A few deaths directly occasioned by the
use of Chloroform or ether are, therefore, no
more to be adduced as arguments against the
employment of those agents, than a few—or
a great many—deaths by railway, are arguments
for the complete abolition of the
railway system. Chloroform and railways
are both blessings to humanity; but it is
requisite that they should both be managed
carefully. It is a fact very much to the
credit of the medical profession that instances
of accident by Chloroform are so much rarer
than railway accidents.

When we before discussed this subject, we
mentioned those cases in which especially
Chloroform or ether should not be employed;
but, we repeat—as it is a kind of information
which it is advantageous for the Chloroform-inhaling
public to bear well in mind—that
the use of such agents is rarely safe in the
case of persons suffering under disease of the
brain or spinal marrow; of the heart or lungs,
having an intermittent pulse; or when they
are in a weak and pallid bodily condition.
Experience also shows that fatal results have
often followed the administration of Chloroform
to persons who had exhibited a decisive
and unaccountable dread of it. This is a
curious fact which we may account for as we
please, either by some theory of instinct, or by
some superstition of the fore-cast shadow of
approaching fate.

THE SECRET OF THE STREAM.

WHEN the silver stars looked down from Heaven
To smile the world to rest,
A woman, from all refuge driven,
Her little babe caress'd,
And thus she sang:

"Sleep within thy mother's arms,
Folded to thy mother's heart,
Folded to the breast that warms
Only from its inward smart,
Only from the pent-up flame
Burning fiercely at its core,
Cherished by my loss and shame:
Shall I live to suffer more?
Shall I live to bear the pangs
Of the world's neglect and scorn?
Hark! the distant belfry clangs
Welcome to the coming morn.
Shall I live to see it rise?
Is 't not better far to die?
Shall I gaze upon the skies—
Gaze upon them shamelessly?
Clasp me, babe, around my neck,
Do not fear me for the sobs
That I cannot, cannot check.
Oh! another moment robs
Life of all its painful breath,
Waking us from this sad dream,
E'en the wretched rest in death.
Hark! the murmur of the stream.
Nestle closely, cheek to cheek;
Let us hasten to the wave,
Where is found what we would seek,
Death, oblivion, and a grave."

And the tide rolls on for ever
Of that dark and silent river;
And beneath the wave-foam sparkling,
'Mid the weeds embowered and darkling,
There they lie near one another,
Youthful child and youthful mother;
And the tide rolls on for ever
Of that swift and silent river.

GABRIEL'S MARRIAGE.

IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER THE SECOND.

"I MAY marry Rose with a clear conscience
now! " There are some parts of the world,
where it would be drawing no natural picture
of human nature to represent a son as believing
conscientiously that an offence against life
and the laws of hospitality, secretly committed
by his father, rendered him, though innocent
of all participation in it, unworthy to fulfil his
engagement with his affianced wife. Among
the simple inhabitants of Gabriel's province,
however, such acuteness of conscientious sensibility
as this was no extraordinary exception
to all general rules. Ignorant and superstitious
as they might be, the people of Brittany
practised the duties of hospitality as devoutly
as they practised the duties of the national
religion. The presence of the stranger-guest,
rich or poor, was a sacred presence at their
hearths. His safety was their especial charge
—his property their especial responsibility.
They might be half-starved, but they were
ready to share the last crust with him nevertheless,
as they would share it with their own
children. Any outrage on the virtue of hospitality,
thus born and bred in the people,
was viewed by them with universal disgust,
and punished by universal execration. This
ignominy was uppermost in Gabriel's thoughts
by the side of his grandfather's bed; the
dread of this worst dishonour, which there
was no wiping out, held him speechless before
Rose, shamed and horrified him so that he felt
unworthy to look her in the face; and when
the result of his search at the Merchant's
Table proved the absence there of all evidence of
the crime spoken of by the old man, the blessed
relief, the absorbing triumph of that discovery
was expressed entirely in the one thought
which had prompted his first joyful words:—
He could marry Rose with a clear conscience,
for he was the son of an honest man!

When he returned to the cottage, François
had not come back. Rose was astonished
at the change in Gabriel's manner; even
Pierre and the children remarked it. Rest
and warmth had by this time so far recovered
the younger brother, that he was able
to give some account of the perilous adventures
of the night at sea. They were still
listening to the boy's narrative when François
at last returned. It was now Gabriel
who held out his hand, and made the first
advances towards reconciliation.

To his utter amazement, his father recoiled
from him. The variable temper of François