

"A ticket-of-leave?"

"_Comme vous voulez_."

Poor Richter surrendered unconditionally, glad, like the Bishop of
Hereford, "that he could so get away." Never from that hour did he
lose sight of that precious "ticket-of-leave," the prison release of
the Austrian Scotland Yard. He always carried it about with him as a
kind of amulet to charm away the too active _agens de police_. In his
last will and testament he inserted a special clause, ordering that
the old leather sheath, containing the official permit, should be
placed in his coffin.

"Who knows how many a fix it may yet help me out of?" was written in
the margin with his own hand.

Why should not I, then, do like Herr Richter? thought your humble
servant, as he still lay awake. If ever the dastardly hand of a peeler
be laid on my shoulder, such shall be my first step. Pshaw! why should
I not take time by the forelock? why should I not go that very morning
to Scotland Yard and acquaint the commissioners that my counterfeit
was at large, and might commit some fearful atrocity, some terrible
crime, and so beg for a ticket of recognition--a ticket-of-leave?

Alas! whilst I was putting on the breastplate and buckling on my armor
against imaginary foes, I had forgotten the real danger that
encompassed me. Whilst I was congratulating myself on the ingenious
dispensation I was to obtain from the police, I forgot that I had not
yet obtained a dispensation from the partner of my joys and sorrows
who was calmly reposing by my side. Calmly reposing, I say, for
nothing seemed to disturb her. There are natures, it appears to me,
whose repose nothing _can_ break, and it is exactly that class of
natures which can most easily and effectually disturb the peace of
others. It is a mighty faculty, and was possessed, _à merveille_, by
Mrs. Sam.

When she woke I meekly broached my idea of police protection, thereby
intending by a side-wind to establish my spotless innocence before
her. Granted the necessity of police protection, the corollary would
be that the story of the opera and the countess was all a myth. Mrs.
Sam let me run the whole tether of suggestion with surprising
complacency. I almost felt I was triumphant.

"Mr. Samuel----, you may be guilty of whatever folly you please; it is
nothing strange to you," she began in her most stately and cutting
manner; "but if you think of bamboozling me and throwing me off the
scent, you have mistaken your woman. The herring to trail across my
path must be stronger flavored than the one you have in hand if you
would turn me from the pursuit. Justice I am resolved to have, and
will sift the matter to the bottom. It is not yet time to get up, and
I wish to finish my sleep. After breakfast, with your kind
_permission_ (oh the agony of that irony!) we will together call on
the countess. She, perhaps, may be able to explain."

I knew the countess had left town; but I did not dare to say so, and
hypocritically assented to Mrs. Sam's proposal. She was furious when
she learnt that the countess was from home. "How long had she been
from home?" "A fortnight," was the testimony of the butler. "Has she
not been in town since?" "No." "Was she not in town on Monday?"
"Certainly not." How freely I breathed as this witness gave his
involuntary and corroborative evidence in my favor. Mrs. Sam turned
round upon me with an incredulous smile. "I condone it this time," she
graciously observed as we descended the steps, which reminded me very
forcibly of the verdict of the Cornish jury--"We find the prisoner
_not_ guilty, only we advise him not to do it again."

{714}

MISCELLANY.

_An Intermittent Fountain_--M. l'Abbe Laborde, writing to _Les
Mondes_, describes a simple apparatus for producing an intermittent
fountain. It consists of an inverted flask fitted with a cork, through
which pass two tubes of unequal length. The longer reaches nearly to
the bottom of the flask, and outside has a length of some twenty
inches. The shorter tube merely pierces the cork, and does not extend
to any length inside, and outside it ends immediately in a jet, which
can be curved round. The flask is filled with water, fitted with the
two tubes, and then, with the finger on the shorter tube, is inverted,
plunging the end of the longer tube in a vessel of water. The
instrument may now be fixed in this position, as an intermittent jet
of water begins to flow at once, continuing until the flask is empty.
The column of water in the longer tube will be seen to be alternately
rising and falling, from which phenomena an explanation has been given
of the cause of the intermittent flow.

_On Phosphatic Deposits Recently Discovered in North Wales, by Dr.
Aug. Voelcker._--An extensive mine, containing several phosphatic
minerals, was accidentally discovered early last year by Mr. Hope
Jones, of Hooton, Cheshire, whilst he was searching for other minerals
in the neighborhood of Cwmgynen, about sixteen miles from Oswestry.
Mr. Hope Jones found the phosphatic mine to be continuous for more
than a mile, and to come within twelve feet of the surface. It is not
far from the clay slate and lead bearing district of Llangrynag. The
strata (slaty shale) contain several beds of contemporaneous
felspathic ash and scoriae, and the usual fossils of the Llandillo
series are found, but not in great numbers. The strata are vertical,
and run east to west, or, more correctly speaking, fifteen degrees
north of west (magnetic). A true vein, or fissure containing vein
deposit, partially metallic, divides two phosphatic deposits. One of
them is nearly three yards in thickness, and embodies phosphatic
limestone beds, containing from ten to upwards of thirty-five per
cent, of phosphate of lime. The other, and more valuable deposit, is a
yard and a half thick, and consists of a black, graphitic shale,
largely impregnated with phosphate of lime. This deposit is free from
carbonate of lime, and much richer in phosphate of lime than the
first-mentioned deposit. In specimens taken at a depth of about twelve
feet from the surface, Dr. Voelcker found from 54 to 56 per cent. of
phosphate of lime in this phosphatic shale. At a greater depth the
shale becomes richer in phosphates, and, consequently, more valuable.
In the deeper specimens the proportions of phosphate of lime amounted
to 64-1/2 per cent. This phosphatic mine is readily accessible, and
naturally drainable to a depth of about 500 miles, and contains many
hundred thousand, if not millions, of tons of valuable phosphatic
minerals. The discovery of this extensive mine in England appears to
be of great importance to the English agriculturist, who at the
present time consumes annually many tons of phosphatic minerals in the
shape of superphosphate and similar artificial manures.

_Belgian Records_.--The Royal Historical Commission of Belgium, which
for some years past has been doing good service by publishing records
and indexes of the documents relating to the domestic history of
Belgium, held its usual quarterly meeting a few weeks back. M.
Galeshoot presented a copy of the "_Livre des Foudataires_" of John
III., Duke of Brabant, copies of which were ordered to be distributed
to the scientific and other bodies entitled to receive the
publications of the commission. At the same time, M. Piot, chief
keeper of the archives, submitted a proposal to publish the chartulary
of the abbey of St. Trond, which was founded in the year 660. The
documents of which the chartulary is composed are of high interest,
and commence in the eighth century. They {715} throw much light on the
civil and religious history, manners and customs, and institutions of
the middle ages.

_Sun-Spot Period_.--Professor Wolf, of Zurich, has undertaken the
laborious work of determining the number of Sun spots at the
dyouifferent periods when the planets, more especially Jupiter, are in
perihelion and aphelion. In the year 1859 he expressed his opinion
that Jupiter determines the leading character of the sun-spot curve,
that Saturn causes small alterations in the height and length of the
undulations, and that the earth and Venus determine the indentations
of the curve. More recently. Mr. Carrington and Mr. De la Rue have
returned to the same subject, and the latter, in conjunction with Mr.
Stewart, has found that when "the sun or a part of the solar surface
approaches a planet, the spots disappear, or the brightness
increases." It is the intention of Professor Wolf to calculate for
every five days a mean relative number of sun-spots during the period
1811-1865. He gives the results of a portion of his labors in showing
the connection of the sun-spot period of 11.11 years with the
revolution of Jupiter between the years 1805 and 1816. The numbers
given are certainly very remarkable, for whilst only 21 spots were
visible soon after the perihelion of Jupiter in 1809, 64 were seen in
1815 at the time of the aphelion. The progression of the numbers is
otherwise very remarkable.

_Plastic Wood_.--Among new inventions we hear of plastic wood, or
rather of a method by which wood can be rendered plastic, and so
applied to various novel purposes. The method consists in forcing
dilute hydrochloric acid, under pressure, into the cells of the wood,
and continuing it a sufficient time, according to the quality of the
wood operated on. When completely saturated with the acid, the wood is
washed in water, and subjected to pressure, which presses the fibres
close together without breaking them, and reduces it to about a tenth
of its original bulk, and the size and form thus impressed on it
remain unaltered. Thus, if pressed in dies, the details retain all the
sharpness ever afterwards, unless the wood should get soaked with
water. Wood treated in this way is particularly well suited for
carvings, as it cuts under the tool almost as easily as cheese; and it
may be made ornamental, for various dyes can be forced in to color it
at the same time with the acid. But it can also be made hard as flint
and incombustible, by forcing in a preparation of water-glass or
soluble flint. From all this, it seems likely that wood may be
employed in new ways for ornamental and useful purposes.

NEW PUBLICATIONS.

THE AMERICAN REPUBLIC: Its Constitution, Tendencies, and Destiny. By
O. A. Brownson, LL.D. 8vo., pp. 435. New York: P. O'Shea. 1866.

This book, which was merely announced in our January number, is the
fruit of Dr. Brownson's mature age, ripe experience, great learning,
and extraordinary intellectual and literary culture and discipline. It
would seem that his life-long labors as a philosophical and critical
writer had been simply a course of preparation for this crowning
achievement, and that nothing less severe could have trained his mind
to grasp and handle the great principles involved with such masterly
power, ease, perspicuity, and completeness.

The questions discussed are: Government; the Origin of Government;
Constitution of Government; the United States; Constitution of the
United States; Secession; Reconstruction; Political Tendencies;
Destiny--Political and Religious. The argument throughout is sustained
and connected in such a perfect manner, and the connection between the
divisions of the subject so thoroughly welded, that it is impossible
to make extracts at all within the compass of this notice which would
give a correct idea of the work. It must be read and studied to
appreciate its beauty, scope, and cogency.

Government and the origin of government are analyzed and placed on
their historical and metaphysical basis. {716} The constitution of the
United States is explained in a manner never before attempted or
approached. The relations of the United States to the states in the
Union, and their relations to her as a unit, are for the first time
made clear and intelligible, and secession, while dealt with
charitably as respects individuals and the erroneous premises honestly
entertained by multitudes both South and North, is logically proved to
be the highest of political crimes--"_state suicide_.'" The
constitutional and Christian method of restoration is pointed out, and
the glorious destiny of the country painted on the sky of the future
with artistic beauty and prophetic grandeur.

The style is remarkable for its strength, density, clearness, and
purity. It supports and carries forward the immense weight and volume
of thought, argument, and historical and philosophical illustration
without apparent effort, and transmits the author's meaning directly
to the intellect, like a ray of light passing through a Brazilian
pebble to the retina. If Dr. Brownson had done nothing else, his
philological labors would entitle him to the lasting admiration of
every lover of pure English.

We do not expect the work to be popular in the common sense of the
term, or that it will escape the vituperation of narrow-minded men and
those who have used all their feeble power in vain to pull down the
structure of constitutional unity. But we do believe that it will be
read and appreciated by a very large class of right-minded, thinking
men South and North, and exert an immense influence in the direction
of complete reconciliation and reconstruction by demonstrating the
absolutely illogical character of secession, while it does justice to
the honesty, manhood, courage, military skill, and fortitude displayed
by the Southern people. It is the logical defeat of the rebellion. It
places Dr. Brownson in the first rank as a Catholic statesman, doctor
of laws, and fervent, consistent, patriot. He is the citizen who never
despaired of the republic. Every man who wishes to understand the
history and politics of the country must study this book, and if we
are to realize the destiny distinctly indicated by the finger of
Providence, the principles which it has established must become the
ruling principles of the statesmen of the country. The glove is fairly
thrown to the champions of the various specious and popular forms of
error, falsehood, and fanaticism, both civil and religious, and they
will be compelled to take it up and defend themselves successfully or
be condemned by default in the final verdict of mankind. The
typography, binding, and general execution are equal to the best
London books.

JOURNAL OF EUGENIE DE GUÉRIN.
Edited by G. S. Trebutien. 12mo., pp. 460. Alexander Strahan, London
and New York.

This very remarkable and most attractive book has already received a
lengthened notice in THE CATHOLIC WORLD, and we have only to add that
never was there penned a book so full of the highest and most refined
sentiment, touching pathos, combined with so much deep philosophic and
poetic thought. What a pure and innocent soul is here revealed! Not to
the world. She did not write for it, but for her own soul, and the
soul of her idolized Maurice. He has found renown through these
tear-bedewed pages of a devoted sister. We read it, yet can hardly
believe it to be, as it is, a real journal.

Her descriptions are full of the intensest interest and charming
naïveté. Here is one on a first communion:

"29th. What a sweet, simple, pious, and touching ceremony! I have only
time to say this, and to declare that of all the festivals the one I
delight in most is a first communion in a country district: God
bestowing himself simply on children! Miou, the little Françouil de
Gaillard, and Augustine were exquisite, both in innocence and beauty.
How pretty they looked under their little white veils, when they
returned weeping from the holy table! Divine tears! Children united to
God; who can tell what was passing that moment in their souls? M. le
Curé was admirable in his unction and gentleness; it was the Saviour
saying to children, 'Come unto me.' Oh! how lovingly he addressed
them, and then how he charged them to have a care of that white robe,
that innocence with which they were clothed! Poor children, {717} what
risks before them! I kept saying to myself, 'Which of yon will tarnish
it first?' They are not going to Paris, indeed; but earth is
everywhere soiled, everywhere evil is found, seduces, and leads away."

That closing sentence was not thoughtlessly penned. It was for the eye
of that brother whom Paris had seduced and led away into error, but
who never read that gentle admonition. Maurice de Guérin died soon
after, reconciled to the Church, in his last agony embracing the
crucifix; but Eugénie continues her journal to Maurice in heaven. Here
is a passage which will, if we mistake not, induce our readers to
procure and read the whole of this delightful volume. They will find
it, as we have found it, like a rare and beautiful picture, which,
with a strange selfishness, we desire to be universally admired, yet
wish it were all our own:

"This woman, this nurse who watched thee, and held thee in illness for
a year on her lap, has given me a greater shock than a winding sheet
would have done. Heart-rending apparition of the past--cradle and
tomb! I could spend the night with thee here in this paper, but the
soul needs prayer; the soul will do thee more good than the heart.
Each time that my pen rests here, a sword pierces my heart. I do not
know whether I shall continue to write or not. Of what use is this
Journal? For whom? Alas! and yet I love it as one loves a funereal
urn, a reliquary in which is kept a dead heart, all embalmed with
sanctity and love. Such seems this paper, where I still preserve thee,
my so beloved one: where I keep up a speaking memory of thee, where I
shall meet with thee again in my old age--if I live to be old. Oh!
yes, the days will come when I shall have no life but in the past;
that past shared with thee; spent beside thee, young, intelligent,
lovable, raising and refining whatever approached thee; such as I
recall thee, such as thou wert on leaving us. At present I do not know
what my life is, if, indeed, I do live. Everything is changed within
and without. Oh! my God, how heart-rending these letters are! They
contain so many tears for my tears! This intimate friend of thine
touches me as would a sight of thyself. My dear Maurice, all thou hast
loved are dear to me--seem a portion of thee."

THE CHRISTIAN EXAMINER, January, 1866.

This is the first number of the new, or New York, series of this
publication, which is to be issued every two months. It explains the
reason and object of the change which has been made in the editorship
and place of publication. The Convention of Unitarians held in this
city a few months ago initiated a new and important movement in that
denomination. The radical and destructive element was put down, and
that party which is in favor of taking a positive Christian position
achieved a victory. The _Examiner_ has been made their organ, and is
to be used in promoting the end they have in view. The convention
solemnly and publicly recognized our Lord Jesus Christ, under that
title which is indicative of his character as Supreme Head of the
human race, in spite of the violent opposition of a few, which was
vented in a very unseemly and vulgar manner, shocking to the Christian
sentiment of the community. The declaration of belief is significant
of the _animuis_ of the movement, and shows it to be a return to the
principle of positive and constructive Christianity. The impress of
this idea is visible in the new phase of the _Examiner_, and has given
it at once a position far above that which it formerly occupied. In
its scholarly and literary tone it is superior to the old series; but
the superiority is more marked and evident in the exhibition of a more
fixed and earnest purpose to aim at a definite result, and to make
more positive affirmation of religious and philosophical ideas. The
writers recognize the wide-spread scepticism in intelligent minds as a
lamentable fact, and have turned their face away from the road of
scepticism and disintegration as one that conducts only to
intellectual, moral, and social death. They do not profess to have
surveyed the road which leads away from this "valley of the shadow of
death;" but they seem to be convinced that there is one, and to be
resolved to look for it and to try to guide others in a search for it.
It is difficult to say, in regard to men who allow themselves so much
latitude in belief, and so great a liberty of independent theorizing,
what are the fixed doctrines in which they agree as the fundamental
basis of {718} an anti-sceptical philosophy, and what are merely
tentative hypotheses thrown out for discussion. It appears to us,
however, that there are several sound principles of Christian
philosophy and doctrine dominating in the articles of the number
before us, and which we may suppose will hereafter give a certain
unity of character and tendency to the work. One of these is the
affirmation of the pure theistic doctrine, in contradiction to
pantheism, in connection with a manifest tendency to repudiate the
sensist philosophy of Hamilton, Mansel, and that class of writers, and
to look for a better one. Another is a recognition that there is
something in the idea of the supernatural which is real, and above the
sphere of mere natural science. A third is a principle of reverence
for the Scriptures, and the religious traditions of the human race,
connected with a disposition to reject the scepticism of the
pseudo-critical school of Germany. A fourth is an assertion of the
obligatory force of the Divine Law, and the necessity of cultivating a
personal relation to God as the principle of solid virtue and
morality. There is also a sort of instinctive apprehension that a more
thorough investigation of the difficulties which science appears to
throw in the way of revealed religion will eventually produce a more
triumphant vindication of the latter than it has ever had. The topics
to be discussed in the Review are the most real and living questions
of the age in philosophy and theology. They will be discussed by men
of no mean pretensions to learning and intellectual ability, and of
superior literary cultivation. We are glad that they have undertaken
the work, and we hope for good results from it. We have no fear that
they will weaken the religious belief of those who have a positive,
dogmatic faith in regard to any essential doctrine of Christianity.
The public which will be reached by their writings and sermons, are
already familiar with all the questions and difficulties they will
discuss. They are full of doubt, and drifting into infidelity. All the
influence which these gentlemen will gain over them will tend to check
this downward progress, and initiate a salutary retrogression toward
Christian truth.

Moreover, all discussions of this kind will stimulate the work of
investigating and exhibiting the doctrine of the Catholic Church in
its relation toward rationalism. The controversy with orthodox
Protestantism is finished, and Protestant orthodoxy has gone where
Ilium formerly went. The real controversy of the day relates to the
very foundation of revelation itself.

SPARE HOURS: A Monthly Miscellany for the Young. Boston: P. Donahoe.
January, 1866.

We have received the first number of a new magazine with the above
title. It is published by Mr. Donahoe, Boston, is well printed on fine
paper, and illustrated with much taste. The matter, of which there are
64 pages, is both original and selected, and displays discrimination
and tact on the part of the editor. It would be well to give credit to
the source from which the selected matter is taken. This magazine
fills a want long felt by the Catholic community in this country.
Since the discontinuance of the "Youth's Catholic Magazine" we have
had no periodical that gave us any reading for our children. We
cordially welcome the advent of "Spare Hours" amongst as, and trust
its subscription list may show that Catholics _do_ appreciate good
reading.

NICHOLAS OF THE FLUE, the Saviour of the Swiss Republic. A dramatic
poem in five acts. By John Christian Schaad. 12mo., pp. 144.
Washington, D.C.: McGill & Witherow. 1866.

This book purposes to give, in a dramatic form, an account of the rise
of a dangerous civil dissension which took place among the brave and
religious Swiss during the invasion of their country by Charles the
Bold, and the happy reunion of sentiment by the wise interposition and
holy prayers of a hermit. How religion, or the counsels of its
ministers, can ever supplant the arbitrament of the sword or the
stratagems of the politician in the successful adjustment of national
difficulties, will not, we think, be so readily comprehended in our
present society, and chiefly so because with us there is no unity of
religion, and consequently a multiplicity of counsels, the prolific
seed itself of discord. But that it is {719} possible, as it is
enviable, may be seen by any one who will peruse this poem. Peace
which nations enjoy is a blessing of God. "Unless the Lord keep the
city, he watcheth in vain who keepeth it." It is not to be wondered at
then that a people thoroughly imbued with the spirit of faith should
look to God for help in the day of trial, when the demon of discord
sows the seeds of strife and disunion amongst them. The thought which
evidently moved the writer to compose this work is the same which has
often crossed our own mind during the late deplorable civil war: that
if our beloved country had been one in religion, it never would have
fallen a prey to such a fearful and almost fatal division, or at least
would have rejoiced in a more speedy reconciliation.

MERRY CHRISTMAS. A cantata for Christmas eve. Affectionately inscribed
to the children of the parish of St. Paul the Apostle, New York city.
P. O'Shea.

This little brochure contains directions, with appropriate recitatives
and hymns, for a religious celebration of Christmas by children, who
describe, in a sort of infantine opera, the scenes of our Lord's
nativity as related in the gospel. It contains, among other hymns,
some of the most beautiful Christmas carols in the English language;
and when sung by the voices of merry-hearted children must have a most
edifying and pleasing effect. We are sure it will be welcomed in all
our schools, and at the fireside of many a Christian family. It was
performed with great success before an immense and delighted audience
last Christmas night in the church of the Paulists, to the children of
whose parish it is dedicated.

THE MONTHLY. Edited at the University of St. Mary of the Lake,
Chicago, III. Published by J. P. Byrne, Chicago.

The December number of "The Monthly" did not reach us until the first
of January. This is rather late, and we presume is a mistake, as it
has been heretofore promptly on hand. The number before us completes
the second volume, and is quite interesting. It contains nine
articles, the first being on "Fenianism and Secret Societies." There
are two stories, one just commenced and one concluded. The former,
"The Huron Chief," is a tale of the Catholic missions in the
northwest, and the latter, "From June to October," is by an author not
unknown to the literary world. The articles in this magazine are
original, and are well written. We find in its literary notices the
following hit at a class which we are sorry to say is but too
numerous:

"The mission of a Catholic editor is something different from that of
the mendicant who stands at a church gate with a
'Help-the-poor-blind-man' label upon his breast. And yet there are
those--not a few--who look upon a pitiful subscription of three or
four dollars a year to a paper or a magazine in the light of an alms,
and actually imagine that they are performing one of the seven
corporal works of mercy if they can be induced to subscribe, while, in
justice, they are not paying a thousandth part of the interest on
their lawful debts. Not long ago we happened to meet with a Catholic
gentleman from New York, and among the different topics of
conversation the subject of literature was brought in. This gave us
the occasion to ask his opinion about 'The Monthly,' to which he
replied that he was unaware of its publication, because he had never
seen it noticed by a certain romantic sheet of the Quixotic stamp in
that city. He is the type of a class for whose conduct there is not
the shadow of an excuse. From this we might draw a general conclusion,
and apply the same course of reasoning to the case of every Catholic
publication in the country, for it is not rare to find Catholic
families without a Catholic paper or magazine on their tables. Under
these circumstances, then, it is not surprising that not a few of them
should be strangers to the existence of the works which they _ought_
to possess, while they may be conversant with a class of literature
whose spirit is productive either of no good at all or positively
injurious, and hence without either intellectual or moral benefit."

We wish "The Monthly" a happy and prosperous year.

HANS BRINKER, ETC. By M. E. Dodge. 12mo., pp. 347. New York: James
O'Kane. 1866.

We could cordially recommend this well-written story were it not for
one passage relating to _autos da fe_ and the Inquisition. Those who
have charge of Catholic youth are bound to {720} be extremely careful
what books they place in their hands, and this becomes often a cause
of perplexity, as there are so few which are entirely unexceptionable.
Those who write with the express purpose of inculcating the
distinctive principles of Protestantism are not amenable to our
criticism. But those who do not write with this intention, and who
merely seek to afford entertainment to the youthful mind with a
modicum of instructive information, may perhaps consider it worth