THE LITTLE BLUE CONVENT AT VAL.

Dunstan Times, Issue 2479, 3 May 1909, Page 2

THE LITTLE BLUE CONVENT AT VAL.

(By Lida 0. Schem.)

One faix morning in spring, ■when all the world was so glorified by the radiance of its rejuvenation that the tiny specks of downy cloud appeared to be islands of joy afloat in a sea of delight, and sadness and grief seemed alien and incredible things, by some ironical destiny it happened that a great sorrow bedell the good sisters of tho little Blue Convent at Val. Monsieur le Maire knocked at their gate and demanded admittance in the name oi the Law, so that he and the underlings who accompanied him might inventory the goods and chattels of which the Order stood posse sifed. . , , , , The Sisters interposed no obstacles—now dared they, when the Holy Father at Borne had himself commanded meekness and submission? —but they summoned the Abbe Sebastian, who lived little more than a stone’s throw away, as though he, poor man, could have warded ofi tne blow he and they had feared so long, and which had now fallen! , . . The gentle old priest, looking very white and much sterner than those who knew him best would have believed possible, voiced his protect in one brokenhearted little sentence: “Will you not spare them? To which Monsieur le Maire replied tartly: “’Twould have been more courte ous to phrase that query with a can and not with a will. Moreover, I beg Monsieur I’Abbe to remember this is merely an inventory taking—not an expulsion. Bo need, therefore, as yet, to speak ot Monsieur I'Abbe had not the heart to question how soon the final act would Jo - low in the wake of the present. At a gesture from him, Sister Agatha, who was m her novitiate and the youngest membei of the Convent, led away the Reverend Mother, who was over eighty, so that the old woman, who had lived in the Lonven.. since her fourteenth year, might not be forced to witness the profanation of the sacred treasures by sordid, possibly covetous hands. They made an aftectmg picture as they walked slowly from the room—these two extremes-: tho girl, with a face like the petal of a white water lily tinged by the blush of dawn, whose every movement was so informed with tho grace and the elasticity of youth, that even the shapeless garments which swathed her could not obliterate her charm; the Reverend Mother, walking heavily and with the hesitancy of age, her face yellow as the ivory beads of her own rosary. Monsieur le Maire signified his pleasure to begin with the “’linen closet, as ho called it. So they spread out before him the priceless altar laces, worked, some of them, in the fifteenth century, by Henrietta, that Princess of the Blood, who in her widowhood had sought _refnge in the Convent from a rough suitor. It was to her largess the Order owed its ability to purchase the matchless altar service, wrought by no less a master than Benvenuto Cellini, and the exquisite stainedglass windows, semicircular in form, reared on a diameter of four meters, in six shades of blue, which had given the Convent its popular name, and each of which illustrated one Station of the Cross, The quick young ears of Sister Agatha, leaving the Mother Superior's room, caught an irreverent remark concerning useless lengths of lace,” made by Monsieur le Maire in his arrogant fashion. Indignation pulsed hotly through her blood, at that, and she stood with burning cheeks and clenched hands clasped firmly over her bosom, as though to restrain the anger of her heart. . The two officials next appraised the stained-glass windows, and bickered over their intrinsic value as though at an auction; then the altar service, and tho Christ on the Cross, a genuine Fra Angelico ; and finally they climbed up the spiral stairs that led to the room in the Tower which had been occupied by tho Lady Henrietta, and which held all her relics. Here hung the flags, brought back from the Third Crusade by the Chevalier d’Estagnac, and presented by him to the Princess, whose kinsman ho was. Here stood the ebony prie-dieu, upholstered in scarlet velvet and powdered with tiny golden lilies of France; here, on the 'black velvet reposed the wonderful ivory •crucifix, which was one of the Convent's most dearly prized treasures. Jealously the voung novitiate’s eyes followed every movement of the two men .6 they walked about the apartment, in •which, until that hour, no man had set foot, excepting the Bishop who in those far-away days, had administered extreme unction to the Lady Henrietta in the hour of death. 1 Sister Agatha’s heart beat so wildly that •she thought it must burst through the .vstments of he body, when Monsieur le Maire took up this crucifix, which she had dared kiss upon the feet only when ■ cleansed from sin by the Sacrament, handled it as if it were some common, mundane thing, and in his fat, unhallowed, cynical voice said : “A great pity this, —that so many fine bits of ivory are marredb y this morbidly gruesome subject.” When, finally, they had gone from tho room, the young girl threw herself upon the gold and red prie-dieu and burst into a oassionate fit of weeping. With all the ardor of youth combined with a vital ' faith, her heart cried that this hateful thing could never come to pass, would never come to pass. Their treasures to bo taken from them, the sacred edifice to be despoiled, and they to be thrust out into the world, exiled from Yal, as though their mere presence there carried pollution with-it! And worst of all, ah, yes, worst of all, never, to see the little Tower •room again, her little room, which, as long as she could remember, she had loved as her very own. As a child, her unruly spirit had been kept in check by permission, as a reward for good conduct, to bring her needlework to this room; and here, among the wonderful old tapestries, the curiously carved furniture, behind the barred and grated window, she had dreamed the golden dreams of maidenhood. Sister Agatha was the human legacy left the Convent by a beautiful young mother, who, one black winter's night, had been picked up by Monsieur I’Abbo a half mile from the village. The stranger ultimately perished from the results of the exposure, after giving birth to a child. And her identity remained a mystery, excepting to the Cure, to whom, before the last absolution was granted, she had told her story. The little girl, left to the good Sisters, was cherished *s a thing very sweet and sacred, —sweet because at her birth a great sorrow was wiped out. ... The child grew to be a beautiful little creature, of fjamelike, evanescent loveliness, with winsome, willful ways, on whom tho excellent Sisters lavished an exuberant love, glimmerings of that maternal instinct which no nun’s mummery of vows of celibacy can wholly expunge in the heart of a good woman. Theirs was an active Order —to nurse the sick, to sew for the poor, to teach the lowly; and, their income being but ’small, they were very poor. In summer the hardiest of the Sisters tilled the soil, garnered the grain, and hoed the potatoes; and sometimes, when the harvest was poor, they fasted on days that should ' have been feast days. Yet no matter how • poorly the larder was stocked, how worn - their shoes, how shabby their garments, ’ little Guilberte,—such was Sister Agatha's : baptismal name,—was well shod and well clad and had her caraway cake with pink ' frosting on every saint’s day, and. a real •layer cake on her birthday and Christmas and Easter. They loved her, these goodSisters, with all the tenderness and devotion which only childless women, into whose path a child has dropped as a benediction and a miracle, can bestow.

The girl thought of all this, and more, as she knelt gustfully weeping in the Tower room, and her selfish sorrow was merged in the nobler grief for the excellent women who had nurtured and bred her. Finally she arose, and going to the window, drank in the sweet, pure spring air. Below she saw the figure of the Cur© walking slowly along the. path that led through the woods to his house. Gathering her ungainly raiment about her, and fleet-footed like a young gazelle, the girl sped down the stairs, three steps at a time, and suot out of the door, past the wondering Sister on duty. 'two minutes later she was beside the Abbe, and slipping her hand into his arm, waJked beside him mutely. The old man gently patted her hand, and said ; “If -.it is indeed the will of le boll Dieu that this expulsion take place, it must be borne.” “But it is insufferable!” cried the young girl, the tears starting afresh to her eyes. “Nothing is insufferable, my daughter,” said the Abba softly, “if the Spirit ff God abides in the heart. Eemember the persecutions endured by the early Christians, how they were burned at the stake and endured it.’’ “I would rather be burned at the stake than suffer this ignominy,”; burst from Sister Agatha’s lips. “And if they expel us, when they expel us, shall we even then not attempt to resist?” “You shall do as the Holy Father has commanded: Submit, and meekly bear the cross laid upon your shoulders.” Sister Agatha’s indignation rose and overswellod her discx - etion. “The Holy Father in Rome is in no danger of being turned out of the Vatican.” she said bitterly. “Hush, my child, hush,” said the gentle old Abbe. They hud reached his house by this time, and turning back, they saw the Convent, not mty yards away. Its exterior of graystone, overgrown with mosses and ivy and dappled on this spring morning with the bloom of the apple trees, rose softly from the swelling crest of the hillock on which it stood'. Sister Agatha’s tears, as sho looked, flowed unchecked. The good Abbe Sebastian tried to console her with sweet, strong words, but the old man, in truth, stood greatly in need of consolation himself. In the sixty odd years of his life, his faith in lo bon Dieu, in His infallible wisdom and unalterable goodness had never wavered for one moment, but he felt now, as if that faith, unless steadily reinforced by prayer, might yet be shaken. When ho was" alone, lie sought the fragrant seclusion of his trellised arbor, overgrown - with wild vines and wistarias, and here he knelt down. In tho moist grass, with all tho soft luscious, young tilings pressing upward out of tho brown, sweetscented earth, it seemed to him that he achieved almost a physical nearness to God. “Divine Father,” he prayed, “if it be indeed necessary to so scourge those excellent women, forgive my unworthy appeal. If there be some secret sin to be atoned, accept my atonement, in lieu of theirs. Let the chastisement be meted out to me. Smite mo with blindness, remove from my vision all the beauties and the undying wonder of Thy handiwork, than contemplating which Thou knowest I have no greater joy on earth, save to do Thy will. Push mo out into darkness, into hunger and cold if Thou seest fit, but spare them” ; and at the end of a long pause, “Yet not my will bo done, but Thine.” When he went into the house ho found something to make him forget his grief for a moment. Jeannette, his housekeeper, rosy and rotund, pointed out to him a vase filled With blossoms, and said : "Monsieur le Cure, the cherries are in bloom.” Then the good Abbe smiled, for his mind harked back some twenty years or more, when, on© day at dusk, in the cherry season, a little boy of twelve or thirteen had wandered in at the open door. He had strayed away from his people who were picknicking at Preny St. Pierre, and had lost himself in the woods, finally striking Val. lie was a bright little chap, and the name he gave was a well-known one. The Cure had despatched a messenger to Charnignez, where the lad lived, and had put him up in the guest chamber for the night, after feasting him royally on cold pigeon pie and cherries. In the night there had arisen a great tumult in the guest chamber, and the Abbe had hastened there in his nightclothes, with Jeanette, in curl papers and great agitation, lighting the way with the first candle she had been able to lay hands upon. To the Cure’s disgust, this candle subsequently proved to be a communion taper which had been left the day before for his inspection. When they had approached tho room which harbored the strange lad,- they heard unearthly moans proceeding therefrom, and on opening tho door, they had found the visitor, groaning horribly, and rolling about on his bed, quite evidently in the throes of death. Jeanette, seeing bits of red on the snowy counterpane, had ejaculated : “He is spitting blood!” The excellent Abbe Sebastian’s eyes were none too good, and he did not wait to corroborate his housekeeper’s statement, but commanded, “Run for the doctor.” Tho doctor, on entering the alleged death chamber a half hour later, found the good Abb© on his knees, praying fervently, and on the table were candles, wafers, and whatever else was necessary for extreme unction. And truly, the sight of tho patient was appalling. But the doctor was young and brisk, and his sight was excellent, and one quick glance sent him into a fit of laughter. “Monsieur TAbbe,” he cried, when he recovered from his merriment, “your dying penitent has eaten too many cherries ! He will be as well as you and I to-morrow morning.” And so, every year after that, the Abb« Sebastian, being apprised that the cherry trees were in bloom, smiled in recollection of the episode, or sometimes, when the mood was upon him, ho laughed. Yet another significance attached to the cherry season. Once a year, at this time, Jeanette, faithful servant, received a week’s vacation to enable her to visit her home village, some thirty miles away. Accordingly, before break of day on© morning, she set off on foot for her destination, leaving Sister Agatha in charge of the modest household. Sister Agatha was in jubilant mood. First of all she dearly loved to cook and do for the Cure because she loved him, and in the second place, news had come that morning to the Convent that Monsieur le Maire was ill with a fever, from which it would take him many months to recover, if at all. That meant indefinite postponement of their expulsion, and tho young girl’s heart sang a blitho song of thanksgiving at the respite thus granted as she went about her homely duties. > It so happened that the Abbe was called away, a few mornings after th ; s, to a sick peasant who lived some miles beyond the outskirts of the village, and bis going hither and returning would consume all day. The afternoon of _ that day was well under way, when Sister Agatha, sitting with her prayer-book upon the tessellated porch, heard a strange _ gritting sound and became aware of flying particles < i dust and a strange general commotion, she knew not where. A secon4 later a largo touring car stopped at the gate, and a young man jumped briskly from it. He walked quickly up the narrow path between the high walls of roses and sunflowers, and, removing his cap, and remaining uncovered, he said: “Does tho Abbe Sebastian still live here?” “Yes,” said the young man, and as Sister Agatha looked un into the candid gray eyes that beamed down into her

own, she became aware of a sudden flurry.. “Will you not wait?” she said timidly, for want of something better. “I cannot. It is a long way to Paris, and I must be there before nightfall.” He stood and pondered. Suddenly, with a sort of quaint abruptness, “May I ask for a glass of water?—l am very thirsty.” She brought it, and tried to keep her eyes away from him while he drank. As he set down the glass, he said : “Do you keep house now for Monsieur I’Abbe?”

“Not always, his housekeeper is from home.” ( “Ah—Jeanette! She still visits her family every spring?” Sister Agatha made a movement of surprise, and, the young man asked: “Have you known Father Sebastian long?” "Always,” said Sister Agatha baptised me.’’

“He

“Then you have heard, yes, undoubtedly you have heard, of the adventure to which I owe my acquaintance with him. I am the boy of the cherries.” “You?” Sister Agatha struggled to suppress her smiles, for, when she smiled, her dimples showed, and she had a strong suspicion that these dimples ill became the dignity of her habit. “You?” she repeated incredulously. “Ah, and such fun as it was ! I shall never forget Jeanette, holding the church taper over a meter long above her head, as though she were sent to illuminate the Catacombs. And lecher Abbe. You should have heard him pray, as if my ghost had already departed from my body!”

“It is wrong to laugh at such things,” said Sister Agatha primly, trying hard to show that she was shocked and to disguise that she was much entertained.

“Why, then, do you laugh?’’ said the young man audaciously, and Sister Agatha had a sudden sense of conviction that her dimples were shamelessly betraying her amusement. “And you,” he added suddenly, “you are really a Sister?’ That brought back Sister Agatha’s vanishing dignity. “I belong yonder,” she said, “to the Little Blue Convent. So Jong, at least, as it belongs to ns.” The young man became serious quite suddenly. When lie spoke again, she noticed that his voice had dropped several notes, and that there was a soft, ingratiating inflection in his voice that she had not perceived before. “Do they speak of expelling you?” he asked.

“They have taken the inventory, but now Monsieur le Maire is ill. lie is not un bon Chrestien, this Monsieur le Maire, so you may imagine the hourly torment in which we live. Of course while he is ill —■” she broke off suddenly, and then resumed : “I have committed a grievous sin, but Monsieur I’Abbe, 1 trust, will not refuse to absolve me. I have wished that Monsieur Jo Maire may not recover.” Tho young man bit his lips. “Ho you repent your sin?” he asked. She shook her head. “.No,” she said softly, “I do not.” There followed a recital of tho grief and the anxiety which had agitated her so deeply for months. Unconsciously the little Sister revealed herself —all tho pristine, almost childlike purity of her heart, her little pleasures, her little woes. Unconsciously, too, through a half suppressed word, a syllable, a gesture, a phrase checked, she let him look in upon tho strange, mystic childhood, fed by that wonderful inner flame that had drawn its sustenance almost wholly from the hours lived in the Tower room. And ho listened, and marvelled', and—adored. “A Madonna,” hi* summarised the impression to himself, “but not one of the early masters. They were all flesh and blood, physical mothers merely. It remained for the moderns to conceive the spiritual creature such as wo love to picture to ourselves the Mother of Christ —• tho flesh merely a vehicle for the soul, a beautiful, flexible, tangible, corporeal but never gross instrument for the spirit to do with as it pleases.” iiis eyes told her as much, not boldly, but with infinite tenderness, with infinite humility and reverence. His were tho first eyes that repeated to her tho neverhoeded testimony of the mirror, and their mute eloquence moved her more profoundly than sjiokeu words could have done. A mysterious joyousnees ran through her blood, such as she had never felt before, and to which, in the white holiness of her innocence, she opened her being. The hour to her was as sweet as any dream. The world seemed a rose leaf, and the spirits compounded of dew and light. She paid for it in days to come, when tho young man did not return, as ho had promised to do the following week to see Monsieur le Cure. But she did not know that she was paying a penalty. Tho sharp and poignant pain, as sharp and poignant as her joy had been supreme and fine, conveyed no message to her —at least at first—as to its meaning, its birth, and its cause. She suffered dumbly, and wondered blindly what might be the origin of this unrest that had risen out of the night to flagellate and tease her. Many golden days and silver nights passed before she knew.

Spring droned into summer, summer into autumn, October had scattered its promiscuous gold, when the news came that Monsieur ic Maire, who had recovered at last, had effected the sale of the Convent, complete with all its vessels, furniture, and equipments. A cry of horror arose when tho further intelligence came that an American had made the purchase. An American ! Their altar laces, iheir Fra Angelico, their wonderful service, their windows even, which had filtered their light to blue, symbol of al)solute purity, before it penetrated into their Holy of Holies, mayhap to adorn some savage palace beyond the sea! In mournful procession they went to their Chapel, and knelt about the altar, two and twenty funereally drooped figures, in silent devotion. Suddenly a heartbroken sob broke from Sister Agatha’s throat, and one by one the other Sisters gave way under the burden of their intolerable grief, and wept. All but one. Tho Reverend Mother alone did not weep, but lifting her voice, the brittle dry voice of fourscore years, prayed aloud that le bon I>ieu might give her younger sisters strength to bear whatever it pleased Him they should, and to restire the faith that unquestionably says, “It is for the best.” October’s gold had turned to sable at November’s touch, and yet no notice of expulsion came. The Convent wondered, Monsieur I’Abbe wondered, Monsieur le Maire wondered, and the village wondered. And still the American purchaser seemed in no haste to take possession and to vandalise the sacred edifice.

There fell in December the day on which tho vows of the nuns must be renewed and the novitiates take their perpetual vows Monsieur le Cure, regarding the three novitiates, exhorted them earnestly and at length seriously to consider the step they were about to take, which, ordinarily, might have been dismissed without further thought or reflection by pious novitiates, such as they had proven themselves to be. But the unsettled affairs of the Convent, tho probability of an early expulsion, justified them in considering the worldly advantages that would accrue to them should they reject the perpetual vows. Tho excellent old priest felt it incumbent to say that much. Sister Oelestino and Sister Teresa were sturdy, matter-of-fact young women of peasant stock. The Cure took an interest in them, of course, but compared with his absorbing interest in Sister Agatha, it was colorless and flaccid indeed. Should they now take the vows, he would rejoice greatly for the sake of their souls; should they reject them, he would rejoice for sake of their healthy young bodies. But, Guilberte, his godchild, his favorite, caused his uneasiness. There was no self-seeking there; everything was fineness and exaltation. No need to ask what she would do. And the thought

of what would become of her when the expulsion finally took place troubled him greatly. When he asked for the decision of the novitiates, Sister Celestine and Sister Teresa came up to him, blushing lightly, and kneeling before him, asked his benediction. They would willingly forego possible worldly benefits and adhere to their projected plan of conduct. They would take the vows. This was a great happiness indeed for the Cure, for, in his heart of hearts, he had doubted the steadfastness of the two Sisters. He blessed them, and then stretched out his hands to Guilberte. She came to him, trembling a little and very white, and with the ilowerlike grace which was all her own, knelt down. The Abbe smiled upon her. "Your decision, my child?” he asked, as a matter of form. ‘‘Monsieur le Cure,” the young voice w r as almost inaudible, “I cannot take the perpetual vows.” A murmur of unbelief swept the ranks of the nuns. Their adored darling, the apple of their eye, rejecting the vows! "It is not because of worldly advantages,” continued the girl, her voice waxing stronger, "I would not have you think that, Father Sebastian, or you,. Reverend Mother, but —but—ah, well, the sin is great no doubt, yet not as unfathomable as if 1 had taken the habit for life. I—■there is—how shall I tell you? The image of God is not the only image graven upon my heart. It is obscured, darKened, veiled by the image of a man.” There was compassion, unbelief, disappointment in the look with which the Cure regarded the girl at his feet. Then slowly, gradually, a look of admiration shot through the other expressions, as a ray of sunlight pierces a cloud. When Guilberte finally looked up, and her eyes encountered the gaze of. the Abbe Sebastian, she knew she was forgiven. It required some little penetration to guess who he was who had diverted the girl’s thoughts 'from the Church. The Cure did much thinking that winter, but said little.

The pendulum of time swung on, and placed spring on the dial once more. Once more, also, the cherry trees were in bloom, and Jeanette away on her visit, and Guilborte, no longer in nun’s habit, cooking gruel and making pasties for the Abbe. One afternoon, as Father Sebastian sat upon his bench, op the tessellated porch, there came a great swinging of dust and a strange commotion, and presently there stood before him a young man who grasped him by the hand, and said: "It was a muddled winter,” said PhiSebastian.”

“Have you indeed?” There was a note of nettled irony in the old priest’s voice, young stranger the little boy of twelve who had made himself sick eating cherries, He recognised at once in the handsome some twenty years ago. “It was a muddled winter,’ said Philippe, “and I have been very ill.” “They took me away to Italy, where I recovered slowly, very slowly, yet rapidly enough, thank Heaven, to buy the little Blue Convent in good time for Jes cheres soeurs.”

"It was you!’ cried the astonished Cure. "And they said it was an American.” “A trick,” laughed Philippe. “I inherited rny uncles fortune, more millions than I will ever use. And he was an American. So, likewise, is his lawyer. 1 retained him as a matter of prudence, he suggested tho feint. The authorities might otherwise have suspected tho reason of the purchase.’ The Abbe Sebastian regarded the young man with open-mouthed amazement. “My son,’ he said gently, “you have done "a noble deed, a wonderfully noble deed. But, forgive me, —am I to understand that you did all this for rny sake?” At that Philippe became very rod, and laughed nervously. ‘T will not lie Father Sebastian, since possibly you Ivave guessed part of tho truth. I did it for you partially, but principally, chiefly, almost wholly, I did it for the sake of the little nun whom I saw here last year, when Jeanette was away,—Sister Agatha, with tho face of a Madonna and the eyes of an Angel. Sho was too seductively beautiful, too alluringly lovely, to be thrust out into the world in which human wolves abound.”

The young man lowered his eyes and they sat in silence for a few minutes, the Abbe Sebastian and Philippe. Then the young man said, still with downcast eyes, without ixassion, in a voice blending tenderness, reverence, and such abnegation that it lingered for ever in tho Cure’s memory: “He beauty has troubled me greatly.” The Abbe regarded the young man placidly. "What,” he said, “would you think, if I were to tell you that the little maid is not a nun at all?” "Not a nun?”

“No— she refused to take the perpetual vows. A man, it seems, had intervened between herself and God.

But Philippe had risen, and stood, his body bent forward, leaning rigidly with his hand upon the small table. “Then she is married,” he gasped. “Not yet, said the Abbe smilingly. “But will be, soon.” Philippe became metamorphosed. There was no vestige of immolation in his manner now.

"Monsieur I’Abbe,” he cried almost menacingly. “You torture me. Who is the man?’

Father Sebastian smiled his inscrutable, calm smile. “Perhaps, my son,” he said placidly, “perhaps, you had better ask her that yourself. If I mistake not, sho has just entered the room. Look through the window', or the door.” “I cannot meet her now,” cried poor Philippe, but he looked in at the door nevertheless, and when he saw her, her eyes held him as limpid pools of water hold the moonlight, and the mahoganytinted' hair, surrounding her white face like a halo, drew him toward her like a halo, drew him toward her like a magnet. He found he eould not run away. Presently he stood beside her, her hands, which were numb and still, in his.

“Sister Agatha,” ho said, for as yet he knew her by no other name, “who is the man ?”

Tears filled her eyes, but she could* not speak. Neither could she remove her gaze from his face. Then he understood. Father Sebastian, sitting on the small tessellated porch, placidly matched the fingers of his two hands. Nor did he turn to look at what passed within the little room, for he knew, without seeing, that the gates of Paradise had swung wide at that moment to make a home for two loving young hearts.

Criminal investigation departments which have pinned their faith to the fin-ger-print system for the identification of suspected persons have often found themselves baffled by clever malefactors intentionally scarring their finger-tips so as to defy recognition. The Bertillon measurement system used in France and elsewhere has the disadvantage of lacking simplicity and quickness in its application. Professor Tamassia, in the Italian Hospital Gazette, now comes forward with a new idea, that of keeping photographic records of the back of the hands. Identification is infallible, he declares, by noting and comparing the configuration of the venous network, which may be made clearly visible by compressing the pulse for a few instants, or if the hand be allowed to hang or swing freely for a short time. The back of the hand, on account of its great size as compared with finger prints, affords much more favorable opportunities for studying- individual characteristics ; added to which, says the professor, the venous network is different in every person, and it would be impossible to interfere with it by means of voluntary mutilations such as self-inflicted burns without incurring grave danger to life.