LIGHT AND SUNSHINE.

[PRICE 1d.

months in the year, are stunted in growth, and possess very weak muscular powers. Their features and stature retain an appearance of boyhood or youth almost until marks of age appear; the head is flat, the face broad, and the whole figure squat and unattractive.

This subject is of much importance, considered in its relation to the health of the people. Light being obviously one of the conditions of health, there ought to be an unrestricted and abundant supply of it in every dwelling. Valuable evidence illustrative of the necessity of the free access of light to all human habitations, was given by several distinguished medical men before the Commissioners on the Health of Towns. Mr. N. Bagshaw

"Let there be light!" was the first grand law promulgated on earth. "And God saw the light that it was good: and God divided the light from the darkness." Each morning is still witness to the repetition of that glorious order established at Creation. The darkness disappears at the dawn, and the sun rising above the horizon brings with it the daily procession of beauty and joy, "kissing dead things to life." The lark flies up to heaven with its morning orison, the beasts rouse themselves from their lair, and man rises from his couch and goes forth to his labour. He works while it is day, and till the night cometh; and under the shadow of the dark-Ward, surgeon, stated as follows:ness he retires to rest. Thus light and life have come to be closely identified in our minds; as also the correspond-lated neighbourhood, my attention has been repeatedly ing association of darkness and sleep or death.

Light is indeed more indispensable to the life and health of man than is generally imagined; not less so than is the light of knowledge to the healthy condition of man's mental nature. You cannot grow a healthy plant without a full supply of light, neither can a healthy human being be sustained without it. Plants placed in the dark become pale, bleached, and feeble; and so do men and women. See how the plant, immured in darkness, struggles to reach the light, throwing out its tendrils as if to feel and apprehend it. Plant a vine in a dark place, into which only one small stream of light is allowed to enter, and it will grow towards the narrow opening and press eagerly through it into the day-light. The hop and the ivy twine round their supporter in the direction of the sun, and the sunflower

"Turns on her god, when he sets,

"During a practice of thirty years in a densely popu

Sir

drawn to the influence of light, not only as a most efficient
means of preventing disease, but likewise as tending ma-
terially to render disease milder when it occurs, and more
amenable to medical and other treatment. Dupuytren
relates the case of a lady whose maladies had baffled the skill
of several eminent practitioners. This lady resided in a
dark room (into which the sun never shone), in one of
the narrow streets of Paris. After a careful examination,
Dupuytren was led to refer her complaints to the absence
of light, and recommended her removal to a more cheer-
ful situation. This change was followed by the most
beneficial results; all her complaints vanished.
James Wylie has given a remarkable instance of the in-
fluence of light; he states that the cases of disease on
the dark side of an extensive barrack at St. Petersburg
have been uniformly, for many years, in the proportion of
three to one to those on the side exposed to the strong
light. The experiments of Dr. Edwards are conclusive;
he has shown that if tadpoles are nourished with proper
food, and exposed to the constantly renewed contact of
water, (so that their beneficial respiration may be main-
tained), but are entirely deprived of light, their growth
continues, but their metamorphosis into the condition of

The same look which she turn'd when he rose !" The leaves, which are the lungs of the vegetable world, are invariably found turned towards the light; and without its stimulus and agency, their functions could not be properly performed, nor their circulating fluids duly produced. The most beautiful flowers owe the magic of their colours to a full supply of light; as does the bril-air-breathing animals is arrested, and they remain in the liant carnation flush on the cheek of beauty. Light, like the oxygen of the air, is indispensable to animal life; and wherever it is deficient, health is impaired, feeble, and unenjoyed. The tribes of men who live near the pole, the Samoieds, Esquimaux, Greenlanders, Laplanders, and Ostiacks, deprived as they are of solar light for three

form of large tadpoles. Dr. Edwards also observes, that persons who live in caves and cellars, or in very dark and narrow streets, are apt to produce deformed children; and that men who work in mines are liable to disease and deformity beyond what the simple closeness of the air would be likely to produce."

It is also observed that persons who live in deep valleys between mountains, or in close narrow streets into which the sun never shines, present a pale, relaxed sallowness of skin, indicating a low and enfeebled state of health, which contrasts strongly with the ruddy freshness of country folks, who live much in the sun and the open air. Those also who inhabit the side of a hill having a northern aspect, are paler and less healthy than persons living on its southern or sunny side. The vegetation found on the southern slopes is also invariably found better and more elaborately developed--the flowers brighter, and the foliage more robust and verdant. All the vivifying influences are more active wherever the sun's light and warmth are freely supplied.

guish at once this useful class of labourers in the cause of popular education! Such is the effect on newspapers: the tax prohibits their existence for the multitude. Only those persons who can afford to pay their sixpences can enjoy the luxury. The partial reduction of the tax some years ago has, it is true, greatly increased the circulation of newspapers, and enabled the better-paid of the working classes to buy them; but the tax of one penny on each, still greatly restricts their circulation, and must be regarded as a prohibition of such cheap newspapers as would be purchased by the poorer classes of readers. "Let there be light;" is therefore as applicable in this case as in that of restricted window-light. Were this tax abolished, newspapers would at once be universally multiplied-they would abound in England to the same extent they now do in America; and even the poorest man would be en

employed. A servant is out of place, and advertises her want of employment. But in doing so, she must pay eighteenpence to the Public Exchequer. How many are thus prevented from advertising by this tax levied on their misfortune. Or, the shopkeeper is desirous of extending his trade, and seeks publicity. He advertises, if he can afford it; and is taxed for each advertisement. The same tax is imposed on all who make their announcement through the medium of newspapers.

This question has also a moral aspect, which is not the least important. The privation of light has a fearfully depressing influence on the human mind; and most per-abled to have his weekly paper. sons can testify to the dismal feelings produced by occu- The tax on advertisements is a sore tax on the unpying a gloomy apartment, and the brightening influence, on the spirits, of a gleam of sunshine. Every physician can bear abundant testimony to the restorative and cheering effects of the latter. The consequences of regularly living in dark apartments, where depressing influences are daily at work, has been found to be most deleterious, not only to the physical, but to the moral health of the persons so situated. The Health of Towns' Commission, a few years ago, found that there were in Liverpool 7,892 cellars, inhabited by 39,460 men, women, and children; and in Manchester, 4,443 cellars, inhabited by 18,217 persons. It is difficult for the mind to conceive of any human habitations more utterly miserable; and Mr. Chadwick affirmed that in the cellars of Liverpool, Manchester, and Leeds, he had seen amongst the operatives more vice, misery, and degradation, than those which, when detailed by Howard, had excited the sympathy of the world. Into these cellars the misery and vice of the great towns seemed to gravitate; and such misery and vice there went on propagating themselves into consequences of most fearful import to the society which so harboured them. The Health of Towns' Act has done much to abate such nuisances; and it has excited strong public opinion generally in favour of healthier domestic accommodation for the poor.

But more yet remains to be done in the same direction, and the next step of a Government, anxious to promote the welfare of the people, ought to be-the abolition of the Window Tax. From what we have said, this tax is virtually a prohibition imposed on full health-except to those who can afford to pay for light. A full supply of light is as important to human health as a full supply of food; but now, to avoid taxes which many have a difficulty in paying, we find houses are erected with a deficiency of windows, and very often windows are blocked up to keep down the family expenses. Even apparatuses constructed for ventilation are taxed as windows! skylights are taxed, lights over passage-doors, and the meanest bull's-eye in a cellar is liable, provided it communicates with the house. Surely this is not as it ought to be; and the Government which permits such a state of things, in the face of the above facts, which its own Commission has brought prominently to light, is not free from serious responsibility. We believe, however, that remedial measures are intended; and we trust that the present Session of Parliament will not rise until it has put an end to the deleterious tax on light.

The taxes on intellectual light are no less objectionable. Such as taxes on newspapers, taxes on paper, and taxes on advertisements. These are tantamount to interdicts on knowledge for the poor. A penny is a small thing; but to a man with few pennies to spare, it is a heavy tax. On a fourpenny newspaper it is 25 per cent. This is a virtual prohibition of cheap newspapers; and newspapers are the books of the poor man. What would be the effect of putting a tax of a penny on journals such as our own? To extin

The tax on paper acts injuriously in the same way as the stamp duty on newspapers. It adds to the price, and tends to keep literary food out of reach of the poorer classes. The addition to the price may not be much; only about a farthing on each newspaper; still it is an addition, and it is like a tax on light, a tax on knowledge, which should be free as air. There are several excellent cheap publications which have been discontinued because of the smallness of the profit, but which the publishers (Messrs. Chambers) have announced would have been continued had this tax been removed. Sufficient profit would then have remained to enable them to have carried on their publication. The price of books is enhanced in the same way, especially in the case of those excellent cheap works now printed and sold in such immense numbers (as by the Messrs. Bohn, and Simms and M'Intyre), the publishers' profits on which are the merest fraction. And even though these works pay now, the removal of the tax would enable the publishers still further to reduce the price to the public, by which the great and increasing classes of readers would obtain considerable advantage.

Light for the dwelling, and light for the mindhealthy homes and healthy intellects-are alike imperatively called for; and legislators certainly could not more effectually supply those important requirements, than by abolishing the taxes on window light and the taxes on knowledge.

MY WALK TO "THE OFFICE."

No. 3.

Sympathy, what it may do. Mr. Rockhart, Catherine, and her husband. A new friend in my walk, a visit to his home, and a question to the reader.

THE gushing forth of words of sympathy, and powers of healing or soothing others' griefs and woes from lips that really echo the heart's true sentiments, possess a charm to which nothing this side eternity can boast an equal. It seems so God-like in its simplicity and purity, that one forgets the suffering which called it forth while listening to the music of its voice; it has a magic so beyond our comprehension, that it verges on the supernatural, and it would almost seem that the rough waves of life's troubled sea were stilled to rest by angel power; it has indeed so much of beauty and of loveliness, that

we might lead ourselves to think the One had left us this sweet taste of universal love, to give man some idea of what a heaven must be. And then, too, what so loved and loving, expanding and enduring, even in an individual breast? Sneer at it if you have the heart, and yet it thrives; for has it not an ever-welling spring within itself, still pouring forth fresh healing water? Condemn it, if you will; martyr, persecute it, if you have the power; and, depend upon it, you only spread the seed, which will again bud forth, like an ear of corn, giving life's food to those who will but feed upon it. Do what you may, you never can annihilate it, so long as human nature breathes; and further still; for lives it not beyond the grave; nay, is it not immortal? yes, truly, if there be a Judgment-day. Look at it from what point of view you may, still, like a prism in the light, the shade may change, but yet 'tis always beautiful. See it, as we have lately done, moving a whole nation's heart to one huge pulse of anxious, deep solicitude for the welfare of that gallant band, we trust, still safe, though traversing perpetual snows-see how it keeps alive the fire of hope, and battles inch by inch the ground despair vrould seek to occupy.

Or track its wanderings through dark haunts of crime, and bringing to the broad glare of day the reasons why it is that men are found to grovel in iniquity; and thus, having found the cause, with bold and loving hand attempt the remedy. Yes, onward it walks, this sympathy, or love of man for man, brightening, cheering, bettering the blackest heart, and often leading it to such a state of light, once never dreamt of in its dismal, wretched life of brutish ignorance.

dually. He was always "sorry, very sorry, very sorry indeed; but . . . it grieved him; but... it was out of his power to assist-very sorry indeed," and this too in the most honeyed accents possible. Well, somehow or other, I never felt comfortable with that man; there was something peculiar about him; he was old, and looked as though he had never been young; I could never realize him to my mind as a boy, as a little child, such an utter want of humanity was there in his expression. To think that once upon a time he might have been fondled, nestled to his mother's heart and blessed, seemed quite impossible; and yet, of course, he was so once, nay more, he must have been as one of those of whom it was so beautifully and poetically said, "of such is the kingdom of heaven; " well, all this we can realize of most, but no, I never could of him. And then his smile; I cannot say what others thought, but, for my own part, his frown was quite delightful in comparison, for there was some truth in that, it implied what was meant-but for the other, its meaning was impenetrable.

And then he was a money-lender, a jobber in bills, and lived partly in large cold dismal chambers, which the old woman that cleaned them most strenuously affirmed were haunted; but if I cannot vouch for that, for this I will, that of whatever character the troubled ghosts might be, nobody was ever known to enter those walls with good spirits for company.

Now it so happened that Mr. Rockhart-for by that name I shall designate him for convenience-had met a young lady, of great personal and mental attractions, to whom he made an offer of marriage; but as he was some forty years her senior, and withal had by no means made a faOr, yet again; follow it across the mighty main, pene-vourable impression, he was rejected, and from that motrating into unknown lands, conquering difficulties which ment he vowed, and he smiled as he did it, if ever the opnothing but such a love as this could hope to overcome; portunity occurred, to be revenged for what he thought an see it, with unexampled patience, never wearied, never insult. But not long after this Catherine Merrington, the regretting the sacrifice it needs must make, throwing the young lady alluded to, did marry, and Mr. Rockhart, warm rays of reason's sun upon the clouded intellect having withdrawn all communication with her family, was of some poor black; then watch the breaking germ: forgotten in the present happiness. And here it will be the savage is subdued; he learns to know that he too has better, that the circumstances may be made clearer, that a mind, a heart, a soul; he looks abroad and sees an open I should follow Catherine's path, and return when occabook, in which is written by the hand of God himself, sion may require it to Mr. R. such lessons, that plead so lovingly, he cannot help but learn; and then it is, that, bursting the fetters which have chained him earthward to the level of a brute, he stands erect in the face of Nature and of Nature's God, and boasts himself a man.

And if should it be said, that, after all, he forms but one small item in the mass, why then I say, "most true, my potent, grave, and reverend signior, but then 'tis he, and such as he, that form the little links in that great chain which sympathy and civilization shall forge around the world, fettering us all in one sweet bond of dignified, ennobled, undivided love."

This, then, my reading friend, gives some faint outline of what sympathy may do; and if but one spark of the true light burn within your heart, extinguish it not, but treasure it, as you might a precious gem, and let it shine in all its natural brightness over every path you tread.

As, then, this virtue is so passing fair, it would be strange indeed were its counterfeit not far more generally met with than the true original. And yet nothing can be more unlike than that is which passes current with the world for pure and disinterested sympathy; but still the difference lies in a nutshell,-simply in words and deeds, the one being redolent to profusion of the former, while the other more frequently makes itself heard by acts which do not speak--but to the heart. And yet to hear some men talk, one might verily believe they had the largest souls imaginable, born but to bless their fellowcreatures with their commiserating sorrow.

Now, many years ago I sometimes accompanied a man in my walk who professed a large amount of grief for his fellow-creatures' misfortunes, collectively and indivi

Her choice had fallen upon one apparently deserving her, and she merited one of worth, for if her beauty was not absolutely perfect, her sweetness of temper and disposition, I think, was. Four years had passed away, and Catherine had now a daughter three years old; but she herself was altered, greatly changed in fact, not in heart, but in outward looks; her once jet hair was even tinged with grey, and her cheeks that were of old so sweet to look upon, and brought up thoughts of admiration and of love, now looked sunken, pallid, nay quite blanched; her eyes too had lost their lustre, and it was but when she stroked the hair apart from off her child's sweet face, and kissed its fair fine forehead, that any of the old brightness was discernible.

And reason good enough there was for all this change. Her father, a man well to do in the world, had died, leaving, as so many of his class are frequently leaving, no provision for those left behind. With ample means for doing so, insuring his life had hardly ever entered his head, and when it had, some inexplicable and unfounded notions of its impropriety, on the ground of "flying in the face of providence, and attempting to forestal the future," drove it out again, as if the same prudence we so wisely exercise respecting our transactions during life should not be put in practice, to guard against the evils its neglect entails on those we loved and cherished when we sleep the sleep of death.

But this, the shock once past, could have been borne, and what a consolation it would have been, had she possessed the means, to have provided home and comfort to her widowed parent; but there was still a greater change than this, more lasting, more fatal, more myste

rious in its origin and end. Some eighteen months was the picture drawn in his imagination of what he before the time alluded to, her husband had become less regular in his hours at home; and those he spent around his fireside, once the scene of happiness and joy, were gloomy, silent, and unquiet. And this got worse, he even absented himself whole nights without any apparent reason, and refused any explanation; his manner too was altogether changed-he spoke harshly to "his Catherine," he never smiled upon his child, he was restless, nervous, and unhinged; as was he also blind to the thousand little artifices his wife essayed to bring him back to "home," and win such smiles as she was wont to have of old she tried hard to gain her point, but it was all in vain; there was within his breast a passion raging, not even her lovingness could drive away. And oh, how she suffered in her heart of hearts; yet no harsh word reproved him; no cutting, bitter taunts, for they she knew could do no good; and yet she lived in hope, and hung upon the trust she felt in that, no power could induce her to believe was really different to what her own guileless heart had taught her it once was ;-oh, yes, he was her husband still; and could she have changed her part for one of life-enduring bliss, she would not, for she was a woman true, a mother and a wife, and loved as such. And that baby child, how she loved her father too, and yet there was but little cause; but this good mother had imbued her mind with that firm love she felt within herself, and in their night and morning prayers was heard the Almighty's blessing asked for him, who never sought it for himself; oh, it was sweet to hear those voices raised in accents of the softest prayer in supplicating terms, such only as the two purest loves on earth could dictate. The infant, in its holy innocence, lisping for blessings on a parent's head; the mother, in tones more tremulous, but still as true, for mercy to be shown to him for the great wrong he did himself, their child, and her.

Such was the state of things, when, one morning, the husband, who had been pacing the room with a hurried nervous step, his mind wandering from the effect of drinking, misery self-sought, and grievous torturing remorse, seemed to have at last resolved to adopt a course, in which lay his only chance; so seating himself in a chair opposite his wife, with an effort he commenced— "Catherine," he said, "I am aware how little right I have to ask a favour at your hands; but still, if all the love you once felt for me has not fled, I pray you do me one small service, and—what still a smile! oh, Catherine, I can bear that least of all.”

But, true enough, so soon as the good wife had caught the meaning of her husband's speech, and that his future welfare might depend on her, she had sidled her chair to his, and now was gazing into his tearful eyes with some old beams of happiness and smiles. But resuming, he continued, "you know not, Catherine, what I have been, what I have become; a gambler first, a drunkard next, and a bad husband always."

'No, no," interrupted Catherine, "not the last, not the last; you were not so in your heart; you often thought of home,-I know you did; but the temptations must have been so strong-I am sure they must; but tell me what it is that I must do ;-I feel so happy, dear, I feel so strong."

And then they stood for some short space clasped to each other's breast; so much of truth, of purity, and love, bound by affection's force to so much that had been vile, criminal, and base; but love indeed is blind, for here the first saw not the last.

Again he attempted to proceed; but I think it will be more convenient to use my own words rather than quote his; for so constant were the self-reproaches, so continual the gushing forth of comforting and heart-soothing words from the wife, that it would be almost impossible to give them in a connected form. In fact, so vividly

might have called his home, and boasted of it, while at the same time the fearful reality of the misery he had incurred presented itself in such startling character before his mind, that it went nigh to drive him mad; ob, to think how rudely he had dashed away the cup, brimful of human joys, and drunk deeply, alas, how deeply! of a bitter poison in its place-it was a painful thought. And truly indeed had he described himself, as he now stood in the law's grasp, without a single jot of this world's goods that he dare lay his hand upon and call his own; but so it was-a gambler first, a drunkard next, a bad husband always; yes, he had trod the steps-one more, and that a no uncommon one, and he had gone to his account! However, he succeeded in giving something like an outline of his position at last-how he had begun without any intention of going on; how, having gone on, he found it, as he thought, impossible not to go a little farther, retrieve his losses, and then stop; how, finding he did not stop, and the losses never were retrieved, he drank to give him spirit to proceed; how all he possessed slipped through his fingers with a sort of magic which he could not comprehend; how too he had been introduced to Mr. Rockhart, who had accommodated him, for a consideration, by discounting a bill or two; how, in seeking to extricate himself he became the more involved, simply by the mode of doing it; how too, as his position became rumoured in his circle, "friends" sneered at him as a fool, and foes condemned him as a rogue; and how, in short, he awoke from his fitful, feverish dream, and found himself standing on the brink of an abyss, whose awful depths might swallow up his life, his honour, and even those who loved and trusted him, but whom he had betrayed; and then it was he turned to that spring from whence flowed the streams of sympathy and forgiveness, for the only draught that could revive his spirits, givo him strength, and raise up hope of sunshine yet to come; and then came the request-it was that Catherine should appeal to Mr. Rockhart for the delay of a month, that, in the meantime, "something" might be done to save a portion of the wreck, and, unpleasant as the task might be, not for an instant did she hesitate.

And what were her feelings as she walked through the thickly-peopled streets that dreary morning, scarce knowing of the presence of a soul, so wet, weary, and absorbed was she; were they vindictive? No, not an unkind word had occupation in her mind, but one heartwringing pang of deep regret, to think how soon the clouds had darkened such a sunny morn before the noon had barely come; one fruitless yearning after that fair bark of happiness she launched so eagerly on the deep waters of her existence, and now saw dashed to atoms at her feet; but yet through all she had one comfort, and she thanked God for it-she had her husband back again.

It would perhaps be but a waste of time and space to give the interview between Mr. Rockhart and Catherine. Pleadings were in vain, as may be supposed; he was truly sorry, very sorry indeed, but the fact was, he had no power in the matter now-it was out of his hands altogether; "and," continued Mr. Rockhart, at the close of the interview, "even were I able, Madam,-it grieves me to call it to your recollection, but once you thought it your duty to refuse me; duty, you perceive, Madam, I am sorry to say, cuts two ways,-I must refuse you now,” and Mr. Rockhart bowed, smiled, and pointed to the door.

And poor Catherine, with a look half indignant, half beseeching, and her heart too full and sunken for reply, moved slowly away, and tottered rather than walked towards her home; and when she reached it, that same home, it was stripped of nearly everything-all that she cherished as her household gods were gone, all that had a charm for her from old associations or the gifts of friends, all, all was gone-and she, still bearing up, and

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