fairly, like all other doctrines to which we
make any reference, and as it has been
suggested to us that we may have scarcely
done so in a passing allusion to it at page 592
of the last volume of this journal, we will here
reprint the following extract from a work in
explanation of Homœopathic principles, by
DR. EPPS.

"It is not maintained that a millionth part
of a grain or of a drop (to take a given,
though a large quantity, in homœopathic
administration,) will produce any visible
action on the man in health; nor is it
maintained that a millionth part of a grain or of
a drop will act on the man in disease: but it
is maintained that the millionth part of a
grain or of a drop will act on the man in
disease, if between the diseased state of the
man and the medicine, infinitesimally
administered, there is a homœopathic relationship.
In other words, the homœopathists do not
vaguely say that medicines in infinitesimal
doses cure diseases; but they do say that
medicines given for the cure of diseases to
which they are homœopathic, do cure these
diseases when administered in infinitesimal
quantities; to repeat, the homœopathist, in
maintaining the efficacy of medicines in
infinitesimal quantities, regards three requirements
as necessary:—First, the development
of virtues in medicines by the process of
preparation; second, the increased receptivity to
impression produced by disease; and third,
the selection of the right remedy."

THE TRUE BOHEMIANS OF PARIS.

THE present Bohemians of Paris are not
the Bohemians of Victor Hugo, or of Borrow;
nor are they the clever scamps of the modern
melo-dramatist. They do not number among
their order, fascinating damsels who perform
necromancies with goats and gilded horns,
and turn the heads of an ardent public, from
captains of the Guards and archdeacons, down
to bell-ringers. They no longer swallow
swords, balance coach-wheels on their chins,
play at catch-ball with the rapidity of
fireworks, or dance hornpipes on dessert-plates.
They are innocent of thimble-rig; and, being
only dexterous enough with the cards to
play at piquet, cannot predict the future, or
pronounce on the fate of a lover by turning
up the ace of hearts, and by cutting the queen
of diamonds. They have ceased to steal
fowls, change children, (after the manner of
their Egyptian brethren), or to tell fortunes:
for their hands are seldom crossed with silver.
The true modern Bohemian is not the wild,
wandering, adroit, unprincipled, picturesque
vagabond, who has been the delight of the
poet, the novelist, and the painter, for ages;
because, being an artist himself, he does not
see his own excellencies as a model for art;
yet he presents many points of resemblance
to the Bohemians who have been immortalised
by Hugo, Borrow, and at the Porte Saint
Martin Theatre. Although neither a gipsy
nor a mountebank, he is wild and wandering;
occasionally mysterious, often picturesque,
and not seldom, I am afraid, unprincipled.
He does not beg; he merely borrows: he
never robs; but his skill in creating debts,
and his powers of "owing," are transcendant.
The shopkeeper shuns him; but the lounger
loves him. He is the terror of the counter,
but the delight of the café.

In a word, the Parisian Bohemians of to-day
are a tribe of unfortunate artists of all kinds—
poets, painters, musicians, and dramatists—
who haunt obscure cafés in all parts of Paris,
but more especially in the Quartier Latin.
They have been unsuccessful in their professions,
and many deservedly so—aspiration
being too often the substitute for inspiration,
and inspiration not unfrequently wasted or
misused. They are, in some respects, what
our "Grub Street" authors were in the last
century.

The café where the Bohemians most do
congregate is a quiet, pleasant place enough,
when these distinguished persons are not
present to make it noisy and disagreeable.
It is distinguished from fashionable cafés
by the scarcity of chance-comers, and the
various signs, not difficult to observe, of its
being mainly supported by regular frequenters.
Call in on any evening, and you may always
see the same hats on the same pegs, and the
same pipes—which have hung all the morning
in little numbered niches against the wall—in
the mouths of their respective owners, who
take great pride in smoking them until they
have become as black as negroes, and nearly
as valuable to dealers and connoisseurs. The
owners of these hats and pipes are, for the
most part, Bohemians. They congregate in
an inner room by themselves—removed as far
as possible from the shopkeeper, with his
moderate opinions and white cravat; for they
hold him in supreme contempt. They form
what, in time-honoured phrase, is known as a
"motley group"—so diversified are their
toilettes, so strange and unconventional are their
beards and their bearing. Some of them are
playing at billiards in the middle of the room;
others are consoling themselves with cards in
the corners. All are talking, and with a
volubility of tongue known only to Frenchmen
and Mr. Charles Mathews. But their
conversation has no reference to the games
in which they are engaged; these they seem
to conduct mechanically. Listen to them, and
you will gain, perhaps, some useful ideas on
the subject of Grecian art, mixed up with
comments on the Charivari's last caricature
of M. Thiers; the merits of the early Christian
painters, as compared with a friend who
has just made his debut as a posturer; how
far the eminent young Bohemian Jules- -who
has just been caught revoking at piquet—falls
short of Raffaelle; and how the same Jules
owes a duty to himself and the public, to give