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that the discovery was instantly hailed, and
the method adopted by the principal members
of the profession. Very likely they left this
recorded; for, whenever an invention or a
project —and the .same may be said of per
sons —has made its way so well as to estab
lish a certain reputation, most people are sure
to find out that they always patronized it
from the beginning; and a happy gift of for
getfulness enables many to believe their own
assertion. But what said Lady Mary at the
time % Why, that the four great physicians
deputed by government to watch the progress
of her daughter’s inoculation, betrayed not
only such incredulity as to its success, but
such an unwillingness to have it succeed,
such an evident spirit of rancour and malig
nity, that she never cared to leave the child
alone with them one second, lest it should in
some secret way sutler from their interfe
rence.
“It may be uiged with some justice, that
the obstinacy of Farmer Good-enough pro
duced one excellent effect; the matter was in
Chaucer’s words, - bolted to the bran’.”
A woman’s understanding may not be ca
pable of advancing the cause of science, but
it seems she could appreciate some of its re
sults occasionally, when the regular practi
tioners raised the same clamor they now do.
u ln medicine,” says Bayard, “we can never
practice upon theory .” Does Bayard make
one of the little court at the bottom of the
well ? What says an eminent physician of
his own school: “So long as medicine is in
a great measure merely experimental, we
should be willing to try all that has the
slightest claim to attention. The good of the
patient, and not the supporting of any partic
ular system, should be the motive of our ex
ertions.” “iEsculapius improved the science
of physic; therefore he was called a god.’' 1 —
“ By the knots on his staff is signified the
difficulty of the study of medicine.” But
alas! for the modern improver, whether it
concern spinning-jennies or physic —we
have another sense added to the original five
—a pecuniary sense —and it is painfully af
fected by innovations.
Similia similibus curantur. If a man is
frozen, he is rubbed with ice; if burnt, and
he has fortitude to apply heat, it relieves.
Let the German refinements of Homeopathy
alone, and look to its effects —do the same
with Allopathy. When in spite of the vain
efforts of both, death happens, are we better
content to die “scientifically” % I fancy not.
I am neither a fashionable lady, a dandy,
a mesmerizer, a fanatic, a poet, a divine, nor a
lawyer, and therefore really do not know
what Homeopathy is, unless it he a system of
experiments for the relief of suffering human
ity ; and as this is the idea 1 also have of Al
lopathy, I would like to know the difference,
for ridicule is not argument.
A LEARNER.
©limpscs of JJciu Books.
DEATH OF MIRABEAU.
[From “ Mirabeau: A Life History ” Philadel
phia: Lea & Blanchard, Publishers ]
Early on Tuesday morning, (the 29th,) his
illness began to be rumored over Paris, and a
few citizens, on presenting themselves at his
door to make inquiries, learned the astound
ing tidings, that he was not merely ill, but
was actually dying. One can imagine the
reception of this unexpected information: not
a sudden start and quick ejaculation, but a
vague and semi-stupid stare, as though ask
ing tacitly were it a dream or a reality; then
a deep sigh, and a slow departure, to promul
gate over the city that Mirabeau is dying.
Mirabeau dying ! It cannot, may not be.
But yesterday did we not see him ? did we
not hear him speak I and is he now leaving
ns for ever? leaving us, when more than ever
his intellect, his oratory, his art of daring, are
most wanting ? when the Revolution wants
consolidation, when our monarchy is in jeop
ardy, our infamous citizens rising into power,
our lives and property threatened with ruin,
the man who alone could save us from uni
versal alarm and carnage, ye say, is leaving
us. It is too sudden to be probable; too
dreadful to be credited ; it may not, cannot,
shall not be! Fearful and incredulous, great
er numbers hasten thither; finding that the
rumor was too true; that God’s will is not
man’s, and that, even when they can least spare
l ' ,r ” *hpv must prepare to lose their Mirabeau. j
§®®lFiaiaißE!l QbUlf &&&&¥ a&SSTnrB*
Quick —as evil tidings ever do—flies over
Paris the gloomy story, and calls up from
every quarter each patriotic heart, until there
floods upon the Chaussee d’Antin, a count
less inundation of anxious but silent multi
tudes. They extend down the street to the
Boulevard, where a barrier is erected in order
that no vehicle should disturb the sick man’s
quiet. To this concourse, several times in
the day, a written bulletin is handed out, and
then printed, and despatched over the length
and breadth of Paris, that all men may know
how fares the invalid. Twice a day, with
due etiquette, in full formality, does the king
send openly, before all men’s eyes, to ascer
tain the latest report; and several times be
sides come his private messengers ; for King
Louis feels that a fellow-monarch is depart
ing—feels that the last hope pf his salvation
hinges on that life. So intense was the feel
ing of the people, that Desmoulins thanked
Heaven that the king did not go himself in
person, adding, “that step would have made
him idolized.”*
Meanwhile, how is it with the sick man ?
The lamp of life flickers in and out incon
stantly, giving at times hope to the specta
tors; unshared in by the sufferer, who knows
his hours are numbered now. On the eve
ning of Tuesday he revived, and his sanguine
physician deemed him out of danger; and
when he told his hopeful opinion to his pa
tient, received this unselfish answer: “It is
very sweet to owe our life unto a friends —
And then, anxious lest Cabanis’ housekeeper
should be expecting him, Mirabeau insisted
upon his returning home; and when Cabanis
told him he should return to pass the night
by his side, said, as he grasped his hand,
“My friend, I have not courage to refuse
you.”
On Wednesday morning, (the 30th,) all
was again at the worst, threatening almost
instantaneous dissolution. He was so ill
that he could see no visitors, and had to con
tent himself with receiving through one of his
immediate attendants a message of condolence
and affection, brought by Barnave from the
repentant Jacobins, at the head of a nume
rous deputation. Towards evening, however,
he again grew’ easier, so much so that he was
unattended during the hours of midnight; but
when, at day-break. Cabanis descended to his
chamber, he found that he had been lying for
two or three hours in the most violent pain ;
in which he continued to his decease. But,
precisely in proportion as his bodily pangs
grew more and more excruciating, his atten
tion to his friends, and calm, dignified resig
nation, increased. The friends who called to
see him were not admitted, and even his
adopted son was kept away from his cham
ber: his secretary de Comps, and Pellenc,
and his chief friend of all, de Lamarck, were
his constant attendants. His good sister, du
Saillant, came frequently; and having to
leave hercariiage, by reason of the barrier,
on the Boulevard, the dense crowd always
parted reverentially, leaving an open passage
for her to the door. The brother had cast a
halo round the sister: as the moon reflects
the sun, so she, from his splendor, was made
luminous to the anxious people.
It was now painfully evident that life and
death had come to hand and hand conflict,
and Cabanis and all his friends entreated Mi
rabeau to be allowed to call in other medical
advice; but he steadily refused to let any
other see him, saying, “I do not forbid you
doing or saying out of my chamber whatever
you may please, but they must not enter
here.” And when Cabanis pressed him fur
ther, he said firmly, “No, I will see nobody;
you have had all the trouble; if I return to
life, you will have all the merit, and I wish
you alone to have all the glory.”
With Dr. Petit, who came but was refused
admission to his chamber by Mirabeau, Ca
banis held a consultation, and then, in the
course of the day, administered many deci
sive remedies. These, however, had not the
least effect; and seeing Cabanis disappointed
and disconsolate, Mirabeau administered this
sublime solace: “ Thou art a great physi
cian ; but the Author of the wind , that over
throws all things—of the water , that penetrates \
and fructifies all things—of the fire , that viv- 1
ifies or decomposes all things—He is a greater |
physician still than thou /”
This was the last day in March, and well
nigh hts last as well: and never was a month’s
exit crowned with a more august display of
human self-forgetfulness and thoughtful gen
erosity ; it seemed as though whatever agony
he suffered was not from his own internal tor
ments, but from the uneasiness and sorrows
of his friends. For the first time in his life,
he beheld the Count de Lamarck weep like a
very woman. “It is,” he said thereon, “a
very touching sight, that of a calm and frigid
man not being able to conceal a trouble
against which he vainly arms himself.” He
spoke with warm gratitude of Frochot’s at
• Revolutions de Paris, p. 640
tentions to him, saying, if he grew well he
should have learned the art of nursing an in
valid from him alone ; and when that gentle
man supported his burning forehead, said,
! with a strange admixture of friendship and
the old self-confidence, “ Would I could leave
it thee as an heritage!”
He was supplied regularly with an account
of the debates, and entered into their intrica
cies. His mind was most absorbed with
speculations on the English diplomacy.—
“That Pitt,” he said, “is the minister of pre
paratives. He governs by what he menaces,
rather than by what he actually does. If I
had lived, I think I should have given him
some trouble.”
When they described to him the remarka
ble and unexampled solicitude of the people,
he cried transportively, “Ah, yes! beyond a
doubt, a people so feeling and sc good is well
worthy that one should devote one’s self to
their service; that one should endure all to
establish and consolidate liberty! It was
glorious to me to consecrate my entire life to
their cause; and I feel that it is pleasing to
me die in the midst of them-”
With Friday morning, (April 1,) came Dr.
Petit, who was this time admitted to Mira
beau s chamber. He found that death was
actually then beginning, as the pulse had
ceased to beat, and the arms and hands were
cold and clammy as those of a corpse, al
though he still retained their use. After a
very minute examination, Dr. Petit decided
that there was not the remotest vestige of a
hope. In the course of the morning came
Talleyrand, who, (and it is honorable to him,)
bent his proud resentment unsolicited, and
came unexpected, but welcome, to pardon his
dying friend, that they might not part as ene
mies. The Bishop of Autun opened the in
terview—an embarrassing task, considering
the two years’ non-friendliness—in a very
frank manner: “The half of Paris,” said he,
“remains permanently at your door. I have
come hither, like the other half, three times a
day to hear tidings of you, and regretting bit
terly each time my not having the power to
save you.” The interview theteafter was
tender in the extreme. It lasted two hours;
during which, Mirabeau embodied all his
idear upon the political aspect, in a clear and
fore de advice; at the same time giving him
a speech he had prepared, “On the inequality
of divisions, in succession by line direct,” and
begging him to read it for him at the ensuing
debate —which Talleyrand did. After he had
departed, Mirabeau made his visit a plausible
pretext for declining the last offices of the
Romish Church, iniorming the cure that he
had already seen a higher ecclesiastic, the
Bishop of Autun.
In the afternoon he made his will. Before
commencing, he said to Frochot: “I have
some debts, and I do not know the exact
amount. I know no more of the state of my
fortune; nevertheless, I have several obliga
tions imperious to my conscience, and dear to
my heart.” When these words were told
Lamarck, he generously proposed to pay all
legacies Mirabeau should recommend him ;
and with equal nobility of spirit, Mirabeau
used this liberality, though moderately and
wiih discretion.
Slowly declined the day, and the shadows
of night crept over the land—the last night
of his earthly pilgrimage; but if the shades
of death were upon the body, the star-light of
the intellect—the meteoric soul —gleamed out
in undiminished brilliance. His physician
lay on a neighboring couch, and Mirabeau
spoke with wondrous continuity till the morn
ing, his words pouring forth too rapidly and
too impetuously, in an unbroken fire-flood, as
in the Assembly in his days of strength.—
Slowly also the curtains of night were in
their turn drawn aside, and day-light began
to dawn upon the world. His last day on
earth! Think what lies in that! the past
curling back like an indistinct and confused
battle-picture, the present wavering like an
empty vapor, and before, the dim immensity
of the unknown To-Come looming up in hazy
distance; unknown and dubious to the best
of us Christians, but alas! doubly so to the
dying Mirabeau ; for he properly had no be
lief whatever, and in the world to come he
knew not the consoling sublimity of a univer
sal tribunal and an everlasting reward; but
he looked forward unto death simply as a rest
and an annihilation. And it is this that ren
ders his death all the more heroic; for it is
comparatively easy to die when death is re
garded as a portal to a happier kingdom; hut
when an ignoble rest is the highest expecta
tion, it is not so easy.
His first act on this last day, was one of
humane consideration. The wife of a faith
ful retainer, named Legrain, had scarcely ever
left his chamber since his ilness, although her’
son was ill of a fever, and she herself very ‘
far advanced in pregnancy ; and scarcely had
the day dawned ere Mirabeau addressed her
thus—
“ Henrietta, you are a good feature. You
are about to have a child, and are risking the
life of another, and yet you never quit me.
You owe yourself to your family: go, there
fore, I desire it.”
As soon as day had broken thoroughly,
the windows were flung open, and the mild
spring breeze stole in and fanned his feverish
temples,
“My friend,” he said to Cabanis, “I shall
die to-day. When one is in that situation,
there remains but one thing more to do ; and
that is to perfume me, to crown me with
flowers, to environ me with music, so that I
may enter sweetly into that slumber where
from there is no awaking. 0
His mention of flowers was one of the ru
ling passions asserting itself at the hour of
death. In his little garden he had many
trees and shrubs then greenly verdant, anil
here and there, in tuft or border, the earlier
flowers were bursting into bud, and the later
ones peeping from the brown earth; and that
his eye might behold them once again, they
wheeled his bed to the opened window, and
he looked forth into the expanse of heaven.
Just then, as though to greet him, the round
and lustrous sun emerged from behind the
clouds, and rayed forth upon him; and as he
basked in the beams, and gazed up, dazzled
and delighted, to its broad circle, he cried—
“lf that is not God, it is at the least his
cousin-german !”
He then informed Cabanis that he felt he
should not live many hours, and begged him
to promise not to leave him till his death, and
when in promising, Cabanis burst into tears,
he said, “No weakness, unworthy yourself
and me ! This is a moment when we ought
to know how to make the most of each other.
Pledge me your word that you will not make
me suffer useless painr I wish to be able to
enjoy, without drawbacks, the presence of
all dear to me.”
He then had de Lamarck brought to him,
and having placed him on one side of him on
his bed, and Cabanis on the other, for three
quarters of an hour he spoke to them of pri
vate and public affairs, “gliding rapidly over
the former, but dwelling upon the latter,” in
mentioning which, he uttered his memorable
words—
“ I will carry in my heart the dirge of the
monarchy , the ruins whereof will now be the
prey of the factious A
Almost immediately after this he lost his
power of speech, in which state he lay for
an hour, apparently devoid of pain; but at
about eight, the coup-de-grace of death was
being given ; his body convulsed and writhed
as though in frightful and agonizing pain,
and in dumb torture he signed for drink ; wa
ter, wine, lemonade, jelly, were offered, but
refusing them all, he signed again for paper;
which being given, in hot rapidity he scrawl
ed his wants and wishes in the words to
sleep ! ( dormir .) Then, when that wish was
not complied with, he wrote more at length,
praying, for common humanity’s sake, that
they would give him opium. Just at that
time, Dr. Petit arrived, and decided upon giv
ing him a composing draught; and the pre
scription was immediately despatched to the
nearest druggist. Meanwhile, his aggravated
death-pangs had burst the very chains of
death, and he recovered speech, to give a re
proach to his friend.
“The doctors! the doctors!” he cried.—
“Were not you (to Cabanis) my doctor, and
my friend ? Have you not promised me that
I should be spared the angui-h of a death
like this 1 Do you wish me to die regretting
having given you my confidence ?”
Having said which, he sank into a kind of
asphyxia, and lay motionless, and to all ap
pearance insensible; but cannon firing in the
distance aroused him, and he said, in dreamy
surprise—
u Are those already the Achilles ’ funeral T*
And immediately after, as the chimes rang
half-past eight, he opened his eyes slowly,
and gazing heavenward, died!
So fails, so languishes, grows dim, and dies,
All that this world is proud of From their spheres
The stars of human glory are east down,
Perish the greatness and the pride of kings !***
He was forty-two years and twenty-four
days old; and as he lay there a corpse, the
beholders remarked that “ Except one single
trace of physical suffering, one perceives with
emotion the most noble calm, and the sweet
est smile upon that face, which seems en
wrapped in a living sleep, and occupied with
an agreeable dream.”
So closes the most wonderful death-bed
scene whereof we yet have annals : we call
ed it wonderful; and not beautiful; and yet
we would not have had it otherwise, for it is
altogether in keeping with the man, andcom
j pletes the character. A Christian’s death had
assuredly been more affecting, more beautiful,
and less remarkable ; but this -lands out iso
lated, unlike any other, an 1 mu t .for many
•Wordsworth’s tv. ■. P. >,
221