Democratic Sentinel, Volume 12, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 July 1888 — Page 6

HOW IT HAMPERED. BT JAMES WHITCOMB BILET. I got to think in’ of her—both her parent! dead and gone— And all her sisters married off, and none but her and John A-livin’ all alone there in that lonesome sort o’ way, • And him a blame old bachelor, confirmder every day 1 I’d known ’em all from children, and their daddy from the time ' He settled in the neighborhood, and hadn't ary a dime Er dollar, when he married, fer to start housekeepin’ on I So I got to thinkin’ of her—both her parents dead and gone! I got to thinkin’ of her, and a-wundem what she done That all her sisters kep’ a gittin’ married, one by one, And her without no chances —and the best girl of the pack— An old maid, with her hands, you might say, tied behind her back 1 And mother, too, afore she died, she ust to jes’ take on, When nolle of ’em was left, you know, but Evaline and John, And jes' declare to goodness ’at the young men must be bline To see what a wife they'd git if they got Evaline 1 I got to thinkin’ of her; in my great affliction she Was such a comfort to us, and so kind and neighborly— She’d come and leave her housework, fer to he’p out little Jane, And talk of her own mother, ’at she’d never see again— Maybe sometimes cry together—though, fer the most part, she Would have the child so reconciled and happylike ’at we Felt lonsomer’n ever she’d put her bonnet on And say she'd railly has to be a-gittin’ back to John! 1 got to thinkin’ of her, as I say—and more and more I’d think of her dependence, and the burdens ’at she bore — Her parents both a-bein' dead, and all her sisters gone And married off, and her a-livin' there alone with John— You might say jes’ a-toilin’ and a-slavin’ out her For a man ’at hadn’t pride enough to git hisse’f a wife—'Less some one married Evaline, and packed her off some day!— So I got to tmnkin' of her—and it happened that away.

WITHOUT THE SHADOW OF A DOUBT.

When I looked at Elizabeth as she stood there before me, I understood fully, and for the first time, why she refused to marry me just yet, and in my heart I could not •blame her. Picture to yourself a fresh and charming young girl in brave atlire—that is, in a ■silken robe made ridiculously long and ■looped up ridiculously high, 'with a defiantly flaring affair of ribbon and lace and feathers towering above a most bewildering arrangement of cuffs and frizzes, from which elaborate structure one poor little golden curl had escaped and run away over her shoulders; with silver bangles upon ■her perfect arms, and jewels in her bits of ears, and a delicate perfume floating like .incense about her—and you have Elizabeth as she appeared that summer morning when we discussed the momentous question of our marriage and its possible consequences. She was speaking: “I mean to say, my dear boy, that we could never live upon what you tarn—never! It would barely give us bread. Don’t frown, Julian; you know that I would only be a drag upon you. I am such a helpless, ignorant creature. I can dress and dance, and play the piano a little, and I don’t believe that I know a girl who can do any more. It is a great mistake, I suppose, letting us crop up into such worthlessness; but there! the mischief is done, and we can’t help it, can we? Of course not. Now see, dear, you must remember that father refuses to listen to us, and as I have not a penny of my own . »

“You do not need a penny!” I interrupted, angrily. “Will not my life, with all its years and possibilities, be yours, to reign over for ever?” “Nonsense!” laughed Elizabeth. “Come now, get to work, like a brave fellow, and paint something grand—something that •will make you famous. Can’t you?” I shook my head despondency. "At least you will try?” “Yes, and fail once more.” "“I lose all patience with you!” exclaimed my companion, her blue eyes flashing, warningly. “You provoke me past endurance. What! Am 1 not worth trying for? Paint portraits, then, and leave off those fussy old historical things. Why, some •men have become famous at portrait-paint-ing—haven’t they?” “Oh, as for portraits, yes,” I answered, nonchalantly. “I am quite willing to venture upon that field, for there is Miss Talbot —she has offered me a Bitting more than once.” I glanced furtively at Elizabeth, and saw that my shot had told. Her eyes fell, a vivid flush stained her cheeks, and that pretty, pouting nether lip quivered piteously. Only for a second, however. Then she looked up fearlessly, and said, without a tremor in her voice: “You speak of Miss Talbot because you think that lam jealous of her. You are wrong. I do not pretend to deny that I have been jealous—frightfully so, even—but that feeling is dead now, Julian, and you have just killed it Ah, believe me, I may be very silly in many respects, but I have my own ideas about some things, and especially about lovers, and can tell you, sir, that the man I love is placed as far above other men as heaven is above tbe earth. He cannot do anything dishonorable; but if you ” “Well, and if I should, what then?” I asked, mimicking her emphasis. Elizabeth dismissed the subject with a ■wave of her little white hand. “It is three o’clock!” she exclaimed, Hooking at her watch. “Goodness! Aunt Janet will be frantic. I am going, Julian.” “You will come again to-morrow to see this picture?” “I think not; I may be busy. Wait, I must leave you these—some fresh, sweet violets; I gathered them expressly for you.” I received the little cluster of flowers indifferently enough. That Elizabeth had worn them on her brsom and blushingly detached them was to me a matter of small import then. “Tell me good-by, please,” she murmured. “Shall it be good-by or farewell?” She did not answer, so I kissed the tempting lips that were raised to mine, •said something—l don’t remember what—something cold and cruel, no doubt, and presently stood alone upon the threshold •of my studio, listening to the rustle of a silken robe, the tinkling of bangles, and

the clinking of little bottines as she sped swiftly down the stairway. Then I returned to my work, grimly resolute. “That chapter in my life is ended.” I said, to myself. “It was very sweet, bat veiy silly To-morrow I will write to the poor child and release her from all her promises. Little simpleton! She has her ideas of what a lover should be, has she? By Jove! she was sensible in refusing to marry me. And I not /only imagined that I was in love, but fancied that she—bah! I am an idiot! A girl like that, and so mercenary—and, by heavens! not ashamed to tell it, either! Well, I suppose she will marry some rich fool. I hope so.” I have said that I went to work; it was not so—l could not work. Somehow the sunlight seemed no longer to freshen and brighten np the room. It was a gloomy place at the best, bat now it seemed horribly lonely and cheerless. Then, too, thoughts of Elizabeth and of my miserable position were half-crazing me, for, despite my pretended indifference, I was madly in love, and knew it. “By all the gods of pagan Rome she shall be my wife, if she cares enough about it to wait for me!” I mentally exclaimed, for, like an inspiration, a plan of action had suddenly suggested itself, and I resolved to lose no time in putting it into execution.

I had a friend—an old college chum— Fred Denbigh, a royal good fellow—freehearted, open-handed, and as loyal as a Scot. Putting aside my brushes, I sought Denbigh; then we dined together, and soon afterward I returned to my room alone. Late that evening, when I went out again, I conld have met my principal creditor and safely defied the danger of recognition. I had sacrificed my beard—that profusely flowing beard which, if somewhat untidy, was also of that picturesque kind mostly affected by artists. I had sacrificed it without a pang, and by so doing had completely destroyea my own identity. In point of fact, I was now a tall, wellbuilt, and clean-shaven young fellow, not altogether bad-looking, and certainly attired with the most scrupulous regard to neatness and refinement. Nor was I Julian Vancourt—l was plain John Warner, and I was to start at midnight for the West, commissioned by Denbigh to look after certain claims in which he had an interest. Two weeks later I read in a New York paper a long account of the mysterious disappearance and supposed snicide of Julian Vancourt, an artist of recognized ability, who, after years of honorable endeavor, had attained an envied position in his profession, and bade fair to become one of the greatest historical painters of the age.

I laid aside the paper with a curious sort of shiver; I felt like a man might leel who has just seen his own tombstone. But, then, I was dead, you know—legally so. at least. A letter from Denbigh followed close upon the paper. Here is an extract: “The pictures went off like wildfire. Each brought a fabulous price. Everything is sold, and Colonel Shinstone bought your ‘Jephtha’s Daughteif because it resembles his daughter, I suppose. At any rate, he has it. He was at the sale, looking grimmer and sterner than ever. I have heard that is ill. No one seems to see much of her, and her friends say some spitefnl things about her and the dead man, poor girl!” I was a wretch; but there, it was too late now to undo what had been done, so I went about my work with a will, and in that way songht to lessen any regret that might arise at the loss of so close a friend as that poor beggar of a painter. Maybe, after all, there was a deeper regret for someone else, but if there was, I never acknowledged it, even to myself. Yet, as the months wore on, and the anniversary of the day upon which I had last seen Elizabeth drew nigh, I became restless and unhappy, aud finally I did a very silly thing. I took from their hiding place a little cluster of dried violets, about which a faint perfume still lingered, and I am not ashamed to say that at first I could not see them very clearly for the tears that rushed to my eyes. One of these I detached, and lolding it carefully in a Bheet of blank paper, addressed it in a disguised hand to the woman who was dearer to me than the life of my heart. And that was the only bit of sentiment which I permitted to creep into the dreary black years of my sell-imposed banishment, although there were times when I felt as if I must go mad, so unutterable was the sense of loneliness and desolation that would overcome me. Yet, despite all this, despite the dread of what might happen, I deliberately and determinately turned my face away and walked in the path I had chosen. And at the end of five years I was a rich man! I could scarcely realize it. That poor beggar, Vancourt! Here was a lesson for him, to be sure. A clear case of energy, industry, and simple business tact against genius and fancy and a painter’s palette—and the painter's palette was distanced. Well, no matter; I had money and I was going homo. Through all these years a vague, shadowy phanlom had walked bv my side, mocking, consoling, luring me ever: but that spirit was exorcised now, and in its place came ecstatic visions of a sweet girl-woman, Elizabeth! I was going to her, and in the blue sea of her laughing, loving eyes I would drown every care and regret.

Five years! And five limes, upon each anniversary of our last meeting, I had sent her a faded violet —only that, a faded violet! But the poor little flower had gone to her freighted with such a wreath of hope and fate that surely in some dumb way it must have told its story. Five years! And Denbigh had given me but scant information concerning Elizabeth in all that time. True, I had never rnado any inquiries about her, nor had I seen my old friend since we parted so long ago, yet he might have known how I yearned for a word—a single word that would tell me ever so little of her. It was a day in midwinter when I reached New York. The cold was biting and the air was whitened with the falling snow. Yet for me it might have been a day in midsummer, so light was my heart, so warm and glowing all my dreams. ’Twas Denbigh whom I first sought out. My old friend was in his studio, hard at work. He met and welcomed me warmly enough, but great heaven, how the fellow had changed! No longer frank, free and jovial, he had become reserved and quiet, even taciturn. I confess that the alteration shocked me inexpressibly. “And Elizabeth?” I had questioned, as our hands met. “She is well,” he returned, briefly. “And not married yet,” he added, answering the eager inquiry in my eyes. “Well, I shall see her presently; but first we will dine together, my boy, you and I.”

For a moment Denbigh was silent, then he suddenly exclaimed: “Julian, we can never break bread together again. I have been false to my trust. God help me, I love Elizabeth Shinstone!” “You love Elizabeth Shinstone?” I repeated. “Yon?” “Could I help it? Was Ito blame? Am I more than man? And the wrong-doing was yours—yours alone! An angel stood in yoor path, and, blind fool that you were, you turned aside from it. Anj&ngel, I say! Oh, Vancourt, old friend, kill me if yon will, but don’t look at me like that. Before Heaven 1 swear that I have fought against this thing, but ” “And she—Elizabeth?” I interrupted. “I have never breathed a syllable to her that you might not have heard. You see, there are still greater depths of treachery that I have not reached. No, I have not told it to her” “Then you must tell it to her!” Denbigh’s haggard eyes met mine qnestioninglv. “Go to her,” I continued. “Tell her and hear her answer.” “Are yon serious?” “As if I stood upon the threshold of eternity. If she is what I believe her to be, I need not fear; if she is not—well, even then I shall know it at once. Go!" “Julian, surelyyou love her still?” “Yes, I love her; but the woman I marry must come to me without the shadow of a doubt to cross our lives. Go! But remember this: Say nothing of my return, not even if—if all is as you wish it!” So I waited there in Denbigh’s studio while he went to win the one tor whom I, in earnest faith and true loyalty, had worked so long and patiently. How those three weary hours of my solitude dragged on I cannot tell; but nh! what tender memories, what frightful forebodings, what glimpses of heaven, what tortures of the nether world, were mine! Had I bat known her better, known her as she was—a weak, vain, frivolous creature! Ah, had I been less of a fool! A fool? Ay, thrice-sodden, for who but a fool would have exposed the woman he loved to such a temptation? Yet here the old thought would steal back upon me, and I would cry aloud: “No! I have done right to send him. Ii she comes to me at all, she must come without the shadow of a doubt to cross our lives.” At last there came a step upon the stair, a hand upon the door-latch. I arose. It was Denbigh’s servant, and he gave me a sealed envelope. I tore ii open and read: “Go to her. She does not know you are here. Do not wait for me. Go at once!” Ah, my friends, my friends—l had battled bravely, aud, thank heaven the victory was mine. And so at once I went that way I had so often dreamed of going. It was almost night, and the griy ghosts of houses loomed up like spectral shapes in the long white streels. Looking back at it all now, it seems like a dream, just as it seemed then when at last I stood in Colonel Shmstone’s draw-ing-room, and some one was coming toward me with a wondering look in her beautiful eyes. Not a pale, unhappy, simply attired creature. That I detected at the first keen glance. Not a nun, a recluse, a sweet, sad saint, but a girl in all the flush and glory of early womanhood, whose rich attire seemed but the fitting frame for such radiant beauty. My heart gave a great bound, but I took courage to call to her: “Elizabeth!”

She sprang to me with a glad little cry. Ah, yes, my beloved was in my arms. I felt her warm breath upon my cheek, and her eager hands were clasped about my neck, whilst away behind us—far, far behind us—fell all the ugiy shadows of our lives. “I have come for you,” I said. “And I have waited for you,” she answered. “My violets came back to me with ten derest words of hope and comfort, Julian. Ah, nty dear, my own, own dear! I do not know what you have been doing all this while, away from me, but I am sure that it is something great and noble’” Well, she is mine at last. My sudden disappearance and long absence were plausibly explained to the public, and I am bound to acknowledge that the critics were quite kind; they retracted nothing of all they had written in myl favor. Still l cherish a firm conviction that they are only awaiting their opportunity to fall upon and demolish me; hence am 1 exceedingly wary. Let me add that my wife came to me without a penny. It was my will and hers as well. And our home is like heaven. I suppose that is the reason why, whenever the old fever seizes, me, I paint angels only—angels that look like Elizabeth, every one of them. Denbigh is in Europe, making himself famous, I hear. Well, he has genius, poor fellow. Now, my friends, if you fancy that the years had worked any change in the little woman of whom I write, you err. Nor would I have hqf changed. I want her just as she is, my type of truth, of womanliness and of perfection —my wife, Elizabeth !

The Elevation of the Stage.

A Scene-Painter’s Outfit and a Carpenter's Tool Chest were hurrying down street when they met a Toiling Dramatist. “Out of the way,” they said, haughtily, as the Toiling Dramatist bared his head and bowed low. “We are going down to the Lumber Yard to get a New American Play,” “But,” pleaded the Toiling Dramatist, “here is one I have just written. The Heroine is a pure young girl ” “That settles it,” they said harshly. “What we want is an American Play that is Purely English, and hasn’t a throb of any other sort of Purity in the whole Five Acts, and we can make it Ourselves. Away, Slight Manager!” And trampling over his Prostrate Form they got their Lumber and Canvas in twenty-four hours, and sawed out a play which they filled with Circus Posters and ran every night for Two Years. Moral —The Race is not Always to the Swift, but sometimes to the Fellow who Cuts across the Course and Gets There.— Burdette. With every exertion, the best of men can do but a moderate amount of good; but it seems in the power of the most .contemptible individual to do incalcuable mischief.— Waxhirmton Irving,

BOULANGER STEPS OUT.

The French Deputies Votes Down His Motion to Dissolve—A Duel in Prospect. In the French Chamber of Deputies Gen. Boulanger proposed ths dissolution of the Chamber. His proposition was rejected. Gen. Boulanger thereupon resigned his seat. Gen. Boulanger, in his speech proposing the dissolution, said that such a course was imperative, and that elections ought to be held before the celebration of the centennary of the revolution of 1789. The coentry demanded the institution of new safeguards to secure the Bepublic from the attacks of its adversaries, against which it wag powerless. The Chamber of Deputies was falling into ruin and decay and the country was trembling with emotion. The Monarchists were watching the Republic, expectant of its death agony.

The country felt that its safety demanded a revision of the Constitution. He did not doubt that the patriotism of the Deputies was on a level with their sense of duty. He would do his duty by demanding the passage of a resolution that the Chambers, being convinced of the necessity (or fresh elections, ask President Carnot fora dissolution. PremierFloquet reproached Gen. Boulanger for relying for support upon the Right. He said it was not fora man like Gen. Boulanger, who was always absent from the ( hambor, to judge of its legislative labors or criticise hard-working members. What had Gen. Boulanger done? Gen. Boulanger—l made ah appeal to the country. M. Floquet—The country answered you in the Charente election. Mr. Spain (Bonapartist Deputy for Charente) —The country unanimously pronounced through me for revision. M. Floquet—We have never recognized you as one of us. You are a lingering sacristan in the ante-ohambers of Princes. Your, photographs come from Germany, where your interests lie. Gen. Boulanger—M. Floquet's speech is only the utterance of a badly educated school usher, I tell him now, as I told him amid the noise, that he impudently lies. After a soene of excitement the President of the Chamber said that before applying censure he would allow Gen. Boulanger to speak. Gen. Boulanger asked if censure was to be applied to M. Floquet or himself. The President---It was you that first attacked the Speaker. The last words you uttered make it neoessary to apply a severe rule. Gen. Boulanger protested against a regime which did not respect the liberty of the tribune. He said that in view of the President’s decision he would resign his seat. The General thereupon left the Chamber, followed by his partisans. A vote of censure on Gen. Boulanger was adopted. It is reported that in consequence of the occurrences in the Chamber of Deputies Gen. Boulanger andM. Floquet will fight a duel. When Gen. Boulanger left the Chamber of Deputies the crowd outside shouted: “A has Boulanger,” “Down with the dictator,” “Duck him," and groaned and hissed the General vigorously. a few faint cheers were raised. Gen. Boulanger intends to dbntest successively the Departments of Bordogne, Loiret, Ardeche, and the Nord.

SHERIDAN’S ILLNESS.

Life Was Seemingly Restored by the Use of the Galvanic Battery. A Washington dispatch rehearses lor the first time in print the details of Gen. Sheridan’s apparent death when science itself could not have told that he had not passed away. There had been several sinking spells and hemorrhages of the bowels, which so exhausted the patient that he passed into unconsciousness, and during this period was the supreme moment when physicians, wife, brother, and friends all believed that the brave soldiier’s struggles were at last ended —that death had indeed come as a perhaps happy release. There was absolutely no pulse or respiration. The firm jaw had dropped and the eyes had opened and were glazed, the nose was pinched with that awful

pressure which seemingly can only come from death’s cold fingers. Father Chapelle had administered the last rites of the church. He stood beside the bedside, and his experienced eye, familiar with death in all its forms, noted the sure signs of dissolution. At last he turned away, after making the sign of the cross over the placid forehead, and went down to the ante-room, where Cols. Kellogg and Blount and Gen. McFeely were waiting. Holding up his hands he said: “All is over.” Meanwhile the watchers by the bedside were preparing to arrange the body in death, except that Dr. O’Reilly was still applying every device that science, and even desperate chance, could Suggest. He had opened the nightgown, and applying his ear ‘ to the heart, could detect no flutter of pulsation. He had noted all the marks of death, but persevered. Mrs. Sheridan was kneeling in prayer for the departecl soul. iThe physician seized the galvanic battery. One electrode he placed at the base of the neck, the other niton the inner side of the left thigh. The current generated, he has since said, was sufficient to have instantly killed a man in stalwart health. There was yet no sign of life. The physician then resorted to hypodermic injections of brandy. The minutes passed slowly, and five were counted. The watchful ear was again at the heart. There was a feeble bbat; then hardly perceptible respiration. Then the eyes opened and Mrß. Sheridan arose from, her knees and bent over her husband. There was a complete intelligence in the look he gave her, and it seemed as if the miracle of 1,800 years before had been repeated and the dead had come back to life. Perhaps it bad been. Science, still uncertain of its capabilities and possibilities, does not venture to say.

DOCTORS DISAGREE.

Berman Physicians Severely Denounce Dr. Mackenzie’s Treatment of Emperor Frederick. The Englishman Replies That -the Statements Made Are Utterly TJntrne. [London special telegram.] The greatest medical scandal of the age has been stirred np regarding the malady and treatment of the late Emperor William of Germany. The. German doctors’ reports on the case have been made public, and Sir Morell Mackenzie gets snch a raking as will satisfy his most bitter enemies. The reports are supplied by the German Foreign Office in London. The first is that of Professor Gerhardt, of Berlin, which is as follows: I first examined the vocal cords of the then Crown Prince on March 6, 1887. The swelling was destroyed by galvanic cautery, and the Crown Prince felt hi 6 health restored. He then went toEms. From the first Professor Gerhardt says he had doubts as to whether the growth was a benign one. He expected, however, that after a fortnight spent at Ems the Prince would have thoroughly recovered, or the return of the swelling would prove it to be malignant. Reports from Ems were not good, and the doctors, with the Crown Prince, as well as'theroyal pair themselves, wished to take the opinion of a specialist. Dr. Gerhardt then called upon Dr. Wegner, explained the gravity of the case, and together with Dr. Schroeder advised summoning a specialist in throat diseases. The Crown Prince was at Ems till May 15, and then the swelling was larger than before, and his voice hoarser. Dr. Gerhardt feared the case would' prove to be one of cancer. On being informed that swelling had reappeared the imperial patient desired that it should again be removed by cautery. Dr. Gerhardt hesitated, desiring that a surgeon be called in, and Dr. Bergmann was summoned. He examined the tbroat and at once declared that the opening of the larynx was neoessary for the extirpation of the swelling. At this consultation Dr. Mackenzie was named as a specialist. Dr. Bergmann and Dr. Gerhardt consented to his being called in, the latter remarking that the evidences were so clear that no person conversant with laryngoscopicol examinations could doubt their significance. On May 18 there was a consultation at which Drs. Yon Lauer, Tobold, Wegner, Schroe er,! Bergmann, and Gerhardt were present, and then Dr. Tobold examined ihe lar nx and declared—these doctors only being present—that it was a case of cancer. The other doctors agreed to ihis opinion un nimously, declaring the op wing of tne larynx necessary. May 20 all lhe preparations were in readiness for the operation, which was to take place the ue t morning. On the same evening Dr. Mackenzie saw the patient for the first time and declared it was not a case of ; cancer, the whole appearance of the swelling was not cancerous, and he should oppose any operation as long as the swelling was not shown to be cancerous by a microscopical examination. The German doctors consented to delay the operation. The next morning Dr. Mackenzie removed a small piece oi tissue, which l was submitted to Dr. Virchow, who said the disease might be pachydermia laryngitis.) But there was no proof that the piece was taken* from the swelling, as that did not appear to have* been injured. Dr. Mackenzie then tried t o re- i move another piece for examination. “I saw him,” says Dr. Gerhardt, “take the forceps from his breast pocket and insert them in the patient’s throat, and he withdrew them without obtaining the piece he wanted. I examined the patient’s throat immediately after, and found marked redness on both vocal chords. The right chord was bloody. On the edge of the right chord, just about the center, there was a dark red swelling, projecting to the glottis. We went to Mackenzie’s room and told him he seemed to have seized the right vocal chord instead of the diseased one on the left and pinched it. Ho replied that it was possible.” From this moment the patient became voiceless, and so remained till July 8. Another consultation was held on May 25, when Dr. Bergmann and Dr. Tobold convinced themselves that the right vocal chord had been injured, and, according to the report of Dr. Landgraf, it was not healed) till June 27. In the meantime Dr. Mackenzie had assured the patient’s family that he could cure him without an operation from the outside. When pressed to explain his scheme: he told the doctors, and his statement) was taken down by Dr. Wegner, that he would remove the swelling by means of* sharp forceps, or would resort to galvanic cautery. He was in favor of the first method. Dr. Mackenzie repeated his opinion at the subsequent consultation on May 5. At this consultation it was agreed that Sir Morell should remove the swelling with a red hot wire or forceps, as he asserted he could do, and that the, voice would be restored. Dr. Mackenzie declared on that occasion that he regarded the swelling as a benignant growth. Dr. Gerhardt held that it was impossible to remove the growth from the outside through the mouth, but Sir Morell said he would continue to operate in that manner till another portion extracted was declared to be malignant or till the swelling increased. Dr. Bergmann’s report is voluminous. In conclusion he says: “After the last consulation we had entirely lost the confidence in Dr. Mackenzie which induced us to call him in. We were brought to ths, in the first place, by his manipulation of the larynx, which did not afford us a guarantee that he had really reached the growth with hia instruments, and not by chance some other spot in the interior of the larynx, as, for example, the seriously affected right vocal chord; and, in the second place, through the wholly arbitary estimate of Virchow’s opinion, as well as by his endeavor to shift the responsibility from himself to the pat ologist. In the third" place we were iufluenced.by the manner in which the press obtained the details of the illnesß.” The reports of Drs. Bergmann, Landgraf and Schroeder are chiefly corroborative of Professor Gerhardt’s report, and all tend to show that Dr. Mackenzie’s management was wrong throughout. Mr. Mackenzie has not yet decided what form his reply will take, nor, in fact, whether he will make any reply at all beyond the emphatic declaration that the statements concerning himself are a tissue of falsehood. The details to be made public in bis contemplated book will, it is said, demonstrate the incapacity of Drs. Bergmann and Baumann so conclusively as to irretrievably ruin their professional reputations. Though determined on publishing this work for the benefit of med clne at large, he had decided, through consideration for ths rival physicians, upon postponing its publication until aftortheirdeath. Whether he will maintain his charitable resolution under the circumstances is a question. He will be influenced in his decision as to whether or not he shall reply categorically to the German doctors by the wiil of the Empress Victoria, who is anxious that her husband's memory should’ be left in peace, and would dislike any prolonged discussion as to his malady. The friends of Sir Morell Mackenzie are highly indi uant. They say ths charges are prompted by professional jealousy, and reply with a decree of vigor exceeding that of the Germans. It is flatly asserted for instance, ibat Bergmann appeared at the consultat on preetding an operation in a state of intoxication so apparent as to call for an observai ion from the Empress. Again, it is declared that once in changing the canulaDr. Bergmann so grossly blundered as to miss the trachea, and forced the metal nbe into the flesh of thi neck. This blunder was discovered by the English doctors present. Dr. Bergmann did not have another opportunity of attempting to insert the cnnula, although after his mistake he devised the i lan of inserting first into. the trachea a rubber tube, which ehou’d act as a guide. The metal canula passed over it and the rubber tube was teen withdrawn. It is plain that the last is not yet heard of the Emperor’s case, and that professional rivalry will bring about revelations as interesting to the publi; as to the medical fraternity. Young poultry sliould be kept under shelter until the dew dries off the grass in the morning; cold and dampness are in a great measure fatal to young poultry of all kinds; and while it is best, when the weather will permit, to give them a free range, ait the same time they must be kept dry, even if it is pessary to pan them up.