CHAPTER II._The Chautauquan, Vol. 05, December 1884, No. 3

Samuel Daniel, Spenser’s successor as laureate, is unknown to the general

reader, though by the reader of his time he was well considered, and

literary critics of every age have admired him. He has had no superior

in the correct, classic use of English. Lowell says that in two hundred

years not a dozen of his words or turns of phrase have become obsolete,

a thing that can not be said, probably, of any other English writer. He

failed not in rhythmic skill, or linguistic art, but in that element

which marks the literary genius’ power to speak to his neighbors in such

a way as to speak to all times and climes. Shakspere’s words are as

much at home in one nation or century as another. Bunyan had a similar

skill, so had Burns, but Daniel had it not. In comparing him with men of

permanent literary fame we see the superiority of processes to facts, of

methods to transient results.

Daniel’s lines are so exquisite that in every age the great poets have

not only been his admirers, but have made systematic effort to revivify

his lines. In the time of Hazlitt, he secured the coöperation of Lamb and

Coleridge, and the three combined their talent and friends to resurrect

his fame by placing beneath his poems their own genius and reputation,

but they could not call his verses from the oblivion in which they had

been decently interred.

This incident is a capital answer to the charge that great men, notably

literary men, depend upon circumstances for their fame. Nothing can

buoy up fame but the filling of the veins with a personality through

genius. At some stages circumstances aid, friends are serviceable, but

it is the inherent qualities that survive in the tempestuous waves of

public opinion and criticism. Daniel won the title of voluntary laureate

by serving from Spenser to Ben Jonson without stated financial reward,

though he was benefited financially and otherwise. Samuel Daniel was

born 1562, near Taunton. His father was a music teacher, and the son

studied at Oxford, but did not take his degree. He published poems at

twenty-three. He was tutor to Lady Anne Clifford, afterward Countess

of Pembroke, and became historian and poet under Earl of Pembroke’s

patronage. His admiration for the Italian verse influenced his original

stanzas, and led him to devote much time to translations. His most

extensive work was the poetic history of the civil wars between the

houses of Lancaster and York.

Ben Jonson, who succeeded Daniel, is a curiosity in literature.

Physically, mentally, morally, he was unquestionably the most unique

character among English “Men of Letters.” In build heavy and uncouth,

face broad and long, with square jaw and large cheeks, disfigured by

scurvy, with a “mountain bellie and ungracious gait.” He was the son of a

clergyman who died before he was born. His mother married shortly after

for her second husband a bricklayer, whom the child royally disliked.

The coarsely framed, energetic lad was, in the eyes of the step-father,

only fitted for manual labor, and consequently he was taken from school

as soon as he could handle a trowel, and placed at brick laying. In this

action two elements in the boy’s nature were overlooked; combativeness

and pride; and it was not long after this summary parental authority

assigned him menial employment that the impetuous lad unceremoniously

withdrew from home associations to parts unknown. The army was his

retreat, and he was not long in making a record for personal bravery by

meeting a man in single combat, at the age of seventeen, in the presence

of both armies, Spanish and English, killing his opponent single handed.

At the age of eighteen he retired from the army, and for a brief

period resumed his studies, from which he early retreated and sought a

livelihood with his pen at drama writing, and to assure their success

and increase his income he attempted to act them in the theater, but

pride and combativeness led to a violent quarrel with an associate actor,

and in the duel which followed he killed his opponent with the sword.

Arrest and imprisonment followed, and execution was inevitable but for

the gracious interference of a priest, whose interposition secured his

release before the sentence was passed upon him.

When at twenty years of age he came out of prison his hands were stained

with the blood of two fellow-beings; his first act was to secure himself

a wife, though he had not a penny in the world, and no visible means of

support. This apparently rash act was the wisest movement of his life,

as it necessitated a vigorous wrestling with poverty for four stern

years, which balanced his temper and disposition and intensified his

mental powers. During these years of galling poverty be produced under

its stimulus the greatest work of his life, “Every man in his Humor.” His

works all show learning of the highest order. Hume said that he had the

learning Shakspere lacked, but lacked his genius. But when and how did he

acquire it? Largely by unparalleled reading in these four years when his

poverty goaded him to acquire the skill to earn money with his pen.

He was a scathing critic, lashing play writers, actors and theater-goers

with unmerciful sarcasm in the prefaces of his plays, until he became the

best hated man in England, actors frequently denouncing him in unmeasured

censure before their audiences, which only goaded him to the public

declaration that he had no fear of “strumpet’s drugs or ruffian’s stab.”

When James VI. of Scotland ascended the throne as James I. of England,

there appeared a comedy styled, “Eastward Hoe,” written by Jonson’s most

intimate friends, Marston and Chapman. The work reflected sarcastically

upon certain Scotch traits, exasperating the newly crowned king so

greatly that he caused the joint authors to be thrown into prison, and it

was currently reported that they were to lose their noses and ears.

When Jonson, who was in high favor with the court and people, heard this

report he was exasperated, as he had written certain passages of the

book for them, and he promptly surrendered himself as a fellow-author,

and took his place defiantly in prison, which placed the king in a most

uncomfortable position, as he had neither the desire nor the courage to

mutilate the face of the most popular writer of the day. The three were

in consequence released, and Jonson gave a great feast in honor of the

event, at which his mother displayed a phial of violent poison, saying

that had he been mutilated she would first have drank from the deadly

phial and then have given him to drink. He was universally recognized

as one of the most jovial characters of the day, and spent much of his

time with literary companions at the “Mermaid Club,” a socio-literary

association of brilliant men, among whom were Shakspere, Beaumont, and

Fletcher.

When he was appointed laureate he was granted at first a hundred marks,

or about sixty-five pounds, which was soon advanced to a hundred pounds,

which with his literary income would have sufficed had he the gift

of using money wisely, which he had not, and as life advanced he was

continually annoyed from want of funds. Then it was that his sarcastic

habits of speech bore fruit. When young and vigorous he rejoiced in

his enemies, but as he aged his skill to make enemies increased, while

his youthful powers to ward off their thrusts was waning. The time

came, as it must always come to men in years, when he had nothing new

to say, no vitality for originating thought, or freshly stating truth,

and unfortunately he was forced to attempt to write for a living, and

writing poorly, his enemies attacked him savagely, setting his words

before the public in absurd relations, saddening the closing years of

life. Misfortunes never come singly, and his mental chagrin was augmented

by the humiliation of being a paralytic to such an extent that he could

not walk, and dropsy and scurvy intensified his suffering. His wife and

children had died and his only servant and companion was an uncomfortable

old woman. The king withdrew his royal patronage, and he lived at last

only by soliciting favors from his friends. In Westminster Abbey, where

his remains lie among the famous poets, is a plain, square block of

stone, marking the resting place of this erratic youth, brilliant man,

suffering and neglected senior, with this inscription:

“O RARE BEN JONSON.”

No poet laureate adorned the royal household for a quarter of a

century. Some time before the death of Jonson, Charles I. had fallen on

troublesome times. The poetry of life in court circles was gone, and even

the prose was shorn of its beauty.

It is a strange chapter that recounts the way in which the Romish church,

as well as the English, lost all power in the nation; the way in which

the Presbyterian church, so long an outlaw, came into power with all the

vigor of youth, and almost instantly went out of power in a panic; the

way the ever-to-be-feared Independent, who never knows law or reason,

came to haunt the dreams of the nobility.

The king was weak, timid, vacillating; the nobility came to be of no

account to anybody; the House of Commons that prided itself on being

radical, suddenly found itself so conservative as to be frightened even

from its parliamentary place of rendezvous, and became an insignificant

factor in the government. What a day was that in which neither the

Romish, English, or Presbyterian church was of sufficient account to be

consulted, when the king was a cipher, the nobility a minus quantity, the

House of Commons an unknown factor, and two men, Hampden and Cromwell,

rallied fifty Independents, constituted themselves a law unto themselves,

organizing what has been known in history as the Rump Parliament, and

beheaded Charles I.

In Jonson’s day the king saw the drift of affairs, felt the throne

trembling beneath him, and had neither the funds to continue Jonson’s

pension, nor was he in the sentimental mood to appoint a successor upon

his death. It would have been cruel mockery indeed for any poet to rhyme

his praise.

The ten years in which Cromwell rode rough shod over every established

order of things did not develop a spirit that called for poetry. Life was

too hazardous to incline any to sing in joyous strain. But when he died

and no Independent rose to fill his place, Charles II. was called to the

throne, and the House Of Stuart once more held the reins of government

securely, and the citizens called for a knightly laureate.

Sir William Davenant assumed the position of versifier for the king. He

was the son of a wealthy vinter who kept the Crown Inn at Oxford, where

Shakspere always stopped, who, by the way, was such an ardent admirer of

Mrs. D’Avenaunt that her son bore his name, and it was the quiet boast of

Sir William that he was the natural son of the great dramatist.

He was early attached to the household of the gorgeous Duchess of

Richmond as a page, and later attached himself to the retinue of Lord

Brooke, until that nobleman was murdered, which affliction threw Davenant

upon his own resources, which induced him to try his hand at versifying,

but without success until one of those periodic freaks of Ben Jonson led

the great poet to quarrel with the court architect, who in the emergency

discovered Davenant and gave him the opportunity to secure the position

on limited literary capital.

There was that in his nature which made him an active partisan, and

during the Long Parliament he was imprisoned for scheming to seduce

the army and overthrow the Commons. He escaped, was captured and

reimprisoned, escaped the second time and fled to France, where he joined

the exile queen and served the cause of royalty by smuggling military

stores into England, and for personal bravery in the army of the Earl of

Newcastle, who espoused the queen’s cause, he was knighted. After the

fatal battle of Naseby he returned to France and assumed the management

of the colonization society and sailed for Virginia, but his vessel was

captured by a parliamentary man-of-war and he imprisoned on the Isle of

Wight, and afterward sent to the Tower on the charge of high treason.

The timely interference of his old poet friend, Milton, who had espoused

the Puritan cause, alone prevented his being beheaded. This successful

importunity of an old friend was in many ways most gratifying to

Davenant, who, a few years later, when Charles II. was called to assume

the reins of government and executed vengeance on all old time enemies,

dooming Milton to sudden execution, was privileged to reciprocate the

favor, and by timely intercession, recounting the service the poet had

been to him, saved Milton from the fatal consequences of his political

affiliations.

After Milton secured Davenant’s release from imprisonment the humbled

courtier endeavored to win an honorable living as a poet, but in vain. He

could only write dramas, but the Puritans had closed the theaters with a

rigor that knew no exception. It was in this emergency that the knight

whose experiences had been so varied did the one bright thing of his

life: he succeeded in writing inoffensive plays, and having them acted by

calling them _operas_, thus pacifying the ruling public, at the same time

giving the world a new name for a diluted drama.

Charles II. when in power rewarded the faithfulness and loyalty of

Davenant by crowning him laureate. It has been truthfully but cruelly

said that there is not a more hopelessly faded laurel on the slopes of

the English Parnassus than that which once flourished around Davenant’s

grotesque head. Of the brighter man who followed him another chapter must

account.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE SPELL OF THE HALCYON.

BY MARY N. EVANS.

In the midst of drear December,

With a strange and magic art,

Comes a gentle, mystic presence,

Melting stern old Winter’s heart;

Then the sullen sky, whose frowning

Chilled our hearts for weeks before,

Sudden smiles—and lo, above us,

Heaven’s bending blue once more!

Then the sunshine softly falleth,

Flooding earth with golden rays,

And the bleak fields stand transfigured

Through the brief, bright, “halcyon days;”

While the storm-scourged, wrathful billows,

Surging home with angry roar,

Stretch, a shining sea of silver,

Toward an unseen, sunny shore.

Do you ask me whence the magic,

Thus transforming Nature’s face?

Listen to the quaint old legend

Grecia wove with matchless grace;—

How true-hearted Alcyone

Plunged despairing, ’neath the wave,

Her loved husband, Ceyx, joining,

In his lonely ocean grave.

Father Neptune, late relenting,

When he saw their deathless love,

Changed them both to tiny birdies,

Skimming light, his waves above;

Then he bade them on his bosom

Build in peace their glad home-nest,

Hushing every wild storm-spirit,

For that season into rest.

Naught can harm the tiny nestlings—

Naught disturb the parents small,

For the spell of love undying

Softly broodeth over all!

Thus the heart of old December,

Throbbing fierce with rage malign,

Groweth warm, and sweet, and tender,

’Neath a sense of love divine.

So the home-love of the birdies

Reacheth far beyond their ken,

Crowning all the earth with blessing—

Bringing peace to weary men;

Even so from happy hearth-fires,

From each heart where love is king,

Goeth forth an influence holy,

Earth’s millennial dawn to bring!

Then all hail to Love immortal,

Hail! thou blessed heaven-born Dove!

Brood o’er all life’s troubled waters,

Till the earth is filled with love;

Comfort every grief-bowed mourner—

Bid all wars and tumults cease,

Till the world with glad hosannas,

Usher in the Prince of Peace!

CHRISTMAS DANGERS AND CHRISTMAS HINTS.

BY HELEN CAMPBELL.

Not that involved in the old saying, “A green Yule makes a fat

churchyard,” nor even a hint at what Christmas cramming for both children

and their elders may include. The physical results of either case are but

a small portion of the evil that year by year has grown, so silently, so

unsuspected, that to name evil in connection with the day seems both a

misnomer and an outrage.

Is it climate or temperament, or simple inherited tendency that makes a

golden mean impossible to the average American? A combination probably,

combinations being the one thing to be taken for granted in any analysis

of causes in man or nature. Life for Americans began in a reaction. Form

and ceremony had hampered thought and hindered growth, and the earnest

Puritan swept both aside once for all. A comfortable certainty was his

that the question had but one side. His doxy was the only orthodoxy, and

his doxy rejected Christmas as popish and owning the mark of the scarlet

woman. We all know the joylessness, the somberness of those early days,

in which human struggle was the only aim; never human delight or human

pleasure in anything God had made. And we know as well, beyond any need

of outline here, the sharp reaction from such numbing relief, and the

conviction coming more and more surely to the surface, that enjoyment is

as much our destiny as struggle, and that strength for the one comes in

full acceptance of all legitimate forms of the other. But when enjoyment

becomes a struggle, and we find distracted men and exhausted women

crying as the holidays end, “Thank fortune Christmas is over with!” it

seems high time to inquire why the friend whose entrance was hailed with

acclamation suddenly appears in the character of the old man of the sea.

Is it that this is true, or that we have made him such by our own

election, refusing him his rightful place, and forcing him ourselves to

the shoulders that need have borne no such burden? We stagger under the

responsibilities of this time that should mean only the purest pleasure.

We grow feverish and anxious in paying a debt when free will offering

alone has any part in the real Christmas. Children count their presents

and are sad or sulky if tree or stocking hold one less than those of the

child across the way. Boys and girls value the gift for the money it

cost, and have learned such valuation from fathers and mothers who have

discussed their own gifts from this standpoint. The spirit of bargaining

possesses all; to get the most for the least outlay; to make the sum

expended bring the utmost possible show. The counters are piled with

flaunting bric-a-brac—cheap imitation of articles beyond the purse of

the average buyer, and the woman whose supply of dish-towels is renewed

from old sheets and who has not dared to buy book or photograph for a

year, gives and receives some senseless plaque or staring vase, and might

even resent a dozen dish-towels as quite out of harmony with the spirit

of Christmas. The children share the same feeling, and if they make

anything with their own hands, seek something so flimsy and useless, that

as quickly as may be it is quietly tucked out of sight. And even where

common sense has larger play, the amount of what must be done has gained

such proportions that feverish hurry fills the days of preparation, and

utter exhaustion the days that follow.

“I don’t think much of Christmas,” a small and cynical boy remarked not

long ago. “It’s just a regular grab game, that’s what it is. I know

fellows that join three or four Sunday-schools just for what they’ll get

on the tree; and I know one fellow that hired other fellows, because you

see, he couldn’t be everywhere at once, and when his name was called off

they just went up and got his things for him. What do you think of that?”

“I think it’s pretty bad, but that isn’t the sort of Christmas you have

at home, Horace?”

“Yes, it is. Ours is just the same, only not so many of us. Gussie is

mad if I don’t spend a lot, and says I’m mean, and mamma says so too if

papa’s present doesn’t suit her. I’m sick of it. Why didn’t you give me

anything last Christmas? You always did before.”

The answer would make an article of itself, for as I listened my soul

burned within me, and when the child ended, with his calculating little

face turned up to mine, I spake with my tongue, and in the end brought

a new look into the grave, blue eyes. To him as to too many of us, it

had come to be the gift and not the giver, the symbol, and not the fact

behind it. This is a one-sided presentation you will say, an arraignment

undeserved by many; and even if deserved, the saying which does duty in

so many directions, once more comes up: “What are you going to do about

it?”

What we must all do, if the day is not to be permanently despoiled

of all real significance and beauty, is at once to settle absolutely

into simpler lines. The same passive acceptance of custom, that has

doubled our work in all home directions and made the multiplication of

labor-saving machinery merely a reason for an always increasing ratio of

labor, operates here also. A sensible writer in the _Christian Union_

not long ago remarked that in the days of our grandmothers it was ten

children to one ruffle, whereas now it was ten ruffles to one child.

So it has been with gifts, and the child of the last generation who

rejoiced in two or three, considers the child of this defrauded with

less than a dozen. Cheap toys, soon destroyed; cheap books, cleaving

from their binding in a week; cheap candy, fair to see but slow poison

to the eater—fill the stockings and crowd the tree, when the same money

would have secured one well-made, perfect gift, worth the keeping for a

lifetime. Art in its new adaptations is beginning to teach us the value

of honest work, yet with an education which has known flimsiness and

tawdriness as the chief characteristic of a child’s possessions, how hard

is the transition to simplicity and strength. That we have made such

strides away from old conditions is only another proof of the enormous

recuperative power, part of the birthright of every American, who, born,

it may be, in a log cabin, ends his days as an authorized and accepted

art critic. It is safe then to believe that the mass of common sense

people need only to consider the bearings of the Christmas craze in its

present workings to decide that a change must come, and to take active

measures toward such change.

Necessarily, only women can bring about such change, for it is on them

that the chief burden of Christmas work has fallen and will continue

to fall. For each woman there must be a pause and a well-considered

determination as to both amount and degree of effort and expenditure.

Where there is little money personal effort is the only substitute.

The numberless fashion magazines are filled at this season with hints for

Christmas gifts, some practical and helpful, but more quite useless to

limited purses. A few suggestions as to home-made gifts are given here,

the reader’s own fancy and memory being trusted to fill out the list,

which must necessarily be a limited one.

A most useful present is a sofa pillow, covered with one of those large,

bright silk handkerchiefs which are found in gentlemen’s furnishing

stores. It may be of cardinal, old gold, blue or olive green, to match

the furniture, and must have a darker border. If the corners are plain, a

figure of a dog’s head, an owl, or a spray may be outlined in one, with

silk of some contrasting hue. Stretch the handkerchief smoothly over

the silesia-covered pillow made of a suitable size, turn the ornamented

corner back and fasten around its edge, and fit a piece of black velvet

neatly in its place. The edge is finished with a silk cord of the same

color, and a bow to match is placed on the velvet. The whole can be made

in a day, and is both effective and inexpensive. Pine needles or hops

may be used for filling the pillow, which may thus be more welcome to an

invalid friend.

In place of the handkerchief, some tastes might prefer the crazy

patch-work now so much in vogue. If so, the pieces must be very small,

and most of them of vivid colors. They will bear any amount of embroidery

in quaint designs; flowers, fans and oddities, all on a small scale.

Seams are joined with feather-stitching in shaded silk.

As a companion-piece, a head rest goes very nicely. A strip of wool in

any desired color may be crocheted in the Afghan stitch, and then dotted

irregularly with the conventional palm-leaf, in shaded silk, worked in

cross-stitch. If made of linen, the word “Rest” may be outlined in fancy

letters—first traced with a pencil—in crewel. A poppy with its leaves

falling apart, in place of a period after the word, is suggestive and

pretty.

For a literary friend, or to stand by papa’s desk, a waste paper basket

may be made in a variety of ways. A lard pail of large size may be

covered with plush and lined with silk over pasteboard, fitted separately

to the sides and to the circular bottom. If of olive tint, conceal the

joining at the top by narrow gilt lace, old gold cord or ribbon ruching,

often decorating one side with a spray of large crimson and buff roses,

hollyhock blossoms, daisies or sunflowers. These may be procured in

appliqué at any fancy store for from a half dollar to three times that

sum. It is much preferable, of course, to embroider any fanciful pattern,

or to paint a running vine, beginning near the bottom and ending at the

top after having encircled the pail. Allowance in decoration must be

made for two hoops of old gold satin ribbon, one and a half inches wide,

tied in snug bows. Sunflowers are sometimes made with dark brown French

knots of silk for the center, and petals of narrow yellow ribbon of

several shades. These, cut a proper length, are turned in and fastened

with invisible stitches to the plush, making an excellent similitude of

this showy flower. These blossoms admit of great skill in arranging and

grouping.

The new-fashioned paper water pails are also used as waste paper baskets,

and are desirable on account of their lightness and durability. Even a

novice can decorate them most effectively. Paint entire surface with dark

shaded yellows and browns, or pink deepening to crimson, and when dry

trace on this background a conventional trailing vine and a few loose

flowers, or red Christmas berries like the holly. They may be copied from

any pattern which strikes the fancy, color being desired rather than

minuteness of finish. The handle, if not removed, must be wound with

ribbon.

Presents of catch-alls or receptacles for the sewing room can be

similarly fashioned. A new way is as follows: Take a crimson or

parti-colored Japanese fan, remove the rivet holding the sticks together

and run a stout cord in its place; the fan is then to be fastened over

a pasteboard funnel of just the right size and lined with solid colored

paper of some pleasing tint. Ribbon to match, an inch wide, must be

woven in and out the sticks close enough to cover the pasteboard, and

just above the bottom, in front, secure a drooping bow of two-inch satin

ribbon. A few dried oats and grass stitched into the bow, making a tiny

bouquet, take off the stiffness of the ornament.

Another receptacle for letters or manuscripts can be made from a couple

of plain palm-leaf fans. Cut off the handles even with the edge of the

fan and cover one side of each with silk, fastened to the top and sides,

and pleated or gathered at the handle. They are lined with silesia, and

sewed together at the tips. The tops—where the handles were—are flared

apart for a distance of six or eight inches, and then are to be joined

two-thirds of the way from the bottom by bright-hued taffeta ribbons,

narrow enough to cross easily in small diamonds. Finish with a cockade

of the same ribbon where the silk is pleated at the handles. Or the

ribbon may be quilled in a V-shaped way down the middle far enough to

give the receptacle a heart-shape. A smaller heart of velvet, crossed

with a straw-colored arrow in embroidery silk, is a pretty finish for

the left-hand corner, with a spray crossing diagonally behind and above.

This may be varied by having a diagonal piece of velvet cross the front,

or a band of the same near one side, on which is painted, embroidered or

appliquéd any favorite design. The colors and arrangement admit of the

greatest latitude, and challenge the fancy of the worker.

But this is not the beginning of what may be made of fans, for fanciful

or useful presents. Here is a pretty design for a wall pocket: Attach

one, nearly open, to a piece of pasteboard not quite its size; from

another remove the rivet, insert a cord in its place and tie tightly.

Line with paper and thin silk outside of that, and fasten the edges by

invisible stitches to that attached to the pasteboard, allowing it to

curve outwardly sufficiently to answer the purposes of a receptacle.

Finish with a bow.

A series of a dozen bright paper covered bamboo fans, arranged to overlap

each other, light up the dark corner of a room on Christmas day, with a

play of color of which the eye never tires. These, or the ribbed fans,

may be arranged with their handles grouped together and fans diverging

from the corner of the ceiling on the sides and top, making an ornament

both brilliant and unique. In the same manner they may be employed about

the center-piece of a plain ceiling, or in devices on the side walls from

which to hang Christmas banners, wreaths or mottoes. On a long side wall

small fans may be so grouped as to simulate an eagle, from the talons of

which depends a favorite motto.

In dressing a room for Christmas it is important to have all the

accessories bright and harmonious. If all the decorations are Japanese,

there are a thousand ways of using paper mats, screens and pictures

which will suggest themselves with a little experimenting, and these

are now everywhere easy to obtain. The entire ceiling may be bordered

with a frieze made from a couple of Japanese picture books, which are

merely folded pictures several yards in length, when outstretched like a

panorama. A dollar’s worth of books will thus impart a brilliancy which

nothing else emulates, while the pendant Christmas greens seem the richer

by contrast. A few large Chinese lanterns hung from the ceiling, wreathed

with simple vines, like princess pine, about the bottom, in addition,

will convert the plainest room into a kind of bower, peculiarly fitting

it for the festivities of the season. The uttermost parts of the earth

must yield up a tithe of all their glory, to aid in illuminating the

natal day of the Prince of Peace.

For all parts of the dwelling, a thousand dainty devices are easily made,

suitable for presentation on that day. For the dressing bureau, butcher’s

cuffs of plaited grass are coarsely embroidered in crewel, with design of

rushes, grass, daisies or poppies, springing from the bottom, which is

filled in with a circular piece of pasteboard covered with linen. Line

with crimson cloth. Scent bottles may be covered with painted ribbon

bags, or merely tied with satin ribbon, the ends of which have each the

favorite flower of the recipient, or a flower on one and an initial on

the other.

For the whisk-brush at the side of the bureau make a tight, straight

cover of crash or linen, embroidered or painted, edged with scallops

bound with silk. This is drawn close about the handle and tied with

a narrow ribbon at the top, and is long enough to come within two

inches of the tip. Such a cover will prove far more acceptable than the

brush-holder which has been so much used.

For splashers take fine, stiff linen, fitted to the space above the

washstand, and hemmed at the ends and sides. Trace lightly with a lead

pencil, lengthwise, any suitable pattern. It may be made of irregular,

horizontal lines, for water, on which are outlined a duck floating

or diving; large water lilies with their graceful leaves and rushes

at the edge. Then dissolve India ink in a shallow dish of water, and

with a new steel pen go over the outline carefully, repeating where

the shade deepens till it is sufficiently heavy. The etching may be

made very handsome and striking with a little care; or, a conventional

morning-glory vine may obliquely cross the splasher. It is fastened to

the wall with minute tacks and a bow at the left-hand upper corner.

Do we wish a table-scarf for a friend? It can be made of felt, of one

of the many shades of olive, on which decorations are so well brought

out. Line with silesia, and border the ends with a broad band of plush.

Finish with outline stitch of contrasting colors, or with transfer-work

of fine cretonne or appliqué flowers, made of machine embroidery, to

which reference has been made. It is not generally known that felt may

be hand-painted in oil with a stiff brush, by the merest novice. Have a

large figured embroidery pattern stamped on the felt to give a strong

outline. Mix the colors thick and put on with a bold touch. Large flowers

or fruit, like blackberries, are showy and effective here and resemble

the softest crewel-work at a little distance.

If the square covers are preferred, those hiding the entire table, they

are fringed by simply cutting the edges in strips a quarter of an inch

wide and six inches deep. Another fringe made precisely the same way, of

old gold felt with a narrow heading, is merely tacked under the first,

when the hue is olive or wine color. Canton flannel table spreads can be

finished and decorated in a similar manner.

Mantel and window lambrequins are made according to the same general

plan, of felt, canton flannel, plush, or linen. If the latter, they are

embroidered with long stitches in patterns of grass or sedge, daisies or

crimson berries, or painted in trailing figures of wild roses.

For a gentleman an umbrella case is always an acceptable present.

From a yard of strong, twilled linen, measure a lengthwise strip ten

inches wide at the top; taper it on each side to six inches wide at

the bottom. On this strip fit another piece of the same linen, shorter

and fuller, to give room for two umbrellas. About the right size will

make it three-quarters of a yard long, fourteen inches wide at the top,

and eight inches at the bottom. Crease the latter lengthwise down the

middle; on one side of this crease, outline in black silk the shape of a

closed umbrella, ribs, handle and folds, and on the other a smaller sun

umbrella. On the upper section of the foundation copy in the same manner

figures taken from the Greenaway books. A pleasing device is a couple

of children, merrily trudging along in the rain, each under an open

umbrella. Then stitch the center of the embroidered strip to the center

of the foundation, after laying two pleats in the tip of the shorter and

wider strip, so as to make them of the same width. Run the sides and

bottoms together, after lining the foundation, and bind the whole with

black braid. Attach two strong loops to the top to suspend from hooks.

For the little ones naught can come amiss. Stockings of coarse white

lace, with slipper tips of blue or pink, and a dainty knot of ribbon in

front; all sorts of fancy ornaments made of stiff paper and covered with

gold and silver paper; cornucopias, boxes and toys without end—their

variety and name are legion. A pretty bon-bon receptacle is made in this

way: Take a square of silk measuring from eighteen to twenty-seven

inches, of any color desired—a bright handkerchief will do—and mark

within it a perfect circle small enough to be three inches from the

middle of the sides. Make a shirr at this mark, in which draw two ribbons

in such a manner as to pull together like a work-bag. Trim the edge with

black or white lace, and you have a beautiful bag, after the bon-bons are

gone. If you choose to give a unique finish it is easily done. Soak your

own photograph in water long enough to remove the picture from the back;

dry carefully, and gum to one corner.

So much for gifts and home decorations, the list of which might be

indefinitely extended. The Christmas dinner is always a matter of

study—to the young housekeeper sometimes despair. Let it be remembered

that on that day everyone from the children to the grandmother has

nibbled at candies and nuts, and all tempting Christmas sweets, and that,

even if the richest of mince pies and plum puddings seem none too good

for the occasion, a simpler dessert of delicate blanc-manges or jellies

will leave the eater a clearer head than the heavier mixtures. Two menus

are given, one under protest and elaborate enough for the most persistent

believer in many courses; the other far simpler, and quite possible for

even the young housekeeper, who is ambitious to show what she can do.

So many admirable cook-books are now before the public that it seems

invidious to mention any special one. But the writer, who some years ago

had occasion to examine carefully one hundred and forty-three, finds that

where many have done excellently, one recent one embodies most perfectly

their best features. It is the Boston Cooking School and its director,

Mrs. Lincoln, to whom we owe this most admirably planned book, in which

every receipt has been personally tested. Mrs. Ewing may be depended upon

also as an authority, and there is a compact little manual known as “The

Easiest Way in Housekeeping and Cooking,” which has brought to its author

scores of letters from the housekeepers who have found it a friend. In

any of these books accurate rules will be found for the dishes given in

both menus.

Oysters on Half-shell.

Amber Soup.

Roast Turkey, Made Gravy.

Boiled Tongue, Sauce Piquante.

Sweet Potatoes; White Potato Mashed.

Macaroni, with Cheese.

Cranberry Sauce.

Celery Salad and Wafers.

Mince Pie, Plum Pudding, with Cream Sauce, Lemon Jelly,

Fruit, Nuts, Raisins, Ices, Black Coffee.

II.

Oyster Soup.

Roast Turkey, Made Gravy.

Mashed Potato; Sweet Potato; Squash.

Macaroni, with Cheese.

Cranberry Sauce; Celery.

Plum Pudding, Cream Sauce.

Fruit, Nuts and Raisins.

Black Coffee.

For a family where the mistress must do all with her own hands, omit the

soup and at least one vegetable in the second menu. It would be wisdom

also to substitute for the rich pudding a mould of blanc-mange or lemon

jelly, but these are matters of personal decision.

The home dinner decided upon, every woman will remember the poorer

homes where festivity can never be possible, save as the means for it

come from others. It is easy to find ways of adding some unaccustomed

luxury—a little fruit, some nuts and raisins, or perhaps even the turkey

itself to the table of some hard-working, self-respecting head of a

family, who finds the dollars always too few, yet asks favors of no man.

Often a little coöperation would secure a good Christmas dinner to many

who alone would be unable to buy it. By settling upon how much can be

spent, and giving the sum to some authorized buyer, wholesale prices

may often be had. To accomplish this for half a dozen poor families in

a given neighborhood, would often be truer charity than any giving, and

pave the way to coöperation in other ways. On no other day of the three

hundred and sixty-five can we answer as readily the question, “Who is

my neighbor?” as on this one sacred to love, both human and divine,

and demanding love as its highest expression. There may be no time for

any elaborate church service, to which a morning must be given, but

evening if not morning should hold some assembling together, and in

a neighborhood where many poor, or workers in factories or mills are

to be found, a simple entertainment—play, charade, light concert, or

stereopticon might well have its opening word, thoughtful and tender, of

the Christ-child; his love for every weary and toiling child of earth,

and his joy in their joy. Where there is no such population there is no

less need of a general as well as a special assembling. In short, by

judicious planning, it will be possible not only to cover all necessary

ground of home pleasure in the day, but to make part also of such evening

entertainment as may seem good. A church dinner has been given, made up

of prepared food sent in by various members, all that remained being

taken home by the eaters. Each year has had its suggestions for Christmas

pleasure for the poor always with us, and at such a season denominational

differences slip out of sight, and counsel can satisfactorily be taken

together by the working members of all churches. Union festivals have

already proved successful, and may be perfected still more in detail,

the warmth of this joint action for a common good lasting long beyond

the day of its accomplishment. If the day has its dangers it holds also

its delights, and may be more and more the occasion for the sweetest and

tenderest thought and labor that we have to give—a never-failing spring

of pleasure to every soul who knows its real meaning and works toward a

fulfillment of that meaning.

DO ANIMALS FEIGN DEATH?

BY M. ROMANES.

Translated for THE CHAUTAUQUAN from the _Révue Scientifique_.

It is a well known fact that animals belonging to different orders

and even to different classes, manifest, when they are in danger, the

instinct of feigning death. As it is evidently impossible to attribute

this to any idea of death, and a conscious simulation of it on the

part of the animals, the subject acquires importance, and merits our

consideration. I will cite briefly some facts I have been able to gather,

and will then attempt some explanation.

The most familiar examples of the instinct in question are furnished by

various sorts of insects and spiders, many of which will allow themselves

to be torn limb from limb, or to be burned until death follows, without

making the least movement. “Among fishes the captured sturgeon often

remains motionless and passive in the net, while the perch seems to be

dead and floats upon its back.” Wrangle tells us that the wild geese of

Liberia, if they are disturbed during their moulting season, when they

are unable to fly, will stretch themselves out upon the ground and appear

lifeless, thus deceiving the hunter. According to Couch, the same thing

occurs among crakes, larks, and other birds. Of mammals the same author

says: “The opossum of North America is so celebrated for its pretense of

death that its name has passed into proverb for expressing this kind of

deception,” He also gives examples of the same fact noticed among mice,

squirrels, and weasels, while those told of wolves and foxes are so

numerous that I think no one can reasonably doubt their truth. Captain

Lyon, in the narration of his expedition to the North Pole, says that a

wolf was one day caught in a trap, and, supposing it to be dead, they

dragged it on board. After awhile, as it lay stretched out on deck, some

one noticed that it moved its eyes every time any object passed near it.

They thought best then to take some precautions; its limbs were bound,

and they put it in such a position as to leave its head without support.

To their great surprise it soon made a vigorous bound toward those

who were near by, and then tried to reach back and bite off the rope

which held it. There are many examples on record of foxes assuming the

appearance of death. Mr. Blyth says: “A fox was once known, when it was

surprised in a poultry yard, to lie as if dead; it let them drag it out

by the tail and cast it upon a compost heap; but, that done, it sprang to

its feet and sped away with all possible haste.”

This high degree of simulation and dissimulation has been attributed to

the sagacity of the animals, which, when they do not see any better

means of escape, leads them to seem to be incapable of defending

themselves, or fleeing, until they have disarmed all suspicions, and thus

caused all hostile efforts toward them to cease.

According to Jesse, even serpents will feign death and remain motionless

as long as any one is watching them, but when they think their enemies

have withdrawn and all danger is passed, they will make a rapid escape.

The author of a “Natural History of Birds” relates that at one time a

crake was brought by a dog to his master. The gentleman turned it over

with his foot as it lay upon the ground, and convinced himself that it

was dead. After a time, however, he saw it open one eye; he picked it

up, but again it had all the appearance of a dead bird. He put it in

his pocket, and after a few minutes he felt it flutter. He examined it

a third time, but discovered no signs of life. He then placed it on the

ground and withdrew to a little distance in order to watch it. At the end

of about five minutes the bird raised its head with precaution, looked

around, and then took itself off in the liveliest manner imaginable.

Bingley says: “This strategem, as it appears, is employed by the common

crab, which, when it apprehends danger, remains motionless, waiting an

opportunity to bury itself in the sand.”

The subject claims serious attention, because, on one side, as has been

said above, it is evident that the conscious simulation of death implies

the possession of a faculty more elevated than any that we know belonging

even to the most intelligent animals; on the other side, it is not easy

to explain these facts on any other basis. Couch offers the following:

“A very reasonable explanation is, that the suddenness of the encounter

with man in an unexpected moment, results in its stupefaction, or throws

the animal into such a state that it can not make an effort to flee.

The appearance of death is not a ruse with it; it is the consequence of

its terror. It is said, if a wolf falls into a ditch the surprise is so

great, and deprives him of his powers to such an extent that a man can

descend to his side without fear. Also, whenever a wolf loses its way

in a strange country, it loses, beside, much of its courage, and can be

attacked with impunity.”

It is not easy to find a weasel asleep, or not thoroughly on its guard,

but what seems least likely of all is that a weasel would allow itself

to be rolled over, played with, and tossed up by a cat. It happened

once, however, that while a cat was tranquilly stretched out, a weasel

passed by; it was caught in the twinkling of an eye and carried toward

the house, situated at quite a little distance away. The door being shut,

the cat, deceived by the apparent lifeless condition of its victim,

dropped it upon the sill and mewed, as was its custom, for some one to

open the door. But at that moment the senses of the alert little creature

returned, and it set its teeth into the nose of its enemy. It is probable

that, beside itself with surprise at its capture, the manner in which

the cat held it by its back had prevented it from making any resistance

whatever before that moment; for in catching them up in this manner, our

little quadrupeds, that bite so ferociously, can be held without fear

of being wounded. But one can scarcely think that the weasel had the

intention of deceiving the cat all the time it was in its mouth. This

hypothesis would need to be supported by special tests before meriting

acceptance.

The tests should consist in permitting the animal, as soon as it feigned

death, to regain its liberty, and in watching it without its knowledge.

If for any length of time it remained motionless, the fact would support

the theory of Couch. Instead of this, if it very soon sprang up and tried

to escape it would seem necessary to decide that it voluntarily and

consciously assumed that appearance.

I thought once I had found an opportunity for making a test of this

question, and perhaps for arriving at some satisfactory explanation

of this seeming deception on the part of animals. Having entrapped a

squirrel I noticed that it immediately became motionless. I took it

out of the trap and placed it on the ground, then concealed myself and

watched long enough for it to recover itself; but as it did not stir I

went to examine it, and found that it was really dead. This incident

supports the hypothesis of Couch, for it shows that terror may be

sufficient to cause the death of an animal.

Professor Preyer attributes exclusively to catalepsy this lifeless

appearance in insects. Having observed the power of this disease to

produce a similar condition in the system of the higher animals, he

logically concludes that the same cause must bring about the same

effect in all animals. On the other hand, for I do not wish to shun the

difficult sides of the question, there are facts going to show that some

monkeys feign death deliberately, not to escape from enemies, but to

mislead their presumptive victims. Here it becomes necessary to seek some

other explanation. Dr. Bryden says that certain monkeys having observed

crows gathering around the carcass of a monkey, may have concluded that

by becoming motionless they might induce them to come within their reach.

Without doubt this presupposes a high degree of intelligence, but it

does not imply an abstract idea of death, but rather only the idea of

imitating an object already remarked, with the desire of bringing about a