The Chautauquan, January 1885

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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. JANUARY, 1885. No. 4.

Officers of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.

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

Contents

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REQUIRED READING FOR JANUARY.

TEMPERANCE TEACHINGS OF SCIENCE;
Or, THE POISON PROBLEM.

BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.

CHAPTER IV.—THE COST OF INTEMPERANCE.

“Shall we sow tares and pray for bread?”—Abd el Wahab.[1]

If we consider the manifold afflictions which in the after years of so many millions of our fellowmen outweigh the happiness of childhood, we can hardly wonder that several great thinkers have expressed a serious doubt if earthly existence is on the whole a blessing. Yet for those who hold that the progress of science and education will ultimately remove that doubt, it is a consoling reflection that the greatest of all earthly evils are avoidable ones. The earthquake of Lisbon[2] killed sixty thousand persons who could not possibly have foreseen their fate. In 1282 an irruption of the Zuyder Sea overwhelmed sixty-five towns whose inhabitants had not five minutes’ time to effect their escape. But what are such calamities compared with the havoc of wanton wars, or the ravages of consumption and other diseases that are the direct consequences of outrageous sins against the physical laws of God? The cruelty of man to man causes more misery than the rage of wild beasts and all the hostile elements of Nature, but the heaviest of all evils in our great burden of self-inflicted woe is undoubtedly the curse of the poison vice. The alcohol habit is a concentration of all scourges. In the poor island of Ireland alone one hundred and forty million bushels of bread-corn and potatoes are yearly sent to the distillery. The shipment of the grain, its conversion into a health-destroying drug, the distribution and sale of the poison, are carried on under the protection of a so-called civilized government. Waste is not an adequate word for that monstrous folly. If the grain farmers of Laputa[3] should organize an expedition to the sea-coast, and under the auspices of the legal authorities equip an apparatus for flinging a hundred million sacks of grain into the ocean, the contents of those sacks would be lost, and there would be an end of it. The sea would swallow the cargo. The distillery swallows the grain, but disgorges it in the form of a liquid fire that spreads its flames over the land and scorches the bodies and souls of men till the smoke of the torment arises from a million homesteads. We might marvel at the extravagance of the Laputans, but what should we say if the priests of a pastoral nation were to slaughter thousands of herds on the altar of a national idol, and in conformity with an established custom let the carcasses rot in the open fields till the progress of putrefaction filled the land with horror and pestilence; if moreover, among the crowd of victims we should recognize the milch cows of thousands of poor families whose children were wan with hunger, and if furthermore the intelligent rulers of that nation should supervise the ceremonies of the sacrifice, distribute the carcasses and calmly collect statistics to ascertain the percentage of the resultant mortality?

The LOSS OF LIFE caused by the ravages of the alcohol plague equals the result of a perennial war. The most belligerent nation of modern times, the Russians, with the perpetual skirmishes on their eastern frontier, and their periodical campaigns against their southern neighbors, lose in battle a yearly average of 7,000 men. The average longevity of the Caucasian nations is nearly 38 years. Of their picked men about 45 years. The average age of a soldier is now-a-days about 25 years. The death of 7,000 soldiers represents therefore a national loss of 7,000 times the difference between 25 and 45 years, i. e., a total waste of 140,000 years. Medical statistics show that in the United States alone the direct consequences of intoxication cost every year the lives of six thousand persons, most of them reckless young drunkards, who thus anticipate the natural term of their lives by about twenty years. But at the very least, two per cent. of our population is addicted to the constant use of some form of alcoholic liquors. Prof. Neison, of the British General Life Insurance Company, estimates that rum-drinkers shorten their lives by seven years, beer-drinkers by five and one-half, and “mixed drinkers” by nine and one-half years. For the city of London, Sir H. Thompson computes that drinkers of all classes shorten their lives by six years. But let us be quite sure to keep within the limits of facts applying to all conditions of life, and assume a minimum of four years. A total of 4,120,000 years for the population of the United States is therefore a moderate estimate of the annual life waste by the consequences of the poison vice! In other words, in a country of by no means exceptionally hard drinkers, alcohol destroys yearly thirty times as much life as the warfare of the most warlike nation on earth. The first year of the war for the preservation of the Union and the suppression of slavery cost us 82,000 lives. When the death list had reached a total of 100,000 the clamors for peace became so importunate that the representatives of our nation were several times on the point of abandoning the cause of the most righteous war ever waged. Yet the far larger life waste on the altar of the Poison-Moloch continues year after year, and for a small bribe not a few of our prominent politicians seem willing to perpetuate that curse to the end of time. Among all the nations of the Christian world, with the only exception of the Syrian Maronites,[4] the poison vice has shortened the average longevity of the working classes by at least five years. Political economists have calculated the consequent loss of productive force, but there is another consideration which is too often overlooked. The progress of degeneration has reduced our life term so far below the normal average that the highest purposes of individual existence are generally defeated. Our lives are mostly half-told tales. Our season ends before the harvest time; before the laborer’s task is half done he is overtaken by the night when no man can work. The secret of longevity would, indeed, solve the chief riddle of existence, for the children of toil could then hope to reach the goal of the visible compensation which, on earth at least, is now reserved for the exceptional favorites of fortune. That hope is diminished by everything that tends still further to reduce our shortened span of life, and beside increasing the burdens of existence, the poison vice therefore directly decreases the possibility of its rewards.

Yet that result is almost insured by the LOSS OF HEALTH which all experienced physiologists admit to be the inevitable consequence of the stimulant habit. Every known disease of the human system is aggravated by intemperance. The morbid diathesis, as physicians call a predisposition to organic disorders, finds an ally in alcohol that enables it to defy the expurgative efforts of Nature. A consumptive toper will fail to derive any benefit from a change of climate. A dram-drinking dyspeptic can not be cured by outdoor exercise. The influence of alcoholic tonics tends to aggravate nervous disorders into mental derangements. But even the soundest constitution is not proof against the bane of that influence. Before the end of the first year habitual drinkers lose that spontaneous gayety which constitutes the happiness of perfect health as well as of childhood. The system becomes dependent upon the treacherous aid of artificial stimulants, and the lack of vital vigor soon begins to tell upon every part of the organism. Alcohol counteracts the benefit of all the hygienic advantages of climate and habit, and it is doubtful if the effect of its continued influence could be equaled by the intentional introduction of contagious diseases. A medical expert might collect the most incurable patients in the leper slums of Shanghai, in the lazarettos[5] of Naples and the fever hospitals of Vera Cruz, and distribute them in the cities of another country; yet a year after the dissemination of such diseases the hygienic condition of a temperate nation would be better than that of a drunkard nation after a year of the strictest quarantine protection. In the sanitary history of the Caucasian nations alcohol has proved a worse plague than the Black Death.

The WASTE OF LAND and the WASTE OF LABOR must be considered together, in order to comprehend the total amount of the loss which the fourteen most civilized nations inflict on themselves by the unspeakable folly of devoting from 20 to 25 per cent. of their fertile area to the production of stimulating poisons. If the land thus abused were simply neglected, if it were abandoned to the weeds and tares, the laborers who now cultivate it in the interest of hell might employ their time in assisting their friends and help them to cultivate better or larger crops on the soil of the adjoining lands. If they should prefer to emigrate, their abandoned fields might be cultivated by their neighbors. Even children in the intervals of their play might plant cherry stones, and help the soil to contribute to the welfare of the community. As it is, it contributes only to the development of diseases, vices and crimes. The productions of the land, the toil of the husbandmen, are not only utterly lost, but become a curse to the population of the country. Starving Ireland devotes a third of her arable lands to the production of distillery crops. Spain begs with one hand and with the other flings two-fifths of her produce to the poison vender. The statistics of the last census show that distilleries devour every year 34,300,000 acres of our total farm produce; breweries, 9,600,000; wine cellars, cider mills (not to mention tobacco factories), about five millions more!

The old settlers of western Arkansas still remember the excitement caused by occasional raids of predatory Indians who used to cross the Texas border and devastate the farms of the frontiersmen. Near Arkadelphia they once burned three hundred acres of ripe corn, and half a dozen counties joined in the pursuit of the marauders. Imagine the blazing indignation, the mass meetings, the general uprising of an outraged people, if the Mormons should take it in their heads to burn three million acres of our grain crop. Yet the distillers not only burn up more than the tenfold amount, but fan the flames to kindle a soul and body consuming conflagration, and shriek about infringements of their privileges if a bold hand here and there succeeds in snatching a brand from the burning.

The WASTE OF REMEDIAL EXPENDITURE must be considered under a separate head, for beside squandering their own resources, the votaries of the poison fiend waste those of their neighbors, who have to devise means for mitigating the resulting mischief. The care of drunkards, i. e., of persons picked up in the streets in a state of life-endangering intoxication, costs our hospitals a yearly sum of $5,000,000. A list of the various diseases which can be traced to the direct or indirect influence of intemperance would require the enumeration of nearly all known disorders of the human organism, but, though drunkards become a burden to their families oftener than to the charitable institutions of the community, it has been ascertained that they constitute 30 per cent. of the inmates of such establishments as county infirmaries, charity hospitals, almshouses, poorhouses and lunatic asylums. Prisons proper, that is, institutions for the cure of moral disorders, are filled with patients where derelictions in forty out of a hundred cases have been committed either under the immediate influence of intoxicating liquors, or as a consequence of such direct results of intemperance as loss of property, loss of credit, loss of moral or mental integrity. In 1870 the prisons of the United States cost the nation a yearly sum of $87,000,000. By this time their cost probably amounts to a full hundred millions. The magistrates of our city courts have to waste half their time on the trial of drunkards. On the blackboards of our metropolitan station houses “D. D. C.” after the name of a prisoner means So-and-So locked up for drunkenness and disorderly conduct; they have to abbreviate the specification of that offense to save a little space for other memoranda. If the indirect consequences of the poison vice could be traced through all their ramifications, it would be found that the suppression of that vice would relieve our cities from a burden equivalent to a full half of all their municipal taxes.

The MORAL LOSS is not confined to the direct influence of the brutalizing poison. The liquor traffic defiles all participants of a transaction which involves a sin against Nature, a crime against society and posterity, and an outrage against the moral instincts of the veriest savage, for more than five thousand years ago the lawgivers of the Bactrian nomads[6] recorded their protest against the vice of intoxication. A drunkard who flees from the prohibitory laws of his native place can not escape the voice of an inner monitor. The liquor dealer who points to his license is not the less conscious that he is an enemy of mankind, and that his servants eat the wages of a soul and body corrupting vice. The lawgiver who can be bribed to connive at that vice not only sins against the laws of political economy, but against Nature and the first principles of natural ethics, and forfeits his claim to the respect of the community. Faith in the sanctity of the law, in the wisdom and integrity of the legislator, is the very corner-stone of public morals, but that faith is incompatible with a system of legalized crime, and the lawgiver who consents to sanction the outrage of the poison traffic undermines the basis of his authority, and thereby the authority of the law itself. It is wholly certain that larceny and perjury combined do not damage the state the hundredth part as much as the curse of the poison vice; yet what should we think of the moral status of a legislative assembly devising a plan to increase the national revenues by granting license to pickpockets and professional false witnesses? Imagine a Titus Oates[7] offering his services on the public streets, and a chief justice compelling the courts to recognize the legality of his business, and protect him in the enjoyment of its emoluments! Imagine Jack Sheppard[8] filching the weekly wages of a half-witted working man, and flaunting a government license if the wife of his victim should demand the restitution of the plunder. The absurdity of such an arrangement might seem too glaring to imagine its possibility. Yet for the same reason posterity may refuse to credit the records of our liquor system; for, translated into plain speech, the contract between the state and the rum vender means even this: “On condition of receiving a share in the yearly profits of your business, I herewith grant you the right to poison your fellow-citizens.”

The LOSS OF WEALTH, which some of the foregoing considerations will enable us to estimate, has increased with the progress of our national development in a way which in many respects has made that progress a curse instead of a blessing. Thirty-five years ago our brethren in Maine had a hard fight against the champions of the liquor traffic, but they had to deal with whiskey alone. Since then our foreign immigrants have introduced ale, lager beer, and French high wines, and threaten to introduce absinthe[9] and opium. The poison vice has assumed the magnitude of a pandemic plague. According to the statistics of the Treasury Department, the alcohol drinkers of the United States spent during the last ten years a yearly average of $370,000,000 for whiskey, $53,000,000 for other distilled liquors, $56,000,000 for wine, and $140,000,000 for ale and beer. Together, $624,000,000 a year. Under the head of liquors evading the revenue tax, Prof. W. Hoyle, of Manchester, adds 20 per cent. for Great Britain, Commissioner Halliday 15 per cent. for the United States, and Dr. Bowditch 18 per cent. for the state of Massachusetts alone. Let us assume the minimum of 15 per cent. The total direct cost of the poison vice (without including tobacco and other narcotic stimulants) is therefore $705,000,000 a year. The indirect cost eludes computation, except under the three following heads: 1. The loss of productive capacity, as revealed in the difference between the yearly earnings of a manufacturing community under the protection of prohibitory laws or under the influence of the license system. 2. The inebriate percentage of patients in our public hospitals, and of convicts in our prisons. 3. The loss sustained by the employers of agents, trustees, clerks, etc., addicted to the use of intoxicating liquors. The aggregate of these indirect losses we will assume to be only $350,000,000 a year, though several political economists compute it as equal to the direct cost. Our estimate does not include the amount of rum-begotten distress relieved by private charity, nor the rum percentage of undetected crime, nor yet the wholly incalculable value of the benefactions, reforms and improvements prevented by the use of intoxicating liquors among the upper classes. We can therefore be quite sure of understating the truth if we estimate the aggregate cost of the poison vice at $1,055,000,000 a year—a yearly sum equivalent to the cost value of all our public libraries, our church property, school property, steamboats, bridges, and telegraphs taken together.

Prohibition would put a stop to one half of that prodigious waste. We will not delude ourselves with the hope that the deep-rooted habit of the stimulant vice could at once be wholly eradicated by any legislative measures whatever. For years to come 20 per cent. of the aggregate would undoubtedly be devoured by liquor venders finding means to elude the vigilance of the law. Fifteen per cent. would be spent on other vices. Fifteen per cent. more would probably be wasted for frivolous purposes—innocent, as compared with the crime of the poison traffic, but still on the whole amounting to a loss of national resources. The waste of the remaining fifty per cent. could be prevented by prohibition. In ten years the saving of that sum and its application to useful purposes would transform the moral and physical condition of our country. With five billion dollars we could construct ten bridges over every one of our hundred largest rivers. We could build an international railroad of a gauge that would enable the denizens of snow-bound New England to reach the tropics in twenty-four hours. We could realize Professor Lexow’s project of providing every large city with a system of free municipal railways connecting the centers of commerce with the suburban homes of the workingmen. We could make those suburbs attractive enough to drain the population of the slums. We could counteract the temptations of the grog-shops by providing the poor with healthier means of recreation; city parks with free baths, competitive gymnastics and zoölogical attractions for the summer season, and reading rooms with picture galleries and musical entertainments for the long winter evenings. We could employ home missionaries enough for a direct appeal to every fallen or tempted soul in the country. We could cover our hillsides with orchards and line our highways with shade trees; we could plant forest trees enough to redeem thousands of square miles in the barren uplands of the West. Each township in the country could have a free school, each village a free public library; we could help the sick by teaching them to avoid the causes of disease; we could prevent rather than punish crime; we could teach our homeless vagrants the lessons of self-support, and found asylum colonies for the lost children of our great cities. And moreover, we could increase the savings of the next decade by the endowment of a National Reform College, with a corps of competent sanitarians and political economists, for the training of temperance teachers, with local lecturers, traveling lecturers, and free lecture halls in every larger city of the country.

Only thus prohibition could be brought to answer its whole purpose, for we should remember that the practical efficiency of all government laws depends on the consensus of the governed. Without the coöperation of the teacher the mandates of the legislator fall short of their aim. But it is equally certain that in the field of social ethics the teacher can not dispense with the aid of the legislator, and that our lawgivers can not much longer afford to ignore that truth, for the penalty of the neglect already amounts to the equivalent of the average yearly income of seven million working people. In the South a million men, women and children of farm laborers earn less than a hundred millions a year, i. e., $500 for every family of five persons. In the manufacturing districts of the North they would earn less than $200,000,000. We can therefore again be wholly certain of not overstating the truth, if we assert that in the United States alone the poison vice devours every year the aggregate earnings of more than fourteen hundred thousand families. In one dollar bank-notes of the United States Treasury, one billion dollars could be pasted together into a paper strip that would reach up to the moon. Stacked up in bundles, they would form a paper pile a hundred feet long, fifty feet wide, and fifty feet high.

If the equivalent of so many creature-comforts could be employed for the benefit of the poor, it would almost realize the dreams of a Golden Age. But even if we could save it from the hands of the poison vender by burning it on the public streets, all friends of mankind would hail the conflagration as the gladdest bonfire that ever cheered the hearts of men. For its flames would save more human lives than the perpetual peace of the millennium; it would prevent more crimes than the civilization of all the savages that infest the prairies of our border states and the slums of our large cities. Nay, it would save us from evils for which mankind has thus far discovered no remedy, for intemperance robs us of blessings which human skill is unable to restore.

SUNDAY READINGS.

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

[January 4.]

Think of God as your constant benefactor—that he made you, that he sustains you in every moment of your existence—that, to express yourself with the simple energy of inspiration, in him you live, and move, and have your being—that in all the joys which are scattered over the pilgrimage of life, we see nothing but the kindness of God always exerting itself in our favor, and meeting us in every direction—that though we seldom look beyond the creatures which surround us, it is God who reigns in these creatures and makes them subservient to his most wise, his most gracious, his most benevolent purposes; that though in the hey-day of youth we are carried along the tide of gayety without care and without reflection, it is God who gives to the spirit of man all its cheerfulness; that though we stop short in our gratitude at the benefactor who relieved and at the friend who supported us, it is God who reigns over the constitution of the mind, and could by a single word of his power make every companion abandon us, and every friend look upon us with an altered countenance; that though I call the house in which I live my own, and find in the endearments of my family my repose and my happiness, it is God who gave me my home, who spreads security around it, and fills it with all its charities; that though my path in society be dignified by the homage and civility of my acquaintances, it is God who reigns in the human breast and administers all the delight of social intercourse; that though my eye expatiates in rapture on the landscape around us, it is the living God who beautifies the scene, and gives it all its magnificence and all its glory; in short, that everything we enjoy is a gift; that in whatever quarter happiness is met with, a burden of obligation and dependence lies upon us; that we have nothing which we did not receive—that our all is suspended on God, and that to him we owe all the praise, all the gratitude, all the obedience. Now will any man who is acquainted with the movements of his own breast, say that this praise and this obedience are actually given? Are not the pleasures of life often tasted without acknowledgment? Is not the conduct of life often proceeded in without any reference to the will and authority of him who is the author of it? Is not the mind in a state of habitual estrangement from God, his existence absent from our reflections, and his superintendency as a judge and as a lawgiver absent from our principles? Go to whatever quarter you please for happiness, there is no escaping the conclusion that God is the giver of it, in his pervading energy which gives effect and operation to all things. You can not fly out of his presence, nor repair beyond the limits of his sovereignty.—From Dr. Chalmers.

[January 11.]

Of all the impossibles which ever were attempted, there is none so wild and so irrational as to attempt an independence upon God. It is in virtue of him that you are held together. He measures out to you every moment of your existence. He gives you not merely the air you breathe, but he gives you the faculty of breathing. He provides for you not merely the external goods which are scattered around you in such bounteous profusion, but it is he who furnishes you with the capacity of enjoying them. You talk of the pleasures of the world, and fly to them as your refuge and your consolation against the displeasure of an offended Deity, but think that it is only by a continuance of his unmerited favor that you have these pleasures to fly to. He can take them away from you; or, what perhaps is a still more striking demonstration of his sovereignty, he can make them no longer pleasures to you. He reigns within as well as without you. To him you owe not merely what is external, but to him you owe the taste and the faculty which enjoys it. He can pervert these faculties. He can change your pleasures into disgust. He can derange the constitution of the inner man, and make you loathe as tasteless and unsatisfying what you at present indulge in with delight or look forward to with rapture. He is all in all. The whole of our being hangs upon him, and there is no getting away from his universal, from his ceaseless, from his unexcepted agency. Now, do the Almighty the same justice that you would do to an earthly benefactor; measure the extent of his claims upon you by the extent of his benefits; think of the authority over you which, as your Creator and as your constant preserver, he has a right to exercise; think of your perpetual dependence, and that all around you and within you, for every moment and particle of your existence is upheld by God; and tell me, if either in the thoughts of your hearts or in the actions of your life you come up to the demand which his justice and his authority have a title to prefer against you?—From Dr. Chalmers.

[January 18.]

What then, art thou, O, my God; what, I ask, but the Lord God? For who is Lord but the Lord? or who is God save our God? Most high, most excellent, most potent, most omnipotent, most piteous and most just; most hidden and most near; most beauteous and most strong; stable, yet contained of none; unchangeable, yet changing all things; never new, never old, making all things new, yet bringing old age upon the proud, and they know it not; always working, yet ever at rest; gathering, yet needing nothing; sustaining, pervading, and protecting; creating, nourishing, and developing; seeking, and yet possessing all things. Thou lovest, and burnest not; art jealous, yet free from care; repentest, and hast no sorrow; art angry, yet serene; changest thy ways, leaving unchanged thy plans; recoverest what thou findest, having yet never lost; art never in want, while thou rejoicest in gain; never covetous, though requiring usury (Matt. xxv:27).… Thou payest debts, while owing nothing; and when thou forgivest debts, losest nothing. Yet, O my God, my life, my holy joy, what is this that I have said? And what saith any man when he speaks of thee? Yet woe to them that keep silence, seeing that even those who say most are as dumb!

Oh! how shall I find rest in thee? Who will send thee into my heart to inebriate it, so that I may forget my woes, and embrace thee, my only good? What art thou to me? Have compassion on me, that I may speak. What am I to thee, that thou demandest my love, and unless I give it thee art angry and threatenest me with great sorrows? Is it, then, a light sorrow not to love thee? Alas! alas! tell me of thy compassion, O Lord my God, what thou art to me: “Say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.” So speak that I may hear. Behold Lord, the ears of my heart are before thee; open thou them, and “say unto my soul, I am thy salvation.” When I hear, may I run and lay hold on thee. Hide not thy face from me. Let me die, lest I die, if only I may see thy face.

Cramped is the dwelling of my soul; do thou expand it, that thou mayest enter in. It is in ruins, restore thou it. There is that about it which must offend thine eyes; I confess and know it, but who will cleanse it? or to whom shall I cry but to thee? Cleanse me from my secret sins, O Lord, and keep thy servant from those of other men. I believe, and therefore do I speak; Lord, thou knowest. Have I not confessed my transgressions unto thee, O my God; and thou hast put away the iniquity of my heart. I do not contend in judgment with thee, who art the truth; and I would not deceive myself, lest my iniquity lie against itself. I do not, therefore, contend in judgment with thee, for “if thou, Lord, shouldst mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?”

O Lord God, grant thy peace unto us, for thou hast supplied us with all things; the peace of rest, the peace of the Sabbath, which hath no evening. For all this most beautiful order of things, “very good” (all their courses being finished), is to pass away, for in them there was morning and evening.

But the seventh day is without any evening, nor hath it any setting, because thou hast sanctified it to an everlasting continuance; that which thou didst after thy words, which were very good, resting on the seventh day, although in unbroken rest thou madest them, that the voice of thy Book may speak beforehand unto us, that we also after our works (therefore very good, because thou hast given them unto us) may repose in thee, also in the Sabbath of eternal life.—From St. Augustine.[1]

[January 25.]

Now tell me, Christians, have you hitherto understood it, and do you still understand it, in this manner? Let each candidly examine himself in the presence of God. Where is the ambitious man, who, looking on his ambition as the wound of his soul, desires in good earnest to be thoroughly cured? Where is the voluptuous man, who, truly afflicted at his unhappy situation, wishes efficaciously, and as his sovereign good, to be freed from his passion? Where is the avaricious man, who, ashamed of his injustice, sincerely and from his heart detests his iniquity? Where is the woman, who, listening to religion, hath a horror of vanity, and thinks of extirpating her self-love? From what passion, from what vicious and ruling inclination hath this divine Savior as yet delivered you? By what, then, do you know him to be a Savior? And if he be a Savior, by what mark do you pretend to know that he is yours? What hath he by your own means performed in your regard? Now, as I perceive that you are so ill disposed, should I not prevaricate, did I declare to you his coming as a cause of joy? And to speak as a faithful minister of the Gospel, ought I not to tell you, what in fact I tell you? Undeceive yourselves, and bewail your woeful situation, for, while enamored with the world, you obstinately persist in such criminal dispositions, though the Savior be born, no more advantage accrues to you from his sacred birth, than if he were not born.…

… Hath this spirit of truth been hitherto a spirit of truth for us?… Whatever profession we may make of being, as Christians, the disciples of the spirit of truth, are we really persuaded of the truths of Christianity? Hath he made us relish them? Hath he given us a sincere and efficacious disposition to put them in practice? We adore these divine truths in speculation; but do we conform our conduct to them? We speak of them perhaps with eloquence and enthusiasm; but are our morals correspondent with our words? We give lessons to others upon that head; but are we ourselves fully convinced of them? Do we believe with a steadfast and lively faith that, to be Christians, it is our duty not only to carry our cross, but to place our glory in it? That, to follow Jesus Christ, we must internally renounce not only all things, but even ourselves? That, to belong to him, not only must we not indulge the flesh, but must crucify it? That, to find grace before God, we must not only forget injuries received, but return good for evil? Do we firmly, and without hesitation, believe all these points of the Evangelic doctrine? And can we bear witness to ourselves that we believe them as fully and constantly in heart as we openly confess them in words? The Apostles, the moment they received the Holy Ghost, were ready to lay down their lives for the truth; are we ready, I do not say to lay down our lives but to destroy our irregular passions? According to this rule, is there room to believe that the spirit of truth hath undeceived us with respect to a thousand errors which occasion all the misdeeds in the world? That he hath disabused us of I know not how many maxims which pervert us?… If he hath done nothing of all this, what proof have we that we have received him? And if we have not received him, whom have we to blame for it but ourselves?… Preserve us from so great and fatal an irregularity, O Divine Spirit! and, to that intent, make us know the things thou didst teach the Apostles. Grant that at last we may become truly thy disciples; and be to us not only a Spirit of Truth, but a Spirit of Holiness.—From Bourdaloue.[2]

GLIMPSES OF ANCIENT GREEK LIFE.

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

CHAPTER IV.—PUBLIC LIFE OF THE GREEK CITIZEN.

The aristocracy of the older Greek society was one based on the exclusive owning of land, and of civic rights, and was not marked by titles, but by the name of the clan. Thus at Athens an Alcmæonid[1] was respected much as the member of an old Scottish clan is now by his fellows. But poverty injured the position of the old Greek more than that of the Scotchman. In the aristocratic days all work in the way of trade or business was despised by the landed gentry, and idleness was called the sister of freedom. The pursuit of a trade often disqualified a man for political rights, and in any case deprived him of all public influence. This feeling did not die out even in the complete democracies of later days, and there was always a prejudice in the Greek mind against trades and handicrafts, because they compelled men to sit at home and neglect the proper training of the body by sports, and the mind by society. Mercantile pursuits were also objected to by Greek gentlemen, but on different grounds. It was considered that the making of profits by retail trading was of the nature of cheating, and the life of a merchant in any Greek city not his own was always one of dependence and fear, for nowhere were aliens treated with real justice and liberality. Thus even the poor citizen of Athens, living by the small pay (nine cents daily) given him for sitting on juries, and performing other public duties, looked down with contempt upon the rich tradesman, who was confined all day to a close dark shop, or still worse, did his work in the hot atmosphere of a furnace. Consequently the greater part of the shops in Athens, and most of the trades were in the hands of licensed aliens who paid certain taxes to the state, and by making large profits recouped[2] themselves for the risk of being persecuted and plundered by the citizens in days of danger and distress. These people may be compared, as to their social and political position, with the Jews in the middle ages, who lived all through the cities of Europe without civic rights, or landed property, merely by trade and usury. They were despised and persecuted, but still tolerated as useful, and even necessary, by the governments of those days. Rich capitalists, on the contrary, who were able to manage a large business through an overseer and a number of slaves, were not at all despised, even though their ways of making profits were sometimes very shameful. But any free man who was compelled by poverty to perform this manual labor was held little better than a slave. There were certain privileged classes in Homer’s day, such as the leech,[3] the seer, the bard, and the cunning worker of brass. So in later days the sculptor and the sophist were in some respects considered good society, but still the gaining of money by giving up their time to others told very seriously against them.

A great part of the ordinary clothing and breadstuffs was prepared by the slave within the Greek house. The principal tradesmen who supplied the other necessaries of life were the architect, who was often a great and important person—indeed, the only tradesman very honorably mentioned; under him masons, carpenters, and cabinet-makers. There were potters, who must have been a very large body, considering the great demand for their wares, as neither glass nor wooden vessels were much used. So there were separate makers of lamps, jewelry, weapons of war, musical instruments. There were a few weavers, and hardly any tailors—as the forms of dress were perfectly simple, and the fashions did not change—but many bleachers and dyers of clothes. The making of shoes was even subdivided among several tradesmen. There were in the market, cooks (hired by the day), ropemakers, tanners, and also many perfumers and druggists. Tanners were generally compelled to have their workshops outside the city. We may also, without doubt, consider military service by sea or land one of the ordinary trades of Greece, practiced from very early times in Asia, and all through Greek history by the Arcadians, who were the Swiss of the old world. The usual pay for a mercenary soldier or sailor was four obols, which was often raised in times of difficulty. When the former outlet which enterprising young men had found in new colonies throughout Asia Minor, Pontus, and Magna Græcia, was closed by the rise of new races and new empires, this trade, disreputable as it was, became very common indeed. The celebrated 10,000 whom Xenophon brought safely from the heart of the Persian empire, were an army made up of these adventurers, who had followed the younger Cyrus merely for the sake of pay and plunder. Thus Agesilaus[4] and Cleomenes, kings of Sparta, were not ashamed to serve in Egypt as mercenaries.

MERCANTILE PURSUITS.

We may first notice the lower sort, the retail merchants, who were employed in buying the husbandman’s and the tradesman’s goods, and selling them in the markets or through the towns at a profit. It was indeed much in fashion among the Greeks, to sell one’s own produce in the market, but of course such people as fishermen or shepherds could not leave their business to journey often a long way to a market town. Thus we find in large places like Athens, many butchers, fishmongers, vegetable and other grocers, and particularly wine sellers, who went about with their wine in carts. All these people were accused of extortion and insolence, the fishmongers of selling stale fish, the vintners of watering their wine (a very harmless adulteration). There were street cries, and often even the buyer going into the market called out what he wanted.

The wholesale merchant was of course a more important person, and the rise of this larger trade was in fact what raised up a wealthy city class in opposition to the landed aristocracy, and was generally the cause of overthrowing oligarchies.[5] Many respectable citizens (except in Sparta) thought it no disgrace to follow this sort of business, and none of them scorned to invest money in it as a speculation. As the land traffic in Greece is unusually difficult and roundabout, almost all commerce was carried on by sea, so that a merchant was often called a skipper. We are fully informed about Athenian commerce only.

We must imagine the Greek waters not as they are now, lonely and desolate, with often not a single boat to give life to a great bay or reach of water, but rather covered in the summer with traffic and with life, so much so that a Greek poet speaks of sailors as the “ants of the sea,” hurrying in all directions with ceaseless industry. There were public wharves and warehouses close to the quays, where the skipper brought samples of his cargo. With the exception of the corn and slave factors, the Greek merchants did not confine themselves to trading in one kind of goods, but conveyed anything according as they saw chances of profit. Pottery from Samos and Athens, fine woolen stuffs and Assyrian carpets from Miletus, paper, unguents, and glass from Egypt, salt fish, skins and corn from the Black Sea, ship timber and slaves from Thrace and Macedonia, ivory and spices from Cyrene[6]—these were among the usual articles imported and exported through the Greek waters. Merchants were in some places treated with peculiar favor, had their taxes and military duty forgiven, and above all, were granted a speedy trial, and in the idle winter months, in case of disputes about contracts, or other lawsuits.

WEIGHTS, MEASURES, AND COINAGE.

All these great helps to trade were originally imported from the Babylonians, through the Phœnicians into Greece, but with so many variations that the computing of values according to the different standards is very intricate.

As to measures of length, it seems that the Olympic stadium or furlong was generally received through Greece. It was the one-fortieth of our geographical mile, and was divided into six plethra of one hundred feet each. Each foot, which was nearly equal to our English foot, was divided into four hands, and each of these into four inches.

Cubic measures started from the half pint, and were used for both fluids and solids.

In these measures the Æginetan,[7] Attic, and Olympic standards varied. The latter, though originally brought from Babylon, was somewhat smaller, the cubic foot being only two-thirds of the Babylonian. To this Olympic cubic foot the Attic was as twenty-seven to twenty, the Æginetan as nine to four. Similarly as to weight, the Babylonians had fixed a cubic foot of rain water as the standard weight of their talent. The Attic talent was much smaller.

All the various talents, however, agreed in having sixty minæ; each mina one hundred drachmæ; each drachme six obols. The terms Æginetan and Eubœic point to the fact that the early Greek trade was chiefly in the hands of these people, where the weights and coinage were first fixed, just as the Attic standard became almost universal afterward. The Attic talent was about $1,180; the mina accordingly about $19.50; the drachme nineteen cents; the obolus three cents. This Attic drachme was of silver, which was the only metal habitually coined for a long time in Greece, as gold was very scarce. The Macedonian mines first produced gold enough for ordinary coinage. So also copper coinage came in from Sicily and Magna Græcia, where the talent was regarded as a weight of copper, and only equal to six (or even less) Attic drachmæ. There were at Athens silver pieces of four and eight drachmæ, and even half and quarter obols. This shows how much scarcer money was then than now, and how the public treasures and private fortunes, which seem to us so small, were really large in proportion to the prices paid even for the luxuries of life.

Debasing the coinage, and using alloy, were common devices among the Greeks, whose local coins seem seldom to have had any general currency. It was specially noted of the Attic money, that it passed everywhere, on account of its excellence.

POLITICS.

The general principle of Greek states was to consider high political office as both a duty and an honor, but not a profession, so that no salaries were attached to such duties. It is certain, however, that the indirect profits were very great, inasmuch as the bribery of that day was applied, not to the electors, but to the holders of even very high office. This form of corruption is said to exist even now in Greece, where bribery of electors is very rare. The lower state officials, such as secretaries and heralds, were paid moderate salaries.

When Athens became an imperial city, the sovereign people were paid sundry emoluments from the taxes of their subjects. For example, those Athenian citizens who were employed as dicasts,[8] or judges in court, received three obols per day—an income on which most of the poorer citizens lived. They were also paid by public distribution a sufficient sum for their entrance to the theater, and to enjoy themselves at the great festivals of the city. These profits were the direct result of political privileges.

As mercenary warfare was common, so that of mercenary general was practiced, even by distinguished Greeks, such as Agesilaus and Cleomenes, in later days. As the pay was only four times that of the common soldier, it is evident that extortion and plunder must have been presupposed as an additional means of gain, and this was the case with many of the older citizen generals of whom we read in history, such as Pausanias, Themistocles, and others. The profession of military engineer was not common, but was practiced with success and fame by a few remarkable men, such as Artemon,[9] whose mechanical genius made them very valuable.

LAW.

As men pleaded their own case among the Greeks, the legal profession, as far as we know, could only give friendly advice, or compose speeches for litigants, and this was an extended and lucrative profession at Athens. In some cases friends or supporters were allowed to speak in addition to the actual litigants, but paid counsel were not directly recognized. When the state retained what we should call a public prosecutor, he was only paid one drachma (nineteen cents) for a speech, which reminds us of a mediæval entry quoted by Hallam, where eight cents and his dinner was a lawyer’s fee. But distinguished orators like Demosthenes obtained large private fees. There was also in almost all democracies special encouragement, in the absence of state lawyers, for any citizen to denounce any violation of the laws which he could detect. This gave rise to a profession called sycophancy, which usually degenerated into that of a spy or informer; and such men constantly extracted money from rich people and from politicians by threats of accusation.

LITERATURE.

In addition to the schoolmasters, who were not in high repute, and were rather considered a trade than a profession, there were the sophists, who were both rhetoricians and philosophers, and who performed exactly the functions now expected from universities, as distinguished from schools. People spoke of a pupil of Isocrates as they now do of “a Harvard man.” These men taught politics, rhetoric, literary criticism, and higher science in a practical way, and made large incomes in spite of their great unpopularity with the old-fashioned side of both political and social Greece. At first they obtained enormous fees, but by competition these were reduced to an average of from five to ten minæ for a course of instruction. Their course lasted about three years.

We do not hear of any authors making a livelihood by their work, except poets, who were largely paid for occasional poems by both states and kings, and whose dramatic works were a source of profit as well as honor. Copies of books were easily multiplied by means of slave labor, so that we hear of Anaxagoras’[10] treatise being sold for one drachma, then very dear. This was at a regular bookstall in Athens, from whence books were actually an article of exportation as far as the Black Sea. Still, collections of books were rare till after the time of Euripides, and we know of no fortunes made by writing books. Anaxagoras himself, though so popular with the rising generation, is said to have died in poverty.

The profession of architects was esteemed far the greatest among artists, and was the most richly paid. They were no doubt men of culture, and were literary men, as, for example, Ictinus,[11] one of the architects of the Parthenon, who wrote a special work about the great temple. The professions of sculptor and painter were not so at first, the sculptor being hardly more than a skillful workman, and this seems to be the case in most great art epochs. Men like Pheidias and Polygnotus,[12] who were of a higher level, often worked without accepting any pay, but the sculptors who adorned the Erectheum at Athens, one of the most beautiful of Greek temples, were either paid by the day from one to two drachmæ, or by the job, receiving two hundred to two hundred and forty drachmæ (under $50) for each figure or small group of figures. This was in Pericles’ time, when art had reached its highest perfection.

Similarly in music, though amateur singing and playing were very common, it was not thought gentlemanly to live by them, and professional musicians were ranked with actors and jugglers, and the other classes who lived by amusing the rich. At later periods, however, both celebrated musicians and celebrated actors became important personages, and were courted by a society which had abandoned higher and more serious pursuits.

The medical profession had always a high position in Greek life, from the days of Machaon Podalirius,[13] in Homer, down to the doctors of Plato’s day, who sometimes brought an orator with them to persuade the patient to take their remedies. This was done because it was the fashion to discuss everything in Greece, and people were not satisfied to submit silently to anybody’s prescriptions.

There was of course a great deal of superstitious quackery, which dealt in amulets and charms, and there were slave assistants, who visited slave patients, but the higher members of the profession were not only well paid, but appointed publicly by the various cities as official physicians.

The most famous schools for medicine were at Croton, Cnidus, Rhodes, and Cos, where the name of Hippocrates is celebrated as the founder. These schools were guilds or trade unions, into which the apprentice entered with a very remarkable and solemn oath. Such accredited physicians were specially exempted by law, in some cities, from prosecution for manslaughter, if their patients died. The descriptions of the symptoms and the treatment of various diseases still preserved in the works attributed to Hippocrates, are so striking for their good sense and acute observation, that the most competent judges consider them the foundation of all rational medicine in Europe.

In all the larger Greek towns the art collections were always the main object of curiosity, which every one went to see. There were the temples either venerable for age, or remarkable for architectural splendor, and in them the statues of the gods, and the portraits of heroes and victors which were the work of famous sculptors. The inner walls of both temples and porticoes were often covered with frescoes, and had even separate pictures hung upon them. In fact, just as we now-a-days go to see in such a town as Antwerp or Rouen the churches, the pictures, the statues and carvings, and the antiquities, so every educated Greek enjoyed the arts, and thought his life incomplete without having seen their highest products. Crowds went to see the Pheidian statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Eros of Praxiteles at Thespiæ, the cow of Myron at Athens. Such great works were constantly copied, and to this practice we owe the inestimable benefit of finding in Roman galleries close imitations of the Greek masterpieces brought from Greece itself.

Each important state was indeed represented in considerable cities by a proxenus, who corresponds to our modern consuls, but of course he could not be expected to offer hospitality to all travelers, though he did so to official visitors. Every distinguished family had accordingly family friends in foreign cities, to whom they were bound by mutual ties of hospitality. These friendships were handed down from generation to generation, and when the traveler had never seen his host he often brought with him a token formerly given to his family by the family he went to visit. On his arrival the host gave him a separate set of apartments, and supplied him with light, fuel and salt; he also sent him his dinner the first day, and invited him to dine afterward, but for the rest the guest was attended by his own servants, and supplied himself. As to the actual traveling, so much of it was done by sea that there seems to have been but indifferent means of journeying on land. To Delphi, Olympia, and such public resorts there were good roads, which could be traveled in carriages, but elsewhere pack mules and riding, or even walking was, as it now is, the only way of crossing the country.

Athletic contests were always held conjointly with festivals, so that we must separate two phases in the greatest and most complex enjoyment of Greek society. In fact, the Greeks always combined religion with sport. The greatest of these meetings was undoubtedly that held at Olympia every five years, and at which the victors were recorded since 776 B. C. It was gradually thrown open to all Peloponnesians, then to all European Greeks, and finally to all the colonies, in 620 B. C. This extension was followed by the founding in rapid succession of the public contests at Delphi (586), the Isthmos of Corinth (582), and Nemea (576 B. C.). They were celebrated in honor of the peculiar god honored at the place—Apollo at Delphi, Poseidon at the Isthmus, Zeus at Nemea and Olympia. There was a solemn truce declared throughout Greece during the Olympic games, and all the world flocked thither to enjoy the sports, meet their friends, transact mercantile or even political business, and publish or advertise new works and new inventions. At Delphi musical and poetical contests predominated, but at the others the athletic elements.

In addition to athletic games, many musical and poetical contests were encouraged at the festivals, as, for example, at the Pythian games, held at Delphi, and at the Dionysia, held at Athens. So much did these competitions come into fashion, that the best advertisement and publication of a new poem, or of a novelty in music, was its production on one of these occasions. The great tragedies handed down to us were all composed in this way, and brought out at Athens in honor of the god Dionysus. For a fee of two obols, granted him by the state, every citizen and his wife, at some contests even resident strangers, could go and sit at the theater, and hear four plays of Æschylus pitted against four plays of Sophocles, and four of Euripides. The endurance of an audience not given to reading, and not fond of staying at home, is of course much greater than that of our modern play-going people.

FESTIVALS.

As the games and dramatic shows were in honor of the gods, or sometimes in honor of deceased heroes, the real celebration consisted in sacrifices, prayers, and solemn processions. These sacrifices were combined with public feasts, as a great many victims were slain. In all processions the military, or citizens in armor, and on horseback, formed, as they now do, an important and imposing part. But we are bound to add that in addition to all the splendor of the festivals and athletic contests, there was the usual collection of mountebanks, jugglers, thimble-riggers, and other bad characters, who now frequent horse races. This was so much the case in later days, that Cicero indignantly denies the report that he had gone to the Olympic games. On the other hand, we must regard the home festivals in each Greek city among the most humane and kindly institutions in their life. They corresponded to our Sundays and holidays, when the hard-worked and inferior classes are permitted to meet and enjoy themselves. This was particularly the case with the slaves, who enjoyed many indulgences on these special days. The women also in such cities as usually insisted upon their seclusion, were allowed to join in processions, and see something of the world; and “the stranger that was within their gates,” or who came to worship at the feast, was received with kindness and hospitality. No executions or punishments were allowed; prisoners were let out on bail, and the sentences of the law for debts or fines were postponed in honor of the gods, who were worshiped not in sadness, but with joy.

GREEK MYTHOLOGY.

CHAPTER IV.

Hestia (Vesta).[1] In the domestic life of the Greeks Hestia, the hearth goddess, occupied an important position. She was one of the twelve great divinities, and her expressive symbol, the fire, they carefully guarded and kept constantly burning. In the more rude, barbaric state of society her worship was, perhaps, not general, as there is no mention of her by Homer in the “Iliad” or “Odyssey.” But as society advanced and the importance of domestic order and purity was more fully recognized, no other deity was held in greater veneration. She gives security to the dwelling, and especially guards the virtue and happiness of the family. “The hearth possessed among the ancients a far higher significance than it does in modern life. It served not only for the preparation of the daily meals, but was esteemed the sacred altar in the house. There the images of the Penates,[2] or household gods, were placed; and then, after the old patriarchal fashion, the father and priest of the family offered sacrifice on all important occasions of their domestic life.” (Seemans.)

The well-ordered home, under the guardianship of the virgin goddess, herself pure as the bright flame that was her symbol, is the secure abode of happiness as complete as mortals know. For the maintenance of its purity and peace the most solemn vows were made and the tutelary[3] goddess invoked to avenge the injured and reward the faithful. For those without, the hearth itself was a sacred shrine before which suppliants, if danger threatened, sought not in vain protection from the inhabitants of the house. And, as the state is an extended family, embracing all the domestic organizations in its domain, Hestia, protectress of the home circle, regards also the interest and safety of every civil community. So, thoughtful men of upright character, their statesmen and wise senators, did not hesitate to carry the religion of their homes into political matters that engaged their best endeavors.

In the Greek states the senate house, or department of the governing body, was solemnly dedicated to Hestia, and in it they built her an altar, on which fire was kept ever burning. That the daily sacrifice might not be wanting, or that sacred fire ever become extinct, it was assiduously guarded by vestal[4] virgins, whose negligence would be severely punished.

The name Hestia is not only very sacred, but has a stem or root meaning that indicates the fixed abiding position of her altar in the room where the family dwelt, or the senators met for business.

Hermes (Mercury). For the accredited pedigree, characteristics, and exploits of this sly deity—things of much interest to students of the old mythology—we are mostly indebted to Homer and his imitators, the Rhapsodists, some of whose productions were accepted as Homeric. He was the reputed son of Zeus and the mountain nymph Maia, and born in a cave, or grotto, on Mount Cyllene,[5] in Arcadia. The so-called “Homeric Hymn,” assuming cunning and dexterity as his principal characteristics, tells in a way to interest the reader, with what amazing capacity his powers developed. Having such a father, and his mother a daughter of Atlas, he grew as none but gods can, almost instantly revealing his divine powers. Only a few hours after his birth he sprung from his mother’s arms, or from the cradle where he lay, already planning an expedition of vast proportions, and escaped from the grotto to at once execute his purpose. On the way he met a beautiful tortoise that he killed, and extracting the carcass from the shell, stretched resonant cords across the cavity, and thus made him a harp on which he played most skilfully. The same day he hurried off to Pieria, where he stole fifty kine from the herd of Apollo, and undertook to drive them to the grotto of his mother. Fearing that the theft, so adroitly accomplished, might be detected by their tracks in the sand, he managed to drive them in such circuitous paths that, where most exposed to observation, the tracks showed them to be going toward the place from which they were stolen. His own footsteps he disguised by wrapping his feet with tamarisk and myrtle leaves. The next morning, at early dawn, he reached the stream of Alpheus,[6] and then rubbed sticks of wood against each other till they were ignited. Thus Hermes is said to have first given fire to mortal men. Another legend attributes the same to Prometheus,[7] who is said to have stolen fire from the altars of the gods. But this was kindled in the forest by the friction of dry branches rubbed against each other by the wind. In that forest Hermes slaughtered two of the herd, but, though pressed with hunger, he ate none of the roasted meat. After quenching the fire, and effacing all signs of it, he proceeded to Cyllene, where he concealed the cattle, and, having entered the place of his birth softly as a summer breeze, resumed his place as a babe, and lay innocently playing with the cradle clothes, while his right hand held the tortoise lyre hidden under them. His absence and the booty with which he returned were not unobserved by his mother, who chided him for the theft, but was assured that, by such exploits, he would secure for her and for himself admission to the assembly of the gods. In the morning Apollo, missing part of his herd, set out in search of them. An old man informed him that a child was seen the day before driving cows along the road. At Pylos he saw confused tracks of his cattle, but was amazed at the strange footprints of the driver. Greatly chagrined at his loss, and meditating chastisement for the thief, he entered the cave of the nymph. Hermes, seeing him, gathered himself under the clothes, feigning fear of the angry god. Apollo searched all the premises for his stolen property to no purpose. But convinced that the child, his own younger brother was certainly guilty of the theft, he threatened to hurl him into Tartarus[8] if he did not tell at once where the cows were. The little fellow in his cradle, winking slyly, and making a low whistling sound, as if amused at Apollo’s excitement, denies any knowledge of the matter, and innocently asks what cows are like. “I know nothing of cows,” he said, “but their name. We must refer the matter to Zeus, who will decide for us.”

When the father of gods and men heard the complaint and the evidence, little Hermes, to the great amusement of the celestials, stoutly denied the charge, and with his cradle clothes about his person, argued the absurdity of supposing a mere child like himself capable of such deeds.

Zeus admonished the contestants to be friends, but with a significant nod, the suit was decided in Apollo’s favor, and the brothers sent in quest of the missing kine. The miscreant led the way, and when the cattle were brought out of the cave, Apollo missed two, and was surprised to find their hides stretched on a rock to dry—more so, that when attempting to drive the others away their feet were found fastened in the earth. Again he seized the offender for punishment, but he in the emergency, thought of his lyre, and touching its chords, called forth music so sweet and soothing that Apollo, forgetting his anger, coveted the instrument and besought the musician to teach him his wondrous art. “Take it,” said he, “since you are wise, and will know how to use it well, but if touched by those unskilled in the divine art, it will utter strange nonsense, making uncertain, discordant moanings.” Delighted with his acquisition, Apollo gave his brother a magic wand, by which he could confer happiness on whom he would; and, henceforth, they dwelt together in great harmony and love, the honored sons of a common father.

Interpreting this myth one says, “while Apollo represents the genial sunshine, Hermes, as a power of nature, is the rain—rain and sunshine being both from the great God of heaven, or, in the language of mythologists, his sons. They are both beneficent and have many things so similar as to indicate a common origin.”

In the process of time their conceptions of the younger brother seem to have undergone some change, or possibly the different shades of opinion may indicate the places rather than the times in which they prevailed. To those who regarded him as sending the fertilizing rain, and thus the dispenser of manifold gifts, he also, and naturally, represented the wind that “bloweth where it listeth,” and carries the clouds about on their mission. This idea of personification may account for some things in their legends that otherwise seem inexplicable. Helpless infancy, in a very few hours leaving the cradle and performing exploits the most astonishing, has its parallel in the wind, which, at first only gentle zephyrs whispering softly, soon may freshen to a gale, and in an hour sweep over the earth with a force that defies resistance; and when people make inquest for the mischief done they hear but the mocking laugh as it hastens on, and the calm after a squall is like the quiet return of the adventurous god to the cave and cradle that were left for the exploits of that eventful day. Then the clouds of various shape and color that are seen grouped above the horizon, or scattered over the vast field of the sky, were, to a vivid imagination, the herd of Phœbus, who watches over them. When the rising wind, represented by Hermes’ leaving the cave, carries them away, a stupendous theft has been committed.

The offices of Hermes were many, and supposed to be useful, nor was his many sided character thought bad when judged by the moral code of a people who made him a god after their own likeness. Crafty, dishonest merchants did not mean to impeach his honesty when they implored him to give them such shrewdness as to outwit and supplant others in the bargains they made. Rogues and thieves prayed to him, just as bandits and robbers in the same country and in parts of Italy ask the patron saints to aid their assaults on defenseless travelers, and give them a rich booty.

Arcadian shepherds invoked Hermes as the guardian of flocks while he inspired their pastoral songs and directed in the manufacture of the rustic instruments on which they played.

Moreover, he was regarded and often spoken of as the fleet messenger and dextrous agent of his father, Zeus. In this character the epic poets most frequently present him. Swifter than the wind he passes over the land and sea to execute whatever commissions are intrusted to him. Once he destroyed the hundred eyed Argus, the guardian of Io, on which account he is called by Homer the Argus slayer.

Seemans suggests that Argus in that myth represents the starry heavens, and the suggestion is plausible—Argus is slain by the rain god; that is, the stars are hid by the thick clouds.

As represented in art, he bears the herald’s staff, or wand, given him by Apollo, by the means of which he can induce sleep or rouse the slumberer; but it was supposed to be used chiefly in guiding souls to their abodes in the under world. The earliest Greeks, as indeed men of all nations, and in every state of society, civilized, semi-civilized or savage, cherished the expectation of a state after death, and though vaguely hoping for happiness hereafter, they also felt the need of an escort, though unseen, to that “land of deepest shade unpierced by human thought.” The belief in Hermes as psychopompus,[9] or conductor of the soul, doubtless gave the dying mythologist when consciously loosing his hold on things visible and tangible, some crumbs of comfort. With no other rod or staff on which to lean, a heathen poet could say:

“Non ego omnis moriar.”[10]

Such was at least the longing for immortality in the darkest ages.

The statues and plastic representations of Hermes, as also of the other divinities, changed with the progress of this ideal development. They represent him as a shepherd, sometimes a herald, or messenger, and always as a powerful, bearded man. Those of later date show him as a beardless youth, but of great strength, with broad chest, lithe but powerful limbs, curly hair, small mouth and eyes, a wonderful combination of grace and vigor. “If we add to this the expression of kindly benevolence which plays around his finely cut lips, and the inquiring look of his face as he bends forward thoughtfully, we have the principal characteristic features artists have given of this god.” Of existing statues, in bronze and marble, we can not speak more particularly—such are found in the Vatican, at Naples, and in the British Museum.

Hades.—This name now, and from the beginning of the Christian era, used only to distinguish a place, was in mythology a personal appellative, and given to one of the Olympic divinities who received, by allotment, control of the lower world. He was son of Cronos and Rhea, and there are but few legends of him that the reader would care to see recorded, on account of the mysterious gloom that enveloped his person and his kingdom. It is enough to say he was at first regarded with dread as the unpitying, unrelenting foe of mankind, and while all were fated in their appointed time to descend to his dismal realms, heedless of their mortal reluctance and agony, he gathered them in, and deaf to their prayers kept his gate so guarded by that hundred headed monster Cerberus[11] that none could ever escape. The conception was so horrible that men shrank from it in dismay. Hades, being inexorable, was not worshiped. Prayer had no encouragement, no utterance. Those who dreaded to become his victims might wail in their agony or curse bitterly, but no door of hope was open for them.

In the course of time—how long none can tell, as no details are given, but in after ages—the Greek conception of Hades as a divinity seemed to undergo considerable change. Not only other but very different characteristics were given to him. He even received a new name, Pluton (riches), possibly indicating for him some agency in sending up, from the bosom of the earth, nourishment for things that grow on its surface, and also as offering unbounded wealth to mankind in the metals whose mines are in the subterranean chambers. But though the original dismal conception of this stern, inexorable deity was partially relieved, mention of him seems always to have conveyed to the mind the idea of something grim and painfully mysterious, and that probably caused them to speak of him but seldom, and with fear.

We are more interested to trace their notions of the underworld itself, and respecting the state of the dead who have entered it. On these subjects there was evidently some diversity of opinion, not between different persons only, but of the same person at different times. Even Homer presents two distinct views respecting the abode and condition of the dead. In the “Iliad” he locates it beneath the flat earth, and not far from the upper surface. Describing the battle of the gods he says:

“Pluto, the infernal monarch, heard alarmed,

And, springing from his throne, cried out in fear,

Lest Neptune breaking through the solid earth

To mortals and immortals should lay bare

The dark and drear abode of gods abhorred.”

But in the “Odyssey,” the realm in which the shades of the departed wander, lies far west of the earth-girdling Oceanus, or is an island in the midst of that fabled stream. Nor is this at all wonderful, since, after the progress of centuries, and the partial unveiling of the future in the divine oracles, the heaven revealed, as to its latitude, longitude and topography, remains, even to Christians, a terra incognita.[12]

In the profoundly interesting problem of a future life the question of locality is of little importance. That which more concerns the mortal, yet immortal man, is what that life shall be; and, in their answers to that question, theology and mythology differ widely. The latter claims for departed spirits only a shadowy, dreamy, dismal existence, devoid of any real happiness. At first they seem to have had no thought of any difference in their allotments, and say nothing of the judgment of the dead. Further on in their history the idea of future reward and punishment had some development. Thenceforward there was a division in Pluto’s realm, and the nethermost part was called Tartarus, a deep, dark, cavernous abode of wretchedness and woe, where those condemned by the judges,[13] Minos, Rhadamanthus and Æacus were tormented by the Furies. The good, being special favorites of the gods, are transferred to elysian fields—isles of the blessed—and find their happiness complete, while those of a middle class, without either positive excellence or damning wrong, are permitted to remain in a dusky region, where, as dim but ghastly shades, they pass a dull, joyless existence, without much positive suffering.

The punishment of great criminals was a fruitful theme for the imaginations and pens of the Greek poets. Tityus, who had offered violence to Leto, is chained to the earth while vultures constantly tear his ever growing liver. Tantalus,[14] who had been admitted to the table of the gods, but impiously thought to test their superior discernment by putting before them the flesh of his son Pelops, is for his crime doomed to suffer the torments of continual hunger and thirst. Just above his head are branches laden with beautiful and luscious fruits, but when he attempts to pluck them a gust of wind bears them quite beyond his reach. He stands on the bank of a beautiful stream clear as crystal, or in the midst of the water, but when he attempts to quench his raging thirst it is impossible even to wet his lips. Sisyphus, once king of Corinth, and a great sinner, was condemned to roll a block of stone up a high mountain, but, soon as the top was reached, the huge stone, by some sudden impulse, rolled back to the plain, and with weary limbs he must continue the fruitless struggle. Ixion, also an insolent offender, is chained, hands and feet, to an ever revolving wheel and tortured without respite or hope of release. And the daughters of Danaus, who at their father’s bidding had slain their husbands the night of their nuptials, are laboriously pouring water into a perforated cask with despair of ever accomplishing the required task of filling it. The punishment was deemed retributory, and in these examplary cases from its nature without end.

Eros and Psyche[15] (Cupid and the soul).—Eros, reputed a son of Aphrodite and Ares, in the earlier legends appears a winged child; then a boy of marvelous beauty on the verge of youth, but small of stature. His characteristic is the golden bow, from whose taut string arrows fly to their mark, with unerring aim, and inflict wounds that represent the consuming pangs of love. As the charming but mischief-making Eros, being solitary, did not grow, his mother, by the advice of Artemis, gave him as a play-fellow a brother whom they named Anteros; his company caused content and happiness. Eros was venerated not only as the god of love, kindly influencing the sexes toward each other, and kindling purest fires on their home altars, but as the author also of loving friendships between youths and men. For this reason probably, his statue was placed between those of Hermes and Hercules in the gymnasia, and the warlike Spartans sacrifice to him before battle, pledging themselves to be faithful, and stand by one another in time of need.

The significant myth showing the love of Eros for Psyche is of more recent origin and shows some higher religious notions. Various interpretations of the legend have been suggested, all of them sufficiently fanciful. We give here an abridgment of a much lengthier account found in “Stories from the Classics.”

In a certain city were three daughters of the king, of whom the youngest, Psyche, being exceedingly beautiful, was thought the loveliest of mortals. Her enraptured admirers built altars for her worship as a goddess, and strewed them with flowery garlands. The charming Psyche was too gentle and good to be elated by the homage, however extravagantly expressed, but the hearts of her less beautiful sisters were soon filled with envy and jealousy. Moreover Venus herself, the goddess of beauty, became like a mortal jealous of poor Psyche. Highly offended that her own altars should be neglected for those of an earth-born maiden, she retired in anger to her favorite isle, and there cherished purposes of revenge. Thither her winged boy, Cupid, came quickly at his mother’s call. With tears and many passionate lamentations she told him the story of her wrongs—how Psyche was honored and Venus neglected. “You alone, my son,” she said, “can punish this presumptuous beauty, and make her feel that it is a serious thing to incur the displeasure of the immortals.” When her plans were made known, soothing his mother with fond caresses, Cupid readily promised to execute all her wishes. Then, in obedience to her commands, he hastened away to a luxuriant island in the midst of the ocean, where were two fountains side by side, one clear as crystal, imparting health and happiness to all who drank of the delicious water; the other turbid and of a most deadly nature. Those who tasted its poisoned water were never happy again. From the one, a living fountain, he took water of joy, from the other of sorrow, and placing each in a little amber urn, flew away to the palace of Psyche, where he found her lying upon a couch, fragrant with roses, asleep, and smiling in her pleasant dreams. Too intent on accomplishing his mission to be deterred, even by the sight of such transcendent beauty, silently and lightly as falls a noxious dew upon a gentle flower he shed on her slightly parted lips the fatal drops of grief, and was preparing to wound her with his arrow, when his victim suddenly awoke. The scene was changed and the mischievous, cruel Cupid was now quite overcome with her strange loveliness, and the gentle expression of her lustrous eyes. Filled with remorse for what was done he hastily shed on her golden ringlets the balmy drops of joy, intended for another, and vanished from her sight.

The father of Psyche fearing the wrath of the celestials on account of the adoration paid to his daughter, inquired, at the oracle of Apollo, what course he should pursue. The response filled him with anguish. He was directed to place the maiden on a barren rock on the top of the mountain, and there abandon her to her unknown fate. The poor king and his queen wept much, but dared not disobey the oracle, cruel as it seemed. Preparations were made in sadness, and on the day appointed Psyche was attended to the destined rock by a mournful procession of friends whose lamentations rent the air. When the broken-hearted parents bade a last adieu to their beloved child, they ordered the gates of their palace to be shut and gave themselves up to despair. As the train of mourners gradually disappeared Psyche stood trembling on the top of the lone mountain, and now overcome with grief and fear, she burst into tears, bemoaning her sad condition. Then the gently blowing zephyr caught and raised her in the air, and bearing her over the valley at the foot of the mountain left her on a flowery turf, in a sweet sleep. When she awoke all fear was gone. Looking around she saw, near a grove of lofty trees, a cool fountain gently flowing, and within the grove a palace so gorgeous that it was evidently the residence of a god. It was of costly materials, exquisite workmanship, and filled with immense treasures, all of which seemed secure without guards or doors. As the astonished but now delighted maiden entered, a voice of angelic sweetness addressed her, saying, “Lovely Psyche, all these treasures are yours, and we whose voices you hear, though invisible, are your servants, who will obey all your commands. Come to the banquet already prepared for our rightful mistress.” She was conducted to a rich repast of ambrosia and nectar, served by invisible hands, and entertained with delightful music from Æolian harps.

Psyche did not know who the lord of the palace was, but, without being suffered to behold him, she became his wife, and lived for a long time contented and happy; treated by him, when present, with the utmost kindness, and, in his absence, cheered by the voices of her unseen attendants.

When her sisters, wicked women, who had heard of her happiness, and were invited to share it, arrived at the palace they were received by Psyche most cordially. She tenderly embraced them, showed them her treasures, and bestowed such gifts as sisterly affection suggested. But their hearts were hard and cruel. More envious than before at the sight of such magnificence, they artfully planned to destroy their unsuspecting victim, who had been warned not to allow any idle curiosity about her husband, lest, by so doing, she might lose him forever. “Dearest sister,” they say, concealing their real feelings under a mask of sisterly kindness, “our love constrains us to make known to you that the being you call your husband is doubtless some malignant spirit who dares not show to you his hideous person, and who will some day destroy you. Take therefore, we entreat, this lamp and dagger; conceal the lamp in the tapestry of your chamber, and in the night satisfy your curiosity. If he prove the monster we suspect, you can kill him in his sleep and return to the home of your distracted parents.”

Poor Psyche was overwhelmed with sorrow, and after much talking they so wrought on both her fear and curiosity that she reluctantly promised to heed their advice. As night approached her courage failed, and all the past kindness of her husband coming in mind made her design appear most ungrateful, yet she must keep her promise, and at any risk, satisfy the doubts that were distracting her. So when all voices were hushed, the lights out, and deep silence reigned in the palace, she took the lamp from the place where she had concealed it, and, with trembling, drew near the couch where she saw her husband lying fast asleep. What was her glad surprise when she found him none other than the beautiful god Cupid himself. His countenance was so radiant that the very light of the revealing lamp seemed to grow dim. On his shoulders were wings of delicate whiteness, covered with a tremulous down. His bow and arrows lay at his feet. As she stood over him, entranced by the sight, the oil in the lamp, as if to punish her crime, bubbled over and the burning liquid fell on the shoulder of the sleeper. Immediately he started up, and looking reproaches stronger than words, at once flew away in silence. Alas! for the imprudent wife’s distress, when the husband she adored left her in anger, and, as she feared, never to return.

The deceitful sisters, themselves deceived by a false tale of Cupid’s regard for them, miserably perished. When the indignant Venus learned that Cupid, instead of punishing, had taken to his palace her detested rival, and then suffered injury at her hand, she threatened vengeance and sent Mercury in search of the object of her hate. Her wounded son was cared for, but not without upbraiding him for his conduct, and proposing such chastisement as anger mingling with maternal love suggested.

As for the deserted Psyche, having attempted in vain to drown herself in a neighboring stream, she wanders through the world in search of her lost love. Relentlessly persecuted by her adversary, who subjected her to numerous and severe trials, the plants and animals, the reed, the swan, the eagle, offer advice and assistance. Pitied, but unaided, unprotected by the higher goddesses, Ceres and Juno, her case becomes desperate, and she determines, at once, to surrender herself into the hands of Venus. “Possibly she may be won by my good and dutiful conduct, and in the house of his mother I may get a sight of him I have so long sought in vain.” That hope, too, was doomed to disappointment. The haughty goddess, forgetting alike the dignity of her rank, and the tenderness of a mother, spoke bitter, revengeful words, and, calling two servants, Sorrow and Solicitude, she ordered them to chastise her in the severest manner. The suffering of her victim did not satisfy the angry Venus, and the most difficult tasks were enjoined. Having tried her ability by requiring many things thought impossible for mortals, but that were all, by the aid of favoring divinities, accomplished, as a last effort she bade her go to the palace of Pluto, in the infernal regions, and, carrying a box given her for the purpose, to request of Proserpine[16] a portion of her divine beauty, and bring back the treasure untouched. It was a perilous undertaking; but again helped and instructed how to proceed, it was accomplished in safety, and with entire success. She escaped the wiles with which Proserpine sought to detain her guest, and obtained the treasure box, filled and carefully closed. In her instructions she was enjoined not, on any account, to open the box or meddle with its precious contents. When returning, the chief difficulties and dangers of the way already past, her woman’s curiosity again prevails, and silencing her fears and her conscience, she decides to appropriate a very small portion of its contents, desiring to become more pleasing to her offended husband, whom she still hopes to meet. The lid was cautiously raised, when lo! instead of the celestial beauty that was expected, there issued from within, a black, dense vapor which enveloped her so closely, that, presently, overcome with a deep stupor, she fell senseless to the ground.

Cupid having escaped from the palace, and, having on his downy wings, witnessed the whole of this proceeding, flew to the spot, and, quickly gathering up the deadly vapor, confined it again within the casket. Then gently arousing the stupefied Psyche, with a touch of his arrow, “See,” said he, “how thou wouldst perish by this foolish curiosity! Arise now and complete the task imposed by my mother, while I supplicate the mighty Jupiter to appease her anger.” Thus saying he soared on high, nor ceased his flight till he reached Olympus, the lofty dwelling of the gods. Then kneeling before the throne he pleaded with such eloquence the cause of his hapless spouse that the king of gods was moved to pity, and promised, by the exercise of his sovereign will, to end forever Psyche’s misfortunes and sufferings. Mercury was ordered to conduct her to his presence, and, eager to fulfill so pleasant a commission, the winged messenger darted through the air with utmost speed and soon returned with his charge.

The joy of Cupid was boundless, when Psyche, more lovely than ever, stood by his side. Jupiter, regarding her for a time with silent admiration, then, presenting a cup of nectar, said: “Take this, and be henceforth immortal. The bitter waters that have occasioned all your sufferings, after this divine draught will be forgotten. Venus shall no longer mourn your union with her son. It has the approval of the gods, and shall endure forever.”

Psyche thus indued with a new and glorious nature, looked imploringly at mother Venus. Friendly influences stealing into her heart, the goddess yielded, and embraced her radiant daughter with maternal affection. The wedding banquet was prepared, and the Hours with roseate fingers decked the bride. Ganymede,[17] as commanded, poured for them the sparkling nectar, and cloud-capped Olympus echoed to the glad sounds of choral voices.

Neptune came from his ocean cave; Apollo and the Muses were attracted by the sweet notes of song; Minerva laid aside her helmet to grace the marriage feast with her presence; Mars, with swordless hand, and merry Bacchus, the grape wreath that bound his golden hair nodding as he stepped, all joined the festive company. The Graces had decorated the spacious hall; there were thrilling strains of music in the orchestra, and Venus herself danced for joy. Psyche, the admired of all, reclining on the bosom of her reconciled husband, in the bliss of so divine a union lost forever the remembrance of all her sorrows.

This beautiful fable, some say, represents the trials and destiny of human beings. The soul—so the mythologists held—though of divine origin, is here subjected to error and evil in its prison, the body. Trials and purifications are necessary, that it may become capable of purer pleasures and nobler aspirations. Two loves meet it, one earthly and degrading, the other heavenly and elevating. This, when victorious leads off the soul, disenthralled and purified, to the abodes of the blessed.

According to these expositors the myth is a moral one, and represents the dangers to which nuptial fidelity was exposed in such a country as degenerate Greece, and also gives an instance of true constancy subjected to many and strong temptations, but victorious over them all.

As allegorical myths are of doubtful interpretation, the reader may escape some perplexity by accepting the story as a tale of fancy, intended for innocent amusement, rather than for instruction in psychology or morals.

STUDIES IN KITCHEN SCIENCE AND ART.

IV. APPLES, PEACHES, BLACKBERRIES AND STRAWBERRIES.

BY BYRON D. HALSTED, SC. D.

In our study of the food products of the earth, we now come to a consideration of some of our leading fruits. All of the four given above are furnished us by a single order of plants, namely: the Rose Family, or Rosaceæ.[1] This order not only contains the “Queen of Flowers,” but the “King of Fruits;” it is, in short, a royal family among plants, without which we should be deprived of much that is very beautiful, and more that is exceedingly useful. We are dependent upon the cereals for our flour, but what would flour be without some fruit to mix with it in the formation of a very long list of our most highly prized viands? Apple pies, peach dumplings, blackberry puddings and strawberry shortcakes all have their ardent admirers, and happy is the housewife who can make them to perfection.

The Apple.—Well might the apple be the fruit to tempt mankind. The schoolboy feels this when before him stands a neighbor’s tree loaded with the golden spheres of ripeness and sweetness. Well might Solomon with all his wisdom acknowledge the beauty and worth of this best of fruits when he writes: “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.” Downing, in his classic work on “The Fruits and Fruit Trees of America” says: “Among the heathen gods of the north there were apples fabled to possess the power of conferring immortality, which were carefully watched over by the goddess Iduna,[2] and kept for the special dessert of the gods who felt themselves growing old.” Apples may not confer immortality, but they lend new charms to life, and we should guard this fruit as did the sleepless dragon the golden apples in the orchards of Hesperus.[3]

If the “tree of knowledge” is not an allegory, and it bore apples, we have the antiquity as well as ancient edibility of the apple at once established. The origin and first home of the apple, like all the fruits, flowers and vegetables in cultivation before the time of human records, is all obscurity, and speculation has free course in seeking for the early history of the apple. This fruit was extensively cultivated by the Romans, and is widely diffused through all parts of the temperate zone.

The apple tree is one of slow growth and medium size, though there are some specimens in this country of great dimensions. The head is low-spreading, and the flowers sweet and beautiful. The blossom, as well as the fruit that follows it, is famous in story and in song. The kinds of apples are very numerous, and the number is increasing every year. The genus Pyrus,[4] to which the common apple belongs, has several species, including the mountain ashes, common chokeberry, and several kinds of crab apples, and last, but far from the least, the pears. The orchard apple is thus seen to be in the midst of good company.

Apples are classified in various ways; that by J. J. Thomas, in his “American Fruit Culturist,” is as follows: Three divisions are made upon the time of ripening—as, summer, autumn, and winter apples. Under each of these are two classes, namely: sweet apples, and those with more or less acidity. Under each of these six classes are two sections, viz.: color striped with red—color unstriped. The three points in this classification are season, taste, and color of skin. For example, the apple before me is a summer fruit, sweet, with skin not striped. It belongs in the second section of class one of the first division. It is the sweet bough. Again, the apple is striped, acid, and winter; by referring to the descriptive list we find it is northern spy, king of Tompkins, or Wagener. The characteristics of the groupings above given are not properly distinct. As Thomas says: “Summer apples gradually pass into autumn, and autumn into winter apples. A few … possess nearly a neutral flavor between a dead sweetness and slight acidity. Again, apples classed with those that are striped, sometimes present a nearly uniform shade of red.” So much interwoven are the colors, periods of ripening, etc., that Downing discards all classification and arranges his descriptive list alphabetically. In describing apples and similar fruit the word base is used for the stem end of the fruit, and apex the blossom end. The primary forms of apples are: oblate, roundish, conical, and oblong. The last report of the American Pomological Society[5] catalogues three hundred and thirty-seven varieties of apples, with the standing of each in the several states and territories. From this tabulation we select the following varieties as among those that proved the best: For summer, early harvest, red astrachan, sweet bough, American summer, Carolina June, and Oldenburg; for autumn, fall pippins, Porter, maiden’s blush, Gravenstein, late strawberry, sops of wine, and primate; for winter, Baldwin, Ben Davis, Hubbardston, Rhode Island greening, northern spy, and farmer’s. These sorts are not equally good everywhere, but taken all in all they are among the leading sorts. There may be some varieties of only local reputation that do better in their native section than any here mentioned. Some apples are adapted to the warmer climate of the southern states, while others are suited to the cold regions farther north. The wealthy apple is a fine illustration of the latter; it is especially suited to New Hampshire, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa and Colorado.

Apple trees are raised from seed sown in autumn, and remain in the seed bed for two or three years, when they are removed in the spring, with their tap-root or main root cut to the nursery rows. The following autumn they are budded with the desired variety. The well ripened bud is inserted in the bark of the twig, near the ground. The growth from the bud afterward forms the tree top. The trees may be set in the orchard the third year after budding. The soil best adapted for an orchard is a strong loam containing abundant limestone or calcareous matter. The soil should be kept mellow by frequent cultivation, until the trees are of considerable size. It must be remembered that the trees are of first importance, and they should not be starved by lack of richness in the soil or by the growth of exhausting grain crops.

There are many insect enemies to the apple tree, the leading among which are the borers, American tent caterpillar, canker worm, bark-lice and codling moth. The methods of treating each one of these pests have been well worked out, but space forbids our giving them in this connection.

It is important that apples be gathered with care, especially if to be sent to market. The reputation of American apples in the English market has suffered greatly from carelessness in picking and packing. Fruit sells more by appearance than anything else, and therefore the packages should be neat and the contents uniformly good. Apples are employed in various ways beside cooking. They are the source of much cider that afterward by fermentation forms the best quality of vinegar.

The Peach.—The peach (Prunus Persica[6]) is a native of Persia, as the botanical name indicates, and was brought from that country to Italy by the Romans. It is frequently mentioned by ancient writers, and was regarded with much veneration by the people of Asia. The peach reached the British Isles in the sixteenth century. There is no country where the peach is more successfully grown than in some portions of the United States. It can not be grown with profit north of 42° north latitude, but south of this line it flourishes as far as the Gulf of Mexico. There are some localities specially adapted for the peach, and here it is grown in its perfection. First among such sections is the Delaware peninsula, a territory of six thousand square miles, within which more peaches per acre are produced than anywhere else on the globe, and of the finest quality. A portion of Michigan, known as the “peach belt,” is likewise famous, and supplies the western markets with vast quantities of this luscious fruit.

The peach is a small tree, with long narrow leaves and beautiful pink blossoms. It grows rapidly to maturity, and after bearing a few crops is through with its best work, and should be replaced by another.

Mr. Fulton, in his small book on “Peach Culture,” writes: “The seed should be of natural fruit. It is more vigorous, more hardy, more certain to germinate, and the tree lives longer. This should never be overlooked by any planter who wishes the full reward of his labors.” This indicates that the seed in the budded fruit loses some of its vitality. It is doubtless a law that as we go farther from the native or wild state the less vigorous becomes the nurtured plant. The artificial life that many plants lead leaves them no time to store up strength for the continuation of the race, and in many cases they have lost all power of producing offspring. The young peach trees are provided by sowing the seeds in beds, carefully kept free from weeds. After the proper size is reached, buds are inserted, as above mentioned under the apple, and in a year or two the budded trees are ready for the orchard.

This process of budding is similar to that of making cuttings or slips, only, a single bud is set in the cleft bark of a living stem, instead of a piece of branch, with two or more buds, set in moist sand. Grafting differs from budding in that the cion is a stem with two or more buds, usually set in a cleft of a living branch; it is budding on a larger scale, and is suited to large trees.

The varieties of peaches are very numerous, more than one hundred and fifty sorts being set down in some lists. It is not an easy task to select the best. There are many things to consider in deciding upon the merit of a peach. It may have the best flavor, but be subject to rot, a poor bearer, or be so small that it will not sell well. The tree should be vigorous and productive, with fruit large, rich flavored, and fine colored. Such fruit is fit food for the gods. From the recent Pomological Society catalogue we find that the following varieties are the most in favor, take the whole country through. Among those known as very early are: Alexander, early York, large early York, Hales and truth; medium, early Crawford, Chinese cling, Columbia, oldmixon free and oldmixon cling; late, smock, stump-the-world, late Crawford, Heath cling, and Ward’s late. By a careful selection of varieties with regard to their time of ripening, a small orchard would furnish fruit from midsummer until the frosts come. In setting out an orchard there is a tendency to purchase new sorts, and for this the nurserymen are largely to blame. A man’s interest in the sale of so simple a thing as a tree may cause it to be overestimated. A half dozen time-tested standard sorts are worth more than a score of new seedlings without any record.

Peaches are classified by their fruit into those with white flesh and yellow flesh, and these are divided again into free-stones and clings. In some of the clings the flesh is very superior, but owing to its close union with the stone it is difficult to eat, and therefore is far less popular than free-stones of an inferior quality.

The leading enemies to the peach are the borer, curculio,[7] the leaf-curl and the “yellows.” The “curl” is caused by a fungus, and the remedy is picking and burning the leaves. The “yellows” is the most fatal of all the enemies, having ruined hundreds of the finest orchards. The cause is not fully understood, but the indications are that it may be a low form of microscopic life known as bacteria. No cure has been found, and when a tree turns the characteristic yellow it should be torn out and burned, root and branch.

We can not close this brief sketch without thinking of that happy boy reclining upon the shady sod, who

—lifted his head to where hung in his reach

All laden with honey, the ruddy-cheeked peach.

Blackberries.—The two fruits already described in this paper are of a comparatively large size, and grow on trees. We now come to the so-called “small fruits,” among which are the blackberry, raspberry, strawberry, currant, and gooseberry. The genus Rubus[8] furnishes both the blackberries and the raspberries, thus showing that these two kinds of small fruits are very closely related. There are about one hundred and fifty species of blackberries scattered throughout the world, but of these only two have furnished our gardens with the best cultivated varieties, namely: the high blackberry (R. villosus[9]), growing everywhere in thickets, with a strong prickly stem, six feet high, and the low blackberry, or dewberry (R. canadensis[10]), a long trailing plant, with slightly prickly stems, and small, early ripening fruit.

The cultivation of the blackberry has been retarded to a considerable extent by the excellence of the wild sorts—the people being satisfied with the fruit of the bramble in the fence row. The varieties that now head the list have all been chance seedlings found growing wild, and afterward improved by garden culture. The Lawton was found growing on a roadside in Westchester county, New York, and is often known by the name of its native town, New Rochelle. The Lawton did much to introduce the blackberry to the fruit gardens. The canes winter kill, and the fruit, unless perfectly ripe, is hard and sour at the core. The Kittatinny stands among the first for the size and richness of its fruit. This berry is a little earlier than the New Rochelle. It was found near the Kittatinny mountains, in New Jersey, and bears the peculiar Indian name of the place of its nativity. Mr. Roe, in his “Success with Small Fruits” says of the discoverer of the Kittatinny blackberry: “He has done more for the world than if he had opened a gold mine.”

The Wilson’s early is a third variety, of New Jersey origin, that grows low, with the canes trailing upon the ground. As the name indicates, this is a remarkably early blackberry, and were it not subject to attacks from insects it would be a very superior variety. The Snyder is of western origin, is wonderfully productive and hardy. The small size of the berry is the greatest defect of the Snyder. There are some recent candidates for popular favor, but the four mentioned have been found worthy of a place in the small fruit garden.

The blackberry prefers a rather dry soil, of medium richness. On a moist and very fertile soil the canes grow rank and large and produce very little fruit. The plants need to be set in rows six to eight feet apart each way. It is best to set the plants in autumn, because they start into growth very early in the spring, before there is opportunity for transplanting. Stakes or cheap wire trellises are usually provided for holding up plants. The canes that grow up one season produce fruit the succeeding year, and then die. It is therefore necessary to treat as weeds all shoots that are not needed for the bearing canes the following season. Judicious pruning of the cane while it is growing will produce much branched tops, which are more productive than those that grow to great length, and they are less liable to be injured by frost. Mr. Roe says: “More can be done with the thumb and finger at the right time than with the most savage pruning shears after a year of neglect.” The blackberry produces many suckers, and if these are left to grow for a year or two the whole ground becomes a wilderness that is not productive, and very difficult to subdue.

Strawberries.—It is not an easy task to find the person who dislikes strawberries. They are acceptable to the vast majority, and in almost any form, from the plain berry just picked off the vine to the juicy, red layer in a shortcake, or the heaping saucer with its fragrant contents half floating in sweet cream. The name strawberry probably came from the old Saxon streawberige, either because of the strawlike stems to the plants, or from the berries being strewn upon the ground. In olden times children strung the berries upon straws and sold them thus, and possibly from this we now have the name for our earliest and finest of small fruits. The name of the strawberry genus is Fragaria,[11] the Latin for “sweet smelling.” The cultivated varieties of strawberries represent five species. The most common one, growing wild almost everywhere being Fragaria vesca. In this species the seeds are superficial on the luscious cone. The Virginian strawberry, F. Virginiana, abundant in all parts of the United States, has roundish fruit, with the seeds embedded in deep pits. At the time of the introduction of this species in English gardens the culture of the strawberry took a fresh start. By sowing the seed of the Virginian species new varieties have been produced in large numbers, so that now it is the parent of nine-tenths of all the sorts grown in our gardens. The Hovey, Wilson, monarch, Seth Boyden, Charles Downy, and Sharpless are some of the improved varieties of this species. A new impetus was given to strawberry culture by the introduction of a South American species, F. grandiflora. The fruit is large and sweet, with a peculiar sprightliness that makes the varieties derived from this species highly prized in England and on this continent. Our cold winters and hot summers are too severe extremes for these offsprings of a more tropical species. The triumphe de gand and jucunda are two superb sorts derived from the F. grandiflora.

Some varieties of strawberries have what are known as pistillate flowers; that is, the stamens or male organs are imperfect or wanting. In such cases it is necessary to grow a perfect-flowered (bi-sexual) variety in close proximity, in order to insure fertilization and the formation of fruit. The famous Hovey seedling is a pistillate variety, and there are many others of this character.

One of the leading features of the strawberry plant is to multiply by means of long, slender branches, called runners. There are, however, three methods of propagating the strawberry, viz.: by the runners, by division of the root, and by seeds. The chief method is by runners. Strawberries need a rich, mellow soil. The plants may be set either in the spring or fall, though the spring is generally preferred by experienced strawberry growers. Plants set in autumn will not come into bearing the next season unless they are pot-grown. These pot-grown plants are obtained by sinking small flower pots in the earth of the strawberry bed, into the contents of which the runners strike root and form plants. The roots of the plants are not disturbed by transplanting, and one whole season is gained. In setting out strawberry plants care needs to be observed that the crown is not buried. The holes should be large, so that the roots may be spread out in all directions. If set in rows two and a half feet apart, and a foot or so distant in the row, a horse and cultivator may be used to advantage in keeping down the weeds. After two or three full crops have been gathered from a bed the rows may be plowed up. Some growers gather only one crop, and reset the land. There are many methods of treatment. In the fall the strawberry bed should be covered with a mulch. The success of many cultivators of the strawberry is due, in great measure, to the protection of their plants in winter.

The insect enemies to the strawberry are numerous, not the least of which is the white grub, the larvæ of the May beetle or “June Bug,” the strawberry worm, the leaf-roller, crown borer, saw fly, and various cut worms. A rust sometimes attacks the plants and almost ruins them.

It is very difficult to indicate what are the best varieties of strawberries. Again referring to the chart in the last issue of the American Pomological Society, we find forty-one varieties there tabulated. Of these the Charles Downing and the Wilson take the lead, being suited to a wide range of climate, soil, and other conditions. The Downing is the type of excellence in flavor and other qualities, while the Wilson is a firm, sour, and very prolific berry well suited for the market garden. Among the other sorts worthy of attention, mentioned alphabetically, are: Crescent, Cumberland, Hovey, Kentucky, Manchester, miner’s prolific, Monarch, Sharpless, and triumphe de gand. A dozen or more new sorts appear each year, some of which may take their places among the time-tested sorts here mentioned. It may be that in a few years all of these old varieties will be superseded by new sorts, and the berries that we now eat with so much relish will seem poor by the contrast. Let the future be as it may, no one should neglect the culture of the kinds we now possess. A person with only a village half acre may grow his own berries of various sorts, and still have room for a few pear, apple, peach, and cherry trees.

Let us close this brief treatment of small fruits at the same place where Mr. Roe began his large, elegant and exhaustive book on the same subject, by quoting the following passage from his “Preliminary Parley:” “Many think of the soil only in connection with the sad words of the burial service, ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes.’ Let us, while we may, gain more cheerful associations with our kindred dust. For a time it can be earth to strawberry blossoms, ashes to bright red berries, and their color will get into our cheeks, and their rich, sub-acid juices into our insipid lives, constituting a mental, moral and physical alteration that will so change us that we shall believe in evolution, and imagine ourselves fit for a higher state of existence. One may delve in the earth so long as to lose all dread at the thought of sleeping in it at last, and the luscious fruits and bright hued flowers that come out of it, in a way no one can find out, may teach our own resurrection more effectually than do the learned theologians.”

APPLES, PEACHES, BLACKBERRIES AND STRAWBERRIES.

“The liberal use of various fruits as food is conducive to good health. Fruit is not a solid and lasting element like beef and bread, and does not give strength to any great extent. But fruits contain those acids which refresh and give tone to the system during the season when it is most needed. They should never be eaten unless thoroughly ripe, or cooked. Stale fruits, or those that have been plucked some time, are unhealthy in the extreme. The proper time to eat fruit is in the morning and early afternoon. At night it is ‘leaden,’ according to the Spanish, who call fruit ‘golden in the morning and silver at noon.’” These words of general advice fitly introduce our “apples, peaches, strawberries, and blackberries,” for whose use, fresh and uncooked, we would strongly plead.

Ripe Fruit.—Wash and polish apples with a clean towel, and pile in a china fruit basket, with an eye to agreeable variety of color. Of peaches and pears the finest should be selected, handling as little as may be, and pile upon a salver or flat dish, with bits of ice between them, and ornament with peach leaves or fennel sprigs. One of the prettiest dishes of fruit I ever saw upon a dessert table was an open silver basket, wide at the top, heaped with rich red peaches and yellow Bartlett pears, interspersed with feathery bunches of green, which few of those who admired it knew for carrot tops. Wild white clematis wreathed the handle and showed here and there among the fruit, while scarlet and white verbenas nestled amid the green. Send around powdered sugar with the fruit, as many like to dip peaches and pears in it after paring and quartering them.

Never wash strawberries or raspberries that are intended to be eaten as fresh fruit. If they are so gritty as to require this process keep them off the table. You will certainly ruin the flavor beyond repair if you wash them, and as certainly induce instant fermentation and endanger the coats of the eaters’ stomachs, if, after profaning the exquisite delicacy of the fruit to this extent, you complete the evil work by covering them with sugar, and leaving them to leak their lives sourly away for one or two hours. Put them on the table in glass dishes, piling them high and lightly; send around powdered sugar with them and cream, that the guests may help themselves. It is not economical, perhaps, but it is a healthful and pleasant style of serving them—I had almost said the only decent one. “But I don’t know who picked them,” cries Mrs. Fussy.

No, my dear madame! nor do you know who makes the baker’s bread, or confectioner’s cake, creams, jellies, salads, etc. Nor, for that matter, how the flour is manufactured out of which you conjure your dainty biscuits and pies. I know God made strawberries. “Doubtless,” says Bishop Butler, “he could have made a better berry, but he never did.” The picker’s light touch can not mar flavor or beauty, nor, were her fingers filthy as a chimney sweep’s, could the delicate fruit suffer from them as from your barbarous baptism.—Marion Harland in “Common Sense in the Household.”

Puddings and Pies.—Apple Dumplings.—Make a crust as for biscuit, or a potato crust, as follows: Three large potatoes boiled and mashed while hot. Add to them two cups of sifted flour and one teaspoonful of salt, and mix thoroughly. Now chop or cut into it one small cup of butter, and mix into a paste with about a teacupful of cold water. Dredge the board thick with flour, and roll out—thick in the middle and thin at the edges. A thick pudding-cloth—the best being made of Canton flannel, used with the nap-side out—should be dipped in hot water and wrung out, dredged evenly and thickly with flour, and laid over a large bowl. Upon the middle of this place the rolled-out crust, fill with apples pared and quartered, eight or ten good-sized ones being enough for this amount of crust. Gather the edges of the crust evenly over it. Then gather the cloth up, leaving room for the dumpling to swell, and tying very tightly. In turning out, lift to a dish, press all the water from the ends of the cloth; untie and turn away from the pudding, and lay a hot dish upon it, turning over the pudding into it, and serving at once, as it darkens or falls by standing. In using a boiler, butter well, and fill only two-thirds full, that the mixture may have room to swell. Set it in boiling water, and see that it is kept at the same height, about an inch from the top. Cover the outer kettle, that the steam may be kept in. Peaches pared and halved, or canned ones drained from the syrup, may be used instead of the apples. When canned fruit is used the syrup can be used as a sauce, either cold for cold puddings and blancmanges, or heated and thickened for hot, allowing to a pint of juice a heaping teaspoonful of corn starch, dissolved in a little cold water, and boiling it five minutes. Strawberry or raspberry syrup is especially nice.

Bread and Apple Pudding.—Butter a deep pudding dish and put first a layer of crumbs, then one of any good acid apple, sliced rather thin, and so on until the dish is nearly full. Six or eight apples and a quart of fresh crumbs will fill a two-quart dish. Dissolve a cup of sugar and one teaspoonful of cinnamon in one pint of boiling water and pour into the dish. Let the pudding stand half an hour to swell; then bake until brown—about three-quarters of an hour—and eat with liquid sauce. It can be made with slices of bread and butter instead of crumbs.

Short-Cake.—One quart of flour, one teaspoonful of salt and two of baking powder sifted with the flour, one cup of butter, or half lard and half butter, one large cup of hot milk. Rub the butter into the flour; add the milk and roll out the dough, cutting in small square cakes and baking to a light brown. For a strawberry or peach short-cake have three tin pie-plates buttered; roll the dough to fit them, and bake quickly. Fill either, when done, with a cup of sugar, or with peaches cut fine and sugared, and served hot.

Pies—Apple, Peach, and Berry.—In the first place, don’t make them except very semi-occasionally. Pastry, even when good, is so indigestible that children should never have it, and their elders but seldom. A nice short-cake, filled with stewed fruit, or with fresh berries, mashed and sweetened, is quite as agreeable to eat and far more wholesome. But, as people will both make and eat pie-crust, the best rules known are given. Butter, being more wholesome than lard, should always be used if it can be afforded. A mixture of lard and butter is next best. For a plain pie-crust, take: One quart of flour, one even teacup of lard and one of butter, one teacup of ice water or very cold water, and a teaspoonful of salt. Rub the lard and salt into the flour till it is dry and crumbly, add the ice water and work to a smooth dough. Wash the butter and have it cold and firm as possible, divide it in three parts. Roll out the paste and dot it all over with bits from one part of the butter, sprinkle with flour and roll up. Roll out and repeat until the butter is gone. If the crust can now stand on the ice for half an hour it will be nicer and more flaky. This amount will make three good-sized pies. Enough for the bottom crusts can be taken off after one rolling in of butter, thus making the top crust richer. Lard alone will make a tender, but not a flaky, paste.

For puff paste there is required one pound of flour, three quarters of a pound of butter, one teacupful of ice water, one teaspoonful of salt, one of sugar, and yolk of one egg. Wash the butter, divide into three parts, reserving a bit the size of an egg, and put it on the ice for an hour. Rub the bit of butter, the salt, and sugar, into the flour, and stir in the ice water and egg beaten together. Make into a dough and knead on the moulding-board till glossy and firm—at least ten minutes will be required. Roll out into a sheet ten or twelve inches square. Cut a cake of the ice-cold butter in thin slices, or flatten it very thin with the rolling-pin. Lay it on the paste, sprinkle with flour, and fold over the edges. Press it in somewhat with the rolling-pin and roll out again. Always roll from you. Do this again and again until the butter is all used, rolling up the paste after the last cake is in, and then putting it on the ice for an hour or more. Have filling all ready, and let the paste be as nearly ice-cold as possible when it goes into the oven. There are much more elaborate rules, but this insures handsome paste. Make a plainer one for the bottom crusts. Cover puff paste with a damp cloth and it may be kept on the ice a day or two before baking.

Apple Pie.—Line a pie-plate with plain paste. Pare sour apples—greenings are best—quarter and cut in thin slices. Allow one cup of sugar, and quarter of a grated nutmeg mixed with it. Fill the pie-plate heaping full of the sliced apple, sprinkling the sugar between the layers. It will require not less than six good-sized apples. Wet the edges of the pie with cold water, lay on the cover and press down securely, that no juice may escape. Bake three-quarters of an hour, or a little less if the apples are very tender. No pie in which the apples are stewed beforehand can compare with this in flavor. If they are used stew till tender and strain. Sweeten and flavor to taste. Fill the pies and bake half an hour.

Berry Pies.—Have a very deep plate, and either no under crust, save a rim, or a very thin one. Allow a cup of sugar to a quart of fruit, but no spices. Prick the upper crust half a dozen times with a fork, to let out the steam.—Helen Campbell, in “The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and Cooking.”

Apple Méringue Pies.—Stew and sweeten ripe, juicy apples, when you have pared and sliced them. Mash smooth and season with nutmeg. If you like the flavor, stew some lemon peel with the apple, and remove when cold. Fill your crust and bake until just done. Spread over the apple a thick méringue,[1] made by whipping to a stiff froth the whites of three eggs for each pie, sweetening with a tablespoonful of powdered sugar for each egg. Flavor this with rose-water or vanilla; beat until it will stand alone, and cover the pie three-quarters of an inch thick. Set back in the oven until the méringue is well “set.” Should it color too darkly, sift powdered sugar over it when cold. Eat cold. Peach pies are even more delicious made in this manner.

Apple Snow requires six apples, whites of two eggs and three tablespoonfuls of powdered sugar. Peel and grate the apples into the whites, which must have been whipped to a stiff froth. Beat in the sugar with a few light sweeps of the egg; whip and set in a cold place until wanted. Eat with crackers or cake.—Marion Harland.

Apple Fritters.—Pare some fine apples, and with an apple-corer cut out the core from the center of each; now cut them across in slices, about one-third of an inch thick, having the round opening in the center, dip these in a fritter batter and fry in boiling lard; sprinkle over sugar. Fresh or canned peaches may be used in the same way.—Mrs. Henderson, in “Practical Cooking.”

Putting Up Fruit.—One of the most satisfactory operations which is carried on in the household is the annual putting up of fruit. To be sure, it has its disadvantages, like everything else. The fruit generally gets ripe a week or two earlier than you expect it will, and is brought to you on a day for which you have planned other work; but, after all, there is to the well-regulated mind a rare pleasure in being confronted with a basket of luscious fruit which may be preserved for enjoyment in the winter; and I maintain that the pleasure we receive in midwinter from a dish of peaches, cherries, or plums on the table is not wholly of the senses, but the mind itself enjoys the contrasting picture which inevitably comes before it. Something of the brightness of the long summer days in which it grew and ripened is felt again, and just as chopped pickle in June will suggest a November day when the tomatoes no longer ripen, the cucumbers have gone to seed, and the frost has covered the tangled vines in the garden with a fairy-like network, so red raspberries and pears in December and March minister to other wants than those of the palate. Half the trouble of putting up fruit—the broken cans, the scalded fingers and stained dresses—might be done away with if a woman could enter upon the work in the right spirit. If, instead of complaining in May because the trees are full of blossoms, and exhausting ourselves mentally by putting up the fruit and having it spoil long before it is ripe, we were to refrain from asking if we shall live to eat it or to see it eaten, we should accomplish something really great in preserving our peace of mind as well as our fruit. It is a simple matter also, if entered into with calm cheerfulness, to look over and can the fruit. After the fruit has been carefully examined, set it in a cool room or into the refrigerator, while you examine your cans. It is well to have some new rubber rings on hand, as you may need them; have also a cup of flour paste ready; then if the zinc rings or covers are bent a little, you may still make them air-tight with the paste. If you are at all doubtful about the condition of your cans, use the paste. In a long experience of putting up fruit I have never broken but one can, and that was on account of carelessness in rinsing it in too hot water. I rinse the can in warm water, then set it in a two-quart basin with a little water in it, set it on the stove beside my porcelain kettle, fill the can with boiling fruit, and seal up as quickly as may be. One thing which should be carefully avoided is too much boiling of the fruit after the sugar is put with it. The injury which boiling does is not by any means well understood by many good cooks. Last year I gave up all the care of putting up fruit and pickles to a competent and honest girl; but, by her not knowing that sugar, when boiled, actually changes its nature, and loses much of its sweetness, she used more than twice the quantity which I have used this year, and then the fruit was not so sweet as it ought to be. (When making syrup to eat on hot cakes bear this in mind: after the sugar is dissolved let it come to a boil, but do not boil it.)

Peaches.—If possible, pare and cut up your peaches the afternoon before they are to be canned, and scatter sugar over them. In the morning there will be syrup enough to cook them in. Put this syrup into your porcelain kettle—if you have one, if not, into a bright tin pan; cook a few peaches at a time, try them with a broom-splint; just before they are done add the necessary quantity of sugar. Some housekeepers make a practice of putting one whole peach into a can, to give the almond flavor of the stone to the whole can. You can not, of course, guess at just the number of halves or quarters needed to fill the can; if you have too many pieces, and are afraid of their cooking too much, take them out carefully on a plate and, after cooking others for the next canful, add to them. By cooking a few at a time you can preserve the shape and have much finer results than if you cook a great many at a time.

Quinces and Sweet Apples.—Prepare the quinces and apples as for canning. Steam them in the same way, having about one-third as many quinces as apples. Make a very sweet syrup, as they will keep better with plenty of sugar. These may be canned or kept in a large stone jar.—Emma Whitcomb Babcock, in “Household Hints.”

Preserves.—Preserves are scarcely needed if canning is nicely done. They require much more trouble, and are too rich for ordinary use, a pound of sugar to one of fruit being required. If made at all, the fruit must be very fresh, and the syrup perfectly clear. For syrup allow one teacup of cold water to every pound of sugar, and, as it heats, add to every three or four pounds the white of an egg. Skim very carefully, boiling till no more rises, and it is ready for use. Peaches, pears, green gages, cherries, and crab-apples are all preserved alike. Peel, stone, and halve peaches, and boil only a few pieces at a time till clear. Peel, core, and halve pears. Prick plums and gages several times. Core crab-apples, and cut half the stem from cherries. Cook till tender. Put up when cold in small jars, and paste paper over them.

Jams.—Make syrup as directed above. Use raspberries, strawberries, or any small fruit, and boil for half an hour. Put up in small jars or tumblers; lay papers dipped in brandy on the fruit, and paste on covers, or use patent jelly-glasses.

Marmalade.—Quinces make the best; but crab-apples or any sour apple are also good. Poor quinces, unfit for other use, can be washed and cut in small pieces, coring, but not paring them. Allow three-quarters of a pound of sugar and a teacupful of water to a pound of fruit, and boil slowly two hours, stirring, and mashing it fine. Strain through a colander, and put up in glasses or bowls. Peach marmalade is made in the same way.

Fruit Jellies.—Crab-apple, quince, grape, etc., are all made in the same way. Allow a teacup of water to a pound of fruit; boil till very tender; then strain through a cloth, and treat as currant jelly. Cherries will not jelly without gelatine, and grapes are sometimes troublesome. Where gelatine is needed, allow a package to two quarts of juice.

Candied Fruits.—Make a syrup as for preserves, and boil any fruit, prepared as directed, until tender. Let them stand two days in the syrup. Take out; drain carefully; lay them on plates; sift sugar over them, and dry either in the sun or in a moderately warm oven.—Helen Campbell, in “The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and Cooking.”

HOME STUDIES IN CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS.

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

AIR.—PHYSICAL PROPERTIES.

To make the weight for the winds.—Job xxviii:25.

One day an old Florentine pump-maker came to Galileo[1] to inquire why he could not make a pump work effectively when it was more than thirty-four feet long. The philosopher could not answer, nor did he solve the problem during his lifetime, but bequeathed it to his pupil, Torricelli.[2] This famous Italian succeeded in partially answering the question in 1643. He performed the following experiment: Taking a glass tube thirty-six inches long and one-fourth of an inch in diameter, closed at one end, he filled it with mercury, and holding his finger over the open end, inverted and placed it in a cup of mercury, then removing his finger, discovered that the quicksilver settled in the tube six inches, leaving a column of the shining metal thirty inches high. He thus demonstrated that air has weight, equal to that of a column of mercury thirty inches in height.

On this supposition it was argued that if the whole height of the air should be lessened the column would fall. Such was the opinion of Blaise Pascal,[3] who in 1646 requested M. Périer, his brother-in-law, to ascend the Puy de Dome, a summit near Clermont, and repeat the experiment of Torricelli. To his delight, upon reaching the top of the mountain, the column stood three inches lower. Pascal then used a tube fifty feet long, which he filled with water, and found that this liquid could be supported by the air to the height of thirty-four feet. Water is 13.6 lighter than mercury, and it will be observed from the foregoing statement, that it was supported 13.6 higher than quicksilver. Here was a full answer to the pump-maker’s query! A column of water, thirty-four feet long and one square inch at the base, weighs fifteen pounds. A column of mercury, thirty inches long and one square inch at the base, weighs fifteen pounds. A column of air the whole height of the atmosphere, one square inch at the base, weighs fifteen pounds.

Any influence, therefore, which varies the weight of the air, will vary the height of a column of quicksilver; and the reverse will of course be true, that any fluctuation in the column of mercury indicates a change in the condition of the atmosphere. Thus, a “falling barometer” predicts foul weather, for it shows that the air is becoming lighter, and will therefore rise, while other air will rush in, with varying speed, to take its place, producing breezes, gales, and possibly tornadoes. The warm air rising may come in contact with a cold stratum above and its moisture be condensed into rain or snow. We shall presently refer to this again.

SHOWING DENSITY OF ATMOSPHERE AT DIFFERENT HEIGHTS.

A quart of air, at ordinary temperature, weighs about eight hundred times less than a quart of water, yet the aggregate pressure of the atmosphere is equal to fifteen pounds on every square inch. A person of average size presents a surface of about two thousand square inches. This would receive a pressure of fifteen tons, a weight more crushing than that of all the shields cast upon the traitorous Tarpeia[4] at the Roman gate.

Herschel calculates that the total weight of the atmosphere is one twelve-hundred-thousandth of that of the earth.

Why does not such enormous pressure destroy life? Because it is counterbalanced by the pressure of air, gases and blood within the body. That this is true may readily be seen in the process of dry-cupping. Bare the arm, take a bit of writing paper an inch and a half long, dip it in alcohol, light, and instantly place in a small wine glass, and at once apply the glass to the soft part of the arm. The flesh under the glass will rise like a pin-cushion, and become red from the pressure of the blood within. Persons going down in diving-bells suffer from the condensation of the air in the bell, while on a high mountain they experience a pressure in the opposite direction, on account of the rarefaction of the atmosphere, the blood often gushing from the nose and ears.

We shall better understand the phenomena of the air by first considering some of its distinctive properties.

MAGDEBURG HEMISPHERES.

AIR PRESSES EQUALLY IN ALL DIRECTIONS.

This great principle, which applies to all gases as well as to fluids, has many illustrations in nature. The haliotis[5] is held to the rock with a tenacity which sometimes resists the strength of the collector, who would add its iridescent beauty to his cabinet of shells.

Alas for the fisherman’s line whose bait has been swallowed by a skate![6] Quickly descending to the bottom, this broad, flat fish expels the air from beneath it, and defies all effort at capture.

The most complete demonstration of this law is shown by the Magdeburg hemispheres,[7] invented by Otto von Güricke[8] and used by him before Charles V. and his brilliant court. They are still preserved in the ancient city which gave them their name, are twenty-four inches in diameter, and after the air in them had been removed, required twelve horses to separate them.

The pressure of the air varies greatly at different altitudes. At the height of three and one-half miles the column of mercury in a barometer falls to fifteen inches, showing that below that elevation we have as much air as in all the space above.

SHOWING TORRICELLI’S HISTORICAL EXPERIMENT AND THE PRINCIPLE OF THE BAROMETER.

The boiling point of liquids is materially influenced by the pressure of the atmosphere. On high mountains potatoes and even eggs can not be cooked by boiling, as the water will all evaporate before it is heated sufficiently to cook them.

Partially fill a glass flask with water, heat it until steam begins to escape, then remove the lamp and insert a stopper, the boiling will cease. Now pour cold water upon the flask, and the water within begins again to boil vigorously. The cold water condenses the steam, creating a partial vacuum, thus relieving the heated water from pressure, and it boils at a lower temperature than 212°. This illustrates the famous culinary paradox that “cold water will make hot water boil.”

The buoyancy of substances in air depends upon the same principle that determines their buoyancy in liquids. It will be proportioned to the amount of air which they displace.

It is correct to say that a balloon rises because the air is heavier, and therefore pushes under the balloon and forces it up; or, that it rises because it displaces more than its own weight of air. Thistle-down may be compressed so that it will fall like shot. The resistance offered by the air to the fall of bodies led men long to hold to the fallacy that the rapidity of the descent of falling bodies was proportioned to their weight. This error was at length exploded by Galileo in his interesting experiment on the leaning tower of Pisa.[9] In a vacuum, a cannon ball and a feather fall in the same time.

AIR PUMP.

COMPRESSIBILITY.

The statement that air can be expanded involves the counter-truth that it may be compressed.

Mariotte[10] announces the law as follows: Doubling the pressure upon a given amount of gas will halve the space it occupies, and double its expansive energy. The application of this principle in one form gives us the air-gun.[11] If the air in a gun-barrel forty inches long were compressed into the space of half an inch it would press with eighty times its previous force, or with a power equal to twelve hundred pounds to the square inch. Compressed air is often used as a power in mines and excavations, and its advantages are many; it was so employed in the Hoosac tunnel. Though the engine that compressed the air was three miles away, the loss from friction was very slight, and the air, having performed its work in driving the drill, was then liberated to purify the atmosphere of the tunnel and expel noxious gases which accumulated from continuous blasting. The apparatus for compressing air is called a condenser. It consists essentially of a cylinder and piston, with a valve in the bottom of each, opening downward. A precisely opposite arrangement of valves is found in the air-pump, a machine for exhausting air from a given space, usually a receiver. As the piston is raised in removing the air, the valve closes, and the air is thus forced out of the cylinder; the air in the receiver then expands, opens the valve at the bottom of the cylinder, and rises into it; as the piston descends its valve is opened; rising, it again removes the cylinder full of air; the air in the receiver again expands, opens the lower valve, and so continues, until the air in the vessel becomes too much rarefied to lift the delicate valve and make its escape. The vacuum thus produced is by no means so perfect as the “Torricellian vacuum,”[12] the name given to the unoccupied space above the column of mercury in a barometer.

Various substances may be placed in a receiver to show the expansive tendency of air. A piece of wood immersed in a jar of water will throw off thousands of little bubbles. A shriveled apple will become round and plump. The air in an empty rubber bag will often expand so as to fill the receiver. Air in a thin glass vessel, tightly corked, will expand so as to burst the vessel into fragments.

The following simple but useful piece of apparatus can easily be made: Take a pint bottle with a nicely fitted cork, through the cork insert a small glass tube so as to be perfectly air-tight (melted sealing wax is convenient for making tubes or glass tight;) a perforated rubber stopper is better. Let the end of the tube inserted be drawn out in the flame of an alcohol lamp (this is not essential, but will make the experiments more interesting), suck the air from the bottle, close the end of the tube at once with the finger and place it in a glass of water, and a miniature fountain, in vacuo, will be revealed. After performing this pretty experiment remove the tube and reinsert it with the larger end down, having filled the bottle two-thirds full of water. With the lips force a quantity of air into the bottle, upon removing the mouth the water will rise in the tube and fall in a fine spray from the small aperture at the top. This last experiment is particularly interesting, as it is a perfect illustration of a flowing oil well. Closely allied to the expansibility of air is its

ELASTICITY,

Or tendency to regain its former volume after being compressed. Many a school-boy has observed this property, while manipulating his fascinating popgun. When he places his finger over the open end of the piece of elder, utilized as a gun, and suddenly pushes down the piston upon the wad, he notices that it quickly flies back. An inflated bladder thrown upon the floor bounds like a rubber ball; force pumps in our houses act upon this principle. The air in the chamber of the pump is first compressed by the entrance of the water; it reacts like a spring, and forces the water through the pipes to the rooms above.

EXPANDING RUBBER BAG IN AN EXHAUSTED RECEIVER.

The hydraulic ram is another application of the same principle. Perhaps the reader may know some place where this apparatus can be used. Let us briefly describe the conditions of its operation. Near your house, at a lower elevation, may be a beautiful spring, so situated that, within the distance of about seventy feet, a fall of from five to ten feet can be obtained. Now run a large pipe from the spring to the spot where the ram is to be placed, below the level of the spring. The ram is a pear-shaped, cast iron cylinder, open at the small end, at which point a valve is placed, opening upward. The pipe coming from the spring is screwed into the bottom of the ram below this valve, in such a manner as to conduct the water past the valve, and out through an opening beyond. At this point, however, is placed a metallic valve, against which, as the water escapes, it continues to crowd. Presently the rushing stream obtains sufficient momentum to close this valve, and thus prevent for a moment its further escape. The accumulated force of the water then raises the valve in the bottom of the ram and it rises into the chamber, which is partially filled with air. This air is compressed, but on account of its elasticity at once reacts upon the water and forces it through another pipe to the required height. Only about one-eighth of the water is sent through the last pipe, as seven-eighths of it is required to force the remainder to the desired elevation. I have a great respect for this useful apparatus, the invention of the elder Montgolfier.[13] I know of one hydraulic ram which for fifteen years has raised, through a pipe twenty-two hundred feet long, to an elevation of seventy-five feet, an average of twenty-four barrels of water daily. Its total cost for repairs has not exceeded twenty-five dollars, and yet it has done every day the work of four men. If men had been hired to do this labor at $1.50 per day each, their wages would have amounted to the snug sum of $32,850.

A FOUNTAIN MADE BY COMPRESSING AIR IN A BOTTLE.

Atmospheric pressure is employed in many of our cities to convey packages from one part of a building to another, and to even greater distances. This “Pneumatic Dispatch”[14] system, as it is called, was first tried successfully in Paris, in 1865. A company was then established, which now claims to send eight hundred and thirty packages daily. In our own country this curious appliance may be seen in operation at the United States Express office in New York City, in the mammoth establishment of Mr. Wanamaker, in Philadelphia, and doubtless in many other places. For many years attempts have been made to propel cars by compressed air, but as yet the expense of such a plan greatly exceeds that of steam.

LIGHT.

Among the most gracious and beautiful offices performed by the atmosphere is the reflection and refraction of light. The blue dome of the sky, the magnificent coloring of the clouds, and all the delicate and ever varying tints of the morning and evening twilight are due to its influence. Without the air we should be in complete darkness until the sun rose, a fiery ball, above the horizon. All day long the only light we should receive would come directly from the sun, or be reflected from objects on the earth. At sunset, darkness would instantly be spread over us like a pall. No gentle gradations of light and deepening shade would usher in and close the day.

All must have observed during the past year the remarkable appearance of the western sky after the sun had set. Cities were more than once supposed to be burning, reflecting their lurid blaze upon the clouds. The cause of this is still a matter of dispute, but is generally attributed to the presence of star dust, or some minute mineral matter suspended in the higher atmosphere.

It will be remembered that color is not an inherent property of a substance, but depends upon what portion of the light rays it absorbs. Snow is white, as it absorbs none of the prismatic colors, but reflects them all to the eye. Whatever, then, varies the absorbing or reflecting power of an object varies its tints. Thus, objects seen on the horizon are red, because the dense atmosphere has turned aside the violet, indigo, blue, green, yellow and orange, and only the red color reaches the eye.

Observe that the initial letter of the prismatic colors taken in their order make the word “vibgyor.”

Again, were there no atmosphere, there could be no

CLOUDS NOR RAIN.

The moon is destitute of these, or at least that half of it which is always turned toward us. The most powerful telescopes can detect there the presence of neither atmosphere nor cloud.

A most remarkable proof of divine wisdom can be seen in the nice adjustment by which the pressure of the air prevents undue evaporation from the lakes and seas, and at the same time furnishes the medium by which moisture is conveyed to the remotest parts of the earth. The fact that water, in the form of mist or clouds, should float, and not fall in a substance many times lighter than itself, is one of the most wonderful of nature’s phenomena. When shot are dropped into water, we expect that they will sink; yet lead is but eleven times heavier than water, while water is eight hundred times heavier than air.

The following seems to be the most satisfactory explanation of the matter: It is a well known fact that the air has the power to absorb and hold, in an invisible form, a certain amount of moisture. The quantity which it can contain depends upon its temperature. If the air is cooled, it parts with a portion; thus if the grass radiates its heat, dew is deposited upon it; if it is very cold, the frost covers it with sparkling crystals. It is thought that when cooling from any cause takes place in higher altitudes, the atmospheric moisture changes from the invisible to the visible form, and assumes the physical condition of spheroids or vesicles, minute bubbles of water in point of fact, each bubble filled with air. These bubbles, heated by the sun’s rays, would become lighter than the medium in which they float, for the same reason that soap bubbles float while they are warm. In this condition they are drifted along by currents until they reach a colder stratum of air, when they are condensed and fall as rain. If cooled sufficiently, snow would be formed.

Cloud forms are four in number, cirrus, cumulus, nimbus, and stratus, all of which may sometimes be seen at once, in the sky of a summer’s day. At times they float above the loftiest mountains. Gay-Lussac,[15] rising in his balloon to an elevation of 21,600 feet, perceived clouds drifting far above him.

AIR CURRENTS—SHOWING THE PRINCIPLE ON WHICH MINES ARE OFTEN VENTILATED.

The work performed by the atmosphere in supplying water to the soil is worthy of profound attention. Close observation shows that it varies in amount, year by year, much less than one would suppose. For example, the average yearly rain-fall in western New York, for the last thirteen years, has been thirty-six inches. Contrary to the general impression, the record shows a slight yearly increase in the amount. While this is true, the quantity of water carried down by our rivers is constantly diminishing. All must have observed the lessening size of our streams. Many a mill has ceased to run from lack of its former supply of water. This has resulted from the destruction of forests, and clearing of land, which have greatly increased evaporation of moisture from the soil. So grave a matter has this become, that it is attracting the attention of governments, because of its relation to agriculture and the navigation of rivers.

One can have but little idea, unless he carefully calculates it, of the inestimable blessings conferred by the atmosphere upon man, in furnishing to the soil its supply of water.

MR. THOUGHTFUL THANKFUL,

Being disposed properly to acknowledge the care of a kind Providence, in carrying on the work of his farm, one day sat down to figure out the value of a recent shower, which had refreshed his crops. The leaves of his corn had begun to curl, the oats and wheat were growing prematurely yellow, a few more days of the scorching heat and drouth would have made his harvests a failure, but to his great relief a plenteous shower fell. The rain gauge showed half an inch of water. Mr. Thankful took out his pencil and, after careful mathematical calculations, arrived at this astounding conclusion: An unseen hand had conveyed from a remote distance, and deposited upon every acre of his little farm, more than fifty-six tons of water. He owns a hundred acres. There must therefore have been scattered upon the entire farm over 5,600 tons of rain, an amount so large that if he had been compelled to pay for its transportation it would have required more than all the income of his farm.

MAKING WATER BOIL BY APPLYING COLD WATER.

SOUND.

Our atmosphere is the medium of sound. Upon lofty mountains its vibrations become faint, while in a vacuum all sound ceases. The world of music, with which we are surrounded, were the air removed, would become forever silent. No song of birds, no murmur of the brook, no sighing of the trees, no thunder of the cataract, no grand diapason of the sea, no sweet voice of friendship, no thrilling words of love could ever again fall upon human ear. Gather together in one heap of useless rubbish (for they will never more be needed), harp, lyre, flute, flageolet, violin and guitar, piano and organ. Even that harp of three thousand strings, which the divine hand has placed in the human ear, shall not again vibrate to the delicate touch of nature’s hand.

ELECTRICITY AND METEORS.

We will close our present article by mentioning two other interesting atmospheric phenomena.

Dr. Franklin proved that lightning and electricity are identical. This wonderful agent manifests itself in a variety of ways. The zigzag track of light across the darkened sky, with its accompanying crash, is one of nature’s exhibitions of tremendous power. The irregularity of its path is due to the resistance of the air, compressed by the electric motion. The beautiful illumination called heat or sheet lightning, is caused by the reflection of the electric flash, at a great distance from the observer.

A very curious form of electricity is that known as St. Elmo’s fire, which appears as a glowing ball, often poising itself on the spars of ships, to the great consternation of superstitious sailors.

Judge Dana, in his admirable book, “Two Years Before the Mast,” more than once alludes to the sensation caused by these weird visitors, as they rounded stormy Cape Horn.

The northern lights, or aurora borealis, with their throbbing, shifting, crimson and purple tints, sometimes called “the merry dancers,” are supposed to be produced by the discharge of electricity in high altitudes and in rarefied air. All around us there is slumbering this power, which science may some day awaken to do the common work of the world.

Meteors, or “shooting stars,” as they are often incorrectly called, are small bodies, often not larger than grains of sand, which rush into our atmosphere at a speed equal to the earth’s motion, eleven hundred miles a minute, and by friction are set on fire, and blaze for a moment in the sky. Lockyer[16] says that seven millions of these, visible to the naked eye, traverse our atmosphere in a single day, and that a powerful telescope would reveal in the same time not less than four hundred millions.

Once in thirty-three years an astonishing display of these celestial fireworks takes place. The last was in 1866. At that time these bodies chanced to cross the track of the earth’s orbit, and were thus brought into collision with it. The largest of them, called meteorites, sometimes pass through the atmosphere unconsumed and reach the earth. They have been known to kill both men and cattle.

In 1866 one thousand of these stones, the largest weighing six hundred pounds, fell in Hungary.

It is very incorrect to call these flashing bodies in the air shooting stars, for they are extremely minute in size, while stars are vast suns; again, in point of distance, they are different, being near at hand, while the latter are millions of miles away. It would be difficult to find an instance in which language can convey a greater error than this phrase, which constantly implies that vast worlds, by thousands, are flying hither and thither, like sky-rockets. Often a single glance at the sky on a clear night, would show how unsafe this world would be as the object of such tremendous cannonading.

End of Required Reading for January.

THE HOMELIKE HOUSE.

BY SUSAN HAYES WARD.

CHAPTER I.—THE HALL.

In studying how to make home beautiful, we must not forget that, first of all, there must be a home; and that in a true home, the household, and not the house, is of primary importance. We have all seen careful housekeepers whose first and last thought was to keep their domains with absolute neatness, and whose domestic law was of Median and Persian inflexibility. Overshoes must be left here; slippers must be put on there; the front stair-carpet must only be trodden by the visitor’s foot; the front door-latch must never be lifted by the children’s hand; curtains must be drawn close lest carpets fade; and autumn fires remain unlighted lest ashes fly. These were housekeepers, not home makers. The virtue of carefulness is a housewife’s glory; but when carried to an excess, it becomes a woman’s shame, leading her to imagine that meat is more than life, raiment than body, and house than man. Of the virtuous woman we read first: “She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness;” then that “she looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness;” after which it follows naturally that “her children rise up and call her blessed, her husband also, and he praiseth her;” but when the devil of neatness enters into a woman he defies family comfort, and banishes the angel of peace from the home. And yet comfort, important though its place may be in the home economy, is not to be the first aim. A wise critic says: “Every house should have in it that which tells of strength, and seems to favor self-sacrifice, simplicity, self-control. Nothing is finer in a house than a kind of subtle ubiquitous spirit, which asserts the superiority of the household, and tells you that they fear neither hunger nor cold, neither toil nor danger, and do not bow down, night and morning to the vulgar divinity, Comfort.” Not the house we live in, but the life we live in it is that on which the real beauty of home depends. In the House Beautiful, not Mr. Cook’s, nor Mrs. Allen’s, but in that incomparable House Beautiful which Bunyan has described for us, even there the boy Matthew fell sick from tampering with the fruit of Beelzebub’s garden. Compared with this soundness of inner life in the house, these questions of outer adornment, of taste, or expediency, or expense, are but unimportant matters, since no home can be truly beautiful that is tarnished by an unworthy life within its walls.

So much of preliminary statement must be pardoned me, because in the refined paganism of these days there seems to be a mania for magnifying the house we live in, and the highest religion of many a family is simply to make their home beautiful and attractive. It is better than no religion at all—but a higher religion teaches us to make the homes of the poor comfortable before—we make our own beautiful, shall I say? Not at all; but before we spend freely to gain this end. For the external beauty of home does not depend on the amount of money spent in its adornment. Money buys a great deal of clutter that had far better be left in the shops; money buys a vast amount of superfluous stuck-on ornaments, that were better left off, but money does not and can not buy good taste—an eye for color, thoughtful care for the general comfort, a quick wit, and common sense. Yet these are the safest and surest helps to the woman who aims to make her home attractive to the eye and restful to the body.

Let us enter the door of this woman’s house and see what she allows and what she disallows.

First, we notice that her entry and stairways are planned upon as liberal a scale as possible. That is but common sense, for furniture and trunks must go in and out, up and down, to say nothing of household and visitors, and the broader the entry way, the more hospitable and inviting it can be made with chairs, table and sofa. Modern builders have at last learned this, and they are giving us the old-fashioned hall again, with a corner or side fireplace, and, if possible, an outlook on the back garden. This hall is not kept too dark in winter, nor too light in summer. In cold weather we need cheerfulness, warmth, and light on entering the house. In summer we should step from the glare of a vertical sun and heat of the nineties, into a cool, refreshing shade, kept, of a purpose, darker than sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen, to prevent flies from swarming into the hall and up the stairway and becoming the pest of the morning sleeper. The back stairs also are closed, either above or below, so that premonitory hints of meals to come may not ascend to the bedrooms and go down the front stairs to guests in the parlor, thus proclaiming on the housetop what you whisper to your cook in the kitchen.

“Aim at a gold gown and you’ll get a sleeve,” says our grandmother’s proverb; so our wise woman knows what is best and aims for it, but contents herself with what she can get. For an American house, the best flooring, generally speaking, would be—for a vestibule—tiles of small pattern and modest color, such as yellow and brown, which would take no injury from muddy overshoes or dripping umbrellas; for the rest of the house hard wood floors (Southern pine is admirable), plain or very simply inlaid. Elaborate patterns in inlaid woods should be avoided, except in large rooms, and contrasts of colors, such as stripes of black walnut and hard pine, which make a narrow hallway look yet narrower; but a modest border might be inlaid around any room, hall, parlor, or bedroom with good effect, if desired, with a substantial oriental rug in the midst of it all. There can be nothing better than this.

But a cheap pine floor, if properly laid, can be stained and made to do good service, instead of hard wood, and a strip of cocoanut matting running the length of the hall is not to be despised; or, if cracks yawn too perceptibly to have the floor bare, it can be covered with a plain, self-colored drugget or carpet filling, or “two ply,” while a strip of bright carpet passes from the doorway up the stairs, and enlivens the hall. Or, simpler yet, the floor can be painted a serviceable yellow or gray, and a width of rag carpet can add warmth and color. There are pretty straw mattings in greens and reds and cream colors which, with the aid of rugs, serve admirably for floor coverings, but they are hardly durable enough for entry ways. Our wise woman bears in mind that a well-laid, hard wood floor will outlast many a drugget, or carpet, or coat of paint, or oil cloth, and she does up her hall floor, at first, in as durable a fashion as her purse will allow.

There is a certain fitness of things also to be observed. Good taste forbids her to step from an entry with stained or painted pine floor and rag carpet to a parlor with inlaid floors and Persian rugs. The rag carpet of the hall demands something correspondingly simple in the reception room; a floor stained or painted in the same fashion, or a straw matting, with perhaps a few breadths of “Morris” carpet, of warm color and quiet figure, sewed together to make a rug, and raveled at the ends for fringe.

As for walls, it is convenient to divide them with a chair rail or moulding of the same stuff as that used for mop-boards and door casings, fastened about four feet from the floor and running around the entry and up the side wall of the stairway. The wall below this moulding can be painted in oil a warm olive-brown or green, or a dull red, and, when so painted, can be washed like the woodwork.

A more expensive way would be to panel off this space with big cedar shingles of the sort that cost about $25 a thousand, provided the rest of the woodwork is repainted, or with wood corresponding with the finish of the room. Unpainted woodwork, even though made of soft pine, is far better from the housekeeper’s standpoint than that which is coated with paint. Pine, when oiled and varnished—not too heavily—assumes a rarely beautiful hue and shows the variety of its markings to very good effect. The wall space above could be papered with some figured pattern corresponding in color with that below the chair-rail, or dado, as it is called (if that is painted rather than paneled), but the wall-space should be of lighter tint than the dado, or it could be calcimined, or kalsomined, as they spell and pronounce it in New Jersey.

When paper is used, the pattern should not be so large as to make the room look small, nor so pronounced as to prevent the walls from serving as a fair back-ground for pictures and plants.

But suppose our prudent woman can afford neither chair-rail nor oil-painted dado, and yet would like to divide the wall space. Then let Mr. Kalsominer paint a dado of olive-brown or green, a wall space of much lighter shade, and a ceiling of cream color. He can also paint a band of dull red where the chair-rail should be, and then our wise woman, if she be also a woman of faculty, will take the little red paint pot into her own hand and will cut out of varnished paper some conventional leaf or flower, and using this as a stencil, with a stiff brush she will powder[A] this leaf or flower at regular intervals of about a foot all over the dado. Or, discarding the stencil, some simple arrangement of triple dots might be used that need only be indicated with a pencil point and then painted on, with a small brush, free hand. The kalsominer would double his prices if he did it, but the room will be twice as pretty if she does it herself. Or she may powder her lighter wall space with figures of the same dark shade as the dado, so harmonizing the upper and lower portions, while a yet darker brown line divides them. But the stenciling of a wall space requires too much step-ladder work for the ordinary woman. Last, and probably cheapest of all, she may use wall paper—the darkest shade below—of some stiff diaper or tile pattern, the lighter above, with border between; the ceiling being washed a lighter harmonizing color.

As to the furniture of the hall, it ought to begin outside the door, with a bench, or settle, or chair, at least, upon the piazza, or “stoop,” for any weary body to drop down upon while the door is undoing. A wide piazza gives room not only for a few chairs, and the picturesque and comfortable hammock, but for a table, as well, where the afternoon cup of tea can rest, or the work-basket with the weekly mending. A broad platform with awnings is a comfortable and picturesque addition to a house of plain and unattractive exterior. Happy and healthy are the households whose piazzas are their summer sitting-rooms.

The vestibule should have closets or some very plain and simple receptacle for umbrellas and India rubber shoes. In the hall proper comes up the vexed question of the hat tree. It is an ungainly, aggressive piece of furniture, and very cumbersome. If possible, let it be done away with. If there is a closet under the stairs for the family hats and coats, then the chance visitor can throw off his coat on the hall sofa or table. Hall chairs are useful, with a box seat holding whisk broom, hat brush, driving gloves, and things of that sort, and so is the table drawer; any of these contrivances are better than the hat tree, and so is a simple rail hidden away in some dark corner under the stairs, if there be no closet, with pegs attached for hats and coats. “There can be no reasonable law against making a hall chair both comfortable and suitable to its situation. The common Windsor high-backed arm-chair, made in the same wood as the table, and with a cushion covered with some bright colored material is well suited for this purpose; or a chair … with a high back and broad, low seat looks both severe enough to discourage unbecoming lounging, and yet sufficiently comfortable to secure a proper degree of rest for the weary.”

And where in the hall can hangings and stuffs be used to best advantage? Enter any house and look about for yourself. If the ground glass of the vestibule door be exposed and staring, the hall floor bare and cold, the hall chair hard and stiff, the doors to the reception or sitting-room all closed, rising black and grim before you, and the hall itself so dark that you can not see even where to lay down your companionable umbrella, does there not come over you a chill, as if you were being repelled by the spirit of inhospitality? The entrance hall gives you no hearty cheer of welcome. But warm up the floor with a rug, lay a restful and inviting cushion on the chair; open the door that leads to the room where the household gathers, or where your hostess is to receive you, or take it off the hinges bodily and lay it away, and hang instead a curtain that shall give a glimpse of the warmth and light within, while still shutting out the draught. Let soft silk or Madras muslin hang in full folds over the window in the door, and the stranger who enters no longer feels like a prisoner in Doubting Castle, whom Giant Despair has cast into a dungeon for trespassing on his grounds, but rather shall I not say, as if he had fallen upon the House Beautiful, built on purpose for the entertainment of pilgrims, where only the fair virgins Prudence, Piety and Charity would be his companions?