produces, blessed be the Eternal!” In another letter to his old Hindu teacher from Rome, whither he had been induced to go by the missionaries, speaking of the feasts in that “citadel of the faith,” he writes:-- “The dining-hall was grand, convenient, and richly ornamented. Gold and silver shone upon the sideboards. Gaiety and wit animated the guests. But, meantime, in the kitchens blood and fat were streaming in one horrible mass; skins of quadrupeds, feathers of birds and their entrails, piled up pell-mell, oppressed the heart, and spread the infection of fevers.”[166] That one who hated and denounced injustice of all kinds, and who sympathised with the suffering of all innocent life, should thus characterise the cruelty of the Slaughter-House is what we might naturally look for; as also that he should denounce the kindred and even worse atrocity of the physiological Laboratory. And it is a strange and unaccountable fact that, amongst the humanitarians of his time, he stands apparently alone in condemnation of the secret tortures of the vivisectionists and pathologists--although, perhaps, the almost universal silence may be attributable, in part, to the very secresy of the experiments which only recent vigilance has fully detected. Exposing the equally absurd and arrogant denial of reason and intelligence to other animals, and instancing the dog, he proceeds:-- “There are barbarians who seize this dog, who so prodigiously surpasses man in friendship, and nail him down to a table, and dissect him alive to shew you the mezaraic veins. You discover in him all the same organs of feeling as in yourself. Answer me, Machinist [_i.e._, supporter of the theory of mere mechanical action], has Nature really arranged all the springs of feeling in this animal _to the end that he might not feel_? Has he nerves _that he may be incapable_ of suffering? Do not suppose that impertinent contradiction in Nature.”[167] To the final triumph which in Paris awaited this champion of the weak, at the advanced age of 84, and the unexampled enthusiasm of the people, and the closing act of his eventful life, we can here merely refer. In Berlin, Friedrich ordered a solemn mass in the cathedral church in commemoration of his genius and virtues. A more enduring monument than any conventional mark of human vanity is the legacy which he left to posterity, which will last as long as the French language, and, still more, the humanity embodied in one of his later verses:-- “J’ai fait un peu de bien, c’est mon meilleur ouvrage.”