LAMENT OF THE LITTLE HUNCHBACK.

Theresa.

Oh, ladies, will you listen to a little orphan's tale?And pity her whose youthful voice must breathe so sad a wail;And shrink not from the wretched form obtruding on your view.As though the heart which in it dwells must be as loathsome too.

Full well I know that mine would be a strange repulsive mind,Were the outward form an index true of the soul within it shrined;But though I am so all devoid of the loveliness of youth,Yet deem me not as destitute of its innocence and truth.

And ever in this hideous frame I strive to keep the lightOf faith in God, and love to man, still shining pure and bright;Though hard the task, I often find, to keep the channel freeWhence all the kind affections flow to those who love not me.

I sometimes take a little child quite softly on my knee,I hush it with my gentlest tones, and kiss it tenderly;But my kindest words will not avail, my form cannot be screened,And the babe recoils from my embrace, as though I were a fiend.

I sometimes, in my walks of toil, meet children at their play;For a moment will my pulses fly, and I join the band so gay;But they depart with nasty steps, while their lips and nostrils curl,Nor e'en their childhood's sports will share with the little crooked girl.

But once it was not thus with me: I was a dear-loved child;A mother's kiss oft pressed my brow, a father on me smiled;No word was ever o'er me breathed, but in affection's tone,For I to them was very near—their cherish'd, only one.

But sad the change which me befel, when they were laid to sleep,Where the earth-worms o'er their mouldering forms their noisome revels keep;For of the orphan's hapless fate there were few or none to care,And burdens on my back were laid a child should never bear.

And now, in this offensive form, their cruelty is viewed—For first upon me came disease—and deformity ensued:Woe! woe to her, for whom not even this life's earliest stageCould be redeemed from the bended form and decrepitude of age.

And yet of purest happiness I have some transient gleams;'Tis when, upon my pallet rude, I lose myself in dreams:The gloomy present fades away; the sad past seems forgot;And in those visions of the night mine is a blissful lot.

The dead then come and visit me: I hear my father's voice;I hear that gentle mother's tones, which makes my heart rejoice;Her hand once more is softly placed upon my aching brow,And she soothes my every pain away, as if an infant now.

But sad is it to wake again, to loneliness and fears;To find myself the creature yet of misery and tears;And then, once more, I try to sleep, and know the thrilling blissTo see again my father's smile, and feel my mother's kiss.

And sometimes, then, a blessed boon has unto me been given—An entrance to the spirit-world, a foretaste here of heaven;I have heard the joyous anthems swell, from voice and golden lyre,And seen the dearly loved of earth join in that gladsome choir.

And I have dropped this earthly frame, this frail disgusting clay,And, in a beauteous spirit-form, have soared on wings away;I have bathed my angel-pinions in the floods of glory bright,Which circle, with their brilliant waves, the throne of living light.

I have joined the swelling chorus of the holy glittering bandsWho ever stand around that throne, with cymbals in their hands:But the dream would soon be broken by the voices of the morn,And the sunbeams send me forth again, the theme of jest and song.

I care not for their mockery now—the thought disturbs me not,That, in this little span of life, contempt should be my lot;But I would gladly welcome here some slight reprieve from pain,And I'd murmur of my back no more, if it might not ache again.

Full well I know this ne'er can be, till I with peace am blest,Where the heavy-laden sweetly sleep, and the weary are at rest;For the body shall commingle with its kindred native dust,And the soul return for evermore to the "Holy One and Just."

Letty.

How difficult it is for the wealthy and proud to realize that they must die, and mingle with the common earth! Though a towering monument may mark the spot where their lifeless remains repose, their heads will lie as low as that of the poorest peasant. All their untold gold cannot reprieve them for one short day.

When Death places his relentless hand upon them, and as their spirit is fast passing away, perhaps for the first time the truth flashes upon their mind, that this world is not their home; and a thrill of agony racks their frame at the thought of entering that land where all is uncertainty to them. It may be that they have never humbled themselves before the great Lawgiver and Judge, and their hearts, alas! have not been purified and renewed by that grace for which they never supplicated. And as the vacant eye wanders around the splendidly furnished apartment, with its gorgeous hangings and couch of down, how worthless it all seems, compared with that peace of mind which attends "the pure in heart!"

The aspirant after fame would fain believe this world was his home, as day by day he twines the laurel-wreath for his brow, and fondly trusts it will be unfading in its verdure; and as the applause of a world, that to him appears all bright and beautiful, meets his ear, he thinks not of Him who resigned his life on the cross for suffering humanity—he thinks of naught but the bubble he is seeking; and when he has obtained it, it has lost all its brilliancy—for the world has learned to look with indifference upon the bright flowers he has scattered so profusely on all sides, and his friends, one by one, become alienated and cold, or bestow their praise upon some new candidate who may have entered the arena of fame. How his heart shrinks within him, to think of the long hours of toil by the midnight lamp—of health destroyed—of youth departed—of near and dear ties broken by a light careless word, that had no meaning! How bitterly does he regret that he has thrown away all the warm and better feelings of his heart upon the fading things of earth! How deeply does he feel that he has slighted God's holy law—for, in striving after worldly honors, he had forgotten that thisworld was not his home; and while the rainbow tints of prosperity gleamed in his pathway, he had neglected to cultivate the fadeless wreath that cheers the dying hour! And now the low hollow cough warns him of the near approach of that hour beyond which all to him is darkness and gloom; and as he tosses on the bed of pain and languishing, lamenting that all the bright visions of youth had so soon vanished away, the cold world perchance passes in review before him.

He beholds the flushed cheek of beauty fade, and the star of fame fall from the brow of youth. He marks the young warrior on the field of battle, fighting bravely, while the banner of stars and stripes waves proudly over his head; and while thinking of the glory he shall win, a ball enters his heart.—He gazes upon an aged sire, as he bends over the lifeless form of his idolized child, young and fair as the morning, just touched by the hand of death; she was the light of his home, the last of many dear ones; and he wondered why he was spared, and the young taken. Though the cup was bitter, he drank it.

Again he turned his eyes from the world, whereon everything is written, "fading away." Yes, wealth, beauty, fame, glory, honor, friendship, and oh! must it be said that even love, too, fades? Almost in despair, he exclaimed, "Is there aught that fades not?" And a voice seemed to whisper in his ear, "There is God's love which never fades; this world is not your home; waste not the short fragment of your life in vain regrets, but rather prepare for that dissolution which is the common lot of all; be ready, therefore, to pass to that bourne from which there is no return, before you enter the presence of Him whose name is Love."

"Then ask not life, but joy to knowThat sinless they in heaven shall stand;That Death is not a cruel foe,To execute a wise command.'Tis ours to ask, 'tis God's to give.—We live to die—and die to live."

Beatrice.

From whence originated the idea, that it was derogatory to a lady's dignity, or a blot upon the female character, to labor? and who was the first to say sneeringly, "Oh, sheworksfor a living?" Surely, such ideas and expressions ought not to grow on republican soil. The time has been when ladies of the first rank were accustomed to busy themselves in domestic employment.

Homer tells us of princesses who used to draw water from the springs, and wash with their own hands the finest of the linen of their respective families. The famous Lucretia used to spin in the midst of her attendants; and the wife of Ulysses, after the siege of Troy, employed herself in weaving, until her husband returned to Ithaca. And in later times, the wife of George the Third, of England, has been represented as spending a whole evening in hemming pocket-handkerchiefs, while her daughter Mary sat in the corner, darning stockings.

Few American fortunes will support a woman who is above the calls of her family; and a man of sense, in choosing a companion to jog with him through all the up-hills and down-hills of life, would sooner choose one whohadto work for a living, than one who thought it beneath her to soil her pretty hands with manual labor, although she possessed her thousands. To be able to earn one's own living by laboring with the hands, should be reckoned among female accomplishments; and I hope the time is not far distant when none of my countrywomen will be ashamed to have it known that they are better versed in useful than they are in ornamental accomplishments.

C. B.

"Come, Lina, dear," said Mr. Wheeler to his little daughter, "lay by your knitting, if you please, and read me the paper."

"What, pa, this old paper, 'The Village Chronicle?'"

"Old, Lina!—why, it is damp from the press. Not so old, by more than a dozen years, as you are."

"But, pa, thenewsisolds. Our village mysteries are all worn threadbare by the gossiping old maids before the printer can get them in type; and the foreign information is more quickly obtained from other sources. And, pa, I wish you wouldn't call me Lina—it sounds so childish, and I begin to think myself quite a young lady—almost in my teens, you know; and Angeline is not so very long."

"Well, Angeline, as you please; but see if there is not something in the paper."

"Oh, yes, pa; to please you I will read the stupid old (new, I mean) concern.—Well, in the first place, we have some poetry—some of our village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of sex) effusions, or rather confusions. Miss Helena (it used to be Ellen once) Carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'The Belvidere Apollo,'—which she never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. She had better write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. But if she does not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry ableu?"

"There is much that I might say in reply, but I will wait until you are older. And now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for I have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself."

"No, pa, never!—I will not marry, at least while you, or Alfred, or Jimmy, are alive; but I cannot be an old maid—not one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom I have always designated as old maids, whether they are married or single—on the sunny or shady side of thirty."

"Well, child, I hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid, then. But now for the Chronicle—I will excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes next."

"Thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. It would have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. You know I had rather take so much hot drops.—But the next article is Miss Simpkins's very original tale, entitled 'The Injured One,'—probably all about love and despair, and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear, and the girls must beware. Now ain't I literary? But to be a heroine also, I will muster my resolution, and commence the story:

"'Madeline and Emerilla were the only daughters of Mr. Beaufort, of H., New Hampshire.'

"Now, pa, I can't go any farther—I would as lieve travel through the deserts of Sahara, or run the gauntlet among the Seminoles, as to wade through this sloshy story. Miss Simpkins always has such names to her heroines; and they would do very well if they were placed anywhere but in the unromantic towns of our granite State. H., I suppose, stands for Hawke, or Hopkinton. Miss Simpkins is so soft that I do not believe Mr. Baxter would publish her stories, if he were not engaged to her sister. She makes me think of old 'deaf uncle Jeff,' in the story, who wanted somebody to love."

"And she does love—she loves everybody; and I am sorry to hear you talk so of this amiable and intellectual girl. But I do not wish to hear you read her story now—as for her names, she would not find one unappropriated by our towns-folks. What comes next?"

"The editorial, pa, and the caption is, 'Our Representatives.' I had ten times rather read about the antediluvians, and I wish sometimes they might go and keep them company. And now for the items: Our new bell got cracked, in its winding way to this 'ere town; and the meeting-house at the West Parish, has been fired by an incendiary; and the old elm, near the Central House, has been blown down; and Widow Frye has had a yoke of oxen struck by lightning; and old Col. Morton fell down dead, in a fit of apoplexy; and the bridge over the Branch needs repairing; and 'a friend of good order' wishes that our young men would not stand gaping around the meeting-house doors, before or after service; and 'a friend of equal rights' wishes that people mightsell and drink as much rum as they please, without interference, &c., &c.; and all these things we knew before, as well as we did our A B C's. Next are the cards: The ladies have voted their thanks to Mr. K., for his lecture upon phrenology—the matrimonial part, I presume, included; and the Anti-Slavery Society is to have a fair, at which will be sold all sorts of abolition things, such as anti-slavery paper, wafers, and all such important articles. I declare I will make a nigger doll for it. And Mr. P., of Boston, is to deliver a lecture upon temperance; and the trustees of the Academy have chosen Mr. Dalton for the Preceptor, and here is his long advertisement; and the Overseers of the Poor are ready to receive proposals for a new alms-house; and all these things, pa, which have been the town talk this long time. But here is something new. Our minister, dear Mr. Olden, has been very seriously injured by an accident upon the Boston and Salem Railroad. The news must be very recent, for we had not heard of it; and it is crowded into very fine type. Oh, how sorry I am for him!"

"Well, Lina, or Miss Angeline, there is something of sufficient importance to repay you for the trouble of reading it, and I am very glad that you have done so—for I will start upon my intended journey to Boston to-day, and can assist him to return home. Anything else?"

"Oh, yes, pa! a long list of those who have taken advantage of the Bankrupt Act, and the Deaths and Marriages; but all mentioned here, with whose names we were familiar, have been subjects for table-talk these several days."

"Well, is there no foreign news?"

"Yes, pa; Queen Victoria has given another ball at Buckingham Palace; and Prince Albert has accepted a very fine blood-hound, from Major Sharp, of Houston; and Sir Howard Douglas has been made a Civil Grand Cross of the Bath, &c., &c. Are not these fine things to fill up our republican papers with?"

"Well, my daughter, look at the doings in Congress—that will suit you."

"You know better, pa. They do nothing there but scold, and strike, and grumble—then pocket their money, and go home. See, here it begins, 'The proceedings of the House can hardly be said to have beenimportant. An instructive and delightfulscenetook place between Mr. Wise of Virginia, and Mr. Stanly, of South Carolina.' Yes, pa, that's the waythey spend their time. In thisactof the farce, or tragedy, one called t' other abull-dog, t' other called one acoward. Do you wish to hear any more?"

"You are somewhat out of humor, my child; but are there no new notices?"

"Yes, here is an 'Assessors' Notice,' and an 'Assignee's Notice,' and a 'Contractors' Notice;' but you do not care anything about them. And here is an 'Auction Notice.'"

"What auction? Read it, my love."

"Why, the late old Mr. Gardner's farm-house, and all his furniture, are to be sold at auction. And here is a notice of a meeting of the Directors of the Pentucket Bank, to be held this very afternoon."

"I am very glad to have learned of it, for I must be there. Is that all?"

"All?—no, indeed! Here are some long articles, full ofWhereases, andResolved's, andBe it enacted's; but I know you will excuse me from reading them. And now for the advertisements: Here is a fine new lot ofChenie-de-Laines, 'just received' at Grosvenor's—oh, pa! do let me have a new dress, won't you?"

"No, I can't—at least, I do not see how I can. But if you will promise to read my paper through patiently for the future, and will prepare my valise for my journey to Boston, I will see what I may do. Meantime I must be off to the directors' meeting. And now let me remind you that two items, at least, in this paper, have been of much importance to me; and one, it seems, somewhat interesting to you. So no more fretting about the Chronicle, if you want anew gown."

Mr. Wheeler left the room, and Angeline seated herself at the work-table, to repair his vest. She was sorry she had fretted so much about the Chronicle; but she did wish her father would take the "Ladies' Companion," or something else, in its stead.

While seated there, her little brother came running into the room, all out of breath, and but just able to gasp out, "Oh, Lina! there is a man at the Central House, who has just stopped in the stage, and he is going right on to Kentucky, and straight through the town where Alfred lives, for I heard him say so; and I asked him if he would carry anything for us, and he said, 'Yes, willingly.' So I ran home as fast as I could come, to tell you to write a note, ordo up a paper, or something, because he will be so sure to get it—and right from us, too, as fast as it can go. Now do be quick, or the stage will start off."

"Oh, dear me," exclaimed Angeline, "how I do wish we had a New York Mirror, or a Philadelphia Courier, or a Boston Gazette, or anything but this stupid Chronicle! Do look, Jimmy! is there nothing in this pile of papers?"

"No, nothing that will do—so fold up the Chronicle, quick, for the stage is starting."

Angeline, who had spent some moments in looking for another paper, now had barely time to scrawl the short word "Lina" on the paper, wrap it in an envelop, and direct it. Jimmy snatched it as soon as it was ready, and ran out "full tilt," in knightly phrase, or, as he afterwards said, "lickity split."

The stage was coming on at full speed, and he wished to stop it. Many a time had he stood by the road-side, with his school companions, and, waving his cap, and stretching out his neck, had hallooed, "Hurrah for Jackson!" and he feared that, like the boy in the fable, who called "Wolves! wolves!" if he now shouted to them from the road-side, they would not heed him. So he ran into the middle of the road, threw up his arms, and stood still. The driver barely reined in his horses within a few feet of the daring boy.

"Where is the man who is going straight ahead to Kentucky?"

"Here, my lad," replied a voice, as a head popped out of the window, to see what was the matter.

"Well, here is a paper which I wish you to carry to my brother; and if you stop long enough where he is, you must go and see him, and tell him you saw me too."

"Well done, my lad! you are a keen one. I'll do your bidding—but don't you never run under stage-horses again."

He took the packet, while the driver cracked his whip; and the horses started as the little boy leaped upon the bank, shouting, "Hurra for Yankee Land and old Kentucky!"

In a rude log hut of Western Kentucky was seated an animated and intelligent-looking young man. A bright moon was silvering the forest-tops, which were almost the onlyprospect from his window; but in that beauteous light the rough clearing around seemed changed to fairy land; and even his rude domicile partook of the transient renovation. His lone walls, his creviced roof, and ragged floor, were transformed beneath that silvery veil; and truly did it look as though it might well be the abode of peaceful happiness.

"I feel as though I could write poetry now," said Alfred to himself. "Let me see—'The Spirit's Call to the Absent,' or something like that; but if I should strike my light, and really get pens, ink, and paper, it would all evaporate, vanish, abscond, make tracks, become scarce, be o. p. h. Ah, yes! the poetry would go, but the feeling, the deep affection, which would find some other language than simple prose, can never depart.

"How I wish I could see them all! There is not a codger in my native town—not a crusty fusty old bachelor—not an envious tattling old maid—not a flirt, sot, pauper, idiot, or sainted hypocrite, but I could welcome with an embrace. But if I could only see my father, or Jimmy, or Lina, dear girl! how much better I should feel! It would make me ten years younger, to have a chat with Lina; and, to tell the truth, I should like to see any woman, just to see how it would seem. I'd go a quarter of a mile, now, to look at a row of aprons hung out to dry. But there! it's no use to talk.

"An evening like this is such an one as might entice me to my mother's grave, were I at home. Oh! if she were but alive—if I could only know that she was still somewhere on the wide earth, to think and pray for me—I might be better, as well as happier. Methinks it must be a blessed thing to be a mother, if all sons cherish that parent's memory as I have mine—and they do. It cheers and sustains the exile in a stranger's land; it invigorates him in trial, and lights him through adversity; it warns the felon, and haunts and harrows the convict; it strengthens the captive, and exhilarates the homeward-bound. Truly must it be a blessed thing to be a mother!"

He stopped—for in the moonlight was distinctly seen the figure of a horseman, emerging from the public road, and galloping across the clearing. He turned towards the office of the young surveyor, and in a few moments the carrier had related the incident by which he obtained the paper, and placed "The Village Chronicle" in Alfred's hand.

He struck a light, tore off the wrapper, and the only written word which met his eye was "Lina." "Dear name!" said he, "I could almost kiss it, especially as there is none to see me. She must have been in a prodigious hurry! and how funny that little rascal, Jimmy, must have looked! Well, 'when he next doth run a race, may I be there to see.'"

He took the paper to read. It was a very late one—he had never before received one so near the date; and even that line of dates was now so pleasing. First was Miss Helena Carroll's poetry. "Dear girl!" said he, "what a beautiful writer she is! Really, this is poetry! This is something which carries us away from ourselves, and more closely connects us with the enduring, high, and beautiful. Methinks I see her now—more thin, pale, and ethereal in her appearance than when we were gay school-mates; but I wonder that, with all her treasures of heart and intellect, she is still Helena Carroll.

"And now here is Miss Simpkin's story of 'The injured One'—beautiful, interesting, and instructive, I am confident; and I will read it, every word; but she italicises too much; she throws too lavishly the bright robes of her prolific fancy upon the forms she conjures up from New-England hills and vales. I wonder if she remembers now the time when she made me shake the old-apple tree, near the pound, for her, and in jumping down, I nearly broke my leg. Well, if I read her story, I will try that it does not break my heart.

"And here is an excellent editorial about 'Our Representatives'—I will read it again, and now for theitems."

These were all highly interesting to theabsentee, and on each did he expatiate to himself. How different were his feelings from his sister's, as he read of the cracked bell, the burned meeting-house, the dead oxen, the apoplectic old Colonel, the decayed bridge, the hints of the friends of "good order" and "equal rights." Then there was a little scene suggested by every card; he wondered who had their heads examined at the Phrenological lecture; and if the West Parish old farmers were now as stiffly opposed to the science. And how he would like to see Lina's chart, and to know if Jimmy had brains—he was sure he had legs, and a big heart for a little boy; and he wondered what girls ran up to have their heads felt of in public; and what the mansaid about matrimony—an affair which in old times was thought to have more to do with the heart than the head.

Then his imagination went forward to the fair of the Anti-Slavery Society, and he wondered where it would be, and who would go, and what Lina would make, and whether so much fuss about slavery was right or wrong, and if "father" approved of it. Then the temperance lecture was the theme for another self-disquisition. He wondered who had joined the society, and how the Washingtonians held out, and if Mr. Hawkins was ever coming to the West.

Then he was glad the trustees were determined to resuscitate the old academy. What grand times he had enjoyed there, especially at the exhibitions! and he wondered where all the pretty girls were who used to go to school with his bachelorship. Then they were to have a new alms-house; and forty more things were mentioned, of equal interest—not forgetting Mr. Olden's accident, for which "father would be so sorry." Then there were the Marriages and Deaths—each a subject of deep interest, as was also the list of Bankrupts. The foreign news was news to him; and Congress matters were not passed unheeded by.

Then he read with deep interest every "Assessor's Notice," also those of "Assignees," "Contractors," and "Auctioneers." There was not a single "Whereas" or "Resolved," but was most carefully perused; and every "Be it enacted" stared him in the face like an old familiar friend.

Then there were the advertisements; and Grosvenor's first attracted his attention from itsbigletters. "CHENIE-DE-LAINES!" said he, "What in the name of common sense are they? Something for gal's gowns,I guess; and what will they next invent for a name?"

But each advertisement told its little history. Some of the old "pillars" of the town were still in their accustomed places. The same signatures, places, and almost the same goods—nothing much changed but the dates. Another advertisement informed him of the dissolution of an old copartnership, and another showed the formation of a new one. Some old acquaintances had changed their location or business, and others were about to retire from it. Those whom he remembered as almost boys, were now just entering into active life, and those who should now be preparing for another world were still laying up treasures on earth. One, whohad been a farmer, was now advertising himself as adoctor. A lawyer had changed into a miller, and old Capt Prouty was post-master. The former cobler now kept the bookstore, and the young major had turned printer. The old printer was endeavoring to collect his debts—for he said his devil had gone to Oregon, and he wished to go to the devil.

Not a single puff did Alfred omit; he noticed every new book, and swallowed every new nostrum. "Old rags," "Buffalo Oil," "Bear's Grease," "Corn Plaster," "Lip Salve," "Accordions," "Feather Renovators," "Silk Dye-Houses," "Worm Lozenges," "Ready-made Clothing," "Ladies' Slips," "Misses' Ties," "Christmas Presents," "Sugar-house Molasses," "Choice Butter," "Shell Combs," "New Music," "Healing Lotions," "Last Chance," "Hats and Caps," "Prime Cost," "Family Pills," "Ladies' Cuff Pins," "Summer Boots," "Vegetable Conserve," "Muffs and Boas," "Pease's Horehound Candy," "White Ash Coal," "Bullard's Oil-Soap," "Universal Panacea," "Tailoress Wanted," "Unrivalled Elixir," "Excellent Vanilla," "Taylor's Spool Cotton," "Rooms to Let," "Chairs and Tables," "Pleasant House," "Particular notice," "Family Groceries," "A Removal," "Anti-Dyspeptic Bitters," &c., &c., down to "One Cent Reward—Ran away from the Subscriber," &c.—Yes; he had read them all, and all with much interest, but one with a deeper feeling than was awakened by the others. It was the notice of the sale of the late Mr. Gardner's House, farm, &c.

"And so," said Alfred, "Cynthia Gardner is now free. She used to love me dearly—at least she said so in every thing but words; but the old man said she should never marry a harum-scarum scape-grace like me. Well! it's no great matter if I did sow all my wild oats then, for there is too little cleared land to do much at it here. The old gentleman is dead, and I'll forgive him; but I will write this very night to Cynthia, and ask her to—

——'come, and with me shareWhate'er my hut bestows;My cornstalk bed, my frugal fare,My labor and repose.'"

Lucinda.

It has been said that all virtues, carried to their extremes, become vices, as firmness may be carried to obstinacy, gentleness to weakness, faith to superstition, &c., &c.; and that while cultivating them, a perpetual care is necessary that they may not be resolved into those kindred vices. But there are other qualities of so opposite a character, that, though we may acknowledge them both to be virtues, we can hardly cherish them at the same time.

Contentment is a virtue often urged upon us, and too often neglected. It is essential to our happiness; for how can we experience pleasure while dissatisfied with the station which has been allotted us, or the circumstances which befall us? but when contentment degenerates into that slothful feeling which will not exert itself for a greater good—which would sit, and smile at ease upon the gifts which Providence has forced upon its possessor, and turns away from the objects, which call for the active spring and tenacious grasp—when, I repeat, contentment is but another excuse for indolence, it then has ceased to be a virtue.

And Ambition, which is so often denounced as a vice—whichisa vice when carried to an extent that would lead its votary to grasp all upon which it can lay its merciless clutch, and which heeds not the rights or possessions of a fellow-being when conflicting with its own domineering will, which then becomes so foul a vice—this same ambition, when kept within its proper bounds, is then a virtue; and not only a virtue, but the parent of virtues. The spirit of laudable enterprise, the noble desire for superior excellence, the just emulation which would raise itself to an equality with the highest—all this is the fruit of ambition.

Here then are two virtues, ambition and contentment, both to be commended, both to be cherished, yet at first glance at variance with each other; at all events, with difficulty kept within those proper bounds which will prevent a conflict between them.

We are not metaphysicians, and did we possess the power to draw those finely-pencilled mental and moral distinctions in which the acute reasoner delights so often to displayhis power, this would be no place for us to indulge our love for nicely attenuated theories. We are aware, that to cherish ambition for the good it may lead us to acquire, for the noble impulses of which it may be the fountain-spring, and yet to restrain those waters when they would gush forth with a tide which would bear away all better feelings of the heart—this, we know, is not only difficult, but almost impossible.

To strive for a position upon some loftier eminence, and yet to remain unruffled if those strivings are in vain; to remain calm and cheerful within the little circle where Providence has stationed us, yet actively endeavoring to enlarge that circle, if not to obtain admittance to a higher one; to plume the pinions of the soul for an upward flight, yet calmly sink again to the earth if these efforts are but useless flutterings; all this seems contradictory, though essential to perfection of character.

Thankfulness for what we have, yet longings for a greater boon; resignation to a humble lot, and a determination that it shall not always be humble; ambition and contentment—how wide the difference, and how difficult for one breast to harbor them both at the same time!

Nothing so forcibly convinces us of the frailty of humanity as the tendency of all that is good and beautiful to corruption. As in the natural world, earth's loveliest things are those which yield most easily to blighting and decay, so in the spiritual, the noblest feelings and powers are closely linked to some dark passion.

How easily does ambition become rapacity; and if the heart's yearnings for the unattainable are forcibly stilled, and the mind is governed by the determination that no wish shall be indulged but for that already in its power, how soon and easily may it sink into the torpor of inaction! To keep all the faculties in healthful exercise, yet always to restrain the feverish glow, must require a constant and vigilant self-command.

How soon, in that long-past sacred time when the Savior dwelt on earth, did the zeal of one woman in her Master's cause become tainted with the earth-born wish that her sons might be placed, the one upon his right and the other upon his left hand, when he should sit upon his throne of glory; and how soon wastheirardent love mingled with the fiery zeal which would call down fire from heaven upon the heads of their fellow-men!

Here was ambition, but not a justifiable desire for elevation; an ambition, also, which had its source in some of the noblest feelings of the soul, and which, when directed by the pure principles which afterwards guided their conduct, was the heart-spring of deeds which shall claim the admiration, and spur to emulous exertions, the men of all coming time.

"Be content with what ye have," but never with what ye are; for the wish to be perfect, "even as our Father in heaven is perfect," must ever be mingled with regrets for the follies and frailties which our weak nature seems to have entailed upon us.

And while we endeavor to be submissive, cheerful, and contented with the lot marked out for us, may gratitude arouse us to the noble desire to render ourselves worthy of a nobler station than earth can ever present us, even to a place upon our Savior's right hand in his heavenly kingdom.

H. F.

Physiology, Astronomy, Geology, Botany, and kindred sciences, are not now, as formerly, confined to our higher seminaries of learning. They are being introduced into the common schools, not only of our large towns and cities, but of our little villages throughout New-England. Hence a knowledge of these sciences is becoming general. It needs not Sibylline wisdom to predict that the time is not far distant when it will be more disadvantageous and more humiliating to be ignorant of their principles and technicalities, than to be unable to tell the length and breadth of Sahara, the rise, course and fall of little rivers in other countries, which we shall never see, never hear mentioned—and the latitude and longitude of remote or obscure cities and towns. If a friend would describe a flower, she would not tell us that it has so many flower-leaves, so many of those shortest things that rise from the centre of the flower, and so many of the longest ones; but she will express herself with moreelegance and rapidity by using the technical names of these parts—petals, stamens, and pistils. She will not tell us that the green leaves are formed some like a rose-leaf, only that they are rounder, or more pointed, as the case may be; or if she can find no similitudes, she will not use fifty words in conveying an idea that might be given in one little word. We would be able to understand her philosophical description. And scientific lectures, the sermons of our best preachers, and the conversation of the intelligent, presuppose some degree of knowledge of the most important sciences; and to those who have not this knowledge, half their zest is lost.

If we are so situated that we cannot attend school, we have, by far the greater part of us, hours for reading, and means to purchase books. We should be systematic in our expenditures. They should be regulated by the nature of the circumstances in which we find ourselves placed,—by our wages, state of health, and the situation of our families. After a careful consideration of these, and other incidentals that may be, we can make a periodical appropriation of any sum we please, for the purchase of books. Our readings, likewise, should be systematic. If we take physiology, physiology should be read exclusively of all others, except our Bibles and a few well-chosen periodicals, until we acquire a knowledge of its most essential parts. Then let this be superseded by others, interrupted in their course only by occasional reviews of those already studied.

But there are those whose every farthing is needed to supply themselves with necessary clothing, their unfortunate parents, or orphan brothers and sisters with a subsistence. And forever sacred be these duties. Blessings be on the head of those who faithfully discharge them, by a cheerful sacrifice of selfish gratification. Cheerful, did I say? Ah! many will bear witness to the pangs which such a sacrifice costs them. It is a hard lot to be doomed to live on in ignorance, when one longs for knowledge, "as the hart panteth after the water brook." My poor friend L.'s complaint will meet an answering thrill of sympathy in many a heart. "Oh, why is it so?" said she, while tears ran down her cheeks. "Why have I such a thirst for knowledge, and not one source of gratification?" We may not knowwhy, my sister, but faith bids us trust in God, and "rest in his decree,"—to be content "when he refuses more." Yet aspirit oftruecontentment induces no indolent yieldings to adverse circumstances; no slumbering and folding the hands in sleep, when there is so much within the reach of every one, worthy of our strongest and most persevering efforts. Mrs. Hale says,—

"There is a charm in knowledge,bestwhen boughtBy vigorous toil of frame and earnest search of thought."

And we will toil. Morning, noon, and evening shall witness our exertions to prepare for happiness and usefulness here, and for the exalted destiny that awaits us hereafter. But proper attention should be paid to physical comfort as well as to mental improvement. It is only by retaining the former that we can command the latter. The mind cannot be vigorous while the body is weak. Hence we should not allow our toils to enter upon those hours which belong to repose. We should not allow ourselves, however strong the temptation, to visit the lecture-room, &c., if the state of the weather, or of our health, renders the experiment hazardous. Above all, we should not forget our dependence on a higher Power. "Paul may plant, and Apollos water, but God alone giveth the increase."

Ann.Isabel, before we commence our "big talk," let me ask you to proceed upon the inference that we are totally ignorant of the subject under discussion.

Ellinora.Yes, Isabel, proceed upon thefactthat I am ignorant even of the meaning of the termphysiology.

Isabel.It comes from the Greek wordsphusis, nature, andlogia, a collection, orlogos, discourse; and means a collection of facts or discourse relating to nature. Physiology is divided, first, into Vegetable and Animal; and the latter is subdivided into Comparative and Human. We shall confine our attention to Human Physiology, which treats of the organs of the human body, their mutual dependence and relation, their functions, and the laws by which our physical constitution is governed.

A.And are you so heretical, dear Isabel, as to class this science, on the score of utility, with Arithmetic and Geography—the alpha and omega of common school education?

I.Yes. It is important, inasmuch as it is necessary that we know how to preserve the fearfully delicate fabric whichour Creator has entrusted to our keeping. We gather many wholesome rules and cautions from maternal lips; we learn many more from experiencing the painful results that follow their violation. But this kind of knowledge comes tardily; it may be when an infringement of some organic law, of which we were left in ignorance, has fastened upon us painful, perhaps fatal, disease.

A.We may not always avoid sickness and premature death by a knowledge and observance of these laws; for there are hereditary diseases, in whose origin we are not implicated, and whose effects we cannot eradicate from our system by "all knowledge, all device."

I.But a knowledge of Physiology is none the less important in this case. If the chords of our existence are shattered, they must be touched only by the skilful hand, or they break.

E.Were it not for this, were there no considerations of utility in the plea, there are others sufficiently important to become impulsive. It would be pleasant to be able to trace the phenomena which we are constantly observing within ourselves to their right causes.

I.Yes; we love to understand the springs of disease, even though "a discovery of the cause" neither "suspends the effect, nor heals it." We rejoice in health, and we love to know why it sits so strongly within us. The warm blood courses its way through our veins; the breath comes and goes freely in and out; the nerves, those subtle organs, perform their important offices; the hand, foot, brain—nay, the whole body moves as we will: we taste, see, hear, smell, feel; and the inquiring mind delights in knowing by what means these wonderful processes are carried on,—how far they are mechanical, how far chemical, and how far resolvable into the laws of vitality. This we may learn by a study of Physiology, at least as far as is known. We may not satisfy ourselves upon all points. There may be, when we have finished our investigations, a longing for a more perfect knowledge of ourselves; for "some points must be greatly dark," so long as mind is fettered in its rangings, and retarded in its investigations by its connection with the body. And this is well. We love to think of the immortal state as one in which longings for moral and intellectual improvement willallbe satisfied.

A.Yes; it would lose half its attractions if we might attain perfection here.

E.And now permit me to bring you at once to our subject. What is this life that I feel within me? Does Physiology tell us? It ought.

I.It does not, however; indeed, it cannot. It merely develops its principles.

E.The principles of life—what are they?

I.The most important arecontractibilityandsensibility.

E.Let me advertise you that I am particularly hostile to technical words—all because I do not understand them, I allow, but please humor this ignorance by avoiding them.

I.And thus perpetuate your ignorance, my dear Ellinora? No; this will not do; for my chief object in these conversations is that you may be prepared to profit by lectures, essays and conversation hereafter. You will often be thrown into the company of those who express themselves in the easiest and most proper manner, that is, by the use of technical words and phrases. These will embarrass you, and prevent that improvement which would be derived, if these terms were understood. Interrupt me as often as you please with questions; and if we spend the remainder of the evening in compiling a physiological glossary, we may all reap advantage from the exercise. To return to the vital principles—vital is fromvita, life—contractibilityandsensibility. The former is the property of the muscles. The muscles, you know, are what we call flesh. They are composed of fibres, which terminate in tendons.

Alice.Please give form to my ideas of the tendons.

I.With the muscles, they constitute the agents of all motion in us. Place your hand on the inside of your arm, and then bend your elbow. You perceive that cord, do you not? That is a tendon. You have observed them in animals, doubtless.

Ann.I have. They are round, white, and lustrous; and these are the muscular terminations.

I.Yes; this tendon which you perceive, is the termination of the muscles of the fore-arm, and it is inserted into the lower arm to assist in its elevation.

E.Now we are coming to it. Please tell me how I move a finger—how I raise my hand in this manner.

I.It is to the contractile power of the muscles that you are indebted for this power. I will read what Dr. Paley says of muscular contraction; it will make it clearer than any explanation of mine. He says, "A muscle acts only bycontraction. Its force is exerted in no other way. When the exertion ceases, it relaxes itself, that is, it returns by relaxation to its former state, but without energy."

E.Just as this India-rubber springs back after extension, for illustration.

I.Very well, Ellinora. He adds, "This is the nature of the muscular fibre; and being so, it is evident that the reciprocalenergeticmotion of the limbs, by which we meanwith forcein opposite directions, can only be produced by the instrumentality of opposite or antagonist muscles—of flexors and extensors answering to each other. For instance, the biceps and brachiæusinternusmuscles, placed in the front part of the upper arm, by their contraction, bend the elbow, and with such a degree of force as the case requires, or the strength admits. The relaxation of these muscles, after the effort, would merely let the fore-arm drop down. For theback stroketherefore, and that the arm may not only bend at the elbow, but also extend and straighten itself with force, other muscles, the longus, and brevis brachiæusexternus, and the aconæus, placed on the hinder part of the arms, by their contractile twitch, fetch back the fore-arm into a straight line with the cubit, with no less force than that with which it was bent out. The same thing obtains in all the limbs, and in every moveable part of the body. A finger is not bent and straightened without thecontractionof two muscles taking place. It is evident, therefore, that the animal functions require that particular disposition of the muscles which we describe by the name of antagonist muscles."

A.Thank you, Isabel. This does indeed make the subject very plain. These muscles contract at will.

E.But how can the will operate in this manner? I have always wished to understand.

I.And I regret that I cannot satisfy you on this point. If we trace the cause of muscular action by the nerves to the brain, we are no nearer a solution of the mystery; for we cannot know what power sets the organs of the brain at work—whether it be foreign to or of itself.

We will come now, if you please tosensibility, which belongs to the nerves.

A.I have a very indefinite idea of the nerves.

E.Myidealis sufficiently definite in its shape, but so droll! I do not think of them as "being flesh of my flesh," but as aspeciesof thegenusfairy. They are to us, whatthe Nereides are to the green wave, the Dryades to the oak, and the Hamadryades to the little flower. They are quite omnipotent in their operations. They make us cry or they make us laugh; thrill us with rapture or woe as they please. And, my dear Isabel, I shall not allow you to cheat me out of this pleasing fancy. You may tell us just what they are, but I shall be as incredulous as possible.

I.They are very slender white cords, extending from the brain and spinal marrow—twelve pairs from the former, and thirty from the latter. These send out branches so numerous that we cannot touch the point of a pin to a spot that has not its nerve. The mucous membrane is—

F.Oh, these technicals! What is the mucous membrane?

I.It is a texture, or web of fibres, which lines all cavities exposed to the atmosphere—for instance, the mouth, windpipe and stomach. It is the seat of the senses of taste and smell.

E.And the nerves are the little witches that inform the brain how one thing is sweet, another bitter; one fragrant, another nauseous. Alimentiveness ever after frowns or smiles accordingly. So it seems that the actions of the brain, and of the external senses, are reciprocated by the nerves, or something of this sort. How is it, Isabel? Oh, I see! You say sensibility belongs to the nerves. So sights by means of—of what?

I.Of the optical nerves.

E.Yes; and sounds by means of the—

I.Auditory nerves.

E.Yes; convey impressions of externals to the brain. And "Upon this hint" the brain acts in its consequent reflections, and in the nervous impulses which induce muscular contractibility. And this muscular contractibility is a contraction of the fibres of the muscles. This contraction, of course, shortens them, and this lattermustresult in the bending of the arm. I think I understand it. What are the brain and spine, Isabel? How are they connected?

I.You will get correct ideas of the texture of the brain by observing that of animals. It occupies the whole cavity of the skull, is rounded and irregular in its form, full of prominences,aliasbumps. These appear to fit themselves to the skull; but doubtless the bone is moulded by the brain. The brain is divided into two parts; the upper and frontalpart is called thecerebrum, the other thecerebellum. The former is the larger division, and is the seat of the moral sentiments and intellectual faculties. The latter is the seat of the propensities, domestic and selfish.

A.I thank you, Isabel. Now, what is this spine, of which there is so much "complaint" now-a-days?

I.I will answer you from Paley: "The spine, or backbone, is a chain of joints of very wonderful construction. It was to be firm, yet flexible;firm, to support the erect position of the body;flexible, to allow of the bending of the the trunk in all degrees of curvature. It was further, also, to become a pipe or conduit for the safe conveyance from the brain of the most important fluid of the animal frame, that, namely, upon whichall voluntary motion depends, the spinal marrow; a substance not only of the first necessity to action, if not to life, but of a nature so delicate and tender, so susceptible and impatient of injury, that any unusual pressure upon it, or any considerable obstruction of its course, is followed by paralysis or death. Now, the spine was not only to furnish the main trunk for the passage of the medullary substance from the brain, but to give out, in the course of its progress, small pipes therefrom, which, being afterwards indefinitely subdivided, might, under the name of nerves, distribute this exquisite supply to every part of the body."

Alice.I understand now why disease of the spine causes such involuntary contortions and gestures, in some instances. Its connection with the brain and nerves is so immediate, that it cannot suffer disease without affecting the whole nervous system.

I.It cannot. The spinal cord or marrow is a continuation of the brain. But we must not devote any more time to this subject.

Bertha.I want to ask you something about the different parts of the eye, Isabel. When —— —— lectured on optics, I lost nearly all the benefit of his lecture, except a newly awakened desire for knowledge on this subject. He talked of the retina, cornea, iris, &c.; please tell me precisely what they are.

I.The retina is a nervous membrane; in other words a thin net-work, formed of very minute sensitive filaments. It is supposed by some to be an expansion of the optic nerve; and on this the images of objects we see are formed. It issituated at the back part of the eye. Rays pass through the round opening in the iris, which we call the pupil.

B.What did the lecturer say is the cause of the color of the pupil?

I.He said that itswant of coloris to be imputed to the fact that rays of light which enter there are not returned; they fall on the retina, forming there images of objects. And you recollect he said that "absence of rays is blackness." The iris is a kind of curtain, covering the aqueous humor—aqueous is from the Latinaqua, water. It is confined only at its outer edge, or circumference; and is supplied with muscular fibres which confer the power of adjustment to every degree of light. It contracts or dilates involuntarily, as the light is more or less intense, as you must have observed. The rays of light falling on that part of the iris which immediately surrounds the pupil, cause it to be either black, blue, or hazel. We will not linger on this ground, for it belongs more properly to Natural Philosophy. We will discuss the other four senses as briefly as possible. "The sense of taste," says Hayward, "resides in the mucus membrane of the tongue, the lips, the cheeks, and the fauces." Branches of nerves extend to every part of the mouth where the sense of taste resides. The fluid with which the mouth is constantly moistened is called mucus, and chiefly subserves to the sense of taste.

Ann.I have observed that when the mucus is dried by fever, food is nearly tasteless. I now understand the reason.

E.Aproposto the senses, let me ask if feeling and touch are the same. Alfred says they are; I contend they are not, precisely.

I.Hayward thinks a distinction between them unnecessary. He says they are both seated in the same organs, and have the same nerves. But the sense of feeling is more general, extending over the whole surface of the skin and mucus membrane, while that of touch is limited to particular parts, being in man most perfect in the hand; and the sense of feeling is passive, while that of touch is active. This sense is in the skin, and is most perfect where the epidermis, or external coat, is the thinnest. We will look through this little magnifying glass at the skin on my hand. You will see very minute prominences all over the surface. These points are called papillæ. They are supposed to be the termination of the nerves, and thelocaleof sensation.

E.Will youshapemy ideas of sensation?

I.According to Lord Brougham, one of the English editors of this edition of Paley, it is "the effect produced upon the mind by the operation of the senses; and involves nothing like an exertion of the mind itself."

Of the sense of hearing, I can tell you but little. Physiologists have doubts relative to many parts of the ear; and I do not understand the subject well enough to give you much information. I will merely name some of the parts and their relative situations. We have first the external ear, which projecting as it does from the head, is perfectly adapted to the office of gathering sounds, and transmitting them to the membrane of the tympanum, commonly called the drum of the ear, from its resembling somewhat, in its use and structure, the head of a drum. The tympanum is a cavity, of a cylindrical or tunnel form, and its office is supposed to be the transmission to the internal ear of the vibrations made upon the membrane. These vibrations are first communicated to the malleus or hammer. This is the first of four bones, united in a kind of chain, extending and conveying vibrations from the tympanum to the labyrinth of the ear beyond. The other bones are the incus, or anvil, the round bone, and the stapes, or stirrup—the latter so called from its resemblance to a stirrup-iron. It is placed over an oval aperture, which leads to the labyrinth, and which is closed by means of a membranous curtain. These bones are provided with very small muscles, and move with the vibrations of the tympanum. The equilibrium of the air in the tympanum and atmosphere is maintained by the means of the Eustachian tube, which extends from the back part of the fauces, or throat, to the cavity of the tympanum. The parts last mentioned constitute the middle ear. Of the internal ear little is known. It has its semicircular canals, vestibules, and cochlea; but their agencies are not ascertained.

The organ of smell is more simple. This sense lies, or is supposed to lie, in the mucous membrane which lines the nostrils and the openings in connection. Particles are constantly escaping from odorous bodies; and, by being inhaled in respiration, they are thrown in contact with the mucous membrane.

A.Before leaving the head, will you tell us something of the organs of voice?

I.By placing your finger on the top of your windpipe,you will perceive a slight prominence. In males this is very large. This is the thorax. It is formed of four cartilages, two of which are connected with a third, by means of four chords, called vocal chords, from their performing an important part in producing the voice. Experiments have been made, which prove that a greater part of the larynx, except these chords, may be removed without destroying the voice. Magendie thus accounts for the production of the voice. He says, "The air, in passing from the lungs in expiration, is forced out of small cavities, as the air-cells and the minute branches of the windpipe, into a large canal; it is thence sent through a narrow passage, on each side of which is a vibratory chord, and it is by the action of the air on these chords, that the sonorous undulations are produced which are called voice."

E.Do not the lips and tongue contribute essentially to speech?

I.They do not. Hayward says he can bear witness to the fact that the articulation remains unimpaired after the tongue has been removed. The labials,fandv, cannot be perfectly articulated without the action of the lips.—What subject shall we take next?

A.A natural transition would be from the head to the heart, and, in connection, the circulation of the blood.

I.Yes. I will give you an abstract of the ideas I gained in the study of Hayward's Physiology, and the reading of Dr. Paley's Theology. The heart, arteries, and veins are the agents of circulation. The heart is irregular and conical in its shape; and it is hollow and double.

A.There is no channel of communication between these parts, is there?

I.None; but each side has its separate office to perform. By the right, circulation is carried on in the lungs; and by the left through the rest of the body. I will mark a few passages in Paley, for you to read to us, Ann. They will do better than any descriptions of mine.

A.I thank you, Isabel, for giving me an opportunity to lend you temporary relief.—"The disposition of the blood-vessels, as far as regards the supply of the body, is like that of the water-pipes in a city, viz. large and main trunks branching off by smaller pipes (and these again by still narrower tubes) in every direction and towards every part in which the fluid which they convey can be wanted. So far, the water-pipeswhich serve a town may represent the vessels which carry the blood from the heart. But there is another thing necessary to the blood, which is not wanted for the water; and that is, the carrying of it back again to its source. For this office, a reversed system of vessels is prepared, which, uniting at their extremities with the extremities of the first system, collects the divided and subdivided streamlets, first by capillary ramifications into larger branches, secondly by these branches into trunks; and thus returns the blood (almost exactly inverting the order in which it went out) to the fountain whence its motion proceeded. The body, therefore, contains two systems of blood-vessels, arteries and veins.

"The next thing to be considered is the engine which works this machinery, viz., theheart. There is provided in the central part of the body a hollow muscle invested with spiral fibres, running in both directions, the layers intersecting one another. By the contraction of these fibres, the sides of the muscular cavity are necessarily squeezed together, so as to force out from them any fluid which they may at that time contain: by the relaxation of the same fibres, the cavities are in their turn dilated, and, of course, prepared to admit every fluid which may be poured into them. Into these cavities are inserted the great trunks both of the arteries which carry out the blood, and of the veins which bring it back. As soon as the blood is received by the heart from the veins of the body, andbeforethat is sent out again into its arteries, it is carried, by the force of the contraction of the heart, and by means of a separate and supplementary artery, to the lungs, and made to enter the vessels of the lungs, from which, after it has undergone the action, whatever it may be, of that viscus, it is brought back, by a large vein, once more to the heart, in order, when thus concocted and prepared, to be thence distributed anew into the system. This assigns to the heart a double office. The pulmonary circulation is a system within a system; and one action of the heart is the origin of both. For this complicated function four cavities become necessary, and four are accordingly provided; two called ventricles, whichsend outthe blood, viz., one into the lungs in the first instance, the other into the mass, after it has returned from the lungs; two others also, called auricles, which receive the blood from the veins, viz. one as it comes from the body; the other, as thesame blood comes a second time after its circulation through the lungs."

I.That must answer our purpose, dear Ann. Of the change which takes place in the blood, and of the renewal of our physical system, which is effected by circulation, I shall say nothing. We will pass to respiration.

E.Whose popular name is breathing?

I.Yes. The act of inhaling air, is called inspiration; that of sending it out, expiration. Its organs are the lungs and windpipe. The apparatus employed in the mechanism of breathing is very complex. The windpipe extends from the mouth to the lungs.

A.How is it that air enters it so freely, while food and drink are excluded?

I.By a most ingenious contrivance. The opening to the pipe is called glottis. This is closed, when necessary, by a little valve, or lid, called the epiglottis (epimeansupon.)

E.And this faithful sentinel is none other than that perpendicular little body which we can see in our throats, and which we havedubbedpalate.

I.You are right, Ellinora. Over this, food and drink pass on their way to the road to the stomach, the gullet. The pressure of solids or liquids tends to depress this lid on the glottis; and its muscular action in deglutition, or swallowing, tends to the same effect. As soon as the pressure is removed, the lid springs to its erect position, and the air passes freely. Larynx and trachea are other names for the windpipe, and pharynx is another for the gullet. The larynx divides into two branches at the lungs, and goes to each side. Hence, by subdivisions, it passes off in numerous smaller branches, to different parts of the lungs, and terminates in air-cells. The lungs, known in animals by the name of lights, consist of three parts, or lobes, one on the right side, and two on the left.

Alice.The lights of inferior animals are very light and porous—do our lungs resemble them in this?

I.Yes; they are full of air-tubes and air-cells. These, with the blood vessels and the membrane which connects (and this is cellular, that is, composed of cells,) form the lungs. The process of respiration involves chemical, mechanical, and vital or physiological principles. Of the mechanism I shall say but little more. You already know that the lungs occupy the chest. Of this, the breast bone formsthe front, the spine, the back wall. Attached to this bone are twelve ribs on each side. These are joined by muscles which are supposed to assist in elevating them in breathing, thus enlarging the cavity of the chest. The lower partition is formed by a muscle of great power, called the diaphragm, and by the action of this organ alone common inspiration can be performed. Hayward says, "The contraction of this muscle necessarily depresses its centre, which was before elevated towards the lungs. The instant this takes place, the air rushes into the lungs through the windpipe, and thus prevents a vacuum, which would otherwise be produced between the chest and lungs." Expiration is the reverse of this. The chemistry of respiration regards the change produced in the blood by respiration. To this change I have before alluded.

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