of the young man you have ruined, together
with your husband and your child. Julie
may go with you."

It was strange to see the haughty Madame
Perrin, in the cringing and meekly-obedient
woman who now crawled across the salon,
and went to the room. Julie followed, having
kissed her father's forehead.

In due time Adolphe was liberated.
Monsieur Perrin calmly went through the forms
necessary to establish his wife's guilt, and
Adolphe's innocence. He sought an interview
with the prisoner; but, Adolphe
declined to see him. He remembered too well
the stern face that had risen up against him
in the court of justice.

The young prisoner was liberated at
length, and the day that saw him outside
the prison walls, also saw him on his way to
Havre. It is supposed that he went to
America; but, to this hour, he has never since
been heard of. All he left behind him was a
letter for Julie; which that sad girl keeps
warm in her bosom, as she follows her
mother from room to room in the far off
retirement to which Monsieur Perrin has
consigned them, and which, poor man, he shares
with them.

We have here, only one of the many little
tragedies that are played out, from day to
day, on the Place de la Bourse, to the horror
of the bystanders, and to the profit of
newspaper reporters.

APOTHECARIES.

ABOUT one hundred and fifty years ago,
talking like an apothecary was a proverbial
phrase for talking nonsense; and our early
dramatists, when they produced an apothecary
on the stage always presented him as a
garrulous and foolish man. It was in what
may be called the middle period of the history
of the apothecary's calling in this country
that it had thus fallen into grave contempt.
At first it was honoured, and it is now, at last,
honoured again. At first there were few of
the fraternity. Dr. Friend mentions a time
when there was only one apothecary in all
London. Now, there are in England and
Wales about seven thousand gentlemen who,
when tyros, took their freedom out to kill (or
cure) where stands a structure on a rising hill,

  Nigh where Fleet Ditch descends in sable streams,
  To wash his sooty Naiads in the Thames,

namely, at the Hall of the Worshipful Society
of Apothecaries in Blackfriars. Of course
apothecaries do not monopolise the licence
to kill, or we never should have heard
of that country in which it was a custom
to confer upon the public executioner, after
he had performed his office on a certain
number of condemned people, the degree of
doctor.

Against doctors, surgeons, and apothecaries
in this country, and at all times, many a
sneer has been levelled. What is said against
doctors and surgeons is equally true or false
here and elsewhere. The whole medical
republic may assert itself. Much, however,
that is said about apothecaries in this country
seems to be true — and is not true, for in
England the apothecary is a person differing
in almost every respect but name from the
apothecary of the continent; the word
Apothecary means even in England what it
does not mean in Scotland. We believe that
we are usefully employed in showing what is
really represented in this country by
Apothecaries' Hall.

Once upon a time, says Herodotus, in the
land of the wise there were no doctors. In
Egypt and Babylon the diseased were exposed
in the most public streets, and passers-by
were invited to look at them, in order that
they who had suffered under similar
complaints and had recovered, might tell what it
was that cured them. Nobody, says Strabo,
was allowed to go by without offering his
gratuitous opinion and advice. Then, since it
was found that this practical idea did not
work to perfection, the Egyptian priests made
themselves students of medicine, each man
binding himself to the study of one sole
disease. Nature, it is said, was studied, for
it was reported that the ibis taught the use
of injections and that from the hippopotamus
a lesson was got in phlebotomy. Pliny is
the authority for this, who says that the
hippopotamus, whenever he grows too
plethoric and unwieldy, opens a vein in his leg
with a sharp-pointed reed found on the banks
of Nile. The Greeks adopted and enlarged
what they found taught elsewhere about the
healing art, and had enough faith in the
necessity of medicine to provide the gods
with a professional attendant. Pluto, we are
told upon the best authority—  Homer's, of
course — when wounded by the arrow of
Hercules, applied to Pæon, the physician of
the gods, for surgical assistance, and obtained
relief. Pæon then was a general practitioner,
accepting cases both in medicine and
surgery.

In this country, there are, at this time,
three classes of men following the healing
art — physicians, surgeons, and those who
are best defined under the name of general
practitioners. Elsewhere there are two
classes only. Celsus and Galen both of them
lay down the divisions of the profession
distinctly. There were first the men who
cured by study of the processes of nature
in the human body, and by adapting to them
regimen and diet; these were the original
physicians, nature-students as their name
pronounces them. Secondly, there were the
chirurgeons or surgeons (hand-workers is
the meaning of their name), who attended to
the wounds and other ailments curable
by hand. Thirdly, there were the pharmacists,
who cured by drugs. Some of the
first class of practitioners used drugs; but,