While we were considering the advantages of making a long stay in the Adirondacks way back in the '80s," we heard constant mention of Dr. Edward Livingston Trudeau, a physician who had, for years, lived in that wilderness; and who had there gained and kept his health. My fancy pictured him as a little dried-up fossil of a man, with an eye faded by suffering, with scanty unkempt hair, stringing down from under some queer old-fashioned hat; and as hunting spryly through the woods with gun in hand, and antiquated prescriptions in his pocket. So one might imagine him from vague guide-book allusions.

A great transformation of such ideas occurred one day when at Paul Smith's a handsome stalwart figure entered the office, whom some one addressed as "Dr. Trudeau." There was nothing fossil-like or antiquated about that erect form, manly carriage and radiant face; but, rather, an air of elegance, of present interest, of genuine good-will and happiness. That bright, quick eye, and glad, boyish laugh revealed no trace of suffering, as he tossed off his cap, and flung himself onto the sofa. The elegant disposition of a pair of graceful legs bespoke the thoroughbred

gentleman, in spite of the rustic high-topped yellow boots, which were so characteristic a feature of his apparel. One longed to know him.

A still greater transformation of preconceived ideas took place one evening, when I was seriously ill, and as he sat by my bedside awaiting the result of treatment he had been giving. To beguile the time he told simply the story of his life. "I tell the tale as it was told to me."

He was eighth in descent of a line of French physicians. He He was brought up in Paris; and, when fifteen years old, had come to this country, had learned to speak English, and had intended to enter the navy. But heredity was too strong to allow him to do aught but become a physician. After his medical training he settled on Long Island; and at the age of twenty-five began practice.

In his young wife he found charm and loveliness of character:

"One who should stand, in womanly strength,

In every necessity, by him."

Though perfectly happy, yet, after a few years the limitations of the place led him to

seek, in New York, a larger professional career. With his wife and the two children he moved there, and "spent" all his pence in getting settled. Soon after, an invitation from the noted Dr. Otis to become his partner heralded the young physician's success.

Sickness followed immediately. The bright beginning of his career and the series of blows began to fall, which, later on, chiselled out a life glorious beyond his own conception. Health journeys were undertaken but no benefit resulted. As a last resort he was sent into the Adirondack wilderness, and there spent a long summer. As he lost nothing, and as there appeared no other hope for him, he decided to try a Winter in that region, braving a life remote from comforts in a wild and lonely country. The results of this Winter, though slight, were favorable.

The next winter Dr. Loomis of New York suggested to other invalids that they also should winter there. He felt that Dr. Trudeau's presence, as a physician, could prudently warrant their doing so. Little by little strength returned to him, and with it the power to be useful. In the Summer, carps of wealthy invalids spread around his own. In the Winter, there gathered with him, in the Village of Saranac Lake, a colony of invalids. To these he gave ministrations of help and cheer, while to the lives of the 1 tive population he added a moral uplift which made him both missionary and physician. First, he established the church there. Then he built a pretty public library, stocked it well with books.

For years Dr. Trudeau was unable to leave this region, except for brief visits, yet, he has made it a means of blessing to thousands; while his own life and that of his devoted wife have given forth friendly, even saintly, ministrations.

Professing to care chiefly for practical things, Dr. Trudeau always claimed that he disliked sentiment, and hated poetry. Yet in the twilight of a sick day, I once repeated to him the lines from Keble:

"Oft in life's stillest shades reclining, In desolation unrepining,

Meek souls there lie, who little dream Their daily life an angel's theme;

Nor that the cross they take so calm, In heaven will shine a Martyr's palm." "Will you say that again?" he asked. After doing so, I said, "Isn't that true of you, Dr. Trudeau?" "It is very true of Lottie," he tenderly reflected.

With added years, Dr. Trudeau advanced his study of the disease he warred against, and he made discoveries such as have brought fame to other men. In his laboratory, he showed me a home-made apparatus he had constructed for heating "specimens." He described how, night after night, he would steal down to note the temperature. In contrast, he showed me a superb Russian lamp he had recently bought-a lamp constructed in the big outer world from which he was so remote, yet whose measures for relief he was so closely following.

In visiting the Sanitarium he founded, and whose incipient dream he had long before confided to us, he said, "This is my last, my best work." As outward work it may be, yet it cannot be compared with the great: ess of that inward work, the building of a character and a nature that have been an inspiration to every being whose life he touched.

"Join hands with God, to make a man to live," says old George Herbert to the ideal physician. "To live, in every part of his being," said the influence of Dr. Trudeau, as, with humane, tender sympathy, with practical utility, reverence for God and love for man, he ministered to the world.

Storm after storm has fallen upon him who has so blessed others. The burning of laboratory and of house, the loss of precious children, the conflict of thought in matters of religious faith; all have come to him. Yet he has kept himself in the attitude to receive the divine light, and he has imparted it to others. "There are things to make a man think," he writes to a friend. He might have added. "Lord, thy servant is tried to the utmost," while with lowly faith he felt "The Lord will perfect that which concerneth me." His great nature has reacted from all experiences and has stamped their benefits upon humanity:

"No labored line, no sculptured art,
Such sacred memory needs;
Whose tablet is the human heart,
Whose record-loving deeds."

In the quest for health-whether one has a desire or dread of travel-there is a call from beyond the horizon and a wistful harking within. Is there not some climate more equable, some air that will ease the laboring breath, some sunnier skies, some restoring waters, some satisfying scenery, some place where the sense of restfulness is in itself a healing balm. The rumors from abroad aggravate the restlessness within. The search for a fountain of youth has increased with modern travel; but never does the mirage of waters so lure the soul as when illness is exhausting and the purse is exhausted.

The advertisements of famous resorts; the record of cures-failures disregarded; the articles that, even truly, exploit the natural advantages of another clime; and the desire, sometimes necessity, to escape present surrounding cares, influences and pressure of responsibilities; these spur the invalid to physical exertion and pecuniary risks that are too often overwhelming.

And it is a sad reflection upon human nature that the hard-attained is most appreciated and pursued. "I send you to a spring across the street," said a German physician to an American whom he had recommended to a water resort back in America near the latter's home, “and you drink, maybe, one pitcherful. I send you six thousand miles and-what? You drink it in tubs!"

Does your case really demand travel? I refer, specifically, to tuberculosis. The East is already learning that its salvation lies most largely at home. Anti-tuberculosis organizations and boards of health supply literature for prevention and cure. The time is past for the patient or the suspect to shield himself from worry through ignorance. Let him find his hope and safety in wisdom. What has been done-as in New Hampshire, where in 27 years death from tuberculosis was reduced one-half-indicates what is coming. If you are a “case,” or a suspect, or if your surroundings are wrong or your vigor is insufficient for your task; if you must safeguard your health, preserve your vigor and earning capacity-get such literature, it is free. You need not become morbid

in your study; and you will find instruction in delightfully refreshing and invigorating methods of sleep and wholesome living.

For illustration, this article is based on personal experience. It centres about these propositions: We have the climate for comfort and cure. We may live in it as do the birds. It is the house-climate, not New England's variable weather, that causes discomfort and breeds disease. We may make conditions to fit the individual case. Even poverty will find these methods the least expensive cure. The secrets of the cure are easily learned. And, lastly, it depends much upon the patient's wit, will and submission to the method.

The condition of our sixteen-year-old daughter, recovering from whooping cough and attending school where ventilation was for the most part limited to the capacity of the key-hole, seemed worth investigating. A slight lesion of the right lobe was manifest. Two weeks of piazza treatment dismissed the cough. A summer out of doors added eight pounds; but the evidence of active tuberculosis induced us to send her to the State Sanatorium for exact treatment and instruction. Three months there gave her the instruction, improvement and purpose that enabled her to return at Christmas to the economy of a home cure.

Like many an old house, ours had the ramshackle piazza, built in the angle of main house and ell; a centre-pillar midway its length. A plank, from this post to the main house, flat, two and a half feet from the floor, made a sill; old pew-doors made a wainscotting beneath. Above, the space was filled with storm windows. The end of the enclosure was left open, the piazza continuing beyond. This piazza faced south. Few storms penetrated, though occasionally it had to be canvased in. The middle of the three windows was hinged to that nearest the house, the latter to the house itself; one or both could be rolled back in good weather. This was for the day.

For night, we removed entirely the windowsash of a small upper room, least open to storms, where blinds could protect. The patient, already indured since the summer to