I say dip, I never do more than dip into any book),
but also because young * * * * tells me that
which all whom I have met in this town confirm;
viz. that you are one of those few practical
chemists who are at once exceedingly cautious and
exceedingly bold—willing to try every new
experiment, but submitting experiment to rigid tests.
Well, I have an experiment running wild in this
giddy head of mine, and I want you, some day
when at leisure, to catch it, fix it as you have
fixed that cylinder: make something of it. I am
sure you can."

"What is it?"

"Something akin to the theories in your work.
You would replenish or preserve to each special
constitution the special substance that may fail to
the equilibrium of its health. But you own that
in a large proportion of cases the best cure of
disease is less to deal with the disease itself than
to support and stimulate the whole system, so as
to enable Nature to cure the disease and restore
the impaired equilibrium by her own agencies.
Thus, if you find that in certain cases of nervous
debility a substance like nitric acid is efficacious,
it is because the nitric acid has a virtue in locking
up, as it were, the nervous energy,—that is,
preventing all undue waste. Again, in some cases
of what is commonly called feverish cold, stimulants
like ammonia assist Nature itself to get rid
of the disorder that oppresses its normal action;
and, on the same principle, I apprehend, it is
contended that a large average of human lives is
saved in those hospitals which have adopted the
supporting system of ample nourishment and
alcoholic stimulants."

"Your medical learning surprises me," said I,
smiling, "and without pausing to notice where
it deals somewhat superficially with disputable
points in general, and my own theory in
particular, I ask you for the deduction you draw
from your premises."

"It is simply this: that to all animate bodies,
however various, there must be one principle
in common—the vital principle itself. What if
there be one certain means of recruiting that
principle? and what if that secret can be
discovered?"

"Pshaw! The old illusion of the mediæval
empirics."

"Not so. But the mediæval empirics were
great discoverers. You sneer at Van Helmont,
who sought, in water, the principle of all things;
but Van Helmont discovered in his search those
invisible bodies called gases. Now the principle
of life must be certainly ascribed to a gas.* And
whatever is a gas, chemistry should not despair
of producing! But I can argue no longer now—
never can argue long at a stretch—we are wasting
the morning; and, joy! the sun is up! See!
Out! come out! out! and greet the great Lifegiver
face to face."
* " According to the views we have mentioned, we
must ascribe life to a gas, that is, to an aëriform
body."—Liebig, Organic Chemistry, Playfair's
translation, p. 363.

I could not resist the young man's invitation.
In a few minutes we were in the quiet lane
under the glinting chesnut-trees. Margrave was
chanting, low, a wild tune—words in a strange
language.

"What words are those? no European
language, I think; for I know a little of most of
the languages which are spoken in our quarter of
the globe, at least by its more civilised races."

"Civilised races! What is civilisation? Those
words were uttered by men who founded empires
when Europe itself was not civilised! Hush,
is it not a grand old air?" and lifting his
eyes towards the sun, he gave vent to a voice
clear and deep as a mighty bell! The air was
grand—the words had a sonorous swell that suited
it, and they seemed to me jubilant and yet
solemn. He stopped abruptly, as a path from the
lane had led us into the fields, already half-bathed
in sunlight—dews glittering on the hedgerows.

"Your song," said I, "would go well with
the clash of cymbals or the peal of the organ.
I am no judge of melody, but this strikes me as
that of a religious hymn."

"I compliment you on the guess. It is a
Persian fire-worshipper's hymn to the sun. The
dialect is very different from modern Persian.
Cyrus the Great might have chanted it on his
march upon Babylon."

"And where did you learn it?"

"In Persia itself."

"You have travelled much—learned much—
and are so young and so fresh. Is it an impertinent
question, if I ask whether your parents are
yet living, or are you wholly lord of yourself?"

"Thank you for the question—pray make my
answer known in the town. Parents I have not
—never had."

"Never had parents!"

"Well, I ought rather to say that no parents
ever owned me. I am a natural son—a
vagabond—a nobody. When I came of age
I received an anonymous letter, informing me
that a sum—I need not say what—but more
than enough for all I need, was lodged at an
English banker's in my name; that my mother
had died in my infancy; that my father was also
dead—but recently; that as I was a child of
love, and lie was unwilling that the secret of my
birth should ever be traced, he had provided for
me, not by will, but in his life, by a sum
consigned to the trust of the friend who now wrote
to me; I need give myself no trouble to learn
more; faith, I never did. I am young, healthy,
rich—yes, rich! Now you know all, and you
had better tell it, that I may win no man's courtesy
and no maiden's love upon false pretences.
I have not even a right, you see, to the name I
bear. Hist! let me catch that squirrel."

With what a panther-like bound he sprang!
The squirrel eluded his grasp, and was up the
oak-tree; in a moment he was up the oak-tree too.
In amazement I saw him rising from bough to
bough;—saw his bright eyes and glittering teeth
through the green leaves; presently I heard the