find that the cerebrum or true brain, participates in the production of the symptoms, being warned by the eye or ear, or through other of the gateways of knowledge. This first step in the analysis of the emotion is illustrated, or at least rendered highly probable to us, from the teachings of diseased action. For when the cerebrum labours under diseased action or any defect, such defects will not only affect the senses and distort natural images and appearances, but will also operate on the brain itself.

From the brain, then, as from a central station, impulses proceed and accord in their nature and effects with the outward origin of the emotions. Why it should be that fear is manifested as we see it, or that joy should have entirely opposite indications and symptoms, physiology cannot tell. There is no scientific or plausible reason to be given, for example, why the signs which indicate fear should not originally have been implanted on man's organisation as indica. tive of joy; whilst when we reflect that the shedding of tears may equally characterise the exhibition of sorrow and of gladness, we may be still more puzzled to account for uniformity of symptoms, brought about by opposite emotions an1 feelings.

In the terror-stricken being, then, we find one very important source of the phenomena of fear, in the impulses which proceed from the brain to the sympathetic system of nerves. Passing through the spinal cord, and flashing its swift course in turn to the sympathetic fibres, the fear-laden impulse comes to affect the blood-vessels. The parts which the sympathetic nerves chiefly supply are those which under ordinary circumstances are involuntary, or without the command of the will. No organ better exemplifies this statement than the heart-the mystical seat of all the emotions, as, indeed, it, in an actual and real sense, responds to the sway of the feelings. In greater part the nervous supply to the heart and stomach is derived from the sympathetic source; and equally important is it to note that the delicate muscles which invest the blood-vessels are also supplied from the latter system.

Investigation has shown that the general condition of the heart and blood-vessels, their various states of contraction and relaxation, and consequently the determination of the quantity of blood supplied to any given part, are so many results dependent upɔn the action of the sympathetic nerves. The pale cheek and fluttering heart are, therefore, caused by the sharp contraction of the blood-vessels supplying the parts, and by the impulse which has, through the mystic action of the brain, and ordered as by some watchful operator or pointsman, been turned into the sympathetic chaunel. Whilst probably from the heart and blood-vessels, in their turn, may be transmitted the impulse to muscles and other organs

which causes the knees to shake, and the whole frame to participate in the unwonted and disagreeable sensations.

Associated with fear we frequently see the phenomena of anger, which may, as we all know, be induced by a direct stimulus such as a blow or insult; or indirectly by the remembrance of either. In the latter case the emotions are greater within the brain, but how remarkably identical may they appear in their exhibition with these excited directly! In violent anger the physiological actions which take place appear to be the reverse of those that produce the symptoms of fear-just as the purely mental states are of opposite character. The blood-vessels in the angry man are no longer contracted, but are dilated and full. The heart is not contracted and weakly in its pulsation, but beats strongly, and forces the vital stream into each part of the body; and to no organ is the blood current in anger more strongly propelled than to the brain itself. The brain of the fiercely angry man is turged and red, its blood-vessels are gorged and full; and the blood-pressure is vastly, and sometimes injuriously or fatally, increased from the normal standard, since, as we all know, the weakened frame may sometimes fall senseless to the ground in a paroxysm of temper, from the sheer congestion of the great nerve-centre, or from some more serious cause. Physiology preaches no more impressive discourse, therefore, than when it warns us to beware of anger, and of all unbridled and like passions. Repeated attacks of what ordinary people call "bad temper" are in reality, and from their effect upon the nervous centres, much more serious matters than are generally supposed. And wise indeed are the words of a wellknown physician, when he maintains that there are very few men or women who can afford to be angry on this account; whilst no less forcibly does our subject illustrate the wise man's aphorism that "He that is slow to anger is better than the mighty."

In the physiological production of joy and gladness there is much akin to the production of anger. There is the same activity in the circulation, and the same quick-breathing, with the result of more perfectly and fully oxygenating the blood. But there is also the absence of the more paroxysmal and violent inroad of symptoms, whilst the general expression of the joyful person is much modified from that of the angry man. Very curious is it to think of the near identity of emotions which produce, say, in the muscles of the face, effects of so widely divergent character. The smile of joy is not the smile of anger, although the same muscles effect and form each; uor is the tender, or even tearful eye of happiness, the eye of the angry person, although there may be some phenomena in each of similar kind. And why or how it is that the varying nature of an impulse can produce on the same

organs such different effects, is a matter as yet beyond the furthest skill of the physiologist. It may be that as the electric fluid has its varying moods, so the character of the nervous impulse may be, and probably is, determined by the circumstances which give it birth.

The expressious of the feelings, which thus not only bear a close relation to the body itself, but largely contribute to form and mould its surroundings, may, lastly, be noted to be produced in a double or twofold fa-hion. Thus they are produced by external influences acting upon the mind and senses; and they may be brought into play from within by our thoughts, or even by internal sensations, of the nature of which we may know nothing, and for which we may not in the least be responsible. Thus, when a man thinks himself into a gloomy train of thought, or when a child angered by some bodily pain or annoyance, cries itself into a fit of temper, the latter phase of the production of feeling is exemplified.

With all the varying effects, however, there is generally to bo perceived a wise and natural "balance of power" in the physiolo. gical and mental disposition of men and women. Nerve-force tends to exhaust itself, like every other force of the living organism; and we may regard this circumstance alone in the light of a merciful provision for the regulation of our passions, good and evil alike. A warm demonstrative nature expends itself sooner than the quiet, undemonstrative disposition; and most people will say that it is well that it should be so. The nerve-force expended by the former soon exhausts itself; that of the latter is husbanded and stored. The irascible person soon forgets his grievance, otherwise there would be no living with him. And it is not generally the "madly foud," or those who say they will "die of grief," that either continue ardent in their affection or inconsolable in their sorrow.

Whether or not hearts are "broken" as frequently as is alleged in ordinary life, physiology actually knows of several cases in which from strong emotion a weak heart has actually ruptured. But we also know that hearts may give way under strong mental excitement, and yet no injury be apparent on investigation. The enfeebled organ, when over stimulated, may, in fact, faint and fail; some of its delicate mechanism may be injured; and thus, although unperceived by scientific art, the pulses of life may be extinguished from a cause usually supposed to belong only to the domain of the poetic and fanciful.

SPRINGTIME IN NORTH ITALY

AND THE

TYROL.

PART I.

IN the bright springtime we crossed from Dover to Calais, and, having taken tickets for Amiens, we secured two seats in the train, and waited for the start. Our carriage was quite full. Opposite me sat a lady "toute brisée" by her sea voyage, fortified with a bottle of "eau sucrée" and a case of cigarettes, which she sipped and smoked continually during the journey. From the window leant a young Parisienne, in a coquettish hat of black lace, with a branch of pink roses, conversing gaily with a moustached friend on the platform. At last the third bell rang; the train began slowly to move, a lingering kiss on either cheek was given and received by the damsel. "Adieu, mon Cousin, tu viendras nous voir,' she says, as she smiles her farewell; and we leave the busy, bustling station to run by sunny meadows, with stunted trees, just budding into leaf, backed by a range of long, low hills towards Boulogne. The sands as we pass look soft and white at low water; but the brightness of the day seems over, and ere we reach Montreuil deep black clouds have gathered, torrents of rain, with thunder and lightning, soon follow, and try the courage of the poor little signal women, who in their blue redingotes stand at short intervals along the line. The storm, however, soon passes, and at Noyelles the sun shines upon the long bridge which there crosses the bay to carry trains to St. Valery. "Pour les bains de mer," says the Parisienne, who has chatted pleasantly all the way.

Soon we reach Abbeville, and in about another hour arrive at Amiens, and establish ourselves in good time for the "table d'hote" at the Hotel du Rhin, with its quaint gardens, inhabited by pelicans, geese, doves, and other birds. The conversation at dinner was made lively by another French lady, who had arrived from a visit to England the day before. Her opinion of our country was freely but not flatteringly given. "Ah, l'Angleterre, c'est horrible;' it is dreadful, your England; 'c'est ma première visite, ce sera la dernière; ah, the fog and the mud, they are always there; il n'y a qui les chevaux qui sont bons-de orses, they are very good; but de cabs, ah, they can never comprehend what I may say to them!"

After dinner we strolled to the Cathedral; the nave with its graceful arches lay in darkness; before the curious golden cruci.

fixion a few tapers burnt, but at the shrine of Mary many lights fell upon the wreaths and nosegays of pure white flowers, with which in this, "le mois de Marie," her altar was adorned.

Starting the next day for Rheims, the single line of rail took us by a flat country with long avenues of low-clipped trees, quiet villages clustering round their little churches, and windmills drowsily turning in the distance, to Ham, where the fortress, rendered famous by having been the prison of that man of many vicissitudes, Napoleon III., stands nearly hidden by trees and surrounded by a moat just beyond the station.

At Tergnier the train, which was bound for Frankfort, left us for three hours, but the sun shone, and we were provided with luncheon, so that the delay in the busy little village was far from disagreeable. The children in their sabots clattered round us; their mothers smiled a welcome from their open cottage-doors as they sat peeling fresh vegetables to throw into the simmering broth of the pot-au-feu. The men, whose occupation appeared to be brick-making and stone-cutting, gave civil, good-humoured answers to our remarks. The church was clean, and Mary's altar lacked not its white roses; and large gaily-painted barges, laden with wood, blocks of stone, or corn, and towed by horses with tinkling bells, continually passed along the canal. At a little before five o'clock the train for Rheims arrived, and passing near the next station, the stone quarries of La Fère, we saw carts, each drawn by four white oxen, carrying the blocks to the barges. From La Tère the rail runs along a fertile and richly-wooded country to Loan, a town on a hill with a fine cathedral having five towers, and then on to Rheims. The day was fast closing when we reached the city. Along the wide, roughly-paved streets, as we drove, we saw great preparations, in the shape of poles and scaffolding, to illuminate a large concours" to be held in Rheims on the approaching festival of Whit Sunday.

Our hotel was just opposite the Western front of the cathedral, and, although it was too dark when we arrived to distinguish any of its exterior beauties, we, seeing lights within, entered, and groping our way amidst the grand columns of its aisles, reached the ladye chapel to find ourselves in a blaze of light. A brilliantly coloured figure of the Madonna stood on high. White flowers, which made the air heavy with their sweetness, hung about and around her in profusion; soft young voices were singing a hymn in her praise, and the chapel was filled with apparently devout worshippers of the peasant class.

The next morning we could see and admire the beautiful flying. buttresses on the north and south sides of the cathedral, with the