however, are often unjustly blamed for sending hopeless cases to a health resort when the blame rests altogether with the patient, who thinks, if he can only reach some place of which he has heard or read, he will get well. Some years ago I saw an American gentleman, evidently in a dying state, who had set his heart on going to Davos and would not be turned from his purpose. He reached his destination, but only to die the day after his arrival. When the disease is in an early stage, or when there is only some delicacy' of the lungs, a stay at either Madeira or the Canaries for some length of time will in all probability ward off the danger, and perhaps permanently cure the patient. In such cases there is no other place that can be compared to these; and many persons, who would beyond all doubt have died long ago had they stayed at home, have been saved by residence in the Canary Islands or Madeira for three or four years or for longer periods. Several English people have permanently taken up their abode in each of them, and the fiend of 'tubercle' seems to have been completely exorcised. This happy effect is not due, as is sometimes absurdly stated, to the fact that the pure balsamic,' 'antiseptic' air kills the minute organisms which are now believed to be concerned in the causation of the disease, but is the result of the general strengthening of the system, which restores to the tissues sufficient vitality to resist the microbes. This building up anew of the constitution is effected by increased use of the lungs, and the only way to secure that is by exercise in the open air. The exercise must, of course, be carefully adapted to the patient's power of endurance. Young invalids often err in this way by wasting their strength under the impression that they acquire stamina thereby. I found, for instance, that some of the patients who had spent the winter at Orotava had climbed the Canadas (a large extinct crater halfway up the Peak), taken long rides, made distant excursions across the island, and even played at tilting. I know several cases in which a serious relapse occurred in consequence of such imprudence. A quiet stroll or sitting in the sun will do good where violent exercise would be simply baneful.

A word of caution is necessary as to the risk involved in the case of a person suffering from advanced disease who goes on a journey, like that to the Canaries, of five days from Plymouth or seven from London in a steamer. The sea-sickness, semi-starvation, and general knocking about may easily rouse the smouldering volcano of chronic disease into activity. Many patients would derive much benefit from the Riviera whom it would not be safe to send to the Canary Islands or to Madeira.

Whilst at Tenerife I saw a good many cases of lung disease in consultation with Dr. George Perez, son of a well-known physician at Orotava, and himself a graduate of the University of London. In most of them there was considerable destruction of tissue in one or both lungs. In all but three of these cases, the reparative process

was very remarkable, and in two of these exceptions great improvement had taken place, but the patients had lost ground again owing to the effects of their own imprudence, or from accidentally taking cold. As all patients coming to Tenerife and leaving it have to pass through Santa Cruz, I thought that a favourable place for making inquiries as to the condition of the visitors at the time of their departure for England. The worst that could be said by a person who had had ample opportunities of seeing every patient who embarked, and who was by no means disposed to be over-friendly to Orotava, was that eight or nine persons had been carried on board.

Orotava with its sunny climate seemed to me to be particularly suitable for cases of consumption still in what is called the 'first stage.' It is also likely to be beneficial to those in the second stage, especially when there is profuse secretion. When there is constant high temperature, especially if there is a tendency to the spitting of blood, Madeira should be selected. Persons in the third stage of consumption should be restrained from going to either of these places or anywhere else; for them emphatically 'There's no place like home.' Tenerife is also beneficial in cases of bronchitis, when there is much secretion; for 'dry' bronchitis Madeira is better. One of these health resorts may, with great advantage, be made to supplement the other according to the variations in the patient's condition or to the development of different phases of his disease. Dr. Grabham tells me he has for years made use of the Canaries as a change from Madeira in cases of chronic disease, chiefly phthisis, when there is general failure of the vital powers, depression, and loss of appetite. The change is almost invariably most beneficial for a time. If the disease appears to be entering on an inflammatory phase, the sufferer should be sent to Madeira till the febrile symptoms subside. I entirely agree with Dr. Grabham that the slow process of recovery from phthisis may be powerfully aided by this alternation of Madeira with the Canaries. Asthmatic patients as a rule do well at Madeira if an elevation of 300 feet is selected; but most cases, if simple in character, find more relief in the Canaries. This disease, however, is so capricious in all its relations that it is quite impossible to say which place will suit any individual case. I saw one child who was cured of asthma after three or four years' residence at Orotava, and one or two other cases in which improvement had taken place. There is no doubt that in certain varieties of kidney disease much benefit is derived from residence either in the Canaries or Madeira, more particularly the latter. This is not yet, I think, sufficiently realised by English physicians. In cases of convalescence after acute or exhausting illness, especially where protection from chill and sudden changes of temperature is desirable, both Madeira and Tenerife can be recommended. Madeira is for this reason likely to be especially useful in convalescence from scarlet fever.

In addition to what may be termed their peculiar function as

health resorts, both Madeira and the Canary Islands have, I think, a great future before them as places of rest where overworked professional men, jaded politicians, and persons suffering from nervous breakdown can recruit their wasted energy. As a playground the Canaries leave little to be desired. Excursions adapted to every

Excellent Andalusian horses

organisation can be comfortably made. are to be had; and here and there, there is soft ground where healthy persons may enjoy a good canter. There is also a small breed of native horses admirably adapted for climbing up the bridle roads. Comfortable carriages are also to be found both at Orotava and Santa Cruz. Of the restorative power of Tenerife I can speak from experience. I arrived there completely broken down by a winter of unusually hard work, and at the end of a fortnight I was in perfect health.

For invalids the best time to go to the Canaries is about the middle, or, better still, towards the end of October. English people arriving before that time are apt to find the climate oppressive. They can remain at Orotava till June, or if they go first to La Villa and afterwards to Laguna the whole year can be spent most comfortably (as far as climate is concerned) in the island. For those merely suffering from exhaustion or over-tension of the nervous system, I think the spring is the best time. A trip to the Canaries makes an admirable Easter holiday; there are Guanche mummies and undecipherable inscriptions for antiquaries, quaint rites and ceremonies for the curious, and air and sunlight, sea and mountain for everybody.

In conclusion, a word or two may be said on the general subject of climate with reference to its influence on disease. It is a great mistake for a patient to think that he can go to a place which has the reputation of being beneficial to his complaint, and simply absorb health from the atmosphere without any effort on his own part. As Sir James Clark said many years ago, 'The air, or climate, is often regarded by the patient as possessing some specific quality, by virtue of which it directly cures his disease. This erroneous view of the matter not unfrequently proves the bane of the invalid by leading him, in the fulness of his confidence in climate, to neglect other circumstances as essential to his recovery as that in which all his hopes are fixed.' Climate in fact only helps those who help themselves. A visit to a health resort must not be looked upon as an excuse for neglecting necessary precautions or relaxing salutary rules, but rather as an occasion for still more careful living. Not the least beneficial part of the climatic treatment is the enforced freedom from social temptations which at home would lead to imprudent exposure, excitement, and fatigue. Climate in fact cannot cure any disease; it only removes one of the exciting causes of the mischief, and so far leaves Nature a fair field for the exercise of her healing influence.

MORELL MACKENZIE.

MR. DANDELOW: A STORY HALF TOLD.

"THERE! I have much respect for you, Monsieur le Pasteur, too much respect to attempt to deceive you. I will make no pretence, but you have heard my last word on this subject, and, I pray you, do not touch upon it again. I shall resent it as an intrusion. I promised her to continue family prayers night and morning, and I mean to keep that promise. I shall read one of the lessons every day till I dieI shall, you may rely upon it. But I've done with what you call the Lord's Prayer, which we used to call the Pater Noster. I'll have no more of that. I've lost my Nancy, the only good woman—a real good woman-I ever knew. That boy's snooks killed her-broke her heart.' The deep voice trembled and stopped, and the quivering face turned away from my gaze. Yes! that boy killed her, and I never want to forgive him. I wouldn't if I could. Forgiving him his trespasses! I tell you I'm not capable of it, and I am no more for trying. If you will come and look in as usual- He shuddered and stopped again; then he humbly held out his vast hand, grasped mine, and bowed his head in silence. Only no more of that Lord's Prayer-that must be the bargain!'

I did not know Mr. Dandelow, when he spoke those words, quite so intimately as I got to know him afterwards; we had during the last six weeks been drawn together rather closely by the illness of his wife, who, less than sixty years of age, had suddenly 'broken down,' as we say, with no symptom of disease-no symptom, in fact, of anything but senile decay. She had faded and whimpered out of life, and she had just been laid in her grave. I had a great admiration for Mr. Dandelow. He stood at least six feet two inches high, and, though as upright as a bulrush, he must have been at one time much taller-for he was now nearly eighty years old. There was a mystery about the man. No one could doubt that there were generations of gentle blood in his veins. Every now and then he startled you by his delicacy of feeling or by an outburst of wrath against meanness and vulgar baseness. And yet he certainly had passed his life for the most part among horse-dealers and grooms. Nay! I found out at last that there had been a period—I do not think it had lasted long -when he had haunted gipsy encampments, racecourses, and prize

fights. He expressed himself well in English, yet he now and then dropped into decided provincialisms; and when he did so he seemed to enjoy the fun and to be drawing upon his memory-a memory which was fetching back words and phrases from a distant past—a past for which he could not always conceal his dread.

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He had lived for nearly fifty years in some situation on the Continent, and was a perfect Frenchman at times when he was surprised into forgetfulness of the English personality which he tenaciously clung to after his return to his native country. I first made his acquaintance under somewhat comical circumstances. beautiful little pony-he never could help dealing in horsefleshwhich he had turned out for a run in a small paddock in front of his house, was showing a decided reluctance to return to the stable, or to be captured by Sam-Mr. Dandelow's 'boy'-though aided by the lure of a sieveful of tempting oats. The beautiful creature galloped round the field-stood, stared, snorted-looked with bright eyes and ears erect, as if mocking master and man-trotted off again, lifting up his feet as if he were defying the world to produce such action among all the studs that ever were; then he would let Sam approach within a yard of him, playing at being weary and submissive, and was off again like the wind. Mr. Dandelow, leaning over the gate, was, as he would have said, ravished' with delight at the beauty of his favourite. But after a while he manifestly was growing impatient. I was standing some twenty yards from him, watching the game from the roadside, and interested in seeing how it would end. Mr. Dandelow's voice grew louder-he went on to call Sam a fool-he shouted to him in wrath. At last, provoked by some awkwardness of the human or some waywardness of the equine animal, he burst out in tones of thunder: Sac-c-r-r-r-rée bête ! peste de gr-r-r-igou---!' and one or two other choice expletives with whose meaning I was not acquainted, but which I guessed to be more forcible than pious. I don't know what possessed me; but, walking leisurely down to the gate, I leant over it, still watching the game. Mr. Dandelow, his brow darkening as he watched Sam and the pony, took no more notice of me than if I had been the gatepost. Just then Sam caught hold of the pony's forelock, but the little creature was too quick for his antagonist, and sent him sprawling on the ground, sieve and all. Before Dandelow could speak, I shouted out as loud as I could bawl, Sabr-r-r-re de bois! Pisto-let de paille! Gr-r-r-r-renadier de papier!' Mr. Dandelow was betrayed into a look of surprise; for three seconds he stared full at me as if he were trying to make me out. Then he took off his hat in the most ceremonious Paris fashion and made me a profound bow. Tiens! C'est Monsieur le Pasteur!' I lifted my hat and bowed low. We became friends from that hour.

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