But the most severe battle between these pigmies and the giant coines later still. In spite of all these means of defense it frequently happens that the invading foe overcomes all resistance, holds its foothold in the body, and begins to multiply rapidly. Growing and multiplying as these bacteria now do, they secrete their own poisonous products in quantity, and these now begin to poison the individual attacked. Manifest signs of the poisoning appear and form the early symptoms of the disease. As the bacteria continue to increase, their poisonous effects become greater and the disease increases in severity. More and more severe becomes the poisoning, until a crisis is reached. The castle is held by the invading foe. But, meantime, a new set of resisting forces is developing in the body to drive out the bacteria which have thus taken possession. Although weakened by the poisoning and suffering from the disease, the body does not yet yield the battle, but somewhat slowly organizes a new attack upon the invaders. For a time the foes have an almost unimpeded course and grow rapidly. But after a little the length of time varying with the disease-their further increase is checked, their vigor is impaired, and the disease ceases to extend. After this they rapidly diminish in numbers, and finally, unless death meantime results, they are all exterminated or driven out by the recuperated defensive powers.

That the body can thus call into activity another reserve force of resistance is clear enough. The very fact that recovery from a germ disease may take place proves it. Were there not some such reserve power of resistance the invading bacteria would always continue to grow until they produced fatal results from their poisons. Many times, it is true, the fatal result does occur, the resisting power of the body being insufficient to drive out the invaders. But even in these cases the body makes a heroic struggle, and the problem as to which of the two combating forces is the stronger may be long in doubt. Will the final resisting powers of the body drive out the invaders, or will the bacteria prove the more vigorous? This is the question which will decide recovery or death. A heroic resistance is at all events offered, and, as in all close contests, an incident may turn the tide of victory.

37-FIFTH SERIES, VOL. XV.

To guide these incidents is the physician's chief duty in treating a germ disease. Either the bacteria must be driven out or rendered harmless, or the individual must die. If the battle is won it must be by the powers of the body's resistance. The physician must as a rule use his skill, not in destroying the bacteria, but in stimulating the body to fight its own battle with its foes.

Of the nature of this last means of defense we are still in the dark. In some cases the body produces by its cell activities counter-poisons which neutralize the effect of the bacterial poisons (antitoxins), and, after this, no longer weakened by the poisoning effects of the bacterial growth, it is able to expel the invaders. In some cases the body apparently secretes around the bacteria a sort of inclosing capsule, which prevents their further distribution and holds them in check. But upon this matter, at best, our knowledge is meager. We see the signs of the conflict, we realize its intensity, and we know its results. The future will tell us how the battle is fought, and may thus show how we may intelligently aid these subconscious forces in the winning of victory.

Such, in brief, is the everyday battle of the pigmies and the giant, carried on without our volition, or even our consciousness. The human body is not helpless in the presence of its foes, in spite of their extraordinary power of multiplication. To aid it in carrying on this contest the best assistance we can give is to furnish conditions for health and vigor. Sanitation may enable us to avoid some of the attacks, but, after all, our reliance must be upon our own vital resisting powers. Good nutrition and bodily activity furnish the elements of victory. We must remember that a germ disease is a battle, from the moment when the first bacterium enters the body until the last one is expelled, and if recovery takes place it will be from the power the body has of driving off its foes by its own powers of resistance, and not by driving away the invaders by the use of drugs.

ART. V.-THE CLERICAL LION.

THIS means the lionized clergyman. He is in vogue, and has been for a long time. There is a great variety of his kind -Catholic, Protestant, and Jew, settled and unsettled, surpliced and unfrocked. He is rather unaccountable, usually becoming a lion without intending so to be, as any who purposely aim at this distinction may fall woefully short. We believe in him, for why not the clerical lion? Washington and Lincoln are lionized presidents. Kepler and Newton, Edison and Pasteur, in science; Alexander, Napoleon, and Grant in war-all these rank as lions. Clergymen are as brainy, often more scholarly, and gifted with the power of persuasive speech. As humanity is lamest on the moral and spiritual side, clergyman lions would seem more indispensable than all other types of leonine men. Beecher and Simpson, Storrs and Phillips Brooks, and, before them, Edwards and Whitefield, stand out as samples of the noble race of clergyman lions.

But it should not be imagined that they are such solely on account of any external oddity or idiosyncrasy. They meet a want in the popular mind. Hero worship belongs to us, and, as Carlyle makes plain, is good for mankind. It has greatly toned up the manliness of this and other nations to look at Hobson in Santiago Harbor, and there are millions of such young lions under thirty years of age in this nation. A score of such are afloat as commanders of our battleships, though some of them may now be enjoying an undue share of lionization.

Latitude of nativity and training, if it does not hinder, may help. Idioms of speech and colloquialisms such as would be vulgarity from one "to the manner born," pronunciations never so obsolete are not only tolerated but relished. They smack of quaintness, and even help show off a real clerical lion. There must, however, be genuine strength and courage underneath, or these will only harm. If there be courage, wit, and humor, barbarisin will not only be tolerated but relished for a season. The preacher may pose, orate, thrust his hands in his pockets like a political clown on the stump or a pettifogger before a country squire, and even patronize his

audience by talking down to them; such external accidents seem to facilitate lionizing. A better sort of trimming is the foreign brogue. How delicious to our somewhat cloyed taste is a Scotch, Irish, or even British twang, and also the German idiom with its oddity! These trimmings seem to help out.

Aggressiveness, even to rashness, helps. If the lion's paw knocks things about, even indiscriminately, jarring some people and habits, this result should not be deplored; provided the lion be real and knocks out of the way other people and things deserving it his leonine rank is recognized. But it is necessary that his blows fall, not on those far back in the time of the Pharisees, nor far away in Spain, Paris, or China, but on those near at hand. Let him not, however, lose heart, should it ever happen that for this same thing he may be attacked for a cur, and even driven out of town.

The king of the natural forest is long-lived. The clerical lion is rarely so. He sometimes catches the eye of the me tropolis; the press helps to bring out his royal proportions, and he may reign for a few years-five, ten, or twenty-but must not abide in the same place too long. New lions will be demanded by the changing fancy. Chicago has had several of them within twenty years past. Let it be granted that the larg est and strongest have not always been those most on exhibition, for some royal fellows have not caught the eye of the general public. Usually those lionized have been men of gifts and even genius; generally they have been sincere, able, excellent men; sometimes they have been a little erratic and one-sided, not the safest leaders, and, fortunately, with no vast following. As New York and Chicago vie for expositions, conventions, and commercial supremacy, so do they bid against each other in the commodity of clerical lion. The land has been filled with descriptions of the noble fellows-the color of their eyes, their talons, teeth, fur, and flowing mane, the cost of keep, their favorite fare, and all. And not great cities only, but small ones, and even towns and villages engage in their measure of lionizing. Many a noble minister is obliged to hear and read much of some Rev. Leonine Mighty, whose tracks have been left all about town, or who has just lately arrived and is being pam pered by rare cuts tossed to him from the Local Lionizer, which

announces, from week to week, the public duty of hearkening for next Sunday's roar from the Rev. Mr. Mighty.

There is temptation to recklessness in order to secure a place in the menagerie and a position in its forefront. Liberality is good nourishment, if it change not into laxity of views and recklessness of life. Friskiness of conduct may at first be mere playfulness, but if it degenerate into undue frivolity and loose morals it is fatal. Some have aimed at the lion's rank, by this course, whose end reminds one of the famous Lion of Lucerne, by Thorwaldsen, thrust through by the fatal dart, the sick head of the poor beast resting on the lily of France as he dies forsaken and alone.

The lion's part is one difficult to play. A sharp listener once said to the writer: "There must be something weak up there at J Church, where they keep that fellow's roaring so constantly sounding through the City Trumpet, and I have not interest enough to go and see about it." We once heard the roar of a whole cageful, one after another, in a Saturday Strombus, foretelling what was to be heard on the morrow, and there followed immediately some patent medicine man's notes, in the same conch blast, proclaiming the virtues of tonics and bitters.

Dame Fashion often shows her fancy in this matter; sometimes she puts on her hood and white ruff and goes off to the ecclesiastical exchange, saying: "Our Leo is getting a little brown as to fur; we think it may be his teeth are growing a bit dull, though he is in apparent health. His roar is as vibrant as ever, if not a little more so. In fact, it has increased so as to frighten the children and keep us older folks awake more than usual. We think that what we need is one more nearly the age of the youngsters, whom we regret to see growing careless about our sanctuary. Some of them have been attracted over the way, where, they say, is a young roarer, whose mane is short and thin. Sometimes they like to take a spin on their wheels, or go to see the games at the ball grounds, even on the Sabbath. In fact, it just breaks my heart to see my husband sitting in the library on Sunday, enjoying his cigar and newspaper. Now, what have you, Mr. Ecclesiasticus, to recommend us?"