Of course there was pain, exceeding bitter | loved voice says "Farewell," and we know pain, dominating all. that for us can be no well-faring when that voice is no longer heard.

The river looked like a chain of pools reflecting the last light of day, while darkness had settled down upon the woods and plain, when the boat came back. Allan had seen it, a black speck upon the gleaming water, a long way off: he was at the landing-place when it came in.

"I am glad you are back at last - the river is not safe in this uncertain light." He helped to moor the boat, then led the way to the house. Mr. Smith staggered rather than walked. Allan was not sorry to see how thoroughly used up and tamed he was. When they entered the library, Mr. Smith threw himself into a chair, laid his folded arms on the table, and his head upon them : he had not spoken.

"You need not speak one word. Trust all to me: I know all; you need not speak one word," Allan said.

Then Clare lifted her head, looked up into his face: he did not read her face aright; to her his seemed as the face of an angel.

"Come with me now," he whispered; she obeyed him unhesitatingly, with no thought of where he would take her, only feeling that she might follow him anywhere.

But when he opened the library door, and she saw the lamplight falling on Mr. Smith's bent head, she shrank back, clinging to Allan.

"Go to him, Clare comfort him-you only can," Allan said. He led Clare forward with gentle violence, disengaged himself from her hold, disregarding her lowspoken entreaty, "Do not leave me,” — perhaps not hearing it, he went away.

Leaving him so, Allan went to look for Clare. Till dusk she had been locked into her own room; by that time the storm had spent itself for the present; she had washed out the worst sting and stain, quenched the Mr. Smith had looked up, when the door first burning sense of insult, and was com- opened, vacantly, stupidly, at first, then he paratively calm. Allan found her in the un- sprang up, exclaiming "Allan, you are lighted drawing-room, to which she had mad! what are you doing?" But passioncome for space to move and breathe. Sev-ate hope flamed up in his eyes as he spoke, eral of the many lattices were open wide, and looked at Clare. the stars looked in upon her, the summer wind whispered to her without all was peaceful, with a holy peace. Clare had walked to and fro till she was tired; she was leaning in one of the windows, looking out, when Allan came in: he was close to her before she knew it. They could each see the other's face by the starlight, as they stood there close to the window; pale, resolute young faces were both.

"Sister Clare, my poor little sister Clare," Allan said, speaking to her, as he had never spoken before, as a gentle-hearted elder brother to a suffering sister.

Clare stood motionless just where Allan had left her. In spite of eyes reddened by weeping, and cheeks tear-stained and bloodless, yet not whiter than her lips, she had perhaps never looked so beautiful. When she spoke, it was with the coldest gentleness.

"I did not know where my cousin was bringing me! I can only guess under what mistake he brought me here-perhaps it is as well as it is. You told him all that passed this afternoon ?"

that

"I told him that I loved you, and had confessed it. I told him what, by your manWith a low cry Clare leant towards him-ner, I fancy you are going to deny now, he opened his arms she rested her head you love me-that you had not confessed it against his breast; there he held her pressed in words, but that I did not doubt it: nor, against his heart, as he thought, for the last if you now deny it, shall I now doubt it: I time. shall only think that your pride, being too little, thinks the sacrifice too great." He was stung by her changed manner, which showed him his lost supremacy.

Clare clung to him, and her tears fell again, but very softly; she was soothed and comforted-inexpressibly soothed and comforted; and yet something in Allan's tone, something in his face, seemed to penetrate to her heart's core, paining her with such aching, boding pain as one feels when a

"Then my cousin renounces me - gives me up to you, believing that I love you."

"Believing that you love me, he leaves you free to marry me. Of this, that you

I

would marry me, I had never dreamt, wildly | was quite fair, your cousin's game. Tell her as I may have dreamt. I should have been I said so that she has my forgiveness, if far from here by this time, had not your she cares for it. Now if this were a comedy, cousin extracted from me a promise to re- see an opening for a fine wind-up. It would main one more night under this roof. In turn out that I had been a most subtle and remaining I had no hope. Wildly as I have successful metaphysician, whose skill was dreamt, I did not, I repeat, dare dream that only exceeded by his benevolence that my you would marry John Smith-wellnigh a only aim had been, by contrast, to win your beggar!" lady's heart to you. Would to Heaven it were so! I began by trying to play Providence for your benefit certainly; but in real life circumstances are apt to sway the man more than the man circumstances. False to my friend, fooled by a woman; these two little facts from the history of the last few weeks-months, which is it?—I will lay to heart."

"Yet you dared tell me that I loved you! throwing the accusation at me in a way to make it most bitter insult."

"When a man is maddened by self-reproach and the conflict of passions, he cannot stop to be choice of manner or of words. To tell you of your love and of mine was one thing; to ask you to marry me, knowing as I do the conditions on which

"You heap one insult after another upon me, but perhaps I have merited them all." 'I do not wish to be harsh-I have cause enough to be humble-but you cannot deny that you have loved me," he demanded.

"I confess that for some time I half believed that I might come to care for you. I believed it till this afternoon. I must confess more, and what is far more to my shame, that before I believed it possible that I should care for you, I strove to win your admiration -to fascinate you, even to make you believe that I loved you-from motives of revenge. My revenge has recoiled on me-recoils on me doubly. I have wronged you, and you have done me service, taught me many lessons. I must ask your pardon; I do so very humbly-not as I could have done, had you acted differently; but still very sincerely and very humbly, I desire your forgiveness of any injury I may have done you."

Imprecations were on Mr. Smith's lips, but there was something pure and noble in Clare's face that checked them. Refusals to believe the truth of what she said he could not bring himself to utter, for there was something calm and truthful in Clare's manner that, against his will, impressed him.

Allan did and said all that was manly and Christian, striving to soothe the pangs of mortification and self-reproach, which he knew were indeed, to such a nature as his friend's, more bitter than death; but the present result of his efforts was to aggravate rather than assuage the fierceness of these pangs.

"You heap coals of fire on my head," were Mr. Smith's parting words.

Having seen his friend off,-driven him to the nearest railway station,-Allan on his return was met by the news that Clare had left her home, with no intention to return to it.

Mrs. Andrews was her accomplice: she had gone, properly escorted and attended, to "some of Mrs. Andrews's friends in the north," people in humble circumstances; with them she was to remain till she could meet with a suitable situation as governess.

Clare had left a letter for Allan, explaining why she acted thus, telling him that it would be useless for him to try to learn where she was-useless for him to try and change her resolution or frustrate her plans. "I am not worthy of you, Allan, or I should have loved you in spite of everything. I am not humbled enough yet, or-I will not say what I was going to say; but I know I am not worthy of you, and should not make you happy. When you have been married some years, and I am an 'old maid,' I may per

A few seconds Clare waited to see if he would speak; he did not he could not; so she left him, going straight to her own room, to which she presently summoned Mrs. An-haps come and live in that little West-End drews.

Cottage which my father ordained should be my home in such case. Till then we will not meet."

"I have been false, and I have been fooled," was Mr. Smith's explanation to Allan-" fooled by a woman, and false to my It was no use for Allan to storm or to enfriend. I am learning to know myself. It treat; Mrs. Andrews was a trustworthy ac

complice; for the present she would not reveal the secret of Clare's hiding-place.

One dreary winter night she sat alone in a large, bare schoolroom, writing to Mrs. Andrews, when a visitor was announced. She had given in; she had just written Allan's name. "Where is he? How is he? Oh, tell me something about him!" she had written. The door opened; she looked up; there stood Allan.

Three months with those poor people in the north, to whom she was nothing but a governess out of place, some experience of the life of a governess, and then ?-a most lame and impotent conclusion-a humiliating surrender. Like a heroine, she battled with the growing certainty that she loved Must not Clare's pride have become very her Cousin Allan passing well, with "love weak, or her love grown very strong, if she of men and women when they love the yielded then ?-then, when the world might best; " that she reverenced him as nobler, say that poverty and hardship and the hanwiser, better-far nobler, far wiser, far bet- kering after the flesh-pots of Egypt had ter than herself; that to submit to him with brought her to her senses? She knew the absolute submission, to depend on him with world would have a right to say this. She absolute dependence, would be rest and humbled herself to this humiliation-glad happiness. She battled with herself she to find how light, for love's sake, it was to mistrusted herself-she suffered greatly. When she had left home, she had begged The beautiful Mrs. Watermeyr of the next Mrs. Andrews not to mention Allan's name summer could hardly have been other than when she wrote; she began to think that Clare, yet the beauty was of a different type she must recall this request—that she could |—softer, sweeter, more submissive. no longer bear this silence.

bear.

Animated by similar feelings of piety, a friend of the late Robert Brown, Dr. Booth, has placed over the chimney-piece of the back room of 17 Dean Street, Soho (now occupied by an upholsterer), a tablet bearing the following inscription: "This room, the library, and the adjoining one, the study, of the Right Honorable Sir Jos. Banks, Baronet, President of the Royal Society, and, after his death, of Robert Brown, Esq., F.R.S., Foreign Associate of the Academy of Sciences and the Institute of France, were for nearly seventy years the resort of the most distinguished men of science in the world, the last assemblage of whom was on the occasion of the funeral of Mr. Brown, who expired on the 10th of June, 1858, in the eighty-fifth year of his age."

IN your Living Age, July 28, your correspond-"Hochstift". -a flourishing society for arts and ent, "I. M'C.," has very properly noticed" the sciences, of which Dr. Volger is the founder. common error" clearly sustained here by Lord Macaulay, that the great founder of Batavian liberty was a man habitually taciturn, or deficient in the gift of eloquence." In corroboration of what your correspondent states, allow me to cite from Motley's "Rise of the Dutch Republic." "The power of dealing with his fellow-men he manifested in the various ways in which it has been usually exhibited by statesmen. He possessed a ready eloquence,- -sometimes impassioned, oftener argumentative, always rational. His influence over his audience was unexampled in the annals of that country or age; yet he never condescended to flatter the people. He never followed the nation, but always led her in the path of duty and of honor, and was much more prone to rebuke the vices than to pander to the passions of his hearers. He never failed to administer ample chastisement to parsimony, to jealousy, to insubordination, to intolerance, to infidelity, wherever it was due, nor feared to confront the states or the ple in their most angry hours, and to tell them the truth to their faces." Vol. 3, 620-21.

peo

To save the house in which Goethe was born at Frankfort-on-the-Maine from further desecration, it has been purchased by Dr. Volger, an eminent geologist, for the sum of 56,000 florins; and it is his intention to restore it to its original state, and then hand it over to the German

M. ROBERT has communicated to the French Academy an account of the interesting discoveries recently made in the Rue d'Enfer, at Paris, during the process of lowering the street to the level of the Boulevard de Sébastopol. These consist of a great variety of articles, mostly of Celtic and Gallo-Roman origin, including several flint implements similar to those found at St.-Acheul, near Amiens. The articles were all found in undisturbed drift, and are supposed by M. Robert to belong to the same period as the objects discovered many years ago near Marly, Meudon, and Belleville.

he was twenty-six years old, and had just passed from the office of demonstrator to that of joint lecturer in anatomy. Three years afterwards the Windmill Street Theatre was disposed of to Sir Charles Bell, who then superseded Wilson and Brodie as its teacher of anatomy. Young Brodie had professional connections able to advance his interests. The wife of Dr. Denman, the first accoucheur of the day, was one of the Rev. Mr. Brodie's sisters, and her two daughters were both married to men of high mark in the profession. But his chief aid was in the familiar confidence of Sir Everard Home, who employed him as his assistant upon all occasions, and thus put him forward as his natural successor. This distinction he owed wholly to his own abilities. Through Home, Brodie became acquainted with Sir Joseph Banks, Sir Humphrey Davy, and other leading men of science. It was when he was only twenty-eight years old, that he received from the Royal Society its highest honor in the Copley Medal for a Croonian Lecture, which began the series of his researches on the influence of the Brain upon the action of the Heart. This at once made his name known to the profession throughout Europe. The course of active physiological experiment thus commenced, was persevered in during the next fourteen years. As a surgeon Mr. Brodie was distinguished in medical literature by works "on the Pathology and Surgery of Diseases of the Joints," and

WHEN we set aside, with a few other notable books too permanent in their interest to demand instant notice, this most thoughtful little volume, published in the early summer, none could know how soon we should be made to feel that the thinker is more transitory than his thought. At the age of fourscore Sir Benjamin Brodie, foremost and most liberal man of a most liberal profession, died last Tuesday week. Third son of a Wiltshire rector, who was magistrate and deputy-lieutenant of his county, Benjamin Collins Brodie was one of the men to be named to the credit of home teaching against those who are named as doing honor to the discipline of public schools. He was taught at home by his father until he went as a student of surgery to London, in the first year of the present century, and at a time when surgical anatomy was the most popular subject taught in the medical schools. His father the rector had been son of a thriving army linendraper of St. James's, Piccadilly. At the age of twenty-two Mr. Brodie became a demonstrator of anatomy at the Windmill Street Theatre, and continued in that office till, at the age of twenty-five, he was joint lecturer with his teacher, Mr. Wilson. At" on certain local Nervous Affections," which the same age, or when he was a year younger, Mr. Brodie, who had been for the last five years at St. George's Hospital the pupil of Sir Everard Home, also took office at that hospital as Assistant Surgeon under Sir Everard, who left to him the chief part of the hospital work. Thus Brodie, a teacher at the age when many but begin to learn, was in full work as surgeon at St. George's and as anatomist in Windmill Street. At St. George's not only was Sir Everard Home too busy to attend with much diligence, but another of the chief surgeons was away with the army in Spain, and the care of his patients also fell upon young Brodie. Here was work enough. He had been two years assistant surgeon at St. George's before he thought of private practice, and had a name plate screwed upon the door of his lodging in Sackville Street. That was in 1809, when

have helped largely towards the extinction of old rash methods of practice that would sacrifice a limb to an obscure pain. In 1816

when he had been seven years in practice, was thirty-two or three years old, and was beginning to thrive as a private surgeonMr. Brodie married a daughter of Mr. Serjeant Sellon, who has not survived him. Of his two sons, one is now the Professor of Chemistry at Oxford. At St. George's Hospital Brodie remained for fourteen years assistant surgeon, but in 1822, when he was already in large private practice, he succeeded Mr. Griffiths as full surgeon, and retained that office until 1840, when he retired, after thirty-two years' connection with the hospital. About six years after his marriage his name was so well in fashion that the king privately preferred him to Sir Astley Cooper, and upon the retirement of Sir Astley Cooper

in 1828 Mr. Brodie was left indisputably the study of the Physical and of the Moral Sciforemost of the London surgeons. ences, in which he distinguishes acutely between the attainable and the unattainable ob

science for its own sake, the reasoner turns to the subject of Self-knowledge, and to the proposition with which he had closed his former dialogues,-that no one can properly perform the duties he owes to society," who does not regard his own powers, his own disposition, and his peculiar moral temperament, influenced as it may be by his physical condition and his mode of life, as a fit object of study, as much as anything external to himself." He then dwells first on the need of physical power for intellectual exertion. The mind works best in a healthy body.

On the death of Sir Everard Home in 1832 Brodie succeeded him as Sergeant-Sur- jects of inquiry, and upholds the pursuit of geon to William IV., and soon afterwards he was made a baronet. As a surgeon, though skilful in operations, he most valued success in avoiding the knife, and held the mechanical dexterity of the anatomist to be of less account than sound perception of the character of a disease. His aversion for operations was not lessened during the last months of his life by the failure of those to which he submitted, first in 1860, for the improvement of his vision. They left him only a dim sense of light. His last illness dates from April of this year, when he was attacked by lumbago and fever. At midsummer he began to complain of a pain in the right shoulder, which had been dislocated by a fall from a pony eight-and-twenty years before. The feverish pain increased. In September swelling began. The disease was malignant, and in six weeks it came to its

end in death.

Since his retirement from the active work of his profession, Sir Benjamin Brodie has given to the public those two volumes of Psychological Inquiries of which the second, with the year of his death on its title-page, has appeared only within the last few months. They are in the form of dialogue, and the preface to the part last issued thus explains their purport:

"I have on the present occasion, as I had formerly, two objects especially in view, one of these being to show that the solution of the complicated problem relating to the condition, character, and capabilities of man is not to be attained by a reference to only one department of knowledge; that for this purpose the observations of the physiologist must be combined with those of the moral philosopher, mutually helping and correcting each other, and that either of these alone would be insufficient.

"The other object to which I have alluded is, that I would claim for researches of this kind that they should be regarded not as merely curious speculations, but as being more or less of practical importance to every individual among us, enabling us to understand to how great an extent we may contribute to the improvement of the faculties with which we are endowed, and to our own well-being in life."

After a preliminary conversation on the

"There is, however, no necessary connection between robust health and superior intelligence. How often do we see the former combined with stupidity and ignorance! Travellers report to us instances of tribes of savages who intellectually appear not to be many degrees superior to the lower anideserted children who have been sometimes mals. The same may be said of the poor found leading a lonely life and maintaining a precarious existence in forests, apart from all human society. In his rude and uncultivated state, there is little in man either to respect or admire. That by which he is distinguished, and which elevates him above all other creatures on earth, is his capability of improvement. The observation applies to

individuals not less than it does to societies of men. Of two individuals, with perhaps equal capacities of mind, but placed under different circumstances as to education and as to the class of persons with whom they associate in early life, one may be found, after a lapse of years, to be comparatively stupid, while the other, as to intelligence, far surpasses what had been anticipated of him in the beginning."

The faculties of mind as of body are strengthened, almost seem to be created, by exercise. Thus

"Our senses admit of being improved ulties to which they are subservient. The by cultivation as much as those higher facsailor distinguishes a ship in the horizon which is imperceptible to the landsman. The practised musician has a nicer perception of than the inexperienced artist. The painter musical sounds, of harmonies and discords, who has become a master of his art recognizes effects of shades and colors, and a mul