power of music; and it must not be denied but that, on some particular occasions, musical sounds may have a very powerful effect. I have seen all the horses and cows in a field, amounting to more than a hundred, gather round a person that was blowing the French horn, and seemed to testify an awkward kind of satisfaction. Dogs are well known to be sensible of the different tones in music; and I have sometimes heard them sustain a very ridiculous part in a concert where their assistance was neither expected nor desired.

We are told of Henry IV. of Denmark, that, being one day desirous of trying in person whether a musician, who boasted that he could excite men to madness, was not an impostor, he submitted to the operations of his skill; but the consequence was much more terrible than the king expected-for, becoming actually mad, he killed four of his attendants in the midst of his transports. A contrary effect of music we have in the cure of a mad man of Alais, in France. This man, who was a dancingmaster, after a fever of five days, grew furious, and so ungovernable that his hands were obliged to be tied to his sides: what at first was rage in a short time was converted into silent melancholy, which no arts could exhilarate nor no medicines remove. In this sullen and dejected state an old acquaintance accidentally came to inquire after his health; he found him sitting up in bed, tied, and totally regardless of every external object round him. Happening, however, to take up a fiddle that lay in the room, and playing a favourite air, the poor madman instantly seemed to brighten up at the sound; from a recumbent posture he began to sit up; and, as the musician continued playing, the patient seemed desirous of dancing to the sound; but he was tied, and incapable of leaving his bed, so that he could only humour the tune with his head, and that part of his arms which were at liberty. Thus the other continued playing, and the dancing-master practised his own art as far as he was able, for about a quarter of an hour, when suddenly falling into a deep sleep, in which his disorder came to a crisis, he awoke perfectly recovered.

A thousand other instances might be added, equally true; let it suffice to add one more, which is not true I mean that of the tarantula. Every person who has been in Italy now well knows that the bite of this animal and its being cured by music is all a deception. When strangers come into that part of Italy the country people are ready enough to take money for dancing to the tarantula. A friend of mine had a servant who suffered himself to be bitten; the wound, which was little larger than the puncture of a pin, was uneasy for a few hours, and then became well without any further assistance. Some of the country people, however, still make a tolerable livelihood of the credulity of strangers, as the musician finds his account in it no less than the dancer.

Sounds, like light, are not only extensively diffused but are frequently reflected. The laws of this reflection, it is true, are not so well understood as those of light; all we know is, that sound is principally reflected by hard bodies-and their being hollow also sometimes inereases the reverberation. No art, however, can make an echo; and some who have bestowed great labour and expense upon such a project have only erected shapeless buildings, whose silence was a mortifying lecture on their presumption.

The internal cavity of the ear seems to be fitted up for the purposes of echoing sound with the greatest precision. This part is fashioned out in the temporal bone like a cavern cut into a rock. In this the sound is repeated and articulated, and, as some anatomists tell us (for we have as yet but very little knowledge on the sub. ject), is beaten against the tympanum or drum of the ear, which moves four little bones joined thereto; these move and agitate the internal air which lies on the other

side; and, lastly, this air strikes and affects the auditory nerves, which carry the sound to the brain. One of the most common disorders in old age is deafness--which probably proceeds from the rigidity of the nerves in the labyrinth of the ear. This disorder also sometimes proceeds from a stoppage of the wax, which art may easily remedy. In order to know whether the defect be an internal or an external one, let the deaf person put a repeating watch into his mouth, and if he hears it strike, he may be sure that his disorder proceeds from an external cause, and is in some measure curable; for there is a passage from the ears into the mouth by what anatomists call the "eustachian tube," and by this passage people often hear sounds when they are utterly without hearing through the larger channel; and this is also the reason that we often see persons who listen with great attention do so with their mouths open, in order to catch all the sound at every aperture.

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It often happens that persons hear differently with one ear from the other; and it is generally found that these have what is called by musicians a 'bad ear." Mr. Buffon, who has made many trials upon persons of this kind, always found that their defect in judging properly of sounds proceeded from the inequality of their ears; and receiving by both at the same time unequal sensatious, they form an unjust idea. In this manner, as those people hear false, they also, without knowing it, sing false. Those persons also frequently deceive themselves with regard to the side from whence the sound comes, generally supposing the noise to come on the part of the best ear.

Such as are hard of hearing find the same advantage in the trumpet made for this purpose that short-sighted persons do from glasses. These trumpets might be easily improved, so as to increase sounds in the same manner that the telescope does objects; however, they could be used to advantage only in a place of solitude and stillness, as the neighbouring sounds would mix with the more distant, and the whole would produce in the ear nothing but tumult and confusion.

Hearing is a much more necessary sense to man than to animals. With these it is only a warning against danger, or an encouragement to mutual assistance. In man it is the source of most of his pleasures; and without which the rest of his senses would be of little benefit. A man born deaf must necessarily be dumb, and his whole sphere of knowledge must be bounded only by sensual objects. We have an instance of a young man who, being born deaf, was restored at the age of twentyfour to perfect hearing.

A young man of the town of Chartres, between the age of twenty-three and twenty-four, the son of a tradesman, and deaf and dumb from his birth, began to speak all of a sudden to the great astonishment of the whole town. He gave them to understand that, about three or four months before, he had heard the sound of the bells for the first time, and was greatly surprised at this new and unknown sensation. After some time a kind of water issued from his left ear, and he then heard perfectly well with both. During these three months he was sedulously employed in listening without saying a word, and accustoming himself to speak softly (so as not to be heard) the words pronounced by others. He laboured hard, also, in perfecting himself in the pronunciation and in the ideas attached to every sound. At length, having supposed himself qualified to break silence, he declared that he could now speak, although as yet but imperfectly. Soon after, some able divines questioned him concerning his ideas of his past state; and principally with respect to God, his soul, and the morality or turpitude of actions. The young man, however, had not driven his solitary speculations into that channel. He had gone to mass, indeed, with his parents-had learned to sign himself with the cross to kneel down, and assume all the grimaces of a man

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that was praying; but he did all this without any manner of knowledge of the intention or the cause; he saw others do the like, and that was enough for him; he knew nothing even of death-the idea never entered into his head; he led a life of pure animal instinet; entirely taken up with sensible objects and such as were present, he did not seem even to make as many reflections upon these as might reasonably be expected from his improving situation: and yet the young man was not in want of understanding; but the understanding of a man deprived of all commerce with others is so very confined, that the mind is in some measure totally under the control of its immediate sensations.

Notwithstanding, it is very possible to communicate ideas to deaf men with which they were previously unacquainted, and even give them very precise notions of some abstract subjects, by means of signs and letters. A person born deaf may by time and sufficient pains be taught to read and write, to speak, and, by the motions of the lips, to understand what is said to him; however, it is probable that, as most of the motions of speech are made within the mouth by the tongue, the knowledge from the motion of the lips is but very confined: nevertheless, I have conversed with a gentleman thus taught, and in all the commonly-occurring questions and the usual salutations he was quite cognizant merely by watching the motion of the lips alone. When I ventured to speak for a short continuance he was totally at a loss, although he understood the subject when written extremely well. Persons taught in this manner were at first considered as prodigies; but there have been so many instances of success of late, and so many are skilful in the art of instructing in this way, that, though still a matter of some curiosity, it ceases to be an object of wonder.

CHAP. IX

OF SMELLING, FEELING, AND TASTING.

An animal may be said to fill up that sphere which he can reach by his senses, and is actually large in proportion to the sphere to which its organ extends. By sight, man's enjoyments are diffused into a wide circle; that of hearing, though less widely diffused, nevertheless extends his powers; the sense of smelling is more contracted still; and the taste and touch are the most confined of all. Thus man enjoys very distant objects, but with one sense only; more nearly he brings two senses at once to bear upon them; his sense of smelling assists the other two, at his own distance; and of such objects, as a man, he may be said to be in perfect pos

session.

Each sense, however, the more it acts at a distance the more capable it is of making combinations, and is consequently the more improveable. Refined imaginations and men of strong minds therefore take more pleasure in improving the delights of the distant senses than enjoying such as are scarce capable of improvement.

By combining the objects of the extensive senses, all the arts of poetry, painting, and harmony have been discovered; but the closer senses, if I may so call them, such as smelling, tasting, and touching, are in some measure as simple as they are limited, and admit of little variety. The man of imagination makes a great and artificial happiness by the pleasure of altering and combining; the sensualist just stops where he began, and cultivates only those pleasures which he cannot improve. The sensualist is contented with those enjoyments that are already made to his hand; but the man of pleasure is best pleased with growing happiness.

Of all the senses, perhaps, there is not one in which man fs more inferior to other animals than in that of

smelling. With man, it is a sense that acts in a narrow sphere, and disgusts almost as frequently as it gives him pleasure. With many other animals it is diffused to a very great extent, and never seems to offend them. Dogs not only trace the steps of other animals, but also discover them by the scent at a very great distance; and while they are thus exquisitely sensible of all smells, they seem no way disgusted by any.

But although this sense is in general so very inferior in man, it is much stronger in those nations that abstain from animal food than it is among Europeans, The Brahmins of India have a power of smelling, as I am informed, equal to what it is in most other creatures They can sinell the water which they drink, which to us seems quite inodorous; and they have a word in their language which denotes a country of fine water. We are also told that the Negroes of the Antilles, by the smell alone, can distinguish between the footsteps of a Frenchman and a Negro. It is possible, therefore, that we may dull this organ by our luxurious way of living, and sacrifice to the pleasures of taste those which might be received from perfume.

However, it is a sense that we can in some measure dispense with; and I have known many that wanted it entirely but very little inconvenienced from its loss. In a state of nature it is said to be useful in guiding us to proper nourishment, and deterring us from that which is unwholesome; but in our present situation such information is but little attended to. In fact, the sense of smelling frequently gives us false intelligence. Many things that have a disagreeable odour are, nevertheless, wholesome and pleasant to the taste; and such as make eating an art seldom think a meal fit to please the appetite till it begins to offend the nose. On the other hand, there are many things that smell most gratefully and yet are noxious, and fatal to the constitution. Some physicians think that perfumes in general are unwholesome that they relax the nerves, produce head-aches, and even retard digestion. The machinel apple, which is known to be deadly poison, is possessed of the most grateful odour. Some of those mineral vapours that are often found fatal to the stomach smell like the sweetest flowers, and continue thus to flatter till they destroy. This sense, therefore, as it would seem, was never meant to direct us in the choice of food, but appears rather as an attendant than a necessary pleasure.

Indeed, if we examine the natives of different conntries, or even the different natives of the same, we shall find no pleasure in which they differ so widely as th t of smelling. Some persons are pleased with the smell of a rose; while I have known others that could not abide to have it approach them. The savage nations are highly delighted with the smell of assafoetida, which is to us the most nauseous stink in nature. It would in a manner seem that our delight in perfumes was made by habit, and that a very little industry could bring us totally to invert the perception of odours.

Thus much is certain, that many bodies which at one distance are an agreeable perfume, when nearer are a most ungrateful odour. Musk and ambergris, in small quantities, are considered by most persons as highly fragrant; and yet, when in larger masses, their scent is insufferable. From a mixture of two bodies, each of which is of itself void of all smell, a very powerful smell may be drawn. Thus, by grinding quick-lime with sal-ammoniac may be produced a very foetid mixture. On the contrary, from a mixture of two bodies that are separately disagreeable a very pleasant aromatic odour may be gained. A mixture of aqua-fortis with spirits of wine produces this effect. But not only the alterations of bodies by each other, but the smallest change in us, makes a great alteration in this sense, and not unfrequently totally deprives us of it. A slight cold often prevents us from smelling, and as often changes the nature of odours. Some persous, from disorder, retain

an incurable aversion to those smells which pleased them most before; and many have been known to have an antipathy to some animals whose presence they instantly perceive by the smell. From all this, therefore, the sense of smelling appears to be an uncertain monitor-easily disordered, and not much missed when totally wanting.

The sense most nearly allied to smelling is that of tasting. This some have been willing to consider merely as a nicer kind of touch, and have undertaken to account in a very mechanical manner for the difference of savours. Such bodies," say they, "as are pointed, happening to be applied to the papillæ of the tongue, excite a very powerful sensation, and give us the idea of saltness. Such, on the contrary, as are of a rounder. figure slide smoothly along the papillæ, and are perceived to be sweet." In this manner they have with minute labour gone through the variety of imagined forms in bodies, and have given them as imaginary effects. All we can precisely determine on the nature of tastes is, that the bodies to be tasted must be either somewhat moistened or in some measure dissolved by the saliva, before they can produce a proper sensation; when both the tongue itself and the body to be tasted are extremely dry no taste whatever ensues. The sensation is then changed; and the tongue, instead of tasting, can only be said, like any other part of the body, to feel the object

It is for this reason that children have a stronger relish of tastes than those who are more advanced in life. This organ with them, from the greater moisture of their bodies, is kept in greater perfection, and is consequently better adapted to perform its functions. Every person remembers how great a pleasure he found in sweets while a child; but his taste growing more obtuse with age, he is obliged to use artificial means to excite it. It is then that he is found to call in the assistance of powerful sauces, and strong relishes of salts and aromatics-all which the delicacy of his tender organ in childhood was unable to endure. His taste grows callous to the natural relishes, and is artificially formed to others more unnatural; so that the highest epicure may be said to have the most depraved taste as it is owing to the bluntness of his organs that he is obliged to have recourse to such a variety of expedients to gratify his appetite.

As smells are often rendered agreeable by habit, so also tastes may be. Tobacco and coffee, so pleasing to many, are yet at first very disagreeable to all. It is not without perseverance that we begin to have a relish for them; we force Nature so long, that what was constraint in the beginning at last becomes inclination. The grossest and yet the most useful of all the senses is that of feeling. We are often seen to survive under the loss of the rest; but of this we can never be totally deprived excepting with life. Although this sense is diffused over all parts of the body, yet it most frequently happens that those parts which are most exercised in touching acquire the greatest degree of accuracy. Thus the fingers by long habit become greater masters in the art than any others, even where the sensation is more delicate and fine. It is from this habit, therefore, and their peculiar formation—and not, as is supposed, from their being furnished with a greater number of nervesthat the fingers are thus perfectly qualified to judge of forms. Blind men, who are obliged to use them much oftener, have this sense much finer; so that the delicacy of the touch arises rather from the habit of constantly employing the fingers than from any fancied nervousness in their conformation.

All animals that are furnished with hands seem to have more understanding than others. Monkeys have so many actions like those of men, that they appear to have similar ideas of the form of bodies. All other creatures deprived of hands can have no distinct ideas

of the shape of the objects by which they are surrounded, as they want this organ, which serves to examine and measure their forms, their risings, and their depressions. A quadruped, probably, conceives as erroneous an idea of anything near him as a child would of a rock or of a mountain that it beheld at a distance. It may be for this reason that we often see them frightened at things with which they ought to be better acquainted. Fishes, whose bodies are covered with scales, and who have no organs of feeling, must be the most stupid of all animals. Serpents, which are likewise destitute, are yet, by winding round several bodies, more capable of judging of their form. All these, however, can have but very imperfect ideas from feeling; and we have already seen, when deprived of this sense, how little the rest of the senses are to be relied on.

Feeling, therefore, is the guardian, the judge, and the examiner of all the rest of the senses. It establishes their information and detects their errors. All the other senses are altered by time, and contradict their former evidence; but the touch still continues the same; and, though extremely confined in its operations, yet it is never found to deceive. The universe, to a man who had only used the rest of his senses, would be but a scene of illusion-every object misrepresented, and all its properties unknown. Mr. Buffon has imagined a man just newly brought into existence describing the illusion of his first sensations, and pointing out the steps by which he arrived at reality. He considers him as just created, and awaking amidst the productions of Nature; and, to animate the narrative still more strongly, he has made his philosophical man a speaker. The reader will no doubt recollect Adam's speech in Milton as being similar. All that I can say to obviate the imputation of plagiarism is, that the one treats the subject more as a poet, the other more as a philosopher. The philosopher's man describes his first sensations in the following manner:

I well remember that joyful, anxious moment when I first became acquainted with my own existence. I was quite ignorant of what I was, how I was produced, or from whence I came. I opened my eyes: what an addition to my surprise! The light of the day, the azure vault of heaven, the verdure of the earth, the crystal of the waters-all employed me at once, and animated and filled me with inexpressible delight. I at first imagined that all these objects were within me, and made a part of myself.

Impressed with this idea I turned my eyes to the sun; its splendour dazzled and overpowered me; I shut them once more, and, to my great concern, I supposed that during this short interval of darkness I was again returning to nothing.

Afflicted, seized with astonishment, I pondered a moment on this great change, when I heard a variety of unexpected sounds. The whistling of the wind and the melody of the grove formed a concert, the softer cadence of which sunk upon my soul. I listened for some time, and was persuaded that all this music was within me.

Quite occupied with this new kind of existence, I had already forgotten the light which was my first inlet into life; when I once more opened my eyes, and found myself again in possession of my former happiness, the gratification of the two senses at once was a pleasure too great for utterance.

I turned my eyes upon a thousand various objects; I soon found that I could lose them and restore them at will; and amused myself more at leisure with a repetition of this new-made power.

I now began to gaze without emotion, and to hearken with tranquillity, when a light breeze, the freshness of which charmed me, wafted its perfumes to my sense of smelling, and gave me such satisfaction as even increased my self-love.

Agitated, roused by the various pleasures of my new

existence, I instantly arose, and perceived myself moved along as if by some unknown and secret power.

I had scarce proceeded forward when the novelty of my situation once more rendered me immoveable. My surprise returned; I supposed that every object around me had been in motion; I gave to them that agitation which I produced by changing place; and the whole creation seemed once more in disorder.

I lifted my hand to my head; I touched my forehead; I felt my whole frame; I then supposed that my hand was the principal of my existence; all its formations were distinct and perfect, and so superior to the senses I had yet experienced, that I employed myself for some time in repeating its enjoyments: every part of my person I touched seemed to touch my hand in turn, and gave back sensation for sensation.

I soon found that this faculty was expanded over the whole surface of my body; and I now first began to perceive the limits of my existence, which I had in the beginning supposed spread over all the objects I saw.

Upon casting my eyes upon my body, and surveying my own form, I thought it greater than all the objects that surrounded me. I gazed upon my person with pleasure; I examined the formation of my hand and all its motions; it seemed to me large or little in proportion as I approached it to my eyes; I brought it very near, and it then hid almost every other object from my sight. I began soon, however, to find that my sight gave me uncertain information, and resolved to depend upon my feeling for redress.

This precaution was of the utmost service; I renewed my motions, and walked forward with my face turned towards the heavens I happened to strike lightly against a palm-tree, and this renewed my surprise: I laid my hand on this strange body; it seemed replete with new wonders, for it did not return me sensation for sensation, as my former feelings had done. I perceived that there was something external, and which did not make a part of my own existence.

I now, therefore, resolved to touch whatever I saw, and vainly attempted to touch the sun; I stretched forth my arm, and felt only yielding air; at every effort I fell from one surprise into another, for every object appeared equally near me; and it was not till after an infinity of trials that I found some objects further removed than

the rest.

Amazed with the illusions and the uncertainty of my state, I sat down beneath a tree; and the most beautiful fruits hung upon it within my reach; I stretched forth my hand, and they instantly separated from the branch. I was proud of being able to grasp a substance without me; I held them up, and their weight appeared to me like an animated power that endeavoured to draw them to the earth. I found a pleasure in conquering their resistance.

I held them near my eye; I considered their form and beauty; their fragrance still more allured me to bring them nearer; I approached them to my lips, and drank in their odours; the perfume invited my sense of tasting, and I soon tried a new sense-how new! how exquisite! Hitherto I had tasted only of pleasure; but now it was luxury. The power of tasting gave me the idea of pos

'session.

Flattered with this new acquisition, I continued its exercise, till, an agreeable languor stealing upon my mind, I felt all my limbs become heavy, and all my desires suspended. My sensations were now no longer vivid and distinct, but seemed to lose every objeet, and presented only feeble images confusedly marked. At that instant I sunk upon the flowery bank, and slumber seized me. All now seemed once more lost to me. It was then as if I was returning into my former nothing. How long my sleep continued I cannot tell, as I yet had no perception of time. My awaking appeared like a second birth; and I then perceived that I had ceased

for a time to exist. This produced a new sensation of fear, and from this interruption in life I began to conclude that I was not formed to exist for ever.

In this state of doubt and perplexity I began to har bour new suspicions, and to fear that sleep had robbed me of some of my late powers; when, turning on one side to resolve my doubts, what was my amazement to behold another being like myself stretched by my side! New ideas now began to arise; new passions, as yet unperceived, with fears and pleasures, all took possession of my mind and prompted my curiosity: love served to complete that happiness which was begun in the individual, and every sense was gratified in all its varieties.

CHAP. X.

OF OLD AGE AND DEATH.

Everything in Nature has its improvement and its decay. The human form is no sooner arrived at its state of perfection than it begins to decline. The alteration is at first insensible; and often several years elapse before we find ourselves grown old. The news of this disagreeable change too generally comes from without; and we learn from others that we grow old before we are willing to believe the report.

When the body has come to its full height, and is extended into its just dimensions, it then also begins to receive an additional bulk, which rather loads than assists it. This is formed from fat, which generally, at the age of thirty-five or forty, covers all the muscles and interrupts their activity. Every action is then performed with greater labour, and the increase of size only serves as a forerunner of decay.

The bones, also, become every day more solid. In the embryo they are as soft almost as the muscles and the flesh; but by degrees they harden, and acquire their natural vigour; but still, however, the circulation is carried on through them, and how hard soever the bones may seem, yet the blood holds its current through them as throngh all other parts of the body. Of this we may be convinced by an experiment which was accidentally discovered by our ingenious countrymau, Mr. Belcher. Perceiving at a friend's house that the bones of hogs which were fed upon madder were red, he tried it upon various animals by mixing this root with their usual food, and found that it tinctured the bones in all—au evident demonstration that the juices of the body had a circulation through the bones. He fed some animals alternately upon madder and their common food for some time, and he found their bones tinctured with alternate layers in conformity with their manner of living. From all this be naturally concluded that the blood circulated through the bones as it does through every other part of the body; and that, how solid soever they seemed, yet, like the softest parts, they were furnished through all their substances with their proper canals. Nevertheless, these canals are of very different capacities during the different stages of life. In infancy they are capacious, and the blood flows almost as freely through the bones as through any other part of the body. In manhood their size is greatly diminished; the vessels are almost imperceptible, and the eirculation through them is proportionably slow. But in the deeline of life, the blood which flows through the boues no longer contributing to their growth must necessarily serve to increase their hardness. The channels that everywhere run through the human frame may be compared to those pipes that we everywhere see crusted on the inside, by the water for a long continuance running through them. Both every day grow less and less, by the small rigid particles which are deposited within them. Thus as the vessels are by degrees diminished, the juices, also, which

were necessary for the circulation through them, are diminished in proportion; till at length, in old age, these props of the human frame are not only more solid but more brittle.

The cartilages or gristles, which may be considered as bones beginning to be formed, grow also more rigid. The juices circulating through them (for there is a circulation through all parts of the body) every day contribute to render them harder; so that these substances, which in youth are elastic and pliant in age, become pliant and bony. As these cartilages are generally placed near the joints, the motion of the joints also must of consequence become more difficult. Thus, in old age every action of the body is performed with labour; and the cartilages, formerly so supple, will now sooner break than bend.

As the cartilages acquire hardness and unfit the joints for motion, so also that mucous liquor which is always separated between the joints, and which serves, like oil to a hinge, to give them an easy and ready play, is now grown more scanty. It becomes thicker and more clammy-more unfit for answering the purposes of motion; and from thence, in old age every joint is not only stiff but awkward. At every motion this clammy liquor is heard to crack; and it is not without the greatest effort of the muscles that its resistance is overcome. I have seen an old person who never moved a single joint that did not thus give notice of the violence done it

The membranes which cover the bones, the joints, and the rest of the body, become as we grow old more dense and more dry. Those which surround the bones soon cease to be ductile. The fibres, of which the muscles or flesh is composed, become every day more rigid; and, while to the touch the body seems as we advance in years to grow softer, it is in reality increasing in hardness. It is the skin and not the flesh that we feel upon such occasions. The fat and flabbiness of that seems to give an appearance of softness, which the flesh itself is very far from having. There are few can doubt this, after trying the difference between the flesh of young and old animals. The first is soft and tender-the last is hard and dry.

The skin is the only part of the body that age does not contribute to harden. That stretches to every degree of tension; and we have horrid instances of its pliancy in many disorders incident to humanity. In youth, therefore, while the body is vigorous and increasing, it still gives way to its growth. But although it thus adapts itself to our increase, it does not in the same manner conform to our decay. The skin, which in youth was filled and glossy, when the body begins to decline has not elasticity enough to shrink entirely with is diminution. It therefore hangs in wrinkles, which no art can remove. The wrinkles of the body in general proceed from this cause; but those of the face seem to proceed from another-namely, from the many varieties of positions into which it is put by the speech, the food, or the passions. Every grimace and every passion wrinkles up the visage into different forms. These are visible enough in young persons; but what at first was accidental or transitory becomes unalterably fixed in the visage as it grows older. From hence we may conclude that a freedom from passions not only adds to the happiness of the mind, but preserves the beauty of the face; and the person who has not felt their influence is less strongly marked by the decays of nature.

Hence, therefore, as we advance in age the bones, the cartilages, the membranes, the skin, and every fibre of the body become more solid, more brittle, and more dry. Every part shrinks- every motion becomes more slow; the circulation of the fluids is performed with less freedom-perspiration diminishes-the secretions alterthe digestion becomes slow and laborious-and the juices no longer serving to convey their accustomed nourishment, those parts may be said to live no longer

when the circulation ceases. Thus the body dies by little and little-all its functions are diminished by degrees life is driven from one part of the frame to another— universal rigidity prevails-and death at last seizes upon the little that is left.

As the bones, the cartilages, the muscles, and all other parts of the body are softer in women than in men, these parts must consequently require a longer time to come to that hardness which hastens death. Women, therefore, ought to be a longer time in growing old than men; and this is actually the case. If we consult the tables which have been drawn up respecting human life, we shall find that, after a certain age, they are more long-lived than men, all other circumstances the same. A woman of sixty has a better chance than a man of the same age to live till eighty. Upon the whole, we may infer that such persons as have been slow in coming up to maturity will also be slow in growing old; and this holds as well with regard to other animals as to man.

The whole duration of the life of either vegetables or animals may be in some measure determined from their manner of coming to maturity. The tree or the animal which takes but a short time to increase to its utmost pitch perishes much sooner than such as are less premature. In both, the increase upwards is first accomplished; and not till they have acquired their greatest degree of height do they begin to spread in bulk. Man grows in stature till about the age of seventeen; but his body is not completely developed till about thirty. Dogs, on the other hand, are at their utmost size in a year, and in another year become as bulky as they usually are. However, man, who is so long in growing, continues to live for fourscore or a hundred years, but the dog seldom above twelve or thirteen. In general, also, it may be said that large animals live longer than little ones, as they usually take a longer time to grow; but in all animals one thing is equally certain-that they carry the causes of their own decay about with them, and that their deaths are necessary and inevitable. The prospects which some visionaries have formed of perpetuating life by remedies have been often enough proved false by their own example. Such unaccountable schemes would therefore have died with them, had not the love of life always augmented our credulity.

When the body is naturally well formed, it is possible to lengthen out the period of life for some years by management Temperance in diet is often found conducive to this end. The famous Cornaro, who lived to above a hundred years, although his constitution was naturally feeble, is a strong instance of the benefit of an abstemious life. Moderation in the passions may also contribute to extend the term of our existence. Fontenelle, the celebrated French writer, was naturally of a very weak and delicate state of body. He was affected by the smallest irregularities, and frequently suffered severe fits of illness from the most trifling causes. But the remarkable equality of his temper and his seeming want of passion lengthened his life to more than a hundred years. It was remarkable for him that nothing could vex or make him uneasy; every occurrence seemed equally pleasing ; and no event, however unfortunate, seemed to come unexpected. However, the term of life can be prolonged but for a little time by any art we can use. We are told of men who have lived beyond the ordinary duration of human existence-such as Parr, who lived to a hundred and forty-four; and Jenkins, who lived to a hundred and sixty-five. Yet these men used no peculiar arts to prolong life; on the contrary, it appears that these, as well as some others remarkable for their longevity, were peasants accustomed to the greatest fatigues-who had no settled rules of diet, but who often indulged in accidental excesses. Indeed, if we consider that the European, the Negro, the Chinese, and the American—the civilised man and the savage, the rich and the poor, the inhabitant of the city and of the country-though all so