r as to bestow upon the young Swiss his own
sword. His attainments in all the amusements of a gentleman probably had
more to do with these advancements, however, than any professional
skill. He was a capital linguist; at fencing, leaping, running, and
other manly exercises, he found few rivals; and his dabblings in
architecture and botany were at least as notable as his mastership of
chess and his skill as a musician. But when it came to a scientific test
of his surgical and anatomical pretensions, his failure was lamentable
indeed. The unquenchable thirst for notoriety--which he may have
mistaken for fame--was perpetually leading him into questionable
positions, and finally covered his name with ridicule and confusion.

An impudent woman, known as Mary Tofts, declared to the world, that,
instead of a human child, she had given birth to a litter of rabbits.
How such a ridiculous tale ever found believers, it is impossible to
conceive; but such was the case. All England, with the very small
exception of those who united the possession of learning with common
sense, was imbued with the frenzy. The price of warrens was abated to a
mere song, and for a season a Londoner would as readily have eaten a
baked child as a roasted rabbit. The children of men were believed to
populate the burrows, and authorities of the highest reputation lent an
unhesitating support to the delusion. The learned Whiston published in
the circumstance a fulfilment of a prophecy of Esdras, and St. Andre
loudly urged the authenticity of the entire fable and of the theories
that were founded upon it. But the satiric pen of Swift, the burin of
Hogarth, and the graver investigations of Cheselden at last turned the
popular tide, and covered St. Andre in particular with such a load of
contemptuous obloquy as to drive him forever from the high circles he
had moved in. So great was his spleen, that, from that time forth, he
would never suffer a dish upon his table or a syllable in his
conversation that could in any way bring to mind the absurd occasion of
his disgrace.

If all reports are to be believed, St. Andre's career had led him into
many singular adventures. He had saved Voltaire's life, by violently
detaining Lord Peterborough, when the latter stood prepared to punish
with peremptory death some peccadillo of the Frenchman's. Voltaire fled
from the scene, while his adversary struggled to be released. His
services to Pope, when the poet was overturned