addressed almost entirely to the passions and pecuniary interests of the surgeon; and among the pleas which were urged in behalf of the suppression of hospital cases, we took occasion to examine those which were founded on the youth, the ignorance and the misfortunes of operating surgeons. That the surgeon's want of dexterity should ever have been urged as an argument in favour of the suppression of a case, in which the patient has been sacrificed to his ignorance, appears undoubtedly at the first blush, as the lawyers say, incredible; but the vis inertia of human imbecility may afford a lesson to incredulity, and if we should have any readers who may not have seen our former article, we will again cite for their benefit the passage in which this argument is brought forward by Dr James Johnson, the sapient editor of the Medico-Chirurgical Review.

Let us imagine a case in which one of the simplest operations in surgery has been performed by an hospital surgeon, in so bungling, unskilful, and disgraceful a manner, that the patient's life was evidently sacrificed to his want of dexterity. If such a case as this were to occur in private practice, it might be said that it would be desirable to suppress the cause of failure, out of tenderness to the feelings of the relatives and friends of the deceased. This would be at least a plausible ground for concealment; it would be a weak argument indeed, when put in competition with the paramount interests of public utility, but it would be at least an amiable, and an intelligible argument in favour of suppression. But that the expediency of suppressing a case of failure from the surgeon's want of dexterity should be defended-not because the mischief, as it respects the victim and his surviving relatives, is irremediable-not from an amiable, though, on public grounds, an injudicious regard for the feelings of those surviving relatives-but out of tenderness, forsooth, to the ignorant operator! is so monstrous a proposition, that prepared as we were for the imbecilities of the "Hole and Corner" champions, we were somewhat staggered at the impudent absurdity with which it is advanced. We are the more disposed to dwell on this topic, because we know that the diatribe against THE LANCET in Dr. JAMES JOHNSON'S Review was got up with great effort, and we have reason to believe that the Editor was assisted in that part of it, which is more especially devoted to the defence of "Hole and Corner surgery, by one of the individuals who has taken the most active part in the recent attack upon the press. "If a surgeon fail from want of dexterity," we are told, he suffers mortifica

tion enough, heaven knows, in the operation room, without being put to the cruel and demoniacal torture of seeing the failure blazoned forth in the public journals." The writer of this paragraph discovers such a tender sympathy for the operator who fails from want of dexterity, that we cannot help suspecting, that while he is advocating the cause of "Hole and Corner" surgery, he is at the same time vindicating his own claims to commiseration. Not a scintilla of compassion does the "Hole and Corner" advocate suffer to escape him, for the victim of the surgeon's want of dexterity; all his sympathy is reserved for the ignorant operator. The destruction of the patient is a mere cypher in the account; un homme mort n'est qu'un homme mort, as was observed by his prototype in Molière, but a surgeon who makes a cut in the wrong place is a fit object of commiseration, and the mortification to which his want of dexterity has already exposed him in the operation room, is quite a sufficient punishment for the destruction of a fellow creature. In a delicate operation, a few lines more or less in the extent or direction of an incision, may make all the difference between the life and the death of the patient; and even the simplest chirurgical operation may, as we have had occasion to witness, be performed in so unskilful a manner, as to occasion the destruction of life, when its success would have been morally certain in the hands of any surgeon of ordinary dexterity. Let us suppose that of two Hospital Surgeons A is less skilful than B, and that a patient is destroyed, because it is A's turn to operate. Will the public endure to be told in such a case as this that A, and not the unfortunate patient, is the proper object of commiseration, and that the mortification which the surgeon suffers in the operating theatre is a sufficient punishment for his ignorance, without exposing him to the torture of seeing his failure blazoned forth in the public journals? Not only do the public interests imperiously call for the publication of every case of failure on the part of a hospital surgeon, but we maintain that if the failure be clearly and indisputably attributable to want of dexterity, the public interests call imperiously for the surgeon's removal. We could name more than one hospital surgeon whose removal, or resignation (we will not stickle for a verbal distinction), has almost immediately followed the publication of cases in which they had operated; and we have no hesitation in classing these removals, or resignations, among the most useful results of the publicity which has been given to all medical proceedings in THE LANCET. It is idle to talk of the respect due to the feelings or the pockets of

individual surgeons-it is absurd to propose any compromise between the private interests of hospital surgeons and the paramount consideration of the health and safety of the patients entrusted to their care. No surgeon who is well acquainted with his profession, and who is conscious of discharging his professional duties with ability, need fear the publication of the cases in which he operates; but if the surgeon of a public hospital be inadequately acquainted with his profession, or if he be incapable of operating with dexterity and precision, the sooner his removal is effected by giving publicity to his failures, the less will be the amount of injury inflicted on the public.

115. "O'CONNELL'S POLICE" (1829).

Daniel O'Connell, the leading Irish champion of Catholic Emancipation, was at the height of his fame immediately after the Clare election of 1828. His oratorical fire made him a national hero, and it was through him that Irish causes spoke most forcibly at Westminster. Catholic Emancipation is a matter of great consequence both in the history of English legislation and of English thought. With it O'Connell is here connected, and with O'Connell his enormous popularity in Dublin. Steuart Trench, from whom the excerpt is taken, was an able land agent, and during the middle years of this century managed several of the largest estates in southern Ireland. At the time in question he was an undergraduate of Trinity College, Dublin.

SOURCE.-Realities of Irish Life. W. Steuart Trench (1808-1872). London, 1869. P. 38.

These were the days of O'Connell's supremacy; and all Ireland, and England too, rang with his fame. His usual habit at that period, during term time, was, to walk home from the "Four Courts"-the Irish courts of law-with an immense gathering of wild and ragged followers at his back. These he called, in jest, his police; and "O'Connell's police" became, for a short time, one of the institutions of Dublin. But the Collegeyoung men could never be forced into an acknowledgment of their authority, and the consequence was that repeated rows took place between the parties.

One of the rules this strange police insisted on establishing

was, that all those walking in the streets should take off their hats as O'Connell passed by on his triumphant return from the courts; and any one who refused was mercilessly mobbed, and his hat knocked off or forced down over his eyes. In general, for peace sake, most of the passers-by took this new order of things good-humouredly, and raised their hats rather than submit to the unpleasant consequences of a refusal. But the College lads generally resisted this homage; so that a fight was almost certain to take place whenever they and O'Connell's police chanced to meet in the streets.

It happened one evening that a young college friend and I were walking down one of the main streets of Dublin, when O'Connell and his police appeared in view. We consulted for a moment whether we should cross over to the other side of the street and thus avoid a collision, but we considered this would be infra dig. And we therefore kept our course, resolving

not to take off our hats.

"Hats off! hats off!" shouted the ragged police who preceded "the Liberator" as soon as we approached; but we did not acknowledge the order, and continued to walk steadily on. In a moment we were attacked, and sundry attempts were made to force our hats over our eyes, or knock them off in the street. My companion however-a very powerful young man-gave two or three of the foremost of these "policemen" such a hearty smash in the face that they kept their distance for a little, and we walked by O'Connell in safety. I well remember his smile as he nodded good-humouredly to us as we passed him, and I must say it was one of approval rather than otherwise at our refusal to do him homage. No sooner, however, had we got completely to the rear-O'Connell never allowed his police to commit any violence in his immediate presence than a large party detached themselves on special duty, and followed us with a full resolve to force us into compliance. We continued to walk rapidly towards home, but we soon heard the double-quick footsteps of a number of men behind us, and again the cry of "Hats off!" resounded through the streets. It had a new and most unpleasant effect upon the nerves to find oneself pursued by a pack of hungry-looking ragged men—the scum of the populace of Dublin (there were no Poor Laws in those days)—who were determined to force us into compliance with what we considered a deep indignity.

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"Hold on," whispered my young friend to me: we may get home before they get too many for us." So we held on still, and refused to take off our hats.

A violent blow in the back of the neck which sent me staggering forward was the reply of one of the party to my companion's whispered suggestions; but it had scarcely been given when the man who gave it was laid flat on his back, bleeding and almost senseless, by a blow in the face from my friend. After this, for some little time, they kept a more respectful distance, but they still followed us shouting "Hats off!" and increasing in numbers as we proceeded. We were frequently assailed, but the moment we turned round, drawing our clenched fists for a blow, the ragged policemen fell back, having evidently a keen recollection of the punishment which the chief of police had received a few minutes before.

At length, however, the party became reinforced by bolder members of this wild constabulary, and we began to feel, as they pressed closer and closer upon us, that we had no chance of reaching home in safety; and resolving, if we could, to make a stand until some relief might be afforded, we rushed up a flight of stone steps, outside a gentleman's door, and presenting our front to the crowd, we showed that we were determined to resist any further aggression to the utmost.

There were no Metropolitan Police, if I recollect right, in those days, and if there were, none certainly came to our assistance; and in a wonderfully short time the street was filled with a motley crowd of the very worst roughs of Dublin, who came running from every quarter to take part in their favourite pastime of a row. Twice a vigorous and direct attack was made upon our fortress; but partly from the determined resistance of my young friend, who forced back his assailants staggering amongst the crowd by the dint of his powerful blows, and partly from the advantageous nature of our position, the enemy was repulsed with loss, and blood flowed freely from our enemies. At length I bethought me of seeking admission to the gentleman's house, on the steps of which we were, and I knocked loudly at the door. It was opened immediately.

Let us in," cried I. "Let us in, or this mob will murder

'Sir," replied the man in a hissing voice, and with his teeth clenched and grinning, "I hate the rascals ten times as much as ever you can do, but this is Lord Norbury's house, and the gentleman within is old, and those villains would pull it down about his ears if I let you in, should they find out whose house it is; and so you must only fight them as best you can.’ And before I could answer a word he slammed the door in my face!

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