In the oldest times the dead were buried in their own ground, and close beside the house they had occupied. Afterward the burying of the dead within the walls of cities was forbidden except in the case of great public benefactors, who were worshiped as heroes and had a shrine set over them. The rest were buried in the fairest and most populous suburb, generally along both sides of the high road, as at Athens and at Syracuse, where their tombs and the inscriptions occupied the attention of everyone that passed by. The oldest and rudest monuments placed over the tomb were great mounds of earth, then these mounds came to be surrounded by a circle of great stones; afterward chambers were cut underground in the earth or rock, and family vaults established. Handsome monuments in marble, richly painted and covered with sculpture, were set up over the spot. These monuments sometimes attained a size almost as great as a temple. The scenes sculptured on the marble were from the life and occupation of the deceased, more often parting scenes, where they were represented taking leave of their family and friends, nor do we possess any more beautiful and touching remains of Greek life than some of these tombs. In the chamber of the dead many little presents, terra-cotta figures, trinkets and vases were placed, nay, in early times favorite animals, and even slaves or captives were sacrificed in order to be with him; for the Greeks believed that though the parting with the dead was for ever, he still continued to exist, and to interest himself in human affairs and in pursuits like those of living men. The crowded suburbs where the tombs were placed were generally ornamented with trees and flowers, and were a favorite resort of the citizens. The dead bodies of executed criminals were either given back to their relations or, in extreme cases, cast into a special place, generally some natural ravine or valley hidden from view and ordinary thoroughfare. Here the executioner dwelt, who was generally a public slave. This place was calledbarathrum[9]at Athens, andCeadas[10]at Sparta.
The earliest and most natural form of idolatry was the worship of the heavenly bodies, and especially the sun, whose splendor, light, heat, and salutary influence upon all nature were regarded as the supernatural and independent powers of a deity. Hence the ancient myths ascribed personality, and intelligent activity, to the god of day, whom they worshiped under the name of Phœbus Apollo. They, however, attached to the history and worship of Apollo many things not connected with his original character as the source of light.
Delphi was a principal place of their religious solemnities, and from an early day the site of a temple dedicated to Apollo. The first was destroyed by fire; but in the time of the Pisistratidæ a much more gorgeous one was built, and, through a long period of their national history, was a center of potent influences that did much to fashion the character of the people. Its wealth became immense, and was computed at ten thousand talents. In the neighborhood of Delphi the Pythian games were celebrated in the third year of every Olympiad, and in honor of Apollo’s victory over the terrible Pythian serpent. On these occasions the celebrated Amphictyonic Council, whose sessions were usually held at Thermopylæ, met at Delphi, and the grave senators had the oversight of the games, prescribed rules for the contestants, and directed in the distribution of prizes.
The shrine of the god at Delos, his birthplace, was also greatly renowned. It was situated at the foot of Mount Cynthus, but the whole island was sacred. The same divinity had beside a great number of less celebrated temples and shrines, not only in Greece, but also in Asia Minor, and wherever Greek colonies were extended. The rites observed in these sacred places were, in general, more seemly than the ceremonial of their worship paid to some other of their gods, and may be counted among the educational forces that improved the social and political condition of the commonwealth. He granted them a prophetic dispensation, and the responses given by his oracles raised their hopes, or, if unfavorable, caused alarm. The supposed medium of the communications, a priestess, who ministered at the altar, was esteemed an important personage. The inspiration, when the conditions were favorable, often induced what seemed an ecstatic state of mind, bordering on madness, causing strange contortions of countenance, and incoherent utterances, understood by none except those who claimed to be inspired as interpreters, and even their rendering of the responses was often in enigmas, or terms of such double meaning as admitted an explanation in accordance with the events that followed. The convulsions of the priestess were, perhaps, real, but possibly brought on partly by the chewing of laurel leaves, and partly by gaseous vapors that issued from a cleft in the rock, beneath the sacred tripod.
The concept or image of this god Apollo, as expressed by both poets and artists, was their highest ideal of human excellence and beauty; a tall, majestic body, of exquisite symmetry, and having the vigor of immortal youth. Some of his statues, still extant, are described as marvels of excellence in their line, and those who can not have access to the originals will find copies more or less perfect, in almost any considerable collection having specimens of ancient art. One of the most celebrated of all ancient statues, on account of the completeness of the sculptor’s work, is the “Apollo Belvidere.” It was found at Antium in 1503, purchased, and placed in a part of the Vatican[1]called Belvidere. In proportions and altitude it is a noble figure; naked, or but slightly clad, and in every feature suggestive of the highest perfection of art. It seems to represent the great archer just after discharging his arrow at the Python, and shows his manly satisfaction and assurance of victory.
The legendary history of this god, whose worship was much celebrated by both Greeks and Romans, recites, among other things of interest, the memorable circumstances of his friendship for Hyacinthus, and his great love for Daphne. The legends will not lose all their interest, though it will be impossible to print them entire.
Hyacinthus was a beautiful youth of noble parentage, for whom the great Apollo manifested ardent friendship. He accompanied him in his sports, led the dogs when he went to hunt, followed him in his excursions on the mountains, and for him neglected his lyre and his arrows. As they one day played quoits together, Apollo heaving aloft the heavy discus,[2]with his great strength sent it high and far. Hyacinthus watched its flight through the air, and, excited with the sport ran to seize it, eager, in turn, to make his throw. Alas! in its rebound from the earth, it struck him a fatal blow. Apollo, pale and anxious, sustained the fainting youth, and sought, in vain, to heal the mortal wound. As some fair lily, whosestalk has been broken, turns its limp flowers toward the earth, the head of the dying boy, too heavy for its shattered support, fell over on his shoulder; and the friendly god, lamenting deeply, said: “O hapless youth! thou diest, robbed of a life so pleasant, and I the cause. But thou shalt be immortal still. My lyre shall celebrate our love; and as a beautiful, fragrant flower, thou shalt dwell with me forever; the inscriptions on thy leaves[3]shall proclaim my sorrow.” Even as he spoke the blood that stained the grass disappeared, and a hyacinth, of hues more beautiful than Tyrian purple, sprang from the spot, and shed its sweet fragrance there. “Beloved, though dead, thou shalt still live; and, with every returning spring the flowers that henceforth bear thy name shall revive the memory of thy virtues, and of thy sudden departure to the home of the immortals.”
Apollo and Daphne.—The beautiful Daphne (dawn) was Apollo’s first love. This was nature, if the myth is interpreted astronomically. The sun pursues the dawn that flees before his brighter effulgence. But in this love affair, Cupid, as he is wont, becomes an exciting cause, and with his arrow pierced the lover’s heart. It was on this wise: Apollo once, exulting in his own recent victory over the monster Python, saw the rogue, Cupid, playing with his bow, and called to him saying: “What have you to do with such warlike weapons? Leave them for hands more worthy of them, and, child as you are, do not meddle with my arms.”
The taunting words vexed the son of Venus, and, to avenge himself he resolved that even the conquering Apollo should feel the keen point of his little dart, and confess a wound that would be difficult to heal. So he quickly drew from his quiver two arrows of different make and metal, one to excite love, the other to repel it. With the latter, a blunt, leaden shaft, he struck the nymph Daphne, daughter of the river god Peneus. The other he thrust through the heart of Apollo, who, thus smitten, forgot his victories, and was at once seized with passionate love for the beautiful nymph, while she, delighting in woodland sports and the pleasures of the chase, had no desire to leave them. Her father wished to see her wedded, but now, more than ever, she hated the thought of marriage, and, blushing, earnestly besought her sire, saying: “Dearest father, grant me this favor, that I may always remain a maiden, like the fleet huntress Artemis.”
He consented, but at the same time, in praise of her rare beauty, said: “Child, your own face will forbid it.” Apollo dearly loved her and longed to claim her as his own, but his suit was in vain. She had no love to answer his, and turned from him. Stung by her indifference, yet enthralled by her charms, he followed, but her flight was swifter than the wind, and she delayed not a moment at his entreaties. “Stay,” he cried, “daughter of Peneus, stay. Do not fly from me as a lamb from the wolf, or a dove from the hawk. I am not a foe. For love I pursue thee; and the fear that you may suffer injury in your rapid flight makes me miserable. You know me not. I am not a clown to be avoided and despised. Jupiter is my father, and gives me to know the present and future. They reverence me at Delphi and Tenedos as the god of prophecy, of song, and of the lyre. I carry weapons. At the twang of my bow the arrow flies true to its mark. But Cupid’s darts have pierced me, and the distress of heart is insupportable. I know the virtue of all the healing plants, and minister to others, but myself suffer this malady that no medicine can cure. Pity, and—” … The nymph continued her flight, and left his plea half uttered. But even as she fled, her airy robe and unbound hair flung loose on the wind, she charmed him yet more. Impatient that his suit did not prevail, he quickened his speed, and the distance between them grew less. She eluded his grasp only as a panting hare escapes from the open jaws of the hound.
So flew Apollo and Daphne; he on wings of love, she on wings of fear. The very breath of the more powerful pursuer reaches her delicate person; her strength fails, and, ready to sink, she cries to her father: “Help me, Peneus! Let the earth open to receive me, or change my form that has brought me into this trouble!” She spoke, and, at his will, the metamorphose was instant. A tender bark enclosed her form; her limbs became branches, her hair leaves; her feet were rooted in the ground, and her head became a symmetrical tree top, graceful to look upon, but retaining nothing of its former self save its beauty. Apollo stood amazed. He embraced with his arms the still palpitating, shrinking trunk, and lavished many kisses on the delicate branches that shrank from his lips. “You shall, assuredly, be my tree; and I will wear you for my crown. With you will I decorate my harp and my quiver. Conquerors shall weave from your branches wreaths to adorn their brows; and, as immortality is mine, you, too, shall be always green, and your leaf shall suffer no decay.” The nymph, thence a beautiful laurel tree, bowed her head in acknowledgment, and the god was content.
This story of Apollo has been variously interpreted, and is often alluded to by the poets.
Waller applies it to the case of one whose love songs, though they did not soften the heart of his mistress, yet won for the poet widespread fame.
“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,Attend his passion, and approve his songs.Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”
“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,Attend his passion, and approve his songs.Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”
“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,Attend his passion, and approve his songs.Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”
“Yet what he sang, in his immortal strain,
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain.
All but the nymph, that should redress his wrongs,
Attend his passion, and approve his songs.
Like Phœbus thus, acquiring unsought praise,
He caught at love, and filled his arms with bays.”
Phæton’s Ride.—The ocean nymph Clymene[4]bore to the god of day a son, they named Phæton (gleaming). Once when he boasted his celestial origin Ephaphos, a son of Jupiter, disputed his claim, alleging that he was puffed up with pride in a false father. The indignant Phæton reported the insult to his mother, who, with a solemn oath and imprecation, reassured him of his heavenly origin, and added: “The land whence the sun rises lies next to ours; go and inquire for yourself. See if he will not own you as his son.” The youth heard with delight, and full of pride and hope hastened to the palace of his sire, who received him kindly, and from whom he obtained an unwary oath that, in proof of his fatherhood, he would grant him whatever he asked. The ambitious Phæton immediately demanded permission to prove his pedigree, and confound his adversary, by taking his father’s seat, with leave, for one day, to guide the solar chariot in its course through the heavens. Phœbus, aware of the danger of any such attempt, would gladly have recalled his word, and persuaded the rash youth from his wild purpose. “This, my son, is far too perilous an undertaking, and quite unsuited to thy powers. These fiery horses would despise the guidance of Jupiter himself, were he to take the reins; how, then, can a mortal hand restrain them? Thou knowest not the perils of the way. In the freshness of the early morning the panting coursers scarce can climb that steep ascent; at noonday the downward glance to the far rolling sea, and the green earth lying at so vast a depth is hazardous even for a god. Canst thou, then, yet so young, resist the rapid movement of the whirling heavens, or endure the blinding brilliancy of those flaming orbs? That monstrous ‘Lion,’ the ‘Scorpion,’ and the ‘Crab,’ will surely terrify thee. The famed ‘Archer’ and the raging ‘Bear’ will threaten destruction. In the later hours the course descends rapidly, and requires most steady driving. Any charioteer, unused to the road, and the team, would be plunged headlong, or, deviating from the course, be swept away by the force that bears all else along, swift as the lightning. Forego that rash design. Look now on what the world contains, and ask some other boon. Ask it, and fear no refusal. Yet you shall have this, if you persist. The oath was sworn, and must be kept. Will you not be advised, and choose more wisely?”
But the self-confident youth, heedless of his father’s counsel, and despising the warning, would, at any risk, gratify his foolish ambition. He demanded the immediate fulfillment of the promise, and prevailed.
And now the purple gates of the East were unfolded, and from within the palace there breathed celestial fragrance. The stars and waning moon gradually disappeared; and, at Phœbus’ command, the swift Hours led forth from their stalls the prancing steeds and attached them to the golden chariot, their harness sparkling with gems, and the yoke gleaming all over with diamonds of exceeding brilliance. The daring youth gazed in admiration too eager for the coveted pleasure. Phœbus bathed his face with a powerful unguent that made him capable of enduring awhile the terrible heat, and placing a radiant circlet on his brow, that made him seem the very god of light, gave such instructions as were necessary. “Spare the whip, and hold tight the reins; my steeds need no urging; the labor is to guide and hold them in; you are not to take what seems the direct road, but turn off to the left; keep within the middle zone, that the skies and the earth may each receive their due share of light and heat; go not too high, lest you burn the dwellings of Ouranos; nor yet too low, or you will set the earth on fire; the middle course is safest and best; night is passing through the western gates, and the chariot can delay no longer; go, if you must, but, if you will, tarry in safety where you are, and allow me, as I have been wont, to light and heat the world.” The too eager youth, hearing but little, sprang to the lofty seat, grasped the reins with boundless delight, standing erect, and pouring out thanks for his opportunity.
The snorting horses, impatient to be gone, and with the boundless plain of heaven stretching out before them, dart forward cleaving the clouds, and quite outrun the swiftest winds that started from the same goal. The load was much lighter than usual, and, as a ship, without freight or ballast, “is tossed hither and thither on the sea, so that vast chariot, without its accustomed weight, was dashed about in space, as if utterly empty.” Phæton was incompetent to guide the fiery steeds, now quite out of the prescribed course, and was overcome with terror. Whither he was borne, at such furious speed, he knew not, but he was evidently in the midst of the most appalling dangers, against which he had been warned in vain. Paleness and sudden trembling came over him, and bitterly, but too late, repenting his folly, he wished he had never seen the gorgeous palace of Phœbus, known the truth of his parentage, or touched his father’s horses.
On every side were strange, frightful objects menacing his destruction, and he was driven fiercely about among them, as a ship before a tempest when the pilot can do nothing. The reins drop from his nerveless hands, and the furious horses dash the quivering, rocking chariot through untraveled regions of space. The heavens were all in flames, the clouds were smoke, and far beneath them lay a burning world. The mountain tops, forests, harvest fields, and cities were becoming involved in the common ruin. Theearth, stretching out suppliant hands toward heaven, implored the help of Jupiter lest the universe should be destroyed, and chaos again prevail. “Save what yet remains before all is lost. O, take thought for our deliverance in this fearful crisis.”
The appeal was answered, and the king of gods summoned his forked lightnings, and hurled his thunderbolt that smote the affrighted charioteer, who now, himself on fire, fell like some shooting star that marks its course to earth with its winding sheet of flame. Eridanus,[5]the great river, received the charred body and quenched the flame that would have consumed it. The pitying Naiads gave him a tomb, and some one provided the epitaph:
“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;He could not rule his father’s car of fire;Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”
“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;He could not rule his father’s car of fire;Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”
“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;He could not rule his father’s car of fire;Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”
“Driver of Phœbus’ chariot, Phæton,
Struck by Jove’s thunder, rests beneath this stone;
He could not rule his father’s car of fire;
Yet was it much, so nobly to aspire.”
His sisters, the Heliades,[6]so long and sadly mourned their brother that the gods changed them into poplar trees, whose tender branches shed tears of precious amber, which, hardening in the water where they fell, became jewels that were greatly prized, and worn as ornaments.
The world has known many whose foolish pride and ambition destroyed them. A recent writer quotes the last verse from one of Prior’s familiar poems, on a female Phæton, and thus introduces it: “Kitty has been imploring her mother to allow her to go out into the world, as her friends have done, if only for once.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;Kitty, at heart’s desire,Obtained the chariot for a day,And set the world on fire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;Kitty, at heart’s desire,Obtained the chariot for a day,And set the world on fire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;Kitty, at heart’s desire,Obtained the chariot for a day,And set the world on fire.”
“Fondness prevailed, mamma gave way;
Kitty, at heart’s desire,
Obtained the chariot for a day,
And set the world on fire.”
Poseidon (Neptune) and Amphitrite.[7]—This son of Cronos and Rhea became, by allotment, ruler of the sea, and received a three-pronged trident as the emblem of his power. Amphitrite, one of the daughters of Nereus, was his queen; and their gorgeous palace was in the deep waters of the Ægean, off the shores of Eubœa. Some accounts represent him as dwelling less permanently in the deep places than father Nereus, “the old man of the sea.” But, when abroad attending the councils of his brothers on Olympus, or out on the vast plain of the deep, passing swiftly in his boat over the rolling billows, he had under his supreme control the world of waters, and all the forces that affect their movements. When he strikes the calm sea with his trident[8]the waves rise in their violence to swallow up or dash in pieces the ships and strew with wrecks the shore. But a word or look from him can allay the wildest tempest, and still the tumult of the waters.
For reasons not very apparent, the horse is often mentioned as his favorite animal, and was said to be his gift to men. Possibly it was because the lively imagination of the ancient Greek saw, in the white crested waves that pursued each other in wild commotion, the rearing and bounding of foaming steeds or war-horses, that dash over the plain with resistless force. And his own car they imagined drawn over the waters by coursers swifter than the wind.
Poseidon was especially regarded as their patron and tutelar deity by all seafaring classes, such as fishermen, boatmen, and sailors. When going to sea they addressed prayers to him, and when returning in safety, offered sacrifices in gratitude for their escape from the perils of the deep. His temples, altars and statues were most numerous in seaport towns, on islands, and peninsulas. One much frequented was at Corinth, and there games were celebrated in honor of Poseidon.
Some of the principal exploits ascribed to Neptune are the assistance he rendered Jupiter against the Titans; the raising of the island Delos out of the sea; the creation and taming of the horse; and the building of the walls and ramparts of Troy. He was feared also as the author of earthquakes and deluges, which he caused or checked, at his pleasure.
To him they ascribed a numerous progeny. The principal sons were Triton, Phorcus, Proteus, and Glaucus. The chief characteristics of these minor deities of the sea were the power of divination, and ability to change their forms at pleasure. All these, with the sea-nymphs, fifty in number, belonged to the train of Neptune, and were subservient to his will.
Hephaistos (Vulcan).—The fire god, according to Homer, was son of Jupiter and the queenly Juno; or, according to another account of Juno alone, the goddess being jealous over the manner of Minerva’s birth from the cleft-skull of her spouse. The little Vulcan was so ill-looking and lame that the proud mother thought to cast him out of their palace, disowned. But though so cruelly treated he always showed some regard for her, and once took her part in a quarrel she had with the king. Jupiter, enraged at this, caught him by the foot and hurled him from the awful height of Olympus. He was a whole day falling, but in the evening alighted on the island Lemnos,[9]where he was kindly received and nourished for years in a deep grotto of the sea, by Eurymone[10]and Thetis, and afterward, in return for their kindness, he made them many ornaments. Later mythical writers mention his lameness as a consequence of that fall. But Homer, whose authority we follow, represents him as lame from his birth.
Milton, in his “Paradise Lost,” evidently alludes to this Grecian myth, though he makes a different application of it:
“From mornTo noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”
“From mornTo noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”
“From mornTo noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”
“From morn
To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,
A summer’s day; and, with the setting sun,
Dropped from the zenith, like a falling star,
On Lemnos, the Ægean isle.”
When or how he was restored to Olympus we are not informed, nor whether the time required for the ascent equaled or exceeded that of the fall. Enough, that his presence and useful offices there are subsequently recognized. He may have become mediator between his parents; and at times humorously assumed the role of cup-bearer at the feasts of the Olympians, causing them much merriment as he busily hobbled from one to another presenting the cups of nectar.[11]
It is probable that their first conception of Hephaistos was that of the god of fire, simply. But as fire is the efficient agent employed in smelting and working metals, he was afterward, and very naturally, regarded as the inventor of furnaces, foundries and forges, including all workshops where skillful artisans wrought in iron and the other metals. With his workmen of skill and Cyclopic strength he constructed all the shining palaces for the immortals on Olympus, and also his own immense workshop with the huge anvils and “twenty bellows” that, at his bidding, worked automatically. He designed and executed numberless articles, both useful and ornamental, suitable for the abodes of either gods or men; and some of their mythical poems and stories are enriched with descriptions of the exquisite workmanship they display. Later accounts mention his workshop as no longer on Olympus, but on some volcanic island where his forges glow with heat and his workmen are equal to any demands made on their skill or strength. Hephaistos, like Athena, gave skill to mortal artisans, and they too were believed to have taught men all things suitable to embellish or adorn their habitations.
In statuary, during the best period of old Grecian art, he is represented as a vigorous, bearded man of muscular frame, and is characterized by the presence of his hammer or some other instrument, and the corselet which leaves the strong, right arm and shoulder uncovered.
The Romans not only changed the name to Vulcan, but regarded Ætna as his glowing forge, and Venus as his wife; thus expressing the idea that art and beauty are in harmony.
BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.
“The Stimulant Vice is the principal cause of human degeneration.”—Haller.
“The Stimulant Vice is the principal cause of human degeneration.”—Haller.
Science tells us that there is a general progressive tendency in nature. According to the opinion of some modern biologists, all plants and animals have been developed from lower and less perfect organisms, and still continue their upward progress. We may reject that view, or accept it with considerable modifications; but one thing remains certain: Nature does not go backward of her own accord. Wherever the harmony of creation has not been wilfully disturbed the trees are as tall as of yore, the fruits as sweet and the flowers as fragrant. The eagle soars as high as ever, the song-thrush has not forgotten her anthems, nor the swallow her swift flight, the ostrich still scorneth the horse and his rider, it still requires a Samson to rend a young lion. How, then, can it be explained that the noblest work of Nature makes a sad exception to that rule? How is it that man alone is sinking in misery and disease, growing weaklier and sicklier from century to century, from generation to generation? War has not dealt us those wounds, famine and pestilence can not explain our “ailments and pains, in form, variety and degree beyond description.” The influence of all transient causes of evil is counteracted by the healing agencies of Nature. See the children of the wilderness, how soon they recover from hurts and wounds, how completely from the effects of protracted starvation, their off-spring as sound as their ancestors in Eden. No, the cause of our degeneracy must be a permanently active cause, and with the assurance of a clear and perfect conviction we can say: That restless enemy of human health and happiness is the poison vice.
Without the redeeming influence of nature, the balm of sleep and the regenesis[1]of every new birth, alcohol alone would have effected the destruction of the human race. During the gradual development of the vice the adaptive faculties of the human system have somewhat modified its influence, but its real significance reveals itself when its flood-gates are suddenly opened upon anunpreparedrace. In Siberia, in Polynesia, and among the aborigines of our own continent, the alcohol plague has raged with the destructiveness of the black death;[2]wigwams, villages, nay, entire districts have been depopulated in the course of a single generation. Among the Caucasian[3]nations, where the vice has gradually progressed from half-fermented must to brandy, its baneful effects are less sudden, but not less certain. From age to age the form created in the image of God has decayed, has shrunk like a building collapsing under the progress of a devouring fire. Wherever intemperance has increased, manhood and strength have decreased. The Anacreons[4]of antiquity indulged in wine only at occasional festivals. The peasants of the Middle Ages were generally too poor to use intoxicating drinks of any kind. But by and by wages improved. Strong ale and brandy were added to the home-brewed beverages of the working classes. Habitual stimulation, once the ruin of the idle aristocrat, became the curse of the masses. Thepoison marasmus[5]became a pandemic[6]plague. The yeomen of ancient England would not recognize their gin drinking descendants; a Norman Knight could have crushed a Stockholm dandy with a single grip of his fist. Challenge the apostles of lager beer, take them to Nuremberg, to the armory of the old City Hall, let them pick their champion from the ranks of the bloated and sickly looking citizens, defy them to find a single man able to wield the weapons that were toys in the hands of the old burghers. Or the advocates of “good, cheap, country wine”—take them to Spain and let them see what the best wine has done for the manliest race on earth. The inhabitants of Castile, of Aragon, Valencia, Barcelona and Leon are the descendantsof the old Visigoths,[7]a race of rude warriors who overpowered the disciplined legions of Rome as easily as the Romans would have quelled a rabble of African rebels. Gibbon describes their first encounter with the Roman armies, how the imperial general invited the Gothic chieftains to a banquet, where he intended to assassinate their guards and attack their camps during the confusion, and how the Goths were saved by the intrepidity of their leaders: “At these words, Fritigern[8]and his companions drew their swords, opened their passage through the unresisting crowd, and, mounting their horses, hastily vanished from the eyes of the astonished Romans. The generals of the Goths were saluted by the fierce and joyful acclamations of the camp; war was instantly resolved, the banners of the nation were displayed according to the custom of their ancestors, and the air resounded with the march signals of the barbarian trumpet.” No painter’s magic could more vividly evoke the forms of that giant race, their chieftains making their way through a crowd of shrinking cowards, the tumult of the camp, and the iron-fisted warriors, receiving their leaders with exultant shouts! And those men were the ancestors of the modern Spaniards—lions shrunk into cats, eagles into mousing hawks! It is idle sophistry to ascribe that result to climatic influences. In a warmer climate than Spain the abstemious Arabs, the Afghans, and the Moors have preserved the vigor of their earliest ancestors. The soil that now produceslazzaroni[9]andmusici[10]was once trod by the conquerors of three continents. In the snow-bound wigwams of the North American Indians a cold climate has not prevented the ravages of the alcohol plague. Poison has filled more graves than the sword, more than famine, and the plague and all the hostile powers of Nature taken together. The poison vice has shortened our average longevity by twenty years,[D]has turned athletes into cripples, giants into dwarfs.
Yet that result does not prove the vindictiveness of Nature; but her patience, the infinite patience that has prevented our utter self-destruction by mitigating the consequences of our suicidal follies. At night, while the drunkard sleeps his torpor sleep, the hand of our All-mother cools his fevered brow, the subtle alchemy of the organism allays the effects of the poison while the system performs at least a portion of its vital functions; in every child the influence of ancestral sins is modified by the tendency of redeeming instincts. If it were not for the restless activity of those remedial influences, fire-water alone would have caused more havoc than the deluge. From a pessimistic point of view the study of the physical effects of the poison vice might almost justify the conjecture of the biologist Hoffmann. “Nature,” says he, “has set limits to the over increase of every species of animals. Insects prey upon smaller insects, minnows upon midges, trouts upon minnows, pikes upon trouts, the fish-otter upon pikes, and man himself upon the fish-otter. Man himself has no earthly rival, but Providence (die Vorsehung) has met that difficulty by making him a self-destructive animal!”
If that shocking idea were not at variance with other facts, one might, indeed, admire the ingenious adaptation of means to ends, for if it were the intention of God to limit our prosperity and afflict us with every possible evil short of absolute annihilation, he could certainly not have chosen a more efficient agent than alcohol.
Alcohol, the rectified product of the vinous fermentation (i. e., decomposition) of various saccharine fluids, and included by chemists among the narcotic poisons, exercises a metamorphosic effect on every organ of the human body; and no fact in physiology is more incontestably established than that all itsappreciableeffects are deleterious ones. The advocates of alcohol base their claims upon vague theories. The opponents of alcohol base their claims upon obvious facts. It has been asserted that alcohol protects the system against cold, but the exponents of that theory have failed to show how the constituent elements of alcohol can take the place of the natural heat producers, the non-nitrogenous foods; they have also failed to explain a fact established by the unanimous testimony of polar travelers, namely, that a low temperature can be longer and more easily endured by total abstainers than by those who indulge inany kindof alcoholic drinks.
Alcohol has been called a “negative food,” because it retards the progress of the organic changes; but it has been demonstrated that that retardation is in every case an abnormal and morbid process, and that its results can not benefit the system in any appreciable way, while its deleterious effects are seen in the fatty degeneration of the tissues, the impoverished condition of the blood, and many other symptoms characterizing the influence of insufficient nutrition. Alcohol has been called a positive food, because, forsooth, it is derived (by a process of decomposition) from grain, fruits and other nutritive substances. We might as well call mildew a nutritive substance because it is formed by the decay of wholesome food. “There is no more evidence,” says Dr. Parker, “of alcohol being in any way utilized in the body, than there is in regard to ether or chloroform. If alcohol is to be still designated asfood, we must extend the meaning of that term so as to make it comprehend not only chloroform, but all medicines and poisons—in fact, everything which can be swallowed and absorbed, however foreign it may be to the normal condition of the body, and however injurious to its functions. On the other hand, from no definition that can be framed of apoison, which should include those more powerful anæsthetic agents, whose poisonous character has been unfortunately too clearly manifested in a great number of instances, can alcohol be fairly shut out.”
The antiseptic influence of alcohol was long supposed to constitute a safeguard against malarial diseases, but it has been found that the prophylactic[11]effect of distilled liquors is confined to the period of actual stimulation (the alcohol fever), and that in the long run abstinence is from eight to ten times more prophylactic than dram drinking.
Alcohol has been mistaken for an invigorating tonic; but we have seen that the supposed process of invigoration is a process of stimulation, or rather of irritation, and that we might as well try to “invigorate” a weary traveler by drenching him withaqua fortis.[12]
On the other hand, it has been proved by ocular demonstration that alcoholic liquids, applied to the living tissue, induce redness and inflammation, and cover the mucous lining of the stomach with ulcerous patches; that they change the structure of the liver, stud it with tubercles and disqualify it for its proper functions, though by obstructing its vascular ducts they often swell it to twice, and sometimes to five times, its natural size. The weight of a healthy liver varies from five to eight pounds, and Dr. Youmans mentions the post mortem examination of an English drunkard whose liver was found to weighfifty pounds, and adds that in spite of this enormous enlargement of the bile-secreting organ, the man died from a deficiency of bile. The records of the Parisian charity hospitals have established the fact that the moderate use of alcoholic drinks during a period of five years is sufficient to permeate the substance of the liver with fatty infiltrations, and that the liver of old drunkards undergoes changes which make it practically a lump of inert matter, a mass of compacted tubercles and scirrhous[13]ulcers. Even in the advanced stages of the disorder a large dose of concentrated alcohol rouses the diseased organ into a sort of feverish activity which, however, soon subsidesinto a deeper and more incurable torpor. Hence the temporary efficacy and ultimate uselessness (to say the least) of alcoholic “liver regulators.”
It has also been proved that alcohol inflames the brain, obstructs the kidneys, impoverishes the blood, and impairs the functional vigor of the respiratory organs.
The infallible necessity of all these results can be more fully realized by a clear comprehension of the proximate causes, which may be summed up in a few words: While the organism has to waste its strength on the elimination of the poison, it must neglect its normal functions, or perform them in a hasty, perfunctory way. Let me illustrate the matter by an apologue.[14]A family of poor tenants occupy a cottage at the edge of the woods. They are honest, hard-working people, trying their best to live within their means, but at a certain hour they are every day attacked by a bear. Before the good man can mend his jacket, before the good wife has cooked her dinner, before the boys have finished their spelling lesson, they have to rally and fight that brute. Sometimes the bear comes twice a day. They generally manage to hustle him out of the premises, but if they return to their cottage the father’s jacket is torn into shreds, the dinner is burned, and in the excitement of the row the boys have forgotten their lesson. Their clothes are torn, their hands and faces bear the marks of the scrimmage, the whole household is in a state of the wildest disorder. The poor people go to work and try to repair the mischief the best way they can, but before they have finished the job the bear comes back, and another rumpus turns the house upside down. No wonder that things go from bad to worse, no wonder the tenants can not pay their rent; but a very considerable wonder that the landlord does not relieve them by killing that bear.
The manliest races of the present world are probably the Lesghian[15]and Daghistan[16]mountaineers, who inhabit the southern highlands of the Caucasus,[17]and who defied the power of the Russian empire for sixty-five years. From 1792 to 1858, army after army of schnapps drinking[18]Muscovites[19]attacked them from the north, east and west, and were hurled back like dogs from the lair of a lion, andfifteen hundred thousandRussian soldiers perished in the Caucasian defiles before the Russian eagles supplanted the crescent of Daghistan. For the heroic highlanders are Mohammedans, andtotal abstainers from intoxicating drinks. The Ossetes,[20]who inhabit the foothills of the northern range, are addicted to the use ofslibovits[21](peach brandy) and other stimulants, and their bloated faces present a striking contrast to the clean-cut features of the tribes who have been chosen as the representatives of the white race. They are as stubborn as their southern neighbors, but not as enterprising; as self-sacrificing in the defense of their country, but not as self-reliant. In spite of their healthy climate they are cachectic[22]and rather dull witted; alcohol has stunted their stamina as well as their stature.
But there are other forms of physical degeneration which can with certainty be ascribed to the influence of the secondary stimulants, tobacco, tea, coffee, and pungent spices. Tobacco makes the Turks indolent, tea and coffee make us nervous and dyspeptic; and the worst is that those minor vices pave the way to ruin; a constitution enfeebled by theïne poison[23]is less able to resist the influence of fusel poison. It is a great mistake to suppose that abstinence from concentrated alcoholic liquors could atone for the habitual use of other stimulants. The vices of our ancestors were gross, but one-sided; ours are more manifold, and in their effects more comprehensive. In France many so-called temperate drinkers indulge in light wine, absinthe, tea, coffee and chloral, and are weaklier and sicklier than the Hungarian dram drinkers who confine themselves to plum brandy, for the system of the miscellaneous poison-monger has to defend itself against five enemies, and, as it were, sustain the wounds of five different weapons. The mediæval knights and many Grecian and Roman epicureans could drink a quantity of wine that would kill a modern toper; but they confined themselves to that one stimulant, and showed sense enough to keep it from their boys, who had a chance to fortify their constitutions with gymnastics before they endangered them with alcohol, and not rarely thus fortified their mental constitutions to a degree that made them temptation proof. Pythagoras and Mohammed interdicted wine, and that statute did not interfere with the propagation of their doctrines, for voluntary abstainers were by no means rare—before the introduction of secondary stimulants. We fuddle our schoolboys with coffee and cider, and it is a curious and very frequent consequence of that early development of the stimulant habit that its victim forgets the happiness of his childhood and accepts daily headaches and chronic nightmares as some of the “ills that flesh is heir to.” Rousseau believed that a man would be safe against the poison vice if he could reach his twentieth year without contracting the habit, because in the meantime observation would have taught him the effects of intemperance. But his safety would be guaranteed by another circumstance. He would know what health means, and no deference to established customs would tempt him to exchange freedom for chains.
But a still greater mistake is the idea that drunkenness could be abated by the introduction of milder alcoholic drinks. We can not fight rum with lager beer. All poison habits are progressive, and we have seen that the beer vice is always apt to eventuate in a brandy vice, or else to equalize the difference by a progressive enlargement of the dose. Common brandy contains fifty per cent. of alcohol, lager beer about ten; so, if A. drinks one glass of brandy and B. five glasses of beer they have outraged their systems by the same amount of poison and will incur the same penalty. Total abstinence is the safe plan, nay, the only safe plan, for poisons can not be reduced to a harmless dose. By diminishing the quantities of the stimulant we certainly diminish its power for mischief, but as long as the dose is large enough to produce any appreciable effect that effect is a deleterious one.
Various diseases and that artificial disorder called intoxication react on certain faculties of the mind (by affecting their corresponding cerebral organ) as regularly as on the liver or any other part of the human organism. Consumption stimulates the love of life: a self-deluding hope of recovery characterizes the advanced stage of the disease as invariably as the hectic flush that simulates the color of health. Hasheesh excites combativeness. Alcohol first excites and gradually impairsself-reliance, and thus undermines the basis of truthfulness, of private and social enterprise, of manly courage and generosity. Moral cowardice, the chief reproach of our generation, has more to do with the tyranny of the poison vice than with the despotism of social prejudices. The brain stimulating effect of alcohol decreases with every repetition of the dose, and Dr. Theodore Chambers warns us that “however long the evil results of such habitual overtasking may be postponed, they are sure to manifest themselves at last inthat general breakdown which is the necessary sequence of a long continued excess of expenditure over income.”
Besides, even the temporary results would not justify that expenditure. “Brain workers should confine themselves tometaphysical tonics,” says Dr. Bouchardat[24]; “alcoholic drinks, at any rate, are unavailable for that purpose. Even after a single glass of champagne I have found that the slight mental exaltation is accompanied by a slight obfuscation.[25]The mind soars, but it soars into the clouds.” “Wine stirs the brain,” says the poet Chamisso, “but not its higher faculties as much as the sediments that muddle it.”
The Arabs have a tradition that soon after the flood, when Nunus (the Arabian Noah) had resumed his agricultural pursuits, aGhin, or spirit, appeared to him and taught him the art of manufacturing wine from grape-juice. “This beverage, O son of an earthly father,” said theGhin, “is a liquid of peculiarproperties. The first bumperful will make you as tame as a sheep. If you repeat the experiment you will become as fierce as a rampant lion. After the third dose you will roll in the mud like a hog.” If theGhinhad been a spirit of epigrammatic abilities he might have summarized his remarks: “The effects of this liquid, O Nunus, vary, of course, with the amount of the dose. But if you drink it you will infallibly make a beast of yourself.”
In the long list of artificial stimulants, with all their modifications and compounds, there is no such thing as a harmless tonic. Alcohol, especially, is in all its disguises, the most implacable enemy of the human organism. In large quantities it is a lethal[26]poison; in smaller doses its effects are less deadly but not less certainly injurious, and the advocates of moderate drinking might as well recommend moderate perjury. Our lager beer enthusiasts might just as well advise us to introduce a milder brand of rattlesnakes. The alcohol habit in all its forms and in every stage of its development, is a degrading vice.