HESTIA (VESTA).[1] In the domestic life of the Greeks Hestia, the hearth
goddess, occupied an important position. She was one of the twelve great
divinities, and her expressive symbol, the fire, they carefully guarded
and kept constantly burning. In the more rude, barbaric state of society
her worship was, perhaps, not general, as there is no mention of her
by Homer in the “Iliad” or “Odyssey.” But as society advanced and the
importance of domestic order and purity was more fully recognized, no
other deity was held in greater veneration. She gives security to the
dwelling, and especially guards the virtue and happiness of the family.
“The hearth possessed among the ancients a far higher significance than
it does in modern life. It served not only for the preparation of the
daily meals, but was esteemed the sacred altar in the house. There the
images of the Penates,[2] or household gods, were placed; and then, after
the old patriarchal fashion, the father and priest of the family offered
sacrifice on all important occasions of their domestic life.” (Seemans.)
The well-ordered home, under the guardianship of the virgin goddess,
herself pure as the bright flame that was her symbol, is the secure
abode of happiness as complete as mortals know. For the maintenance of
its purity and peace the most solemn vows were made and the tutelary[3]
goddess invoked to avenge the injured and reward the faithful. For those
without, the hearth itself was a sacred shrine before which suppliants,
if danger threatened, sought not in vain protection from the inhabitants
of the house. And, as the state is an extended family, embracing all the
domestic organizations in its domain, Hestia, protectress of the home
circle, regards also the interest and safety of every civil community.
So, thoughtful men of upright character, their statesmen and wise
senators, did not hesitate to carry the religion of their homes into
political matters that engaged their best endeavors.
In the Greek states the senate house, or department of the governing
body, was solemnly dedicated to Hestia, and in it they built her an
altar, on which fire was kept ever burning. That the daily sacrifice
might not be wanting, or that sacred fire ever become extinct, it was
assiduously guarded by vestal[4] virgins, whose negligence would be
severely punished.
The name Hestia is not only very sacred, but has a stem or root meaning
that indicates the fixed abiding position of her altar in the room where
the family dwelt, or the senators met for business.
HERMES (MERCURY). For the accredited pedigree, characteristics, and
exploits of this sly deity—things of much interest to students of the
old mythology—we are mostly indebted to Homer and his imitators, the
Rhapsodists, some of whose productions were accepted as Homeric. He was
the reputed son of Zeus and the mountain nymph Maia, and born in a cave,
or grotto, on Mount Cyllene,[5] in Arcadia. The so-called “Homeric Hymn,”
assuming cunning and dexterity as his principal characteristics, tells
in a way to interest the reader, with what amazing capacity his powers
developed. Having such a father, and his mother a daughter of Atlas, he
grew as none but gods can, almost instantly revealing his divine powers.
Only a few hours after his birth he sprung from his mother’s arms, or
from the cradle where he lay, already planning an expedition of vast
proportions, and escaped from the grotto to at once execute his purpose.
On the way he met a beautiful tortoise that he killed, and extracting the
carcass from the shell, stretched resonant cords across the cavity, and
thus made him a harp on which he played most skilfully. The same day he
hurried off to Pieria, where he stole fifty kine from the herd of Apollo,
and undertook to drive them to the grotto of his mother. Fearing that the
theft, so adroitly accomplished, might be detected by their tracks in
the sand, he managed to drive them in such circuitous paths that, where
most exposed to observation, the tracks showed them to be going toward
the place from which they were stolen. His own footsteps he disguised by
wrapping his feet with tamarisk and myrtle leaves. The next morning, at
early dawn, he reached the stream of Alpheus,[6] and then rubbed sticks
of wood against each other till they were ignited. Thus Hermes is said to
have first given fire to mortal men. Another legend attributes the same
to Prometheus,[7] who is said to have stolen fire from the altars of the
gods. But this was kindled in the forest by the friction of dry branches
rubbed against each other by the wind. In that forest Hermes slaughtered
two of the herd, but, though pressed with hunger, he ate none of the
roasted meat. After quenching the fire, and effacing all signs of it, he
proceeded to Cyllene, where he concealed the cattle, and, having entered
the place of his birth softly as a summer breeze, resumed his place as a
babe, and lay innocently playing with the cradle clothes, while his right
hand held the tortoise lyre hidden under them. His absence and the booty
with which he returned were not unobserved by his mother, who chided him
for the theft, but was assured that, by such exploits, he would secure
for her and for himself admission to the assembly of the gods. In the
morning Apollo, missing part of his herd, set out in search of them. An
old man informed him that a child was seen the day before driving cows
along the road. At Pylos he saw confused tracks of his cattle, but was
amazed at the strange footprints of the driver. Greatly chagrined at his
loss, and meditating chastisement for the thief, he entered the cave
of the nymph. Hermes, seeing him, gathered himself under the clothes,
feigning fear of the angry god. Apollo searched all the premises for his
stolen property to no purpose. But convinced that the child, his own
younger brother was certainly guilty of the theft, he threatened to hurl
him into Tartarus[8] if he did not tell at once where the cows were. The
little fellow in his cradle, winking slyly, and making a low whistling
sound, as if amused at Apollo’s excitement, denies any knowledge of the
matter, and innocently asks what cows are like. “I know nothing of cows,”
he said, “but their name. We must refer the matter to Zeus, who will
decide for us.”
When the father of gods and men heard the complaint and the evidence,
little Hermes, to the great amusement of the celestials, stoutly denied
the charge, and with his cradle clothes about his person, argued the
absurdity of supposing a mere child like himself capable of such deeds.
Zeus admonished the contestants to be friends, but with a significant
nod, the suit was decided in Apollo’s favor, and the brothers sent in
quest of the missing kine. The miscreant led the way, and when the cattle
were brought out of the cave, Apollo missed two, and was surprised to
find their hides stretched on a rock to dry—more so, that when attempting
to drive the others away their feet were found fastened in the earth.
Again he seized the offender for punishment, but he in the emergency,
thought of his lyre, and touching its chords, called forth music so sweet
and soothing that Apollo, forgetting his anger, coveted the instrument
and besought the musician to teach him his wondrous art. “Take it,” said
he, “since you are wise, and will know how to use it well, but if touched
by those unskilled in the divine art, it will utter strange nonsense,
making uncertain, discordant moanings.” Delighted with his acquisition,
Apollo gave his brother a magic wand, by which he could confer happiness
on whom he would; and, henceforth, they dwelt together in great harmony
and love, the honored sons of a common father.
Interpreting this myth one says, “while Apollo represents the genial
sunshine, Hermes, as a power of nature, is the rain—rain and sunshine
being both from the great God of heaven, or, in the language of
mythologists, his sons. They are both beneficent and have many things so
similar as to indicate a common origin.”
In the process of time their conceptions of the younger brother seem to
have undergone some change, or possibly the different shades of opinion
may indicate the places rather than the times in which they prevailed.
To those who regarded him as sending the fertilizing rain, and thus the
dispenser of manifold gifts, he also, and naturally, represented the
wind that “bloweth where it listeth,” and carries the clouds about on
their mission. This idea of personification may account for some things
in their legends that otherwise seem inexplicable. Helpless infancy, in
a very few hours leaving the cradle and performing exploits the most
astonishing, has its parallel in the wind, which, at first only gentle
zephyrs whispering softly, soon may freshen to a gale, and in an hour
sweep over the earth with a force that defies resistance; and when people
make inquest for the mischief done they hear but the mocking laugh as it
hastens on, and the calm after a squall is like the quiet return of the
adventurous god to the cave and cradle that were left for the exploits
of that eventful day. Then the clouds of various shape and color that
are seen grouped above the horizon, or scattered over the vast field of
the sky, were, to a vivid imagination, the herd of Phœbus, who watches
over them. When the rising wind, represented by Hermes’ leaving the cave,
carries them away, a stupendous theft has been committed.
The offices of Hermes were many, and supposed to be useful, nor was his
many sided character thought bad when judged by the moral code of a
people who made him a god after their own likeness. Crafty, dishonest
merchants did not mean to impeach his honesty when they implored him
to give them such shrewdness as to outwit and supplant others in the
bargains they made. Rogues and thieves prayed to him, just as bandits and
robbers in the same country and in parts of Italy ask the patron saints
to aid their assaults on defenseless travelers, and give them a rich
booty.
Arcadian shepherds invoked Hermes as the guardian of flocks while he
inspired their pastoral songs and directed in the manufacture of the
rustic instruments on which they played.
Moreover, he was regarded and often spoken of as the fleet messenger and
dextrous agent of his father, Zeus. In this character the epic poets most
frequently present him. Swifter than the wind he passes over the land
and sea to execute whatever commissions are intrusted to him. Once he
destroyed the hundred eyed Argus, the guardian of Io, on which account he
is called by Homer the Argus slayer.
Seemans suggests that Argus in that myth represents the starry heavens,
and the suggestion is plausible—Argus is slain by the rain god; that is,
the stars are hid by the thick clouds.
As represented in art, he bears the herald’s staff, or wand, given
him by Apollo, by the means of which he can induce sleep or rouse the
slumberer; but it was supposed to be used chiefly in guiding souls to
their abodes in the under world. The earliest Greeks, as indeed men of
all nations, and in every state of society, civilized, semi-civilized
or savage, cherished the expectation of a state after death, and though
vaguely hoping for happiness hereafter, they also felt the need of an
escort, though unseen, to that “land of deepest shade unpierced by human
thought.” The belief in Hermes as psychopompus,[9] or conductor of the
soul, doubtless gave the dying mythologist when consciously loosing his
hold on things visible and tangible, some crumbs of comfort. With no
other rod or staff on which to lean, a heathen poet could say:
“_Non ego omnis moriar._”[10]
Such was at least the longing for immortality in the darkest ages.
The statues and plastic representations of Hermes, as also of the other
divinities, changed with the progress of this ideal development. They
represent him as a shepherd, sometimes a herald, or messenger, and always
as a powerful, bearded man. Those of later date show him as a beardless
youth, but of great strength, with broad chest, lithe but powerful limbs,
curly hair, small mouth and eyes, a wonderful combination of grace and
vigor. “If we add to this the expression of kindly benevolence which
plays around his finely cut lips, and the inquiring look of his face
as he bends forward thoughtfully, we have the principal characteristic
features artists have given of this god.” Of existing statues, in bronze
and marble, we can not speak more particularly—such are found in the
Vatican, at Naples, and in the British Museum.
HADES.—This name now, and from the beginning of the Christian era, used
only to distinguish a place, was in mythology a personal appellative,
and given to one of the Olympic divinities who received, by allotment,
control of the lower world. He was son of Cronos and Rhea, and there
are but few legends of him that the reader would care to see recorded,
on account of the mysterious gloom that enveloped his person and his
kingdom. It is enough to say he was at first regarded with dread as the
unpitying, unrelenting foe of mankind, and while all were fated in their
appointed time to descend to his dismal realms, heedless of their mortal
reluctance and agony, he gathered them in, and deaf to their prayers kept
his gate so guarded by that hundred headed monster Cerberus[11] that none
could ever escape. The conception was so horrible that men shrank from
it in dismay. Hades, being inexorable, was not worshiped. Prayer had no
encouragement, no utterance. Those who dreaded to become his victims
might wail in their agony or curse bitterly, but no door of hope was open
for them.
In the course of time—how long none can tell, as no details are given,
but in after ages—the Greek conception of Hades as a divinity seemed
to undergo considerable change. Not only other but very different
characteristics were given to him. He even received a new name, Pluton
(riches), possibly indicating for him some agency in sending up, from
the bosom of the earth, nourishment for things that grow on its surface,
and also as offering unbounded wealth to mankind in the metals whose
mines are in the subterranean chambers. But though the original dismal
conception of this stern, inexorable deity was partially relieved,
mention of him seems always to have conveyed to the mind the idea of
something grim and painfully mysterious, and that probably caused them to
speak of him but seldom, and with fear.
We are more interested to trace their notions of the underworld itself,
and respecting the state of the dead who have entered it. On these
subjects there was evidently some diversity of opinion, not between
different persons only, but of the same person at different times. Even
Homer presents two distinct views respecting the abode and condition of
the dead. In the “Iliad” he locates it beneath the flat earth, and not
far from the upper surface. Describing the battle of the gods he says:
“Pluto, the infernal monarch, heard alarmed,
And, springing from his throne, cried out in fear,
Lest Neptune breaking through the solid earth
To mortals and immortals should lay bare
The dark and drear abode of gods abhorred.”
But in the “Odyssey,” the realm in which the shades of the departed
wander, lies far west of the earth-girdling Oceanus, or is an island
in the midst of that fabled stream. Nor is this at all wonderful,
since, after the progress of centuries, and the partial unveiling of
the future in the divine oracles, the _heaven_ revealed, as to its
latitude, longitude and topography, remains, even to Christians, a _terra
incognita_.[12]
In the profoundly interesting problem of a future life the question of
locality is of little importance. That which more concerns the mortal,
yet immortal man, is what that life shall be; and, in their answers to
that question, theology and mythology differ widely. The latter claims
for departed spirits only a shadowy, dreamy, dismal existence, devoid
of any real happiness. At first they seem to have had no thought of
any difference in their allotments, and say nothing of the judgment of
the dead. Further on in their history the idea of future reward and
punishment had some development. Thenceforward there was a division in
Pluto’s realm, and the nethermost part was called Tartarus, a deep,
dark, cavernous abode of wretchedness and woe, where those condemned
by the judges,[13] Minos, Rhadamanthus and Æacus were tormented by the
Furies. The good, being special favorites of the gods, are transferred to
elysian fields—isles of the blessed—and find their happiness complete,
while those of a middle class, without either positive excellence or
damning wrong, are permitted to remain in a dusky region, where, as dim
but ghastly shades, they pass a dull, joyless existence, without much
positive suffering.
The punishment of great criminals was a fruitful theme for the
imaginations and pens of the Greek poets. Tityus, who had offered
violence to Leto, is chained to the earth while vultures constantly tear
his ever growing liver. Tantalus,[14] who had been admitted to the table
of the gods, but impiously thought to test their superior discernment by
putting before them the flesh of his son Pelops, is for his crime doomed
to suffer the torments of continual hunger and thirst. Just above his
head are branches laden with beautiful and luscious fruits, but when he
attempts to pluck them a gust of wind bears them quite beyond his reach.
He stands on the bank of a beautiful stream clear as crystal, or in the
midst of the water, but when he attempts to quench his raging thirst it
is impossible even to wet his lips. Sisyphus, once king of Corinth, and a
great sinner, was condemned to roll a block of stone up a high mountain,
but, soon as the top was reached, the huge stone, by some sudden impulse,
rolled back to the plain, and with weary limbs he must continue the
fruitless struggle. Ixion, also an insolent offender, is chained, hands
and feet, to an ever revolving wheel and tortured without respite or hope
of release. And the daughters of Danaus, who at their father’s bidding
had slain their husbands the night of their nuptials, are laboriously
pouring water into a perforated cask with despair of ever accomplishing
the required task of filling it. The punishment was deemed retributory,
and in these examplary cases from its nature without end.
EROS AND PSYCHE[15] (CUPID AND THE SOUL).—Eros, reputed a son of
Aphrodite and Ares, in the earlier legends appears a winged child; then
a boy of marvelous beauty on the verge of youth, but small of stature.
His characteristic is the golden bow, from whose taut string arrows fly
to their mark, with unerring aim, and inflict wounds that represent the
consuming pangs of love. As the charming but mischief-making Eros, being
solitary, did not grow, his mother, by the advice of Artemis, gave him
as a play-fellow a brother whom they named Anteros; his company caused
content and happiness. Eros was venerated not only as the god of love,
kindly influencing the sexes toward each other, and kindling purest
fires on their home altars, but as the author also of loving friendships
between youths and men. For this reason probably, his statue was placed
between those of Hermes and Hercules in the gymnasia, and the warlike
Spartans sacrifice to him before battle, pledging themselves to be
faithful, and stand by one another in time of need.
The significant myth showing the love of Eros for Psyche is of
more recent origin and shows some higher religious notions. Various
interpretations of the legend have been suggested, all of them
sufficiently fanciful. We give here an abridgment of a much lengthier
account found in “Stories from the Classics.”
In a certain city were three daughters of the king, of whom the youngest,
Psyche, being exceedingly beautiful, was thought the loveliest of
mortals. Her enraptured admirers built altars for her worship as a
goddess, and strewed them with flowery garlands. The charming Psyche was
too gentle and good to be elated by the homage, however extravagantly
expressed, but the hearts of her less beautiful sisters were soon filled
with envy and jealousy. Moreover Venus herself, the goddess of beauty,
became like a mortal jealous of poor Psyche. Highly offended that her
own altars should be neglected for those of an earth-born maiden, she
retired in anger to her favorite isle, and there cherished purposes of
revenge. Thither her winged boy, Cupid, came quickly at his mother’s
call. With tears and many passionate lamentations she told him the story
of her wrongs—how Psyche was honored and Venus neglected. “You alone, my
son,” she said, “can punish this presumptuous beauty, and make her feel
that it is a serious thing to incur the displeasure of the immortals.”
When her plans were made known, soothing his mother with fond caresses,
Cupid readily promised to execute all her wishes. Then, in obedience to
her commands, he hastened away to a luxuriant island in the midst of
the ocean, where were two fountains side by side, one clear as crystal,
imparting health and happiness to all who drank of the delicious water;
the other turbid and of a most deadly nature. Those who tasted its
poisoned water were never happy again. From the one, a living fountain,
he took water of joy, from the other of sorrow, and placing each in a
little amber urn, flew away to the palace of Psyche, where he found her
lying upon a couch, fragrant with roses, asleep, and smiling in her
pleasant dreams. Too intent on accomplishing his mission to be deterred,
even by the sight of such transcendent beauty, silently and lightly as
falls a noxious dew upon a gentle flower he shed on her slightly parted
lips the fatal drops of grief, and was preparing to wound her with
his arrow, when his victim suddenly awoke. The scene was changed and
the mischievous, cruel Cupid was now quite overcome with her strange
loveliness, and the gentle expression of her lustrous eyes. Filled with
remorse for what was done he hastily shed on her golden ringlets the
balmy drops of joy, intended for another, and vanished from her sight.
The father of Psyche fearing the wrath of the celestials on account of
the adoration paid to his daughter, inquired, at the oracle of Apollo,
what course he should pursue. The response filled him with anguish. He
was directed to place the maiden on a barren rock on the top of the
mountain, and there abandon her to her unknown fate. The poor king and
his queen wept much, but dared not disobey the oracle, cruel as it
seemed. Preparations were made in sadness, and on the day appointed
Psyche was attended to the destined rock by a mournful procession of
friends whose lamentations rent the air. When the broken-hearted parents
bade a last adieu to their beloved child, they ordered the gates of
their palace to be shut and gave themselves up to despair. As the train
of mourners gradually disappeared Psyche stood trembling on the top of
the lone mountain, and now overcome with grief and fear, she burst into
tears, bemoaning her sad condition. Then the gently blowing zephyr caught
and raised her in the air, and bearing her over the valley at the foot
of the mountain left her on a flowery turf, in a sweet sleep. When she
awoke all fear was gone. Looking around she saw, near a grove of lofty
trees, a cool fountain gently flowing, and within the grove a palace so
gorgeous that it was evidently the residence of a god. It was of costly
materials, exquisite workmanship, and filled with immense treasures, all
of which seemed secure without guards or doors. As the astonished but
now delighted maiden entered, a voice of angelic sweetness addressed
her, saying, “Lovely Psyche, all these treasures are yours, and we whose
voices you hear, though invisible, are your servants, who will obey all
your commands. Come to the banquet already prepared for our rightful
mistress.” She was conducted to a rich repast of ambrosia and nectar,
served by invisible hands, and entertained with delightful music from
Æolian harps.
Psyche did not know who the lord of the palace was, but, without being
suffered to behold him, she became his wife, and lived for a long time
contented and happy; treated by him, when present, with the utmost
kindness, and, in his absence, cheered by the voices of her unseen
attendants.
When her sisters, wicked women, who had heard of her happiness, and were
invited to share it, arrived at the palace they were received by Psyche
most cordially. She tenderly embraced them, showed them her treasures,
and bestowed such gifts as sisterly affection suggested. But their hearts
were hard and cruel. More envious than before at the sight of such
magnificence, they artfully planned to destroy their unsuspecting victim,
who had been warned not to allow any idle curiosity about her husband,
lest, by so doing, she might lose him forever. “Dearest sister,” they
say, concealing their real feelings under a mask of sisterly kindness,
“our love constrains us to make known to you that the being you call your
husband is doubtless some malignant spirit who dares not show to you his
hideous person, and who will some day destroy you. Take therefore, we
entreat, this lamp and dagger; conceal the lamp in the tapestry of your
chamber, and in the night satisfy your curiosity. If he prove the monster
we suspect, you can kill him in his sleep and return to the home of your
distracted parents.”
Poor Psyche was overwhelmed with sorrow, and after much talking they so
wrought on both her fear and curiosity that she reluctantly promised to
heed their advice. As night approached her courage failed, and all the
past kindness of her husband coming in mind made her design appear most
ungrateful, yet she must keep her promise, and at any risk, satisfy the
doubts that were distracting her. So when all voices were hushed, the
lights out, and deep silence reigned in the palace, she took the lamp
from the place where she had concealed it, and, with trembling, drew
near the couch where she saw her husband lying fast asleep. What was
her glad surprise when she found him none other than the beautiful god
Cupid himself. His countenance was so radiant that the very light of
the revealing lamp seemed to grow dim. On his shoulders were wings of
delicate whiteness, covered with a tremulous down. His bow and arrows
lay at his feet. As she stood over him, entranced by the sight, the oil
in the lamp, as if to punish her crime, bubbled over and the burning
liquid fell on the shoulder of the sleeper. Immediately he started up,
and looking reproaches stronger than words, at once flew away in silence.
Alas! for the imprudent wife’s distress, when the husband she adored left
her in anger, and, as she feared, never to return.
The deceitful sisters, themselves deceived by a false tale of Cupid’s
regard for them, miserably perished. When the indignant Venus learned
that Cupid, instead of punishing, had taken to his palace her detested
rival, and then suffered injury at her hand, she threatened vengeance and
sent Mercury in search of the object of her hate. Her wounded son was
cared for, but not without upbraiding him for his conduct, and proposing
such chastisement as anger mingling with maternal love suggested.
As for the deserted Psyche, having attempted in vain to drown herself
in a neighboring stream, she wanders through the world in search of her
lost love. Relentlessly persecuted by her adversary, who subjected her to
numerous and severe trials, the plants and animals, the reed, the swan,
the eagle, offer advice and assistance. Pitied, but unaided, unprotected
by the higher goddesses, Ceres and Juno, her case becomes desperate, and
she determines, at once, to surrender herself into the hands of Venus.
“Possibly she may be won by my good and dutiful conduct, and in the
house of his mother I may get a sight of him I have so long sought in
vain.” That hope, too, was doomed to disappointment. The haughty goddess,
forgetting alike the dignity of her rank, and the tenderness of a mother,
spoke bitter, revengeful words, and, calling two servants, Sorrow and
Solicitude, she ordered them to chastise her in the severest manner. The
suffering of her victim did not satisfy the angry Venus, and the most
difficult tasks were enjoined. Having tried her ability by requiring
many things thought impossible for mortals, but that were all, by the
aid of favoring divinities, accomplished, as a last effort she bade her
go to the palace of Pluto, in the infernal regions, and, carrying a
box given her for the purpose, to request of Proserpine[16] a portion
of her divine beauty, and bring back the treasure untouched. It was a
perilous undertaking; but again helped and instructed how to proceed,
it was accomplished in safety, and with entire success. She escaped the
wiles with which Proserpine sought to detain her guest, and obtained
the treasure box, filled and carefully closed. In her instructions she
was enjoined not, on any account, to open the box or meddle with its
precious contents. When returning, the chief difficulties and dangers of
the way already past, her woman’s curiosity again prevails, and silencing
her fears and her conscience, she decides to appropriate a very small
portion of its contents, desiring to become more pleasing to her offended
husband, whom she still hopes to meet. The lid was cautiously raised,
when lo! instead of the celestial beauty that was expected, there issued
from within, a black, dense vapor which enveloped her so closely, that,
presently, overcome with a deep stupor, she fell senseless to the ground.
Cupid having escaped from the palace, and, having on his downy wings,
witnessed the whole of this proceeding, flew to the spot, and, quickly
gathering up the deadly vapor, confined it again within the casket.
Then gently arousing the stupefied Psyche, with a touch of his arrow,
“See,” said he, “how thou wouldst perish by this foolish curiosity! Arise
now and complete the task imposed by my mother, while I supplicate the
mighty Jupiter to appease her anger.” Thus saying he soared on high, nor
ceased his flight till he reached Olympus, the lofty dwelling of the
gods. Then kneeling before the throne he pleaded with such eloquence the
cause of his hapless spouse that the king of gods was moved to pity, and
promised, by the exercise of his sovereign will, to end forever Psyche’s
misfortunes and sufferings. Mercury was ordered to conduct her to his
presence, and, eager to fulfill so pleasant a commission, the winged
messenger darted through the air with utmost speed and soon returned with
his charge.
The joy of Cupid was boundless, when Psyche, more lovely than ever, stood
by his side. Jupiter, regarding her for a time with silent admiration,
then, presenting a cup of nectar, said: “Take this, and be henceforth
immortal. The bitter waters that have occasioned all your sufferings,
after this divine draught will be forgotten. Venus shall no longer mourn
your union with her son. It has the approval of the gods, and shall
endure forever.”
Psyche thus indued with a new and glorious nature, looked imploringly at
mother Venus. Friendly influences stealing into her heart, the goddess
yielded, and embraced her radiant daughter with maternal affection. The
wedding banquet was prepared, and the Hours with roseate fingers decked
the bride. Ganymede,[17] as commanded, poured for them the sparkling
nectar, and cloud-capped Olympus echoed to the glad sounds of choral
voices.
Neptune came from his ocean cave; Apollo and the Muses were attracted
by the sweet notes of song; Minerva laid aside her helmet to grace the
marriage feast with her presence; Mars, with swordless hand, and merry
Bacchus, the grape wreath that bound his golden hair nodding as he
stepped, all joined the festive company. The Graces had decorated the
spacious hall; there were thrilling strains of music in the orchestra,
and Venus herself danced for joy. Psyche, the admired of all, reclining
on the bosom of her reconciled husband, in the bliss of so divine a union
lost forever the remembrance of all her sorrows.
This beautiful fable, some say, represents the trials and destiny of
human beings. The soul—so the mythologists held—though of divine origin,
is here subjected to error and evil in its prison, the body. Trials
and purifications are necessary, that it may become capable of purer
pleasures and nobler aspirations. Two loves meet it, one earthly and
degrading, the other heavenly and elevating. This, when victorious leads
off the soul, disenthralled and purified, to the abodes of the blessed.
According to these expositors the myth is a moral one, and represents
the dangers to which nuptial fidelity was exposed in such a country as
degenerate Greece, and also gives an instance of true constancy subjected
to many and strong temptations, but victorious over them all.
As allegorical myths are of doubtful interpretation, the reader may
escape some perplexity by accepting the story as a tale of fancy,
intended for innocent amusement, rather than for instruction in
psychology or morals.
STUDIES IN KITCHEN SCIENCE AND ART.
IV. APPLES, PEACHES, BLACKBERRIES AND STRAWBERRIES.
BY BYRON D. HALSTED, SC. D.
In our study of the food products of the earth, we now come to a
consideration of some of our leading fruits. All of the four given above
are furnished us by a single order of plants, namely: the Rose Family,
or _Rosaceæ_.[1] This order not only contains the “Queen of Flowers,”
but the “King of Fruits;” it is, in short, a royal family among plants,
without which we should be deprived of much that is very beautiful, and
more that is exceedingly useful. We are dependent upon the cereals for
our flour, but what would flour be without some fruit to mix with it in
the formation of a very long list of our most highly prized viands? Apple
pies, peach dumplings, blackberry puddings and strawberry shortcakes all
have their ardent admirers, and happy is the housewife who can make them
to perfection.
THE APPLE.—Well might the apple be the fruit to tempt mankind. The
schoolboy feels this when before him stands a neighbor’s tree loaded with
the golden spheres of ripeness and sweetness. Well might Solomon with
all his wisdom acknowledge the beauty and worth of this best of fruits
when he writes: “A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures
of silver.” Downing, in his classic work on “The Fruits and Fruit Trees
of America” says: “Among the heathen gods of the north there were apples
fabled to possess the power of conferring immortality, which were
carefully watched over by the goddess Iduna,[2] and kept for the special
dessert of the gods who felt themselves growing old.” Apples may not
confer immortality, but they lend new charms to life, and we should guard
this fruit as did the sleepless dragon the golden apples in the orchards
of Hesperus.[3]
If the “tree of knowledge” is not an allegory, and it bore apples, we
have the antiquity as well as ancient edibility of the apple at once
established. The origin and first home of the apple, like all the fruits,
flowers and vegetables in cultivation before the time of human records,
is all obscurity, and speculation has free course in seeking for the
early history of the apple. This fruit was extensively cultivated by the
Romans, and is widely diffused through all parts of the temperate zone.
The apple tree is one of slow growth and medium size, though there
are some specimens in this country of great dimensions. The head is
low-spreading, and the flowers sweet and beautiful. The blossom, as well
as the fruit that follows it, is famous in story and in song. The kinds
of apples are very numerous, and the number is increasing every year. The
genus _Pyrus_,[4] to which the common apple belongs, has several species,
including the mountain ashes, common chokeberry, and several kinds of
crab apples, and last, but far from the least, the pears. The orchard
apple is thus seen to be in the midst of good company.
Apples are classified in various ways; that by J. J. Thomas, in his
“American Fruit Culturist,” is as follows: Three divisions are made upon
the time of ripening—as, summer, autumn, and winter apples. Under each of
these are two classes, namely: sweet apples, and those with more or less
acidity. Under each of these six classes are two sections, viz.: color
striped with red—color unstriped. The three points in this classification
are season, taste, and color of skin. For example, the apple before
me is a summer fruit, sweet, with skin not striped. It belongs in the
second section of class one of the first division. It is the sweet
bough. Again, the apple is striped, acid, and winter; by referring to
the descriptive list we find it is northern spy, king of Tompkins,
or Wagener. The characteristics of the groupings above given are not
properly distinct. As Thomas says: “Summer apples gradually pass into
autumn, and autumn into winter apples. A few … possess nearly a neutral
flavor between a dead sweetness and slight acidity. Again, apples classed
with those that are striped, sometimes present a nearly uniform shade
of red.” So much interwoven are the colors, periods of ripening, etc.,
that Downing discards all classification and arranges his descriptive
list alphabetically. In describing apples and similar fruit the word
_base_ is used for the stem end of the fruit, and _apex_ the blossom end.
The primary forms of apples are: oblate, roundish, conical, and oblong.
The last report of the American Pomological Society[5] catalogues three
hundred and thirty-seven varieties of apples, with the standing of each
in the several states and territories. From this tabulation we select
the following varieties as among those that proved the best: For summer,
early harvest, red astrachan, sweet bough, American summer, Carolina
June, and Oldenburg; for autumn, fall pippins, Porter, maiden’s blush,
Gravenstein, late strawberry, sops of wine, and primate; for winter,
Baldwin, Ben Davis, Hubbardston, Rhode Island greening, northern spy, and
farmer’s. These sorts are not equally good everywhere, but taken all in
all they are among the leading sorts. There may be some varieties of only
local reputation that do better in their native section than any here
mentioned. Some apples are adapted to the warmer climate of the southern
states, while others are suited to the cold regions farther north. The
wealthy apple is a fine illustration of the latter; it is especially
suited to New Hampshire, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Iowa and Colorado.
Apple trees are raised from seed sown in autumn, and remain in the seed
bed for two or three years, when they are removed in the spring, with
their tap-root or main root cut to the nursery rows. The following autumn
they are budded with the desired variety. The well ripened bud is
inserted in the bark of the twig, near the ground. The growth from the
bud afterward forms the tree top. The trees may be set in the orchard
the third year after budding. The soil best adapted for an orchard is
a strong loam containing abundant limestone or calcareous matter. The
soil should be kept mellow by frequent cultivation, until the trees are
of considerable size. It must be remembered that the trees are of first
importance, and they should not be starved by lack of richness in the
soil or by the growth of exhausting grain crops.
There are many insect enemies to the apple tree, the leading among which
are the borers, American tent caterpillar, canker worm, bark-lice and
codling moth. The methods of treating each one of these pests have been
well worked out, but space forbids our giving them in this connection.
It is important that apples be gathered with care, especially if to be
sent to market. The reputation of American apples in the English market
has suffered greatly from carelessness in picking and packing. Fruit
sells more by appearance than anything else, and therefore the packages
should be neat and the contents uniformly good. Apples are employed in
various ways beside cooking. They are the source of much cider that
afterward by fermentation forms the best quality of vinegar.
THE PEACH.—The peach (_Prunus Persica_[6]) is a native of Persia, as the
botanical name indicates, and was brought from that country to Italy
by the Romans. It is frequently mentioned by ancient writers, and was
regarded with much veneration by the people of Asia. The peach reached
the British Isles in the sixteenth century. There is no country where
the peach is more successfully grown than in some portions of the United
States. It can not be grown with profit north of 42° north latitude, but
south of this line it flourishes as far as the Gulf of Mexico. There are
some localities specially adapted for the peach, and here it is grown
in its perfection. First among such sections is the Delaware peninsula,
a territory of six thousand square miles, within which more peaches per
acre are produced than anywhere else on the globe, and of the finest
quality. A portion of Michigan, known as the “peach belt,” is likewise
famous, and supplies the western markets with vast quantities of this
luscious fruit.
The peach is a small tree, with long narrow leaves and beautiful pink
blossoms. It grows rapidly to maturity, and after bearing a few crops is
through with its best work, and should be replaced by another.
Mr. Fulton, in his small book on “Peach Culture,” writes: “The seed
should be of natural fruit. It is more vigorous, more hardy, more certain
to germinate, and the tree lives longer. This should never be overlooked
by any planter who wishes the full reward of his labors.” This indicates
that the seed in the budded fruit loses some of its vitality. It is
doubtless a law that as we go farther from the native or wild state the
less vigorous becomes the nurtured plant. The artificial life that many
plants lead leaves them no time to store up strength for the continuation
of the race, and in many cases they have lost all power of producing
offspring. The young peach trees are provided by sowing the seeds in
beds, carefully kept free from weeds. After the proper size is reached,
buds are inserted, as above mentioned under the apple, and in a year or
two the budded trees are ready for the orchard.
This process of budding is similar to that of making cuttings or slips,
only, a single bud is set in the cleft bark of a living stem, instead of
a piece of branch, with two or more buds, set in moist sand. Grafting
differs from budding in that the cion is a stem with two or more buds,
usually set in a cleft of a living branch; it is budding on a larger
scale, and is suited to large trees.
The varieties of peaches are very numerous, more than one hundred and
fifty sorts being set down in some lists. It is not an easy task to
select the best. There are many things to consider in deciding upon the
merit of a peach. It may have the best flavor, but be subject to rot, a
poor bearer, or be so small that it will not sell well. The tree should
be vigorous and productive, with fruit large, rich flavored, and fine
colored. Such fruit is fit food for the gods. From the recent Pomological
Society catalogue we find that the following varieties are the most in
favor, take the whole country through. Among those known as very early
are: Alexander, early York, large early York, Hales and truth; medium,
early Crawford, Chinese cling, Columbia, oldmixon free and oldmixon
cling; late, smock, stump-the-world, late Crawford, Heath cling, and
Ward’s late. By a careful selection of varieties with regard to their
time of ripening, a small orchard would furnish fruit from midsummer
until the frosts come. In setting out an orchard there is a tendency to
purchase new sorts, and for this the nurserymen are largely to blame. A
man’s interest in the sale of so simple a thing as a tree may cause it to
be overestimated. A half dozen time-tested standard sorts are worth more
than a score of new seedlings without any record.
Peaches are classified by their fruit into those with white flesh and
yellow flesh, and these are divided again into free-stones and clings.
In some of the clings the flesh is very superior, but owing to its close
union with the stone it is difficult to eat, and therefore is far less
popular than free-stones of an inferior quality.
The leading enemies to the peach are the borer, curculio,[7] the
leaf-curl and the “yellows.” The “curl” is caused by a fungus, and the
remedy is picking and burning the leaves. The “yellows” is the most fatal
of all the enemies, having ruined hundreds of the finest orchards. The
cause is not fully understood, but the indications are that it may be a
low form of microscopic life known as bacteria. No cure has been found,
and when a tree turns the characteristic yellow it should be torn out and
burned, root and branch.
We can not close this brief sketch without thinking of that happy boy
reclining upon the shady sod, who
—lifted his head to where hung in his reach
All laden with honey, the ruddy-cheeked peach.
BLACKBERRIES.—The two fruits already described in this paper are of
a comparatively large size, and grow on trees. We now come to the
so-called “small fruits,” among which are the blackberry, raspberry,
strawberry, currant, and gooseberry. The genus _Rubus_[8] furnishes both
the blackberries and the raspberries, thus showing that these two kinds
of small fruits are very closely related. There are about one hundred
and fifty species of blackberries scattered throughout the world, but
of these only two have furnished our gardens with the best cultivated
varieties, namely: the high blackberry (_R. villosus_[9]), growing
everywhere in thickets, with a strong prickly stem, six feet high, and
the low blackberry, or dewberry (_R. canadensis_[10]), a long trailing
plant, with slightly prickly stems, and small, early ripening fruit.
The cultivation of the blackberry has been retarded to a considerable
extent by the excellence of the wild sorts—the people being satisfied
with the fruit of the bramble in the fence row. The varieties that now
head the list have all been chance seedlings found growing wild, and
afterward improved by garden culture. The Lawton was found growing on a
roadside in Westchester county, New York, and is often known by the name
of its native town, New Rochelle. The Lawton did much to introduce the
blackberry to the fruit gardens. The canes winter kill, and the fruit,
unless perfectly ripe, is hard and sour at the core. The Kittatinny
stands among the first for the size and richness of its fruit. This
berry is a little earlier than the New Rochelle. It was found near the
Kittatinny mountains, in New Jersey, and bears the peculiar Indian name
of the place of its nativity. Mr. Roe, in his “Success with Small Fruits”
says of the discoverer of the Kittatinny blackberry: “He has done more
for the world than if he had opened a gold mine.”
The Wilson’s early is a third variety, of New Jersey origin, that grows
low, with the canes trailing upon the ground. As the name indicates, this
is a remarkably early blackberry, and were it not subject to attacks from
insects it would be a very superior variety. The Snyder is of western
origin, is wonderfully productive and hardy. The small size of the berry
is the greatest defect of the Snyder. There are some recent candidates
for popular favor, but the four mentioned have been found worthy of a
place in the small fruit garden.
The blackberry prefers a rather dry soil, of medium richness. On a moist
and very fertile soil the canes grow rank and large and produce very
little fruit. The plants need to be set in rows six to eight feet apart
each way. It is best to set the plants in autumn, because they start
into growth very early in the spring, before there is opportunity for
transplanting. Stakes or cheap wire trellises are usually provided for
holding up plants. The canes that grow up one season produce fruit the
succeeding year, and then die. It is therefore necessary to treat as
weeds all shoots that are not needed for the bearing canes the following
season. Judicious pruning of the cane while it is growing will produce
much branched tops, which are more productive than those that grow to
great length, and they are less liable to be injured by frost. Mr. Roe
says: “More can be done with the thumb and finger at the right time
than with the most savage pruning shears after a year of neglect.” The
blackberry produces many suckers, and if these are left to grow for a
year or two the whole ground becomes a wilderness that is not productive,
and very difficult to subdue.
STRAWBERRIES.—It is not an easy task to find the person who dislikes
strawberries. They are acceptable to the vast majority, and in almost any
form, from the plain berry just picked off the vine to the juicy, red
layer in a shortcake, or the heaping saucer with its fragrant contents
half floating in sweet cream. The name strawberry probably came from the
old Saxon _streawberige_, either because of the strawlike stems to the
plants, or from the berries being strewn upon the ground. In olden times
children strung the berries upon straws and sold them thus, and possibly
from this we now have the name for our earliest and finest of small
fruits. The name of the strawberry genus is _Fragaria_,[11] the Latin
for “sweet smelling.” The cultivated varieties of strawberries represent
five species. The most common one, growing wild almost everywhere being
_Fragaria vesca_. In this species the seeds are superficial on the
luscious cone. The Virginian strawberry, _F. Virginiana_, abundant in all
parts of the United States, has roundish fruit, with the seeds embedded
in deep pits. At the time of the introduction of this species in English
gardens the culture of the strawberry took a fresh start. By sowing the
seed of the Virginian species new varieties have been produced in large
numbers, so that now it is the parent of nine-tenths of all the sorts
grown in our gardens. The Hovey, Wilson, monarch, Seth Boyden, Charles
Downy, and Sharpless are some of the improved varieties of this species.
A new impetus was given to strawberry culture by the introduction of a
South American species, _F. grandiflora_. The fruit is large and sweet,
with a peculiar sprightliness that makes the varieties derived from this
species highly prized in England and on this continent. Our cold winters
and hot summers are too severe extremes for these offsprings of a more
tropical species. The triumphe de gand and jucunda are two superb sorts
derived from the _F. grandiflora_.
Some varieties of strawberries have what are known as pistillate flowers;
that is, the stamens or male organs are imperfect or wanting. In such
cases it is necessary to grow a perfect-flowered (bi-sexual) variety in
close proximity, in order to insure fertilization and the formation of
fruit. The famous Hovey seedling is a pistillate variety, and there are
many others of this character.
One of the leading features of the strawberry plant is to multiply by
means of long, slender branches, called runners. There are, however,
three methods of propagating the strawberry, viz.: by the runners, by
division of the root, and by seeds. The chief method is by runners.
Strawberries need a rich, mellow soil. The plants may be set either
in the spring or fall, though the spring is generally preferred by
experienced strawberry growers. Plants set in autumn will not come into
bearing the next season unless they are pot-grown. These pot-grown plants
are obtained by sinking small flower pots in the earth of the strawberry
bed, into the contents of which the runners strike root and form plants.
The roots of the plants are not disturbed by transplanting, and one
whole season is gained. In setting out strawberry plants care needs to
be observed that the crown is not buried. The holes should be large, so
that the roots may be spread out in all directions. If set in rows two
and a half feet apart, and a foot or so distant in the row, a horse and
cultivator may be used to advantage in keeping down the weeds. After two
or three full crops have been gathered from a bed the rows may be plowed
up. Some growers gather only one crop, and reset the land. There are many
methods of treatment. In the fall the strawberry bed should be covered
with a mulch. The success of many cultivators of the strawberry is due,
in great measure, to the protection of their plants in winter.
The insect enemies to the strawberry are numerous, not the least of
which is the white grub, the larvæ of the May beetle or “June Bug,” the
strawberry worm, the leaf-roller, crown borer, saw fly, and various cut
worms. A rust sometimes attacks the plants and almost ruins them.
It is very difficult to indicate what are the best varieties of
strawberries. Again referring to the chart in the last issue of the
American Pomological Society, we find forty-one varieties there
tabulated. Of these the Charles Downing and the Wilson take the lead,
being suited to a wide range of climate, soil, and other conditions. The
Downing is the type of excellence in flavor and other qualities, while
the Wilson is a firm, sour, and very prolific berry well suited for the
market garden. Among the other sorts worthy of attention, mentioned
alphabetically, are: Crescent, Cumberland, Hovey, Kentucky, Manchester,
miner’s prolific, Monarch, Sharpless, and triumphe de gand. A dozen or
more new sorts appear each year, some of which may take their places
among the time-tested sorts here mentioned. It may be that in a few
years all of these old varieties will be superseded by new sorts, and
the berries that we now eat with so much relish will seem poor by the
contrast. Let the future be as it may, no one should neglect the culture
of the kinds we now possess. A person with only a village half acre may
grow his own berries of various sorts, and still have room for a few
pear, apple, peach, and cherry trees.
Let us close this brief treatment of small fruits at the same place
where Mr. Roe began his large, elegant and exhaustive book on the same
subject, by quoting the following passage from his “Preliminary Parley:”
“Many think of the soil only in connection with the sad words of the
burial service, ‘earth to earth, ashes to ashes.’ Let us, while we may,
gain more cheerful associations with our kindred dust. For a time it can
be earth to strawberry blossoms, ashes to bright red berries, and their
color will get into our cheeks, and their rich, sub-acid juices into
our insipid lives, constituting a mental, moral and physical alteration
that will so change us that we shall believe in evolution, and imagine
ourselves fit for a higher state of existence. One may delve in the earth
so long as to lose all dread at the thought of sleeping in it at last,
and the luscious fruits and bright hued flowers that come out of it, in a
way no one can find out, may teach our own resurrection more effectually
than do the learned theologians.”
APPLES, PEACHES, BLACKBERRIES AND STRAWBERRIES.
“The liberal use of various fruits as food is conducive to good health.
Fruit is not a solid and lasting element like beef and bread, and does
not give strength to any great extent. But fruits contain those acids
which refresh and give tone to the system during the season when it
is most needed. They should never be eaten unless thoroughly ripe, or
cooked. Stale fruits, or those that have been plucked some time, are
unhealthy in the extreme. The proper time to eat fruit is in the morning
and early afternoon. At night it is ‘leaden,’ according to the Spanish,
who call fruit ‘golden in the morning and silver at noon.’” These words
of general advice fitly introduce our “apples, peaches, strawberries, and
blackberries,” for whose use, fresh and uncooked, we would strongly plead.
RIPE FRUIT.—Wash and polish apples with a clean towel, and pile in a
china fruit basket, with an eye to agreeable variety of color. Of peaches
and pears the finest should be selected, handling as little as may be,
and pile upon a salver or flat dish, with bits of ice between them,
and ornament with peach leaves or fennel sprigs. One of the prettiest
dishes of fruit I ever saw upon a dessert table was an open silver
basket, wide at the top, heaped with rich red peaches and yellow Bartlett
pears, interspersed with feathery bunches of green, which few of those
who admired it knew for carrot tops. Wild white clematis wreathed the
handle and showed here and there among the fruit, while scarlet and
white verbenas nestled amid the green. Send around powdered sugar with
the fruit, as many like to dip peaches and pears in it after paring and
quartering them.
Never wash strawberries or raspberries that are intended to be eaten as
fresh fruit. If they are so gritty as to require this process keep them
off the table. You will certainly ruin the flavor beyond repair if you
wash them, and as certainly induce instant fermentation and endanger the
coats of the eaters’ stomachs, if, after profaning the exquisite delicacy
of the fruit to this extent, you complete the evil work by covering them
with sugar, and leaving them to leak their lives sourly away for one or
two hours. Put them on the table in glass dishes, piling them high and
lightly; send around powdered sugar with them and cream, that the guests
may help themselves. It is not economical, perhaps, but it is a healthful
and pleasant style of serving them—I had almost said the only decent one.
“But I don’t know who picked them,” cries Mrs. Fussy.
No, my dear madame! nor do you know who makes the baker’s bread, or
confectioner’s cake, creams, jellies, salads, etc. Nor, for that matter,
how the flour is manufactured out of which you conjure your dainty
biscuits and pies. I _know_ God made strawberries. “Doubtless,” says
Bishop Butler, “he could have made a better berry, but he never did.” The
picker’s light touch can not mar flavor or beauty, nor, were her fingers
filthy as a chimney sweep’s, could the delicate fruit suffer from them
as from your barbarous baptism.—_Marion Harland in “Common Sense in the
Household.”_
PUDDINGS AND PIES.—_Apple Dumplings._—Make a crust as for biscuit, or a
potato crust, as follows: Three large potatoes boiled and mashed while
hot. Add to them two cups of sifted flour and one teaspoonful of salt,
and mix thoroughly. Now chop or cut into it one small cup of butter,
and mix into a paste with about a teacupful of cold water. Dredge the
board thick with flour, and roll out—thick in the middle and thin at
the edges. A thick pudding-cloth—the best being made of Canton flannel,
used with the nap-side out—should be dipped in hot water and wrung out,
dredged evenly and thickly with flour, and laid over a large bowl. Upon
the middle of this place the rolled-out crust, fill with apples pared
and quartered, eight or ten good-sized ones being enough for this amount
of crust. Gather the edges of the crust evenly over it. Then gather
the cloth up, leaving room for the dumpling to swell, and tying very
tightly. In turning out, lift to a dish, press all the water from the
ends of the cloth; untie and turn away from the pudding, and lay a hot
dish upon it, turning over the pudding into it, and serving at once, as
it darkens or falls by standing. In using a boiler, butter well, and fill
only two-thirds full, that the mixture may have room to swell. Set it
in boiling water, and see that it is kept at the same height, about an
inch from the top. Cover the outer kettle, that the steam may be kept in.
Peaches pared and halved, or canned ones drained from the syrup, may be
used instead of the apples. When canned fruit is used the syrup can be
used as a sauce, either cold for cold puddings and blancmanges, or heated
and thickened for hot, allowing to a pint of juice a heaping teaspoonful
of corn starch, dissolved in a little cold water, and boiling it five
minutes. Strawberry or raspberry syrup is especially nice.
_Bread and Apple Pudding._—Butter a deep pudding dish and put first a
layer of crumbs, then one of any good acid apple, sliced rather thin,
and so on until the dish is nearly full. Six or eight apples and a quart
of fresh crumbs will fill a two-quart dish. Dissolve a cup of sugar and
one teaspoonful of cinnamon in one pint of boiling water and pour into
the dish. Let the pudding stand half an hour to swell; then bake until
brown—about three-quarters of an hour—and eat with liquid sauce. It can
be made with slices of bread and butter instead of crumbs.
_Short-Cake._—One quart of flour, one teaspoonful of salt and two of
baking powder sifted with the flour, one cup of butter, or half lard and
half butter, one large cup of hot milk. Rub the butter into the flour;
add the milk and roll out the dough, cutting in small square cakes and
baking to a light brown. For a strawberry or peach short-cake have three
tin pie-plates buttered; roll the dough to fit them, and bake quickly.
Fill either, when done, with a cup of sugar, or with peaches cut fine and
sugared, and served hot.
PIES—APPLE, PEACH, AND BERRY.—In the first place, don’t make them except
very semi-occasionally. Pastry, even when good, is so indigestible that
children should never have it, and their elders but seldom. A nice
short-cake, filled with stewed fruit, or with fresh berries, mashed and
sweetened, is quite as agreeable to eat and far more wholesome. But, as
people will both make and eat pie-crust, the best rules known are given.
Butter, being more wholesome than lard, should always be used if it can
be afforded. A mixture of lard and butter is next best. For a plain
pie-crust, take: One quart of flour, one even teacup of lard and one of
butter, one teacup of ice water or very cold water, and a teaspoonful of
salt. Rub the lard and salt into the flour till it is dry and crumbly,
add the ice water and work to a smooth dough. Wash the butter and have it
cold and firm as possible, divide it in three parts. Roll out the paste
and dot it all over with bits from one part of the butter, sprinkle with
flour and roll up. Roll out and repeat until the butter is gone. If the
crust can now stand on the ice for half an hour it will be nicer and more
flaky. This amount will make three good-sized pies. Enough for the bottom
crusts can be taken off after one rolling in of butter, thus making the
top crust richer. Lard alone will make a tender, but not a flaky, paste.
For puff paste there is required one pound of flour, three quarters of a
pound of butter, one teacupful of ice water, one teaspoonful of salt, one
of sugar, and yolk of one egg. Wash the butter, divide into three parts,
reserving a bit the size of an egg, and put it on the ice for an hour.
Rub the bit of butter, the salt, and sugar, into the flour, and stir in
the ice water and egg beaten together. Make into a dough and knead on
the moulding-board till glossy and firm—at least ten minutes will be
required. Roll out into a sheet ten or twelve inches square. Cut a cake
of the ice-cold butter in thin slices, or flatten it very thin with the
rolling-pin. Lay it on the paste, sprinkle with flour, and fold over the
edges. Press it in somewhat with the rolling-pin and roll out again.
Always roll _from_ you. Do this again and again until the butter is all
used, rolling up the paste after the last cake is in, and then putting
it on the ice for an hour or more. Have filling all ready, and let the
paste be as nearly ice-cold as possible when it goes into the oven. There
are much more elaborate rules, but this insures handsome paste. Make a
plainer one for the bottom crusts. Cover puff paste with a damp cloth and
it may be kept on the ice a day or two before baking.
_Apple Pie._—Line a pie-plate with plain paste. Pare sour
apples—greenings are best—quarter and cut in thin slices. Allow one
cup of sugar, and quarter of a grated nutmeg mixed with it. Fill the
pie-plate heaping full of the sliced apple, sprinkling the sugar between
the layers. It will require not less than six good-sized apples. Wet
the edges of the pie with cold water, lay on the cover and press down
securely, that no juice may escape. Bake three-quarters of an hour, or a
little less if the apples are very tender. No pie in which the apples are
stewed beforehand can compare with this in flavor. If they are used stew
till tender and strain. Sweeten and flavor to taste. Fill the pies and
bake half an hour.
_Berry Pies._—Have a very deep plate, and either no under crust, save a
rim, or a very thin one. Allow a cup of sugar to a quart of fruit, but
no spices. Prick the upper crust half a dozen times with a fork, to let
out the steam.—_Helen Campbell, in “The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and
Cooking.”_
_Apple Méringue Pies._—Stew and sweeten ripe, juicy apples, when you have
pared and sliced them. Mash smooth and season with nutmeg. If you like
the flavor, stew some lemon peel with the apple, and remove when cold.
Fill your crust and bake until just done. Spread over the apple a thick
méringue,[1] made by whipping to a stiff froth the whites of three eggs
for each pie, sweetening with a tablespoonful of powdered sugar for each
egg. Flavor this with rose-water or vanilla; beat until it will stand
alone, and cover the pie three-quarters of an inch thick. Set back in
the oven until the méringue is well “set.” Should it color too darkly,
sift powdered sugar over it when cold. Eat cold. Peach pies are even more
delicious made in this manner.
_Apple Snow_ requires six apples, whites of two eggs and three
tablespoonfuls of powdered sugar. Peel and grate the apples into the
whites, which must have been whipped to a stiff froth. Beat in the sugar
with a few light sweeps of the egg; whip and set in a cold place until
wanted. Eat with crackers or cake.—_Marion Harland._
_Apple Fritters._—Pare some fine apples, and with an apple-corer cut out
the core from the center of each; now cut them across in slices, about
one-third of an inch thick, having the round opening in the center, dip
these in a fritter batter and fry in boiling lard; sprinkle over sugar.
Fresh or canned peaches may be used in the same way.—_Mrs. Henderson, in
“Practical Cooking.”_
PUTTING UP FRUIT.—One of the most satisfactory operations which is
carried on in the household is the annual putting up of fruit. To be
sure, it has its disadvantages, like everything else. The fruit generally
gets ripe a week or two earlier than you expect it will, and is brought
to you on a day for which you have planned other work; but, after all,
there is to the well-regulated mind a rare pleasure in being confronted
with a basket of luscious fruit which may be preserved for enjoyment in
the winter; and I maintain that the pleasure we receive in midwinter
from a dish of peaches, cherries, or plums on the table is not wholly
of the senses, but the mind itself enjoys the contrasting picture which
inevitably comes before it. Something of the brightness of the long
summer days in which it grew and ripened is felt again, and just as
chopped pickle in June will suggest a November day when the tomatoes
no longer ripen, the cucumbers have gone to seed, and the frost has
covered the tangled vines in the garden with a fairy-like network, so
red raspberries and pears in December and March minister to other wants
than those of the palate. Half the trouble of putting up fruit—the broken
cans, the scalded fingers and stained dresses—might be done away with if
a woman could enter upon the work in the right spirit. If, instead of
complaining in May because the trees are full of blossoms, and exhausting
ourselves mentally by putting up the fruit and having it spoil long
before it is ripe, we were to refrain from asking if we shall live to eat
it or to see it eaten, we should accomplish something really great in
preserving our peace of mind as well as our fruit. It is a simple matter
also, if entered into with calm cheerfulness, to look over and can the
fruit. After the fruit has been carefully examined, set it in a cool
room or into the refrigerator, while you examine your cans. It is well
to have some new rubber rings on hand, as you may need them; have also
a cup of flour paste ready; then if the zinc rings or covers are bent a
little, you may still make them air-tight with the paste. If you are at
all doubtful about the condition of your cans, use the paste. In a long
experience of putting up fruit I have never broken but one can, and that
was on account of carelessness in rinsing it in too hot water. I rinse
the can in warm water, then set it in a two-quart basin with a little
water in it, set it on the stove beside my porcelain kettle, fill the can
with boiling fruit, and seal up as quickly as may be. One thing which
should be carefully avoided is too much boiling of the fruit after the
sugar is put with it. The injury which boiling does is not by any means
well understood by many good cooks. Last year I gave up all the care of
putting up fruit and pickles to a competent and honest girl; but, by her
not knowing that sugar, when boiled, actually changes its nature, and
loses much of its sweetness, she used more than twice the quantity which
I have used this year, and then the fruit was not so sweet as it ought to
be. (When making syrup to eat on hot cakes bear this in mind: after the
sugar is dissolved let it come to a boil, but do not boil it.)
PEACHES.—If possible, pare and cut up your peaches the afternoon before
they are to be canned, and scatter sugar over them. In the morning
there will be syrup enough to cook them in. Put this syrup into your
porcelain kettle—if you have one, if not, into a bright tin pan; cook a
few peaches at a time, try them with a broom-splint; just before they
are done add the necessary quantity of sugar. Some housekeepers make a
practice of putting one whole peach into a can, to give the almond flavor
of the stone to the whole can. You can not, of course, guess at just the
number of halves or quarters needed to fill the can; if you have too
many pieces, and are afraid of their cooking too much, take them out
carefully on a plate and, after cooking others for the next canful, add
to them. By cooking a few at a time you can preserve the shape and have
much finer results than if you cook a great many at a time.
QUINCES AND SWEET APPLES.—Prepare the quinces and apples as for canning.
Steam them in the same way, having about one-third as many quinces as
apples. Make a very sweet syrup, as they will keep better with plenty of
sugar. These may be canned or kept in a large stone jar.—_Emma Whitcomb
Babcock, in “Household Hints.”_
PRESERVES.—Preserves are scarcely needed if canning is nicely done. They
require much more trouble, and are too rich for ordinary use, a pound of
sugar to one of fruit being required. If made at all, the fruit must be
very fresh, and the syrup perfectly clear. For syrup allow one teacup
of cold water to every pound of sugar, and, as it heats, add to every
three or four pounds the white of an egg. Skim very carefully, boiling
till no more rises, and it is ready for use. Peaches, pears, green gages,
cherries, and crab-apples are all preserved alike. Peel, stone, and halve
peaches, and boil only a few pieces at a time till clear. Peel, core, and
halve pears. Prick plums and gages several times. Core crab-apples, and
cut half the stem from cherries. Cook till tender. Put up _when cold_ in
small jars, and paste paper over them.
JAMS.—Make syrup as directed above. Use raspberries, strawberries, or any
small fruit, and boil for half an hour. Put up in small jars or tumblers;
lay papers dipped in brandy on the fruit, and paste on covers, or use
patent jelly-glasses.
MARMALADE.—Quinces make the best; but crab-apples or any sour apple
are also good. Poor quinces, unfit for other use, can be washed and
cut in small pieces, coring, but not paring them. Allow three-quarters
of a pound of sugar and a teacupful of water to a pound of fruit, and
boil slowly two hours, stirring, and mashing it fine. Strain through a
colander, and put up in glasses or bowls. Peach marmalade is made in the
same way.
FRUIT JELLIES.—Crab-apple, quince, grape, etc., are all made in the same
way. Allow a teacup of water to a pound of fruit; boil till very tender;
then strain through a cloth, and treat as currant jelly. Cherries will
not jelly without gelatine, and grapes are sometimes troublesome. Where
gelatine is needed, allow a package to two quarts of juice.
CANDIED FRUITS.—Make a syrup as for preserves, and boil any fruit,
prepared as directed, until tender. Let them stand two days in the syrup.
Take out; drain carefully; lay them on plates; sift sugar over them, and
dry either in the sun or in a moderately warm oven.—_Helen Campbell, in
“The Easiest Way in Housekeeping and Cooking.”_
HOME STUDIES IN CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS.
BY PROF. J. T. EDWARDS, D.D.
Director of the Chautauqua School of Experimental Science.
AIR.—PHYSICAL PROPERTIES.
To make the _weight_ for the winds.—Job xxviii:25.
One day an old Florentine pump-maker came to Galileo[1] to inquire why he
could not make a pump work effectively when it was more than thirty-four
feet long. The philosopher could not answer, nor did he solve the problem
during his lifetime, but bequeathed it to his pupil, Torricelli.[2] This
famous Italian succeeded in partially answering the question in 1643. He
performed the following experiment: Taking a glass tube thirty-six inches
long and one-fourth of an inch in diameter, closed at one end, he filled
it with mercury, and holding his finger over the open end, inverted and
placed it in a cup of mercury, then removing his finger, discovered that
the quicksilver settled in the tube six inches, leaving a column of
the shining metal thirty inches high. He thus demonstrated that air has
weight, equal to that of a column of mercury thirty inches in height.
On this supposition it was argued that if the whole height of the air
should be _lessened_ the column would fall. Such was the opinion of
Blaise Pascal,[3] who in 1646 requested M. Périer, his brother-in-law, to
ascend the Puy de Dome, a summit near Clermont, and repeat the experiment
of Torricelli. To his delight, upon reaching the top of the mountain, the
column stood three inches lower. Pascal then used a tube fifty feet long,
which he filled with water, and found that this liquid could be supported
by the air to the height of thirty-four feet. Water is 13.6 lighter
than mercury, and it will be observed from the foregoing statement, that
it was supported 13.6 higher than quicksilver. Here was a full answer
to the pump-maker’s query! A column of water, thirty-four feet long and
one square inch at the base, weighs fifteen pounds. A column of mercury,
thirty inches long and one square inch at the base, weighs fifteen
pounds. A column of air the whole height of the atmosphere, one square
inch at the base, weighs fifteen pounds.
Any influence, therefore, which varies the weight of the air, will vary
the height of a column of quicksilver; and the reverse will of course be
true, that any fluctuation in the column of mercury indicates a change
in the condition of the atmosphere. Thus, a “falling barometer” predicts
foul weather, for it shows that the air is becoming lighter, and will
therefore rise, while other air will rush in, with varying speed, to take
its place, producing breezes, gales, and possibly tornadoes. The warm air
rising may come in contact with a cold stratum above and its moisture be
condensed into rain or snow. We shall presently refer to this again.
[Illustration: SHOWING DENSITY OF ATMOSPHERE AT DIFFERENT HEIGHTS.]
A quart of air, at ordinary temperature, weighs about eight hundred times
less than a quart of water, yet the aggregate pressure of the atmosphere
is equal to fifteen pounds on every square inch. A person of average
size presents a surface of about two thousand square inches. This would
receive a pressure of fifteen tons, a weight more crushing than that of
all the shields cast upon the traitorous Tarpeia[4] at the Roman gate.
Herschel calculates that the total weight of the atmosphere is one
twelve-hundred-thousandth of that of the earth.
Why does not such enormous pressure destroy life? Because it is
counterbalanced by the pressure of air, gases and blood within the body.
That this is true may readily be seen in the process of dry-cupping.
Bare the arm, take a bit of writing paper an inch and a half long, dip
it in alcohol, light, and instantly place in a small wine glass, and at
once apply the glass to the soft part of the arm. The flesh under the
glass will rise like a pin-cushion, and become red from the pressure
of the blood within. Persons going down in diving-bells suffer from
the condensation of the air in the bell, while on a high mountain they
experience a pressure in the opposite direction, on account of the
rarefaction of the atmosphere, the blood often gushing from the nose and
ears.
We shall better understand the phenomena of the air by first considering
some of its distinctive properties.
[Illustration: MAGDEBURG HEMISPHERES.]
AIR PRESSES EQUALLY IN ALL DIRECTIONS.
This great principle, which applies to all gases as well as to fluids,
has many illustrations in nature. The haliotis[5] is held to the rock
with a tenacity which sometimes resists the strength of the collector,
who would add its iridescent beauty to his cabinet of shells.
Alas for the fisherman’s line whose bait has been swallowed by a
skate![6] Quickly descending to the bottom, this broad, flat fish expels
the air from beneath it, and defies all effort at capture.
The most complete demonstration of this law is shown by the Magdeburg
hemispheres,[7] invented by Otto von Güricke[8] and used by him before
Charles V. and his brilliant court. They are still preserved in the
ancient city which gave them their name, are twenty-four inches in
diameter, and after the air in them had been removed, required twelve
horses to separate them.
The pressure of the air varies greatly at different altitudes. At the
height of three and one-half miles the column of mercury in a barometer
falls to fifteen inches, showing that below that elevation we have as
much air as in all the space above.
[Illustration: SHOWING TORRICELLI’S HISTORICAL EXPERIMENT AND THE
PRINCIPLE OF THE BAROMETER.]
The boiling point of liquids is materially influenced by the pressure
of the atmosphere. On high mountains potatoes and even eggs can not be
cooked by boiling, as the water will all evaporate before it is heated
sufficiently to cook them.
Partially fill a glass flask with water, heat it until steam begins to
escape, then remove the lamp and insert a stopper, the boiling will
cease. Now pour cold water upon the flask, and the water within begins
again to boil vigorously. The cold water condenses the steam, creating
a partial vacuum, thus relieving the heated water from pressure, and
it boils at a lower temperature than 212°. This illustrates the famous
culinary paradox that “cold water will make hot water boil.”
The buoyancy of substances in air depends upon the same principle that
determines their buoyancy in liquids. It will be proportioned to the
amount of air which they displace.
It is correct to say that a balloon rises because the air is heavier, and
therefore pushes under the balloon and forces it up; or, that it rises
because it displaces more than its own weight of air. Thistle-down may
be compressed so that it will fall like shot. The resistance offered by
the air to the fall of bodies led men long to hold to the fallacy that
the rapidity of the descent of falling bodies was proportioned to their
weight. This error was at length exploded by Galileo in his interesting
experiment on the leaning tower of Pisa.[9] In a vacuum, a cannon ball
and a feather fall in the same time.
[Illustration: AIR PUMP.]
COMPRESSIBILITY.
The statement that air can be expanded involves the counter-truth that it
may be compressed.
Mariotte[10] announces the law as follows: Doubling the pressure upon
a given amount of gas will halve the space it occupies, and double its
expansive energy. The application of this principle in one form gives
us the air-gun.[11] If the air in a gun-barrel forty inches long were
compressed into the space of half an inch it would press with eighty
times its previous force, or with a power equal to twelve hundred pounds
to the square inch. Compressed air is often used as a power in mines
and excavations, and its advantages are many; it was so employed in
the Hoosac tunnel. Though the engine that compressed the air was three
miles away, the loss from friction was very slight, and the air, having
performed its work in driving the drill, was then liberated to purify
the atmosphere of the tunnel and expel noxious gases which accumulated
from continuous blasting. The apparatus for compressing air is called
a condenser. It consists essentially of a cylinder and piston, with a
valve in the bottom of each, opening downward. A precisely opposite
arrangement of valves is found in the air-pump, a machine for exhausting
air from a given space, usually a receiver. As the piston is raised in
removing the air, the valve closes, and the air is thus forced out of
the cylinder; the air in the receiver then expands, opens the valve at
the bottom of the cylinder, and rises into it; as the piston descends
its valve is opened; rising, it again removes the cylinder full of air;
the air in the receiver again expands, opens the lower valve, and so
continues, until the air in the vessel becomes too much rarefied to lift
the delicate valve and make its escape. The vacuum thus produced is by no
means so perfect as the “Torricellian vacuum,”[12] the name given to the
unoccupied space above the column of mercury in a barometer.
Various substances may be placed in a receiver to show the expansive
tendency of air. A piece of wood immersed in a jar of water will throw
off thousands of little bubbles. A shriveled apple will become round and
plump. The air in an empty rubber bag will often expand so as to fill the
receiver. Air in a thin glass vessel, tightly corked, will expand so as
to burst the vessel into fragments.
The following simple but useful piece of apparatus can easily be made:
Take a pint bottle with a nicely fitted cork, through the cork insert
a small glass tube so as to be perfectly air-tight (melted sealing wax
is convenient for making tubes or glass tight;) a perforated _rubber_
stopper is better. Let the end of the tube inserted be drawn out in
the flame of an alcohol lamp (this is not essential, but will make the
experiments more interesting), suck the air from the bottle, close the
end of the tube at once with the finger and place it in a glass of water,
and a miniature fountain, in vacuo, will be revealed. After performing
this pretty experiment remove the tube and reinsert it with the larger
end down, having filled the bottle two-thirds full of water. With the
lips force a quantity of air into the bottle, upon removing the mouth
the water will rise in the tube and fall in a fine spray from the small
aperture at the top. This last experiment is particularly interesting, as
it is a perfect illustration of a flowing oil well. Closely allied to the
expansibility of air is its
ELASTICITY,
Or tendency to regain its former volume after being compressed. Many a
school-boy has observed this property, while manipulating his fascinating
popgun. When he places his finger over the open end of the piece of
elder, utilized as a gun, and suddenly pushes down the piston upon the
wad, he notices that it quickly flies back. An inflated bladder thrown
upon the floor bounds like a rubber ball; force pumps in our houses
act upon this principle. The air in the chamber of the pump is first
compressed by the entrance of the water; it reacts like a spring, and
forces the water through the pipes to the rooms above.
[Illustration: EXPANDING RUBBER BAG IN AN EXHAUSTED RECEIVER.]
The hydraulic ram is another application of the same principle. Perhaps
the reader may know some place where this apparatus can be used. Let us
briefly describe the conditions of its operation. Near your house, at a
lower elevation, may be a beautiful spring, so situated that, within the
distance of about seventy feet, a fall of from five to ten feet can be
obtained. Now run a large pipe from the spring to the spot where the ram
is to be placed, below the level of the spring. The ram is a pear-shaped,
cast iron cylinder, open at the small end, at which point a valve is
placed, opening upward. The pipe coming from the spring is screwed into
the bottom of the ram below this valve, in such a manner as to conduct
the water past the valve, and out through an opening beyond. At this
point, however, is placed a metallic valve, against which, as the water
escapes, it continues to crowd. Presently the rushing stream obtains
sufficient momentum to close this valve, and thus prevent for a moment
its further escape. The accumulated force of the water then raises the
valve in the bottom of the ram and it rises into the chamber, which is
partially filled with air. This air is compressed, but on account of its
elasticity at once reacts upon the water and forces it through another
pipe to the required height. Only about one-eighth of the water is sent
through the last pipe, as seven-eighths of it is required to force the
remainder to the desired elevation. I have a great respect for this
useful apparatus, the invention of the elder Montgolfier.[13] I know of
one hydraulic ram which for fifteen years has raised, through a pipe
twenty-two hundred feet long, to an elevation of seventy-five feet, an
average of twenty-four barrels of water daily. Its total cost for repairs
has not exceeded twenty-five dollars, and yet it has done every day the
work of four men. If men had been hired to do this labor at $1.50 per day
each, their wages would have amounted to the snug sum of $32,850.
[Illustration: A FOUNTAIN MADE BY COMPRESSING AIR IN A BOTTLE.]
Atmospheric pressure is employed in many of our cities to convey packages
from one part of a building to another, and to even greater distances.
This “Pneumatic Dispatch”[14] system, as it is called, was first tried
successfully in Paris, in 1865. A company was then established, which
now claims to send eight hundred and thirty packages daily. In our own
country this curious appliance may be seen in operation at the United
States Express office in New York City, in the mammoth establishment of
Mr. Wanamaker, in Philadelphia, and doubtless in many other places. For
many years attempts have been made to propel cars by compressed air, but
as yet the expense of such a plan greatly exceeds that of steam.
LIGHT.
Among the most gracious and beautiful offices performed by the atmosphere
is the reflection and refraction of light. The blue dome of the sky, the
magnificent coloring of the clouds, and all the delicate and ever varying
tints of the morning and evening twilight are due to its influence.
Without the air we should be in complete darkness until the sun rose,
a fiery ball, above the horizon. All day long the only light we should
receive would come directly from the sun, or be reflected from objects
on the earth. At sunset, darkness would instantly be spread over us like
a pall. No gentle gradations of light and deepening shade would usher in
and close the day.
All must have observed during the past year the remarkable appearance
of the western sky after the sun had set. Cities were more than once
supposed to be burning, reflecting their lurid blaze upon the clouds. The
cause of this is still a matter of dispute, but is generally attributed
to the presence of star dust, or some minute mineral matter suspended in
the higher atmosphere.
It will be remembered that color is not an inherent property of a
substance, but depends upon what portion of the light rays it absorbs.
Snow is white, as it absorbs none of the prismatic colors, but reflects
them all to the eye. Whatever, then, varies the absorbing or reflecting
power of an object varies its tints. Thus, objects seen on the horizon
are red, because the dense atmosphere has turned aside the violet,
indigo, blue, green, yellow and orange, and only the red color reaches
the eye.
Observe that the initial letter of the prismatic colors taken in their
order make the word “vibgyor.”
Again, were there no atmosphere, there could be no
CLOUDS NOR RAIN.
The moon is destitute of these, or at least that half of it which is
always turned toward us. The most powerful telescopes can detect there
the presence of neither atmosphere nor cloud.
A most remarkable proof of divine wisdom can be seen in the nice
adjustment by which the pressure of the air prevents undue evaporation
from the lakes and seas, and at the same time furnishes the medium by
which moisture is conveyed to the remotest parts of the earth. The fact
that water, in the form of mist or clouds, should float, and not fall in
a substance many times lighter than itself, is one of the most wonderful
of nature’s phenomena. When shot are dropped into water, we expect that
they will sink; yet lead is but eleven times heavier than water, while
water is eight hundred times heavier than air.
The following seems to be the most satisfactory explanation of the
matter: It is a well known fact that the air has the power to absorb and
hold, in an invisible form, a certain amount of moisture. The quantity
which it can contain depends upon its temperature. If the air is cooled,
it parts with a portion; thus if the grass radiates its heat, dew is
deposited upon it; if it is very cold, the frost covers it with sparkling
crystals. It is thought that when cooling from any cause takes place in
higher altitudes, the atmospheric moisture changes from the invisible
to the visible form, and assumes the physical condition of spheroids or
vesicles, minute bubbles of water in point of fact, each bubble filled
with air. These bubbles, heated by the sun’s rays, would become lighter
than the medium in which they float, for the same reason that soap
bubbles float while they are warm. In this condition they are drifted
along by currents until they reach a colder stratum of air, when they are
condensed and fall as rain. If cooled sufficiently, snow would be formed.
Cloud forms are four in number, cirrus, cumulus, nimbus, and stratus, all
of which may sometimes be seen at once, in the sky of a summer’s day. At
times they float above the loftiest mountains. Gay-Lussac,[15] rising in
his balloon to an elevation of 21,600 feet, perceived clouds drifting far
above him.
[Illustration: AIR CURRENTS—SHOWING THE PRINCIPLE ON WHICH MINES ARE
OFTEN VENTILATED.]
The work performed by the atmosphere in supplying water to the soil is
worthy of profound attention. Close observation shows that it varies in
amount, year by year, much less than one would suppose. For example,
the average yearly rain-fall in western New York, for the last thirteen
years, has been thirty-six inches. Contrary to the general impression,
the record shows a slight yearly increase in the amount. While this is
true, the quantity of water carried down by our rivers is constantly
diminishing. All must have observed the lessening size of our streams.
Many a mill has ceased to run from lack of its former supply of water.
This has resulted from the destruction of forests, and clearing of land,
which have greatly increased evaporation of moisture from the soil. So
grave a matter has this become, that it is attracting the attention of
governments, because of its relation to agriculture and the navigation of
rivers.
One can have but little idea, unless he carefully calculates it, of the
inestimable blessings conferred by the atmosphere upon man, in furnishing
to the soil its supply of water.
MR. THOUGHTFUL THANKFUL,
Being disposed properly to acknowledge the care of a kind Providence,
in carrying on the work of his farm, one day sat down to figure out the
value of a recent shower, which had refreshed his crops. The leaves of
his corn had begun to curl, the oats and wheat were growing prematurely
yellow, a few more days of the scorching heat and drouth would have
made his harvests a failure, but to his great relief a plenteous shower
fell. The rain gauge showed half an inch of water. Mr. Thankful took
out his pencil and, after careful mathematical calculations, arrived
at this astounding conclusion: An unseen hand had conveyed from a
remote distance, and deposited upon every acre of his little farm,
more than fifty-six tons of water. He owns a hundred acres. There must
therefore have been scattered upon the entire farm over 5,600 tons of
rain, an amount so large that if he had been compelled to pay for its
transportation it would have required more than all the income of his
farm.
[Illustration: MAKING WATER BOIL BY APPLYING COLD WATER.]
SOUND.
Our atmosphere is the medium of sound. Upon lofty mountains its
vibrations become faint, while in a vacuum all sound ceases. The world of
music, with which we are surrounded, were the air removed, would become
forever silent. No song of birds, no murmur of the brook, no sighing of
the trees, no thunder of the cataract, no grand diapason of the sea, no
sweet voice of friendship, no thrilling words of love could ever again
fall upon human ear. Gather together in one heap of useless rubbish (for
they will never more be needed), harp, lyre, flute, flageolet, violin and
guitar, piano and organ. Even that harp of three thousand strings, which
the divine hand has placed in the human ear, shall not again vibrate to
the delicate touch of nature’s hand.
ELECTRICITY AND METEORS.
We will close our present article by mentioning two other interesting
atmospheric phenomena.
Dr. Franklin proved that lightning and electricity are identical. This
wonderful agent manifests itself in a variety of ways. The zigzag track
of light across the darkened sky, with its accompanying crash, is one of
nature’s exhibitions of tremendous power. The irregularity of its path is
due to the resistance of the air, compressed by the electric motion. The
beautiful illumination called heat or sheet lightning, is caused by the
reflection of the electric flash, at a great distance from the observer.
A very curious form of electricity is that known as St. Elmo’s fire,
which appears as a glowing ball, often poising itself on the spars of
ships, to the great consternation of superstitious sailors.
Judge Dana, in his admirable book, “Two Years Before the Mast,” more than
once alludes to the sensation caused by these weird visitors, as they
rounded stormy Cape Horn.
The northern lights, or aurora borealis, with their throbbing, shifting,
crimson and purple tints, sometimes called “the merry dancers,” are
supposed to be produced by the discharge of electricity in high altitudes
and in rarefied air. All around us there is slumbering this power, which
science may some day awaken to do the common work of the world.
Meteors, or “shooting stars,” as they are often incorrectly called, are
small bodies, often not larger than grains of sand, which rush into our
atmosphere at a speed equal to the earth’s motion, eleven hundred miles
a minute, and by friction are set on fire, and blaze for a moment in
the sky. Lockyer[16] says that seven millions of these, visible to the
naked eye, traverse our atmosphere in a single day, and that a powerful
telescope would reveal in the same time not less than four hundred
millions.
Once in thirty-three years an astonishing display of these celestial
fireworks takes place. The last was in 1866. At that time these bodies
chanced to cross the track of the earth’s orbit, and were thus brought
into collision with it. The largest of them, called meteorites, sometimes
pass through the atmosphere unconsumed and reach the earth. They have
been known to kill both men and cattle.
In 1866 one thousand of these stones, the largest weighing six hundred
pounds, fell in Hungary.
It is very incorrect to call these flashing bodies in the air shooting
stars, for they are extremely minute in size, while stars are vast suns;
again, in point of distance, they are different, being near at hand,
while the latter are millions of miles away. It would be difficult to
find an instance in which language can convey a greater error than this
phrase, which constantly implies that vast worlds, by thousands, are
flying hither and thither, like sky-rockets. Often a single glance at the
sky on a clear night, would show how unsafe this world would be as the
object of such tremendous cannonading.
_End of Required Reading for January._
THE HOMELIKE HOUSE.
BY SUSAN HAYES WARD.