Tuer Microscope. ya 
story of accomplishments in quite another direction. The one 
name upon peoples’ lips just now, not only in our own country, but 
throughout the civilized world, is that of Pasteur. Indeed, in one 
enthusiastic paper recently written, the author says that the nine- 
teenth should be called the century of Pasteur. His culminating 
work, as we all know, is that upon hydrophobia, in which it is 
assumed that he has obtained a method of protective vaccination 
against this frightful malady. It will be interesting here to pause 
a few moments upon a description of the man, referring to the 
writings of those who have recently been with him, especially Drs. 
Sternberg and Billings of our country, and G. M. Crawford of 
England. 
Here he is in his office. It is a good deal of a chemist’s work- 
shop. Everything is plain and commonplace. There are shelves 
filled with tubes, vials, and retorts; there are tables, microscopes 
and apparatus ; there are books and papers in unglazed cases, and 
the other appurtenances of a scientist’s surroundings. It is an 
early hour in the forenoon. The man sits with his face to the 
window, opening letters and telegrams, sorting and arranging, filing 
some, throwing others into a large waste basket at his side. He is 
earnestly engaged in his work, heedless of the numerous eyes 
staring upon him through the window. As he rises we see that he 
is short in stature—five feet six or seven inches in height—with 
straight, black hair a little sprinkled with gray, short-trimmed 
whiskers, a large head, the bronzed complexion of a military vet- 
eran and the face of a soldier, somewhat recalling the familiar 
pictures of General Grant. The countenance is a grave one, indi- 
cative of earnest thought rather than of the emotional character 
we so frequently attribute to Frenchmen. The eyes are of a pecu 
liar topaz-yellow and often stare directly forward as if at vacancy, 
lighted up now and again by flashes of inspiration and the promise 
of high achievement. His movements are not altogether free and 
easy, especially those of the limbs of one side—the result of an 
attack of paralysis some years since. He is not much of a talker. 
His conversation is direct and simple, very rarely enthusiastic ; 
yet irdications are not wanting of a fine and tender emotional 
quality which shows itself in his acts as well as his words. He is 
sixty-three years old, ; 
The clock strikes half past ten. Pasteur rises from his seat 
