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stances of the effects of the multiplicity of gin-palaces, things that it wellnigh broke Robert's heart to witness, absorbed as he was in the novelty of his work, fresh in feeling, and never able to divest himself of a sense of being a sharer in the guilt and ruin.

Sir Devil listened at first with interest, then tried to lead away from the subject; but it was Robert's single idea, and he kept them to it till their departure, when Phoebe's first words were, as they drove from the door, "Oh, thank you, you don't know how much happier you have made me."

Her companion smiled, saying, "I need not ask which is the favorite brother."

"Mervyn is very kind to me," quickly answered Phoebe.

"But Robert is the oracle! eh? " he said, kindly and merrily.

"Robert has been every thing to us younger ones," she answered. "I am still more glad that you like him."

His grave face not responding as she expected, she feared that he had been bored, thought Robert righteous overmuch, or disapproved his opinions; but his answer was worth having when it came. "I know nothing about his views, I never looked into the subject, but when I see a young man giving up a lucrative prospect for conscience' sake, and devoting himself to work in that sink of iniquity, I see there must be something in him. I can't judge if he goes about it in a wrong-headed way, but I should be proud of such a fellow instead of discarding him."

"Oh, thank you!" cried Phoebe, with ecstaey that made him laugh, and quite differently from the made-up laughter she had been used to hear from him.

"What are you thanking me for?" he said. "I do not imagine that I shall be able to serve him. I'll talk to your father about him, but lie must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family."

"I was not thinking of your doing any thing," said Phoebe; "but a kind word about Robert does make me very grateful."

There was a long silence, only diversified by an astonished nod from Mervyn driving back from the office. Just before setting her down, Sir Bevil said, " I wonder whether your brother would let us give something to his church. Will you find out what it shall be, and let me know P As a gift from Juliana and myself—you understand."

It was lucky for Phoebe that she had brought home a good stock of satisfaction to support her, for she found herself in the direst disgrace, and her mother too much cowed to venture on more than a feeble, selfdefensive murmur that she had told Phoebe it would never do. Convinced in her own conscience that she had done nothing blameworthy, Phoebe knew that it was the shortest way not to defend herself, and the storm was blowing over when Mervyn came in, charmed to mortify Juliana by complimenta to Phoebe on " doing it stylishly, careering in Acton's turn-out," but when the elder sister explained where she had been, Mervyn too deserted her, and turned away with a fierce imprecation on his brother, such as was misery to Phoebe's ears. He was sourly ill-humored all the evening; Juliana wreaked her displeasure on Sir Bevil in ungraciousness, and such silence and gloom descended on him, that he was like another man from him who had smiled on Phoebe in the afternoon.

Yet, though dismayed at the offence she had given, and grieved at these evidences of Robert's ill-odor with his family, Phoebe could not regret having seized her single chance of seeing Robert's dwelling for herself, nor the having made him known to Sir Bevil. The one had made her satisfied, the other hopeful, even while she recollected with foreboding that truth sometimes comes not with peace, but with a sword, to set at variance parent and child, and make foes of them of the same household.

Juliana never forgave that drive. She continued bitter towards Phoebe, and kept such a watch over her and Sir Bevil, that the jealous surveillance became palpable to both. Sir Bevil really wanted to tell Phoebe the unsatisfactory result of his pleading for Robert, she wanted to tell him of Robert's gratitude for his offered gift, but the exchange of any words in private was out of their power, and each silently felt that it was best to make no move towards one another, till the unworthy jealousy should have died away.

Though Sir Bevil had elicited nothing but abuse of " pig-headed folly," his espousal of the young clergyman's cause was not without effect. Robert was not treated with more oper f' favor than he had often previously enduied, and was free to visit the party at Farrance's, if he chose to run the risk of encountering his father's blunt coldness, Mervyn's sulky dislike, and Juliana's sharp satire, but as he generally came so as to find his mother and Phcebe alone, some precious moments compensated for the various disagreeables. Nor did these affect him nearly as much as they did his sister, j It was, in fact, one of his remaining unwholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyed persecution, and took no pains to avoid giving offence. If he meant to be uncompromising, he sometimes was simply provoking, and Phcebe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an unpromising protege.

He was asked to the Christmas dinner at! the Bannermans', and did not fulfil Augusta's prediction that he would say it was a fastday, and refuse. That evening gave Phoebe her best Uic-a-iile with him, but she ob-' served that all was about Whittingtonia, not one word of the past summer, not so much as an inquiry for Miss Charlecote. Evidently that page in his history was closed forever, and if he should carry out his designs in their present form, a wife at the intended institution would be an impossibility. How near the dearest may be to one another, and yet how little can they guess at what they would most desire to know!

Sir Bevil had insisted on his being asked to perform the ceremony, and she longed to understand whether his refusal were really j on the score of his being a deacon, or if he had any further motive. His own family were affronted, though glad to be left free to request the services of the greatest dignitary

of their acquaintance, and Sir B evil's blunt "No, no, poor fellow! say no more about it," made her suppose that he suspected that Robert's vehemence in his parish was meant to work off a disappointment.

It was a dreary wedding, in spite of London grandeur. In all her success, Juliana could not help looking pinched and ill at ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead of softening her features, and her bridegroom's studious cheerfulness and forced laughs became him less than his usual silent dejection. The admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding wit, but Phccbe wondered how any one could laugh at it; and her fellow-bridesmaids, all her seniors, seemed to her, as perhaps she seemed to them, like thoughtless children, playing with the surface of things. She pitied Sir Bevil, and s'aw little chance of happiness for either, yet heard only congratulations, and had to be bright, busy, and helpful under a broad, stiff, white watered silk scarf, beneath which Juliana had endeavored to extinguish her, but in which her tall, rounded shape looked to great advantage. Indeed, that young, rosy face, and the innocently pensive, wondering eyes were so sweet, that the bride had to endure hearing admiration of her sister from all quarters, and the Acton bridemaidens whispered rather like those at Netherby Hall.

It was over, and Phoebe was the reigning Miss Fulmort. Her friends were delighted for her and for themselves, and her mother entered on the full enjoyment of the little brougham.

A Correspondent of The Winona (Minnesota) Republican writes that Mr. A. L. Jcnks of that place, who is prospecting in ono of those mounds which are so common in that country, recently discovered nt the depth of five or six feet, the remains of seven or eight people of very large size. One thigh bone measured three feet in length. The under jaw was one inch Wider than that of any otlicr man in this city. He also found clam shells, pieces of ivory or bone rings, pieces of kettles made of earth and coarse sand. There were at the neck of one of these skeletons teeth »wo inches in length by onehalf to three-fourths of an inch in diameter, with holes drilled into the sides, and the end polished, with a crease around it. Also, an arrow, five

inches long by one and a half wide, stuck through the back, near the back-bone; and one about eight inches long stuck into the left breast. Also, the blade of a copper hatchet, one and a half inches wide at the edge and two inches long. This hatchet was found stack in the skull of tho same skeleton. The monnd is some two hundred feet above tho surface of the Mississippi, and is composed of clay immediately above the remains, two feet thick ; then conies a layer of black loam ; then another layer of clay six inches thick, all so closely packed that it was with difficulty that it could be penetrated. There arc some four or five different layers of earth above the remains. There is no such clay found elsewhere in the vicinity.

From The Literary Gazette. RATIONAL MEDICINE.*

We fear that there arc very few members of the medical profession who possess the same amount of moral courage as Dr. Stephen "Ward, who, in his oration delivered before the members of the Hunterian Society, was bold and straighforward enough to give a clear, manly, and lucid description of his views on the subject of rational medicine. We agree most fufly in his opinion that a conviction of the large powers of nature, and the comparatively limited powers of art, in the cure of disease, is daily gaining ground. To use his own expressions— "Many able and experienced practitioners have such convictions, which they express, perhaps, in an undertone to some confidential medical friend, but which they think it premature or impolitic openly to avow." "Look what a handle you give to quackery if you admit all this," some medical men will remark, To which my answer has been, "What a handle has already been given to it by insisting on the importance of drugs, where they are but little, if at all, efficacious."

It is, however, satisfactory to know that in the rank of the few open-spoken professors of the healing art, there exists such an undoubted authority as Sir J. Forbes. In retiring from professional life, he gave a sketch of his lengthened experience, and his views resulting from it, " Nature and art in the cure of disease." He shows that the ignorance of the natural history of disease, and of the powers of nature, has led the public to place undue confidence in art, as practised by educated medical men, which confidence, when disappointed, has merged into every species of charlatanry. He cites instances in which diseases of various kinds have had a satisfactory termination without any special treatment, but he does not, on the other hand, fail to describe the beneficial results of special treatment in certain forms of disease. Dr. Ward does not cast any slur upon science, neither docs he attempt to underrate the value of the microscope or laboratory. "Under the term medicine," he says, "I embrace its different branches, and the art as well as the science; and I call that rational medicine which has its foundation laid in a recognition of nature's resources in disease as well as in health: which feels that its object is science, not mystery; which, for its advancement, has recourse to philosophical appliances and methods of investigation; which acknowledges no means but such as are adequate to

* Rntwnal iledinne: Us Petition and Protpecti. By Stephen II. Word, M.D., London, JI.K.C.P. London: Churchill.

ends; which holds hypotheses upon uncertain tenure, ready to relinquish them as fresh compelling facts flow in; and which, eminently eclectic, avails itself of what is good in all systems, and is yet slave to none!" This is a broad, enlarged view, worthy of a thinker and a worker; there is no globule enthusiasm, no hydropathic rhapsody, and though hygienic conditions are insisted upon, there is no attempt to deny that "there are many cases which modified hygienic arrangements will not meet, without the rational co-operation of special medicine." In that portion of the oration referring for the microscope, an acknowledgment is offered to the services it has rendered. Before its use, the anatomy of the tissues was unknown. In the capillary action of the blood, demonstrated by Malpighi; the law of cell development elaborated by Schwann and Schleiden, embracing all organic life; in the diagnosis of certain skin diseases, renal and vcsical affections of blood, and the detection of impurities in food and drugs—the microscope has ample justice done to its value. But can there Dc a doubt of " the school ofvoung medicine " devoting too much time to its excessive study? This class of students scarcely acquire any knowledge of the physiognomy of disease, and in our own experience they become inferior practitioners. Chemistry, again, as we have said, is admitted by Dr. Ward to be a most valuable ally_ of physiology. This hobby also is over-ridden; and so imperfect is it, even in its extended and increasing discoveries, that it fails in its utility to combat with all phases of disease. One theory, moreover, is often controverted by another. That of Liebig, for instance, on the nutrition of particular foods, once so plausible, is now no longer considered conclusive. "Advanced physiologists, and indeed chemists also, have adduced against the Liebig theory the facts that what nourishes one man is poison to another, that nitrogenous foods alone are inadequate to the purposes of nourishment, while food containing a very large proportion of non-nitrogenous material does nourish." Chemical dealers with disease too frequently forget vital action. The importance of this belief is ably brought forward by Dr. Ward, who judiciously quotes the author of " The Physiology of Common Life," to bear him out in his opinion. "Vital processes depend on chemical processes, but are not themselves chemical, and therefore cannot be explained by chemistry. There is something special in vital phenomena which necessarily transcends chemical investigation." The philosophic poet warns us :—

"From higher judgment-scats make no appeal to low."

Dr. Paris long since protested against the fashion of examining and deciding upon the action of drugs by a mere mechanical investigation of their composition. The author of this oration holds nis consultations with "nature, the wise physician," acting himself as the servant of nature, "nature's minister," to second her efforts and carry out her indications. In so doing, ample scope will be found for the exercise of the faculties, to employ chemical aid where required, and to avoid special drugging when it is not requisite. Dr. Ward quotes Sydenham most appositely on this point, "I often think that we forget the good rulefestina lente, that we move more quickly than we ought to do; and that more could be left to nature than we are at present in the habit of leaving to her. To imagine that she always wants the aid of art is an error, and an unlearned one too. If it were so, she would have provided for the human race less than its preservation demands." The quacks of former days, in their bills descriptive of their nostrums, generally used the expression, "with God's blessing," in the performance of a cure. These curers could lay no greater claim to it than Virgil's lapis in the curing of ^Eneas, who tried his skill, was very assiduous about the wound, and indeed was the only visible means that relieved the hero. The poet, however, assures us that it was the particular assistance of a deity that speeded the

operation. Dryden in his translation concludes :—

"lapis first perceived the closing wound, And first the footsteps of a god lio found: 'Arms, arms!' ho cries, 'the sword and

shield prepare,

And send the willing chief, renewed, to war. This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine.'" We, of course, only deprecate a principle of undue interference, in the use of this quotation. The light of surgery stands out in striking contrast to the darkness of medicine. Dr. Ward urges the necessity of relying more than we do on the restorative powers inherent in our constitutions, from the ignorance of which " has arisen and been maintained among practitioners of the orthodox school, that system of polypharmacy which has weakened their position in regard to remedies where they are undeniably beneficial, and detracted from the credit, which has ever been justly their due, of having been alive to the importance in the treatment of disease of modified hygienic measures." There is much valuable matter in this oration. Dr. Stephen Ward is not a half-educated man; he is fully competent to test the value of all scientific means to be employed in the treatment of disease; but his common sense tells him how much may, and how much may not, be done to bring about its alleviation.

The* committee appointed to inquire how far and in what way it may be desirable to find increased space for the extension and arrangement of the various collections of the British Museum, and also as to the best means of rendering them available for the promotion of science and art, met on 5 June. Mr. Fanizzi, the principal librarian to the Museum, was the first witness examined. Ho stated that since the year 1848, various plans for increasing the accommodation had been considered. In every department, except those for books and MSS., there was a want of space. At present there was, according to the calculations which had been made, space for eight hundred thousand volumes, but he believed room could bo found for one million volumes, :-ti>! that the room would be sufficient for about fifty years, according to the number of volumes at present annually received. The only mode of providing additional space for the various collections, was by economizing the existing

accommodation, diminishing the number of articles, purchasing land contiguous to the Museum, or removing some of the collections elsewhere. In many cases the objects W£rc too much crowded together, mixed up almost indiscriminately, and difficult of access. Mr. Panizzi then entered into a variety of details relative to the various departments, for the purpose of showing the impossibility of providing sufficient accommodation in the present building.

The antiquities of London arc fast disappearing. Among the old houses in Church Court, Inner Temple Lane, Fleet Street, in course of demolition, is No. 3, the house in which Goldsmith died. A memorial inscribed with his name and the date of his birth and death has been placed over his remains in the adjoining churchyard. A bust of the poet and a tablet to his memory adorns the little vestry of the beautiful Temple Church.

From Macmillan's Mfignzine.

The long night-watch is over; fresh and chill
Comes in the air of morn; ho slumbers still.
Each hour more calm lib labored breathings


"O God! may ho awaken free from ill;
May this supreme repose denr life renew!"
She rose and to the casement came,
The curtain drew, and blank, gray morn
Looked pitiless on eyes grief-worn,
On the dying lamp's red, flickering flame,
And, slowly through the wavering gloom
Searching out the shaded room,
Fell on n form—the pillowed head
So motionless, supinely laid.
Oh, was it death, or trance, or sleep,
Had power his sense thus locked to keep 3
She turned, thnt woman wan and mild;
She gazed through tears, yet hope-beguiled;
He was her son, her first-born child,—
Ah, hush! she may not weep.

Many a night, with patient eye,
Had'she watched him—sight of woe!
Fever-chained, unconscious lie;
Many a day passed heavily,
Since met,'in glad expectancy
Bound the cheerful hearth below,
Young and old, a goodly show,
To welcome from the wondrous main,
Their wanderer home returned again.
Tho father's careful brow unbent,
The mother happily intent
That nothing should be left undone
To greet him best; the youngest one
In childish, bright bewilderment,
Longed, curious, to look upon
Her own, strange sailor brother sent
Afar, before she could remember;
While elder sons and daughters thought
What change in the playmate unforgotten
Time and foreign skies had wrought.
Could ho bo like that fair-haired boy,
With curly hair of golden hue,
And merry twinkling eye of blue,
Whose tones were musical with joy?
For ho had sailed all round the world,
In China's seas our flag unfurled,
On Borneo's coast with pirates fought,
From famed spice-islands treasure brought,
Had been where the Upas grew I

But the long June day was closing fast,

And yet lie did not come;
And anxious looks and murmurs passed.

Some gazed without, sat listless some;
Down the hill-side, across the vale,
Night-mists arc rising, sweeps the gale;
But naught can we sec through the gloom;
When, hark! a step at the wicket-gate,
And the brothers rushed out with call and shout

Welcome, at last, though late!
And round him hurriedly they press,
And bring him in to the warm-lit room,

To his mother's fond caress.

"But how is this? dear son, thy lips are pale;

And thy brow burneth, and thy speech dotl


Hath some sore sickness thus thy frame oppressed,

Or sinkest thou for want of food and rest?" All's well—I am at homo; but make my bed


'or I am weary, mother, and fain would lay me down."

/.•mi while ho spake, he tottered, fell;

The heavy lid reluctantly

Shrouded the glazing, love-strained eye.

They tenderly raised him; who may tell,

Vhat anguish theirs? That smothered cry 1

They bore him up the narrow stair;

They laid him on his bed with care;

)n snowy pillow-;—flower-besprent

Ah! for lighter slumber meant).

They know some pestilential blight

Burked in his.blood with deadly might,

And they trembled for the.morrow. Thus in the smitten house that night,

All joy was changed to sorrow.

Yea, swift and near, the fever-fiend
Sod dogged the mariner's homeward way.
3ne ocean south, one ocean north,
The ship from red Lymoon sailed forth,
Out fast in her hold the dark curse lay;
[n vain blew the cool west wind.
Week after week, ho now, in vain,
Hud breathed his pleasant native air;
For still with restless, burning brain,
Mi1 seemed to toss on a fiery main,
'Neath a sky of copper glare.
Under his window a sweetbricr grew,
And fragrance his boyhood full well knew,
[n at the open lattice flung;
The thrush in his own old pear-tree sung.
Young voices from the distance borne,
Or mower's scythe at dewy morn,
Cock's shrill crowing, all around
Sweet, familiar scent or sound,
None could bring his spirit peace;
None from wandering dreams release.
Ho heard an angry surf still thunder,
Crashing planks beneath him sunder,
Tumults that, ever changing, never cease.

'Look, look! what' glides and glitters in the


Is it a panther, or green-crested snake 1
Ah! cursed Malay—I see his cruel eye;
His hissing arrows pierce me? Must I lie,
Weltering in torture on this hell-hot brine;
Not one cool drop my parching throat to slake t
Jesu have mercy! what a fate is mine!"

Yet ever his mother's yearning gaze,
Saintly sad, was on him dwelling;
Could*it not penetrate the haze
Of fantasy, nnd, frenzy-quelling
In heart and brain, soft-healing flow >.
His sister came with noiseless tread,
And, bending o'er the sufferer's bed,
Lightly laid her smooth, cold palm
Upon the throbbing brow;
And with the touch a gradual calm
Stole quietly, diffusing slow
Sleep's anguish-soothing balm.
Pain's iron links, a little while

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