THERE are various circumstances and situations of which we are feelingly conscious, without being acquainted with their precise nature. Life itself is a state of this kind. The expression denotes one of the general notions produced in our minds by certain phænomena which proceed in orderly succession, and are connected by mutual relations. Some have maintained, that life principally consists in a spirit of resistance to those laws which regulate inanimate matter. For instance, the action of the air, of moisture, heat, and other external agents, would have, upon animals, the same ill effect which they exercise upon inert or dead matter, if a superior power did not operate, for a time at least, as an effectual check. This power may be termed the vital principle; but, although it is easily discerned when present in any object, it cannot be defined with perfect accuracy. It has received from philosophers a variety of appellations, some of which are not strictly applicable to it. Omitting the particular notice of these denominations, we proceed to observe, that this force, which holds together the component parts of a living body, in spite of the external powers which tend to separate

VOL. X.

them, does not merely confine its influence to this result, but extends its operation even beyond the limits of the body itself.

The resistance to which we allude appears, indeed, to constitute the essence of vitality. Without it, life would not exist, and it continues uninterrupted to the moment of death. While it is active and efficient, how wonderful is the difference between this and the state which results from the necessity of yielding, at one time or another, to the external force of natural agents! Between good health and illness, how striking is the dissimilitude! But, between life and death, it is far greater. Let us exemplify the latter remark. Let us survey the person of a healthful female in the vigor of youth and the bloom of beauty. Let us admire her fine form, her graceful motions, her cheeks glowing with the roses of pleasure, her eyes sparkling with the inspirations of the mind or the emotions of the heart, her countenance enlivened by the sallies of wit or animated by the fire of the passions; and we shall readily allow that the object is most attractive and enchanting. A very short period is sufficient to destroy these delightful appearances. Sensation and motion often cease suddenly, without any obvious cause: the muscles, losing their plumpness,

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shrink so as to expose the angular projections of the bones; the eyes become dull and lustreless; the cheeks and lips assume a livid hue. More unpleasant changes follow; the flesh, imbibing the moisture of the atmosphere, exhibits symptoms of incipient putrescency; and death closes the worldly and sublunary scene.

But, although living creatures are thus in a state of warfare with the surrounding agents of nature, health is the regular state of each before the approach of old age. Disease, however frequent it may be, is an anomaly, and an exception from the general rule. As the members of the "church militant" fight against temptation and sin, the people, considered in their ordinary characters and natural capacities, contend manfully against the encroachments of morbid visitation.

Life, we may also observe, consists of the common motion of all parts of the frame. This position will be admitted by those who consider that parts separated from a living body immediately die, because they have no power of motion within themselves, and (before they were detached) only participated in the general motion produced by the assemblage. Thus, the particular mode of existence of any part of a living body arises not from itself, but from the whole.

With an exception of the first instance, when it emanated from an immediate act of Omnipotence, life has been produced only from life; the powers of living bodies have had their origin in those of the parents, and the transmission of the vital impulse has been uninterrupted. An origin by generation, a growth by nutrition, and a dissolution of the frame by death, are the general characters common to mankind. The most remarkable functions and accompaniments of the human body are the mental and animal sensations and voluntary motion, and these exert the greatest influence over the rest. They seem to be necessarily connected with each other, for the idea of spontaneous motion includes that of sensation, since volition cannot be conceived without desire, or without a feeling of pleasure or of pain. We must have a motive for our movements: for instance, we willingly approach agreeable things and fly from disagreeable ones.

The vital functions may be divided into three orders. The first division

may properly comprehend those which we have just mentioned; to the second those functions belong which contribute to the nourishment of the individual; and to the third we may assign the means of continuing the species.

While the mind or the sense determines our will in the choice of actions, the capability of moving enables us to execute these actions. The organs of motion are like wheels and levers, while the active principle, the spring which impels all, resides only in the sensitive faculty, without which animal existence would be little better than a state of torpor.

That the mind is essentially connected with the brain, there is no doubt. If the brain be injured, the mental operations are suspended either wholly or in part; and, if the state of the nerves be impaired, the brain in some degree suffers. Yet, amidst such injuries, the whole process of nutrition is still continued, and organic life is still preserved.

When sensible impressions are made on any of our organs, they are conveyed by the nerves to the brain; and, though the mind may be so far influenced as to refer the rising sensation immediately to the particular organ, the brain is properly its seat. This appears from the act of cutting or tying a nerve, in which case the usual impression occasions no perception.

A supposed central point, to which all sensations are carried, and from which all motions emanate, is called the sensorium, and is regarded as the seat of the soul. This has been placed in different parts by various philosophers; but the opinions of some of these inquirers have been refuted by the fact, that several imagined seats of the mind or soul have been diseased and even destroyed without any deterioration of the mental faculties. After all the investigation which the subject has received, it seems to be a fair conclusion that the brain is the true

sensorium. In this case, physiology and philosophy concur with the vulgar opinion.

In adverting to the second division, we may take notice of six functions, which are thus denominated ;-digestion, absorption, circulation, respiration, secretion, and nutrition. The first extracts from food those parts which are most calculated for nourishment; the second carries the chyle, or the essence of food, into the circulating fluid; the third

conveys it to all the organs; the fourth combines it with the oxygen of the atmosphere; the fifth makes it undergo various modifications; and the sixth completes its application to the purposes of growth and constitutional repair. These processes are so requisite for the preservation of life, that they are continued even during sleep, though not all with equal

energy.

In performing the various actions of a living creature, a loss is sustained, and an insensible waste occurs, which nothing but food will supply. Hunger and thirst daily, if not hourly, admonish us of the wants of our frame, and the pleasures of the palate are an equally strong inducement to the procuring and taking of such substances and liquors as tend to animal subsistence. The cause of hunger has been referred by some to the mutual attrition of the ruga or wrinkles of the empty stomach; by others to the irrit ation produced by the gastric juice; but we may perhaps more justly derive it from a sympathy between the stomach and the body at large. Thirst consists in a troublesome dryness of the throat, and in an irritation of that part from the mixture of acrid and more particularly of saline matters with the food. The ne cessity of obeying both these calls may be supposed to vary according to the age, constitution, and habits of individuals; but we may observe, in general, that even a healthy adult cannot abstain from food for a whole day without being considerably weakened, and this abstinence cannot be continued to the eighth day without extreme danger of death.. Hunger is more speedily fatal in proportion to the youth and strength of the individual, probably because more nourishment is required to keep up the strength of a robust man than to support a feeble one. Thus the wretched father, whose dreadful history is immortalised by Dante, immured with his four sons in a dungeon, perished last, on the eighth day of confinement, after witnessing the death of his children.

It has been disputed whether man be naturally a carnivorous or herbivorous animal. The truth is, that he is neither simply one nor the other, but is rather disposed to be omnivorous. As he can dwell in every climate, he makes use, in different situations, of every variety of alimentary matter, furnished by the animal and vegetable kingdoms.

Throwing a veil over the vital functions

of the third order, however useful and important they may be, we shall conclude with some remarks of a more general nature, not inapplicable to our subject. An ancient poet said, that misery was the common lot of mankind : but, although life is not accompanied with unmixed good or productive of perfect happiness, it is still a desirable state. By diligence and industry we may procure the ordinary comforts of life; we may promote health by regularity of living, by temperance and exercise; we may compose and tranquillise our minds by a sense of piety and virtue; and the rich, in particular, by a proper use of their superior advantages, may make a neighbourhood smile around them, and thus gratify those benevolent feelings which every social being ought to possess.

THE LAST OF THE PLANTAGENETS.

THIS noble and royal family, deriving its origin from the Martels of France, borrowed its new designation from the trifling circumstance of wearing a sprig of broom on the helmet. This was the device of Geoffrey count of Anjou, whose son Henry the Second was one of the best of our sovereigns. The last legitimate male Plantagenet was the earl of Warwick, who fell a victim to the jealous cruelty of the seventh Henry. The last illegitimate individual of the family was a reputed son of Richard the Third; and it is his traditional history that forms the ground-work of the present romance. It appears that he acted for some years as a common builder, and was employed in that capacity by Sir Thomas Moyle, of Eastwell-place in Kent, who bestowed upon him a cottage for his residence.

The story commences with the appear. ance of young Richard in a monastery. Called from his seclusion by a mandate from the king, he hastens to the field of Bosworth, and witnesses the memorable battle. On the defeat of his father, his senses forsake him, and, when he recovers them, he finds himself under the care of a Jew and Jewess, who had humanely rescued him from his perilous situation. Fresh dangers beset his path; but, from the insurrection of lord Lovel, he conceives hopes of better fortune, and seems even to aspire to the throne, having been assured by his father, that he was born in wedlock, though the marriage of his

mother was clandestine. His prospects are clouded by the defeat of Lovel, to whose place of refuge he is conducted by the friendly Jew. The journey and the interview are thus described in a style resembling that which prevailed under the sway of the Tudors."The night was chill with wind and shower, and full dark and murky, because the moon, then far in her wane, had not yet arisen; which, as methought, did well image out the sudden and unlooked-for blight that had fallen upon the cause and followers of the house of York. We journeyed across divers fields, wild and pathless, often making our way through hedges which seemed as if lately broken, as though the Jew had meant, by this rugged and uncertain road, the better to guard the safety of him whose life was now in his keeping. At length we turned into a deep and narrow lane, leading downwards with a very steep descent, cut or worn through lofty banks, overhung by ancient trees, between which the night winds sighed with a mournful sound. From the chillness of the air in this place, methought it led to some broad water, the noise whereof I presently heard; concerning which I inquired of my conductor, who told me that we were now upon the banks of the Trent river, near Fiskerton-ferry, and the hiding-place of him whom we came to seek. He added, that of all the sad sights which I had ever looked upon, this which he was about to show to me was the saddest. Thou hast seen,' said he, 'greatness in sorrow and royalty in death; but it now remaineth for thee to behold a proud noble and stout soldier in the dark days of his life, and, like the prophet Jonah, a living man plunged into the belly of the grave.' As he spake, we approached unto the river, where a little ferry-boat was lying fastened to the shore. When we had passed over, and again chained the rude barque unto the bank, we landed in another deep and narrow way like unto that we had quitted, along which having passed for some time in silence, Israel suddenly turned aside into a hollow still more strait and steep, seeming but like a water-course, worn by the wintry rains when they rush downwards from the high banks unto the river. When we had entered it, which we did singly because of its extreme narrowness, I saw a faint spark of light as of a glow-worm, seeming to be upon the grass beneath me, though as we

continued to descend it grew larger, and flickered upon the wet leaves which hung all around us. Then the Jew, silently sliding himself down into an opening which I now first noted, beckoned unto me to do the like; whereupon I cautiously followed him, though not with care enow, since, my feet slipping from me on the wet weeds, I fell to the bottom thereof at once. He turned toward me to reprove my rash haste; but, finding me prostrate, said nought until he had aided me to rise, when in a low voice he pointed out to me one seemingly much wounded, in rich, though tattered raiment, sitting in a dreary cave by a little fire, having his arms folded and his wan sad visage turned upward, as if resigned to and awaiting the stroke of death. As I gazed upon this solemn sight, I shuddered and drew in my breath with dread and horror, whilst the Jew, to cause me at once to know him on whom I then looked, as well as to notify our presence unto the sad inhabitant of the cave, exclaimed in a hollow tone, Son of king Richard, behold the hapless but good lord Lovel!'-Upon hearing his voice the fallen noble started to his feet, and, seeming to grasp some weapon which lay near him, cried out, Ha! discovered at last! then will I not die alone!' but, as he looked earnestly toward those who had so suddenly broken in upon his hiding-place, he recognised the features of the Hebrew, and continued, What, my faithful Israel, is it thou? then have I nought to fear, though from your sudden and silent coming I had half deemed that ye were foes, and that the hour of Lovel's death was indeed at hand, since the bloodhounds of Lancaster had tracked him to his den.'-Nay, my good lord,' answered the Hebrew,' be such evil far from thee; thy servant came hither but to perform the promise which erewhile he made, to return before day-break, and bring with him the youth whom it was your pleasure to see, the son of a royal Plantagenet!'

"Then did the good lord Lovel receive me with much gladness, and, as he grasp ed my hand with kindly pressure, I felt a warm tear fall upon it from his sorrowful and aged eyes. In sooth, the moment was full sad; yet was it sweet unto me to find myself thus greeted by one who ever stood high in the favor of king Richard, being his most noble friend and valiant follower. I can now remember nothing as to the manner wherein I did accost the

lord Lovel, or give him thanks for his courtesy unto me; yet is it of little import, since I have ever found in all passages of my life, that, when the heart hath been most full, the wit hath been fettered in thought, and the speech enchained in utterance: and that oftentimes, when my mind hath been most eloquent, my tongue and words have rested perversely mute. Howbeit, though such I dare well say was the truth at this time, yet did the hapless noble gladly overpass the lack of court esy, joying on any terms to meet with a true relique of the house of York."

The alarm of a burning palace, and the hero's escape from a soldier who wished to betray him, are described with the spirit which the writer of an old chronicle would have displayed.-While a convent bell was sounding for divine service, "the slow and heavy toll was changed into a loud and hurried note of alarm, and the stillness of that silent spot was broken by loud and repeated shouts of Fire in the king's lodgings!' Very

narrow was the space from the lofty window of my chamber; yet, as I watched at it, I did at length behold how the devouring element came fiercely on, triumphing over state-chamber and gallery, as they were spread out both above and beneath the turret wherein I was prisoned, whereunto it was quickly approach ing. At length the blaze from beneath mounted upward unto my window, and was borne inward by the night-blast with divers pieces of burning timber, the like being also cast upon the roof of my tower, which I deemed would forthwith set fire unto the rafters thereof; for it seemed to have been ordained that the last of the Plantagenets should have somewhat of a royal death, by perishing in the flames of a burning palace!

“The great and sudden hazard wherein this mischance placed me, caused me to call loudly upon my keeper, who lodged in a chamber adjoining unto mine own; but no answer came, even though I repeated my call still more loudly. I then shook my door, and, much to mine amaze, found it unfastened; whereupon, passing into the keeper's room, I saw that it was empty and the door thereof left open, as if he had hastily quitted it. Well I ween, that the desire of escape and the hope of liberty did now glance brightly over my mind; but anon I thought upon the many doubts attending the same; as finding my way unchal

lenged through the winding passage and many chambers of the palace, and then avoiding pursuit either by land or water, which seemed unto me almost impossible. Howbeit, I resolved at all hazards to make the essay, and, musing on my course, passed through a portal in my prison-turret, which presently brought me upon certain leads above the chambers that were on fire. Whilst I was searching around me for another way from that place, much doubting how to proceed, I felt one forcibly grasp mine arm, and say, in a low and rude voice, "Ah! this is well, master Plantagenet; we meet in good hour for both of us, though perchance somewhat inopportunely in stopping your course hence.'Had my keeper been in his own place,' was mine answer, I had not been here, and even now I left not my chamber until 'twas too hot to lodge longer in, as you may behold, nor until I had more than once vainly summoned the gaoler. The door opened beneath my grasp as I shook it; I wandered here -And would eftsoons have strayed out yonder,' interrupted the soldier, whom I saw by the light of the flames to be no other than the fierce and fraudful Bernard Schalken, looking upon me with a visage of much scoffing and violence; 'howbeit, 'tis not unto me that thou must answer for thy purposed escape. Nay, farther, only reply straightly and truly to that which I demand, and I will aid thee far better than thou canst aid thyself. But mark me, this is our last meeting, I owe you now a shrewd turn for making me known at Bermondsey, and, by the Maker of us both, I will now have either my will of thee or my revenge!'-'Thy revenge!' exclaimed I in a fearless voice, and for what? since in nought was I ever thine enemy, albeit thou hast proved thyself to be such both unto me and many others, being altogether void of good faith. But deem me not still a stripling, Bernard; I fear thee not; and neither thy will nor thy revenge-aiding mine escape, or ensuring my present death-shall cause me to do aught of dishonor to secure or to avoid them.''Think better of it, comrade,' thereunto answered Bernard in a scoffing and malicious voice, and 'twill be for your most 'vantage, I promise thee. But, to be as bold and brief as thyself, thus stands my desire. In the reign of thy father I was a soldier in his guard, and after became the follower of Sir James