leave the scene of his humiliation and disgrace, was a great temptation; and to be able to do this under circumstances of prosperity and material advancement, seemed irresistable; but the price of these things was that Therne should become the advocate of the anti-vaccinationists and should persistently and actively agitate the subject. To a man of Therne's training and conscience, the price was almost too high. What passed through his mind is best told in his own words:

"I listened and shivered. The inquiry into rare cases of disease after vaccination had been interesting work, which, whatever deductions people might choose to draw, in fact committed me to nothing. But to become one of the ragged little regiment of medical dissenters, to swallow all of the unscientific follies of the anti-vaccination agitators, to make myself responsible for the promulgator of their distorted figures and wild statements--ah! that was another thing. Must I appear upon platforms and denounce the wonderful discovery as the 'law of useless infanticide'? Must I tell people that small-pox is really a curative process and not the deadly scourge and pestilence that doctors pretend it to be'? Must I maintain that 'vaccination never did, never does, and never will prevent a single case of small-pox'? Must I hold it up as a law (!) of devil-worship and human sacrifice to idols'?

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"If I accepted Strong's offer it seemed that I must do all these things: more, I must be false to my instincts, false to my training and profession, false to my scientific knowledge. I could not do it. And yet—when did a man in my position ever get such a chance as that, which was offered to me this day? Already in imagination I saw myself rich (for in this way or in that the money would come), a favorite of the people, a trusted minister of the Crown, and perhaps who could tell?--ennobled, living a life of dignity and repute, and at last leaving my honours and my fame to those who came after me.

"On the other hand, if I refused this offer the chance would pass away from me, never to return again; it was probable even that I should lose Stephen Strong's friendship and support, for he was not a man who liked his generosity to be slighted, moreover he would believe me unsound upon his favorite dogmas. In short, for ever abandoning my brilliant hopes I condemned myself to an existence of struggle as a doctor with a practice among second-class people.

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If ever a man went through a 'psychological moment' in this hour I was that man. The struggle was short and sharp, but it ended as might have been expected in the case of one of my history and character. Could I have foreseen the dreadful issues which hung upon my decision, I believe that rather than speak it, for the second time in my life, I would have sought the solace to be found in the phials of my medicine chest. But I did not foresee them, I thought only of myself, of my own hopes, fears and ambitions, forgetting that no man can live to himself alone, and that his every deed must act and re-act upon others until humanity ceases to exist."

Finally, Therne yielded, and his candidacy for a seat in the House of Commons was announced. Under the shrewd guidance of Stephen Strong and with unlimited expenditure of money, the young doctor was elected on an anti-vaccination platform. His career in parliament was brilliant and, through the clever political work of Strong, he was re-elected with such satisfactory margins that there ceased to be any opposition to him.

That Dunchester, a royalist stronghold, should have been so regularly carried by the radicals on an anti-vaccination platform, caused much concern among the members of parliament, and it was felt that, for political reasons, the party in power must make some concessions to those opposed to vaccination. A com

pulsory vaccination bill was drafted, as the result of the investigations and deliberations of physicians and scientists which had extended over a period of several years, but as a political expedient, and indirectly on account of the election of Dr. Therne, there was inserted in the bill, before its passage, a fatal "conscience clause." This clause provided that any parent or other person who, under the bill would be liable for penalties for the non-vaccination of a child, should be entirely freed from such penalties if, within four months of its birth, he satisfied two justices of the peace that he conscientiously believed that the operation would be prejudicial to the child's health! Thus, through the influence of Dr. Therne, the vaccination law of England became virtually a farce and a dead letter.

Therne's prosperity continued. By the death of Stephen Strong, he acquired almost unlimited wealth, and finally he became Under Secretary of State. He was immensely popular in his home community, and, for years, the people were educated through his association, to refuse and discredit vaccination. Therne's daughter blossomed into beautiful womanhood, surrounded with every luxury.

Then small-pox came to Dunchester! Of the 50,000 people in the vicinity, 5,000 died, and among them, Therne's only child.

When the disease had begun to spread in the community, a young physician, to whom Jane Therne was to have been married, insisted upon vaccinating her; but in her loyalty to her father, she spurned the offer and the two young people were separated. A few days later, after the premonitory symptoms of the disease had shown themselves upon her, Jane came upon her father, in the dead of night, vaccinating himself.

Crushed by the impending death of his daughter, Therne, who had gone thus far in his life of deception, appeared at a great mass meeting arranged to check the growing sentiment in favor of vaccination. There he was confronted by young Doctor Merchison, his daughter's fiance, who disclosed his duplicity to the people.

Dr. Therne escaped to Madeira and there he writes this strange story of his life. What he has to say in his preface, I have reserved as the meditations of his last days. They tell the story of the doctor who lived a life for gain:

"The population of Dunchester is smaller by four or five thousand souls, and many of those who survive are not so good looking as they were, but the gap is easily filled and pock-marks are not hereditary. Also such a horror will never happen again, for now the law of compulsory vaccination is strong enough! Only the dead have cause to complain, those who were cut off from the world and despatched hot-foot whither we see not. Myself I am certain of nothing; I know too much about the brain and body to have much faith in the soul, and I pray God that I may be right. Ah! there it comes in. If a God, why not the rest, and who shall say there is no God? Somehow it seems to me that more than once in my life I have seen His finger.

"Yet I pray that I am right, for if I am wrong, what a welcome awaits me yonder when grief and chloral and that 'slight weakness of the heart' have done their work.

"Yes-five thousand of them or more in Dunchester alone, and, making every allowance, I suppose that in this one city there are very many of these-young people mostly-who owe their deaths to me, since it was my persuasion, my eloquent arguments, working upon the minds of their prejudiced and credulous elders, that surely, if indirectly, brought doom to them. A doctor is not infallible; he may make mistakes.' Quite so, and if a mistake of his should kill a few thousands,

why that is the act of God (or of Fate) working through his blindness. But if it does not happen to have been a mistake, if, for instance, all those dead, should they still live in any place or shape, could say to me, 'James Therne, you are the murderer of our bodies, since, for your own ends, you taught that which you knew not to be the truth.'

"How then, I ask? So-let them say it if they will. Let all that great cloud of witnesses compass me about, lads and maidens, children and infants, whose bones cumber the churchyards yonder in Dunchester. I defy them, for it is done and cannot be undone; yet, in their company are two whose eyes I dread to meet: Jane, my daughter, whose life was sacrificed through me, and Ernest Merchison, her lover, who went to seek her in her tomb."

Yes, Dr. Therne is entitled to a place among our doctors of fiction, although he is not the creation of one of the greatest men of letters, although his tale is not yet sufficiently old to determine its lasting qualities. The story has lessons to teach which are applicable to far less serious things of professional life.

O CLASSIFY Jean Paul Marat as a doctor of fiction, simply because he was

be quite as incorrect as to describe Alexander Hamilton as a statesman of fiction on account of the part he played in Gertrude Atherton's splendid story, "The Conqueror." Yet, many of us, who have read more for our pleasure than for our profit, knew Marat first through fiction and later through the annals of French history. In our younger days, he was a vigorous character, intimately associated in our minds with Joseph Balsamo-that mysterious man of never-ending youthwhom Dumas has carried through his tales of the French Revolution. In fact, I am inclined to think that the fiction of Dumas gave more prominence to Marat than have all the pages of history-that Dumas, with all of the surrounding of imagery, was Marat's best and most faithful biographer.

Hence, while Marat was real and existed in the flesh, he is none the less a doctor of fiction. It was in fiction that I met him, in fiction that I knew him best, and, even after the perusal of the words of his biographers, I am utterly unable to dissociate him from his fictional friends and companions.

It is in the "Memoirs of a Physician"-the second of the "Marie Antoinette Series" that we first come upon Marat, and we find him in a scene which well befits him. His biographer in real life, tells us that he was "a humane man, who could not keep his head cool in stirring times, who was rendered suspicious by constant persecution, and who has been regarded as the personification of murder." We find him in the Place Louis XV, in Paris, the air filled with smoke from burning ruins, while on the margin of the slopes and in the ditches, are heaps of corpses with disordered attire, stiffened limbs, livid and discolored faces and hands stretched out in the attitude of terror or of prayer. Marat is to be found at the extreme edge of this vast cemetery, in a field hospital, and here he is bandaging the wounds of those who are brought to him, and, as he attends his patients, "he speaks to them in words which rather express hatred for the cause than pity for the effect."

To the two robust assistants, who pass the sufferers in bloody review before him, he cries incessantly: "The women of the people, the men of the people, first!" And the gentleman or person of quality, however badly he may be injured, the young surgeon turns away without relief.

A young man, with grief and anxiety written in every line of his face—young Philip de Taverney-comes before the surgeon, begging information as to his sister, Andree, whom he believes to have been killed.

"Sir,' said the young surgeon, with a feverish vehemence which showed that the ideas he expressed had long boiled in his breast, 'Sir, Humanity is my guide. It is to her service I devote myself; and when I leave the nobles on their beds of death to assist the suffering people, I obey the true laws of Humanity, who is my goddess. All this day's misfortunes have been caused by you. They arose from your abuses, from your usurpations. Therefore, bear the consequences. No, sir; I have not seen your sister.'"

Socialist, anarchist, radical—all of these and whatever else you may wish to call him he worked through the night as though impelled by some superhuman force. And it was a superhuman force-his fierce devotion to the cause of the poor and the afflicted. But as strong as his devotion was; as inspiring of pity as was the scene about him, it did not change his bitter hatred for the rich, and with scathing rebuke and with coldest cruelty, he turned all but the common people from him.

But during the night there came before him "a man already advanced in years, dressed in a grey cloth coat and milled stockings"—and this man helped tenderly to bear the body of a victim of the fray. But this old man was no more successful than the others in his supplications. He protested that he was a man of the people; but to no avail. Then he gave his name-Jean Jacques Rousseau! The doctor gave a cry of astonishment, and making an imperative gesture, cried: "Give place to the man of nature! Make room for the emancipator of the human race! Place for the citizen of Geneva!"

It is thus that Dumas tells us of this doctor:

"His sleeves turned back to the elbow, his arms covered with blood, sur rounded by lifeless and bleeding limbs, he seemed more like an executioner at work, and glorying in his task, than a physician accomplishing his sad and holy mission. Nevertheless, Rousseau's name seemed to have so much influence over him as to cause him to lay aside for an instant his usual brutality."

A few more words from this remarkable opening chapter of the great novel, will show us better those principles and sentiments to which Marat devoted his life. When the surgeon had rendered aid to Rousseau's adopted child, Gilbert, the great naturalist thanked him, adding, "All men are brothers."

"Even the noble, even the aristocrats, even the rich?' asked the surgeon, his piercing eyes flashing from beneath his heavy eyelids.

“Even the noble, the aristocrats, the rich, when they suffer,' said Rousseau. "Sir,' said the operator, 'excuse me. I am from Baudry, near Neufchatel; I am a Switzer like yourself, and therefore a democrat.'"

When Rousseau warned the surgeon that, while he should enlighten the people as to their rights, he should not urge them to vengeance. Marat replied with a fearful smile: "Oh, if the day of vengeance should happen during my life-If I could only have the happiness to witness it!"

Rousseau heard these words, and, alarmed at the tone in which they were uttered, as the traveler trembles at the first mutterings of the far-distant thunder, turned away. And that these first mutterings resulted in most frightful storms, we have learned from our French history-but from no source have we seen it all in such tragic reality as in the fiction of Dumas.

It is quite impossible, in this brief sketch, to follow Marat through the stirring hours of the French Revolution; the secret conferences in which he was

such a power; in the riots; and in the writing of those wonderful pamphlets which so inflamed the minds of the people and filled them with hatred for the rich. At every important conflict between the aristocracy and the people, Dumas has had Marat appear; always the earnest champion of the people, daring everything, fearing nothing, inciting riot and strife and glorifying in bloodshed and disaster. We know that, in thus utilizing him as a character of fiction, Dumas has not greatly exaggerated the life of this remarkable man.

We may, however, stop for a moment in Marat's home and learn something more of his habits and personal life. Marat's door was the "center one of six" opening on a long corridor which formed the topmost story in the Rue des Cordeliers. Marat had made great preparations for the reception of Balsamo, who was to visit him. The small bed of walnut and the wooden chest of drawers shone brightly beneath the sturdy arm of the char woman, who was busily engaged in scrubbing the decayed furniture. Marat himself was assisting the char woman, had dusted the room and was replacing the flowers in the blue delft pot, which constituted the only ornament of the attic, at the moment that Balsamo entered. Marat was very poor and he prided himself upon his poverty, yet he showed too much embarrassment for a true stoic when thus found in his domestic duties by the great master.

And this was his home. A room in the garret, furnished with a narrow bed and a chest of drawers, with only a pot of flowers to brighten it; and here, in these modest surroundings, Marat wrote those lines which contributed so much to the discord and the turbulency of the most turbulent period of French history.

But the physician and the interested layman will gladly accompany Marat and Balsamo as they emerge from these simple quarters, and make their way to the ampitheater in the hospital, whither Marat desired to go early to claim the body of one dead of acute meningitis, before his colleagues could obtain the corpse for their own investigations.

Their way took them through the narrow alley leading to the Rue Haute Fuille, and they finally reached a long, narrow room, where two corpses, a male and a female, lay stretched upon a marble table. The woman had died young; the man was old and bald. "They were lying side by side on this cold bed, they who had perhaps never met before in the world, and whose souls, then voyaging to eternity, must, had they looked down on earth, have been struck with wonderment at the proximity of their mortal remains.”

"Marat, with a single movement, raised and threw aside the coarse linen which covered the two bodies, whom death had thus made equal before the anatomist's scalpel.

"Is not the sight of the dead repugnant to your feelings?' asked Marat, in his usual boasting manner. I, who see this sight daily, feel neither sadness nor disgust. We practitioners live with the dead, and do not interrupt any of the functions of our existence on their account. Besides, why should I be sad or feel disgust? In the first place, reflection forbids it; in the second, custom. Why should I be afraid? Why should I fear an inert mass-a statue of flesh instead of stone, marble or granite?'

“In short, you think there is nothing in a corpse?' asked Balsamo. "Nothing-absolutely nothing.'

"But in the living body?' queried the master.

"And the soul?---you do not speak of it, sir.'

"I have never found it in the bodies which I have dissected.'