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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