AIR CURRENTS—SHOWING THE PRINCIPLE ON WHICH MINES ARE OFTEN VENTILATED.
AIR CURRENTS—SHOWING THE PRINCIPLE ON WHICH MINES ARE OFTEN VENTILATED.
The work performed by the atmosphere in supplying water to the soil is worthy of profound attention. Close observation shows that it varies in amount, year by year, much less than one would suppose. For example, the average yearly rain-fall in western New York, for the last thirteen years, has been thirty-six inches. Contrary to the general impression, the record shows a slight yearly increase in the amount. While this is true, the quantity of water carried down by our rivers is constantly diminishing. All must have observed the lessening size of our streams. Many a mill has ceased to run from lack of its former supply of water. This has resulted from the destruction of forests, and clearing of land, which have greatly increased evaporation of moisture from the soil. So grave a matter hasthis become, that it is attracting the attention of governments, because of its relation to agriculture and the navigation of rivers.
One can have but little idea, unless he carefully calculates it, of the inestimable blessings conferred by the atmosphere upon man, in furnishing to the soil its supply of water.
Being disposed properly to acknowledge the care of a kind Providence, in carrying on the work of his farm, one day sat down to figure out the value of a recent shower, which had refreshed his crops. The leaves of his corn had begun to curl, the oats and wheat were growing prematurely yellow, a few more days of the scorching heat and drouth would have made his harvests a failure, but to his great relief a plenteous shower fell. The rain gauge showed half an inch of water. Mr. Thankful took out his pencil and, after careful mathematical calculations, arrived at this astounding conclusion: An unseen hand had conveyed from a remote distance, and deposited upon every acre of his little farm, more than fifty-six tons of water. He owns a hundred acres. There must therefore have been scattered upon the entire farm over 5,600 tons of rain, an amount so large that if he had been compelled to pay for its transportation it would have required more than all the income of his farm.
MAKING WATER BOIL BY APPLYING COLD WATER.
MAKING WATER BOIL BY APPLYING COLD WATER.
Our atmosphere is the medium of sound. Upon lofty mountains its vibrations become faint, while in a vacuum all sound ceases. The world of music, with which we are surrounded, were the air removed, would become forever silent. No song of birds, no murmur of the brook, no sighing of the trees, no thunder of the cataract, no grand diapason of the sea, no sweet voice of friendship, no thrilling words of love could ever again fall upon human ear. Gather together in one heap of useless rubbish (for they will never more be needed), harp, lyre, flute, flageolet, violin and guitar, piano and organ. Even that harp of three thousand strings, which the divine hand has placed in the human ear, shall not again vibrate to the delicate touch of nature’s hand.
We will close our present article by mentioning two other interesting atmospheric phenomena.
Dr. Franklin proved that lightning and electricity are identical. This wonderful agent manifests itself in a variety of ways. The zigzag track of light across the darkened sky, with its accompanying crash, is one of nature’s exhibitions of tremendous power. The irregularity of its path is due to the resistance of the air, compressed by the electric motion. The beautiful illumination called heat or sheet lightning, is caused by the reflection of the electric flash, at a great distance from the observer.
A very curious form of electricity is that known as St. Elmo’s fire, which appears as a glowing ball, often poising itself on the spars of ships, to the great consternation of superstitious sailors.
Judge Dana, in his admirable book, “Two Years Before the Mast,” more than once alludes to the sensation caused by these weird visitors, as they rounded stormy Cape Horn.
The northern lights, or aurora borealis, with their throbbing, shifting, crimson and purple tints, sometimes called “the merry dancers,” are supposed to be produced by the discharge of electricity in high altitudes and in rarefied air. All around us there is slumbering this power, which science may some day awaken to do the common work of the world.
Meteors, or “shooting stars,” as they are often incorrectly called, are small bodies, often not larger than grains of sand, which rush into our atmosphere at a speed equal to the earth’s motion, eleven hundred miles a minute, and by friction are set on fire, and blaze for a moment in the sky. Lockyer[16]says that seven millions of these, visible to the naked eye, traverse our atmosphere in a single day, and that a powerful telescope would reveal in the same time not less than four hundred millions.
Once in thirty-three years an astonishing display of these celestial fireworks takes place. The last was in 1866. At that time these bodies chanced to cross the track of the earth’s orbit, and were thus brought into collision with it. The largest of them, called meteorites, sometimes pass through the atmosphere unconsumed and reach the earth. They have been known to kill both men and cattle.
In 1866 one thousand of these stones, the largest weighing six hundred pounds, fell in Hungary.
It is very incorrect to call these flashing bodies in the air shooting stars, for they are extremely minute in size, while stars are vast suns; again, in point of distance, they are different, being near at hand, while the latter are millions of miles away. It would be difficult to find an instance in which language can convey a greater error than this phrase, which constantly implies that vast worlds, by thousands, are flying hither and thither, like sky-rockets. Often a single glance at the sky on a clear night, would show how unsafe this world would be as the object of such tremendous cannonading.
End of Required Reading for January.
BY SUSAN HAYES WARD.
In studying how to make home beautiful, we must not forget that, first of all, there must be a home; and that in a true home, the household, and not the house, is of primary importance. We have all seen careful housekeepers whose first and last thought was to keep their domains with absolute neatness, and whose domestic law was of Median and Persian inflexibility. Overshoes must be left here; slippers must be put on there; the front stair-carpet must only be trodden by the visitor’s foot; the front door-latch must never be lifted by the children’s hand; curtains must be drawn close lest carpets fade; and autumn fires remain unlighted lest ashes fly. These were housekeepers, not home makers. The virtue of carefulness is a housewife’s glory; but when carried to an excess, it becomes a woman’s shame, leading her to imagine that meat is more than life, raiment than body, and house than man.Of the virtuous woman we read first: “She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her tongue is the law of kindness;” then that “she looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness;” after which it follows naturally that “her children rise up and call her blessed, her husband also, and he praiseth her;” but when the devil of neatness enters into a woman he defies family comfort, and banishes the angel of peace from the home. And yet comfort, important though its place may be in the home economy, is not to be the first aim. A wise critic says: “Every house should have in it that which tells of strength, and seems to favor self-sacrifice, simplicity, self-control. Nothing is finer in a house than a kind of subtle ubiquitous spirit, which asserts the superiority of the household, and tells you that they fear neither hunger nor cold, neither toil nor danger, and do not bow down, night and morning to the vulgar divinity, Comfort.” Not the house we live in, but the life we live in it is that on which the real beauty of home depends. In the House Beautiful, not Mr. Cook’s, nor Mrs. Allen’s, but in that incomparable House Beautiful which Bunyan has described for us, even there the boy Matthew fell sick from tampering with the fruit of Beelzebub’s garden. Compared with this soundness of inner life in the house, these questions of outer adornment, of taste, or expediency, or expense, are but unimportant matters, since no home can be truly beautiful that is tarnished by an unworthy life within its walls.
So much of preliminary statement must be pardoned me, because in the refined paganism of these days there seems to be a mania for magnifying the house we live in, and the highest religion of many a family is simply to make their home beautiful and attractive. It is better than no religion at all—but a higher religion teaches us to make the homes of the poor comfortable before—we make our own beautiful, shall I say? Not at all; but before we spend freely to gain this end. For the external beauty of home does not depend on the amount of money spent in its adornment. Money buys a great deal of clutter that had far better be left in the shops; money buys a vast amount of superfluous stuck-on ornaments, that were better left off, but money does not and can not buy good taste—an eye for color, thoughtful care for the general comfort, a quick wit, and common sense. Yet these are the safest and surest helps to the woman who aims to make her home attractive to the eye and restful to the body.
Let us enter the door of this woman’s house and see what she allows and what she disallows.
First, we notice that her entry and stairways are planned upon as liberal a scale as possible. That is but common sense, for furniture and trunks must go in and out, up and down, to say nothing of household and visitors, and the broader the entry way, the more hospitable and inviting it can be made with chairs, table and sofa. Modern builders have at last learned this, and they are giving us the old-fashioned hall again, with a corner or side fireplace, and, if possible, an outlook on the back garden. This hall is not kept too dark in winter, nor too light in summer. In cold weather we need cheerfulness, warmth, and light on entering the house. In summer we should step from the glare of a vertical sun and heat of the nineties, into a cool, refreshing shade, kept, of a purpose, darker than sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen, to prevent flies from swarming into the hall and up the stairway and becoming the pest of the morning sleeper. The back stairs also are closed, either above or below, so that premonitory hints of meals to come may not ascend to the bedrooms and go down the front stairs to guests in the parlor, thus proclaiming on the housetop what you whisper to your cook in the kitchen.
“Aim at a gold gown and you’ll get a sleeve,” says our grandmother’s proverb; so our wise woman knows what is best and aims for it, but contents herself with what she can get. For an American house, the best flooring, generally speaking, would be—for a vestibule—tiles of small pattern and modest color, such as yellow and brown, which would take no injury from muddy overshoes or dripping umbrellas; for the rest of the house hard wood floors (Southern pine is admirable), plain or very simply inlaid. Elaborate patterns in inlaid woods should be avoided, except in large rooms, and contrasts of colors, such as stripes of black walnut and hard pine, which make a narrow hallway look yet narrower; but a modest border might be inlaid around any room, hall, parlor, or bedroom with good effect, if desired, with a substantial oriental rug in the midst of it all. There can be nothing better than this.
But a cheap pine floor, if properly laid, can be stained and made to do good service, instead of hard wood, and a strip of cocoanut matting running the length of the hall is not to be despised; or, if cracks yawn too perceptibly to have the floor bare, it can be covered with a plain, self-colored drugget or carpet filling, or “two ply,” while a strip of bright carpet passes from the doorway up the stairs, and enlivens the hall. Or, simpler yet, the floor can be painted a serviceable yellow or gray, and a width of rag carpet can add warmth and color. There are pretty straw mattings in greens and reds and cream colors which, with the aid of rugs, serve admirably for floor coverings, but they are hardly durable enough for entry ways. Our wise woman bears in mind that a well-laid, hard wood floor will outlast many a drugget, or carpet, or coat of paint, or oil cloth, and she does up her hall floor, at first, in as durable a fashion as her purse will allow.
There is a certain fitness of things also to be observed. Good taste forbids her to step from an entry with stained or painted pine floor and rag carpet to a parlor with inlaid floors and Persian rugs. The rag carpet of the hall demands something correspondingly simple in the reception room; a floor stained or painted in the same fashion, or a straw matting, with perhaps a few breadths of “Morris” carpet, of warm color and quiet figure, sewed together to make a rug, and raveled at the ends for fringe.
As for walls, it is convenient to divide them with a chair rail or moulding of the same stuff as that used for mop-boards and door casings, fastened about four feet from the floor and running around the entry and up the side wall of the stairway. The wall below this moulding can be painted in oil a warm olive-brown or green, or a dull red, and, when so painted, can be washed like the woodwork.
A more expensive way would be to panel off this space with big cedar shingles of the sort that cost about $25 a thousand, provided the rest of the woodwork is repainted, or with wood corresponding with the finish of the room. Unpainted woodwork, even though made of soft pine, is far better from the housekeeper’s standpoint than that which is coated with paint. Pine, when oiled and varnished—not too heavily—assumes a rarely beautiful hue and shows the variety of its markings to very good effect. The wall space above could be papered with some figured pattern corresponding in color with that below the chair-rail, or dado, as it is called (if that is painted rather than paneled), but the wall-space should be of lighter tint than the dado, or it could be calcimined, orkalsomined, as they spell and pronounce it in New Jersey.
When paper is used, the pattern should not be so large as to make the room look small, nor so pronounced as to prevent the walls from serving as a fair back-ground for pictures and plants.
But suppose our prudent woman can afford neither chair-rail nor oil-painted dado, and yet would like to divide the wall space. Then let Mr. Kalsominer paint a dado of olive-brown or green, a wall space of much lighter shade, and a ceiling of cream color. He can also paint a band of dull red where the chair-rail should be, and then our wise woman, if she be also a woman of faculty, will take the little red paint pot into her own hand and will cut out of varnished paper some conventionalleaf or flower, and using this as a stencil, with a stiff brush she will powder[A]this leaf or flower at regular intervals of about a foot all over the dado. Or, discarding the stencil, some simple arrangement of triple dots might be used that need only be indicated with a pencil point and then painted on, with a small brush, free hand. The kalsominer would double his prices if he did it, but the room will be twice as pretty if she does it herself. Or she may powder her lighter wall space with figures of the same dark shade as the dado, so harmonizing the upper and lower portions, while a yet darker brown line divides them. But the stenciling of a wall space requires too much step-ladder work for the ordinary woman. Last, and probably cheapest of all, she may use wall paper—the darkest shade below—of some stiff diaper or tile pattern, the lighter above, with border between; the ceiling being washed a lighter harmonizing color.
As to the furniture of the hall, it ought to begin outside the door, with a bench, or settle, or chair, at least, upon the piazza, or “stoop,” for any weary body to drop down upon while the door is undoing. A wide piazza gives room not only for a few chairs, and the picturesque and comfortable hammock, but for a table, as well, where the afternoon cup of tea can rest, or the work-basket with the weekly mending. A broad platform with awnings is a comfortable and picturesque addition to a house of plain and unattractive exterior. Happy and healthy are the households whose piazzas are their summer sitting-rooms.
The vestibule should have closets or some very plain and simple receptacle for umbrellas and India rubber shoes. In the hall proper comes up the vexed question of the hat tree. It is an ungainly, aggressive piece of furniture, and very cumbersome. If possible, let it be done away with. If there is a closet under the stairs for the family hats and coats, then the chance visitor can throw off his coat on the hall sofa or table. Hall chairs are useful, with a box seat holding whisk broom, hat brush, driving gloves, and things of that sort, and so is the table drawer; any of these contrivances are better than the hat tree, and so is a simple rail hidden away in some dark corner under the stairs, if there be no closet, with pegs attached for hats and coats. “There can be no reasonable law against making a hall chair both comfortable and suitable to its situation. The common Windsor high-backed arm-chair, made in the same wood as the table, and with a cushion covered with some bright colored material is well suited for this purpose; or a chair … with a high back and broad, low seat looks both severe enough to discourage unbecoming lounging, and yet sufficiently comfortable to secure a proper degree of rest for the weary.”
And where in the hall can hangings and stuffs be used to best advantage? Enter any house and look about for yourself. If the ground glass of the vestibule door be exposed and staring, the hall floor bare and cold, the hall chair hard and stiff, the doors to the reception or sitting-room all closed, rising black and grim before you, and the hall itself so dark that you can not see even where to lay down your companionable umbrella, does there not come over you a chill, as if you were being repelled by the spirit of inhospitality? The entrance hall gives you no hearty cheer of welcome. But warm up the floor with a rug, lay a restful and inviting cushion on the chair; open the door that leads to the room where the household gathers, or where your hostess is to receive you, or take it off the hinges bodily and lay it away, and hang instead a curtain that shall give a glimpse of the warmth and light within, while still shutting out the draught. Let soft silk or Madras muslin hang in full folds over the window in the door, and the stranger who enters no longer feels like a prisoner in Doubting Castle, whom Giant Despair has cast into a dungeon for trespassing on his grounds, but rather shall I not say, as if he had fallen upon the House Beautiful, built on purpose for the entertainment of pilgrims, where only the fair virgins Prudence, Piety and Charity would be his companions?
Just so inviting was the entrance to my wise woman’s house when I last visited her. It was a house with a door in the middle, the hall running through the entire depth. Midway, an arch curtained with Mexican blankets half screened the back hall, which served for the family music room. Facing the piano was a long, old-fashioned sofa, where the weary head of the house could lie and be rested by music from his daughter’s fingers or the voices of his children. This happy man, who had his quiver full of them, had one of those charming houses that grows with the household. Near the side entrance, what used to be a dining-room is now known asthe coat room. I saw one side of the room literally lined with coats and wraps, hats and bonnets, depending from some hat rack arrangement of domestic manufacture. Boots, shoes, and galoches of all shapes and sizes stood in a suitable rack beneath. Guns and hunting gear, fishing rods and tackles, bows and arrows, grace hoops, battle-doors and shuttle-cocks, tennis rackets and croquet mallets and balls all found their appointed places here. Water and towels awaited the convenience of those who must make a partial toilet in haste. Even the shoe-blacking had its own corner. A book case on the wall held well thumbed grammars and geographies side by side with dictionaries, college text-books and a cook book or two; while before the fireplace that “filled the room on one side,” you might see a young Nimrod greasing his boots or polishing his gun; and later, the little folks popping corn, making caramels, or boiling taffy. When the wise woman, after looking well to the ways of her household, devises such liberal things as these in their behalf, no wonder her children rise up and call her blessed.
The room on which the average American housekeeper expends the most thought and pains is the parlor, as she calls it. The word parlor means, primarily, a room for conversation. Properly speaking, the room where members of the family gather that they may talk together, is the parlor (from the Frenchparler), but somehow the word has been applied to “the best room of a house, kept for receiving company, as distinguished from the sitting room of the family.” We have an English word for that—drawing room—contracted from withdrawing room—a room appropriated for the reception of guests “to which a company withdraws from the dining room.” Since the household is more important than the house, the best of the house should be at the service of the household; hence whatever is most comfortable and cheerful should be in the parlor where the family congregate. If aside from the dining room and kitchen there is but one other room on the first floor, let that be the parlor for family use, the “living room,” unless there be a family sitting room on the second floor.
For people who entertain many guests the reception or withdrawing room is a necessity, and it is often convenient in city houses to have, in addition, a smaller room near the door, where the lady of the house can receive visitors without disturbing the family party or the friends whom she may be entertaining in the drawing room.
There is never need of saying to an American housewife, let the room where you receive your friends be as handsome as may be. I would rather say let it be as comfortable as you know how to make it. Do not keep it dark and unwholesome, stuffy and shut up. If your economical soul refuses to expose its treasures always to the light of day, at least do your best to make the room look habitable, and as if it were put into daily use. What can be more embarrassing to a guest than to be ushered into a dark room, cold and repellent in winter, close and stifling in summer, there to wait drearily till the mistress of the house has donned her good clothes and is readyto push back the shutter or raise the curtain that she may have light enough to recognize her guest?
Our English sisters set us a good example in this respect. Their drawing rooms are made comfortable, with easy chairs strong enough to hold a man’s weight, with tables conveniently placed, with books here and an embroidery frame there, and a lady’s work basket near at hand, not at all too fine for daily use. I have seen an American lady hustle her work basket out of the room when the door-bell rang, hide her thimble in her pocket, and assume an air of elegant idleness and leisure, as if she were ashamed to be caught needle in hand. Her English sister, better bred, would lay down her work to welcome her guest, and resume it again, as a matter of course, to set her visitor at ease.
A marble-topped center table is not essential to a drawing room; nor are a photograph album and illustrated books essential ornaments of the center table. The morning papers, the last number ofThe Century, and a readable book are more attractive ornaments than the most costly album, though filled with pictures of all the celebrities you have ever seen. I would have a book case, at least a book-shelf, in every room in the house—I have three in my hall, even—and the reception room surely is no exception to the rule. Let there be books at hand for the entertainment of guests, and let there be every facility possible for rendering the room light enough to read or to sew. In a large room there should be more than one table, and student lamps in abundance where there is no gas. Where gas is burned there should still be lamps or drop-lights on the tables. Parsimony in lamp-light is as bad as parsimony in fuel or in bedding, and results in serious injury to the eyes. As to the matter of heating our houses, there have been so many funny things done in the attempt to affect a compromise between the fire place and the furnace that almost every house has in it something incongruous in this line. The old-fashioned fireplace for burning wood was healthful and artistic, but it often smoked, and in the depth of winter seldom gave out sufficient heat. The grate in which anthracite coal is burned, or soft coal, was good, but the care of the coal fire, though not so continuous as of the wood, was still a heavy burden. There is a price to pay for every comfort, and we can not rightly enjoy the comfort without paying its full price. But that seemed a hard doctrine, and so the inventors went to work. They gave up that abomination, the air-tight stove, which rose in grim blackness an offense to the eye, and parched all the air for us before we had breathed it in. Then the furnace came in and there was an era of real rejoicing. Fireplaces were walled up and holes cut in all the floors, but with hot air furnaces there were new complications. Water pans which should be replenished daily were as often as not left empty, and the air was no better to breathe than that baked dry by an air-tight stove, and the fire, as a rule, required a man’s hand. Beside, holes in the floor were not inviting to have around. But the furnace, whether hot air or steam, did warm the house. Thermometers stood at from seventy to eighty instead of being kept where they belonged, down in the sixties, and throat and lung diseases multiplied. Then some one who had not forgotten the cheer of the fireplace introduced the hot air from a chimney register, giving out heat, with no sign of fire, from the old spot, and then came the make-believe iron logs with an internal gas arrangement which was lighted when guests came, and burned in a pathetic, appealing way, provoking the beholder now to laughter and now to tears.
It was left to the æsthetic craze to bring in the last and worst affront of all to comfort and common sense, a fireplace with highly glazed tiles and elaborate wrought iron back, with choice and costly fenders, tongs, and andirons of brass and steel, with all the appointments of the fireplace of the most luxurious stamp, but all too fine for possible use, with absolutely nothing intended for use. The poor, foolish, iron logs never deceived any one, but they burned; nevertheless, these beautifully tiled fireplaces, with their spick and span hearths are mere husks, and are as loathsome and cluttersome as are the “air castles” and wax fruit, which these æsthetics would banish in contempt from their homes. The height of luxury is to have the sharpness of winter’s cold subdued by a good furnace in the cellar, which modifies the air all over the house, and then to have open fires here and there to give cheer as well as additional warmth and good ventilation, and a fireplace finished with plain brick, without a tile, the brick work, freshened up occasionally by painting it with Indian red mixed with milk, after the fashion of fifty years ago, or a plain iron grate for coal, used as occasion calls, is in better taste for a drawing room than the most elaborate combination of tiles, brass and steel kept for mere show. When any object, not alone a fireplace, but any object designed primarily for use is so excessively ornamented as to fail of its mission of utility, this very excess of decoration becomes an offense and renders the object neither useful nor beautiful.
Wm. Morris’s stringent rule, “Have nothing in your homes that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful,” applies with full force to the drawing room; and when the housekeeper has striven first of all to supply her drawing room with comfortable, useful pieces of furniture, she may look around her with surprise to find that almost without her thought the place has grown beautiful as well.
[A]Powder—a technical term used in heraldry—a figure is powdered on a coat of arms, when it is repeated at uniform intervals over its surface.
[A]Powder—a technical term used in heraldry—a figure is powdered on a coat of arms, when it is repeated at uniform intervals over its surface.
[A]Powder—a technical term used in heraldry—a figure is powdered on a coat of arms, when it is repeated at uniform intervals over its surface.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
I saw the ships on a windy seaIn the light of the morning’s gold;And the shout of the sailors came to meLike songs from the days of old.Wild waves leaped up on the crags and beatOn the edge of the rock-bound shore;And the thought of a coming time was sweet,When the sea should be no more.No more, no more shall mothers and wivesDream of loves that the blue wastes hide,No more shall the vigorous hearts and livesBe flung to the wind and tide!Oh, Father, follow the gallant shipsThrough the light of the morning pale!Thou hearest the prayer of the loving lips,Thy mercy never can fail.And guide us all to some haven blestWhere never a tempest is known;For life is sad, and the secret of restIs hidden with Thee alone.
I saw the ships on a windy seaIn the light of the morning’s gold;And the shout of the sailors came to meLike songs from the days of old.Wild waves leaped up on the crags and beatOn the edge of the rock-bound shore;And the thought of a coming time was sweet,When the sea should be no more.No more, no more shall mothers and wivesDream of loves that the blue wastes hide,No more shall the vigorous hearts and livesBe flung to the wind and tide!Oh, Father, follow the gallant shipsThrough the light of the morning pale!Thou hearest the prayer of the loving lips,Thy mercy never can fail.And guide us all to some haven blestWhere never a tempest is known;For life is sad, and the secret of restIs hidden with Thee alone.
I saw the ships on a windy seaIn the light of the morning’s gold;And the shout of the sailors came to meLike songs from the days of old.
I saw the ships on a windy sea
In the light of the morning’s gold;
And the shout of the sailors came to me
Like songs from the days of old.
Wild waves leaped up on the crags and beatOn the edge of the rock-bound shore;And the thought of a coming time was sweet,When the sea should be no more.
Wild waves leaped up on the crags and beat
On the edge of the rock-bound shore;
And the thought of a coming time was sweet,
When the sea should be no more.
No more, no more shall mothers and wivesDream of loves that the blue wastes hide,No more shall the vigorous hearts and livesBe flung to the wind and tide!
No more, no more shall mothers and wives
Dream of loves that the blue wastes hide,
No more shall the vigorous hearts and lives
Be flung to the wind and tide!
Oh, Father, follow the gallant shipsThrough the light of the morning pale!Thou hearest the prayer of the loving lips,Thy mercy never can fail.
Oh, Father, follow the gallant ships
Through the light of the morning pale!
Thou hearest the prayer of the loving lips,
Thy mercy never can fail.
And guide us all to some haven blestWhere never a tempest is known;For life is sad, and the secret of restIs hidden with Thee alone.
And guide us all to some haven blest
Where never a tempest is known;
For life is sad, and the secret of rest
Is hidden with Thee alone.
BY PROF. M. B. GOFF,Western University of Pennsylvania.
During this month the sun makes rapid strides northward, moving from declination 22° 57′ south on the 1st to declination 17° 11′ south on the 31st. This occasions also quite an increase in the length of the day, from sunrise to sunset on the 1st being 9h. 23m. 36s., and on the 30th, 10h. 4m. 56s. On the 1st, 16th and 30th, 7:22, 7:21 and 7:11 a. m. are the respective hours of rising, and 4:46, 4:59 and 5:16 p. m. the hours of setting. On the 16th, day breaks at 5:40 a. m., and twilight ends at 6:40 p. m., giving just thirteen hours between “early dawn and dewy eve.” The sun is slower than the clock, on the 1st, being on the meridian at three minutes and thirty-eight seconds past twelve, and on the 31st reaching the meridian thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds after the clock indicates noon.
Will present its ordinary four changes at the following times: last quarter on the 7th, at 10:28 p. m.; new moon, 16th, 3:28 a. m.; first quarter, 23d, 8:18 p. m.; full, 30th, 11:11 a. m. It will be in apogee, or farthest from the earth, on the 13th, at 3:42 a. m., and in perigee, or nearest to the earth, on the 28th, at 8:42 p. m. It will reach its greatest elevation, amounting to 66° 55′, on the 28th, and the least elevation, 30°, on the 14th.
Well named from its mercurial habits, having the smallest orbit, and being the most rapid traveler, presents in a given time more phases than any other of the planets. Thus we find that on the 3d, at 5:00 p. m., it is in inferior conjunction with the sun, that is, between the earth and the sun; on the 14th, at 8:42 a. m., 2° 1′ south of the moon; on the 14th, at 3:00 p. m., stationary, that is, it is moving in a direct line (or nearly so) away from the earth, and thusseemsto stand still; on the 24th, at 5:00 a. m., is 1° 6′ north of Venus, on which occasion the latter will serve as a good “pointer,” enabling one readily to find this peculiar planet. On the 26th, it is at its greatest distance (24° 53′) west of the sun. Its motion for the first fourteen days is 12° 45′ retrograde; and for the remainder of the month, 29° 51′ 40″ direct. On the 1st it rises at 7:39 a. m., and sets 5:11 p. m.; and on the 16th, rises at 5:52 a. m., sets at 3:22 p. m.; and on the 30th rises at 5:52 a. m., and sets at 3:10 p. m.; changing from evening star during the first, to morning star in the latter part of the month.
Continues morning star, and will remain so till the 4th of May. On the 1st, rises at 5:11 a. m., sets 2:39 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 5:40 a. m., sets 2:52 p. m.; on the 30th, rises at 5:59 a. m., sets 3:17 p. m. Motion 41° 32′ 59″ direct. Diameter diminishes from 12.4″ to 11.2″. On the 13th, at 3:34 p. m., 4° 8′ south of the moon. On the 24th, at 5:00 a. m., 1° 6′ south of Mercury.
This planet presents nothing peculiar this month. It will be an evening star, though appearing but a short time after sunset each day. On the 1st it rises at 8:10 a. m., and sets at 5:20 p. m.; on the 16th rises at 7:51 a. m., sets at 5:21 p. m.; on the 30th rises at 7:29 a. m., sets at 5:21 p. m. It has a direct motion of 25° 16′ 2″, and its diameter remains about the same during the month, namely: 4.2″. On the 16th, at 6:48 p. m., is 5° 42′ south of the moon.
Makes a retrograde motion of 2° 24′ 47″, and is classed as a morning star, though he shines nearly the entire night, rising on the 1st at 9:02 p. m., and setting next morning at 10:14 a. m.; rising on the 16th at 7:59 p. m., setting on the 17th at 9:13 a. m.; and on the 30th rising at 6:56 p. m. and setting at 8:14 on the morning of the 31st. An indication that he is approaching the earth is that his diameter increased from 39.6″ on the 1st to 42.2″ on the 30th. On the 4th, at 7:24 p. m., he is 4° 2′ north of the moon.
Has a retrograde motion of 1° 31′ 53″, and his diameter decreases during the month six-tenths of a second of arc; but this diminution affects but very slightly his brightness. As he is an evening star, the most convenient opportunities are afforded for obtaining a fine view. He rises on the 1st at 3:07 p. m., and sets on the 2nd at 5:43 a. m.; on the 15th rises at 2:04 p. m., and sets the following morning at 4:40; on the 30th, rises at 1:07 p. m., and sets on the 31st at 3:43 a. m. On the 26th, at 9:02 p. m., is 3° 27′ north of the moon.
The use of the telescope in developing the rings of Saturn is one of the interesting items in astronomical history. To one looking at this planet with the naked eye, he appears simply as a bright star; but to a person using a telescope of moderate power, he now presents some such appearance as was hinted at in the December number ofThe Chautauquan, and resembles a globe with an appendage on either side similar to a new moon (the concave part turned toward the globe). To the early astronomers, whose telescopes were so much inferior to ours, his appearance was a great puzzle and produced a great variety of opinions. To Galileo the planet appeared like three globes, a large one with a smaller detached one on each of two sides. To Scheiner, in 1614, he appeared as one large globe, with a small attached ball on either side. To others he appeared as a globe with crescents (shape of new moon) sometimes detached, and at other times having their cusps (sharp points) meet on the edge of the planet. And it was not until 1655 that the discovery was made that these appendages were neither balls nor crescents, but were, as then supposed, a ring (seen in various positions) around the body of the planet. In the spring of this year, Huyghens discovered that what had appeared as handles extended out on each side and were somewhat like a veritable ball with its projecting axes ready to be laid in their “bearings.” The next spring the “gudgeons” had disappeared and only the plain sphere remained. In the fall of 1656 the axes had reappeared. Thus was suggested to Huyghens that these appearances were produced by the alternate presentation to view of the edge and face of a ring, whose thickness was so small as to be invisible when its plane was directed to the eye. Being anxious to secure to himself the honor of this discovery, and yet not wishing to publish it prematurely, lest his conception should turn out to be incorrect, he printed at the end of a little pamphlet descriptive of the planet the following characters:aaaaaaa ccccc d eeeee g h iiiiiii llll mm nnnnnnnnn oooo pp q rr s ttttt uuuuu. Should his theory prove to be incorrect no one would be likely to solve the riddle; should it be correct, as it proved to be, he readily arranged the letters to read:Annulo cingitur tenui, plano nusquam cohaerente, ad eclipticam inclinato; which being translated means: “Girdled by a thin, plane ring, nowhere touching, inclined to the ecliptic.” It was soon ascertained that the ring had an inclination of 27° to the plane of its orbit, and as it with the planet revolves about the sun, its axis maintains the same absolute position; so that as the revolution is made once in every twenty-nine and a half years, every fourteen andthree-fourth years its edge is directly toward the sun, and, practically, toward the earth (since the distance of the earth from the sun is comparatively small), and is invisible except through the most powerful telescopes. In like manner, every fourteen and three-fourth years the greatest possible portion of the ring’s surface is presented to the sun, and if the ring were perpendicular to the plane of the earth’s orbit, and its axis directed toward the earth, we should see the globe entirely girdled, instead of seeing, as we do, a large portion of one side of the ring and the opening only on two sides between it and the planet.
After Huyghens, the discovery was made by an English astronomer named Ball, that instead of only one ring, Saturn had two rings, divided by a narrow, dark line, and that the inner ring was broader than the outer in about the ratio of seventeen to ten; that is, the breadth of the inner was estimated to be 17,000 miles, while that of the outer was only 10,300 miles. In 1850, Prof. Bond, of Cambridge, discovered a third ring lying between the inner ring and the planet. But this was hardly regarded as a discovery, as this ring had been “seen in England by Messrs. Lassell and Dawes, before it was formally announced by the Bonds;” and “something of the same kind had been seen by Dr. Galle, at Berlin, as far back as 1838.”
Another perplexing question is, whether there are changes going on in these rings, and if so, what they are. Struve, in 1851, propounded the theory that the inner edge of the ring (or rings) was gradually contracting, and thus lessening the space between it and the planet, and this at the rate of about 1.3″ per century; at which rate it would close in on the planet about the year 2150—a date at such a distance that the event, should it transpire, will be of little moment to our readers.
Another not yet satisfactorily answered question is, of what are these rings composed? The generally accepted answer at present is, that it is neither a solid nor a fluid ring, but a cloud of satellites, too small and too numerous to be seen singly. “They are like the separate little drops of water out of which are composed fogs and clouds, which, to our eyes, seem like solid masses.”
Reaches his stationary point on the 6th, at 5:00 p. m., having made a direct motion of 51.45″; during the rest of the month he retrogrades 17′ 12.6″. On the 6th, at 6:50 p. m., he is 1° 18′ north of the moon. He figures as a morning star, rising on Dec. 31st, ’84, at 11:29 p. m., and setting on New Year’s at 11:25 a. m.; on the 15th, rising at 10:30 p. m., and setting on the 16th at 10:26 a. m.; on the 29th, rising at 9:33 p. m., and setting on the 30th at 9:31 a. m.
Also plays therôleof morning star, rising in the afternoon of the 1st at 1:31, and setting on the morning of the 2d at 3:25; on the 16th, rising at 12:31 p. m., and setting next morning at 2:25; and on the 30th, rising at 11:36 a. m., and setting at 1:30 a. m. on the 31st. On the 24th, at 11:34 p. m., he is 1° 48′ north of the moon; is stationary at 3:00 a. m. on the 30th, up to which date he has retrograded 14′ 51.6″. His diameter being only 2.6″, he can only be seen through a telescope of higher power.
BY GEORGE H. VINCENT.
The good people who, in 1638, came over from England and settled New Haven, came with a definite purpose. They aimed to establish a model community in church and state, and, as an important means to this end, they proposed to found a college. At first, events conspired to keep the classic groves from taking root on the bleak Connecticut shore. A capricious government in England was granting and annulling charters with alarming frequency, and the colonies were in a corresponding state of uncertainty and apprehension, while the ravages of the Indian wars did much to occupy and distract the thoughts of the New Haven people. Finally, in 1660, a bequest of Governor Hopkins induced the colonists to found an institution which they called a “Collegiate School,” lest a more pretentious title might make it difficult to obtain a charter. The Governor’s will, however, was contested by the legislature, which finally obtained a part of the bequest. This fact, together with the depression caused by the compulsory union of New Haven with the Connecticut colony, prevented any marked advance in the prosperity of the institution which, under the title of the “Hopkins Grammar School,” still prepares students for the various departments of Yale.
After the peace of Ryswick in 1697, prosperity returned to the colonists, and a second time the subject of a college was agitated. Ten trustees, most of them ministers from New Haven and vicinity, met some time in 1700 at Brandford, a small town near New Haven. Each trustee presented a few volumes with the declaration: “I give these books for the founding of a college.”
The next year a charter was granted to the new college, which was located at Saybrook, with the Rev. Abraham Pierson, a metaphysician of some note, as president. The students, eight in number, and “put into classes according to the proficiency they had antecedently made,” lived in the president’s house, under his supervision and instruction. The first commencement was held at Saybrook, September 13, 1702.
The French war of the same year had its effect upon the college, and when in 1707 Rector Pierson died, it was found impossible to support a resident professor at Saybrook. Consequently the senior class was sent to Milford and placed under the Rev. Samuel Andrew, while the other classes remained at Saybrook with two tutors. At this time Yale College extended from the senior class at Milford to the juniors, sophomores and freshmen at Saybrook, a distance of forty miles.
In 1714, the death of the Rev. James Pierpont, who may be regarded as the founder of the college, struck another blow at its prosperity. At the same time complaints about their accommodations from the Saybrook students made it evident that if the college was to become a permanent institution, some active measures were required. At a meeting of trustees in 1716, after a protracted discussion, and not a little to the dissatisfaction of Hartford, it was decided to locate the college permanently at New Haven. Hartford was appeased by building there a new court house, and the scattered students were gathered at New Haven, which that day became a college town.
Among several donations to the college, the most generous was that of Elihu Yale, a former resident of New Haven, and at the time a wealthy London merchant. In view of his munificence, the trustees called the new building which his donation had enabled them to complete, Yale College.
It would be superfluous for our purpose to trace the history of the college from this permanent foundation in 1718 to the present time. Among its presidents we find such names as Elihu Williams, Ezra Stiles, Timothy Dwight, Jeremiah Day, Theodore D. Woolsey and Noah Porter—grand men of the orthodox school, some of them rigid and severe in administration, but all respected and honored. The character of thepresidents is an index to the institution, which has developed under the severe discipline of New England. The students who of late years have come from distant states have modified the general character of the college, but have not destroyed the old influence. The recognition of religion, which in some universities has well-nigh disappeared, still holds its own, and the same bell which, in years gone by, summoned sleepy and half-dressed students to the murky chapel, at five in the morning, now, at a more convenient hour, assembles in the handsome “Battell” those who have come to college from every state in the Union. Thus the old New Englandrégimemakes an impression upon the rising generation of the whole country.
It is not within the scope of this article to consider the development of the college curriculum; but, perhaps, in view of the radical changes which the Yale faculty have introduced for the college year 1884-’85, it may not be out of place rapidly to sketch the innovations. In 1786 the requirements for admission were “Virgil, Tully, and the Greek Testament.” This is characteristic of the college, which has always been remarkably conservative in its devotion to the classics. Charles Francis Adams’ oration at the Harvard “Phi Beta Kappa” dinner two years ago, aroused no little antagonism in New Haven. President Porter has written several articles defending the classics, and when Matthew Arnold and Lord Coleridge addressed the Yale students, both congratulated the institution upon its attitude toward the ancient languages. Heretofore Latin and Greek have been compulsory during both freshman and sophomore years. But under the new system German and French may be substituted for a portion of the classics. To the senior and junior classes even greater liberty is given. They are offered between twenty and thirty elective courses; so that now, instead of turning a whole class out of the same mould, the college permits men to select those studies which they find attractive, or which will best prepare them for their pursuits in life. Thus in one year Yale has made very rapid strides, and now stands a “golden mean” between the conservatism of the past and the rashly radical tendencies of the present. So much for the origin and curriculum of Yale.
It is not the instruction alone that makes a college course desirable. The associations, friendships, and experiences in the college community are also important factors. It has been well said that a college is a miniature world, with its successes, failures, and temptations as real as those of the world without.
It is impossible, in an article like the present, to do more than give a few of the peculiarities of Yale. The writer disclaims any attempt to analyze critically the influences and tendencies of the college, but aims merely to present a few facts concerning its students, buildings, class spirit, and every-day life.
The college catalogue shows that in the academic department the classes average one hundred and fifty students. In the Sheffield Scientific School the aggregate number is about two hundred and twenty-five. The other departments swell the total to between ten and eleven hundred. It is probably unnecessary to state that co-education is not “dreamed of” in the Yale philosophy. The warm affection which the faculty feel for the dead languages seems only to increase their coldness toward the gentler sex.
Yale is eminently a cosmopolitan institution. When two years ago state clubs were being formed at Yale, some one remarked that if the same experiment were attempted at Harvard, there would be two clubs, one from Boston, and one from the rest of Massachusetts. While this statement is by no means true, it suggests the sectional character of the other New England colleges. A few figures will sustain this claim. In 1883-’84, out of 824 students in the academic and scientific departments, only twenty-nine per cent. were from Connecticut. There were nineteen men from California, six from Colorado, seven from Georgia, fifty-one from Illinois, thirty-three from Ohio, twenty from Missouri, and sixty-five from Pennsylvania. Almost every state, and many of the territories, were represented, and the very fact that Yale draws its men from so many widely different sources has an important influence upon the character of the students. The swift-coursing, tingling blood of the West is infused into the old, staid, New England institution, which restrains, modifies, and directs it. The enthusiasm of Yale is due in a great measure to this western element. There is a whole-heartedness about Yale students which you will find in no other eastern institution. Nor is money at Yale the basis of social standing. A man may command any position which he has the character or ability to attain.
It is generally supposed that in a large institution the numbers in a class prevent that personal contact with the instructors which smaller classes afford. This objection can be easily answered. Let us suppose that a freshman class numbers one hundred and fifty students, and that the curriculum includes five studies. The class will be divided into five sections of thirty men each, and will recite to five instructors in order. There are fifteen recitations a week, so that every member of the class recites three times a week to each of these instructors, and that, too, in a class of only thirty. This affords all the “contact” that either instructors or instructed need or desire. The divisions are arranged according to excellence in scholarship at the end of every term, so that each division has its own standard of attainment; hence the diligent are not retarded by their more leisurely classmates. Recitations and examinations are marked upon a scale of four. When one’s average standing falls below two, he is given the choice between leaving college or entering the class next below. This unpleasant experience is known as being “dropped.” For irregularities and tardiness in attendance, the penalties are inflicted in the form of “marks,” which have no influence upon scholarship standing. The penalty for “cutting” chapel on a week day is two marks, on Sunday, eight. As these marks accumulate, parents are informed by “letters home” when a certain limit is approached, which varies in the different years—more latitude being granted to seniors and juniors than is enjoyed by the lower classes. For seniors, the first letter comes at thirty marks; the second at about fifty; and the third, if there be one, informs the parent that his son has incurred sixty marks, and has been suspended for six weeks. This is “rustication.” The unfortunate retires to Milford, where he pursues his studies in interesting solitude. This marking system has many “defects,” which are especially patent to the down-trodden student, but it certainly has the merit of securing method and regularity in college duties. Other colleges, notably Amherst, have adopted new methods for which they claim great superiority over the archaic system. But it is safe to say that the Yale faculty must be thoroughly converted before they will discard the old system, which has been for years the bone of contention in every Yale debating club.
We come now to speak of the material world of Yale—its buildings and campus. Architecturally, Yale is inferior to both Harvard and Princeton. There are between thirty and forty buildings connected with Yale University; but on the college campus there are sixteen. Six of these are dormitories, occupied exclusively by members of the academic department, or Yale College proper. Four of these dormitories, together with three other buildings, the “Athenæum,” “Lyceum,” and “Old Chapel,” extend in a line along the east side of the campus, and constitute the “old brick row.” The dormitories are called “south,” “south middle,” “north middle,” and “north,” and are separated by the three recitation buildings mentioned above. “South middle,” erected in 1750, is the oldest building on the campus. Until within a few years, itwas reserved for the use of the sophomore class, and many a trembling freshman has had his first experience of hazing within its ancient walls. The faculty concluded, however, that they would best consult the interests of good order and education by razing this sophomore stronghold. “South middle,” thoroughly renovated, is to-day as quiet as the seniors’ retreat—“South.” Durfee Hall, at the north end of the campus, is a handsome dormitory of brown stone, accommodating eighty students. Farnam Hall is a modern building of brick, furnishing rooms for an equal number. Battell Chapel, on the north-eastern corner of the campus, is a large stone building with a seating capacity of eight or ten hundred. Its walls contain many handsome memorial windows, and in one of its towers are the clock and chimes. Graduate’s Hall is a massive brown stone building, presenting the general appearance of a feudal castle. It is, in fact, the stronghold of the college, and must be taken several times during the course—it is the examination hall. Next comes the Library, a gothic building with low wings on either side. It is a repository for some one hundred and seventy-five thousand volumes. The Art School is one of the most expensive buildings on the campus. It is of brown stone, and, like the library, is overgrown with ivy planted by graduating classes. The Art School contains excellent collections of paintings, marbles, and casts, together with several studios and class rooms. The other buildings, known as “Old Lab.,” “Cabinet,” and “Treasury” are, it is to be hoped, as useful as they are unattractive. So much for the campus proper. Near by are the new Sloane Physical Laboratory, the gymnasium, and the Peabody Museum, which even in its present incomplete state is one of the largest buildings in New Haven. The collections are excellent, being especially complete in the departments of mineralogy and palæontology. Within the radius of a few squares are the Sheffield Scientific School, the Divinity School, and the departments of Law and Medicine.
Let us now turn to the composition of the college community. The four classes are separated by very clearly defined lines. While, of course, there are many friendships between men of different classes, as a rule men associate exclusively with their own classmates. When it is remembered that a class averages one hundred and fifty men, one explanation of this clannishness is obvious. It takes four years for a student to know his classmates, and among them he will find all the friends he needs. Until within the last year or two the elective system, which brings members of different classes into the same recitation room, has not been in operation, and men have always recited with their classmates exclusively. Another prominent reason for class feeling, as it is called, is found in athletic rivalry. Let one attend a class boat race, hear the shouting, observe the ecstacy of delight with which the winners carry their crew on their shoulders from the boat, and he will begin to understand the real significance of class spirit. This class spirit is warmest between the two lower classes, where the friction is greatest. Just here we may refer to hazing and rushing, which are objects of so much popular misapprehension. That in early years freshmen were subjected to rough, and often brutal treatment, can not be denied. But that order of things has passed away, together with early chapel and biennial examinations. A “rush” is nothing more than an attempt of freshmen and sophomores, arranged in solid phalanxes, to force each other back. Such a thing as a decision on a rush is unknown, and the whole affair has the advantage of leaving both sides assured of a “most decisive and brilliant victory.” Hazing is confined to the first few weeks of the term, and is harmless, not to say puerile, in its character. Sophomores wander about the streets, admonishing freshmen to “put out” their lights. If these commands are not complied with, the hazers ascend to the room of the audacious freshman, quiz him awhile, and then put him to bed, where he stays until his persecutors have left, when he resumes his interrupted tasks. The whole thing is a farce, and can not last much longer. Although the custom may be childish, it certainly is not the pernicious thing which the press would have the public believe.
Athletics have a very prominent place in the college world. Youthful vitality finds a safety valve in athletic exercises. Inter-collegiate rivalry is a most natural thing. University foot ball teams, crews and ball nines follow as a matter of course. These contests are of absorbing interest, and are eagerly anticipated. Alumni of many years’ standing are carried away with enthusiasm at a college match. The public is led to suppose that athletics monopolize the student’s thought and interest. It is true that students do talk of a ball match more frequently than of Greek particles. The one belongs to the recreative side of college life, the other to the recitation room. When relieved from his regular duties, the normal student seeks recreation. Beside affording exercise, athletics engender a college spirit which helps to bind together the Yale alumni all over the land. Whatever may be the excesses, the advantages are manifold. The faculty declare that athletics have never been more prominent, nor the standard of scholarship higher than at the present time.
One trace, at least, of the good, old, puritanic days is found in “compulsory prayers.” At seven every morning, except Sunday, when there are regular services at 10:30, the old bell in the lyceum tower disturbs the peacefully slumbering student. At eight it gives a second warning, and at about seven minutes after it rings again, until, tolling the last minute, it stops at 8:10 precisely. The students who have been dropping in one by one since eight, come in increasing numbers as the time approaches. As the bell and organ voluntary cease, a few stragglers drop into their seats. If it is the last of the term, there are often a few men who, having only two marks between them and the cold world, appear in conspicuously superficial toilets.
The chapel has two transepts, one occupied by the juniors, the other by the sophomores. The seniors fill the seats on either side of the center aisle; while the freshmen are consigned to the gloomy region under the rear gallery. The deportment of the students during chapel exercises is, without exception, dignified and respectful. President Porter reads a selection from the scriptures and announces four verses of a hymn, which are sung by the choir. Then follows the “long prayer,” during which almost every head is bowed. It can not be denied, however, that many a lesson is rapidly scanned during this part of the devotions. At the close of the prayer all stand until the president and instructors have left the building. The seniors face the center aisle, and as the president passes make a low bow, bringing the body into a horizontal position. The effect from the galleries is ludicrous, and affords visitors no little amusement. Immediately after prayers the classes repair to their recitation rooms. Although compulsory prayers are not universally popular, yet if regarded merely as a means of securing regularity, and, by assembling the classes, of fostering a spirit of college unity, they are undeniably valuable.
It would not do to describe Yale customs and neglect the “fence.” The uninitiated can not read of the “fence” and its traditions without a smile. To one who has not been a member of the Yale world, the customs of the fence seem as ridiculous as the antics and gambols of brokers on ’change. But having once, as a freshman, felt the joy of balancing on that “fence,” after defeating the Harvard freshman at base ball; as sophomore having displayed the wonders of the tailor’s art from the next higher division of the same perch; as junior having sung there the college songs, and watched the people “pass on the other side of the way,” and at last, as senior, having parted from one’s classmates there, the Yale “fence” must be to him more than any other dingy-brown, two-railed old structure can be.
Among several privileges which are withheld from the freshman when he begins his course, is that of sitting on the “fence.” Most readers would not regard this in the light of a serious privation. But such it really seems to the new comer. As soon as the Yale freshmen defeat the Harvard freshmen at base ball, they are rewarded by being permitted to sit on the freshmen fence. A man on taking his seat in the United States Senate can not feel any more real satisfaction than a Yale freshman perched for the first time on the “fence we’ve won.”
One of the most amusing exercises of commencement time is the presentation of the sophomore fence to the freshmen. A sophomore makes the speech of presentation, to which a freshman replies. These speeches are often bright and witty, and are received with great applause.
The “fence” is the forum, the market place of the college. Here appointments are made. It is here you look for a student before you seek him in his room. Here in the twilight, and far into the beautiful evenings of May and June, you may hear the college songs—now a lively air or snatch of opera; now a warble, loud and clear; again, some plaintive plantation melody. This is the time when the magic of the fence is most potent in its influence. There are more romantic things with which to associate the delightful memories of college life, perhaps, but nothing can bring a pleasanter throng of recollections to the Yale alumnus than the mention of the fence.
Fond as they are of being “on the fence,” Yale men are by no means undecided or vacillating. Yale is a positive institution, strong, orthodox, and conservative. Its alumni are prominent not so much in letters as in the affairs of state. Yale College is yearly sending out into the world enthusiastic, practical, sensible young fellows to strive, as the grand old song has it,