In studying how to make home beautiful, we must not forget that, first
of all, there must be a home; and that in a true home, the household,
and not the house, is of primary importance. We have all seen careful
housekeepers whose first and last thought was to keep their domains with
absolute neatness, and whose domestic law was of Median and Persian
inflexibility. Overshoes must be left here; slippers must be put on
there; the front stair-carpet must only be trodden by the visitor’s
foot; the front door-latch must never be lifted by the children’s hand;
curtains must be drawn close lest carpets fade; and autumn fires remain
unlighted lest ashes fly. These were housekeepers, not home makers. The
virtue of carefulness is a housewife’s glory; but when carried to an
excess, it becomes a woman’s shame, leading her to imagine that meat is
more than life, raiment than body, and house than man. Of the virtuous
woman we read first: “She openeth her mouth with wisdom, and in her
tongue is the law of kindness;” then that “she looketh well to the ways
of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness;” after which it
follows naturally that “her children rise up and call her blessed, her
husband also, and he praiseth her;” but when the devil of neatness enters
into a woman he defies family comfort, and banishes the angel of peace
from the home. And yet comfort, important though its place may be in the
home economy, is not to be the first aim. A wise critic says: “Every
house should have in it that which tells of strength, and seems to favor
self-sacrifice, simplicity, self-control. Nothing is finer in a house
than a kind of subtle ubiquitous spirit, which asserts the superiority
of the household, and tells you that they fear neither hunger nor cold,
neither toil nor danger, and do not bow down, night and morning to the
vulgar divinity, Comfort.” Not the house we live in, but the life we live
in it is that on which the real beauty of home depends. In the House
Beautiful, not Mr. Cook’s, nor Mrs. Allen’s, but in that incomparable
House Beautiful which Bunyan has described for us, even there the
boy Matthew fell sick from tampering with the fruit of Beelzebub’s
garden. Compared with this soundness of inner life in the house, these
questions of outer adornment, of taste, or expediency, or expense, are
but unimportant matters, since no home can be truly beautiful that is
tarnished by an unworthy life within its walls.
So much of preliminary statement must be pardoned me, because in the
refined paganism of these days there seems to be a mania for magnifying
the house we live in, and the highest religion of many a family is
simply to make their home beautiful and attractive. It is better than no
religion at all—but a higher religion teaches us to make the homes of the
poor comfortable before—we make our own beautiful, shall I say? Not at
all; but before we spend freely to gain this end. For the external beauty
of home does not depend on the amount of money spent in its adornment.
Money buys a great deal of clutter that had far better be left in the
shops; money buys a vast amount of superfluous stuck-on ornaments, that
were better left off, but money does not and can not buy good taste—an
eye for color, thoughtful care for the general comfort, a quick wit, and
common sense. Yet these are the safest and surest helps to the woman who
aims to make her home attractive to the eye and restful to the body.
Let us enter the door of this woman’s house and see what she allows and
what she disallows.
First, we notice that her entry and stairways are planned upon as
liberal a scale as possible. That is but common sense, for furniture
and trunks must go in and out, up and down, to say nothing of household
and visitors, and the broader the entry way, the more hospitable and
inviting it can be made with chairs, table and sofa. Modern builders
have at last learned this, and they are giving us the old-fashioned hall
again, with a corner or side fireplace, and, if possible, an outlook on
the back garden. This hall is not kept too dark in winter, nor too light
in summer. In cold weather we need cheerfulness, warmth, and light on
entering the house. In summer we should step from the glare of a vertical
sun and heat of the nineties, into a cool, refreshing shade, kept, of a
purpose, darker than sitting-room, dining-room and kitchen, to prevent
flies from swarming into the hall and up the stairway and becoming the
pest of the morning sleeper. The back stairs also are closed, either
above or below, so that premonitory hints of meals to come may not ascend
to the bedrooms and go down the front stairs to guests in the parlor,
thus proclaiming on the housetop what you whisper to your cook in the
kitchen.
“Aim at a gold gown and you’ll get a sleeve,” says our grandmother’s
proverb; so our wise woman knows what is best and aims for it, but
contents herself with what she can get. For an American house, the best
flooring, generally speaking, would be—for a vestibule—tiles of small
pattern and modest color, such as yellow and brown, which would take no
injury from muddy overshoes or dripping umbrellas; for the rest of the
house hard wood floors (Southern pine is admirable), plain or very simply
inlaid. Elaborate patterns in inlaid woods should be avoided, except in
large rooms, and contrasts of colors, such as stripes of black walnut and
hard pine, which make a narrow hallway look yet narrower; but a modest
border might be inlaid around any room, hall, parlor, or bedroom with
good effect, if desired, with a substantial oriental rug in the midst of
it all. There can be nothing better than this.
But a cheap pine floor, if properly laid, can be stained and made to
do good service, instead of hard wood, and a strip of cocoanut matting
running the length of the hall is not to be despised; or, if cracks yawn
too perceptibly to have the floor bare, it can be covered with a plain,
self-colored drugget or carpet filling, or “two ply,” while a strip of
bright carpet passes from the doorway up the stairs, and enlivens the
hall. Or, simpler yet, the floor can be painted a serviceable yellow
or gray, and a width of rag carpet can add warmth and color. There are
pretty straw mattings in greens and reds and cream colors which, with
the aid of rugs, serve admirably for floor coverings, but they are
hardly durable enough for entry ways. Our wise woman bears in mind that
a well-laid, hard wood floor will outlast many a drugget, or carpet, or
coat of paint, or oil cloth, and she does up her hall floor, at first, in
as durable a fashion as her purse will allow.
There is a certain fitness of things also to be observed. Good taste
forbids her to step from an entry with stained or painted pine floor
and rag carpet to a parlor with inlaid floors and Persian rugs. The
rag carpet of the hall demands something correspondingly simple in the
reception room; a floor stained or painted in the same fashion, or a
straw matting, with perhaps a few breadths of “Morris” carpet, of warm
color and quiet figure, sewed together to make a rug, and raveled at the
ends for fringe.
As for walls, it is convenient to divide them with a chair rail or
moulding of the same stuff as that used for mop-boards and door casings,
fastened about four feet from the floor and running around the entry and
up the side wall of the stairway. The wall below this moulding can be
painted in oil a warm olive-brown or green, or a dull red, and, when so
painted, can be washed like the woodwork.
A more expensive way would be to panel off this space with big cedar
shingles of the sort that cost about $25 a thousand, provided the rest
of the woodwork is repainted, or with wood corresponding with the finish
of the room. Unpainted woodwork, even though made of soft pine, is far
better from the housekeeper’s standpoint than that which is coated
with paint. Pine, when oiled and varnished—not too heavily—assumes a
rarely beautiful hue and shows the variety of its markings to very good
effect. The wall space above could be papered with some figured pattern
corresponding in color with that below the chair-rail, or dado, as it
is called (if that is painted rather than paneled), but the wall-space
should be of lighter tint than the dado, or it could be calcimined, or
_kalsomined_, as they spell and pronounce it in New Jersey.
When paper is used, the pattern should not be so large as to make the
room look small, nor so pronounced as to prevent the walls from serving
as a fair back-ground for pictures and plants.
But suppose our prudent woman can afford neither chair-rail nor
oil-painted dado, and yet would like to divide the wall space. Then let
Mr. Kalsominer paint a dado of olive-brown or green, a wall space of much
lighter shade, and a ceiling of cream color. He can also paint a band
of dull red where the chair-rail should be, and then our wise woman,
if she be also a woman of faculty, will take the little red paint pot
into her own hand and will cut out of varnished paper some conventional
leaf or flower, and using this as a stencil, with a stiff brush she will
powder[A] this leaf or flower at regular intervals of about a foot all
over the dado. Or, discarding the stencil, some simple arrangement of
triple dots might be used that need only be indicated with a pencil point
and then painted on, with a small brush, free hand. The kalsominer would
double his prices if he did it, but the room will be twice as pretty
if she does it herself. Or she may powder her lighter wall space with
figures of the same dark shade as the dado, so harmonizing the upper
and lower portions, while a yet darker brown line divides them. But the
stenciling of a wall space requires too much step-ladder work for the
ordinary woman. Last, and probably cheapest of all, she may use wall
paper—the darkest shade below—of some stiff diaper or tile pattern, the
lighter above, with border between; the ceiling being washed a lighter
harmonizing color.
As to the furniture of the hall, it ought to begin outside the door, with
a bench, or settle, or chair, at least, upon the piazza, or “stoop,” for
any weary body to drop down upon while the door is undoing. A wide piazza
gives room not only for a few chairs, and the picturesque and comfortable
hammock, but for a table, as well, where the afternoon cup of tea can
rest, or the work-basket with the weekly mending. A broad platform with
awnings is a comfortable and picturesque addition to a house of plain and
unattractive exterior. Happy and healthy are the households whose piazzas
are their summer sitting-rooms.
The vestibule should have closets or some very plain and simple
receptacle for umbrellas and India rubber shoes. In the hall proper comes
up the vexed question of the hat tree. It is an ungainly, aggressive
piece of furniture, and very cumbersome. If possible, let it be done
away with. If there is a closet under the stairs for the family hats and
coats, then the chance visitor can throw off his coat on the hall sofa
or table. Hall chairs are useful, with a box seat holding whisk broom,
hat brush, driving gloves, and things of that sort, and so is the table
drawer; any of these contrivances are better than the hat tree, and so is
a simple rail hidden away in some dark corner under the stairs, if there
be no closet, with pegs attached for hats and coats. “There can be no
reasonable law against making a hall chair both comfortable and suitable
to its situation. The common Windsor high-backed arm-chair, made in the
same wood as the table, and with a cushion covered with some bright
colored material is well suited for this purpose; or a chair … with a
high back and broad, low seat looks both severe enough to discourage
unbecoming lounging, and yet sufficiently comfortable to secure a proper
degree of rest for the weary.”
And where in the hall can hangings and stuffs be used to best advantage?
Enter any house and look about for yourself. If the ground glass of the
vestibule door be exposed and staring, the hall floor bare and cold, the
hall chair hard and stiff, the doors to the reception or sitting-room all
closed, rising black and grim before you, and the hall itself so dark
that you can not see even where to lay down your companionable umbrella,
does there not come over you a chill, as if you were being repelled by
the spirit of inhospitality? The entrance hall gives you no hearty cheer
of welcome. But warm up the floor with a rug, lay a restful and inviting
cushion on the chair; open the door that leads to the room where the
household gathers, or where your hostess is to receive you, or take it
off the hinges bodily and lay it away, and hang instead a curtain that
shall give a glimpse of the warmth and light within, while still shutting
out the draught. Let soft silk or Madras muslin hang in full folds over
the window in the door, and the stranger who enters no longer feels like
a prisoner in Doubting Castle, whom Giant Despair has cast into a dungeon
for trespassing on his grounds, but rather shall I not say, as if he had
fallen upon the House Beautiful, built on purpose for the entertainment
of pilgrims, where only the fair virgins Prudence, Piety and Charity
would be his companions?
Just so inviting was the entrance to my wise woman’s house when I last
visited her. It was a house with a door in the middle, the hall running
through the entire depth. Midway, an arch curtained with Mexican blankets
half screened the back hall, which served for the family music room.
Facing the piano was a long, old-fashioned sofa, where the weary head of
the house could lie and be rested by music from his daughter’s fingers
or the voices of his children. This happy man, who had his quiver full
of them, had one of those charming houses that grows with the household.
Near the side entrance, what used to be a dining-room is now known as
_the coat room_. I saw one side of the room literally lined with coats
and wraps, hats and bonnets, depending from some hat rack arrangement
of domestic manufacture. Boots, shoes, and galoches of all shapes and
sizes stood in a suitable rack beneath. Guns and hunting gear, fishing
rods and tackles, bows and arrows, grace hoops, battle-doors and
shuttle-cocks, tennis rackets and croquet mallets and balls all found
their appointed places here. Water and towels awaited the convenience of
those who must make a partial toilet in haste. Even the shoe-blacking
had its own corner. A book case on the wall held well thumbed grammars
and geographies side by side with dictionaries, college text-books and
a cook book or two; while before the fireplace that “filled the room on
one side,” you might see a young Nimrod greasing his boots or polishing
his gun; and later, the little folks popping corn, making caramels, or
boiling taffy. When the wise woman, after looking well to the ways of
her household, devises such liberal things as these in their behalf, no
wonder her children rise up and call her blessed.
The room on which the average American housekeeper expends the most
thought and pains is the parlor, as she calls it. The word parlor means,
primarily, a room for conversation. Properly speaking, the room where
members of the family gather that they may talk together, is the parlor
(from the French _parler_), but somehow the word has been applied to
“the best room of a house, kept for receiving company, as distinguished
from the sitting room of the family.” We have an English word for
that—drawing room—contracted from withdrawing room—a room appropriated
for the reception of guests “to which a company withdraws from the dining
room.” Since the household is more important than the house, the best of
the house should be at the service of the household; hence whatever is
most comfortable and cheerful should be in the parlor where the family
congregate. If aside from the dining room and kitchen there is but one
other room on the first floor, let that be the parlor for family use, the
“living room,” unless there be a family sitting room on the second floor.
For people who entertain many guests the reception or withdrawing room
is a necessity, and it is often convenient in city houses to have, in
addition, a smaller room near the door, where the lady of the house can
receive visitors without disturbing the family party or the friends whom
she may be entertaining in the drawing room.
There is never need of saying to an American housewife, let the room
where you receive your friends be as handsome as may be. I would rather
say let it be as comfortable as you know how to make it. Do not keep it
dark and unwholesome, stuffy and shut up. If your economical soul refuses
to expose its treasures always to the light of day, at least do your
best to make the room look habitable, and as if it were put into daily
use. What can be more embarrassing to a guest than to be ushered into a
dark room, cold and repellent in winter, close and stifling in summer,
there to wait drearily till the mistress of the house has donned her good
clothes and is ready to push back the shutter or raise the curtain that
she may have light enough to recognize her guest?
Our English sisters set us a good example in this respect. Their drawing
rooms are made comfortable, with easy chairs strong enough to hold a
man’s weight, with tables conveniently placed, with books here and an
embroidery frame there, and a lady’s work basket near at hand, not at
all too fine for daily use. I have seen an American lady hustle her work
basket out of the room when the door-bell rang, hide her thimble in her
pocket, and assume an air of elegant idleness and leisure, as if she were
ashamed to be caught needle in hand. Her English sister, better bred,
would lay down her work to welcome her guest, and resume it again, as a
matter of course, to set her visitor at ease.
A marble-topped center table is not essential to a drawing room; nor
are a photograph album and illustrated books essential ornaments of the
center table. The morning papers, the last number of _The Century_, and a
readable book are more attractive ornaments than the most costly album,
though filled with pictures of all the celebrities you have ever seen.
I would have a book case, at least a book-shelf, in every room in the
house—I have three in my hall, even—and the reception room surely is no
exception to the rule. Let there be books at hand for the entertainment
of guests, and let there be every facility possible for rendering the
room light enough to read or to sew. In a large room there should be
more than one table, and student lamps in abundance where there is no
gas. Where gas is burned there should still be lamps or drop-lights on
the tables. Parsimony in lamp-light is as bad as parsimony in fuel or
in bedding, and results in serious injury to the eyes. As to the matter
of heating our houses, there have been so many funny things done in the
attempt to affect a compromise between the fire place and the furnace
that almost every house has in it something incongruous in this line. The
old-fashioned fireplace for burning wood was healthful and artistic, but
it often smoked, and in the depth of winter seldom gave out sufficient
heat. The grate in which anthracite coal is burned, or soft coal, was
good, but the care of the coal fire, though not so continuous as of
the wood, was still a heavy burden. There is a price to pay for every
comfort, and we can not rightly enjoy the comfort without paying its
full price. But that seemed a hard doctrine, and so the inventors went
to work. They gave up that abomination, the air-tight stove, which rose
in grim blackness an offense to the eye, and parched all the air for us
before we had breathed it in. Then the furnace came in and there was
an era of real rejoicing. Fireplaces were walled up and holes cut in
all the floors, but with hot air furnaces there were new complications.
Water pans which should be replenished daily were as often as not left
empty, and the air was no better to breathe than that baked dry by an
air-tight stove, and the fire, as a rule, required a man’s hand. Beside,
holes in the floor were not inviting to have around. But the furnace,
whether hot air or steam, did warm the house. Thermometers stood at
from seventy to eighty instead of being kept where they belonged, down
in the sixties, and throat and lung diseases multiplied. Then some one
who had not forgotten the cheer of the fireplace introduced the hot air
from a chimney register, giving out heat, with no sign of fire, from the
old spot, and then came the make-believe iron logs with an internal gas
arrangement which was lighted when guests came, and burned in a pathetic,
appealing way, provoking the beholder now to laughter and now to tears.
It was left to the æsthetic craze to bring in the last and worst affront
of all to comfort and common sense, a fireplace with highly glazed
tiles and elaborate wrought iron back, with choice and costly fenders,
tongs, and andirons of brass and steel, with all the appointments of the
fireplace of the most luxurious stamp, but all too fine for possible use,
with absolutely nothing intended for use. The poor, foolish, iron logs
never deceived any one, but they burned; nevertheless, these beautifully
tiled fireplaces, with their spick and span hearths are mere husks, and
are as loathsome and cluttersome as are the “air castles” and wax fruit,
which these æsthetics would banish in contempt from their homes. The
height of luxury is to have the sharpness of winter’s cold subdued by a
good furnace in the cellar, which modifies the air all over the house,
and then to have open fires here and there to give cheer as well as
additional warmth and good ventilation, and a fireplace finished with
plain brick, without a tile, the brick work, freshened up occasionally by
painting it with Indian red mixed with milk, after the fashion of fifty
years ago, or a plain iron grate for coal, used as occasion calls, is in
better taste for a drawing room than the most elaborate combination of
tiles, brass and steel kept for mere show. When any object, not alone a
fireplace, but any object designed primarily for use is so excessively
ornamented as to fail of its mission of utility, this very excess of
decoration becomes an offense and renders the object neither useful nor
beautiful.
Wm. Morris’s stringent rule, “Have nothing in your homes that you do not
know to be useful or believe to be beautiful,” applies with full force to
the drawing room; and when the housekeeper has striven first of all to
supply her drawing room with comfortable, useful pieces of furniture, she
may look around her with surprise to find that almost without her thought
the place has grown beautiful as well.
[A] POWDER—a technical term used in heraldry—a figure is powdered on a
coat of arms, when it is repeated at uniform intervals over its surface.
A PRAYER BY THE SEA.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
I saw the ships on a windy sea
In the light of the morning’s gold;
And the shout of the sailors came to me
Like songs from the days of old.
Wild waves leaped up on the crags and beat
On the edge of the rock-bound shore;
And the thought of a coming time was sweet,
When the sea should be no more.
No more, no more shall mothers and wives
Dream of loves that the blue wastes hide,
No more shall the vigorous hearts and lives
Be flung to the wind and tide!
Oh, Father, follow the gallant ships
Through the light of the morning pale!
Thou hearest the prayer of the loving lips,
Thy mercy never can fail.
And guide us all to some haven blest
Where never a tempest is known;
For life is sad, and the secret of rest
Is hidden with Thee alone.
GEOGRAPHY OF THE HEAVENS FOR JANUARY.
BY PROF. M. B. GOFF,
Western University of Pennsylvania.
THE SUN.
During this month the sun makes rapid strides northward, moving from
declination 22° 57′ south on the 1st to declination 17° 11′ south on the
31st. This occasions also quite an increase in the length of the day,
from sunrise to sunset on the 1st being 9h. 23m. 36s., and on the 30th,
10h. 4m. 56s. On the 1st, 16th and 30th, 7:22, 7:21 and 7:11 a. m. are
the respective hours of rising, and 4:46, 4:59 and 5:16 p. m. the hours
of setting. On the 16th, day breaks at 5:40 a. m., and twilight ends
at 6:40 p. m., giving just thirteen hours between “early dawn and dewy
eve.” The sun is slower than the clock, on the 1st, being on the meridian
at three minutes and thirty-eight seconds past twelve, and on the 31st
reaching the meridian thirteen minutes and forty-seven seconds after the
clock indicates noon.
THE MOON
Will present its ordinary four changes at the following times: last
quarter on the 7th, at 10:28 p. m.; new moon, 16th, 3:28 a. m.; first
quarter, 23d, 8:18 p. m.; full, 30th, 11:11 a. m. It will be in apogee,
or farthest from the earth, on the 13th, at 3:42 a. m., and in perigee,
or nearest to the earth, on the 28th, at 8:42 p. m. It will reach its
greatest elevation, amounting to 66° 55′, on the 28th, and the least
elevation, 30°, on the 14th.
MERCURY,
Well named from its mercurial habits, having the smallest orbit, and
being the most rapid traveler, presents in a given time more phases than
any other of the planets. Thus we find that on the 3d, at 5:00 p. m.,
it is in inferior conjunction with the sun, that is, between the earth
and the sun; on the 14th, at 8:42 a. m., 2° 1′ south of the moon; on the
14th, at 3:00 p. m., stationary, that is, it is moving in a direct line
(or nearly so) away from the earth, and thus _seems_ to stand still;
on the 24th, at 5:00 a. m., is 1° 6′ north of Venus, on which occasion
the latter will serve as a good “pointer,” enabling one readily to find
this peculiar planet. On the 26th, it is at its greatest distance (24°
53′) west of the sun. Its motion for the first fourteen days is 12° 45′
retrograde; and for the remainder of the month, 29° 51′ 40″ direct. On
the 1st it rises at 7:39 a. m., and sets 5:11 p. m.; and on the 16th,
rises at 5:52 a. m., sets at 3:22 p. m.; and on the 30th rises at 5:52 a.
m., and sets at 3:10 p. m.; changing from evening star during the first,
to morning star in the latter part of the month.
VENUS
Continues morning star, and will remain so till the 4th of May. On the
1st, rises at 5:11 a. m., sets 2:39 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 5:40 a.
m., sets 2:52 p. m.; on the 30th, rises at 5:59 a. m., sets 3:17 p. m.
Motion 41° 32′ 59″ direct. Diameter diminishes from 12.4″ to 11.2″. On
the 13th, at 3:34 p. m., 4° 8′ south of the moon. On the 24th, at 5:00 a.
m., 1° 6′ south of Mercury.
MARS.
This planet presents nothing peculiar this month. It will be an evening
star, though appearing but a short time after sunset each day. On the
1st it rises at 8:10 a. m., and sets at 5:20 p. m.; on the 16th rises at
7:51 a. m., sets at 5:21 p. m.; on the 30th rises at 7:29 a. m., sets at
5:21 p. m. It has a direct motion of 25° 16′ 2″, and its diameter remains
about the same during the month, namely: 4.2″. On the 16th, at 6:48 p.
m., is 5° 42′ south of the moon.
JUPITER
Makes a retrograde motion of 2° 24′ 47″, and is classed as a morning
star, though he shines nearly the entire night, rising on the 1st at
9:02 p. m., and setting next morning at 10:14 a. m.; rising on the
16th at 7:59 p. m., setting on the 17th at 9:13 a. m.; and on the 30th
rising at 6:56 p. m. and setting at 8:14 on the morning of the 31st.
An indication that he is approaching the earth is that his diameter
increased from 39.6″ on the 1st to 42.2″ on the 30th. On the 4th, at 7:24
p. m., he is 4° 2′ north of the moon.
SATURN
Has a retrograde motion of 1° 31′ 53″, and his diameter decreases during
the month six-tenths of a second of arc; but this diminution affects
but very slightly his brightness. As he is an evening star, the most
convenient opportunities are afforded for obtaining a fine view. He rises
on the 1st at 3:07 p. m., and sets on the 2nd at 5:43 a. m.; on the 15th
rises at 2:04 p. m., and sets the following morning at 4:40; on the 30th,
rises at 1:07 p. m., and sets on the 31st at 3:43 a. m. On the 26th, at
9:02 p. m., is 3° 27′ north of the moon.
The use of the telescope in developing the rings of Saturn is one of the
interesting items in astronomical history. To one looking at this planet
with the naked eye, he appears simply as a bright star; but to a person
using a telescope of moderate power, he now presents some such appearance
as was hinted at in the December number of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, and resembles
a globe with an appendage on either side similar to a new moon (the
concave part turned toward the globe). To the early astronomers, whose
telescopes were so much inferior to ours, his appearance was a great
puzzle and produced a great variety of opinions. To Galileo the planet
appeared like three globes, a large one with a smaller detached one on
each of two sides. To Scheiner, in 1614, he appeared as one large globe,
with a small attached ball on either side. To others he appeared as a
globe with crescents (shape of new moon) sometimes detached, and at
other times having their cusps (sharp points) meet on the edge of the
planet. And it was not until 1655 that the discovery was made that these
appendages were neither balls nor crescents, but were, as then supposed,
a ring (seen in various positions) around the body of the planet. In
the spring of this year, Huyghens discovered that what had appeared as
handles extended out on each side and were somewhat like a veritable
ball with its projecting axes ready to be laid in their “bearings.” The
next spring the “gudgeons” had disappeared and only the plain sphere
remained. In the fall of 1656 the axes had reappeared. Thus was suggested
to Huyghens that these appearances were produced by the alternate
presentation to view of the edge and face of a ring, whose thickness was
so small as to be invisible when its plane was directed to the eye. Being
anxious to secure to himself the honor of this discovery, and yet not
wishing to publish it prematurely, lest his conception should turn out
to be incorrect, he printed at the end of a little pamphlet descriptive
of the planet the following characters: _aaaaaaa ccccc d eeeee g h
iiiiiii llll mm nnnnnnnnn oooo pp q rr s ttttt uuuuu_. Should his theory
prove to be incorrect no one would be likely to solve the riddle; should
it be correct, as it proved to be, he readily arranged the letters to
read: _Annulo cingitur tenui, plano nusquam cohaerente, ad eclipticam
inclinato_; which being translated means: “Girdled by a thin, plane ring,
nowhere touching, inclined to the ecliptic.” It was soon ascertained
that the ring had an inclination of 27° to the plane of its orbit, and
as it with the planet revolves about the sun, its axis maintains the
same absolute position; so that as the revolution is made once in every
twenty-nine and a half years, every fourteen and three-fourth years
its edge is directly toward the sun, and, practically, toward the earth
(since the distance of the earth from the sun is comparatively small),
and is invisible except through the most powerful telescopes. In like
manner, every fourteen and three-fourth years the greatest possible
portion of the ring’s surface is presented to the sun, and if the ring
were perpendicular to the plane of the earth’s orbit, and its axis
directed toward the earth, we should see the globe entirely girdled,
instead of seeing, as we do, a large portion of one side of the ring and
the opening only on two sides between it and the planet.
After Huyghens, the discovery was made by an English astronomer named
Ball, that instead of only one ring, Saturn had two rings, divided by a
narrow, dark line, and that the inner ring was broader than the outer in
about the ratio of seventeen to ten; that is, the breadth of the inner
was estimated to be 17,000 miles, while that of the outer was only 10,300
miles. In 1850, Prof. Bond, of Cambridge, discovered a third ring lying
between the inner ring and the planet. But this was hardly regarded as a
discovery, as this ring had been “seen in England by Messrs. Lassell and
Dawes, before it was formally announced by the Bonds;” and “something of
the same kind had been seen by Dr. Galle, at Berlin, as far back as 1838.”
Another perplexing question is, whether there are changes going on in
these rings, and if so, what they are. Struve, in 1851, propounded
the theory that the inner edge of the ring (or rings) was gradually
contracting, and thus lessening the space between it and the planet, and
this at the rate of about 1.3″ per century; at which rate it would close
in on the planet about the year 2150—a date at such a distance that the
event, should it transpire, will be of little moment to our readers.
Another not yet satisfactorily answered question is, of what are these
rings composed? The generally accepted answer at present is, that it is
neither a solid nor a fluid ring, but a cloud of satellites, too small
and too numerous to be seen singly. “They are like the separate little
drops of water out of which are composed fogs and clouds, which, to our
eyes, seem like solid masses.”
URANUS
Reaches his stationary point on the 6th, at 5:00 p. m., having made a
direct motion of 51.45″; during the rest of the month he retrogrades 17′
12.6″. On the 6th, at 6:50 p. m., he is 1° 18′ north of the moon. He
figures as a morning star, rising on Dec. 31st, ’84, at 11:29 p. m., and
setting on New Year’s at 11:25 a. m.; on the 15th, rising at 10:30 p. m.,
and setting on the 16th at 10:26 a. m.; on the 29th, rising at 9:33 p.
m., and setting on the 30th at 9:31 a. m.
NEPTUNE
Also plays the _rôle_ of morning star, rising in the afternoon of the
1st at 1:31, and setting on the morning of the 2d at 3:25; on the 16th,
rising at 12:31 p. m., and setting next morning at 2:25; and on the 30th,
rising at 11:36 a. m., and setting at 1:30 a. m. on the 31st. On the
24th, at 11:34 p. m., he is 1° 48′ north of the moon; is stationary at
3:00 a. m. on the 30th, up to which date he has retrograded 14′ 51.6″.
His diameter being only 2.6″, he can only be seen through a telescope of
higher power.
YALE COLLEGE AND YALE CUSTOMS.
BY GEORGE H. VINCENT.
The good people who, in 1638, came over from England and settled New
Haven, came with a definite purpose. They aimed to establish a model
community in church and state, and, as an important means to this end,
they proposed to found a college. At first, events conspired to keep
the classic groves from taking root on the bleak Connecticut shore. A
capricious government in England was granting and annulling charters
with alarming frequency, and the colonies were in a corresponding state
of uncertainty and apprehension, while the ravages of the Indian wars
did much to occupy and distract the thoughts of the New Haven people.
Finally, in 1660, a bequest of Governor Hopkins induced the colonists
to found an institution which they called a “Collegiate School,” lest a
more pretentious title might make it difficult to obtain a charter. The
Governor’s will, however, was contested by the legislature, which finally
obtained a part of the bequest. This fact, together with the depression
caused by the compulsory union of New Haven with the Connecticut colony,
prevented any marked advance in the prosperity of the institution which,
under the title of the “Hopkins Grammar School,” still prepares students
for the various departments of Yale.
After the peace of Ryswick in 1697, prosperity returned to the colonists,
and a second time the subject of a college was agitated. Ten trustees,
most of them ministers from New Haven and vicinity, met some time in 1700
at Brandford, a small town near New Haven. Each trustee presented a few
volumes with the declaration: “I give these books for the founding of a
college.”
The next year a charter was granted to the new college, which was located
at Saybrook, with the Rev. Abraham Pierson, a metaphysician of some
note, as president. The students, eight in number, and “put into classes
according to the proficiency they had antecedently made,” lived in the
president’s house, under his supervision and instruction. The first
commencement was held at Saybrook, September 13, 1702.
The French war of the same year had its effect upon the college, and
when in 1707 Rector Pierson died, it was found impossible to support a
resident professor at Saybrook. Consequently the senior class was sent to
Milford and placed under the Rev. Samuel Andrew, while the other classes
remained at Saybrook with two tutors. At this time Yale College extended
from the senior class at Milford to the juniors, sophomores and freshmen
at Saybrook, a distance of forty miles.
In 1714, the death of the Rev. James Pierpont, who may be regarded as
the founder of the college, struck another blow at its prosperity. At
the same time complaints about their accommodations from the Saybrook
students made it evident that if the college was to become a permanent
institution, some active measures were required. At a meeting of
trustees in 1716, after a protracted discussion, and not a little to
the dissatisfaction of Hartford, it was decided to locate the college
permanently at New Haven. Hartford was appeased by building there a new
court house, and the scattered students were gathered at New Haven, which
that day became a college town.
Among several donations to the college, the most generous was that of
Elihu Yale, a former resident of New Haven, and at the time a wealthy
London merchant. In view of his munificence, the trustees called the new
building which his donation had enabled them to complete, Yale College.
It would be superfluous for our purpose to trace the history of the
college from this permanent foundation in 1718 to the present time. Among
its presidents we find such names as Elihu Williams, Ezra Stiles, Timothy
Dwight, Jeremiah Day, Theodore D. Woolsey and Noah Porter—grand men of
the orthodox school, some of them rigid and severe in administration,
but all respected and honored. The character of the presidents is an
index to the institution, which has developed under the severe discipline
of New England. The students who of late years have come from distant
states have modified the general character of the college, but have not
destroyed the old influence. The recognition of religion, which in some
universities has well-nigh disappeared, still holds its own, and the same
bell which, in years gone by, summoned sleepy and half-dressed students
to the murky chapel, at five in the morning, now, at a more convenient
hour, assembles in the handsome “Battell” those who have come to college
from every state in the Union. Thus the old New England _régime_ makes an
impression upon the rising generation of the whole country.
It is not within the scope of this article to consider the development
of the college curriculum; but, perhaps, in view of the radical changes
which the Yale faculty have introduced for the college year 1884-’85, it
may not be out of place rapidly to sketch the innovations. In 1786 the
requirements for admission were “Virgil, Tully, and the Greek Testament.”
This is characteristic of the college, which has always been remarkably
conservative in its devotion to the classics. Charles Francis Adams’
oration at the Harvard “Phi Beta Kappa” dinner two years ago, aroused
no little antagonism in New Haven. President Porter has written several
articles defending the classics, and when Matthew Arnold and Lord
Coleridge addressed the Yale students, both congratulated the institution
upon its attitude toward the ancient languages. Heretofore Latin and
Greek have been compulsory during both freshman and sophomore years. But
under the new system German and French may be substituted for a portion
of the classics. To the senior and junior classes even greater liberty
is given. They are offered between twenty and thirty elective courses;
so that now, instead of turning a whole class out of the same mould, the
college permits men to select those studies which they find attractive,
or which will best prepare them for their pursuits in life. Thus in one
year Yale has made very rapid strides, and now stands a “golden mean”
between the conservatism of the past and the rashly radical tendencies of
the present. So much for the origin and curriculum of Yale.
It is not the instruction alone that makes a college course desirable.
The associations, friendships, and experiences in the college community
are also important factors. It has been well said that a college is a
miniature world, with its successes, failures, and temptations as real as
those of the world without.
It is impossible, in an article like the present, to do more than give
a few of the peculiarities of Yale. The writer disclaims any attempt to
analyze critically the influences and tendencies of the college, but aims
merely to present a few facts concerning its students, buildings, class
spirit, and every-day life.
The college catalogue shows that in the academic department the classes
average one hundred and fifty students. In the Sheffield Scientific
School the aggregate number is about two hundred and twenty-five. The
other departments swell the total to between ten and eleven hundred. It
is probably unnecessary to state that co-education is not “dreamed of” in
the Yale philosophy. The warm affection which the faculty feel for the
dead languages seems only to increase their coldness toward the gentler
sex.
Yale is eminently a cosmopolitan institution. When two years ago state
clubs were being formed at Yale, some one remarked that if the same
experiment were attempted at Harvard, there would be two clubs, one from
Boston, and one from the rest of Massachusetts. While this statement is
by no means true, it suggests the sectional character of the other New
England colleges. A few figures will sustain this claim. In 1883-’84,
out of 824 students in the academic and scientific departments, only
twenty-nine per cent. were from Connecticut. There were nineteen men
from California, six from Colorado, seven from Georgia, fifty-one from
Illinois, thirty-three from Ohio, twenty from Missouri, and sixty-five
from Pennsylvania. Almost every state, and many of the territories, were
represented, and the very fact that Yale draws its men from so many
widely different sources has an important influence upon the character of
the students. The swift-coursing, tingling blood of the West is infused
into the old, staid, New England institution, which restrains, modifies,
and directs it. The enthusiasm of Yale is due in a great measure to this
western element. There is a whole-heartedness about Yale students which
you will find in no other eastern institution. Nor is money at Yale the
basis of social standing. A man may command any position which he has the
character or ability to attain.
It is generally supposed that in a large institution the numbers in a
class prevent that personal contact with the instructors which smaller
classes afford. This objection can be easily answered. Let us suppose
that a freshman class numbers one hundred and fifty students, and that
the curriculum includes five studies. The class will be divided into
five sections of thirty men each, and will recite to five instructors
in order. There are fifteen recitations a week, so that every member of
the class recites three times a week to each of these instructors, and
that, too, in a class of only thirty. This affords all the “contact”
that either instructors or instructed need or desire. The divisions are
arranged according to excellence in scholarship at the end of every term,
so that each division has its own standard of attainment; hence the
diligent are not retarded by their more leisurely classmates. Recitations
and examinations are marked upon a scale of four. When one’s average
standing falls below two, he is given the choice between leaving college
or entering the class next below. This unpleasant experience is known
as being “dropped.” For irregularities and tardiness in attendance, the
penalties are inflicted in the form of “marks,” which have no influence
upon scholarship standing. The penalty for “cutting” chapel on a week
day is two marks, on Sunday, eight. As these marks accumulate, parents
are informed by “letters home” when a certain limit is approached, which
varies in the different years—more latitude being granted to seniors and
juniors than is enjoyed by the lower classes. For seniors, the first
letter comes at thirty marks; the second at about fifty; and the third,
if there be one, informs the parent that his son has incurred sixty
marks, and has been suspended for six weeks. This is “rustication.”
The unfortunate retires to Milford, where he pursues his studies in
interesting solitude. This marking system has many “defects,” which are
especially patent to the down-trodden student, but it certainly has
the merit of securing method and regularity in college duties. Other
colleges, notably Amherst, have adopted new methods for which they claim
great superiority over the archaic system. But it is safe to say that the
Yale faculty must be thoroughly converted before they will discard the
old system, which has been for years the bone of contention in every Yale
debating club.
We come now to speak of the material world of Yale—its buildings
and campus. Architecturally, Yale is inferior to both Harvard and
Princeton. There are between thirty and forty buildings connected with
Yale University; but on the college campus there are sixteen. Six of
these are dormitories, occupied exclusively by members of the academic
department, or Yale College proper. Four of these dormitories, together
with three other buildings, the “Athenæum,” “Lyceum,” and “Old Chapel,”
extend in a line along the east side of the campus, and constitute the
“old brick row.” The dormitories are called “south,” “south middle,”
“north middle,” and “north,” and are separated by the three recitation
buildings mentioned above. “South middle,” erected in 1750, is the oldest
building on the campus. Until within a few years, it was reserved for
the use of the sophomore class, and many a trembling freshman has had
his first experience of hazing within its ancient walls. The faculty
concluded, however, that they would best consult the interests of good
order and education by razing this sophomore stronghold. “South middle,”
thoroughly renovated, is to-day as quiet as the seniors’ retreat—“South.”
Durfee Hall, at the north end of the campus, is a handsome dormitory
of brown stone, accommodating eighty students. Farnam Hall is a modern
building of brick, furnishing rooms for an equal number. Battell Chapel,
on the north-eastern corner of the campus, is a large stone building
with a seating capacity of eight or ten hundred. Its walls contain many
handsome memorial windows, and in one of its towers are the clock and
chimes. Graduate’s Hall is a massive brown stone building, presenting the
general appearance of a feudal castle. It is, in fact, the stronghold
of the college, and must be taken several times during the course—it
is the examination hall. Next comes the Library, a gothic building
with low wings on either side. It is a repository for some one hundred
and seventy-five thousand volumes. The Art School is one of the most
expensive buildings on the campus. It is of brown stone, and, like the
library, is overgrown with ivy planted by graduating classes. The Art
School contains excellent collections of paintings, marbles, and casts,
together with several studios and class rooms. The other buildings, known
as “Old Lab.,” “Cabinet,” and “Treasury” are, it is to be hoped, as
useful as they are unattractive. So much for the campus proper. Near by
are the new Sloane Physical Laboratory, the gymnasium, and the Peabody
Museum, which even in its present incomplete state is one of the largest
buildings in New Haven. The collections are excellent, being especially
complete in the departments of mineralogy and palæontology. Within the
radius of a few squares are the Sheffield Scientific School, the Divinity
School, and the departments of Law and Medicine.
Let us now turn to the composition of the college community. The
four classes are separated by very clearly defined lines. While, of
course, there are many friendships between men of different classes,
as a rule men associate exclusively with their own classmates. When
it is remembered that a class averages one hundred and fifty men, one
explanation of this clannishness is obvious. It takes four years for
a student to know his classmates, and among them he will find all the
friends he needs. Until within the last year or two the elective system,
which brings members of different classes into the same recitation
room, has not been in operation, and men have always recited with their
classmates exclusively. Another prominent reason for class feeling, as
it is called, is found in athletic rivalry. Let one attend a class boat
race, hear the shouting, observe the ecstacy of delight with which the
winners carry their crew on their shoulders from the boat, and he will
begin to understand the real significance of class spirit. This class
spirit is warmest between the two lower classes, where the friction
is greatest. Just here we may refer to hazing and rushing, which are
objects of so much popular misapprehension. That in early years freshmen
were subjected to rough, and often brutal treatment, can not be denied.
But that order of things has passed away, together with early chapel
and biennial examinations. A “rush” is nothing more than an attempt of
freshmen and sophomores, arranged in solid phalanxes, to force each
other back. Such a thing as a decision on a rush is unknown, and the
whole affair has the advantage of leaving both sides assured of a “most
decisive and brilliant victory.” Hazing is confined to the first few
weeks of the term, and is harmless, not to say puerile, in its character.
Sophomores wander about the streets, admonishing freshmen to “put out”
their lights. If these commands are not complied with, the hazers ascend
to the room of the audacious freshman, quiz him awhile, and then put him
to bed, where he stays until his persecutors have left, when he resumes
his interrupted tasks. The whole thing is a farce, and can not last much
longer. Although the custom may be childish, it certainly is not the
pernicious thing which the press would have the public believe.
Athletics have a very prominent place in the college world. Youthful
vitality finds a safety valve in athletic exercises. Inter-collegiate
rivalry is a most natural thing. University foot ball teams, crews and
ball nines follow as a matter of course. These contests are of absorbing
interest, and are eagerly anticipated. Alumni of many years’ standing
are carried away with enthusiasm at a college match. The public is led
to suppose that athletics monopolize the student’s thought and interest.
It is true that students do talk of a ball match more frequently than
of Greek particles. The one belongs to the recreative side of college
life, the other to the recitation room. When relieved from his regular
duties, the normal student seeks recreation. Beside affording exercise,
athletics engender a college spirit which helps to bind together the Yale
alumni all over the land. Whatever may be the excesses, the advantages
are manifold. The faculty declare that athletics have never been more
prominent, nor the standard of scholarship higher than at the present
time.
One trace, at least, of the good, old, puritanic days is found in
“compulsory prayers.” At seven every morning, except Sunday, when there
are regular services at 10:30, the old bell in the lyceum tower disturbs
the peacefully slumbering student. At eight it gives a second warning,
and at about seven minutes after it rings again, until, tolling the last
minute, it stops at 8:10 precisely. The students who have been dropping
in one by one since eight, come in increasing numbers as the time
approaches. As the bell and organ voluntary cease, a few stragglers drop
into their seats. If it is the last of the term, there are often a few
men who, having only two marks between them and the cold world, appear in
conspicuously superficial toilets.
The chapel has two transepts, one occupied by the juniors, the other by
the sophomores. The seniors fill the seats on either side of the center
aisle; while the freshmen are consigned to the gloomy region under the
rear gallery. The deportment of the students during chapel exercises is,
without exception, dignified and respectful. President Porter reads a
selection from the scriptures and announces four verses of a hymn, which
are sung by the choir. Then follows the “long prayer,” during which
almost every head is bowed. It can not be denied, however, that many a
lesson is rapidly scanned during this part of the devotions. At the close
of the prayer all stand until the president and instructors have left
the building. The seniors face the center aisle, and as the president
passes make a low bow, bringing the body into a horizontal position.
The effect from the galleries is ludicrous, and affords visitors no
little amusement. Immediately after prayers the classes repair to their
recitation rooms. Although compulsory prayers are not universally
popular, yet if regarded merely as a means of securing regularity, and,
by assembling the classes, of fostering a spirit of college unity, they
are undeniably valuable.
It would not do to describe Yale customs and neglect the “fence.” The
uninitiated can not read of the “fence” and its traditions without a
smile. To one who has not been a member of the Yale world, the customs
of the fence seem as ridiculous as the antics and gambols of brokers
on ’change. But having once, as a freshman, felt the joy of balancing
on that “fence,” after defeating the Harvard freshman at base ball; as
sophomore having displayed the wonders of the tailor’s art from the
next higher division of the same perch; as junior having sung there
the college songs, and watched the people “pass on the other side of
the way,” and at last, as senior, having parted from one’s classmates
there, the Yale “fence” must be to him more than any other dingy-brown,
two-railed old structure can be.
Among several privileges which are withheld from the freshman when he
begins his course, is that of sitting on the “fence.” Most readers would
not regard this in the light of a serious privation. But such it really
seems to the new comer. As soon as the Yale freshmen defeat the Harvard
freshmen at base ball, they are rewarded by being permitted to sit on the
freshmen fence. A man on taking his seat in the United States Senate can
not feel any more real satisfaction than a Yale freshman perched for the
first time on the “fence we’ve won.”
One of the most amusing exercises of commencement time is the
presentation of the sophomore fence to the freshmen. A sophomore makes
the speech of presentation, to which a freshman replies. These speeches
are often bright and witty, and are received with great applause.
The “fence” is the forum, the market place of the college. Here
appointments are made. It is here you look for a student before you
seek him in his room. Here in the twilight, and far into the beautiful
evenings of May and June, you may hear the college songs—now a lively air
or snatch of opera; now a warble, loud and clear; again, some plaintive
plantation melody. This is the time when the magic of the fence is most
potent in its influence. There are more romantic things with which to
associate the delightful memories of college life, perhaps, but nothing
can bring a pleasanter throng of recollections to the Yale alumnus than
the mention of the fence.
Fond as they are of being “on the fence,” Yale men are by no means
undecided or vacillating. Yale is a positive institution, strong,
orthodox, and conservative. Its alumni are prominent not so much in
letters as in the affairs of state. Yale College is yearly sending out
into the world enthusiastic, practical, sensible young fellows to strive,
as the grand old song has it,
“For God, for country, and for Yale.”
NEW HAVEN, CONN.
NEW ZEALAND.
BY M. EMILE BLANCHARD.
Translated for THE CHAUTAUQUAN from the _Révue des Deux Mondes_.
During a long cycle of years, upon the land called New Zealand, there
were no inhabitants more powerful than gigantic eagles and moas, enormous
birds now extinct. At some indeterminate time men landed upon these
desolate shores; being, doubtless, unable to return to their point of
departure, and, perhaps, finding the country an asylum, they remained
there. They were Melanesians, men of dark color, and of coarse hair, like
those who inhabited the archipelago in the western part of the Pacific,
put down upon the maps as Melanesia.
Later came people from Polynesia, of whom all tradition is lost. At
a time, the date of which can be approximately fixed, some canoes
reached this land whose occupants declared that they came from Hawaïki,
probably Hawaii. Afterward, in the first relations of the Europeans
with these inhabitants, they were quickly satisfied that the leading
races were of Polynesian origin, though in some parts all the races
were so intermingled that it was hard to distinguish them. These better
developed classes were known under the name of the Maoris. These people,
full of treachery, robbers without shame, barbarians of a remarkable
intelligence, able to construct fishing utensils, fine canoes, implements
of warfare, and even to sculpture rude figures and to design ornaments
which indicated a certain artistic taste, inclined to observation enough
to attach a name to all objects which fell under their notice, appeared
to the first European voyagers to their land as a people that could be
easily civilized.
They were in general of tall figure, and had regular features; their
small, jet black eyes were always in motion. According to an artist who
has traveled nearly round the world, the young men would serve well
as models for a statue of Hercules. The women were well formed, had
beautiful eyes and an abundance of black hair. Their faces looked quite
intelligent, and even possessed a certain grace.
Former explorers tried to find out what religious sentiments, what
superstitions, reigned among these people; they sought to gather up their
traditions. Owing to their idiomatic language the information was derived
slowly and only after great effort. In the midst of a people presenting
the spectacle of primitive life it is impossible not to take a lively
interest in their belief touching the origin and the final destiny of
man. Many of their ideas on these subjects present a striking similarity
to those prevailing among civilized people.
They have a long mythological history concerning the migrations of
several distinguished ancestors. The life of one of these in its
beginning is of peculiar interest. At his birth his mother, seeing that
he was very feeble, put him in a little skiff which she placed upon the
sea. The winds and the waves rocked him. He was finally wafted ashore,
and found and cared for by a woman in high authority. His after life was
full of wonderful and supernatural deeds. Then comes an age of heroes.
These at death were deified and shone as stars in the heavens. Their
brilliancy was greater or less according to their deeds of valor.
In the cosmogony of these New Zealanders the earth is a plain, the
heavens an opaque body extending around it, separated from it by a
transparent substance. They supposed that the sun and moon glided on
the outside of this crystal-like appearance. Above is the reservoir of
the rain, higher the haunts of the winds, higher still the dwelling of
spirits, then that of light, and then the highest region, the abode of
the greatest of all the gods.
They recognized a multitude of divinities, and accorded to each one a
special function. They occasionally presented offerings to the gods, in
order to render them propitious.
They did not anticipate any pain nor any recompense in the future life.
After death souls, having remained three days near the bodies which they
had abandoned, took themselves to the extreme north of New Zealand, in
order to take their last plunge into eternal night, or into glory.
As to their customs, scholars say that among the Maoris the family
existed, the tribe, and, in a certain rude sense, the nation. Under
ordinary circumstances the people lived independent of one another. Upon
great occasions the chief called together the tribes under his sway. He
had, however, the power to declare war or peace, or to dispose of any
question of interest to the public, only with the consent of his people.
There was little distinction in regard to rank among them. The practice
of tattooing themselves prevailed largely, especially among the warriors.
They had a custom of flattening the noses of the boys and bandaging their
knees and the lower part of the legs, in order to make them smaller. Thus
they manifested the æsthetic sentiment. The hands of the girls were bound
in such a way as to render them more skillful, in their estimation, in
separating and weaving the fibers of the plant which affords the famous
linen of New Zealand.
Eight days after the birth of a child it underwent a sort of baptismal
ceremony. The marriage relation was observed. At the death of an
individual the whole tribe assembled, and from time to time uttered loud
cries, expressive of their grief. The relatives cut off their hair.
By their work the Maoris excited the surprise of their first civilized
visitors. They displayed remarkably inventive minds, struggling under
the most restricted resources. The necessary work was divided between
the men and women very much after the manner of our times. The men built
the houses, constructed canoes, cultivated the earth, carved their rude
ornaments, and went hunting and fishing. The women prepared the food,
spun the linen, and wove the cloth. Their language was well adapted to
oratorical effects. There were fourteen letters in the alphabet; each
syllable ended in a vowel, whence resulted a singularly harmonious
speech. They had many proverbs bearing a striking analogy to many used
throughout Europe. For instance, they said: “One may avoid the point
of a lance, but not a slander;” also, “One may in time learn all the
nooks and corners of any house, but never those of the heart.” In their
assemblies the most eloquent exercised a great influence, and gave proofs
of a remarkable memory in reciting with great effect proverbs, songs and
poems, capable of producing a great impression upon their auditors.
The exploits of heroes were only perpetuated by these frequent recitals.
Whenever any notable event occurred it became the motive power of some
improvisation. They entertained themselves as people in Europe do,
by all sorts of amusements, especially dancing. Certain dances were
engaged in by the women alone, others by the men; but in most the men
and women danced together. The women had for their especial amusement
the _tangi_, or scene of despair. They feigned the deepest grief, wrung
their hands, and uttered the most heart-rending cries, while tears
flowed in abundance. A stranger moved at the sight always learned with
surprise that it was simply a pastime, and reproached himself for having
misplaced his sympathy. Whenever a visitor presented himself, the mode
of salutation was for the host to rub his nose against the nose of
his guest. Small baskets of provisions were brought in, and a cordial
invitation given to the visitor to join in partaking of the refreshments.
But these people, hard, cruel, without pity in the execution of
vengeance, but of a quick intelligence and unquestioned bravery,
industrious and ingenious, cultivating a rude kind of art and of poetry,
have been crushed in their struggles with the Europeans. The descendants
of the fierce New Zealand warriors, as prisoners in certain districts
which the English colonists have promised to respect, live sad and
miserable, hating the plunderers of their land. At the present time they
are scattered by families over the island, nearly always at a distance
from the colonies. Each year this population diminishes; in the near
future they will have entirely disappeared. Soon there will live only the
memory of an extinct race.
But while this is true of the Maoris, the English colonists, masters of
the country, exceedingly prosperous, occupy all the places possessing the
greatest advantages.
Important cities have been built upon the most desirable locations, both
on the sea coast and river banks. Vast agricultural districts are now
tilled. New Zealand has become a European country, where the population
lives with no fear of the original inhabitants. It is a dependency of
England, a colony which since its formation has made great progress. The
mildness of the climate, the fertility of the soil, the extent of its
forests, the presence of the best materials for industrial occupations,
the independence and safety which an insular position gives have marked
this island as a privileged region. New Zealand comprises two islands,
separated from each other by Cook’s Straits; they are distinguished as
North Island and South Island. The development of the country since the
occupation by the English has been remarkable. At the commencement of
1881 there remained only 36,000 Maoris; the colonial population numbered
500,910. Some of its cities have acquired considerable importance.
Dunedin, in South Island, has 42,794 inhabitants, and Auckland, in North
Island, the ancient capital, 30,952; Wellington, the present capital,
20,536. In 1881 there were about 1,310 miles of railroad built, and about
3,000 miles of telegraph lines. The revenues of the government amounted
to nearly $18,036,000, and the expenses to $17,644,000. The exportation
was valued at $15,212,000, and the precious metals at $5,602,000. There
are on the island 100,000 horses, 500,000 cattle, and 10,000,000 sheep,
yielding great profit. Ships cross from Canterbury in the eastern part of
the country to London in forty days.
The linen produced on the island affords a fine branch of industry, and
the colonies send it to London, receiving for it not less than $6,000 or
$8,000 per year. Trees of the coniferous order furnish a quantity of gum
or resin, which is an important source of revenue. The commerce carried
on in grain, woods and fats is very great. In the whole country the
abundance of combustible material constitutes a great source of wealth.
Beside its fine forests, it has numerous coal fields. Petroleum is found
in several places, and the colonists affirm that it is inferior in no
respect to that found in the United States.
Gold districts are so extensive and productive that a great part of the
population is engaged in them. Then add that silver, mercury, copper,
lead, manganese, antimony, and iron exist in abundance. They are as
reserves of public fortune to the colony. This country has had the rare
good fortune of having already among its inhabitants distinguished
scientific men who have explored the region for the greater profit of
the new society, and for the interests of those who are occupied with
the general knowledge of the globe. The Institute of New Zealand was
founded at Auckland in 1868. Its members proposed to have for their use
museums and public libraries, and to disseminate by all means possible,
instruction relative to questions of art, of science, and of literature.
When the capital was moved to Wellington the Institute was also
transferred. Since its opening it has published every year a great volume
filled with reports and communications of deep interest in regard to the
ancient inhabitants of the country, the fauna and the flora, the geology
and mineralogy and economy. It is a valuable work on the natural history
of this region of the world.
The decline, the oppression, almost the annihilation of one race of
mankind has been seen here. We may see now upon the same soil, rising to
prominence, men of another race who talk of liberty for themselves, and
are preparing for a long and glorious future for their descendants.
THE LAUREATE POETS.
BY THE REVEREND A. E. WINSHIP.