By ADA IDDINGS GALE.
Midst clash of arms, she comes, and glittering spear,Bold, bright and beautiful, her flashing eye;Crowned, gemmed and robed in cloth of Tyrian dye.Palmyra’s pride, unequaled far or near.Proudly she moves and with imperious mienViews with a sweeping glance each column o’er,While they in rapture kneeling do adore,And rising, vow allegiance to their queen.The trumpet’s peal, a thousand helmets shine,The long ranks into perfect order pass,And at the command move on. Alas!That fortune’s star for such should e’er decline,That pomp of pride, that dreams of regal swayShould like the mists of morning melt away.
Midst clash of arms, she comes, and glittering spear,Bold, bright and beautiful, her flashing eye;Crowned, gemmed and robed in cloth of Tyrian dye.Palmyra’s pride, unequaled far or near.Proudly she moves and with imperious mienViews with a sweeping glance each column o’er,While they in rapture kneeling do adore,And rising, vow allegiance to their queen.The trumpet’s peal, a thousand helmets shine,The long ranks into perfect order pass,And at the command move on. Alas!That fortune’s star for such should e’er decline,That pomp of pride, that dreams of regal swayShould like the mists of morning melt away.
Midst clash of arms, she comes, and glittering spear,Bold, bright and beautiful, her flashing eye;Crowned, gemmed and robed in cloth of Tyrian dye.Palmyra’s pride, unequaled far or near.Proudly she moves and with imperious mienViews with a sweeping glance each column o’er,While they in rapture kneeling do adore,And rising, vow allegiance to their queen.The trumpet’s peal, a thousand helmets shine,The long ranks into perfect order pass,And at the command move on. Alas!That fortune’s star for such should e’er decline,That pomp of pride, that dreams of regal swayShould like the mists of morning melt away.
Midst clash of arms, she comes, and glittering spear,
Bold, bright and beautiful, her flashing eye;
Crowned, gemmed and robed in cloth of Tyrian dye.
Palmyra’s pride, unequaled far or near.
Proudly she moves and with imperious mien
Views with a sweeping glance each column o’er,
While they in rapture kneeling do adore,
And rising, vow allegiance to their queen.
The trumpet’s peal, a thousand helmets shine,
The long ranks into perfect order pass,
And at the command move on. Alas!
That fortune’s star for such should e’er decline,
That pomp of pride, that dreams of regal sway
Should like the mists of morning melt away.
The man of the least mental powers may be perfect if he move within the limits of his own capacities and abilities, but even the noblest advantages become obscured, annulled, and annihilated, when symmetry, that is so indispensable, is broken through. This mischief will still oftener appear in these present times; for who will be able to satisfy the requirements of a present ever calling for more exertion and in the highest state of excitement?—Goethe.
By JAMES KERR.
Failure in any enterprise often rouses to fresh effort. You fall in order to rise again. You are thrown down that you may rise higher. Failure may thus carry in its bosom a rich harvest of good. In men of spirit, who are not easily cowed, it acts as a spur to exertion. Every time such a man is thrown down, and, like the fabled Titan, touches mother earth, he rises again with renewed strength. Many a great orator has failed ignominiously in his first attempt; but if he has the right stuff in him he is not disheartened. Like the late Lord Beaconsfield, he says indignantly: “The time will come when you will hear me!” He says it, and he keeps his word. We have a similar instance in M. Thiers, the French historian and statesman. When as a young man he made hisdebutin the Chamber of Deputies, his speech was not a success. He felt that he had failed. On returning home he said to his friends, “I have been beaten; but never mind, I am not cast down, I am making my first essay in arms. Beaten to-day, beaten to-morrow; it is the fate of the soldier and the orator. In the tribune, as under fire, defeat is as useful as a victory. We begin again!” Such was the spirit of the man, such his indomitable resolution; and we all know that his efforts were at last crowned with complete success.
Failure, disappointment, and difficulties to be surmounted, doubtless contribute an element of strength to the character. We thus learn to persevere in a difficult task. Speaking of the failures, delays, and obstacles met with at the siege of Troy, Shakspere puts these words into the mouth of Agamemnon—
“Which are, indeed, naught elseBut the protractive trials of the great Jove,To find persistive constancy in man.”
“Which are, indeed, naught elseBut the protractive trials of the great Jove,To find persistive constancy in man.”
“Which are, indeed, naught elseBut the protractive trials of the great Jove,To find persistive constancy in man.”
“Which are, indeed, naught else
But the protractive trials of the great Jove,
To find persistive constancy in man.”
Trials, misfortunes and difficulties of every kind, if properly met, are a means of discipline. In the struggle with them we are made stronger. They brace the mind, and give it firmness. A disposition naturally gentle requires this tonic to prepare it for the rougher duties of life. Many can say that the disappointments and trials they have met with have given a firmness to their temper which was much needed, and have been of the greatest service to them.
I have never known any one who had difficulties to contend with in his youth, and who wrestled with them successfully, who was not thankful for them later in life. They felt that these difficulties, resisted and overcome, helped to mould their character and make them stronger and better men than they would otherwise have been.
We read in the letters of Thomas Erskine, of Linlathen, as follows: “A friend of mine once repeated to me a sentence which he thought utter nonsense, but to me it seemed to have a meaning.What were rocks made for, my brethren? Even that mariners might avoid them.There was a gain in having avoided rocks, which there would not be if rocks had never existed.”
In the same manner we may say, What was evil made for? Even that we may avoid it. There is a gain in having avoided and resisted evil, which there would not be if evil had never existed.
The trials and troubles of life afford an education to which no other is equal. We have not the finest type of character in the monk and the nun, who lead a life of seclusion far away from the evil of the world. Their virtues are only negative. It is not among those who are shut up within stone walls and jealously guarded, that you obtain the noblest type of character. On the contrary, it is among those who have had to struggle with evil in all its forms in the strife and conflict of life. In this way virtue is strengthened, and a character formed nobler than a life of mere innocence could impart.
It is seen that in those places where there is the greatest amount of vice, there are also to be found many examples of the greatest virtue. It is said that nowhere are there such good people as in London, and the reason assigned is that nowhere are there so many bad people. The Londoner lives in the midst of temptations which have to be avoided and resisted—thus the habit of virtue and of self-control is formed. Those who are good, in spite of manifold temptations to evil, are likely to be very good. Their virtue will be of a more robust type than that of those who are immured in nunneries, and who are kept innocent by temptation being removed out of their way.
There are two ways of dealing with mankind. You may remove them from every temptation, and thus keep them innocent in outward act. Or you may place them in the midst of temptations, trusting to their power of resisting them. You wish, for example, to guard a man from the habit of drunkenness. You shut him up within stone walls, where the very smell of drink is unknown; or you place him in a lonely island, where there is no beverage to be had stronger than pure water.
In this way you get rid of the temptation, but you sacrifice the man. You make of him a nonentity. Others, not less wise, would pursue a different course. They would leave him a free agent in the world, with all its trials and temptations. The probability is he would defend himself from the danger; for, after all, even in the most drink-loving nations, it is only a small proportion of the population that give way to this vice. This latter method has the advantage, instead of sacrificing the man, of improving him. It contributes an element of strength to his character, and trains him to be a brave soldier in the battle of life.
There is much in this avoidance of evil and keeping it in check. It is the great means available for the development of our moral nature. What exercise is to the body, resistance to evil is to the mind.
By R. HEATH.
The recreations of the better class of Paris workmen wear a character of Arcadian simplicity.
On fêtes, and especially during that of the Republic, which, though nominally confined to the fourteenth of July, continues for several Sundays afterward, there is much dancing and all the ordinary amusements of a fair.
The first day of the week, is, however, only a holiday once a month, for the majority of workmen. On the afternoon of pay-Sunday the workman takes his family outside the barrier for a walk into the country. They have a simple dinner at one of the numerous restaurants in the neighborhood, and wander in the woods, plucking the wild flowers, or find a quiet nook, where one of the party reads aloud. These happy afternoons fill the workman’s heart with joy, and he begins to recall his childhood and to talk of his old home in some distant province. He takes his wine, is joyously excited, but nothing more; the whole family return by train or tram-car, laden with lilac or wild flowers, and are safe in bed by eleven o’clock.
Saturday evening is the favorite time for the theater. The workman prefers the drama, and if the scene is pathetic, is easily moved to tears.
On Sunday afternoon a few visit the Louvre, the Luxembourg, and the Salon, and other picture galleries when open. They are observed to fix their attention mostly on historical scenes, or pictures which touch the feelings; a scene from the Inquisition, a mother weeping over her children, or an inundation, or a famine.
Compared with the German, the Paris workman can hardly be said to possess any musical faculty whatever. The loud and harsh noises to be heard night and day in Paris indicate thatthe popular ear must be in an almost infantine condition. Cracking their whips with the utmost violence is the ceaseless delight of Parisian drivers, and during the fête and for many days after, the urchins on the street render life unsupportable by constant detonations of gunpowder.
To judge from the way the workmen gather round bookstalls, and the avidity with which the young among them may be seen devouring a book while waiting for the tram, reading must be a real enjoyment to the more intelligent. I have seen a young fellow in a blouse reading a book as he sat astride on the back of a heavy cart-horse. A friend, a lady who has made friends with a family at Belleville, finds them not only to possess a good library, but to be well acquainted with French literature. When a workman is a reader his taste will be good. He will despise novels, especially of the vicious order; his favorite books are histories of the Revolution, such as Lamartine’s “Girondins;” Louis Blanc’s “Dix Ans;” “Histoire de Deux-Décembre,” etc.; and for classics, Voltaire, Rousseau, and perhaps Corneille.
If in the present adult population many may be found with literary and artistic tastes, the workmen of the next generation will be educated men, in the vulgar sense of the word; for it would be difficult to give adequate expression to the fury with which the instruction of the people is pressed forward. All classes combine; the Republicans because they sincerely believe that popular instruction is the great panacea for all the ills of the world; Conservatives, because they hope that it will make the people reasonable; Catholics, because they fear to lose even those who still hold to the church.
Primary instruction is now compulsory and gratuitous. The choice of the school rests with the father or guardian, but he can not neglect to have his child instructed by some one and somewhere. The communal schools are excellent, and the greatest pains taken with the instruction. For the present generation there are multitudes of lecture courses, popular and gratuitous. I have no means of exactly knowing the number, but it is said that there are now in Paris during the season as many as 2,000 courses of lectures of one kind or another. A very great number of these are open to the public.
In a speech made last December at the West London School of Art, Mr. Mundella, M.P., stated that he had recently been in France for the purpose of inquiring into the new system of education, which came into operation on the 1st of October last year, and that while there he had spent some time in trying to ascertain the progress the French were making in giving instruction in art. The Vice-President of the Council declared himself “perfectly astounded by the facts that had come to his knowledge on the subject. He had seen in Paris placards, six feet long, offering gratuitous instruction to every person employed in certain trades who would come and accept it. He found schools of art, which were attended by hundreds and thousands of students, in every part of the country. These schools were supported, not only by government aid, but by the different municipalities out of the local rates and taxes. Thus all the artisans of Paris, and a large number of those in the country, were receiving gratuitous art instruction. The Paris municipality expended £32,000 in this way last year, and that sum will be largely exceeded during the present year. He had brought with him the ‘Paris Budget for Education’ for next year (1883), and he found from it that that city with its population of 1,900,000 would spend on education double the amount that was expended for the education of the four millions who lived in London.”
Why then may we not hope to see many Garfields in the French Republic? The first great difficulty is the strong feeling of caste which exists as powerfully in the workman as in any other class.
M. Poulot has related an amusing instance of the way a young lady of the middle class and her mother turned away from him with a kind of horror when they learnt that he actuallyworkedin a factory, and helped to make the steam engines. But I have met with an instance quite as startling on the other side. Meeting at the house of a mutual friend, an orator, who, a few days before, I had heard deliver a strong philippic against the government, at a meeting mainly composed of workmen, and on a question of interest to them, I asked him to introduce me to one of his friends. He assured me that he only knew them in the meetings, but that he did not know the address of any. Nothing could give a stronger impression of the immense chasm between the working class and those not actually members of it, than to find one of their prominent advocates—a man who, I believe, has been devoted for years to their cause—without a single private friend among working-men.—Good Words.
By GABRIEL MONOD.
France has just lost an author who, though he never wrote in French, had made France his adopted country, and had been adopted by her as one of her most illustrious novelists—Ivan Tourgénief. From the time when the petty persecution of the Russian government obliged him to leave his native land, he settled in France with his friends the Viardots, paying only short occasional visits to Russia. It was at Bougival, near Paris, that he died on the third of September, of a painful disease from which he had been suffering for more than two years. His works were often translated into French from the manuscript itself, and appeared simultaneously in French and in Russian; and though he depicted Russian types and manners exclusively, his reputation was as great in Paris as at St. Petersburg, and he passed with the general public for a great French writer. He has contributed, more than any one else, to make Russia understood in France, and to create a sympathy between the two nations. Contemporary Russia lives complete in his works. In his “Memoirs of a Russian Nobleman,” or “Recollections of a Sportsman,” he has given expression to the sufferings, the melancholy, the poetry, of the Russian country-folk, and prepared the way for the emancipation of the peasants; in “A Nest of Nobles” he has depicted the monotonous life of the lesser gentry, living on their small fortunes in the heart of Russia; in “Dimitri Roudine,” in “Smoke,” and in “The Vernal Waters,” we find those Russian types which are met with all over Europe—those nomads whose incoherent brains are seething with all sorts of ideas, social, political, and philosophical; those spirits in search of an ideal and a career, whom the narrow and suffocating social life of Russia has turned into idlers and weaklings; those worldlings, with their eccentric or vulgar frivolity; those women, amongst whom we may find all that is most cruel in coquetry and most sublime in self-devotion. Last of all, in “Fathers and Sons,” he has revealed, with a prophetic touch, the first symptoms of that moral malady of Nihilism which is eating at the heart of modern Russia, and in “Virgin Soil” he has given us a faithful and impartial description of the society created by the Nihilistic spirit. Tourgénief is a realist; his personages are real, his pictures are drawn from life, his works are full of true facts; but he is at the same time a true artist, not only in virtue of the power with which he reproduces what he has seen, but because he has the faculty of raising his personages to the dignity of human types of lasting truth and universal significance, and because he describes, not all he sees, but only what strikes the imagination and moves the heart. He is wholesomely objective; he does not describe his heroes, he makes them act and speak; the reader sees and hears and knows them as if they were living people—loves them and is sorry for them—hates and despises them. Tourgénief is one of those novelists who have created the greatest number of living types; he is one of those in whom we find the largest, the most sensitive, the most human heart. He has shown, like Dickens, all that warmth of heart can add to genius.—The Contemporary Review.
By FREDERICK LANGBRIDGE.
When I was quite a tiny mite,And life a joyful ditty,I used to know a poor old wightWho fiddled through the city.Alas! it’s thirty years ago—Timeisso quaint and flighty!And now I’ve mites myself, you know,And not so very mighty.And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp;He’s guessed the awful riddle,And, haply, got a golden harpIn place of that old fiddle.And yet, methinks, I see him now—So clear the memory lingers—His long grey hair, his puckered brow,His trembling, grimy fingers,The comforter that dangled downBeyond his waist a long way,The beaver hat with battered crown,He’d pause to brush—the wrong way,The brown surtout that still could bragIts buttons down the middle,And, crowning all, the greenish bagThat held the sacred fiddle.Two tunes he played, and only two,One over, one beginning;“God Save the Queen’s” collapse we knewWas “Kitty Clover’s” inning.How startlingly the bow behaved—Curveted, jerked, and bounded—The while our gracious queen was saved,And knavish tricks confounded!And oh! the helpless, hopeless woe,Brimful and running over,In (veryslow) the o—o—ohOf bothering Kitty Clover!And so he’d jerk and file and squeakLike twenty thousand hinges,While every sympathetic cheekWas racked with shoots and twinges.The lawyer left his lease or will,The workman stopped his hammer,The druggist ceased to roll the pill,And ran to calm the clamor.From doors and windows jingled downA dancing shower of copper,Accompanied by many a frown,And sometimes speech improper.He gathered up the grudging dole,And sought a different station,But always with a bitter soul,And deep humiliation.For what though music win you pence,If praise it fail to win you?If fees are paid to hurry hence,And never to continue?“Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes sayTo any youthful scholar;“They’d rather grub for brass to-day,Than listen to Apoller.”And so with quaint, pathetic face,Aggrieved and disappointed,The minstrel moved from place to place,And mourned the times disjointed.His hat was browner than of yore,His grizzled head was greyer,And none had ever cried “Encore,”Or praised the poor old player.I came to feel (and was not wrong)—His day was nearly over—He’d not be bothered very longBy cruel Kitty Clover.One day, within a shady square,Where people lounged or sat round,He’d played his second woeful air,And now he took the hat round.He met with many a gibe and grin,With coarser disaffection,The while he tottered out and in,Receiving the collection.At length he stopped, with downcast eye,Beneath a lime tree’s cover,Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy,Beside her handsome lover.Half hidden in her leafy place,The modest little sitterJust glanced into the fiddler’s face,And read his story bitter.Unskilled in life and worldly ways,By womanhood’s divining,She knew the minstrel’s soul for praiseAnd sympathy was pining.Herself with all a heart could need,No dearest dream denied her,She felt her gentle spirit bleedFor that poor wretch beside her.She hung her head a little while,Then, growing somewhat bolder,She rose, and with a blush and smile,Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder.“How charmingly you play,” she said.“How nice to be so clever!My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red)“Could sit entranced for ever.I’ve taken lessons—all in vain;My touch is simply hateful.Oh! if you’d play those tunes again,I’d be so very grateful.”He rosined up his rusty bow(His eyes were brimming over),Then (o—o—oh!) meandered slowThrough endless “Kitty Clover.”He’d suffered many a cruel wrongAmid a sordid nation;He’d waited wearily and long—At last the compensation!What cared he now for snub and sneerFrom churlish fools around him?In those sweet eyes he saw a tear,And felt that fame had crowned him.And you, my friends, may laugh or frown,And still I’ll risk the saying,That angels stooped from glory downTo hear the fiddler playing.And he that holds the golden pen,That chief of all the bright ones,Who registers the deeds of men,The wrong ones and the right ones—He oped the book, and did recordA sweet and gracious deed there—A deed performed to Christ the LordThat he shall smile to read there.
When I was quite a tiny mite,And life a joyful ditty,I used to know a poor old wightWho fiddled through the city.Alas! it’s thirty years ago—Timeisso quaint and flighty!And now I’ve mites myself, you know,And not so very mighty.And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp;He’s guessed the awful riddle,And, haply, got a golden harpIn place of that old fiddle.And yet, methinks, I see him now—So clear the memory lingers—His long grey hair, his puckered brow,His trembling, grimy fingers,The comforter that dangled downBeyond his waist a long way,The beaver hat with battered crown,He’d pause to brush—the wrong way,The brown surtout that still could bragIts buttons down the middle,And, crowning all, the greenish bagThat held the sacred fiddle.Two tunes he played, and only two,One over, one beginning;“God Save the Queen’s” collapse we knewWas “Kitty Clover’s” inning.How startlingly the bow behaved—Curveted, jerked, and bounded—The while our gracious queen was saved,And knavish tricks confounded!And oh! the helpless, hopeless woe,Brimful and running over,In (veryslow) the o—o—ohOf bothering Kitty Clover!And so he’d jerk and file and squeakLike twenty thousand hinges,While every sympathetic cheekWas racked with shoots and twinges.The lawyer left his lease or will,The workman stopped his hammer,The druggist ceased to roll the pill,And ran to calm the clamor.From doors and windows jingled downA dancing shower of copper,Accompanied by many a frown,And sometimes speech improper.He gathered up the grudging dole,And sought a different station,But always with a bitter soul,And deep humiliation.For what though music win you pence,If praise it fail to win you?If fees are paid to hurry hence,And never to continue?“Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes sayTo any youthful scholar;“They’d rather grub for brass to-day,Than listen to Apoller.”And so with quaint, pathetic face,Aggrieved and disappointed,The minstrel moved from place to place,And mourned the times disjointed.His hat was browner than of yore,His grizzled head was greyer,And none had ever cried “Encore,”Or praised the poor old player.I came to feel (and was not wrong)—His day was nearly over—He’d not be bothered very longBy cruel Kitty Clover.One day, within a shady square,Where people lounged or sat round,He’d played his second woeful air,And now he took the hat round.He met with many a gibe and grin,With coarser disaffection,The while he tottered out and in,Receiving the collection.At length he stopped, with downcast eye,Beneath a lime tree’s cover,Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy,Beside her handsome lover.Half hidden in her leafy place,The modest little sitterJust glanced into the fiddler’s face,And read his story bitter.Unskilled in life and worldly ways,By womanhood’s divining,She knew the minstrel’s soul for praiseAnd sympathy was pining.Herself with all a heart could need,No dearest dream denied her,She felt her gentle spirit bleedFor that poor wretch beside her.She hung her head a little while,Then, growing somewhat bolder,She rose, and with a blush and smile,Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder.“How charmingly you play,” she said.“How nice to be so clever!My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red)“Could sit entranced for ever.I’ve taken lessons—all in vain;My touch is simply hateful.Oh! if you’d play those tunes again,I’d be so very grateful.”He rosined up his rusty bow(His eyes were brimming over),Then (o—o—oh!) meandered slowThrough endless “Kitty Clover.”He’d suffered many a cruel wrongAmid a sordid nation;He’d waited wearily and long—At last the compensation!What cared he now for snub and sneerFrom churlish fools around him?In those sweet eyes he saw a tear,And felt that fame had crowned him.And you, my friends, may laugh or frown,And still I’ll risk the saying,That angels stooped from glory downTo hear the fiddler playing.And he that holds the golden pen,That chief of all the bright ones,Who registers the deeds of men,The wrong ones and the right ones—He oped the book, and did recordA sweet and gracious deed there—A deed performed to Christ the LordThat he shall smile to read there.
When I was quite a tiny mite,And life a joyful ditty,I used to know a poor old wightWho fiddled through the city.Alas! it’s thirty years ago—Timeisso quaint and flighty!And now I’ve mites myself, you know,And not so very mighty.And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp;He’s guessed the awful riddle,And, haply, got a golden harpIn place of that old fiddle.
When I was quite a tiny mite,
And life a joyful ditty,
I used to know a poor old wight
Who fiddled through the city.
Alas! it’s thirty years ago—
Timeisso quaint and flighty!
And now I’ve mites myself, you know,
And not so very mighty.
And he’s unvexed by flat and sharp;
He’s guessed the awful riddle,
And, haply, got a golden harp
In place of that old fiddle.
And yet, methinks, I see him now—So clear the memory lingers—His long grey hair, his puckered brow,His trembling, grimy fingers,The comforter that dangled downBeyond his waist a long way,The beaver hat with battered crown,He’d pause to brush—the wrong way,The brown surtout that still could bragIts buttons down the middle,And, crowning all, the greenish bagThat held the sacred fiddle.
And yet, methinks, I see him now—
So clear the memory lingers—
His long grey hair, his puckered brow,
His trembling, grimy fingers,
The comforter that dangled down
Beyond his waist a long way,
The beaver hat with battered crown,
He’d pause to brush—the wrong way,
The brown surtout that still could brag
Its buttons down the middle,
And, crowning all, the greenish bag
That held the sacred fiddle.
Two tunes he played, and only two,One over, one beginning;“God Save the Queen’s” collapse we knewWas “Kitty Clover’s” inning.How startlingly the bow behaved—Curveted, jerked, and bounded—The while our gracious queen was saved,And knavish tricks confounded!And oh! the helpless, hopeless woe,Brimful and running over,In (veryslow) the o—o—ohOf bothering Kitty Clover!
Two tunes he played, and only two,
One over, one beginning;
“God Save the Queen’s” collapse we knew
Was “Kitty Clover’s” inning.
How startlingly the bow behaved—
Curveted, jerked, and bounded—
The while our gracious queen was saved,
And knavish tricks confounded!
And oh! the helpless, hopeless woe,
Brimful and running over,
In (veryslow) the o—o—oh
Of bothering Kitty Clover!
And so he’d jerk and file and squeakLike twenty thousand hinges,While every sympathetic cheekWas racked with shoots and twinges.The lawyer left his lease or will,The workman stopped his hammer,The druggist ceased to roll the pill,And ran to calm the clamor.From doors and windows jingled downA dancing shower of copper,Accompanied by many a frown,And sometimes speech improper.
And so he’d jerk and file and squeak
Like twenty thousand hinges,
While every sympathetic cheek
Was racked with shoots and twinges.
The lawyer left his lease or will,
The workman stopped his hammer,
The druggist ceased to roll the pill,
And ran to calm the clamor.
From doors and windows jingled down
A dancing shower of copper,
Accompanied by many a frown,
And sometimes speech improper.
He gathered up the grudging dole,And sought a different station,But always with a bitter soul,And deep humiliation.For what though music win you pence,If praise it fail to win you?If fees are paid to hurry hence,And never to continue?“Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes sayTo any youthful scholar;“They’d rather grub for brass to-day,Than listen to Apoller.”
He gathered up the grudging dole,
And sought a different station,
But always with a bitter soul,
And deep humiliation.
For what though music win you pence,
If praise it fail to win you?
If fees are paid to hurry hence,
And never to continue?
“Bad times for art,” he’d sometimes say
To any youthful scholar;
“They’d rather grub for brass to-day,
Than listen to Apoller.”
And so with quaint, pathetic face,Aggrieved and disappointed,The minstrel moved from place to place,And mourned the times disjointed.His hat was browner than of yore,His grizzled head was greyer,And none had ever cried “Encore,”Or praised the poor old player.I came to feel (and was not wrong)—His day was nearly over—He’d not be bothered very longBy cruel Kitty Clover.
And so with quaint, pathetic face,
Aggrieved and disappointed,
The minstrel moved from place to place,
And mourned the times disjointed.
His hat was browner than of yore,
His grizzled head was greyer,
And none had ever cried “Encore,”
Or praised the poor old player.
I came to feel (and was not wrong)—
His day was nearly over—
He’d not be bothered very long
By cruel Kitty Clover.
One day, within a shady square,Where people lounged or sat round,He’d played his second woeful air,And now he took the hat round.He met with many a gibe and grin,With coarser disaffection,The while he tottered out and in,Receiving the collection.At length he stopped, with downcast eye,Beneath a lime tree’s cover,Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy,Beside her handsome lover.
One day, within a shady square,
Where people lounged or sat round,
He’d played his second woeful air,
And now he took the hat round.
He met with many a gibe and grin,
With coarser disaffection,
The while he tottered out and in,
Receiving the collection.
At length he stopped, with downcast eye,
Beneath a lime tree’s cover,
Where sat a maiden, sweet and shy,
Beside her handsome lover.
Half hidden in her leafy place,The modest little sitterJust glanced into the fiddler’s face,And read his story bitter.Unskilled in life and worldly ways,By womanhood’s divining,She knew the minstrel’s soul for praiseAnd sympathy was pining.Herself with all a heart could need,No dearest dream denied her,She felt her gentle spirit bleedFor that poor wretch beside her.
Half hidden in her leafy place,
The modest little sitter
Just glanced into the fiddler’s face,
And read his story bitter.
Unskilled in life and worldly ways,
By womanhood’s divining,
She knew the minstrel’s soul for praise
And sympathy was pining.
Herself with all a heart could need,
No dearest dream denied her,
She felt her gentle spirit bleed
For that poor wretch beside her.
She hung her head a little while,Then, growing somewhat bolder,She rose, and with a blush and smile,Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder.“How charmingly you play,” she said.“How nice to be so clever!My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red)“Could sit entranced for ever.I’ve taken lessons—all in vain;My touch is simply hateful.Oh! if you’d play those tunes again,I’d be so very grateful.”
She hung her head a little while,
Then, growing somewhat bolder,
She rose, and with a blush and smile,
Just touched the minstrel’s shoulder.
“How charmingly you play,” she said.
“How nice to be so clever!
My friend and I” (her cheeks grew red)
“Could sit entranced for ever.
I’ve taken lessons—all in vain;
My touch is simply hateful.
Oh! if you’d play those tunes again,
I’d be so very grateful.”
He rosined up his rusty bow(His eyes were brimming over),Then (o—o—oh!) meandered slowThrough endless “Kitty Clover.”He’d suffered many a cruel wrongAmid a sordid nation;He’d waited wearily and long—At last the compensation!What cared he now for snub and sneerFrom churlish fools around him?In those sweet eyes he saw a tear,And felt that fame had crowned him.
He rosined up his rusty bow
(His eyes were brimming over),
Then (o—o—oh!) meandered slow
Through endless “Kitty Clover.”
He’d suffered many a cruel wrong
Amid a sordid nation;
He’d waited wearily and long—
At last the compensation!
What cared he now for snub and sneer
From churlish fools around him?
In those sweet eyes he saw a tear,
And felt that fame had crowned him.
And you, my friends, may laugh or frown,And still I’ll risk the saying,That angels stooped from glory downTo hear the fiddler playing.And he that holds the golden pen,That chief of all the bright ones,Who registers the deeds of men,The wrong ones and the right ones—He oped the book, and did recordA sweet and gracious deed there—A deed performed to Christ the LordThat he shall smile to read there.
And you, my friends, may laugh or frown,
And still I’ll risk the saying,
That angels stooped from glory down
To hear the fiddler playing.
And he that holds the golden pen,
That chief of all the bright ones,
Who registers the deeds of men,
The wrong ones and the right ones—
He oped the book, and did record
A sweet and gracious deed there—
A deed performed to Christ the Lord
That he shall smile to read there.
An interesting and suggestive chapter in our early colonial history is found in the constitution, laws and court records of Connecticut. That some of the enactments and judicial proceedings, to those ignorant of the peculiar condition of the colonists, seem ludicrous, and fit to provoke the unfriendly criticism they have received, is not denied. But an honest, competent critic can not take them thus, and will not hastily discredit the intelligence of the men who, under new and most trying circumstances, made such regulations for their little commonwealth as the exigencies of the situation seemed to demand. We do not approve of all the laws of that olden-time as wise and just; nor do we think the administration always beyond just reproach; but we do venerate the men who for the glory of God and the good of society enacted and rigorously enforced them.
The ancient orthography is retained as a specimen of the English of that day:
CONSTITUTION OF 1638.“For as much as it hath pleased the Almighty God, by the wise disposition of his divine providence, so to order and dispose of things, that we, the inhabitants, and residents of Windsor, Hartford and Weathersfield, are now dwelling in and uppon the river of Conneticut, and the lands thereunto adjoining; and well knowing, when a people are gathered together, the word of God requires, that, to the maintienence of the peace and union of such a people there should bee an orderly and decent government established, according to God, to order and dispose of the affaires of the people at all seasons, as occasions shall require; doe therefore associate and conjoine ourselves to bee as one publique State or Commonwealth; and doe for ourselves and our successors, and such as shall be adjoined to us at any time hereafter, enter into combination, and confederation together, to meinteine and preserve libberty, and the purity of the gospell of our Lord Jesus, which we now profess; as also the discipline of the churches which, according to the truth of said gospell is now practiced amongst us, as allso in all our civil affaires to be guided, and governed according to such lawes, rules, orders and decrees, as shall bee made, ordered, and decreed, as followeth.”
CONSTITUTION OF 1638.
“For as much as it hath pleased the Almighty God, by the wise disposition of his divine providence, so to order and dispose of things, that we, the inhabitants, and residents of Windsor, Hartford and Weathersfield, are now dwelling in and uppon the river of Conneticut, and the lands thereunto adjoining; and well knowing, when a people are gathered together, the word of God requires, that, to the maintienence of the peace and union of such a people there should bee an orderly and decent government established, according to God, to order and dispose of the affaires of the people at all seasons, as occasions shall require; doe therefore associate and conjoine ourselves to bee as one publique State or Commonwealth; and doe for ourselves and our successors, and such as shall be adjoined to us at any time hereafter, enter into combination, and confederation together, to meinteine and preserve libberty, and the purity of the gospell of our Lord Jesus, which we now profess; as also the discipline of the churches which, according to the truth of said gospell is now practiced amongst us, as allso in all our civil affaires to be guided, and governed according to such lawes, rules, orders and decrees, as shall bee made, ordered, and decreed, as followeth.”
Then follows the constitution in eleven well considered sections, making provision for the three departments—legislative, judicial and executive. We freely confess our admiration of this wonderful document, but can not, for want of room, print it. This is the less necessary as it evidently formed the basis of the charter of 1662, and its leading provisions have been copied, with some modifications, into the constitutions of the several States, and of the United States. As the first written constitution formed for and adopted by a free people, for their own government, it is a marvel of excellence. Written without a model, it asserts for its authors a more comprehensive and thorough statesmanship than is usually attributed to the leaders in colonial politics at that early day.
The most peculiar feature of their civil polity was that only the righteous were to be in authority, and all power was vested in members of the church; and the conservative influence of religion variously confessed. The church and state were separate, yet, not inconsistently, we find an article headed:
“MAINTENANCE OF MINISTRY.”“Whereas, the most considerable persons in the land came to these parts of America, that they might enjoye Christe, in his ordinances without disturbance; and whereas, amongst many other precious meanes, the ordinances have beene and are dispensed amongst us with much purity and power, they took it into their serious consideration that a due maintenance might bee provided, and settled, both for the present and the future, for the encouragement of the minister’s worke therein; and doe order that those who are taught in the Word, in the several plantations, bee called together, that evry man voluntarily sett downe what hee is willing to allow to that end and use; and if any man refuse to pay a meete proportion, that then hee bee rated by authority, in some just and equall way; and if after this any man withhold, or delay due payment, the civil power bee exercised as in other just debts.”
“MAINTENANCE OF MINISTRY.”
“Whereas, the most considerable persons in the land came to these parts of America, that they might enjoye Christe, in his ordinances without disturbance; and whereas, amongst many other precious meanes, the ordinances have beene and are dispensed amongst us with much purity and power, they took it into their serious consideration that a due maintenance might bee provided, and settled, both for the present and the future, for the encouragement of the minister’s worke therein; and doe order that those who are taught in the Word, in the several plantations, bee called together, that evry man voluntarily sett downe what hee is willing to allow to that end and use; and if any man refuse to pay a meete proportion, that then hee bee rated by authority, in some just and equall way; and if after this any man withhold, or delay due payment, the civil power bee exercised as in other just debts.”
The “Capitall Lawes” were severe, and the executive officers a terror to evil-doers. The death penalty was denounced against criminals convicted of either of fourteen different offenses. The burglar for the third offense lost his life.
1. “If any man after legall conviction shall have or worship any other god but the Lord God, hee shall bee put to death.”—Deut. 13:6, 17:2.2. “If any man or woman bee a witch, that is, hath or consulteth with a familliar spiritt, they shall bee put to death.”—Exodus 22:18; Levit. 20:27.3. “If any person shall blaspheme the name of God, the Father, Sonne or Holy Ghost, with direct, express, presumptuous or high-handed blasphemy, or shall curse, in like manner, hee shall bee put to death.”4. “If any man shall commit any willful murder—which is manslaughter commited from hatred, malice or cruelty—not in a man’s just and necessary defense, nor by mere casualty against his will, hee shall bee put to death.”8. “If any person committeth adultery with a married or espoused wife, the adulterer and adulteress shall surely bee put to death.”12. “If any man shall conspire or attempt any invasion, insurrection or rebellion against the Commonwealth hee shall bee put to death.”
1. “If any man after legall conviction shall have or worship any other god but the Lord God, hee shall bee put to death.”—Deut. 13:6, 17:2.
2. “If any man or woman bee a witch, that is, hath or consulteth with a familliar spiritt, they shall bee put to death.”—Exodus 22:18; Levit. 20:27.
3. “If any person shall blaspheme the name of God, the Father, Sonne or Holy Ghost, with direct, express, presumptuous or high-handed blasphemy, or shall curse, in like manner, hee shall bee put to death.”
4. “If any man shall commit any willful murder—which is manslaughter commited from hatred, malice or cruelty—not in a man’s just and necessary defense, nor by mere casualty against his will, hee shall bee put to death.”
8. “If any person committeth adultery with a married or espoused wife, the adulterer and adulteress shall surely bee put to death.”
12. “If any man shall conspire or attempt any invasion, insurrection or rebellion against the Commonwealth hee shall bee put to death.”
The laws were specially severe against the social evil, and the homes of the colonists guarded not only against the crimes, but against all dalliance with evil, and imprudent conduct that might weaken the family bonds. The purity and bliss of the home might not be endangered with impunity, and the wayward were punished with wholesome severity. Here is a court record: “Martha Malbon, for consenting to goe to the farms with Will Harding at night, to a venison feast, and … for dalliance with said Harding was whiped.” How it fared with Will we are not told, but presume there was safety for him only in exile, as there was no marked discrimination in favor of his sex at that time. As connected with this case it is further recorded that “Goodman Hunt and his wife for keeping the councells of said William Harding, baking him a pastry and plum cakes, and keeping company with him on the Lord’s day, and she suffering Harding to kisse her, they being only admited to sojourn in this plantation on their good behavior, ordered to be sent out of this towne within one month after the date hereof; yea, in a shorter time, if any miscarriage be found in them.—December 3, 1651.” On another page I find it recorded that “Will Hardingwassentenced to beseverelywhipped, fined £10, and presently to depart the plantation, and not retourne under the penalty of severer punishment.”
By E. O. P.
I went out in the dull autumnal day,Around me fell the rain,The bare trees shivered ’gainst the ashen sky,My heart was full of pain.High in a maple tree, upon a branch,The tree-trunk close beside,A little empty bird’s nest, snug and neat,My tearful eyes espied.And straightway, for the time, from grief and careMy sad heart was beguiled,And on this remnant of the summer goneThrough rain and tears I smiled.Not oft has life so dull and drear a day,But something bright appearsTo speak of sunshine and the spring time flown,And bring a smile through tears.
I went out in the dull autumnal day,Around me fell the rain,The bare trees shivered ’gainst the ashen sky,My heart was full of pain.High in a maple tree, upon a branch,The tree-trunk close beside,A little empty bird’s nest, snug and neat,My tearful eyes espied.And straightway, for the time, from grief and careMy sad heart was beguiled,And on this remnant of the summer goneThrough rain and tears I smiled.Not oft has life so dull and drear a day,But something bright appearsTo speak of sunshine and the spring time flown,And bring a smile through tears.
I went out in the dull autumnal day,Around me fell the rain,The bare trees shivered ’gainst the ashen sky,My heart was full of pain.
I went out in the dull autumnal day,
Around me fell the rain,
The bare trees shivered ’gainst the ashen sky,
My heart was full of pain.
High in a maple tree, upon a branch,The tree-trunk close beside,A little empty bird’s nest, snug and neat,My tearful eyes espied.
High in a maple tree, upon a branch,
The tree-trunk close beside,
A little empty bird’s nest, snug and neat,
My tearful eyes espied.
And straightway, for the time, from grief and careMy sad heart was beguiled,And on this remnant of the summer goneThrough rain and tears I smiled.
And straightway, for the time, from grief and care
My sad heart was beguiled,
And on this remnant of the summer gone
Through rain and tears I smiled.
Not oft has life so dull and drear a day,But something bright appearsTo speak of sunshine and the spring time flown,And bring a smile through tears.
Not oft has life so dull and drear a day,
But something bright appears
To speak of sunshine and the spring time flown,
And bring a smile through tears.
By RICHARD PROCTOR.
The material life of a planet is beginning to be recognized as being no less real than the life of a plant or of an animal. It is a different kind of life; there is neither consciousness such as we see in one of those forms of life, nor such systematic progress as we recognize in plant-life. But it is life, all the same. It has had a beginning, like all things which exist; and like them all, it must have an end.
The lifetime of a world like our earth may be truly said to be a lifetime of cooling. Beginning in the glowing vaporous condition which we see in the sun and stars, an orb in space passes gradually to the condition of a cool, non-luminous mass, and thence, with progress depending chiefly on its size (slower for the large masses and quicker for the small ones), it passes steadily onward toward inertness and death. Regarding the state in which we find the earth to be as the stage of a planet’s mid-life—viz., that in which the conditions are such that multitudinous forms of life can exist upon its surface, we may call that stage death in which these conditions have entirely disappeared.
Now, among the conditions necessary for the support of life in general are some which are unfavorable to individual life. Among these may be specially noted the action of those subterranean forces by which the earth’s surface is continually modeled and remodeled. It has been remarked with great justice, by Sir John Herschel, that since the continents of the earth were formed, forces have been at work which would long since have sufficed to have destroyed every trace of land, and to have left the surface of our globe one vast limitless ocean. But against these forces counteracting forces have been at work, constantly disturbing the earth’s crust, and, by keeping it irregular, leaving room for ocean in the depressions, and leaving the higher parts as continents and islands above the ocean’s surface. If these disturbing forces ceased to work, the work of disintegrating, wearing away, and washing off the land would go on unresisted. In periods of time such as to us seem long, no very great effect would be produced; but such periods as belong to the past of our earth, even to that comparatively short part of the past during which she has been the abode of life, would suffice to produce effects utterly inconsistent with the existence of life on land. Only by the action of her vulcanian energies can the earth maintain her position as an abode of life. She is, then, manifesting her fitness to support life in those very throes by which, too often, many lives are lost. The upheavals and downsinkings, the rushing of ocean in great waves over islands and seaports, by which tens of thousands of human beings, and still greater numbers of animals, lose their lives, are part of the evidence which the earth gives that within her frame there still remains enough of vitality for the support of life during hundreds of thousands of years to come.
This vitality is not due, as seems commonly imagined, to the earth’s internal heat. Rather the earth’s internal heat is due to the vitality with which her frame is instinct. The earth’s vitality is in reality due to the power of attraction which resides in every particle of her mass—that wonderful force of gravitation, omnipresent, infinite in extent, the property whose range throughout all space should have taught long since what science is teaching now (and has been foolishly blamed for teaching), the equally infinite range of God’s laws in time also. By virtue of the force of gravity pervading her whole frame, the crust of the earth is continually undergoing changes, as the loss of heat and consequent contraction, or chemical changes beneath the surface, leave room for the movement inward of the rock-substances of the crust, with crushing, grinding action, and the generation of intense heat. If the earth’s energy of gravity were lost, the internal fires would die out—not, indeed, quickly, but in a period of time very short compared with that during which, maintained as they constantly are by the effects of internal movements, they will doubtless continue. They are, in a sense, the cause of earthquakes, volcanoes, and so forth, because they prepare the earth’s interior for the action of her energies of attraction. But it is to these energies and the material which as yet they have on which to work, that the earth’s vitality is due. She will not, indeed, retain her vitality as long as she retains her gravitating power. That power must have something to work on. When the whole frame of the earth has been compressed to a condition of the greatest density which her attractive energies can produce, then terrestrial gravity will have nothing left to work on within the earth, and the earth’s globe will be to all intents and purposes dead. She will continue to exercise her attractive force on bodies outside of her. She will rotate on her axis, revolve around the sun, and reflect his rays of light and heat. But she will have no more life of her own than has the moon, which still discharges all those planetary functions.
But such disturbances as the recent earthquakes, while disastrous in their effects to those living near the shaken regions, assure us that as yet the earth is not near death. She is still full of vitality. Thousands—nay, tens, hundreds of thousands of years will still pass before even the beginning of the end is seen, in the steady disintegration and removal of the land without renovation or renewal by the action of subterranean forces.—The Contemporary Review.
One of Disraeli’s favorite ideas was that London ought to be made the most magnificent city in the world—a realKaiserstadt, or imperial town, a model to all other cities in the character of its public buildings, the sanitary perfection and outer picturesqueness of its private houses, the width of its streets, etc. When Napoleon III. commenced the re-edification of Paris he used to say: “Is it not pitiful that the emperor should be doing by force what we could do so much better of our own free will, if we had a proper pride, to say nothing of good sense in the matter?” Once when he was staying at Knole, he launched out into a parody of Macaulay’s idea of the New Zealander meditating over the ruins of London Bridge. He imagined this personage reconstructing in fancy a row of villas at Brixton: “What picture he would make of it! he would naturally suppose that knowing how to build, and having just awoken to a knowledge of sanitation, we had built according to the best ideas in our heads.” Then he took his New Zealander among the ruins of the stately commercial palaces crowded in narrow lanes all round the Bank, and the Exchange: “He would conclude that there must after all have been some tyrannical laws which prevented our merchants from combining their resources to make their streets spacious and effective, for it would seem absurd to him that intelligent men should, at a great cost, have built palaces for themselves in holes and corners where nobody could admire them properly, when by acting in concert, they might at much less expense have set much finer palaces in noble avenues, courts and squares.” Then Disraeli broke out into an animated description of his regenerate London with Wren’s four grand approaches to St. Paul’s, boulevards transecting the metropolis in all directions; and the palace of Whitehall rebuilt after Inigo Jones’s designs to make new government offices. He would have covered the embankment pedestals with statues of admirals set in colossal groups recalling great naval achievements, and he thought Stepney ought to have its cathedral of St. Peter, and containing memorials to all the humble heroes, sailors or fishermen who lost their lives performing acts of courage on the water. When he had finished speaking somebody observed that his plan would cost £200,000,000, and convert every ratepayer into a porcupine. “We may have to pay £500,000,000 in the end for doing things in the present way,” he answered; “and as to the porcupine, he is manageable enough if you handle him in the right way.”—Temple Bar.
By J. MORTIMER-GRANVILLE.
Such expressions as a “cool head,” “hot-headed,” and the like, commonly relate to temperament rather than temperature; but it is essential to a full comprehension of the subject before us that therationaleof animal heat should be stated, and the laws that govern the phenomenon of temperature actual and subjective, at least cursorily, explained.
Heat and the sensation of heat are two widely different states. When, on a chilly day or after washing in cold water, a man rubs his hands until a glow of heat seems to suffuse them, there is a very slight rise of actual temperature caused by the friction; the feeling is principally due to nerve-excitement, produced mechanically by the rubbing. The blood flows more freely into, and through, the parts excited immediately afterward, as shown by the redness, but the first impression of heat is mainly one of sensation. The feeling and the fact are not even constantly related. A person may feel hot when not only the surrounding temperature but that of his body is low; or, he may feel cold when really overheated. These perverted sensations are occasionally morbid—that is to say, form part of a state of disease—or they may arise from individual peculiarities which, perhaps, render perceptions of a particular class especially acute. On the other hand, there are conditions of the body, and special sensibilities, in which the sense of heat is dulled, and even considerable elevations of temperature are not perceived. It is easy to see how impossible it must be to form a correct judgment of the actual state of heat either around or within us by simple sensation.
Throughout the world, whether man be placed in tropical heat or arctic cold, the temperature of his body must, to maintain health, be preserved at the same point—about 98.4 to .6 degrees of Fahrenheit. A very small departure from this universal mean standard constitutes or indicates disease. The external heat is comparatively unimportant, or only of secondary moment, in the economy of nature; we can not rely upon it for the compensation of differences in the heat generated within the body by the organism. Except for the production of a temporary effect, such as to give time for the reëstablishment of the normal temperature in a body chilled, as by submersion, external heat is useless for vital purposes. The only way in which it can act is by preventing the loss of more heat, and giving a slight aid to recovery by warming the surface of the body.
If when a person is cold he goes into a heated apartment, or sits before a large fire, he receives with advantage just as much heat as will bring the skin of his body up to the normal standard; as soon as that point is reached, the organism will begin to labor to get rid of the superfluous caloric, and by sweating the heat must be kept from rising above the standard. All the heat thrust upon the body above 98.6 degrees is waste and mischievous except in so far as it may promote perspiration, which probably helps to work off some of the useless and burdensome, possibly morbid and poisonous, materials that oppress the system. This is how Turkish baths, and “sweatings” generally, do good, by exciting increased activity of the skin, and, as it were, opening up new ways of egress for matters which, if retained, might offend.
So far as the heat of the body is concerned, whether in health or disease, every degree of external heat which is above the complement to form 98.6 degrees Fahrenheit with the heat of the body itself at the time, is useless and may do harm. It follows that in fever the surrounding atmosphere should be kept cool; in depressing disease, when the heat-producing powers of the organism are small, the air around should be warm. These are precisely the conclusions to which experience and observations conduct us; and the facts now briefly stated explain the reason why.
There is no warmth in clothes; the heat comes from the body itself, generated within, or the surrounding atmosphere, or from substances with which the body may be in contact. Of course clothes, like any other materials, can be charged with heat, and will take up as much thermic or heating property as their specific capacity allows. It is this capability of receiving heat which constitutes the first condition of warmth in the comparative value of different materials of dress. The second condition consists in the physical power of any fabric to hold the heat with which the article has been charged. For example, some materials will become warmer in a given time and retain their heat longer than others under the same conditions of exposure, first to heating and then to cooling influences. The principle of clothing should be to protect the body from external conditions which tend to abstract heat, when the surrounding temperature is lower than that of the body; and to strike heat into the organism, when the temperature of the outside air and of the substances with which the skin may be brought into contact is higher than that of the animal body itself.
Local temperature, that is, the heat in the several regions of the body is determined by conditions which control the circulation of the blood, and the function of nutrition or food appropriation. If the circulation is free in a part, its temperature is maintained; if, from any cause, the flow of blood is retarded, the local heat will be reduced. Any one may put this to the test by encasing the hands in somewhat tight gloves when the weather is cold. The pressure prevents the free passage of the blood through the vessels, and the temperature falls. There is no warmth of any kind in the gloves; they act simply as non-conductors of heat, and prevent the heat generated within the body from passing off. For example—if a piece of lint or rag be dipped in cold water and laid on the skin, and a sheet of impervious or non-conducting material, such as india-rubber or thick flannel, is wrapped closely round, the heat of the body will raise the cold water to a temperature at which it will be given off as steam the moment the covering is removed. When the extremities are enclosed in thick or dense coverings, their temperature will depend on the amount of heat generated within them, and if the flow of blood through the vessels is arrested or retarded, nothing is gained, but everything lost, by the measures taken to protect them from the external cold.
This is a matter of the highest practical moment, and needs to be thoroughly understood. The feet can not be kept warm unless the blood circulates freely in the extremities, and that will not be the case if the boot, shoes, or stockings are tight. These last-named articles of clothing are practically the worst offenders. A stocking encircling the foot and leg closely and enveloping every part, with special pressure at the instep, around the ankle, and above or below the knees, must inevitably tend to oppose the circulation and so reduce the natural heat. The arteries which bring the blood to the extremity are set deeper than the veins that carry it back, and, as the latter are provided with valves which open toward the heart, it is too commonly supposed that the “support” afforded by the stocking will favor the return of blood more than it can impede the deeper supply-currents, and so help the circulation; but practically we know this is not the fact, for a tight stocking ensures a cold foot, and the chilliness of which many persons complain is mainly caused by the practice of gartering, and wearing stockings which constrict somewhere or everywhere.
There is a popular notion that if the feet are cold the head must be hot, and by keeping the extremities warm with wraps the “blood is drawn from the head,” and its temperature reduced. Those who have on the one hand studied the phenomenon of fever, and on the other noted the physical condition of races and individuals who habitually leave the extremities unclothed, will know that this theory of the distribution of heat is only partially true. Heat depends on the due supply of nutrient elements to the tissues. It is the expression or result of the process of local feeding. If a part is active it will beheated. When the feet are left bare the complex muscular apparatus of the extremity, which in a stiff shoe scarcely works, is called into vigorous action, the arch of the foot plays with every step, and each toe performs its share in the act of progression. This promotes growth and calls for nutrition, whereby the heat is maintained; whereas if it be simply packed away as a useless piece of organism, no amount of external heat will warm it. Work is the cause and counterpart of heat throughout the body.
The same principle applies to the head. No amount of external cooling will reduce the temperature, no drawing away of the blood by artificial expedients will permanently relieve the sense or obviate the fact of heat if the organ within the cranium is excessively or morbidly active. The brain is a peculiarly delicate and complicated organ, requiring more prompt and constant nutrition than any other part of the body, because the constituent elements of its tissue change more rapidly than those of any other in proportion to the amount of exercise. Moreover, the brain is always acting during consciousness, and even in sleep it is seldom wholly at rest, as we know from the occurrence of dreams. The faculty of nutrition is highly developed in the organ or it could not so continuously, and on the whole healthily, discharge its functions, even when other parts of the body, or the system as a whole, are suffering from disease. When the head is heated there is nearly always a local cause for it, and the remedy must be addressed to the seat of the malady. The temporary expedient of “drawing away the blood” by applying heat to the extremities is useful as far as it goes, and may suffice to enable the organ to rid itself by the contraction of its blood-vessels from a surplus charge of this fluid, but in the absence of special causes thereasonof the “heat of head” is undue exercise or disturbance of nutrition in the brain itself. Perhaps the seat of the over-work and consequent heating may have been limited to a particular part of the head; for example, the apparatus of sight, or hearing, as when the head becomes heated by reading too long or in a strong light. The point to understand is that when the head is physically hot it is the seat of too much or disorderly nutrition, and either the amount of brain or sense-power exercised must be reduced or the mode of action changed, and the particular part of the apparatus of perception or thought which has been too severely taxed relieved.
The true condition of health is that in which the temperature of the body as a whole and of its several parts is not disturbed by surroundings either of heat or cold. The preservation of a natural and healthy temperature is mainly to be secured by the maintenance of a regular and well distributed circulation of blood charged with the materials of nutrition.
The first condition of a free and continuous flow of blood is a healthy heart, not hampered by irritants, mental or physical. Sudden grief or fright produces cold by arresting the circulation, and the flow may be permanently retarded by anxiety. The mind has a wondrously direct influence on the heart and blood-vessels—on the latter through the nerves, which increase or reduce the calibre of the minute arteries, as in blushing or blanching at a thought. Instead of loading the body with clothes, the “chilly” should search out the physical cause of their coldness. The blood must not only circulate freely; it must be rich in nourishing materials, and not charged with poison. An excess of any one element may destroy the value of the whole. It is too much the habit of valetudinarians and unhealthy people of all kinds, to charge the blood with substances supposed to be “heating” or “cooling” as they think the system requires them. This is a mistake. The body does not need to be pampered with cordials, or refrigerated with cunningly devised potions. If it be well nourished it will be healthy.