The Chautauquan, December 1884

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The Chautauquan.

A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE. ORGAN OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE.

Vol. V. DECEMBER, 1884. No. 3.

Officers of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

President, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio. Superintendent of Instruction, Rev. J. H. Vincent, D.D., New Haven, Conn. Counselors, Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.; Rev. J. M. Gibson, D.D.; Bishop H. W. Warren, D.D.; Prof. W. C. Wilkinson, D.D. Office Secretary, Miss Kate F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J. General Secretary, Albert M. Martin, Pittsburgh, Pa.

Contents

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REQUIRED READING FOR DECEMBER.

WHAT ENGLISH IS.

BY RICHARD GRANT WHITE.

In the course of our two foregoing articles we followed the advance of the great Aryan or Indo-European race, to which we belong, from its original seat in Central Asia, which it began to leave more than four thousand years ago, until we found it in possession of India, Persia, and all of Europe. We considered briefly and incidentally the fact that within the last two hundred and fifty years this Asiatic race has taken absolute possession of the greater part of the continent of North America. We saw that speech was the bond and the token of the now vast and vague, but once narrow and compact, unity of this powerful race, which was brought into existence to conquer, to rule, and to humanize the world. Of the numerous languages which have sprung from the Aryan stem, English is the youngest. Compared in age with any other language of that stock, we may almost say with any existing language of any stock, it is like a new born babe in the presence of hoary eld. Only eight hundred years ago it was unknown. True, its rudiments and much of its substance then existed; but so it might be said that they existed in a certain degree four thousand years ago, as we saw in our last article. Yet again, more than four hundred years passed away before modern English was born. It was not until about the beginning of the sixteenth century that the language of Spenser, of Shakspere, of the Bible, of Bunyan, of Milton, of Goldsmith, Burke, Irving, Hawthorne, and Thackeray, came fully into existence as the recognized established speech of the English race.

Since that time the changes it has undergone have been trivial and unimportant. Like the languages of all other highly civilized peoples, it has received many additions, but its essential character has not changed; its structure has been modified so slightly that the change is perceptible only on the closest examination; its syntactical construction has remained unshaken. The prose of Spenser and Shakspere and the correspondence of the educated men of their day is as easily understood by an unlettered English speaking man of our day as the prose of Sir Arthur Helps or the more intelligible passages in the daily newspapers. During that time, indeed, there have been changes of style in writing English, which are more or less distinctive of periods. A reader of moderate experience and discrimination can soon tell whether a page that is put before him was written in the Elizabethan period, in that of the Restoration (Charles II.), in that of Queen Anne, or that of Victoria. But the differences by which his judgment would be guided are differences of tone, of manner, of “the way of putting things,” of certain tricks of expression, and are without any relations whatever to the “grammar,” or to the essential character of language. The presence of words not in use at one period, but which came into use at another, is an important means of such a discrimination. But, in the first place, the introduction of new words does not modify the essential character of a language; and in the next we are not now considering a criticism which goes so far as to examine the history of the English vocabulary.

This modern English, which is the youngest, is also the greatest language ever spoken. A man may be supposed, not unreasonably, to be prejudiced in favor of his mother tongue; but the judgment that declares in favor of English against all other languages, even Greek, needs neither motive nor support from prejudice. The two facts, that the English language is the vehicle and the medium of a literature unequaled by that produced in any other known tongue, and that it is becoming the common intermediary and most widely diffused speech of the world, show that it possesses in the highest degree the two essential elements of a great and complete language—adaptation to man’s highest and to his homeliest needs in expression. There is no other known language in which “King Lear,” “Hamlet,” “Antony and Cleopatra,” the Falstaff scenes in “King Henry the Fourth,” “The Pilgrim’s Progress,” “Paradise Lost,” the Roger de Coverley papers of the “Spectator,” “The Elegy in a Country Churchyard,” “The Vicar of Wakefield” and “She Stoops to Conquer,” “The School for Scandal,” “Waverley,” “The Antiquary” and “The Fortunes of Nigel,” “Childe Harold” and “Don Juan,” “The Pickwick Papers,” “Henry Esmond,” “Adam Bede” and “Romola,” “In Memoriam” and “Sir Galahad,” “The Earthly Paradise,” “Child Roland” and “The Scarlet Letter” could all have been written. No other language is at once grand enough and simple enough, strong enough and flexible enough, lofty enough and homely enough to be the natural, fitting and complete utterance of the literature of which these are the typical productions, and to be, moreover, at the same time perfectly adapted to the needs of the jurist, the politician, the man of business, and the mariner. I remember that once on the St. Lawrence, on the way to Quebec, as the steamer came to a landing, the French officer on the “bridge” screamed an order to the engineer, “Arretez donc, Alphonse! arretez donc!”[1] and that then I recollected that the day before on the British steamer in which I left Montreal, the English officer in just the same situation had quietly said, in his strong, firm voice, “Hold hard!” and that I then thought not only how much more effective those two syllables were as a phrase of nautical command, but that they might be used by an English poet in a passage of grand and strong emotion. English has no words which are too great or too little, too fine or too homely to be used when need requires. English words change their character and their expression according to their connection and the manner in which they are uttered.

English owes its supremacy first, to the vigorous vitality of its germ and the clean robustness of its stem; next, to the rich and infinitely varied word-growth, which this trunk supports and nourishes. All languages are more or less composite, but of all languages English is most composite. It has been largely and richly grafted. It is, of all languages, the most complex in substance, and the simplest in structure. This simplicity of structure enables the uneducated man—Bunyan, for example—to use it with correctness and force, while the vast variety of its substance adapts it to all the needs of poet and philosopher. Let us see how such a language came into existence, and what it is.

The people which spoke the English language when it assumed its modern form, had made it. This may seem to be the sort of truth which is triteness; but it is not so. The people which speaks a language generally does make it; but not always, as we shall see. The people who made the English language, and who made England, were of that part of the great Aryan family which had taken possession of the northwestern part of Europe—that which lies around the southern and western part of the Baltic Sea. It is commonly said that the English are a very composite and heterogeneous people. In a narrow sense this is true, but in a large and really significant sense it is quite untrue. In his welcome to the Danish princess Alexandra, when she arrived in England to become Princess of Wales, the poet laureate prettily availed himself of the minor truth, to sing

“Saxon and Dane and Norman are we,

But all of us Danes in our welcome of thee, Alexandra!”

The English race is, and for more than five hundred years has been compounded of Saxons (Angles, Saxons and Jutes), Danes and Normans. But these three peoples were of such close kindred that, in Launcelot Gobbo’s phrase, they were “cater cousins.”[A] They were all Goths; the Danes and the Normans were both Scandinavians; and the Saxons, the Angles, and particularly the Jutes, although they were Low German tribes (the term Low German meaning merely inhabitants of the lower parts of Germany near the sea) were, because of their origin, and also of their neighborhood to the others, so like them in blood and in speech that the difference was rather superficial than essential.

These Jutes, Angles and Saxons, continuing the armed Aryan progress westward, went to Britain in companies of hundreds and thousands, and fighting their way from the shore inland at various points, and continually reinforced from their hive on the continent, in the course of about one hundred and fifty years they obtained complete possession of the island, from the Tweed to the Channel, excepting only the mountainous part at the west, now called Wales. They seem not to have mingled with the conquered Britains, who it will be remembered were Celts, but to have wholly displaced them, to have swept the land clean of them, except in Wales, the Highlands of Scotland, and a small remnant in Cornwall, the extreme southwestern point of the island. They carried with them their Scandinavian-tinged Low German speech (called for convenience Anglo-Saxon), which became the language of the country whose name their presence and possession changed from Britain to Angle-land, Engel-land, England. But when they had established themselves they were not left undisturbed. The Danes poured in upon them at the north, and soon getting foot-hold, they in their turn attempted the conquest of the whole island. They succeeded so nearly that they not only obtained possession of the northern part of the England of that day, but of the government; and three Danish kings[B] ruled the land at London. They did not, however, like the Anglo-Saxons, destroy their predecessors; partly from lack of strength to accomplish such a destruction, and partly, it would seem, from affinities of race and habits of life. Danes and Anglo-Saxons mingled; although the former were chiefly confined to the northern part of the country. One result of this conquest and intermingling was a modification of the speech of the country, particularly at the north. It received a strong Scandinavian infusion, the alterative influence of which has been recognized more and more by philologists as they have studied the structure and history of the English language. It should be said here, and perhaps should have been said before, that the name Dane had in these early times a large and loose signification. It was applied, without much discrimination, to any people that lived in the Scandinavian country—Norway and Sweden as well as Denmark.

Alfred, that first great Englishman, who, if not the only good English king, has been approached neither in ability nor worth by any of his successors to this day, is generally thought of as having conquered the Danes and extinguished their power in England; but erroneously. The Danes were worsted by him; but the Danish settlers in England were not ousted, nor could they be, for they had become a part of the people; the Danish influence upon English life was not much minished. It was within the quarter of a century following Alfred’s death that the Danish king Sweyne levied an annual tribute of £36,000 upon England, and that Danes were called Lord Danes. Forty-two years after Alfred, the Danish Canute, son of Sweyne, was crowned king of England; and the Danish pretensions to the rule of England were not wholly abandoned until the occurrence of an event which had little less influence upon the language of England than upon its fortunes. Edward the Confessor, the last of the royal line of ancient England, was little more than king in name and state. The country was really ruled by a council of six great earls, Danes and English, who partitioned the control of the country among themselves. The Anglo-Saxons had invaded Britain, and had conquered the Celtic Britons and removed them from the soil; the Scandinavian Danes had invaded England, and partly conquered the Anglo-Saxons (now called Englishmen), but had not destroyed their near kinsmen, and the two people had mingled. And now, in the eleventh century (1066), the Normans invaded England and conquered its Dano-Anglo-Saxon people in their turn. Harold, who claimed and obtained the throne, on the death of Edward the Confessor, as his heir, but not as his descendant or lineal successor, was himself half Dane, his father having been Earl of Kent, his mother Gytha, a Danish noblewoman. The influence of the Scandinavian element on the character and the language of modern England was very great, and until of late has been underrated.

The conquest of England by the Normans, and the division of it into sixty thousand knight’s fees, distributed mostly among the followers of the Norman duke, who were thus with their families and followers scattered widely over the country, was the cause of one of the most remarkable phenomena in the history of language—the introduction of Norman-French as an element of English speech. Some French or Romance words had come into England before, because of neighborhood and of affectation of foreign refinement, and a few Latin words had crept in under favor of the clergy; but now Norman-French was distributed all through the island as the speech not only of the holders of the sixty thousand knight’s fees, but of all their followers, and a considerable number of their tenants, to say nothing of their adulatory imitators, or of the Norman clergy who accompanied them to bless and to share their conquest.

Now who were the Normans, and what was this Norman-French which they introduced into England? The Normans were simply North-men from the great Scandinavian peninsula now divided into Norway and Sweden. They were pirates and robbers. Bold and bloody on sea and land, they had been for two or three centuries the scourge and the terror of Southern Europe. The people on the continent called them simply “North-men,” the people of England “East-men,” (the name being determined, it will be seen, by the relative position of those who gave it), and sometimes, as has been said before, “Danes.” These sea rovers and raiders effected settlements in various parts of Europe, but their most important lodgement, the only one with which we have now any concern, was in France, which they invaded on the south of the Seine, between that river and the Loire. Here in the course of less than a hundred years they had established themselves so firmly that in the year 912, Charles, the Frankish king, recognized and enfeoffed[2] the Viking Rollo, as first Duke of Normandy; Rollo acknowledging Charles as his over-lord, and receiving baptism—for the Normans were now, as the Anglo-Saxons had been until about A. D. 600, pagans. These Gothic Norsemen did not make the language that they soon came to speak. Conquerors and rulers although they were, they adopted the language of the country and the people which they had conquered, and spoke it with slight Gothic modification. This was the Norman-French which, only one hundred and fifty years after they were well settled in the country which they had seized, and which was called from them “Terra North manorum,”[3] or Normandy, they took into England.

This French language (Norman or other) was like many other things wrongly named. It was not the speech of the Franks or French, a German tribe, who in the fifth century conquered the country, and from whom it came to have its name. What, then, was it? We must turn back a moment.

It will be remembered that the column of Aryan immigration after entering Europe at its southeastern corner, divided; one division, the Celto-Græco-Italic, following the northern shore of the Mediterranean, taking possession of the country there, then pushing up northward to the country once called Gaul, now France, and finally crossing the English Channel and taking possession of Britain and Ireland. This column of immigrants founded, among other states, one which is hitherto the grandest, most influential fact in the history of the world—Rome, the city, the republic, and finally the empire of Rome; the influence of which upon the world has now, after more than two thousand years, not passed away; for the Roman Catholic Church, ecclesiastically supreme because it was the Church of Rome, is still one of the great powers of the earth. The Celtic peoples in Gaul were conquered by the great Cæsar half a century before the Christian era. The Romans were wise conquerors; they made the people whom they conquered Romans. The Celts of Gaul, during centuries of Roman rule lost almost all their native habits and customs, among them their mother tongue. They had Roman customs and laws and they gradually adopted the Roman language—the Latin. As might be expected, however, they did not speak pure Latin. The very people of Rome did not speak pure Latin, if by that we mean the Latin of Cicero’s orations, and the poems of Horace and of Virgil. That was a literary language. The popular Latin was speech much less formal and artificial. But the Celts of Gaul (or France) spoke this popular Latin much debased, and somewhat intermixed with Celticisms. The degradation of this form of Latin went on until the country was successfully invaded by German tribes in the fifth century. These Franks and Burgundians, being fewer than the Celto-Roman people whom they conquered, and inferior in civilization, gradually adopted their language, which, however, they broke up and simplified, by ridding it of case endings and tense signs; doing this for mere convenience sake; they had not the time or the patience to learn all the Latinish inflections. When about four hundred years of Frankish rule and influence and intermarriage had elapsed, it was discovered that the language of the people had become so greatly unlike Latin that it was practically another tongue. Wherefore it was decreed in the year 813 by the Council of Tours that the bishops should address their clergy and people in the Romance tongue, which was the name given to this popular modification of the old Roman (Latin) speech. This the Frank kings and courtiers, who had continued to speak German, were soon obliged to adopt; and after the division of Charlemagne’s empire, in the year 843, German was restricted to the country beyond and just about the Rhine. The Romance tongue, spoken to the westward, was rapidly modified by degradation of forms, and by intermixture of Teutonic words, until it became about the eleventh century, what is known as Old French. It was a debased form of this Old French which the Scandinavian North-men, or Normans, adopted, and finally carried into England, not only as the court language, but to spread it all over the country. This, then, is the strange phenomenon in language which is consequent upon the Norman conquest of England; that a Gothic people conquering and uniting themselves with another Gothic people, took into the conquered country, not a Gothic, but a Romance tongue. When the Norman conquerors spread themselves over all England, accompanied by their followers of various ranks (for it is an absurdly erroneous notion that all the Normans that went to England were nobles, or even knights), they took there no race of foreign blood. To the Dano-Anglo-Saxon English stock, they merely added more of the Danish element. But most strangely, the language brought in by this victorious body of near kinsmen was the most foreign that could have been found west of the Caucasus.

At first, with the pride of conquerors, the Normans in England spoke their own, or rather their adopted tongue. Norman-French was the language of the court, of the law-courts, of “society.” English was “vulgar.” This went on for some generations. The condition of things in this respect could not, however, remain unchanged. Two tongues can not be spoken by people in constant intercourse with each other without both being more or less affected by the contact. This happened. The English (called Anglo-Saxon or Old English) and the Norman-French were each modified by the other; they interchanged words and idioms; each dovetailing itself into the other, until about the year 1350, when it was discovered that the distinction of Norman and Englishman had practically passed away, and that the conqueror, yielding to the steady, gradual influence of the people and the country he had conquered, had himself become an Englishman. English had become the speech of the whole people, and thereafter English was by decree the language of all public documents, proclamations, and the like, the language of the court, and of “society.”

Of the English, however, which thus came into vogue, it must be remembered, first, that it did not prevail in the same form among all the people, but only among the superior classes and the middle classes of the best condition; that even among them it was spoken and written with much variation; and that as to the rustic people, they spoke almost as many dialects of the Old English as there were shires in England. Second, that this English of 1350 was so unlike both the Old English of Alfred’s day, four hundred years before, that he would not have been able to read it without much study, and that it was equally unlike the English of Queen Anne, four hundred years later.

The introduction of the Norman-French element into the English language was a gain, the value of which, in the enrichment of our tongue, and in its increased adaptability to the wants of a highly civilized people can not be overestimated. The Old English (or Anglo-Saxon) was a strong, manly speech, and not without a certain homely charm and simple sweetness. It was direct, too, and seemed (but perhaps merely seemed) to be the speech of an honest people. It was however, rude, inflexible, limited in its vocabulary, and incapable of expressing fine distinctions of thought. In all these respects it was so profited, so endowed, so broadened, so suppled and so refined by its union with the Romance vocabulary which was largely grafted upon it, that it blossomed almost into another language; quite another if its capacities are considered. An examination of the more particular nature of these changes, which have direct connection with the practical use of the language, must be postponed until our next article.

To this two-elemented language, a language composed of two stocks so different as the Gothic and the Latin, and yet strangely spoken by a people wholly Gothic and largely Scandinavian in blood, there came now, or began to come, an addition which was destined to affect its character greatly, and without which it would not be the matchless language that it is. This addition was not an addition of substance, but of spirit, not of matter but of manner. It came to the English language because of the bold and independent spirit of the English race in politics and in religion. It came through the translation of the Bible into the English tongue. This brought into the English language, alone among all the languages of the Indo-European race, not a foreign element indeed, but the informing spirit of a great literature written in a tongue so radically unlike all Aryan speech that the existence of the two would seem wholly incompatible with the theory of evolution, and to imply two independent creations of man; at least two independent creations of language. Yet these two languages or families of languages, the Aryan and the Semitic, seem to have come into existence in neighboring countries. As our Aryan forefathers, in their earlier movements, and before their first division, passed between the Caspian Sea and the Persian Gulf, they skirted the northern borders of the great peninsula of Arabia, into which none of them, not even those who turned southward, seem to have attempted to penetrate. This peninsula was at that time, we may be sure, although there is neither evidence of the fact nor testimony to it, occupied by the Semitic race; a race of great power and peculiar genius, which has had an influence upon the world hardly less than that of the Aryan peoples. Why the Aryans did not attempt the conquest and possession of Arabia, we do not know. But it is to be remembered that they were then comparatively small in numbers; and the Semitic race is one at once so warlike and so sagacious, that the conquest would have been one of the utmost difficulty, even if it were practicable; and moreover, that the country is not an inviting one to strangers.

The great function of the Semitic race in the world seems to have been the conception and the promulgation of the idea of the One Spiritual God. This idea, to which the race still holds, spread itself with an all-controlling influence over the civilized globe. It is the corner stone of the Christian and the Mohammedan religions. The Semitic race, of which the Hebrews are a family, has, or had, among its other gifts, the gift of sublime, intense, and imaginative utterance in prose and in poetry. In this respect it is without rival among all the peoples who have or who have had a literature. To these qualities it adds that of a direct simplicity, which in pathos (if with art, with an art so hidden as to leave not even the suggestion of consciousness), attains the power both of the ideal and the real, and never descends so low as sentiment. Of fancy, the Hebrew writers (for it is they whom we are now considering) exhibit none; less it would seem because of the nature of their themes, than because fancifulness was foreign to their intensity and loftiness of soul. The writings forming the most important part of the early Hebrew sacred literature form also, as we all know, that Old Testament which fills the largest part of the Bible—that is, the Book which has been for more than fifteen hundred years held sacred by all christendom.

This sacred Book—which, even if it did not contain the revelation of the idea of the One Eternal and Almighty God, and of his dealings with them who deemed themselves his chosen people, and the teachings of Jesus of Nazareth and of the great apostle to the Gentiles, would yet be the most remarkable collection of writings known in literature—it has been the policy of the church of Rome to keep from the people. Its translation into the vulgar tongue, and its distribution among the people at large, have always by that church been most earnestly discouraged, and even, until a comparatively late date, forbidden. It is remarkable that its earliest translations were into languages of Gothic peoples. Bishop Ulphilas’s translation of the Gospels and a small part of the Old Testament into the Mæso-Gothic language, in the fourth century, has already been mentioned. About three centuries later an Anglo-Saxon translation of the Gospels was made; and there is evidence, as we are assured by Bosworth,[C] in the rubrics[4] that portions of them were constantly read in Anglo-Saxon churches. But these versions did little to bring the Bible before the eyes of the people at large; and besides, they were, as we have seen, confined to a very small part of that book. The Old Testament remained to all intents and purposes in an unknown tongue until the dawn of the Reformation in England. Wycliffe and his followers translated the whole of the Bible about 1380; and from that time, notwithstanding bulls, and anathemas, and persecutions, this book of books, The Book, became the possession of the whole English people.

We are concerned here only with the effect of this momentous work upon the English language. It was great and peculiar. Wycliffe’s English version was followed in 1535 by Coverdale’s, which was afterward republished with revision, by Taverner’s, and by others, including the famous Genevan Bible[5], of which fifty editions were published in England within thirty years. These versions were mostly revisions, each “translator” availing himself, of course, of the text of his predecessors. Finally, in 1611, there was made what is known as the “authorized,” or King James I. version, which has since that time been, next to their common blood and common speech, the strongest bond of unity for the English race. But between the making of Wycliffe’s translation in 1380 and the middle of the sixteenth century, the Bible had taken strong hold of the English people. It sank into their hearts; it lifted their souls; its modes of thought became their modes of thought; its phrases, their household words. When Puritanism appeared, and strangely relied upon the Old Testament as its armory of theological warfare, the thoughts and the words of the prophets, priests and kings of Israel were the daily intellectual food of no inconsiderable part of the common people, and the air of all England was vocal with the phraseology of Job, of David, of Isaiah, and of Ezekiel. The effect of this upon the English mode of thought and expression was great and lasting; enduring even to this day. Its value was inestimable. By reason of it English diction acquired a simplicity, a strength, a directness, a largeness of style, a capacity of grandeur and of pathos, a richness and variety which it otherwise would not have acquired, and which has not been attained by the language of any other people. The spirit of Hebrew literature was transfused into the English mind to such a degree as to modify its mode of thought and of utterance. This took place because the diffusion of the Bible happened just at the time when the language was in a state of transition, and modern English was in course of formation. Had it not occurred until afterward, as was the case with other European peoples, it would have been too late to produce this effect. The English of Shakspere, of Milton, of Bunyan, and their great successors would not have existed but for the translation and diffusion of the Bible among the English people.

This, then, English is: a sturdy Gothic stem, largely and deeply grafted with Romanic scions, and permeated with the spirit of Hebrew sublimity and passion. These are the source elements of the supremacy of the youngest language of the Aryan stock. It unites all the powers and possibilities of its congeners, and adds to them those of the speech of the only other race that has felt and uttered the highest aspirations of humanity, and largely swayed the course of man’s progress through his unknown future.

[A] Quarter cousins. The Merchant of Venice; Act ii, Sc. 2.

[B] Omitting Sweyne, who was proclaimed king, but whose possession of the throne was brief, and whose regal authority was not fully established or recognized.

[C] See the preface to his edition of the Gothic and Anglo-Saxon Gospels with the versions of Wycliffe and Tyndall. London: 1865.

SUNDAY READINGS.

SELECTED BY CHANCELLOR J. H. VINCENT, D.D.

[December 7.]

But by what means can a mortal man, the creature of a day form any idea of eternity? What can we find within the compass of nature to illustrate it by? With what comparison shall we compare it?… What are any temporal things, placed in comparison with those that are eternal? What is the duration of the long-lived oak, of the ancient castle, of Trajan’s pillar,[1] of Pompey’s amphitheater?[2] What is the antiquity of the Tuscan urns,[3] though probably older than the foundations of Rome; yea, of the pyramids of Egypt, suppose they have remained upward of three thousand years; when laid in the balance with eternity? It vanishes into nothing. Nay, what is the duration of “the everlasting hills,” figuratively so called, which have remained ever since the general deluge, if not from the foundation of the world, in comparison of eternity? No more than an insignificant cipher. Go farther yet; consider the duration, from the creation of the first-born son of God, of Michael, the archangel, in particular, to the hour when he shall be commissioned to sound his trumpet, and to utter his mighty voice through the vault of heaven, “Arise ye dead and come to judgment!” Is it not a moment, a point, a nothing, in comparison of unfathomable eternity?… In order to illustrate this, a late author has repeated that striking thought of St. Cyprian:[4] Suppose there were a ball of sand, as large as the globe of earth; suppose a grain of this sand were to be annihilated, reduced to nothing, in a thousand years; yet that whole space of duration, wherein this ball would be annihilating at the rate of one grain in a thousand years, would bear infinitely less proportion to eternity, duration without end, than a single grain would bear to all the mass!

To infix this important point the more deeply in your mind, consider another comparison: Suppose the ocean to be so enlarged as to include all the space between the earth and the starry heavens. Suppose a drop of water to be annihilated once in a thousand years; yet that whole space of duration, wherein this ocean would be annihilating at the rate of one drop in a thousand years, would be infinitely less in proportion to eternity than one drop of water to that whole ocean. See the spirits of the righteous that are already praising God in a happy eternity! We are ready to say, “How short will it appear to those who drink of the rivers of pleasure at God’s right hand!” We are ready to cry out:

“A day without night

They dwell in his sight,

And eternity seems as a day!”

But this is only speaking after the manner of men; for the measures of long and short are only applicable to time, which admits of bounds, and not to unbounded duration. This rolls on (according to our low conceptions) with unutterable, inconceivable swiftness; if one would not rather say, it does not roll or move at all, but is one still, immovable ocean. For the inhabitants of heaven “rest not day and night,” but continually cry, “Holy, holy, holy, is the Lord, the God, the Almighty, who was, and who is, and who is to come!” And when millions of ages are elapsed, their eternity is but just begun.… What then is he, how foolish, how mad, in how unutterable a degree of distraction, who, seeming to have the understanding of a man, deliberately prefers temporal things to eternal? Who (allowing that absurd, impossible supposition that wickedness is happiness—a supposition utterly contrary to all reason, as well as to matter of fact) prefers the happiness of a day, say a thousand years, to the happiness of eternity, in comparison of which, a thousand ages are infinitely less than a year, a day, a moment?—Wesley’s Sermons.

[December 14.]

There are some thoughts which, however old, are always new, either because they are so broad that we never learn them thoroughly, or because they are so intensely practical that their interest is always fresh.… Now, among such thoughts we may reckon that which all children know—that God loves every one of us with a special love. It is one of the commonest thoughts in religion, and yet so amazing that when we come to look steadily at it we come nigh to not believing it. God does not look at us merely in the mass and multitude. As we shall stand single and alone before his judgment seat, so do we stand, so have we always stood, single and alone before the eye of his boundless love. This is what each man has to believe of himself. From all eternity God determined to create me, not simply a fresh man, not simply the son of my parents, a new inhabitant of my native country, an additional soul to do the work of the nineteenth century. But he resolved to create me such as I am, the me by which I am myself, the me by which other people know me, a different me from any that have ever been created hitherto, and from any that will be created hereafter. Unnumbered possible creatures which God saw when he chose me, he left to remain in their nothingness. They might have worshiped him a thousand times better than I shall ever worship him. They might have been higher, holier, and more interesting. But there was some nameless thing about me which he preferred. His love fastened on something special in me. It was just me, with my individual peculiarities, the size, shape, fashion, and way of my particular, single, unmated soul, which in the calmness of his eternal predilection drew him to create me.…

Must I not infer, then, also, that in the sight of God I stand in some peculiar relation to the whole of his great world? I clearly belong to a plan, and have a place to fill, and a work to do, all which are special; and only my specialty, my particular me, can fill this place or do this work. This is obvious, and yet it is overwhelming also. I almost sink under the weight of the thought. It seems to bring God so very near.… I come in sight of the most overshadowing responsibilities. Responsibility is the definition of life. It is the inseparable characteristic of my position as a creature. I am constantly moving, constantly acting. I move impulsively and I work negligently. What, then, becomes of my special place and of my special work? From this point of view life looks very serious. Surely we must trust God with a huge confidence, or we shall be frightened into going and burying our talent in the earth!

Now, what is it about us which was the prime object of God’s love when he chose us for creation? It can not be put into words. It is just all that which makes us ourselves, and distinguishes us from all other selves, whether created or possible. It was precisely our particularity which God so tenderly and intensely loved. The sweetness of this thought is almost unbearable. I draw in my breath as if to convince myself that I am alive, I lay my hand on my heart to feel its beating. First I smile, and then I weep. I hardly know what to do with myself, I am so delightfully entangled in the meshes of divine love. This specialty of God’s love startles me more and more, the longer I familiarize myself with it. I am obliged to make acts of faith in God, acts of faith in all his different perfections, but the greatest act of faith in this specialty of his love of me, of such as I am, such as I know myself to be, even such as he knows me to be. Deeper and perpetually deeper, taller and perpetually taller, the shadow of my responsibilities is cast upon me. But it is not a dark shadow, not depressing, but inspiring; sobering, but not paralyzing. I see plainly that my love of God must be as special as God’s love of me. I must love him out of my special place, love him through my special work; and what is that place, and what is that work? Is not this precisely the question of questions?—Faber.

[December 21.]

Though violent persecution is not an event, under the present circumstances of the Christian profession in this country, within the range of probability, yet serious and faithful opposition may be expected. Vigorous attempts will be made to deprive you of your crown, at one time by an assault on your doctrinal, at another by efforts to corrupt your practical, principles. A strong current will set in from the world to obstruct your progress, swelled by the confluence of false opinions, corrupt customs, ensnaring examples, and all the elements of vice, error and impiety, which are leagued in a perpetual confederacy against God and his Christ. Your faith will often be beset, not merely by the avowed patrons of error, but by such as “hold the truth in unrighteousness;” who, never having experienced the renovating power of divine truth, will be among the first and foremost to ridicule and oppose its genuine influence. While you live like the world, you may with impunity think with the church, but let the doctrines you profess descend from the head to the heart, and produce there the contrition, the humility, the purity, the separation from the world which distinguish the new creature, that world will be armed against you. “They think it strange that ye run not to the same excess of riot, speaking evil of you.” In order to stand your ground, it will be requisite for you to “quit yourselves like men, and be strong.” Aware that he is everywhere and at all times surrounded with danger, the life of a Christian is a life of habitual watchfulness; in solitude, in company; at home, abroad; in repose and in action; in a state of suffering, or a state of enjoyment; in the shade of privacy, or in the glare of publicity. Aware of his incessant liability to be ensnared, he feels it incumbent on him to watch. The melancholy history of the falls of Noah, of David, and of Peter, is adapted and designed to teach us this lesson.

An opportunity may present itself, perhaps, in your future course, of growing suddenly rich, of making at least a considerable accession to your property; but it involves the sacrifice of principle, the adoption of some crooked and sinister policy, some palpable violation of the golden rule; or, to put it in the most favorable light, such an immersion of your mind in the cares and business of the world as will leave no leisure for retirement, no opportunity for “exercising yourself unto godliness,” no space for calm meditation and the serious perusal of the Scriptures. Are you prepared in such a conjuncture to reject the temptation; or are you resolved at all events to make haste to get rich, though it may plunge you into the utmost spiritual danger? “Count the cost;” for with such a determination you can not be Christ’s disciple.

By the supposition with which we set out, you have solemnly renounced the indulgence of sinful pleasures. But recollect that sin will return to the charge, she will renew her solicitations a thousand and a thousand times; she will sparkle in your eyes, she will address her honeyed accents to your ears, she will assume every variety of form, and will deck herself with a nameless variety of meretricious embellishments and charms, if haply in some one unguarded moment she may entangle you in those “fleshly lusts which war against the soul.” “Count the cost.” Are you prepared to shut your eyes, to close your ears, and to persist in a firm, everlasting denial?—Robert Hall.

[December 28.]

God delights in our temptations, and yet hates them; he delights in them when they drive us to prayer; he hates them when they drive us to despair. The Psalm says: “An humble and contrite heart is an acceptable sacrifice to God,” etc. Therefore, when it goes well with you, sing and praise God with a hymn; goes it evil, that is, does temptation come, then pray; “For the soul has pleasure in him;” and that which follows is better: “and in them that hope in his goodness.” … He that feels himself weak in faith, let him always have a desire to be strong therein, for that is a nourishment which God relishes in us.

The weak in faith also belong to the kingdom of Christ; otherwise the Lord would not have said to Peter, “Strengthen thy brethren,” Luke xxii; and Romans xiv: “Receive the weak in faith;” also I. Th., v: “Comfort the feeble minded, support the weak.” If the weak in faith did not belong to Christ, where, then, would the apostles have been whom the Lord oftentimes … reproved because of their unbelief?

Upright and faithful Christians ever think they are not faithful, nor believe as they ought; and therefore they constantly strive, wrestle, and are diligent to keep and to increase faith, as good workmen always see that something is wanting in their workmanship. But the botchers think that nothing is wanting in what they do, but that everything is well and complete.

Christ desires nothing more of us than that we speak of him. But thou wilt say, If I speak or preach of him, then the word freezes upon my lips. O! regard not that, but hear what Christ says: “Ask and it shall be given unto you,” etc.; and “I am with him in trouble; I will deliver him and bring him to honor,” etc.

When we are found true in our vocation and calling, then have we reaped honor sufficient, though not on this earth, yet in that to come; there we shall be crowned with the unchangeable crown of honor “which is laid up for us.” Here on earth we must seek for no honor, for it is written, “Woe unto you when men shall bless you.” We belong not to this life, but to another far better. The world loves that which is its own; we must content ourselves with that which it bestows upon us, scoffing, flouting, contempt. I am sometimes glad that my scholars and friends are pleased to give me such wages; I desire neither honor nor crown here on earth, but I will have compensation from God, the just Judge, in heaven.—Luther’s Table-Talk.

GLIMPSES OF ANCIENT GREEK LIFE.

Selected from J. P. Mahaffy’s “Old Greek Life.”

III.—GREEK PRIVATE LIFE.

While the citizen prized above all things his liberty and his rights as a member of the state—a feeling which produced in many cases a citizen democracy—this principle was unknown within the household, in which he was a despot, ruling absolutely the inferior members, who had no legal grades except as distinguished into free and slaves. The laws were very cautious about interfering with his rights, and he was permitted to exercise much injustice and cruelty without being punished. If in such a case he was murdered by his dependants, the whole household of slaves was put to death, unless the culprit was detected. Nor could a household exist (except perhaps in Sparta) without the master. If he died, his widow became again the ward of her father or eldest brother, or son; and so strongly was this sometimes felt that men on their deathbeds betrothed their wives to friends who were likely to treat them and their orphan children with kindness. Of course clever women and servants often practically had their own way, and ruled their lord or master; but the theory of the Greek home was nevertheless always that of an absolute monarchy, if not a despotism.

There were two distinct styles of female dress prevalent. The first was the Dorian, which was noted for its simplicity. Unmarried girls at Sparta often wore but a single light garment, chiton,[1] fastened with clasps down the sides—a dress much criticized by their neighbors. Over this was the Doric peplos,[1] fastened on the shoulders with clasps, and leaving the arms bare. The Ionians wore a long linen chiton with sleeves, which reached down to the ground, and over it a large flowing wrapper, himation,[2] fastened with a girdle, worn high or low according to fashion. As a general rule, unmarried women confined their hairdressing to mere artistic arrangement of the hair itself, while married women wore bands, fillets, nets, and coronets. Dyeing the hair was not uncommon, and the fashionable color was auburn, or reddish fair hair. Women’s shoes were very carefully made, and they carried fans and parasols, as may be seen in the terra-cotta figures so common in our museums. Both sexes wore rings, but in addition the women wore earrings, armlets, and ankle-rings, generally of gold. These were the ornaments against which lawgivers made enactments, and which were forbidden or discouraged in days of trouble or poverty. The ornaments of one rich lady are spoken of as worth 50 minæ (about $975), a very large sum in those days. The ordinary color of women’s dress was white, but saffron cloaks, and even flowered patterns, are mentioned.

In Homeric days we find the old barbarous custom still surviving of buying a girl from her father for a wife, and this was commonly done, unless the father himself offered her as a compliment. The father, however, usually gave her an outfit from the price he received for her. In case of a separation this outfit came back to the father, but he was also obliged to restore the price he had received for his daughter. She does not appear to have had any legal rights whatever. In later days the custom of paying money was reversed, and the husband received with his wife a dowry, which was regarded as common property with his own, so long as she lived with him. In case of separation or divorce, this dowry had to be repaid to her father, and at Athens 18 per cent. was charged upon it in case of delay in repayment. In many states, to marry a second wife during the life of the first was against the practice, and probably the law, of the Greeks, but concubinage was tolerated and even recognized by them, though a married woman had at Athens a right to bring an action for general ill-treatment against her husband, in which she was obliged to appear and give evidence in person. The dowry seems to have been partly intended as a useful obstacle to divorce, which required its repayment, but we find that heiresses made themselves troublesome by their airs of importance, and this is referred to in Greek literature, in which men are frequently advised not to marry above them in wealth or connections. As all citizens were considered equal in birth, and as marriages with aliens were illegal and void, we do not hear of advice to young men not to marry beneath them. To marry a poor citizen girl was always considered a good deed, and is commended as such.

When a child was born in the house, it was usual in Attica, and probably elsewhere also, to hang a wreath of olive in case of a boy, a fillet of wool in case of a girl, over the door. This served as an announcement to friends and neighbors. Greek law permitted the parents absolutely to dispose of it as their property, and there was no provision against exposing it, which was often done in the case of girls, in order to avoid expense. These exposed children if found and brought up, became the slaves of the finder. But on the other hand, the laws showed special favor to the parents of large families. If a child was not exposed, there followed on the fifth day a solemn purification of all the people in the house, and on the seventh a sacrifice, when the relations assembled and the child was named generally after parents and grandparents, sometimes by reason of special wants or fancies—in fact, on the same principles which we follow in christening our children. There is no evidence until the later Macedonian times that birthday feasts were held yearly: and Epicurus’ direction that his should be kept after his death was thought very peculiar. Children of rich people were often nursed by hired nurses—an employment to which respectable Athenian citizens were reduced in the hard times at the end of the Peloponnesian war. But a Lacedæmonian nurse was specially valued, and often bought at a great price among prisoners, as they were famed for bringing up the child without swaddling-clothes, and making him hardy and courageous. The Greeks used cradles for children as we do, and gave them honey as we do sugar, and the nurses represented on the vases are distinguished by a peculiar kerchief on the head, as they often are in our day by a cap or national costume.

As might be expected, the inventive genius of the Greeks showed itself in the constructing of all manner of toys, and children devised for themselves perhaps all the games now known and many more beside. Aristotle says you must provide them with toys, or they will break things in the house, and the older philosopher Archytas[3] was celebrated for inventing the child’s rattle. Plato also complains of the perpetual roaring of younger, and the mischievousness of older children. We may infer from these things that the Greek boys were fully as troublesome as our own. They had balls, hoops, swings, hobbyhorses, and dice, with dolls for the girls, and various animals of wood and earthenware, like the contents of our Noah’s arks. They played hide and seek, blind man’s buff, French and English, hunt the slipper, the Italian morra,[4] and many other games which the scholiasts and Germans have in vain endeavored to explain. But for grown people, we do not find many games, properly speaking, played for the game’s sake, like our cricket. There was very simple ball playing, and, of course, gambling with dice.

As for the girls of the house, they were brought up to see and hear as little as possible. They only went out upon a few state occasions, and knew how to work wool and weave, as well as to cook. We may fairly infer that the great majority of them could not read or write. The boys, on the contrary, were subjected to the most careful education, and on no point did the Greek lawgivers and philosophers spend more care than in the proper training, both physical and mental, of their citizens. The discipline was severe, and they were constantly watched and repressed, nor were they allowed to frequent the crowded market-place. Corporal punishment was commonly applied to them, and the quality most esteemed in boys was a blushing shyness and modesty, hardly equaled by the girls of our time. Nevertheless, Plato speaks of the younger boys as the most sharpwitted, insubordinate, and unmanageable of animals.

It does not seem that the office of schoolmaster was thought very honorable, except of course in Sparta, where he was a sort of minister of education. It was, as with us, a matter of private speculation, but controlled by police regulations that the school should open and close with sunrise and sunset and that no grown men should be allowed to go in and loiter there. The infant-school teachers, who merely taught children their letters, were of a low class in society, sometimes even teaching in the open air, like the old hedge schoolmasters in Ireland. The more advanced teaching of reading and writing was done by the grammar teacher, whose house was called, like that of philosophers and rhetoricians, a school,[5] a place of leisure. For the physical and the æsthetic side we have still to mention the trainer and the teacher of music, the former of whom taught in the palæstra[6] the exercises and sports afterward carried on by the full-grown citizens in the gymnasia, which were a feature in all Greek towns. The teachers of riper youth stood in social position above the mere teachers of letters, but beneath the professors of rhetoric and philosophy (sophists). These latter performed the functions of college tutors at our universities, and completed the literary side of Greek education. The fees paid to the various teachers were in proportion to their social importance. Some of the sophists made great fortunes, and exacted very high fees; the mere schoolmasters are spoken of as receiving a miserable pittance.

The Greeks never thought of making foreign languages a matter of study, and contented themselves with learning to read and write their own. In so doing the schoolmasters used as text books the works of celebrated epic or elegiac poets, above all Homer, and then the proverbial philosophy of Hesiod, Solon, Phocylides,[7] and others, so that the Greek boy read the great classics of his language at an early age. He was required to learn much of them by heart,[8] especially when books were scarce; and his teacher pointed out the moral lessons either professedly or accidentally contained in these poets. Thus they stood in the place of our Bible and hymns in education. All this was grammar, which with music and gymnastics made up the general education of the Greeks. It excluded the elementary arithmetic of our “three R’s,” and included what they do not, a gentlemanly cultivation in music and field sports. It is very doubtful whether swimming was included, though Herodotus speaks of the Greeks generally as being able to swim. There is, however, evidence that from the fourth century B. C. onwards both elementary geometry and arithmetic, and also drawing, were ordinarily taught.

As regards music, every Greek boy (like modern young ladies) either had or was supposed to have a musical ear, and he was accordingly taught either the harp or the flute, and with it singing. Here again the lyric poems of the greatest poets were taught him, and the Greek music always laid the greatest stress on the words. Aristotle and others complain that amateurs were spending too much time on the practicing of difficult music, and we know from the musical treatises preserved to us that the Greeks thought and taught a great deal more about musical theory and the laws of sound than we do. The Greek tunes preserved are not pleasing, but we know that they used the strictest and most subtle principles in tuning instruments, and understood harmony and discord as well as we do. Great Athenians, like Cimon, were often able to sing and accompany themselves on the harp, or lyre as we should rather call it. The Greeks laid great stress on the moral effects of music, especially as regards the performer, and were very severe in their censure of certain styles of music. They distinguished their scales as modes, and are said to have put far greater stress on keys than we do, calling some manly and warlike (Dorian), others weak and effeminate, or even immoral (Mixo-Lydian). The modern Chinese have the same beliefs about the moral effects of music. The Greeks had their keynote in the middle of the scale, and used chiefly the minor scale of our music. They had different names and signs for the notes of the various octaves which they used, and also different signs for vocal and for instrumental music.

Among the various exercises taught were those in fashion at the public contests in the games—throwing the discus, running, and wrestling, and those of use in war—throwing the dart, managing the sword and shield, and riding. Boxing was not highly esteemed, and seems not to have been properly understood by the Greeks, who would have had no chance against an English prize-fighter. The severest contest was the pancration, where the combatants, who were naked and unarmed, were allowed to use any violence they liked to overcome their adversary. It was therefore a combination of boxing, wrestling and kicking, with occasional biting and gouging by way of additional resource. We hear of a wonderful jumping feat by Phayllus of Croton, who leaped forty-four feet; but as he probably jumped down-hill, and used artificial aids, we can not be sure that it was more than can be done now-a-days. The Spartans specially forbade boxing and the pancration, because the vanquished was obliged to confess his defeat and feel ashamed; and they did not tolerate professional trainers. All the special exercises for developing muscle practiced in our gymnasia seem to have been known, and they were all practiced naked, as being sunburnt was highly valued. The Greeks smeared themselves first with oil and then with sand before their exercises, and cleaned themselves with a scraper or strigil, or in later days by taking a bath.

The servants of the house were of course slaves, with the exception of some field-laborers, and of nurses in times of depression and distress, when some free women went out for hire. To these cases we may add the cook, who was not an inmate of the house before the Macedonian time, but was hired for the day when wanted for a dinner party. All the rest were slaves, and were very numerous in every respectable household. The principal sorts of servants were as follows: There was a general steward; a butler who had charge of the store-room and cellar; a marketing slave; a porter; baking and cooking slaves for preparing the daily meals; an attendant upon the master in his walks, and this was an indispensable servant; a nurse, an escort for the children; and a lady’s maid. In richer houses there was also a groom or mule-boy. This list shows a subdivision of labor more like the habits of our East-Indian families than those of ordinary households in England. If faithful, slaves were often made free, especially by the will of their master on his death-bed, but they did not become citizens. They remained in the position of resident aliens under the patronage of their former master or his representatives.

In proportion as the free population of Greece diminished the freeing of slaves became more and more common, until it actually appears to have been the leading feature in the life of the small towns. Thousands of inscriptions recording this setting free of individual slaves are still found, and on so many various stones, even tombstones, that it almost appears as if material for recording had failed them by reason of the quantity of these documents. The same increase of liberation was a leading feature in the Roman empire, but there the freedman obtained the right and position of a citizen, which was not the case in Greece. The most enlightened moralists of both countries exhorted benevolence toward slaves, and the frequent freeing of them as the duty of humane masters, but none of these writers ever dreamt of the total abolishing of slavery, which they all held to be an institution ordained by nature. This seems also the view of the early Christian writers, who nowhere condemn the principle of slavery as such.

In the oldest times the dead were buried in their own ground, and close beside the house they had occupied. Afterward the burying of the dead within the walls of cities was forbidden except in the case of great public benefactors, who were worshiped as heroes and had a shrine set over them. The rest were buried in the fairest and most populous suburb, generally along both sides of the high road, as at Athens and at Syracuse, where their tombs and the inscriptions occupied the attention of everyone that passed by. The oldest and rudest monuments placed over the tomb were great mounds of earth, then these mounds came to be surrounded by a circle of great stones; afterward chambers were cut underground in the earth or rock, and family vaults established. Handsome monuments in marble, richly painted and covered with sculpture, were set up over the spot. These monuments sometimes attained a size almost as great as a temple. The scenes sculptured on the marble were from the life and occupation of the deceased, more often parting scenes, where they were represented taking leave of their family and friends, nor do we possess any more beautiful and touching remains of Greek life than some of these tombs. In the chamber of the dead many little presents, terra-cotta figures, trinkets and vases were placed, nay, in early times favorite animals, and even slaves or captives were sacrificed in order to be with him; for the Greeks believed that though the parting with the dead was for ever, he still continued to exist, and to interest himself in human affairs and in pursuits like those of living men. The crowded suburbs where the tombs were placed were generally ornamented with trees and flowers, and were a favorite resort of the citizens. The dead bodies of executed criminals were either given back to their relations or, in extreme cases, cast into a special place, generally some natural ravine or valley hidden from view and ordinary thoroughfare. Here the executioner dwelt, who was generally a public slave. This place was called barathrum[9] at Athens, and Ceadas[10] at Sparta.

GREEK MYTHOLOGY.

CHAPTER III.

The earliest and most natural form of idolatry was the worship of the heavenly bodies, and especially the sun, whose splendor, light, heat, and salutary influence upon all nature were regarded as the supernatural and independent powers of a deity. Hence the ancient myths ascribed personality, and intelligent activity, to the god of day, whom they worshiped under the name of Phœbus Apollo. They, however, attached to the history and worship of Apollo many things not connected with his original character as the source of light.

Delphi was a principal place of their religious solemnities, and from an early day the site of a temple dedicated to Apollo. The first was destroyed by fire; but in the time of the Pisistratidæ a much more gorgeous one was built, and, through a long period of their national history, was a center of potent influences that did much to fashion the character of the people. Its wealth became immense, and was computed at ten thousand talents. In the neighborhood of Delphi the Pythian games were celebrated in the third year of every Olympiad, and in honor of Apollo’s victory over the terrible Pythian serpent. On these occasions the celebrated Amphictyonic Council, whose sessions were usually held at Thermopylæ, met at Delphi, and the grave senators had the oversight of the games, prescribed rules for the contestants, and directed in the distribution of prizes.

The shrine of the god at Delos, his birthplace, was also greatly renowned. It was situated at the foot of Mount Cynthus, but the whole island was sacred. The same divinity had beside a great number of less celebrated temples and shrines, not only in Greece, but also in Asia Minor, and wherever Greek colonies were extended. The rites observed in these sacred places were, in general, more seemly than the ceremonial of their worship paid to some other of their gods, and may be counted among the educational forces that improved the social and political condition of the commonwealth. He granted them a prophetic dispensation, and the responses given by his oracles raised their hopes, or, if unfavorable, caused alarm. The supposed medium of the communications, a priestess, who ministered at the altar, was esteemed an important personage. The inspiration, when the conditions were favorable, often induced what seemed an ecstatic state of mind, bordering on madness, causing strange contortions of countenance, and incoherent utterances, understood by none except those who claimed to be inspired as interpreters, and even their rendering of the responses was often in enigmas, or terms of such double meaning as admitted an explanation in accordance with the events that followed. The convulsions of the priestess were, perhaps, real, but possibly brought on partly by the chewing of laurel leaves, and partly by gaseous vapors that issued from a cleft in the rock, beneath the sacred tripod.

The concept or image of this god Apollo, as expressed by both poets and artists, was their highest ideal of human excellence and beauty; a tall, majestic body, of exquisite symmetry, and having the vigor of immortal youth. Some of his statues, still extant, are described as marvels of excellence in their line, and those who can not have access to the originals will find copies more or less perfect, in almost any considerable collection having specimens of ancient art. One of the most celebrated of all ancient statues, on account of the completeness of the sculptor’s work, is the “Apollo Belvidere.” It was found at Antium in 1503, purchased, and placed in a part of the Vatican[1] called Belvidere. In proportions and altitude it is a noble figure; naked, or but slightly clad, and in every feature suggestive of the highest perfection of art. It seems to represent the great archer just after discharging his arrow at the Python, and shows his manly satisfaction and assurance of victory.

The legendary history of this god, whose worship was much celebrated by both Greeks and Romans, recites, among other things of interest, the memorable circumstances of his friendship for Hyacinthus, and his great love for Daphne. The legends will not lose all their interest, though it will be impossible to print them entire.

Hyacinthus was a beautiful youth of noble parentage, for whom the great Apollo manifested ardent friendship. He accompanied him in his sports, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions on the mountains, and for him neglected his lyre and his arrows. As they one day played quoits together, Apollo heaving aloft the heavy discus,[2] with his great strength sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched its flight through the air, and, excited with the sport ran to seize it, eager, in turn, to make his throw. Alas! in its rebound from the earth, it struck him a fatal blow. Apollo, pale and anxious, sustained the fainting youth, and sought, in vain, to heal the mortal wound. As some fair lily, whose stalk has been broken, turns its limp flowers toward the earth, the head of the dying boy, too heavy for its shattered support, fell over on his shoulder; and the friendly god, lamenting deeply, said: “O hapless youth! thou diest, robbed of a life so pleasant, and I the cause. But thou shalt be immortal still. My lyre shall celebrate our love; and as a beautiful, fragrant flower, thou shalt dwell with me forever; the inscriptions on thy leaves[3] shall proclaim my sorrow.” Even as he spoke the blood that stained the grass disappeared, and a hyacinth, of hues more beautiful than Tyrian purple, sprang from the spot, and shed its sweet fragrance there. “Beloved, though dead, thou shalt still live; and, with every returning spring the flowers that henceforth bear thy name shall revive the memory of thy virtues, and of thy sudden departure to the home of the immortals.”

Apollo and Daphne.—The beautiful Daphne (dawn) was Apollo’s first love. This was nature, if the myth is interpreted astronomically. The sun pursues the dawn that flees before his brighter effulgence. But in this love affair, Cupid, as he is wont, becomes an exciting cause, and with his arrow pierced the lover’s heart. It was on this wise: Apollo once, exulting in his own recent victory over the monster Python, saw the rogue, Cupid, playing with his bow, and called to him saying: “What have you to do with such warlike weapons? Leave them for hands more worthy of them, and, child as you are, do not meddle with my arms.”

The taunting words vexed the son of Venus, and, to avenge himself he resolved that even the conquering Apollo should feel the keen point of his little dart, and confess a wound that would be difficult to heal. So he quickly drew from his quiver two arrows of different make and metal, one to excite love, the other to repel it. With the latter, a blunt, leaden shaft, he struck the nymph Daphne, daughter of the river god Peneus. The other he thrust through the heart of Apollo, who, thus smitten, forgot his victories, and was at once seized with passionate love for the beautiful nymph, while she, delighting in woodland sports and the pleasures of the chase, had no desire to leave them. Her father wished to see her wedded, but now, more than ever, she hated the thought of marriage, and, blushing, earnestly besought her sire, saying: “Dearest father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain a maiden, like the fleet huntress Artemis.”

He consented, but at the same time, in praise of her rare beauty, said: “Child, your own face will forbid it.” Apollo dearly loved her and longed to claim her as his own, but his suit was in vain. She had no love to answer his, and turned from him. Stung by her indifference, yet enthralled by her charms, he followed, but her flight was swifter than the wind, and she delayed not a moment at his entreaties. “Stay,” he cried, “daughter of Peneus, stay. Do not fly from me as a lamb from the wolf, or a dove from the hawk. I am not a foe. For love I pursue thee; and the fear that you may suffer injury in your rapid flight makes me miserable. You know me not. I am not a clown to be avoided and despised. Jupiter is my father, and gives me to know the present and future. They reverence me at Delphi and Tenedos as the god of prophecy, of song, and of the lyre. I carry weapons. At the twang of my bow the arrow flies true to its mark. But Cupid’s darts have pierced me, and the distress of heart is insupportable. I know the virtue of all the healing plants, and minister to others, but myself suffer this malady that no medicine can cure. Pity, and—” … The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered. But even as she fled, her airy robe and unbound hair flung loose on the wind, she charmed him yet more. Impatient that his suit did not prevail, he quickened his speed, and the distance between them grew less. She eluded his grasp only as a panting hare escapes from the open jaws of the hound.

So flew Apollo and Daphne; he on wings of love, she on wings of fear. The very breath of the more powerful pursuer reaches her delicate person; her strength fails, and, ready to sink, she cries to her father: “Help me, Peneus! Let the earth open to receive me, or change my form that has brought me into this trouble!” She spoke, and, at his will, the metamorphose was instant. A tender bark enclosed her form; her limbs became branches, her hair leaves; her feet were rooted in the ground, and her head became a symmetrical tree top, graceful to look upon, but retaining nothing of its former self save its beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He embraced with his arms the still palpitating, shrinking trunk, and lavished many kisses on the delicate branches that shrank from his lips. “You shall, assuredly, be my tree; and I will wear you for my crown. With you will I decorate my harp and my quiver. Conquerors shall weave from your branches wreaths to adorn their brows; and, as immortality is mine, you, too, shall be always green, and your leaf shall suffer no decay.” The nymph, thence a beautiful laurel tree, bowed her head in acknowledgment, and the god was content.

This story of Apollo has been variously interpreted, and is often alluded to by the poets.

Waller applies it to the case of one whose love songs, though they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet widespread fame.

“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,

Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.

All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,

Attend his passion, and approve his songs.

Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,

He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”

Phæton’s Ride.—The ocean nymph Clymene[4] bore to the god of day a son, they named Phæton (gleaming). Once when he boasted his celestial origin Ephaphos, a son of Jupiter, disputed his claim, alleging that he was puffed up with pride in a false father. The indignant Phæton reported the insult to his mother, who, with a solemn oath and imprecation, reassured him of his heavenly origin, and added: “The land whence the sun rises lies next to ours; go and inquire for yourself. See if he will not own you as his son.” The youth heard with delight, and full of pride and hope hastened to the palace of his sire, who received him kindly, and from whom he obtained an unwary oath that, in proof of his fatherhood, he would grant him whatever he asked. The ambitious Phæton immediately demanded permission to prove his pedigree, and confound his adversary, by taking his father’s seat, with leave, for one day, to guide the solar chariot in its course through the heavens. Phœbus, aware of the danger of any such attempt, would gladly have recalled his word, and persuaded the rash youth from his wild purpose. “This, my son, is far too perilous an undertaking, and quite unsuited to thy powers. These fiery horses would despise the guidance of Jupiter himself, were he to take the reins; how, then, can a mortal hand restrain them? Thou knowest not the perils of the way. In the freshness of the early morning the panting coursers scarce can climb that steep ascent; at noonday the downward glance to the far rolling sea, and the green earth lying at so vast a depth is hazardous even for a god. Canst thou, then, yet so young, resist the rapid movement of the whirling heavens, or endure the blinding brilliancy of those flaming orbs? That monstrous ‘Lion,’ the ‘Scorpion,’ and the ‘Crab,’ will surely terrify thee. The famed ‘Archer’ and the raging ‘Bear’ will threaten destruction. In the later hours the course descends rapidly, and requires most steady driving. Any charioteer, unused to the road, and the team, would be plunged headlong, or, deviating from the course, be swept away by the force that bears all else along, swift as the lightning. Forego that rash design. Look now on what the world contains, and ask some other boon. Ask it, and fear no refusal. Yet you shall have this, if you persist. The oath was sworn, and must be kept. Will you not be advised, and choose more wisely?”

But the self-confident youth, heedless of his father’s counsel, and despising the warning, would, at any risk, gratify his foolish ambition. He demanded the immediate fulfillment of the promise, and prevailed.

And now the purple gates of the East were unfolded, and from within the palace there breathed celestial fragrance. The stars and waning moon gradually disappeared; and, at Phœbus’ command, the swift Hours led forth from their stalls the prancing steeds and attached them to the golden chariot, their harness sparkling with gems, and the yoke gleaming all over with diamonds of exceeding brilliance. The daring youth gazed in admiration too eager for the coveted pleasure. Phœbus bathed his face with a powerful unguent that made him capable of enduring awhile the terrible heat, and placing a radiant circlet on his brow, that made him seem the very god of light, gave such instructions as were necessary. “Spare the whip, and hold tight the reins; my steeds need no urging; the labor is to guide and hold them in; you are not to take what seems the direct road, but turn off to the left; keep within the middle zone, that the skies and the earth may each receive their due share of light and heat; go not too high, lest you burn the dwellings of Ouranos; nor yet too low, or you will set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best; night is passing through the western gates, and the chariot can delay no longer; go, if you must, but, if you will, tarry in safety where you are, and allow me, as I have been wont, to light and heat the world.” The too eager youth, hearing but little, sprang to the lofty seat, grasped the reins with boundless delight, standing erect, and pouring out thanks for his opportunity.

The snorting horses, impatient to be gone, and with the boundless plain of heaven stretching out before them, dart forward cleaving the clouds, and quite outrun the swiftest winds that started from the same goal. The load was much lighter than usual, and, as a ship, without freight or ballast, “is tossed hither and thither on the sea, so that vast chariot, without its accustomed weight, was dashed about in space, as if utterly empty.” Phæton was incompetent to guide the fiery steeds, now quite out of the prescribed course, and was overcome with terror. Whither he was borne, at such furious speed, he knew not, but he was evidently in the midst of the most appalling dangers, against which he had been warned in vain. Paleness and sudden trembling came over him, and bitterly, but too late, repenting his folly, he wished he had never seen the gorgeous palace of Phœbus, known the truth of his parentage, or touched his father’s horses.

On every side were strange, frightful objects menacing his destruction, and he was driven fiercely about among them, as a ship before a tempest when the pilot can do nothing. The reins drop from his nerveless hands, and the furious horses dash the quivering, rocking chariot through untraveled regions of space. The heavens were all in flames, the clouds were smoke, and far beneath them lay a burning world. The mountain tops, forests, harvest fields, and cities were becoming involved in the common ruin. The earth, stretching out suppliant hands toward heaven, implored the help of Jupiter lest the universe should be destroyed, and chaos again prevail. “Save what yet remains before all is lost. O, take thought for our deliverance in this fearful crisis.”

The appeal was answered, and the king of gods summoned his forked lightnings, and hurled his thunderbolt that smote the affrighted charioteer, who now, himself on fire, fell like some shooting star that marks its course to earth with its winding sheet of flame. Eridanus,[5] the great river, received the charred body and quenched the flame that would have consumed it. The pitying Naiads gave him a tomb, and some one provided the epitaph:

“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,

Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;

He could not rule his father’s car of fire;

Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”

His sisters, the Heliades,[6] so long and sadly mourned their brother that the gods changed them into poplar trees, whose tender branches shed tears of precious amber, which, hardening in the water where they fell, became jewels that were greatly prized, and worn as ornaments.

The world has known many whose foolish pride and ambition destroyed them. A recent writer quotes the last verse from one of Prior’s familiar poems, on a female Phæton, and thus introduces it: “Kitty has been imploring her mother to allow her to go out into the world, as her friends have done, if only for once.”

“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;

Kitty, at heart’s desire,

Obtained the chariot for a day,

And set the world on fire.”

Poseidon (Neptune) and Amphitrite.[7]—This son of Cronos and Rhea became, by allotment, ruler of the sea, and received a three-pronged trident as the emblem of his power. Amphitrite, one of the daughters of Nereus, was his queen; and their gorgeous palace was in the deep waters of the Ægean, off the shores of Eubœa. Some accounts represent him as dwelling less permanently in the deep places than father Nereus, “the old man of the sea.” But, when abroad attending the councils of his brothers on Olympus, or out on the vast plain of the deep, passing swiftly in his boat over the rolling billows, he had under his supreme control the world of waters, and all the forces that affect their movements. When he strikes the calm sea with his trident[8] the waves rise in their violence to swallow up or dash in pieces the ships and strew with wrecks the shore. But a word or look from him can allay the wildest tempest, and still the tumult of the waters.

For reasons not very apparent, the horse is often mentioned as his favorite animal, and was said to be his gift to men. Possibly it was because the lively imagination of the ancient Greek saw, in the white crested waves that pursued each other in wild commotion, the rearing and bounding of foaming steeds or war-horses, that dash over the plain with resistless force. And his own car they imagined drawn over the waters by coursers swifter than the wind.

Poseidon was especially regarded as their patron and tutelar deity by all seafaring classes, such as fishermen, boatmen, and sailors. When going to sea they addressed prayers to him, and when returning in safety, offered sacrifices in gratitude for their escape from the perils of the deep. His temples, altars and statues were most numerous in seaport towns, on islands, and peninsulas. One much frequented was at Corinth, and there games were celebrated in honor of Poseidon.

Some of the principal exploits ascribed to Neptune are the assistance he rendered Jupiter against the Titans; the raising of the island Delos out of the sea; the creation and taming of the horse; and the building of the walls and ramparts of Troy. He was feared also as the author of earthquakes and deluges, which he caused or checked, at his pleasure.

To him they ascribed a numerous progeny. The principal sons were Triton, Phorcus, Proteus, and Glaucus. The chief characteristics of these minor deities of the sea were the power of divination, and ability to change their forms at pleasure. All these, with the sea-nymphs, fifty in number, belonged to the train of Neptune, and were subservient to his will.

Hephaistos (Vulcan).—The fire god, according to Homer, was son of Jupiter and the queenly Juno; or, according to another account of Juno alone, the goddess being jealous over the manner of Minerva’s birth from the cleft-skull of her spouse. The little Vulcan was so ill-looking and lame that the proud mother thought to cast him out of their palace, disowned. But though so cruelly treated he always showed some regard for her, and once took her part in a quarrel she had with the king. Jupiter, enraged at this, caught him by the foot and hurled him from the awful height of Olympus. He was a whole day falling, but in the evening alighted on the island Lemnos,[9] where he was kindly received and nourished for years in a deep grotto of the sea, by Eurymone[10] and Thetis, and afterward, in return for their kindness, he made them many ornaments. Later mythical writers mention his lameness as a consequence of that fall. But Homer, whose authority we follow, represents him as lame from his birth.

Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” evidently alludes to this Grecian myth, though he makes a different application of it:

“From morn

To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,

A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,

Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,

On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”

When or how he was restored to Olympus we are not informed, nor whether the time required for the ascent equaled or exceeded that of the fall. Enough, that his presence and useful offices there are subsequently recognized. He may have become mediator between his parents; and at times humorously assumed the role of cup-bearer at the feasts of the Olympians, causing them much merriment as he busily hobbled from one to another presenting the cups of nectar.[11]

It is probable that their first conception of Hephaistos was that of the god of fire, simply. But as fire is the efficient agent employed in smelting and working metals, he was afterward, and very naturally, regarded as the inventor of furnaces, foundries and forges, including all workshops where skillful artisans wrought in iron and the other metals. With his workmen of skill and Cyclopic strength he constructed all the shining palaces for the immortals on Olympus, and also his own immense workshop with the huge anvils and “twenty bellows” that, at his bidding, worked automatically. He designed and executed numberless articles, both useful and ornamental, suitable for the abodes of either gods or men; and some of their mythical poems and stories are enriched with descriptions of the exquisite workmanship they display. Later accounts mention his workshop as no longer on Olympus, but on some volcanic island where his forges glow with heat and his workmen are equal to any demands made on their skill or strength. Hephaistos, like Athena, gave skill to mortal artisans, and they too were believed to have taught men all things suitable to embellish or adorn their habitations.

In statuary, during the best period of old Grecian art, he is represented as a vigorous, bearded man of muscular frame, and is characterized by the presence of his hammer or some other instrument, and the corselet which leaves the strong, right arm and shoulder uncovered.

The Romans not only changed the name to Vulcan, but regarded Ætna as his glowing forge, and Venus as his wife; thus expressing the idea that art and beauty are in harmony.

TEMPERANCE TEACHINGS OF SCIENCE;
Or, THE POISON PROBLEM.

BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.

CHAPTER III.—PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECTS OF THE POISON HABIT.

“The Stimulant Vice is the principal cause of human degeneration.”—Haller.

Science tells us that there is a general progressive tendency in nature. According to the opinion of some modern biologists, all plants and animals have been developed from lower and less perfect organisms, and still continue their upward progress. We may reject that view, or accept it with considerable modifications; but one thing remains certain: Nature does not go backward of her own accord. Wherever the harmony of creation has not been wilfully disturbed the trees are as tall as of yore, the fruits as sweet and the flowers as fragrant. The eagle soars as high as ever, the song-thrush has not forgotten her anthems, nor the swallow her swift flight, the ostrich still scorneth the horse and his rider, it still requires a Samson to rend a young lion. How, then, can it be explained that the noblest work of Nature makes a sad exception to that rule? How is it that man alone is sinking in misery and disease, growing weaklier and sicklier from century to century, from generation to generation? War has not dealt us those wounds, famine and pestilence can not explain our “ailments and pains, in form, variety and degree beyond description.” The influence of all transient causes of evil is counteracted by the healing agencies of Nature. See the children of the wilderness, how soon they recover from hurts and wounds, how completely from the effects of protracted starvation, their off-spring as sound as their ancestors in Eden. No, the cause of our degeneracy must be a permanently active cause, and with the assurance of a clear and perfect conviction we can say: That restless enemy of human health and happiness is the poison vice.

Without the redeeming influence of nature, the balm of sleep and the regenesis[1] of every new birth, alcohol alone would have effected the destruction of the human race. During the gradual development of the vice the adaptive faculties of the human system have somewhat modified its influence, but its real significance reveals itself when its flood-gates are suddenly opened upon an unprepared race. In Siberia, in Polynesia, and among the aborigines of our own continent, the alcohol plague has raged with the destructiveness of the black death;[2] wigwams, villages, nay, entire districts have been depopulated in the course of a single generation. Among the Caucasian[3] nations, where the vice has gradually progressed from half-fermented must to brandy, its baneful effects are less sudden, but not less certain. From age to age the form created in the image of God has decayed, has shrunk like a building collapsing under the progress of a devouring fire. Wherever intemperance has increased, manhood and strength have decreased. The Anacreons[4] of antiquity indulged in wine only at occasional festivals. The peasants of the Middle Ages were generally too poor to use intoxicating drinks of any kind. But by and by wages improved. Strong ale and brandy were added to the home-brewed beverages of the working classes. Habitual stimulation, once the ruin of the idle aristocrat, became the curse of the masses. The poison marasmus[5] became a pandemic[6] plague. The yeomen of ancient England would not recognize their gin drinking descendants; a Norman Knight could have crushed a Stockholm dandy with a single grip of his fist. Challenge the apostles of lager beer, take them to Nuremberg, to the armory of the old City Hall, let them pick their champion from the ranks of the bloated and sickly looking citizens, defy them to find a single man able to wield the weapons that were toys in the hands of the old burghers. Or the advocates of “good, cheap, country wine”—take them to Spain and let them see what the best wine has done for the manliest race on earth. The inhabitants of Castile, of Aragon, Valencia, Barcelona and Leon are the descendants of the old Visigoths,[7] a race of rude warriors who overpowered the disciplined legions of Rome as easily as the Romans would have quelled a rabble of African rebels. Gibbon describes their first encounter with the Roman armies, how the imperial general invited the Gothic chieftains to a banquet, where he intended to assassinate their guards and attack their camps during the confusion, and how the Goths were saved by the intrepidity of their leaders: “At these words, Fritigern[8] and his companions drew their swords, opened their passage through the unresisting crowd, and, mounting their horses, hastily vanished from the eyes of the astonished Romans. The generals of the Goths were saluted by the fierce and joyful acclamations of the camp; war was instantly resolved, the banners of the nation were displayed according to the custom of their ancestors, and the air resounded with the march signals of the barbarian trumpet.” No painter’s magic could more vividly evoke the forms of that giant race, their chieftains making their way through a crowd of shrinking cowards, the tumult of the camp, and the iron-fisted warriors, receiving their leaders with exultant shouts! And those men were the ancestors of the modern Spaniards—lions shrunk into cats, eagles into mousing hawks! It is idle sophistry to ascribe that result to climatic influences. In a warmer climate than Spain the abstemious Arabs, the Afghans, and the Moors have preserved the vigor of their earliest ancestors. The soil that now produces lazzaroni[9] and musici[10] was once trod by the conquerors of three continents. In the snow-bound wigwams of the North American Indians a cold climate has not prevented the ravages of the alcohol plague. Poison has filled more graves than the sword, more than famine, and the plague and all the hostile powers of Nature taken together. The poison vice has shortened our average longevity by twenty years,[D] has turned athletes into cripples, giants into dwarfs.

Yet that result does not prove the vindictiveness of Nature; but her patience, the infinite patience that has prevented our utter self-destruction by mitigating the consequences of our suicidal follies. At night, while the drunkard sleeps his torpor sleep, the hand of our All-mother cools his fevered brow, the subtle alchemy of the organism allays the effects of the poison while the system performs at least a portion of its vital functions; in every child the influence of ancestral sins is modified by the tendency of redeeming instincts. If it were not for the restless activity of those remedial influences, fire-water alone would have caused more havoc than the deluge. From a pessimistic point of view the study of the physical effects of the poison vice might almost justify the conjecture of the biologist Hoffmann. “Nature,” says he, “has set limits to the over increase of every species of animals. Insects prey upon smaller insects, minnows upon midges, trouts upon minnows, pikes upon trouts, the fish-otter upon pikes, and man himself upon the fish-otter. Man himself has no earthly rival, but Providence (die Vorsehung) has met that difficulty by making him a self-destructive animal!”

If that shocking idea were not at variance with other facts, one might, indeed, admire the ingenious adaptation of means to ends, for if it were the intention of God to limit our prosperity and afflict us with every possible evil short of absolute annihilation, he could certainly not have chosen a more efficient agent than alcohol.

Alcohol, the rectified product of the vinous fermentation (i. e., decomposition) of various saccharine fluids, and included by chemists among the narcotic poisons, exercises a metamorphosic effect on every organ of the human body; and no fact in physiology is more incontestably established than that all its appreciable effects are deleterious ones. The advocates of alcohol base their claims upon vague theories. The opponents of alcohol base their claims upon obvious facts. It has been asserted that alcohol protects the system against cold, but the exponents of that theory have failed to show how the constituent elements of alcohol can take the place of the natural heat producers, the non-nitrogenous foods; they have also failed to explain a fact established by the unanimous testimony of polar travelers, namely, that a low temperature can be longer and more easily endured by total abstainers than by those who indulge in any kind of alcoholic drinks.

Alcohol has been called a “negative food,” because it retards the progress of the organic changes; but it has been demonstrated that that retardation is in every case an abnormal and morbid process, and that its results can not benefit the system in any appreciable way, while its deleterious effects are seen in the fatty degeneration of the tissues, the impoverished condition of the blood, and many other symptoms characterizing the influence of insufficient nutrition. Alcohol has been called a positive food, because, forsooth, it is derived (by a process of decomposition) from grain, fruits and other nutritive substances. We might as well call mildew a nutritive substance because it is formed by the decay of wholesome food. “There is no more evidence,” says Dr. Parker, “of alcohol being in any way utilized in the body, than there is in regard to ether or chloroform. If alcohol is to be still designated as food, we must extend the meaning of that term so as to make it comprehend not only chloroform, but all medicines and poisons—in fact, everything which can be swallowed and absorbed, however foreign it may be to the normal condition of the body, and however injurious to its functions. On the other hand, from no definition that can be framed of a poison, which should include those more powerful anæsthetic agents, whose poisonous character has been unfortunately too clearly manifested in a great number of instances, can alcohol be fairly shut out.”

The antiseptic influence of alcohol was long supposed to constitute a safeguard against malarial diseases, but it has been found that the prophylactic[11] effect of distilled liquors is confined to the period of actual stimulation (the alcohol fever), and that in the long run abstinence is from eight to ten times more prophylactic than dram drinking.

Alcohol has been mistaken for an invigorating tonic; but we have seen that the supposed process of invigoration is a process of stimulation, or rather of irritation, and that we might as well try to “invigorate” a weary traveler by drenching him with aqua fortis.[12]

On the other hand, it has been proved by ocular demonstration that alcoholic liquids, applied to the living tissue, induce redness and inflammation, and cover the mucous lining of the stomach with ulcerous patches; that they change the structure of the liver, stud it with tubercles and disqualify it for its proper functions, though by obstructing its vascular ducts they often swell it to twice, and sometimes to five times, its natural size. The weight of a healthy liver varies from five to eight pounds, and Dr. Youmans mentions the post mortem examination of an English drunkard whose liver was found to weigh fifty pounds, and adds that in spite of this enormous enlargement of the bile-secreting organ, the man died from a deficiency of bile. The records of the Parisian charity hospitals have established the fact that the moderate use of alcoholic drinks during a period of five years is sufficient to permeate the substance of the liver with fatty infiltrations, and that the liver of old drunkards undergoes changes which make it practically a lump of inert matter, a mass of compacted tubercles and scirrhous[13] ulcers. Even in the advanced stages of the disorder a large dose of concentrated alcohol rouses the diseased organ into a sort of feverish activity which, however, soon subsides into a deeper and more incurable torpor. Hence the temporary efficacy and ultimate uselessness (to say the least) of alcoholic “liver regulators.”

It has also been proved that alcohol inflames the brain, obstructs the kidneys, impoverishes the blood, and impairs the functional vigor of the respiratory organs.

The infallible necessity of all these results can be more fully realized by a clear comprehension of the proximate causes, which may be summed up in a few words: While the organism has to waste its strength on the elimination of the poison, it must neglect its normal functions, or perform them in a hasty, perfunctory way. Let me illustrate the matter by an apologue.[14] A family of poor tenants occupy a cottage at the edge of the woods. They are honest, hard-working people, trying their best to live within their means, but at a certain hour they are every day attacked by a bear. Before the good man can mend his jacket, before the good wife has cooked her dinner, before the boys have finished their spelling lesson, they have to rally and fight that brute. Sometimes the bear comes twice a day. They generally manage to hustle him out of the premises, but if they return to their cottage the father’s jacket is torn into shreds, the dinner is burned, and in the excitement of the row the boys have forgotten their lesson. Their clothes are torn, their hands and faces bear the marks of the scrimmage, the whole household is in a state of the wildest disorder. The poor people go to work and try to repair the mischief the best way they can, but before they have finished the job the bear comes back, and another rumpus turns the house upside down. No wonder that things go from bad to worse, no wonder the tenants can not pay their rent; but a very considerable wonder that the landlord does not relieve them by killing that bear.

The manliest races of the present world are probably the Lesghian[15] and Daghistan[16] mountaineers, who inhabit the southern highlands of the Caucasus,[17] and who defied the power of the Russian empire for sixty-five years. From 1792 to 1858, army after army of schnapps drinking[18] Muscovites[19] attacked them from the north, east and west, and were hurled back like dogs from the lair of a lion, and fifteen hundred thousand Russian soldiers perished in the Caucasian defiles before the Russian eagles supplanted the crescent of Daghistan. For the heroic highlanders are Mohammedans, and total abstainers from intoxicating drinks. The Ossetes,[20] who inhabit the foothills of the northern range, are addicted to the use of slibovits[21] (peach brandy) and other stimulants, and their bloated faces present a striking contrast to the clean-cut features of the tribes who have been chosen as the representatives of the white race. They are as stubborn as their southern neighbors, but not as enterprising; as self-sacrificing in the defense of their country, but not as self-reliant. In spite of their healthy climate they are cachectic[22] and rather dull witted; alcohol has stunted their stamina as well as their stature.

But there are other forms of physical degeneration which can with certainty be ascribed to the influence of the secondary stimulants, tobacco, tea, coffee, and pungent spices. Tobacco makes the Turks indolent, tea and coffee make us nervous and dyspeptic; and the worst is that those minor vices pave the way to ruin; a constitution enfeebled by theïne poison[23] is less able to resist the influence of fusel poison. It is a great mistake to suppose that abstinence from concentrated alcoholic liquors could atone for the habitual use of other stimulants. The vices of our ancestors were gross, but one-sided; ours are more manifold, and in their effects more comprehensive. In France many so-called temperate drinkers indulge in light wine, absinthe, tea, coffee and chloral, and are weaklier and sicklier than the Hungarian dram drinkers who confine themselves to plum brandy, for the system of the miscellaneous poison-monger has to defend itself against five enemies, and, as it were, sustain the wounds of five different weapons. The mediæval knights and many Grecian and Roman epicureans could drink a quantity of wine that would kill a modern toper; but they confined themselves to that one stimulant, and showed sense enough to keep it from their boys, who had a chance to fortify their constitutions with gymnastics before they endangered them with alcohol, and not rarely thus fortified their mental constitutions to a degree that made them temptation proof. Pythagoras and Mohammed interdicted wine, and that statute did not interfere with the propagation of their doctrines, for voluntary abstainers were by no means rare—before the introduction of secondary stimulants. We fuddle our schoolboys with coffee and cider, and it is a curious and very frequent consequence of that early development of the stimulant habit that its victim forgets the happiness of his childhood and accepts daily headaches and chronic nightmares as some of the “ills that flesh is heir to.” Rousseau believed that a man would be safe against the poison vice if he could reach his twentieth year without contracting the habit, because in the meantime observation would have taught him the effects of intemperance. But his safety would be guaranteed by another circumstance. He would know what health means, and no deference to established customs would tempt him to exchange freedom for chains.

But a still greater mistake is the idea that drunkenness could be abated by the introduction of milder alcoholic drinks. We can not fight rum with lager beer. All poison habits are progressive, and we have seen that the beer vice is always apt to eventuate in a brandy vice, or else to equalize the difference by a progressive enlargement of the dose. Common brandy contains fifty per cent. of alcohol, lager beer about ten; so, if A. drinks one glass of brandy and B. five glasses of beer they have outraged their systems by the same amount of poison and will incur the same penalty. Total abstinence is the safe plan, nay, the only safe plan, for poisons can not be reduced to a harmless dose. By diminishing the quantities of the stimulant we certainly diminish its power for mischief, but as long as the dose is large enough to produce any appreciable effect that effect is a deleterious one.

Various diseases and that artificial disorder called intoxication react on certain faculties of the mind (by affecting their corresponding cerebral organ) as regularly as on the liver or any other part of the human organism. Consumption stimulates the love of life: a self-deluding hope of recovery characterizes the advanced stage of the disease as invariably as the hectic flush that simulates the color of health. Hasheesh excites combativeness. Alcohol first excites and gradually impairs self-reliance, and thus undermines the basis of truthfulness, of private and social enterprise, of manly courage and generosity. Moral cowardice, the chief reproach of our generation, has more to do with the tyranny of the poison vice than with the despotism of social prejudices. The brain stimulating effect of alcohol decreases with every repetition of the dose, and Dr. Theodore Chambers warns us that “however long the evil results of such habitual overtasking may be postponed, they are sure to manifest themselves at last in that general breakdown which is the necessary sequence of a long continued excess of expenditure over income.”

Besides, even the temporary results would not justify that expenditure. “Brain workers should confine themselves to metaphysical tonics,” says Dr. Bouchardat[24]; “alcoholic drinks, at any rate, are unavailable for that purpose. Even after a single glass of champagne I have found that the slight mental exaltation is accompanied by a slight obfuscation.[25] The mind soars, but it soars into the clouds.” “Wine stirs the brain,” says the poet Chamisso, “but not its higher faculties as much as the sediments that muddle it.”

The Arabs have a tradition that soon after the flood, when Nunus (the Arabian Noah) had resumed his agricultural pursuits, a Ghin, or spirit, appeared to him and taught him the art of manufacturing wine from grape-juice. “This beverage, O son of an earthly father,” said the Ghin, “is a liquid of peculiar properties. The first bumperful will make you as tame as a sheep. If you repeat the experiment you will become as fierce as a rampant lion. After the third dose you will roll in the mud like a hog.” If the Ghin had been a spirit of epigrammatic abilities he might have summarized his remarks: “The effects of this liquid, O Nunus, vary, of course, with the amount of the dose. But if you drink it you will infallibly make a beast of yourself.”

In the long list of artificial stimulants, with all their modifications and compounds, there is no such thing as a harmless tonic. Alcohol, especially, is in all its disguises, the most implacable enemy of the human organism. In large quantities it is a lethal[26] poison; in smaller doses its effects are less deadly but not less certainly injurious, and the advocates of moderate drinking might as well recommend moderate perjury. Our lager beer enthusiasts might just as well advise us to introduce a milder brand of rattlesnakes. The alcohol habit in all its forms and in every stage of its development, is a degrading vice.

[D] Since the end of the seventeenth century—i. e., since a time when medical delusions made every hospital a death trap—longevity has slightly increased, but, as compared with the first century of our chronological era, it has enormously decreased. Peasants outlive men of letters, and yet the records of the ancients show that nearly half their poets, statesmen and philosophers were centenarians. If the years of the patriarchs were solar years their average longevity was 280 years; if they were seasons (of six months), at least 120 years. The Bible years were certainly not months, for men who “saw their children and children’s children,” can not have died before their thirtieth year.

STUDIES IN KITCHEN SCIENCE AND ART.

III. BARLEY, OATS, RICE AND BUCKWHEAT.

BY BYRON D. HALSTED, SC. D.

Barley (Hordeum vulgare[1]) is thought by some historians to be the oldest of the cultivated grains. Professor Brewer says it was the chief bread plant of the ancient Hebrews, Greeks, and Romans. There are several varieties, the principal ones being the two-rowed and the six-rowed. Like wheat and rye, barley is both a spring and winter grain; though with us the seed is usually sown in the spring.

Barley is the most hardy cereal, and may be successfully cultivated over the widest range of climate. It is grown in central Siberia, northern Russia, and in Lapland to latitude 70°. At the opposite extreme, barley flourishes in semi-tropical countries. In 1880 the area of barley in the United States was 1,997,717 acres, with a yield of 44,113,495 bushels. The average yield, therefore, is not far from twenty-five bushels per acre. Though adapted for a wide range of growth, its cultivation is principally confined to a few states, the leading ones of which are California, with twelve and a half million bushels; New York, seven and two-thirds millions; Wisconsin, five million; Iowa, four millions; and Minnesota, three millions bushels. It will be seen by comparing these figures with the total above given that California and New York produce nearly one half (46 per cent.) of all the barley grown in this country. These two states are very unlike in soil, climate, etc. In California the conditions are not favorable for the growth of oats and corn, and for similar reasons barley is the leading grain in Nevada and Arizona. The cultivation of this crop in New York and other eastern states has been stimulated by the great demand for the grain in the manufacture of beer. It has proved more profitable than wheat in many localities, especially where the latter grain has been infested with the Hessian fly. It is interesting to note that Pennsylvania produces less than half a million bushels, or not over one eighth as much as New York. This only shows, as is abundantly illustrated in many other cases, that market, soil and climate may have everything to do with the area devoted to any particular crop.

Barley was largely grown by the early settlers of New England, who used the grain for making bread, but for this purpose corn supplanted it in later years, it being better fitted for table dishes. Barley forms an important food for domestic animals, the greater part of the immense quantities grown on the Pacific coast being used for this purpose. Professor Brewer says: “Only a very insignificant quantity is used for food in this country; less than of any other cereal.” “Pearled barley” is the grain with the outer hull removed, and in this condition it is used to a considerable extent in soups and in other foods. The following is the chemical composition of barley, pearled barley and barley meal:

The chemical constituents of barley do not vary greatly from those of wheat. There is more ash and fiber because the hull is thicker. It is seen that the per cent. of these two constituents is much reduced in the analysis of the pearled barley, in which the outer covering is removed. We here have a demonstration of the fact that the starchy matters are more abundant in the central part of the grain, while the albuminoids, ash, fiber, and fat abound near the surface. Barley, when ground into meal, makes a rich feed for live stock.

The chief use now made of barley grown in the eastern states is in the making of beer. Barley has been employed for this purpose from very early times. The old Egyptians made beer, and the ancient Greeks and Romans were acquainted with its manufacture, as well as with its effects upon the human system. The process is as follows: First soak the grain in water, and then allow it to germinate or sprout. Chemical changes take place in the starchy materials of the grain, by which they become soluble in water. After the sprouting has advanced far enough the grain is heated and dried, when the product is called malt. This malt, or kiln-dried sprouted grain is ground or crushed between rollers, and placed in mash tubs with warm water. During this gradual heating the changed starch is dissolved by the water. After the infusion settles the clear liquid is drawn off and boiled in a vessel with hops. The boiling liquid is strained, cooled, and run into the fermentation vats, where yeast is added. During the fermentation a part of the sugar derived from the starch is converted into alcohol. After a refining process the beer is ready to go into the casks. Ale, Scotch ale, small beer, porter, stout, and lager beer are the malt products of barley. The amount of capital now invested in the manufacture of beer is very great, and to those who carefully measure the evils of the beer shop it seems like a very poor place for one’s money.

Barley is imported in large quantities from Canada, in 1880 the amount being over seven million bushels, chiefly for malting. Enormous quantities are imported by Great Britain from several countries, the leading being Turkey, France, Germany and Russia. Professor Brewer says: “The cultivation of barley is doubtless on the increase, and there are many reasons, too, for the belief that its production in America will very greatly increase during the present century.”

The enemies of barley are nearly the same as those of wheat. It is more free from rust and smut, and less liable to be attacked by insects. The crop, though disagreeable to harvest, owing to the penetrating beards and poisonous effects to many who handle the straw, is a comparatively sure one.

Oats (Avena sativa[2]) rank third in importance among the grains grown in the United States. The native country of the oat is not certainly known. “It was cultivated by the prehistoric inhabitants of Central Europe and is found in the remains of the lake habitations[3] in Switzerland.” In Scotland oats have long been a leading crop for human food, and in compiling his dictionary, Dr. Johnson took occasion to fling a sarcasm at the Scotch by defining oats as being a food for horses in England and for men in Scotland. Had he lived now, and seen how generally oats are employed as an article of human food, his definition would have been far different and much more valuable. It is due to Scotland, in passing, to say that she produces a very superior quality of oats.

There are many varieties of oats, all of which have probably arisen from the same species of avena. The ordinary oats have the hull or husk adherent to the kernel, and are divided into two classes. In one, the flower cluster branches from both sides of the stem, while in the other, the branches are all upon one side. There is a group of “skinless” sorts, but little grown, in which the husk separates from its contents.

The total area in oats in the United States in 1880 was 16,144,593, with a yield of 467,858,999, or an average of not far from twenty-nine bushels per acre. Illinois, Iowa, New York, Pennsylvania and Wisconsin lead in the amount of oats grown, and in the order mentioned. These five states produce over half of all the oats grown in this country. Maine, Vermont, New York and Wyoming raise more oats than any other grain.

Oats vary greatly in weight per bushel, the heaviest being produced in a cold, moist climate. In Scotland they frequently weigh fifty pounds to the bushel, while with us the legal weight is thirty-two, with a range of from twenty to forty-five pounds to the bushel. Oat straw is much relished by sheep and cattle, and is superior to that of barley or wheat. Oats are grown extensively in some localities as a substitute for hay, and are cut before they begin to ripen. They also make an excellent forage crop, and after being pastured off the ground the soil is left in a fine condition for the next crop.

The chemical composition of oats and oat meal is as follows:

The composition of corn meal and Graham is given for the sake of a convenient comparison. It will be seen that oats, and especially the meal, or flour, is rich in nitrogenous or muscle forming compounds, namely, the albuminoids. There is also a very large per cent. of fat, and less starch than in corn or wheat.

Of the nutritive value of oatmeal Professor Brewer notes: “Whether it is true that oatmeal is actually more wholesome or more nutritious than cracked wheat, for example, is very questionable, but it certainly is more palatable to work people. In the United States oatmeal in any form has been but sparingly used for human food until within a few years, but of late its consumption has increased enormously, many grocers now selling as many barrels a year as they sold pounds less than a score of years ago. This increase in the use of oatmeal is most marked in the cities of the older states, but it has extended to the villages and farms and even to the farthest frontier settlements.”

The enemies to the oat crop are not as many as of wheat. The rust and smut do some injury, as also the insects that feed upon wheat and other cereals.

Rice (Oryza sativa[4]) it is believed enters more largely into the nourishment of the human family than any other plant. It is a native of the East Indies, but is now cultivated in most tropical and sub-tropical climates. The rice plant requires an abundance of water in the soil, and thrives best on land subject to overflow for a portion of the year, or which is artificially flooded. Rice is most largely grown in India, China, Japan and Egypt—India alone producing nearly thirty million bushels per year. The rice grown in this country is confined to eight states, with an area of 174,173 acres in 1879, and a yield of 110,131,373 pounds, averaging 632 pounds per acre. Ninety per cent. of this crop is grown in the three following states: South Carolina, Louisiana, and Georgia. It is seen that the region suited to the growth of rice is much more limited than with the other cereals. The following description of rice growing in the South is from the American Agriculturist: “The method pursued on the rice lands of the lower Mississippi is to sow the rice broadcast about as thick as wheat at the North, and harrow it in with a light harrow having many teeth, the ground being first well plowed and prepared by ditches and embankments for inundation at will. It is generally sown in March. Immediately after sowing the water is let on so as to barely overflow the ground. The water is withdrawn on the second, third or fourth day, or as soon as the grain begins to swell. The rice very soon after comes up and grows finely. When it has attained about three inches in height the water is again let on, the top leaves being left a little above the water. Complete immersion would kill the plant. A fortnight previous to harvest the water is drawn off to give the stalks strength and to dry the ground for the convenience of the reapers.… The same area of ground yields three times as much rice as wheat.… Rice, like hemp, does not impoverish the soil.… The pine barrens of Mississippi would produce rice ad infinitum if it were not that the land, after a few years, owing to the sandy nature of the soil, becomes too dry for it.… No variety has been discovered which yields as much out of the water as it does in it.… It flourishes better when overflowed with pure running water than with the stagnant waters of impure lakes and marshes.”

The chemical composition of rice grain is as follows: Water 12.44, ash 0.38, albuminoids 7.44, fiber 0.19, starch, etc. 19.20, fat 0.35. It is seen to contain a less amount of the flesh forming or albuminoid compounds, and a greater per cent. of heat producing or starchy matter, than the other grains. The flour contains so little gluten that it can not be made into light bread. Rice is familiar to all as white, pearly grains, which are employed as the leading ingredient of puddings, etc. The outer covering or husk is removed in the process of threshing, but to separate the inner requires expensive machinery. “The rough rice is first ground between very heavy stones running at a high speed, which partially removes the hull chaff. The grain is conveyed into mortars, where it is pounded for a certain length of time by the alternate rising and falling of very heavy pestles shod with iron. From these mortars elevators carry the rice to the fans which separate the grain from the remaining husks. From here it goes through other fans which divide it into three qualities—‘whole,’ ‘middling’ and ‘small.’ The whole rice is then passed through a polishing screen, lined with gauze wire and sheepskins, which, revolving vertically at the greatest possible speed, gives it the pearly whiteness with which it appears in commerce.” The “small” rice is sometimes ground and employed to adulterate wheat flour. Rice, when prepared in the many forms of puddings, cakes, soups, etc., is very easy of digestion, and is specially fitted for the food of invalids. In Japan, where the rice crop is a leading one, an alcoholic drink called sake is made from it. A wine is made in China from this grain, and the Arrack of the East is also a rice beverage.

Buckwheat (Polygonnum esculentum[5]). The six grains already treated in this and the preceding article are all members of the great grass family. The remaining cereal belongs to another and distantly related group of plants. Buckwheat is a member of a small family containing the knotweeds, bindweeds, smartweeds, dock and rhubarb. The buckwheat plant in its growth and structure is very different from the grasses. It is supposed to be a native of northern Asia, and has been cultivated for its large, triangular seeds, from very early times. The name is derived from the German Buck-weizen, “beech wheat,” the shape of the grain closely resembling that of the beech nut.

The buckwheat crop in the United States for 1879 was 11,817,227 bushels, for 848,389 acres, or about fourteen bushels per acre. The increase in the total yield of buckwheat is not keeping pace with the increase in population. New York and Pennsylvania are the leading buckwheat producing states, sixty-eight per cent. of the whole crop of 1879 being grown within their borders. Hilly regions, with a thin soil, that are not suited to other grains, may be profitably devoted to growing buckwheat. It is known as a “wide feeder;” that is, the buckwheat plant produces long, wide-spreading roots which penetrate the poor soil for long distances and gather nourishment over a wide area. On this account this crop is frequently grown on worn-out soil and plowed under while green as a fertilizer, in preparation for some other crop requiring more plant food close at hand in the soil. The period of growth is short, being sown in midsummer and harvested before the autumn frosts have an opportunity to injure it. It frequently serves a good purpose as a second crop where the first has failed from poor seed, bad weather, destructive insects, or one or more of these or other causes. The grain is especially wholesome for poultry, and while the field is in bloom bees harvest a larger store of honey, though not of the best quality.

The chemical composition of buckwheat and its flour is as follows:

The albuminoids are seen to be only about half as abundant as in wheat flour. The fiber (bran) is in large quantity and the starchy matter abounds. As a food buckwheat is less strengthening but somewhat more fattening than wheat. The popular notion that buckwheat when eaten regularly will induce a feverish state of the system and eruption of the skin, is probably well founded. The plant belongs to a family, many members of which have peculiar medicinal principles, and doubtless there is some oil or other substance present in the buckwheat that does not appear in a chemical analysis, though active upon the animal system.

There are very few enemies to the buckwheat plant. So infrequent are the attacks of insects that the crop is recommended by Professor Riley as a means of driving insects away from fields. It is a very cleansing crop as regards weeds also, the rank growth smothering out the various forms of plant pests that may spring up. The buckwheat field is, of course, not exempt from the ravages of those insects like locust and army worms, that devour everything green in their line of march.

Other Cereals.—Small quantities of a number of other cereals have been and are still cultivated in the United States. There are several millets grown for forage, but the aggregate amount is only a trifle compared with the other cereals, and they are not on the increase. One of these millets is quite extensively grown for the dried branches of the seed-bearing tops called the “brush,” and is familiar to every housekeeper as brooms, when attached to long handles. Another variety of the very fertile species, Sorghum vulgare,[6] is the durra or doura grown to some extent in the Southern States as a forage crop. But it is not our purpose to discuss the many varieties of plants that have been experimented with or are grown to only a small extent. Professor Brewer, than whom there is no better authority, and who has been laid under liberal contribution for facts in our two papers on the cereals, says: “The established cereals have been so long cultivated, are so differentiated into varieties, so adapted to different phases of cultivation, and to various uses to which man applies them, that it seems probable that the number will not be materially increased in cultivation, and, moreover, in our agriculture Indian corn so fills a part which in other countries is occupied by a number of other plants, either for forage or bread, that it will doubtless continue to exclude various species whose cultivation is practiced elsewhere.” If we do the best we can with the six cereals now grown we will have no cause for distress.

THE CEREALS: BARLEY, OATS, RICE AND BUCKWHEAT.

The cereals furnish the cook materials for many of her most valuable articles of food. Wholesome, easily prepared, and inexpensive, their use on the table can not be too strongly commended. Barley is not in general use among Americans, but the pearled barley ought to form an indispensable article in every larder. In soups it is excellent. The stock for barley soup should be made with the greatest care. Into your soup-kettle—every housewife needs one—put a carefully washed beef bone, and with it all your scraps of cold meat, trimmings from steaks, and bones of chickens, turkey and beefsteak. Put your meat into cold, clear water and for the first half hour allow it but a moderate heat; after that the pot should be placed on the back of the stove, allowing the soup to simmer for four or five hours. This low heat extracts all the juices from the meat, and, this done, the liquor should be strained and allowed to cool. When ready to use the thick layer of grease which forms on the top of the stock should be removed, and the vegetables—the more the better—which are to flavor the soup added. Allow this to simmer until the vegetables have given up their juices, then strain, and into your soup put pepper and salt, with a cup and a half of barley, and allow the whole to come to a boil. Serve hot. Cold and greasy soup is detestable. To prepare the barley for use it should be soaked for several hours and cooked until soft over a slow fire.

Beef with Barley.—Beef is nice served with barley. A beef roast may be garnished with barley which has been boiled, and a steak is oftentimes served in barley. Pieces of cold beef may be warmed over with this cereal in the following way: Mince into dice the scraps of meat, butter a sauce pan thoroughly, pour in a little water and add equal quantities of the minced meat and cold boiled barley. Stir until hot, then pour in two eggs slightly beaten, and stir until the eggs are cooked; season with salt and pepper. Cold mutton may be prepared with rice in the same way.

Barley for the Sick.—“From the times of Hippocrates[1] and Galen,”[2] says a writer, “barley drinks have been in high repute in febrile and inflammatory complaints. They possess mild, soothing qualities, while at the same time they impart nourishment.” For barley water the following is a standard recipe: Wash pearled barley in four waters, rub two or three pieces of sugar on a lemon cut open and put them in a jug with the washed barley and a few slices of lemon; then pour boiling water over the whole and cover it until it is cold. Barley gruel is made by boiling two ounces of the pearled barley in half a pint of water; strain off this water and put the barley into three pints and a half of salted boiling water, and let it boil half away, then strain it for use.

Oatmeal.—Of the good qualities of this Scottish favorite, most of us are aware. “Oatmeal is,” says one authority, “when eaten with milk, a perfect food, having all the requisites for growing children and the young generally. Oatmeal requires much cooking to effectually burst its starch cells, but when it is well cooked it will thicken liquid much more than equal its weight in wheaten flour. The oats of this country are superior to those grown on the continent and in the southern parts of England, but certainly inferior to the Scotch, where considerable pains is taken to cultivate them; and it is needless to point out that the Scotch are an example of a strong and robust nation, which result is justly set down as being derived from the plentiful use of oatmeal. Dr. Guthrie has asserted that his countrymen have the largest heads of any nation in the world—not even the English have such large heads—which he attributes to the universal use of oatmeal.” The almost universal method of using oatmeal is in porridge, or mush, as we almost always call this excellent dish. There are two methods of preparing mush: To one quart of boiling water add one teaspoonful of salt; take a heaping cupful of oatmeal and sprinkle it slowly in with one hand while it is stirred with the other. When the meal has been all put in it should not be stirred more than is necessary to keep it from burning at the bottom. If much stirred the porridge will be starchy and flavorless. A better porridge may be made by stirring at night into two pints of salted boiling water half a pint of oatmeal. Let it boil for two or three minutes, then cover closely and place on the back of the range where it may simmer until breakfast time. Oatmeal may also be steamed. Fried oatmeal is a nice breakfast dish. Take steamed oatmeal when it is cold, cut it in thin slices, and fry until it is brown in a little lard or butter.

Oatmeal Gruel.—A valuable item on an invalid’s bill of fare is oatmeal gruel. “Take two tablespoonfuls of oatmeal, half a blade of mace, a piece of lemon peel, three gills of milk, and a little sugar. Mix two spoonfuls of oatmeal until smooth in a little milk, and stir it gradually into the remainder of the milk; add the lemon peel and blade of mace; set it over the fire for fifteen minutes, stirring it constantly. Then strain it and add sugar to taste.”

Rice.—For simply boiling rice we have an excellent “black man’s recipe” given in one of our favorite cook books by an old sea-captain friend of ours. Here it is just as it was told the “captain:” “Wash him well; much wash in cold water; the rice, flour, make him stick; water boil already very fast; throw him in, rice can’t burn, water shake him too much; boil quarter of an hour or a little more; rub one rice in thumb and finger; if all rub away him quite done; put rice in cullender, hot water run away; pour cup of cold water on him, put back rice in saucepan, keep him covered near the fire, then rice all ready; eat him up.”

Equally good is rice cooked by steaming. After washing thoroughly, soak for an hour in warm water, three pints of water to one of rice. Set the dish containing the rice and water in which it has been soaking into the steamer and allow it to steam for an hour. It should be salted after put to steam and stirred frequently. Milk may take the place of part of the water.

Rice Waffles.—Into one and a half pints of flour stir a little salt, and rub in evenly a piece of butter the size of a walnut, add three beaten eggs, mixed with half a teacupful of sweet milk, one and a half pints of boiled rice and half a teacupful of sour milk, with one teaspoonful of soda; bake immediately in waffle irons. Rice pancakes may be made by adding an extra half cupful of milk. These pancakes may be served with jelly. When hot from the griddle spread them with butter and almost any kind of preserves or jelly; roll them up as you do roll jelly-cake, cut off the ends, arrange them on a platter, sprinkle sugar over the tops, and serve immediately.

Rice Served with Meat.—Rice may be used as a side dish with any kind of meat. Risotto à la Milanaise[3] is a favorite dish. Put one ounce of butter into a stew-pan and when hot mix in a quarter of a small onion minced, cook until it turns yellow; put in a cupful of uncooked rice and stir it until it has become yellow from the butter and onion; now add a pint of stock and boil slowly until the rice is tender. The stock should be nearly all absorbed; before serving add an ounce of grated cheese and stir for a few moments over the fire without letting it boil. Sprinkle a little grated cheese over the top. Another very simple side dish is prepared from rice by mixing a tablespoonful of minced parsley or shives into a pint of boiled rice. Put an ounce of butter into a sauce pan, heat it until it becomes a light brown; mix the rice in the butter and serve as a vegetable.

Desserts from Rice.—The rice pudding is undoubtedly the standard rice dessert, but it is only one of numberless wholesome and toothsome dishes which may be prepared. The simplest form of this pudding and the most delicious is a simple compound of rice, sugar and milk. To two quarts of milk add one cupful of rice and one of sugar, a small pinch of salt, and the desired flavoring. Place the mixture where it will heat very slowly. When the milk becomes boiling hot place the pudding in a slow oven and let it bake for an hour. Do not stir after placing in the oven. A more elaborate pudding is made by dissolving a tablespoonful of corn starch in three cupfuls of milk; add the yolks of two eggs beaten into three-quarters of a cupful of sugar. Put this mixture over the fire and when hot add one cupful of hot boiled rice; stir this until it thickens, then take it off the fire and add the flavoring. Put it into a pudding dish and place in the oven until it is slightly brown; remove and spread over the top the whites of two eggs beaten to a stiff froth and thickened with a little sugar, return the pudding to the oven for a few minutes until the frosting is of a delicate brown color.

Among the many other practical and excellent desserts of rice, the following from Mrs. Henderson’s “Practical Cooking” we know to be good:

Rice Cones.—Mould boiled rice, when hot, into cups which have been previously dipped in cold water; when cold turn them out on a flat dish; with a teaspoon scoop out a little of the rice from the top of each cone, and put in its place any kind of jelly. Any sauce preferred may be served with it.

Rice Cake with Peaches.—Cook the rice in a steamer with milk, and when still hot add a little butter, sugar, and one or two eggs. Butter a plain pudding mould, strew the butter with bread crumbs and put in a layer of rice half an inch thick; then a layer of peaches, and continue alternate layers of each until the mould is full. Bake this for about fifteen or twenty minutes in an oven; when done turn the cake out of the mould, and pour into the dish any desired sauce. Other fruits may be used with rice in the same way.

Orange Snow Balls.—Boil some rice for ten minutes, drain, and let it cool. Pare some oranges, taking off all the thick, white skin; spread the rice in as many portions as there are oranges, on pudding cloths. Tie the fruit, surrounded by the rice, separately in these and boil the balls for an hour; turn them carefully on a dish, sprinkle over plenty of sifted sugar, serve with sauce or sweetened cream.

Apple Snow Balls may be prepared in the same way, the apples being pared and cored without dividing them.

Rice Croquettes.—Soak a half a pound of rice three or four hours in water; drain and put into a basin with one quart of milk and a little salt. Set the basin in the steamer and cook until thoroughly done; then stir in carefully one teacupful of sugar, the yolks of two eggs, a very little butter and flavoring. When cold enough to handle, form into small balls; press the thumb into the center of each; insert a little marmalade or jelly of any kind, and close the rice well over them; roll in beaten eggs (sweetened a little) and bread crumbs. Fry in boiling hot lard.

Rice for the Sick.—Rice jelly is an excellent food for invalids. It is made from rice flour, two heaping teaspoonfuls of which are mixed with water and made into a thin paste. This paste must be stirred into a cupful of boiling water, and the whole sweetened. It should be boiled until it is transparent and then put into a mould.

Ground Rice Milk is prepared by boiling together two tablespoonfuls of ground rice with a pint of milk. Sweeten it according to taste, adding the juice of a lemon. Let it boil half an hour over a moderate fire.

Parched Rice.—Brown rice as you do coffee. Put into boiling salted water and cook thoroughly; serve with cream and sugar.

Buckwheat.—Our last cereal, buckwheat, bears the burden of many complaints. It is called the cause of much of our dyspepsia, and in many households it has been displaced by corn, rye or flannel cakes. As usually made buckwheat cakes are heavy, greasy and sour. Great quantities of butter and syrup are consumed with them to hide the taste of the cake itself, but when properly made there is little doubt but that they are as digestible as any warm breakfast cake. An unfailing recipe is the following, which if a little more troublesome than the usual method, still is worth the trouble. Add to two quarts of boiling water half a pint of corn meal, wet with a little cold water; boil until it forms a thin gruel, to which, when cool, add half a pint of wheat flour, three pints of buckwheat flour, one gill of yeast, and a little salt. The imperfect fermentation or rising of the batter causes most of the “heavy” cakes. To avoid this set your batter thus prepared at noon of the day before you use them; in the evening beat them well and let them rise in a cool place until morning. A little soda and a little warm water are the only additions which will be required before baking for breakfast.

HOME STUDIES IN CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS.

BY PROF. J. T. EDWARDS, D.D.
Director of the Chautauqua School of Experimental Science.

III.—CHEMISTRY OF AIR.

CARBONIC DI-OXIDE FROM THE LUNGS PASSED INTO LIME WATER (CAO₂H₂).

Experiment.—Dissolve some quicklime (CaO₂H₂) in water. Let it settle and pour off the clean part. Blow your breath into this. What follows, and why?

A quaint old book called “The Tin Trumpet” remarks that “three bad mothers have borne three good daughters.” Long-Suffering begat Patience, Astrology gave birth to Astronomy, and Chemistry is the daughter of Alchemy. The facts of science have taken the place of the fancies of the early investigators. Men used to be attacked, when they entered ravines and caverns, by supernatural beings, as they supposed, who choked, and sometimes killed them. In 1754 Joseph Black showed that these fatal results were due alone to the presence of an invisible gas, which he called “fixed air,” as he found it locked up in limestone. “Geist,” the name invented by Van Helmont to represent this strange power, signified ghost or spirit, so that the “ghosts” of the seventeenth century are the gases of the nineteenth. The word gas is derived from geist.

In studying the history of science we often wonder at the near approach which men made to truths which remained undiscovered for a long time after. One finds, all along, intimations of approaching disclosures which resemble those peculiarities in animals and plants that the geologist notes in the lower strata of the rocks, as prophesying the development of future species. The astrologer failed in his attempt to read human destiny, but he led men forward to the time when, in the stars, they should read the “thoughts of God.” The alchemist did not succeed in distilling the “elixir of life,” but he prepared the way for chemists to make those useful discoveries which have greatly promoted the safety and comfort of men and extended the period of human life. Some of the most important investigations in which science is now engaged concern the character and contents of that all-pervading aërial ocean which surrounds our earth to the height of from fifty to five hundred miles. Pure air is one of the great essentials of health and life. How to secure it is a difficult but beneficent inquiry which the spectroscope, microscope and chemical analysis may yet answer.

NITRIC ACID DISSOLVING COPPER.

Experiment.—Place copper in nitric acid. Also try iron and zinc successively.

COMPOSITION OF AIR.

Air is a mixture, and not a compound. This distinction, as before intimated, is one of great importance. A cup of coffee is a good illustration of the former; there we have united water, coffee, cream, and sugar, but no new substance is thereby produced, and each of these ingredients may be removed without affecting the others. Gunpowder is a mixture, being composed of sulphur, nitre, and charcoal—a most admirable mixture it is, too, for every particle of it contains these three substances, as may be shown; the sulphur may be removed by heat, and the nitre by washing, leaving the carbon alone; the microscope also would reveal in each grain these three substances. That the air is a mixture can be proven in two ways. First, water will absorb each of its two principal ingredients, and, secondly, they do not exist in air in that definite ratio which always characterizes chemical combination. The principal materials in air are oxygen, nitrogen, carbonic di-oxide, watery vapor, ammonia, and very minute portions of many other materials. Professor Steele says, that if the entire atmosphere were compressed to the density of that immediately surrounding the earth, it would extend above it only about five miles. Now, if the substances entering into its composition were to be arranged in the order of their specific gravity, watery vapor would form a sheet about the earth five inches deep, carbonic di-oxide another just above it, thirteen feet in depth, then a layer of oxygen one mile thick, and nitrogen another layer above that, four miles in thickness.

In short, four-fifths of the air is nitrogen, about one-fifth is oxygen, four ten-thousandths is carbonic acid, and water exists in variable quantities. It will be readily seen that the chemical and physical changes constantly going on in the surface of the earth must be throwing off other materials into the atmosphere. For example, the spectroscope has shown that common salt exists almost everywhere in the air. This arises from the fact that the ocean surrounds all lands, and its yeasty waves are broken into foam which is caught up by the winds and borne over the whole earth. One of the most remarkable facts connected with this subject is the wonderful uniformity of this mixture. Upon the whole, the amount of each ingredient is nearly the same. Some slight variations, such as the following, are observable: More CO₂ is found near cities than in the country, and there is more of the same over the land than over the sea. That the substances which enter into the composition of air do not arrange themselves according to weight, is due to a most interesting law called

THE DIFFUSION OF GASES.

PHOSPHORUS BURNING IN AIR.

Experiment.—Prepare nitrogen as described elsewhere in this article.

By this we mean that gases tend to intermingle, the lighter even descending, and the heavier ascending, until they occupy the same space. This can be shown in the following manner: Fill one bottle with hydrogen, and another with carbonic acid gas, fit into each a cork, perforated so as to admit a tube, connect the two by inserting a tube, placing the bottle of hydrogen above with the top downward; although the carbonic acid is twenty-two times heavier than the hydrogen, in an hour or two it will rise into the bottle above, as can be proved by pouring into it some lime water, which will immediately become milky, showing that the carbonic acid has united with the lime, forming calcium carbonate. That the hydrogen has passed down into the other bottle may be demonstrated by first absorbing such portions of the carbonic acid as still remain by pouring in cream of lime, when there will be found still in the bottle a substance (hydrogen) which will burn with a faint yellowish light. Another pleasing experiment may be performed in the following manner: Take an unglazed porcelain cup, fit to it a brass cap, perforated so as to admit tightly a long glass tube, insert one end of the tube into some colored water contained in a goblet, the inverted cup being supported above on the other end of the tube; now hold over the cup a jar filled with hydrogen; bubbles will soon be seen escaping through the water from the lower end of the tube, showing that the hydrogen has entered and mingled with the air; remove the jar, and the liquid will rise in the tube, proving that the gas has escaped from the cup. This diffusive force in the atmosphere prevents the accumulation of noxious gases by distributing them throughout the whole mass. The constant agitation of the air in gales and storms facilitates this operation, and it is only in certain confined places like caves, such as the Grotto del Cane,[1] mines, and wells, that we find apparent exception.

SILVER COIN DISSOLVING IN NITRIC ACID.

Experiment.—Place a five-cent piece in some nitric acid for two or three hours. Drop into a portion of the liquid a little salt; you show the presence of the silver. Drop into another portion some aqua ammonia; the blue color reports the presence of the copper.

Lieutenant Maury has said that the atmosphere makes the whole world akin. The breezes that blow over our land may in turn visit every other, carrying bane or blessing. Alas! we fear, to-day, that the feverish breath which poisons the air of Italy may spread its pestilence to our shores. One lesson we learn from this is, that the misery or prosperity of any one portion of the earth may affect every other; and that which benefits a part, contributes in this way a blessing to the whole.

NITROGEN.

In our first article of this series somewhat extended reference was made to oxygen, and we shall therefore not dwell upon that element at this time.

Nitrogen, which constitutes by measure 79.04, and by weight 76.8 of the air, is remarkable for the absence of positive qualities. It is a colorless, tasteless, odorless gas, will not burn, nor support life or combustion. Its chief office is that of a diluter. Without it we should live too fast; even as it is we live too fast! With oxygen alone to breathe, ours would be a short and fevered existence. All flames and fires would be kindled into furious combustion, stoves themselves would burn, and the very “elements melt with fervent heat.”

MERCURY DISSOLVING IN NITRIC ACID.

We can prepare air artificially, by mixing one part of O with four parts of N, thoroughly shaking them together. Nitrogen can easily be obtained in the following manner: Make a small cavity in a piece of cork; line this by sifting into it a little plaster or crayon dust. Place the cork on some water in a deep plate. Insert now in the cavity a piece of dry phosphorus (always handle phosphorus with care), touch the P with a heated wire, and quickly place over it an inverted jar. White fumes will instantly rise, which are phosphoric anhydride, P₂O₅. These will be quickly absorbed by the water, and the water will rise and fill one-fifth of the jar. It will be necessary to add water as that in the plate rises. The remaining four-fifths of the jar will be occupied by nitrogen.

The following is an instructive experiment: Take two jars of equal size (one open at both ends), one of which is fitted with a stopper; fill one with O and the other with N. Place a smooth glass plate under each before removing the pneumatic trough, and holding the plates closely over the top, invert one jar on the other—plate to plate—the jar of O being below. Now carefully remove the plates, and also the stopper from the jar of N, and quickly insert a lighted taper with a long snuff. As it descends through the N it will be extinguished, but as it enters the O it will be rekindled. This may be repeated many times by raising and lowering the taper. N does not seem to be strongly attached to anything; that is, it has but slight affinity for the substances with which it combines. Strange enough, from this sluggishness results a marvelous activity. Being held with such little force it is liable at any time to be liberated in the form of a gas, and the decomposition of the whole compound of which it formed a part will take place. Hence, instability is the most marked characteristic of N. It reminds one of some loafer, without steady occupation or aims, restless, vacillating, but always a factor in every turbulence or outbreak.

BISMUTH DISSOLVING IN NITRIC ACID.

Gunpowder, gun-cotton, nitro-glycerine, and dynamite all contain N, and their explosive character depends largely upon its presence. Nitrogen and chlorine form a compound, which explodes with such terrific violence that its manufacture should never be attempted by students.

Nitrogen iodide is another of these dangerous combinations. It can be made in very small quantities, however, in the form of a black powder, which may be handled with impunity while it is damp. The touch of a feather, or a zephyr, will sometimes explode it when dry. It is almost impossible to keep it; the jar of a foot-fall or slamming of a door is often sufficient to liberate the unstable nitrogen, and the substance disappears with a loud report. The tremendous rending force of dynamite is well known. A small charge in a torpedo will sink a ship. The Greely Relief Expedition used it to open their way through the arctic ice fields. Its atoms rush apart with such frightful velocity that if a pound of it be exploded upon a naked bowlder, of many tons weight, the rock is shivered into fragments.

COMPOUNDS OF N AND O.

At every breath we take into the lungs a mixture of N and O. The operation is not only harmless, but essential to life. When, however, N and O are compounded, the resulting substances are very different. Nitrous oxide (N₂O) forms the well known laughing gas, which breathed, produces for a time a species of intoxication, and if its inhalation is continued, results in insensibility. Nitric oxide (NO) when first formed consists of suffocating red fumes, while nitric acid (HNO₃) is a very corrosive liquid which will cauterize flesh, and acts with great energy upon most of the metals. It is sometimes termed aqua fortis, and is much used in etching upon copper. The surface of the metal plate is covered with varnish or wax, upon which the design is then traced by a sharp pointed instrument. The acid is then applied and remains until, in the judgment of the artist, the impression is deep enough. Any one can easily etch his name, in this way, on a knife blade, or make a stencil plate from a thin strip of brass or copper. Silver, copper, mercury, lead, zinc, iron, bismuth can all be dissolved by nitric acid.

The five compounds of N and O admirably illustrate the laws of atomic combination. Their symbols are as follows: Nitrogen monoxide, N₂O; nitric oxide, NO; nitrogen trioxide, N₂O₃; nitrogen peroxide, NO₂; nitrogen pentoxide, N₂O₅. A careful examination of the weights of these substances, which may be made by consulting some good chemical manual, will show that there is an exact ratio of combination, their proportional weights being respectively as 1¾ to 1, 1¾ to 2, 1¾ to 3, 1¾ to 4, 1¾ to 5. Since atoms can not be divided they must combine atom for atom, or in multiples. This principle has been more fully stated in the form of six

LAWS OF COMBINATION.

The first law of weights says that the elements of a given compound always unite in the same proportions, by weight. The second law is, that if two or more substances unite to form several compounds, their highest combining proportions will always be multiples of their lowest combining weights. The third law announces that the combining weight of a compound is the sum of the combining proportions of its constituents. The volumetric laws are as follows: 1, If two or more elements unite to form a compound, their proportion by volume will always be the same; 2, if they unite to form a variety of compounds, these proportions will always be multiples of the lowest combining volumes. 3. The third law is most curious of all; that the combining volume of a gaseous compound is always 2. For example, if two elements represented by x and y unite in proportion of one volume of x to one of y, there would be formed two volumes of the compound. If there should be two volumes of x and one of y there would be two volumes of the compound, and if they should unite three volumes of x and one of y, again there would be but two volumes of the product. Just why two should be such a favorite number is difficult to explain. No one can carefully study these interesting laws without perceiving the necessity for a rare intelligence in arranging all materials with such mathematical exactness.

How absurd to ascribe to atoms the power to count, to weigh, to measure, to arrange themselves in orderly combinations which surpass the most skilful marshaling of battalions on a great battle field. It would be to make gods of atoms.

AN ALLEGORY—THE FOUR KINGS.

AMMONIA GAS AND CHLOROHYDRIC GAS MEETING IN THE AIR AND FORMING AMMONIC CHLORIDE.

Experiment.—Place some ammonia in one glass and chlorohydric acid in the other. Ammonia gas (NH₃) and chlorohydric gas (HCl) will meet in the air and form ammonic chloride (NH₄Cl).

Once upon a time, as the story goes, the King of the Acids, whose name is Sulphuric, arrogantly walked forth to view his wide domain. He was sour and fierce. Many conquests had made him boastful, until he thought himself the mightiest of the earth. Soon he came to where the King of the Metals, whose name is Gold, sat in royal state, his countenance shining with wonderful beauty. The haughty monarch of the Acids was angered as he approached, to see that his rival did not recognize him, nor acknowledge his power. “I am mightier than thou!” he said, but King Gold smiled in silent derision. Thereupon the former fiercely attacked him, but was easily repulsed. The savage aggressor, insane with rage, went away muttering, “I have two sons who can slay thee!” He instantly commanded Nitric Acid and Hydrochloric at once to unite in an attack upon his opponent. Their father gave them a banner on which was inscribed “Aqua Regia,” which might be translated “King Slayer.” It was indeed too true a symbol. Alas! before their combined onslaught the royal metal yielded. The old king now grew more arrogant than ever, and boastfully announced that his sway knew no limits. One day he discovered, in his walk, one of a smooth and gentle countenance, yet with an expression indicating that if aroused he might make biting and caustic replies. It was Potassa, King of the Alkalies. From hot words, they soon passed to blows, until in the wild struggle both were slain. Horrible to contemplate, they ate each other! The spot on which they perished can still be pointed out. This story is a warning to vaulting ambition, and a tragedy surpassed in pathos only by the mournful story of the Kilkenny cats![2]

CARBONIC ANHYDRIDE, CO₂.

This substance is also called carbonic di-oxide and carbonic acid gas. It is the dreaded “choke-damp” of the miner. It Is produced when carbon unites with O, whether by the decay of vegetation, combustion of vegetable matter, or the oxidation of the blood. It is so heavy that it may be poured or dipped out from vessel to vessel, like water. It extinguishes flame, and is largely employed for that purpose in contrivances like the Babcock Fire Extinguisher,[3] and the more recent Fire Grenade.[4] Taken into the stomach in the form of soda water it is refreshing and beneficial, but its inhalation is always injurious, and will produce death if breathed in considerable quantity, by causing asphyxia.[5] A practical problem of great importance is that of ventilation, as this material is constantly being thrown off from the lungs, of both animals and men. In the days of ample fire-places, our homes, if they had less heat had purer air. The railroad car, in point of comfort, is a marvelous improvement over the ancient stage coach, but the latter was better in the matter of ventilation. The sleepiness of congregations should be attributed as much to the foul air as to the dull preaching. Can not some of our writers on homiletics prepare us a stirring chapter on the relation of carbonic acid to eloquence?

Homes, school houses, and all public buildings should be supplied in some way with a gentle and universal circulation of air. Fierce draughts should by all means be avoided. Ventilation is now generally best secured by the construction of flues in the wall, which have openings in the lower and upper portion of the room. The world yet waits to bless the inventor of a simple and effective system of ventilation which is of universal application.

OTHER ATMOSPHERES.

As has been suggested, there must be in the air a variable quantity of other substances beside those named as forming its mass. Ammonia gas (NH₃) is present, and it is from this material that most of the nitrogen found in plants is obtained. Water readily absorbs it and conveys it to the roots. Other elements require only additional heat to volatilize them. Almost all of the elements of nature have been liquefied; carbonic acid has been solidified, forming a beautiful white solid, intensely cold. It is generally accepted as a truth that all substances could be solidified by the sufficient removal of heat, and it would of course follow that they could all be vaporized by applying heat enough. In earlier geologic times many of the materials forming our earth must have existed as vapor in the heated atmosphere, and the time will come when our globe will have no atmosphere, no seas, lakes, nor rivers. It will float in space, cold and desolate like the moon.

The opposite of this condition can be seen to-day in many of the heavenly bodies. The spectroscope reveals in the sun’s atmosphere gold, iron, copper, zinc, and many other substances. Vast disturbances are constantly heaving and tossing these materials, which are intensely heated. The cyclonic movements are so violent and extensive that the wildest hurricanes of our earth would seem as zephyrs in comparison.

Hydrogen flames have flared out one hundred thousand miles from its surface. It has been suggested that the mighty fires in the sun may be fed by millions of meteoric bodies which are tossed into its raging heats by the power of gravity. Nothing could withstand such terrible combustion. Lockyer says that if all of the sun’s heat were concentrated upon a mass of ice as large as the earth it would melt it in two minutes, and convert it into vapor in fifteen.

Science has accomplished few things more wonderful than that of crossing over the vast spaces of the universe, and revealing to us the chemical composition of the celestial atmospheres.

End of Required Reading for December.

THE LAUREATE POETS.

BY REV. A. E. WINSHIP.

CHAPTER II.

Samuel Daniel, Spenser’s successor as laureate, is unknown to the general reader, though by the reader of his time he was well considered, and literary critics of every age have admired him. He has had no superior in the correct, classic use of English. Lowell says that in two hundred years not a dozen of his words or turns of phrase have become obsolete, a thing that can not be said, probably, of any other English writer. He failed not in rhythmic skill, or linguistic art, but in that element which marks the literary genius’ power to speak to his neighbors in such a way as to speak to all times and climes. Shakspere’s words are as much at home in one nation or century as another. Bunyan had a similar skill, so had Burns, but Daniel had it not. In comparing him with men of permanent literary fame we see the superiority of processes to facts, of methods to transient results.

Daniel’s lines are so exquisite that in every age the great poets have not only been his admirers, but have made systematic effort to revivify his lines. In the time of Hazlitt, he secured the coöperation of Lamb and Coleridge, and the three combined their talent and friends to resurrect his fame by placing beneath his poems their own genius and reputation, but they could not call his verses from the oblivion in which they had been decently interred.