with the same delight that they burn a piece of paper in the fire. Without pain, we could not proportion our actions to the strength of our frame, or our exertions to its powers of endurance. In the impetuosity of youth we should strike blows that would crush our hands, and break our arms; we should take leaps that would dislocate our limbs; and no longer taught by fatigue that the muscles needed repose, we should continue our sports and our walking tours till we had worn out the living tissue, with the same unconsciousness that we now wear out our coats and our shoes. to the fact. The surgeon," he adds," who makes use of the knife, informs the patient that the worst is over when the skin is passed; and if, in the progress of the operation, it is found necessary to extend the outer incision, the return to the skin proves far more trying than the original cut, from the contrast which it presents to the comparative insensibility of the interior. The muscle is protected not by its own tenderness, which is by no means acute, but by the tenderness of its superficial covering, "which affords," says Sir Charles, 66 a more effectual defense than if our bodies were clothed with the THE BRAIN FEELS NO WOUND. THE brain, again, is inclosed in a bony case. The very nutriment which is the sup-hide of a rhinoceros." port of life would frequently prove our death. Mirabeau said of a man who was as idle as he was corpulent, that his only use was to show how far the skin would stretch without bursting. Without pain this limit would be constantly exceeded, and epicures, experiencing no uneasy sensations, would continue their festivities until they met with the fate of the frog in the fable, who was ambitious of emulating the size of the ox. Sir Charles Bell mentions the case of a patient who had lost the sense of heat in his right hand, and who, unconscious that the cover of a pan which had fallen into the fire was burning hot, took it out and deliberately returned it to its proper place, to the destruction of the skin of the palm and fingers. This of itself would be an accident of incessant occurrence, if the monitor were wanting which makes us drop such materials more hastily than we pick them up. Pain is the grand preserver of existence, the sleepless sentinel that watches over our safety, and makes us both start away from the injury that is present, and guard against it carefully in the time to come. THE SKIN IS A SENTINEL. THE skin is the advanced guard through which every injury to the other parts must make its way. The skin, therefore, required to be the seat of a peculiar sensibility, both for its own security and to impel us to flinch from the violence which would hurt the flesh beneath. Forming our notions of pain from what we feel at the surface, we imbibe the idea that the deeper the wound the more severe would be the suffering; "but this," says Sir Charles Bellis delusive, and contrary All our bodily sensations are dependent upon the nerves, but even the nerves do not give rise to feeling, unless they are in connection with the brain. The nervous chord which, in familiar language, is called the spinal marrow, is the channel by which this communication is kept up as to the major part of them, and when a section of what may be termed the great trunk-road for the conveyance of our sensations is diseased, and by the breach in its continuity the nerves below the disordered part can no longer send their accustomed intelligence to the brain, the portion of the body which thus becomes isolated may be burned or hacked, and no more pain will result than if it belonged to a dead carcass instead of to a living man. The brain, therefore, in subordination to the mind, is the physical center of all sensation. Yet, strange to say, it is itself insensible to the wounds which are torture to the skin, and which wounds the brain alone enables us to feel. "It is as 66 insensible," says Sir Charles Bell, as the leather of our shoe, and a piece may be cut off without interrupting the patient in the sentence he is uttering." Because the bone which envelops it is its protection against injuries from without, it has no perception of them when directed against its own fabric, though it is, at the same time, the sole source of the pain which those injuries inflict upon the other portions of the system. But the skull is no defense against the effects of intemperance, or a vitiated atmosphere, or too great mental toil. To these, consequently, the same brain which has been created insensible to the cut of the knife, is rendered fully alive, and giddiness, headaches, and apoplectic oppression, give ample notice to us to stop the evil, unless we are prepared to pay the penalty. CURIOUS INGENUITY OF THE THROAT. PALEY applauds the contrivance by which everything we eat and drink is made to glide, on its road to the gullet, over the entrance of the windpipe, without falling into it. A little movable lid, the epiglottis, which is lifted up when we breathe, is pressed down upon the chink of the air passage by the weight of the food, and the action of the muscles in swallowing it. Neither solids nor liquids, in short, can pass without shutting down the trap-door as they proceed. But this is only a part of the safeguard. The slit at the top of the windpipe, which never closes entirely while we breathe, is endued with an acute sensibility to the slightest particle of matter. The least thing which touches the margin of the aperture, causes its sides to come firmly together, and the intruding body is stopped at the inlet. It is stopped, but, unless removed, must drop at the next inspiration, into the lungs. To effect its expulsion, the sensibility of the rim at the top of the windpipe actually puts into vehement action a whole class of muscles placed lower than its bottom, which, compressing the chest over which they are distributed, drives out the air with a force that sweeps the offending substance before it. The convulsive coughing which arises when we are choked, is the energetic effort of nature for our relief when anything chances to have evaded the protective epiglottis. Yet this property, to which we are constantly owing our lives, is confined to a single spot in the throat. It does not, as Sir Charles Bell affirms, belong to the rest of the windpipe, but it is limited to the orifice, where alone it is needed. Admirable, too, it is to observe, that, while thus sensitive to the most insignificant atom, it bears, without resentment, the atmospheric currents which are incessantly passing to and fro over its irritable lips. "It rejects," says Paley," the touch of a crumb of bread, or a drop of water, with a spasm which convulses the whole frame; yet, left to itself and its proper office, the intromission of air alone, nothing can be so quiet. "It does not even make itself felt; a man does not know that he has a trachea. This capacity of perceiving with such acuteness, this impatience of offense, yet perfect rest and ease when let alone, are properties, one would have thought, not likely to reside in the same subject. It is to the junction, however, of these almost inconsistent qualities, in this, as well as in some other delicate parts of the body, that we owe our safety and our comfort-our safety to their sensibibility, our comfort to their repose." INSECTS SUFFER LESS THAN WE. It is wisely arranged by a beneficent Providence, that, as their exposure to injuries are greater, they should be less sensitive: A leech, whose anatomy is of the same class with that of the worm, may be divided in the middle while it is sucking blood, and be so little disturbed by the operation, that it will continue feeding for several minutes. Nay, there is a vulgar, though, we believe, an unfounded notion, that half a leech is better than a whole one. The blood which goes in at one end finding an outlet at the other, the animal is not gorged, and the common people fancy that a divided leach will, in consequence, do the duty of a dozen. They have, at least, sufficient faith in the theory to reduce it to practice, the economy being the motive. Insects stand higher in the scale of animated beings, but they are heedless of casualties which would be death or torture to man. “The dragon fly," says Professor Owen, "may be regarded, from the size and perfection of its organs of vision, and its great enduring powers of flight and predatory habits, as the eagle of insects. He speaks of its head as being covered by two enormous convex masses of eyes, numbering upward of twelve thousand in each mass. He states that the swallow cannot match it in its aerial course, and that it not only outstrips its swift and nimble feathered pursuer, but can do more in the air than any bird-can fly backward and sidelong, to right or left, and alter its course on the instant without turning. He described its brain as being in keeping with the rest of its prerogatives, and having a larger development than in any other insect. Yet we learn from the "Entomology" of Kirby and Spence, that when the tail of one of these beautiful creatures was directed to its mouth, to see whether its known voracity would induce it to bite itself, it actually devoured the four terminal segments of its body. When it had proceeded thus far in the work of self-demolition, it escaped by accident, and flew away as briskly as if nothing had happened. Whatever may have been the pain, it was at least subordinate to appetite, and apparently the animal had not the slightest suspicion that every mouthful was bitten from its own living flesh. It cannot surprise us, after this, to be told that many an insect which has been impaled by the scientific collector, will eat with as much avidity as when free and unhurt. Mr. Hope informed Mr. Rowell that once he had a carnivorous beetle which got loose, and in spite of the pin through its body, it wandered quietly about, and devoured all the other specimens in the case. "The cockchafer," says Kirby and Spence, "will walk away with apparent indifference, after some bird has nearly emptied its body of its viscera; and an humble-bee will eat honey with greediness, though deprived of its abdomen." THE SLAUGHTER WHICH DAILY WHEN we ride we sit upon the skin of the pig; when we walk we tread upon the skin of the bullock; we wear the skin of the kid upon our hands, and the fleece of the sheep upon our backs. More than half the world are human beings in sheep's clothing. We eat the flesh of some creatures, of some we drink the milk, upon others we are dependent for the cultivation of the soil; and if it is a pain to us to suffer hunger and cold, we should be scrupulous to avoid inflicting wanton misery upon the animals by means of which we are warmed and fed. CULTIVATION OF MERCY AND GOOD ANOTHER Source of cruelty is temper. When it is remembered what a vast sum of misery temper causes in the world; how many homes are darkened, and how many hearts are saddened by it; when we consider that its persecutions have not even the purifying consequences of most other calamities, inasmuch as its effects upon its innocent victims are rather cankerous than medicinal; when we call to mind that a bright face and a bright disposition are like sunshine in a house, and a gloomy lowering countenance as depressing as an arctic night, we must acknowledge that temper itself is only another form of cruelty, and a very bad form too. But it also prompts a vast deal of the cruelty which is ordinarily called by that name. A good groom, says Bishop Berkely, will rather stroke than strike. An ill-tempered man commonly strikes instead of strokes. The enormities which have been perpetrated upon animals in fits of rage are past counting up. How have dogs been lashed and kicked, how have beasts of burden been whipped and spurred, how have sheep and oxen been goaded till their sides ran down with gore. Often the provocation was only that the beast did not display more intelligence and endurance than had been given it by God; that, knowing no better, it had made some slight mistake; that, weary and foot-sore, it did not manifest the same speed and spirit as when fresh and untraveled; often only that it had the misfortune to have a drunken master. There are people, indeed, who will plead passion as an apology for their violence; but one vice can never extenuate another, and it will not atone for our cruelty that it had ill-temper for its parent. He who reflects upon his own mistakes and misdoings, will excuse the fault of a dumb creature that has not his reason to direct it, and will learn patience, if only in pity to himself. Man is worse than the most venomous reptiles, or the most savage beast, if he maltreats the creatures which serve his needs, since no beast is under equal obligations to the animal world. DEATH IS NOT PAINFUL. THE placid feelings which accompany natural death are known from the evidence of multitudes, who have testified to their ease with their latest breath. The very pleasurable feelings which accompany drowning and hanging have been recorded by numbers who have been recovered after consciousness had ceased. Death from cold we should suppose to be one of the worst forms in which the king of terrors could approach; but instead of the frosty horrors we picture, the victim finds himself rocked at last into a soothing slumber. "I had treated," says Dr. Kane, in his Arctic Explorations, "the sleepy comfort of freezing as something like the embellishment of romance. I had evidence, now, to the contrary. Two of our stoutest men came to me, begging permission to sleep; they were not cold; the wind did not enter them now; a little sleep was all they wanted."" From this sleep, if they had been allowed to indulge in it, they would never have waked. The pain was not in dying, but in the effort to avoid it; the descent to the grave was easy and grateful; all the resolution was required to keep the steep and toilsome road which led back to life. THE BIOGRAPHY OF THE BIBLE. How JACOB-HIS EARLIER LIFE. OW dreadful is this place! This is none other but the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven! Such was Jacob's exclamation at Bethel, formerly called Luz, the site of a city about eight miles north of Jerusalem. The exclamation was called forth by a remarkable dream, a wonderful vision with which God favored him; and here it is proper to meet a question which has often occurred to readers of the sacred volume. That question is, Why was it that, in the olden time, the Supreme Being took so many strange methods of making known his will to the children of men? We hear nothing now of angelic visits, of revelations in visions of the night, of God's audible voice from heaven, as it fell repeatedly upon the ears of patriarchs and prophets. And why not? The answer is easy. Why do we not see the stars when the sun shines at noon-day? In those early ages the Sun of righteousness had not risen on our world. There was no revealed record of God's will-no Bible. But now we have the full-orbed splendors of his own revealed truth; and, for those who seek to know and do their duty, there is no need of special visitations from on high. In the world's twilight it was vastly different, and God spoke unto the children of men, as in the case before us, in dreams and visions of the night. Jacob, it is said, saw a ladder set upon the earth, and the top of it reached to heaven, and behold the angels of God ascending and descending upon it; and the Lord stood above it and said, I am the Lord God of Abraham thy father, and the God of Isaac. The event is memorable not only on account of this remarkable vision, but also, and especially, for the vow there made by Jacob, that henceforth the Lord should be his God. From that hour a remarkable change was wrought in his character. is altered. He becomes a new creature, and thenceforth his name is associated with those of his father and his grandfather, and Jehovah styles himself the God of Jacob, as well as the God of Abraham, and the God of Isaac. Let us briefly trace his history down to the incident here referred to. His whole course of conduct He was born, according to the commonly received chronology, in the year from the creation, 2168. He was, as stated in a preceding essay, the favorite of his mother, while his father was more partial to his brother Esau. The difference in the character of these two brothers is discernible from their infancy. Esau was a hunter; bold, rash, and impetuous. Jacob was a shepherd; cool, crafty, and industrious. Of the two, until grace changed the heart of the younger, I rather prefer the character of Esau. There is an air of rough frankness about him that is certainly preferable to the sly cunning of Jacob. An incident that took place when they had grown up to manhood, affords an illustration of their peculiar dispositions. Esau had been out, probably on a hunting excursion, and returned faint and weary. His brother Jacob had been preparing savory food, pottage as it is called, and Esau, seeing it, requested as a favor a small portion to appease his hunger. I will give it thee, says Jacob, on one condition. Sell me this day thy birthright; that is, the right which belongs to thee as the firstborn. This right included several important privileges, among which may be enumerated a double portion of the paternal property; and the priestly office, which, previous to the setting apart of one tribe for that purpose, devolved upon the firstborn, or eldest son. request, an unbrotherly proposal, and is not of course recorded for imitation. And Esau said, Behold, I am at the point to "Twas an ungenerous die and what profit shall this birthright do to me? That is, not that he feared immediate death from starvation, for there was doubtless other food in the tent of his father; but as if he had said, I am daily | exposed to die, liable at any moment to be cut off, in consequence of my precarious mode of life, and at best have but a short time to live. Give me therefore the pottage and take the birthright. And Jacob, with characteristic caution, required of his brother an oath. Swear to me, said he, this day; and he swore unto him, and he sold his birthright unto Jacob. To this act the apostle Paul evidently alludes when he applies to Esau the epithet profane. Lest there be among you, says he, any profane person, like Esau, who for one morsel of meat sold his birthright, for ye know how that afterward, when he would have inherited the blessing, he was rejected: for he found no place of repentance, though he sought it carefully with tears. A profane person, says Bush, is one who treats sacred things with irreligious contempt. Esau is so termed because he practically despised and undervalued those inestimable spiritual privileges and blessings secured in the birthright. Had he disregarded only temporal benefits, he had been guilty indeed of egregious folly, but it would not have amounted to profaneness. But now, by one rash act, prompted by the urgency of a fleshly appetite, he voluntarily renounced, and forfeited for himself and his posterity, all the precious prerogatives which flowed down in the line of the covenant, and which ought to have been dearer to him than life itself. It was, as I have said, unkind in Jacob to take this advantage of his brother; he had seen, probably, the little value that Esau placed upon the spiritual blessings pertaining to the birthright, and was therefore induced to offer in exchange for it so trifling a thing as a mess of pottage. It was like that spirit which too generally prevails among men at the present day, a desire to get good bargains; to sell dear, to buy cheap; and to take advantage of the wants and necessities of our fellow-men. The conduct of Jacob forms, however, no excuse for that of Esau, who appears not to have regretted his folly. After eating and drinking, he went his way as if perfectly satisfied with his bargain. Many are there who are ready to con- demn the foolish conduct of Esau, who nevertheless imitate his example, and act even worse than he did. The gratification of their desires must be had, at any price. Spiritual privileges are parted with for even less than a mess of pottage. Esau sold his privileges for a momentary gratification of his appetite; these for the same thing barter their hopes of heaven; he parted with his birthright for a trifle; for just such trifles they sell their souls. Charity, indeed, may find some palliation for Esau's conduct; he may have been to some extent ignorant of the value of his birthright; but for us there is no such excuse. We know full well the destiny of the soul, the cost of its redemption, the glory of its inheritance; and there is an hour coming when Esau's sale of his birthright will appear a matter of very little moment, compared with daily barterings of which our world is full, and which prompted Christ to ask the fearful questions: What is a man profited if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? or what shall a man give in exchange for his soul? The next prominent event in the life of Esau is his marriage with two Canaanitish women, by which the peace of the family was disturbed; for, says Moses, they were a grief of mind unto Isaac and Rebecca; and the Jerusalem Targum attributes to them, with great probability, the positive practice of idolatry. Esau, nevertheless, seems still to have been the father's favorite, for Isaac being now an old man, and his eyesight having failed him, so that he could not see, he called Esau, and said: Behold, now, I am old, I know not the day of my death. An expression indicating that he expected soon to die, although his life was prolonged upward of forty years after this event. I am probably near my end, and shall soon be taken away. Now therefore take, I pray thee, thy weapons, thy quiver and thy bow, and go out to the field, and take me some venison; and make me savory meat, such as I love, and bring it to me that I may eat, that my soul may bless thee before I die. His design evidently was to confer upon his favorite the right of primogeniture, the blessing which he had himself voluntarily relinquished to his younger brother. Isaac's reason for sending him in the first place to take venison and prepare him savory food, is not obvious, but the sug |