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society in Europe, and this tract accused Spallanzani of the nasty crime of stealing specimens from the University of Pavia and hiding them in his own little museum at Scandiano.

His bright world came down around his ears; in a moment he saw his gorgeous career in ruins; in hideous dreams he heard the delighted cackles of men who praised him and envied him; he pictured the triumph of men whom he had soundly licked with his clear facts and experiments—he imagined even the return to life of that fool Vegetative Force. . . .

But in a few days he came back on his feet, the center of a dreadful scandal, it is true, but on his feet with his back to the wall ready to face his accusers. Gone now was the patient, hunter of microbes and gone the urbane correspondent of Voltaire. He turned into a crafty politician, he demanded an investigating committee and got it, he founded Ananias Clubs, he fought fire with fire.

He returned to Pavia and on his way there I wonder what his thoughts were—did he see himself slinking into the town, avoided by old admirers and a victim of malignant hissing whispers? Possibly, but as he got near the gates of Pavia a strange thing happened—for a mob of adoring students came out to meet him, told him they would stick by him, escorted him with yells of joy to his old lecture chair. The once self-sufficient, proud man’s voice became husky—he blew his nose— he could only stutteringly tell them what their devotion meant to him.

Then the investigating committee had him and his accusers appear before it, and knowing Spallanzani as you already do, you may imagine the shambles that followed! He proved to the judges that the alleged stolen birds were miserably stuffed, draggle-feathered creatures which would have disgraced the cabinet of a country school—they had been merely pitched out. He had traded the lost snakes and the armadillo to other museums and Pavia had profited by the trade; not only so, but Volta, his chief accuser, had himself