“I am still Prometheus, and foreknowIn my wise heart the end and doom of all.”
“I am still Prometheus, and foreknowIn my wise heart the end and doom of all.”
“I am still Prometheus, and foreknowIn my wise heart the end and doom of all.”
“I am still Prometheus, and foreknow
In my wise heart the end and doom of all.”
In looking at this figure, and in studying carefully the cartoons, we tried to come to an impartial conclusion between the opinions of German and French writers in regard to the school of Cornelius, or the revival of German art. This began twenty years later than that of the French, under Louis David, and is said to have been undertaken in an entirely different spirit. A French author says in regard to the Germans that “instead of carrying art forward they turned back, and being not bold enough to go on to the discovery of a new future they took refuge in archaism.” Every one knows that after the death of Albert Dürer, art in Germany fell asleep, that it was aroused by the rumors of a revival in France. Also that the little German colony with Overbeck directing it, did go to Rome to study the antique, but to go further with the Frenchman and say that all subsequent heads of schools—Peter Cornelius included—followed to the letter the paradoxical advice of Lanzi, “that modern artists should study the artists of the times preceding Raphael, for Raphael, springing from these painters, is superior to them, whilst those who followed him have not equalled him”—we can not, inasmuch as the statement includes Cornelius. If it had not been for the interest of Niebuhr, who was German ambassador at Rome when Cornelius was studying there, in exerting himself to get the Prussian government to give Cornelius commissions at home, he might have remained in Italy, and, like Overbeck and others, renounced the religion of his fathers, as well as all style but that anterior to the reformation. But he did go back to Germany. He may have gone to Italy with Van Eyck, Holbein, and Dürer in his mind; he may have returned with Michael Angelo and Raphael as ideals, but he certainly worked as Cornelius.
While not disagreeing with the French altogether, we can not unite with the Germans entirely in believing that “he drew the human body as though he saw it for the first time, and had never seen it painted or drawn by others.” He certainly received many impressions, before going to Rome, from the old German and Netherland masters, and adding to all what he learned in Rome, this idea of total individualism seems preposterous. What one must feel in studying his works is, that he did not obliterate from his memory what he had studied from Grecian, Roman, and German Art, but he reconciled them in his own mind, and worked out in his own way results from this reconciliation, giving to Germany productions as faithful to her own instincts as ever Albert Dürer or Lucas Cranach did.
The Düsseldorf Academy was the first result. Of this school even Frenchmen have been willing to write: “The school of Düsseldorf, from Kaulbach and Lessing to Knaus, and the school of Munich, with Piloty, Adam, Horschelt, Lier, etc., by returning to picturesque truth have returned to their own times and to their own country.”
The “National Gallery,” as yet, has but two cartoons from Kaulbach; no painting. The fine old “Treppen Haus,” in the Royal Museum, should be in this modern gallery to make the collection chronological, for these frescoes belong essentially to modern art, and would be in their place, leading from the Cornelius Saals, as Kaulbach was one of his favorite pupils.
As the Düsseldorf Academy is the oldest of German schools, a glance at the first artists educated there will be proper. Schadow, who was born in 1789, and who succeeded Cornelius as director of this academy, is represented by two pictures, “The Walk to Emmaus,” and a female head. One discovers at once more poetical feeling than in the pictures of his master, who delighted, like Milton, in painting
“Dread horror plumed—Dire tossings and deep groans.”
“Dread horror plumed—Dire tossings and deep groans.”
“Dread horror plumed—Dire tossings and deep groans.”
“Dread horror plumed—
Dire tossings and deep groans.”
Schadow died in Düsseldorf in 1862, leaving such pupils as Hübner, Lessing, Bendemann, etc., the latter being appointed, in 1859, his successor. Bendemann carries many honors—and paints good pictures—the gold medal from the Paris Exposition of 1837, and the medal from Vienna in 1873. He is knight of the “Order of Merit,” Fellow of the Societies at Berlin, Vienna, Munich, Cassel, Antwerp, Brussels, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Stockholm, Philadelphia. He belongs intimately to that class of German artists who began to modify the rigid dignity and formal tendencies of historical pictures by freedom of style and warmth of color. In this sense his great picture (now in the National Gallery), “Jeremiah at the Fall of Jerusalem,” was said to produce an epoch in art. Bendemann resigned his position as director of the Düsseldorf Academy in 1867.
Of all the Düsseldorf artists, Karl Frederick Lessing (whose style lies between the old and new school), Ludwig Knaus, and the brothers Achenbach, are the best known in America. In Cincinnati some of the best pictures of Lessing, and Andreas and Oswald Achenbach can be seen in private galleries, while in Boston and New York “The Golden Wedding” and the “Holy Family,” Knaus’schief-d´œuvres,can be found. The latter picture proved to be too valuable for the Empress of Russia (by whom it had been ordered) to take,[I]and so fell into the hands of a wealthy New York lady, who was attracted toward it when it was on exhibition in Berlin two years ago. Lessing’s original sketch of “The Martyrdom of Huss,” is in Cincinnati, as well as some of Andreas Achenbach’s best marine pictures. The names of Schräder, Schirmer, Hübner, Knille, Hoff, and Gelhardt, are not so well known outside of Germany. The German artists, with the exception of Makart, who, as an Austrian, does not class himself with the northern German school, left such an indescribably blank page in the Philadelphia Exposition, owing to their indifference and timidity, and want of energy in sending off their pictures, that the American mind is sadly prejudiced against German art. The French pictures have so long crowded the market that not until some young disciples of the Munich school returned to New York several years ago, would they believe that there was such a thing as German art. And now the impression is that it all concentrates in Munich. What is to be done with Knaus, Werner, Richter, Knille, Gussow, and the other distinguished names in northern Germany?
In Knaus, to whom we have already referred, and who has been recently called to Berlin as director of one of the newly-established “Meister Ateliers,” one finds that rare accordance of the character of the man with the peculiar excellencies of his productions. Hisgenrepictures reflect his own spirit. He is as genuine, unaffected, and fresh in his feelings as the children he paints.
Werner, the director of the Royal Academy of Berlin, made the designs for the Column of Victory, and has a tremendous productive power, almost equal to Makart, but he is far from possessing the luxuriant imagination and oriental instinct for color that distinguishes the latter from the artists of his day.
Gentz paints with vigor and fine sentiment oriental pictures. He has spent much time in the East, and has innumerable treasures for his house, which is one of the most attractive in Berlin.
Gustave Richter is considered by many the greatest of the German artists. He is a favorite at court, and the National Gallery is indebted to the emperor for the most wonderful picture he ever painted, “The Raising of Jairus’ Daughter.” Richter married the daughter of Meyerbeer, the composer. He paints his wife as often as Rembrandt painted “Saskia,” and in much the same style. One of the best, although less known of these portraits, is that called by the artist “Revery.”
Knille’s well-known picture of “Tannhäuser and Venus,” with its superb half-defined drapery of silk and satin, from which the faultless Venus rises, and the pellucid streams of light flow, and the flowers invested with purpureal gleams, is in the possession of the National Gallery.
Carl Becker is well liked in America, but it is doubtful, however, if the talented dwarf Menzel is ever heard of outside Germany. His countrymen are too fond of his pictures to allow them to go beyond their reach. He can paint anything and everything, from the glittering rooms of Sanssouci to the forging and rolling machine works. He has a picture of this latter class in the Gallery, where the varied lights—daylight, firelight, reflected light from red-hot iron, all fall upon the faces of the men; a feat in painting but little less remarkable than that of Rembrandt’s “Ronde de Nuit,” at Amsterdam.
There remains but the “Schlachten-maler,” as the Germans call them, with Camphausen at the head, whose battle scenes are multiplying in times of peace as if they were still longing for
“The smoke of the conflict,The cannon’s deep roar.”
“The smoke of the conflict,The cannon’s deep roar.”
“The smoke of the conflict,The cannon’s deep roar.”
“The smoke of the conflict,
The cannon’s deep roar.”
If one regards works of art as the necessary products of their age, these artists are following with fidelity the direction of their own times. The emperor is a soldier at heart, and Camphausen as court painter only represents his sovereign’s taste on canvas. Steffeck, Dietz, Franz, Adam, belong to this same class. When Pascal said, “How vain is painting which excites our admiration for the likeness of things, the original of which we do not admire,” Louis Vierdot calls him a philosopher, and especially a Christian, but not an artist. In looking at these battle pictures and Gussow’s burly girls and toothless old men, we prefer not to be artistic. “Ah,” said a young Munich disciple, “we do not think much of Gussow here in Munich; he is like the ceramic sensation; he will soon wear out.” But the Berlinese laugh this jealousy to scorn. They have ageniusamong them in this very sensational Gussow. He is a young man not more than thirty, who was called to Berlin from Düsseldorf to take the ladies’ class in the Berlin Academy. He teaches these enthusiastic pupils as if they were strong, rough men, preparing themselves to encounter criticism; to banish everything that reminds them of an artificial world; that they may help him to restore nature to her simplicity, and in so doing absolve themselves from all laws by which perverted ideas seek security against themselves. He says, “Paint what you see! Art is not always to seek for the beautiful. A widow in her weeds is as fine a model as a bride in her orange blossoms. Lay on the color as nature has laid it on—rough and coarse if you find it so. Draw the figure large, gross, and rude, if in so doing you can emancipate yourself from conventionalism. By force of refinement art perishes, like society. It must be refreshed once in a while by a return to barbarism!” Gussow’s pictures are like bold statements and frank confessions, and a better teacher for shrinking, undecided talent, either in man or woman, is not to be found. He is the most wonderful colorist of the age in Germany.
In conclusion, we ask if the day has not arrived in Germany, and even in Northern Germany, when she has a national art? Rome claimed at the beginning of the last century, that she was the jail of the German and Netherland artists. Paris boastingly says the same to-day; but we believe just persons, after examining into the condition of the various German schools, will admit that they have much peculiar to themselves, even if many of their artists have studied in Paris. (In a catalogue of two hundred names I find twenty-five only who ever received instruction in Paris.)
The International Geological Congress, which met at Bologna last year, decided upon the preparation of a geological map of Europe, and appointed an international committee to superintend the work. The map is to be published in Berlin. It will include the whole basin of the Mediterranean and all of Europe to the eastern slope of the Ural mountains. The river systems, the principal towns, the more important mountain-ranges, and the curves indicating sea depths, will be some of its features. The object of the committee will be to give a clear representation of geological conditions.
“When you have found the master passion of a man, remember never to trust him where that passion is concerned.”—Lord Chesterfield.
“When you have found the master passion of a man, remember never to trust him where that passion is concerned.”—Lord Chesterfield.
By W. T. HARRIS.
In sketching the history of education, I am careful not to limit my consideration to the school. The most important interest to us is a discussion of the new ideas contributed to civilization—the ideas that have come down to our own time, and that have exercised an influence on all the great national movements that have appeared on the surface of history. The true view of history looks upon it as a process by which Divine Providence educates the race. He unfolds something to each people, and does not let that revelation vanish again from earth, but causes its transmission to other nations, often by dark and mysterious providences:
“One accent of the Holy GhostThis heedless world hath never lost.”
“One accent of the Holy GhostThis heedless world hath never lost.”
“One accent of the Holy GhostThis heedless world hath never lost.”
“One accent of the Holy Ghost
This heedless world hath never lost.”
In Persia we have a new religious principle making its appearance, quite different from those we have met in our studies of China and India. It is the distinction between good and evil, both being regarded by the Persian as real and self-existent principles. Hence we have a negative power in the divine; for not good alone is supreme, but the good is limited by evil, and both are eternal, or at least real and actual, in the present world. The Hindu did not acknowledge the reality of evil; it was all “maya,” or illusion—a mere dream of our feverish consciousness. The whole world of nature, as well as the world of human beings, was likewise a dream that exists only in human consciousness. It is the duty of the good Brahmin to get rid of this dream of a world, by means of abstraction and penance and mortification of the flesh. When the devotee has tortured and misused his body until he has benumbed and paralyzed it to a degree that it can not feel or perceive, then he is no longer haunted by the things of the world. They do not any longer flow into his mind through his senses, and he becomes divine, or like Brahm, who has no distinctions whatever, and hence no knowledge of anything, nor consciousness of himself. For consciousness is a distinction of the me into subject and object, the knowing and the known—I and me.
The Hindu will not regard evil as divine, or as a part of the highest principle. He goes farther than this,—he will not admit any distinctions at all as divine. He thinks all distinction is division or limitation. Limitation in God is the distinction of his infinitude. It will not do, therefore, to think God as this or that, or as not this or that, for thus we should limit him. He must be pure unity, without distinction—yes, he must be above unity, above all thought.
The Hindu, therefore, can not permit the ideas of righteousness and goodness to be applied to Brahm any more than he can admit the application of wickedness and evil. Special gods, Indra, Varuna, Vishnu, Brahma, may be righteous, but Brahm is above goodness and above righteousness, as well as above evil.
The Persian, however, does not accept such a doctrine. He believes that there is Ahura-Mazda (Ormuzd), the lord of all good, and opposed to him is Ahriman, the lord of all evil. The Persian insists on this dualism. Both principles are real; they are in perpetual conflict. This difference in religious principles causes great differences in character between the two peoples.
The Persian was an active people, making war on surrounding nations and fighting to extend the dominion of Ahura-Mazda and to gain a victory over Ahrimanes. The Hindu, on the other hand, in his education, cultivates abstract contemplation and meditation, and does not believe in wars or conflict. The child must be taught how to attain the blessedness of passivity and repose. No active duties for him—no struggles to overcome nature, to slay wild beasts or exterminate the pests of the earth, but he must be mild, and spare animal life, even in tigers, serpents, scorpions, and vermin. The Persian education fits the youth for a career of active warfare against wild beasts and all unclean animals. Clean animals are such as are in the service of light and truth and purity and cleanliness. The unclean do not serve Ahura-Mazda, but darkness and evil and filth and foulness. Unclean beasts are supposed to be tenanted by evil spirits in the service of Ahriman. Not only the horse and cow, but the hedgehog, who roams about at night when evil spirits are abroad, and the beaver, who kills the evil beings in the water, are clean animals. All scavenger animals—all carrion birds also serve Ahura-Mazda.
This principle of good and evil seems to have been at first the principle of light and darkness only. It would seem that Zoroaster converted what was a principle of nature into a spiritual principle. The religion of the Brahmins was also a religion based chiefly on the same distinction of light and darkness, in the early times before their migration from the high table-lands of Bactria, to the southeast, to the Indus valley. But the Brahmin, given to abstract thinking, ascended to the idea of a supreme unity as the origin and final destiny of his Vedic gods of the sky, while the Persian changed light and darkness to moral principles of good and evil, and made their difference more substantial than their unity.
Persian education, in the family and school, trained the youth to ride on horseback, to shoot with the bow and arrow, and, above all things, to speak the truth. This duty to speak the truth is to the Persian before all other duties, because truth is akin to clearness and light, and hence also to the good and pure—to Ahura-Mazda. Falsehood is the setting up of what is not, and hence inconsistent with reality. Hence the veil of falsehood prevents one from seeing reality, and hence it is akin to darkness. Next to truth-speaking is the practice of justice among the Persians. Like the truth, justice is self-consistent, and hence clear and simple. Justice treats each one according to his deed, returning upon him like for like. What one actually does is treated as the reality of his will, and justice is therefore a sort of respect shown toward personal reality. The thief steals property; justice says, “I respect your will; you wish to destroy the right of property, andyourright of property shall be destroyed because it isyourwill. The people who are not thieves all will to respect the right of property, and therefore their property shall be respected. You, thief, shall lose your property, and also the ownership of your limbs: you shall go into prison, and sit still, and no longer possess the freedom of locomotion.” Injustice would make all human action uncertain and obscure, and the darkness of Ahriman would prevail.
Truth-speaking is the worship of reality. If all things and all events are only a dream, it is of no consequence to pay so much respect to them as to be scrupulous of veracity in regard to them. Hence the Hindu makes monstrous fables about things and events, and lets them become the sport of his imagination. Thus we see how deep-reaching the religious principle is, and how widely different the Persian system of education is from the Hindu.
The Chinese revere the past, and make their education consist in memorizing with superstitious exactness the forms of the past—the maxims of Confucius and Mencius. Even the vehicle of literature, the art of writing, requires prodigious efforts of memory to acquire it. “Do not exercise your spontaneity, but conform to the past. Be contented in repeating the thoughts which were uttered twenty-five hundred years ago. Make no new paths; plan out no new undertakings.” The Persian is not content with thepast. He must assist Ahura-Mazda in the great contest with evil and darkness, and hence he must do something new. He must hurry to the front. Along the border-land rages the fight. The man who is content to remain within the domain already conquered is a craven, and does nothing for the extension of the realm of light and goodness, but allows the realm of darkness and evil to hold its own attitude of defiance.
Besides truth-speaking and faithfulness to promises, the Persians prized gymnastics. All boys were trained in throwing the spear and javelin, as well as in shooting the bow and arrow and riding on horse-back. An active life is provided for. This training of the body is for real service in the world. The tortures and mortification of the body in India show a very different object.
The Persian youth were educated at home in the family, chiefly by the mothers, until the seventh year. Then the public education began, under the care of teachers venerable with age and exemplary character. From ten to fifteen years the boys learned prayers and the holy books of Zoroaster, and especially the ceremonies necessary to purification. The belief was that a person became unclean if he touched a corpse of man or of any clean animal. All clean animals became unclean at death, while all unclean animals became clean at death. For death was the symbol of conquest by the opposing power. The Persian who had become unclean must go through a tedious process of purification. It was a process of driving out the evil spirit that had taken possession of him. After various ceremonies of sprinkling himself with earth and water and gomez, he drove the evil demon from his head and body and limbs, and could now approach his fellow men once more and go near sacred fire. The formal ceremony of purification must be undertaken, not only on occasions of touching unclean things, but also at stated periods, in order to counteract unobserved pollution that might have happened. At the age of fifteen the boy put on the sacred girdle, composed of exactly seventy-two threads of camel’s hair or wool, worn day and night for protection from evil spirits. On putting on this girdle, after the ceremony of purification, the youth took a solemn vow to obey the law of Zoroaster.
The school education took place in the public market-place. There were four divisions, one set apart for the boys who had not put on the sacred girdle; another for the youth between fifteen and twenty-five years; another for those between twenty-five and fifty years, and a fourth for the old men, who came when they pleased. The second class, the unmarried youth, passed the night under arms as a police force or a garrison for defense. The boys brought with them their dinner, consisting of bread and water-cresses.
Hunting was practiced by the youth as a proper military training. The youth were compelled to live on such game as they could kill, otherwise they must go hungry. The public education was open to all classes of citizens, but only the boys and not the girls, it seems, received it.
There was special education for the nobility to supplement the public education. It was such education as pages receive by attending court and seeing the fine manners there, observing the looks and behavior of great statesmen and heroes.
The Persian was taught to spread life, plant trees, dig wells, fertilize deserts; especially it was his duty to extend the frontier and carry far and wide the dominion of the great king of Persia, vicegerent of Ormuzd.
The great monarchies of the river valley of the Tigris and Euphrates were subdued and added to the Persian empire. The wonderful cities of Babylon and Nineveh had been the wonders of the world in arts and commerce, and at times the terror of surrounding nations. Cyrus conquered Lydia, and then Babylon. Cambyses conquered Egypt. Darius and Xerxes carried war into Europe, and finally Persia receives its first check from the Greeks, who by-and-by, under Alexander, conquer the whole of the Persian empire.
The Persians were a composite people, no less than twelve tribes or nations being combined by the genius of Cyrus. There seems to have been in the tribe of the Magi a series of degrees indicating progressive culture in wisdom. There are mentioned the herbeds, or apprentices, the moheds, or journeymen, and the destur-moheds, or masters.
The river valley of the Tigris and Euphrates, and the valley of the Nile are wonderfully rich in historic material. We have learned much by means of excavations in the ruins about the ancient civilizations that prevailed there. There was another river valley farther to the north. The Oxus River, that now flows into the sea of Aral, once flowed with the Aral waters into the Caspian Sea. Great nations lived in that river valley, and terrible struggles went on between the Tartaric hordes that came in from the northeast, and Aryan and Semitic tribes on the south.
Persian influence extended with its conquests until it affected in one way or another all the nations about the Mediterranean Sea. Many are the doctrines and customs which have entered European culture, which indicate that influence. Secret societies point back to a derivation from the Persian Magi. Commonly it is some reaction that we discover. The Christian faith was obliged to defend itself often in its early career against some view of God and the world that had come west from Persia. The heresies of Gnosticism and of Neo-Platonism were chiefly of Persian origin. The endeavor to explain nature and man had led to the adoption of such theories as were hostile to the revealed truth. In the early period of the Roman emperors, the Persian worship of Mithra extended very widely among the Roman people.
What was positive with the Persians is the principle of activity, of active contest against the empire of darkness and evil. This principle has survived, we hope, and will survive, as an essential constituent of the faith of all future peoples. No compromise with evil, but its subjugation by light and truth!
ByRev. FRANK S. CHILD.
Oh! weary heart, think notThou art alone to-night!Attendant spirits watch,Unseen by mortal sight.Oh! weary heart, faint not!The Master knows thy need:One word of sincere prayer—He giveth loving heed.Oh! weary heart, yield not!If trials press thee sore:An arm of might is thine,The Lord saith, o’er and o’er.Oh! weary heart, believe!A faith that brings thee peaceIs nobler far than doubt,With hope’s dark, dread surcease.Oh! weary heart, rejoice!Love never wrought in vain;Thou too shalt soon abideWhere suns nor wax nor wane.———Oh! heart, thy wearinessLong, long e’er this has fled;Thou liv’st the larger lifeThough numbered with the dead.
Oh! weary heart, think notThou art alone to-night!Attendant spirits watch,Unseen by mortal sight.Oh! weary heart, faint not!The Master knows thy need:One word of sincere prayer—He giveth loving heed.Oh! weary heart, yield not!If trials press thee sore:An arm of might is thine,The Lord saith, o’er and o’er.Oh! weary heart, believe!A faith that brings thee peaceIs nobler far than doubt,With hope’s dark, dread surcease.Oh! weary heart, rejoice!Love never wrought in vain;Thou too shalt soon abideWhere suns nor wax nor wane.———Oh! heart, thy wearinessLong, long e’er this has fled;Thou liv’st the larger lifeThough numbered with the dead.
Oh! weary heart, think notThou art alone to-night!Attendant spirits watch,Unseen by mortal sight.
Oh! weary heart, think not
Thou art alone to-night!
Attendant spirits watch,
Unseen by mortal sight.
Oh! weary heart, faint not!The Master knows thy need:One word of sincere prayer—He giveth loving heed.
Oh! weary heart, faint not!
The Master knows thy need:
One word of sincere prayer—
He giveth loving heed.
Oh! weary heart, yield not!If trials press thee sore:An arm of might is thine,The Lord saith, o’er and o’er.
Oh! weary heart, yield not!
If trials press thee sore:
An arm of might is thine,
The Lord saith, o’er and o’er.
Oh! weary heart, believe!A faith that brings thee peaceIs nobler far than doubt,With hope’s dark, dread surcease.
Oh! weary heart, believe!
A faith that brings thee peace
Is nobler far than doubt,
With hope’s dark, dread surcease.
Oh! weary heart, rejoice!Love never wrought in vain;Thou too shalt soon abideWhere suns nor wax nor wane.———Oh! heart, thy wearinessLong, long e’er this has fled;Thou liv’st the larger lifeThough numbered with the dead.
Oh! weary heart, rejoice!
Love never wrought in vain;
Thou too shalt soon abide
Where suns nor wax nor wane.
———
Oh! heart, thy weariness
Long, long e’er this has fled;
Thou liv’st the larger life
Though numbered with the dead.
There are men, called chemists, who know a great deal concerning the nature of different kinds of substances, and who, in consequence of this knowledge, are able to bring about very surprising changes and effects. These men have places, termed laboratories, or labor shops, in which they work, and which are divided into distinct chambers, besides being furnished with all sorts of instruments and vessels. Sometimes liquids are put into these chambers and vessels, and there turned into solids. Sometimes both liquids and solids are converted into invisible air. Sometimes beautiful crystals, white and blue, green and red, are brought out of transparent and colorless fluids. Sometimes a few grains of dusty looking powder are made to vanish into smoke with an explosion that shakes the ground for yards; and sometimes waste rubbish is transformed into delicious scents, resembling those which are produced from the violet and the rose. Even dull, black charcoal has been changed into the sparkling and precious diamond. It would require a very large book merely to number the wonderful feats these men of science are able to perform. Chemists, indeed, in the present day can do much more by their knowledge and skill, than magicians pretended they could accomplish in the olden time.
Chemists make use of many very powerful agents in their laboratories, to aid them in carrying out their objects and plans. Among these agents there are two that stand before all the rest both in strength and in general usefulness. These prime assistants of the chemists are fire and water. The water is employed to dissolve substances whose little particles it is desired to bring closely together. When two different liquids thus formed are mixed, all the particles in the two come together and act upon one another. Fire is used to soften substances, and loosen the hold of their little particles upon each other, so that they may afterwards be readily mixed together. Waterdissolvesbodies; that is, makes them liquid by uniting them with itself. Firemeltsbodies; that is, makes them liquid without the aid of water.
Now there is one object which the chemists often have in view, when they put different kinds of substances together, in a dissolved or liquid state, in the chambers and vessels of their laboratories; that is, to get something out of those substances, which was before hidden away in them, in order that they may turn that something to practical use. Thus the chemist mixes together saltpetre, sulphur, and charcoal in the right proportions to make gunpowder. Then having rammed a charge of the gunpowder down into the tube of a gun, with a bullet on the top of a charge, he applies a spark to the gunpowder, and makes it change into smoke and vapor. Something which was hidden away in the gunpowder ceases to be concealed when it is changed into smoke and vapor, and becomes active enough to be able to drive the bullet out of the muzzle of the gun with a force that carries it through the air for a mile, and perhaps then buries it deep in the ground, or in a plank of wood. This is an instance of the way in which chemists produce motion, by changing the state and condition of material substance.
I had occasion the other day to watch a still more interesting example of this strange result of the chemist’s skill. In a chemist’s laboratory, prepared for a particular service, I saw several small chambers of metal, half copper and half zinc, into which were poured blue vitriol and water, and an acid, a partition wall of pipe-clay standing between. The dilute acid and the zinc were slowly turning into white vitriol, which remained dissolved away in the water; but out of this new-made white vitriol there flowed a power, which was conveyed along a wire, and which made a needle, hung up on a pivot before me, twitch from side to side, almost as if it had been a living thing. I was told that this power set free in the solution, in consequence of the changes brought about there, would run along the wire to the distance of a hundred, or even of a thousand miles, and would there make another needle work and twitch in the same way. In short, I was looking at the electric telegraph at work, and learning that the agent which made the signal afar was simply a power that had been hidden away in the different substances the chemist put together in the metal chambers, and that was set free and enabled to operate in the production of independent motion, so soon as those substances acted upon one another, and altered the form and state in which each was existing.
Now, my good friend, your living body, and my own, are laboratories, in which changes of precisely the same kind are constantly brought about; your living body, and my own, are made of an enormous quantity of separate chambers and vessels, very small, it is true, but nevertheless such as can be seen quite distinctly when they are looked for with the microscope. In these small chambers and vessels different kinds of substances are thrown together, exactly as the zinc, and acid, and blue vitriol are in the laboratory-chambers of the electric telegraph. The chambers and vessels of the living laboratory lie between meshes of the supply pipes of the body, and it is indeed their minute cavities which are drenched by the circulating streams of the dissolved food (see “Value of Good Food”), and in which that dissolved food gets to be transformed into flesh and fat, gristle and bone, tendons and skin, fibres and nerves. The blood, which is pumped forth with such vigor from the heart, creeps along slowly through the smallest and furthest branches of the supply-pipes, in order that plenty of time may be given for all these changes to be worked out in the chambers of the frame. But the fibres and skin, the flesh and the nerves, when they have been built up, are also changed into waste substance by admixture with yet other ingredients which the blood brings to the little chambers. In the cavities of the living laboratory, as in those of the electric telegraph, these changes of substance lead to the setting free of agents before concealed, which agents then operate in the production of movements and of other living effects. When I now raise my arm up above my head, I am able to do so because some of the flesh of which my arm is composed, is changed into another kind of substance, the moving power being set free during the change. When I feel this hard stone which I take up in my hand, I am able to do so because some of the substance of which my body is made, is changed into another kind of material at the instant that I feel. This, then, is how strength comes out of food. The food is changed into flesh, and the flesh is converted into two distinct parts, waste substance and moving and living power. The power was originally concealed in the food, placed there by the provident hand of the Divine Author of Nature, in order that it might be forthcoming for this useful service when it was required. In simple words, material substance is destroyed in order that power may be extracted from it. Material substance, in living bodies, is turned into power. This is the mechanism by which God works in these, the most wonderful of the productions of his hands.
It will hardly be necessary, after all that has been already said elsewhere, to point out that the prime assistant of the chemist, water, acts in the living laboratory exactly as it does in the artificial ones. It loosens, dissolves, and mingles together the various substances which are to act upon one another. It is in the dissolved food, and the liquid blood, which flow into all the chambers and vessels of the living body, and which build up in them the fibres of living structure, and then transform and destroy those fibres, in order that the power there stored away may be obtained.
But it is still more remarkable that the other prime assistant of the chemist, fire, should also be employed in the living frame, in loosening its particles, and in quickening the operation of the various changes of substance upon which the production of power depends. It has been shown that in the body of a full-grown man there is as much heat produced in a single day, as would serve to make eighty pints of cold water boil, and it has also been stated that this heat is produced in the body exactly in the same way heat is produced in the steam engine; that is, by the burning of fuel. The heat is set free by the change of condition in material substance, precisely as power is procured. When the water employed in a steam engine is made to boil, the heat that causes the boiling issues from the coal, because that substance ceases to be coal, and turns into smoke and vapor. Just so the fuel substance of the body ceases to be fuel substance, starch, sugar, and fat—and turns into vapor, which is steamed away, leaving the heat which was concealed in the substance to warm the frame.
The furnace which is kept burning in the living laboratory, to quicken all the operations which are being carried forward in it, and to furnish its strength, is a slow and gentle one. It never burns quickly enough to cause light and flame, as common fires do. The body is never even raised to the heat of boiling water, which is far less than that of burning coal. It is only made of blood-heat; that is, sixty-eight degrees of the heat-scale warmer than freezing water,—in its warmest parts. Boiling water is one hundred and eighty degrees of the same heat-scale warmer than freezing water. The furnace of the living body sometimes burns a little more quickly than it ought, then the body gets warmed into fever. Occasionally it burns considerably less quickly than it ought, then the body is chilled, and its living actions and powers are slothful and languid. Upon the whole, however, its heat is steadily kept up at pretty much what it ought to be, that is, at one hundred degrees of the scale, which gives thirty-two degrees for frost.
Now this is how the furnace of the living body is kept smouldering on in its gentle and even way. Little blasts of air are constantly puffed in upon the burning fuel. That out-and-in play of your chest as you breathe,—that is the puffing of air blasts into certain chambers of your living laboratory, to keep up its smouldering fires. The more quickly and deeply you breathe, the warmer your body becomes; and the more slowly and softly you breathe, the colder that body remains. The same action which blows a fresh wind through the living frame to clear away its impure vapors, also serves to fan its hidden flames, and keep its fuel burning. When the breathing is stopped the fires of the body go out, just as those in a common furnace do, when their air-blasts are arrested, and the body becomes dead cold.
You will remember that when the fresh air is drawn into your lungs as you breathe, it enters a large quantity of little cavities or chambers, which have, all of them, a fine net-work of the supply-pipes stretched out upon their walls; and that as the blood rushes on in its course through these supply-pipes, it sucks air into itself from the air-cavities, and carries it, in its own streams, to all parts of the living structure. Air goes with the blood to that strong force-pump, the heart, and is then pumped out with the blood to every crevice and fibre of the body. Every part of the body therefore receives, by means of the supply-pipes and in the blood, heat-fanning air, as well as supporting food.
When air reaches the living flesh and nerves, by thus flowing to them in the blood-streams of the supply pipes, it sets up those changes of substance in their structures which lead to the production of movement, and feeling, and other kinds of living power. When it reaches the dissolved fuel, contained in the blood and in the various little furnace-chambers of the laboratory, it sets up those changes in the fuel which lead to the production of warmth. The fuel is slowly burned in the blood and in the chambers of the frame, and there gives out warmth, as a fire does whilst it is burning in a grate. This warmth consequently heats the blood, and the warm blood carries its heat wherever it goes. The entire body thus becomes as warm as the blood, or nearly so.
Now, where do you think all the heat originally comes from, that is procured from burning fuel? The heat is stored away in the fuel, as one of the ingredients of its composition, until it is burned. But where was the heat obtained from, which is stored up in the fuel? Of course, when the fuel was made, that heat-store had to be supplied to it, as well as its other ingredients. First let us see when and how the fuel was made, and perhaps we shall then be able more perfectly to understand this matter of its warming qualities and power.
In the case of coal, it is not a very difficult task to trace the stored-up heat to its source. But what a surprising truth it is, which becomes apparent when the task has been performed. The heat is, so to speak,bottled-up sunshine!Coal is dug up from deep mines hollowed out in the earth. But at one time it was wood, growing on the outer surface of the globe, and covered with foliage which was spread out into the genial air. Traces of the leaves and stems from which it has been made, are still discovered in its substance. Long centuries ago, the vast forests containing these trees, were overthrown by some tremendous earthquake, and swept away by strong floods of water, and so the tree-stems were at last deposited in hollow basins, and were there buried up by millions and millions of tons of heavy rock and soil. There, where they were buried, they have remained, turning more and more black and dense through the process of slow decay, until they have been dug up piece-meal to feed the furnaces and fires of the existing generation of men.
Now, you know very well that trees only grow in warm weather, and in sunshine. In winter time their branches stick out stiff and bare, and do not increase in the slightest degree. But in summer time they clothe themselves with beautiful masses of foliage, and suck in from both the air and the soil large quantities of vapor, of liquid food, and of sunshine. All these they combine together into fresh layers of timber. All these therefore were buried in the ground as timber, when those old forests were overthrown which form the coal-beds. Timber cannot be made in cold weather, because heat is one of its necessary ingredients. But as all the warmth of the weather comes from the sun, it is the sun’s warmth which is stored away in the coal, and which is set free and made useful when the coal is burned.
The grand source of all warmth on the earth is that brilliant light which God has placed in the sky to rule over the day. In a summer’s day you sit down in the bright sunshine, and bask in its warmth. In winter time, when the sky is covered with clouds, and ice and snow lie thick over the ground, you place yourself indoors near the glowing fire; but strange to say, it is still the sun’s genial warmth that you experience. If the fire be of coal, it is warmth which was borrowed from the sun centuries ago. Reflect for an instant upon this marvellous arrangement entered upon, for your comfort, ages before you were yourself called into being! When those coal-making forests spread their broad masses of foliage out in the sunshine, there were no human creatures existing upon the earth; and, indeed, not even the flocks and herds, which are so essential to man’s welfare, had been framed. Neither cattle nor sheep could have found pasture on the plains which yielded them support. The great duty of those forests must have been to store up genial warmth for then uncreated generations ofbeings, who in due season were to appear, and to avail themselves of the provision thus made.
But suppose that you had neither fresh nor stored-up sunshine to fall back upon, and had to depend entirely for your warmth upon that furnace which is carried about in your living laboratory, and kept alight by the puffing of your breath. Still that internal heat comes originally out of the sunshine. Just before the time when man was placed upon the earth, the beautiful family of plants was created, which fills the gardens with roses, and which yields the apple, the pear, the cherry, the plum, the apricot, the peach, the almond, the strawberry, and the raspberry. Just at the very time was planted on the globe, the vegetable tribe which furnishes the different kinds of nourishing grain, and which provides pasture for grazing animals. The fruits, the grasses, and the grain were all commissioned to extract power and warmth from the sunshine, and to store it up in such a form that the influences could conveniently be introduced into the interior of the living body. Living animals which are warmed by the fuel contained in their food, procure their heat from sunshine that was stored up, as it were, but yesterday. When animals live upon flesh, and get their strength out of the lean fibre, and their warmth out of the fat of this food, still it must be remembered that the flesh has been fed on the grass of the field just before. The main office of the plant in creation is thus to store up in a fixed and convenient form supplies of active energies which can be turned to account by animated frames. The plant effects this end by preparing the food upon which animals live;—that food which, besides keeping the body in repair, serves also to furnish it with warmth, and to give it strength and power. How admirable and beneficent is this plan, whereby the genial influence of life-quickening sunshine is economized and preserved for the service of one-half of creation, by the instrumentality of the other half!
In the far distant regions of the north, there are places on the earth to which no daylight or sunshine comes for four long months at a time. During this gloomy period the ground goes on, from hour to hour, scattering more and more of its heat, until it is almost as cold as the chill space in which the great world is poised, and has indeed more than 100 degrees of frost. The land and the water alike get covered up by one broad and thick sheet of never-melting ice and snow. There is not a leaf, or a grass blade, or a vegetable stalk any where in the wide white desolation. But there are animals and human beings, who are born and die, who maintain a prolonged existence in it. Let us just look in upon one of the households in this drear frost land, and see what the odd community is like.
In the midst of a broad snow waste, through which the sharp wind is howling with a fearful sound, there is a small mound nearly covered by the snow-drift. We perceive this mound by faint starlight, the only gleam that comes down from the sky. A few feet away from the mound we discover a small hole blocked up by a lump of snow. We move the lump aside, and stretching ourselves out at full length on the ground, we squeeze into the hole head foremost, and crawl along a narrow passage, burrowed out in the firm snow for about a dozen feet. We then find ourselves in a vault ten feet wide and fifteen feet long, and so low that we can scarcely sit upright within it. This is the inside of the mound. It is the interior of a hut, or dwelling-place, of these people of the drear frost land. The walls of the hut are built of large stones piled together, with a padding of frozen moss covered over them, and with thick ice and snow covered over the moss.
There are twelve living individuals, men, women, and children, huddled together in this close vault. They have no fire to keep them warm. Indeed, there is neither coal nor wood which they could use to light a fire, within many hundred miles. There is in one corner of the hut a broad shoulder-blade of a large quadruped laid flat, and in the hollow of this blade there is some crushed seal’s blubber, and some soft moss, with long cotton-like rootlets. The end of the moss is burning with a small, dull, smoky flame. This is the only artificial source of light and warmth within the hut.
But these people are all of them almost entirely naked; and they are dripping with perspiration, they are so warm. Outside of the hut, in the dim starlight, the air is actually a hundred degrees colder than freezing water. Yet inside, in the nearly as dim lamp light, there are almost as many degrees of warmth. The air is there as hot as the hottest summer day in England! All this heat is produced in the slow furnaces of those twelve individuals’ own living bodies. They have lost the sunshine for months, and everything around them is much colder than ice. They are living upon the flesh and blubber of seals, and sea-horses and white bears, animals which they killed before the sun went away, the meat being kept for them through their long winter by the preserving power of the frost. The sunshine of past away summers has given its heat to plants; the seals and sea-horses have fed on those plants, or upon smaller animals which have done so, and have transferred the heat into their own blubber; and now the benighted savages are getting the heat out of the blubber to keep their own flesh and blood warm and unfrozen. In that close hut, where no sunshine can come for months, the savage inmates have nevertheless abundant stores of the warmth of sunshine, which have been laid up and preserved for their service. Such care Providence takes even of these, the rude and barbarous children, whose lot he has cast in the desolate outskirts of the world!
The rude people who dwell in the cold frost-land of the north, remain warm through their long, severe winter, without the aid of artificial fires, because they economize the warmth which is produced in the slow furnaces of their bodies, and prevent it from being scattered away as quickly as it is generated. If they were to set themselves down in the open air, instead of in their close huts, the warmth produced in their bodies would be thrown off from the outer surfaces of these as fast as it was set free from the fuel. In the close huts, on the other hand, this warmth first heats the air contained within the stone walls, and is then a very long time in getting any further, and so prevents more heat from being rapidly scattered from the internal furnace.
These human inhabitants of the northern ice land have a companion in their desolate haunts, who does not build himself a hut after their fashion, but who has instead a somewhat similar protection against the severe cold of the long northern winter, provided by nature. This creature goes upon four legs, sometimes swimming in the water, and sometimes stalking along upon the ice. He is very powerful and fierce, is armed with sharp claws two inches long, and has teeth which can bite through thick and hard metal. He is able to tear iron and tin to pieces as if they were merely paper or pasteboard, and he feeds upon seals, birds, foxes and deer, which he manages to catch by his cunning and address. This savage creature is often killed by the rude natives, who hunt him with dogs and spears, but in the absence of man he is the fell tyrant of the domain. He prowls about on the snow-wastes, destroying every living body which comes within his reach; and he remains exposed to the severest cold of the long dark winter, lying upon the ice and snow, without having his life-blood frozen by its chill power. The reason of his safety is that he wears a nature-provided great coat of very warm fur. His skin is every where covered by long shaggy hair of a yellowish-white color, which has a thick down-like under-growthclosely packed beneath. This coat of soft fur is so long and thick, that it prevents the heat produced in the slow furnace of his body from escaping into the cold air. It answers the same purpose to him, that the snow-covered hut does to his human neighbors.
Men have no warm shaggy coats of this kind furnished for their use by nature, but they are enabled to supply the deficiency through the exertion of their own intelligence and ingenuity. They borrow warm covering from other creatures whenever they stand in need of such aid. Thus the rude human inhabitant of the ice land hunts and kills the bear and then before he feasts upon its flesh, he strips the fur robe from the carcass, and adapts it to his own naked body. So soon as the northern ice-people come out from their huts into the cold air, they put on coats and trousers of bear-skin, with the long sharp claws pointing out as toes to their boots. These odd savages look almost like small bears themselves when their white fur hoods are drawn over their heads, and their limbs are compactly muffled up in the claw-tipped robes which they have taken from the bodies of their prey.
Men in civilized lands do not put the skins of other animals upon their own bodies, but they do what is precisely the same thing in effect. They borrow silk from the worm, or cotton from the grass, or flax from the linen-plant, or wool from the sheep, and by their constructive skill, they spin and weave these substances into cloths, which are much more convenient than raw skins for the fabrication of garments, and which can be made as warm, when this is required. In every case, however, this artificial clothing acts in the same way as natural fur. It is warm, because it prevents the heat, which is produced in the slow furnace within the body from escaping quickly from the little chambers of the living laboratory. Clothing does not really warm the body, it merely keeps it warm; prevents it from being cooled as it would be if this covering were not placed between its surface and the outer air.
Warm bodies constantly grow colder, when situated in spaces which are more chill than themselves, provided always that there be no furnaces, quick or slow, within them, for generating new supplies of heat. They do so, because they give the excess of heat which they contain to the neighboring space, in the attempt to make it as warm as themselves. Warm bodies are always very generous, and disinclined to keep what substances near to them are less freely supplied with. If a metallic pint pot, filled with boiling water, be placed on the ground in air which has only the warmth of a March English day—some fifty degrees of the heat scale,—the water gets colder minute by minute until it remains no warmer than the air and ground which are around it. The rapidity with which warm bodies are cooled depends upon how much colder than themselves the space around them is. If one pint pot of boiling water be placed in out-of-door air that is cold as freezing water, and another be placed at the same time in a room where the air has the warmth of a mild summer day, the former will be deprived of all its excess of heat much sooner than the latter.
Warm bodies lose their excess of heat in two ways. They shoot it off into surrounding space. This is what learned men call “raying” or “radiating” it away. The sun, you know, shoots or rays its heat off to the earth, and so does the fire to your body when you stand before it. But warm bodies also communicate their heat to substances which touch them, provided those substances be colder than themselves. Place your hand upon a cold metal knob, and you will feel that your hand grows colder as it gives portions of its heat to the knob. This is what learned men call “conveying” heat.
[To be concluded.]