The Bell of Kuang Sai.

ByEDWARD W. GILBERT.An original story written forThe Scrap Book.“They are ghouls, and their king it is who tolls.”

ByEDWARD W. GILBERT.

An original story written forThe Scrap Book.

“They are ghouls, and their king it is who tolls.”

“Heaven born, forbear anger; in one little half-hour, or an hour at most, the bearers shall be here, and we will go forward with the speed of dragons. In the meantime, I will place a rug for the Presence to sit upon, and give him fire that he may drink tobacco.”

Jarvis assented with a sulky grunt, tossed Chen, his Chinese runner, a cigar, and lay on his back smoking and staring up into the dark hollow of the great bell suspended on a stone tripod.

“After labor it is good to lie at ease and smoke, especially when the Presence, who is my father and mother, bestows such tobacco. If the Heaven Born desires, I will tell him the tale of the great bell under which we lie. I have permission? Thus runs the tale:

“Kublai-Chan, Lord of the Earth, desired greatly to leave a memory such as no other king should ever equal, and after much thought he called Kuang Sai, the great artist in all metals, and commanded:

“‘Let there be cast for me a great bell, such as never earth or heaven saw, of the finest metal, bossed with angels and demons, and so great that the sound thereof shall reach to the utmost border of my kingdom, that all may hear, and, hearing, know that in Kambalu reigns the king, and, knowing, tremble and obey him.’

“And Kuang Sai prostrated himself nine times, and said: ‘My lord wills it, and it is done.’

“And he called his master metal-workers, journeymen and apprentices, and took from the king’s treasury gold and silver and copper and fine bronze for the casting, and he took clay and wax and modeled the bell—great, beautifully formed; round the lip of it, lilies and pomegranate; round the body of it, the angels and devils of air and sound, with waving hair and garments, like sound-made flesh; the loops by which it was to hang, two imperial dragons.

“And when all was ready he made the mold, and his men lit the fires, and for two days labored they at the melting, casting into the pot the gold and silver and copper and fine bronze. And when it was melted with fervent heat, his master founder, the strong man, struck out the plug from the crucible, and let the red hot metal flow into the mold. Four days waited the cooling; then they broke the mold—and the great bell was flawed.

“And again he made the mold and melted the metal, and again cast it, and again it was flawed. And again and again, and yet again, and always the great bell was flawed, and must be broken and re-melted.

“Then Kuang Sai offered sacrifice to his gods, and his master metal-workers, journeymen and apprentices, according to their several degree, also offered sacrifice to their gods; and again they cast it, and again it was flawed.

“Two score times they cast it—and always the flaw. Kuang Sai grew thin and pale; he ate not, nor slept; for his honor laid in that casting—and always the flaw.

“He offered sacrifice to the high gods, the middle, and the less; to the lords of earth, air, sea, and sky; to all demons and rulers of the upper and under worlds; to gods and godlings. He prayed in all temples; he gave food and garments to the poor; he consulted all priests; he leaked rice and silver to all. The priests grew fat and sleek; an innumerable multitude of beggars lay at the gate of Kuang Sai; and still, when he cast the bell—the flaw.

“And on a day he was summoned to the footstool of the great Chan. He made the nine prostrations according to ritual, and waited; and presently, soft and low, the great Kublai-Chan spoke thus:

“‘Kuang Sai, I have given thee all things to make my bell, yet still thou hast failed after three score trials, whereby I am lacking my bell, and my honor is diminished. If in three more trials I have not my bell, you shall die the death of a thousand slices, and your house and all therein perish by fire. I have said it. You have my permission to depart.’

“Kuang Sai departed full of fear. That night he went to the little Temple of Forbidden Things, and paid the blind priest of that temple to call up by name the powers of air, water, fire, and earth, and ask which of the lords of all things he had offended, that he might make his peace and cast his bell.

“He sat at the foot of the naked altar, while the priest cast dust upon his head and called upon the high gods, the middle, and the less, by name—each by his name, title, dignity, and degree. He called upon all gods of city and field, of trees and fountains, great and small; and they answered not. Then he called on the demons and lords of particular things, of metals and tools, of trades and crafts.

“And when he called on the Lord of Bells, came the runner of the Lord of Bells—a demon terrible to behold, red in color, bristling with hair, short and broad of stature, squat and paunchy of figure, long of arm, wide-mouthed, and having three eyes.

“‘Kuang Sai,’ said he (and his voice was like the rolling of a great bell), ‘you have made sacrifice to all gods, but you have forgotten the great Lord of Bells.’

“At the name all the temple gongs boomed without being struck of hands.

“‘Therefore is he mocked of his fellows; and therefore, before he will suffer you to cast the king’s bell, my lord demands your most precious treasure. At the next founding, when the metal leaps red hot for the casting, bring your daughter’ (here Kuang Sai cried aloud and fell down with his face in the dust of the temple floor) ‘arrayed as a bride, and before the metal flows give her to the Lord of Bells; so shall the casting be good. If not, remember that the death of a thousand slices is long, for without this sacrifice never will my lord suffer you to cast that bell.’

“And he disappeared, making noises like a bell.

“Kuang Sai went forth, staggering, and all night he walked and thought; and at morn he said ‘No,’ and went to the casting—and again the flaw. And he sat dumb and motionless and ground his teeth, and again said ‘No,’ and went to the casting—and again the flaw.

“Excellency, all that a man has, down to his skin, will he give for his life; and near to me is my shirt, but nearer my skin; and if the third casting failed he died in agony and his name was blotted out. There be men who would have died, but living among pictures and statues and singing men and women does not breed the courage that says ‘Then I can die.’

“On the day of the last casting, what time the pot bubbled full of red hot metal, over which floated light clouds of heat, came Kuang Sai, leading by the hand his little daughter, Fen Sai, blooming as a white water-lily, tripping on her little pearl-embroidered shoes, chattering and laughing in her father’s face.

“They came to the scaffold over the mouth of the great melting-pot, and as they came the master founder, the strong man, cried: ‘Master, behold the casting waits.’

“And Kuang Sai suddenly caught up his little daughter and cast her into the molten metal. Once she cried, very awful to hear—once, and no more; for or ever she touched the metal the fierce heat licked her up as a drop of wine is dried on a hot stone. And as she fell, one of her little shoes dropped off onto the scaffold.

“‘To the casting,’ said Kuang Sai, and the strong man struck out the plug of the crucible, and the metal, glowing red and green and golden, flowed into the mold. Four days waited they the cooling, and they broke the mold—and behold, the great bell, perfect, flawless, the wonder of the world for ages; the bell under which we now lie.

“And Kublai-Chan said:

“‘Let Kuang Sai be clothed in the imperial yellow; give to him the mandarin’s crystal button, and write on a tablet at my palace gate, in letters of vermilion: “Kuang Sai, the Incomparable Artificer, Whom the King Delights to Honor.”’

“And they clothed Kuang Sai and bowed down before him, giving him due honor according to command.

“Then masons built the stone pillars and hung the great bell, and on a day came Kublai-Chan to ring it for the first time, and with him, at his right hand, Kuang Sai, whom he delighted to honor.

“And when all things were prepared, Kublai-Chan, the great king, drew back the striking-beam with all force, and rang the great bell, and sound came forth, deep, sweet, and full as the voices of the gods.

“Far, far away spread the circles of sound, even to the edge of the kingdom. The multitudes gathered around and fell down before that voice in rows, as corn before the reaper. The farmer in the field heard and fell down before the voice of the king’s bell. At the edge of the kingdom the Tatar heard it, and checked his horse, wondering.

“And little by little the sound rippled down again to silence, but as the sound died there came a buzzing and whispering inside the bell, and it grew and grew sharper and louder, into a second peal—clear, sharp, cutting the heart like a knife—the scream of a woman in pain, fright, and horror beyond measure.

“Kublai-Chan covered his lips with his hand, for kings should not be seen to tremble. His guards, strong men, red-haired, tigers nourished by blood, looked on each other with white faces, and Kuang Sai, in his robes of honor, crouched and scrabbled in the dirt with his fingers and whispered and driveled.

“They led him away, and all his life long he had no more the light of reason, but sat and mowed and muttered and laughed foolishly, except when the king’s bell rang, and then he would fall and lie with his mouth in the dust.

“Behold! in an auspicious hour here come the bearers. Shall we walk to meet them? My tale has eaten up the waiting. But Heaven Born doubts its truth. Before we go, I will ring the great bell for him.”

Chen caught the suspended beam by which Chinese bells are rung, swung it, and struck the shining side of the bell, and the deep boom echoed over the flat plain. It was truly a tremendous sound, and justified the belief that it could be heard to the confines of the kingdom, and gradually the rippling circles of sound died down to silence.

Jarvis, standing with his hands in his belt, was forming his lips to say, ‘But where’s the scream?’ when Chen raised his hand for silence, and then, within the arch of the great bell, began a buzzing, like bees—a little sound, like trickling water or the roaring in a shell; and this thread of sound grew and gathered till suddenly there pealed out, full-throated, the cry of a woman in agony of body and soul—a sound to dream of and wake at night with your teeth on edge.

“That, excellency,” said Chen, “is Fen Sai crying for her shoe.”

Jarvis answered nothing, but he walked faster toward the coming bearers, and though the sun was hot on his back, his bones felt cold.

Man could direct his ways by plain reason and support his life by tasteless food; but God has given us wit, and flavor, and brightness, and laughter, and performers, to enliven the days of man’s pilgrimage, and to charm his pained steps over the burning marl.—Sidney Smith. (1771–1845.)

HOHENLINDEN.AN IMPRESSIVE POEM INSPIRED BY THE DEFEAT OF THE AUSTRIANS BY THE FRENCH IN DECEMBER, 1800.Thomas Campbell (1777–1844) is one of those writers who composed many elaborate works, yet whose fame rests wholly upon three or four short poems which have become classic. Among these is “Hohenlinden,” written immediately after the battle of that name, fought on December 3, 1800, between the French, under Moreau, and the Archduke John, in command of the Austrian army.It was one of the most hotly contested battles of the Napoleonic wars, and was decided by the valor of Marshal Ney, the Austrians being routed with a loss of twenty thousand men. The battle made a profound impression in England, and inspired Campbell to dash off these stirring lines, which in the speed of their composition and their martial spirit remind one of Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”ByTHOMAS CAMPBELL.On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulph’rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

HOHENLINDEN.

AN IMPRESSIVE POEM INSPIRED BY THE DEFEAT OF THE AUSTRIANS BY THE FRENCH IN DECEMBER, 1800.

Thomas Campbell (1777–1844) is one of those writers who composed many elaborate works, yet whose fame rests wholly upon three or four short poems which have become classic. Among these is “Hohenlinden,” written immediately after the battle of that name, fought on December 3, 1800, between the French, under Moreau, and the Archduke John, in command of the Austrian army.

It was one of the most hotly contested battles of the Napoleonic wars, and was decided by the valor of Marshal Ney, the Austrians being routed with a loss of twenty thousand men. The battle made a profound impression in England, and inspired Campbell to dash off these stirring lines, which in the speed of their composition and their martial spirit remind one of Tennyson’s “Charge of the Light Brigade.”

ByTHOMAS CAMPBELL.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flashed the red artillery.But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulph’rous canopy.The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!Few, few shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

On Linden, when the sun was low,All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;And dark as winter was the flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

On Linden, when the sun was low,

All bloodless lay th’ untrodden snow;

And dark as winter was the flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

But Linden saw another sight,When the drum beat, at dead of night,Commanding fires of death to lightThe darkness of her scenery.

But Linden saw another sight,

When the drum beat, at dead of night,

Commanding fires of death to light

The darkness of her scenery.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,Each horseman drew his battle-blade,And furious every charger neighed,To join the dreadful revelry.

By torch and trumpet fast arrayed,

Each horseman drew his battle-blade,

And furious every charger neighed,

To join the dreadful revelry.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,Then rushed the steed to battle driven,And louder than the bolts of heavenFar flashed the red artillery.

Then shook the hills with thunder riven,

Then rushed the steed to battle driven,

And louder than the bolts of heaven

Far flashed the red artillery.

But redder yet that light shall glowOn Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,And bloodier yet the torrent flowOf Iser, rolling rapidly.

But redder yet that light shall glow

On Linden’s hills of stainèd snow,

And bloodier yet the torrent flow

Of Iser, rolling rapidly.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sunCan pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,Where furious Frank and fiery HunShout in their sulph’rous canopy.

’Tis morn, but scarce yon level sun

Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun,

Where furious Frank and fiery Hun

Shout in their sulph’rous canopy.

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,Who rush to glory or the grave!Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,And charge with all thy chivalry!

The combat deepens. On, ye brave,

Who rush to glory or the grave!

Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave,

And charge with all thy chivalry!

Few, few shall part where many meet!The snow shall be their winding-sheet,And every turf beneath their feetShall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

Few, few shall part where many meet!

The snow shall be their winding-sheet,

And every turf beneath their feet

Shall be a soldier’s sepulcher.

NEW FRIENDS ON OLD PLATES.

The Grist That Now Comes to the Breakfast Mill Indicates That Men Soon Will Be Able to Dine Sumptuously on Cereals Which Have Been Reduced to the Constituency of Mere Mental Suggestion.

Ihear the scientist in griefWith all the strength he has moan—“Why will the public feed on beef?Why don’t they take to plasmon?Give up your pork and venison, too,Give up your lamb and mutton;There’s in a penn’orth—nay, it’s true—Enough to gorge a glutton.“Its natural organic salt,Its nutritive albumenWill make the sick sound, heal the halt,And make the palsied new men.And it fulfils my dearest wish—O sing its praises louder!—You need no knife or plate or dish,You take it in a powder.“Buy it, and see your means expand,You’ll spend less and you’ll waste less—It saves the cost of cooking—andI guarantee it tasteless,And think as it new strength instilsAnd with new health you throb, you’llSoon take your alcohol in pillsAnd breakfast in a globule.”But though for food be plasmon fit,Its praise in me quickenSuch cravings that the thought of itMakes me feel famine-stricken.And think you then my meal shall beOn plasmon?—Fiddle-faddle!The simple sirloin still for me,And now and then the saddle!St. James’s Gazette.

Ihear the scientist in grief

With all the strength he has moan—

“Why will the public feed on beef?

Why don’t they take to plasmon?

Give up your pork and venison, too,

Give up your lamb and mutton;

There’s in a penn’orth—nay, it’s true—

Enough to gorge a glutton.

“Its natural organic salt,Its nutritive albumenWill make the sick sound, heal the halt,And make the palsied new men.And it fulfils my dearest wish—O sing its praises louder!—You need no knife or plate or dish,You take it in a powder.

“Its natural organic salt,

Its nutritive albumen

Will make the sick sound, heal the halt,

And make the palsied new men.

And it fulfils my dearest wish—

O sing its praises louder!—

You need no knife or plate or dish,

You take it in a powder.

“Buy it, and see your means expand,You’ll spend less and you’ll waste less—It saves the cost of cooking—andI guarantee it tasteless,And think as it new strength instilsAnd with new health you throb, you’llSoon take your alcohol in pillsAnd breakfast in a globule.”

“Buy it, and see your means expand,

You’ll spend less and you’ll waste less—

It saves the cost of cooking—and

I guarantee it tasteless,

And think as it new strength instils

And with new health you throb, you’ll

Soon take your alcohol in pills

And breakfast in a globule.”

But though for food be plasmon fit,Its praise in me quickenSuch cravings that the thought of itMakes me feel famine-stricken.And think you then my meal shall beOn plasmon?—Fiddle-faddle!The simple sirloin still for me,And now and then the saddle!St. James’s Gazette.

But though for food be plasmon fit,

Its praise in me quicken

Such cravings that the thought of it

Makes me feel famine-stricken.

And think you then my meal shall be

On plasmon?—Fiddle-faddle!

The simple sirloin still for me,

And now and then the saddle!

St. James’s Gazette.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

By Aloysius Coll.

His eyes are balls of polished steel;His lungs are sponges dried;His blood is bouillon-concentrateIn veins of leather hide.His muscles creak like pulley ropesWhen hurried into play;His hair is like piano chords—Some chords are lost, they say.His heart’s a little globe of punk—A house of constant gloom,For love can never burn within,Because there isn’t room.His appetite has dwindled downTo fit his little food.Till fruit is “water in a poke”And bread is “so much wood.”Hot apple-tarts and pumpkin-pies—He reads of them aghast:And waffles brown and chicken-stewAre “terrors of the past.”And, smiling, from his vest he slipsA tiny box of tin,With capsules brown and pellets pinkAll rattling within.Then, with a gulp, he swallows downHis dinner from the can—This product of the health-food school,The Concentrated Man!What to Eat.

His eyes are balls of polished steel;His lungs are sponges dried;His blood is bouillon-concentrateIn veins of leather hide.

His eyes are balls of polished steel;

His lungs are sponges dried;

His blood is bouillon-concentrate

In veins of leather hide.

His muscles creak like pulley ropesWhen hurried into play;His hair is like piano chords—Some chords are lost, they say.

His muscles creak like pulley ropes

When hurried into play;

His hair is like piano chords—

Some chords are lost, they say.

His heart’s a little globe of punk—A house of constant gloom,For love can never burn within,Because there isn’t room.

His heart’s a little globe of punk—

A house of constant gloom,

For love can never burn within,

Because there isn’t room.

His appetite has dwindled downTo fit his little food.Till fruit is “water in a poke”And bread is “so much wood.”

His appetite has dwindled down

To fit his little food.

Till fruit is “water in a poke”

And bread is “so much wood.”

Hot apple-tarts and pumpkin-pies—He reads of them aghast:And waffles brown and chicken-stewAre “terrors of the past.”

Hot apple-tarts and pumpkin-pies—

He reads of them aghast:

And waffles brown and chicken-stew

Are “terrors of the past.”

And, smiling, from his vest he slipsA tiny box of tin,With capsules brown and pellets pinkAll rattling within.

And, smiling, from his vest he slips

A tiny box of tin,

With capsules brown and pellets pink

All rattling within.

Then, with a gulp, he swallows downHis dinner from the can—This product of the health-food school,The Concentrated Man!What to Eat.

Then, with a gulp, he swallows down

His dinner from the can—

This product of the health-food school,

The Concentrated Man!

What to Eat.

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

The shades of night were falling fastAs down the café aisle there passedA girl who bore what looked like rice,Yet called she it by this device—“Excelsior!”“’Tis not ‘Sawdusto,’ she explained,“Nor ‘Mat in Middlings,’ hulled and grained,Nor yet ‘Near-Fodder,’ nor ‘Chew-Chew’—This breakfast food is something NEW—“Excelsior!”Boston Post.

The shades of night were falling fastAs down the café aisle there passedA girl who bore what looked like rice,Yet called she it by this device—“Excelsior!”

The shades of night were falling fast

As down the café aisle there passed

A girl who bore what looked like rice,

Yet called she it by this device—

“Excelsior!”

“’Tis not ‘Sawdusto,’ she explained,“Nor ‘Mat in Middlings,’ hulled and grained,Nor yet ‘Near-Fodder,’ nor ‘Chew-Chew’—This breakfast food is something NEW—“Excelsior!”Boston Post.

“’Tis not ‘Sawdusto,’ she explained,

“Nor ‘Mat in Middlings,’ hulled and grained,

Nor yet ‘Near-Fodder,’ nor ‘Chew-Chew’—

This breakfast food is something NEW—

“Excelsior!”

Boston Post.

REMEDIES WORSE THAN DISEASE.

Many Freak Medicines Which Were Used By the Ancients Are Paralleled By Gruesome Compounds That Are Inflicted To-Day on Patients in China and Some Parts of Europe—A Wonderful Lotion for Bald Heads.

The most unsavory concoctions of the modern pharmacy are as the nectar of the gods when compared with the medicines of ancient times. It would seem that physicians in those days taxed their ingenuity to its utmost to invent the gruesome horrors which they prescribed.

Certainly the fiends who were usually supposed to be the cause of sickness must have been a courageous lot of chaps if they withstood the doses they were treated to.

What would one think nowadays of a doctor who prescribed the blood from a black cat’s tail for skin troubles, live toads tied behind the ear to stop bleeding, or powdered spiders as an unfailing remedy for various diseases?

Mayerne, a French physician, who is said to have numbered among his patients two French and three English sovereigns—Henry IV and Louis XIII of France, and James I, Charles I, and Charles II of England—was fond of dosing his patients with “pulverized human bones.”

A chief ingredient in his gout powder consisted of “raspings of a human skull unburied.” In the composition of his celebrated “balsam of bats” he employed “adders, bats, sucking whelps, earth-worms, hog’s grease, the marrow of a stag, and the thigh-bone of an ox.”

Dr. Boleyn (of the same family as Queen Anne Boleyn), a physician in the reign of Elizabeth, prescribed for a child suffering under a certain nervous malady, “a small young mouse roasted.” The same doctor stated that “snayles broken from the shelles and sodden in whyte wyne with oyle and sugar are very holsome, because they be hoat and moist for the straightness of the lungs and cold cough.”

Belief in the efficacy of charms and amulets was once universal with the faculty, and precious stones were regarded as sovereign remedies. The hyacinth and topaz hung about the neck or taken in drink were certain “to resist sorrow and recreate the heart.” The sapphire was “a great enemy to black choler,” and was believed to “free the mind and mend manners.”

A certain kind of onyx was supposed to preserve the vigor and good estate of the whole body. One physician went so far as to declare that “in the body of a swallow there is a stone found called chelidonius, which, if it be lapped in a fair cloth and tied to the right arm, will cure lunatics, madmen, and make them amiable and merry.” Herbs were also in great request, and daisy-tea was accounted a certain cure for gout and rheumatism.

A formula for hair tonic which is given in the oldest book on medical practise now known—a book written at Heliopolis, where Joseph once served in the house of Potiphar—is described as a “means for increasing the growth of the hair, prepared for Schesch, the mother of Teta, the King of Upper and Lower Egypt.” Dogs’ teeth, overripe dates, and asses’ hoofs were carefully cooked in oil and then grated.

As Teta lived before Cheops, this recipe for hair-oil is older than the great pyramid at Gizeh, and is supposed to date back more than six thousand years.

Three drops of the blood of an angry cat gave relief to the epileptic.

The heads of venomous serpents have held an important place in medicine. A strong broth made from them and mixed with salt and spices and one hundred other remedies was employed under the name of theriac as a cure for every conceivable disease.

Curious survivals of this old belief in the efficacy of certain reptiles and insects as cures for human ills occasionally come to light, even in this advanced age. In New England, cobweb pills are supposed to be good for the ague, and in the South a certain knuckle-bone in a pig’s foot is a cure for rheumatism, if it be carried in the pocket or worn suspended from a string around the neck. The spider-web pill originated in China, where all species of insects have certain positive or negative values in medicine.

Among the learned physicians of Pekin it is customary to give two or three scorpions or spiders to a patient ill of fever.

In Ireland, the peasantry swallow small spiders alive to effect cures. From these to the cobweb pill of the New England native was easy.

In Flanders, the live spider is fastened into the empty shell of a walnut and worn around the neck of the patient. As the creature dies, the fever decreases until it is gone entirely.

Among jewels, the ruby was considered good for derangements of the liver, as well as for bad eyes.

The sapphire and emerald were credited with properties which rendered them capable of influencing ophthalmic disorders, and there is a superstitious belief that serpents are blinded by looking at the latter stone.

Temperance advocates, if they have any regard for the beliefs of the Greeks and Romans, might seriously consider the advisability of distributing amethysts among drunkards, for it was supposed that these stones prevented intoxication.

Most of our readers have no doubt heard of the precious jewel which the toad carries in his brain-box, and so-called toad-stones, which were in reality the teeth of fossil fish, were formerly worn in finger-rings as a protection against poisons.

Although popularly supposed to be itself a deadly poison, the diamond has from remote ages been credited with the power of protecting the wearer from the evil effects of other poisons, a reputation which it retained until comparatively recent times.

The superstitious use of jewels is not so intolerable to think of, and certainly would be less offensive to practise, but it is evident that the patient’s recovery during this period was owing to good luck rather than to good management.

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