Chapter XLVI: A domestic picture is given, an interior, with the (8)

Examples of great longevity are frequent in Russia. According to an official report, there were, in 1828, in the empire, 828 centenarians, of whom forty had exceeded 120 years; fifteen, 130; nine, 136; and three, 138 years. In the government of Moscow there died, in 1830, a man aged 150. In the government of Kieff, an old soldier died in 1844, at the age of 153. There lately died on an estate in the government of Viatka, a peasant named Michael Kniawelkis, who had attained the age of 137 years, 10 months, and 11 days. He was born in a village of the same district, married at the age of 19, and had had, by several wives, 32 children, one of whom, a daughter, is still living, at the age of 100. He never had any serious illness; some years before his death he complained that he could not read without glasses, but to the last day he retained the use of all his faculties, and was very cheerful. He frequently said that he thought death had forgotten him.

In China, on the contrary, such instances are rare. From a census made a few years ago, we learn that out of a population of 369,000,000 there were but four centenarians.

According to the census of the United States, taken in 1830, there were 2,556 persons a hundred years old, or upwards. The census of 1850 exhibits nearly the same number. This gives one centenarian to a population of 9,000. From this census we also learn that the oldest person then living in the United States was 140. This was an Indian woman residing in North Carolina. In the same State was an Indian aged 125, a negro woman 111, two black slaves 110 each, one mulatto male 120, and several white males and females from 106 to 114. In the parish of Lafayette, La., was a female, black, aged 120. In several of the States there were found persons, white and black, aged from 110 to 115.

There is now living in Murray county, Georgia, on the waters of Holy Creek, a Revolutionary veteran, who has attained the age of 135. His name is John Hames. He is known throughout the region in which he lives by the appellative, “Gran’sir Hames.” He was born in Mecklenburg county, Virginia, and was a lad 10 years old when Washington was in his cradle. He was 32 when Braddock met his disastrous defeat on the Monongahela. He, with a number of his neighbors, set forth to join the ill-fated commander, but after several days’ march were turned back by the news of his overthrow. He migrated to South Carolina nearly 100 years ago. He was in thirteen considerable conflicts during the war of Independence, and in skirmishes and encounters with Indians, with tories, and with British, times beyond memory. He was with Gates at Camden, with Morgan at Cowpens, with Green at Hillsboro’ and Eutaw, and with Marion in many a bold rush into a tory camp or redcoat quarters.

At the time of the Eighth Census there were about 20,000 persons in the United States who were living when the Declaration of Independence was signed in 1776. They must necessarily have been more than eighty years old, in order to have lived at that time. The French Census of 1851 shows only 102 persons over 100 years old,—though the total population was nearly 36,000,000. Old age is therefore attained among us much more frequently than in France.

At Cordova, in South America, in the year of 1780, a judicial inquiry was instituted by the authorities to determine the age of a negress by the name of Louisa Truxo. She testified that she perfectly remembered Fernando Truxo, the bishop, who gave her as his contribution toward a university fund: he died in 1614. Another negress, who was known to be 120, testified that Louisa was an elderly woman when she was a child. On this evidence the authorities of Cordova concluded that Louisa was, as she asserted, 175 years old.

Two cases are recorded by Mr. Bailey, in his _Annals of Longevity_, which throw all these into the shade; but the evidence furnished is inadequate and unsatisfactory. One is that of an Englishman, Thomas Cam, whom the parish register of Shoreditch affirms to have died in 1588, at the age of 207, having paid allegiance to twelve monarchs. The other is that of a Russian,—name not given,—whom the St. Petersburg Gazette mentioned as having died in 1812, at an age exceeding 200.

The following in relation to Cam is copied literally from the register of burials of St. Leonard’s, Shoreditch:—

┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐ │_1588._ BURIALLES. Fol. 35.│ │ │ │ §Thomas Cam§ was buriel * e/y 22 inst. of │ │ Januarye, Aged 207 yeares. │ │ │ │ Holywell Street. │ │ Geo. Garrow, │ │Copy, Aug’st 25, 1832. Parish Clerk.│ └────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┘

In connection with the foregoing facts, it will be interesting to revert to the ages of the antediluvian patriarchs:—

Years.
Adam lived 930
Seth 912
Enos 905
Canaan 910
Mahalaleel 895
Jared 962
Enoch 365
Methuselah 969
Lamech 777
Noah, who lived before and after the Deluge, in all 950

In Willet’s _Hexapla, in Leviticum_, is the following remarkable passage:—

Ludovicus Vives (_in Aug. de Civit, Dei, lib. XV._) writeth of a town in Spain, consisting of about an hundred houses, all of them inhabited by the seed of one old man, then living; so that the youngest of them knew not what to call him: _Quia lingua Hispana supra abavum non ascendit_, because the Spanish tongue goeth no higher than the great-grandfather’s father. And Bas. Johan. Heroldus hath a pretty epigram of an aged matron that lived to see her children’s children to the sixth degree:—

^1Mater ait ^2natæ die quod ^3sua filia ^4natam
Admoneat ^5natæ plangere ^6filiolam.

The ^1Mother said, Go tell my ^2Child
That ^3her Girl should her ^4Daughter tell
She must now mourn (that lately smiled),
Her ^5Daughter’s little ^6Babe’s not well.

MEANS OF RECOGNITION.

When the English suite of Lord Macartney was invited to a grand entertainment in China, one of them, understanding that it was not expedient to venture upon every dish which appeared under the guise of the native cookery, was desirous of ascertaining how far he might venture with safety, and as the Chinese waiters could understand a little English, he pointed to a dish before him, and said to the attendant in an interrogative tone, “Quack-quack?” meaning to inquire if it was a duck. The attendant perfectly understood him, and immediately replied, with great solemnity and sincerity, “Bow-wow!”

* * * * *

Rossini once unexpectedly met his old friend Sir Henry Bishop, but having at the moment forgotten his name, after puzzling and stammering for some time, he at length took him by the hand, and sang a few bars to prove he identified him through Bishop’s beautiful song, “Blow gentle gales.”

MARRIAGE VOW.

The matrimonial ceremony, like many others, has undergone some variation in the progress of time. Upwards of three centuries ago, the husband, on taking his wife by the right hand, thus addressed her; “I, A. B., _undersygne_ thee, C. D., for my wedded wyfe, for beter, for worse, for richer, for porer, yn sekness, and in helthe, tyl dethe us departe, [not “do part,” as now erroneously rendered, _departe_ formerly meaning to _separate_,] as holy churche hath ordeyned, and thereto I plyght thee my trowthe.” The wife replied in the same form, with an additional clause, “to be buxum to thee, tyl dethe us departe.” So it appears in the first edition of the _Missals for the use of the famous and celebrated Church of Hereford_, 1502. In the _Salisbury Missal_, the lady promised “to be bonere [debonnair] and buxum in bedde and at the borde.”

COMPOSITION IN DREAMS.

Condorcet is said to have attained the conclusion of some of his most abstruse unfinished calculations in his dreams. Franklin makes a similar admission concerning some of his political projects, which in his waking moments sorely puzzled him. Herschel composed the following lines in a dream:—

“Throw thyself on thy God, nor mock him with feeble denial;
Sure of his love, and, oh! sure of his mercy at last;
Bitter and deep though the draught, yet drain thou the cup of thy trial,
And, in its healing effect, smile at the bitterness past.”

Goethe says in his _Memoirs_, “The objects which had occupied my attention during the day often reappeared at night in connected dreams. On awakening, a new composition, or a portion of one I had already commenced, presented itself to my mind.” Coleridge composed his poem of the _Abyssinian Maid_ during a dream. Cockburn says of Lord Jeffrey:—“He had a fancy that though he went to bed with his head stuffed with the names, dates, and other details of various causes, they were all in order in the morning; which he accounted for by saying that during sleep they all crystallized round their proper centres.”

FACTS ABOUT SLEEP.

Come sleep, O sleep! the certain knot of peace,
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe;
The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release,
The impartial judge between the high and low.
§Sir Philip Sidney.§

While I am asleep I have neither fear nor hope, neither trouble nor
glory, and blessings on him who invented sleep, the mantle that covers
all human thoughts; the food that appeases hunger; the drink that
quenches thirst; the fire that warms cold; the cold that moderates
heat; and lastly, the general coin that purchases all things; the
balance and weight that makes the shepherd equal to the king, and the
simple to the wise.—_Sancho Panza._

Sir Philip Sidney calls sleep “the poor man’s wealth,” and, he might have added, it is every man’s health. Men have often, according to their own notions, attempted to limit or extend the hours of sleep. Thus, the “immortal Alfred” of England divided the day into three portions of eight hours each, assigning one for refreshment and the health of the body by sleep, diet, and exercise, another for business, and the third for study and devotion. Bishop Taylor considered three hours’, and Richard Baxter four hours’, sleep sufficient for any man.

“Nature requires five,
Custom gives seven,
Laziness takes nine,
And wickedness eleven.”

The error into which these and others have fallen arises not only from the fact that in this, as well as in other things, every man is a law to himself, but from the varying amount required in each individual case at different times, depending upon the amount of renovation required by the nervous and muscular systems. John Wesley, the distinguished founder of Methodism, who attained the age of eighty-eight, and who could command sleep on horseback, says very properly, in some curious remarks which he has left upon sleep, that no one measure will do for all, nor will the same amount of sleep suffice even for the same person at all times. A person debilitated by sickness requires more of “tired nature’s sweet restorer” than one in vigorous health. More sleep is also necessary when the strength and spirits are exhausted by hard labor or severe mental efforts. Whatever may be the case with some few persons, of a peculiar constitution, it is evident that health and vigor can scarcely be expected to continue long without six hours’ sleep in the four-and-twenty. Wesley adds that during his long life he never knew any individual who retained vigorous health for a whole year, with a less quantity of sleep than this.

It is said that women, in general, require more sleep than men. This is doubtful: it is certain, at least, that women endure protracted wakefulness better than men. The degree of muscular and mental exertion to which the male is accustomed would seem to indicate that a longer period of rest ought to be required by him to admit of the necessary restoration of excitability. In infancy and youth, where the animal functions are extremely active, the necessity for sleep is greatest; in mature age, where time is more valued and cares are more numerous, it is less indulged; whilst the aged may be affected in two opposite ways; they may be either in a state of almost constant somnolency, or their sleep may be short and light.

There are some remarkable cases on record of deviations from the customary amount of sleep, making a “bed shorter than for an ordinary man to stretch himself upon, and a covering narrower than he can wrap himself in,” capacious enough for persons of very active habits in their waking hours. Many persons have reached advanced age without ever having had more than one or two hours’ sleep out of the twenty-four. There is one case of a man who, throughout his whole life, never slept more than fifteen minutes at one time. General Pichegru informed Sir Gilbert Blane that, in the course of his active campaigns, he had for a whole year not more than one hour of sleep in the twenty-four hours. Frederick of Prussia and Napoleon, as a general thing, only devoted three or four hours to sleep.

One can scarcely conceive a more horrible mode of torture than the Chinese plan of condemning criminals to death by preventing sleep. The victim is kept awake by guards alternately stationed for the purpose. His sufferings last from twelve to twenty days, when death comes to his relief.

The influence of habit in promoting or preventing sleep is remarkable. Those accustomed to the tranquillity of rural districts are excessively annoyed by the din of the carriages on the paved thoroughfares of a large city. It is said, on the other hand, that those who live near the cataracts of the Nile cannot sleep at a distance from them, owing to their having become accustomed to the noise, the stimulus of which upon the ear they lack. Some persons can only sleep in the dark; we knew a woman who slept habitually with a candle burning in her bedroom, and who invariably awoke if the light went out. Some of the soldiers of Bonaparte’s army would sleep, after extreme fatigue and exhaustion, on the ground by the side of a twenty-four pounder which was constantly firing. Some boys slept from fatigue on board of Nelson’s ship, at the battle of the Nile. We have heard of a boiler-maker who could go to sleep in a boiler while the workmen were constantly hammering the rivets.

Sleep can persist with the exercise of certain muscles. Couriers on long journeys nap on horseback; and coachmen, on their boxes. Among the impressive incidents of Sir John Moore’s disastrous retreat to Corunna, in Spain, not the least striking is the recorded fact that many of his soldiers steadily pursued their march while fast asleep. Burdach, however, affirms that this is not uncommon among soldiers. Franklin slept nearly an hour swimming on his back. An acquaintance of Dr. D., travelling with a party in North Carolina, being greatly fatigued, was observed to be sound asleep in his saddle. His horse, being a better walker, went far in advance of the rest. On crossing a hill, they found him on the ground, snoring gently. His horse had fallen, as was evident from his bruised knees, and had thrown his rider on his head on a hard surface, without waking him.

Animals of the lower orders obey peculiar laws in regard to sleep. Fish are said to sleep soundly; and we are told by Aristotle that the tench may be taken in this state, if approached cautiously. Many birds and beasts of prey take their repose in the daytime. When kept in captivity, this habit undergoes a change,—which makes us doubt whether it was not the result of necessity, which demanded that they should take advantage of the darkness, silence, and the unguarded state of their victims. In the menagerie at Paris, even the hyena sleeps at night, and is awake by day. They all, however, seek, as favoring the purpose, a certain degree of seclusion and shade, with the exception of the lion, who, Burdach informs us, sleeps at noonday, in the open plain; and the eagle and condor will poise themselves on the most elevated pinnacle of rock, in the clear blue atmosphere and dazzling sunlight. Birds, however, are furnished with a winking membrane, generally, to shelter the eye from light. Fish prefer to retire to sleep under the shadow of a rock or a woody bank. Of domestic animals, the horse seems to require least sleep; and that he usually takes in the erect posture.

Birds that roost in a sitting posture are furnished with a well-adapted mechanism, which keeps them firmly supported without voluntary or conscious action. The tendon of the claws is so arranged as to be tightened by their weight when the thighs are bent, thus contracting closely and grasping the bough or perch. In certain other animals which sleep erect, the articulations of the foot and knee are described by Dumeril as resembling the spring of a pocket-knife, which opens the instrument and serves to keep the blade in a line with the handle.

The following calculation is interesting. Suppose one boy aged ten years determines to rise at five o’clock all the year round. Another of the same age, indolent and fond of ease, rises at eight, or an average of eight, every morning. If they both live to be seventy years old, the one will have gained over the other, during the intervening period of sixty years, sixty-five thousand seven hundred and forty-five hours, which is equal to two thousand seven hundred and thirty-nine and a third days, or just seven and a half years. If a similar calculation were applied to the whole country, how many millions of years of individual usefulness would it prove to be lost to society!

“God bless the man who first invented sleep!”
So Sancho Panza said, and so say I!
And bless him, also, that he didn’t keep
His great discovery to himself, or try
To make it—as the lucky fellow might—
A close monopoly by “patent right!”

Yes—bless the man who first invented sleep,
(I really can’t avoid the iteration;)
But blast the man, with curses loud and deep,
Whate’er the rascal’s name, or age, or station,
Who first invented, and went round advising,
That artificial cut-off,—early rising!

“Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed,”
Observes some solemn, sentimental owl:
Maxims like these are very cheaply said;
But ere you make yourself a fool or fowl,
Pray just inquire about their rise—and fall,
And whether larks have any beds at all!

The “time for honest folks to be abed”
Is in the morning, if I reason right:
And he who cannot keep his precious head
Upon his pillow till it’s fairly light,
And so enjoy his forty morning winks,
Is up—to knavery; or else—he drinks!

Thomson, who sung about the “Seasons,” said
It was a glorious thing to rise in season;
But then he said it—lying—in his bed
At ten o’clock A. M.,—the very reason
He wrote so charmingly. The simple fact is,
His preaching wasn’t sanctioned by his practice.

’Tis, doubtless, well to be sometimes awake,—
Awake to duty and awake to truth;
But when, alas! a nice review we take
Of our best deeds and days, we find, in sooth,
The hours that leave the slightest cause to weep
Are those we passed in childhood, or—asleep!

’Tis beautiful to leave the world a while
For the soft visions of the gentle night,
And free, at last, from mortal care or guile,
To live, as only in the angels’ sight,
In sleep’s sweet realms so cosily shut in,
Where, at the worst, we only _dream_ of sin!

So let us sleep, and give the Maker praise.
I like the lad who, when his father thought
To clip his morning nap by hackneyed phrase
Of vagrant worm by early songster caught,
Cried, “Served him right!—it’s not at all surprising:
The worm was punished, sir, for early rising!”

OPIUM AND EAST INDIAN HEMP.

Children of Night! from Lethe’s bourn,
Ye come to weave the oblivious veil,
And on the wretched and forlorn
To bid your sweet illusions steal.—_Fracastoro._

There is nothing in nature more curious and inexplicable than the influence on the circulating fluids, and through these on the brain and its functions, of various narcotic drugs. Among these, opium, and _Cannabis Indica_, or East Indian hemp, occupy the most prominent place. No reflective person can look into the writings of Coleridge, De Quincey, or Bayard Taylor, each of whom has experienced the effects of these drugs in his own person, and graphically described his sensations, thoughts, feelings, and dreams while under their influence, without being struck with awe and astonishment at the modifying and disturbing influences which these substances exert upon that mysterious connection which exists between the mind and the material medium through which it manifests itself. Take the following, for example, from the _Confessions of an English Opium-Eater_, which, not only for grandeur of description, but for psychological interest, is unsurpassed by any thing in the English language.

“The dream commenced with a music which now I often heard in dreams,—a music of preparation and of awakening suspense; a music like the opening of the Coronation Anthem, and which, like _that_, gave the feeling of a vast march—of infinite cavalcades filing off, and the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty day—a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffering some mysterious eclipse and laboring in some dread extremity. Somewhere, I knew not where—somehow, I knew not how—by some beings, I knew not whom—a battle, a strife, an agony, was conducting,—was evolving like a great drama, or piece of music; with which my sympathy was the more insupportable from my confusion as to its place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual in dreams, (where, of necessity, we make ourselves central to every movement,) had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide it. I had the power, if I could raise myself, to will it; and yet again had not the power, for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the oppression of inexpiable guilt.

“‘Deeper than ever plummet sounded,’ I lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some greater interest was at stake,—some mightier cause than ever yet the sword had pleaded or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden alarms; hurryings to and fro; trepidations of innumerable fugitives—I knew not whether from the good cause or the bad; darkness and lights; tempest and human faces; and, at last, with the sense that all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the world to me, and but a moment allowed—and clasped hands, and heart-breaking partings, and then everlasting farewells! and, with a sigh such as the caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother uttered the abhorred name of death, the sound was reverberated,—everlasting farewells! and again, and yet again, reverberated,—everlasting farewells! And I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud, ‘I will sleep no more!’”

De Quincey took laudanum for the first time to dispel pain, and he thus describes the effect it had upon him:—“But I took it, and in an hour, oh, heavens! what a revulsion! what an upheaving, from its lowest depths, of the inner spirit! what an apocalypse of the world within me! That my pains had vanished was now a trifle in my eyes. This _negative_ effect was swallowed up in the immensity of those positive effects which had opened before me,—in the abyss of divine enjoyment thus suddenly revealed. Here was a panacea,—a φαρμακον νεπενθες for all human woes. Here was the secret of happiness, about which philosophers had disputed for so many ages, at once discovered! Happiness might now be bought for a penny and carried in the waistcoat-pocket; portable ecstasies might be had corked up in a pint bottle; and peace of mind could be sent down in gallons by the mail-coach.”

Dr. Madden describes more soberly his sensations when under the influence of the drug in one of the coffee-houses at Constantinople. “I commenced with one grain. In the course of an hour and a half it produced no perceptible effect. The coffee-house keeper was very anxious to give me an additional pill of two grains, but I was contented with half a one; and in another half-hour, feeling nothing of the expected revery, I took half a grain more, making in all two grains in the course of two hours. After two hours and a half from the first dose, my spirits became sensibly excited: the pleasure of the sensation seemed to depend on a universal expansion of mind and matter. My faculties appeared enlarged; every thing I looked at seemed increased in volume; I had no longer the same pleasure when I closed my eyes which I had when they were open; it appeared to me as if it was only external objects which were acted on by the imagination and magnified into images of pleasure: in short, it was the ‘faint, exquisite music of a dream’ in a waking moment. I made my way home as fast as possible, dreading at every step that I should commit some extravagance. In walking, I was hardly sensible of my feet touching the ground: it seemed as if I slid along the street impelled by some invisible agent, and that my blood was composed of some ethereal fluid, which rendered my body lighter than air. I got to bed the moment I reached home. The most extraordinary visions of delight filled my brain all night. In the morning I rose pale and dispirited; my head ached; my body was so debilitated that I was obliged to remain on the sofa all day, dearly paying for my first essay at opium-eating.”

These after-effects are the source of the misery of the opium-eater. The exciting influence of the drug is almost invariably followed by a corresponding depression. The susceptibility to external impressions and the muscular energy are both lessened. A desire for repose ensues, and a tendency to sleep. The mouth and throat also become dry; the thirst is increased; hunger diminishes; and the bowels usually become torpid.

When large doses are taken, all the above effects are hastened and heightened in proportion. The period of depression comes on sooner; the prostration of energy increases to actual stupor, with or without dreams; the pulse becomes feeble, the muscles exceedingly relaxed; and, if enough has been taken, death ensues.

Of course, all these effects are modified by the constitution of the individual, by the length of time he has accustomed himself to take it, and by the circumstances in which he is placed. But upon all persons, and in all circumstances, its final effects, like those of ardent spirits taken in large and repeated doses, are equally melancholy and degrading. “A total attenuation of body,” says Dr. Oppenheim, “a withered, yellow countenance, a lame gait, a bending of the spine, frequently to such a degree as to assume a circular form, and glassy, deep-sunken eyes, betray the opium-eater at the first glance. The digestive organs are in the highest degree disturbed: the sufferer eats scarcely any thing, and has hardly one evacuation in a week. His mental and bodily powers are destroyed: he is impotent.”

The influence upon the mental faculties of _Haschisch_, or East Indian hemp, when taken in large doses, is no less extraordinary than that of opium.

That accomplished traveller, Bayard Taylor, when in Damascus, “prompted,” as he says, “by that insatiable curiosity which led him to prefer the acquisition of all lawful knowledge through the channel of his own experience,” was induced to make a trial of this drug. Not knowing the strength of the preparation he employed, he found himself, shortly after taking the second dose, more thoroughly and completely under the influence of the drug than was either pleasant or safe.

Speaking of the effects of the stronger dose, he says, “The same fine nervous thrill of which I have spoken suddenly shot through me. But this time it was accompanied with a burning sensation at the pit of the stomach; and, instead of growing upon me with the gradual pace of healthy slumber, and resolving me, as before, into air, it came with the intensity of a pang, and shot throbbing along the nerves to the extremities of my body. The sense of limitation—the confinement of our senses within the bounds of our own flesh and blood—instantly fell away. The walls of my frame were burst outward, and tumbled into ruin; and, without thinking what form I wore,—losing sight even of all idea of form,—I felt that I existed throughout a vast extent of space. The blood pulsed from my heart, sped through uncounted leagues before it reached my extremities; the air drawn into my lungs expanded into seas of limpid ether; and the arch of my skull was broader than the vault of heaven. Within the concave that held my brain were the fathomless deeps of blue; clouds floated there, and the winds of heaven rolled them together; and there shone the orb of the sun. It was—though I thought not of that at the time—_like a revelation of the mystery of Omnipresence_.”

EFFECTS OF FEAR.

It is a common practice, in many parts of India, to oblige persons suspected of crimes to chew dry rice in presence of the officers of the law. Curious as it may appear, such is the intense influence of fear on the salivary glands, that, if they are actually guilty, there is no secretion of saliva in the mouth, and chewing is impossible. Such culprits generally confess without any further efforts. On the contrary, a consciousness of innocence allows of a proper flow of fluid for softening the rice.

Many of our readers are familiar with the case of the thief to whom, in common with other suspected persons, a stick of a certain length was given, with the assurance that the stick of the thief would grow by supernatural power. The culprit, imagining that his stick had actually increased in length, broke a piece off, and was thus detected. A similar anecdote is told of a farmer who detected depredations on his corn-bin by calling his men together and making them mix up a quantity of feathers in a sieve, assuring them, at the same time, that the feathers would infallibly stick to the hair of the thief. After a short time, one of the men raised his hand repeatedly to his head, and thus betrayed himself.

A Parisian physician, during his visits made in a hired fly, had received a bottle of real Jamaica rum as a sample, but found, after returning home, that he had left it in the carriage. He went to the office, and informed the manager that he had left a virulent poison in one of the carriages, and desired him to prevent any of the coachmen from drinking it. Hardly had he got back when he was summoned in great haste to three of these worthies, who were suffering from the most horrible colic; and great was his difficulty in persuading them that they had only stolen some most excellent rum.

One of the most singular examples on record of the effect of fear acting through the imagination is given by Breschet, a French author of the sixteenth century, who informs us that the physicians at Montpellier, which was then a great school of medicine, had every year two criminals, the one living, the other dead, delivered to them for dissection. On one occasion they determined to try what effect the mere expectation of death would produce upon a subject in perfect health; and in order to carry out the experiment they told the gentleman (for such was his rank) who was placed at their discretion, that, as the easiest mode of taking away his life, they would employ the means which Seneca had chosen for himself, and would therefore open his veins in warm water. Accordingly they covered his face, pinched his feet, without lancing them, and set them in a footbath, and then spoke to each other as if they saw that the blood was flowing freely, and life departing with it. The man remained motionless; and when, after a while, they uncovered his face, they found him dead.

FACIAL EXPRESSION.

The facial nerve, which presides over the movements of the face, gives to the physiognomy its different expressions so as to reflect the passions and emotions of the soul. To prove this experimentally, Charles Bell took the most cunning and impressionable monkey he could find in the menagerie of Exeter Change, and divided its facial nerve on one side. Excited by pain, the poor monkey made faces with tenfold energy, but exactly and solely with one side of his face, while the other remained perfectly impassible.

Of course, no one would repeat this experiment on man; but nature sometimes takes the whim to make such a curiosity. All who saw the unfortunate monkey were struck with the strange analogy which its features presented with those of a comic actor then much in vogue in London, who could reproduce all sorts of expressions and mirror every passion with one side of his face, while he kept the other side in a state of perfect immobility. The experiment of Charles Bell gave the key to the enigma. The mimic was the victim of a facial hemiplegia, from some accident to the facial nerve; and he had the shrewdness to make people believe that voluntary which he could not prevent, and thus to profit by an otherwise mortifying affliction.

A BROKEN HEART.

The following interesting case of a literally _broken heart_ was related by a late distinguished medical professor of Philadelphia, to his class, while lecturing upon the diseases of the heart. It will be seen, on perusing it, that the expression “broken-hearted” is not merely figurative.

In the early part of his career, Dr. Mitchell accompanied, as surgeon, a packet that sailed between Liverpool and one of our Southern ports. On the return-voyage, soon after leaving Liverpool, while the doctor and the captain of the vessel, a weather-beaten son of Neptune, but possessed of uncommonly fine feelings and strong impulses, were conversing in the latter’s state-room, the captain opened a large chest, and carefully took out a number of articles of various descriptions, which he arranged upon a table. Dr. M., surprised at the display of costly jewels, ornaments, dresses, and all the varied paraphernalia of which ladies are naturally fond, inquired of the captain his object in having made so many valuable purchases. The sailor, in reply, said, that for seven or eight years he had been devotedly attached to a lady, to whom he had several times made proposals of marriage, but was as often rejected; that her refusal to wed him, however, had only stimulated his love to greater exertion; and that finally, upon renewing his offer, declaring in the ardency of his passion that, without her society, life was not worth living for, she consented to become his bride upon his return from his next voyage. He was so overjoyed at the prospect of a marriage from which, in the warmth of his feelings, he probably anticipated more happiness than is usually allotted to mortals, that he spent all his ready money, while in London, for bridal gifts. After gazing at them fondly for some time, and remarking on them in turn, “I think this will please Annie,” and “I am sure she will like that,” he replaced them with the utmost care. This ceremony he repeated every day during the voyage; and the doctor often observed a tear glisten in his eye as he spoke of the pleasure he would have in presenting them to his affianced bride. On reaching his destination, the captain arrayed himself with more than his usual precision, and disembarked as soon as possible, to hasten to his love. As he was about to step into the carriage awaiting him, he was called aside by two gentlemen who desired to make a communication, the purport of which was that the lady had proved unfaithful to the trust reposed in her, and had married another, with whom she had decamped shortly before. Instantly the captain was observed to clap his hand to his breast and fall heavily to the ground. He was taken up, and conveyed to his room on the vessel. Dr. M. was immediately summoned; but, before he reached the poor captain, he was dead. A post-mortem examination revealed the cause of his unfortunate decease. His heart was found literally torn in twain! The tremendous propulsion of the blood, consequent upon such a violent nervous shock, forced the powerful muscular tissues asunder, and life was at an end. The heart was broken.

SENSATION AND INTELLIGENCE AFTER DECAPITATION.

While some physiologists are of opinion that death by beheading is attended with less actual pain than any other manner of death, and is, therefore, the most _humane_ mode of dis-embarrassing society of a villain, others contend, and adduce an equally formidable array of facts to show, that intense agony is experienced, after decollation, in both the head and the body, and that death by the guillotine, so far from being easier than hanging, is one of the most painful known. Whatever may really be the sensations attendant upon the separation of the head from the body, we have, at least, some curious facts, which throw a little light on the subject.

It is related that a professor of physiology at Genoa, who has made this interesting subject his particular study, states that, having exposed two heads, a quarter of an hour after decollation, to a strong light, the eyelids closed suddenly. The tongue, which protruded from the lips, being pricked with a needle, was drawn back into the mouth, and the countenance expressed sudden pain. The head of a criminal named Tillier being submitted to examination after the guillotine, the eyes turned in every direction from whence he was called by name.

Fontenelle declares that he has frequently seen the heads of guillotined persons move their lips, as if they were uttering remonstrances against their cruel treatment. If this be so, there is nothing very incredible in the report, sometimes treated as fabulous, that when the executioner gave a blow on the face of Charlotte Corday after the head was severed from the body, _the countenance_ expressed violent indignation.

It is stated on credible authority that some galvanic experiments were once tried on the body of a habitual snuff-taker, after he had undergone the operation of being guillotined. On receiving the first shock, the headless trunk joined its thumb and fore-finger, and deliberately raised its right arm, as if in the act of taking its customary _pinch_, and seemed much astonished and perplexed at finding _no nose_ to receive its wonted tribute!

But the most marvellous tale is told of Sir Everard Digby, who was beheaded in 1600 for being concerned in the famous Gunpowder Plot. After the head was struck off, the executioner proceeded, according to the barbarous usages of the day, to pluck the heart from his body; and when he had done so, he held it up in full view of the numerous assemblage gathered round the scaffold to witness the exhibition, and shouted, with a loud voice, _This is the heart of a traitor!_ Upon which, the _head_, which was quietly resting on the scaffold, at the distance of a few feet, showed sundry signs of indignation, and, opening its mouth, audibly exclaimed, “_That is a lie!_”

The reader will be reminded, by this case of the English knight, of the conjurer in the Arabian Nights, who, in consequence of a failure in his necromancy, was decapitated by the order and in the presence of the Sultan. The head of the sorcerer, after separation from his body, sat erect upon the floor, and, with a mysterious expression of countenance, informed his highness that as he rather thought he should have no further occasion for his books of magic, he would make a present of them to him; and since he could not very well go to fetch them himself, if his highness would take the trouble to send for them, he would instruct him in their use. On being brought, he told the Sultan it was first necessary for him to turn over every leaf in the books from the beginning to the end. But he found it was impossible to do this, as they stuck together, without often wetting his fingers at his mouth. This infused into the monarch’s veins a subtle and virulent venom, as the books were poisoned, in consequence of which he died very soon in torture, overwhelmed with the taunts and curses of the decapitated head.

A case occurred some years ago at Ticonderoga, N. Y., which settles the question of pain, so far as the body is concerned, and proves that no sensations whatever can exist in the _body_ after its connection with the brain is dissolved. It was reported at the time in the Boston Medical and Surgical Journal, as follows:—

E. D., aged fifty, a man of hale constitution and robust, in making an effort to scale a board fence, was suddenly precipitated backwards to the ground, striking first upon the superior and anterior portion of the head, which luxated the dentatus anteriorly on the third cervical vertebra. He was at length discovered, and taken in (as the patient said) after he had lain nearly an hour, in a condition perfectly bereft of voluntary motion; but, being present, I did not suspect that the power of sensation was also gone, until the patient (whose speech remained almost, or quite, perfect, and who was uncommonly loquacious at that time) said, did he not know to the contrary, he should think that he had no body. His flesh was then punctured, and sometimes deeply, even from the feet to the neck; but the patient gave no evidence of feeling, and, when interrogated, answered that he felt nothing; and, added he, “I never was more perfectly free from pain in my life;” but he remarked that he could not live, and accordingly sent for his family, twelve miles distant, and arranged all his various concerns in a perfectly sane manner.

The head was thrown back in such a position as to prevent his seeing his body. The pulse was much more sluggish than natural. Respiration and speech, but slightly affected, were gradually failing; but he could articulate distinctly until within a few minutes of his death. All the senses of the head remained quite perfect to the last. He died forty-eight hours after the fall.

Repeated attempts were made to reduce the dislocation, but the transverse processes had become so interlocked that every effort proved abortive. There was undoubtedly in this case a perfect compression of the spinal marrow, which prevented the egress of nervous influence from the brain, while the pneumogastric nerve remained unembarrassed.

ANTIPATHIES.

Antipathies are as various as they are unaccountable, and often in appearance ridiculous. Yet who can control them, or reason himself into a conviction that they are absurd? They are, in truth, natural infirmities or peculiarities, and not fantastical imaginings. In the French “Ana” we find mention of a lady who would faint on seeing boiled lobsters; and several persons are mentioned, among them Mary de Medicis, who experienced the same inconvenience from the smell of roses, though particularly partial to the odor of jonquils and hyacinths. Another is recorded who invariably fell into convulsions at the sight of a carp. Erasmus, although a native of Rotterdam, had such an aversion to fish of any kind that the smell alone threw him into a fever. Ambrose Paré mentions a patient of his who could never look at an eel without falling into a fit. Joseph Scaliger and Peter Abono could neither of them drink milk. Cardan was particularly disgusted at the sight of eggs. Ladislaus, King of Poland, fell sick if he saw an apple; and if that fruit was exhibited to Chesne, secretary to Francis I., a prodigious quantity of blood would issue from his nose. Henry III. of France could not endure to sit in a room with a cat, and the Duke of Schomberg ran out of any chamber into which one entered. A gentleman in the court of the Emperor Ferdinand would bleed at the nose even if he heard the mewing of the obnoxious animal, no matter at how great a distance. M. de l’Ancre, in his _Tableau de l’Inconstance de Toutes Choses_, gives an account of a very sensible man, who was so terrified on seeing a hedgehog that for two years he imagined his bowels were gnawed by such an animal. In the same book we find an account of an officer of distinguished bravery who never dared to face a mouse, it would so terrify him, unless he had his sword in his hand. M. de l’Ancre says he knew the individual perfectly well. There are some persons who cannot bear to see spiders, and others who eat them as a luxury, as they do snails and frogs. M. Vangheim, a celebrated huntsman in Hanover, would faint outright, or, if he had sufficient time, would run away, at the sight of a roast pig. The philosopher Chrysippus had such an aversion to external reverence, that, if any one saluted him, he would involuntarily fall down. Valerius Maximus says that this Chrysippus died of laughing at seeing an ass eat figs out of a silver plate. John Rol, a gentleman of Alcantara, would swoon on hearing the word _lana_ (wool) pronounced, although his cloak was made of wool. Lord Bacon fainted at every eclipse of the moon. Tycho Brahe shuddered at the sight of a fox; Ariosto, at the sight of a bath; and Cæsar trembled at the crowing of a cock.

STRANGE INSTANCE OF SYMPATHY.

The Duke de Saint Simon mentions in his _Mémoires_ a singular instance of constitutional sympathy existing between two brothers. These were twins,—the President de Banquemore, and the Governor de Bergues, who were surprisingly alike, not only in their persons, but in their feelings. One morning, he tells us, when the President was at the royal audience he was suddenly attacked by an intense pain in the thigh: at the same instant, as it was discovered afterwards, his brother, who was with the army, received a severe wound from a sword on the same leg, and precisely the same part of the leg!

WALKING BLINDFOLDED.

The difficulty of walking to any given point blindfolded can only be conceived by those who have made the experiment. After wandering about in every possible direction, now east, now west, at one time forward, at another time backward, working for a while at the zigzag, then shooting out like an arrow from a bow, and not unfrequently describing a complete circle like a miller’s horse, the party is generally a thousand times more likely to end his travels at the spot from which he set out, than at the spot to which he wished to go. The following achievement presents as extraordinary an exception to the general experience on this head, as perhaps ever occurred:—

Dennis Hendrick, a stone-mason, for a wager of ten guineas, walked from the Exchange in Liverpool, along Deal Street, to the corner of Byrom Street,—being a distance of three-quarters of a mile,—blindfolded, and rolling a coach-wheel. On starting, there were two plasters of Burgundy pitch put on his eyes, and a handkerchief tied over them, to prevent all possibility of his seeing. He started precisely at half-past seven in the morning, and completed his undertaking at twenty minutes past eight, being in fifty minutes.

FELINE CLOCKS.

M. Huc, in his recent work on the Chinese Empire, tells us that “one day, when we went to pay a visit to some families of Chinese Christian peasants, we met, near a farm, a young lad, who was taking a buffalo to graze along our path. We asked him carelessly, as we passed, whether it was yet noon. The child raised his head to look at the sun; but it was hidden behind thick clouds, and he could read no answer there. ‘The sky is so cloudy,’ said he; ‘but wait a moment;’ and with these words he ran towards the farm, and came back a few moments afterward with a cat in his arms. ‘Look here,’ said he, ‘it is not noon yet;’ and he showed us the cat’s eyes, by pushing up the lids with his hands. We looked at the child with surprise, but he was evidently in earnest; and the cat, though astonished, and not much pleased at the experiment made on her eyes, behaved with the most exemplary complaisance. ‘Very well,’ said we: ‘thank you;’ and he then let go the cat, who made her escape pretty quickly, and we continued our route. To say the truth, we had not at all understood the proceeding; but we did not wish to question the little pagan, lest he should find out that we were Europeans by our ignorance. As soon as we reached the farm, however, we made haste to ask our Christians whether they could tell the clock by looking into a cat’s eyes. They seemed surprised at the question; but, as there was no danger in confessing to them our ignorance of the properties of the cat’s eyes, we related what had just taken place. That was all that was necessary. Our complaisant neophytes immediately gave chase to all the cats in the neighborhood. They brought us three or four, and explained in what manner they might be made use of for watches. They pointed out that the pupil of their eyes went on constantly growing narrower until twelve o’clock, when they became like a fine line, as thin as a hair, drawn perpendicularly across the eye, and that after twelve the dilatation recommenced. When we had attentively examined the eyes of all the cats at our disposal, we came to the conclusion that it was past noon, as all the eyes perfectly agreed upon the point.”

DEVONSHIRE SUPERSTITION.

The following case of gross superstition, which occurred lately in one of the largest market-towns in the north of Devon, is related by an eye-witness:—

A young woman living in the neighborhood of Holsworthy, having for some time past been subject to periodical fits of illness, endeavored to effect a cure by attending at the afternoon service at the parish church, accompanied by thirty young men, her near neighbors. Service over, she sat in the porch of the church, and each of the young men, as they passed out in succession, dropped a penny into her lap; but the last, instead of a penny, gave her half a crown, taking from her the twenty-nine pennies which she had already received. With this half-crown in her hand, she walked three times round the communion-table, and afterwards had it made into a ring, by the wearing of which she believes she will recover her health.

A SKULL THAT HAD A TONGUE.

When Dr. John Donne, the famous poet and divine of the reign of James I., attained possession of his first living, he took a walk into the churchyard, where the sexton was at the time digging a grave, and in the course of his labor threw up a skull. This skull the doctor took in his hands, and found a rusty headless nail sticking in the temple of it, which he drew out secretly and wrapped in the corner of his handkerchief. He then demanded of the grave-digger whether he knew whose skull that was. He said it was a man’s who kept a brandy-shop,—an honest, drunken fellow, who one night, having taken two quarts, was found dead in his bed next morning. “Had he a wife?” “Yes.” “What character does she bear?” “A very good one: only the neighbors reflect on her because she married the day after her husband was buried.” This was enough for the doctor, who, under the pretence of visiting his parishioners, called on the woman: he asked her several questions, and, among others, what sickness her husband died of. She gave him the same account he had before received, whereupon he suddenly opened the handkerchief, and cried, in an authoritative voice, “Woman, do you know this nail?” She was struck with horror at the unexpected demand, instantly owned the fact, and was brought to trial and executed. Truly might one say, with even more point than Hamlet, that the skull had a tongue in it.

ROMANTIC HIGHWAYMAN.

In a letter to Mr. Mead, preserved among that gentleman’s papers in the British Museum, and dated February 3, 1625, is the following account of a singular highwayman:—

Mr. Clavell, a gentleman, a knight’s eldest son, a great mail and highway robber, was, together with a soldier, his companion, arraigned and condemned on Monday last, at the King’s Bench bar: he pleaded for himself that he never had struck or wounded any man, never taken any thing from their bodies, as rings, &c., never cut their girths or saddles, or done them, when he robbed, any corporeal violence. He was, with his companion, reprieved; he sent the following verses to the king for mercy, and hath obtained it:—