his umbrella, at the level of his nostrils, and walk-under these circumstances, by evaporation; for ed in the sunshine. The mercury rose to 105 de-evaporation never takes place from a cooler body grees, thus suspended; but upon being applied to in a warmer medium-but condensation upon it; as the hottest part of his body, it fell to 97 degrees; was evidenced by the copious streams of condensed, and he could never succeed in raising it above that liquified atmosphere pouring over the surface of point, by the heat of his body. Soon after this, the body-not perspiration, for the same appearthe accidental experiment of Duhamel and Tillet ance was presented by the surface of a Florence established the power of the body to bear, with im- flask of cold water, introduced into the room to punity, a temperature of upwards of 280 degrees. settle that point. Nor yet could the body have About twenty years later, this was corroborated by deprived the surrounding medium of heat, by abthe careful experiments of Dr. Fordyce and Sir sorption, else its own temperature would have beCharles Blagden. These experiments consisted in come exalted. entering close rooms, heated by flues in the floor, to What then becomes of the heat, which the one 260 degrees, and remaining "with tolerable ease," loses and the other does not gain? This question long enough to boil water, roast eggs, and cook cannot be answered by the chemical hypothesis. beefsteak to dryness. But during all this while It cannot be answered at all, unless we admit the the temperature of their bodies never rose higher existence, and the controlling power of a peculiar, than 100 degrees: and, when they breathed upon independent, higher principle in living organic the Thermometer, its mercury was lowered several matter, different in its manifestations and laws, degrees, and their breath communicated a sense of from chemistry. And yet, a principle sustaining coolness to their nostrils and fingers. Besides to living organic matter, a relation analogous to this, the temperature of the atmosphere of the that of chemistry to dead, inorganic matter. Phyroom was rapidly and considerably reduced by con- siologists have called this principle by the several tact with their bodies. In addition to these, I may synonymous terms-archeus, vitality, vis vitæ, vis refer to the experimental exhibitions of Chaubertinsitæ, vital chemistry, vital force, without attemptthe "Fire King," and others who have entered ing to define its nature, or vainly presuming to base ovens heated as high as from 400 to 600 degrees, and remained with impunity for a long time; and, to the familiar experiment, which any one can make, of immersing the feet and legs in hot water, with the effect, not of exalting the temperature of the flesh, but of cooling down the water.

any practical precepts upon such definition. But satisfied from its effects and the regular and wellmarked order of their occurrence, that such a principle did exist in the animal body, and observed certain laws of operation, they have sought to study those laws, and to describe, classify, and arrange them under the name of Physiology.

How can these things be reconciled with the hypothesis, that vital heat is the product of a chemi- How vitality generates heat in the living body, cal process constantly going on in the body, during or sustains it at a uniform degree, under the exlife? If this heat be continually evolved by a mere tremes of atmospheric heat and cold, physiologists, chemical, and consequently undiscriminating pro- who value their reputation for sound practical accucess, it must either accumulate in the body, or be racy, do not undertake to explain,—no more than expended. Under ordinary circumstances, it might they do-how nutrition, secretion, &c., are perbe no violent presumption (whether true or not) formed in the ultimate structures of the organism. that vital heat is thus produced by a chemical pro- They know, that all these functions are performed, cess, and that the animal body, like other masses and in their performance, observed certain laws; of matter, (a stove for example,) regularly heated but how this is done, they have the candor and good from within, maintains a uniform temperature by sense to admit is inscrutable to the present state of giving off its superabundance of heat as fat as it their knowledge. A veil yet hangs over these is generated, to the cooler surrounding medium or secret operations of vitality, unlifted by even the other objects. But under the circr dees stated-bold speculative genius of Leibig. And so it will that the body is immersed in a medium greatly hang, I apprehend for years-perhaps for ages to hotter than itself, and not only maintains its own come-perhaps forever. peculiar uniform temperature, but actually reduces So much for what I undertook to do with this the surrounding atmospheric temperature,-such a interesting subject. Under the most favorable cirpresumption is wholly inadmissible. Here is the cumstances I should necessarily fail to do it juspyrogenic process within, heating the body up to tice; and, more especially, within limits so narrow, 98 degrees, and the atmospheric heat without, and which I have sought still further to restrict. rising as high as 600 degrees,--and the body be- Attempting, however, only an outline sketch of a tween the two fires! And not only is there no few facts and arguments, I shall be satisfied with material increase of the heat of the body, but actu-making myself intelligible, and attracting to the ally a very rapid and great reduction of the sur- subject more acute and comprehensive minds. rounding atmospheric heat. It is a pleasing duty to acknowledge here, that

It cannot be said, that the body is kept cool, I am indebted for many of the facts I have ad

VOL. IX-31

duced, to two Lectures, recently delivered by Pro- | meaning, the interpretation of Professor Yandell, fessor CHARLES CALDWELL, before the Medical So- or the translation of Professor Gregory: the former ciety of Louisville, Kentucky. The other sources from which I have drawn materials are, of course, familiar, or of easy reference to the student of physiology and chemistry.

having admitted in his lecture, that he had never seen the work in its original German; and, perhaps, would have been unable to read it, if he had seen it while the latter was selected by Leibig himself, as his translator, doubtless on account of his skill in German scholarship,-and furnished by him, for greater accuracy, with his own manuscript. It is hoped, that Professor Caldwell will soon publish at length, and in book-form, his own clear statement of his own masterly views on this subject, in opposition to the views of Leibig, and then

SONNET-TO ONE BELOVED.

BY PARK BENJAMIN.

I heard the lectures of Prof. Caldwell. And as an American and a lover of the truth, I was proud of the gallantry with which our distinguished American philosopher met him of Germany; and I exulted at the triumphant success, with which he maintained his own doctrines of vitality-so long and so ably taught. This spectacle-this contest between two master-spirits, was indeed a gallant the public will have the means of judging fairly, sight. And it was in proud contrast, too, with by hearing both sides." the usual ready reception and truckling assent, which, even among our men of science, await every thing from Europe. It was proof, that at least, one of our countrymen, proud of his birthright, and grateful for the gift of thought, stands, as he has nobly done for a full half century, a faithful sentinel on the battlements of science; with an eye undimmed by prejudice and undazzled by authority, able to descry, even in the distance, and from any quarter, the approach of error; and, with a heart that never quails, and an arm that knows no weakness ready to descend to the field of fight, and do battle manfully-successfully in the cause of truth. He has long stood in the very front rank of science-its priest and pioneer in the great West; often engaged in controversy and always victorious; unbroken by toil and unbent by time, he is a warrior still, with the scars of battle thick, and the harness still upon him, he towers in mind as in person, 66 a full head and shoulders higher than other men."

Deep in my heart thy cherished secret lies,
Deep as a pearl on ocean's soundless floor,
Where the bold diver never can explore
The realms o'er which the mighty billows rise.
It rests far hidden from all mortal eyes,

Not even discovered when the piercing light
Of morn illumines the uncurtained skies,
And fills with sunshine the dark vaults of night.
Repose in me thy heart's most sacred trust,
And nothing shall betray it; I will bend
This human fabric to its native dust,

But nothing from me shall that secret rend,
Which to my soul is brighter, dearer far,
Than any lustre of sun, moon or star.

HENRY FITZ-MAURICE.

(An extract from a Traveller's Note Book.)
It was summer: the rich shadows of even were

with my companion through the grove of yews and cypress, into the village church-yard. As I entered, I felt a sensation of melancholy steal over me. There is something so calm and still in a summer's evening, that it invariably begets in every mind, capable of poetic feeling, a tranquility which may well be de

Soon after Prof. Caldwell's two lectures, one was delivered by the same society, by Professor Yandell, and intended as a reply to them. I heard that lecture, also. It was an ingenious discourse, and respectable in point of ability; perhaps, pre-melting away in the West. I strolled carelessly along senting the views of Leibig in as clear light, and as strong force as they were capable of. But that it was a successful reply to Professor Caldwell's array of fact and argument, I cannot admit: infinitely short of it indeed. The most noticeable feature in Prof. Yandell's lecture was his attempt to screen Leibig against the charge of inconsis-nominated the parent of melancholy. tency. To do this, he interposed the person of the We wandered among the tomb-stones, reading translator: charging Professor Gregory with hav- the various tales of death. There was one grave, ing rendered the German of Leibig inaccurately which more especially attracted my attention; yet, into English. This subterfuge, for it is nothing except for its air of chaste simplicity, there was more, appeared to me to be peculiarly unfortunate, nothing in its appearance to justify any particular shallow and impolitic; for if it were allowed, it regard. As I approached it, there seemed to be a would destroy much of the meaning and interest tie on my spirit, an irresistible impulse, which of the work it was used to defend, and throw a stayed my footsteps. A delicate slab of white shade of suspicion over its accuracy and fidelity marble slightly raised above the ground with this throughout. It is of little moment however, as simple inscription on it,

the intelligent and discriminating mind will decide

Hic jacet, H. F. M.

for itself, whether to receive as the author's true was all that was before me. It was enclosed by a

light railing of trellis work; both within and with- | Never before had I seen Isabel Stafford look so out which, a few flowers were budding beautiful beautiful; there is something angelic about a wonot a single weed was to be seen, though an air of man, when she weeps for sorrows not her own; it desolation was cast over the whole by the wither- is a proof of the sensibility of her nature; the ed flowers that lay scattered on the stone. Its tears rushed to the eyes almost involuntarily; disconsolate appearance struck me forcibly, and and without altering or distorting a single feature, the heart's ease that lay shrivelled and dry by the they instil a pathetic glow into the whole expresside of the rose and the daffodil, sent a chill over sion. my heart which it is easier to fancy than to describe. "And what poor child of clay-what inheritor of the ills of the flesh, has here taken up his long abode?" said I, turning to my companion.

"Let us quit the spot," answered he, hurriedly : "perhaps, I will send you to-morrow the short but sorrowful history of Henry Fitz-Maurice, who lies buried here."

"Why not give it now?" said I, impatiently.

"Not now, not now," said he; "the circumstances are too green in my recollection for me to mention them without renewing the sorrow which they caused me at the time; but you shall have And besides," said he, affecting a gayety, which was evidently far from his heart, "it would not do for us both to be melancholy when we return to the pretty Miss Stafford."

them to-morrow.

.

As I saw he was loth to give me the history of the grave that evening, I dropped the subject altogether, and we returned to the house of our kind hostess, Mrs. Stafford, from which we had been absent nearly an hour.

It was early in the morning, the sun was just peeping over the far eastern hills; the birds had all waked to life and song; the lark

"Had started from its humble grassy nest
And was up and away with the dew on its breast,
With a hymn in its heart for angels to hear
As it warbled it out in its Maker's ear."

The little songsters of the grove were hopping on the tufted spray, trilling forth with lightsome melody their matin orizons to join the choir above. All was soft and beautiful, the light breeze came dancing along, laden with the fresh perfumes of the opening flowers; it spread on all sides its fragrant breath. I could not but fancy, that I felt the spirit of God moving on the works of his creation, for all was harmony and love in nature. I sat at the window of my bed-room; I had thrown it open to admit the cool air, for I was feverish and excited.

a

"And is man," thought I," the only exception in lovely world? is his the hand that mars the whole, and spreads discord around? It is so. The curse "And pray, Mr. A., whither has my good cousin is upon him, and upon all his works; the day is led you? No doubt he has carried you to see his the season of his labors, and all is bustle and conhorses or his dogs," said Miss S., as we entered. fusion, but the last hours of the evening and the I remained silent-I knew not what was said- first hours of the morning-these indeed are nature's for a gloom hung over me; I was lost in a reverie, thinking of the possible fate of him whose tomb I had left.

own."

While indulging in these thoughts, which tended to harmonize the emotions within, with the loveli"Really, Mr. A.,--you are growing very polite; ness without, I was suddenly roused from my reverie won't answer when a lady speaks to you? You by the sweet sounds of song in the distance; the must have fallen desperately in love with some fair soft notes floated on the air and filled the whole nymph-do tell me, where I shall find your Egeria." with melody divine. As the voice approached "Indeed you are very much mistaken in your con- nearer, I heard the following words sung in soft jectures; but were it otherwise, you can't suppose plaintive notes— that I would plead guilty to any other love in the presence of the beautiful Miss Stafford."

"Well, I see you are learning to pay compliments, like the rest of your sex ; but verily, I should be grateful for this first demonstration of your newly acquired talent."

"Indeed, Miss Stafford❞—

"No excuses, no apologies; I really am very much obliged, and don't wish you to disparage your own civility. But come, don't be so mopish; do look up; if you have not fallen in love, perhaps you have met with a ghost in your peregrinations." "Not quite that either, though I must own I caught this fit of melancholy in the church-yard." "Ah! you have been visiting the grave of poor Henry Fitz-Maurice," and her eyes filled with tears, and rested on the ground as she spoke.

I come to thy grave with the budding flowers,

Which the kiss of the morning has opened for thee;
They are wet with the pearls of the dewy showers,
That freshen and nurture their fragrancy.

But the spangles of dew are to me but as tears,
Which the flowers in weeping for my Henry have shed;
And each rose-bud I've plucked, in its beauty appears
But another fresh tribute to him who is dead.
Then take from the hands of thy Mary, this gift,
These flowers, that like thee, are cut off in their prime ;
They tell how the day-dreams of bliss are all reft
From the heart that they gladdened in former time.
Here the sounds gradually died away in the dis-
tance; they melted into the murmurs of the wind,
and passed away from me like a dream.

"And here it is at last," said I, as I opened the

packet that lay on my table; "now I shall learn the history of Henry Fitz-Maurice :"

THE STORY OF HENRY FITZ-MAURICE.

Henry Fitz-Maurice was the younger son of a Baronet, who resided within twelve miles of this village. Of his early years, little need be said. He was endowed with feelings of extreme sensibility which were not unfrequently trampled on and wounded by the more boisterous companions of his youth-but Henry's natural disposition was not changed by the sufferings which resulted from the peculiar constitution of his feelings; he only retired further into himself and concealed more carefully from the eye of a cold and sneering world, the warm fountains of genuine affection that were ever fresh within him. Such a character was not likely to gain many friends; his thoughts and sentiments differed from those of his companions; they could not enter into his feelings, for his heart was strung with finer chords than theirs. When at length he did find one who returned the warmth of his affection, his whole soul became centred in that one object; a dream came over him; the world was dressed in flowers; he regarded it as a gay landscape-a scene intended for the enjoyment of himself and the dear object of his love.

It was in his nineteenth year, that he became acquainted with the family of the Somers'; in that family, Mary Somers was the principal object of attraction-the load-star that centred in itself all his thoughts and all his affections.

Mary Somers was beautiful, not regularly or critically so; but the expression of her face was such as must have led every beholder to pronounce it peerless. She had not the sparkling black eye that bespeaks the intellect within; but, she had those deep blue eyes which tell that the heart is made for love, and for all the softer feelings in their utmost intensity. There was a smile on her countenance, but it rather breathed through her features, than was impressed on her beauty. In fine, the artist who could have portrayed such beauty, might have worshipped the child of his creation.

Such was Mary Somers; and, before her, did Henry pour out his whole soul; for her mind was a befitting inmate of her person. He adored as the idol of his heart, her, who had first appreciated the sensibilities of his nature, and responded to them with sympathy and love. Never were too happier beings in this world of misery, where all happiness is hollow, all sorrow but too real, than the young lovers.

Lord Abingdon had seen Mary Somers, and was resolved to possess her; but he knew the futility of any attempt, till his rival was removed from the neighborhood. To effect this, his insidious design, he immediately wrote an anonymous letter to Sir Thomas Fitz-Maurice, stating that his son was about to bring disgrace on his family by a secret marriage with Mary Somers. Sir Thomas had no sooner read the letter, than he sent for his son, and in the most abusive manner demanded of him why he had paid any attentions to any lady without the permission of his father. Henry's cheek turned pale as his father spoke, but it was not the paleness of fear, it was that of indignation and wounded pride.

"And what may my good son be intending to do, as soon as the marriage knot is tied? will he bring his bride to be an unasked, an unwelcome inmate at my house ?"

"Father," said Henry, striving to master his choking passions; "father, I never thought of marrying without your permission and approval."

66

Lying scoundrel! have you not arranged with your mistress to elope? have you not planned a secret marriage?

At that dread hour-for the old church bell had but just tolled midnight—in a chamber, that in vain tried to resist the torrents which were pouring into it and afforded no shelter from the howling blastlay a youth stretched on a bed of sickness. By the side of the straw pallet stood a candle nearly Mrs. Somers saw the affection that was springing burnt out--the dull flame flickered for a while in up between them; but, as she was pleased with the socket and then died. "Aye," said the invaFitz-Maurice, and chiefly solicitous for the happi- lid, "thy life is gone, it has wasted away; and I ness of her only daughter, she never thought of feel that mine is going too; may my death be as opposing their attachment. But while they were thus dreaming of bliss, there was a viper at work to mar their beautiful vision.

quiet as thine. But oh! it is cold;" and his teeth chattered as he spoke. It was at this instant, that I entered. I had heard that there was a sick

stranger in the house, and had come to see him, | limbs now tottered under him; and instead of the but how much was I shocked and surprised when hale hearty man of fifty, that he had been, he became prematurely old, and seemed sinking rapidly into the grave.

I beheld Henry Fitz-Maurice-his cheek sunken and pale, his eyes red and swollen, his whole frame emaciated; and, alas! how much changed from what I had last seen him.

66

It was at this time that he received my letter, announcing the illness of his son, and informing

Henry," said I, "I am hurt to see you here him of Henry's determination never to be carried and in this state."

"It is now too late, the lot is cast, and I must die. Life had but one charm for me, and I must die. But amid all my sufferings, I did not think this would have been added to them; I did not think my Mary would have proved unfaithful."

I saw what was passing in his mind, but I was amazed at his last words.

"And why do you fancy Mary unfaithful," said I.
"Is she not Lord Abingdon's bride ?"
"No."

"Then his paramour," cried he bitterly.

home, till he had received from his father overtures to a reconciliation. Sir Thomas, ill as he himself was, ordered his carriage, and taking his physician with him, set off for Mexington, the village where his son was lying.

"My poor son!—pardon me, my son. Your father asks forgiveness of you, my son, for it is his cruelty that has brought you to your death-bed." "Speak not thus, my father, it is I that should ask forgiveness of you. Give me your blessing, and I die happy.”

"The blessing of an old man, your father, be on you. I have killed you; may all your sins be on my head."

66

No, you wrong her; she is still faithful to you; though she is almost dying, never once having heard from you." Nay, speak not so; I cannot bear to hear it. "Never heard from me ?-Day after day have II leave my thanks and my gratitude for all your written to her, but no letters ever came from her." kindness to me; and now that I have obtained your "There is some mystery here," said I, for I be- blessing, let me think of death. But how pale you gan to suspect Lord Abingdon of intercepting the are-you too are ill, my father." letters; "but you must not talk longer; you must recover; your Mary is still constant-and Sir Thomas has repented of his cruelty."

"The sorrows of the old bear heavily on them; but, if youth cannot bear up under these afflictions, your aged father must expect to sink beneath them.

"It is too late-it is too late; this might have Our calamities have been grievous to both--may saved my life before, but,

"No, my dear Henry, it is not too late; you may yet be well enough to lead your bride to the altar."

we meet in a brighter world," and the old man sobbed aloud.

The physician motioned me to take Sir Thomas to his own room, saying, it might be fatal to "It cannot be--would to Heaven it were pos- both parties to continue the conversation.

sible."

Sir Thomas Fitz-Maurice was not naturally a bad man or a cruel father; but, his passions were most violent and had always the mastery over him; and, having been long in the army, his ideas of discipline and propriety were somewhat of the strictest. The intelligence conveyed by Lord Abingdon's anonymous letter enraged him at once, and the denial of the charge exasperated him still more; his passions were thus worked up to their highest pitch; and, you have seen to what results they led. But the first heat of his anger was no sooner over than he began to repent of his severity, and to wish for the return of his son. He fancied that it was only the first excitement of rage that had induced Henry to depart, not knowing the deep-rooted sensibilities of his nature that had been wounded by his father's treatment of him. Weeks passed on, but Henry did not return.

"So

meek-so forgiving," soliloquized Sir T., as he entered his room, "and to die thus early-it cannot be; God will have mercy on him and me. He will spare my son; for it is I that have caused his death."

The old man fell back on his bed, and exhausted nature sought repose.

Again it was evening; such an evening as the poet delights to fancy, and the painter to realize on his canvass. The sun had just hid his golden orb behind the blue mountains; but, the feathery clouds were still tinged with all his setting glory-the deep purple of one part of the heavens melted away into the delicate blue, that hung its veil over another orange and violet; in fine, all the colors of the rainbow mingled their beauties to adorn this fairy sky. It was at this calm and pleasing hour, that Henry, leaning on my arm, strolled for the first time, beyond the precincts of the garden. He felt better Months passed away-Sir Thomas thought no than he had been-the evening was warm; the more of his eldest son who was abroad, but he gentle breeze fanned his fevered cheek; and he thought much and silently of his Henry-he thought fancied it was good for him to inhale the fresh air of the son he had lost, and vainly endeavored to at such a time. conceal the grief that was consuming him. His

"How beautiful are nature's works," said he;