avarice and enterprise of the white man, gradually to disappear from the borders of civilization, as have the aborigines of the country before the onward march of the Saxon race. Already have these magnificent trees been so cleared away by the woodman's axe, that the pine is now driven far back into the interior wilderness. Hence, in order to discover the locality of the remaining pine communities, exploring expeditions are made, usually during the autumn, into wild and unknown forest regions. Sometimes the exploration is made during the winter, and then the labour of the timber-hunters is both arduous and dangerous. They start on board a skiff or a bateau, with provisions, axes, guns and ammunition; and thus voyage some hundreds of miles into the interior, carrying the skiff on their shoulders across the land where the rapids of the river are too severe to be ascended by the use of oars or poles. They sleep in the open air at nights, turning the boat bottom upwards, and taking shelter under it, if rain should fall. Оссаsionally they are scared by the scream of the owl, or the tramping of deer, or, what is more alarming than all, by the approach of a black bear, dangerous adventures with which are very frequent in the deep forests.

Arrived at some favourable spot, one of the party ascends the highest tree,-generally the spruce fir, which is easily climbed. But when a still loftier look-out is wanted, a spruce fir is felled and lodged against the trunk of some lofty pine, up which the explorer clambers until he reaches the summit, and is enabled to survey the vast extent of forest around. From such a tree-top, like a mariner at the masthead upon the look-out for whales (for indeed the pine is the whale of the forest), large "clumps" and "veins" of pine are discovered, whose towering tops may be seen for miles around. Such views fill the bosom of the timber-hunter with intense interest. They are the object of his search, his treasure-his El Dorado,-and they are beheld with peculiar and thrilling emotions. To detail the process more minutely, we should observe that the man in the tree-top points out the direction in which the pines are seen, when a man at the base marks the direction, indicated by a compass which he holds in his hand, the compass being quite as necessary in the wilderness as on the pathless ocean. When the "clump" has been fairly made out, the explorers retrace their steps, blazing or notching the trees, so as to enable them to return easily to the place; and then they return home, to await the spring season, when felling, rolling, and rafting commence with great vivacity. Permits are, however, first obtained from the State, or from the proprietors, before the loggers begin their operations-the price paid varying from one to eight dollars per thousand feet of timber cut down and taken away. The price varies according to the quality of the timber, and its convenient location to the stream or lake on which it is floated

away to market. A necessary preliminary of the loggers is the putting up, in the autumn, of large quantities of meadow hay, for the foddering of the teams of cattle required to drag the timber to the water. During this work, the lumbermen are pestered by myriads of bloodthirsty flies- mosquitoes and midgets being the most furious and untiring in their attacks. But more stirring adventures are occasionally encountered, of which take the following instance :"Notwithstanding the labour and annoyances of meadow life, there are pastimes and adventures to be met with. A shot now and then at some stray deer who may chance to stroll upon the meadow to graze; the hooking of beautiful trout, pickerel, and other delicious pan-fish, afford agreeable relief from ennui; while the sports of the forest and the brook afford most agreeable changes of diet. Here, also, very

frequently, are skirmishes had with the common black bear. If Bruin is not intentionally pugnacious, he is really meddlesome; nay, more, a downright trespasser - a regular thief-an out-and-out no government' animal; who, though neither profane nor yet immoral, still, without apostolical piety, would have all things common.' These peculiar traits of character secure to him the especial attention of mankind, and ever make him an object of attack. Though formidable as an enemy, it is hard to allow him to pass, even if he be civilly inclined, without direct assault. On one occasion, while two men were crossing a small lake in a skiff, on their return from the meadows, where they had been putting up hay, the discovered a bear swimming from a point of land for the opposite shore. As usual in such cases, temptation silenced prudential remonstrances; so, changing their course, they gave chase. The craft being light, they gained fast upon the bear, who exerted himself to the utmost to gain the shore. But, finding himself an unequal match in the race, he turned upon his pursuers and swam to meet them. One of the men, a short, thick-set, dare-devil sort of a fellow, seized an axe, and the moment the bear came up, inflicted a blow upon his head, which seemed to make but a slight impression. Before a second could be repeated, the bear clambered into the boat: he instantly grappled with the man who struck him, firmly setting his teeth in the man's thigh; then, settling back upon his haunches, he raised his victim in the air, and shook him as a dog would a woodchuck. The man at the helm stood for a moment in amazement, without knowing how to act, and fearing that the bear might spring overboard and drown his companion; but, recollecting the effect of a blow upon the end of a bear's snout, he struck him with a short setting-pole. The bear dropped his victim into the bottom of the boat, sallied, and fell overboard, and swam again for the shore. The man bled freely from the bite, and as the wound proved too serious to allow a renewal of the encounter, they made for the shore. Medical aid was procured as soon as possible, and in the course of six weeks the man recovered. But one thing saved them from being upset; the water proved sufficiently shoal to admit of the bear's getting bottom, from which he sprang into the boat. Had the water been deep, the boat must inevitably have been upset, in which case the consequences might have been more serious."

A lumbering camp is a busy scene. A log-house, for the shelter of the men and the cattle, is hastily knocked together; it is usually in the form of a long boothy or shed of the roughest description, covered with shingles and fir-branches. The interior is divided into three compartments-kitchen, "dining-room,' and sleeping apartment, the bedsteads of which consist of mother earth, strewn with fir, hemlock, and cedarboughs. When the occupants 66 turn in" for the night, they merely throw off their outer garments, and they sleep there more soundly than many princes on their beds of down. The interior of the shanty, on winter nights, is often a scene of mirth and jollity, and many long yarns about adventures with deer, bears, wolves, and catamounts, are spun for the benefit of the listeners. Songs are sung; and many a cloud of dense tobacco-smoke is blown,-for smoking seems to be one of the necessary qualifications of a logger. The days are spent in hard labour,-in felling, sawing, barking, chopping, rolling, and dragging the logs towards the river. The teamster is one of the hardest worked of the lot, and his care for the cattle is unceasing, the success of the whole party depending greatly on his efficiency. We need not describe the detail of the logging operations-they may easily be imagined. The trees are selected, felled, chopped,

barked, rolled, and dragged, during a period of three months. Then the camp is broken up, the logs are clamped together into rafts, and the exciting and dangerous work of river-driving begins. The rafts float on, each superintended by a driver, and all is plain sailing enough, until a rapid has to be "shot," or a narrow to be passed. Then the logs are apt to get jammed together between the rocks, and the driver has constantly to be on the alert to preserve his raft, and, what he values at less rate, his own life. Sometimes days, and weeks, pass before a "jam can be cleared, the drivers occasionally requiring to be suspended by ropes from the neighbouring precipices to the spot where a breach is to be made, which is always selected at the lowest part of the jam. The point may be treacherous, and yield to a feeble touch, or it may require much strength to move it. In the latter case, the operator fastens a long rope to a log, the end of which is taken down stream by a portion of the crew, who are to give a long pull and a strong pull when all is ready. He then commences prying while they are pulling. If the jam starts, or any part of it, or if there be even an indication of its starting, he is drawn suddenly up by those stationed above; and in their excitement and apprehensions for his safety, this is frequently done with such haste as to sul ject him to bruises and scratches upon the sharppointed bushes or ledges in the way. It may be thought best to cut off the key-log, or that which appears to be the principal barrier. Accordingly, the man is let down the jam, and as the place to be operated upon may, in some cases, be a little removed from the shore, he either walks to the place with the rope attached to his body, or, untying it, leaves it where he can readily grasp it in time to be drawn from his perilous position. Often, where the pressure is direct, a few blows only are given with the axe, when the log snaps in an instant, with a loud report, followed suddenly by the violent motion of the "jam,' and ere our bold river-driver is jerked half-way to the top of the cliff, scores of logs, in wildest confusion, rush beneath his feet, while he yet dangles in the air, above the rushing, tumbling mass. If that rope, on which life and hope thus hang suspended, should part, worn by the sharp point of some jutting rock, death, certain and quick, would be inevitable. The deafening noise, when such a jam breaks, produced by the concussion of moving logs whirled about like mere straws, the crash and breaking of some of the largest, which part apparently as easily as a reed that is severed, together with the roar of waters, may be heard for miles; and nothing can exceed the enthusiasm of the river-drivers on such occasions,-jumping, hurraing, and yelling, with joyous excitement. Such scenes are frequent on most rivers where lumber is driven.

At length the logs float into the broad stream, and reach the port where the timber is sold. But too often the logger wastes, in reckless dissipation, the fruits of his previous six months' dangers and labours.

RE-ISSUE OF ELIZA COOK'S POEMS.

OLD SONGS.

OLD Songs, old Songs,-how well I sung
Your varied airs with lisping tongue,
When breath and spirit, free and light,
Carolled away from morn till night!
When this beginning and that end
Were mystically made to blend,

And the sweet "Lass of Richmond Hill "
Gave place to her of "Patie's Mill!"

The tiny "Warbler" from the stall-
The fluttering "Ballad " on the wall-
The gipsy's glee-the beggar's catch-
The old wife's lay-the idiot's snatch-
The schoolboy's chorus, rude and witty-
The harvest strain-the carol ditty-
I taxed ye all-I stole from each;

I spurned no tutor that could teach:
Though long my list-though great my store,
I ever sought to add one more.

Old songs, old songs, ye fed, no doubt,
The flame that since has broken out;
For I would wander far and lone,
And sit upon the moss-wrapt stone,
Conning "old songs" till some strange power
Breathed a wild magic on the hour,
Sweeping the pulse-chords of my soul,
As winds o'er sleeping waters roll.
'Twas done the volume was unsealed-
The hallowed mission was revealed.
Old songs called up a kindred tone;
An echo started-'twas my own.
Joy, pride, and riches swelled my breast,
The "lyre" was mine, and I was blest.

Old songs, old songs,—my brain hath lost
Much that it gained with pain and cost;
I have forgotten all the rules
Of Murray's books and Trimmer's schools.
Detested figures! how I hate

The mere remembrance of a slate!
How I have cast from woman's thought
Much goodly lore the girl was taught !
But not a word has passed away

Of" Rest thee, Babe," or

"Robin Gray."

Sweet "Rest thee, Babe!" oh, peaceful theme

That floated o'er my infant dream!

My brow was cool, my pillow smooth,
When thou wert sung, to lull and soothe,
By lips that only ceased to strain

To kiss my cheek, then sung again.
I loved the tune, and many a time

I hummed the air and lisped the rhyme,
Till, curled up 'neath its potent charms,
The kitten slumbered in my arms.

Old songs, old songs, how ye bring back
The brightest paths in mortal track!
I see the merry circle spread

Till watchman's notice warned to bed,-
When one rude boy would loiter near,
And whisper in a well-pleased ear,
"Come, mother, sit before we go,
And sing 'John Anderson my Jo.'"

The ballad still is breathing round,
But other voices yield the sound;
Strangers possess the household room;
The mother lieth in the tomb,

And the blithe boy that praised her song
Sleepeth as soundly and as long.

Old songs, old songs, I should not sigh,--
Joys of the earth on earth must die;
But spectral forms will sometimes start
Within the caverns of the heart,
Haunting the lone and darkened cell
Where warm in life they used to dwell.

Hope, Youth, Love, Home,-each human tie
That binds, we know not how or why-
All, all that to the soul belongs
Is closely mingled with "old songs."

Oh! who shall say the ballad line
That stirs the heart is not divine?
And where the heart that would not dare
To place such song beside the prayer?

MOTHER, COME BACK!
MOTHER, come back! this is the cry
When some rare pleasure fills my heart,
When laughing joy lights up my eye,
And Impulse wakes with eager start.
I know thou wouldst exult to see

The flush of sunshine on my track;
And faithful Memory clings to thee,
With burning words, "Mother come back!"

Tidings, perchance, may reach my ear,
Cold, false, and bitter in their tone,
Till the low sigh and stealing tear
Burst from a spirit sad and lone.
Then do I breathe in accents wild,

With heartstrings stretched on Feeling's rack, "Thou who didst ever love thy child

With changeless faith, Mother, come back!" Faint languor shades my drooping face, My pulses flutter, swiftly weak;

The fading lily takes its place,

And hides the rose-leaf on my cheek.

Then do I call upon thy name,

When stranger hands support my brow,
My pining soul still asks the same-
"Mother, come back, I need thee now!"
When Fortune sheds her fairest beams,
Thou art the missing one I crave,

I ask thee, when the whole world seems
As dark and cheerless as thy grave,-

I ask thee, with a dreamer's brain,
For, no, ah! no, it cannot be,
Thou'lt never come to me again,
But, mother, I will go to thee!

DR. ANDREW COMBE.

THE life of Andrew Combe was quiet and unostentatious. It was chiefly occupied by the investigations and labours incident to the calling which he had chosen-that of medicine;-a profession which, when followed successfully, leaves comparatively little leisure for the indulgence of literary tastes. Yet, we do not exaggerate when we say, that there are few writers who have effected greater practical good, and done more to beneficially affect the moral and physical well-being of mankind, than the subject of this sketch. He was one of the first writers who directed public attention to the subject of Physiology, in connection with Health and Education. There had, indeed, been no want of writers on physiology previous to his time; but they addressed themselves mainly to the professional mind; and their books were for the most part, so full of technical phrases, that so far as the public was concerned, they might as well have been written in an altogether unknown tongue. As Dr. Combe grew up towards manhood, and acquired habits of independent observation, he perceived that the majority of men and women were, for the most part, ignorantly living in habitual violation of the laws of health, and thus bringing upon themselves debility, disease, premature decay, and death and not on themselves alone, but upon their offspring, not to speak of genera tions unborn, on whom the penalty of neglect, or violation of the physiological laws, inevitably descends. He then conceived the idea of instructing the people in those laws, in a simple and intelligible manner, and in language divested of technical terms. And there are surely words enough in the English tongue, in which to utter common sense to common people upon such subjets as air, exercise, diet, cleanliness, and so on, as affecting the healthy lives of human beings, without drawing largely upon Greek and Latin terminology for the purpose.

Dr. Combe's first book, on The Principles of Physi ology applied to the Preservation of Health, and to the Improvement of Physical and Mental Education, was written in this rational and common-sense style. In that work, Dr. Combe appealed to the ordin ary, average understandings of men. He explained the laws which regulated the physical life,-the conditions necessary for the healthy action of the various functions of the system; and he directed particular attention to those habits and practices which were in violation of the natural laws, pointing out the necessity for amendment in various ways, in a cogent, persuasive, and perspicuous manner. We remember very well the appearance of the book in question. It excited comparatively small attention at first,the subject was so unusual, and up to that time deemed so unattractive. People were afraid then, as they often are now, to look into their own physical

system, and learn something of its working. There is alarm to many minds, in the thought of the heart beating, and the lungs blowing, and the arteries contracting upon their red blood. The consideration of such subjects used formerly to be regarded as strictly professional; and people were for the most part satisfied to leave health, and all that concerned it, in the exclusive charge of "the doctors." And, truth to say, medical men were disposed to regard the publication of Dr. Combe's Physiology as somewhat "infra dig;" for it looked like a revealing of the secrets of the profession before the eyes of the general public. But all such feeling has long since gone by; and medical men now find that they have in the readers of good works on popular physiology more intelligent patients to deal with,-able to cooperate with them in their attempts to subdue disease, and to restore the bodily functions to health, than when they have mere blank ignorance and blind prejudice to encounter; and where there is not sound information, there will always be found prejudices enough-the most difficult of all things to manage. It is not improbable also, that to the growing popular knowledge of physiological conditions, we are, in a great measure, to attribute the rapid improvement in the medical profession which has taken place of late years. For, medical men are the better for knowing that, in order to make good their influence, and to advance as a profession, they must keep well ahead of the intelligence of their employers. Everybody knows that questions of Health,- -as affecting the sanitary condition of towns, -are among the leading questions of this day; and we cannot help attributing much of the active concern which now exists among legislators, philanthropists, and all public-spirited men, for the improvement of the physical condition of the people, to the impulse given to the subject by the publication of Dr. Combe's admirable books on health, many years ago.

Dr. Combe was himself a serious sufferer from the neglect of the laws of physical health; and it was probably this circumstance which early directed his attention to the subject, and induced him to give it the prominency which he did in nearly all his published works. He was the fifteenth child of respectable parents, living in Edinburgh: his father was a brewer at Livingston's Yards, a suburb of the Old Town, situated nearly under the south-west angle of the rock of Edinburgh Castle. Seventeen children in all were born to the Combes in that place; but the neighbourhood abounded with offensive pools and ditches, the noxious influence of which (in conjunction with defective ventilation in small or over-crowded sleeping apartments) must have been a potent cause of the disease and early mortality which prevailed in the family. Very few of the seventeen children grew up to adult years; and although the parents, who were of robust constitution, lived to an old age, those of the children who survived, grew up with feeble constitutions, and, in Andrew's case, containing within them the seeds of serious and ultimately fatal disease. Nor was the mental discipline of the children of a much healthier kind. As an illustration, George Combe, in the life of his brother, recently published, gives the following picture of the Sabbath, as spent in a Scotch family:

"The gate of the brewery was locked, and all except the most necessary work was suspended. The children rose at eight, breakfasted at nine, and were taken to the West Church at eleven. The forenoon service lasted till one. There was a lunch between one and two. The afternoon's service lasted from two till four. They then dined; and after dinner, portions of the Psalms and of the Shorter

Catechism with the 'Proofs' were prescribed to be learnt by heart. After these had been repeated, tea was served. Next the children sat round a table and read the Bible aloud, each a verse in turn, till a chapter for every reader had been completed. After this, sermons or other pious works were read till nine o'clock, when supper was served, after which all retired to rest. Jaded and exhausted in brain and body as the children were by the performance of heavy tasks at school during six days of the week, these Sundays were no days of rest to them."

From a private school, Andrew Combe proceeded! to the High School, and then he was placed apprentice to an Edinburgh surgeon. He was singularly obstinate in connection with his entry upon his profession. Although he had chosen to be "a doctor," when finally asked "what he would be," his answer in the vernacular Scotch was,-"I'll no be naething." He would give no further answer; and after all kinds of "fleechin" and persuading were tried, he at length had to be carried by force out of the house, to begin his professional career! His father and brother George, afterwards his biographer, with a younger brother, James, performed this remarkable duty. George thus describes the

Scene:

"A consultation was now held as to what was to be done; and again it was resolved that Andrew should not be allowed to conquer, seeing that he still assigned no reason for his resistance. He was, therefore, lifted from the ground; he refused to stand; but his father supported one shoulder, George carried the other, and his younger brother, James, pushed him on behind; and in this fashion he was carried from the house, through the brewery, and and several hundred yards along the high road, before he placed a foot on the ground. His elder brother John, observing what was passing, anxiously inquired, "What's the matter?" James replied, "We are taking Andrew to the doctor." "To the doctor! what's the matter with him,-is he ill, James?" "Oh, not at all,-we are taking him to make him a doctor." At last, Andrew's sense of shame prevailed, and he walked quietly. His father and George accompanied him to Mr. Johnston's house; Andrew was introduced and received, and his father left him. George inquired what had passed in Mr. Johnston's presence. "Nothing particular," replied his father; "only my conscience smote me when Mr. Johnston 'hoped that Andrew had come quite willingly!' I replied that I had given him a solemn promise, that if he did not like the profession after a trial, he should be at liberty to leave it." "Quite right," said Mr. Johnston; and Andrew was conducted to the laboratory. Andrew returned to Mr. Johnston's next morning without being asked to do so; and to the day of his death he was fond of his profession.

In a touching letter to his brother George, written nearly thirty years after the above event, he thanked him cordially for having been instrumental in sending him to a liberal profession; and he confesses that he really "wished and meant to be a doctor," notwithstanding his absurd way of showing his willingness. Always ready, as both he and his brother George were, and as the latter still is, to account for everything phrenologically, he attributes the resistance on the occasion to Andrew's Wit and Secretiveness. "I recollect well," he says in the letter referred to, "that my habitual phrase was, 'I'll no be naething.' This was universally construed to mean, I'll be naething. The true meaning I had in view was, what the words bore, 'I will be something;' and the clue to the riddle was, that my Wit was tickled at school by the rule that two negatives make an affirmative,' and I was diverted with the mystifica

tion their use and literal truth produced in this instance. In no one instance did mortal man or woman hear me say seriously, (if ever), 'I'll be naething.' All this is as clear to me as if of yesterday's occurrence, and the double entendre was a source of internal chuckling to me. You may say, why, then, so unwilling to go to Mr. Johnston's? That is a natural question, and touches upon another feature altogether. I was a dour [stubborn] boy, when not taken in the right way, and for a time nothing would then move me. Once committed, I resolved not to yield, and hence the langhable extravaganza which ensued."

At the age of fifteen, Andrew Combe went to live with his elder brother George, who, in 1812, commenced the profession of a writer to the Signet, at the house, No. 11, Bank Street, Edinburgh. This was an advantage to Andrew, in point of health, and was a convenience to him in attending his place of business, and also the medical lectures in the University. In his letters to his brother George, written in after life, Andrew often referred, with regret, to the neglect of ventilation, ablution, and bathing, in his father's family; to which he attributed the premature deaths of the greater number, and the impaired constitutions of the few who survived. "Our parents," he said in one letter, "erred from sheer ignorance; but what are we to think of the mechanical and tradesman-like views of a medical man who could see all these causes of disease existing, and producing these results year after year, without its ever occurring to him that it was part of his solemn duty to warn his employers, and try to remedy the evil? All parties were anxious to cure the disease, but no one sought to remove its causes; and yet so entirely were the causes within the control of reason and knowledge, that my conviction has long been complete, that, if we had been properly treated from infancy, we should, even with the constitutions we possessed at birth, have survived in health and active usefulness to a good old age, unless cut off by some acute disease." But nearly all medical men were alike empirical in those days. They merely attacked the symptoms presented to them; and when these were overcome, their task was accomplished. That medical men are now so much more careful in directing their measures towards the prevention as well as the cure of disease, we have to thank Dr. Combe, Edwin Chadwick, and other popular writers and labourers in the cause of Public Health.

The crushing effect of the religious, or rather sectarian, influences, under which Andrew Combe was placed in his youth, had also a serious effect on his mind, from which, however, he afterwards happily escaped, and emerged into the light of a clearer and more healthy religious atmosphere. The horrible pictures which were then depicted before him, filled his mind with terrors, and haunted him in fearful dreams from which he often awoke trembling. Andrew's father, whose own mind in secret revolted against such views, wanted the moral courage to withdraw his children from their influence; and allowed them to suffer agonies of mental distress, out of seeming deference to an authority which he had himself really ceased to respect. But the father of the Combes by no means stood alone in this respect in his time; and the vice of seeming-of assuming appearances which are only of the surface-is still far

too common.

At the early age of nineteen, (but then supposed to be a late age), Andrew Combe passed at Surgeon's Hall. He used afterwards to say, that it would have been better for him had he been then only commencing his studies. Shortly after, Dr. Spurzheim, the phrenologist, visited Edinburgh, and attracted

one.

round him many ardent admirers, of whom George Combe, then a young man, shortly became Andrew, like most of the medical men of the day, was at first strongly disposed to laugh at the new science; but before many years had passed, he too became an ardent disciple of Dr. Spurzheim. He afterwards attributed much of the improvement of his mind and character to his study of this science, and to the practical application of its principles to his own case. In 1817, he went to Paris, where he studied under Dupuytren, Alibert, Esquirol, Richerand, and other celebrated men. He also cultivated the friendship of Dr. Spurzheim, and pursued his observations and studies in Phrenology. From Paris, he proceeded with a friend on a walking tour through Switzerland and the north of Italy. Disregarding the laws of health, he injured his delicate constitution by exposure, irregular diet, and over fatigue; and on his return to Edinburgh shortly after, he was seized with a serious illness,-the beginning of longcontinued lung disease. He removed for a season to the south of England, and then proceeded to Italy, wintering at Leghorn. There his cough left him, and he regained his health and strength so far as to be enabled to practice for a time as a physician among the English in that town and Pisa. Returning to Edinburgh, in 1823, he there regularly settled down in that city as a medical practitioner.

In this profession he was very successful. His quiet manner, suavity and kindness, good sense, attention, professional abilities, and gentlemanly demeanour, secured him many friends; and he won them to his heart by his truthful candour, and by the manner in which he sought to obtain their intelligent co-operation in the remedial measures which he thought proper to employ. He deemed it as much a part of his duty to instruct his patients a to the conditions which regulate the healthy action of the bodily organs, as to administer drugs to them for the purpose of curing their immediate ailments. But he found great obstacles in his way, in consequence of the previous ignorance of most people, even those considered well-educated, as to the simplest laws which regulate the animal economy. Hence he very early felt the necessity of improving this department of elementary instruction, and with that view he set about composing his works on popular physiology. His first appearance as an author was in the pages of the Phrenological Journal, an excellent periodical, now defunct. To the subject of Phrenology he devoted considerable attention, and soon became known as one of its ablest defenders. Some of his friends told him that he would injure his professional standing and connection by the prominency of his advocacy of the new views; but he persevered nevertheless, "firmly trusting in the sustaining power of truth," and he afterwards found that instead of being professionally injured, he was greatly benefited by the labour which he bestowed on the study and exposition of the science. To phrenology he attributed, in a great measure, the direction of his attention to the subject of hygieinic principles; and after his mind had been fairly opened to the importance of those principles, he not only reduced them to practice in his own personal habits, but laboured to disseminate a knowledge of them among the public generally.

In the midst of the arduous duties of his profession, Dr. Combe was more than once under the necessity of leaving home and going abroad for the benefit of his health. Disease had fixed upon his lungs, and he felt that his life could only be preserved by removing to a milder air. He went abroad for this purpose, on several occasions, to Paris, to Orleans, to Nantes, to Lyons, to Naples, to Rome,