There was no furniture in the room but a wretched bed, a cupboard, an old trunk, one broken chair, and a little stove. There was but one book, a Bible, which had been left by the tract-distributor, and not a picture, not a plaything, not a pleasant thing of any kind, but the Bible, was to be seen there. That was new and fresh, and very beautiful and hopeful; yea, very blessed things were in it, gleaming on every page of it, did but one open its lids, and open his heart, too, to read them. But the poor little children left there knew little or nothing of them.

"Almost the whole day they were alone, and how they spent their time I cannot tell. If they tried to look out of the windows, there was little they could see, for they lived on a back street, where few people ever passed, and the snow was so high that they could not see across it. They had a breakfast before their mother went out, but not a morsel of food did she leave behind her, so that they were very hungry when she returned a little before night-fall, bringing with her some potatoes and rough meat.

"It was soon after that I visited them with some shoes and clothes for the youngest child, a little girl three or four years old. The mother was then washing at a tub; one boy and the little girl were hovering about the stove, and the other boy was crying pitifully in the bed. I asked if he was sick, and what made him cry; and the mother told me that he was in bed while she washed his clothes, as he had not a suit with which to change, and his brother had eaten his little potato which he had put in the stove to bake, and which was done before the others. This was why he cried. Now, why did not God put you in the place of that poor boy, Jane? and if he had, do you think you could throw a nice roll upon the floor in a pet?"

Jane looked ashamed and sorry, but said nothing.

"I don't believe," continued her mother, "that the little boy who took his brother's potato, grumbled that it was not good; and I am sure the crying one in the bed thought it must have been very nice."

"Are there any such very poor persons here now, mother?"

"There are no doubt such in every large city, and there always will be, while men will sell intoxicating liquors, and people will drink them. The worst of my story is, that it was almost impossible to help those poor children, for whatever their parents could get was

sold for drink. The very shoes and clothes which I carried that evening were sold for it, and I've no doubt the Bible would have been sold too, but rum-sellers don't want Bibles. What was still worse, one of the boys had to sell them, and was thus early trained to sin, and made familiar with the lowest vice. Little, if anything, can be done for such children, unless they can be taken from their parents."

"Oh! how I pity them!" said Jane.

66

And, why, as I before asked, are you not in their place? Why were you not born in that miserable cellar, the child of those drunken parents? Are you better by nature than they?"

Jane was silent for a time, she felt so guilty and ashamed. At last she said, "I am sorry I was so wicked about the roll. I wish I could give it to some poor, hungry child who deserves it more than I do."

THE ANGLER BOY.

BY H. F. GOULD.

I'm sorry they let me go down to the brook;
I'm sorry they gave me the line and the hook;
And I wish I had staid at home with my book!
I'm sure 't was no pleasure to see
That poor little harmless, suffering thing
Silently writhe at the end of the string,
Or to hold the pole, while I felt him swing
In torture, and all for me!

'T was a beautiful speckled and glossy trout;
And when from the water I drew him out,
On the grassy bank he floundered about,

It made me shivering cold,

To think I had caused so much needless pain;
'And I tried to relieve him, but all in vain;

O never, as long as I live, again

May I such a sight behold!

But what would I give once more to see
The brisk little swimmer alive and free,
And darting about as he used to be,

Unhurt in his native brook!

'Tis strange that people can love to play,

By taking innocent lives away!

I wish I had staid at home to-day

With sister, and read my book.

LITERARY NOTICES.

LECTURES ON LIFE AND HEALTH. By Wm. A. Alcott, M. D. Phillips, Sampson & Co., Publishers. Boston. 1853.

Dr. Alcott, well known as the author of numerous works on education, morals, health and physiology, after a long silence, appears once more before the public, in the shape of ten lectures on the laws and means of physical culture. It is adapted, in the treatment of the subjects he discusses, to the common reader, and is strictly practical in its character. Such a book, if studied and observed, will do a vast amount of good, especially the lecture on the Prevention of Consumption.

The volume is illustrated with wood cuts, and contains a very fine steel engraving of the author.

PARADISE LOST.

A. S. Barnes & Co., of New York City, have published an edition of this incomparable poem, with notes explanatory and critical, by Rev. James R. Boyd. These notes, which are distributed on every page of the poem, comprehend the richest treasures of learned and ingenious criticism which the Paradise Lost has called into existence. They serve to clear up the obscurities and to place the unlearned reader on a level with the learned.

For its varied learning, for its beauties of diction and measure, for its classical allusions, for its devout spirit, for its inculcation of whatever is good, for its majesty and eloquence, the Paradise Lost has no equal.

THE MOTHER AND HER OFFSPRING. By Stephen Tracy, M. D.

Harper & Brothers.

Formerly physiological science and hygiene were confined pretty much to the medical profession, but of late years much attention has been given to these subjects by the common people; and physiology is studied in many of the common schools. Some person, competent to the task, would confer a great favor on the public by the preparation of a good book on hygiene, for the common schools.

The work under consideration is a good one; and the multiplication of such books is contributing much to the enlightenment of the great body of the people on these important topics.

THE CAPTIVE IN PATAGONIA. Published by Gould & Lincoln. Boston.

Benjamin F. Bourne left New Bedford in February, 1849, as mate of the schooner John Allyn, for California. Arriving at the Straits of Magellan, he went on shore for the purpose of procuring some fresh provisions, and was captured by the savages, among whom he subsisted and with whom he sojourned for the space of ninety-seven days, at the end of which time he fortunately escaped, by swimming to a boat forty or fifty yards from the shore.

The narrative is a deeply interesting one, and gives us more insight into the habits and character of the Patagonians than any book heretofore written.

THOUGHTS ON THE DEATH OF LITTLE CHILDREN. By Samuel J. Prime. New York City. Published by A. D. F. Randolph.

The selections of prose and poetry in this little book are of a high character, And well adapted to soothe the bereaved and stricken-hearted.

THOMAS CAMPBELL, the celebrated poet, author of The Pleasures of Hope, died on the ninth day of June, 1843, at the age of sixty-six. He was born in Glasgow, Scotland, and was reared by pious parents. It is said that his father conducted his family worship with so much fervency, that the very expressions he used never passed away from the minds of his children, and that the influence of the family religion was seen in the character of the poet to his latest moments.

In early life he was obliged to engage in teaching young children, as a means of support. This was in the solitudes of the Hebrides, which were highly favorable to the cultivation of his poetic genius.

In 1793, Campbell became a politician, and with great earnestness espoused the cause of the French Revolutionists. His attention, however, was gradually withdrawn from this, by his love of poetry.

As he approached the close of life, the grave realities of another world made him indifferent to posthumous fame. Five years before he died, in conversation with some friends, he said, "When I think of the existence which will commence when the stone is laid above my head, how can literary fame appear to me but as nothing? I believe when I am gone, justice will be done to me in this way, that I was a pure writer. It is an inexpressible comfort, at my time of life. to be able to look back and feel that I have not written one line against religion or virtue."

11

HEALTH.

PART FIRST.

EDITORIAL.

WHY were our grandmothers, who passed their lives without a thought of the philosophy of health, and with slight dependence upon physicians, such strong, enduring women? And why are we of the present generation, with Combe, Carpenter, Liebig, and a host of other physiologists and teachers, — with hydropathy and homœopathy, with the Cochituate, the Croton, and the Schuylkill sweeping through our cities in floods, and with countless improvements in the arts of life, — why are we, as a general rule, thinner, smaller, paler, more nervous, head-achy, and dyspeptic, than the women of the olden time, or than those of other nations? Instead of meeting the active duties of life face to face, with cheerful courage, grappling, performing, overcoming, why are we obliged to devote the greater part of our time, thought, and study, to the nursing of that vitality and strength which should be the spontaneous and unconscious instrument of better things?

The increase of luxury, which tempts to indulgence, while it devolves all active labor upon servants, the high and enervating temperature at which we keep our houses during the cold months, eight out of twelve, the cowardice which prevents us from braving and accustoming ourselves to any extreme of weather, — and the weakness with which we yield to the prejudice against active outof-door sports and exercises for girls, these may be some of the causes why we are generally inferior to our grandmothers in our physical powers and developments. We meet with lines of schoolgirls, walking two and two, for fifteen or twenty minutes, once, or perhaps twice in the day, and this is considered sufficient to counteract the effect of long hours of study and inaction, — of meals of hot bread, pork sausages, and fried potatoes, — of rooms surging with waves of heat from great furnaces, but shuttered and barred from the airs of heaven, as if they brought destruction, and not healing, on their wings.

A few years ago, while residing in a beautiful and mountainous