scoria and ashes; but this is not the case, for its slopes are of angular
fragments of compact lava.

Mt. Shasta is almost a pure lava cone, and its remarkably regular form
is a matter of wonder. That it is so regular is a sequence of several
favorable circumstances. Although a score of parasitic cones spring from
the side of the mountain, and have contributed to its upbuilding, yet
their additions have been so small compared with the vast effusions from
the summit craters Shasta and Shastina, as not to greatly modify the
outline of the mountain. More important circumstances are to be found in
the non-explosive character of the eruptions and the successive changes
in the physical properties of the erupted lava, as the development of the
mountain progressed.

It is well known that among the volcanoes of the Hawaiian Islands the
eruptions are quiet and effusive. The fiery streams of liquid lava course
down the gentle slopes for many miles.

Although the mountain is 14,000 feet high, its lavas have such a high
degree of liquidity, and retain their mobility so long after eruption,
that the base of the mountain spread by them has a diameter of about
seventy miles, and an average slope of 5° 1,800 feet below its summit.
Mauna Loa is nearly twenty miles in diameter. On the contrary, at a
corresponding position its greatest diameter is less than two miles, a
very remarkable difference, which is due chiefly to the unequal fluency
of the two lavas. The very oldest lavas of Mt. Shasta lie buried within
its mass, and we know nothing of their physical properties, but from an
examination of the oldest ones now visible, it is evident that at the
time of their eruption they possessed a higher degree of fluidity, and
were more voluminous than those of later date. The long, gentle slopes
about the base of the mountain are formed by comparatively old lavas.
Ascending the mountain, one goes up as if upon a giant staircase, with
long, inclined steps rising abruptly over the ends of successive shorter
and newer lava flows.

It is evident in comparing the older and newer lava flows of Mt. Shasta
that there has been a more or less regular decrease in the quantity of
lava extruded during successive eruptions, and this is exactly what
we should expect when we consider that as the pipe is lengthened by
successive effusions, the hydrostatic pressure of the columns of lava
within is gradually augmented. The increased compress of the lava flows
toward the summit of the mountain indicates that the lava of successive
extrusions became more and more viscous until at last the eruptions
became explosive, and gave rise to the ejectments now clinging upon the
upper slopes of the mountain to evidence the character of the final
outburst.

It is not only possible, but very probable that the increased viscosity
of lava toward the closing scenes of the volcano is correllated to the
diminution of temperature. Since the beginning of the historic period
there have been no eruptions from Mt. Shasta, but the freshness of its
lavas indicate that not many centuries ago, with other volcanoes of the
Cascade Range, it was in a state of vigorous activity, and groups of
hot springs and fumeroles about the summit still attest the presence of
smouldering volcanic energy, which may perhaps some day break through its
confining walls.

The upbuilding of Mt. Shasta is but a matter of yesterday, as compared
with the lapse of ages, since the birth of some of its neighbors. The
complex group of mountains to the westward, embracing the Scott, Trinity,
Salmon and Siskiyou, are composed in large part, at least, of ancient
crystalline rocks of both aqueous and igneous origin; through these the
rivers have cut deep cañons, the Klamath, on its way to the Sacramento
southward, from the very base of Mt. Shasta to its broad valley
stretching from the Sierra Nevada to the Coast Range. The cañon of the
Sacramento was cut down to nearly its present level, and the mountains
sculptured into existing forms long before the eruptions of Mt. Shasta
had ceased, for a fiery deluge escaping from the southern slope of Mt.
Shasta entered the Sacramento cañon, and as a lava stream 200 feet deep
followed its course for over fifty miles.

Towering more than a mile above its neighbors, perhaps the youngest of
the group, Mt. Shasta is the end of a long series of volcanoes in the
Cascade Range, stretching northwest to Mt. Tacoma. This range, composed
chiefly of volcanic material, is cut across by the cañons of the Columbia
and the Klamath rivers, in the former of which, beneath a thickness of
3,500 feet of lava, are found strata containing Tertiary fossils. At the
southern base of Mt. Shasta, in the cañon of the McLoud River, similar
beds of volcanic debris are found, but without fossils, nevertheless it
is evident that the main mass of the Cascade Range and its volcanoes
originated in recent geologic times, and from the fact that solfataras,
fumeroles, and hot springs are still abundant upon their slopes, they can
not be reckoned among those which are wholly extinct.

A frontiersman in Washington Territory tells of an outburst of Mt. St.
Helens in the winter of 1841-2.

Upon somewhat more trustworthy authority it is said that to the southward
of Mt. Shasta, about forty miles, a small cone which may be considered
parasitic to Lassens Peak, has been in eruption as late as January,
1850, ejecting considerable ashes and cinders, and pouring forth a mass
of lava, which gradually spread, attaining a circumference of over four
miles, and presenting an abrupt embankment-like termination upon all
sides eighty to ninety feet in height. Trees, blackened by the fiery
stream, are still standing to furnish incontestable evidence of its
recency.

The country is full of rumors of subterranean rumblings, and the people
are prone to attribute them to the dying throes of volcanic energy.

One of the most striking features of the region is the strongly
contrasted types of volcanic action in Mt. Shasta. Both have
approximately the same area. In the valley there have been many scores of
volcanic vents, among which the energy has been so widely diffused that
none of them have furnished lava sufficient to form a hill more than a
few hundred feet in height.

On the contrary, the mountain represents a small number of vents, and the
volcanic was nearly all concentrated in one place, so that the extrusions
were all piled up, one upon another, and resulted in the upbuilding of
one majestic elevation.

Thus it has been from a small beginning, probably in early Tertiary
times, that by successive boilings over, so to speak, additions have
been made to the mountain until it attained a height beyond its present
altitude. The constructive agents reached their limit, dissipated their
energy, and gave way to destructive ones, which are gradually undoing the
work.

Mt. Shasta must ever be one of the most popular mountains among tourists
of the West. It is easily accessible from a main line of travel which
passes by its base, at Berryvale, where comfortable quarters and
necessary outfit for the ascent can be obtained.

The streams are filled with trout, and the forest with game, so that the
region affords many attractions for the sportsman.

Several hours’ travel by a good trail brings the party to Camp Ross,
at the timber line, from which the ascent can easily be made in a day
without danger.

REASSUREMENT.

BY ADA IDDINGS GALE.

    Fear not, heart—though round thee ply
    Battle’s emblems—far and nigh.
    Though thy comrades round thee fall—
    Ensigns totter on the wall—
    Though the long battalions grim
    Seem to cloud thy future’s rim.
    If amidst the wild affray
    Thou grow sick, and turn away—
    Pause: that would be worst of all,
    If in fleeing, thou should’st fall.
    Stand fast, girt with sword and shield—
    If thou fall, fall in the field.
    What matters it if sad defeat
    Meet thy eager, hurrying feet;
    What, if when the banners wave
    Thou should’st find a shallow grave.

    Foeward, bravely turn thy face,
    Seek no measure small of grace;
    And when loud the trumpets call,
    Bravely stand or bravely fall.
    Whether vict’ry or defeat,
    Laurel wreath or winding sheet
    Be thy meed—’twill differ not,
    Soon or late ’twill be forgot.
    Only thou, heart, e’er shalt know
    Thy deserved praise here below.
    Thou, and One that on his throne
    Ne’er forgets to watch his own,
    One that marks where sparrows flee,
    Thee will guard with equity.
    Then be brave with all thy might—
    This thy guerdon—for the right.

WILL IT PAY?

BY CHARLES BARNARD.

There are some people who always ask this question. You may suggest
anything, a book to read, a science to be studied, or some new work to be
done, and, though they may not be so rude as to say so, they will wonder
how it will pay. “Better not go into farming, my boy. It doesn’t pay.”
“Better not do this or do that. It won’t pay you.” After a little more
of this sort of thing you wonder if it pays to be born, or to live, or
to do anything whatever. Now, what do they mean by this question? By far
the larger part of those who ask it mean that the work, whatever it may
be, does not pay a handsome return in money. A few mean something quite
different. They know all about it, they have seen the world, and it is
all a hollow show, and their favorite dolls are full of sawdust. These
people are dead, but they have forgotten it.

Let us see about this. If there is any one business in the world about
which the people in it are sure it does not pay, it is farming. “It does
not pay.” So many people have said this that people who are not farmers
have really come to think it must be so. Is it true? Here is an ear of
field corn with twelve rows of grains, and twenty grains to a row. Fair
average corn, with 240 grains to the ear. We can take off one grain
and plant it in the ground, and within six months have two ears of the
same corn, or 480 grains from one grain. How big a profit is that? One
grain increases to 480 grains. Is there any manufacturing business, art
or profession that pays such an enormous return? In spite of this they
say it does not pay. Then there must be something the matter with the
business. Nature has provided that the increase of plants shall be very
great. One seed may increase a hundred fold, or five hundred fold, or a
thousand fold. Clearly the work of raising plants with such advantages
in its favor ought to pay, and if it does not, it is equally clear that
something is wrong, some one to blame.

The city housekeeper finds at her store on the avenue a head of lettuce.
Rather wilted and damaged by rough handling. Six cents. You can plant
43,560 heads of lettuce on one acre of ground. At six cents a head that
is $2,613.60 taken out of one acre of land inside of eight weeks. And
yet this person gravely tells us lettuce raising does not pay. What can
the matter be, and where has all this money gone? A city like New York
will calmly eat 40,000 heads of lettuce in a day or two, and pay out over
$2,000 for it, and be ready to eat and pay as much more the next week.
The money is certainly paid to somebody, and if the farmer still insists
it does not pay to raise the lettuce, there must be a reason for it.

Ask the groceryman. He replies that he must live and must have a good
slice out of the money to pay him for buying the lettuce down town and
bringing it up to his store. It isn’t so evident that he must live as he
fancies, because there was a time when there were no storekeepers and
the world got along beautifully without them. However, he is convenient,
and we will allow him his slice out of the profits. The teamster, the
wholesale dealer, the freight handler, the railroad people all say that
they too must live, and to please them we will admit that is so, though
there is not much to prove it. They must share in the $2,000 paid for
the acre of lettuce. Lastly, the farmer gets what the others decide he
may have after they have had what they decide is their share. If we ask
each one of this row of men, it is quite possible each one will say it
does not pay, but, somehow, none except the farmer says anything about
it. The last man, the actual producer of the lettuce, is the only one to
complain. His business is the only one concerned that people say does not
pay.

There was once a young man who started out bravely in life, resolved
to reform the world. After trying for some time he gave it up and was
ever after entirely contented if he paid his board regularly every week.
It is useless to think we can reform this matter all in a day. The day
will come when these things will be changed and equity and justice will
take the place of the utter selfishness that now marks competition in
business. Our best plan is to see what we can do to become producers
ourselves. We want the lettuce ourselves. We must pay the retail price
for it, and if at this price there is a big profit in raising it, we
would like the entire profit placed in our hands. The people in these
United States are divided into two great classes—the producers and the
consumers—those who raise things to eat, and those who are in other
trades and eat without producing. The producers are the farmers and
fishermen. The consumers make all the rest of the people. The producers
also eat, but their food costs them very much less than the food used
by the non-producers. Of course we can see there must be non-producers
or the trades and arts would perish, and the nation would become a mere
agricultural community, content with sleeping and eating. At the same
time, we must observe that a very large proportion of those who produce
nothing live in small towns and villages and own land. We see everywhere
in our smaller cities and towns hundreds of homes having gardens about
the house. A little discouraged grass, a dyspeptic tree or two, a forlorn
grape vine straggling over the fence, plenty of dusty gravel, and a
mortgage on the house and lot. Within the house bitter complaints against
the high price of food, much fretfulness and weariness at the scant,
monotonous bill of fare. Boys and girls growing up with white hands and
narrow chests (to say nothing of stomachs that they should be ashamed to
own) and the storekeeper saving money on the next corner.

This is the reason it does not pay. We want to have white hands and be
genteel and all that. We want to be consumers, and we unwittingly combine
to get all we can out of the selling and handling of food and leave the
producer as little as we think he can be forced to take. We must get rid
of this imported nonsense about work. (It all came from Europe, and is
wholly un-American.) We must make the land give us more food. Our boys
and girls must go out of doors, must learn to be producers. They should
be shown that it is disgraceful to live in a mortgaged house, that it is
disgraceful to stand on any part of God’s ground and complain that food
is scarce or high when that food might come out of the very ground under
our ungrateful feet. The Chinese, the Japanese, the Dutch, the French,
the Swiss cultivate every rod of ground they own. No barren yards about
their houses, taxed and yet paying no return. Why, in England even the
strips of waste land along the railway tracks are cultivated, and the
trains move between rows of cabbages half a hundred miles long.

This is the way for thousands of families to make it pay. Produce your
own food and sell it to yourselves. A head of lettuce grown on your own
ground and eaten on your own table saves the retail price of a head of
lettuce, and if there is a profit on it for all the people who touch it,
clearly you have the entire profit for yourself. On reading this about
five hundred people will calmly remark that this is not so. They have
tried it and it cost more to raise their own vegetables than it did to
buy them at the stores. The wages of the gardener come to more than all
the things were worth. So much the worse for the gardener. You should
be your own gardener. Where are your boys and girls? At the base ball
grounds, or the rink, or at the foolish piano—doing nothing—earning
nothing and trying to be genteel? Garden work is hard on the back and
hurts the hands. Yes, because your hands are weak and your back is not
strong, and of these things you should be ashamed.

The price of land in this country is steadily rising. All the best farm
land is being taken up. The cost of food is advancing. It will never
again be as cheap as it has been in the past. The time has come when we
must economize. We can not longer afford to carry those neglected garden
plots and waste spaces about our houses. They must produce food for the
people who own them. We must be our own producers. We must study plants
and animals. These represent food and wealth, and it is simply an untruth
to say it will not pay to raise them. If your garden costs more than the
retail price of food in your neighborhood the fault is your own. There
is something the matter with your soil or your seeds, or your method
of culture. Think of the profit of raising lettuce at $2,000 an acre,
and yet that is the return that an acre will produce if paid for at the
retail price. Moreover, the lettuce would be removed from the ground in
ample time for another crop, likewise bringing a profit. Of course, if
your land is worth five dollars a foot, the interest on one foot would
be more than the value of the single lettuce plant you could raise upon
it. In such a case you had better sell out and buy cheaper land. For
the majority of homes where there is a garden the land is cheap enough
to produce more or less of the food needed in the house, and there is no
reason whatever why it may not be raised at a handsome profit.

The Chautauqua University recognizes the importance of this matter. Its
aim is to help, to guide, and to instruct, and it is now, through the
liberality of its friends, able to help, guide and instruct all who wish
to learn something of the art of producing food and saving money. It sees
hundreds of boys and girls totally ignorant of these common things. It
sees young people wondering what they shall do, perplexed and worried
over this question of earning a living, and discouraged at the high cost
of living, when a part of their living is going to waste beneath their
feet. The Chautauqua Town and Country Club was formed to help those
who wish to help themselves. It aims to show by simple lessons how to
raise plants of all kinds, how to care for animals, how to take care of
your garden so that it will be a source of pleasure and profit. Half
a thousand people have already joined the club and are now at work in
good earnest. Should you wish to know more about it, write to Miss K. F.
Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.

All this is meant for you.

What are you going to do about it?

GEOGRAPHY OF THE HEAVENS FOR JULY.

BY PROF. M. B. GOFF,

Western University of Pennsylvania.

THE SUN,

Of which so much has been said in these pages, continues to be
discussed with increasing interest by astronomers of both hemispheres,
who every day supply their quota of new ideas as the result of their
investigations. In THE CHAUTAUQUAN for March, 1884, the statement was
made that “it has already been demonstrated that the colored prominences
may be examined at any time when the sun can be seen; and it is believed
that Mr. Huggins has accomplished the difficult feat of photographing
the corona, so that it, too, may be scrutinized _at leisure_.” In the
April number of the _Nineteenth Century_, we find a very interesting
account by Mr. Huggins himself, of his operations in this line. As yet
the experiments have not been in all respects satisfactory; but so much
has been done as to leave no doubt of the final result. As Mr. H. tells
us, the great obstacle to overcome is the immense curtain of air, which
“hangs” between us and the sun, and absorbs some forty per cent. of the
sun’s light (and heat). This absorption renders our atmosphere as light
at least as the sun’s corona, and makes it as difficult of observation
as a lesser light placed behind a greater. The same atmosphere being as
bright, or brighter, than the stars, prevents our seeing the latter in
daylight. During an eclipse of the sun, the shadow of the moon affords
us a long, funnel shaped tube through this great air curtain (which may
be forty, or one hundred, or more miles in thickness) and we are enabled
through it to see the sun’s corona. But “on an average, once in two years
this curtain of light is lifted for from _three_ to _six_ minutes”—a very
contracted period in which to obtain a knowledge of a phenomenon that
we know is constantly changing. If we had a Joshua, who could command
sun, moon and earth to stand still for the space of a few hours even, we
might discover what we so much wish to know, what is this corona. Or, if
we could go beyond this atmosphere of ours—place it between us and the
earth, we might do without a Joshua. But we can not get outside. Then the
next best thing is to get as nearly outside as possible. Dr. Copeland
tried this by climbing an elevation of 12,400 feet. Prof. Langley
ascended Mt. Etna, and on Mt. Whitney ascended to the height of 15,000
feet; but at these heights the curtain was still too heavy, and no view
of the corona was obtained; or, as Prof. Langley expressed it, he “met
with entire non-success.” From reports in regard to observations made
in Egypt of the total eclipse of 1882, Mr. Huggins conceived the idea
of making a photographic plate so sensitive that it would distinguish
differences imperceptible to the eye, and on this plate take a picture
of the corona, and then examine it as one would the “photo” of a friend,
and mark its peculiarities. He made his first experiment in 1882, and
as a result “there seemed to be good ground to hope that the corona had
really been obtained upon the plates.” In 1883, a second attempt, under
more favorable circumstances was made, and “images of the sun exquisitely
defined, and free from all sensible trace of instrumental imperfection
were obtained.” On the 6th of May of the same year (1883) a total eclipse
of the sun occurred at Caroline Islands, and was there photographed by
Messrs. Lawrence and Woods, photographers of the Royal Society; and on
a comparison of these photographs of the sun’s corona during an eclipse
with his own taken both before and after the time of the eclipse (which
was not visible to Mr. H.), he had the satisfaction of seeing so strong
a resemblance as to convince him that he had photographed the corona
without an eclipse. Although having no doubt of the success of his
experiment, yet, on account of the unfavorable conditions of the climate,
it was determined to try a higher elevation; and the Riffel, near
Zarmatt, Switzerland, was selected as a suitable place to make further
trials. Mr. Ray Wood was selected as artist, and reached Riffel in July,
1884. But unfortunately, the “veil of finely divided matter of some
sort,” “of which we have heard so much in the accounts from all parts
of the earth of gorgeous sunsets and after-glows” seriously interfered
with the work; nevertheless, a number of plates were obtained on which
the corona showed itself with more or less distinctness. Not satisfied
with these results, Mr. Woods was deputed to go to the Cape of Good Hope,
where, under the direction of Dr. Gill, he is to make, or is, perhaps,
now making daily photographic representations of the corona, and laboring
fully to realize the anticipations of the esteemed Mr. Huggins.

Meantime our sun makes his accustomed rounds, bringing with him the usual
accompaniments, hot weather and the “dog days.” He will on the 1st rise
at 4:34 a. m. and set at 7:33 p. m.; on the 16th, rise at 4:43 a. m., set
at 7:28 p. m.; and on the 30th, rise at 4:56 a. m., and set at 7:17 p. m.
During the month the length of the day will decrease from 15 h. 1 m. on
the 1st to 14 h. 21 m. on the 30th. The declination will in the same time
decrease four degrees and forty-three minutes.

THE MOON

Enters upon its last quarter on the 5th, at 7:18 a. m.; new moon occurs
on the 12th, at 12:07 a. m.; first quarter on the 18th, at 7:11 p. m.;
full moon on the 26th, at 9:14 p. m. In perigee, or nearest the earth, on
the 11th, at 8:24 p. m.; in apogee, or farthest from the earth, on 25th,
at 4:18 a. m. Reaches its greatest elevation above the horizon, 66° 55′,
on the 11th; least elevation, 30° 7′, on the 23d. On the 1st, rises at
10:00 p. m.; on the 16th, sets at 10:26 p. m.; on the 30th, rises 9:05 p.
m.

MERCURY

On the 13th, at 6:57 a. m., is 5° 39′ north of the moon; on the 17th, at
9:00 a. m., 11′ south of Venus; and on the 26th, at 2:00 a. m., 11′ south
of _Alpha_ in the constellation _Leo_, a very interesting conjunction,
but not visible to the naked eye. Mercury has a direct motion during the
month of 51° 51′; and his diameter increases from 5″ to 6.8″. On the 1st,
he rises at 4:56 a. m., and sets at 7:56 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at
6:23 a. m., and sets at 8:31 p. m.; on the 30th, rises at 7:16 a. m., and
sets at 8:22 p. m.

VENUS

Makes but little show this month, being too near the “Source of Light.”
She will be evening star throughout the month, growing brighter as the
days pass by; her diameter increasing from 10.4″ on the 1st to 11.2″ on
the 30th. She has a direct motion of 38° 8′ 45″. On the 1st, rises at
5:50 a. m., sets at 8:34 p. m.; on the 16th, rises at 6:25 a. m., sets at
8:33 p. m.; and on the 30th, rises at 6:57 a. m., sets at 8:23 p. m. On
the 13th, at 10:21 p. m., 5° 22′ north of the moon; on 17th, at 9:00 a.
m., 11′ north of Mercury.

MARS

Will be a morning star during this month. On the 1st rising at 2:30 a.
m., and setting at 5:08 p. m.; on the 16th, rising at 2:11 a. m., setting
at 5:01 p. m.; and on the 30th, rising at 1:54 a. m., setting at 4:50 p.
m. His diameter increases one tenth of a second of arc, and he makes a
direct motion of 22° 56′. On the 9th, at 3:44 p. m., he is 5° 1′ north of
the moon.

JUPITER.

_Et tu, Jupiter_, art on the wane. Each day he sets more nearly with the
sun, and his diameter grows smaller, though monarch still of all the
planets. He rises on the 1st, 16th and 30th, at 9:00, 8:14, and 7:33 a.
m., respectively, and sets on the corresponding days at 10:19, 9:28, and
8:39 p. m. He makes a direct motion of 5° 25′ 42″. On the 15th, at 2:02
a. m., is 3° 7′ north of the moon.

SATURN.

Those who have not improved the past few months to obtain a view of the
beauties of this planet can not blame the writer. Their attention has
been called to the fact that his rings stand more widely open now than
they will again for fifteen years. But they need not despair; for in the
delightful coolness of a summer morning they may still improve their
opportunities; for Saturn rises the latter part of this month nearly with
the dawn, and those who care to leave their “downy couch” can catch him
before the rising of the sun. 3:56, 3:05, and 2:18 a. m., on the 1st,
16th and 30th will find him “at home;” and in August an earlier hour
will suit as well. During the month his diameter increases two tenths
of a second. On the 10th, at 5:48 p. m., he may be found 4° 7′ north of
the moon; and on the 20th, one minute south of the star _Eta_ in the
constellation _Gemini_.

URANUS.

This planet, on the 1st, rises at 11:14 a. m., and sets at 11:20 p. m.;
on the 16th, rises at 10:17 a. m., sets at 10:23 p. m.; on the 30th,
rises at 9:25 a. m., sets at 9:29 p. m. No change in diameter, which
remains at 3.6″. On the 16th, at 6:37 p. m., 34′ north of the moon.

NEPTUNE.

This slow motioned body, of which we know so little, and which not more
than one person out of 10,000 ever saw, makes a direct motion during the
month of 42′ 55″; its diameter is 2.6″; and on the 8th, at 6:59 a. m.,
its position is 2° 33′ directly north of the moon. It may be interesting
to know that it will be a morning star which “will _not_ light the
traveler on his way,” during the entire month. Its times of rising are
1:52 a. m. on the 1st; 12:57 a. m. on the 16th, and at midnight on the
30th.

HOW AIR HAS BEEN LIQUEFIED.

BY J. JAMIN,

Of the French Academy.

In the interval between 1602 and 1626 four philosophers were born who
seem to have been divinely appointed to teach men the mysteries of air.
These were a German, Otto von Guericke (1602); two Frenchmen, Mariotte
and Pascal (1620, 1623), and finally an Englishman, Boyle (1626). Pascal
conceived the idea that air being material must have weight like other
materials, and consequently that the earth must be pressed upon by its
atmospheric envelope, and he proved this by the celebrated experiment at
Puy de Dôme.

Soon after, Otto von Guericke, having invented the air pump, succeeded in
exhausting the air from a vessel and confirmed Pascal’s idea that air was
really heavy, while Mariotte and Boyle at the same time, each in his own
country, and by almost identical experiments, proved that air is elastic,
that its volume decreases by pressure, and generally in proportion to the
weight to which it is subjected. Mariotte modestly called this discovery
a rule of nature. We call it a physical law, and very suitably name it
in France “Mariotte’s Law,” and in England “Boyle’s Law.”

It seemed necessary for science to collect her thoughts after this great
achievement. She seemed to think there was nothing more to discover.
Boyle and Mariotte would have been very much astonished if some one had
told them that this air, whose properties they had been demonstrating,
could be reduced to a liquid like water, and even to a solid like snow.
Nearly two centuries passed before the world was prepared for this new
discovery. We ourselves were ignorant of it until the month of April,
1883, when the Academy of Sciences received from Cracow these two
dispatches:

    “Oxygen completely liquefied; the liquid colorless as carbonic
    acid.” (April 9th.)

    “Nitrogen frozen, liquefied by expansion; the liquid colorless.”
    (April 16th.)

                                                        WROBLEWSKI.

Thus air has been reduced to a volume a thousand or fifteen hundred
times less than under ordinary conditions. It ceased to be a gas and took
the appearance of water. This astonishing result is only the last in a
long list of experiments which for a long time were fruitless; it is the
finishing touch to a building begun long ago, and on which many workmen
have labored. What has been the work of each of them? It is a long story.

Van Marum, a philosopher and chemist of Harlem, is celebrated as the
constructor of an electric machine, the largest known, but he is more
justly celebrated for having been the first to liquefy a gas. Wishing
to know if ammonia would obey Mariotte’s law, he compressed it. Under a
pressure of six atmospheres it changed quickly to a transparent liquid.
Van Marum did not foresee the consequences of his experiments, and is
honored only as being the first successful performer of the experiment.
But Lavoisier, whose keener mind grasped all that these results implied,
did not hesitate to declare the general law that all substances were
capable of existing in three different states, and he illustrated his
belief most forcibly. “Let us consider for a moment what would happen to
the different substances which form the earth, if the temperature should
be quickly changed. Let us suppose that the earth were suddenly placed in
a region where the temperature would be much above that of boiling water;
soon the air, all liquids which can be vaporized at a temperature near
that of boiling water, and many metallic substances even, would expand,
be transformed into air-like fluids, and form part of the atmosphere.

“On the contrary, if the earth should be suddenly placed in a very cold
temperature, for example, that of Jupiter or Saturn, the water of our
rivers and seas, and, probably, the greatest number of liquids which we
know would become solid.”

“Air,” according to this supposition, or at least a part of the air-like
substances which compose it, “would doubtless cease to exist in its
present form; it would be changed to a liquid state, and this change
would produce new liquids of which we know nothing.”

Lavoisier was mistaken about the temperature of Jupiter and Saturn, but
was right in his supposition that air would become a liquid; however,
as experiment did not prove the theory, the prediction was forgotten
and the question dropped. It slept a long time, for it was not until
1823 that it was revived by Faraday. The first experiments of this great
philosopher were on this subject. He was but twenty-two when he made
his first discovery, the liquefaction of chlorine. The details of this
experiment have been told by Tyndall. It is well known that when chlorine
gas and cold water are united, crystals are formed which contain to every
molecule of chlorine ten molecules of water. Faraday put some of these
into a closed tube and heated them until two separate liquids appeared;
one was water, the other floated on the surface of the water, and a
certain professor of Paris declared that it could be nothing but oil
carelessly left in the vessel. Faraday having opened the tube, found that
this substance began to boil, and then changed with an explosion into a
green gas. It was chlorine. Faraday, who was quick-tempered, immediately
took his revenge on the professor, to whom he wrote: “You will be pleased
to know, sir, that the oil left by carelessness in my apparatus was
nothing less than liquefied chlorine.”

This first success decided the career of the young chemist. He announced
that all gases could be reduced to this state if subjected to a
sufficient pressure, and he undertook a series of experiments, of which
the success was doubtful, but the danger certain. He operated in this
way: He took a thick glass tube in the form of an inverted U; one branch
was left empty, in the other the materials for producing the gas to be
studied were placed and the whole closed. Obliged to gather in the empty
branch, the gas continually increased in pressure, and there were two
possible results to the experiment; either the gas would not change its
state, and the pressure would increase until the vessel broke, or when a
certain limit of pressure was reached, then the liquid would appear and
would continue to accumulate as long as the gas was disengaged. A dozen
gases were reduced in this way; among them were the following, which we
shall need: Ammonia, sulphurous acid, carbonic acid, and protoxide of
nitrogen, which at a temperature of ten degrees required a pressure equal
to sixty atmospheres.

This pressure leaves no doubt about the danger which one runs in carrying
on such researches. If we remember that steam boilers generally support
a pressure of no more than ten atmospheres, if we recall the number and
the horror of their explosions we can hardly understand how a simple
glass tube could resist a pressure five or six times as great. When a gas
reaches the point of liquefaction, then the pressure ceases to increase,
but if it does not change from that condition the pressure increases
until an explosion necessarily occurs, and the debris of the vessel is
scattered as powder scatters the fragments of a shell. In the course of
Faraday’s researches he had thirty explosions. They did not stop him, but
it is easy to see that they did not encourage others.

Happily there is a less dangerous method of reaching the same result,
it is to freeze the gas. In the same way that the vapor of water is
condensed when the temperature is lowered, so gases, which are really
vapors, will yield to sufficient cold. In 1824, Bussy succeeded in
condensing sulphurous acid gas. The gas was introduced into a balloon,
which was plunged into a freezing mixture of ice and salt. The gas was
liquefied and could be preserved indefinitely, if the balloon were
enclosed in an enamel vessel. In heating, it gave off vapors which, by
their pressure kept the remainder of the fluid, providing the glass was
strong enough. Thus, in two ways, by cold and by pressure, and still
better, by both combined, it is possible to liquefy a large number of
gases.

When water is heated, it remains immovable up to 100 degrees Centigrade,
but then it is changed into vapor, or boils. This boiling is
characterized by a peculiar feature, the temperature remains fixed at
100 degrees. It must be concluded, therefore, that the heat produced by
the furnace and absorbed by the liquid is simply used in transforming
the water into vapor. This fact was first discovered by the English
philosopher, Black, who, not being able to explain the phenomenon, was
content to demonstrate it and to speak of the heat as _latent_. He saw
that it took five and a half times as long to change water into vapor
as to heat it from zero to 100 degrees, and that consequently it must
require five and a half times as much heat to work the change. Such is
the law of boiling in the air, but let us see what it is in a vacuum.

It is clear that the pressure of the atmosphere on water is a hindrance
to its expansion into vapor, and that this hindrance increases or
diminishes with the pressure. In a vacuum, of course, the liquid is
free from the pressure, so that boiling ought to take place at a lower
temperature.

And experiment teaches that this is the case; water boils at a
temperature of 82° or 65°, as the pressure is reduced to one half or a
quarter of an atmosphere, it boils at zero, and even below, in a vacuum.
And we reach this remarkable result, that the boiling and freezing points
unite, and that ice is formed while vapor is set free. But, although the
boiling is advanced, although it takes place at zero instead of at 100
degrees, although the vapor is cold instead of hot, and the change takes
place in a vacuum instead of in the air, it is a general law that a large
quantity of heat is used, becomes latent, and enters into the formation
of vapor.

Supposing that we fill a bronze vessel of very thick sides with water,
close it with a lid and fit into it a valve loaded with lead. Place this
in a furnace whose temperature has been raised to, say, 230 degrees. The
water will reach this temperature, and vapor will accumulate until it
reaches a pressure equal to more than twenty-seven atmospheres.

Let us now open the valve, the vapor will escape, and as it carries with
it the heat necessary for its expansion, the temperature of the water
will gradually fall until it reaches 100 degrees, after which the boiling
will continue slowly and regularly; thus the water has been cooled and is
kept below the temperature of its surrounding wall because it must absorb
the extra heat which is required to change it to vapor. This apparatus is
called Papin’s digester.

There is a similar experiment, but performed in a vacuum at the ordinary
temperature. Put some water into a closed decanter which is connected by
a tube with an air pump. As soon as a vacuum is produced the water begins
to boil and to freeze, for the vapor can only be formed by borrowing
heat, and there is nothing to take it from but the water itself, which
soon reaches zero and is frozen. This apparatus makes a very simple ice
house, as useful as convenient, and it proves, first, that boiling takes
place at the lowest temperatures providing the pressure is sufficiently
diminished; secondly, that it is always accompanied by a loss of heat;
and thirdly, that it lowers the temperature of the liquid below that of
the surrounding envelope, and the more as the vacuum is more complete.

Just as opening the valve lets the vapor accumulated above the water in
Papin’s digester escape, and causes a fall in the temperature, so, by
opening the reservoirs in which one has confined a liquefied gas, one
sees it fall back to the boiling point. For example, take the liquid
obtained from the compression of sulphurous acid gas. As soon as the
reservoir containing it is opened the liquid begins to boil, and a
vapor is formed, it is the gas which re-forms. It absorbs the latent
heat necessary, taking it from exterior objects by radiation from the
liquid itself, from the vessel which holds it, and from the materials
into which it has been placed. It cools these until the point at which
sulphurous acid gas boils is reached, twelve degrees below zero; then the
liquid remains balanced between the radiation which tends to heat it and
vaporization, which cools it. The final result is that the temperature is
lowered and remains fixed at twelve degrees below zero. This is not all:
just as the boiling point of water is lowered below zero in a vacuum,
in the same way that of sulphurous acid gas falls below twelve degrees.
Bussy brought it down to sixty-eight, where it remained; not only water,
but mercury may be frozen by this means.

Finally, the boiling of liquefied gases will freeze all neighboring
substances, and the greatest cold which one could obtain is produced
by their boiling in a vacuum. This property of sulphurous acid was
discovered in a still greater degree in protoxide of nitrogen, which was
changed into a liquid at a temperature of 0 degrees, and under a pressure
of thirty atmospheres. If allowed to boil in a vacuum, a temperature of
one hundred and ten degrees below zero was obtained. When science has
sown trade reaps the harvest; since by allowing liquefied gases to boil,
a temperature of one hundred and ten degrees below zero can be obtained,
and since the vapors which they give off carry away an enormous amount
of heat from the surrounding bodies, it is possible by means of this
cold produced to freeze water, make cold drinks, solidify mercury, cool
cellars, prevent food from decay, and to do many other things of similar
nature. A new art became possible, that of making cold. To-day it is
at the height of success. It is founded on this general principle: to
liquefy the gas by means of pressure, taking care that it does not become
heated, to introduce it into a freezer, where it is allowed to boil,
and from which it absorbs the heat, to carry off the gas and introduce
it again into the vessel, where it will by pressure be liquefied. The
action is constant, the same gas acts indefinitely, and there is no other
expense than that which is caused by running the pumps. In spite of these
fine results and the extraordinary efforts put forth, the end was not
attained. To be sure, some gases had yielded, but still there was a large
number which resisted every effort. Was it necessary to give up the idea
that the law of liquefaction of gases was general, or was it true that
the exceptions were only the results of insufficient means? Faraday had
never varied in his belief. One easily returns to the affections of his
youth, and he believed that the time had come for making fresh efforts
to prove his theory. After a rest of twenty-two years he determined to
again take up the liquefaction of the rebellious gases. Means were not
wanting. Thilorier had taught him how to solidify easily large masses
of carbonic acid, and by mixing this solid with ether make a powerful
freezing mixture; protoxide of nitrogen could be prepared with the same
ease and abundance, and would boil regularly in a vacuum at a temperature
of one hundred and twenty degrees below zero. Thus he was able to secure
a degree of cold before unknown. For compression, he had a pump formed
of two parts; one took the gas at its generation, and accumulated it in
a reservoir under a pressure of fifteen atmospheres; the second part
then received it; here it was subjected to a much greater pressure in a
strong glass vessel which was plunged into carbonic acid or protoxide of
nitrogen. Cold and pressure were thus combined. At that time nothing more
could be done; fortunately this was enough to subdue most gases. Faraday
had the satisfaction of liquefying nearly all gases, and of extending the
law which he had announced, but still six, only six, refused to give up;
among them were marsh gas, oxygen, nitrogen, and hydrogen. Science is a
battle which must be continually renewed; the more the gases resisted,
the greater the efforts made to conquer them. At first, new and energetic
means of pressure were invented. Aimé, a professor in Algiers, secured a
pressure of four hundred atmospheres, without result. M. Cailletet used a
hydraulic press which exerted a force equal to seven hundred atmospheres,
and afterward increased this to one thousand atmospheres, but still the
gas resisted. At last it was found that pressure alone, however enormous
it might be, could not liquefy the gases.

An English philosopher, called Andrews, put a new face on matters.
He took carbonic acid gas at a temperature of about thirteen degrees
and compressed it. The gas began to diminish in volume, and under a
pressure of fifty atmospheres was suddenly liquefied, taking quickly
a very great density, and falling to the bottom of the vessel, where
it remained separated from its vapor by a surface as plainly marked
as that which marks water and air. Andrews afterward tried the same
experiment at a higher temperature, about twenty-one degrees. The same
results were produced with but one difference: the liquefaction was less
sudden. At a temperature of thirty-two degrees, instead of a separate
and distinct liquid, undulating striæ appeared as the only signs of a
change in condition which was not completed. Finally, at a temperature
of above thirty-two degrees there was neither striæ nor liquefaction,
but still it seemed as if a trace was preserved, for under certain
pressure the density increased more quickly, and the volume diminished
more rapidly. Thirty-two degrees is then the limit, a point between the
degrees which permit and which prevent liquefaction. It is the _critical
point_ which marks the separation between two very different conditions
of a substance; below, we have a liquid; above, there is no change in
appearance, but there enters a new condition, whose characteristics I
will describe.

Generally a liquid is more dense than its vapor; for this reason it
falls to the bottom, and the two are separated by a level surface.
But supposing that we heat the vessel which contains them. The liquid
expands little by little, until it equals, or even surpasses, the
expansion of the gas, so that an equal volume weighs less and less. On
the other hand, a continually increasing quantity of vapor is formed,
accumulates at the top of the vessel, and becomes constantly heavier.
Now, if the density of the vapor increases, or if that of the liquid
diminishes under the right temperature, the two densities become equal.
Then there is no longer a reason for the liquid falling, the vapor
rising, or for a surface of separation. The two are mingled. Neither are
they any longer distinguished by their different degrees of heat. When
this critical point is reached, it is impossible to tell whether it is
liquid or gas, since in either state it has the same density, the same
heat, the same appearance, the same properties. This is a new state, a
gaseous liquid state. The discovery of these properties showed why all
the attempts to liquefy air had been useless. At an ordinary temperature
the gas is in a gaseous liquid condition. Liquefaction can take place
only when the liquid is separated from the vapor by its own greater
density. The next step was therefore to lower the temperature below that
of the critical point. This was understood and carried out about the
same time by MM. Cailletet and Raoul Pictet. On the 2nd of December,
1877, M. Cailletet subjected oxygen in a glass tube to a pressure of
three hundred atmospheres, and reduced its temperature to twenty-nine
degrees below zero. The gas did not change in appearance, and was in all
probability in the gaseous liquid condition. Nothing but more cold was
wanting to liquefy it. The valve was turned, the gas escaped, and the
temperature fell two hundred degrees, and the characteristic whitish
mist was seen. Oxygen had been liquefied, perhaps solidified. The same
result was reached with nitrogen, but nothing was done with hydrogen.
While M. Cailletet performed this decisive experiment at Paris, M. Raoul
Pictet achieved the same at Geneva. He had at his command all necessary
materials, so that he subjected the oxygen to a pressure of three hundred
and twenty atmospheres, and to a temperature of one hundred and forty
degrees below zero. In this condition the gas was probably below the
critical point, and when the reservoir was opened suddenly it began
to boil and was thrown in every direction. M. Pictet believed that he
liquefied, and even more, had solidified hydrogen, but he was doubtless
mistaken. These results, however, were not satisfactory. M. Cailletet was
preparing a new experiment when the Academy received the two telegrams
given at the beginning of this article.

Wroblewski and his colleague, Olszewski, had boiled ethylene, a gas
similar to that used for heating purposes, in a vacuum. The temperature
fell to one hundred and fifty degrees below zero. It was the greatest
degree of cold yet obtained, and was sufficient. The success was
complete. The oxygen, previously compressed in a glass tube, became
a fixed liquid. It was like the others, in the form of a colorless
and transparent liquid, like water, but of a little less density. Its
critical point was at one hundred and thirteen degrees below zero,
forming itself below, never above, this temperature, and boiling rapidly
at a temperature of one hundred and eighty-six degrees below zero. A few
days after this the two Polish professors succeeded, in the same way, in
liquefying nitrogen.

But if the question was settled for air was it also for nitrogen? M.
Pictet, in his experiment, had used a weight of three hundred and twenty
atmospheres, and cold of one hundred and forty degrees below zero. When
he opened the reservoir a jet of gas, mingled with mist of steel gray
color, burst forth. At the beginning of the experiment, solid fragments
accompanied the jet; these fell to the floor with a sound like that
of grains of lead. Naturally, M. Pictet thought that he had not only
liquefied, but even solidified hydrogen, but unfortunately the experiment
was not wholly satisfactory. For perfect success still more acute cold
was needed, and here was oxygen and nitrogen to get it from. Nitrogen,
the most refractory, was taken, and a degree of cold undreamed of before,
attained; in the open air it reached one hundred and ninety-four degrees
below zero, and in a vacuum two hundred and thirteen degrees below. These
temperatures were so low that it was necessary to invent new methods
for measuring them. A mercury thermometer was useless, because it froze
at forty degrees, and alcohol because it became a solid at one hundred
and thirty degrees. No liquid is able to resist such temperatures, so
electric, or hydrogen thermometers, were employed.

Wroblewski and Olszewski have but lately achieved success. Having
compressed the hydrogen in the above named manner, they froze it by
means of nitrogen boiling in a vacuum. Still it did not liquefy. It was
yet in a gaseous liquid state, but when the tube was opened then there
appeared a transparent and colorless liquid. At last the question of
the liquefaction of gases, which has been discussed so long, has been
settled. When we think of the simplicity of these final experiments, it
seems strange that the problem was so difficult to solve. The trouble lay
in the fact that at the start there was everything to find out; there
was the critical point and the means of freezing to discover. It was
necessary to proceed by steps, using each gas for the reduction of the
one more stubborn than itself. Really, as Biot says, nothing is so easy
as what was discovered yesterday, nothing so difficult as what must be
discovered to-morrow. It might be asked whether the result is worth the
trouble necessary to collect these liquids. The answer must be left to
the future. The chemist will take up this new law of gases, and art will
adapt it to its purposes. For the present, all that it amounts to is
that the natural philosopher has proven that all kinds of materials may
exist in three conditions, and obey the same common laws.—_Abridged and
Translated from “Révue des Deux Mondes” for “The Chautauquan.”_

AMERICAN DECORATIVE ART.

BY COLEMAN E. BISHOP.

Among the many so-called “booms” that followed the civil war, as the
result of the wonderful intellectual, moral and material impulse that
it gave the country, one of the most marked and promising of influence
on the national character is the advancement in decorative art that
this generation has seen and felt. Its presence and influence are
observable in the general demand for more artistic interior finishing
and furnishing: for better form and coloring in wall paper, frescoing,
painting, floor-coverings, upholstery and drapery, and in that broader
study of the harmonious wholes of which these are related parts.

It is not an art renaissance, so much as a new birth of popular art
feeling; a creation, rather than a revival. Facts seem to indicate the
beginning of the long-talked-of American school of art. It is a peculiar,
and peculiarly-encouraging circumstance that this new development is
native and popular instead of imported and select.

For, we may be very sure that any movement that is to abide and have
much power over our people must be one that touches the average citizen.
To reach him it must be American. It need not be divergent from, and
it should not be antagonistic to established art principles; but, not
the less, in its sympathies, subjects, and methods it must be national.
An art that is to live with any people must be _of_ that people. With
us this requirement of popularity is doubly strong, because we are so
intensely national; because all institutions live and move and have their
being in the commonalty, and because the citizen is the only source of
living patronage of art here, where the state does not foster art as
foreign states do. The artist must eat, and the people must feed him.
Before they will pay for art, they must have sufficient culture to
care for it dollars’ worth, and it must be of a nature to reach their
sympathies. Even in monarchial England, Ruskin perceives the necessity
for beginning at the bottom to upbuild national taste, and he addresses
volumes of letters upon art “To the Workmen and Laborers of Great
Britain” (see “Fors Clavigera”).

We have not much to hope for in the way of education of American taste
from imported art, for this can never reach or touch the people. A few
_dilettanti_ in our cities can do very little toward creating, or even
influencing a national taste. They have no _rapport_ with true American
culture; they offend national sensibilities by unreasoning rejection of
everything undertaken here; and, above all, if they be brought to the
test, it will be found that they generally have no fixed art principles
back of their opinions and—prejudices. If the average American could
not appreciate foreign works, he was not much helped to a better
understanding of them by their admirers; and he came to think himself at
least quite capable of correctly estimating devotees who could no more
give good reasons for worshiping everything foreign than they could for
scorning everything indigenous.

The most hopeful augury for this new interest is in the fact that it
relates to that department of art which goes most directly into the lives
and the homes of the people: and that it has been the first to take on
marked American characteristics. Moreover, its commercial features will
be potent influences for its spread and growth. It is capable of being at
once the refiner, the educator and the almoner of thousands.

Confidence in the inherent genius of my countrymen, led me years ago to
predict that all that was needed for the establishment of a school in
any art was (1) the foundational training of mind or hand; (2) a belief
that it can be done; (3) a market for it. The last most important of
all, because demand inspires originality and creates supply, and because
recompense is the great stimulus to inspiration. Genius in this age is
pretty apt to have an eye to the main chance.

For all these reasons we are prepared for the conclusion that the impulse
given to decorative art by the organizations known as the “Decorative Art
Society,” and the “Associated Artists,” all of New York City, is the most
valuable of anything that has been done since the nation’s new sense of
the beautiful awoke. These are the parts of one movement possessing these
characteristics:

It is distinctively American.

It has compelled recognition at home and abroad as well of its indigenous
originality as of its artistic correctness and merit.

It has begun the production of exclusively American materials, designed
and manufactured in this country, which are unequaled by anything foreign.

It is commercially successful.

By virtue of all these achievements, it is doing a missionary work for
American art by encouraging similar efforts in other cities and other
countries; by demonstrating that “good _can_ come out of Nazareth;”
by putting in the way of thousands of talented women, suffering under
repression and lack of opportunity or for inspiration of hope, the
opening for culture and compensation combined.

It is to celebrate what has been accomplished, and haply, to suggest the
opportunities open to others, that this narration is essayed.

The movement was, indeed, patriotic in its birth. It was inspired by the
Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia. The specimens of decorative art
from the South Kensington School in the English exhibit impressed Mrs.
Thomas M. Wheeler, of New York, by their lack of originality and freedom,
insomuch that she declared, “We can do better than that in this country
without any school!” and she set about doing it in genuine American
spirit. The first organization, The Decorative Art Society, which she
instituted, was composed of several hundred ladies of New York. The plan
was national, philanthropic and commercial—to serve art, help women,
beat the British, and make money. Ladies in a large number of cities
were influenced by correspondence and other efforts to form auxiliary
societies. The seed of the new art interest thus widely sown is still
bearing crops.

From this nucleus there were before long offshoots in two directions—in
a higher and in a more rudimentary line. The Woman’s Exchange was
organized to provide a market for the large surplus of handiwork of
all kinds that was pressed upon the society; and a less numerous, more
compact organization was originated to attempt a higher development
of the work—this being called the Associated Artists. Thus they had
three efficient agencies occupying ground in this order, artistically
considered—The Woman’s Exchange, The Decorative Art Society, The
Associated Artists. Each of these is still doing its appointed work, but
our present purpose has to do only with the most advanced—The Associated
Artists.

It should be said, however, of the Woman’s Exchange, that it has spread
the most widely; because it deals with the simple forms of ornamentation
which require but little training, but it produces articles that are
salable. Thus it has become a bread-and-butter enterprise to a large mass
of women. Not only do all of our leading cities now boast of Exchanges,
but Princess Louise, after her first visit to this country, caused one to
be formed in Canada. This “Yankee notion” has also been transplanted to
Germany and Sweden.

The Associated Artists, as first organized, was directed by Mrs. Wheeler
and three gentlemen, artists like herself—Mrs. Wheeler having charge of
the needlework department; one gentleman, of interior wood decoration;
another, of glass painting, and the third, of the color scheme, painting,
etc. They undertook the interior finish of rooms and houses upon entirely
new decorative notions. Among their public undertakings, also, were the
entire interior decoration of the Madison Square Theater, including the
drop curtain; the finish of the “Veterans’ Room” in the Seventh Regiment
Armory, and parts of the Union League Club House.

The business success of the Associated Artists grew on the managers. The
educational and philanthropic aims were in danger of being overshadowed
by the commercial consideration, and New York gave them abundant
employment without their going into all the world and preaching the
gospel of beauty and self-help to all women. Moreover, Mrs. Wheeler’s
department in the work grew so rapidly and opened out possibilities of
development and creation so great, that she decided to make it a special
and separate enterprise. This she did three years ago, retaining the
name, Associated Artists.

Success has vindicated the wisdom of the segregation, while the other
members of the older organization have not suffered by the separation.
From that time to the present the enterprise has been managed and worked
by women only.

The gentlemen formerly of the Associated Artists are working on
independent lines. The decoration of the new Lyceum Theater, New York, is
the latest and greatest triumph of one of them.

The Associated Artists now have to do with decoration as using or applied
to textile fabrics, including as well all upholstery as the hangings,
draperies, tapestry and applied decoration of any part of a room. In
the building which they occupy in East Twenty-third Street, there are
large exhibition and salesrooms, the studios or designing rooms, the
departments of embroidery, of tassels, fringes, etc., of tapestry, and
the curtain department—an entire floor. There are about sixty employes.

This is an art school as well as a business house. Many women come
to them with no other preparatory training than the drawing lessons
of our public schools afford. The best talent is furnished by the
Women’s Art School of Cooper Union. Aside from such preparation, the
Associated Artists furnish the education of their own designers and
workers. Unendowed, small, modest and young as it is, we shall see in
what respects this American school has outstripped the great English
institution.

One of the most serious obstacles that the effort to create American
design has had to meet, is the lack of suitable materials to work with.
All imported textiles were found to be, in color, texture and pattern,
unsuited to the new uses and ideas; and American manufacturers were so
much under tutelage to European tastes, that nothing different was to be
had from them. It is a fact as lamentable as it is astonishing, that a
carpet, wall paper or textile mill in this country rarely has an American
designer of patterns and colors. The schemes of color made by the
Associated Artists were out of harmony with French, English and American
fabrics and embroidery materials. The colors of these were too sharp,
strong and cardinal for the blending of tones that was sought.

To meet this case a Massachusetts silk mill was engaged to manufacture,
first embroidery silks of the desired shades; and, that being
accomplished, to undertake the coloring of fabrics. The greater step to
the manufacture of special fabrics was next taken. Now the Associated
Artists use only materials made for them in this country.

There are three different mills engaged on their work, one of which last
year supplied them with $30,000 worth. The work is a great advertisement
to a mill—such recognition have these fabrics gained, here and in
Europe, for fineness, design and beauty. Several European decorators of
first rate have sent for samples of them. Foreign artists and designers
visiting this country regularly have in their note-book memoranda to see
the wonderful new American fabrics at the Associated Artists. These goods
have also been used for garments. Mrs. Langtry, Mrs. Cornwallis West and
Ellen Terry bought largely of them for their wardrobes. Felix Moschelles,
artist, and son of that Moschelles who was the biographer of Mendelssohn,
declared that there was nothing in Europe to compare with these joint
products of American artists and artisans. Truly, there is nothing on the
shelves of dry goods men on either continent to match them; they revive
the traditions of the wonderful products of Oriental looms.

Another _chef d’œuvre_ of these artists is their tapestry work. It has
the definiteness and freedom of drawing, and the delicacy and feeling
of color of an oil painting; nay, deft fingers with a needle and thread
can produce effects in colors that the painter’s brush can not, because
colored threads reflect and complement each other. This work is done
upon the surface of a canvas, the stitch being similar to that used
upon “honey comb canvas,” all surface work. To make it more effective,
a fabric has been woven with a double warp, the embroidery being run in
under the upper thread, somewhat like darning. The process and fabrics
were invented by Mrs. Wheeler and are protected by letters-patent in this
country and Europe.

A portrait was woven in this way, thread by thread, so faithful as to be
preferred by the family, to the best work they had of photographer or
painter. A piece of this tapestry has been under the hands of from one
to three embroiderers—or darners, if you please—every day for nearly a
year. It is one of ten large needle-work pictures of American subjects
now in preparation. One of them is a Zuni Indian girl, by Miss Rosina
Emmett, and another, “Hiawatha,” a typical Indian girl of the North, by
Miss Dora Wheeler. (These two artists are directors of the Association.)
The pictures are life size, and are very characteristic studies. The
remaining eight tapestries are mainly upon events of American history.
Only close examination would convince any one that they were not oil
paintings. After seeing this work I am inclined to think less of the
famous Bayeux tapestry and all other pictorial needlework. William the
Conqueror was unwise not to have deferred his exploits until Yankee girls
could embroider them. The best we can now offer William is to invade and
conquer England over again—with American tapestry.

These high-class works are mentioned simply to show the height that this
line of decorative art has reached, in a short time, by the efforts of
native genius and mechanical skill.

Nor is the story yet all told of the relation of design to manufactures.
One of the largest manufacturers of paper hangings in this country not
long since offered prizes amounting to $2,000 for the best four designs
for wall paper. The competition was great, sixty designs being entered by
European artists, and many times more by American. When the awards were
opened the examining committee, as well as the donors, were astonished to
learn that the Associated Artists had taken all the prizes, the European
trained talent none. Now, the freshest, best-selling patterns for wall
paper are of American design.

There is more still to tell that is gratifying to patriotism. These
efforts have discovered to the world, as a fact, what was before the
cherished theory of a few, viz.: that an American school of art already
existed, dominant in brains and hands, waiting to be awakened to
activity. There is a distinctive character in all that has been done
in decoration, different from anything seen in other people’s work. It
has a nationality in choice of subjects and materials, an originality
in conception, a freedom and freshness in treatment, that fairly mark
the beginning of a new school. More than that, when the work of native
designers has come in comparison with that of the Kensington or other
schools, it has justified the opinion that was expressed at the outset as
to the ability of our women to surpass the latter.

When the Decorative Society was organized, it sent to Kensington for a
teacher, and employed the one that was the most highly recommended by the
management there. At the close of the very first lesson that was given by
this instructor to the leading ladies of the society, she was overcome
by the reception her teaching had met. “Why,” she said, ruefully, “these
ladies have got from me, in a single lesson, all that I know. _I have
nothing more to teach them._” This incident reveals the reason for the
contrast in work—gives the explanation of the stereotyped forms and stiff
designs of the foreign school. The difference is in the human material
that enters into the work in either case—the difference of development
and general culture back of special art training. The English girl who
is forced to earn a livelihood by needlework, and qualifies therefor at
Kensington, represents a different order of preparatory training, general
culture, social position and aims, from those leaders in art who engage
in the work _con amore_ in this country. But there is, also, a race
difference that runs through all society in both countries. The American
woman is a thinker—the English an observer; the American woman is by
nature an innovator, the English conventional; the one an originator,
the other an imitator. The same climatic, dietary, social and political
influences that make the American artisan the most inventive and free
handicraftsman in the world; the American business man the most daring
and rapid, have conspired to make their sisters, and their cousins, and
their aunts the most original and apt pupils of art in the world. We
may confidently look to them, and the sons that they shall give their
country, to go on and create for it a school of art as free and as
characteristic as are all our institutions.

The movement is but in the embryo stage. All this is the result of a
single effort, and it is still young. Time is of the essence of art
culture, and the United States offers ample verge and scope enough for a
wonderful work in the future. The field for invention in decorative art
is boundless, because genius may touch every item and phase of home and
carry into the innermost life of the whole people the refining influence
of Beauty.

SOME MODERN LITERARY MEN OF GERMANY.

Professor George Ebers, the distinguished Egyptologist, strange to
say, is known in America more by his novels than by his scientific
attainments. He had a severe attack of rheumatism, or something similar,
which confined him to his bed for a long time, but did not prevent him
from using his mind, and during this tedious suffering he undertook, as
I think he himself relates, in the preface of his first novel, to put
into story facts and history with which his mind was so richly stored.
The work grew and fascinated him, and now I dare say it has not only
become remunerative but beguiling. Since the death of Prof. Lepsius, the
distinguished scholar of Egyptian history, George Ebers will doubtless
stand in his stead as the next best informed man in Germany, on Egypt.
The deceased Lepsius thought highly of one of our countrymen, Dr. Joseph
P. Thompson, as a successful student under him, and here we pay a tribute
of respect to this generous man who never failed to escort party after
party of Americans through the Egyptian department of the Berlin Museum,
explaining the tombs and reading the inscriptions. “The Egyptian King’s
Daughter” is the title of Ebers’s most elaborate novel, and if one is
disposed to read it carefully and observe all the foot-notes, there is
quite a chance for the reader to feel delighted with himself for all he
can acquire in this way about Egypt, and to have an inexpressible longing
for more. And what a power of enchanting one these Egyptians have, with
their gloomy and mystified learning, and their frequent contemplation of
death. To give the reader an idea of Ebers’s style, in romance writing
and subject matter, we quote what accurate pictures he gives of all the
state of affairs in Egypt. Speaking of the schools or universities,
in his novel entitled “Uarda,” he says: “The lower school was open to
every son of a free citizen, and was often frequented by several hundred
boys, who also found night quarters there. The parents were, of course,
required either to pay for their maintenance or to send due supplies of
provision for the keep of their children at school. This university, or
school, was connected with the House of Seti, or one of the sanctuaries
of the Necropolis, founded by Rameses I, and carried on by his son
Seti. High festivals were held there in honor of the god of the gods of
the under world. This extensive building was intended to be equal to
the great original foundations of priestly learning at Heliopolis and
Memphis; they were regulated on the same pattern, and with the object
of raising the royal residence of Upper Egypt, namely, Thebes, above
the capitals of Lower Egypt, in regard to philosophical distinction.”
“Many proficient in the healing art,” he tells us, “were brought up in
the house of Seti, but few need to remain after passing the examination
of the degree of Scribe. The most gifted were sent to Heliopolis, where
flourished in the great “Hall of the Ancients,” the most celebrated
medical faculty of the whole country, whence they returned to Thebes,
endowed with the highest honors in surgery, in ocular treatment, or in
any other branch of their profession, and became physicians to the king,
or made a living by imparting their learning, and by being called in
to consult on serious cases.” From this short extract from Ebers any
one can see that he treats his situations, although lying so remote in
history, in the most simple and natural manner. Egypt, with her enormous
architecture, her ponderous institutions, peculiar beliefs and somber,
heated atmosphere, is not to him the dark “sorceress of the Nile,” but a
real, breathing and tangible thing—he has so seriously studied her that
he writes of her as he would of a familiar friend in whom he is intensely
interested.

Ebers not alone excels in historical pictures and accurate descriptions,
but he has, as a novelist, much feeling, and makes clear comments on
human nature—for example, in writing of Nebsecht, the learned surgeon,
in his novel “Uarda,” he says: “Nebsecht was of the silent, reserved
nature of the learned man, who, free from all desire of external
recognition, finds a rich satisfaction in the delights of investigation;
and he regarded every demand on him to give proof of his capacity, as a
vexatious but unavoidable intrusion on his unanswering but laborious and
faithful investigations.” Then he remarks Nebsecht loved Pentaur, who
possessed all the gifts he lacked, manly beauty, child-like lightness of
heart, the frankest openness, artistic power, and the gift of expressing
in word and song every emotion that stirred his soul.

Again, behold the picture or a glimpse into a feast of the best
Egyptians. In an open court, surrounded by gaily painted wooden pillars,
and lighted by many lamps, sat the feasting priests in two long rows, on
comfortable arm chairs. Before each stood a little table, and servants
were occupied in supplying them with the dishes and drinks which were
laid out on a splendid table in the middle of the court. Joints of
gazelle, roasted geese and ducks, meat pasties, artichokes, asparagus,
and other vegetables and various cakes and sweet-meats were carried to
the guests, and their beakers well filled with the choice wines of which
there was never a lack in the lofts of the house of Seti. In the spaces
between the guests stood servants with metal bowls, in which they might
wash their hands, and towels of fine linen.

“Tante Therese,” a drama in four acts by Paul Lindau, is a cleverly
conceived and brightly written thing, showing that the writer is full of
pathos and wit. The audience cried and laughed and applauded the first
night it was given in Berlin. In fact, Lindau is so sharp a critic and
so talented a writer, that, as editor of _Die Gegenwart_, a neat and
pungent weekly, he was a great potentate in Berlin society. His pen
spared no one—musician, artist, soldier—and even royalty fell under
its point if he, Lindau, was not in sympathy with their productions or
actions. He is the life of a dinner party, the most interested musician
and art connoisseur, and among journalists and in the literary coterie
he is the star which lights or exposes the objects around. His reviews
in _Die Gegenwart_ (The Present) are somewhat after the matter of the
reviews in _The Nation_—a little pessimistic or hypercritical, but always
accomplishing their object, and whatever comes from his pen is looked
for with eagerness. With a lovely home, and a beautiful young wife to do
its honors, he attracts about him many brilliant companies. He was once
thrown into prison for having written something which was not prudent in
regard to government matters—the press being not so free in Germany, as
the reader will observe, as in this country.

Dr. Julius Rodenburg, editor of _Die Rundschau_, is of Jewish extraction,
resembling Felix Mendelssohn so much that one must immediately remark
it. As Mendelssohn was also a Jew, the association seems to grow more
intimate in one’s mind, as an acquaintance with this light-hearted,
spirited man progresses. He seems never to be weary—the world and his
friend have a charm for him, and he and his intelligent wife know well
how to attract them to their weekly receptions. They both speak English
well, and have spent some time in England. He has published a little book
entitled “Ferien in England”—Vacation in England.

Sometimes he comes out in his review, which corresponds to our _Atlantic
Monthly_, with learned and elaborate articles, but his time is, as
editor, consumed with other people’s productions. Editors of papers and
presidents of colleges have little time for anything but reflection upon
the merits or demerits of others.

Ferdinand Gregorovius, half German and half Italian, has published four
volumes of the “History of Rome,” also in 1874 a very attractive volume
on “Lucrezia Borgia.” In the back of the book appears a _fac-simile_
letter from Pope Alexander IV. to Lucrezia, and one of hers to Isabella
Gonzogo—most curious documents.

Dr. Friedrich Kapp, who came to America when Carl Schurz did, returned
after a short residence and entered political life in his own country.
Beyond his exertion in this direction he has found time for considerable
literary work; has edited the “Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin,”
which contains a preface by Berthold Auerbach. Dr. Kapp is better known,
perhaps, through the press, than through his books.

Adolf Stahr, in his book on Goethe’s “Frauengestalten,” or female
characters, gives a close analysis, and if the same theme has been
written and rewritten upon as all Goethe’s productions have, Stahr
maintains a dignified review, as if he were surveying the subjects for
the first time. His wife, who is a novelist, is equally literary, and
the two old people have grown beautiful in common sympathy in their
winter work and summer resorts. She attracts more attention than he at a
fashionable watering place, but one is the accompaniment of the other,
and both have done honest, good work.

HISTORIC NIAGARA.

BY EDITH SESSIONS TUPPER.

The Chautauquan takes back to his or her busy life in the school room,
the college chair, the pulpit, the sanctum, the parlor, and the kitchen,
many beautiful pictures of memory.

In fancy does one often see the branches of grand old trees, fit pillars
of one of God’s first temples, cross above one’s head, making a network
for the laughing, blue, summer skies; in imagination does one again see a
green landscape turn golden in the light of a fast setting sun. Ah! those
vistas about the Hall in the Grove; can not you see those leafy avenues
bending down to the lovely lake, now in the early morning stretching
glassy and waveless, now at noon, tumbling and tossing its white
caps abroad, now in the solemn night lying black and motionless, and
reflecting the light of stars? Can one who has seen the moon rise over
Long Point ever forget the sight? Recall now that midsummer night, when
drifting out in your boat you idly watched those masses of clouds shift,
part and separate to let the white glory of the moon shine through! How
serene and lofty she hung, poised in mid-heaven. Higher and higher she
climbed, pouring her wealth of light down upon the clouds heaped beneath
her, until they, massed and piled upon each other, seemed like the
glittering domes and towers of a city not made with hands. In vivid fancy
you could almost trace the shining streets of gold, the gates of pearl,
the walls of precious stones. The summer wind sighed softly around; the
murmuring waters rippled about the keel of your boat; on the shore the
lights danced and flickered like fireflies. Such a night is never to be
forgotten. It is a scene of enchantment, a mid-summer night’s dream.

    “In such a night as this,
     When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees
     And they did make no noise in such a night,
     Troilus methinks mounted the Trojan walls,
     And sighed his soul toward the Grecian tents,
     Where Cressid’ lay that night.

    “In such a night,
     Stood Dido with a willow in her hand,
     Upon the wild sea banks, and waved her love
     To come again to Carthage.”

Ah! these beautiful pictures “that hang on memory’s wall,” these day
dreams, by their potent magic, heal the heart and brain when life’s fret
and worry are hardly to be endured. A writer has truly said:

                 “’Tis well to dream.”

    “I dream, and straightway there before me lies
       A valley beautifully green and fair;
     Bright, sparkling lakes, blue as the summer skies,
       And trees and flowers dot it here and there.

    “I wake, and straightway all familiar things
       Display new beauty to my wondering gaze.
     My soul refreshed by wandering, folds her wings
       And finds contentment in life’s common ways.”

To all these beautiful pictures of memory many a Chautauquan adds the
remembrance of one indescribable scene—a look at the great fall.

A short trip to Niagara is indeed one of the features of a summer’s
sojourn at the city in the woods. Every week a crowd of excursionists
leaves with reluctance the delights of the fair lake and takes a day’s
jaunt to the Falls, which are distant about eighty miles from Chautauqua.
Many of you, my readers, remember that trip—the magnificent views of Lake
Erie, which you got from time to time, on the way to Buffalo. Then the
run down from that city along Niagara River, past Fort Erie and Black
Rock, historic names. You remember how your heart beat a little faster
when the brakeman called, “Niagara Falls,” and you realized that you were
soon to stand in sight of one of the wonders of the world. Of course you
remember the clamoring hackmen, once heard not easily forgotten. Then
have you forgotten that short walk or drive down a shaded street, past
many shops filled with feathers and Indian temptations? Do you recall
that dull, booming sound which suddenly broke upon your ear, and can you
not now sense that delicious, fresh smell of the water as you turned into
Prospect Park, and ah! can you ever forget when you at last stood within
hand reach of that awful presence, when your bewildered and startled
eyes glanced now at the shouting, leaping, laughing, maddening, scornful
rapids; now at that overwhelming mass which flung itself over that
tremendous precipice into a seemingly bottomless pit? Was it a pleasant
day when you were there? Do you then remember the exquisite coloring of
the water, the dazzling white, the vivid green, the pellucid blue? How
the sun seemed to catch up every drop of that vast volume, and shine
through it, giving a tiny rainbow effect to every crystalline particle?
How the rapids called aloud to each other in glee, and chased one another
in a mad race, as to which should first make that mighty leap? Or was it
a dull, gloomy day? Then did they not shriek aloud in horror, and hurl
themselves in black and hissing despair to their awful plunge?

Did you chance at nightfall to drive or walk about Goat Island, and hear
the chattering and cawing of myriads of crows, which blackened the tree
tops? This is their rendezvous, and the woods are alive with them, and
their weird sounds at dusk, added to that ever present, sullen roar,
produce an unearthly and fantastic effect. Did not your breath almost
forsake your body when you crossed to the three fair sisters lying so
peacefully far out in the midst of that seething, tumbling, foaming hell
of waters?

At night you saw the electric lights turned on the American Fall, playing
now with sulphuric effect, now giving a ghastly, blue appearance, and now
turning this white, pure Undine to a very Scarlet Woman. The day on which
you first saw these pictures will long be marked with a red letter in
your calendar.

But, sublime as is the physical beauty of Niagara, we have to deal
with quite another phase of her character; one of which the tourist,
limited by time, seldom thinks. It is only after becoming familiar with
every inch of her picturesque surroundings, after spending days and
weeks drinking in her superb beauty, content to sit, oblivious of time
or space, or sun or sky, that one at last remembers that for many miles
around the ground is covered with the footprints of history. Ground that
has echoed the thundering tread of armies, that has been drunken with
the blood of brave men, that now smiles peacefully, from which violets
spring, and on which children play.

    “Once this soft turf, this rivulet’s sands
       Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,
     And fiery hearts and armed hands
       Encountered in the battle cloud.

    “Now all is calm and fresh and still,
       Alone the chirp of flitting bird
     And talk of children on the hill,
       And bell of wandering kine is heard.”

To say nothing of the French and Indian wars, the country about Niagara
was the scene of many of the fiercest struggles of the war of 1812, and
some of the sorest defeats to the American side. The battle of Queenston
Heights and Lundy’s Lane, or Bridgewater, were both disastrous to the
American cause, while Fort George, at the mouth of Niagara River, a hard
earned and costly acquisition of the Americans, was wrested from them by
General Drummond, who also laid waste Lewiston, Youngstown, Tuscarora,
and Manchester, then called, now the village of Niagara Falls. Those were
dark days for the Americans, when they fought not only Englishmen, but
crafty and treacherous Indians.

The first great battle of the campaign on the Niagara during the war
of 1812, was that of Queenston Heights, on the 13th of October. This
was the second attempted invasion of Canada, the first having been the
humiliating failure of Hull, at Detroit, in August previous. General
Stephen Van Rensselaer determined to capture Queenston Heights, and for
that purpose, early in the morning, sent two small columns down the
river, most of which succeeded in landing under a brisk fire from the
vigilant English. Captain John E. Wool led the Regulars up the hill, and
was met by the British on the broad plateau, where a sharp engagement
took place, ending in the Americans being forced back to the beach.
Here they were reinforced and ordered to scale the Heights. This order
was obeyed, and for a short time the Americans had the advantage, when
suddenly brave General Brock, who defeated Hull at Detroit, and who was
now at Fort George, at the mouth of the river, having ridden from thence
at full speed, appeared and took command. A furious contest followed, in
which the Americans, though fighting with the bravery of despair, were
driven to the extreme edge of the precipice, and in which Brock fell,
mortally wounded.

Then General Winfield Scott crossed the river and assumed command of the
American forces, expecting to be reinforced by the militia, but through
stubbornness and cowardice they fell back on their prerogative, and
refused to be taken out of the state. Twice was Scott attacked by the
British and Indians, and twice repelled them with the bayonet, but at the
third attack the Americans were obliged to retreat. Back, back, further
yet, over the edge of that awful chasm they went scrambling from ledge to
ledge, leaping from rock to rock, stumbling, falling, blindly catching
at twig, branch, stem, blade of grass, even, powder blackened, faint,
weary, bleeding, wounded, dying, only to reach the river to find no boats
waiting to succor them, compelled at last to surrender. Ah! dead heroes!
that was indeed a descent into Avernus.

In this engagement the Americans lost one thousand men.

Let the visitor to Niagara not leave until he has taken the drive to
Queenston Heights. It is only seven miles below the cataract, not a long
drive for a summer afternoon. A pretty drive, too, past many beautiful
farms and country seats. Once there one can drive to the top of the
broad plateau, on which the lofty and magnificent monument to General
Brock stands. Now leave your carriage, go to the front of the plateau,
and look. What a view! Directly at your feet lies old Queenstown; across
the river old Lewistown; for seven miles before you, peacefully and
languidly, as if weary from its terrible work up above, flows the green
river, flecked with foam. Yonder, at its mouth, lies Fort Niagara, on the
American side; the ruins of Forts George and Mississaga, on the Canadian
side, while beyond, far as the eye can reach, stretches Lake Ontario,
flooded with the light of a western sun—a sea of glass, mingled with fire.

In the spring of 1813, Isaac Chauncey, an American Commodore, after a
successful expedition against York, now Toronto, which he held for four
days and then abandoned, after firing the government buildings, captured
Fort George. The Americans held it until the following December, when
General Drummond appeared on the peninsula, between Lakes Ontario and
Erie. On his approach the American garrison abandoned Fort George and
fled across the river to Fort Niagara. As they went they ruthlessly
burned the village of Newark. One week after, the British captured Fort
Niagara, and killed eighty of the garrison, showing no quarter to the
sick in the hospital. Then followed the triumphant march of the British
up the American side of the river, burning and sacking Youngstown,
Lewistown, Tuscarora, Niagara Falls, even to Black Rock and Buffalo. All
the farms were laid waste, and desolation stalked relentlessly through
the entire region.

The whole campaign on the Niagara had been a series of blunders, and was
most disastrous to the American cause.

The old town of Niagara, at the mouth of the river, is to-day an
interesting and picturesque place to visit. Here the tourist takes the
steamer for Toronto, and if he have an hour or two to wait, let him
stroll about through the beautifully shaded streets, past the elegant
hotels and private country seats, for the old town is a famous summer
resort now, and is likely to be still more attractive, for a little
Chautauqua is soon to spring up within stone-throw of the ruined
breastworks of old Fort George.

From the round tower of Fort Mississaga, which commanded the harbor, one
gets a superb view of the lake and of Fort Niagara, just over the border
on the American side. Fort and lighthouse are in capital condition, and
the sight of the flutter of the stars and stripes against the blue sky is
very dear to the American who stands on British soil, and, thinking of
all it has cost to preserve that flag, realizes that it is still there.

In 1814, the Secretary of War having persisted in his project to invade
Canada, determined, as a first step, to take Kingston. In order to
conceal this movement, and also that there might be no enemy left in the
rear, Major-General Brown, of the American forces, commenced operations
on the peninsula, between Lakes Erie and Ontario.

On the 2nd of July he left Buffalo, and captured Fort Erie, on the
opposite side of the river. He then pursued his way down the river until
he reached Chippewa Creek. He then fell back a little to Street’s Creek,
and waited for the main body of the force, which arrived on the morning
of the 5th.

General Scott’s camp was located on a little plain lying mid-way between
these two creeks. In the afternoon he ordered out his brigade for a
dress parade. Approaching the bridge he was met by General Brown, who
informed him that a battle was imminent. The head of Scott’s column
had scarcely reached the bridge when the British opened fire from the
extensive forests that surrounded the creek. Riall, the British General,
sneered contemptuously at the “Buffalo militia,” as he believed them
when they first came in sight, but when he saw them cross the bridge
steadily under fire, he discovered they were Regulars. General Peter B.
Porter had command on Scott’s left, and his men fought well until charged
by the bayonet, when they gave way. Major Jesup, however, covered the
exposed flank, and the fighting became hot and furious along the entire
front. After a time the right wing of the British disengaged from the
line and charged against Jesup. Scott was quick to observe this, and in
his turn charged against the exposed flank. Simultaneously Leavenworth
attacked the left wing of the British, and through the gap between these
two attacking columns, Towson’s battery poured in its canister with
speedy effect, and the British soon retreated in great confusion, and the
Americans had won their only decisive victory on Niagara.

Chippewa is to-day a tumbledown, uninteresting spot, attractive only to
the student of history. There are some beautiful private residences near
the town, on the banks of the river, and just below the village the river
breaks into the rapids. After the well fought battle of Chippewa, the
invasion of Canada seemed more feasible. General Brown was very sanguine
of success, providing he could secure Commodore Chauncey’s assistance,
with his fleet. He wrote urgently to Chauncey, assuring him that the
British force at Kingston was very light, and that between their two
forces they could conquer Canada in two months, if they were active and
vigilant. But those qualities Chauncey did not possess; besides, he was
ill, and thought he had more important business on hand than to carry
provisions for the troops, and therefore did nothing. Nearly opposite the
American Fall a road runs back over the hill, past the Clifton House and
the Canada Southern Railroad Depot. The tourist following this road, and
turning to the left after passing the depot, will soon find himself in a
beautiful little village. Cottages of quaint and old fashioned design,
nearly covered with vines and roses, and narrow lanes in lieu of streets,
are its distinguishing features. Up a hill you go past a brick church,
and a graveyard, in which you may find many curious inscriptions. The
top of the hill is reached. Look back down that pleasant street, where
old trees stretch out their long arms to meet each other. See those
comfortable happy homes on each side. Hear that group of children laugh
at their play; and listen, from that little brick Methodist church, on
a soft summer evening, come the solemn strains of an old time hymn. No
more peaceful, pastoral scene in the world, and yet the spot on which we
stand was the scene of frightful carnage, terrific struggle, horrible
bloodshed; here was fought the famous battle of Lundy’s Lane. At noon
of July 25, 1814, General Brown received intelligence at Chippewa,
that General Drummond had reached Fort George the night previous, with
reinforcements, with which he intended to capture the stores of the
Americans at Fort Schlosser, which was located just above the rapids,
on the American side. Scott—now a Brigadier-General—was ordered forward
to divert the enemy from this project. He had advanced about two miles
when he was confronted by the entire British force, drawn up in Lundy’s
Lane. Scott engaged the right wing of the British, ordering Jesup to look
after the left. These movements were successful, Jesup capturing many
prisoners, among whom was General Riall. After the battle was well under
way, General Brown arrived from Chippewa with reinforcements. The British
held an eminence on which were planted seven guns. General Brown saw at
once that unless this battery could be captured no impression could be
made.

“Can you take that battery?” he asked Colonel James Miller.

“I’ll try, sir,” was the memorable answer of Miller—and he tried. It was
now night, and the approach of Miller’s men was hidden by a high fence.
The gunners held their lighted matches in their hands when Miller’s men
thrust their muskets through the fence, shot down the men at the guns,
rushed forward and captured the battery.

The British made two valiant attempts to retake the battery, but were not
successful. Generals Brown, Scott, and Major Jesup were all wounded, and
the command devolved upon the inefficient Ripley, who, after idly waiting
half an hour, anticipating another attack, instead of following up the
advantage already gained, withdrew from the field. The British returned,
took possession of the field and the battery which Miller had captured.
The American forces were obliged to beat a retreat to Chippewa for food
and water, and the British claimed the victory as the last occupants of
the field. The loss of men on both sides was about equal.

Drummond followed the Americans to Fort Erie, opposite Buffalo, and
there ensued a regular siege until the 17th of September, when the
Americans made a sudden sortie and destroyed the works of the enemy.
This was accomplished only by terrific fighting on both sides, in which
the Americans lost five hundred men, and the British nine hundred.
Drummond now abandoned the siege, and in October the Americans destroyed
Fort Erie, and returned to their own side of the river. Thus ended the
campaign on the Niagara. It had been productive of no results save the
digging of thousands of graves, and proving to the British that the raw
Yankee troops were able to give the trained English soldiers some hard
work.

Just above Goat Island, where the river breaks into rapids, on the
American side, the tourist notices the ruins of Fort Schlosser, of which
we have spoken before as containing stores and provisions on which
General Drummond had designs. Later history has something to say of this
fort. Here occurred a circumstance out of which grew results which for
a time threatened a third war between England and the United States. In
1837, just after the close of the second Seminole war, a rebellion broke
out in Canada. Great sympathy was felt on the American side, for the
insurgents. Despite the fact that the United States made great efforts
to preserve neutrality, a small American steamer, the “Caroline,” made
regular trips across to Navy Island, carrying supplies to a party of five
hundred insurgents, who were staying there. In December, one Captain
Drew was sent out from Chippewa with a force to capture this steamer. He
did not find her at Navy Island, as he expected, and so crossed to Grand
Island, which was American territory, boarded her, killed twelve men on
board, towed her out in the stream, set her on fire, and left her to
drift down the river and go over the Falls.

The United States promptly demanded redress, but could obtain no
satisfaction for three years. In 1840, one McLeod, who had boasted of his
part in this affair, came over to the American side, where he was under
indictment for murder. He was seized and held for trial.

The British government demanded his release on the ground that he had
participated in an act of war, and therefore could not for that act
be tried before a civil court. The President answered that as yet the
United States had received no answer to the question whether the burning
of the “Caroline” had been an authorized act of war. In all events the
administration could not interfere with a state court, and prevent it
from trying any one indicted within its limits. England threatened war
unless McLeod was released; but the trial proceeded. The two countries
would doubtless have been brought into conflict had not McLeod been
acquitted. It was proved that he was asleep in Chippewa at the time the
“Caroline” was burned, and that a vain desire for notoriety had caused
him to inculpate himself. There was great excitement in 1841, over
this trial, which was augmented by the indifferent attitude of acting
President Tyler. A District Attorney of New York was allowed to act as
McLeod’s counsel, and retain his office, thus presenting the astonishing
spectacle of a government officer attempting to prove, in such a question
as this, which was liable to result in war, his own government to be in
the wrong.

Nothing now remains of Fort Schlosser but a tall, gaunt chimney, which
has weathered for many long years the terrific winds which sweep down the
river.

Throughout this fair and smiling region there are but few traces of these
fierce battles.

    “No solemn host goes trailing by
       The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;
     Men start not at the battle cry,—
       O, be it never heard again.”

No blackened farms and desolated villages; no rattle of musketry and roar
of cannon; the sword is turned into plow-share and pruning hook; from
the soil watered with the blood of heroes spring thrifty orchards and
sweet flowers; in the place of fire from the blazing torch of red handed
war rises the smoke of prosperous town and thriving hamlet; Canada and
the United States stretching out friendly hands to each other; the Union
Jack and the Stars and Stripes floating side by side; peace, plenty, and
prosperity on both sides the broad river. Everything is changed save the
great Falls themselves. Unceasingly they do their awful work; unceasingly
their thunders sound; unceasingly their mists roll heavenward.

TWO FASHIONABLE POISONS.

BY M. P. REGNARD.

Some one said one day before Fontenelle, that coffee was a slow poison.
“I can bear witness to that,” replied the witty academician, “for it will
soon be fifty years since I began taking it every day.”

This, which was on the part of the cultivated scholar, a brilliant sally
of wit, is, alas! the common reasoning of many people who, simply because
danger does not immediately confront them, allow themselves to be slowly
but surely drawn to the tomb, because, forsooth, the way, for the time
being, is pleasant, or fashionable!

In the midst of us there are persons poisoning themselves to death. I
refer to those addicted to the use of morphine. In England they have
another class of these unfortunates, for whom the most adulterated
liquors no longer suffice, and who drink ether; they are a sort of
perfected inebriates, who by the scientific laws of progress succeed
simple drunkards just as habitual morphine users follow the opium smokers
of China. Our fathers in Asia who have already bequeathed to us many
misfortunes, held in check until within recent years, among themselves,
the singular taste which they have for opium. Let me tell you in a few
words of the ancestors of morphine users of to-day, and you will better
understand the history of the latter.

The mania for opium eating diminishes rather than increases among the
Mussulmans. Zambaco, who for a long time lived in the Orient, gives the
reason. The Turk seeks in opium only intoxication—a delicious sort of
annihilation—which he finds to-day more readily in champagne or Bordeaux
wine. These give him, in addition, the pleasures of taste. Then, too, he
can indulge himself freely in them, and still hold to the letter of the
Koran. In the time of Mahomet neither rum nor cognac were invented; it
does not then forbid them. But that which is not forbidden is permitted,
and so the Mussulman, who considers wine so impure that he will not touch
it, even with his hands, will become beastly intoxicated upon brandy, and
think that by this process he is not compromising his part in Paradise.
But their religionists—and above all their medical men—do not reason
thus. They still cling to the opium.

Its first effect upon the system is far from causing sleep. It is rather
a sort of intellectual and physical excitant, which renders the Oriental
(in his natural state sad and silent), turbulent, loquacious, excitable,
and quarrelsome.

These Turks are not contented to take opium themselves, they give it also
to their horses. “I have just,” says Burns, “traveled all night with a
cavalier of this country. After a fatiguing ride of about thirty miles I
was obliged to accept the proposition he made to rest for a few minutes.
He employed this time in dividing with his exhausted horse a dose of
opium of about two grammes. The effects were very soon evident upon both;
the horse finished with ease a journey of forty miles, and the cavalier
became more animated.”

In China they do not eat opium, they smoke it. There is an historical
fact connected with them well known to all the world to which I would
not now call attention were it not to show you to what extent a like
calamity may go, and consequently with what the French people are
threatened if the love of morphine continues to take among us the same
intensity.

Hundreds of years ago opium was, in the Chinese empire, a great luxury,
reserved for the mandarins, who did not keep secret at all their use of
it, but who interdicted it to all persons under their jurisdiction. All
the more did they consider it a great honor to their invited guests, and
especially to strangers, to be asked to partake of it. Recently it has
come into general use, and since 1840 its abuse has reached the last
limits. There is for all this an economic reason which I shall not fear
to call abominable. The Chinese received in payment for their products
only gold and silver, in money or in ingots; the specie thus introduced
into their country never left it, and it was a veritable drainage which
on this account Europe and America underwent.

A neighboring nation of ours, and one whose Indian possessions furnish
prodigious quantities of opium, forced China, in a celebrated treaty,
to allow the entrance of this opium into her ports and to pay for it in
ingots and not in merchandise; the empire was thus obliged to disgorge
a part of its money held in reserve. You will have an idea of the
importance of this operation when you know that to-day there enters
annually into China 70,000 packing cases of opium from India, worth at
least $558,000. So much poison forced by right of war upon a whole people!

The Chinese smoke opium from the age of twenty to twenty-five years. The
immediate effect is a sort of dizzy sensation. The preoccupations of the
mind disappear, as do also all ailments of the body. Then comes a noisy
delirium, a kind of insanity, in which the subject is deeply agitated; he
is apt to hurl down and break everything around him. Sometimes he rushes
out of the house, attacks the first passer-by, and not infrequently in
his frenzy has committed murder.

The opium smoker, as well as the eater, is obliged rapidly to increase
the dose of his poison. At the end of six or eight months he must smoke a
dozen pipes a day. His money is soon all spent; he is ruined in a year.
He sells all that he possesses, and then he gambles. Writers agree in
saying that the maximum of the life of a smoker is then five or six years.

In the face of such an evil as this the imperial government has tried to
act on the defensive; it placed a heavy duty on the entrance of opium;
but this system was not successful. And before this attempt it tried
penal jurisprudence.

This is the decree which the Viceroy of Canton published in 1841:

“It is two years since the Emperor of the Celestial Empire forbade all
his subjects to smoke opium. This delay of grace expires the twelfth
day of the twelfth moon of this year. Then all those guilty of offense
against this law will be put to death, their heads will be exposed in
public, in order to frighten those who might be tempted to follow their
example.” (Then follows this modification.) “I have reflected, however,
that solitary confinement would be more efficacious than capital
punishment, in order to arrest such a dreadful misdemeanor. I declare
then, that I am going to have built a special prison for opium smokers.
There they will all, rich or poor, be shut in narrow cells, lighted by
one window, with two boards serving as a bed and a seat. They will be
given each day a ration of oil, of rice, and of vegetables. In case of a
second offense they will be put to death.”

This legislation was not practicable. The punishment was out of
proportion to the crime, and consequently inapplicable.

Besides, in looking around him the emperor found that his own wives
smoked opium, and I would not guarantee that if he meant to live up to
the letter of his law, he would not have to begin by committing suicide.

After this legislation they tried moralization and preaching. The
misfortunes of the opium smoker were depicted in an infinite number of
ways. All this propagandism had about as little success as societies
against intemperance, and this state of affairs is existing to-day in the
East.

There are not noticeably many opium eaters or smokers among the French.
But every one knows that the people of the Orient have for their European
brothers the morphine users. There is between the first and second the
same difference that is found in everything pertaining to barbarous
and to cultivated men. Civilization prescribes as to the manner of the
poisoning.

While the Oriental eats or smokes simply the juice of the poppy almost as
nature furnishes it, the European is more refined, and wishes only the
active principles of opium. So he uses it prepared in such a way as to
have lost almost entirely its disagreeable properties.

How does one become a morphine user when he is a Frenchman, an inhabitant
of Paris, and when there is not a temptation to it from the fact of a
general habit, or the existence of special establishments? This can be
accounted for by two methods. The most common is some painful affliction
from which one is suffering, it may be neuralgia, acute dyspepsia, or
violent headaches. The physician, often at the end of his resources,
prescribes injecting a little morphine under the skin. The effect is
marvelous; the pain ceases instantly, but temporarily. The next day it
returns with new force. The afflicted patient remembers the success of
yesterday, and insists upon his anodyne. It seems necessary to give it,
and so it goes on for several days. Soon the nature of the drug manifests
itself: no longer will one injection a day answer; there must be two,
then three, later four, and so on, always increasing, until it reaches
formidable quantities. Meantime, the original trouble may have entirely
disappeared, but the patient does not cease to use the remedy. The first
time that the sick one insists upon having the treatment the doctor is
called to perform the operation. But soon, as it becomes necessary to
repeat the process oftener, making it expensive, it is entrusted to the
nurse or to the family, and from that day the patient is lost; for how
can the supplications of a suffering person whom one loves be resisted?
Then on a day the sick one practices on himself—and from that on, without
any control, with the avidity of passion, he uses the drug in the
quantities of which I have told you.

This is one way in which many victims fall into this sad habit. There is
another. The victims of the second method are those who seek in exciting
tonics the sensations which their weakened nerves and their surfeited
imagination can no longer afford them. These are the proselytes of a
veritable association, and they, in their turn, soon become missionaries
in the same cause. It is a habit which the vicious have of wishing to
make others like themselves. The fable of the fox which had its tail cut
off is not a fable of yesterday. Two friends meet; one of them complains
of slight annoyances; dullness, _ennui_; he no longer enjoys anything;
the world, the races, the theater, do not procure for him distraction;
he is _bored to death_. His friend admits that he also has suffered in
the same way, but that he had recourse to morphine, of which some one
had told him, and that he found in it a perfect cure. And thus by such
conversations there is formed, as it were, a new class; they are the
volunteers in this unhappy army.

One can but remark, that luxury, which tends to introduce itself
everywhere, has already invaded the domain of morphine. The little
syringe of Pravas, which permits of the injection of the poison under the
skin, and the consequent avoidance of the bitter taste and the nausea
which would be occasioned by eating morphine, has received ingenious and
artistic modifications. It was necessary to render it easy to carry, and
at the same time to make it deceptive to the eye. I visited a surgical
instrument maker at Paris, and he placed at my disposal for inspection
his whole line of morphine instruments, those which the taste, the
luxury, or the imagination of his clients had caused him to fabricate.

There was first the syringe, containing a centigram of morphine, such
as the physicians employ. It was not delicate enough, was difficult to
handle and difficult to conceal; it is used now only by those who no
longer care to conceal their vice—who feel no shame in regard to it.
Then there was one adroitly concealed in a match box. At one side was a
little bottle containing a dose of powder necessary for a half day. There
was, too, a false cigar holder, containing all that was necessary for
injecting the poison. But most remarkable of all was a long, sheath-like
instrument. It is somewhat inconvenient in the midst of company to put
the morphine into the syringe before making a puncture. This sheath,
filled beforehand, can be carried in the pocket; the puncture can be
made, and to inject the drug it is only necessary to move the piston in a
certain direction; in the evening the sheath will be found empty. There
were little gold syringes contained in smelling bottles; a little silver
sheath which one would take for an embroidery stiletto; open it; it
contains an adorable little syringe of gold and a bottle of the poison.

Among morphine users in fashionable life they make gifts according to
their taste, and there are manufactured syringes and bottles enameled,
engraved, and emblematic—in every conceivable device.

Do men more often become subject to this vice than women? According to
the printed statistics, yes. Out of every one hundred who used the drug
there are counted only twenty-five women. But practicing physicians say
that the women are the more numerous victims. They are more artful, and
try to keep the habit concealed; they do not consult the physicians
regarding it, and so are not counted in the statistical returns.

Is it then so very agreeable to live under the influence of this poison,
since so many people expose themselves, for its sake, to such grave
perils? To this I reply, no, not at the beginning. It is with this vice
as with others, the beginning is hard. The first injections are not
enjoyable—the puncture is painful, and sometimes nausea follows. But
the habit is easily and quickly formed, and the disagreeable effects
disappear. The introduction of the morphine produces almost immediately
a sort of general vagueness, an annihilation of being which causes to
disappear all external realities and replaces them by a sort of happy
reverie; and at the same time the mind seems more alert, more active.
Physical and moral grievances disappear, all troubles are forgotten for
the time being. “You know,” says Mr. Ball, “the famous soliloquy of
Hamlet, and the passage where the Prince cries out that without the fear
of the unknown, no one would hesitate to escape by means of a sharp point
from the evils of life which he suffers, in order to enter into repose.
Ah well! this sharp point of which Shakspere speaks—this liberating
needle—we possess; it is the syringe of Pravas. By one plunge a person
can efface all sufferings of mind and of body; the injustice of men and
of fortune; and understand from this time on, the irresistible empire of
this marvelous poison.”

The habit of taking ether is induced by the same causes that lead to the
use of morphine. The danger, however, is not so great, and the habit can
more easily be broken up. At the end of the inhalation one experiences
a little dizziness that is not at all disagreeable; the sight becomes a
little blurred, and the ears ring; the mental conceptions become gay,
charming; hallucinations are developed, generally very pleasing. It is
not necessary to increase the dose, for one would then reach a state of
excitement, or be thrown into a sound sleep, such as physicians produce.
Those who use it know this well, and moderate the dose, in order to make
the pleasure of long duration. After the inhalation the subject returns
almost immediately to his natural state. There is a little heaviness
in the head and a dullness of the mind. Morphine users can secretly
indulge in their habit, but ether emits a penetrating odor. In London,
where it is more frequently practiced, the keepers of public squares and
large parks often find in the more retired places empty bottles labeled
“Sulphuric Ether.” These have been thrown down by those who have left
their homes in order to give themselves up in the open air to their
favorite passion.

These victims commence by breathing ether. Then they drink a few
drops—and after a while larger quantities. This burning liquid soon
becomes a necessity; and some even go so far as to drink chloroform—a
veritable caustic.

Can anything be done for these unfortunate people? Yes, certainly—but
only on one condition—that they wish to be cured. The best method is to
separate, instantly, entirely, the patient from his family; to place him
in an establishment where his movements can be watched, where he can be
debarred, suddenly or gradually, as shall be judged best, from the poison.

The Americans—a practical people—have already built asylums for the
treatment of morphine users. The Germans have recently finished two, one
at Marienberg, the other at Schönberg.

But unfortunately, the French law does not permit us to do this. We can
place in hospitals only those poison users who have become maniacs or
idiots.

If the French are to be saved from this rapidly increasing evil, it is
evidently necessary to prevent its beginnings. In order to do this,
the sick must be kept from procuring it. Its sale must be regulated so
that it will be impossible to get it in any quantity, or to use the
same prescription twice. The emperor of Germany, upon the proposition
of Prince Bismarck, has issued a decree to this effect. Under such a
regulation the law for the physician would be never to prescribe the use
of these drugs save in cases of absolute necessity.

The reading of medical books by the people is generally pernicious. I
would, however, permit them to read the recent accounts of the effects
of these drugs. If they are of comparatively late origin, these two
fashionable poisons have already destroyed more victims than in a whole
century has all the poison used by assassins.—_An Abridged Translation
for “The Chautauquan” from the “Révue Scientifique.”_

OUR C. L. S. C. COLUMN.

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

For the past year I have given in THE CHAUTAUQUAN a series of articles
on the interior significance and higher aims of the Chautauqua movement,
instead of the answers to questions which filled the C. L. S. C. column
in former years. The closing article of this year must be made up of
answers to questions which are of general interest.

1. A correspondent inquires “whether Alfred Ayres, author of the
‘Orthoepist,’ and editor of the English Grammar of William Corbett, is a
recognized standard authority in pronunciation, and whether he should be
preferred to Webster or Worcester.” To this I can only reply that I do
not so understand Mr. Ayres’s claim or position in the field of letters.
He certainly is not accepted as are Webster and Worcester; and the chief
advantage of his little volumes is in showing what one man who has given
much attention to the subject of pronunciation thinks on the subject.
That is all.

2. “How can a knowledge of Greek, Roman, or any other history be of any
benefit to me? I prefer to study the works of God, and in chemistry and
other departments of science to trace the signs of his wisdom.”

_Answer_: It is important to study God’s great gifts to the race in the
great characters of history and literature. The genius of Homer is as
much a wonder as is any fact in physical science. Acquaintance with the
vivacity, enterprise and energy of the Greek character is as valuable
to people who now live in the world as is a knowledge of the physical
constitution, shape, habits of life, and movements of the colossal
creatures reported by geology as having occupied this planet ages on ages
ago. No education is complete that has not to some extent been influenced
by the spirit of the old Greek culture. The whole history of that people
shows the impotence of mere culture without moral character, and we may
trace through the ages of Greek history the evidences of divine wisdom
and justice. By all means let us study natural science, but let us not
abandon history. Whatever pertains to man in any age of the world should
possess peculiar interest to us.

3. “People in our neighborhood often say to me: ‘Why study those books?
You will not live to finish the course; and if you do, what good will it
do you or your children?’”

_Answer_: Ignorant people often ask the question, “Of what use is
education, beyond a small amount of reading, writing and arithmetic? Why
should people who have to work in kitchens and fields study the stars?
Why should men who neither care to act on the stage, or to write for the
press, give much attention to William Shakspere?” Whatever our business
may be, we need to read general literature because we are members of
society, and owe something as rational beings to society. Parents should
keep in sympathy with their children, whose world of knowledge must
of necessity in this age grow wider and richer all the time. We are,
moreover, members of this universe, and God is our Father. We have a
right as his children to know something about his works and ways and
wisdom. Life is a wearisome thing to people who are ignorant. There is
sustaining power in the large thoughts which a true culture brings. If
one expects to live forever with God, he should cultivate noble and
worthy character on this side the grave, and such nobility is increased
and such holiness promoted by a wide range of reading and study with
worthy motive.

4. I am happy to announce that the “Chautauqua Press” has been fully
organized. Under its direction some of the books of the C. L. S. C. will
be published, and a series of standard books will be issued at once for
the formation of home libraries; books adapted to the special courses and
bearing also upon the Required Readings.

The first series of three or four volumes will be ready by August 1st,
and will supplement the regular work of the coming C. L. S. C. year.
While all the classes are reading Roman History, Latin Literature,
Italian Biography, and Italian Art, our “Chautauqua Library, … Garnet
Series,” will provide for those who wish to read more than the required
books, and for those who, as graduates, wish to win seals, the following
admirable volumes:

“Readings from Macaulay. Italy. With an Introduction by Donald G.
Mitchell (Ik Marvel).”

“Readings from Ruskin. Italy. With an Introduction by H. A. Beers,
Professor of English Literature in Yale College.”

“Art and the Cultivation of Taste, by Lucy Crane, with an Introduction by
Charles S. Whiting, of the Springfield (Mass.) _Republican_.”

[The fourth volume of the first series will soon be announced.]

This series of four volumes will constitute a special course, for the
reading of which the Garnet Seal (a new one) will be given to all
graduates, and may be won by those undergraduates who are able to do more
than the Required Reading for each year.

The Chautauqua Press will soon have on hand a rich library of cheap but
handsomely printed and bound volumes with which every Chautauquan will
desire to decorate and enrich “The Chautauqua Corner.”

Now we are on the eve of another summer of rest, of convocation, of
Assembly reunions. From these retreats comes much of inspiration which
keeps the Chautauqua movement in operation during the remainder of
the year. Let me urge all members who can possibly do so to attend
the nearest Assembly. Go to the Round-Table. Record your name on the
list kept by the local secretary. Show your colors, and thus lend your
influence to the Circle.

In behalf of the administration, the president, the counselors, the
secretaries, I extend to all members of the Circle a hearty salutation;
and to all of you who read these lines who have for any reason grown
remiss or apathetic in C. L. S. C. service, I give an earnest invitation
to come back, resume your readings, join the class of ’89, and make sure
of a successful four years’ course.

You will join me, I am sure, in one universal Chautauqua salute to the
honored editor of THE CHAUTAUQUAN and his competent associates and
contributors as our tribute to the ability with which our monthly has
been conducted.

And now, as we “study the word and the works of God,” may our Heavenly
Father be “in the midst,” and “may we never be discouraged” in pursuing
the high and beautiful ideal of the C. L. S. C.: The attainment of
symmetrical and practical culture which will fit us the better to serve
our fellows upon the earth, and to enjoy the blessings promised by our
Father in the heavens!

PLAINFIELD, N. J., May 21, 1885.

GLIMPSES OF THE CHAUTAUQUA PROGRAM.

A part of our creed of late has come to be that we need change in summer.
If our homes are in cities, we need it because we can not have there the
requisites of good health—fresh air, pure water, quiet; if we live in the
country, we want and need a change which will give us social advantages;
if we are teachers or students, we want opportunities to see, to get new
ideas, to observe new people and their customs. This theory of summer
living makes the demand for summer resorts. It is rare, however, that
any place offers with any degree of completeness health, society and
opportunities. It is claimed for Chautauqua that all three may be found
there; that it is, in short, an ideal summer resort, open to all classes
of people. The outlook for Chautauqua in 1885 confirms this claim, and
gives to its admirers most satisfactory glimpses of what is in store for
them during the coming season.

Chautauqua is fortunate in having had candid, disinterested men examine
its condition and management, and pronounce their verdict as to its
healthfulness. One of the most critical examiners of public places in
America, Hon. B. G. Northrup, made his visit to Chautauqua last summer
a kind of inspection tour. He pried into every corner and cranny, and
publicly denounced every abuse he found. With “courage indomitable,” the
Chautauqua “powers that be” attacked the enemy, and “they are ours.” This
summer there is no pestilential spot, not one vault nor cess-pool nor
wet spot to poison the water and breed disease. The determination of the
management to have perfect sanitary arrangement at any cost—even if all
other improvements are abandoned—is producing a condition unparalleled.
This result, and the means taken for its accomplishment, are worthy of