The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, November 8, 1896, Page 16

16 "THE SAN FRANCISCO CALL, SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 8, 1896. \ 20205 It was certainly one of the most unpleasant things I had ever had to do, and there were a good many unpleasant things to be done by a man in my position during those stormy years; in fact, I do not think I am going beyond the mark if I say that I was the pivot of the whole unhappy con- cern. There were moments, of course, when I felt the importance of my position, and there were yet other moments—stili more frequent—when I enjoyed the amplitude of my salary. But you must remember that I am a man of feeling, and it could not but be painful for a man of that kind to be the immediate instrument of death to so many unfortunate people. Of course one got used to 1t. Most of the brave pzople who died during those years were polite enough to make things pleasant for me, and I was always as amiable as I could be to them. Ah! they died well, those ladies and gentlemen! With all our revolutions we have had none since like them, They would mount my scaffoid with all the air of people entering a salon for a gay party, and then they would make me their bows and they would engage me ina pleasant conversation; and if I was, unfortunately, compelled to interrupt them by a reminder of my other engagements they would consent in the most reasonable manner to adjourn the talk to #nother and more remote scene. It was the rarest thing in the world for me to have to use any force. Most of them would allow me to pinion them, and would then save me all further trcuble by laying themselves Gguetly on the plank, for all the world as if they were composing them- selves for sleep. And then I would touch my spring, and the great white blade would descend quickly, and before another minute was out the whole thing wonid be over, and both my victim and I would part from one another with a most pleasant sense of having spent an agreeable minute. Itis true that sometimes there would be no time for conversation. The Tribunal was often most inconsiderate, and the Public Prosecutor became 2 very rapid gentleman toward the end of that time. My first big catch came from that body of gentlemen who called themselves the “Gridirons.” Fine féllows those, and never a murmur did I hear from their lips—as considerate to me as if I was doing them the greatest favor in the world. ButIam wandering—I must back to my tale. I am get- ting old, and age is garrulous. I said that few of them struggled.” But Camille Desmoulins was no ordinary man. Some fools have calied bim a coward because he would not keep still in the cart, but I will stake my soul that there was no look ot feur in his foce when he came to me. It was just anger—mere blind fu He felt himse!f caught, I think, in a sort of trap. Poor young fel- low! I{eit quite sorry that he should have fallen into my hands, thongh, as I say, I always made the business as pleasant 2s I could. But he was very young, and, in his struggles, as he was coming along, he had wriggled 50 as to get his arms out of the ropes that bound them and his jacket had worked itself right off, and his shirt was torn in numbers of places. The ropes twisted and he was suffering acutely, as I could see. T'hat great, shaggy villain, Danton, was standing next to him in the carts and I saw that he was upbraiding him. “Why mind them?’ I heard him say. la cette vile canaille.” It is wonderiul what a uteful and interesting place mine was for ob- serving men’s characters, and, though I do not like to say it of a brave man, even Danton quailed a little as he put his first foot on my elegant staircase. I heard his words, ana they rang through me in a curious manner; for I could not help thinking of my own Charlotte and the little ones at home—a reflection natural to & man of feeling. He paused as he placed his foot on the lowest step and turned round to look back at the people. And then a sort of spasm passed over his great face, and it seemed almost as if he thought of struggling against fate—of turning like some great lion to rend the cowardly wretches behind him. He tossed Lis head back, and his great shaggy head of hair was like the mane of a lion. With a rapid change—as 1f he realized in a moment the hopelessness of his thoughts—his head sank and he 2lmost tottered on the step. And then it was that I heard that cry of his which touched me so, *Oh, my wife, my beloved, I shall never see thee more!” Butit was only fora moment. The ereat lion pulled himself together immediately afterward, and T heard him say to himself as he mounted the stairs with a strong step—many others heard it also—*Danton, no weakness.”” And then he submitted himself 10 my pinioning with the most agreeable politeness, and turning to the people smiled his great farewell, as if he were about to step into one of those wineshops that he loved so well. “Show my head to the people’’—those were his last words to me— “Slow my head to the people, it is worth while; they do not see the like every day."” Other listeners heard these sayings and have repeated them; but I was nearer to him than any other. and heard them the most clearly. Camille came next. As he mounted my stairs with his torn shirt and his poor bleeding arm, he seemed dumb with a sort of impotent fury. I sorry for the poor fellow; for I once knew what it was to be young myself, and life was very sweet then. Besides, it was so short a time since that he had been one of the most successful and brilliant men in France— the beloved of the people, the hero of the Palais Royal, the accepted bride- groom of Lucile Duplessis, and anaccomplished litterateur and journalist, 1t haa been but a few days since all this had changed, and I could see that he was still dazed with the shock of his sudden fall. So I laid myself out to be as polite as possible to the excellent young man in his last few min- utes. “Allow me,” I said, “to replace Citizen Camille’s coat; Ifear that the rope has impeded him.” He looked up with a shrug of surprise as it astonished to meet with voliteness in such a place. That was unreasonable of h.m, for I always prided myself on the perfection of manners that prevailed on that piat- form. He turned round and allowed me to untie his hands and replace his coat. *‘Iv seems a small matter,” I said; “butitis well to do these things elegantly.” During these years my society was so much among the refined and elegant that I had picked up a very nice sense of taste and decorum, which I have since lost in my unfortunate poverty. 1 was relieved when the young man’s silence broke— “Thanks, my good fello: you no grudge.”’ That was pleasantly said, and it helped to ease matters between us. “Mine,” I said, *‘is &n honorable function. I am the concierge of the Unknown.” Camille smiled. He liked to hear a pretty phrase. He conld make them himsell, even better than I. “You keep up your spirits,”” he said. ““Wby not?” Ireplied. “Iam engaged in a work of cure that need not be repeated.” “True, true,” he said, and there seemed to be a deep ring in his voice as he spoke. 1 hardly liked to interrupt so pleasant a conversation—one of the most pleasant that I can remember in the many talks I have had with eminent men. But time was pressing, and there were many others waiting for their interview with me. My anteroom—as one of our Emperor's min- isters might put it—was crowded; so by a gentle turn of the hand I inti- mated to Camille that if he was ready it would be convenient for me to proceed. 3 And then it was that the good fellow took advantage of my friendli- -ness to lay on me the task which I have already referred to as being the least pleasant I had ever had to perform. He looked at me for a minute as if gauging my worth, ana then, asif satisfied, he said ‘without moving: *‘As you have a kind heart, my good fellow, do one small thing for me.” I wasa busy man in those days and had made a rule of refusing to carry out the requests of the gentlemen who visited me on that platform. This may seem hard-hearted, but you will understand that at such a mo- ment most men have a last message to give or a last memorial to leave, and if I had once made myself into a handy porter for these things I shouid have no time for my real work. ! But in this case the man’s plight touched me. He was leaving behina him a young wife and a young child, and I knew what that meant. Sol parleyed with bim—weakly, you will say; but I repeat that I am a man ot feeling. *“The citizen will understand,” I said, “that such a course is most unusual. I may be the concierge of the next world, but I am not a porter in this.” Camille did not smile at my joke this time. He leaned forward toward me, and addressed me in the most pathetic tones. “For pity’s sake,” he cried, ““do this for me! Itis but a small service for a dying man. Round my neck hangs a locket—a locket with my wife’s bairin it. I should have hidden it from these scoundrels, but I have been so closely watched that I could do nothing. Unfasten it and take it this evening to my wife's mother, Citizeness Duplessis. She will keep it and give it to my wife when—when that is possible.” He was so earnest and impassioned, and the crowd were getting so impatient at the delay, that I thought the easiest way would be to a sent, * knew what the poor man meant. He had probably heard that after- noon—I conjectured from what 1 knew—that his wife had taken his place in prison. Well, it is a sad world, and I should not like to think that I increlised the sorrow of it; and so [ took the locket and put it in my pocket, and I hud no further trouble with him. It was not until after I had finished my work that afterncon that it came on me in a flash that I had forzotten to ask the Citizen Duplessis’ address. How was I to execute my. errand? Of course it would be an + easy thing not to do it, and a voice whispered to me t:at the locket might fetch a very decent price. But though I do not say that I have not sometimes made a small and “That wretched scum—Laissez "’ he said; “thanks, my good fellow. I bear reasonable profit out of. such things—given to me very often as gifts of gratitude by the distinguished persons who have come to me—yet in this case I felt somehow or other that it would not do. I would hunt out the Citizen Duplessis somehow or other. Such things are alwavs possible to & man of determination. And soI trudeed aiong to the Rue du Theatre Francais, and called first at poor Camiile’s own heuse. I found a poor old servant in tears, and the house empty and in confusion. Lucile had gone that day, and the child had been removed by Citizen Duplessis himself. The old man was very taikative, and though it somewhat bored me to talk 1o people of that class after the company to which I had been accustomed I could not help s aying and trying to assnage his grief. He took me all through the house and showed me the disordered rooms, the furniture thrown over, and wearing apparal scattered about carelessiy and indiffer- ently. T was so full of compassion for the poor old man that I nearly got myself into trouble by what I was led to say. "*Well, well,” I said, after another outburst of his grief. *Well, well, he died very bravely.” There was probably a slicht professional ring in my utterance, as of a critic in such matters. ‘‘He died bravely ?’ said the old man. *‘Then did you see him die?” “‘Yes, yes,”” I said, somewhat taken aback, for it always takes me a slight effort of imagination to remember the view which prejudiced per- sons take of my profession. *Yes, I happened to see him die,” I said Wwith an air of insouciance. The old man immediately overwhelmed me with quesiions. “‘Did he bear himself? Did he brezk down? Did he look very pale? Did he say anything to the peopte? Was he executed first, second, third ®’ and soon. “How long did it take? How did he look in the cart?” It was with the greatest trouble that I escaped from his endless chat- ter, satisfying him as well as I could on all the points, while carefully con- cealing the particular part 1 had played in the event. Fortunately for ‘i Ty ik AL LAY h.“\i sy @ M umzmmm j “1 TOOK 'THE LOCKET THAT HUNG ROUND HIS NECK.” me, he was 8o absorbed in sorrow for his m aster that my request for Citi- zen Duplessis’ address aroused no suspicion. I suppose he thought that I was a friend of the family, for he gave itto me almost automatically. Be- ing a man of business, I took down the address very carefully on a piece of paper, and, thrasting it into my pocket, I took advantage of the diver- sion thus caused to take a hurried farewell and escape as quickly as 1 could from the old man’s company. As I walked down the street I could still see the old man standing at the door of the dismantled house, look- ing after me wistfully, with great tear-drops rolling down his old face. You can imagine how painful that was for a man of feeling.* The house of Citizen Duplessis turned out to be in the Rue des Arcs, and I walked quickly, as I was longing to get back to my wife and family and spend a pleasant evening. I am not unsusceptible to flattery, and I will confess that I,always derived considerable pleasure during that period from the polite salutations I received at the hands of those whom I suppose I must call my employers. In the course of this short walk I met a zood many of them—strong Jacobins, believers in theé Terror, who valued my services. But I suppose my nerves had beena little jarred, for I seemed to notice more than usunal their lack of breeding and fine manners. Their loud voices and coarse laughter were never agreeable to me, but that evening they were even lessso than usual. Their great tri- color rosettes seemed ridiculous to me, and I almost laughed at the cowardly prominence with which they wore their “cards of surety” stuck in the ribbons of their hats or pinned on to their coats. They did not de- ceive me, these fellows. I knew that they were all frightened to death of one another, and, what is more, I knew that they had reason. When one presides over such an institution as mine one sees pretty deep into things and for my part [ could never tell whether I should not meet one of these coquines on a different footing within twenty-four hours. How- ever closely they might be shaved, there was no knowing whether they would not be shaved yet more closely on the morrow! As I walked I had time to reflect on my position and the task [ had in hand, and I did not come to view it with more complacency. I was a fairly famous man in those days, and even Citizen Duplessis.might knoyv me by sight. It is hard fora man to be checked in the exercise of his benevolent feelings, and I could easily foresee that if Citizen Duplessis recognized me, he might treat me in a manner highly painful to one of so gensitive a disposition. This feeling so worked on me that when I arrived at the house in the Rue des Arcs I had fully made up my mind that I would acquit myself of my errand as speedily as possible and get back to my home. I would noteven see the citizen; I would leave the locket with the servant and go my way. I rang the bell, and a young servant appeared whose eyes were very red. I could not help suspecting that she had been weeping. - I. have ever beén susceptible to the charms of female beauty, and I could not suppress a pang of pity for the poer girl, who was very comely. And soit was, I suppose, that I couched my message in tones that were unfortunately sympathetic. “Is this the house,” I'began interrogatively, “of Citizen Dunplessis, the father-in-law of the unfortunate citizen Camille Desmoulins?” “Yes, citizen, it is,”’ said the girl, with a sob in her throat, almost break- ing into tears at the mention of Camille’s name. “I have a message to convey,” I said. *If it is on business,” she said, “I could not tell him; the poor citizen is overcome with grief for his son-in-law.” “‘But it is from his son-in-law—a dying message from the Citizen Ca- mille himself.”” I had spoken imprudently, and the excitement of the poor girl was such that it was with the greatest difficulty that I made her listen to my message and gave the locket into her hands. She begged me to come in, but I stoutly refused. “I'will not disturb the citizen in his grief,” I said. *“‘Give him the locket, and tell him that it has been conveyed by an unknown friend.”” And then, turning abruptly. Ileft the girl sobbing aund kissing the locket, and made my way down the street. s But, ciel! Inever wasa lucky man, and never was my ill fortune so brought home as on this occasion. fusion, gave my message badly, or else was unable to answer the questions of the old man. At any rate I bad scarcely gone a hundred vards down the street when I heard the footsteps of one running behind me and a voice of one calling me. It was the girl. “Citizen,” she cried, “you must return; my master will see you. You cannot refuse him this. .I wasin a hurry and put her off somewhat brusquely. & “Iamin a hurry,” I said, “‘my good girl. Tell Citizen Duplessis that I will return another day.” My vosition was already somewhat embarrassing. It wasa narrow, crowded street—one of those streets that were so numerous in old Paris, but which have been mostly swept away with the new order of things. The girl seized me by the arm and iried to detain me and vassers-by began to stop and laugh. Whata position for a respectable citizen of middle age. But Iam a man of strong will, and it is possible that I might have put the girl off. I had scarcely, however, shaken myself free when I saw T m J oz —_— = B Y 2n aged man, with no hat on his head and his white hair flying behh:‘1 him, with coat unbottoned and generally careless attire, running down the street toward us. It was Duplessis himself. He came up outof breath and immediately saluted me with touching gratitude. He over- whelmed me with thanks, but piteously entreated me to return with him to his house. “You must have more to tell,” he said. “You saw his last moments, and it is impossible that you should have told usall. As vou hope for mercy, return,” he cried, ‘‘for you little know how I loved him.” Mon Dieu! It was one of the most awkward situations 1had ever been in. Here I was ina narrow street, one arm pulled by a youne girl and the other by an old man, both of them beside themselves and regardless of appearances in their eagerness to hear my tale. Meanwhile a little group had gathered round us, and at any moment one of these might recognize my face, and in some rude jest or otherwise tell the old man who I was. There was nothing for it but to give Way. At any rate, I reflected, the old man had not recognized me yet, and it is quite possible for a man of the world like myself to get through an interview without revealing my identity. 8o at last I agreed, and gently motioned to him to lead me back to his house. It is impossible,”” I said, “'to resist such pressing invitations, My business must wait, and I will return with you.” The old man was so overcome with gratitude toward me that he tried to take my arm as we walked down the narrow street. But there was something in me which made this intolerable, ahd with the best courtesy Icould assume I refused him, and as we could not easily walk abreast in that narrow street I drooped behind him and followea him silently to his house. We passed up a sufliciently ample staircase to the second floor. He opened his door and I found myseif iz a large, handsomely furnished room, bespeaking a sufficiency of means in the occupant. until afterward that I heard that he had been, before the Revolution, a I suppose that the girl, in her con- " It was not- wealthy man; and though like most men in those days brought to pov- eriy by these events, he yet retained an adequate income for liis needs. .He motioned me to a chair, and he himseli, as if in a reaction from his excitement, tottered to an armchair in front of a table laden with papers—I doubt not that they were Camille’s letters—collapsed rather than sat down, and hid his face in his hands. ¢ A long silence tollowed, during which I watched him, respecting ?he old man’s grief, and full of pity for him, but at the same time revolving in my own mind the neat replies I should give and the sirategies that might be necessary to conceal from him my real vocation. But he seemed to have forgotten me, and we sat thus for some time, until I must frankly admit that I began to become embarrassed and to wish that I was at home with my Charlotte. Justas I was reflecting in this manner, and thinking even of rising and gentiy stealing from the room, I heard a child’s cry, and looking around with surprise I saw in one corner of the room a cradle with drawn curtains. At the cry the old man dropped his hands and looked up. And then, as if moved by sudden passion, h= rose to his feet and tottered across the room toward the cradie. He drew aside the curtains with a hasty move- ment and lifted from the craale a young child of some two or three years. The poor infant seemed to be very ill and was moaning piteously. The old man tottered across ihe room with,the child in his armsand almost thrust him in my face, saying fiercely: ““This 1s their son!” As he took it away he fixed on me eyesred as irons on an snvil. but quite dry—they seemed to have wept themselves out. But there were tears in his voice— 1t was husky with anger and greef. “This is their son!” he repeated, and embracing the child with a sort of fury he carried him back to his bed and replaced him there. Then, drawing the curtains, he sighed aeeply, and once more relapsing from anger to melancholy he tottered back to his chair and hid hus face in his hand. Another silence supervened, and I was again thinking of retreating from the room when suddenly he dropped his hands, and pulling himseit together he fixed his eyes once more on me. “You were there,” he said laconically. “You saw him!” I could not speak, and all my carefully rounded sentences fled from me. The sight of such grief makes one dumb. - All I did was to nod my bead. 3 ; Then he gave a sort of gulp and spoke again. “Liks a man of feeling?'’ he said. “Like a republican?” He meant, ot course, to ask whether he had died in that way, but avoided the word death in a manner that I have frequently noticed with people suffering under such affliction. “His last words,” I said simply, once more finding myself bereft of a1l my pretty speeches, “bis last words were for those he loved.” Again we relapsed into silence, and once more the oid man hid his face 1n his hands. But now I did not think I was mistaken in imagining that I perceived drops of moisture trickling down between the iulersnce:) of his fingers. There was something in what I had said which released the fount of tears, and he wept. But suddenly something seemed to give a new turn to his thoughts, for he dropped his hands and leaned back in his chair with a deadly patlor on his face. ‘“And she,” he cried out, and it was like the cry of some wounded animal, ‘‘and she, my daughter, my poor Lucile, they have taken her too! Will they be as merciless to her as they have been to him? Two to mourn—is it not too much for miserable old people like ourselves 2"’ He broke off, and his eye fell on me once more with the peculiar stare of great grief. A horrible fear came over me, for L mistook it for the look of recognition, and I imagined he perceived who I was. Buch is the stupidity of se!f-consciousness. For I suppose that he was really struck with the thought that his grief seemed excessive to me. He must have interpreted my embarrassed calm as a mark of disapproval. At any rate he changed bis manner and suddenly began to argue with me with a sort of mild, weak pathos that was very pitiful to hear. “Ah, sir,”” he said, ‘‘you think that I am weak—that my grief is against reason. I can see, sir, that you are yourself a philosopher, and you think tbat in such a case you would be calm and fortified by your philosophy. But believe me, sir,”” and he spoke with a sort of passion, “you are wrong. We believe ourselves philosophers, sir; we think we are fortified by reason against the idea of destruction; but, piff!’”’—he blew a breath against his open palm—"it goes like that when death comes. Where is our reason when it is our own child who is menaced ? ‘Where is our philosophy when we find ourselves powerless to defend her— when we have to see her die, and mourn instead of fighting for her or shedding our blood for her?” In hisexcitementthe old man rose from his chair and began to walk restlessly to and fre. *'Ou, my Goc!” he cried, *‘to think that we snall not be permitted to receive her last sigh, that she will be in agony for two hours and we shall be here in safety in this house in which she was born; amid those things which she has played with: before that hearth at which she has sat!” You may imagine my embarrassment while the old man went on in this pitiful manner. All my inmost feelings were tcuched. Tears were starting to my eyes. I could not, indeed, help feeling some slight gratifi- cation at the thought that I should be capable of so much pity. But from this complaisant reftection I was destined to be rudely aroused. The old man seemed to notice the pitiful look on my face, and it brought him buck to a sense of my presence, which he had almost forgotien. Forsome little time he bad been walking upand aown fingering the furniture with his eyes fixed upon the things that Lucile had loved, lost in dreams of the past. Then his eye suddenly fell on me, and he turned in a gracious manner to me. “Ah, Citizen,” he said, ‘“you must think me inconsideraie indeed to speak thus before you, who have done so much to asszage my grief by \ telling me of Camille’s last hour.” Hespoke thus, though heaven knows | that I bad had little opportunity of teiling him anything. *But what tears my heart is to think that Lucile will not be so fortunate as Camille. She may have no kind friend like you to bring word of herend. Ah, me!” he said with a sudden outbreak of passion, ‘‘she may have no other mes- senger to bring us her last farewell than the hired ruffian who deals her—’ He stopped short, surprised, I suppose, at the spasm which must have passed over my face when he uttered these words, which struck me like a physical blow. He looked at me for one moment with a slight wonder, and then his thoughts wandered off again, and he raturned o his half- frenzied state of self-absorption. As for me, I was in a turmoil, which struck me dumb. His phrase acted like a sudden electric shock to my whole frame. It was useless to reveat to myself that he knew nothing; that this was a mere chance phrase. It seemed to be put into his mouth by something outside him. And, though I am not generally regarded asa superstitious man, I seemed to feel working in him a sort of outer consciousness, not himself, reproach- ing me for what I had done —asit it were Camille himself speaking through him, and not to be deceived. I will confess that I felt a shudder creep over my body and through my hair. I turned quite cold. It was quite unnecessary, for he bad gone back into himself and once more lost all sense of my presence. He was walking to and fro, wildly shaking his white hair, his hands twitching, his eye haggard, his whole aspect wild, On ihe mantelpiece there was one of those elegant busts of Liberty which all we patriots used to purchase. in those days. Terrible abominations, I have been told by artistic friends, but very sale for a prudent man to ha’\’s in his room! As the old man passed this bust he s{opped for one moment, and it seemed to catch his eye. Then, as if seized with a sudden outburst of fary, he took hold of the bust, threw it on the hearthstone and crushed the uroken pieces with his foot. His rage was so great that I was reduced to utter silence. My own position was so terrible that I could not find it in my heart to play a part. The whole scene was too horrbly real. I could find no consolation to ad- dress to him—not a word of hope to say. From such hypocrisy I shrank. At this moment a fresh diversion occurred, which, waile adding to my despair for the minute, gave me ultimately a chance of escape. A bell rang, and a moment after a citizeness of middle age—1 should say in her fiftieth year—still handsome, but with a countenance haggard with grief and despair, rushed into the room and threw herself into the arms of the Citizen Duplessis. It was his wife, and she had just heard the news that Lucile was to be tried. “Lost!"” she cried in e terrible voice. before the Tribunal in three aays!” \ A new horror came over me. Duplessis had not recognized me, but then he was an old man and absent-minded wich grief. My face was known to most Parisians, and this woman, evidently in the prime of life, and probably full of Parisian gossip and knowledge, might at any moment recognize me. I was in terror. I did not know what these people might do if they once found out who I was. I could figure to myself the scene that might follow—the reproaches, the loathing, the possible violence. I could not face it. At that moment their backs were turned to me. She had not yet seen me; they were absorbed in one another’s grief. I had been forgotten for the moment. And seeing that, I arose, and .before I knew where I was I was out in the street flying as if for my life—flying as if I, a man of honor and feeling, had ccmmitted a crime. I repeat that I never .ad a more unpleasant task to fulfill, and I never suffered more than in the presence of those unfortunate people. How Mind Worry Affects the Body. One of the new discoveries of hygiene is the fact that in the emotions we have within ourselves an effective means of suicide, says the Washing- ton Star. If the emotions are not properly restrained and regulated the body may be slowly but surely worn out, even without the sufferer him- self suspecting what the secret canker is. Dr. M. L. Holbrook shows the importance of keeping our bodily expenses at or near our physiological resources. There are times when the bodily resources must be freely spent for others, as in emergencies, sickness, etc., but a_her the strain is over the powers may be recruitéd by rest, sleep, recreation and food, and no special harm ensues. If this is not done there may be danger of a permanent breakdown. The nervous forces are spent most rapidly through the emotional nature. The pleasurable emotions are love, hope, joy _M\d peace. These are health-giving, and, if not in excess, nof exhausting. The painful emo- tions are fear, hate, anger and jealousy. lhese exhnu_n the vital forces in two ways. 'They diminish the generation of energy in the body by in- terfering with digestion and assimiiation of food, and they also consune rapidly and to little purpose what energy is produced. There is much il health which cannot be traced to its true cause unless attention is turngd to these painful emotions. It has of late been found that fatigue caused a temporary change in the blood, and o healthy person who is inoculated with the fatigue poison speedily exhibits all the symptoms of extreme relaxation and exhaustion. 1n the same way the evil emotions, and especially anger, produce sub- stances which are very poisonous, and 1f generated in quaniities large enough they might destroy life. “She is lost! She is to appear ‘