suffering, when there is organic mischief of the heart or kidneys, or when the tuberculous disease is in a closed cavity (like the skull, for instance), I agree with Professor Senator that Koch's treatment should on no account be used.

To sum up I believe that Koch's fluid is an agent of the highest possible value for the detection of tubercle, a remedy of great potency for certain of the slighter manifestations of tuberculosis, a palliative for some of the distressing symptoms of the severer forms of the disease, and a deadly poison in advanced or unsuitable cases. Probably when more is known as to its mode of action it will be possible to do more good by its means, with less risk of harm, than is the case at present. A wider sphere of usefulness will no doubt be opened up to it when practitioners have learned how to combine other methods of treatment with it to the best advantage. A few months ago, Professor Tillmanns, of Leipzig, performed the unique surgical feat of removing a lung which had become hopelessly diseased. The patient recovered, not only from the operation, but from the disease, and in a few months had lost the appearance of an invalid to such an extent that Dr. Tillmanns failed to recognize him when he called. This case seems to me to open up great possibilities for the combination of Koch's treatment with surgery, but speculation on this tempting subject would take us too far afield.

One obvious defect in the treatment is that, whether or not it cures the disease actually present at a given time, it leaves the patient just as susceptible to tuberculosis as he was before. Hence there are endless possibilities of relapse either from the bacilli which are left behind, like the eagle renewing their youth, or by fresh infection taking place from without. The patient may therefore have to spend his life in almost constant subjection to treatment. It must be remembered that in the case of Pasteur's wonderful discovery, by which he renders cattle and sheep insusceptible to malignant pustule, the immunity only lasts for about a year. This period is amply sufficient for fattening animals, but would be of little use in the case of human beings: it is impossible to say what the effects on the system might be if the poison had to be administered every year.

Possibilities of the utmost benefit to hu

manity are, however, in view, for after a time we may not only be able to cure consumption, but to prevent it in the way vaccination protects against small-pox. Dr. Koch has succeeded in making guineapigs invulnerable to tubercle, and this happy result may yet be attained by him in the case of man. MM. Charles Richet and J. Hericourt, who have lately been working at the subject in France, claim to have solved the problem so far as rabbits are concerned, and perhaps they also will be able to confer the same inmunity on the human subject. There is a grand race going on between the French and German savants, but, comparing records, Koch is undoubtedly first favorite.

I have said nothing as to the probable nature of the remedy, and, in accordance with the advice of the wise man who observed that " you should never prophesy unless you know," it might be well to leave the matter alone. But from what has been ascertained of the effect on bacilli of the chemical substances which they themselves produce, I think it likely that Koch's fluid contains one or more of those poisons. Dr. Koch will no doubt reveal his secret when he is satisfied that the proper time has come for doing so; and that will no doubt be when the arrangements for producing it of uniform strength and perfectly pure quality are completed.

I cannot bring these remarks to a close without a feeling of sadness, almost of shame-that of the many important discoveries which have been made in the domain of medical science in recent years, so few are associated with the names of Englishmen. This country, which once stood in the forefront of scientific medicine, is now slowly following in the wake of both France and Germany. This is due in part to the opposition which well-meaning but mistaken persons have offered to biological research in England, but still more to the apathy and indifference to anything but their own material interests which have characterized the policy of our two leading medical corporations for many years back. The College of Surgeons, which is by far the richest body of the kind in the world, does hardly anything to encourage scientific investigation, but divides the bulk of its large revenues among the members of its governing body and their satellites. A representative form of government for this institution would at once put

an end to the misapplication of funds, and would insure a considerable portion of its incoine being spent in promoting original research. English medical science would

in this way be soon restored to the proud position it once occupied.-Contemporary Review.

THE painting by Velasquez recently added to our national collection is a veritable treasure. It is so fine a specimen of this master's work, that at the time of its completion the painter's king, patron, and friend, Philip the Fourth of Spain, paid it an almost unique compliment.

Don Adrian Pulido Pareja, afterward knight of the Order of Santiago, and so forth, the subject of the portrait, was appointed admiral of the fleet of New Spain in the year 1639. Don Adrian was about to leave Madrid to repair to his station, was going, one may vaguely say, to the Spanish Main, when it occurred to Philip, the artistic king par excellence, that if by any of the mischances of warfare Don Adrian should chance to be-expended, it were well that the picturesque aspect of the man should be put on record. And so, on the very eve of his departure, the fulminant admiral was commanded to repair to that apartment in the royal palace that Velasquez used as a painting-room. There he stood, as we see him in the picture, the painter portraying him with rapid and infallible brush, the king using his pass-key to the studio and coming in frequently to watch the progress of the work. It will help us to realize the scene if, before sitting down to study the admiral, we wander into the room where the king's own portraits by Velasquez are hung, and take in the impression of that strange, pale, bright-lipped face with the fixed eye of leaden surface. A weird story was current in Philip's lifetime about that immovable gaze of his. He was born on a Good Friday, and, it is related, acquired through that fact a measure of second-sight. Whenever in his dominions a murder was enacted, the apparition of the victim's corpse appeared lying in silent appeal at the king's feet, and, deeds of violence being of frequent occurrence under his feeble rule, the artist king made a practice of fixing his eyes, that they should not stray where they might encounter such sights.

The admiral stands before us a stately and dominant figure, obviously a man to be obeyed; he is planted on his feet firmly yet very lightly. James Howells, writing home from the court of Philip the Fourth, and describing the typical Spaniard, says, "He walks as if he marcht," and we see in this and other portraits of Velasquez the aptness of the phrase.

The painter, wielding deftly his longhandled brushes, seemed, it is likely, to Don Adrian well enough in his subordinate way. The distrustful scowl that Velasquez has fixed upon his features was probably occasioned by the king.

For the blonde, white-handed, artistic monarch of Austrian descent, who only discerned in the unfrequent victories of his armies subjects for the pencil of Velasquez, was an object of bitterest scorn to many of those whom he essayed to rule. And such swarthy dons as this admiral used to mutter as he passed them, God send us soon a king of our own color!"

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The portrait being finished and the admiral having left Madrid, Velasquez dismounted his painting from the easel, and placed it on the floor in a corner of his room. Philip coming into the studio shortly after addressed himself to the picture as to its original, and roundly rebuked Don Adrian for lingering in the capital when he should have been on his way to his ship. The compliment was doubtless intentional, and not the result of a mistake. Philip no more expected a reply from the portrait than Michael Angelo expected Donatello's Saint George to stir when he exclaimed "Cammina !" Yet it was at the time considered a mark of extraordinary esteem in a monarch of Philip's phenomenal imperturbability. Of Philip, be it remembered, it was asserted with a gravity that rivalled his own, that during a life of sixty years he smiled precisely three times. He was twice married, and, in sheer humanity, for even a Spanish artist king is human, he could not have given his

brides less than a smile apiece. Perhaps the third smile was smiled for Velasquez; it may have accompanied the compliment ary assurance that he had mistaken the admiral's portrait for the admiral's self.

A Spanish biographical notice of Admiral Pareja tells us that he lived and retained his command to a good old age. It details the successive honors that Philip bestowed on him, but leaves us to glean elsewhere records of how the Cromwellian admira's, Blake and Montague, battered and burned his ships of war, and diverted rich cargoes of silver from his protection to the uses of the English Commonwealth. In the year 1623 a formal seal was, as it were, set on two of the world's greatest reputations. Hemings and Condell gave to the reading world their great folio of Shakespeare's plays, and Velasquez, at the age of twenty-four, was appointed painter in ordinary to King Philip, then eighteen years old.

Until then, except for the rapid maturing of his powers in art, the career of Velasquez had been singularly uneventful. The drawings he made as a boy were of so striking a nature that his parents foresaw his career, and he began early to study painting. Once he changed his master, but this, as his biographers say, mattered the less seeing that his master was Nature. His second instructor became his warm admirer, his lifelong friend, and his father-in-law. In 1622, soon after his marriage, Velasquez visited Madrid, and there painted a portrait. The king he could not gain access to. Philip, having but recently ascended the throne, was still occupied in trying to reign.

Next year Velasquez came again to Madrid, and again painted a portrait. This, on the very evening of its completion, was by the instrum ntality of Olivares, the prime minister, submitted to the king, and from that night the career of Velasquez was assured.

Philip, with the prevision of genius, had discerned that his own part in life was to be the model of Velasquez. He set the painter at once to work on a great equestrian picture of himself, and promised him that no other should ever limn his royal features. This promise he kept -almost a trifle of five portraits by Ru bens, about as many by various hands what were they in the career of a monarch who was always having his portrait paint

ed? It has been remarked of Philip that it was greatly to be desired that he should have kept his marriage vow with anything approaching the approximate adherence that he gave to his promise to Velasquez.

If it may be said of Velasquez that he was the greatest of portrait painters, equally may it be asserted of Philip that he was the greatest of sitters for portraits. That sphinx-like imperturbability, that pale enigmatical personality of his, of which we can hardly tell whether it fascinates or repels us most, were accompanied with a motionlessness of demeanor that facilitated the labors of the pencil. The outward Philip resembled rather the portrait of a king than a king. At the Council table he would sit for hours, his eyes fixed, and moving no feature except those "vei meil-tinctured lips'' of his. He would sit through entire comedies awake, and yet without the slightest perceptible motion, a royal but depressing ornament to an auditorium.

The

Of this aspect of him there is a striking instance on record. In the year 1831 Olivares, on the occasion of a royal birthday, designed a singular spectacle to gratify the taste of his artistic monarch. great square, the scene of many bull-fights, was, for once, to present the similitude of a Roman arena with its combats of strange and savage beasts: lion, tiger, and camel, an animal of every kind procurable. They were collected from the far places of the earth, were starved to fighting point, and, before a vast assemblage of spectators, were turned together into the ring. Cruel as the scene would seem to us, to the Spaniard of that day it was comparatively humane, since no human life was risked. It must be borne in mind that the bull-fight of that day was not fought out by professional hirelings. The jeunesse dorée were at that time the heroes of the arena, and not unfrequently they met their death there.

The distracted animals fought with desperation, and tore and roared and butted and bled to admiration. It was just being repeated from mouth to mouth that witty Quevedo had described the scene as the contents of Noah's ark mixed with Esop's fables, when the whole assembly began to thrill with a strong and unanticipated sensation of interest.

One of the combatants is specially distinguishing himself—a bull of Xarama:

a bull with gleaming wicked eye, with a mountain of a neck, clear-cut horns and little feet, as nimble as a stag's; the very type and symbol of Spanish sport-a perfect love of a bull. Bravo Toro ! He He bellows defiance and the tiger springs at him, his claws gripe the mighty shoulders. See! he is shaken off-through and again through his vitals go the gleaming horns, and the tiger is thrown away quivering and clutching. Bravo Toro ! Victory and pain intoxicate the bull; he gallops round the arena sparing nothing. He pashes the remnants of life out of the dying, he drives his horns angrily into the forlorn carcases of the dead. Now he stops, and, breathing heavily, looks on all sides of him, his limbs quivering with excitement and wrath. His once velvet coat is shaggy with sweat and blood; the ivory white of his horns is deeply dyed with crimson. Bravo Toro! Bravo, bravo!

Philip gravely rises, a kingly thought within him. The bull has deserved well. The bull shall be royally rewarded.

Shall he lead a pampered life in royal park and stable, where the artist eye of the king may dwell from time to time on his sublime proportions? Better than that.

Shall he return to the meads of Xaraina, exempt forever from the summons to the fatal ring; to lie and chew the sweet meadow grass at his leisure, or plash shoulder deep in the cool river? Better even than that!

Philip speaks a word to a courtier, and a gun is brought to him, the long-barrelled weapon we know so well in the paintings of Velasquez. Philip puts it to his shoulder and shoots, with the accuracy of a Commodus-or a Ravenswood. The bull staggers, falls on his knees, and then rolls over stone dead.

All men saw the deed, and yet, it is related, so impassive was the aspect of the king that, when he had put the gun aside, it became impossible to believe that it was he that had fired the shot.

Besides that of posing eternally for Velasquez, what purpose did this strangest of kings serve in the general scheme of things?

This there are types of character so dear to the fancy of man that Dame Nature has to gratify her child by realizing them for him, and among these the artist king is one of the most fascinating.

Both before and since Nature has

sketched the type; in Philip she realized it. Ludwig of Bavaria was not an important factor in European politics. King Renée with his handful of high-sounding titular possessions, yet "not so wealthy as an English yeoman, held what he was permitted to hold on sufferance of his powerful neighbors. Had he left the lute and pencil and essayed to govern in earnest, he had not probably reigned so long. But when in 1621 the artist Philip ascended the throne, he was at the head of an all-powerful kingdom, and it was said of him: "Truly to give the Spaniard his due, he is a mighty monarch, he hath dominions in all parts of the world, both in Europe, Asia, Africa, and America (which he hath solely to himself). So the sun shines all the four and twenty hours of the natural day upon some part or other of his countries, for part of the Antipodes are subject to him."

And Philip was artist to his slender white finger tips. He was a highly-skilled draughtsman and painter, occupying his royal pencil chiefly on religious subjects and landscape; once, as we shall see, he laid a brush on a painting by Velasquez.

He was an actor too, taking part in the then popular amusement of playing comedies, of which only the situations were settled beforehand, the performers supplying their own words. He wrote much, and in many kinds; piles of his manuscripts are still stored in the Royal Library of Madrid. His most important literary effort was a tragedy on the subject of Essex, the favorite of our Queen Elizabeth. He loved the society of poets, delighting in the swift exchange of thought with such men as Lope de Vega or the sublime Calderon. Nor were his accomplishments limited to the arts; our own Duke of Newcastle, that great authority on equitation, pronounced him to be the best horseman in Spain. He was also a skilful sportsman: indeed he seems to have done nothing ill except the governing of his kingdom, and that he rather neglected than misguided. Coming to the throne at the age of sixteen, it was natural that he should be in some measure dependent on his prime minister; and, as Philip's preference for art over statecraft increased, the government of the kingdom drifted more and more into the hands of the ambitious Olivares. Olivares had conceived the project of making of Philip's a monumental and historical

reign; and, more than once, he tried to get him generally known by the surname of "the great. But, as battles were lost and provinces came to be alienated, the title was referred to only in an ironical sense. Philip the Great, it was remarked, was like a ditch a-digging, the more you took from him the greater he became. The intellectual side of Philip made a great impression on Rubens, who observed of him that his kingdom would be much better governed if he would take the trouble to govern it himself.

A deep vein of melancholy ran through the character of Philip, and, when this quality of him was in the ascendant, be was wont to retire to the great chapel in the Escurial where the kings of Spain are buried, and to his own allotted niche in it. There, sitting as still as he would one day lie, he would listen to the solemn music of the Mass.

Among those who frequented the Court of Spain, while Velasquez was still busy over his first portrait of Philip, the English dress and the English accent were here and there conspicuous. England, unconscious of growing influences soon to trouble her own peace, was planning to secure the peace of the whole world by an alliance between her royal house and that of Spain. One Friday night in March, 1623, at the Earl of Bristol's house in Madrid, a message was brought to his lordship that two gentlemen from London, Mr. Thomas Smith and Mr. John Smith, desired to see him. Coming hastily out the Earl recognized in Mr. Thomas Smith, who stood in the hall with a portmantle in his hand, King James' favorite "Steenie," then Marquis of Buckingham. When too-curious eyes had been removed from the scene, and Mr. John Smith of London, who had stayed a while in the dark on the other side of the street, entered the house, the astonished Lord Bristol discovered him to be Charles, Prince of Wales. Every corner of Madrid buzzed next day with the news of a great man's being newly arrived from England (some maintained it was King James himself), and the closed coaches that passed to and fro between the palace and Lord Bristol's house raised expectation to the highest.

On Sunday following (writes James Howells to Sir Thomas Savage) the King in the afternoon came abroad to take the air with the Queen, his two brothers, and the Infanta, who were all in one coach; but the Infanta sat in

the boot with a blue riband about her arm, of purpose that the Prince might distinguish her. And now it was publicly known among the vulgar, that it was the Prince of Wales who was come, and the confluence of people before my Lord of Bristol's house was so great and greedy to see the Prince, that to clear the way all the crowd of people went after him. So Sir Lewis Dives went out and took coach, and the Prince himself a little after took coach; wherein there were the Earl of Bristol, Sir Walter Ashton, and Count Gondamar, and so went to the Prado, a place hard by, of purpose to take the air, where they stayed till the King passed by; as soon as the Infanta saw the

Prince her color rose very high, which we hold to be an impression of love and affection, for the face is oftentimes a true index of the heart.

Howells, the prince of racy letter-writers, gives us a vivid picture of the Spanish Court at that juncture; in which we catch glimpses of Charles, whom the Spaniards declared to be so gallant a wooer that he deserved to have the Infanta thrown into his arms the first night he came, waiting for hours in a coach to see her pass by, or, Romeo-like, climbing an orchard wall to have private speech with her; of "Archy," King James' court fool, jesting with the Infanta and her ladies, or capping some allusion to Spanish victories with a bitter reference to the fate of the Arınada; and again of Lope de Vega turning graceful verses on 66 Carlos Estuardo."

It is nearer to our subject to record that Charles entered the studio of Velasquez, and that the painter sketched in a portrait of the prince, which, however, was never completed,* though Charles was so pleased with the painter that he made him a present of a hundred crowns. It is interesting to remember that in the same year with Velasquez was born Vandyke, who was to paint many portraits of Charles; curious to think that in the same year was born Oliver Cromwell, who also in the fulness of time was to have much to do with Charles.

Philip found in his proposed brotherin-law a prince after his own heart, for Charles' taste in art was as exquisite as his enthusiasm for it was keen. He was, even then, forming a gallery to which Philip,