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"Oh, show me!" cried Phoebe. "Is it to be at that place in Cicely Row ?" "I hope so."

The stiff sheets were unrolled, the designs explained. There was to be a range of buildings round a court, consisting of day

fic, and his proud chestnut was snuffing the hat of an omnibus cad. Careful driving was needed, and Phoebe was praised for never even looking frightened, then again for her organ of locality and the skilful pilotage with which she unerringly and unhesitatingly found the way through the Whittingtonian schools, a home for orphans, a créche for inlabyrinths; and as the disgusted tiger pealed at the knocker at Turnagain Corner, she was told she would be a useful guide in the South African bush. "At home," was the welcome reply, and in another second, her arms were round Robert's neck. There was a thorough brotherly greeting between him and Sir Bevil, each saw in the other a man to be respected, and Robert could not but be grateful to the man who brought him Phoebe.

Her eyes were on the alert to judge how he had been using himself in the last halfyear. He looked thin, yet that might be owing to his clerical coat, and some of his rural ruddiness was gone, but there was no want of health of form or face, only the spareness and vigor of thorough working condition. His expression was still grave even to sadness, and sternness seemed gathering round his thin lips. Heavy of heart he doubtless was still, but she was struck by the absence of the undefined restlessness that had for years been habitual to both brothers, and which had lately so increased on Mervyn, that there was a relief in watching a face free from it, and telling not indeed of happiness, but of a mind made up to do without it.

She supposed that his room ought to satisfy her, for though untidy in female eyes, it did not betray ultra self-neglect. The fire was brisk, there was a respectable luncheon on the table, and he had even treated himself to the Guardian, some new books, and a beautiful photograph of a foreign cathedral. The room was littered with half-unrolled plans, which had to be cleared before the guests could find seats, and he had evidently been beguiling his luncheon with the perusal of some large MS., red-taped together at the upper corner.

"That's handsome," said Sir Bevil. "What is it for? A school, or almshouses ? "

"Something of both," said Robert his color rising. "We want a place for disposing of the destitute children that swarm in this district."

Sir

fants, a reading-room for adults, and apartments for the clergy of the church which was to form one side of the quadrangle. Bevil was much interested, and made useful criticisms. 'But," he objected, "what is the use of building new churches in the city, when there is no filling those you have."

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"St. Wulstan's is better filled than formerly," said Robert. "The pew system is the chief enemy there; but even without that, it would not hold a tenth part of the Whittingtonian population, would they come to it, which they will not. The church must come to them, and with special services at their own times. They need an absolute mission, on entirely different terms from the Woolstone quarter."

"And are you about to head the mission ? "

"To endeavor to take a share in it." "And who is to be at the cost of this?” pursued Sir Bevil. "Have you a subscription list ? "

Robert colored again as he answered, "Why, no, we can do without that so far."

Phœbe understood, and her face must have revealed the truth to Sir Bevil, for laying his hand on Robert's arm, he said, "My good fellow, you don't mean that you are answerable for all this?"

"You know I have something of my own." "You will not leave much of it at this rate. How about the endowment ? " "I shall live upon the endowment." "Have you considered? You will be tied to this place forever."

"That is one of my objects," replied Robert, and in reply to a look of astonished interrogation, "myself and all that is mine would be far too little to atone for a fraction of the evil we are every day perpetrating here."

"I should hate the business myself," said the baronet; "but don't you see it in a strong light?"

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Every hour I spend here shows me that I do not see it strongly enough."

And there followed some appalling in

stances of the effects of the multiplicity of It was lucky for Phoebe that she had

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 Bevil 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.

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 compliments 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 ungracious

"Robert has been every thing to us younger ones," she answered. "I am stillness, and such silence and gloom descended 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 ecstacy 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 he must be the best judge of the discipline of his own family."

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"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? As a gift from Juliana and myself—you understand."

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.

She

Juliana never forgave that drive. 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 sfavor than he had often previously endured, and was free to visit the

of their acquaintance, and Sir Bevil'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.

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 Phoebe alone, some precious monrents compensated for the va- It was a dreary wedding, in spite of Lonrious disagreeables. Nor did these affect don grandeur. In all her success, Juliana him nearly as much as they did his sister. could not help looking pinched and ill at It was, in fact, one of his remaining un- ease, her wreath and veil hardening instead wholesome symptoms that he rather enjoyed of softening her features, and her bridepersecution, and took no pains to avoid giv-groom's studious cheerfulness and forced ing offence. If he meant to be uncompro- laughs became him less than his usual silent mising, he sometimes was simply provoking, and Phoebe feared that Sir Bevil thought him an unpromising protégé.

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 tête-à-tête with him, but she observed 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 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

dejection. The admiral was useful in getting up stock wedding wit, but Phoebe 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 saw 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. Jenks of that place, who is prospecting in one of those mounds which are so common in that country, recently discovered at 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 other 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 two 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 stuck in the skull of the same skeleton. The mound is some two hundred feet above the surface of the Mississippi, and is composed of clay immediately above the remains, two feet thick; then comes 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 are 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.*

ends; which holds hypotheses upon uncertain tenure, ready to relinquish them as WE fear that there are very few members fresh compelling facts flow in; and which, of the medical profession who possess the eminently eclectic, avails itself of what is same amount of moral courage as Dr. Ste- good in all systems, and is yet slave to phen Ward, who, in his oration delivered none!" This is a broad, enlarged view, before the members of the Hunterian Soci- worthy of a thinker and a worker; there is ety, was bold and straighforward enough to no globule enthusiasm, no hydropathic rhapgive a clear, manly, and lucid description of sody, and though hygienic conditions are inhis views on the subject of rational medicine. sisted upon, there is no attempt to deny that We agree most fully in his opinion that a "there are many cases which modified hyconviction of the large powers of nature, gienic arrangements will not meet, without and the comparatively limited powers of art, the rational co-operation of special mediin the cure of disease, is daily gaining cine." In that portion of the oration referground. To use his own expressions ring for the microscope, an acknowledgment "Many able and experienced practitioners is offered to the services it has rendered. have such convictions, which they express, Before its use, the anatomy of the tissues perhaps, in an undertone to some confidential was unknown. In the capillary action of medical friend, but which they think it pre- the blood, demonstrated by Malpighi; the mature or impolitic openly to avow." "Look law of cell development elaborated by what a handle you give to quackery if you Schwann and Schleiden, embracing all oradmit 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, effica

cious."

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ganic life; in the diagnosis of certain skin diseases, renal and vesical affections of blood, and the detection of impurities in food and drugs-the microscope has ample justice done to its value. But can there be a doubt of "the school of young medicine" devoting It is, however, satisfactory to know that too much time to its excessive study? This in the rank of the few open-spoken profes- class of students scarcely acquire any knowlsors of the healing art, there exists such an edge of the physiognomy of disease, and in undoubted authority as Sir J. Forbes. In our own experience they become inferior retiring from professional life, he gave a practitioners. Chemistry, again, as we have sketch of his lengthened experience, and his said, is admitted by Dr. Ward to be a most views resulting from it, "Nature and art in valuable ally of physiology. This hobby the cure of disease.' He shows that the also is over-ridden; and so imperfect is it, ignorance of the natural history of disease, even in its extended and increasing discovand of the powers of nature, has led the eries, that it fails in its utility to combat public to place undue confidence in art, as with all phases of disease. One theory, morepractised by educated medical men, which over, is often controverted by another. That confidence, when disappointed, has merged of Liebig, for instance, on the nutrition of into every species of charlatanry. He cites particular foods, once so plausible, is now instances in which diseases of various kinds no longer considered conclusive. have had a satisfactory termination without vanced physiologists, and indeed chemists any special treatment, but he does not, on also, have adduced against the Liebig theory the other hand, fail to describe the beneficial the facts that what nourishes one man is results of special treatment in certain forms poison to another, that nitrogenous foods of disease. Dr. Ward does not cast any alone are inadequate to the purposes of nourslur upon science, neither does he attempt ishment, while food containing a very large to underrate the value of the microscope or proportion of non-nitrogenous material does laboratory. "Under the term medicine," he nourish." Chemical dealers with disease too says, "I embrace its different branches, and frequently forget vital action. The importhe art as well as the science; and I call tance of this belief is ably brought forward that rational medicine which has its founda- by Dr. Ward, who judiciously quotes the aution laid in a recognition of nature's re- thor of "The Physiology of Common Life," sources in disease as well as in health; to bear him out in his opinion. "Vital procwhich feels that its object is science, not mystery; which, for its advancement, has recourse to philosophical appliances and methods of investigation; which acknowlhedges no means but such as are adequate to

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"Ad

esses depend on chemical processes, but are
not themselves chemical, and therefore can-
not be explained by chemistry. There is
something special in vital phenomena which
necessarily transcends chemical investiga-
tion." The philosophic poet warns us :—
"From higher judgment-seats make no appeal
to low."

operation. Dryden in his translation con-
cludes:-

"Iapis first perceived the closing wound,
And first the footsteps of a god he found:
Arms, arms!' he cries, the sword and
shield prepare,

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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 his consultations with "nature, the wise physician," acting himself as the servant of nature, "nature's minis- And send the willing chief, renewed, to war. ter," to second her efforts and carry out her This is no mortal work, no cure of mine, indications. In so doing, ample scope will Nor art's effect, but done by hands divine." " be found for the exercise of the faculties, to We, of course, only deprecate a principle employ chemical aid where required, and to of undue interference, in the use of this avoid special drugging when it is not requi- quotation. The light of surgery stands out site. Dr. Ward quotes Sydenham most ap-in striking contrast to the darkness of medipositely on this point, "I often think that cine. Dr. Ward urges the necessity of relywe forget the good rule festina lente, that we ing more than we do on the restorative move more quickly than we ought to do; powers inherent in our constitutions, from and that more could be left to nature than the ignorance of which "has arisen and been we are at present in the habit of leaving to maintained among practitioners of the orher. To imagine that she always wants the thodox school, that system of polypharmacy aid of art is an error, and an unlearned one which has weakened their position in regard too. If it were so, she would have provided to remedies where they are undeniably benefor the human race less than its preservation ficial, and detracted from the credit, which demands." The quacks of former days, in has ever been justly their due, of having their bills descriptive of their nostrums, gen- been alive to the importance in the treaterally used the expression, "with God's ment of disease of modified hygienic measblessing," in the performance of a cure. ures." There is much valuable matter in These curers could lay no greater claim to this oration. Dr. Stephen Ward is not a it than Virgil's Iapis in the curing of Eneas, half-educated man; he is fully competent to who tried his skill, was very assiduous about test the value of all scientific means to be the wound, and indeed was the only visible employed in the treatment of disease; but means that relieved the hero. The poet, his common sense tells him how much may, however, assures us that it was the particu- and how much may not, be done to bring lar assistance of a deity that speeded the about its alleviation.

cles, purchasing land contiguous to the Museum, or removing some of the collections elsewhere. In many cases the objects were too much crowded together, mixed up almost indiscrimi nately, 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 Committee appointed to inquire how far | accommodation, diminishing the number of artiand 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. Panizzi, the principal librarian to the Museum, was the first witness examined. He 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 be found for one million volumes, and 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

THE antiquities of London are 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.

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