Chapter IV. 521

The Catlin Paintings 524

George Bancroft 526

How Perseus Began To Be Great 529

Canada of To-Day 529

Some American Museums 531

Natural History and People of Borneo 533

The What-To-Do Club 536

Criticisms 537

Outline and Programs 539

Local Circles 540

The C. L. S. C. Classes 545

The Chautauqua University 547

Editor’s Outlook 549

Editor’s Note-Book 551

C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings for June 553

Course of Reading for 1885-6 554

Paragraphs from New Books 555

Talk About Books 556

Books Received 557

Special Notes 557

Important to Members of the C. L. S. C. 558

Chautauqua School of Languages, 1885 558

REQUIRED READING FOR JUNE.

THE MECHANISM OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

BY PRESIDENT D. H. WHEELER, D.D., LL.D.

To _us_ the unit of speech is the word; historically, the unit is the

sentence. It matters little which of the theories respecting the first

forms of speech we adopt; all such theories may be rejected, and still we

shall find it most reasonable to believe that man’s earliest utterances

were wholes, answering in value to our sentences. A revolution has been

effected and we have a _part of speech_ for our unit. We construct or

build our sentences out of pieces of different meaning and value. Our

simplest sentence has two of these pieces—a subject or noun, and a verb;

a long sentence may have a dozen or a score of pieces. The making of

sentences out of parts of speech is a kind of mechanics. The sentence

has its mechanism, of which we usually learn the science by analyzing

sentences. This analytical process yields what we call the principles

of syntax. It must be remembered, however, that we learn to talk before

we learn grammar, and that multitudes of people scarcely know any unit

except the sentence. Their vocabulary is a phrase-book, in which every

word has a fixed and unchangeable position. These persons abound in the

illiterate countries; in Italy, for example, the majority of the people

speak only in sentences having invariable forms; change the order of the

words and you become unintelligible to them. The same effect is produced

by employing a synonym for any word in any sentence. Our people are

usually more alert to variety in expression and catch meanings in forms

and arrangements to which they are unaccustomed.

A long sentence falls, when we take it apart, into two large pieces; the

subject and its belongings, and the predicate and its belongings. Each of

these large pieces breaks up into a number of small pieces. If we look

carefully at the average long sentence, we shall find that the parts are

held together by a systematic and habitual principle of arrangement,

and that this changes in passing from one language to another. French

says “a man good,” English “a good man.” Reverse the order of noun and

adjective in either language, and the sense is obscured for the average

hearer or reader. There is a number of these differences; and therefore

every language has its peculiar mechanism. In mechanical type languages

fall into groups. Greek and Latin, for example, use inflections to

connect the words with each other; English does not employ inflections

for this purpose. We have a few inflected forms, but we use them merely

because they have come down to us. Greek syntax is inflectional; our

syntax is said to be that of flat construction, or, as I prefer to say,

it is positional. The _place_ of a word determines its function and

relations in the sentence. This flat construction is found in other

tongues; but English abounds in it and depends upon it as a principle

of arrangement. When we say “proud men,” the hearer knows that the

adjective _proud_ describes the noun _men_. In Latin, the adjective

would have a termination to correspond in value to that of the noun, and

the two might be separated by several words. Our principle requires the

two to keep close together. If the adjective is to be modified, we may

reverse the order and write “Men proud of their country.” If, however,

the sentence is simple enough, the adjective may move to the other end

of the statement and become a predicate, as when we say, “Men in that

country are proud of their civilization.” These rules show the mechanics

of the adjective. We expect it to precede the noun or to follow it with a

dependent clause, or to follow, at an interval, the verb as a predicate.

Young writers will be helped in their work by remembering that these are

principles of mechanism—that they are building their sentences, and that

the parts have their proper place and order, just as wood, brick and

stone have in a building.

The foregoing illustrations are briefly stated to prepare the way for

a few suggestions respecting some special mechanical contrivances of

our language. A general principle in grammar acts as an aggressive and

conquering force; it extends its domain, insensibly and gradually, but

surely, as far as possible. In an inflectional age a tendency to increase

and perfect inflections is discovered; in a flat-construction age the

tendency to extend the domain of flat syntax is equally manifest. In

our language some constructions are common now, though at one time they

were scarcely allowed. This general observation is illustrated in the

flat construction of a modifying clause in the nature of a relative

pronoun clause. For example, “The man we saw” is a flat construction

which has invaded the territory of the relative pronoun. The sentence is

cut down from “the men _whom_ we saw.” Very little study has been given

to these encroachments and conquests; but they will amply reward the

careful student of them. The flat construction in the province of the

relative is one of our devices for reducing the use of _who_, _which_,

_whose_, _whom_ and _that_. These words occur so frequently in the speech

and on the printed page that we have quite unconsciously gone about

reducing their importance, and the results are so considerable as to

merit special attention. I have made some comparative studies, having

for their object something like accurate measurement of the change in

the use of this class of pronouns, since the year 1611, the date of the

English Bible of King James. Two great changes are easily discovered.

(1) The number of relative pronouns on a page has been reduced, on an

average, about one half. (2) The word _that_ has been almost pushed out

of the relative office. The devices by which the use of relatives has

been rendered unnecessary, are generally forms of the flat construction.

The ousting of _that_ from relative functions has been promoted by the

unconscious effort to dispense with the excessive repetition of the

word. When used as a conjunction, a demonstrative and a relative, its

repetition becomes tiresome to both writer and reader. A careful study

will show that present English employs _that_ very seldom as a relative,

and much less frequently than the English of the last century employed

it as a connective and a demonstrative. In the case of _that_ we see the

operation of a principle in architectural criticism. If a particular

architectural device becomes common, it becomes unfashionable. Its

frequency offends the taste and the offense is punished by a change.

Forty years ago the ordinary Greek column was used on small private

dwellings in many sections of this country. It became so disagreeable

to our taste that this column was for some time nearly out of use in

public buildings. _That_ is, like any piece in architecture, made so

common as to become unconsciously offensive. The fact brings out a

subtle principle of sentence mechanics—we require variety and dislike a

dreary uniformity in this kind of architecture. Good writing in English,

_readable_ English, will always respond in greater or less measure to

the unconscious demand of the English-reading mind. Most persons do not

know what is the offending element in a dreary sentence; they only know

that “the style” is tiresome, and that they can not interest themselves

in the reading. The good writer overcomes the difficulty by avoiding the

offending elements.

It will usually be found that the tiresome effect is produced by

repetition and uniformity. The pieces used may all be good; but we

do not like to see Greek pillars before every house along the road.

We tire of Gibbon’s periods, of Addison’s perfection, of Macaulay’s

stateliness. We can read a little of each with delight; for daily diet

we do not desire any of them. I will now give some of the results of

my comparative studies of relative pronouns in the English sentence.

I begin with the Bible of 1611. I notice first here that the Psalms

differ from other books of the Bible, and I suppose that the difference

arises from the superior directness of prayer. The same difference is

discoverable between the modern prayer and the sermon. In the Psalms

there is one relative in each ninety-five words, on the average; and

about four fifths of these are _thats_. In the _number_ of relatives,

the Psalms approach closely to modern parsimony; but in the use of

_that_ they exaggerate the practice of the sixteenth century. Many of

these _thats_ are used in a formula now seldom heard, of which “_he

that_” is a typical example. In St. Matthew’s record of the Sermon on

the Mount, there is one relative to each forty-four words; in St. John’s

gospel, chapters one to ten inclusive, there are two hundred and eleven

relatives, and one hundred and three are _thats_. The proportion of

relatives is one to each forty-six words. In the first six chapters of

I. Corinthians there are sixty relatives, and of these twenty-seven are

_thats_. The proportion is one relative in forty-five words. Combining

the results obtained by this counting in the New Testament, the result is

one relative for each forty-five words, and more than three sevenths are

_thats_. It is probably safe to assume that in the New Testament sentence

every forty-fifth word (on the average) is a relative pronoun, and that

three times in seven this relative is the word _that_. In the Psalms the

relative occurs not quite half so frequently, but four times in five

this relative is _that_. We should also remember that at least one form

of sentence architecture of which the relative _that_ is the conspicuous

piece has practically disappeared in modern English. “He _that_ dwelleth

in the secret place of the most high,” is a common syntax of the Psalms.

There are men who say and write “he who would be rich;” but it is an

archaic formula.

Let us turn to Shakspere. My counting here has not been as abundant

as I could wish, but I think the results are practically correct for

the plays. The selections are Richard III., first and second scenes,

and “Love’s Labor Lost,” first and second acts. The proportion is one

relative to each ninety-three words; and of these relatives _that_

appears a little more frequently than three times in seven. Shakspere

is, therefore, in this use of _that_ almost exactly like the New

Testament; while, like the Psalms, he is modern in his parsimonious use

of relatives. Readers with more leisure than myself may find interesting

employment in examining Addison and Samuel Johnson. In an idle hour I

fell upon a copy of Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” and found more

relatives and a larger proportion of _thats_ than in the New Testament.

In Samuel Johnson there are probably fewer relatives; his stately

Latinity avoided these mean little hinges of clauses. Since writing the

last sentences I have examined the first act of Shakspere’s “Hamlet,”

and I find a smaller proportion of relatives than I have found in any

work except modern poetry. I find but forty-eight relatives in the whole

act, and just half are _thats_. Another thing to note is that this act

contains a large proportion of flat constructions. A further examination

shows that the Plays differ much in the management of connective

apparatus for clauses. The elevated tone and strong emotion of “Hamlet”

account for infrequent use of the lifeless relative forms.

Before taking up any recent author, let me state as a general rule of

proportion that present English uses relatives less frequently than

the Psalms and Shakspere, and not quite half as frequently as the New

Testament. There is, however, one difference to be noted: English writers

have carried this reform somewhat farther than Americans have carried

it. It is still further to be noted that preachers and theological

writers usually have a good deal of biblical syntax, and therefore

employ relatives more freely than other writers. It is a convenient

place to mention the fact that in modern English of the best type,

ellipsis is more common than in older writers or inferior modern writers.

The old writers and their readers had more time than we have, and the

“economy of attention” was not in Shakspere’s day a recognized rule of

rhetoric. The inferior modern writer is afraid to trust an ellipsis to

the tender mercies of the critic, and spoils his sentences by trying

to say everything. Ellipsis is one of the chief places for art and

genius in writing. As a rule, American writers are in greater awe of the

grammarians than Englishmen are. We shall find, then, more relatives in

American than in English writers; we shall find more in sermons than in

other writings. Young ministers are often advised to cultivate a biblical

style. I must confess my inability to sympathize with efforts to employ

religion upon the unavailing task of continuing the use of dead words and

forms. If we are to write and speak in dead tongues as a religious duty,

let us go back to Greek, at least, if not to Hebrew. The truth is that we

ought to put the Bible into modern English, and so end the unprofitable

business of disagreeing about the claims of a biblical style upon the

pulpit. At present the contention is that in order to imitate the Bible

of 1611, preachers should use obsolete English.

Turning now to the usage of modern writing in the employment of

relative pronouns, let us begin with a modern Englishman. I select Mr.

Bagehot’s books, because in him we may hope to find the high-water mark

of this reform. Mr. Bagehot was an editor and a banker; he represents

the directness, force, and brevity of editorial and business writing.

His “Lombard Street” is a book on the financial arrangements of the

business public of England. It is therefore practical; but it is also

essentially scientific. In this book Mr. Bagehot employs, on the average,

one relative pronoun in one hundred and twenty-seven words. This is a

little more than one third as many as the New Testament employs. I call

this high-water mark; two thirds of the relatives have disappeared.

I am not sure of it, but I think Mr. Bagehot did not use _that_ as a

relative pronoun. I find that about _one fortieth_ of the relatives

in the American edition are _thats_; but it is probable that some of

them were put in by the American printers—unconsciously, of course—and

it is possible that all have a typographical parentage. In “Money and

the Mechanism of Exchange,” by Professor Jevons, I can not find a

relative _that_; there may be a few; but in this case, too, the edition

is American. Accepting, however, the count, let the readers measure

the change from the Psalms of 1611, in which eighty per cent. of the

relatives are _thats_, to Walter Bagehot, in whose “Lombard Street” only

about two per cent. of the relatives are _thats_. The relatives occur a

little more frequently in the book of Professor Jevons, just referred

to. By my count there is one relative in one hundred and thirteen words.

I have more carefully counted the relatives in the essays of Mr. James

Anthony Froude, and find one relative in each one hundred and twenty

words. I have only American editions of these essays, and in these

editions _that_ is employed as a relative in a very few cases. This use

of _that_ is so infrequent and so opposite to Mr. Froude’s ordinary

practice, that we may safely set it down as some one’s blunder—possibly

Mr. Froude’s, more probably the American printer’s. If we accept these

_thats_ as Mr. Froude’s, the per cent. of them is so small as to deprive

them of importance. I thought I had caught Mr. Froude’s secret when I

found that in his essay on Norway he apparently wrote “trout that” and

“fish that.” Mr. Froude is a mighty fisherman, and it was possible that

he might glorify the fish by a peculiar form of pronoun. But I turned to

the essay on “A Day’s Fishing at Cheney’s,” and found “fish which” and

“trout which.” This failure to find even a fanciful explanation leaves

nothing to be said except that “some one has blundered” into the relative

_thats_ of Mr. Froude. These three English writers—Bagehot, Jevons, and

Froude—probably represent very fairly the untheological writers of our

generation.

For a test specimen of theological writers, I turn to a volume of sermons

by the Rev. James Martineau. I have counted the relatives in three

sermons, “The Bread of Life,” “The Unknown Paths,” and “The Finite and

the Infinite in Human Nature.” The relatives occur more frequently than

in the non-theological writers. My count shows an average of one relative

in each ninety-three words. The use of _that_ is abundant. Out of one

hundred and seven relative words, thirty-one are _thats_. These sermons

were probably composed forty years ago, and represent an archaic type of

sermonic style, a style largely affected by that of the Bible of 1611.

I have noted without counting, that the sermons of Mr. Spurgeon contain

a higher proportion of relatives, and that this great preacher employs

_that_ with as much frequency as Mr. Martineau. Turning to American

preachers, I have taken up a recent sermon of Dr. John Hall, of New York,

and I find one relative in each sixty-five words, and of these relatives

more than one third are _thats_. Dr. Hall used in 1884 more _thats_ than

James Martineau used forty years earlier. But Dr. Hall is a preacher of

a very biblical type, and his choice of relatives is often dictated by

partial quotation of texts. Passing over to non-theological writers of

our time and country, let us take the general result of countings in

essays and books. The average number of relatives is about ten per cent.

greater than in contemporary English writers, and _that_ is relatively

employed about one fifth of the time. The importance of the reduction of

the use of relatives can not be properly appreciated without remembering

two or three conditions of their use. One fact is that there is seldom

any discernible rule which is followed in the choice of _that_ in place

of _which_. The example given from Mr. Froude’s practice—whether it is

his or his printer’s—illustrates the absence of any guidance by a rule.

_That_ has no longer any standing place in the relative ranks; it merely

relieves _which_ of a part of its work; and in English writers even

this supernumerary function has practically ceased to be filled by it.

A second condition of the use of relatives is much more important. It

has always been possible to build the best of English sentences without

relatives. A peculiarly animated sentence of any age will usually contain

no relatives. In Dr. John Hall’s sermon, the longest sentences and the

animated passages contain no relatives. When he drops into a relative,

we see that the exaltation of feeling is passing off, and the sermon

is sinking to a lower level of interest. It is apparently a law, then,

that relatives are more rarely found in animated, elevated and perfectly

clear English than in weaker and less emotional writing. A third fact

is that I find the relatives of a sermon, book, or essay, occurring in

groups. Often there are whole pages with none; then come three, four,

five or more in about as many lines. This grouping is almost as true of

the Bible as of modern English. In Dr. Hall’s sermon, fifty-six occur in

the first and least animated half of it, and only thirty-eight in the

second half of it, and one fifth of all the relatives of the discourse

occur in groups; take twenty-four printed lines out of the sermon, and

there will be left only about as many as Professor Jevons employs. The

effect of these groups deserves, I have thought, careful study; but the

results require more space than is now at command. A single example

from Mr. Froude will suffice to indicate the general conclusion. Within

thirty-six lines—taken in groups of from two to fourteen lines—Mr. Froude

uses twenty-five relatives—or one relative in each fourteen words, while

his general average is—as above stated—one in each one hundred and twenty

words. How shall we describe such a use of relatives? Plainly they are

not necessary. The only explanation I can think of is that it is a

careless habit. The relatived passages are the poorest and weakest, in

all the modern English I have examined. The groups of relatives are to me

very significant; they show that relative pronouns are unnecessary; the

ineffectiveness of the English where they occur shows that the relative

is obsolescent.

To compress this study into a small space I have omitted a number of

important facts. I pass to the conclusions (_a_) I have reached. (1)

The relative pronoun (_b_) being essentially an inflectional device, is

opposed by the tendencies (_c_) prevailing in English syntax—tendencies

to flat construction. If the reader will look at (_a_), (_b_) and

(_c_) in the preceding sentences, he will see specimens of the flat

construction. (2) _That_ is dead as a relative pronoun. Its use is a

mere carelessness. (3) In some of the so-called idioms for the relative

_that_, the word is not a relative at all, and the “idiom” itself is a

case of flat construction. In “All _that we_ know,” the relative usually

following the demonstrative _that_ has been omitted. (4) The so-called

compound relative _what_ is not a relative at all; in _our_ modern use it

is another flat construction to reduce the employment of _which_ and its

antecedent demonstrative. (5) I infer that the flat constructions ought

to be classified and studied in schools. The effect of such teaching and

study will be seen in a more vigorous English, and it will not be long

before we shall begin to say, “THE RELATIVE PRONOUN MUST GO.”

HOME STUDIES IN CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS.

BY PROF. J. T. EDWARDS, D.D.

Director of the Chautauqua School of Experimental Science.

CHEMISTRY OF ORGANISMS.

An organism is a structure endowed with life, and acting by means of

organs. Organic beings are of two kinds, vegetable and animal. Ordinarily

there is little difficulty in discriminating between them, but there

is a border line along which the two great kingdoms meet, which is as

shadowy and uncertain as that uniting, in distant view, the ocean and the

sky. It is usual to say that animals move their parts, and that plants

do not. The former have locomotion, the latter are stationary. Animals

have nerves and receive their food in cavities; plants do not. But the

most important distinction of all is that the vegetable world draws its

support from the mineral world, while the animal lives upon the vegetable.

[Illustration: SHOWING THE FAT GLOBULES IN MILK.]

Both animals and plants begin their existence with a single cell. Growth

consists in the enlargement and multiplication of cells. Here the

physiologist terminates his investigations, and the chemist begins.

His first step, however, results in the destruction of the organism. Of

him it is emphatically true, “He murders to dissect.” The moment that

chemistry seeks to determine the elementary character of an organic

substance, that substance ceases to have an organic form. In a sense,

therefore, there is no such thing as _organic_ chemistry. It is a

convenient term, however, for the study of the chemistry of substances

formed by life.

Until recently it has been supposed that the chemist could destroy

organic substances, but that he could not create them. This idea is no

longer held. A great number of the compounds formed by plants and animals

have been produced in the chemist’s laboratory, without the aid of vital

force.

While it is undoubtedly true that many of the compounds found in plants

and animals are not _necessarily_ related to organisms, there are usually

some plain facts which differentiate organic compounds from inorganic.

Among these may be named the following: Organic substances are usually

composed of but few elements; oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen and carbon

constituting almost all their material. Ten other elements are very

sparingly distributed in them.

_Sixty-six_ elements enter into the formation of inorganic matter.

The _atomic_ structure of the former is very complex; that of the

latter is simple. For example: A molecule of the white of egg contains

222 atoms, while a molecule of salt has but two. Again, the compounds

of organic existences are innumerable. Inorganic compounds are

_comparatively_ few. The former are unstable, on account of the presence

of nitrogen, while the latter are fixed and quite permanent. The former

are also distinguished for the many examples of isomerism they furnish.

Isomeric compounds are those formed of the same elements in the same

proportions. Thus, camphene, the oils of bergamot, juniper, birch, black

pepper, lemon, cloves, turpentine, ginger, cubebs, orange, and many

others are isomeric, each one being composed of ten atoms of carbon and

sixteen of hydrogen. The difference in these volatile oils is supposed to

be due to a variation of the _arrangement_ of the atoms composing them.

Let us now briefly consider the

FOOD OF PLANTS.

This is obtained from the air and earth. The former supplies carbonic

acid, and water in the form of vapor, through the stomata of the leaves;

these are little mouths or breathing pores, chiefly situated on the

under side of the leaf. They vary in number from one thousand to one

hundred and seventy thousand to the square inch. An apple-tree leaf of

average size has one hundred thousand pores. The old elm at Cambridge,

under which Washington stood while reviewing the Continental army, has

been estimated to produce a crop of seven million leaves, thus exposing

a surface of five acres, and therefore furnishing billions of stomata.

If the amount of carbonic acid gas in the air were much increased, all

higher forms of animal life would perish. If it were materially lessened,

vegetation would soon wither and die, involving the death of all animals,

from lack of food. Plants derive the element carbon from this gas.

[Illustration: A PLANT STARTING IN LIFE.]

According to Chevandier, an acre of beech forest annually absorbs three

and one half tons of carbonic acid gas, and from this eliminates about

one ton of carbon.

Most of the oxygen and hydrogen of plants is probably obtained from

the water absorbed by leaves and roots. Recent experiments indicate

that plants may sometimes absorb oxygen directly from the air. This is

especially true in the case of buds, as may be shown by the following

experiment:

Cut twigs of willow, oak or apple just before the buds are to unfold, and

place the ends in a little holder containing a small amount of water, and

set this in a saucer; partially fill the saucer with quicksilver; over

the twigs invert a glass fruit jar filled with oxygen, so that its mouth

will be sealed by the quicksilver. The buds will unfold, and some of the

oxygen disappear, but if the jar be filled with hydrogen or nitrogen the

buds will decay. De Saussure,[1] by a somewhat similar experiment, proved

that oxygen is absorbed by the roots of plants.

[Illustration: SECTION OF AN EXOGENOUS STEM.]

Both gases and moisture are taken up and distributed through the cells

by osmose.[2] This may easily be shown; cut off the end of a carrot and

scoop out the central portion of the remainder, and place in the cavity

dry sugar; this will soon be converted into a syrup, and the sides of the

carrot will have perceptibly shrunk, from the passage of moisture out of

the cells to the sugar.

The mineral constituents of plants are all taken up by the roots in the

form of solution, water being the great carrier by which plants are

supplied.

The following substances are invariably present in all agricultural

plants, and in many others, viz.: Potash, soda, lime, magnesia, oxide

of iron, chlorine, sulphuric acid, phosphoric acid, silicic acid, and

carbonic acid. The chemical composition of different specimens of the

same plant is found to be quite uniform.

VEGETABLE NUTRITION.

Young plants first feed upon the store of nourishment placed in the seed,

either in cotyledons,[3] or around them. Soon the little roots acquire

the power to take their nourishment from the earth in which they are

imbedded. They absorb moisture and the materials in solution, which rise

through the latest formed wood as ascending sap, and in the cells of the

growing parts, especially the leaves, undergo the transformations which

convert inorganic into organic substances. Hales[4] calculated that the

force which impels the sap in a grapevine in summer time is five times as

great as that which drives the blood through the arteries of a horse.

[Illustration: SECTION OF AN ENDOGENOUS STEM.]

Much of the water is evaporated. A large sunflower was found to exhale

twenty or thirty ounces during the day, but very little at night. After

the sap has been elaborated in the cells, under the influence of air

and light, it descends just under the bark, in the cambium layer, and

furnishes the material for the growth of cells and young buds, and

nourishes all growing parts of the plant. This process takes place

essentially in the earlier part of the season. In late summer and autumn

the circulation in the leaves is impeded by the deposition of mineral

matter, so that the plant or tree becomes gorged with the fluids which

are ready to flow again at the coming of spring. It is this supply which

is drawn upon in the “sugar bush.” A bucketful is often obtained from a

single maple tree in twenty-four hours.

The cambium layer, or mucilaginous material between the bark and wood,

hardens into cellular tissue and forms an annular growth. This is the

case in all exogenous plants. If a section be made of one of them its age

may be easily determined by counting the rings. The other great class

of plants called endogenous, has the growing masses distributed through

the stem. The common cornstalk is an illustration. Few things are more

surprising than the way in which different plants manufacture from the

same elements their

VARIOUS PRODUCTS.

This is noticeable in grafting. I have seen a thorn bush having one

limb loaded with Bartlett pears. Now the material which ascended the

stem was distributed to all the branches, but the cells in some of

them manufactured it into thorn apples, while in this branch it was

transformed into delicious fruit.

[Illustration: SHOWING A CYCAS, A YUCCA, TWO COCOANUT PALM TREES, AN

INDIAN CORN STEM, AND A BANANA.]

No doubt plants have the powers to select various materials. Upon the

same acre of land a hundred different plants may feed and manufacture as

many varieties of products, sweet, bitter, sour, poisonous, nutritious,

fragrant, offensive, green, yellow, red, and so on through the entire

list. As has already been suggested, many vegetable products which are

quite diverse in character, are either identical or quite similar in

chemical composition. Starch, whether obtained from the potato, the

root of the carrot, the kernel of corn, the leaves of the cabbage, or

the cotyledons of the bean, is composed of six atoms of carbon, ten

atoms of hydrogen, and five atoms of oxygen. Sago, tapioca, bread fruit,

arrowroot, and scores of other plant products have the same proportions.

Woody fiber whether from the root, stem or branch, woven into cloth,

built into houses, twisted into rope, made into paper, used as fuel, or

manufactured into furniture, is C₆H₁₀O₅.

Slight variations in composition often produce marked differences. The

introduction of the least ferment into sugar (C₆H₁₂O₆) would break it up

into two deadly poisons, alcohol (2C₂H₆O) and carbonic acid gas (2CO₂—two

molecules of each). A slight addition of oxygen spoils all the sweetness

of the preserves.

The rhubarb manufactures oxalic acid, the grape tartaric acid, the apple

malic acid, the lemon citric acid, the oak tannic acid, from carbon,

hydrogen and oxygen, by simply varying the number of their atoms.

If we add one atom of oxygen (C₁₀H₁₆O) to the constituents of the

volatile oils previously mentioned, we form a new group comprising

camphor, wintergreen, spearmint, cinnamon, bitter almonds, and many

others.

Notwithstanding the great uniformity in the composition of various

vegetable products, it is now well understood that one crop may restore

to land what another has removed, hence the modern agricultural doctrine

of

ROTATION OF CROPS.

In southeastern Virginia you find many pine forests in which may be

traced the ridges of the corn rows. These fields were planted with corn

continuously, until the soil became so impoverished that it would not

yield a crop. They were then abandoned and allowed to grow up to pines.

A better system would have secured perpetual fertility. The soil of

England produces far more than formerly, even after the cultivation of

a thousand years. China furnishes a still more remarkable example of

productiveness.

The amount of the earth’s crust which is concerned in the support of life

is exceeding small. The natural tendency is constantly to diminish this.

Rains and rivers bear away the best of the soil and deposit it in the

lakes and seas. Some inhabitant of our earth in the far future, may

secure the benefit of these stores, when the beds of the present seas and

oceans shall have risen above the waters and become the continent.

Too much pressed by the demands of the present to even think of this, the

wise farmer endeavors to return to his soil what it has lost.

Growing crops are plowed under, fertilizers from the thronging cities

are spread upon his fields, the seaweed cast up by the waves yields

its potash, phosphorus, salt and iodine. The islands of the Pacific

contribute their vast stores of ammonia accumulated for ages in guano

beds; marl deposited in the estuaries of ancient geologic seas feeds

the cereals; and the limestone deposits are made to give verdure to

the grasses of a thousand meadows. In the meantime, nature has her

own processes of restoration. The crumbling of the rocks by frost,

their abrasion by water, the accumulation of humus by decay, and

various chemical influences conspire to convert the unproductive rocks

into fertile soil. It would seem that this intelligent forethought,

united with the beneficent processes of nature may secure perpetual

productiveness, to the end that the earth may continue to yield its

increase for the sustenance of the animal, for, as the Scriptures say,

ALL FLESH IS GRASS.

Directly or indirectly all animals live on plants. We have roast lamb

for dinner to-day, but yesterday the lamb was browsing herbage. It is an

interesting fact that the nutritive qualities of bread are almost the

same as those of beef—each, in itself, is very nearly a perfect food.

[Illustration: LEAN MEAT.]

Great principles of economy regulate the use of these two articles, in

accordance with the scarcity and price of either. Man may live without

bread if he have meat, and vice versa, but his system demands one of

them, or its equivalent.

As in the cell of the plant, mineral substances become organized, so,

under the influence of animal vitality does vegetable material become

transformed into the constituents of a new organism. The great argument

against the doctrine that alcohol is a food, lies in the fact that it

does not undergo this transformation. It leaves the body as it enters it.

But beef-steak ceases to be steak, and bread is no longer the same; they

have become bone, tissue, nerve, and all that makes a human body

Most are familiar with the marvelous processes of mastication, digestion,

absorption and aeration, by which food is converted into blood freighted

with all that is essential to the nutrition of the human system.

[Illustration: A COLUMN, ARCHES, DOMES, SPIRES AND MINARETS.]

Foods serve three great purposes—growth, restoration of waste,

and supply for heat. Whether vegetable or animal, they are of two

classes—nitrogenous and carbonaceous. The former consists of all seeds

and vegetable tissues, and flesh in animal foods. The latter comprises

the starch and sugar of vegetables, and fat in animals. Nature seems

to suggest the propriety of using both as food for man. His teeth are

adapted to the mastication of both, and the varied demands of different

seasons and climates furnish a not less conclusive argument in its favor.

It is not our design to discuss here the dietetics or even the chemistry

of food. There is, however, one branch of the subject that calls for

a passing remark—the value of foods for special purposes. As the

agriculturist is now carefully considering the adaptation of soils to the

various kinds of vegetation, and is also inquiring into the character of

those fertilizers that will continue and increase the growth-producing

qualities of his land, so the physiologist is seeking to discover the

special value of different aliments for all conditions of health and

disease. The problem is necessarily somewhat difficult, but the end is so

desirable—nothing less than human safety, comfort and development—that

it is one of the most worthy of all the questions of science. Wholesome

food, cheap food, and appropriate food for all classes and conditions is

its aim. What does the weary brain require? What will give strength to

muscle? How may the impoverished blood be enriched? How can vigorous,

symmetrical growth be secured to childhood and youth? These are vital

questions. Even when applied to the wants of the lower animals they are

of immense importance. What conditions are most favorable for fattening

cattle? What will give greatest strength and best sustain continuous

exertion.

Note a simple instance of one result of such inquiry. In ascertaining the

food value of cottonseed, the revenue of our cotton crop is said to have

been doubled. In medical practice physicians are more and more inclined

to depend upon their knowledge of the principles of alimentation and

the adjustment of proper nourishment to the sick than upon artificial

stimulants or medicines.

THE CIRCLE COMPLETED.

We conclude this article on the chemistry of organisms, with the somewhat

humbling reflection that to all living beings there comes a time when

vitality yields to the power of those chemical forces, which resolve them

again to their original inorganic forms. It can not be that this was the

only and ultimate end contemplated by the Creator, in that sublime system

of arrangement for life, which began with the morning of creation and

ended with man. Nature is more than a cycle of change from dead matter to

vegetable form, thence to animal life, and thence back again to mineral

substance.

Solomon wrote: “The dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the

spirit shall return unto God who gave it;” and another has said: “There

remains the paramount duty of rendering worthy of survival that spiritual

part of our being which no merely physical power can destroy.”

PHYSICS OF ORGANISMS.

A brief discussion of some _physical_ characteristics of organisms will

conclude our articles on “Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics.”

The abundance of metaphorical expressions even in common language,

indicates the numerous resemblances between the living and inorganic

worlds. Description and poetry are full of imagery. A metaphor implies

a resemblance between objects, a simile suggests it, and a comparison

states it.

[Illustration: THE DIONÆA, OR VENUS’S FLY-TRAP.]

Thus to the human mind, the different departments of nature seem to

reflect a light and beauty upon each other, even as the “earth-shine”

lights the moon in the absence of the sun. The sky is a dome; the groves

are temples; the sea moans and roars; the falling cataracts laugh and

shout, and the calm lake is the smile of the Great Spirit. “Language,”

says Dean Trench,[5] “is fossil poetry.” “Architecture is frozen music.”

Many of the forms of art and devices of human invention have been

suggested by Nature. The Doric column was borrowed from some stately tree

shaft. The ornamented capital of the Corinthian column was decorated by

carved copies of the graceful acanthus leaves. Gothic architecture found

its models in the tree tops of the arching forests.

[Illustration: A HUMAN HEART, SHOWING CHAMBERS AND VALVES.]

Every experimenter in science is simply one who is inquiring of Nature

for her analogies, truths, forms, forces, and machines; and like the wise

and good mother that she is, she has granted many a pregnant suggestion

to the busy brains of discoverers and inventors.

[Illustration: THE NEPENTHES,[6] A PITCHER PLANT OF THE INDIAN

ARCHIPELAGO.]

MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS.

Plants in their action illustrate many of the principles of natural

philosophy, as if directed by intelligence. Turn their roots upward

in the soil, and they will invariably turn down to the moisture. Bend

their stems to the earth and they will seek to mount upward. The young

sunflower greets the sun at his rising, and turns to behold his setting.

Unwind a twining vine, and wind it in an opposite direction, and it will

soon assert its right to assume its own method. Some plants shrink from

touch; others, like the Venus fly-trap,[7] hold out their open palms to

catch flies; many sleep; most seem to select special places, seasons,

and conditions. They seem almost, at times, to be possessed of moral

qualities. They adapt themselves to situations. If the season is dry,

they are sparing of moisture; if the soil is scanty, they penetrate

deeper for sustenance; if the winds are fierce, they grow strong by

struggle; if gashed or broken, they have “philters for healing;” if

pruned and chastened, they yield richer fruitage.

[Illustration: SKELETON OF A FROG.—A GOOD SET OF SPRINGS.]

One can not help feeling that certain trees have a personality. They are

friendly with their shade. They are proud in their loftiness, confident

in their strength, satisfied in their usefulness.

Other plants are almost equally interesting. Flowers have long been

chosen to express the language of sentiment. Even the lowest forms of

vegetable life, like the algæ, the mosses and lichens, arrange their

parts with symmetry and beauty. Even the microscopic diatoms[8] are

exquisite in the perfection of their curves and markings.

ANIMAL MECHANISM.

Comparative anatomy long since showed us that there is great harmony in

the construction of animals. A few principles seem to govern in all.

For example: None violate the law of gravity with regard to the line of

direction’s falling within the base. They employ the lever, the inclined

plane, the pulley, and the mechanical means of applying power, precisely

as we do in machinery. The heart is a pump; the stomach is a churn; the

backbone has springs; the elbow is a hinge; the muscles are ropes; the

nerves are telegraph wires; the ear is a harp, the eye is a telescope.

The most perfect mechanism characterizes the construction of all the

animal kingdom, but one can do little more than suggest the interest of

this most fascinating subject.

[Illustration: SHOWING PRINCIPLE OF VENTURI.

_Ex._—S V is the sub-clavian vein; J is the jugular vein; D is the

thoracic duct, through which the chyle is poured into the blood.]

THE TRADES AMONG ANIMALS.

An ancient saying declares that “Poets are born, not made,” and classic

story informs us that Minerva sprang full armed from the head of Jove.

Something like this natural perfection appears in the occupations of

the lower orders of creation. Man is a creature of education, absolutely

unlimited in point of time in the possibilities of his development.

Other animals, within their own limited scope often attain an excellence

superior to his. Note the scent of the greyhound, the hearing of the cat,

the sight of the eagle. As artisans they have few apprentices, though

it must be confessed that some are better workmen than others, and they

are not without “bosses.” Observe a few of their trades. The brant-goose

is a navigator, which may have already found the pole. The heron is a

fisherman, who carries his torch upon his breast. Swallows are excellent

masons; so are wasps and the caddis fly.

There is a spider that is a diver; he makes his own bell and fills it

with air. The bee is a geometrician that never studied Euclid. The

ant is a political economist, who, like Joseph, lays up supplies for

a time of want. There is a “tailor bird.” There are hosts of hunters

among the carnivora. The nautilus is a “little sailor,” and weavers are

innumerable. Beavers unite the trades of lumbermen and civil engineers.

There are carpenters and paper makers, indeed, time would fail in the

attempt to mention all the occupations pursued in this busy world of

animate creation. Yet over all these the Almighty has given man dominion.

They are but organisms impelled to their appointed tasks by unreasoning

instinct, but, as Sir William Hamilton has said: “_Man_ is not an

organism, but an _intelligence_ served by organs.”

[Illustration: A BIRD’S HEAD.

_Ex._—The mandibles form a pair of scissors. The tongue is a spear.]

NOTE.—Through the courtesy of Messrs. Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor

& Co., of New York, the cuts in this article are taken from two

of their excellent publications, Gray’s “Lessons and Manual of

Botany,” and Hitchcock’s “Anatomy and Physiology.”

SUNDAY READINGS.

SELECTED BY CHANCELLOR J. H. VINCENT, D.D.

[_June 7._]

Courtesy is, strictly speaking, a Christian grace.… It is the offspring

of charity; and since it derives its being from divine grace; since it is

made the subject of divine command; since it is especially calculated to

smooth those little asperities which sometimes hinder even “the living

stones of the temple” from being so perfectly joined and so fitly framed

together as they should be; since it powerfully tends, likewise, to

remove the prejudices and to allay the enmity so generally entertained

by the world toward the church; above all, since, in combination with

other causes it may contribute to win souls to God, we surely ought not

to deem it unsuitable, but to make it … the subject of our particular

and attentive consideration.… While some professed disciples of Christ

seem to have substituted in the place of genuine courtesy a conformity

to the manners and habits of ungodly men, which very ill consists with

that simplicity of character which should distinguish the remnant of true

Israelites, there are others who, through an honest disgust toward the

impertinent fopperies of the world, and an ill-directed fear of becoming

infected with the same spirit of guile and hypocrisies, have even run so

far into the opposite extreme of churlishness as to be culpably negligent

of the mere forms of civilized society.

The courtesy of the world is an imposing form.… But the courtesy of

a Christian is not a mere form. It is not the phantasm of a feeling

which has no real existence. It is the outward expression of an inward

disposition, the conduct which a benevolent mind will on all occasions

instinctively prescribe. It is the natural and unconstrained operation

of unfeigned love. Let us but love our neighbor as ourselves, and it

will be morally impossible to violate the laws of courtesy; for love

worketh no ill to his neighbor. It will teach us cautiously to avoid

whatever might unnecessarily wound his feelings; it will dispose us

assiduously to study his inclination, ease, and convenience; it will

make us anxious to interpret his very looks, that we may even anticipate

his requests; it will enable us cheerfully to make a sacrifice of our

own gratifications with a view to his. All this is perfectly easy; it is

even delightful where love exists without dissimulation; but let this

heavenly principle be wanting, take away from the _form_ of courtesy the

_power_, and it becomes an arduous and irksome task, a yoke grievous to

be borne.—_Summerfield._[1]

[_June 14._]

I would not slight this wondrous world. I love its day and night. Its

flowers and its fruits are dear to me. I would not willfully lose sight

of a departing cloud. Every year opens new beauty in a star; or in a

purple gentian fringed with loveliness. The laws, too, of matter seem

more wonderful the more I study them in the whirling eddies of the dust,

in the curious shells of former life buried by thousands in a grain

of chalk, or in the shining diagrams of light above my head. Even the

ugly becomes beautiful when truly seen. I see the jewel in the bunchy

toad. The more I live, the more I love this lovely world; feel more its

Author in each little thing; in all that is great. But yet I feel my

immortality the more. In childhood the consciousness of immortal life

buds forth feeble, though full of promise. In the man it unfolds its

fragrant petals, his most celestial flower, to mature its seed throughout

eternity. The prospect of that everlasting life, the perfect justice yet

to come, the infinite progress before us, cheer and comfort the heart.

Sad and dissatisfied, full of self-reproach, we shall not be so forever.

The light of heaven breaks upon the night of trial, sorrow, sin; the

somber clouds which overhung the east, grown purple now, tell us the

dawn of heaven is coming in. Our faces, gleamed on by that, smile in

the new-born glow; we are beguiled of our sadness before we are aware.

The certainty of this provokes us to patience, it forbids us to be

thoughtfully sorrowful. It calls us to be up and doing.…

There is small merit in being willing to die; it seems almost sinful in

a good man to wish it when the world needs him here so much. It is weak

and unmanly to be always looking and sighing voluptuously for that. But

it is of great value here and now to anticipate time and live to-day the

eternal life. That we may all do. The joys of heaven will begin as soon

as we attain the character of heaven and do its duties. That may begin

to-day. It is everlasting life to know God, to have His Spirit dwelling

in you, yourself at one with Him. Try that and prove its worth. Justice,

usefulness, wisdom, religion, love, are the best things we hope for in

heaven. Try them on—they will fit you here not less becomingly. They

are the best things of earth. Think no outlay of goodness and piety too

great. You will find your reward begin here. As much goodness and piety,

so much heaven. Men will not pay you—God will; pay you now, hereafter,

and forever.—_Theodore Parker._

[_June 21._]

Let us do all the business we can.… If we can’t be a lighthouse, let

us be a tallow candle. Some one said, “I can’t be anything more than a

farthing rushlight.” Well, if you can’t be more, be that; that is well

enough. Be all you can. What makes the Dead Sea dead? Because it is

all the time receiving, never giving out anything. You go every Sunday

and hear good sermons, and think that is enough. You are all the time

receiving these grand truths, but never give them out. When you hear it,

go and scatter the sacred truth abroad. Instead of having one minister

to preach to a thousand people, this thousand ought to take a sermon

and spread it till it reaches those that never go to church or chapel.

Instead of having a few, we ought to have thousands using the precious

talents that God has given them.…

If God has not given us but half a talent, let us make good use of that.

When God told the people to take their seats by fifties, he told Philip

to get food for them. “What,” says Philip, “feed them with this little

loaf? Why, there is not more than enough for the first man.” “Yes, go

and feed them with that.” Philip thought that was a very small amount

for such a multitude of hungry men. He broke off a piece for the first

man, and didn’t miss it; a piece for the second man, and didn’t miss it;

a piece for the third man, and didn’t miss it. He was making good use of

the loaf, and God kept increasing it. That is what the Lord wants to do

with us. He will give us just as many talents as we can take care of.

There are many of us that are willing to do great things for the

Lord; but few of us willing to do little things. The mighty sermon on

regeneration was preached to one man. There are many who are willing

to preach to thousands, but are not willing to take their seat beside

one soul, and lead that soul to the blessed Jesus. We must get down to

personal effort—this bringing one by one to the Son of God. We can find

no better example of this than in the life of Christ himself. Look at

that wonderful sermon that he preached to that lone woman at the well of

Samaria. He was tired and weary, but he had time and the heart to preach

to her. This is but one of many instances in the life of the Master from

which we may learn a precious lesson. If the Son of God had time to

preach to one soul, can not every one of us go and do the same?…

“I commend you”—and in this connection, I want to tell you how the God of

all grace has kept us. For nearly twenty-one years he has watched over

me. He has watched over me and stood by me in the hour of temptation and

trial; he has brought light to me out of darkness; and he will do the

same with you. In leaving you, young converts, I would like to leave

with you two Ws—the one is Work, and the other is the Word; or, rather,

the first is the Word, and the other is Work. Go out and work for him,

and you will become strong Christians. There are two lives that you

want to lead. The one is your inner life, that the world knows nothing

of, that the wife of your bosom knows nothing of. That life is between

yourself and God; and if you don’t lead this aright, the outer life will

not be long right. Let me say to you, young converts, read your Bibles

and you will be strong. If you don’t, you will fall; and the men who

are now scoffing at this movement will say: “I told you you would fall

back again; the meetings have been only an emotional excitement; only a

sensation.” I pray that God Almighty may keep you. Just have those two Ws

before you—the Word and Work—and make that your banner.—_D. L. Moody._

[_June 28._]

What language, “Father, forgive them!” and, in the words, what an act,

greater than the most splendid miracles with which he marked his radiant

path through the world.…

“Forgive them!” Is it possible? With these words … he covers the guilty

heads of his murderers with the shield of his love, in order to secure

them from the storm of the well deserved wrath of Almighty God. With

these words, which must have produced adoring astonishment, even in

the angels themselves, he takes these miscreants in the arms of his

compassion, and bears them up to the steps of his Father’s throne, in

order to commend them to his mercy. For know, my readers, that the words

“Forgive them,” mean, in Jesus’s mouth, not merely, “Do not impute to

them the murderous crime they have committed upon me.” No, when he utters

“Forgive,” it comprehends something much more, and embraces the whole

register of sins. In his mouth it means, “Plunge their whole sinful life

into the depths of the sea, and remember no more their transgressions,

but consider these sinners henceforth as dear in thy sight, and act

toward them as such.”

There are individuals on earth for whom no one feels inclined to pray,

because they are too depraved. There are those who even dare not pray

for themselves, because their consciences testify that such worthless

creatures as they are can not reckon upon being heard. What a prospect

is here opened to people of this description! Ah, if no heart beats for

them on earth, the heart of the King of kings may still feel for them.

If among their friends not one is to be found to intercede for them,

yet, possibly, the Lord of Glory is not ashamed of bearing their names

before his Father’s throne. O, what hope beams on Calvary for a sinful

world! And if the great Intercessor appears there for a transgressor,

how does his intercession succeed? Though a whole world should protest

against it, his prayer saves whom he will. His voice penetrates the

heart of the eternal Father with irresistible power. His entreaties are

commands. Mountains of sin vanish before his intercession. How highly

characteristic and deeply significant is the fact that the Lord, with

this prayer, commences the seven expressions he uttered on the cross. The

words, “Forgive them!” show us not merely the heaven of loving kindness

which he carries in his bosom, but it also darts like lightning through

the gloom of the entire night of suffering, and deciphers the mysterious

position which the Holy One of Israel here occupies as Surety, Mediator,

and High Priest.…

… And yet the prayer for forgiveness raises its wing from the mount

of suffering and passes apparently through all those eternal and

unimpingeable statutes and limitations. It puts aside even Mount Sinai

and Ebal, and heeds not the cherub of the law, who keeps the gate of

paradise, and is enjoined to admit only the righteous. Careless of his

flaming sword, it soars with seemingly unheard-of boldness above the

brazen walls of the manifold menaces of the divine maledictions which

inexorably close against sinners the entrance to the mansions above, and

in a most striking contrariety with the indelible inscription over the

eternal sanctuary, “Him that sinneth against me will I blot out of my

book,” requests forgiveness and even admittance into the habitations of

the blessed children of God, for rebels, blasphemers, and murderers.—_F.

W. Krumacher._[2]

THE HEART BUSY WITH THINGS ABOUT US.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

The eye may be trained so that it can detect the least flaw in a diamond;

the ear be so delicately attuned that the slightest variation in the

harmony will be perceptible, although there is no apparent attempt at

listening, and discord will have the same effect on the sensitive nerves,

as a blow on a fine strung instrument. The engineer can not see all the

working parts of his engine, so he is obliged to cultivate his ear until

each throb, plunge, and revolution is familiar to him, and the whole set

to a rhythmic movement, any change in which betokens disaster.

An eye quick to see, and an ear quick to hear may belong to a wide-awake,

successful business man; but in order to become a philanthropist, a wise,

energetic, live Christian, he must have a heart to feel. A father may see

that his children are poorly clad, may hear their cries of distress, but

if he has no heart to feel their needs, he will go off and leave them to

the care of charity, as so many fathers, and mothers too, have been known

to do.

This inclination to avoid cares, to shirk responsibilities, and to live

a purely selfish life, is the result of a defect in the cardiac region,

which might have been corrected in early youth.

The training of the heart begins at so early an age that it can not be

known with certainty just when the child is first acted upon by the

influences around it, and it is more easily misdirected than guided

aright.

An accomplished lady, of considerable literary fame, spent a great deal

of time in preparing a lecture on “Individual Sovereignty,” which was

to prove that children had rights that parents and guardians ought to

respect. The lecture was delivered but once, to a very small number of

people who, while full of admiration and respect for the lecturer, were

not in favor of putting her theories into practice, believing that a

monarchy such as she proposed would make the Land of Liberty a place that

grown people would want to get away from.

The great bond of brotherhood is sympathy. “Pity and need make all flesh

kin,” and “sympathy is especially a Christian’s duty.” But there is an

active sympathy and there is a passive sympathy; the one sits down and

broods over the calamities of life, wrings its hands, sheds tears, and

sighs over its own incapacity; while the other is up and doing all it can

to relieve the necessities of those perhaps less heavily burdened than

itself.

“It is not all of life to _live_,” nor all of life to _love_ either;

for some in their excessive fondness will allow those whom they might

control, to walk in evil ways and indulge in unlawful passions without

putting forth a restraining hand.

“I want John to have a good time,” says the indulgent mother. “I don’t

want Jennie to tire herself, or to soil her hands doing housework. What

else am I good for?” So John grows to be a selfish, disagreeable man,

and Jennie an ease-loving, self-satisfied woman, both with hearts

incapable of feeling any interest in anything that does not immediately

affect their physical comfort and well-being. Mothers, do not spoil your

children and destroy the foundations of character. Let them wait upon you

and do your errands; teach them to cultivate a self-sacrificing spirit,

to feel that it is no hardship to give up their own personal comfort in

order to secure the happiness of others. The sacrifices should not be all

on one side; and yet we have known mothers to give up their lives rather

than disappoint the children, who must have their wishes gratified at any

expense.

Exacting children should be made to wait upon themselves, and to practice

patience and self-denial; for the tyrannical spirit is fostered by unwise

timidity and forbearance, and many a passionate man and woman lives

to regret the lack of proper discipline in youth. But it lies within

ourselves to correct mistakes that may have been made in our training;

and it has been truthfully said, “Every person has two educations, one

which he receives from others, and one, more important, which he gives to

himself.”

It is astonishing how much may be accomplished by one who is energetic

and persevering, careful to avail himself of all opportunities, and to

use all the spare time at his disposal. Ancient and modern histories and

biographies are full of illustrations showing the benefits conferred upon

mankind by certain individuals whose hearts were busy with the things

about them. It is interesting to read this record of General Gordon—or

“Chinese Gordon,” as he is familiarly called—whose valiant deeds have won

him undying fame:

From 1865 to 1875 Gordon lived at Gravesend, employed in the duty of

improving the defenses of the Thames. These were his six years of quiet

peace and beneficent happiness. “He lived wholly for others,” writes

his friend. “His house was school and hospital and almshouse, in turn;

was more like the abode of a missionary than of a commanding officer of

engineers. The troubles of all interested him alike. The poor, the sick,

the unfortunate, were ever welcome, and never did suppliant knock vainly

at his door. He always took great delight in children, but especially in

boys employed on the river or the sea. Many he rescued from the gutter,

cleansed them and clothed them, and kept them for weeks in his house.

For their benefit he established reading-classes, over which he himself

presided, reading to and teaching the lads with as much ardor as if he

were leading them to victory. He called them his ‘kings,’ and for many of

them he got berths on board ships. One day a friend asked him why there

were so many pins stuck into the map of the world over his mantlepiece;

he was told that they marked and followed the course of the boys on their

voyages; that they were moved from point to point as his youngsters

advanced, and that he prayed for them as they went, night and day. The

light in which he was held by those lads was shown by inscriptions in

chalk on the fences. A favorite legend was ‘God bless the Kernel!’ So

full did his classes at length become that the house would no longer

hold them, and they had to be given up. Then it was that he attended and

taught at the Ragged Schools, and it was a pleasant thing to watch the

attention with which his wild scholars listened to his words.”

The workhouse and the infirmary, writes another, were his constant

haunts, and of pensioners he had a countless number. Many of the dying

sent for him in preference to the clergyman, and he was ever ready to

visit them. His purse was always empty because of his free-handedness,

and he even sent some of his medals to the melting-pot in the cause of

charity.

When another appointment removed him from Gravesend, there was universal

regret. The local newspaper paid him the following graceful and sincere

tribute: “By general and continual beneficence to the poor, he has been

so unwearied in well-doing that his departure will be felt by numbers

to be a personal calamity. His charity was essentially charity, and had

its root in deep philanthropic feeling and goodness of heart; shunning

the light of publicity, but coming even as the rain in the night-time,

that in the morning is noted not, but only the flowers bloom and give

a greater fragrance. All will wish him well in his new sphere, and we

have less hesitation in penning these lines from the fact that laudatory

notice will confer but little pleasure upon him who gave with the heart

and cared not for commendation.”

Military glory pales before this display of missionary zeal.

In order to achieve any success the heart must be in the work, and from

this center of our being all true Christian culture must begin. Every one

can make his own destiny, and

“Taught by time the heart has learned to glow

For others good, and melt at other’s woe.”

It is good to indulge the habit of looking out of ourselves, to study the

ways and needs of others, and to keep the heart busy with things about

us—the trifles, as they are considered, which are apt to be overlooked or

made light of. For there is great danger that the small philanthropies

and courtesies of life will be neglected because of the large schemes

that are so absorbing. This kind of outlook requires, of course, a

certain amount of _insight_, or intuition, without which we can not bring

ourselves into sympathetic relations, or prove ourselves the friend of

humanity.

Our home, the place where we spend the most of our time, should be the

field in which to exercise our best gifts, wherein we both sow and reap,

and which is left to us to brighten and beautify, or to darken and

disgrace. The heart renewed by grace is zealous of good works, fond of

home, and anxious to do its full duty therein. It has a word of cheer for

those who are cast down; it comforts the sick; speaks tenderly to those

in trouble; has patience with the erring; seeks out ways of interesting

the young; is mindful of the aged, and helpful to everybody.

“A heart at leisure from itself,

To soothe and sympathize,”

need never want for an opportunity; and it is often the small attentions,

the unconsidered trifles, that are most highly valued.

The heart that begins its labors in too wide a sphere will find it hard

to concentrate its interests, while a more gradual expansion will result

in more satisfactory work, and the strengthening of the magnetic current,

for on our personal magnetism depends, to a great extent, our influence

on those with whom we associate. What responsibilities rest upon fathers

and mothers, on sisters and brothers! How much good and how much evil

they can do in their special fields of operation! That son needs a little

wholesome correction from the father, a few kind words may be all that

is requisite, but the father is busy about other affairs, his heart is

interested in things outside of his family, and the boy slips downward

for want of a restraining hand. That girl would have turned out, oh! so

differently, if she had only had the right kind of a mother. Some boys

and girls are not fit to be left to themselves. They seem to be born

without any inward monitor, or strong moral sense. The germ may be there,

but it has never been properly cultivated.

At a school examination the question was put, “What is conscience?” But

one pupil could give the definition, “An inward monitor.”

“What is your idea of an inward monitor?” asked the inspector, and away

down at the lower end of the room a hand was stretched forth, and a voice

proclaimed, “It’s an iron-clad, sir!” So it is. Fortified to resist evil,

but to assist good; and a “tender conscience,” to keep up the nautical

figure, is the small convoy that supplies the soul with spiritual

sustenance.

A conscience alive to duty will serve as an electrical alarm to notify

us what is to be done and when and how we are to do it. If you have sick

neighbors, and can not conveniently call upon them yourself, send to

inquire how they are and in what way you can be of service. An offering

of fruit or flowers will often be most acceptable to invalids or their

families, who are cheered and sustained by the thought that other hearts

are sympathizing with them. Keep down your own sensitiveness, and learn

to make generous allowance for other people. Show that your zeal is not

of the offensive sort, that your politeness is deep and genuine, that

“out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and you will

always be on good terms with your neighbors, and with yourself.

There is a variety of ways of helping people, and no two people may be

helped in precisely the same way. The most deserving are the most modest,

and it may take considerable study and observation for you to discover

that Mrs. Needlewise, whose children always look so neat and well

dressed, would be thankful for the cast-off clothes which are taking up

the room in your garret, or which you give away recklessly just for the

sake of getting rid of them. Mrs. Needlewise would be offended at your

offering her the garments, but friendliness, and the exercise of a little

tact, will remove the barriers and enable you to relieve anxieties that

were a continual burden.

A dear, good woman whose heart was always open to the necessities of

those about her, was in her old age given to somewhat erratic impulses.

One morning, much to the mortification of her family, she seized the

coffee-pot and went into a near neighbor’s, a poor but proud little

woman, who would go without rather than beg. The old lady, in her sweet

way, said to the farmer’s wife that it was a pity to waste so much good

coffee, and she had brought it over for her to use. The gift was accepted

with a smile, and to please the old lady the coffee was used by the good

man of the house, who sent word that he had never tasted any quite so

delicious, and should be glad to be so favored again. It was the entering

wedge of neighborly kindness, and the beginning of better days for the

poor family whose fortunes at that period were at a low ebb. The right

kind of a lift at the right time will put human nature on its feet, and

reëstablish the foundations that were in danger of giving way.

O, the magnetizing power of love! beginning first with the love of

Christ, and then reaching out toward all our fellow-creatures! How

wide spreading, how far-reaching in its influences! Home missions,

foreign missions, small charities or large ones, incidental acts of

kindness, thoughtful consideration for the welfare of others, all that

a self-sacrificing spirit can do is done cheerfully and without hope of

reward.

A saintly young woman whose earthly pilgrimage ended at thirty-four, is

thus eulogized by the pastor of the church for which she labored lovingly

and assiduously: “She gave out so much to others that she has left

herself broken in fragments here and there, and you and I hold this or

that fragment so really that we are only hardly persuaded to acknowledge

that there is an end of her earthly life for a time. How simply, purely

and patiently that life was lived, you know.… Many and many a time have

I pointed to that life as an example of what people might do and might

be, if they would do as she did—be content ‘to live faithfully a hidden

life,’” Her mother says: “Her unselfish work and devotion were marvelous.

It is often said of her that she crowded more into her short life than is

done or experienced in the longest. She shone the brightest in her daily

life at home, always serving some one, forgetful of self. Her pure spirit

grew so fast that the frail body could not retain it; yet she faded so

slowly, so cheerfully and hopefully, that we hardly believed she could

not rally until the day before she left us. Our sunshine is gone, but the

radiance is still left in the memory of her sweet life.”

Blessed memory!

In this bright way she speaks of herself when laid aside from her sphere

of usefulness, and obliged to some extent to discontinue the literary

work which had proved so acceptable to the public and already given

her considerable fame as an author: “I’ve been occupied with turning a

corner, round which the landscape is different, and getting used to the

change. I suppose it has been coming on for a good while; at all events,

after some ten years of ruddy health and active exercise, I am not to

sweep any more for a while, not to walk, not to sing, read aloud, talk

much, not to hurry, not to get tired at anything.… Of course it is a

little queer and painful sometimes, because, particularly, my father is

always an invalid, and increasingly so. One dreads to be another anxiety.

But I have no real reason to fret. Something good will come of it, I will

expect. I am so thankful that I need not give up writing that I will not

mind the rest of my denials;” and then when her own health was declining,

and the sunset hour of her life was nearer than she thought, she closes

her letter with “Good night, dear. Health and God’s blessing!” and it was

a final “good night,” for word soon came of her entering into communion

with the saints above.

The more heart we put into our work, whether it be domestic drudgery,

the care of the sick, or “whatsoever the hand findeth to do,” the more

perfect and satisfactory it will be; and according to the measure with

which we serve others, is meted out to us the happiness we derive from

that service. The sending of a letter full of kindly thought and sympathy

has often brought a return far beyond the expectation of the sender. A

little gift, a token of good will, insignificant in itself, has spoken

volumes to the recipient, and brightened a day that was full of clouds.

To do no more than our duty does not fill the measure of Christian

usefulness. We would grieve if compelled to walk a narrow path, fenced

in on either side, and not allowed to look to the right or left, or to

pluck the fruits that lined the road; and God and his holy angels must

grieve when we neglect to turn out of our path to assist others, and make

excuses for the non-performance of heart service.

A young lady, very much interested in mission work, and an active worker

in a large school connected with a flourishing church, felt offended

at some of the officers of the school, and decided to send in her

resignation. Each Sunday she had been accustomed to place before the

children some text that they might carry with them through the week,

absorbing its teachings and principles so that they would be “wrought out

in living characters.”

All through the week her mind dwelt upon the injustice that she felt had

been done her, and she went to the mission school the following Sunday

fully determined to give up the work which had been her delight for so

many years. As she entered the room her gaze rested on the text which

stood out in bold lettering, as she had printed it the previous Sunday:

“Even Jesus pleased not himself.”

The arrow struck home. It would never do to have that text uppermost when

she handed in her resignation, so she reversed the roll, and there in as

bold type appeared:

“Jesus, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.”

There was no use trying to avoid the situation, or to escape the

responsibilities. The teacher’s work was there. She knew it; she felt it.

“To doubt would be disloyalty;

To falter would be sin;”

so she roused herself to greater endurance, put more heart into work, and

had the satisfaction of hearing it said that never since her connection

with the school had she given such a splendid lesson. The approval of her

own conscience was not the least of her compensations, and there is no

further talk of her giving up her position in the mission school.

We may be so situated that we can not do any great work in the world.

By temperament, by education, or by reason of ill-health we may be

restricted from carrying out our ambitious schemes, but there are none

so weak, so ignorant, or so poor that they can not do some good in the

world. The ladder that reaches to heaven is not composed of wooden rungs,

or of cold, senseless material, but God has made every human being so

dependent on his fellow-creatures that each one is lifted up by some one

above him, some busy heart that feels another’s need and reaches out;

and when there is no looking up nor reaching out there is no growth nor

spiritual attainment.

If you want to know people you must get near them; first go down to

their level, and then bring them up to yours, not waiting for any great

occasion, or a more direct revelation, but taking advantage of small

opportunities, and making your influence felt in quiet, unobtrusive ways.

“And when it is all over, and our feet will run no more, and our hands

are helpless, and we have scarcely strength to murmur a last prayer, then

we shall see that instead of needing a larger field we have left untilled

many corners of our single acre, and that none of it is fit for the

Master’s eye were it not for the softening shadow of the cross.”

“It was only a cup of water, with a gentle grace bestowed,

But it cheered a lonely traveler upon the dusty road;

For the way was long and dreary, and the resting places few,

And the sun had dried the streamlets and drank up the sparkling dew;

None noticed the cup of water as a beautiful act of love,

Save the angels keeping the record, away in that land above;

But the record shall never perish, and the trifling deed shall live,

For heaven demands but little from those who have least to give!

“It was only a kind word spoken to a weeping little child,

But the thread of its grief was broken, and the little one sweetly

smiled;

And nobody stayed to notice so tiny an act of love,

Save the angels keeping the record in the wonderful book above.

And she who had spoken kindly went on her quiet way,

Nor dreamt such a simple action should count at the last great day.

But the pitying words of comfort were heard with a song of joy,

And the listening angels blessed her from their beautiful home on high.

“It isn’t the world-praised wonders that are best in our Father’s sight,

Nor the wreaths of fading laurels that garnish fame’s dizzy height;

But the pitying love and kindness, the work of the warm caress,

The beautiful hope and patience and self-forgetfulness;

The trifle in secret given, the prayer in the quiet night,

And the little unnoticed nothings, are good in our Father’s sight.”

There is always some one to smile at, somebody to give your chair to,

somebody to whom a book, a flower, or even an old paper, will be a boon.

These small attentions will open the way to confidence, will make it

possible that in need these friends will give you opportunities to help

them which, unless you had shown thoughtfulness and regard for them, they

could never have done. A quiet, sympathetic look or smile many a time

unbars a heart that needs help which you can give.

EASY LESSONS IN ANIMAL BIOLOGY.