land. Old-fashioned ships use the lead and hand-line for finding the
depth of water and nature of the bottom, so that by referring to the
chart the navigator can tell just where he is. That apparatus is too
clumsy for the swift steamship. We use Sir William Thompson's
sounding-machine while the ship goes at full speed. A brass tube is
fastened to the end of a piano-wire line. When this is lowered to the
bottom the pressure of the water is exactly registered on a glass
tube--somewhat resembling a thermometer--which is fastened inside the
tube of brass. Upon reading the amount of pressure we know the exact
depth. A cup on the end of the brass tube brings up a specimen of the
bottom.
[Illustration: THE GREYHOUND IN A FOG--A CLOSE SHAVE.]
By taking soundings frequently when nearing the land, knowing the ship's
course and her position at the last observation, one can prick out her
track on the chart even in the heaviest fog. One never can tell what
slant of tide or current is silently sending the ship toward the shore,
so soundings are taken every fifteen minutes.
The presence of a pilot on board is no excuse for the Captain whose ship
gets into trouble. The lives of the fifteen hundred persons on board,
the value of the cargo, which is always very great, and of the vessel
herself, which is worth at least two millions, all are in his hands.
But, as I said before, the responsibility never worries him. He simply
watches everything closely. The heads of departments report to him every
day, and should any emergency arise, he is kept informed of every new
occurrence.
How is it possible, we are often asked, to steer such a great vessel as
the modern ocean liner? Steam and electricity have made the work almost
seem like play. The senior officer on the bridge can tell at any moment
just how fast the ship is going, how many revolutions the port and
starboard screws are making per minute, just at what angle the rudder is
set--in one word, all about the ship's progress. This is all reported to
him on automatic registering machines.
You know, of course, that the ocean greyhound of to-day is a twin-screw
ship--that is, that instead of being driven through the water by one
propeller, she has two--one on each side of the end of her keel. Each
screw is worked by its own set of engines. These engines are entirely
independent of each other. The rudder is moved to one side or the other
by steam or hydraulic power. Should the rudder become useless from any
cause, it is possible to steer the ship by these screws. Most of you
know that you can steer a row-boat by putting more force on one oar than
on the other. If you want to turn sharply you back-water with one oar
and row ahead with the other. So it is with these screws. By backing one
screw and going ahead with the other, the ship can be turned around
almost within her own length, as the phrase is. The ordinary vessel that
loses her rudder is in a sad fix. The twin-screw ship simply needs a
little extra care in handling. In fact, it has happened more than once
that an ocean greyhound has been steered for more than a thousand miles
straight into port while the rudder was useless.
It is easy to appreciate the necessity for making fast time across the
ocean when you remember that each idle moment means a loss of earning
power. The vessel costs $2,000,000. She will be worn out, say, in ten
years. Her value will be very small. So that every moment of her ten
good years must be made to tell. Suppose her navigators should be so
careless as to let her wander one hour's journey off her course. Another
hour would be lost bringing her back. That would mean a clear loss of
two hours. Mathematical experts could tell you exactly what that loss
would amount to. All we know is that not one instant shall be thrown
away.
[Illustration: COALING.]
Perhaps you have been aboard one of the largest ships coming up the bay
from Sandy Hook to New York. Have you noticed the churned-up white water
that flows away behind her? Watch it, and you will observe that now on
one side, now on the other, the foam ceases to flow so thickly. This
shows that one screw or the other has almost stopped for a moment. The
ship-channel coming up the bay is so narrow and shallow that at certain
low stages of the tide a great steamship drags the water along with her
body, just as your own body can drag the water in a bath-tub. The result
is that the rudder has very little effect in guiding the ship. Under
such circumstances the screw on one side or the other is slowed so as to
steer the vessel.
Whole books might be written about the engines of an ocean greyhound. To
inspect the engines thoroughly you go down through four decks. Every bit
of machinery is constantly watched. A record is kept of every turn of
the screw, of every engine's work. The chief engineer has three first
assistants, and one of these three is always on duty. The engine-room is
like a gigantic roaring factory--it is a factory that makes power for
pushing the ship along. The four large dynamos that produce electricity
for lighting and other uses are also in the vast engine-room. So is the
machine that makes ice for the ship. This, by-the-way, is almost a
magical apparatus. In it is made all the ice used by the ship's company,
and from it pipes are led that supply the refrigerating-rooms. There are
two of these immense refrigerators. They are on the fourth deck--away
below the water-line. As nearly every article of food for the round trip
is purchased in this country, practically all the perishable food is
stored in these refrigerators--one being known as the "East-bound," and
the other the "West-bound." The immense amount of provisions carried is
something hard to imagine. A ship like the _New York_ or the _St. Paul_,
for example, takes 25,000 pounds of beef, more than three tons of game
and poultry, 18,000 eggs, and other things in proportion. The law
requires that enough provisions be carried to feed the ship's people for
twenty-four additional days, in case of accident. We carry much more
than that amount. In the refrigerating-rooms are also carried enough
flowers to adorn the tables all the way to England and back.
Most of you, perhaps, think of an ocean greyhound as a swift-going
floating hotel. I think you will admit she is more--that she is one of
the greatest wonders of the deep.
J. K. JAMISON.
THE EARLY WORK OF THE AUTHOR OF "BEN-HUR."
BY MATTIE DYER BRITTS.
The writer of this sketch has no need to depend upon the evidence of
others for the facts given; she has but to cross a shady street and tap
at the most hospitable door in the wide world, to sit at her ease in the
fine old library enriched by the gifts of a king, and talk with General
Wallace or his wife.
It was upon an occasion like this that she remarked: "General, the
people who are so much interested in your work sometimes wonder how you
came to begin it. Would you be willing to give us an idea of your
method?"
"Method?" was the reply, with the genial smile and flash of the keen
dark eye which still renews the youth of the veteran warrior-poet. "I
have no method. If my composition has any excellence, set it down, first
and last, to that simple fact. In writing, as in speech, I think that
modes of expression should depend upon feeling--not studied, but the
impulse of the moment."
"But you had a method of study in your school-days?"
"Not I. My school-days were very few when I was a boy. My father
regularly sent me, and paid my tuition bills, but I as regularly played
truant. I ran wild in the woods of my native Indiana as free and happy
as the squirrels and rabbits, which scarcely took the trouble to keep
out of my pathway, so accustomed to my presence did they become. I
hunted, fished, staid in the woods, and slept with my dog, and came out
as strong and healthy as an oak sapling, without the least idea that I
was laying the foundation for the constitution which could in later
years withstand the hardships and exposures of camp and field. Health
was so absolute it was not thought of."
"You must, however, have been fond of books."
"Passionately so. I read every moment that I was still. In my runaway
journeys through the woods I always carried a book in my pocket. I both
read and remembered. My education, such as it is, is due to my father's
excellent library, and the freedom with which I browsed at will upon the
wholesome pastures of good old English literature."
"Doubtless you had certain favorite volumes."
"Yes. _Plutarch's Lives_ was and is the work which had most influence
upon me. Even yet, at the age of sixty-seven, when I grow drowsy and my
ambition seems to fail, I pick up my old companion, and an hour with him
restores me to myself."
"How did you first come to think of writing?"
Another smile of amusement over the recollections of those crude boyish
days, and the General replied: "My first literary effort was made in a
society of lads near my own age, of which I was a member when about
sixteen. Berry Sulgrove, once editor of the Indianapolis _Journal_, was
president, and assigned each one his part in our weekly meetings--a
speech, essay, story, or poem. I was ordered to write a story. I
undertook a love-tale of the crusades of the tenth century, in weekly
instalments, with the title of 'The Man-at-Arms.'"
"Can you recall the plot of the tale?"
"The leading character was a Spanish grandee, a Duke of high Castilian
line, who dwelt among the mountains of Spain. He had numerous valiant
retainers, and one only child--a proud and beautiful daughter named
Inez. In the service of the Duke was a handsome page of eighteen, brave,
courtly, endowed with manly graces and a talent for music. This he used
so skilfully that the love-songs he sang to his light guitar took
captive the heart of the fair Inez. Their love was discovered, and the
handsome page banished from the castle. But they managed to meet, and my
hero carried off his prize. Together they mounted his snow-white steed,
and dashed away to the hermitage of an old monk, who lived alone on a
wild and dreary mountain-side. The Duke pursued the fugitives with armed
retinue, and brought his disobedient daughter back to her ancestral
halls. The page escaped, went to Venice, and enlisted in the army about
to march to Palestine. He wore his armor by night and day, never opening
his visor except to eat, so that his nearest comrades rarely saw his
face. He performed prodigies of valor, was ever in the forefront of
battle, a mysterious but conspicuous figure. He became famous, and was
made a knight. By the time he returned to Spain all the countries of the
Mediterranean had heard of his prowess, and were proud to do him honor.
He was tendered a grand banquet at the Duke's castle; but the old enemy
did not recognize in the Knight of the Closed Helmet his former page.
The lovely Inez, of course, knew him at once, and he found her of true
heart and constant mind. The father was delighted to see the impression
his child made upon the gallant knight, and with his free consent they
were soon betrothed and married. After the wedding the page disclosed
his real name--I regret to have forgotten it--and all was forgiven, the
old Duke only too willing to call the brave warrior of Holy Cross his
son."
"Did you complete the story?"
"Oh yes! Every week my instalment was ready, my audience rapt and
sympathetic, and the generous applause most encouraging."
"Was the MSS. lengthy?"
"Two hundred and thirty pages of foolscap, closely written."
"How much I should like to see it! Do you know what became of it?"
"I am sorry to say it was lost. I left it in my father's library when I
went to the Mexican war in 1847; when I returned, the unfortunate
'Man-at-Arms' was not to be found. I never knew how he came to his end."
"Of course, as a member of the society, you obeyed the order of your
president; but aside from that fact, what were your inducements to
writing the story?"
"Merely boyish pleasure in composition--the natural stirring to write,
as the singer is moved to sing. That was my first attempt at prose.
Before that--when about fifteen, I think--I wrote a poem on the rescue
of Captain John Smith by Pocahontas, perhaps two hundred lines, in the
measure of the 'Lady of the Lake.' That reminds me of another early
experience; our amusements were very few in those days--a circus once a
year, and sometimes during the session of the Legislature a strolling
theatrical company came by. We boys caught the fever, and got up an
organization of our own, the 'Thespian Troupe,' which played
_Pocahontas_ with tremendous applause."
"You mean, I presume, the drama by Robert Dale Owen?"
"The same. My brother, William Wallace, was the Indian heroine. I took
the part of her sister Nomona. McReady (a school-mate, not the famous
actor) was Powhatan. I have forgotten who played Captain Smith, but the
affair was a great success. Cox, the local artist, painted the scenery,
the town band (then a volunteer service) played before the door to draw
the crowd, and the receipts paid all expenses."
"Then you actually performed before a paying audience?"
"Indeed we did. It was in a brick house just where the old State-house
used to stand. We provided seats, and had special accommodations for the
ladies. Those were the days of sound and fury and the ranting style now
happily entirely banished from the stage. But we enjoyed it hugely. My
memories of the Thespian are among the most delightful recollections of
earlier days."
"Do you think that the dramatic instinct and florid imagination
necessary to such high-flown youthful work had any influence in
developing your later literary genius?"
"I do not claim to have any genius. It may be that infinite patience and
an unlimited capacity for hard work have taken the place of genius, and
been of service to me. When I began to study a subject or an object, I
could never bring myself to stop until I had mastered all there was to
be known about it."
"You believe, then, that small details are of large importance in
literary work?"
"More so than in almost any other calling. I have never allowed myself
to take the opinions of others when it was possible to verify facts by
my own eyes and ears. While writing _Ben-Hur_ I once took the long
journey from my Indiana home to New York city, and haunted one of the
great libraries there persistently for days, merely to establish beyond
a doubt a very small matter concerning the interior of a Roman galley.
Yet, after all, it was not a small matter; trifles make perfection, and
a little inaccuracy will result in imperfect work."
"Do you advise young authors to quote largely, or depend upon others for
ideas?"
"By no means. Every man and woman is self-made. Every writer should be
especially so. Let him look into his own heart, and write from it, if he
would reach the hearts of his readers. He may gather information and
incidents from books and from every-day life, but when he writes, let it
be in his own words. Above all, let him write honestly, delineating
people and things as they really are, not as a vivid or romantic
imagination might make them."
Our social talk ended here. May I not be allowed to add that constant
study of the best writers of old English has given a certain stateliness
of expression and dignity of speech to the composition of General
Wallace, which will not fail to be noted by the careful reader. The
volumes he read were the very choicest, and the stalwart heroes of that
olden time were the boy's daily companions instead of men and women.
REGULAR EXERCISE FOR GIRLS.
BY EVA LOVETT.
Regularity in bodily training is the "golden rule" of all physicians and
gymnasium teachers. "A little exercise every day, taken at a certain
time," is worth more than all the spasmodic exertion in the world. It
accomplishes more in play and work. Nor need such exercise become
monotonous. The work of to-day may call into use one set of muscles, and
that of to-morrow another. It is well not to develop our arms and
neglect our legs, or vice versa. The pleasure accompanying them makes
outdoor sports more beneficial to the health; but indoor training,
according to fixed rules, has a great value in teaching you how to use
your limbs and joints easily and well. The practice it gives helps you
to learn anything quieter than you would without it.
Any girl knows how easy it is to "fall out of the way" of doing things,
whether the "thing" is a kind of fancy-work or a school task. So it is
easy to "fall out of the way" of making use of your bodily powers. Your
arms and legs and back and body were all given you to use, just as well
as your lungs and other organs. And it is clearly your fault if you do
not get the best service out of them by keeping them in practice. You
must teach them to be supple, agile, and quick to respond to any calls
you may make upon them to contribute to your good or amusement. Suppose
you suddenly decide to play tennis, and have never learned to run! What
will happen to you is that you will be an awkward and unlucky player
until you learn to use your legs. Therefore the regular daily exercise
is good all round--for health and for pleasure.
Our first impulse on waking in the morning is to yawn, to push out the
arms, to throw out the legs, to stretch and twist and roll about the
body, and so gradually work off the cramped feeling induced during
sleep. These natural gymnastics, in which even babies indulge when they
first waken out of a sound slumber, indicate pretty clearly what is the
best time to take a regular daily dose of gymnastic work.
During the night the respiration has been slower, the heart-beats less
frequent, and the muscles have become contracted from remaining too long
in certain positions. We know, without being told, that our bodies need
shaking, stretching--some exercise, in fact, to get us into shape for
the day's work. The blood must circulate quicker, and mind and body
partake of the bright, brisk feeling which helps us to do everything
easily. For those who spare the time, fifteen minutes, or even ten, on
first rising is the best time to select for gymnastics.
But many persons, young as well as old, must rise quickly and dress
hastily, and have no minutes to spare for such morning exercise. They
must choose some other time. Just before the daily bath is another
opportune moment. The exercise taken induces perspiration, and this
waste matter is removed by the bath following, leaving the skin in a
clear, healthy, and normal condition. We feel wonderfully refreshed and
full of vitality after the process.
At night, before retiring, certain exercises of the muscles can be used
with good effect. If we are tired or have overused one set of muscles,
we do not exercise those already used too much, but others in opposite
directions. For instance, if we have stretched our arms up until
over-tired, it is rest and relief to stretch them down--again and again,
and again, so making the strain upon the muscles equal.
Or if we have used our arms too much, we rest ourselves by giving our
legs a good amount of exercise--just as a long walk rests you after
rowing, or as a good game of ball rests you after hard study. In the
first case it is exercise in an opposite direction which gives the
needed relaxation. In the second the same result comes from exercising
the body after too much exercise of the mind.
This "law of opposition," as it is called, is a big subject. But the
rule holds just the same, whether you understand "the reason why" or
not. Exercise muscles or parts of the body in opposite directions or in
different ways from the motions and actions which have tired you. To do
this at night "promotes sleep and helps digestion," say the
physical-culture teachers.
And who should know better than those who have studied up on the subject
and who can give you the "reason why"?
THROWING THE HAMMER.
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS TAKEN OF W. O. HICKOK, YALE '95, CHAMPION I.C.A.A.A.A.
[Illustration: W.O. HICKOK.]
[Illustration: 1.]
[Illustration: 2.]
[Illustration: 3.]
[Illustration: 4.]
[Illustration: 5.]
[Illustration: 6.]
[Illustration: 7.]
[Illustration: 8.]
[Illustration: INTERSCHOLASTIC SPORT]
Throwing the hammer and putting the shot are the only two weight events
now practised by college and school athletes, although many of the
athletic clubs still retain the putting of the 56-lb. weight on their
cards. The last-named, however, is merely a sort of exaggeration of the
second, and only practicable for very large and very strong men. The
welfare of amateur sport will never suffer if the art of throwing the
weight should be entirely lost, for there is nothing particularly
interesting in the practice, and success in it is more largely due to
beef than to skill. With the other two events it is different. Strength,
of course, is a prime requisite, but to attain perfection in either of
them the performer must combine skill with muscular power.
The inter-collegiate rules which govern the throwing of the hammer
require that the hammer-head shall be a metal sphere; and the handle may
be of any material. Up to within three or four years the handle used to
be made of hard wood, but recently athletes have shown a preference for
a flexible steel handle. The combined length of the head and handle must
not exceed four feet, and the combined weight must be sixteen pounds.
The hammer is thrown from a circle seven feet in diameter. In making an
attempt a competitor may assume any position he pleases, but he must not
step outside of this circle. In a contest each competitor is allowed
three throws, and the best three men in the first trial are allowed
three more throws. The measurement of a throw is made from the nearest
edge of the first mark made by the head of the hammer to the point of
the circumference of the circle nearest this mark. There are three kinds
of fouls in hammer-throwing, which are not measured, but which count
against the competitor as throws. They are: letting go of the hammer in
an attempt; touching the ground outside the circle with any portion of
the body while the hammer is in hand; or touching the ground forward of
the front half of the circle with any portion of the body before the
throw is measured.
The pictures on the opposite page are reproductions of instantaneous
photographs, taken especially for Harper's Round Table, of Mr. W. O.
Hickok, the Yale and Inter-collegiate champion. Mr. Hickok learned to
throw the hammer when he was at St. Paul's School, Concord, and held the
championship there while he was in school. He used to practise twice a
day, half an hour each time, until he became a thorough master of the
instrument. His experience taught him that it was necessary to assume
the easiest possible position when at work with the hammer, so as to
give the muscles the fullest play. When the hammer is thrown around the
head it should be kept as far as possible from the body; the arms should
not be bent nor the muscles tightened, and the shoulders should be
allowed to move as easily as possible. Perhaps it will be easier to
explain the method by following the illustrations in their numerical
order.
First, the athlete steps into the ring holding the hammer, the head
resting on the ground outside the circle. He secures a firm grasp on the
handle, leaning over so as to keep the head as far away from his body as
possible. The second picture shows the hammer just as it is being lifted
from the ground to be whirled around the head. It is plain to see that
the arms are holding the instrument as far from the body as possible. As
the heavy ball gains in velocity, it stretches out so that the arms and
the handle form a straight horizontal line from the shoulders. The
fourth and fifth pictures demonstrate the attitude of the performer at
various stages of the first two whirls of the hammer. The motion at the
start is slow, and becomes gradually faster and faster, so that the top
speed shall be reached just about as the athlete is ready to turn.