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CURIOSITIES
OF
MEDICAL EXPERIENCE.

By J. G. MILLINGEN, M.D., M.A.
SURGEON TO THE FORCES; RESIDENT PHYSICIAN
OF THE COUNTY OF MIDDLESEX PAUPER LUNATIC ASYLUM AT HANWELL;
MEMBER OF THE MEDICAL SOCIETY OF THE ANCIENT FACULTY OF PARIS;
OF THE MEDICAL SOCIETY OF BORDEAUX; AND AUTHOR OF
“THE ARMY MEDICAL OFFICER’S MANUAL,” &c.

SECOND EDITION.

REVISED AND CONSIDERABLY AUGMENTED.

IN ONE VOLUME.

LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
Publisher in Ordinary to Her Majesty.
1839.

WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.

TO
SIR JAMES M’GRIGOR, Bart.
M.D., F.R.S., K.T.S., &c. &c.
DIRECTOR GENERAL OF THE ARMY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT,
TO WHOSE ZEAL AND EXAMPLE THE MEDICAL OFFICERS OF HER MAJESTY’S
FORCES ARE SO MUCH INDEBTED FOR THAT DISTINGUISHED
CHARACTER AND CONSIDERATION THEY COLLECTIVELY
AND INDIVIDUALLY HOLD IN THE ESTIMATION
OF THE EUROPEAN ARMIES,
THIS WORK IS INSCRIBED,
AS A TESTIMONIAL OF PUBLIC RESPECT AND
SINCERE PRIVATE ESTEEM,
BY THE AUTHOR.

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.

The rapid sale of the first edition of this work has induced the publisher to reprint it with considerable additions in a less expensive, and more concise form—and the author embraces this opportunity, gratefully to acknowledge the liberality with which it has been received, and the indulgence shown to its many imperfections. At the same time he cannot but regret, that in some quarters it has been surmised that he yielded credence to the many strange relations which he has recorded from various medical works, but which he merely narrated, to show the fallacy even of experience, and the many dangers that may arise from the most ingenious theories and doctrines, in the very ratio of their apparent plausibility.

Although these sketches were not intended for the profession, yet they may prove of some utility to the pupil who commences the arduous study of medicine. They may convince him, that great names, however justly respected and renowned, do not constitute a sufficient basis, on which to rest a satisfactory and conclusive judgment; and, as Locke has justly observed, that “reverence or prejudice must not be suffered to give beauty or deformity to any of their opinions.” He will find that of which further experience will subsequently convince him, that medical investigation is too often founded upon analogy and hypothesis—but let not this painful and disheartening impression arrest his progress, or deter him from seeking to assist his judgment by collecting “the scattered parts of truth,” for in speaking of hypothesis, Dr. Crichton has thus expressed himself: “There is a period in knowledge, when it must be indulged in if we mean to make any progress; it is that period when the facts are too numerous to be recollected without general principles, and yet, where the facts are too few to constitute a valid theory. If the exterior form of an edifice is often the principal motive with men for examining its internal structure; so it is in science, that the splendour of an hypothesis, and the desire of proving its solidity, are more frequent motives for research than a mere love of knowledge.”

Notwithstanding our boasted progress in scientific pursuits, and our supposed approach to perfection, there never perhaps was a period, since the fanciful days of Paracelsus, Agrippa, and Van Helmont, when more deceitful and fascinating reveries were indulged in than at the present enlightened moment, nor more ingenuity and disingenuousness displayed in seeking to give substance to a vision or overthrowing its baseless fabric. It is painful to be obliged to admonish the would be legislators of our belief, in the words of the sceptical Bolingbroke:

“Folly and knavery have prevailed most where they should be tolerated the least, and presumption has been excused most where diffidence and candour are on many accounts the most necessary.

“Quale per incertam lunam sub luce maligna
Est iter in Silvis.”

Hanwell Lunatic Asylum,
Dec. 1838.

INTRODUCTION.

The great success and correspondent utility of D’Israeli’s “Curiosities of Literature,” have induced me to add to the ample harvest of that ingenious writer a few gleanings from another field. They may not afford the same amusing variety to the general reader, but they may tend to draw some attention to many important points that affect the chequered lot of mankind. The progress that every science has rapidly made during the last half-century has been astounding, and seems to have kept pace with those struggles of the intellectual faculties to burst from the shackles of prejudice and error that had ignobly bound them for so many ages. Groping in darkness, man sought the light, but unfortunately the sudden refulgence at times dazzled instead of guiding his steps in the pursuit of truth, and led him into errors as perilous as those that had surrounded him in his former mental obscurity. His gigantic powers were aroused, but, too frequently misapplied, they shook the social edifice to its very foundation. The daring hand of innovation destroyed without contemplating what better fabric could be raised on the ruin: and while the nobler faculties with which Providence had gifted us were exerted for the public weal, the baser parts of our passions sought liberty in licentiousness. Ambition degenerated into ferocity, scepticism led to impiety, and even apparent virtue sought to propagate the doctrines of good, by assuming the “goodly outside” of vice. Religion was overthrown because priestcraft had deceived, and high rank was held up to detestation because princes and nobles had been corrupt; and to use Shakespeare’s words,

Thus we debase
The nature of our seats, and make the rabble
Call our cares, fears; which will in time break ope
The lock o’ the senate, and bring in the crows
To peck the eagles.

In ten short years this mighty revolution in the intellect of man took place,—in a country too that may be considered the cradle of the future weal and woe, perhaps of the universe;—in ten short years we beheld Montesquieu, Raynal, Rousseau, Voltaire, Condillac, Helvetius, beaming like rising meteors in the dark firmament, and shedding a fearful gleam on the past, the present, and the future; boldly tracking a path once trodden with groping steps by Bacon, Descartes, Hobbes, and Gassendi![1] No longer trusting in blind confidence to the scholastic rules of those dignitaries of science whose conclusions were considered sufficient to command our faith, man became sceptical and positive; doubt and disbelief were carried into every investigation; the reign of prestiges was over; the former monopolists of power and of science, the two great levers of society (the more effective since their fulcra rested on timidity and ignorance), were thrown from their antiquated stand, and found themselves brought face to face in explanatory contact with their once all-believing and obedient pupils, but now become a neoteric generation;—the crown and the sceptre, the cap and the gown, were baubles in their eyes. When the faculty of reasoning was not able to prevail, the shafts of ridicule were drawn from the quiver of philosophic wit, and inflicted rankling wounds where they could not destroy. Ancient systems were exploded with ancient prejudices, theories were overthrown with dynasties, and doctrines with governments;—one might have imagined that the formidable power of steam had been communicated to the mind, illustrating the words of Milton,

The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heaven of hell, and hell of heaven.

Science, now aimed at generalization-the physiologist, the chemist, became legislators, stepping from the academic chair to the senatorial seat, and from teaching how to benefit mankind they hurried to destroy, forgetful, in their ambitious dream, of the noble encomium of Cicero, “Homines ad deos nullâ se proprius accedunt, quam salutem hominibus dando.”

Philosophy and the study of medicine were now inseparable; this generous science was not to be attained in books only, but in the study of mankind. Rousseau thus spoke of physicians when writing to Bernardin de Saint Pierre:—“Il n’y a pas d’état qui exige plus d’étude que le leur; par tous les pays, ce sont des hommes les plus véritablement savans et utiles.” Voltaire was of a similar opinion when he thus expressed himself:—“Il n’est rien de plus estimable au monde, qu’un médecin qui, ayant dans sa jeunesse étudié la nature, connu les ressorts du corps humain, les maux qui le tourmentent, les remèdes qui peuvent le soulager, exerce son état en s’en défiant, et soigne également les pauvres et les riches.”

How came it then that these great observers did not partake of the prejudices of Montaigne, Molière, and other writers, who invariably stigmatized the practice of physic? simply because it was no longer a dogmatic profession exercised with scholastic pedantry, but a science founded on the study of nature, and the immutable laws of sound philosophy. Although a classic education forms an indispensable part of a physician’s education, yet it is in more important pursuits that his experience should be obtained: the knowledge of ancient languages is principally useful in discovering the errors of the olden writers, and in detecting the barefaced plagiarisms of the moderns.

Much valuable time, however, may be lost in the pursuit of ancient lore; and Montaigne has justly observed, “There are books which should only be read, but others that must be learnt.” This discrimination is of the utmost importance; for it may be said of the bookworm’s library, “Multitudo librorum sæpe est nubes testium ignorantiæ possessoris.” Aristippus very properly replied to a man who boasted of his reading, “It is not those who eat the most that are hale and healthy, but those who can best digest.” Hence the distinction that arose between the philosophical physician and the dogmatizer. The one was guided by the observation of facts, the other by glossarial records. Men of erudition are seldom men of genius. The exploring mind is ever anxious to take flight from the prison-house of scholastic restraints. Scepticism, moreover, is frequently the result of deep study, which leads the neophyte into such a labyrinth of conflicting opinions, that decision and conviction are not easily attained. Laugier, a most learned German physician, had no faith in his profession: being reproached with his incredulity, he replied, “Credo, Domine, adjuva incredulitatem meam.”

The preceding observations lead to an important, and at the same time a painful reflection. Will this rapid intellectual progress tend ultimately to meliorate the condition of mankind? Nations have been compared to Man: having once reached the acme of prosperity and strength, their vigour like his gradually declines. History offers nothing more than a chronicle of such facts. Whatever may be the causes of this degeneracy, is a matter foreign to my present subject; although I may be permitted to observe by the way, that it may have arisen from the great disparity and inequality in the condition of society that tends to lull the wealthy into apathetic indifference and blind security in their power, while it urges the poor and the bold to rapine and destructive deeds. This perilous state can only cease to exist when general education is improved: if this most important source of real prosperity is attended to, we perhaps need not seek in particular events, gloomy anticipations of the future.

Whatever may be the destinies of nations in the wreck of empires and the destruction of men, the philosopher calmly seated on ruins that often “speak that sometime they were a worthy building,” reflects with pride that science has withstood the withering hand of time. It is true, that in every study errors have been heaped upon errors; but truth will often result from falsehood, and doubt that brings on investigation, leads to comparative certainty. Locke has justly observed, that the faculty of reasoning seldom or never deceives those who trust to it: its consequences, from what it builds on, are evident and certain; but that which it oftenest, if not only, misleads us in, is, that the principles from which we conclude, the grounds upon which we bottom our reasoning, are but a part—something is left out which should go into the reckoning to make it just and exact. This something is the constant pursuit of the philosopher. The name of a country may be obliterated from a map, the deeds of heroes be effaced from the annals of the world; the pursuit of truth can only cease when man is no more;—its light may be veiled by ignorance, craft, or cupidity,—but it cannot be extinguished. The cities that gave birth to the illustrious philosophers of old have long ceased to exist, yet the immortal works of those sages that have escaped the ravages of time, are still as fresh and luxuriant as when their glorious oratory enchanted and captivated their disciples’ ears.

No science has been cultivated with more difficulty than that of Medicine. The following papers will show how fearfully it has had to contend in turn with the power of priestcraft, that sought to monopolize its practice, as a privilege from the gods, and with the furious opposition of contemporary members of the profession, whose cupidity and vanity were alarmed by the introduction of novel doctrines, which they were too old, too busy, or too obstinate to learn. The extracts from Medical Literature that I have given will show that most of our modern notions were known to the earliest writers, and were only improved in succeeding ages, as in like manner our present doctrines will in all probability be advanced by future generations. The destruction of kingdoms and of chronicles, the inroads of barbarism,—the more destructive inroads of ignorance and bigotry, have not been able to produce a void in the world of science; the catenation of philosophic inquiry has never been broken in its connexions. Oppression only riveted the chain more firmly, as if to resist the united power of man and time. Adversity, which

Like the toad, ugly and venomous,
Wears yet a precious jewel in its head,

has always been considered the best school of practical wisdom: and it is thus that, amidst the portentous events which have shaken every institution, and which perhaps still menace further dissolution, the fane of science has oftentimes been more vividly illumined by the surrounding conflagration.

The evils that desolate society too frequently arise from the hasty acts of intemperate men, who deem it necessary to meet the tumultuous demands of the multitude with decided and energetic, but, at the same time, perilous measures: the progress of science, on the contrary, is gradual, and of course more likely to be eventually permanent. While political speculations are daily becoming more uncertain in their operations, the triumph of intellectual superiority over prejudice is every where apparent;—unjust disabilities are being abolished, and the gates of learning thrown open to every candidate, whatever may be his religious or his political tenets.

In our country, more than in any other, industry and perseverance have ever had a fairer chance of attaining social pre-eminence, despite the shackles imposed upon the candidate for fame by institutions framed in the darker ages. What then may we not expect, when we behold the bright era that opens before us,—when exclusive institutions will be considered the obsolete remnants of expiring bigotry and intolerance! May we not indulge in the most sanguine hope, that our former glories are only the historic earnest of still more glorious days? If the spirit of the immortal Locke could hover over our earth, he would feel, with some degree of pride, that his admonitions have not been unheeded; and that “those who live mewed up within their own contracted territories, and will not look abroad beyond the boundaries that chance, conceit, or laziness have set to their inquiries, but live separate from the notions, discourses, and attainments of the rest of mankind,” have at last felt the necessity of yielding to the voice of reason, or rather of their own welfare.

In the following work I merely rank myself as a compiler. I have only sketched—sometimes perhaps with too fanciful a pencil, subjects of great importance, which, by being thus rendered popular, may induce abler pens to imbody them in a more permanent form. The variety of matter introduced has obliged me to be discursive, and to have recourse to some repetitions that were necessary to illustrate subjects not easily abridged. Whenever I have held up errors and evil passions to exposure, I have not, in one single instance, I trust, been influenced by any hostility towards men or parties—ranks or creeds. If I have unwillingly and unwittingly given offence, I shall most sincerely lament it. My materials have been gleaned from the works of many contemporaries, whose well-known and justly-appreciated names will in general appear: but I should be wanting in candour, did I not avow that I have derived much valuable information from Le Dictionnaire des Sciences Médicales, an elaborate compilation, containing more “Curiosities of Medical Experience” than any existing work.

48, Eaton Square,
January, 1837.

CONTENTS.

CURIOSITIES OF MEDICAL EXPERIENCE.

OBESITY.

Various are the opinions concerning the cause of excessive corpulence. By some it is attributed to too great an activity in the digestive functions, producing a rapid assimilation of our food; by others, to the predominance of the liver: while indolence and apathy, such as is commonly observed in the wealthy monastic orders, are considered as occasioning a laxity of fibre favourable to this embonpoint. Boileau has thus described one of these fat lazy prelates, who

Muni d’un déjeûner,
Dormant d’un léger somme, attendait le dîner.
La jeunesse en sa fleur brille sur son visage;
Son menton sur son sein descend à triple étage;
Et son corps ramassé, dans sa courte grosseur,
Fait gémir les coussins sous sa molle épaisseur.

It is certain that exercise, anxiety of mind, want of sleep, and spare food, are circumstances opposed to fatness. This fact is illustrated by Shakspeare, when Cæsar says to Antony,

Let me have men about me that are fat,—
Sleek-headed men, and such as sleep o’ nights;
Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much: such men are dangerous.

Antony and Dolabella were both men of some corpulence. The Roman ladies dreaded above all things too voluminous a development of the bosom: to prevent it they were in the habit of applying to their breasts the raw flesh of a fish called Angel. Hippocrates has maintained that obesity was an obstacle to conception. This assertion which was partaken by other medical writers, may, in some measure account for the dread of corpulence. Strange indeed have been the fancies on this subject amongst various nations.

Fat is a fluid similar to vegetable oils, inodorous, and lighter than water; besides the elements common to water, to oils, and wax, it contains carbon, hydrogen, and sebacic acid, which is pretty similar to the acetic. Human fat, like that of other animals, has been frequently employed for various purposes. A story is told of an Irish tallowchandler, who, during the invasion of Cromwell’s army, made candles with the fat of Englishmen, which were remarkable for their good quality; but when the times became more tranquil, his goods were of an inferior kind, and when one of his customers complained of his candles falling off, he apologised by saying, “I am sorry to inform you that the times are so bad that I have been short of Englishmen for a long time.”

Obesity may be considered a serious evil, and has exposed corpulent persons to many désagrémens. The ancients held fat people in sovereign contempt. Some of the Gentoos enter their dwellings by a hole in the roof; and any fat person who cannot get through it, they consider as an excommunicated offender who has not been able to rid himself of his sins. An Eastern prince had an officer to regulate the size of his subjects, and who dieted the unwieldy ones to reduce them to a proper volume. In China this calamity is considered a blessing, a man’s intellectual qualities are esteemed in the ratio of corporeal bulk.

There are cases on record among ourselves where unwieldiness led to estimation. The corpulent antiquarian Grose was requested by his butcher to tell all his friends that he bought his meat from him; and the paviers of Cambridge used to say, “God bless you, sir!” to a huge professor when he walked over their work. Fatness has often been the butt of jocularity. Dr. Stafford, who was enormously fat, was honoured with this epitaph:

Take heed, O good traveller, and do not tread hard,
For here lies Dr. Stafford, in all this church-yard.

And the following lines were inscribed on the tomb of a corpulent chandler:

Here lies in earth an honest fellow,
Who died by fat and lived by tallow.

Dr. Beddoes was so uncomfortably stout that a lady of Clifton used to call him “the walking feather-bed.” At the court of Louis XV. there were two lusty noblemen, related to each other: the king, having rallied one of them on his corpulency, added, “I suppose you take little or no exercise?” “Your majesty will pardon me,” replied the bulky duke, “for I generally walk two or three times round my cousin every morning.”

Various ludicrous anecdotes are related of fat people. A scene between Mrs. Clive and Mrs. Pritchard, two corpulent actresses, must have been very amusing. They were playing in the parts of Lady Easy and Edging, in the Careless Husband, when the former desires Edging to pick up a letter she had dropped; and Mrs. Clive, who might as well have attempted to raise a hundred pound weight, exclaimed, “Not I indeed, take it up yourself if you like it.” This answer threw the audience into roars of laughter, when Mrs. Pritchard replied, “Well, if you won’t take up the letter, I must find some one who will;” and so saying, she beckoned to a servant in the wing, who came forward and terminated the dispute.

In some countries, especially in the East, moderate obesity is considered a beauty, and Tunisene young ladies are regularly fattened for marriage; a different practice from that of the Roman matrons, who starved their daughters, to make them as lean as possible on such occasions. Thus Terence,

Nostræ virgines—si bono habitu sunt, matres pugiles esse aiunt, et cibum deducunt.

Erasmus states that the Gordii carried their admiration for corpulence to such an extent, that they raised the fattest amongst them to the throne. It is well known that the preposterous size of some of the Hottentots is deemed a perfection, and one of their Venuses was not long since exhibited in London.

There is no doubt that food materially influences this condition of mankind, although we frequently see enormous eaters who are miserably lean, and fat persons whose diet is most scanty. During the late war, a ravenous French prisoner was known to eat four pounds of raw cow-udder, ten pounds of raw beef, and two pounds of candles, per diem, diluting his meals with five quarts of porter; yet this carnivorous brute was a perfect skeleton.

Amongst the many predisposing causes of obesity we may rank emasculation. An epicurean fishmonger of the name of Samuel Tull performed this operation on fishes, to render them more delicate. His curious experiments were submitted to the Royal Society. The same practice has been subsequently illustrated by Professor Dumeril. Father Charleroix informs us that Caraib cannibals had recourse to this process to fatten their prisoners before they were devoured.

Anatomical pursuits are also known to occasion embonpoint. This has been frequently observed amongst medical pupils. Professor Mascagni attributed his corpulence to his constant attendance on dissections; he also excused his amorous propensities on similar grounds.

For the cure of corpulency, diminution of food of a nutritious nature has been generally recommended; added to this, little sleep and much exercise are advised. Acids to reduce fatness are frequently administered, but have done considerable mischief. Amongst other wonderful accounts of their efficacy in such cases, it is related of a Spanish general who was of an enormous size, that he drank vinegar until his bulk was so reduced that he could fold his skin round his body.

For a similar purpose soap has been frequently recommended, particularly by Dr. Flemyng. He began this experiment with one of his patients who weighed twenty stone and eleven pounds (jockey weight): in July 1754, he took every night a quarter of an ounce of common Castile soap. In August 1756 his bulk was reduced two stone, and in 1760 he was brought down to a proper condition.

Darwin is of opinion that salt and salted meat are still more efficacious than soap. All these experiments, however, are in general not only useless but pernicious, and frequently prove fatal. Mr. Wadd, from whose curious work on corpulence much is extracted in this article, properly observes that, “certain and permanent relief is only to be sought in rigid abstemiousness, and a strict and constant attention to diet and exercise.” Dr. Cheyne, who weighed thirty-two stone, reduced himself one-third, and enjoyed good health till the age of seventy-two. Numerous instances of the kind are mentioned, where journals of gradual reduction were kept: the following is an abstract of one of them, in the case of a person who, on the 17th June 1820, weighed twenty-three stone two pounds:—

In another case, attended by Dr. Gregory of Edinburgh, the patient weighed twenty-three stone, and by a regular system of diet was brought down to fifteen stone. In this instance brown bread, with a certain quantity of bran in it, was employed; and it is well known that the alimentary secretions are materially altered by the quality of bread. The article of drink also requires much attention. Corpulent persons generally indulge to excess, and in this case, every endeavour to reduce them will be vain. We frequently see our jockeys reducing themselves to the extent of a stone and a half in the week. A lower scale of diet is by no means as injurious as it is generally supposed; the English prisoners made by Tippoo Saib, though kept upon a scanty pittance of bread and water, found themselves in better health than before, and some of them were cured during their captivity of liver complaints of long and severe duration.

One of the most corpulent persons known was Mr. Lambert, of Leicestershire, who weighed fifty-two stone eleven pounds (14 lbs. to the stone).

At Hainton, there died in 1816, Samuel Sugars, aged fifty-two; and his body, with a single coffin weighed fifty stone.

In 1754 died Mr. Jacob Powell, of Stebbing in Essex: his body was above five yards in circumference, and weighed five hundred and sixty pounds; requiring sixteen men to bear him to his grave.

In 1775 Mr. Spooner, of Skillington near Tamworth, weighed, a short time before his death, forty stone and nine pounds, and measured four feet three inches across the shoulders.

Keysler mentions a young man in Lincoln who ate eighteen pounds of beef daily, and died in 1724, in the twenty-eighth of his age, weighing five hundred and thirty pounds.

A baker, in Pye Corner, weighed thirty-four stone, and would frequently eat a small shoulder of mutton, baked in his oven, and weighing five pounds; he, however, persisted for one year to live upon water-gruel and brown bread, by which he lost two hundred pounds of his bulk.

Mr. Collet, master of the Evesham Academy, weighed upwards of twenty-six stone; when twelve years old, he was nearly as large as at the time of his death. At two years of age he required two nurses to lift him in and out of bed, one of whom in a fit of anger he felled to the floor with a blow of his hand.

At Trenaw in Cornwall, there was a man, known by the name of Grant Chillcot, who weighed four hundred and sixty pounds; one of his stockings could contain six gallons of wheat.

Our poet Butler must have met with some such enormous creatures in the type of his Saxon Duke, who, in Hudibras,

———did grow so fat,
That mice (as histories relate)
Ate grots and labyrinths to dwell in
His postique parts, without his feeling.

If obesity has been the subject of ungenerous jokes, leanness has not passed unnoticed. An anecdote is related of a reverend doctor of a very ghostly appearance, who was one day accosted by a fellow with the following salutation: “Well, doctor, I hope you have taken care of your soul?” “Why, my friend?” said the divine. “Because,” replied the impertinent interlocutor, “your body is not worth caring for.”

A poor diminutive Frenchman being ordered by his Sangrado to drink a quart of ptisan a day, replied, with a heavy sigh, “Alas! doctor, that I cannot do, since I only hold a pint.”

When the Duke de Choiseuil, a remarkably meager man, came to London to negotiate a peace, Charles Townshend being asked whether the French government had sent the preliminaries of a treaty, answered, “He did not know, but they had sent the outline of an ambassador.”

That change of spare diet to a more nutritious food may bring on some corpulence, is evidenced in an anecdote of Colly Cibber, who relates that a poor half-starved actor, who used to play the Apothecary in Romeo and Juliet, to the life, and with great applause, received an augmentation of salary in consequence of his popularity. Unfortunately, increase of wealth led him to increase his fare, until he gradually assumed a plumpness which unfitted him for the worn-out pharmacopolist; and not being able to perform in any other line, the poor man was discharged. However, poverty once more brought him down to his original condition, when he reappeared upon the boards as triumphantly as ever.

If embonpoint is generally a sign of good-humour and a cheerful disposition, leanness frequently betokens a sour, crabbed, and ill-natured character. Solomon has said, “A merry heart doeth good like medicine; but a broken spirit drieth the bones.” This observation, however, cannot be considered a rule in forming a judgment of various tempers. This is by no means an easy attempt in our intercourse with the world, when physiognomy is not always a sure guide in the selection of our companions. Dr. Franklin tells a singular story on this subject:

“An old philosophical gentleman had grown, from experience, very cautious in avoiding ill-natured people. To endeavour to ascertain their disposition he made use of his legs, one of which was remarkably handsome, the other, by some accident, crooked and deformed. If a stranger at the first interview regarded his ugly leg more than his handsome one, he doubted him; but if he spoke of it, and took no notice of his handsome leg, that was sufficient to determine the philosopher to have no further acquaintance with him. Every body has not this two-legged instrument; but every one, with a little attention, may observe signs of this carping, fault-finding disposition, and take the same resolution of avoiding the acquaintance of those infected by it. I therefore advise those querulous, discontented, unhappy people, if they wish to be respected and beloved by others, and happy in themselves, to leave off looking at the ugly leg.”

Various expedients, in addition to a better diet, have been resorted to, to restore lean persons to a better case; but amongst the most singular that we have on record is that of flagellation. Galen says, that horse-dealers having been observed to fatten horses for sale by flogging them, an analogous method might be useful with spare persons who wish to become stouter. He also mentions slave-dealers who employed similar means. Suetonius informs us that Musa, the favourite physician of Augustus, used to fustigate him, not only to cure him of a sciatica, but to keep him plump. Meibomius pretends that nurses whip little children to fatten them, that they may appear healthy and chubby to their mothers. No doubt but flagellation determines a greater influx of blood to the surface, and may thus tend to increase the circulation, and give tone to parts which would otherwise be languid. With this intention, urticatio, or whipping with nettles, has been frequently used in medical practice with great advantage. Xenophon thawed his frozen soldiers by flagellation. In amorous despondency and grief, Cœlius Aurelianus recommended this process, and Elidœus Paduanus advises it to bring out tardy eruptions. The most singular effect of this castigation is recorded by Meibomius, in his work De flagrorum usu, &c., dedicated to a councillor of the Bishop of Lubeck, with the following epigraph:

Delicias pariunt Veneri crudelia flagra.
Dum nocet, illa juvat; dum juvat, ecce nocet.

Menghus Faventinus had long before extolled this practice, mentioned also by Cœlius Rhodiginus, and various ancient writers, and more recently recognised as effectual by Rousseau, in his Confessions.

A remarkable case of leanness is mentioned by Lorry in a priest, who became so thin and dry in all his articulations, that at last he was unable to go through the celebration of mass, as his joints and spine would crack in so loud and strange a manner at every genuflexion, that the faithful were terrified, and the faithless laughed. One of these miserable laths once undertook a long journey to consult a learned physician on his sad condition, and having begged to know, in a most piteous tone, the cause of his desiccation, was favoured with the following luminous answer: “Sir, there is a predisposition in your constitution to make you lean, and a disposition in your constitution to keep you so.” Another meager patient being told that the celebrated Hunter had fattened a dog by removing his spleen, exclaimed, with a deep sigh, “O, sir! I wish Mr. Hunter had mine.”

DWARFS.

We can scarcely believe that the ancients gave any credence to the fabulous accounts of dwarfish nations, or could be persuaded of the existence of those pigmies spoken of by Aristotle and other writers, who, in all probability, described as such a species of diminutive monkeys.

Athenæus mentions a race of dwarfs who were in perpetual war with cranes, who harnessed partridges to their chariots, and were obliged to cut down corn with felling-axes, like forest trees. Pliny asserts that their constant enemy, the crane, drove them out of Thracia, but that they still were to be met with in Ethiopia, near the source of the Nile, and above the rise of the Ganges, where they were named Spithania, their stature not exceeding three palms. Nicephorus Calixtus, in his Ecclesiastical History, mentions an Egyptian who was not longer than a partridge, and who, at the age of twenty-five, displayed considerable mental endowment. Strabo, however, judiciously observed that these stories arose from the circumstance of the small size of every animal in intemperate regions. Various modern travellers have recorded the most absurd stories of diminutive men, as well as of gigantic nations; but to most of them we may apply the words of Congreve—

Fernandez Mendez Pinto was but a type of thee,
Thou liar of the first magnitude.

It is nevertheless true, that man exhibits differences of stature in various climes. The Laplanders and Samoïdes in Europe, the Ostiacks and Tungooses in Asia, the Greenlanders and Esquimaux in America—all the natives indeed of high northern latitudes are remarkably short, measuring little more than four feet; and Niels Sara, the Laplander mentioned by Von Buch in his Travels, and who measured five feet eight inches, may be considered as a gigantic exception. It had been reported by travellers, that a nation of white dwarfs, called Quimos or Kimos, existed in the interior of Madagascar; but Flacourt has positively denied the fact, although Commerson, the naturalist of Bougainville, and De Modave, confirm the former statement. It has also been remarked by various travellers, that dwarfs are not uncommon amongst robust and manly races, instanced in Poland and Lithuania. Sigismund de Herbestein made the same observation in Samogitia, the population of which was of a high stature.

It is by no means evident that climate or any external agency invariably produces this effect; for, in the very regions inhabited by the stunted Hottentot, the shortest race in Africa, since the Bosjernan tribe scarcely ever exceed four feet, we find the strong and tall Kaffer. Amongst these it is also to be remarked, that there exists a singular difference between the sexes. Langsdorf thus expresses himself on the subject: “The Kaffer women were mostly of low stature, very strong-limbed, and particularly muscular in the leg: the men, on the contrary, were the finest figures I ever beheld; they were tall, robust, and muscular. A young man of about twenty, of six feet ten inches high, was one of the finest figures that perhaps was ever created. He was a perfect Hercules; and a cast from his body would not have disgraced the pedestal of the deity in the Farnese Palace.” He further adds, “There is, perhaps, no nation on earth, taken collectively, that can produce so fine a race of men as the Kaffers: they are tall, stout, muscular, well-made, elegant figures. They are exempt, indeed, from many of those causes that in more civilized societies contribute to impede the growth of the body. Their diet is simple, their exercise of a salutary nature; their body is neither cramped nor encumbered by clothing; the air they breathe is pure; their rest is not disturbed by violent love, nor their minds ruffled by jealousy; they are free from those licentious appetites which proceed frequently more from a depraved imagination than a real natural want. Their frame is neither shaken nor enervated by the use of intoxicating liquor; they eat when hungry, and sleep when nature demands it. With such a kind of life, languor and melancholy have nothing to do. The countenance of a Kaffer is always cheerful, and the whole of his demeanour bespeaks content and peace of mind.”

Are diminutive races more productive than those of stronger formation? The brute creation has been taken as an example in support of this opinion; large animals producing one or two young ones, while the smaller species are singularly prolific. The lioness seldom brings forth more than two or four whelps, the cat will have a litter of eight or ten kittens; the pullulation of insects is incredible. But is not this circumstance an illustration of the wisdom of Providence? If the larger species were as abundant as the lesser races, where could they find sustenance in regions where the produce is, under the influence of the seasons, occasionally abundant or scarce? In the ocean, this is not the case; the myriads of its creatures suffice to support each other, and we therefore meet in the deep, the largest of animals in numerous shoals, while the small fry are generated in marvellous abundance.

That the facility of obtaining food and the nature of the nutritious substances that animals may find, influence their stature, is evident. In sandy and arid plains poor in pasture, we find horses and cattle of a stunted breed: the herds of Flanders widely differ from those of Wales and of the Ukraine, and the Scotch and Welsh cattle cannot be compared to those of Holstein. At the same time, it must be observed, that in regard to dwarfs, although it frequently does occur that they are labouring under a hereditary lowness of stature, this is not invariably the case. In these instances dwarfs may be considered as morbid phenomena. Thus Bebe, the dwarf of Stanislaus of Poland, who was thirty-three French inches high, was weak, of delicate health, became deformed as he grew up, and died at the age of twenty-three; his parents were of the usual stature: whereas the Polish nobleman Borwlaski was well-made, active, intelligent: he measured twenty-eight inches; he had a brother of thirty-four inches, and a sister of twenty-one. Stöberin, of Nürenberg, was nearly three feet high at twenty, well-proportioned, and possessing a cultivated mind: his parents, brothers, and sisters, were all dwarfs. Such natural dwarfs have been known to evince brilliant qualities. Uladislas, king of Poland, surnamed Cubitalis from his only measuring a cubit in height, was renowned for his warlike exploits; and we find a dwarf of the name of Kasan, a khan of Tartary, boldly leading their enterprising bands. These individuals sprung from dwarfish parents; whereas the dwarfs we generally meet with are deformities of nature; their head is voluminous, their intellectual faculties obtuse, they are mostly childish in their ideas and pursuits, and are rarely able to propagate their race.

Held in contempt by the people, dwarfs naturally become peevish and irritable; and the diminutive names given to them to match their apparent natural imperfection tend constantly to increase their irritability. Thus the Latins called them Homunciones, the Italians Piccoluomini, the Flemings Mennekin,—whence, no doubt, our term Mannikin given to little men, and Minikin applied to small pins. A very curious case of a dwarf born from parents of the usual stature was exhibited in Paris in 1819: her name was Anne Souvray; she was born in the Vosges, and was only thirty-three inches in height. She was at that period seventy-three years of age; was gay, animated, good-humoured, and danced with tolerable grace with her sister Barbe, seventy-five years of age, and taller than her by two inches. In 1762, King Stanislaus wanted to marry her to his Bebe; the bridegroom, however, did not live to contract so desirable a match; but, faithful to her lover, she ever afterwards called herself Madame Bébé.

Jeffrey Hudson, the dwarf of King Charles, must also have been of a very diminutive stature, since we find that he was served up in a pie to the royal table, and jumped out when the crust was raised. It appears that introducing live pies in those days were not an uncommon frolic; hence there may be some truth in the old song of

Four-and-twenty black-birds bak’d in a pye,
When the pye was open’d the birds began to sing,
Was not that a dainty dish to lay before a king?

GIGANTIC RACES.

While we dismiss as fabulous all ancient and modern accounts of dwarfish races, we must also treat with the same scepticism the relations of gigantic nations. Although individuals of incredible stature have been occasionally seen, the word giant must be considered not only comparative as regarding primary races, but in many instances allegorical. Thus the Hebrew word, Nophel and Giboor (Nephilim and Gibborim in the plural), did not signify giants, as commonly translated, but cruel and violent men. Athletic power and uncommon energies were naturally associated with the idea of supernatural stature, though intellectual accomplishments were not always included in the association: on the contrary, we find the ancient axiom Homo longus rarè sapiens frequently adduced.

In temperate climates the height of the human race averages from four feet and a half to six feet, but occasional instances have been met with of men reaching eight and nine feet—nay, some authors go so far as ten and eighteen; but the latter assertions seem to refer to fossil bones attributed to man, but which evidently belonged to other animals. Buffon mentions gigantic human bones discovered at Lucerne, but which upon examination Blumenbach pronounced to be the remains of an elephant. Halicot, in his work called Gigantosteologia, describes bones found in a sepulchre in Dauphiny over which was a stone inscribed Teutobocchus Rex: this skeleton was twenty-five feet and a half high, and ten feet broad at the shoulder. Riolan, the celebrated anatomist, disputes the fact; and in his book entitled Gigantomachia positively affirms that they also belonged to an elephant. It is worthy of remark, that in this controversy each party considered his opinion and decision of sufficient weight to need no illustration, and therefore neither of them thought it necessary to confirm his dixit by drawings and engravings of the questionable remains. Such is the vanity of the learned! An infallible philosopher informs us that Adam’s stature was one hundred and twenty-three feet nine inches; Eve’s, one hundred and eighteen feet nine inches and three quarters; Noah’s, twenty feet short of Adam’s; Abraham’s, twenty-eight feet; Moses’, thirteen; and Hercules’, ten.

That the first races of man were of larger dimensions than those of our contemporaries, has ever been a general opinion. Thus Virgil in his Georgics:

Grandiaque effossis mirabitur ossa sepulchris.

Lucretius ascribes the same superiority to animals.

Jamque adeò fracta est ætas, effœtaque tellus
Vix animalia parva creat, quæ cuncta creavit
Sæcla, deditque ferarum ingentia corpora partu.

And again the Mantuan poet,

Sic Omnia fatis
In pejus ruere, ac retrò sublapsa referri.

Not only have our forefathers been considered more gigantic in stature, but of more vigorous power. Hence Juvenal says,

Nam genus hoc, vivo jam decrescebat Homero.
Terra malos homines nunc educat, atque pusillos.

It is however obvious, that former races, although they might have excelled the present generation in vigour from the nature of their education and pursuits, could not claim any pre-eminence in stature. The remains of human bones, found in tombs and Egyptian mummies, demonstrate this fact most clearly; and the armour, helmets, and breastplates of the ancients confirm it. Their swords were as light, nay, much lighter in many instances, than those of the present day; and those enormous ones of the times of chivalry were only wielded to inflict one overwhelming blow with both hands, and could scarcely be recovered for protection.

Ancient writers corroborate this opinion. Homer, when speaking of a fine man, gives him four cubits in height and one in breadth. Vitruvius fixes the usual standard of man at six Roman feet: the giant Gabbarus mentioned by Pliny did not exceed nine feet. Aristotle’s admeasurement of beds was six feet; and certainly the doorways of ancient edifices by no means indicated taller inmates than our present generation. It is therefore pretty clear that the supposed fossil remains of gigantic human bones belonged to the Megatherium, the Palæotherium, and other individuals, which certainly prove that in remote ages there existed animals of much larger dimensions than any now in being, though we have no reason to suppose that this variety extended to our species.[2]

The origin of the fabled giants has led to marvellous disquisitions. Many fathers of the church, amongst whom we may quote St. Cyprian, St. Ambrosius, St. Chrosostom, St. Cyrillius, Tactantius, Tertullian, and several others, gravely maintain that giants were the favoured offsprings of holy maidens and angels. This may seem an impious conclusion, since the gigantic monsters of sacred history were any thing but angelic; for the Canaaneans, the Moabites, and the sons of Anak, descended from giants, (compared with whom the Israelites seemed as grasshoppers,) were most ferocious, and their land devoured its inhabitants; (though Neuman gives a different signification to the scriptural passage, which according to his paraphrase merely meant “that the number of inhabitants was so great, that they eat up all the land;”) Og, king of Bashan, whose country was delivered into the hands of Israel, had an iron bedstead nine cubits in length and four cubits in breadth; and Goliath, the reproach of Israel, was six cubits and a span (which according to Cumberland makes eleven feet English) in stature. It is therefore difficult to imagine why so many saints considered giants as an angelic progeny.

To the present day, however, we find various races distinguished by their elevated stature. Humboldt says, that the Guayaquilists measure six feet and a half, and the Payaguas are equally tall, while the Caribbees of Cumana are distinguished by their almost gigantic size from all the other nations he had met with in the New World. Hearne saw in the cold regions north of Canada individuals of six feet four inches. The Patagonians, or Tehuels, were stated by Pigafitta and the Spanish early navigators as measuring seven feet four inches; and although it appears that this account is exaggerated, more recent travellers, amongst whom we may name Bougainville, Commodore Byron, Captain Wallis, Carteret, and Falkner, affirm that their height ranges from six to seven feet.

From the best authenticated observations, it appears that the tallest persons on respectable record, did not, according to Haller, exceed nine feet. A young man from Huntingdonshire was exhibited in London, and measured about eight feet at the age of seventeen; he was, as usual, born of the ordinary size, but began to grow most rapidly; his sister was of great height, and all his family were remarkably tall.

Dwarfs generally die from premature old age, and giants from exhaustion. A curious instance of marvellous growth is recorded in a tract called “Prodigium Willinghamense,” or an account of a surprising boy who was born at Willingham, near Cambridge, and upon whom the following epitaph was written:—“Stop, traveller, and wondering, know, here buried lie the remains of Thomas, son of Thomas and Margaret Hall; who, not one year old, had the signs of manhood; at three, was almost four feet high, endued with uncommon strength, a just proportion of parts, and a stupendous voice; before six, he died as it were at an advanced age.” Mr. Dawker, a surgeon of St. Ives, Huntingdon, who published this account, viewed him after death, and the corpse exhibited all the appearances of decrepit old age. This is a confirmation of the case of the boy of Salamis, mentioned by Pliny as being four feet high, and having reached puberty at the age of three; and may also confirm the account of the man seen by Craterus, the brother of Antigonus, who in seven years was an infant, a youth, an adult, a father, an old man, and a corpse.

The experiment of Dr. Berkeley, bishop of Cloyne, to ascertain the influence of food in promoting extraordinary growth, is curious. He selected for this purpose an orphan child of the name of Macgrath; and, by dint of feeding, at the age of sixteen he had grown to the height of seven feet; but his organization had been so exhausted by this forced process, that he died in a state of moral and physical decay at the age of twenty.

In the development of organized bodies, the effects of light contribute materially. Dr. Edwards, an English physician in Paris, and one of our most distinguished physiologists, has shown that by excluding tadpoles from the light, they will grow to double and triple their ordinary size, but are not metamorphosed into frogs. He thinks that the Proteus Anguinis is the first stage of an animal prevented from growing to perfection by inhabiting the subterraneous waters of Carniola.

The influence of food on the changes of animals is further shown in the aphidivorous flies, that are larvæ for eight or ten days, pupæ for about a fortnight, and perfect insects in about the same time, in the whole living about six weeks; whereas a pupa deprived of food underwent no change, and lived for twelve months. Rapid development of the organism invariably brings on premature dissolution. A case is recorded of a girl who cut four teeth at the end of the first fortnight; walked about, and had hair reaching to the middle of her back after the seventh month; exhibited signs of puberty at the ninth month, but perished in a state of exhaustion in her twelfth year. Dr. Comarmond, of Lyons, relates the case of a female infant, who was perfectly developed at the age of twenty-seven months, but she sank under rachitis when she had attained her twelfth year.

Precocious mental attainments are frequently as destructive of life as a rapid growth. The wonderful Baratier, at the age of four, spoke and read Latin, French, and German; was an excellent Greek scholar at six; and when ten years of age, translated the Scriptures from the Hebrew; at nineteen he died of exhaustion. The vulgar saying, “The child is too clever to live,” is founded upon observation. These early specimens of superior intellect are sometimes followed by a state of imbecility. Antiochus tells us that Hermogenes, who was a celebrated rhetorician at fourteen years, was ignorant in the extreme at twenty-four; and of him it was said,

In pueritia senex, in senectute puer.

Tall men generally produce children of high stature. The celebrated grenadier guards of Frederick William, in the words of Dr. Johnson, “propagated procerity;” and the inhabitants of Potsdam are remarkable for their height. Haller states that his own family were distinguished by their tallness, without excepting one single grandchild, although they were very numerous.

In the hereditary transmission of physical and moral qualities, many curious observations have been made. Women of high mental attainments have been known to produce children of genius, more frequently than men of a superior intellect; although Haller relates the singular case of two noble females who married wealthy idiots on account of their fortunes, and from whom this melancholy defect had extended for a century into several families, so that some of all their descendants still continued idiots in the fourth and fifth generation. Horace had observed this tendency to produce offsprings resembling their parents,

Fortes creantur fortibus et bonis:
Est in juvencis, est in equis patrum
Virtus: nec imbellem feroces
Progenerant aquilæ columbam.

This remark, however, is more applicable to physical transmissions, and certain peculiarities characterize whole families. Pliny mentioned examples of six-fingered families, who bore the name Sedigita. C. Horatius had two daughters with a similar deformity. Mr. Carlisle knew a family in which supernumerary toes and fingers were observed for four generations: they were introduced by a female who had six fingers on each hand, and as many toes on each foot. From her marriage with a man naturally formed, were produced ten children, with a supernumerary member on each limb; and an eleventh, in which the peculiarity existed in both feet and one hand, the other hand being naturally formed. The latter marrying a man of ordinary formation, they had four children, of which three had one or two limbs natural, and the rest with the supernumerary parts; while the fourth had six fingers on each hand, and as many toes on each foot. The latter married a woman naturally formed, and had issue by her eight children; four with the usual structure, and the same number with the additional fingers and toes: two of them were twins, of which one was naturally formed, and the other six-fingered and six-toed.—The well-known porcupine family, that were exhibited in London and elsewhere, is a remarkable example of hereditary transmission of organic peculiarities. They were all covered with dark-coloured horny excrescences, which they shed annually in the autumn or winter. Their names were Lambert. Two brothers, John and Richard, grandsons of the original porcupine men, were shown in Germany.—One of these unsightly individuals, who was exhibited some time ago in Bond-street, stated that he was descended from the fourth generation of a savage found in the woods of America; and he further asserted that the females of the family were exempted from this lucrative but uncomfortable peculiarity: all the males had them, and shed them regularly until the thirty-sixth year, when these species of quills grew to a considerable length. We have examples of bristly hair being shed in a whole family every autumn.

Amongst animals, gigantic races no longer inhabit the regions which bore them in ancient times. An extensive whale-fishery was once carried on at Biariz, in the Gulf of Gascony; and the hippopotamus is no longer to be seen on the banks of the Nile.

Gigantic bones having been occasionally discovered with the remains of men and horses and fragments of armour, it has been imagined that in ancient times armies were attended by terrific giants; but it is more than probable that these large fragments of departed warriors belonged to their war-elephants, which with their horses were not unfrequently immolated on their master’s tomb.

Skeletons of giants were considered by the ancients as curious as in the present day; and those of Secondilla and Pusio were carefully preserved in the gardens of Sallust.

Some naturalists have maintained that giants had more numerous vertebræ than ordinary men; but this has not been confirmed by observation, nor has it been found that the spinal bones of dwarfs are in smaller number.

Schreber, who has collected the description of the principal modern giants, found few above seven feet and a half; although he mentions a Swedish peasant of eight feet Swedish measure, and one of the guards of the Duke of Brunswick eight feet six inches Dutch. Not so Hakewell, who informs us, from the testimony of Nannez, that the Emperor of China had archers and porters fifteen feet high. Howbeit, Ol. Magnus’s account surpasses his; for he tells us of a “puella—in capite vulnerata, mortua induta chlamyde purpurea, longitudinis cubitorum 50, latitudinis inter humeros quatuor!”

UNLAWFUL CURES.

One can scarcely credit that at any period there could have existed men of science and genius who believed that there were supernatural means of curing disease, did we not even to the present day find imbeciles who verily dread the malpractices of the devil and his vicarious agents. Ancient writers divided their cures into lawful and unlawful. The former were obtained from divine aid; the latter from sorcerers, witches, magicians, wizards, and cunning men, who treated all maladies by spells, cabalistic words, charms, characters, images, amulets, ligatures, philters, incantations, &c.; by which means, according to Cardan, Artesius, Picatrix, and sundry wise men, the aforesaid sorcerers and witches could prevent fire from burning, find out thieves and stolen goods, show absent faces in a glass, make serpents lie still, stanch blood, salve gout, biting of mad dogs, toothache, et omnia mundi mala. “Many doubt,” says Nicholas Taurellus, “whether the devil can cure such diseases he hath not made, and some flatly deny it; however, common experience confirms, to our astonishment, that magicians can work such feats, and that the devil, without impediment, can penetrate through all the parts of our body, and cure such maladies by means to us unknown.” Some of these means were rather singular; for St. Austin mentions as one of these processes, “Agentes cum patientibus conjungunt, colligere semina rerum eaque materiæ applicare;” and learned divines, moreover inform us, that to resist exorcisms these witches and magicians had St. Catherine’s wheel imprinted on the roof of their mouths, or on some other part. Taurellus asserts, that to doubt it is to run into a sceptical extreme of incredulity. Godelman affirms that Satan is an excellent physician; Langius maintains that Jupiter Menecrates was a magician; and Marcellus Donatus pays the same compliment to Solomon, who, he says, “cured all the diseases of the mind by spells, charms, and drove away devils, and that Eleazar did the same before Vespasian.” Galen, in his book “de Medicamentis facilè purandis,” observes after a preparation, “hæc enim suffita, dæmonus abigunt.”

This fact being clearly ascertained, the next question was whether it was lawful in a desperate case to crave the help of the evil one on the principle

Flectere si nequeunt Superos, Acheronta movebunt.

Paracelsus rather impiously argues that we might, as it matters not, he says, “whether it be God or the devil, angels or unclean spirits, (immundi spiritus,) that cure him, so that he be eased. If a man fall in a ditch, what matter is it whether a friend or an enemy help him out? If I be troubled with such a malady, what care I whether the devil himself, or any of his ministers, by God’s permission, redeem me?”—and he therefore concludes, that diseases brought on by malefices can only be cured by incantations. However, this doctrine was denounced as abominable by Remigius, Bodinus, Godelmannus, Erastus, and various divines and schoolmen; and Delrio plainly declares, “mori præstat quàm superstitiosè canari.” Therefore pontificial writers and sages recommend adjuration and exorcism by “fire, suffumigations, lights, cutting the air with swords (gladiorum ictus), sacred herbs, odours,” &c., though some hungry devils can only be cast out by fasting.

Witches and impostors, says Lord Bacon, have always held a competition with physicians. Galen complains of this superstition, and observes that patients placed more confidence in the oracles of Esculapius and their own idle dreams than in the prescriptions of doctors. The introduction of precious stones into medical practice owed its origin to a superstitious belief that, from their beauty, splendour, and high value, they were the natural receptacles for good spirits. Mystery, in the dark ages, and, alas! even now, increases the confidence in remedial means; reveal their true nature, the charm is dissolved: “Minus credunt quæ ad suam salutem pertinent si intelligunt,” said Pliny. One cannot but wonder when we behold men pre-eminent in deep learning and acute observation becoming converts to such superstitious practices. Lord Bacon believed in spells and amulets; and Sir Theodore Mayence, who was physician to three English sovereigns, and supposed to have been Shakspeare’s Dr. Caius, believed in supernatural agency, and frequently prescribed the most disgusting and absurd medicines, such as the heart of a mule ripped up alive, a portion of the lungs of a man who had died a violent death, or the hand of a thief who had been gibbeted on some particular day. Nauseous medicines have ever been deemed the most efficacious, on the reasoning that as every thing medicinal is nauseous, every thing that is nauseous must be medicinal. The ancients firmly believed that blood can be stanched by charms; the bleeding of Ulysses was stopped by this means; and Cato the Censor has given us an incantation for setting dislocated bones. To this day charms are supposed to arrest the flow of blood:

Tom Pots was but a serving-man,
But yet he was a doctor good,
He bound his kerchief on the wound,
And with some kind words he stanch’d the blood.

Sir Walter Scott says, in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel,”—

She drew the splinter from the wound,
And with a charm she stanch’d the blood.

The strength of imagination in effecting wonderful cures has been observed in all ages; and Avicenna declares, “that he prefers confidence before art, precepts, and all remedies whatsoever.” Our learned Burton says, “that this strong imagination or conceit is Astrum Hominis, and the rudder of this our ship, which reason should steer, but overborne by phantasie, cannot manage, and so suffers itself and the whole vessel of ours to be overruled and often overturned.”

Nothing could be more absurd than the notions regarding some of these supposed cures: a ring made of the hinge of a coffin had the power of relieving cramps; which were also mitigated by having a rusty old sword hung up by the bedside. Nails driven in an oak-tree prevented the toothache. A halter that had served in hanging a criminal was an infallible remedy for a headache, when tied round the head; this affection was equally cured by the moss growing on a human skull, dried and pulverized, and taken as a cephalic snuff. A dead man’s hand could dispel tumours of the glands by stroking the parts nine times, but the hand of a man who had been cut down from the gallows was the most efficacious. To cure warts, one had nothing to do but to steal a piece of beef from the butcher, with which the warts were to be rubbed; then inter it in any filth, and as it rotted, the warts would wither and fall.

The chips of a gallows on which several persons had been hanged, when worn in a bag round the neck, would cure the ague. A stone with a hole in it, suspended at the head of the bed, would effectually stop the nightmare; hence it was called a hag-stone, as it prevents the troublesome witches from sitting upon the sleeper’s stomach. The same amulet tied to the key of a stable-door, deterred witches from riding horses over the country.

Rickety children were cured by being drawn through a cleft tree, which was afterwards bound up, and as the split wood united, the child acquired strength. Creeping through a perforated stone to cure various disorders was a Druidical rite, still practised in the East. In the parish of Marden there is a stone with a hole in it, fourteen inches in diameter, through which children are drawn for the rickets; and, in the North, infants are made to pass through a hole cut in a groaning cheese the day of their christening.

Second sight, which, as an hereditary faculty, was deemed a malady, was cured in the Isle of Man, according to Mr. Aubrey’s account, by baptizing a child upon the first sight of its head. This ceremony exempts the succeeding generation from the troublesome gift.

It is a melancholy reflection that, at various periods, impostors have impiously called in Scriptural aid to promote their sordid or ambitious views. Chiromancers have quoted the Bible in support of their doctrines and adduced the following lines of Job,—“He sealeth up the hand of every man, that all men may know his works:” while, in the like manner, the Holy Inquisition of Spain and Portugal justified their atrocities on the score of the parable of the marriage of the king’s son, in the 22nd of St. Matthew.

Unlawful cures, as they were called, being thus anathematized, lawful remedies were resorted to, and the patient was first ordered to pray with due devotion before he took his physic; or, as Burton observes, not one without the other, but both together; for, as he adds, to pray alone, and reject ordinary means, is to do like him in Æsop, that, when his cart was stalled, lay flat on his back, and cried out “Help, Hercules!” However, Hyperius maintains that no physicians can hope for success unless “with a true faith they call upon God and teach their patients to do the like.” Comineus, when he addressed the Christian princes after the overthrow of Charles of Burgundy, bade them “first pray with all submission and penitency, confess their sins, and then take physic.”

Another question of importance that led to much controversy was, whether it were lawful to seek the aid of the saints; the learned Burton’s remarks on this controverted point are so curious that they are worth relating. “They (the papists) have a proper saint for almost every peculiar infirmity: for poisons, gout, agues, Petronella; St. Romanus, for such as are possessed; St. Vitus for madmen, &c.; and as, of old, Pliny reckons up gods for all diseases. All affections of the mind were heretofore accounted gods: Love and Sorrow, Virtue, Honour, Liberty, Contumely, Impudency, had their temples; Tempests, Seasons, Crepitus Ventris, Dea Vacuna, Dea Cloacina. Varro reckons up thirty thousand gods; Lucian makes Podagra, the gout, a goddess, and assigns her priests and ministers. ’Tis the same devil still, called heretofore, Apollo, Mars, Venus, &c.; the same Jupiter, and those bad angels, are now worshipped and adored by the name of St. Sebastian, St. Barbara, &c.; and our Lady succeeds Venus in many offices; and God often winks at these impostures, because they forsake his word, and betake themselves to the devil, as they do, that seek after holy water, crosses,” &c.

Amidst this violent denunciation against popery and devilment, evil spirits and saints, it is somewhat singular to find a spirit of anomalous perversity which justifies suicide to rid ourselves of disease and suffering; and these very sanctimonious censors quote ancient and modern authorities to sanction a practice which every Christian must condemn. Let us pursue the disquisition of our learned bookworm Burton:—“Another doubt is made by philosophers, whether it be lawful for a man in such extremity of pain and grief to make away himself, and how those men that do so are to be censured. The Platonists approve of it, that it is lawful in such cases upon a necessity. Plotinus (L. de Beatitud.) and Socrates himself defend it (in Plato’s Phædon): If any man labour of an incurable disease, he may despatch himself, if it be to his good. Epictetus and Seneca say, Quamcunque veram esse viam ad libertatem;—any way is allowable that leads to liberty. Let us give God thanks no man is compelled to live against his will. Quid ad hominem claustra, carcer, custodia? liberum ostium habet. Death is always ready at hand: Vides illum precipitem locum, illud flumen? There is liberty at hand. Effugia cervitutis et doloris sunt, as that Laconian lad cast himself headlong, Non serviam, aiebat puer; to be freed of misery. Wherefore hath our mother earth brought out poisons (saith Pliny) in so great a quantity, but that men in distress might make away themselves? which kings of old had ever in readiness, ad incerta fortunæ venenum sub custode promptum. Many worthy men and women, quorum memoria celebratur in ecclesiâ, sayeth Leminctius, killed themselves to save their chastity and honour, when Rome was taken. Jerome vindicates the same, and Ambrose commendeth Pelagia for so doing. Eusebius admired a Roman matron for the same fact, to save herself from the lust of Maxentius the tyrant. Adelhelmus, the Abbot of Malmesbury, calls them, beatas virgines quæ sic, &c. Sir Thomas More, in his Utopia, commends voluntary death if one be sibi aut aliis molestus; especially if to live be a torment to him, let him free himself with his own hand from this tedious life, or from a prison, or suffer himself to be freed by others.” However, be it said in justice to our worthy Burton, he condemns this practice as “a false and pagan position, founded in prophane stoical paradoxes and wicked examples;” and although he denounces most fulminating anathemas on papists, he concludes by saying, “we ought not to be rash and rigorous in our censures, as some are; Charity will judge and hope best; God be merciful unto us all!”

But why should we marvel at the credulity and superstition of our forefathers, when we daily observe equal absurdities? Fanaticism and bigotry will ever strive to speculate on human weakness, and endeavour to surround with impenetrable mists every rebel to their power who gropes for the shrine of reason and of truth. Johanna Southcote had her votaries, and Prince Hohenlohe is still considered by many a pious person, as a vicarious instrument of divine mercy. No miraculous recovery recorded in the dark ages can surpass the tenebral absurdity of the following relation of one of his cures:

Miss O’Connor was a nun in a convent near Chelmsford, and in December 1820, being about thirty years old, was suddenly attacked by a violent pain in the right hand, which extended with much swelling and inflammation up the arm. The whole limb became red, swollen, extremely painful, and entirely useless. Every remedy, both topical and directed to the system, was tried in vain for a year and a half. There was no suppuration, nor any formation of pus; but the malady continued obdurate, and yielded to no application. The resources of the flesh having manifestly failed, Mrs. Gerard, the worthy superior, very properly betook herself to those of the spirit. She made a request through a friend to Prince Hohenlohe to assist the patient in this her extreme case; when the following precious document, which it would be impious to translate into heretical English, was received:

“Pour la Religeuse Novice d’Angleterre.

“Le trois du mois de Mai, à huit heures, je dirai, conformément à votre demande, pour votre guérison, mes prières. Joignez-y à la même heure, après avoir confessé et communié, les votres, avec cette ferveur angélique et cette confiance plénière que nous devons à notre Rédempteur J. C.: excitez au fond de votre cœur les vertus divines d’un vrai repentir, d’un amour Chrétien, d’une croyance sans bornes d’être exaucé, et d’une résolution inébranlable de mener une vie exemplaire, afin de vous maintenir en état de grace. Agréez l’assurance de ma considération.

“Prince Alexandre Hohenlohe.

“Bamberg, Mars 16, 1822.”

It is to be regretted that this letter, which was no doubt a circular to his proselytes, with necessary blanks to be filled up pro re natâ, as the doctors have it, was not drawn out in better French. Howbeit, on the appointed day, asserts Dr. Baddely (the lady’s unsuccessful medical attendant), Miss O’Connor went through the religious process prescribed by her princely physician. Mass being said, Miss O. not finding the immediate relief she expected from her faith, or faithfully expected, exclaimed somewhat impatiently, not having the fear of Job before her eyes, “Thy will be done, O Lord, since thou hast not thought me worthy of this cure;” when behold! immediately after she felt an extraordinary sensation throughout the whole arm to the end of the fingers. The pain instantly left her, the swelling gradually subsided, and Dr. B., who no doubt was the pet physician of the nuns, declares that the hand shortly resumed its natural size and shape.

Now, Miss O’Connor was most likely a young lady from Ireland, where this miraculous cure was re-echoed in every chapel. The protestants were naturally offended by a report which seemed to impugn the sanctity of the reformed religion, and they thought it incumbent on them, for the welfare of church and state, to get up a miracle of their own which would cast Prince H., Nun O., and Dr. B. in the shade. The following statement was therefore published and certified upon oath by sundry most respectable and most worthy Orangemen:

“I pledge you the word and honour of an Orangeman that the following facts, sworn to by all present, occurred yesterday evening. A party of gentlemen dined with me, and after dinner a vase, containing some orange lilies, was placed upon the table by my directions. We drank several toasts; but on the glorious and immortal memory being given, an unblown lily, which the party had remarked, expanded its leaves and bloomed before us in all its splendour!” How appropriate are the lines of Otway when applied to the propagators of such absurdities, who dare to call upon our faith to give credence to their impostures.

You want to lead
My reason blindfold like a hamper’d lion
Check’d of its noble vigour; then, when baited
Down to obedient tameness, make it crouch
And show strange tricks, which you call signs of faith:
So silly souls are gull’d, and you get money.

A curious anecdote is related of Lord Chief Justice Holt. When a young man, he happened, with some of his merry companions, to run up a score at a country inn, which they were not able to pay. In this dilemma they appealed to Holt, to get them out of the scrape. Our young lawyer had observed that the inn-keeper’s daughter looked very ill, and, passing himself for a medical student, asked her father what ailed her, when he was informed that she suffered from an ague. Holt immediately gathered various plants, mixed them up with great ceremony, and after rolling them up in parchment, scrawled upon the ball some cabalistic characters. The amulet, thus prepared, he suspended round the neck of the young woman, and, strange to say, the ague did not return. After this cure the doctor offered to pay the bill, to which the grateful landlord would not consent, allowing Holt and his party to leave the house.

Many years after, when on the bench, a woman was brought before him, accused of witchcraft—the very last person tried upon such a charge. Her only defence was, that she possessed a ball invariably efficacious in the cure of agues. The charm was produced, handed to the judge, who recognised the identical ball which he had prepared in his youthful frolics.

Not only did these victims of superstition firmly believe that evil spirits had the power of inflicting disease, and afterwards salve the mischief, but they were also invested with the privilege of killing and subsequently restoring to life. The story related of the truly learned Agrippa, who was falsely represented as a necromancer, is curious.

Agrippa had occasion one time to be absent for a few days from his residence in Louvain. During his absence he intrusted his wife with the key of his museum, but with an earnest injunction that no one on any account should be allowed to enter it; Agrippa happened at that time to have a boarder in his house, a young fellow of insatiable curiosity, who constantly importuned his hostess, till at length he obtained from her the forbidden key. The first thing that attracted his attention was a book of spells and incantations. He spread the volume before him, and, thinking no harm, began to read aloud. He had not long continued this occupation, when a knock was heard at the door of the chamber. The youth took no notice, but continued reading. Presently there followed a second and a louder knock, which somewhat alarmed the reader. The space of a minute having elapsed, and no answer been made, the door opened and a demon entered. “For what purpose am I called?” said the unwelcome visitor in a stern voice: “What is it you demand to have done?” The youth was seized with the greatest alarm and struck speechless. The demon then rushed upon him, seized him by the throat, and strangled him, indignant no doubt in having been interrupted in some more interesting pursuit to no purpose.

At the expected time Agrippa came home, and to his great surprise found a number of devils capering about, and playing strange antics on the roof of his house. By his art he caused them to desist from their gambols, of which he demanded the cause. The chief of them then related to him what he had done, how he had been disturbed and insulted, and how he had thought proper to revenge himself. Agrippa became much alarmed at the probable consequences of this unfortunate adventure, and he ordered the demon, without loss of time, to reanimate his victim, and walk about the streets with him, that the public might behold him alive. The infernal spirit reluctantly obeyed, and went forth with the student in the marketplace and promenades. This excursion over, however, he maliciously allowed his companion to fall down, when life once more flitted from his body. For a time it was thought that the student had been killed by a sudden attack of illness; but, presently, the marks of strangulation became evident, and the truth came out. Agrippa was thus suddenly obliged to quit the town, and seek refuge in a distant state.

It was further related of this supposed wizard, that he was always accompanied by a familiar spirit in the shape of a black dog; and that when he lay on his deathbed he was earnestly exhorted to repent of his sins. Struck with remorse, he took hold of the dog, and removed from his neck a collar studded with cabalistic nails, exclaiming, “Begone, wretched animal, that has been the cause of my perdition!” and lo! the dog immediately ran away, and, plunging into the river Soane, disappeared. It is to be regretted that historians do not relate whether the water hissed or not when the canine devil took his last leap.

It merits notice, that the mystic and medicinal celebrity of various substances have to this hour survived the traditions of their superstitious origin; coral, for instance, which was considered as possessed of the power of keeping off evil spirits, and rendering effete the malefices of the evil eye, was constantly worn as an amulet; and Paracelsus informs us that it should be worn round the necks of infants, as an admirable preservative against fits, sorcery, charms, and poisons. We still find necklaces of this substance suspended by fond mothers and nurses round the necks of infants. In the West Indies these chaplets are worn by the negroes as a magic protection against Obiism, and they even affirm that the colour of the coral is affected by the state of health of the wearer, and becomes paler when he is ill.

The irrational belief in the mysterious powers of certain remedies went so far in former days, that when they were applied to the weapon that had inflicted an injury, their indirect sympathetic action was considered as effectual as if they had been used to heal the wound. The sympathetic powder of Sir Kenelm Digby, which was nothing else but pulverized green vitriol, was eulogized in a discourse pronounced by its inventor, at Montpellier, in 1658. Our James I. purchased this wonderful discovery from Sir Kenelm, who pretended that he had obtained it from a Carmelite friar, who had learned it in America and Persia. This superstitious practice is alluded to by Walter Scott, in the “Lay of the Last Minstrel:”

But she has ta’en the broken lance,
And wash’d it from the clotted gore,
And salved the splinter o’er and o’er.

Dryden has also illustrated this absurdity in his “Enchanted Island,” where Ariel says,

Anoint the sword which pierced him, with this
Weapon-salve, and wrap it close from air
Till I have time to visit it again.

Sir Kenelm’s sympathetic powder was applied in the same manner; the weapon being covered with ointment and dressed three times a day. But it was not mentioned that at the same time the wound was to be brought together, and bound up with clean linen bandages for seven days. This wonderful cure was then simply the process of what surgeons call healing by first intention, which means uniting the lips of the wound without suppuration. Dr. Paris apprehends that this secret was suggested to the worthy knight by the cures operated by the rust of the spear of Telephus, which, according to Homer, healed the injuries it had occasioned; and this rust was most probably verdigris.

To this day the Irish peasantry, and even many of the superior classes, firmly believe in the malevolent and destructive effect of the evil eye, when cast upon man or beast. Hence the absurd custom that prevails, especially in the western provinces, of adding “God bless it,” to any expression of admiration; and if perchance a Sassenagh traveller exclaimed “What a sweet child!” or, “What a fine cow!” without the adjunctive benediction, he would be suspected of malefice, and the priest forthwith summoned to save the devoted victim of sorcery. In Scotland dairy-maids drive cattle with a switch of the mountain ash, or roan-tree, considered as held sacred since the days of Druidism; and in some districts the sheep and lambs are made to pass through a hoop of its wood on the first day of May.

The toad was also considered to be possessed of marvellous qualities for the cure of various maladies, more especially the stone that was supposed to be occasionally found in the reptile’s head, and which was called Crapaudina. Lupton, in his seventh book of “Notable Things,” thus instructs us how to obtain it. “You shall knowe whether the tode stone be the ryght and perfect stone or not. Holde the stone before a tode, so that he may see it; and if it be a ryght and true stone, the tode will leape towarde it and make as though he would snatch it, he envies so much that man should have this stone.” This famous toadstone is simply one of the fossil teeth of various fishes, and is chiefly formed of phosphate of lime. Its high polish and convexity has often induced lapidaries to have it set in rings and other jewels, to which marvellous powers were attached.

Pulverized toads were not only employed in medicine with supposed advantage, but were also considered a slow but certain poison. Solander relates, that a Roman woman, desirous of poisoning her husband gave him this substance; but instead of attaining her criminal desire, it cured him of a dropsy that had long perplexed him. Boccaccio relates the story of Pasquino and Simona, two young lovers, who, wandering in a garden, plucked some sage-leaves, with which Pasquino rubbed his teeth and gums. In a few minutes he fell ill and expired. Simona accused of being his assassin, was brought before a magistrate, who ordered an immediate investigation of the matter, when, on proceeding to the garden, Simona, after relating the particulars of the case, took some leaves from the same plant and used them in a similar manner. In a few minutes the lovers were reunited in death; when it was discovered that a large toad was under the root of the plant to which it had communicated its deadly venom.

Regarding unlawful cures, have we not seen vaccination, when first introduced, condemned from the very pulpit as an impious interference in a disease which seemed to have been assigned to mankind by the Creator as an inevitable doom? Did not these desperate bigots even pronounce that we were not warranted to seek in the brute creation a human remedy or preservative? What is still more worthy of remark, is the coincidence of a similar idea in India, where the greatest obstacle vaccination encountered arose from a belief that the natural smallpox was a dispensation of a malicious deity, called Mah-ry-Umma, or rather that the disease was an incarnation of the goddess herself into the person who was affected by it: the fear of irritating her, and of exposing themselves to her resentment, necessarily rendered the natives averse to vaccination, until it was impressed upon their easy belief, that Mah-ry-Umma had altered her mind, and chosen this new and milder mode of manifesting her visits to her votaries.

Could there ever have existed a more superstitious belief than that which vested in the regal touch a healing power? Yet from Edward the Confessor to the accession of the House of Hanover, it was generally thought in these realms that our kings could cure scrofula with their anointed fingers!

Dr. Paris’s truly philosophic remarks on this subject, in his valuable work, entitled Pharmacologia, are worthy of quotation:—“Credulity, although it is nearly allied to superstition, yet differs from it widely. Credulity is an unbounded belief in what is possible, although destitute of proof, and perhaps of probability; but superstition is a belief in what is wholly repugnant to the laws of the physical and moral world. Credulity is a far greater source of error than superstition; for the latter must be always more limited in its influence, and can exist only, to any considerable extent, in the most ignorant portions of society; whereas the former diffuses itself through the minds of all classes, by which the rank and dignity of science are degraded, its valuable labours confounded with the vain pretensions of empiricism, and ignorance is enabled to claim for itself the prescriptive right of delivering oracles, amidst all the triumph of truth and the progress of philosophy. Credulity has been justly defined belief without reason, while scepticism, its opposite, is reason without belief, and the natural and invariable consequence of credulity; for it may be observed that men who believe without reason are succeeded by others whom no reasoning can convince.”

VOICE AND SPEECH.

Blumenbach has given us a most ingenious definition of this wonderful function. The voice, properly speaking, is a sound formed by means of expiration in the larynx, which is a most beautifully constructed organ, fixed upon the top of the windpipe, like a capital upon a column. It is composed of various cartilages, united in the form of a little box, and supplied with numerous muscles, that, moving altogether or separately, produce the variations of sound.

The part of the larynx most concerned in producing the voice is the glottis, or narrow opening of the windpipe, having the epiglottis suspended over it like a valve. The air expired from the lungs strikes upon the glottis, and thus becomes sonorous. The change that the glottis undergoes in the modulation of the voice has been matter of much controversy. Aristotle and Galen compared the glottis to a wind instrument; Ferrein assimilated it to a chorded one. This latter hypothesis was objected to, on the principle that a chord, to vibrate, should not only be in a state of tension, but dryness; characters which this organ does not possess, being constantly lubrified with mucus, and in a state of greater or lesser relaxation. Fulgentius considers the human voice to be composed of ten parts: the four first are the front teeth, so useful for the appulse of the tongue in forming sounds, without which a whistle would be produced instead of a voice; the fifth and sixth are the lips, which he compares to cymbals striking against each other; the seventh the tongue, which serves as a plectrum to articulate sounds; the eighth is the palate, the concavity of which forms the belly of the instrument; the ninth the throat, which performs the part of a flute; and the tenth the lungs, which supply the place of bellows.

That every degree of action in the glottis is due to the muscles of the larynx is proved by the experiment of tying or dividing the recurrent nerves, when the voice is destroyed or weakened.

Speech is a peculiar modification of the voice adjusted to the formation of the sounds of letters, by the expiration of the air through the nostrils and mouth, and in a great measure by the assistance of the tongue applied and struck against the neighbouring parts, the palate and front teeth in particular, and by the diversified action of the lips. This is Payne Knight’s doctrine, in his analytical essay on the Greek alphabet, and an illustration of the notions of Fulgentius.

Singing is compounded of speech and a musical modulation of the voice, a prerogative peculiar to man even in his most savage state; for, despite the assertions of the visionary Rousseau, who maintained that it is not natural to our species, we find that even in the uncivilized regions of Ethiopia, Greenland, and Kamtschatka, singing is a solace and a comfort.

The mechanism of speech and articulation is so intricate, that even the division of letters and their distribution are attended with difficulties. The following is the division of Amman in his work Surdus Loquens, published at Amsterdam in 1629, and enlarged under the title of Dissert. de Loquela, 1700, and is, perhaps, the most natural and intelligible.

He divides into, I. Vowels; II. Semi-vowels; III. Consonants.

I. The vowels are simple, a, e, i, o, u; and mixed ä, ö, ü: these are formed by the voice only. The semi-vowels and consonants are articulated by the mechanism of speech.

II. The semi-vowels are nasal, m, n, ng (n before g, which is nearly related to it), that is, the labio-nasal m, the dente-nasal n, and the gutture-nasal ng; or oral (lingual), r, l, that is, r with a vibration of the tongue, or l with the tongue less moved.

III. The consonants he distinguishes into sibilant (pronounced in succession), h, g, ch, s, sh, f, v, ph, that is h, formed in the throat, as it were a mere aspiration; g and ch, true consonants; s, sh, produced between the teeth; and f, v, ph—formed by the application of the lower lip to the upper front teeth—and explosive (which are as it were suddenly exploded by an expiration for a time suppressed, or interrupted), namely k, q, formed in the throat; d, t, about the teeth; p, b, near the lips; and double (compound), x, z.[3]

It has been thought that the tongue was indispensable for the purposes of speech, yet there are instances on record in which this has not been found an invariable rule. Dr. Conyers Middleton mentions two cases of distinct articulation with at least little or no tongue. In his exposure of the pious deceptions of weak and wicked Christians during the first centuries of the Christian era, he notices a pretty tale of an Arian prince cutting out the tongues of some of the orthodox party, and these being as able to talk as before; nay, one of them, who had been dumb from his birth, gained the faculty of speech by losing his tongue! We find various accounts of persons who spoke more or less fluently without this organ. Jussieu has inserted in the Mémoires de l’Académie des Sciences, 1718, the case of a Portuguese girl, who instead of a tongue had merely a little protuberance of about four lines in diameter in the middle of her mouth, and endowed with the power of contraction and dilatation; she spoke distinctly, but experienced difficulty in pronouncing c, f, g, l, n, r, s, t, x, and z, when she was obliged to bend her neck forward to upraise as it were the larynx. In this case, deglutition could not be well performed, and she was obliged to use her finger to propel the masticated food downwards.

Dr. Eliotson observes, that it is by no means improbable that the progress of modern art may present us at some future period with mechanical substitutes for orators and preachers; for, putting aside the magic heads of Albertus Magnus and Roger Bacon, Kratzenstein actually constructed an instrument to produce the vowels. De Kempelin has published a full account of his celebrated speaking machine, which perfectly imitated the human voice. The French celebrated mechanician, the Abbé Mical, also made two heads of brass, which pronounced very distinctly entire phrases; these heads were colossal, and their voices powerful and sonorous. The French government refusing, it is said, in 1782, to purchase these automata, the unfortunate and too sensitive inventor, in a paroxysm of despair, destroyed these masterpieces of scientific ingenuity.

It has been observed, that in various races the pronunciation seemed to depend upon some peculiar and characteristic conformation; and Adelung informs us that in the Hottentots, the bony palate is smaller, shorter, and less arched than in the other races, and that the tongue, especially in the Bosjesman tribe, is rounder, thicker, and shorter. Hence their pronunciation is singular, and has been compared to the clucking of the Turkey, or the harsh and broken noises produced by some other birds. They combine their aspirated gutturals with hard consonants, without any intervening vowels, in a manner that Europeans cannot imitate.

No doubt the differences of language are as numerous as the other distinctions which characterize the several races of men. The various degrees of natural capacity and of intellectual progress; the prevalence of particular faculties; the nature of surrounding circumstances; the ease or difficulty with which our different wants and desires are gratified, will produce not only peculiar characters in the nature and construction of language, but in its copiousness and development.

One of the most curious points in the subject of language, is the continued existence in a large portion of Asia, very anciently civilized, and considerably advanced, at least in the useful arts, of simple monosyllabic languages, which are not in the slightest degree connected with the peculiar organization of the Mongolian variety, to which these people belong, and whose language is distinctly polysyllabic.

The attempts that have been made to trace the origin of languages to the varieties of our species, or to the influence of climate, have hitherto been fruitless, and the doctrines broached on the obscure subject refuted by observation. Mr. Jefferson states that there are twenty radical languages in America for one in Asia; more than twenty languages, he adds, are still spoken in the kingdom of Mexico, most of which are at least as different from one another as the Greek and the German, the French and the Polish. The variety of idioms spoken by the people of the new continent, and which without the least exaggeration may be stated at some hundreds, offers a very striking phenomenon, particularly when we compare it to the few languages spoken in Asia and in Europe. Vater also informs us, that in Mexico, where the causes producing insulation of the several tribes have been for a long time in a course of diminution, Clavigero recognised thirty-five different languages. Some of these words are rather of difficult pronunciation, and Humboldt tells us that Notlazomahuiztespixcatatzin is the term of respect with which they addressed their priests. During the French revolution, a learned Jacobin discovered that the early Peruvians adored a divinity who patronized the Sans-culottes, of their day, and who was named Cawaltze-quos, i. e. without breeches. Such barbarous words do not constitute that engaging tongue that Shakspeare calls “speaking holiday,” but rather confirms Byron’s ideas of the Russians’ difficult expressions, which no man has leisure to pronounce except on high-days and holidays.

Although brutes pronounce no articulate sounds, there is, no doubt but they have a language perfectly intelligible to one another. Their manner of expressing their different emotions is in some instances perfectly distinct; and birds have most decidedly a peculiar language. The following may be said to be the words of a nightingale’s strain observed by Bechstein, an ingenious ornithologist, and committed to paper several times while he listened with deep attention to that sweet bird’s “complaining notes,” that “tune our distresses and record our woes.”

Tiouou, tiouou, tiouou tiouou
Shpe, tiou, tokoua
Tio, tio, tio, tio.
Kououtio, kououtio kououtio,
Tskouo, tskouo, tskouo,
Tsii, tsii, tsii, tsii, tsii, tsii, tsii, tsii tsii tsii,
Kouoror tiou. Tskoua pipitskousisi
Tso, tso, tso, tso, tso, tso, tso tso, tso, tso, tso, tso, tsirrhading!
Tsisi si tosi si, si, si, si, si, si, si.
Tsorre tsorre tsorre tsorrehi
Tsatn, tsatn, tsatn tsatn tsatn tsatn tsatn tsi,
Dlo, dlo, dlo dla, dlo dlo dlo dlo dlo
Kouioo trrrrrrrrtzt
Lu, lu, lu, ly ly ly li li li li
Kouio didl li loulyli
Ha guour, guour, koui kouio!
Kouio, kououi kououi kououi koui, koui, koui, koui,
Ghi ghi ghi
Gholl, gholl, gholl gooll ghia hududoi
Koui koui koui ha hia dia dillhi!
Hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets, hets hets, hets, hets
Hets, hets, hets, hets, hets
Tourrho hostehoi
Kouia, kooia, kouia, kouia, kouia kouia kouia kouiati!

A story is related of an irascible Irish piper of the name of Molroy, who declared a war implacable against the feline race, as he swore that they invariably pronounced his name in their nocturnal concerts. Gall and various observers of animals have fully ascertained that the attention of dogs is awakened by our conversation. He brought one of these intelligent creatures with him from Vienna to Paris, which perfectly understood French and German, of which he satisfied himself by repeating before it whole sentences in both languages. A recent anecdote has been related of an old ship-dog, that leaped overboard and swam to the shore on hearing the captain exclaim, “Poor old Neptune! I fear we shall have to drown him!” and such was the horror which that threat inspired, that he never afterwards would approach the captain or any of the ship’s company, to whom he had previously been fondly attached. It must, however, be observed that in the brute creation, as in ours (sometimes more brutal species), peculiar attributes, that do not belong to the race, distinguish individuals gifted with what in man we might call a superior intellect, but which in these animals shows a superiority of what we term instinct. Spurzheim relates an instance of a cow belonging to Mr. Dupont de Nemours, which, amongst the whole kindred herd, was the only one that could open the gate leading to their pastures; and her anxious comrades, when arriving at the wished-for spot, invariably lowed for their conductor. It is also related of a hound, who, unable to obtain a seat near the fire without the risk of quarrelling with the dozing occupants that crowded the hearth, was wont to run out into the court-yard barking an alarum that brought away his rivals in comfort, when he quietly reentered the parlour, and selected an eligible stretching-place. This animal displayed as much ingenuity as the traveller who, according to the well-known story, ordered oysters for his horse for the purpose of clearing the fireside.

ECSTATIC EXALTATION.

This rapturous excitement is not unfrequently the province of the physician. Fortunately perhaps for the patient, it is an incurable malady, illustrating the lines of Dryden,

There is a pleasure, sure, in being mad,
Which none but madmen know.

If we admit this state of ecstasy to be a mental aberration, it is surely of an enviable nature, since it elevates the soul to a beatitude which is rarely the lot of man.

No definition of this state can equal that given by St. Theresa of her own feelings. By prayer she had attained what she calls a “celestial quietude,—a state of union, rapture, and ecstasy.” “I experienced,” she continues, “a sort of sleep of all the faculties of the soul—intellect, memory, and volition; during which, though they were but slumbering, they had no conception of their mode of operation. It was a voluptuous sensation, such as one might experience when expiring in raptures in the bosom of our God. The soul is unconscious of its actions; she (the soul) knows not if she speaks or if she remains silent, if she laughs or if she cries. It is, in short, a blessed extravagance, a celestial madness, in which she attains in the knowledge of true wisdom, an inconceivable consolation. She is on the point of merging into a state of languor; breathless, exhausted, the slightest motion, even of the hands, is unutterably difficult. The eyes are closed by a spontaneous movement; or, if they remain open, the power of vision has fled. In vain they endeavour to read: they can distinguish letters, but are unable to class them into words. Speak to a person in this absorbed condition, no answer will be obtained; although endeavouring to speak, utterance is impossible. Deprived of all external faculties, those of the soul are increased, to enjoy glorious raptures when conversing with the Deity and surrounding angels.” These conversations the blessed St. Theresa relates; and she further states, that after having remained about an hour in this joyous trance, she recovered her usual senses, and found her eyes streaming in tears, as though they were weeping for the loss she had experienced in being restored to earthly relations.

Now, with all due deference to St. Theresa, this state was most probably a hysteric condition. Zimmerman relates two cases somewhat of a similar kind. Madame M. experienced effusions of divine love of a peculiar nature. She first fell into a state of ecstasy, motionless and insensible, during which, she affirms, she felt this love penetrating her whole being, while a new life seemed to thrill through every fibre. Suddenly she started up, and seizing one of her companions, exclaimed, “Come, haste with me to follow and call Love, for I cannot sufficiently call upon his name!”—A French young lady was the second instance of this affection. She also frequently lost the power of speech and all external senses, animated with a love divine, spending whole nights in ecstatic bliss, and rapturously embraced by her mystic lover. It is difficult, perhaps, to separate this amorous feeling from physical temperament; and the following remarks of Virey on the subject of St. Theresa are most judicious:—“She possessed an ardent and sensitive disposition, transported, no doubt, by terrestrial affection, which she strove to exchange for a more exalted ardour for the Deity; for devotion and love are more or less of a similar character. Theresa was not fired by that adoration which is exclusively due to the infinite and invisible Intelligence which rules the universe; but she fancied a sensible, an anthropomorphous divinity; so much so, that she not unfrequently reproached herself with bitterness that these raptures were not sufficiently unconnected with corporeal pleasures and voluptuous feelings.”

St. Theresa was not the only beatified enthusiast who suspected that the evil spirit occasionally interfered in those ecstatic visions. St. Thomas Aquinas divides ecstasies into three classes;—the first arising from divine power, and enjoyed by the prophets, St. Paul, and various other saints. The second was the work of the devil, who bound down all external senses, suspended their action, and reduced the body to the condition of a corpse: such were the raptures in which magicians and sorcerers were frequently entranced, during which, according to Tertullian and other writers, the soul quitted the body to wander about the world, inquire into all its occurrences, and then returned with the intelligence it had obtained to its former abode. The third rapturous category of St. Thomas he simply attributes to physical causes, constituting mental alienation.

May not all these ecstatic raptures be considered as belonging to this third class? It has been observed that women, hysteric ones in particular, were the most subject to this supposed inspired affection; and amongst men it has also been remarked, that the enraptured individual was in general nervous, debilitated, and bald; and it is well known that the fall of the hair is frequently the result of moral and physical weakness, brought on by long studies, contemplation, grief, and illness, all of which may occasion mental aberration; for what other denomination can be given to the ecstatic state of the Monks of Mount Athos, who pretended or fancied that they experienced celestial joys when gazing on their umbilical region, in converse with the Deity? Hence were they called Omphalopsychians, whose notions in the matter are thus described by Allatius: “Elevate thy spirit above earthly concerns, press thy beard upon thy breast, turn thine eyes and all thy thoughts upon the middle of thine abdomen, hold thy breath, seek in thy bowels the abode of thy heart—then wilt thou find it unalloyed with dense and tenebral mists; persevere in this contemplation for days and nights, and thou shalt know uninterrupted joys, when thy spirit shall have found out thy heart and has illumined itself.”[4]

Bernier relates an act of supposed devotion amongst the Fakirs nearly as absurd, when, to seek the blessings of a new light, they rivet their eyes in silent contemplation upon the ceiling; then gradually looking down, they fix both eyes gazing, or rather squinting, at the tip of their nose, until the aforesaid light beameth on them.

St. Augustin mentions a priest who could at will fall into one of these ecstasies, during which his external senses were so totally suppressed that he did not experience the pangs of the torture. Cardanus affirms that he was possessed of the same faculty. “Quoties volo,” he says, “extra sensum quasi in exstasim transeo—sentio dùm eam ineo, ac (ut veriùs dicam) facio, juxta cor quandam separationem, quasi anima abscederet, totique corpori res hæc communicatur, quasi ostiolum quoddam aperiretur. Et initium hujus est à capite, maximè cerebello, diffunditurque per totam dorsi spinam, vi magnâ continetur; hocque solùm sentio, quad sum extra meipsum magnâque quâdam vi paululum me contineo.”

This state of mind is usually succeeded by contemplation, which has justly been considered one of the attributes of Genius. This contemplation, however, may be applied to positive relation, or to the workings of fiction. In the latter case it becomes to a certain degree mental, and beyond the control or the influence of our reason, although we cannot regulate the rationality of our mental pursuits by any given or acknowledged standard. The pseudo-philosopher, who searches for the elixir vitæ or the power of transmuting metals, and the judicial astrologer, are in the eyes of society madmen: yet, do they reason on certain rational principles, and in many respects may be considered wise; one might figuratively say, that here the mind must have taken flight beyond its natural limits, if we can limit thought. In the wild wanderings of Theosophy man has fancied that by abstracting himself from the world, he might place himself in relation with the Divinity, and has so forcibly indulged the flattering illusion, that he actually believes that he is in converse with his Creator or his angels. Unquestionably this is a state of mania, yet is it founded upon a systematic train of ideas, that, strictly speaking, does not partake of mental aberration, but rather of enthusiasm. Although an indulgence in this may terminate in mania, still there is something delightful in these fond aberrations. A new world—a new condition is evoked—we are freed from the trammels of society and its prejudices—and perhaps encompassed by misery we burst from its shackles into another orb of our own creation, when the eyes closed in a vision of bliss—a meridian sunbeam, through the darkness of night. If the slumber of the visionary ushered in death, his destiny might be enviable—he had already quitted the world, seeking the presence of his God—his soul had already soared from its earthly tenement.

There is no doubt that such contemplation may lead us to a better knowledge of the Supreme Being, whose image and attributes have been distorted by ignorance and superstition. It has been truly said, that until the light of Christianity shone upon mankind, God was unknown. He had been represented as wrathful and revengeful—implacable in his anger—insatiable in his thirst for blood—when he was revealed to us upon the earth, gentle, forgiving, loving, humble, and charitable. The type of all excellence—and delivering doctrines so pure, so convincing, as to entitle him to the name of Saviour, even were his godhead doubted—for who could question the salvation of those who followed his laws. Until ambition swayed the church and polluted the altar with blood and rapine—how happy, how blessed were these followers—even in the midst of persecution and in agonies—pardoning their barbarous murderers and praying for their conversion.

Unfortunately according to the temperament of individuals their ecstasy has frequently led to an enthusiasm which knew no bounds, and induced the illuminated visionary to consider all men who did not coincide in his opinions the enemies of Divinity—hence arose fanaticism and persecution—yet did these murderous madmen conceive that they were wielding their hateful sword in the cause of an offended God; and, although we read of their excesses and cruelty with horror, they were not bad men, and many of them imagined that they were fulfilling a heavenly mission. I have known many worthy and amiable ecclesiastics in Spain and in Portugal who advocated the inquisition as a useful institution, although they readily admitted that it had too frequently been rendered instrumental to ambition and political intrigues.

This state of mental exaltation is not unfrequently within the province of a physician’s care. The treatment like that of all moral affections is a task of great difficulty. Perhaps the best curative means to be adopted is occupation of the body in active pursuits. St. Augustine was so convinced of this necessity of occupation to prevent ecstatic habits, that the monks of the Thebaid cultivated their ground with such industry, that they freighted several vessels with their produce. Priest has observed in his extensive practice in insanity that he never met with an insane naturalist. Travelling is also to be enjoined. Marriage has also been advised, although it is to be feared that the little charms men of this description may have to suit a woman’s fancy, might lead to contemplation of a nature widely different from beatitude. The Jewish Rabbi tell us, that as soon as Moses became contemplative and prophetic, his wife Marjarin left him. It is certain that enthusiasm produces a concentration of mind prejudicial to all other functions.[5]

There is no doubt that melancholy or intense cogitation may bring on this morbid condition. Zimmerman relates that the mathematician Viote was sometimes so wrapped up in calculation, that he was known to remain three days and three nights without sleep or food: and Mendelsohn the philosopher, who was called the Plato of Germany, fell into a swoon the moment philosophy was talked of; and he was therefore ordered by his doctor not to think. Being asked one day what he contrived to do when not allowed thought, he replied, “Why, I go to the window and count the tiles on the roof of the opposite house.”

This morbid condition of our intellectual faculties has been admirably described by Johnson, in his Rasselas. “To indulge the power of fiction, and send imagination out upon the wing, is often the sport of those who delight too much in silent speculation. He who has nothing external that can divert him, must find pleasure in his own thoughts, and must conceive himself what he is not; for who is pleased with what he is? He then expatiates in boundless futurity, and culls from all imaginary conditions that which for the present moment he would most desire; amuses his desires with impossible enjoyments, and confers upon his pride unattainable dominion. The mind dances from scene to scene, unites all pleasures, in all combinations, and riots in delights which nature and fortune, with all their bounty cannot bestow. In time, some particular train of ideas fixes the attention: all other intellectual gratifications are rejected; the mind, in weariness or leisure, returns constantly to the favourite conception, and feasts on the luscious falsehood whenever she is offended with the bitterness of truth. By degrees the reign of fancy is confirmed; she grows first imperious, and in time despotic. Then fictions begin to operate as realities, false opinions fasten upon the mind, and life passes in dreams of raptures or of anguish.”

The celebrated physician Boerhaave was once engaged in so profound a meditation that he did not close his eyes for six weeks. Any fixity of idea may be considered as a monomania. Pascal, being thrown down on a bridge, fancied ever after that he was standing on the brink of a terrific precipice, which appeared to him an abyss ever ready to ingulf him. So immutable was this dread, that when his friends conversed with him they were obliged to conceal this ideal peril with a chair, on which they seated themselves, to tranquillize his perturbed mind. This is an instance of a painful fixity of thought, the result of which is melancholic mania; whereas ecstatic exultation is the enjoyment of a delicious sensation unknown in our habitual earthly enjoyments, and beautifully expressed by Shakspeare, when Pericles thus addresses Helicamus—

O Helicanus! strike me, honoured sir;
Give me a gash,—put me to present pain,
Lest this great sea of joy, rushing upon me,
O’erbear the shores of my mortality,
And drown me with their sweetness.

Archimides was heedless of the slaughter around him. Father Castel, the inventor of the ocular harpsichord, spent an entire night in one position, ruminating on a thought that struck him as he was retiring to rest. And it is related of an arduous student, that he was reflecting so deeply on some interesting and puzzling subject, that he did not perceive that his feet were burnt by the fire near which he was seated.

VARIETIES OF MANKIND.

The most approved classification of mankind is that of Blumenbach. He divides them into five varieties: 1. The Caucasian; 2. Mongolian; 3. Ethiopian; 4. American; and 5. Malay: and the following are the characteristics of each.

I. THE CAUCASIAN.

The skin white; the cheeks rosy—almost a peculiarity of this variety; the hair of a nut-brown, running on the one hand to yellow, on the other into black, soft, long, and undulating; the head symmetrical, rather globular; the forehead moderately expanded; the cheek-bones narrow, not prominent; the alveolar edge round, the front teeth of each jaw placed perpendicularly. The face oval and pretty straight; its features moderately distinct; the nose narrow and slightly aquiline, the bridge of it rather prominent; the mouth small; the lips, especially the lower, gently turned out; the chin full and round. This variety comprehends all Europeans, except the Laplander and the rest of the Finnish race; the Western Asiatics as far as the Obi, the Caspian, and the Ganges; and the people of the North of Africa.

II. THE MONGOLIAN.

Skin of an olive colour; the hair black, stiff, straight, and sparing. The head almost square, the cheek-bones prominent outwards; the superciliary arches scarcely perceptible; the osseous nostrils narrow; the alveolar edge arched obtusely forward; the chin somewhat projecting. The face broad and flattened, and its parts consequently less distinct; the space between the eyebrows very broad as well as flat, the cheeks not only projecting outward, but nearly globular; the aperture of the eyelids narrow and linear; the nose small and flat.

This comprehends the remaining Asiatics, except the Malays of the extremity of the Transgangetic Peninsula, the Finnish races of the North of Europe, Laplanders, &c., and the Esquimaux, diffused over the most northern parts of America, from Behring’s Strait to the farthest habitable point of Greenland.

III. THE ETHIOPIAN.

Skin black; the hair black and crisp. Head narrow, compressed laterally; forehead arched; the cheek-bones projecting; the osseous nostrils large, the jaws lengthened forward; the alveolar edge narrow, elongated, more elliptical; the upper front teeth obliquely prominent, the lower jaw large and strong; the skull thick and heavy; the face narrow, and projecting at its lower part; the eyes prominent; the nose thick and confused with the projecting cheeks; the lips, especially the upper, thick; the chin somewhat receding; the legs in many instances bowed.

This comprehends the inhabitants of Africa, with the exception of the Caucasian variety which inhabits the northern parts.

IV. THE AMERICAN.

Skin of a copper colour; hair black, stiff, straight, and sparing. Forehead short; cheek-bones broad, but more arched and rounded than in the Mongolian variety; the orbits generally deep; the forehead and vertex frequently deformed by art; cranium usually light. The face broad, with prominent cheeks, not flattened, but with every part distinctly marked if viewed in profile; the eyes deep; the nose rather flat, but still prominent.

This comprehends all the American, excepting the Esquimaux.

V. THE MALAY.

Skin tawny; hair black, soft, curled, thick, and abundant; head rather narrow; forehead slightly arched; cheek-bones not prominent, upper jaw rather projecting. Face prominent at its lower part; the features viewed in profile more distinct; the nose full, broad, bottled at its point; mouth large.

This comprehends the inhabitants of the Pacific Ocean, of the Marian, Philippine, Molucca, and Sunda isles, and of the Peninsula of Malacca.

The Caucasian variety derives its name from Mount Caucasus, where we meet with a beautiful race—the Georgians; and because, so far as the imperfect light of history and tradition can guide us, the original abode of the species appears to have been in that quarter. In this class are included all the ancient and modern Europeans; the Assyrians, Medes, Chaldeans, Sarmatians, Scythians, and Parthians; the Philistines, Phœnicians, Jews; the Turks, Persians, Arabians, and Hindoos of high caste. Blumenbach is inclined to believe that the primitive human race belonged to this variety. In support of this opinion it may be stated, that the part of Asia which seems to have been the cradle of the race has always been, and still is, inhabited by tribes of this formation; and the inhabitants of Europe in great part may be traced back for their origin to the West of Asia.

Are all these various tribes, brethren descended from one stock? or must we trace them to more than one? The physiologists who have ventured to express the latter opinion have been stigmatized by intolerance and blind bigotry as atheists and unbelievers; yet this question belongs to the domain of the naturalist, and the philosopher has an unqualified right to moot it without incurring the heinous charge of infidelity. To form an opinion on this difficult subject, it will be necessary, as Lawrence justly observes, to ascertain carefully all the differences that exist between the various races of men; to compare them with the diversities observed among animals; to apply to them all the light which human and comparative physiology can supply, and to draw our inferences concerning their nature and causes from all the direct information and all the analogies which these considerations may unfold. “It is quite clear,” continues the same ingenious writer, “that the Mosaic account makes all the inhabitants of the world descended from Adam and Eve. The entire, or even the partial inspiration of the various writings comprehended in the Old Testament, has been and is doubted by many persons, including learned divines and distinguished Oriental and Biblical scholars. The account of the creation, and subsequent events, has the allegorical figurative character common to Eastern compositions, and it is distinguished amongst the cosmogonies by a simple grandeur and natural sublimity, as the rest of these writings are by appropriate beauties in their respective parts. The representation of all the animals being brought before Adam in the first instance, and subsequently of their all being collected in the ark, if we are to understand them as applied to the living inhabitants of the whole world, is zoologically impossible. How could the polar bear have traversed the torrid zone? If we are to believe that the original creation comprehended only a male and female of each species, or that one pair only was saved from an universal deluge, the difficulties are increased; the carnivorous animals must have perished with hunger, or destroyed most of the other species.” On this obscure subject Adelung has expressed himself with much ingenuity: “Asia has been at all times regarded as the country where the human race had its beginning, and from which its increase was spread over the rest of the globe. Tracing the people up to tribes, and the tribes to families, we are conducted at last, if not by history, at least by the tradition of all old people, to a single pair, from which tribes and nations have been successively produced. What was the first family, and the first people descended from it?—where was it settled?—and how was it extended so as to fill the four large divisions of the globe? It is a question of fact, and must be answered by History. But History is silent: her first books have been destroyed by time; and the few lines preserved by Moses are rather calculated to excite than to satisfy our curiosity.

“We must fancy to ourselves this first tribe endowed with all human faculties, but not possessing all knowledge and experience, the subsequent acquisition of which is left to the natural operation of time and circumstances. As Nature would not unnecessarily expose her first-born and inexperienced son to conflicts and dangers, the place of his early abode would be so selected that all his wants could be easily satisfied, and every thing essential to his existence be readily procured. He would be placed, in short, in a garden of paradise. Such a country is found in central Asia, between the 30th and 50th degrees of north latitude, and the 90th and 110th of east longitude (from Ferro); a spot which in respect to its height, can only be compared to the lofty plains of Quito in South America. Here, too, all the animals are found wild, which man has tamed for his use, and carried with him over the whole earth.”

This ingenious historical investigation points out the east as the earliest and original seat of our species, the source of our domesticated animals and our principal vegetable food; but it by no means decides whether the globe was peopled by one or several original stocks.

The startling nature of this question on the first view of the subject must induce us to consider the circumstance of these five distinct varieties arising from one stock as miraculous; but when we compare them with the corresponding difference in animals, we can easily come to the conclusion that the various races of human beings are only to be regarded as varieties of a single species, without supposing the intervention of any supernatural agency.

The sceptic Voltaire, who evinced more wit than learning in his endeavours to invalidate Scriptural tradition by ridicule, thus expresses himself: “Il n’est permis qu’à un aveugle de douter que les blancs, les négres, les albinos, les Hottentots, les Lapons, les Chinois, les Américains, soient des races entièrement différentes;” but had this philosopher been better versed in zoology and physiology, he would not have made so groundless an assertion. “Analogical and direct facts,” says Dr. Elliotson, “lead to the conclusion that none of the differences among mankind are so great as to require the belief of their originality.” A contrary opinion, however, should not be stigmatized by bigotry, for Locke has justly observed that only matters above human reason are the proper subjects of revelation; and Bacon has also maintained that religious and philosophical inquiries should be kept separate, and not pompously united. Dr. Bostock, than whom no man could be less sceptical, plainly admits that we do not find that the writer of the book of Genesis lays claim to any supernatural source of information with respect to natural phenomena, while the whole tenour of his work seems to show that on such topics he adopted the opinions which were current among his contemporaries.

The causes of the difference of our species have been the subject of as great a discrepance in opinion. Most of the Greek and Roman Historians have attributed it to the influence of climate; and amongst the moderns, Montaigne, Montesquieu, Buffon, and Zimmerman, have considered the modification of the individual and the degeneration of the offspring as the result of this external agency. Lord Kaimes, Hume, and many other philosophers, have entertained a contrary opinion. No doubt, the influence of climate may materially affect colour, stature, hair, features, and even the moral and intellectual character; but it must be considered as inadequate to act upon conformation. The prevalence of light colours in the animals of polar regions is well known: the arctic fox, the white bear, the snow-bunting, are striking instances of this peculiarity; but these circumstances are purely superficial. The skulls of these individuals are similar to those of the Europeans; nay, it is well known that light races are found among dark nations, and many protected parts of the body are blacker than those which are exposed. Buchanan tells us, that the Jews in Cochin are divided into white and black classes, though born under the same parallel; the white Jews having been known there for upwards of one thousand seven hundred years. Dr. Shaw and Bruce describe a race of fair people, near Mount Aurasius in Africa, with red hair and blue eyes, and who are, according to tradition, descended from the Vandals. We find the red Peruvian, the brown Malay, and the white Abyssinian in the very zones peopled by jet black races. This influence of temperature upon colour frequently varies according to the seasons. Pallas observed that even in domestic animals, such as the horse and cow, the coat is of a lighter colour in winter. The Siberian roe, red in summer, is white in the winter; the fur of the sable and the martin is much deeper in the warm months; and the squirrel and mustela nivalis, which become white in Siberia and Russia, do not change their hue in Germany. The winter coat, it has been observed by naturalists, is found far advanced in the preparatory autumn. This bounteous provision of nature seems to have been extended to the vegetable kingdom and it has been observed that the pellicle of onions is much thicker on the approach of a severe winter than on that of a more temperate season. But if further proof were necessary to impugn this doctrine respecting climate, we may adduce the fact of a woman having borne twins of different complexions, a white and a black. With all due respect to the much-lamented Bishop Heber, we must receive with some degree of hesitation his assertion that the Persian, Greek, Tartar, and Arabian inhabitants of India, assume, in a few generations, without any intercourse with the Hindoos, a deep blue tint, little lighter than that of a negro; and that the Portuguese, during three hundred years’ residence in that climate, have assumed the blackness of a Kaffer. The same learned prelate is of opinion that our European complexion was not primitive, but rather that of an Indian; an intermediate tint is perhaps the most agreeable to the eye and instinct of the majority of the human race. Dr. Heber, perhaps, had not seen, in various Roman catholic treasures, portraits of the Virgin Mary, painted, according to tradition, by St. Luke, and in which she is represented as a negress.

That solar heat produces blackness of the integuments is an ancient opinion, and is illustrated by Pliny, who tells us, “Æthiopes vicini sideris vapore torreri, adustisque similes gigni, barba et capillo vibrato, non est dubium.” Buffon asserts that “climate may be regarded as the chief cause of the different colours of man;” and Smith is of opinion “that from the pole to the equator we observe a gradation in the complexion nearly in proportion to the latitude of the country.”

Blumenbach, under the same impression, endeavours to account for this black tinge by a chemical illustration somewhat curious. He states that the proximate cause of the dark colour is an abundance of carbon secreted by the skin with hydrogen, precipitated and fixed by the contact of the atmospheric oxygen. Our creoles, and the British inhabitants of India, may esteem themselves particularly fortunate in not being subject to this chemical operation!

On the other hand, it is well known that a black state of the skin has been produced in white races under peculiar circumstances; and Le Cat and Camper mention cases of women who turned dark during their pregnancy. It would be idle to dwell further on the hypothetic illustrations regarding this supposed operation of climate, which the observation of every unprejudiced traveller can impugn. Yet the following remarks on the subject by an American divine, the Rev. J. S. Smith are worthy of notice:

“In tracing the globe from the pole to the equator we observe a gradation in the complexion nearly in proportion to the latitude of the country, immediately below the arctic circle a high and sanguine colour prevails. From this you descend to the mixture of red and white. Afterwards comes the brown, the blue, the tawny, and at length the black as you proceed to the line. The same distance from the sun, however, does not in any degree indicate the same temperature of climate. Some secondary causes must be taken into consideration, in connecting and limiting its influence. The elevation of the land, its vicinity to the sea, the nature of the soil, the state of cultivation, the course of the winds, and many other circumstances enter into this view. Elevated and mountainous countries are cool in proportion to their altitude above the level of the sea, increasing to the ocean, just in opposite effects, in northern and southern latitudes; for the ocean being of a more equal temperature than the land, in one case corrects the cold, and in the other moderates the heat. Ranges of mountains, such as the Apennines in Italy, and Taurus, Caucasen, and Iman, in Asia, by interrupting the course of cold winds, render the quite dry country below them warmer, and the countries above them colder, than is equivalent to the proportionate difference of latitude. The frigid zone, in Asia, is much wider than it is in Europe; and that continent hardly knows a temperate zone.”

Climate also receives some difference from the nature of the soil, and some from the degree of cultivation; sand is susceptible of greater heat than clay, and an uncultivated region shaded with forests and covered with undrained marshes, is more frigid in northern and more temperate in southern latitudes, than a country laid open to the direct and constant action of the sun. History informs us that when Germany and Scythia were bound in forests, the Romans often transported their armies across the frozen Danube; but since the civilization of those barbarous regions, the Danube rarely freezes.

Migration to other countries has also been adduced as one of the causes of variety in mankind; but the permanency of the characteristic distinctions of any race militates against this supposition. The physical character of the Celts, who peopled the west of Europe at an early period, is still observable in the Spaniard, most of the French, the native Welsh, the Manks, and the Scotch Highlander; whereas the German race, who occupied the more northern and eastern settlements, are still distinguished by their transparent skin, rosy complexion, flaxen hair, and blue eyes; and in Ireland, the race of the Danes and the Milesians can to this day be recognised in their respective characters. Shaw and Bruce traced the descendants of the Vandals who passed from Spain into Africa in the fifth century; and, after a lapse of thirteen centuries, Bruce says that they are “fair like the English, their hair red, and their eyes blue.” Negroes have been introduced into the New World for upwards of three centuries, where, despite of a new clime and different habits, they still retain the character of their race; and the Jews who have not intermarried out of their nation, have preserved their features for nineteen centuries.

Not only do we observe the peculiarities of physical conformation resisting the destructive or degenerating hand of time, but certain imperfections in their faculties have been equally permanent in certain tribes. It is a curious fact that the Mamelukes, who have resided in Egypt for upwards of five hundred and fifty years, have never perpetuated their subsisting issue. Volney observed, that there does not exist one single family of them in the second generation; all their children perishing in the first or second descent. The same observation applies to the Turks, who can only secure the continuance of their families by marrying native women, an union which the Mamelukes disdained. This singularity, remarked by Volney, has been since confirmed by late travellers.

It will be found that the progress of domestication, the natural result of civilized improvement, tends more materially to operate a wonderful change in the animal conformation, than any other supposed agency. The head of the domestic pig differs as much from that of the wild one as the Negro’s from the Caucasian’s. At Padua, it has been observed that fowls have a cranium perforated by numerous holes, and hollowed out like a shell. In some countries, nay districts, cattle and sheep have or have not horns; and in other instances sheep have so many of them as to have acquired the epithet of polycerateous. Wild animals continuing to inhabit the place that bore them, undergo little or no change, and their fossil remains and skeletons are similar to the present species; but nothing can form a stronger contrast to this specific uniformity than the numerous varieties to be found in those races that have been crossed in breed and domesticated by man. We could scarcely imagine that our sheep owe their origin to the mouflon or argali, (ovis ammon,) an animal large in size, fleet, and fierce. The sheep of Senegal and India are those that have undergone the least degradation; while those of Barbary, Egypt, Arabia, and Persia, have experienced greater degeneration. We daily see dogs degenerate before our eyes, and it has not yet been satisfactorily ascertained whether they arise from one or several species. Cuvier, in his diligent researches, has concluded that our oxen do not originate in the urus or bison of the ancients formerly found in various parts of Europe, and still met with in the forests of Lithuania, and on the Carpathian and Caucasian chains; but he is of opinion, from the examination of fossil remains, that, like the camel and the dromedary, the species has been destroyed by civilization: the causes of these changes do not appear to operate by altering the parents but disposing them to produce offsprings more or less dissimilar in colour, form, and disposition.

Dr. Prichard observes, that the negro slaves of the third and fourth generation differ materially from the natives of Africa.

In opposition to this doctrine, which admits this wonderful degeneration under the plastic influence of domestication, it has been shown that, as far as we know, the lapse of ages has not produced any change in the generality of animals. The zoological descriptions given by Aristotle twenty-two centuries ago apply distinctly to the same species of the present day, and every work of art in which these animals are represented corroborates the fact. Geoffroy de St. Hilaire brought numerous mummies of animals from the sepulchres of Egypt, and found no more difference between their skeletons and the osseous conformation of the present races, than in the relics of the human mummy and the bones of our contemporaries.

The following luminous conclusion of Lawrence illustrates the observation of the foregoing fact: “If new characters are produced in the domestic animals because they have been taken from their primitive condition, and exposed to the operation of many, to them, unnatural causes,—if the pig is remarkable among these for the number and degrees of his varieties, because it has been the most exposed to causes of degeneration,—we shall be at no loss to account for the diversities in man, who is, in the true, though not in the ordinary sense of the word, more of a domesticated animal than any other. We know the wild state of most of them, but we are ignorant of the natural wild condition to which man was destined. Probably there is no such state; because Nature having limited him in no respect,—having fitted him for every kind of life, every climate, and every variety of food,—has given him the whole earth for his abode, and both the organized kingdoms for his nourishment. Yet, in the wide range through which the scale of human cultivation extends, we may observe a contrast between the two extremities, analogous to that which is seen in the wild and tamed races of animals. The savage may be compared to the former, which range the earth uncontrolled by man; civilized people to the domesticated breeds of the same species, whose diversities of form and colour are endless.”

It is therefore obvious that the various causes which operate upon animals in producing these alterations from the primitive race, although the manner in which they act is unknown, are sufficiently evident to convince us, by analogy, that they may account for similar phenomena in the human race, without the gratuitous assumption of different original species, tending to invalidate the Mosaic account of the creation. Despite the witticisms of Voltaire and other philosophers on this subject, sound philosophy teaches us to assign the same causes to the same effects without calling in the adventitious aid of other possible influences; and no difficulties prevent us from recognising the unity of the human species, which are not applicable to all other animals.

ON THE INHUMATION OF THE DEAD IN CITIES.

From time immemorial, medical men have strongly pointed out to municipal authorities the dangers that arise from burying the dead within the precincts of cities or populous towns. Impressed with the same conviction, ancient legislators only allowed to the most illustrious citizens a sepulchre in the temple of the gods. Euclides was interred in the temple of Diana Euclis, as a reward for his pious journey to Delphi in search of the sacred fire; the Magnesians erected a monument to Themistocles in their forum; Euphron received the same honour in Corinth; and Medea buried her two sons, Mermerus and Pheres, under the protection of Juno Acræa’s altars, to guard their ashes from their persecutors. Lycurgus was perhaps the only Grecian legislator who recommended inhumation in temples and in cities, to accustom youth to the daily spectacle of death.

The primitive Grecians, it appears, buried their dead in or about their dwellings; and we find a law amongst the Thebans, ordaining that every person who built a house should provide a repository for the dead upon his premises. In latter days, both Grecians and Romans erected their tombs outside of their cities, and chiefly by the road-side. It appears also, that, among the Romans, the bodies of the lower orders were promiscuously cast into wells, called fruticuli. Horace seems to allude to this practice. Hoc miseræ plebi stabat commune sepulchrum. The funerals of the wealthy patricians appear to have been most sumptuous and costly, the pall formed of valuable materials and decorated with splendid ornaments. Thus Statius:

Ditantur flammæ: non unquam opulentioan ille ante cinis: crepitant gemmæ: atque immane litescit argentum, et pietis exsudat vestibus aurum. The laws of the twelve tables prohibited the practice of this waste of gold.

Both religious and civil motives might have dictated the propriety of this regulation. The traveller, setting out upon a journey, and passing by the sepulchres of his sires, could in the presence of their manes invoke their protection; and on his return to his penates, safe from danger, he could put up thanks to the gods for his preservation. As a prudential measure, the interment of the dead beyond the walls of their towns prevented the fatal consequences that might have arisen from extensive putrefaction and infection, and moreover the burning of bodies would have exposed the adjoining buildings to the danger of frequent fires. It is also possible that policy dictated these sanatory enactments. The ancients held the remains of the departed as a sacred trust, in the defence of which they were ever prepared to fall; and it is not improbable that their warriors would have rushed forth to meet the invader, before he would have defiled, by his approach to their cities, the ashes of their ancestors. So scrupulously religious were the Athenians in performing the funeral rites of the dead, that they put to death ten of their commanders, after the battle of Arginusæ, for not having committed to the earth the dead bodies that floated on the waters. Such was the dread of being deprived of sepulchral rites, that it is related of several citizens of Cappadocia, that during the pestilence that devastated their town in the reign of Gallus and Valerian, they actually shut themselves up to perish in their tombs.

There is no doubt but that their dead were buried in such a manner as not to prove injurious to the survivors; and Seneca plainly says, “Non defunctorum causâ, sed vivorum, inventa est sepultura.” The ancients both burned and buried their dead, but inhumation appears to have been the most early and the most approved rite. “Let the dead be buried,” says a law of Cecrops. Solon justifies the claims of the Athenians to the island of Salamis, from the circumstance of the dead bodies interred on its shores having been inhumed according to the Athenian custom, with their feet turned to the west, whereas the Megarensians turned theirs to the east.

In various instances the burial or the burning appear to have been adopted upon philosophical doctrines. Democritus, with a view to facilitate resurrection, recommended interment, and Pliny thus ridicules the intention: “Similis et de asservandis corporibus hominum, et reviviscendis promissa à Democrito vanitas, qui non revivixit ipse.” Heraclitus, who considered fire as the first principle, advocated the funeral pile; while Thales, who deemed water the chief element, urged the propriety of committing the departed to the damp bosom of the earth. Although burning the dead was customary, there were curious exceptions to the rule. Infants who died before cutting their teeth, persons struck dead with lightning, were buried. The place of interment of infants was called the suggrundarium.

The early Christians inhumed the bodies of their martyrs in their temples. This honour was afterwards conferred on the remains of distinguished citizens, illustrious prelates, and princes. The infectious diseases which at various periods arose from this custom, induced Theodosius, in his celebrated code, strictly to prohibit it; and he even ordered that the remains of the dead thus inhumed should be removed out of Rome. The vanity of man, and the cupidity of the priesthood, soon overruled these wise regulations. Every family possessing sufficient means, claimed a vault within the churches, and thereby the revenues of the clergy were materially increased. At all times, even the dead appeared to have shared with the living the obligation of supporting the ministers of the altar. By a law of Hippias, the priestesses of Minerva received a chœnix[6] of wheat, and one of barley, with an obolus, for every individual who departed this life. The libitinarii of the Romans fulfilled the duties of our undertakers, or rather of the directors of funeral pomp of the French; yet they were attached to the temple of the goddess Libitina, whose priests received a fee in silver for every one who died, under the name of Libitinæ ratio. Suetonius informs us, that in Nero’s time the mortality was so great during one autumn, that thirty thousand of these silver pieces were deposited in the fatal treasury. To increase the emoluments of this sacerdotal body, these libitinarii sold at high prices every thing that was requisite for the funeral ceremonies, received a toll at the city gate through which the bodies were carried out, as well as at the entrance of the amphitheatre through which the dead gladiators were borne away. Phædrus alludes to this speculation in one of his fables, when speaking of a miser,

Qui circumcidis omnem impensam funeris,
Libitina ne quid de tuo faciat lucrum.

It is supposed that this avaricious divinity owed her name to the displeasure which it must have occasioned to all who heard it,—quòd nemini libeat; but it is also possible that it was derived from her bearing poor mortals away, whenever she fancied it, and ad libitum.

In more modern times, Theodolphus, Bishop of Orleans, complained to Charlemagne that lucre and vanity had converted churches into charnel-houses, disgraceful to the clergy and perilous to the community. It was upon this representation that this prince, in his capitularies, prohibited burials in churches under heavy penalties. But the laws of the wisest could not prevent priesthood from considering this source of emolument, although endangering public salubrity, an indisputable property that could not be meddled with without endangering the church.

In England the custom of burying the dead in churches was first sanctioned by Cuthbert, Archbishop of Canterbury, in 758, it having been previously forbidden by Augustine, who had decreed that no corpse either of prince or prelate should be buried within the walls of a city.

In France, Maret in 1773, and Vicq d’Azyr in 1778, pointed out the danger of this practice in such glaring colours, that government by an edict, only allowed church interment to certain dignitaries; but in 1804, by a wise law that should be enforced in every civilized country, inhumation in cities was entirely abolished. Amongst the numerous well authenticated evil results of burying in churches that led to this wise prohibition, the following were the most striking and circumstantial:

In 1773, in Saulieu, Burgundy, an epidemic disease arising from the inhumation of a corpse in the church of St. Saturnin created considerable alarm. The body of a corpulent person had been interred on the 3d of March, and a woman was buried near it on the 20th of April following: both had died of a reigning fever. During the last burial a fetid effluvia arose from the vault, which pervaded the whole church; and, out of one hundred and seventy persons who were present, one hundred and forty-nine were attacked with the prevailing malady, although its progress had been arrested amongst the other inhabitants of the town.

In 1774, a similar accident occurred in a village near Nantes, where several coffins were removed in a vault, to make room for the lord of the manor: fifteen of the bystanders died from the emanation.

In 1744, one-third of the inhabitants of Lectouse perished from a fever of a malignant character that manifested itself after some works that required the removal of a burial-ground. Two destructive epidemics swept away large proportions of the population of Riom and Ambert, two towns in Auvergne.

Taking this matter under consideration in a moral, or even a religious light, it may be questioned whether any advantage can accrue from the continuance of this pernicious custom, which during the prevalence of epidemic diseases endangers the life of every person who resides near a church. Does it add to the respect which the remains of the dead are entitled to? Certainly not: the constant tolling of “the sullen bell”—the daily cortège of death that passes before us—the graves that we hourly contemplate, perusing monumental records which more frequently excite unseasonable laughter than serious reflection—every thing, in short, tends to make death of little or no moment, except to those who have heard the mutes gossiping at their door. So accustomed, indeed, are we from our childhood to sepulchral scenes, that, were it not for the parish-officers, our churchyards would become the playground of every truant urchin; and how often do we behold human bones become sportive baubles in the wanton pranks of the idlers, who group around the gravedigger’s preparations! So callous are we to all feelings of religious awe when surrounded with the dead, that our cemeteries are not unfrequently made the rendezvous of licentiousness and the assembly-ground of crime, where thieves cast lots upon a tomb for the division of their spoil.

With what different feelings does the traveller wander over the cemetery of Père la Chaise? I am well aware that many of the gewgaw attributes that there decorate the grave, have been called the “frippery,” “the foppery” of grief; but does there exist a generous, a noble sentiment, that may not be perverted by interested motives and hypocrisy into contemptible professions? How often is the sublime rendered ridiculous by bad taste and hyperbolic affectation! When we behold the fond lover pressing to his lips a lock of hair, or the portrait of all that he holds dear, the cold calculating egotist may call this the frippery of love; but the stoic who thinks thus, has never known the “sweet pangs” of requited affection, when, in bitter absence, the recollection of bliss gone by, imbodies in our imagination the form we once pressed to our respondent heart. The creation of our busy fancy stands before us, gazing on us with that tender look that in happier days greeted the hour of meeting; or trembles in our tears as when we last parted—to meet, perhaps, no more! With what fervour of religious love do we not behold the simple girl kneeling with uplift eye and hand on the green sod that covers all that endeared her to existence, till, overwhelmed with burning, choking regrets—as idle as they are uncontrollable—she sinks prostrate on the cold earth that now shrouds that bosom which once nestled her young hopes and fears! There have I seen the pale, the haggard youth,—to all appearances a student,—seated mournfully by the side of a tomb, absorbed in deep thought, heedless of the idlers who passed by him, looking at him perhaps with contempt!—heedless of the swift flight of time, which shrouded him imperceptibly in darkness, until he was warned by the guardian of the dead that it was time to depart—and to depart alone! No inscription recorded the “one loved name;” he would not expose it to the unfeeling gaze of the heartless tourist: all he would willingly have traced upon her tomb, would have been “Here lies my own!”

The mouldering earth, the fleshless skeleton over which he mourns, cannot obliterate the remembrance of what she was: though her eyes, perhaps, no longer exist, still their former languid, liquid look of bliss, beams freshly in his recollection. The lips which once pronounced the long wished-for avowal of mutual love are still moist and open to memory’s embrace—still seem to lisp the delicious tu! Our language is rich, without comparison richer far than the French; but we have nothing so endearing, so bewitching, as their tu-toiement: our thee’s and thou’s are frigid, chilly, when compared to the first toi that escapes inadvertently from beloved lips! A French writer has beautifully expressed this exquisite moment: “Le premier tu est tout-puissant; c’est le fiat lux de l’âme; il est sublime, il débrouille le chaos!”

Sublime are the words, “Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord!” Would it be irreligious to say, “Happy are the dead who die beloved?” Their fond and ardent heart had never been chilled by the withering hand of infidelity and ingratitude. They died in an ecstatic dream of perfect bliss on earth, and never were awakened to the world’s mocking realities!—they died when they felt and believed in their heart of hearts that they were dearly beloved—could not be loved more dearly: with that conviction, death, in a worldly acceptation, can never be untimely. Probably, they died still sufficiently animated by a latent, lingering spark of life, to press the hand that was so often linked in mutual pressure in happy days—to feel the burning tear of anguish drop on the pale cheek—to hear the sad, the awful, last word, à Dieu!—an expression that habit has rendered trivial, but which bears with it, in the tenderest solicitude, the most hallowed meaning; since, in pronouncing it, we leave all that we cherish under the protection and the safeguard of OUR GOD.

Affection deprives death of all horrors. We shrink not from the remains of what we cherished. Despite its impiety, there was something refined in that conviction of the ancients, who imagined that in bestowing their farewell kiss they inhaled the souls of those they loved. How sweet are those lines of Macrobius, originally attributed to Plato!

Dum semihulco suavio
Meum pullum suavior,
Dulcemque florem spiritus
Duco ex aperto tramite,
Animo tunc ægra et saucia
Cucurrit ad labia mihi!

Our Shakspeare has quaintly, yet beautifully, described this parting embrace:

And lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death.

Nor was it only on the dying that the ancients bestowed this mark of fondness: Tibullus and Propertius tell us, that, as their bodies were laid on the funeral pile, they clasped them in a fond and last embrace.

In regard to the painted crosses, the chaplets, the garlands of flowers, which mark the hallowed resting-place of the departed, it may be said that they are but romantic and poetical expressions of grief. If it were only real grief that expressed itself by outward testimonials, how soon would mourning be banished as an idle expense!—the “inky cloak,” and customary “suits of solemn black—the trappings and the suit of woes,” be laid aside! What a different feeling does the splendid catafalcum, covered with black velvet, studded with silver tears, and illumined by thousands of glaring tapers, excite, when compared with the simple and verdant graves which point out the spot “where souls do couch in flowers,” blessed by affection’s tears instead of lustral waters. At all periods, amongst every nation, flowers and certain trees seem to have been consecrated to the dead. The Romans planted the wild vine and the box around their tombs. Thus Martial to Alcimenes:

Accipe, non Phario nutantia pondera saxo,
Quæ cineri vanus dat ruitura labor,
Sed fragiles buxos, et opacas palmitis umbras,
Quæque virent lacrymis humida prata meis.

The wealthy assigned a beauteous garden to their departed favourites, as in the instance of Augustus and Mæcenas. Not only did they suspend garlands over their tombs, but scattered flowers around them. Again in Virgil,

Purpureosque jacit flores, ac talia fatur.

The same custom prevailed amongst the Grecians, who considered all purple and white flowers acceptable to the dead. The Thessalian’s strewed Achilles’ grave with the immortal amaranth and lilies. Electra complains that the tomb of Agamemnon received no myrtle boughs; in short, instances of this practice are every where to be found. In addition to flowers and perfumes, ribands and hair were also deposited on their sepulchres. Electra adorns Agamemnon’s tomb with her locks, and Canace laments that she had not been able to perform the same rite on her beloved Macareus. Poets tell us that precious ointments and wines were poured upon their monuments; and we find, in Euripides, Helen bidding Hermione to take locks of her hair, honey mixed with milk, and wine, to the sepulchre of her aunt.

Amongst the Chinese, to the present day, the cypress and the fir, shade their cemeteries: the former tree, an attribute of Pluto was ever considered funereal, hence called feralis; and the feralia were festivals in honour of the dead, observed by the Romans. Varro pretends that the cypress was called funereal from funus, as it emitted an antiseptic aroma. Pliny and others pretend that it typified the dead, from its never shooting out fresh sprouts when the trunk was hewn down. At any rate, to this hour, it is planted in burying-grounds in every civilized country.

The yew-tree has also been considered an emblem of mourning from the earliest times. The custom of planting it singly appears also to be very ancient. Statius, in his Thebaid, calls it the solitary yew. In England, the trees planted in churchyards were protected by legal enactments, as appears by a statute of 35 Edward I. From the scarcity of bow staves, they had been frequently despoiled by our numerous archers; and, to meet this service, by an enactment of Edward IV. every foreign trader was obliged to bring in four bow staves for every ton of imported merchandise; Elizabeth, from the scarcity of this important article, put the statute in full force.

Let us then hope, both for the living and the dead, that this custom, which obtains in France and other countries, will be adopted by us, instead of becoming the subject of ridicule. It is far more desirable to see families repairing to the tomb of the departed on the anniversary of their death, than to behold them daily passing by their remains with cold indifference.