(Lond. Lit. Gaz.)

(Sel. Mag.)

ON NUTRITION, RESPIRATION, AND THE CIRCULATION OF THE BLOOD. called the thorax, or chest, which is under the ribs.

THE HE body is nourished by the following process. The food, when taken into the mouth, is first masticated and mixed with the saliva, (a fluid secreted from the blood by glands situated under the angles of the jaw, under the tongue, &c. called the salivary glands,) and is then thrown over the windpipe into a muscular bag called the pharynx. This action of swallowing, or deglutition, is a very complex action, requiring the use of the tongue and a number of other muscles situated about the throat. The pharynx is the beginning of a large canal, called the œsophagus, or gullet, down which the masticated food passes into the stomach. In the stomach the process of digestion takes place, which is a kind of solution of all the parts of our food capable of being dissolved by a liquid called the gastric juice, which is prepared by the coats of the stomach, or small glands situated in its inner surface. Soon after the food passes out of the lower orifice of the stomach, it mixes with two fluids-the bile, from the liver and gall-bladder, and the pancreatic juice, from a gland called the pancreas, or sweetbread. These fluids further assimilate, and animalize the aliment, and perfect digestion. Af ter this, an infinite number of absorbent vessels, called lacteals, (which are spread on the coats of all the intestines, or bowels,) begin to suck up and absorb all the nutritious part of the aliment, now called chyle, and convey it into the veins, where it mixes with the blood. The dregs of the food from which the chyle is absorbed, pass on through the intestines, and are then cast out as useless.

The blood, although in this manner replenished with the chyle, is not fit for the nourishment of the body, until it has undergone a very important change in its passage through the lungs. This leads us to two of the principal functions of the animal body-respiration, and the circulation of the blood.

These functions are performed by the heart and lungs; organs which are seated in and fill that cavity in the body

The heart is composed of four strong muscular cavities, or bags. Two of these cavities receive the blood from the veins, and are called auricles; and the other two expel it into the arteries, and are called the ventricles of the heart. The lungs are an assemblage of blood-vessels and air vessels.—— The trunk of the air-vessels is the trachea, or wind-pipe, which ramifies into innumerable branches, and ends in small cells, which are filled with air every time we draw in our breath. The principal blood-vessels of the lungs are the pulmonary artery and vein, which also ramify into innumerable branches; the minuter branches of which spread upon the air-cells, and come in contact with the air taken in by the breath. It has been noticed, that the blood is not fit for the nutrition of the body till it has passed through the lungs and undergone an important change necessary for animal life. We therefore find, that the lungs themselves are not nourished by the blood which passes through them by the pulmonary vessels, but by other vessels appropriated for their nourishment, called the bronchial artery and vein.

After the digestion of our food, we have shown that the chyle taken up by the absorbent vessels is carried into the veins, by which it is brought to the right auricle of the heart: from thence it passes into the right ventricle; the blood, distending the ventricle, instantly stimulates it to a contraction, or systole. This throws the blood into the pulmonary artery, in which it circulates through every part of the lungs, from the extreme branches of the pulmonary artery, till it is taken up by the extreme branches of the pulmonary vein, by which it soon falls into the left auricle of the heart, and from thence into the left ventricle.

The chyle having now with the blood passed through the lungs, and being completely animalized and fit for the nutrition of the body, is thrown by the contraction of the left ventricle into a

large artery called the aorta, which distributes its branches to every part of the body for its nourishment, from the extreme branches of veins; by which it falls back into larger and larger veins, till it arrives at the right auricle of the heart again, where all the veins terminate. It has never yet been known what is the important change which the blood undergoes in its passage through the lungs. We know that when it enters the lungs by the pulmonary artery, it is of a dark livid or blue colour; and when it comes back by the pulmonary vein, it is of a much more bright and florid colour. Modern chemistry also tells us, that the lungs absorb oxygen

from the air, and convey it to the blood; and by this process, a quantity of latent heat is conveyed into the system, which is the principal cause of animal heat.

In describing these two important functions-respiration, and the circulation of the blood, we have said nothing of the beautiful mechanism by which, as the minute anatomy of these organs shows us, these effects are produced in the most wonderful manner. In this, as well as in every other part of our frame, we cannot help admiring the wisdom of the great Architect, and exclaim with the Psalmist, "We are 'fearfully and wonderfully made.””

(Blackwood's Mag.)

THE BRIDAL OF ANDALLA, FROM THE SPANISH.

"Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

From gay guitar and violin the silver notes are flowing,

And the lovely lute doth speak between the trumpet's lordly blowing,

And banners bright from lattice light are waving everywhere,

And the tall tall plume of our cousin's bridegroom floats proudly in the air;

Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down,

Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

"Arise, arise, Xarifa, I see Andalla's face,

He bends him to the people with a calm and princely grace,
Through all the land of Xeres and banks of Guadalquiver
Rode forth bridegroom so brave as he, so brave and lovely never.
Yon tall plume waving o'er his brow of azure mix'd with white,
I guess 'twas wreathed by Zara, whom he will wed to-night ;
Rise up, rise up, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;
Rise up, come to the window, and gaze with all the town.

What aileth thee, Xarifa, what makes thine eyes look down?
Why stay ye from the window far, nor gaze with all the town?
I've heard you say on many a day, and sure you said the truth,
Andalla rides without a peer, among all Grenada's youth.
Without a peer he rideth, and yon milk-white horse doth go
Beneath his stately master, with a stately step and slow;

Then rise, ob rise, Xarifa, lay the golden cushion down;

Unseen here, through the lattice, you may gaze with all the town.”—

The Zegri lady rose not, nor laid her cushion down,

Nor came she to the window to gaze with all the town ;-
But though her eyes dwelt on her knee, in vain her fingers strove,
And though her needle press'd the silk, no flower Xarifa wove !
One bonny rose-bud she had traced, before the noise drew nigh-
That bonny bud a tear effaced, slow dropping from her eye.
"No-no," she sighs—“ bid me not rise, nor lay my cushion down,
To gaze upon Andalla with all the gazing town.”—

"Why rise ye not, Xarifa, nor lay your cushion down?

Why gaze ye not, Xarifa, with all the gazing town?

Hear, bear the trumpet how it swells, and how the people cry.→→

He stops at Zara's palace-gate-why sit ye still-oh why ?"

"At Zara's gate stops Zara's mate; in him shall I discover

The dark-eyed youth pledged me his truth with tears, and was my lover!
I will not rise, with weary eyes, nor lay my cushion down,

To gaze on false Andalla with all the gazing town."-

(Sel. Mag.)

RECOLLECTIONS OF THE PENINSULA.

BY THE AUTHOR OF

THE autumnal season in Estramadura is proverbially unhealthy, and numbers of the inhabitants die annually of the alarming fever in what our author terms "the dreaded month of September."

"The unwholesome vapours which arise from the beds of the many stagnant pools scattered over the surface of these plains, and always dried up by the summer heats, are said to produce this evil. Be this as it may, towards the end of September this insidious and resistless enemy found his way into our tranquil quarters, crowded our hospitals with sick, and filled the chapel-vaults with victims, over whom we gloomily mourned. We would have resigned them in the field of battle perhaps with a sigh, yet not without some feelings of consolation; but here, to see the cheek blanched, and the arm unnerved by disease, was a constant source of affliction and despond. ency. There is nothing about which Englishmen are so generally incredulous, or to which they appear so indifferent, as any report touching the danger of a season or a climate, and the approach of sickness or mortality; for that very reason, when once an alarming disease appears among them, they are overcome with surprise, they lose all elasticity of spirit, hope forsakes them, and they sink unresistingly to the grave.This does not proceed altogether from weakness of character on the bed of sickness the English soldier thinks more seriously of death and his accountability hereafter than perhaps any other, if we except the Protestant soldiers of the north of Europe."

This is a pleasing testimony to Protestantism, and may stand in contrast 'with the presumptuous confidence of salvation which our author states as so generally entertained on the bed of death by the members of the Roman and Greek church; a presumption founded on the superstitious observances of their forms, and the empty dependence upon the absolution of a priest.

Our young officer was attacked with the prevailing fever to which he has alluded above, and was so debilitated in consequence that he was ordered to Lisbon for the recovery of his health.— An incident which he met with on his road is too pleasing and too honourable to the Peninsula to be omitted.

"You may frequently travel from one town to another without passing a village, a country house,a cottage,or indeed a human being.

SKETCHES IN INDIA.'

:

If you are benighted, and the weather be fine, you must betake yourself to the first tree; if it be stormy, and you have no baggage or conveniences for encamping, you must wander on. Luckily, however, for us, we espied a light at some distance from the road, and made towards it. It proceeded from a solitary cottage; and a woman, who answered to our knocks, expressed her willingness to receive us. Wretched as was her appearance, I never saw more cordial, more fearless hospitality she heaped up her little fire, killed and stewed for us two out of the few chickens she had,spread for us two straw mattresses near the earth, and regarded us the while with looks of the most benevolent pleasure. Seated on a rude bench of cork near this cottage fire, I thankfully partook of the repast she prepared ;— and, while the thunder burst in peals the most loud and awful over our heads, and the pouring rain beat rudely on her humble dwelling, with a heartfelt sensation of gratitude I composed myself to rest. Comfort is ever comparative, and after all, if his wishes be moderate, how little does man require!

Sick, hungry, and exhausted, I wanted shelter, food, and repose; I enjoy. ed all these blessings; the storm raged without, but not a rain-drop fell on me. I never passed a night in more sweet or refreshing slumbers. Yet where, let me ask, was the hotel in England which in the caprice of sickness would have satisfied all my wants and wishes? When we rose in the morning to depart, our good hostess was resolute in refusing any remuneration, though the wretched appearance of her hovel, and the rags on her children, bespoke the extremity of poverty. 'No,' said she, the saints

guided you to my threshold, and I thank them. My husband, too, was journeying yesterday; perhaps last night, amid the thunder storm, he also knocked at some Christian's door, and found shelter.' We caught one of the children outside, and forced some dollars into its little hands.

I shall never forget that night or that speech."

The description of a Posada, or public-house, furnishes a complete contrast to the cottage scene.-

"A Posada is in size and appearance not much unlike an English barn. It is very simply divided. Below is stabling for fifty or sixty mules, or more; and at the furthest extremity, without any partition between it and the space allotted to the animals, is the kitchen. Above is a large loft, with one or two corners boarded off, dignified with the name of chambers,and furnished with dirty mattresses and iron lamps. The stable was filled with mules, the kitchen with muleteers, and the loft with vermin. Yet here, for want of better accom