BISMUTH DISSOLVING IN NITRIC ACID.
BISMUTH DISSOLVING IN NITRIC ACID.
Gunpowder, gun-cotton, nitro-glycerine, and dynamite all contain N, and their explosive character depends largely upon its presence. Nitrogen and chlorine form a compound, which explodes with such terrific violence that its manufacture should never be attempted by students.
Nitrogen iodide is another of these dangerous combinations. It can be made in very small quantities, however, in the form of a black powder, which may be handled with impunity while it is damp. The touch of a feather, or a zephyr, will sometimes explode it when dry. It is almost impossible to keep it; the jar of a foot-fall or slamming of a door is often sufficient to liberate the unstable nitrogen, and the substance disappears with a loud report. The tremendous rending force of dynamite is well known. A small charge in a torpedo will sink a ship. The Greely Relief Expedition used it to open their way through the arctic ice fields. Its atoms rush apart with such frightful velocity that if a pound of it be exploded upon a naked bowlder, of many tons weight, the rock is shivered into fragments.
At every breath we take into the lungs a mixture of N and O. The operation is not only harmless, but essential to life. When, however, N and O arecompounded, the resulting substances are very different. Nitrous oxide (N₂O) forms the well known laughing gas, which breathed, produces for a time a species of intoxication, and if its inhalation is continued, results in insensibility. Nitric oxide (NO) when first formed consists of suffocating red fumes, while nitric acid (HNO₃) is a very corrosive liquid which will cauterize flesh, and acts with great energy upon most of the metals. It is sometimes termed aqua fortis, and is much used in etching upon copper. The surface of the metal plate is covered with varnish or wax, upon which the design is then traced by a sharp pointed instrument. The acid is then applied and remains until, in the judgment of the artist, the impression is deep enough. Any one can easily etch his name, in this way, on a knife blade, or make a stencil plate from a thin strip of brass or copper. Silver, copper, mercury, lead, zinc, iron, bismuth can all be dissolved by nitric acid.
The five compounds of N and O admirably illustrate the laws of atomic combination. Their symbols are as follows: Nitrogen monoxide, N₂O; nitric oxide, NO; nitrogen trioxide, N₂O₃; nitrogen peroxide, NO₂; nitrogen pentoxide, N₂O₅. A careful examination of the weights of these substances, which may be made by consulting some good chemical manual, will show that there is an exact ratio of combination, their proportional weights being respectively as 1¾ to 1, 1¾ to 2, 1¾ to 3, 1¾ to 4, 1¾ to 5. Since atoms can not be divided they must combine atom for atom, or in multiples. This principle has been more fully stated in the form of six
The first law of weights says that the elements of a given compound always unite in the same proportions, by weight. The second law is, that if two or more substances unite to form several compounds, their highest combining proportions will always be multiples of their lowest combining weights. The third law announces that the combining weight of a compound is the sum of the combining proportions of its constituents. The volumetric laws are as follows: 1, If two or more elements unite to form a compound, their proportion by volume will always be the same; 2, if they unite to form a variety of compounds, these proportions will always be multiples of the lowest combining volumes. 3. The third law is most curious of all; that the combining volume of a gaseous compound is always 2. For example, if two elements represented by x and y unite in proportion of one volume of x to one of y, there would be formed two volumes of the compound. If there should be two volumes of x and one of y there would be two volumes of the compound, and if they should unite three volumes of x and one of y, again there would be but two volumes of the product. Just why two should be such a favorite number is difficult to explain. No one can carefully study these interesting laws without perceiving the necessity for a rare intelligence in arranging all materials with such mathematical exactness.
How absurd to ascribe toatomsthe power to count, to weigh, to measure, to arrange themselves in orderly combinations which surpass the most skilful marshaling of battalions on a great battle field. It would be to make gods of atoms.
AMMONIA GAS AND CHLOROHYDRIC GAS MEETING IN THE AIR AND FORMING AMMONIC CHLORIDE.Experiment.—Place some ammonia in one glass and chlorohydric acid in the other. Ammonia gas (NH₃) and chlorohydric gas (HCl) will meet in the air and form ammonic chloride (NH₄Cl).
AMMONIA GAS AND CHLOROHYDRIC GAS MEETING IN THE AIR AND FORMING AMMONIC CHLORIDE.
Experiment.—Place some ammonia in one glass and chlorohydric acid in the other. Ammonia gas (NH₃) and chlorohydric gas (HCl) will meet in the air and form ammonic chloride (NH₄Cl).
Once upon a time, as the story goes, the King of the Acids, whose name is Sulphuric, arrogantly walked forth to view his wide domain. He was sour and fierce. Many conquests had made him boastful, until he thought himself the mightiest of the earth. Soon he came to where the King of the Metals, whose name is Gold, sat in royal state, his countenance shining with wonderful beauty. The haughty monarch of the Acids was angered as he approached, to see that his rival did not recognize him, nor acknowledge his power. “I am mightier than thou!” he said, but King Gold smiled in silent derision. Thereupon the former fiercely attacked him, but was easily repulsed. The savage aggressor, insane with rage, went away muttering, “I have two sons who can slay thee!” He instantly commanded Nitric Acid and Hydrochloric at once to unite in an attack upon his opponent. Their father gave them a banner on which was inscribed “Aqua Regia,” which might be translated “King Slayer.” It was indeed too true a symbol. Alas! before their combined onslaught the royal metalyielded. The old king now grew more arrogant than ever, and boastfully announced that his sway knew no limits. One day he discovered, in his walk, one of a smooth and gentle countenance, yet with an expression indicating that if aroused he might make biting and caustic replies. It was Potassa, King of the Alkalies. From hot words, they soon passed to blows, until in the wild struggle both were slain. Horrible to contemplate, they ate each other! The spot on which they perished can still be pointed out. This story is a warning to vaulting ambition, and a tragedy surpassed in pathos only by the mournful story of the Kilkenny cats![2]
This substance is also called carbonic di-oxide and carbonic acid gas. It is the dreaded “choke-damp” of the miner. It Is produced when carbon unites with O, whether by the decay of vegetation, combustion of vegetable matter, or the oxidation of the blood. It is so heavy that it may be poured or dipped out from vessel to vessel, like water. It extinguishes flame, and is largely employed for that purpose in contrivances like the Babcock Fire Extinguisher,[3]and the more recent Fire Grenade.[4]Taken into the stomach in the form of soda water it is refreshing and beneficial, but its inhalation is always injurious, and will produce death if breathed in considerable quantity, by causing asphyxia.[5]A practical problem of great importance is that of ventilation, as this material is constantly being thrown off from the lungs, of both animals and men. In the days of ample fire-places, our homes, if they had less heat had purer air. The railroad car, in point of comfort, is a marvelous improvement over the ancient stage coach, but the latter was better in the matter of ventilation. The sleepiness of congregations should be attributed as much to the foul air as to the dull preaching. Can not some of our writers on homiletics prepare us a stirring chapter on the relation of carbonic acid to eloquence?
Homes, school houses, and all public buildings should be supplied in some way with a gentle and universal circulation of air. Fierce draughts should by all means be avoided. Ventilation is now generally best secured by the construction of flues in the wall, which have openings in the lower and upper portion of the room. The world yet waits to bless the inventor of a simple and effective system of ventilation which is of universal application.
As has been suggested, there must be in the air a variable quantity of other substances beside those named as forming its mass. Ammonia gas (NH₃) is present, and it is from this material that most of the nitrogen found in plants is obtained. Water readily absorbs it and conveys it to the roots. Other elements require only additional heat to volatilize them. Almost all of the elements of nature have been liquefied; carbonic acid has been solidified, forming a beautiful white solid, intensely cold. It is generally accepted as a truth that all substances could be solidified by the sufficient removal of heat, and it would of course follow that they could all be vaporized by applying heat enough. In earlier geologic times many of the materials forming our earth must have existed as vapor in the heated atmosphere, and the time will come when our globe will have no atmosphere, no seas, lakes, nor rivers. It will float in space, cold and desolate like the moon.
The opposite of this condition can be seen to-day in many of the heavenly bodies. The spectroscope reveals in the sun’s atmosphere gold, iron, copper, zinc, and many other substances. Vast disturbances are constantly heaving and tossing these materials, which are intensely heated. The cyclonic movements are so violent and extensive that the wildest hurricanes of our earth would seem as zephyrs in comparison.
Hydrogen flames have flared out one hundred thousand miles from its surface. It has been suggested that the mighty fires in the sun may be fed by millions of meteoric bodies which are tossed into its raging heats by the power of gravity. Nothing could withstand such terrible combustion. Lockyer says that if all of the sun’s heat were concentrated upon a mass of ice as large as the earth it would melt it in two minutes, and convert it into vapor in fifteen.
Science has accomplished few things more wonderful than that of crossing over the vast spaces of the universe, and revealing to us the chemical composition of the celestial atmospheres.
End of Required Reading for December.
BY REV. A. E. WINSHIP.
Samuel Daniel, Spenser’s successor as laureate, is unknown to the general reader, though by the reader of his time he was well considered, and literary critics of every age have admired him. He has had no superior in the correct, classic use of English. Lowell says that in two hundred years not a dozen of his words or turns of phrase have become obsolete, a thing that can not be said, probably, of any other English writer. He failed not in rhythmic skill, or linguistic art, but in that element which marks the literary genius’ power to speak to his neighbors in such a way as to speak to all times and climes. Shakspere’s words are as much at home in one nation or century as another. Bunyan had a similar skill, so had Burns, but Daniel had it not. In comparing him with men of permanent literary fame we see the superiority of processes to facts, of methods to transient results.
Daniel’s lines are so exquisite that in every age the great poets have not only been his admirers, but have made systematic effort to revivify his lines. In the time of Hazlitt, he secured the coöperation of Lamb and Coleridge, and the three combined their talent and friends to resurrect his fame by placing beneath his poems their own genius and reputation, but they could not call his verses from the oblivion in which they had been decently interred.
This incident is a capital answer to the charge that great men, notably literary men, depend upon circumstances for their fame. Nothing can buoy up fame but the filling of the veins with a personality through genius. At some stages circumstances aid, friends are serviceable, but it is the inherent qualities that survive in the tempestuous waves of public opinion and criticism. Daniel won the title of voluntary laureate by serving from Spenser to Ben Jonson without stated financial reward, though he was benefited financially and otherwise. Samuel Daniel was born 1562, near Taunton. His father was a music teacher, and the son studied at Oxford, but did not take his degree. He published poems at twenty-three. He was tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, afterward Countess of Pembroke, and became historian and poet under Earl of Pembroke’s patronage. His admiration for the Italian verse influenced his original stanzas, and led him to devote much time to translations. His most extensive work was the poetic history of the civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York.
Ben Jonson, who succeeded Daniel, is a curiosity in literature. Physically, mentally, morally, he was unquestionably the most unique character among English “Men of Letters.” In build heavy and uncouth, face broad and long, with square jaw and large cheeks, disfigured by scurvy, with a “mountain bellie and ungracious gait.” He was the son of a clergyman who died before he was born. His mother married shortly after for her second husband a bricklayer, whom the child royally disliked. The coarsely framed, energetic lad was, in the eyes of the step-father, only fitted for manual labor, and consequently he was taken from school as soon as he could handle a trowel, and placed at brick laying. In this action two elements in the boy’s nature were overlooked; combativeness and pride; and it was not long after this summary parental authority assigned him menial employment that the impetuous lad unceremoniously withdrew from home associations to parts unknown. The army was his retreat, and he was not long in making a record for personal bravery by meeting a man in single combat, at the age of seventeen, in the presence of both armies, Spanish and English, killing his opponent single handed.
At the age of eighteen he retired from the army, and for a brief period resumed his studies, from which he early retreated and sought a livelihood with his pen at drama writing, and to assure their success and increase his income he attempted to act them in the theater, but pride and combativeness led to a violent quarrel with an associate actor, and in the duel which followed he killed his opponent with the sword. Arrest and imprisonment followed, and execution was inevitable but for the gracious interference of a priest, whose interposition secured his release before the sentence was passed upon him.
When at twenty years of age he came out of prison his hands were stained with the blood of two fellow-beings; his first act was to secure himself a wife, though he had not a penny in the world, and no visible means of support. This apparently rash act was the wisest movement of his life, as it necessitated a vigorous wrestling with poverty for four stern years, which balanced his temper and disposition and intensified his mental powers. During these years of galling poverty be produced under its stimulus the greatest work of his life, “Every man in his Humor.” His works all show learning of the highest order. Hume said that he had the learning Shakspere lacked, but lacked his genius. But when and how did he acquire it? Largely by unparalleled reading in these four years when his poverty goaded him to acquire the skill to earn money with his pen.
He was a scathing critic, lashing play writers, actors and theater-goers with unmerciful sarcasm in the prefaces of his plays, until he became the best hated man in England, actors frequently denouncing him in unmeasured censure before their audiences, which only goaded him to the public declaration that he had no fear of “strumpet’s drugs or ruffian’s stab.”
When James VI. of Scotland ascended the throne as James I. of England, there appeared a comedy styled, “Eastward Hoe,” written by Jonson’s most intimate friends, Marston and Chapman. The work reflected sarcastically upon certain Scotch traits, exasperating the newly crowned king so greatly that he caused the joint authors to be thrown into prison, and it was currently reported that they were to lose their noses and ears.
When Jonson, who was in high favor with the court and people, heard this report he was exasperated, as he had written certain passages of the book for them, and he promptly surrendered himself as a fellow-author, and took his place defiantly in prison, which placed the king in a most uncomfortable position, as he had neither the desire nor the courage to mutilate the face of the most popular writer of the day. The three were in consequence released, and Jonson gave a great feast in honor of the event, at which his mother displayed a phial of violent poison, saying that had he been mutilated she would first have drank from the deadly phial and then have given him to drink. He was universally recognized as one of the most jovial characters of the day, and spent much of his time with literary companions at the “Mermaid Club,” a socio-literary association of brilliant men, among whom were Shakspere, Beaumont, and Fletcher.
When he was appointed laureate he was granted at first a hundred marks, or about sixty-five pounds, which was soon advanced to a hundred pounds, which with his literary income would have sufficed had he the gift of using money wisely, which he had not, and as life advanced he was continually annoyed from want of funds. Then it was that his sarcastic habits of speech bore fruit. When young and vigorous he rejoiced in his enemies, but as he aged his skill to make enemies increased, while his youthful powers to ward off their thrusts was waning. The time came, as it must always come to men in years, when he had nothing new to say, no vitality for originating thought, or freshly stating truth, and unfortunately he was forced to attempt to write for a living, and writing poorly, his enemies attacked him savagely, setting his words before the public in absurd relations, saddening the closing years of life. Misfortunes never come singly, and his mental chagrin was augmented by the humiliation of being a paralytic to such an extent that he could not walk, and dropsy and scurvy intensified his suffering. His wife and children had died and his only servant and companion was an uncomfortable old woman. The king withdrew his royal patronage, and he lived at last only by soliciting favors from his friends. In Westminster Abbey, where his remains lie among the famous poets, is a plain, square block of stone, marking the resting place of this erratic youth, brilliant man, suffering and neglected senior, with this inscription:
“O Rare Ben Jonson.”
No poet laureate adorned the royal household for a quarter of a century. Some time before the death of Jonson, Charles I. had fallen on troublesome times. The poetry of life in court circles was gone, and even the prose was shorn of its beauty.
It is a strange chapter that recounts the way in which the Romish church, as well as the English, lost all power in the nation; the way in which the Presbyterian church, so long an outlaw, came into power with all the vigor of youth, and almost instantly went out of power in a panic; the way the ever-to-be-feared Independent, who never knows law or reason, came to haunt the dreams of the nobility.
The king was weak, timid, vacillating; the nobility came to be of no account to anybody; the House of Commons that prided itself on being radical, suddenly found itself so conservative as to be frightened even from its parliamentary place of rendezvous, and became an insignificant factor in the government. What a day was that in which neither the Romish, English, or Presbyterian church was of sufficient account to be consulted, when the king was a cipher, the nobility a minus quantity, the House of Commons an unknown factor, and two men, Hampden and Cromwell, rallied fifty Independents, constituted themselves a law unto themselves, organizing what has been known in history as the Rump Parliament, and beheaded Charles I.
In Jonson’s day the king saw the drift of affairs, felt the throne trembling beneath him, and had neither the funds to continue Jonson’s pension, nor was he in the sentimental mood to appoint a successor upon his death. It would have been cruel mockery indeed for any poet to rhyme his praise.
The ten years in which Cromwell rode rough shod over every established order of things did not develop a spirit that called for poetry. Life was too hazardous to incline any to sing in joyous strain. But when he died and no Independent rose to fill his place, Charles II. was called to the throne, and the House Of Stuart once more held the reins of government securely, and the citizens called for a knightly laureate.
Sir William Davenant assumed the position of versifier forthe king. He was the son of a wealthy vinter who kept the Crown Inn at Oxford, where Shakspere always stopped, who, by the way, was such an ardent admirer of Mrs. D’Avenaunt that her son bore his name, and it was the quiet boast of Sir William that he was the natural son of the great dramatist.
He was early attached to the household of the gorgeous Duchess of Richmond as a page, and later attached himself to the retinue of Lord Brooke, until that nobleman was murdered, which affliction threw Davenant upon his own resources, which induced him to try his hand at versifying, but without success until one of those periodic freaks of Ben Jonson led the great poet to quarrel with the court architect, who in the emergency discovered Davenant and gave him the opportunity to secure the position on limited literary capital.
There was that in his nature which made him an active partisan, and during the Long Parliament he was imprisoned for scheming to seduce the army and overthrow the Commons. He escaped, was captured and reimprisoned, escaped the second time and fled to France, where he joined the exile queen and served the cause of royalty by smuggling military stores into England, and for personal bravery in the army of the Earl of Newcastle, who espoused the queen’s cause, he was knighted. After the fatal battle of Naseby he returned to France and assumed the management of the colonization society and sailed for Virginia, but his vessel was captured by a parliamentary man-of-war and he imprisoned on the Isle of Wight, and afterward sent to the Tower on the charge of high treason. The timely interference of his old poet friend, Milton, who had espoused the Puritan cause, alone prevented his being beheaded. This successful importunity of an old friend was in many ways most gratifying to Davenant, who, a few years later, when Charles II. was called to assume the reins of government and executed vengeance on all old time enemies, dooming Milton to sudden execution, was privileged to reciprocate the favor, and by timely intercession, recounting the service the poet had been to him, saved Milton from the fatal consequences of his political affiliations.
After Milton secured Davenant’s release from imprisonment the humbled courtier endeavored to win an honorable living as a poet, but in vain. He could only write dramas, but the Puritans had closed the theaters with a rigor that knew no exception. It was in this emergency that the knight whose experiences had been so varied did the one bright thing of his life: he succeeded in writing inoffensive plays, and having them acted by calling themoperas, thus pacifying the ruling public, at the same time giving the world a new name for a diluted drama.
Charles II. when in power rewarded the faithfulness and loyalty of Davenant by crowning him laureate. It has been truthfully but cruelly said that there is not a more hopelessly faded laurel on the slopes of the English Parnassus than that which once flourished around Davenant’s grotesque head. Of the brighter man who followed him another chapter must account.
[TO BE CONTINUED.]
BY MARY N. EVANS.
In the midst of drear December,With a strange and magic art,Comes a gentle, mystic presence,Melting stern old Winter’s heart;Then the sullen sky, whose frowningChilled our hearts for weeks before,Sudden smiles—and lo, above us,Heaven’s bending blue once more!Then the sunshine softly falleth,Flooding earth with golden rays,And the bleak fields stand transfiguredThrough the brief, bright, “halcyon days;”While the storm-scourged, wrathful billows,Surging home with angry roar,Stretch, a shining sea of silver,Toward an unseen, sunny shore.Do you ask me whence the magic,Thus transforming Nature’s face?Listen to the quaint old legendGrecia wove with matchless grace;—How true-hearted AlcyonePlunged despairing, ’neath the wave,Her loved husband, Ceyx, joining,In his lonely ocean grave.Father Neptune, late relenting,When he saw their deathless love,Changed them both to tiny birdies,Skimming light, his waves above;Then he bade them on his bosomBuild in peace their glad home-nest,Hushing every wild storm-spirit,For that season into rest.Naught can harm the tiny nestlings—Naught disturb the parents small,For the spell of love undyingSoftly broodeth over all!Thus the heart of old December,Throbbing fierce with rage malign,Groweth warm, and sweet, and tender,’Neath a sense of love divine.So the home-love of the birdiesReacheth far beyond their ken,Crowning all the earth with blessing—Bringing peace to weary men;Even so from happy hearth-fires,From each heart where love is king,Goeth forth an influence holy,Earth’s millennial dawn to bring!Then all hail to Love immortal,Hail! thou blessed heaven-born Dove!Brood o’er all life’s troubled waters,Till the earth is filled with love;Comfort every grief-bowed mourner—Bid all wars and tumults cease,Till the world with glad hosannas,Usher in the Prince of Peace!
In the midst of drear December,With a strange and magic art,Comes a gentle, mystic presence,Melting stern old Winter’s heart;Then the sullen sky, whose frowningChilled our hearts for weeks before,Sudden smiles—and lo, above us,Heaven’s bending blue once more!Then the sunshine softly falleth,Flooding earth with golden rays,And the bleak fields stand transfiguredThrough the brief, bright, “halcyon days;”While the storm-scourged, wrathful billows,Surging home with angry roar,Stretch, a shining sea of silver,Toward an unseen, sunny shore.Do you ask me whence the magic,Thus transforming Nature’s face?Listen to the quaint old legendGrecia wove with matchless grace;—How true-hearted AlcyonePlunged despairing, ’neath the wave,Her loved husband, Ceyx, joining,In his lonely ocean grave.Father Neptune, late relenting,When he saw their deathless love,Changed them both to tiny birdies,Skimming light, his waves above;Then he bade them on his bosomBuild in peace their glad home-nest,Hushing every wild storm-spirit,For that season into rest.Naught can harm the tiny nestlings—Naught disturb the parents small,For the spell of love undyingSoftly broodeth over all!Thus the heart of old December,Throbbing fierce with rage malign,Groweth warm, and sweet, and tender,’Neath a sense of love divine.So the home-love of the birdiesReacheth far beyond their ken,Crowning all the earth with blessing—Bringing peace to weary men;Even so from happy hearth-fires,From each heart where love is king,Goeth forth an influence holy,Earth’s millennial dawn to bring!Then all hail to Love immortal,Hail! thou blessed heaven-born Dove!Brood o’er all life’s troubled waters,Till the earth is filled with love;Comfort every grief-bowed mourner—Bid all wars and tumults cease,Till the world with glad hosannas,Usher in the Prince of Peace!
In the midst of drear December,With a strange and magic art,Comes a gentle, mystic presence,Melting stern old Winter’s heart;Then the sullen sky, whose frowningChilled our hearts for weeks before,Sudden smiles—and lo, above us,Heaven’s bending blue once more!
In the midst of drear December,
With a strange and magic art,
Comes a gentle, mystic presence,
Melting stern old Winter’s heart;
Then the sullen sky, whose frowning
Chilled our hearts for weeks before,
Sudden smiles—and lo, above us,
Heaven’s bending blue once more!
Then the sunshine softly falleth,Flooding earth with golden rays,And the bleak fields stand transfiguredThrough the brief, bright, “halcyon days;”While the storm-scourged, wrathful billows,Surging home with angry roar,Stretch, a shining sea of silver,Toward an unseen, sunny shore.
Then the sunshine softly falleth,
Flooding earth with golden rays,
And the bleak fields stand transfigured
Through the brief, bright, “halcyon days;”
While the storm-scourged, wrathful billows,
Surging home with angry roar,
Stretch, a shining sea of silver,
Toward an unseen, sunny shore.
Do you ask me whence the magic,Thus transforming Nature’s face?Listen to the quaint old legendGrecia wove with matchless grace;—How true-hearted AlcyonePlunged despairing, ’neath the wave,Her loved husband, Ceyx, joining,In his lonely ocean grave.
Do you ask me whence the magic,
Thus transforming Nature’s face?
Listen to the quaint old legend
Grecia wove with matchless grace;—
How true-hearted Alcyone
Plunged despairing, ’neath the wave,
Her loved husband, Ceyx, joining,
In his lonely ocean grave.
Father Neptune, late relenting,When he saw their deathless love,Changed them both to tiny birdies,Skimming light, his waves above;Then he bade them on his bosomBuild in peace their glad home-nest,Hushing every wild storm-spirit,For that season into rest.
Father Neptune, late relenting,
When he saw their deathless love,
Changed them both to tiny birdies,
Skimming light, his waves above;
Then he bade them on his bosom
Build in peace their glad home-nest,
Hushing every wild storm-spirit,
For that season into rest.
Naught can harm the tiny nestlings—Naught disturb the parents small,For the spell of love undyingSoftly broodeth over all!Thus the heart of old December,Throbbing fierce with rage malign,Groweth warm, and sweet, and tender,’Neath a sense of love divine.
Naught can harm the tiny nestlings—
Naught disturb the parents small,
For the spell of love undying
Softly broodeth over all!
Thus the heart of old December,
Throbbing fierce with rage malign,
Groweth warm, and sweet, and tender,
’Neath a sense of love divine.
So the home-love of the birdiesReacheth far beyond their ken,Crowning all the earth with blessing—Bringing peace to weary men;Even so from happy hearth-fires,From each heart where love is king,Goeth forth an influence holy,Earth’s millennial dawn to bring!
So the home-love of the birdies
Reacheth far beyond their ken,
Crowning all the earth with blessing—
Bringing peace to weary men;
Even so from happy hearth-fires,
From each heart where love is king,
Goeth forth an influence holy,
Earth’s millennial dawn to bring!
Then all hail to Love immortal,Hail! thou blessed heaven-born Dove!Brood o’er all life’s troubled waters,Till the earth is filled with love;Comfort every grief-bowed mourner—Bid all wars and tumults cease,Till the world with glad hosannas,Usher in the Prince of Peace!
Then all hail to Love immortal,
Hail! thou blessed heaven-born Dove!
Brood o’er all life’s troubled waters,
Till the earth is filled with love;
Comfort every grief-bowed mourner—
Bid all wars and tumults cease,
Till the world with glad hosannas,
Usher in the Prince of Peace!
BY HELEN CAMPBELL.
Not that involved in the old saying, “A green Yule makes a fat churchyard,” nor even a hint at what Christmas cramming for both children and their elders may include. The physical results of either case are but a small portion of the evil that year by year has grown, so silently, so unsuspected, that to name evil in connection with the day seems both a misnomer and an outrage.
Is it climate or temperament, or simple inherited tendency that makes a golden mean impossible to the average American? A combination probably, combinations being the one thing to be taken for granted in any analysis of causes in man or nature. Life for Americans began in a reaction. Form and ceremony had hampered thought and hindered growth, and the earnest Puritan swept both aside once for all. A comfortable certainty was his that the question had but one side. His doxy was the only orthodoxy, and his doxy rejected Christmas as popish and owning the mark of the scarlet woman. We all know the joylessness, the somberness of those early days, in which human struggle was the only aim; never human delight or human pleasure in anything God had made. And we know as well, beyond any need of outline here, the sharp reaction from such numbing relief, and the conviction coming more and more surely to the surface, that enjoyment is as much our destiny as struggle, and that strength for the one comes in full acceptance of all legitimate forms of the other. But when enjoyment becomes a struggle, and we find distracted men and exhausted women crying as the holidays end, “Thank fortune Christmas is over with!” it seems high time to inquire why the friend whose entrance was hailed with acclamation suddenly appears in the character of the old man of the sea.
Is it that this is true, or that we have made him such by our own election, refusing him his rightful place, and forcing him ourselves to the shoulders that need have borne no such burden? We stagger under the responsibilities of this time that should mean only the purest pleasure. We grow feverish and anxious in paying a debt when free will offering alone has any part in the real Christmas. Children count their presents and are sad or sulky if tree or stocking hold one less than those of the child across the way. Boys and girls value the gift for the money it cost, and have learned such valuation from fathers and mothers who have discussed their own gifts from this standpoint. The spirit of bargaining possesses all; to get the most for the least outlay; to make the sum expended bring the utmost possible show. The counters are piled with flaunting bric-a-brac—cheap imitation of articles beyond the purse of the average buyer, and the woman whose supply of dish-towels is renewed from old sheets and who has not dared to buy book or photograph for a year, gives and receives some senseless plaque or staring vase, and might even resent a dozen dish-towels as quite out of harmony with the spirit of Christmas. The children share the same feeling, and if they make anything with their own hands, seek something so flimsy and useless, that as quickly as may be it is quietly tucked out of sight. And even where common sense has larger play, the amount of what must be done has gained such proportions that feverish hurry fills the days of preparation, and utter exhaustion the days that follow.
“I don’t think much of Christmas,” a small and cynical boy remarked not long ago. “It’s just a regular grab game, that’s what it is. I know fellows that join three or four Sunday-schools just for what they’ll get on the tree; and I know one fellow that hired other fellows, because you see, he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and when his name was called off they just went up and got his things for him. What do you think of that?”
“I think it’s pretty bad, but that isn’t the sort of Christmas you have at home, Horace?”
“Yes, it is. Ours is just the same, only not so many of us. Gussie is mad if I don’t spend a lot, and says I’m mean, and mamma says so too if papa’s present doesn’t suit her. I’m sick of it. Why didn’t you give me anything last Christmas? You always did before.”
The answer would make an article of itself, for as I listened my soul burned within me, and when the child ended, with his calculating little face turned up to mine, I spake with my tongue, and in the end brought a new look into the grave, blue eyes. To him as to too many of us, it had come to be the gift and not the giver, the symbol, and not the fact behind it. This is a one-sided presentation you will say, an arraignment undeserved by many; and even if deserved, the saying which does duty in so many directions, once more comes up: “What are you going to do about it?”
What we must all do, if the day is not to be permanently despoiled of all real significance and beauty, is at once to settle absolutely into simpler lines. The same passive acceptance of custom, that has doubled our work in all home directions and made the multiplication of labor-saving machinery merely a reason for an always increasing ratio of labor, operates here also. A sensible writer in theChristian Unionnot long ago remarked that in the days of our grandmothers it was ten children to one ruffle, whereas now it was ten ruffles to one child. So it has been with gifts, and the child of the last generation who rejoiced in two or three, considers the child of this defrauded with less than a dozen. Cheap toys, soon destroyed; cheap books, cleaving from their binding in a week; cheap candy, fair to see but slow poison to the eater—fill the stockings and crowd the tree, when the same money would have secured one well-made, perfect gift, worth the keeping for a lifetime. Art in its new adaptations is beginning to teach us the value of honest work, yet with an education which has known flimsiness and tawdriness as the chief characteristic of a child’s possessions, how hard is the transition to simplicity and strength. That we have made such strides away from old conditions is only another proof of the enormous recuperative power, part of the birthright of every American, who, born, it may be, in a log cabin, ends his days as an authorized and accepted art critic. It is safe then to believe that the mass of common sense people need only to consider the bearings of the Christmas craze in its present workings to decide that a change must come, and to take active measures toward such change.
Necessarily, only women can bring about such change, for it is on them that the chief burden of Christmas work has fallen and will continue to fall. For each woman there must be a pause and a well-considered determination as to both amount and degree of effort and expenditure. Where there is little money personal effort is the only substitute.
The numberless fashion magazines are filled at this season with hints for Christmas gifts, some practical and helpful, but more quite useless to limited purses. A few suggestions as to home-made gifts are given here, the reader’s own fancy and memory being trusted to fill out the list, which must necessarily be a limited one.
A most useful present is a sofa pillow, covered with one of those large, bright silk handkerchiefs which are found in gentlemen’s furnishing stores. It may be of cardinal, old gold, blue or olive green, to match the furniture, and must have a darker border. If the corners are plain, a figure of a dog’s head, an owl, or a spray may be outlined in one, with silk of some contrasting hue. Stretch the handkerchief smoothly over the silesia-covered pillow made of a suitable size, turn the ornamented corner back and fasten around its edge, and fit a piece of black velvet neatly in its place. The edge is finished with a silk cord of the same color, and a bow to match is placed on the velvet. The whole can be made in a day, and is both effective and inexpensive. Pine needles or hops may be used for filling the pillow, which may thus be more welcome to an invalid friend.
In place of the handkerchief, some tastes might prefer the crazy patch-work now so much in vogue. If so, the pieces must be very small, and most of them of vivid colors. They will bear any amount of embroidery in quaint designs; flowers, fans and oddities, all on a small scale. Seams are joined with feather-stitching in shaded silk.
As a companion-piece, a head rest goes very nicely. A strip of wool in any desired color may be crocheted in the Afghan stitch, and then dotted irregularly with the conventional palm-leaf, in shaded silk, worked in cross-stitch. If made of linen, the word “Rest” may be outlined in fancy letters—first traced with a pencil—in crewel. A poppy with its leaves falling apart, in place of a period after the word, is suggestive and pretty.
For a literary friend, or to stand by papa’s desk, a waste paper basket may be made in a variety of ways. A lard pail of large size may be covered with plush and lined with silk over pasteboard, fitted separately to the sides and to the circular bottom. If of olive tint, conceal the joining at the top by narrow gilt lace, old gold cord or ribbon ruching, often decorating one side with a spray of large crimson and buff roses, hollyhock blossoms, daisies or sunflowers. These may be procured in appliqué at any fancy store for from a half dollar to three times that sum. It is much preferable, of course, to embroider any fanciful pattern, or to paint a running vine, beginning near the bottom and ending at the top after having encircled the pail. Allowance in decoration must be made for two hoops of old gold satin ribbon, one and a half inches wide, tied in snug bows. Sunflowers are sometimes made with dark brown French knots of silk for the center, and petals of narrow yellow ribbon of several shades. These, cut a proper length, are turned in and fastened with invisible stitches to the plush, making an excellent similitude of this showy flower. These blossoms admit of great skill in arranging and grouping.
The new-fashioned paper water pails are also used as waste paper baskets, and are desirable on account of their lightness and durability. Even a novice can decorate them most effectively. Paint entire surface with dark shaded yellows and browns, or pink deepening to crimson, and when dry trace on this background a conventional trailing vine and a few loose flowers, or red Christmas berries like the holly. They may be copied from any pattern which strikes the fancy, color being desired rather than minuteness of finish. The handle, if not removed, must be wound with ribbon.
Presents of catch-alls or receptacles for the sewing room can be similarly fashioned. A new way is as follows: Take a crimson or parti-colored Japanese fan, remove the rivet holding the sticks together and run a stout cord in its place; the fan is then to be fastened over a pasteboard funnel of just the right size and lined with solid colored paper of some pleasing tint. Ribbon to match, an inch wide, must be woven in and out the sticks close enough to cover the pasteboard, and just above the bottom, in front, secure a drooping bow of two-inch satin ribbon. A few dried oats and grass stitched into the bow, making a tiny bouquet, take off the stiffness of the ornament.
Another receptacle for letters or manuscripts can be made from a couple of plain palm-leaf fans. Cut off the handles even with the edge of the fan and cover one side of each with silk, fastened to the top and sides, and pleated or gathered at the handle. They are lined with silesia, and sewed together at the tips. The tops—where the handles were—are flared apart for a distance of six or eight inches, and then are to be joined two-thirds of the way from the bottom by bright-hued taffeta ribbons, narrow enough to cross easily in small diamonds. Finish with a cockade of the same ribbon where the silk is pleated at the handles. Or the ribbon may be quilled in a V-shaped way down the middle far enough to give the receptacle a heart-shape. A smaller heart of velvet, crossed with a straw-colored arrow in embroidery silk, is a pretty finish for the left-hand corner, with a spray crossing diagonally behind and above. This may be varied by having a diagonal piece of velvet cross the front, or a band of the same near one side, on which is painted, embroidered or appliquéd any favorite design. The colors and arrangement admit of the greatest latitude, and challenge the fancy of the worker.
But this is not the beginning of what may be made of fans, for fanciful or useful presents. Here is a pretty design for a wall pocket: Attach one, nearly open, to a piece of pasteboard not quite its size; from another remove the rivet, insert a cord in its place and tie tightly. Line with paper and thin silk outside of that, and fasten the edges by invisible stitches to that attached to the pasteboard, allowing it to curve outwardly sufficiently to answer the purposes of a receptacle. Finish with a bow.
A series of a dozen bright paper covered bamboo fans, arranged to overlap each other, light up the dark corner of a room on Christmas day, with a play of color of which the eye never tires. These, or the ribbed fans, may be arranged with their handles grouped together and fans diverging from the corner of the ceiling on the sides and top, making an ornament both brilliant and unique. In the same manner they may be employed about the center-piece of a plain ceiling, or in devices on the side walls from which to hang Christmas banners, wreaths or mottoes. On a long side wall small fans may be so grouped as to simulate an eagle, from the talons of which depends a favorite motto.
In dressing a room for Christmas it is important to have all the accessories bright and harmonious. If all the decorations are Japanese, there are a thousand ways of using paper mats, screens and pictures which will suggest themselves with a little experimenting, and these are now everywhere easy to obtain. The entire ceiling may be bordered with a frieze made from a couple of Japanese picture books, which are merely folded pictures several yards in length, when outstretched like a panorama. A dollar’s worth of books will thus impart a brilliancy which nothing else emulates, while the pendant Christmas greens seem the richer by contrast. A few large Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, wreathed with simple vines, like princess pine, about the bottom, in addition, will convert the plainest room into a kind of bower, peculiarly fitting it for the festivities of the season. The uttermost parts of the earth must yield up a tithe of all their glory, to aid in illuminating the natal day of the Prince of Peace.
For all parts of the dwelling, a thousand dainty devices are easily made, suitable for presentation on that day. For the dressing bureau, butcher’s cuffs of plaited grass are coarsely embroidered in crewel, with design of rushes, grass, daisies or poppies, springing from the bottom, which is filled in with a circular piece of pasteboard covered with linen. Line with crimson cloth. Scent bottles may be covered with painted ribbon bags, or merely tied with satin ribbon, the ends of which have each the favorite flower of the recipient, or a flower on one and an initial on the other.
For the whisk-brush at the side of the bureau make a tight, straight cover of crash or linen, embroidered or painted, edgedwith scallops bound with silk. This is drawn close about the handle and tied with a narrow ribbon at the top, and is long enough to come within two inches of the tip. Such a cover will prove far more acceptable than the brush-holder which has been so much used.
For splashers take fine, stiff linen, fitted to the space above the washstand, and hemmed at the ends and sides. Trace lightly with a lead pencil, lengthwise, any suitable pattern. It may be made of irregular, horizontal lines, for water, on which are outlined a duck floating or diving; large water lilies with their graceful leaves and rushes at the edge. Then dissolve India ink in a shallow dish of water, and with a new steel pen go over the outline carefully, repeating where the shade deepens till it is sufficiently heavy. The etching may be made very handsome and striking with a little care; or, a conventional morning-glory vine may obliquely cross the splasher. It is fastened to the wall with minute tacks and a bow at the left-hand upper corner.
Do we wish a table-scarf for a friend? It can be made of felt, of one of the many shades of olive, on which decorations are so well brought out. Line with silesia, and border the ends with a broad band of plush. Finish with outline stitch of contrasting colors, or with transfer-work of fine cretonne or appliqué flowers, made of machine embroidery, to which reference has been made. It is not generally known that felt may be hand-painted in oil with a stiff brush, by the merest novice. Have a large figured embroidery pattern stamped on the felt to give a strong outline. Mix the colors thick and put on with a bold touch. Large flowers or fruit, like blackberries, are showy and effective here and resemble the softest crewel-work at a little distance.
If the square covers are preferred, those hiding the entire table, they are fringed by simply cutting the edges in strips a quarter of an inch wide and six inches deep. Another fringe made precisely the same way, of old gold felt with a narrow heading, is merely tacked under the first, when the hue is olive or wine color. Canton flannel table spreads can be finished and decorated in a similar manner.
Mantel and window lambrequins are made according to the same general plan, of felt, canton flannel, plush, or linen. If the latter, they are embroidered with long stitches in patterns of grass or sedge, daisies or crimson berries, or painted in trailing figures of wild roses.
For a gentleman an umbrella case is always an acceptable present. From a yard of strong, twilled linen, measure a lengthwise strip ten inches wide at the top; taper it on each side to six inches wide at the bottom. On this strip fit another piece of the same linen, shorter and fuller, to give room for two umbrellas. About the right size will make it three-quarters of a yard long, fourteen inches wide at the top, and eight inches at the bottom. Crease the latter lengthwise down the middle; on one side of this crease, outline in black silk the shape of a closed umbrella, ribs, handle and folds, and on the other a smaller sun umbrella. On the upper section of the foundation copy in the same manner figures taken from the Greenaway books. A pleasing device is a couple of children, merrily trudging along in the rain, each under an open umbrella. Then stitch the center of the embroidered strip to the center of the foundation, after laying two pleats in the tip of the shorter and wider strip, so as to make them of the same width. Run the sides and bottoms together, after lining the foundation, and bind the whole with black braid. Attach two strong loops to the top to suspend from hooks.
For the little ones naught can come amiss. Stockings of coarse white lace, with slipper tips of blue or pink, and a dainty knot of ribbon in front; all sorts of fancy ornaments made of stiff paper and covered with gold and silver paper; cornucopias, boxes and toys without end—their variety and name are legion. A pretty bon-bon receptacle is made in this way: Take a square of silk measuring from eighteen to twenty-seven inches, of any color desired—a bright handkerchief will do—and mark within it a perfect circle small enough to be three inches from the middle of the sides. Make a shirr at this mark, in which draw two ribbons in such a manner as to pull together like a work-bag. Trim the edge with black or white lace, and you have a beautiful bag, after the bon-bons are gone. If you choose to give a unique finish it is easily done. Soak your own photograph in water long enough to remove the picture from the back; dry carefully, and gum to one corner.
So much for gifts and home decorations, the list of which might be indefinitely extended. The Christmas dinner is always a matter of study—to the young housekeeper sometimes despair. Let it be remembered that on that day everyone from the children to the grandmother has nibbled at candies and nuts, and all tempting Christmas sweets, and that, even if the richest of mince pies and plum puddings seem none too good for the occasion, a simpler dessert of delicate blanc-manges or jellies will leave the eater a clearer head than the heavier mixtures. Two menus are given, one under protest and elaborate enough for the most persistent believer in many courses; the other far simpler, and quite possible for even the young housekeeper, who is ambitious to show what she can do. So many admirable cook-books are now before the public that it seems invidious to mention any special one. But the writer, who some years ago had occasion to examine carefully one hundred and forty-three, finds that where many have done excellently, one recent one embodies most perfectly their best features. It is the Boston Cooking School and its director, Mrs. Lincoln, to whom we owe this most admirably planned book, in which every receipt has been personally tested. Mrs. Ewing may be depended upon also as an authority, and there is a compact little manual known as “The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and Cooking,” which has brought to its author scores of letters from the housekeepers who have found it a friend. In any of these books accurate rules will be found for the dishes given in both menus.
I.
Oysters on Half-shell.Amber Soup.Roast Turkey, Made Gravy.Boiled Tongue, Sauce Piquante.Sweet Potatoes; White Potato Mashed.Macaroni, with Cheese.Cranberry Sauce.Celery Salad and Wafers.Mince Pie, Plum Pudding, with Cream Sauce, Lemon Jelly,Fruit, Nuts, Raisins, Ices, Black Coffee.
II.
Oyster Soup.Roast Turkey, Made Gravy.Mashed Potato; Sweet Potato; Squash.Macaroni, with Cheese.Cranberry Sauce; Celery.Plum Pudding, Cream Sauce.Fruit, Nuts and Raisins.Black Coffee.
For a family where the mistress must do all with her own hands, omit the soup and at least one vegetable in the second menu. It would be wisdom also to substitute for the rich pudding a mould of blanc-mange or lemon jelly, but these are matters of personal decision.
The home dinner decided upon, every woman will remember the poorer homes where festivity can never be possible, save as the means for it come from others. It is easy to find ways of adding some unaccustomed luxury—a little fruit, some nuts and raisins, or perhaps even the turkey itself to the table of some hard-working, self-respecting head of a family, who finds the dollars always too few, yet asks favors of no man.Often a little coöperation would secure a good Christmas dinner to many who alone would be unable to buy it. By settling upon how much can be spent, and giving the sum to some authorized buyer, wholesale prices may often be had. To accomplish this for half a dozen poor families in a given neighborhood, would often be truer charity than any giving, and pave the way to coöperation in other ways. On no other day of the three hundred and sixty-five can we answer as readily the question, “Who is my neighbor?” as on this one sacred to love, both human and divine, and demanding love as its highest expression. There may be no time for any elaborate church service, to which a morning must be given, but evening if not morning should hold some assembling together, and in a neighborhood where many poor, or workers in factories or mills are to be found, a simple entertainment—play, charade, light concert, or stereopticon might well have its opening word, thoughtful and tender, of the Christ-child; his love for every weary and toiling child of earth, and his joy in their joy. Where there is no such population there is no less need of a general as well as a special assembling. In short, by judicious planning, it will be possible not only to cover all necessary ground of home pleasure in the day, but to make part also of such evening entertainment as may seem good. A church dinner has been given, made up of prepared food sent in by various members, all that remained being taken home by the eaters. Each year has had its suggestions for Christmas pleasure for the poor always with us, and at such a season denominational differences slip out of sight, and counsel can satisfactorily be taken together by the working members of all churches. Union festivals have already proved successful, and may be perfected still more in detail, the warmth of this joint action for a common good lasting long beyond the day of its accomplishment. If the day has its dangers it holds also its delights, and may be more and more the occasion for the sweetest and tenderest thought and labor that we have to give—a never-failing spring of pleasure to every soul who knows its real meaning and works toward a fulfillment of that meaning.
BY M. ROMANES.
Translated forThe Chautauquanfrom theRévue Scientifique.
It is a well known fact that animals belonging to different orders and even to different classes, manifest, when they are in danger, the instinct of feigning death. As it is evidently impossible to attribute this to any idea of death, and a conscious simulation of it on the part of the animals, the subject acquires importance, and merits our consideration. I will cite briefly some facts I have been able to gather, and will then attempt some explanation.
The most familiar examples of the instinct in question are furnished by various sorts of insects and spiders, many of which will allow themselves to be torn limb from limb, or to be burned until death follows, without making the least movement. “Among fishes the captured sturgeon often remains motionless and passive in the net, while the perch seems to be dead and floats upon its back.” Wrangle tells us that the wild geese of Liberia, if they are disturbed during their moulting season, when they are unable to fly, will stretch themselves out upon the ground and appear lifeless, thus deceiving the hunter. According to Couch, the same thing occurs among crakes, larks, and other birds. Of mammals the same author says: “The opossum of North America is so celebrated for its pretense of death that its name has passed into proverb for expressing this kind of deception,” He also gives examples of the same fact noticed among mice, squirrels, and weasels, while those told of wolves and foxes are so numerous that I think no one can reasonably doubt their truth. Captain Lyon, in the narration of his expedition to the North Pole, says that a wolf was one day caught in a trap, and, supposing it to be dead, they dragged it on board. After awhile, as it lay stretched out on deck, some one noticed that it moved its eyes every time any object passed near it. They thought best then to take some precautions; its limbs were bound, and they put it in such a position as to leave its head without support. To their great surprise it soon made a vigorous bound toward those who were near by, and then tried to reach back and bite off the rope which held it. There are many examples on record of foxes assuming the appearance of death. Mr. Blyth says: “A fox was once known, when it was surprised in a poultry yard, to lie as if dead; it let them drag it out by the tail and cast it upon a compost heap; but, that done, it sprang to its feet and sped away with all possible haste.”
This high degree of simulation and dissimulation has been attributed to the sagacity of the animals, which, when they do not see any better means of escape, leads them to seem to be incapable of defending themselves, or fleeing, until they have disarmed all suspicions, and thus caused all hostile efforts toward them to cease.
According to Jesse, even serpents will feign death and remain motionless as long as any one is watching them, but when they think their enemies have withdrawn and all danger is passed, they will make a rapid escape. The author of a “Natural History of Birds” relates that at one time a crake was brought by a dog to his master. The gentleman turned it over with his foot as it lay upon the ground, and convinced himself that it was dead. After a time, however, he saw it open one eye; he picked it up, but again it had all the appearance of a dead bird. He put it in his pocket, and after a few minutes he felt it flutter. He examined it a third time, but discovered no signs of life. He then placed it on the ground and withdrew to a little distance in order to watch it. At the end of about five minutes the bird raised its head with precaution, looked around, and then took itself off in the liveliest manner imaginable.
Bingley says: “This strategem, as it appears, is employed by the common crab, which, when it apprehends danger, remains motionless, waiting an opportunity to bury itself in the sand.”
The subject claims serious attention, because, on one side, as has been said above, it is evident that the conscious simulation of death implies the possession of a faculty more elevated than any that we know belonging even to the most intelligent animals; on the other side, it is not easy to explain these facts on any other basis. Couch offers the following: “A very reasonable explanation is, that the suddenness of the encounter with man in an unexpected moment, results in its stupefaction, or throws the animal into such a state that it can not make an effort to flee. The appearance of death is not a ruse with it; it is the consequence of its terror. It is said, if a wolf falls into a ditch the surprise is so great, and deprives him of his powers to such an extent that a man can descend to his side without fear. Also, whenever a wolf loses its way in a strange country, it loses, beside, much of its courage, and can be attacked with impunity.”
It is not easy to find a weasel asleep, or not thoroughly on its guard, but what seems least likely of all is that a weasel would allow itself to be rolled over, played with, and tossedup by a cat. It happened once, however, that while a cat was tranquilly stretched out, a weasel passed by; it was caught in the twinkling of an eye and carried toward the house, situated at quite a little distance away. The door being shut, the cat, deceived by the apparent lifeless condition of its victim, dropped it upon the sill and mewed, as was its custom, for some one to open the door. But at that moment the senses of the alert little creature returned, and it set its teeth into the nose of its enemy. It is probable that, beside itself with surprise at its capture, the manner in which the cat held it by its back had prevented it from making any resistance whatever before that moment; for in catching them up in this manner, our little quadrupeds, that bite so ferociously, can be held without fear of being wounded. But one can scarcely think that the weasel had the intention of deceiving the cat all the time it was in its mouth. This hypothesis would need to be supported by special tests before meriting acceptance.
The tests should consist in permitting the animal, as soon as it feigned death, to regain its liberty, and in watching it without its knowledge. If for any length of time it remained motionless, the fact would support the theory of Couch. Instead of this, if it very soon sprang up and tried to escape it would seem necessary to decide that it voluntarily and consciously assumed that appearance.
I thought once I had found an opportunity for making a test of this question, and perhaps for arriving at some satisfactory explanation of this seeming deception on the part of animals. Having entrapped a squirrel I noticed that it immediately became motionless. I took it out of the trap and placed it on the ground, then concealed myself and watched long enough for it to recover itself; but as it did not stir I went to examine it, and found that it was really dead. This incident supports the hypothesis of Couch, for it shows that terror may be sufficient to cause the death of an animal.
Professor Preyer attributes exclusively to catalepsy this lifeless appearance in insects. Having observed the power of this disease to produce a similar condition in the system of the higher animals, he logically concludes that the same cause must bring about the same effect in all animals. On the other hand, for I do not wish to shun the difficult sides of the question, there are facts going to show that some monkeys feign death deliberately, not to escape from enemies, but to mislead their presumptive victims. Here it becomes necessary to seek some other explanation. Dr. Bryden says that certain monkeys having observed crows gathering around the carcass of a monkey, may have concluded that by becoming motionless they might induce them to come within their reach. Without doubt this presupposes a high degree of intelligence, but it does not imply an abstract idea of death, but rather only the idea of imitating an object already remarked, with the desire of bringing about a similar result.
Thus, in spite of the probability that this strange action on the part of the higher animals is due to catalepsy, there is a possibility that it may be the result of an intelligent design.
The following incident published by G. Bidie seems rather to substantiate the latter hypothesis.
“Some years ago, when I was living in the western part of Mysore, India, I occupied a house surrounded by several acres of good pasturage. The fine turf of this enclosure tempted the cattle, and whenever the gates were open they did not fail to make an entrance. My servants did their best to keep out the intruders; but one day they came to me, deeply troubled, saying that a Brahmin bull which they had struck, had fallen down dead. I will remark in passing that these bulls are sacred and privileged animals which are allowed to roam at will. Upon hearing that the marauder was dead I went immediately to see him; there he lay, stretched out, to all appearances stone dead. Uneasy enough over the circumstance which would be very apt to stir up enemies against me, I returned to the house with the intention of going to acquaint the authorities of the district with the affair; but presently some one came running up and joyously informed me that he was upon his feet quietly browsing in the field. Suffice it to say that he was in the habit of feigning death, which rendered his expulsion practically impossible, every time he found himself in a pasture which pleased him, and from which he did not wish to be turned away. This ruse was repeated several times, and although very amusing at first, we at length grew tired of it. So one day when he was lying as if dead I ordered the cook to bring a pan of live coals, and placed it near him. At first he paid no attention, but as the heat began to increase, he slowly raised his head, looked sharply at the coals a moment, sprang to his feet, and leaped over the fence with the agility of a stag. That was the last time he honored us with his presence.”
The idea of the animal might have been only to resist expulsion by opposing its whole weight to any efforts made in that direction. The case however is remarkable, and I prefer not to express an opinion in favor of either hypothesis. I hope only to provoke experimental researches, which can be made by any one who will take the occasion so to do.
The experiments of Professor Darwin in regard to insects and spiders put it out of the question that these creatures adopt as a ruse this appearance of death, or act with any design in the matter. The facts as regards animals higher in the scale of life call, on the other hand, for some different conclusion; but before this can be reached further research must be made, and other facts added to those already known.