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9. But perhaps the most striking feature in this warmthproducing apparatus within us is the self-regulating power which it possesses. The fires on our domestic hearths decline at one moment and augment at another. Sometimes the mistress of the house threatens to faint on account of excessive heat; sometimes the master endeavors to improve the temperature by a passionate use of the poker, with an occasional growl respecting the excessive cold.

10. Were such irregularities to prevail unchecked in our fleshy stoves, we should suffer considerable annoyance. After a meal of very inflammatory materials, or an hour spent in extraordinary exertion, the gush of caloric might throw the system into a state of high fever. How is this prevented? In some of our artificial stoves, little doors or slides are employed to control the admission of air; in furnaces connected with steam-engines, we may have dampers which will accomplish the same purpose by the ingenious workings of the machine itself.

11. But neither doors nor dampers, pokers nor stokers, 12 can be employed in the bodily apparatus. If, on the one hand, our human fires should begin to flag from undue expenditure of heat, the appetite speaks out sharply, and compels the owner to look round for fuel. Hunger rings the bell, and orders up coals in the shape of savory meats. Or, should the summons be neglected, the garnered fat, as we have seen, is thrown into the grate to keep the furnace in play.

12. If, on the other hand, the heat of the body should become unreasonably intense, a very cunning process of reduction is adopted. When a substance grows too hot, the simplest method of bringing it into a cooler frame is to sprinkle it with water. This is precisely what occurs in our human frames. For no sooner does our internal heat rise above its standard height than the perspiration tubes, with their six or seven millions of openings, indignant at the event, begin to pour out their fluid, so as to bathe the surface of the whole body. Whenever, therefore, a man becomes overheated by working, running, rowing, fighting, making furious speeches, or other violent exertions, he invariably resorts to this method of quenching the heat by "pouring on water."

13. What shall we say, then, good reader? Speaking seriously, and looking at the question from a mere human point of view, could any project appear more hopeless than one for burning fuel in a soft, delicate fabric like the human body—a fabric composed for the most part of mere fluids—a fabric

which might be easily scorched by excess of heat or damaged by excess of cold? Does not it seem strange that a stove should have flesh for its walls, veins for its flues, and skin for its covering? Yet here is an apparatus which, as if by magic, produces a steady stream of heat-not trickling penuriously from its fountains, but flowing on day and night, winter and summer, without a moment's cessation, from January to December.

14. Carry this splendid machine to the coldest regions on the globe, set it up where the frosts are so crushing that nature seems to be trampled dead, still it pours out its mysterious supplies with unabated profusion. It is an apparatus, too, which does its work unwatched, and, in a great measure, unaided. The very fuel, which is thrown into it in random heaps, is internally sifted and sorted, so that the true combustible elements are conveyed to their place and applied to their duty with unerring precision.

15. No hand is needed to trim its fires, to temper its glow, to remove its ashes. Smoke there is none, spark there is none, flame there is none. All is so delicately managed that the fairest skin is neither shriveled nor blackened by the burning within. Is this apparatus placed in circumstances which rob it too fast of its caloric? Then the appetite becomes clamorous for food, and, in satisfying its demands, the fleshy stove is silently replenished. Or, are we placed in peril from superabundant warmth? Then the tiny flood-gates of perspiration are flung open, and the surface is laid under water until the fires within are reduced to their wonted level.

16. Assailed on the one hand by heat, the body resists the attack, if resistance be possible, until the store of moisture is dissipated; assailed on the other by cold, it keeps the enemy at bay until the hoarded stock of fuel is expended. Thus protected, thus provisioned, let us ask whether these human hearths are not entitled to rank among the standing marvels of creation? for is it not startling to find that, let the climate be mild or rigorous, let the wind blow from the sultry desert, or come loaded with polar sleet, let the fluctuations of temperature be as violent as they may without us, there shall still be a calm, unchanging, undying summer within us?

1 DAIN'-TY, delicate; affectedly nice.

2 IG-NĪTE', to kindle.

3 RASH'-ER, a thin slice.

4 HÄUNOH, the hip.

7 ES-CHEWS', shuns, or avoids.

8 HY'-BER-NATE, pass the winter in seclusion.

[ries of the table. LETH'-AR-GY, morbid drowsiness.

5 EP-1-CURE, one who indulges in the luxu-10 BRÛ'-IN, a name given to a bear.

6 IN-TU'-I-TIVE-LY, perceived directly by the 11 UN'-GUENT, ointment.

mind, without reasoning.

12 STO'-KER, one who attends to the fire.

LESSON XIV.-LINES ON A SKELETON.

[About forty years ago the London Morning Chronicle published a poem entitled "Lines on a Skeleton," which excited much attention. Every effort, even to the offering a reward of fifty guineas, was vainly made to discover the author. All that ever transpired was that the poem, in a fair clerkly hand, was found near a skeleton of remarkable beauty of form and color, in the Museum of the Royal College of Surgeons, Lincoln's Inn, London, and that the curator of the museum had sent them to Mr. Perry, editor and proprietor of the Morning Chronicle.]

1. BEHOLD this ruin'! 'Twas a skull,

Once of ethereal spirit full.

This narrow cell was Life's retreat',

This space was Thought's mysterious seat.
What beauteous visions filled this spot',
What dreams of pleasure long forgot.
Nor Hope, nor Love, nor Joy, nor Fear',
Have left one trace of record here.

2. Beneath this mouldering canopy
Once shone the bright and busy eye';
But, start not at the dismal void-
If social Love that eye employed';
If with no lawless fire it gleamed,

But through the dews of kindness beamed',
That eye shall be forever bright
When stars and suns are sunk in night.

3. Within this hollow cavern hung

The ready, swift, and tuneful tongue.
If Falsehood's honey it disdained,

And where it could not praise, was chained';
If bold in Virtue's cause it spoke,

Yet gentle Concord never broke' !
This silent tongue shall plead for thee
When Time unveils Eternity.

4. Say', did these fingers delve the mine'?
Or with its envied rubies shine'?
To hew the rock, or wear the gem,
Can little now avail to them.
But if the page of Truth they sought,
Or comfort to the mourner brought',
These hands a richer meed shall claim
Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame.

5. Avails it whether bare or shod,

These feet the paths of duty trod'?—
If from the bowers of Ease they fled,
To seek Affliction's humble shed,
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spurned,
And home to Virtue's cot returned',
These feet with angel's wings shall vie,
And tread the palace of the sky.

LES. XV.-EDUCATION OF THE MUSCLES OF EXPRESSION.

(Adapted chiefly from Hooker.)

1. As the muscles of the face are the instruments of the mind in the expression of thought, feelings, and emotions, it is highly important that they should be well trained to perform with ease and grace their appropriate functions;1 for the highest degree of beauty, which is the beauty of expression, depends much more upon the attitudes and movements of the face than upon the shape of the features. We often see a face that is beautiful in repose become ugly the moment it is in action, because the movements of the muscles are so uncouth ;2 and, on the other hand, we often see faces which are very irregular in the shape of the features, display. great beauty when in action, owing to the easy and graceful movements of the muscles of expression. Addison has justly said, "No woman can be handsome by the force of features alone, any more than she can be witty only by the help of speech."

2. Children not unfrequently form awkward habits in the use of the muscles of the face, which finally become permanent; and a little observation will convince us that there is nearly as much difference in skill in the use of these muscles as in the use of those of the hand. For higher examples of this skill we need not go to the accomplished orator or actor; we shall find them exhibited, in the ordinary intercourse of life, in those who have great capacity of expression, together with a mind uncommonly refined and susceptible. In them every shade of thought and feeling is clearly and beautifully traced in the countenance. While this is the result of education of the muscles of expression, an education of which the individual is for the most part unconscious, no direct attempt in the training of these muscles will succeed unless the mind itself be of the right character.

3. Awkwardness of expression, arising from habit, may be counteracted by judicious physical training, but intelligence and kindness can not be made to beam from the countenance if they do not emanate3 from the moving spirit within. They are often awkwardly counterfeited, the one by the bustling air assumed by the face of the shallow pretender, and the other by the smirk of him who smiles only to get favor or profit from others. On the other hand, not only will those evil and malignant passions, which are of a decidedly marked

expression, leave their permanent traces in the countenance, but coarse feelings and brutal instincts write their images there also, and nothing but a thorough change of character can possibly efface them. We must therefore begin with the mind and the heart if we would educate the countenance to the higher expressions of beauty.

4. Some of the most striking exemplifications of the influence of the mind and heart upon the expressions of the countenance are to be seen in those institutions where juvenile outcasts from society are redeemed from their degradation by the hand of benevolence. The progress of the mental and moral cultivation may often be traced, from week to week, and sometimes from day to day, in the changing lineaments* of the face, as lively intelligence takes the place of stolid5 indifference, and refined sentiment that of brutal passion. Sometimes a few weeks suffice to change the whole character of the expression in the faces of the young. The dull eye becomes bright, not from any change in the eye itself, but from the intelligence and sentiment that now play upon the muscles in its neighborhood. But where passions have been making their impress on the countenance during a long course of years, so that the features become fixed in the prevailing expression, the traces are not so easily removed.

5. The habitual expression of the countenance, depending as it does upon the habitual condition of the muscles, is seen after death. In the state of relaxation which immediately occurs at death, the face is very inexpressive, because its muscles are, together with those of the whole body, so entirely relaxed. But very soon they begin to contract, and, as they assume that degree of contraction to which they were habituated during life, they give to the countenance its habitual expression.

6. It is when this has taken place-when the muscles, recovering from the relaxation of the death-hour, resume their accustomed attitude, as we may express it, that the countenance of our friend appears so natural to us, and we are held, as if by a charm, gazing upon the intelligence and affection beaming there amid the awful stillness of death, till it seems as if those lips must have language. And this expression is retained through all the period of rigidity, till it is dissolved by the relaxation which succeeds this state and ushers in the process of decay. It is thus that the soul, as it takes its flight, leaves its impress upon the noblest part of its tabernacle of flesh; and it is not effaced' till the last vestiges of life is gone,

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