e same
side for the purpose of rubbing the irritated spot. I dip the whole
animal into water in order to wash away the acid, and now it is all
at rest again. . . . I put a drop of acid on the skin over the lumbar
region of the spine. . . . Both feet are instantly raised to the
irritated spot. The animal is able to localize the seat of irritation.
. . . I wash the acid from the back, and I amputate one of the feet at
the ankle. . . . I apply a drop of acid over the knee of the footless
leg. . . . Again, the animal turns the leg towards the knee, as if to
reach the irritated spot with the toes; these, however, are not now
available. But watch the other foot. The _foot of the other leg_ is now
being used to rub away the acid. The animal, finding that the object is
not accomplished with the foot of the same side, uses the other one.

I think that at least one thing will be patent to every unprejudiced
reader of these excerpts, namely--that any frog (with its head on or its
head off) which happened to make the personal acquaintance of Professor
Rutherford must have found him poor company. What benefit science may
have derived from such association I am not qualified to pronounce upon.
The lecturer showed conclusively that the frog is a peculiarly sensitive
and intelligent little batrachian. I hope that the genial professor, in
the years which followed, did not frequently consider it necessary to
demonstrate the fact.

LEIGH HUNT AND BARRY CORNWALL

IT has recently become the fashion to speak disparagingly of Leigh Hunt
as a poet, to class him as a sort of pursuivant or shield-bearer to
Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. Truth to tell, Hunt was not a Keats nor
a Shelley nor a Coleridge, but he was a most excellent Hunt. He was
a delightful essayist--quite unsurpassed, indeed, in his blithe,
optimistic way--and as a poet deserves to rank high among the lesser
singers of his time. I should place him far above Barry Cornwall, who
has not half the freshness, variety, and originality of his compeer.

I instance Barry Cornwall because there has seemed a disposition since
his death to praise him unduly. Barry Cornwall has always struck me as
extremely artificial, especially in his dramatic sketches. His verses in
this line are mostly soft Elizabethan echoes. Of course a dramatist
may find it to his profit to go out of his own age and atmosphere for
inspiration; but in order successfully to do so he must be a dramatist.
Barry C