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The sick leaves moaned, the dead leaves fell. Destruction was in the air.

A little hill lay before the procession. Up this incline rode the Lord-Lieutenant, followed by the others. The summit was gained, and then the eye gazed on the scene which has enchanted a thousand inspired poets. Far away gleamed the deep blue waters of the lovely Lake of Geneva, formed like a graceful halfmoon, and on one side, as if guarding the verdant valley, towered an undulating ridge of lofty mountains.— A dying leaf shook among the branches, and losing its hold was swept away by the wind.

On the hill was set a stake around which were piled the fagots of green wood so they would burn slowly. Michael Servetus was a devoted believer in God, and even warmly attached to the person of Christ, but because he rejected the Trinity, the multitude considered him an incorrigible atheist, and a child who was present at the execution might have used the words Shelley wrote when a boy:

I was an infant when my mother went

To see an atheist burned. She took me there:

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The dark-robed priests were met around the pile;
The multitude was gazing silently;

And as the culprit passed with dauntless mien,
Tempered disdain in his unaltering eye,
Mixed with a quiet smile, shone calmly forth:
The thirsty fire crept round his manly limbs;
His resolute eyes were scorched to blindness soon;
His death-pang rent my heart! the insensate mob
Uttered a cry of triumph, and I wept.

Weep not, child! cried my mother, for that man
Has said, There is no God.

By several twists of an iron chain, Servetus was bound to the stake. To mock him, a crown of straw dipped in sulphur was put upon his head. By his side they tied the child of his brain the book that should have made an epoch. The torch blazed, and a hot sheet of flame, as if it were the spirit of Calvin, leapt high in air and pounced upon his body.

Thru the escaping smoke Michael Servetus lifted his unseeing eyes to heaven, and cried in agony, Misericordias! Misericordias!

O miracle accursed- Spain had come to Switzerland Behold, how the crimson sun did streak the skies with blood!




Vesalius appears to me one of the greatest men who ever existed. Let the astronomers vaunt their Copernicus, the natural philosophers their Galileo and Torricelli, the mathematicians their Pascal, the geographers their Columbus, I shall always place Vesalius above all their heroes. The first study for man is man. Vesalius had this noble object in view, and admirably attained it.

PORTAL: History of Anatomy.

THE day merges itself in the museful dusk, it yields to the silent caress of the clasping shadows, it permits the pensive embrace of the gentle evening.

Yet all is not dim nor darkness there is still twilight and starlight and moonlight, and lo! from the window gleams the cheerful lamplight.

Cease to ply your tasks, O men. Follow the nearest path that leads to home. For you a flame is burning, and a loving woman waits. Do not tarry, for she expects you. If you linger she will peer with anxious eyes into the night — and see nothing. See, she keeps the supper warm, and your chair is ready. Take your place at the head of the table and sit among your family. Hasten, the darkness is deepening.

Soon the soft-shod Morpheus lowers his sable curtain, and all the world seeks its bed and travels to the City of Sleep. On the pillows of forgetfulness it lies, and covers its body with the blankets of peace. The bustle is stopped, and quarrels are over at last. Anger is gone and sorrow has fled. Now worry is routed, and misery made to halt. Here are the portals of repose; come and enter, O weeping eyes and wounded heart. Where are the tears, and what has become of pain? Ah, they enter not the beautiful land of oblivion, and of them the slumberers know naught. Soft is the air of dreamland,

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