Chapter IV. 521

The Catlin Paintings 524 George Bancroft 526 How Perseus Began To Be Great 529 Canada of To-Day 529 Some American Museums 531 Natural History and People of Borneo 533 The What-To-Do Club 536 Criticisms 537 Outline and Programs 539 Local Circles 540 The C. L. S. C. Classes 545 The Chautauqua University 547 Editor’s Outlook 549 Editor’s Note-Book 551 C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings for June 553 Course of Reading for 1885-6 554 Paragraphs from New Books 555 Talk About Books 556 Books Received 557 Special Notes 557 Important to Members of the C. L. S. C. 558 Chautauqua School of Languages, 1885 558

REQUIRED READING FOR JUNE.

THE MECHANISM OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE.

BY PRESIDENT D. H. WHEELER, D.D., LL.D.

To _us_ the unit of speech is the word; historically, the unit is the sentence. It matters little which of the theories respecting the first forms of speech we adopt; all such theories may be rejected, and still we shall find it most reasonable to believe that man’s earliest utterances were wholes, answering in value to our sentences. A revolution has been effected and we have a _part of speech_ for our unit. We construct or build our sentences out of pieces of different meaning and value. Our simplest sentence has two of these pieces—a subject or noun, and a verb; a long sentence may have a dozen or a score of pieces. The making of sentences out of parts of speech is a kind of mechanics. The sentence has its mechanism, of which we usually learn the science by analyzing sentences. This analytical process yields what we call the principles of syntax. It must be remembered, however, that we learn to talk before we learn grammar, and that multitudes of people scarcely know any unit except the sentence. Their vocabulary is a phrase-book, in which every word has a fixed and unchangeable position. These persons abound in the illiterate countries; in Italy, for example, the majority of the people speak only in sentences having invariable forms; change the order of the words and you become unintelligible to them. The same effect is produced by employing a synonym for any word in any sentence. Our people are usually more alert to variety in expression and catch meanings in forms and arrangements to which they are unaccustomed.

A long sentence falls, when we take it apart, into two large pieces; the subject and its belongings, and the predicate and its belongings. Each of these large pieces breaks up into a number of small pieces. If we look carefully at the average long sentence, we shall find that the parts are held together by a systematic and habitual principle of arrangement, and that this changes in passing from one language to another. French says “a man good,” English “a good man.” Reverse the order of noun and adjective in either language, and the sense is obscured for the average hearer or reader. There is a number of these differences; and therefore every language has its peculiar mechanism. In mechanical type languages fall into groups. Greek and Latin, for example, use inflections to connect the words with each other; English does not employ inflections for this purpose. We have a few inflected forms, but we use them merely because they have come down to us. Greek syntax is inflectional; our syntax is said to be that of flat construction, or, as I prefer to say, it is positional. The _place_ of a word determines its function and relations in the sentence. This flat construction is found in other tongues; but English abounds in it and depends upon it as a principle of arrangement. When we say “proud men,” the hearer knows that the adjective _proud_ describes the noun _men_. In Latin, the adjective would have a termination to correspond in value to that of the noun, and the two might be separated by several words. Our principle requires the two to keep close together. If the adjective is to be modified, we may reverse the order and write “Men proud of their country.” If, however, the sentence is simple enough, the adjective may move to the other end of the statement and become a predicate, as when we say, “Men in that country are proud of their civilization.” These rules show the mechanics of the adjective. We expect it to precede the noun or to follow it with a dependent clause, or to follow, at an interval, the verb as a predicate. Young writers will be helped in their work by remembering that these are principles of mechanism—that they are building their sentences, and that the parts have their proper place and order, just as wood, brick and stone have in a building.

The foregoing illustrations are briefly stated to prepare the way for a few suggestions respecting some special mechanical contrivances of our language. A general principle in grammar acts as an aggressive and conquering force; it extends its domain, insensibly and gradually, but surely, as far as possible. In an inflectional age a tendency to increase and perfect inflections is discovered; in a flat-construction age the tendency to extend the domain of flat syntax is equally manifest. In our language some constructions are common now, though at one time they were scarcely allowed. This general observation is illustrated in the flat construction of a modifying clause in the nature of a relative pronoun clause. For example, “The man we saw” is a flat construction which has invaded the territory of the relative pronoun. The sentence is cut down from “the men _whom_ we saw.” Very little study has been given to these encroachments and conquests; but they will amply reward the careful student of them. The flat construction in the province of the relative is one of our devices for reducing the use of _who_, _which_, _whose_, _whom_ and _that_. These words occur so frequently in the speech and on the printed page that we have quite unconsciously gone about reducing their importance, and the results are so considerable as to merit special attention. I have made some comparative studies, having for their object something like accurate measurement of the change in the use of this class of pronouns, since the year 1611, the date of the English Bible of King James. Two great changes are easily discovered. (1) The number of relative pronouns on a page has been reduced, on an average, about one half. (2) The word _that_ has been almost pushed out of the relative office. The devices by which the use of relatives has been rendered unnecessary, are generally forms of the flat construction. The ousting of _that_ from relative functions has been promoted by the unconscious effort to dispense with the excessive repetition of the word. When used as a conjunction, a demonstrative and a relative, its repetition becomes tiresome to both writer and reader. A careful study will show that present English employs _that_ very seldom as a relative, and much less frequently than the English of the last century employed it as a connective and a demonstrative. In the case of _that_ we see the operation of a principle in architectural criticism. If a particular architectural device becomes common, it becomes unfashionable. Its frequency offends the taste and the offense is punished by a change. Forty years ago the ordinary Greek column was used on small private dwellings in many sections of this country. It became so disagreeable to our taste that this column was for some time nearly out of use in public buildings. _That_ is, like any piece in architecture, made so common as to become unconsciously offensive. The fact brings out a subtle principle of sentence mechanics—we require variety and dislike a dreary uniformity in this kind of architecture. Good writing in English, _readable_ English, will always respond in greater or less measure to the unconscious demand of the English-reading mind. Most persons do not know what is the offending element in a dreary sentence; they only know that “the style” is tiresome, and that they can not interest themselves in the reading. The good writer overcomes the difficulty by avoiding the offending elements.

It will usually be found that the tiresome effect is produced by repetition and uniformity. The pieces used may all be good; but we do not like to see Greek pillars before every house along the road. We tire of Gibbon’s periods, of Addison’s perfection, of Macaulay’s stateliness. We can read a little of each with delight; for daily diet we do not desire any of them. I will now give some of the results of my comparative studies of relative pronouns in the English sentence. I begin with the Bible of 1611. I notice first here that the Psalms differ from other books of the Bible, and I suppose that the difference arises from the superior directness of prayer. The same difference is discoverable between the modern prayer and the sermon. In the Psalms there is one relative in each ninety-five words, on the average; and about four fifths of these are _thats_. In the _number_ of relatives, the Psalms approach closely to modern parsimony; but in the use of _that_ they exaggerate the practice of the sixteenth century. Many of these _thats_ are used in a formula now seldom heard, of which “_he that_” is a typical example. In St. Matthew’s record of the Sermon on the Mount, there is one relative to each forty-four words; in St. John’s gospel, chapters one to ten inclusive, there are two hundred and eleven relatives, and one hundred and three are _thats_. The proportion of relatives is one to each forty-six words. In the first six chapters of I. Corinthians there are sixty relatives, and of these twenty-seven are _thats_. The proportion is one relative in forty-five words. Combining the results obtained by this counting in the New Testament, the result is one relative for each forty-five words, and more than three sevenths are _thats_. It is probably safe to assume that in the New Testament sentence every forty-fifth word (on the average) is a relative pronoun, and that three times in seven this relative is the word _that_. In the Psalms the relative occurs not quite half so frequently, but four times in five this relative is _that_. We should also remember that at least one form of sentence architecture of which the relative _that_ is the conspicuous piece has practically disappeared in modern English. “He _that_ dwelleth in the secret place of the most high,” is a common syntax of the Psalms. There are men who say and write “he who would be rich;” but it is an archaic formula.

Let us turn to Shakspere. My counting here has not been as abundant as I could wish, but I think the results are practically correct for the plays. The selections are Richard III., first and second scenes, and “Love’s Labor Lost,” first and second acts. The proportion is one relative to each ninety-three words; and of these relatives _that_ appears a little more frequently than three times in seven. Shakspere is, therefore, in this use of _that_ almost exactly like the New Testament; while, like the Psalms, he is modern in his parsimonious use of relatives. Readers with more leisure than myself may find interesting employment in examining Addison and Samuel Johnson. In an idle hour I fell upon a copy of Burton’s “Anatomy of Melancholy,” and found more relatives and a larger proportion of _thats_ than in the New Testament. In Samuel Johnson there are probably fewer relatives; his stately Latinity avoided these mean little hinges of clauses. Since writing the last sentences I have examined the first act of Shakspere’s “Hamlet,” and I find a smaller proportion of relatives than I have found in any work except modern poetry. I find but forty-eight relatives in the whole act, and just half are _thats_. Another thing to note is that this act contains a large proportion of flat constructions. A further examination shows that the Plays differ much in the management of connective apparatus for clauses. The elevated tone and strong emotion of “Hamlet” account for infrequent use of the lifeless relative forms.

Before taking up any recent author, let me state as a general rule of proportion that present English uses relatives less frequently than the Psalms and Shakspere, and not quite half as frequently as the New Testament. There is, however, one difference to be noted: English writers have carried this reform somewhat farther than Americans have carried it. It is still further to be noted that preachers and theological writers usually have a good deal of biblical syntax, and therefore employ relatives more freely than other writers. It is a convenient place to mention the fact that in modern English of the best type, ellipsis is more common than in older writers or inferior modern writers. The old writers and their readers had more time than we have, and the “economy of attention” was not in Shakspere’s day a recognized rule of rhetoric. The inferior modern writer is afraid to trust an ellipsis to the tender mercies of the critic, and spoils his sentences by trying to say everything. Ellipsis is one of the chief places for art and genius in writing. As a rule, American writers are in greater awe of the grammarians than Englishmen are. We shall find, then, more relatives in American than in English writers; we shall find more in sermons than in other writings. Young ministers are often advised to cultivate a biblical style. I must confess my inability to sympathize with efforts to employ religion upon the unavailing task of continuing the use of dead words and forms. If we are to write and speak in dead tongues as a religious duty, let us go back to Greek, at least, if not to Hebrew. The truth is that we ought to put the Bible into modern English, and so end the unprofitable business of disagreeing about the claims of a biblical style upon the pulpit. At present the contention is that in order to imitate the Bible of 1611, preachers should use obsolete English.

Turning now to the usage of modern writing in the employment of relative pronouns, let us begin with a modern Englishman. I select Mr. Bagehot’s books, because in him we may hope to find the high-water mark of this reform. Mr. Bagehot was an editor and a banker; he represents the directness, force, and brevity of editorial and business writing. His “Lombard Street” is a book on the financial arrangements of the business public of England. It is therefore practical; but it is also essentially scientific. In this book Mr. Bagehot employs, on the average, one relative pronoun in one hundred and twenty-seven words. This is a little more than one third as many as the New Testament employs. I call this high-water mark; two thirds of the relatives have disappeared. I am not sure of it, but I think Mr. Bagehot did not use _that_ as a relative pronoun. I find that about _one fortieth_ of the relatives in the American edition are _thats_; but it is probable that some of them were put in by the American printers—unconsciously, of course—and it is possible that all have a typographical parentage. In “Money and the Mechanism of Exchange,” by Professor Jevons, I can not find a relative _that_; there may be a few; but in this case, too, the edition is American. Accepting, however, the count, let the readers measure the change from the Psalms of 1611, in which eighty per cent. of the relatives are _thats_, to Walter Bagehot, in whose “Lombard Street” only about two per cent. of the relatives are _thats_. The relatives occur a little more frequently in the book of Professor Jevons, just referred to. By my count there is one relative in one hundred and thirteen words. I have more carefully counted the relatives in the essays of Mr. James Anthony Froude, and find one relative in each one hundred and twenty words. I have only American editions of these essays, and in these editions _that_ is employed as a relative in a very few cases. This use of _that_ is so infrequent and so opposite to Mr. Froude’s ordinary practice, that we may safely set it down as some one’s blunder—possibly Mr. Froude’s, more probably the American printer’s. If we accept these _thats_ as Mr. Froude’s, the per cent. of them is so small as to deprive them of importance. I thought I had caught Mr. Froude’s secret when I found that in his essay on Norway he apparently wrote “trout that” and “fish that.” Mr. Froude is a mighty fisherman, and it was possible that he might glorify the fish by a peculiar form of pronoun. But I turned to the essay on “A Day’s Fishing at Cheney’s,” and found “fish which” and “trout which.” This failure to find even a fanciful explanation leaves nothing to be said except that “some one has blundered” into the relative _thats_ of Mr. Froude. These three English writers—Bagehot, Jevons, and Froude—probably represent very fairly the untheological writers of our generation.

For a test specimen of theological writers, I turn to a volume of sermons by the Rev. James Martineau. I have counted the relatives in three sermons, “The Bread of Life,” “The Unknown Paths,” and “The Finite and the Infinite in Human Nature.” The relatives occur more frequently than in the non-theological writers. My count shows an average of one relative in each ninety-three words. The use of _that_ is abundant. Out of one hundred and seven relative words, thirty-one are _thats_. These sermons were probably composed forty years ago, and represent an archaic type of sermonic style, a style largely affected by that of the Bible of 1611. I have noted without counting, that the sermons of Mr. Spurgeon contain a higher proportion of relatives, and that this great preacher employs _that_ with as much frequency as Mr. Martineau. Turning to American preachers, I have taken up a recent sermon of Dr. John Hall, of New York, and I find one relative in each sixty-five words, and of these relatives more than one third are _thats_. Dr. Hall used in 1884 more _thats_ than James Martineau used forty years earlier. But Dr. Hall is a preacher of a very biblical type, and his choice of relatives is often dictated by partial quotation of texts. Passing over to non-theological writers of our time and country, let us take the general result of countings in essays and books. The average number of relatives is about ten per cent. greater than in contemporary English writers, and _that_ is relatively employed about one fifth of the time. The importance of the reduction of the use of relatives can not be properly appreciated without remembering two or three conditions of their use. One fact is that there is seldom any discernible rule which is followed in the choice of _that_ in place of _which_. The example given from Mr. Froude’s practice—whether it is his or his printer’s—illustrates the absence of any guidance by a rule.

_That_ has no longer any standing place in the relative ranks; it merely relieves _which_ of a part of its work; and in English writers even this supernumerary function has practically ceased to be filled by it. A second condition of the use of relatives is much more important. It has always been possible to build the best of English sentences without relatives. A peculiarly animated sentence of any age will usually contain no relatives. In Dr. John Hall’s sermon, the longest sentences and the animated passages contain no relatives. When he drops into a relative, we see that the exaltation of feeling is passing off, and the sermon is sinking to a lower level of interest. It is apparently a law, then, that relatives are more rarely found in animated, elevated and perfectly clear English than in weaker and less emotional writing. A third fact is that I find the relatives of a sermon, book, or essay, occurring in groups. Often there are whole pages with none; then come three, four, five or more in about as many lines. This grouping is almost as true of the Bible as of modern English. In Dr. Hall’s sermon, fifty-six occur in the first and least animated half of it, and only thirty-eight in the second half of it, and one fifth of all the relatives of the discourse occur in groups; take twenty-four printed lines out of the sermon, and there will be left only about as many as Professor Jevons employs. The effect of these groups deserves, I have thought, careful study; but the results require more space than is now at command. A single example from Mr. Froude will suffice to indicate the general conclusion. Within thirty-six lines—taken in groups of from two to fourteen lines—Mr. Froude uses twenty-five relatives—or one relative in each fourteen words, while his general average is—as above stated—one in each one hundred and twenty words. How shall we describe such a use of relatives? Plainly they are not necessary. The only explanation I can think of is that it is a careless habit. The relatived passages are the poorest and weakest, in all the modern English I have examined. The groups of relatives are to me very significant; they show that relative pronouns are unnecessary; the ineffectiveness of the English where they occur shows that the relative is obsolescent.

To compress this study into a small space I have omitted a number of important facts. I pass to the conclusions (_a_) I have reached. (1) The relative pronoun (_b_) being essentially an inflectional device, is opposed by the tendencies (_c_) prevailing in English syntax—tendencies to flat construction. If the reader will look at (_a_), (_b_) and (_c_) in the preceding sentences, he will see specimens of the flat construction. (2) _That_ is dead as a relative pronoun. Its use is a mere carelessness. (3) In some of the so-called idioms for the relative _that_, the word is not a relative at all, and the “idiom” itself is a case of flat construction. In “All _that we_ know,” the relative usually following the demonstrative _that_ has been omitted. (4) The so-called compound relative _what_ is not a relative at all; in _our_ modern use it is another flat construction to reduce the employment of _which_ and its antecedent demonstrative. (5) I infer that the flat constructions ought to be classified and studied in schools. The effect of such teaching and study will be seen in a more vigorous English, and it will not be long before we shall begin to say, “THE RELATIVE PRONOUN MUST GO.”

HOME STUDIES IN CHEMISTRY AND PHYSICS.

BY PROF. J. T. EDWARDS, D.D.

Director of the Chautauqua School of Experimental Science.

CHEMISTRY OF ORGANISMS.

An organism is a structure endowed with life, and acting by means of organs. Organic beings are of two kinds, vegetable and animal. Ordinarily there is little difficulty in discriminating between them, but there is a border line along which the two great kingdoms meet, which is as shadowy and uncertain as that uniting, in distant view, the ocean and the sky. It is usual to say that animals move their parts, and that plants do not. The former have locomotion, the latter are stationary. Animals have nerves and receive their food in cavities; plants do not. But the most important distinction of all is that the vegetable world draws its support from the mineral world, while the animal lives upon the vegetable.

Both animals and plants begin their existence with a single cell. Growth consists in the enlargement and multiplication of cells. Here the physiologist terminates his investigations, and the chemist begins.

His first step, however, results in the destruction of the organism. Of him it is emphatically true, “He murders to dissect.” The moment that chemistry seeks to determine the elementary character of an organic substance, that substance ceases to have an organic form. In a sense, therefore, there is no such thing as _organic_ chemistry. It is a convenient term, however, for the study of the chemistry of substances formed by life.

Until recently it has been supposed that the chemist could destroy organic substances, but that he could not create them. This idea is no longer held. A great number of the compounds formed by plants and animals have been produced in the chemist’s laboratory, without the aid of vital force.

While it is undoubtedly true that many of the compounds found in plants and animals are not _necessarily_ related to organisms, there are usually some plain facts which differentiate organic compounds from inorganic. Among these may be named the following: Organic substances are usually composed of but few elements; oxygen, nitrogen, hydrogen and carbon constituting almost all their material. Ten other elements are very sparingly distributed in them.

_Sixty-six_ elements enter into the formation of inorganic matter.

The _atomic_ structure of the former is very complex; that of the latter is simple. For example: A molecule of the white of egg contains 222 atoms, while a molecule of salt has but two. Again, the compounds of organic existences are innumerable. Inorganic compounds are _comparatively_ few. The former are unstable, on account of the presence of nitrogen, while the latter are fixed and quite permanent. The former are also distinguished for the many examples of isomerism they furnish. Isomeric compounds are those formed of the same elements in the same proportions. Thus, camphene, the oils of bergamot, juniper, birch, black pepper, lemon, cloves, turpentine, ginger, cubebs, orange, and many others are isomeric, each one being composed of ten atoms of carbon and sixteen of hydrogen. The difference in these volatile oils is supposed to be due to a variation of the _arrangement_ of the atoms composing them.

Let us now briefly consider the

FOOD OF PLANTS.

This is obtained from the air and earth. The former supplies carbonic acid, and water in the form of vapor, through the stomata of the leaves; these are little mouths or breathing pores, chiefly situated on the under side of the leaf. They vary in number from one thousand to one hundred and seventy thousand to the square inch. An apple-tree leaf of average size has one hundred thousand pores. The old elm at Cambridge, under which Washington stood while reviewing the Continental army, has been estimated to produce a crop of seven million leaves, thus exposing a surface of five acres, and therefore furnishing billions of stomata. If the amount of carbonic acid gas in the air were much increased, all higher forms of animal life would perish. If it were materially lessened, vegetation would soon wither and die, involving the death of all animals, from lack of food. Plants derive the element carbon from this gas.

According to Chevandier, an acre of beech forest annually absorbs three and one half tons of carbonic acid gas, and from this eliminates about one ton of carbon.

Most of the oxygen and hydrogen of plants is probably obtained from the water absorbed by leaves and roots. Recent experiments indicate that plants may sometimes absorb oxygen directly from the air. This is especially true in the case of buds, as may be shown by the following experiment:

Cut twigs of willow, oak or apple just before the buds are to unfold, and place the ends in a little holder containing a small amount of water, and set this in a saucer; partially fill the saucer with quicksilver; over the twigs invert a glass fruit jar filled with oxygen, so that its mouth will be sealed by the quicksilver. The buds will unfold, and some of the oxygen disappear, but if the jar be filled with hydrogen or nitrogen the buds will decay. De Saussure,[1] by a somewhat similar experiment, proved that oxygen is absorbed by the roots of plants.

Both gases and moisture are taken up and distributed through the cells by osmose.[2] This may easily be shown; cut off the end of a carrot and scoop out the central portion of the remainder, and place in the cavity dry sugar; this will soon be converted into a syrup, and the sides of the carrot will have perceptibly shrunk, from the passage of moisture out of the cells to the sugar.

The mineral constituents of plants are all taken up by the roots in the form of solution, water being the great carrier by which plants are supplied.

The following substances are invariably present in all agricultural plants, and in many others, viz.: Potash, soda, lime, magnesia, oxide of iron, chlorine, sulphuric acid, phosphoric acid, silicic acid, and carbonic acid. The chemical composition of different specimens of the same plant is found to be quite uniform.

VEGETABLE NUTRITION.

Young plants first feed upon the store of nourishment placed in the seed, either in cotyledons,[3] or around them. Soon the little roots acquire the power to take their nourishment from the earth in which they are imbedded. They absorb moisture and the materials in solution, which rise through the latest formed wood as ascending sap, and in the cells of the growing parts, especially the leaves, undergo the transformations which convert inorganic into organic substances. Hales[4] calculated that the force which impels the sap in a grapevine in summer time is five times as great as that which drives the blood through the arteries of a horse.

Much of the water is evaporated. A large sunflower was found to exhale twenty or thirty ounces during the day, but very little at night. After the sap has been elaborated in the cells, under the influence of air and light, it descends just under the bark, in the cambium layer, and furnishes the material for the growth of cells and young buds, and nourishes all growing parts of the plant. This process takes place essentially in the earlier part of the season. In late summer and autumn the circulation in the leaves is impeded by the deposition of mineral matter, so that the plant or tree becomes gorged with the fluids which are ready to flow again at the coming of spring. It is this supply which is drawn upon in the “sugar bush.” A bucketful is often obtained from a single maple tree in twenty-four hours.

The cambium layer, or mucilaginous material between the bark and wood, hardens into cellular tissue and forms an annular growth. This is the case in all exogenous plants. If a section be made of one of them its age may be easily determined by counting the rings. The other great class of plants called endogenous, has the growing masses distributed through the stem. The common cornstalk is an illustration. Few things are more surprising than the way in which different plants manufacture from the same elements their

VARIOUS PRODUCTS.

This is noticeable in grafting. I have seen a thorn bush having one limb loaded with Bartlett pears. Now the material which ascended the stem was distributed to all the branches, but the cells in some of them manufactured it into thorn apples, while in this branch it was transformed into delicious fruit.

No doubt plants have the powers to select various materials. Upon the same acre of land a hundred different plants may feed and manufacture as many varieties of products, sweet, bitter, sour, poisonous, nutritious, fragrant, offensive, green, yellow, red, and so on through the entire list. As has already been suggested, many vegetable products which are quite diverse in character, are either identical or quite similar in chemical composition. Starch, whether obtained from the potato, the root of the carrot, the kernel of corn, the leaves of the cabbage, or the cotyledons of the bean, is composed of six atoms of carbon, ten atoms of hydrogen, and five atoms of oxygen. Sago, tapioca, bread fruit, arrowroot, and scores of other plant products have the same proportions. Woody fiber whether from the root, stem or branch, woven into cloth, built into houses, twisted into rope, made into paper, used as fuel, or manufactured into furniture, is C₆H₁₀O₅.

Slight variations in composition often produce marked differences. The introduction of the least ferment into sugar (C₆H₁₂O₆) would break it up into two deadly poisons, alcohol (2C₂H₆O) and carbonic acid gas (2CO₂—two molecules of each). A slight addition of oxygen spoils all the sweetness of the preserves.

The rhubarb manufactures oxalic acid, the grape tartaric acid, the apple malic acid, the lemon citric acid, the oak tannic acid, from carbon, hydrogen and oxygen, by simply varying the number of their atoms.

If we add one atom of oxygen (C₁₀H₁₆O) to the constituents of the volatile oils previously mentioned, we form a new group comprising camphor, wintergreen, spearmint, cinnamon, bitter almonds, and many others.

Notwithstanding the great uniformity in the composition of various vegetable products, it is now well understood that one crop may restore to land what another has removed, hence the modern agricultural doctrine of

ROTATION OF CROPS.

In southeastern Virginia you find many pine forests in which may be traced the ridges of the corn rows. These fields were planted with corn continuously, until the soil became so impoverished that it would not yield a crop. They were then abandoned and allowed to grow up to pines.

A better system would have secured perpetual fertility. The soil of England produces far more than formerly, even after the cultivation of a thousand years. China furnishes a still more remarkable example of productiveness.

The amount of the earth’s crust which is concerned in the support of life is exceeding small. The natural tendency is constantly to diminish this.

Rains and rivers bear away the best of the soil and deposit it in the lakes and seas. Some inhabitant of our earth in the far future, may secure the benefit of these stores, when the beds of the present seas and oceans shall have risen above the waters and become the continent.

Too much pressed by the demands of the present to even think of this, the wise farmer endeavors to return to his soil what it has lost.

Growing crops are plowed under, fertilizers from the thronging cities are spread upon his fields, the seaweed cast up by the waves yields its potash, phosphorus, salt and iodine. The islands of the Pacific contribute their vast stores of ammonia accumulated for ages in guano beds; marl deposited in the estuaries of ancient geologic seas feeds the cereals; and the limestone deposits are made to give verdure to the grasses of a thousand meadows. In the meantime, nature has her own processes of restoration. The crumbling of the rocks by frost, their abrasion by water, the accumulation of humus by decay, and various chemical influences conspire to convert the unproductive rocks into fertile soil. It would seem that this intelligent forethought, united with the beneficent processes of nature may secure perpetual productiveness, to the end that the earth may continue to yield its increase for the sustenance of the animal, for, as the Scriptures say,

ALL FLESH IS GRASS.

Directly or indirectly all animals live on plants. We have roast lamb for dinner to-day, but yesterday the lamb was browsing herbage. It is an interesting fact that the nutritive qualities of bread are almost the same as those of beef—each, in itself, is very nearly a perfect food.

Great principles of economy regulate the use of these two articles, in accordance with the scarcity and price of either. Man may live without bread if he have meat, and vice versa, but his system demands one of them, or its equivalent.

As in the cell of the plant, mineral substances become organized, so, under the influence of animal vitality does vegetable material become transformed into the constituents of a new organism. The great argument against the doctrine that alcohol is a food, lies in the fact that it does not undergo this transformation. It leaves the body as it enters it. But beef-steak ceases to be steak, and bread is no longer the same; they have become bone, tissue, nerve, and all that makes a human body

Most are familiar with the marvelous processes of mastication, digestion, absorption and aeration, by which food is converted into blood freighted with all that is essential to the nutrition of the human system.

Foods serve three great purposes—growth, restoration of waste, and supply for heat. Whether vegetable or animal, they are of two classes—nitrogenous and carbonaceous. The former consists of all seeds and vegetable tissues, and flesh in animal foods. The latter comprises the starch and sugar of vegetables, and fat in animals. Nature seems to suggest the propriety of using both as food for man. His teeth are adapted to the mastication of both, and the varied demands of different seasons and climates furnish a not less conclusive argument in its favor.

It is not our design to discuss here the dietetics or even the chemistry of food. There is, however, one branch of the subject that calls for a passing remark—the value of foods for special purposes. As the agriculturist is now carefully considering the adaptation of soils to the various kinds of vegetation, and is also inquiring into the character of those fertilizers that will continue and increase the growth-producing qualities of his land, so the physiologist is seeking to discover the special value of different aliments for all conditions of health and disease. The problem is necessarily somewhat difficult, but the end is so desirable—nothing less than human safety, comfort and development—that it is one of the most worthy of all the questions of science. Wholesome food, cheap food, and appropriate food for all classes and conditions is its aim. What does the weary brain require? What will give strength to muscle? How may the impoverished blood be enriched? How can vigorous, symmetrical growth be secured to childhood and youth? These are vital questions. Even when applied to the wants of the lower animals they are of immense importance. What conditions are most favorable for fattening cattle? What will give greatest strength and best sustain continuous exertion.

Note a simple instance of one result of such inquiry. In ascertaining the food value of cottonseed, the revenue of our cotton crop is said to have been doubled. In medical practice physicians are more and more inclined to depend upon their knowledge of the principles of alimentation and the adjustment of proper nourishment to the sick than upon artificial stimulants or medicines.

THE CIRCLE COMPLETED.

We conclude this article on the chemistry of organisms, with the somewhat humbling reflection that to all living beings there comes a time when vitality yields to the power of those chemical forces, which resolve them again to their original inorganic forms. It can not be that this was the only and ultimate end contemplated by the Creator, in that sublime system of arrangement for life, which began with the morning of creation and ended with man. Nature is more than a cycle of change from dead matter to vegetable form, thence to animal life, and thence back again to mineral substance.

Solomon wrote: “The dust shall return to the earth as it was, and the spirit shall return unto God who gave it;” and another has said: “There remains the paramount duty of rendering worthy of survival that spiritual part of our being which no merely physical power can destroy.”

PHYSICS OF ORGANISMS.

A brief discussion of some _physical_ characteristics of organisms will conclude our articles on “Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics.”

The abundance of metaphorical expressions even in common language, indicates the numerous resemblances between the living and inorganic worlds. Description and poetry are full of imagery. A metaphor implies a resemblance between objects, a simile suggests it, and a comparison states it.

Thus to the human mind, the different departments of nature seem to reflect a light and beauty upon each other, even as the “earth-shine” lights the moon in the absence of the sun. The sky is a dome; the groves are temples; the sea moans and roars; the falling cataracts laugh and shout, and the calm lake is the smile of the Great Spirit. “Language,” says Dean Trench,[5] “is fossil poetry.” “Architecture is frozen music.”

Many of the forms of art and devices of human invention have been suggested by Nature. The Doric column was borrowed from some stately tree shaft. The ornamented capital of the Corinthian column was decorated by carved copies of the graceful acanthus leaves. Gothic architecture found its models in the tree tops of the arching forests.

Every experimenter in science is simply one who is inquiring of Nature for her analogies, truths, forms, forces, and machines; and like the wise and good mother that she is, she has granted many a pregnant suggestion to the busy brains of discoverers and inventors.

MOVEMENTS OF PLANTS.

Plants in their action illustrate many of the principles of natural philosophy, as if directed by intelligence. Turn their roots upward in the soil, and they will invariably turn down to the moisture. Bend their stems to the earth and they will seek to mount upward. The young sunflower greets the sun at his rising, and turns to behold his setting. Unwind a twining vine, and wind it in an opposite direction, and it will soon assert its right to assume its own method. Some plants shrink from touch; others, like the Venus fly-trap,[7] hold out their open palms to catch flies; many sleep; most seem to select special places, seasons, and conditions. They seem almost, at times, to be possessed of moral qualities. They adapt themselves to situations. If the season is dry, they are sparing of moisture; if the soil is scanty, they penetrate deeper for sustenance; if the winds are fierce, they grow strong by struggle; if gashed or broken, they have “philters for healing;” if pruned and chastened, they yield richer fruitage.

One can not help feeling that certain trees have a personality. They are friendly with their shade. They are proud in their loftiness, confident in their strength, satisfied in their usefulness.

Other plants are almost equally interesting. Flowers have long been chosen to express the language of sentiment. Even the lowest forms of vegetable life, like the algæ, the mosses and lichens, arrange their parts with symmetry and beauty. Even the microscopic diatoms[8] are exquisite in the perfection of their curves and markings.

ANIMAL MECHANISM.

Comparative anatomy long since showed us that there is great harmony in the construction of animals. A few principles seem to govern in all. For example: None violate the law of gravity with regard to the line of direction’s falling within the base. They employ the lever, the inclined plane, the pulley, and the mechanical means of applying power, precisely as we do in machinery. The heart is a pump; the stomach is a churn; the backbone has springs; the elbow is a hinge; the muscles are ropes; the nerves are telegraph wires; the ear is a harp, the eye is a telescope. The most perfect mechanism characterizes the construction of all the animal kingdom, but one can do little more than suggest the interest of this most fascinating subject.

THE TRADES AMONG ANIMALS.

An ancient saying declares that “Poets are born, not made,” and classic story informs us that Minerva sprang full armed from the head of Jove. Something like this natural perfection appears in the occupations of the lower orders of creation. Man is a creature of education, absolutely unlimited in point of time in the possibilities of his development. Other animals, within their own limited scope often attain an excellence superior to his. Note the scent of the greyhound, the hearing of the cat, the sight of the eagle. As artisans they have few apprentices, though it must be confessed that some are better workmen than others, and they are not without “bosses.” Observe a few of their trades. The brant-goose is a navigator, which may have already found the pole. The heron is a fisherman, who carries his torch upon his breast. Swallows are excellent masons; so are wasps and the caddis fly.

There is a spider that is a diver; he makes his own bell and fills it with air. The bee is a geometrician that never studied Euclid. The ant is a political economist, who, like Joseph, lays up supplies for a time of want. There is a “tailor bird.” There are hosts of hunters among the carnivora. The nautilus is a “little sailor,” and weavers are innumerable. Beavers unite the trades of lumbermen and civil engineers. There are carpenters and paper makers, indeed, time would fail in the attempt to mention all the occupations pursued in this busy world of animate creation. Yet over all these the Almighty has given man dominion. They are but organisms impelled to their appointed tasks by unreasoning instinct, but, as Sir William Hamilton has said: “_Man_ is not an organism, but an _intelligence_ served by organs.”

NOTE.—Through the courtesy of Messrs. Ivison, Blakeman, Taylor & Co., of New York, the cuts in this article are taken from two of their excellent publications, Gray’s “Lessons and Manual of Botany,” and Hitchcock’s “Anatomy and Physiology.”

SUNDAY READINGS.

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

[_June 7._]

Courtesy is, strictly speaking, a Christian grace.… It is the offspring of charity; and since it derives its being from divine grace; since it is made the subject of divine command; since it is especially calculated to smooth those little asperities which sometimes hinder even “the living stones of the temple” from being so perfectly joined and so fitly framed together as they should be; since it powerfully tends, likewise, to remove the prejudices and to allay the enmity so generally entertained by the world toward the church; above all, since, in combination with other causes it may contribute to win souls to God, we surely ought not to deem it unsuitable, but to make it … the subject of our particular and attentive consideration.… While some professed disciples of Christ seem to have substituted in the place of genuine courtesy a conformity to the manners and habits of ungodly men, which very ill consists with that simplicity of character which should distinguish the remnant of true Israelites, there are others who, through an honest disgust toward the impertinent fopperies of the world, and an ill-directed fear of becoming infected with the same spirit of guile and hypocrisies, have even run so far into the opposite extreme of churlishness as to be culpably negligent of the mere forms of civilized society.

The courtesy of the world is an imposing form.… But the courtesy of a Christian is not a mere form. It is not the phantasm of a feeling which has no real existence. It is the outward expression of an inward disposition, the conduct which a benevolent mind will on all occasions instinctively prescribe. It is the natural and unconstrained operation of unfeigned love. Let us but love our neighbor as ourselves, and it will be morally impossible to violate the laws of courtesy; for love worketh no ill to his neighbor. It will teach us cautiously to avoid whatever might unnecessarily wound his feelings; it will dispose us assiduously to study his inclination, ease, and convenience; it will make us anxious to interpret his very looks, that we may even anticipate his requests; it will enable us cheerfully to make a sacrifice of our own gratifications with a view to his. All this is perfectly easy; it is even delightful where love exists without dissimulation; but let this heavenly principle be wanting, take away from the _form_ of courtesy the _power_, and it becomes an arduous and irksome task, a yoke grievous to be borne.—_Summerfield._[1]

[_June 14._]

I would not slight this wondrous world. I love its day and night. Its flowers and its fruits are dear to me. I would not willfully lose sight of a departing cloud. Every year opens new beauty in a star; or in a purple gentian fringed with loveliness. The laws, too, of matter seem more wonderful the more I study them in the whirling eddies of the dust, in the curious shells of former life buried by thousands in a grain of chalk, or in the shining diagrams of light above my head. Even the ugly becomes beautiful when truly seen. I see the jewel in the bunchy toad. The more I live, the more I love this lovely world; feel more its Author in each little thing; in all that is great. But yet I feel my immortality the more. In childhood the consciousness of immortal life buds forth feeble, though full of promise. In the man it unfolds its fragrant petals, his most celestial flower, to mature its seed throughout eternity. The prospect of that everlasting life, the perfect justice yet to come, the infinite progress before us, cheer and comfort the heart. Sad and dissatisfied, full of self-reproach, we shall not be so forever. The light of heaven breaks upon the night of trial, sorrow, sin; the somber clouds which overhung the east, grown purple now, tell us the dawn of heaven is coming in. Our faces, gleamed on by that, smile in the new-born glow; we are beguiled of our sadness before we are aware. The certainty of this provokes us to patience, it forbids us to be thoughtfully sorrowful. It calls us to be up and doing.…

There is small merit in being willing to die; it seems almost sinful in a good man to wish it when the world needs him here so much. It is weak and unmanly to be always looking and sighing voluptuously for that. But it is of great value here and now to anticipate time and live to-day the eternal life. That we may all do. The joys of heaven will begin as soon as we attain the character of heaven and do its duties. That may begin to-day. It is everlasting life to know God, to have His Spirit dwelling in you, yourself at one with Him. Try that and prove its worth. Justice, usefulness, wisdom, religion, love, are the best things we hope for in heaven. Try them on—they will fit you here not less becomingly. They are the best things of earth. Think no outlay of goodness and piety too great. You will find your reward begin here. As much goodness and piety, so much heaven. Men will not pay you—God will; pay you now, hereafter, and forever.—_Theodore Parker._

[_June 21._]

Let us do all the business we can.… If we can’t be a lighthouse, let us be a tallow candle. Some one said, “I can’t be anything more than a farthing rushlight.” Well, if you can’t be more, be that; that is well enough. Be all you can. What makes the Dead Sea dead? Because it is all the time receiving, never giving out anything. You go every Sunday and hear good sermons, and think that is enough. You are all the time receiving these grand truths, but never give them out. When you hear it, go and scatter the sacred truth abroad. Instead of having one minister to preach to a thousand people, this thousand ought to take a sermon and spread it till it reaches those that never go to church or chapel. Instead of having a few, we ought to have thousands using the precious talents that God has given them.…

If God has not given us but half a talent, let us make good use of that. When God told the people to take their seats by fifties, he told Philip to get food for them. “What,” says Philip, “feed them with this little loaf? Why, there is not more than enough for the first man.” “Yes, go and feed them with that.” Philip thought that was a very small amount for such a multitude of hungry men. He broke off a piece for the first man, and didn’t miss it; a piece for the second man, and didn’t miss it; a piece for the third man, and didn’t miss it. He was making good use of the loaf, and God kept increasing it. That is what the Lord wants to do with us. He will give us just as many talents as we can take care of.

There are many of us that are willing to do great things for the Lord; but few of us willing to do little things. The mighty sermon on regeneration was preached to one man. There are many who are willing to preach to thousands, but are not willing to take their seat beside one soul, and lead that soul to the blessed Jesus. We must get down to personal effort—this bringing one by one to the Son of God. We can find no better example of this than in the life of Christ himself. Look at that wonderful sermon that he preached to that lone woman at the well of Samaria. He was tired and weary, but he had time and the heart to preach to her. This is but one of many instances in the life of the Master from which we may learn a precious lesson. If the Son of God had time to preach to one soul, can not every one of us go and do the same?…

“I commend you”—and in this connection, I want to tell you how the God of all grace has kept us. For nearly twenty-one years he has watched over me. He has watched over me and stood by me in the hour of temptation and trial; he has brought light to me out of darkness; and he will do the same with you. In leaving you, young converts, I would like to leave with you two Ws—the one is Work, and the other is the Word; or, rather, the first is the Word, and the other is Work. Go out and work for him, and you will become strong Christians. There are two lives that you want to lead. The one is your inner life, that the world knows nothing of, that the wife of your bosom knows nothing of. That life is between yourself and God; and if you don’t lead this aright, the outer life will not be long right. Let me say to you, young converts, read your Bibles and you will be strong. If you don’t, you will fall; and the men who are now scoffing at this movement will say: “I told you you would fall back again; the meetings have been only an emotional excitement; only a sensation.” I pray that God Almighty may keep you. Just have those two Ws before you—the Word and Work—and make that your banner.—_D. L. Moody._

[_June 28._]

What language, “Father, forgive them!” and, in the words, what an act, greater than the most splendid miracles with which he marked his radiant path through the world.…

“Forgive them!” Is it possible? With these words … he covers the guilty heads of his murderers with the shield of his love, in order to secure them from the storm of the well deserved wrath of Almighty God. With these words, which must have produced adoring astonishment, even in the angels themselves, he takes these miscreants in the arms of his compassion, and bears them up to the steps of his Father’s throne, in order to commend them to his mercy. For know, my readers, that the words “Forgive them,” mean, in Jesus’s mouth, not merely, “Do not impute to them the murderous crime they have committed upon me.” No, when he utters “Forgive,” it comprehends something much more, and embraces the whole register of sins. In his mouth it means, “Plunge their whole sinful life into the depths of the sea, and remember no more their transgressions, but consider these sinners henceforth as dear in thy sight, and act toward them as such.”

There are individuals on earth for whom no one feels inclined to pray, because they are too depraved. There are those who even dare not pray for themselves, because their consciences testify that such worthless creatures as they are can not reckon upon being heard. What a prospect is here opened to people of this description! Ah, if no heart beats for them on earth, the heart of the King of kings may still feel for them. If among their friends not one is to be found to intercede for them, yet, possibly, the Lord of Glory is not ashamed of bearing their names before his Father’s throne. O, what hope beams on Calvary for a sinful world! And if the great Intercessor appears there for a transgressor, how does his intercession succeed? Though a whole world should protest against it, his prayer saves whom he will. His voice penetrates the heart of the eternal Father with irresistible power. His entreaties are commands. Mountains of sin vanish before his intercession. How highly characteristic and deeply significant is the fact that the Lord, with this prayer, commences the seven expressions he uttered on the cross. The words, “Forgive them!” show us not merely the heaven of loving kindness which he carries in his bosom, but it also darts like lightning through the gloom of the entire night of suffering, and deciphers the mysterious position which the Holy One of Israel here occupies as Surety, Mediator, and High Priest.…

… And yet the prayer for forgiveness raises its wing from the mount of suffering and passes apparently through all those eternal and unimpingeable statutes and limitations. It puts aside even Mount Sinai and Ebal, and heeds not the cherub of the law, who keeps the gate of paradise, and is enjoined to admit only the righteous. Careless of his flaming sword, it soars with seemingly unheard-of boldness above the brazen walls of the manifold menaces of the divine maledictions which inexorably close against sinners the entrance to the mansions above, and in a most striking contrariety with the indelible inscription over the eternal sanctuary, “Him that sinneth against me will I blot out of my book,” requests forgiveness and even admittance into the habitations of the blessed children of God, for rebels, blasphemers, and murderers.—_F. W. Krumacher._[2]

THE HEART BUSY WITH THINGS ABOUT US.

BY JOSEPHINE POLLARD.

The eye may be trained so that it can detect the least flaw in a diamond; the ear be so delicately attuned that the slightest variation in the harmony will be perceptible, although there is no apparent attempt at listening, and discord will have the same effect on the sensitive nerves, as a blow on a fine strung instrument. The engineer can not see all the working parts of his engine, so he is obliged to cultivate his ear until each throb, plunge, and revolution is familiar to him, and the whole set to a rhythmic movement, any change in which betokens disaster.

An eye quick to see, and an ear quick to hear may belong to a wide-awake, successful business man; but in order to become a philanthropist, a wise, energetic, live Christian, he must have a heart to feel. A father may see that his children are poorly clad, may hear their cries of distress, but if he has no heart to feel their needs, he will go off and leave them to the care of charity, as so many fathers, and mothers too, have been known to do.

This inclination to avoid cares, to shirk responsibilities, and to live a purely selfish life, is the result of a defect in the cardiac region, which might have been corrected in early youth.

The training of the heart begins at so early an age that it can not be known with certainty just when the child is first acted upon by the influences around it, and it is more easily misdirected than guided aright.

An accomplished lady, of considerable literary fame, spent a great deal of time in preparing a lecture on “Individual Sovereignty,” which was to prove that children had rights that parents and guardians ought to respect. The lecture was delivered but once, to a very small number of people who, while full of admiration and respect for the lecturer, were not in favor of putting her theories into practice, believing that a monarchy such as she proposed would make the Land of Liberty a place that grown people would want to get away from.

The great bond of brotherhood is sympathy. “Pity and need make all flesh kin,” and “sympathy is especially a Christian’s duty.” But there is an active sympathy and there is a passive sympathy; the one sits down and broods over the calamities of life, wrings its hands, sheds tears, and sighs over its own incapacity; while the other is up and doing all it can to relieve the necessities of those perhaps less heavily burdened than itself.

“It is not all of life to _live_,” nor all of life to _love_ either; for some in their excessive fondness will allow those whom they might control, to walk in evil ways and indulge in unlawful passions without putting forth a restraining hand.

“I want John to have a good time,” says the indulgent mother. “I don’t want Jennie to tire herself, or to soil her hands doing housework. What else am I good for?” So John grows to be a selfish, disagreeable man, and Jennie an ease-loving, self-satisfied woman, both with hearts incapable of feeling any interest in anything that does not immediately affect their physical comfort and well-being. Mothers, do not spoil your children and destroy the foundations of character. Let them wait upon you and do your errands; teach them to cultivate a self-sacrificing spirit, to feel that it is no hardship to give up their own personal comfort in order to secure the happiness of others. The sacrifices should not be all on one side; and yet we have known mothers to give up their lives rather than disappoint the children, who must have their wishes gratified at any expense.

Exacting children should be made to wait upon themselves, and to practice patience and self-denial; for the tyrannical spirit is fostered by unwise timidity and forbearance, and many a passionate man and woman lives to regret the lack of proper discipline in youth. But it lies within ourselves to correct mistakes that may have been made in our training; and it has been truthfully said, “Every person has two educations, one which he receives from others, and one, more important, which he gives to himself.”

It is astonishing how much may be accomplished by one who is energetic and persevering, careful to avail himself of all opportunities, and to use all the spare time at his disposal. Ancient and modern histories and biographies are full of illustrations showing the benefits conferred upon mankind by certain individuals whose hearts were busy with the things about them. It is interesting to read this record of General Gordon—or “Chinese Gordon,” as he is familiarly called—whose valiant deeds have won him undying fame:

From 1865 to 1875 Gordon lived at Gravesend, employed in the duty of improving the defenses of the Thames. These were his six years of quiet peace and beneficent happiness. “He lived wholly for others,” writes his friend. “His house was school and hospital and almshouse, in turn; was more like the abode of a missionary than of a commanding officer of engineers. The troubles of all interested him alike. The poor, the sick, the unfortunate, were ever welcome, and never did suppliant knock vainly at his door. He always took great delight in children, but especially in boys employed on the river or the sea. Many he rescued from the gutter, cleansed them and clothed them, and kept them for weeks in his house. For their benefit he established reading-classes, over which he himself presided, reading to and teaching the lads with as much ardor as if he were leading them to victory. He called them his ‘kings,’ and for many of them he got berths on board ships. One day a friend asked him why there were so many pins stuck into the map of the world over his mantlepiece; he was told that they marked and followed the course of the boys on their voyages; that they were moved from point to point as his youngsters advanced, and that he prayed for them as they went, night and day. The light in which he was held by those lads was shown by inscriptions in chalk on the fences. A favorite legend was ‘God bless the Kernel!’ So full did his classes at length become that the house would no longer hold them, and they had to be given up. Then it was that he attended and taught at the Ragged Schools, and it was a pleasant thing to watch the attention with which his wild scholars listened to his words.”

The workhouse and the infirmary, writes another, were his constant haunts, and of pensioners he had a countless number. Many of the dying sent for him in preference to the clergyman, and he was ever ready to visit them. His purse was always empty because of his free-handedness, and he even sent some of his medals to the melting-pot in the cause of charity.

When another appointment removed him from Gravesend, there was universal regret. The local newspaper paid him the following graceful and sincere tribute: “By general and continual beneficence to the poor, he has been so unwearied in well-doing that his departure will be felt by numbers to be a personal calamity. His charity was essentially charity, and had its root in deep philanthropic feeling and goodness of heart; shunning the light of publicity, but coming even as the rain in the night-time, that in the morning is noted not, but only the flowers bloom and give a greater fragrance. All will wish him well in his new sphere, and we have less hesitation in penning these lines from the fact that laudatory notice will confer but little pleasure upon him who gave with the heart and cared not for commendation.”

Military glory pales before this display of missionary zeal.

In order to achieve any success the heart must be in the work, and from this center of our being all true Christian culture must begin. Every one can make his own destiny, and

“Taught by time the heart has learned to glow For others good, and melt at other’s woe.”

It is good to indulge the habit of looking out of ourselves, to study the ways and needs of others, and to keep the heart busy with things about us—the trifles, as they are considered, which are apt to be overlooked or made light of. For there is great danger that the small philanthropies and courtesies of life will be neglected because of the large schemes that are so absorbing. This kind of outlook requires, of course, a certain amount of _insight_, or intuition, without which we can not bring ourselves into sympathetic relations, or prove ourselves the friend of humanity.

Our home, the place where we spend the most of our time, should be the field in which to exercise our best gifts, wherein we both sow and reap, and which is left to us to brighten and beautify, or to darken and disgrace. The heart renewed by grace is zealous of good works, fond of home, and anxious to do its full duty therein. It has a word of cheer for those who are cast down; it comforts the sick; speaks tenderly to those in trouble; has patience with the erring; seeks out ways of interesting the young; is mindful of the aged, and helpful to everybody.

“A heart at leisure from itself, To soothe and sympathize,”

need never want for an opportunity; and it is often the small attentions, the unconsidered trifles, that are most highly valued.

The heart that begins its labors in too wide a sphere will find it hard to concentrate its interests, while a more gradual expansion will result in more satisfactory work, and the strengthening of the magnetic current, for on our personal magnetism depends, to a great extent, our influence on those with whom we associate. What responsibilities rest upon fathers and mothers, on sisters and brothers! How much good and how much evil they can do in their special fields of operation! That son needs a little wholesome correction from the father, a few kind words may be all that is requisite, but the father is busy about other affairs, his heart is interested in things outside of his family, and the boy slips downward for want of a restraining hand. That girl would have turned out, oh! so differently, if she had only had the right kind of a mother. Some boys and girls are not fit to be left to themselves. They seem to be born without any inward monitor, or strong moral sense. The germ may be there, but it has never been properly cultivated.

At a school examination the question was put, “What is conscience?” But one pupil could give the definition, “An inward monitor.”

“What is your idea of an inward monitor?” asked the inspector, and away down at the lower end of the room a hand was stretched forth, and a voice proclaimed, “It’s an iron-clad, sir!” So it is. Fortified to resist evil, but to assist good; and a “tender conscience,” to keep up the nautical figure, is the small convoy that supplies the soul with spiritual sustenance.

A conscience alive to duty will serve as an electrical alarm to notify us what is to be done and when and how we are to do it. If you have sick neighbors, and can not conveniently call upon them yourself, send to inquire how they are and in what way you can be of service. An offering of fruit or flowers will often be most acceptable to invalids or their families, who are cheered and sustained by the thought that other hearts are sympathizing with them. Keep down your own sensitiveness, and learn to make generous allowance for other people. Show that your zeal is not of the offensive sort, that your politeness is deep and genuine, that “out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaketh,” and you will always be on good terms with your neighbors, and with yourself.

There is a variety of ways of helping people, and no two people may be helped in precisely the same way. The most deserving are the most modest, and it may take considerable study and observation for you to discover that Mrs. Needlewise, whose children always look so neat and well dressed, would be thankful for the cast-off clothes which are taking up the room in your garret, or which you give away recklessly just for the sake of getting rid of them. Mrs. Needlewise would be offended at your offering her the garments, but friendliness, and the exercise of a little tact, will remove the barriers and enable you to relieve anxieties that were a continual burden.

A dear, good woman whose heart was always open to the necessities of those about her, was in her old age given to somewhat erratic impulses. One morning, much to the mortification of her family, she seized the coffee-pot and went into a near neighbor’s, a poor but proud little woman, who would go without rather than beg. The old lady, in her sweet way, said to the farmer’s wife that it was a pity to waste so much good coffee, and she had brought it over for her to use. The gift was accepted with a smile, and to please the old lady the coffee was used by the good man of the house, who sent word that he had never tasted any quite so delicious, and should be glad to be so favored again. It was the entering wedge of neighborly kindness, and the beginning of better days for the poor family whose fortunes at that period were at a low ebb. The right kind of a lift at the right time will put human nature on its feet, and reëstablish the foundations that were in danger of giving way.

O, the magnetizing power of love! beginning first with the love of Christ, and then reaching out toward all our fellow-creatures! How wide spreading, how far-reaching in its influences! Home missions, foreign missions, small charities or large ones, incidental acts of kindness, thoughtful consideration for the welfare of others, all that a self-sacrificing spirit can do is done cheerfully and without hope of reward.

A saintly young woman whose earthly pilgrimage ended at thirty-four, is thus eulogized by the pastor of the church for which she labored lovingly and assiduously: “She gave out so much to others that she has left herself broken in fragments here and there, and you and I hold this or that fragment so really that we are only hardly persuaded to acknowledge that there is an end of her earthly life for a time. How simply, purely and patiently that life was lived, you know.… Many and many a time have I pointed to that life as an example of what people might do and might be, if they would do as she did—be content ‘to live faithfully a hidden life,’” Her mother says: “Her unselfish work and devotion were marvelous. It is often said of her that she crowded more into her short life than is done or experienced in the longest. She shone the brightest in her daily life at home, always serving some one, forgetful of self. Her pure spirit grew so fast that the frail body could not retain it; yet she faded so slowly, so cheerfully and hopefully, that we hardly believed she could not rally until the day before she left us. Our sunshine is gone, but the radiance is still left in the memory of her sweet life.”

Blessed memory!

In this bright way she speaks of herself when laid aside from her sphere of usefulness, and obliged to some extent to discontinue the literary work which had proved so acceptable to the public and already given her considerable fame as an author: “I’ve been occupied with turning a corner, round which the landscape is different, and getting used to the change. I suppose it has been coming on for a good while; at all events, after some ten years of ruddy health and active exercise, I am not to sweep any more for a while, not to walk, not to sing, read aloud, talk much, not to hurry, not to get tired at anything.… Of course it is a little queer and painful sometimes, because, particularly, my father is always an invalid, and increasingly so. One dreads to be another anxiety. But I have no real reason to fret. Something good will come of it, I will expect. I am so thankful that I need not give up writing that I will not mind the rest of my denials;” and then when her own health was declining, and the sunset hour of her life was nearer than she thought, she closes her letter with “Good night, dear. Health and God’s blessing!” and it was a final “good night,” for word soon came of her entering into communion with the saints above.

The more heart we put into our work, whether it be domestic drudgery, the care of the sick, or “whatsoever the hand findeth to do,” the more perfect and satisfactory it will be; and according to the measure with which we serve others, is meted out to us the happiness we derive from that service. The sending of a letter full of kindly thought and sympathy has often brought a return far beyond the expectation of the sender. A little gift, a token of good will, insignificant in itself, has spoken volumes to the recipient, and brightened a day that was full of clouds. To do no more than our duty does not fill the measure of Christian usefulness. We would grieve if compelled to walk a narrow path, fenced in on either side, and not allowed to look to the right or left, or to pluck the fruits that lined the road; and God and his holy angels must grieve when we neglect to turn out of our path to assist others, and make excuses for the non-performance of heart service.

A young lady, very much interested in mission work, and an active worker in a large school connected with a flourishing church, felt offended at some of the officers of the school, and decided to send in her resignation. Each Sunday she had been accustomed to place before the children some text that they might carry with them through the week, absorbing its teachings and principles so that they would be “wrought out in living characters.”

All through the week her mind dwelt upon the injustice that she felt had been done her, and she went to the mission school the following Sunday fully determined to give up the work which had been her delight for so many years. As she entered the room her gaze rested on the text which stood out in bold lettering, as she had printed it the previous Sunday:

“Even Jesus pleased not himself.”

The arrow struck home. It would never do to have that text uppermost when she handed in her resignation, so she reversed the roll, and there in as bold type appeared:

“Jesus, the same yesterday, to-day, and forever.”

There was no use trying to avoid the situation, or to escape the responsibilities. The teacher’s work was there. She knew it; she felt it.

“To doubt would be disloyalty; To falter would be sin;”

so she roused herself to greater endurance, put more heart into work, and had the satisfaction of hearing it said that never since her connection with the school had she given such a splendid lesson. The approval of her own conscience was not the least of her compensations, and there is no further talk of her giving up her position in the mission school.

We may be so situated that we can not do any great work in the world. By temperament, by education, or by reason of ill-health we may be restricted from carrying out our ambitious schemes, but there are none so weak, so ignorant, or so poor that they can not do some good in the world. The ladder that reaches to heaven is not composed of wooden rungs, or of cold, senseless material, but God has made every human being so dependent on his fellow-creatures that each one is lifted up by some one above him, some busy heart that feels another’s need and reaches out; and when there is no looking up nor reaching out there is no growth nor spiritual attainment.

If you want to know people you must get near them; first go down to their level, and then bring them up to yours, not waiting for any great occasion, or a more direct revelation, but taking advantage of small opportunities, and making your influence felt in quiet, unobtrusive ways.

“And when it is all over, and our feet will run no more, and our hands are helpless, and we have scarcely strength to murmur a last prayer, then we shall see that instead of needing a larger field we have left untilled many corners of our single acre, and that none of it is fit for the Master’s eye were it not for the softening shadow of the cross.”

“It was only a cup of water, with a gentle grace bestowed, But it cheered a lonely traveler upon the dusty road; For the way was long and dreary, and the resting places few, And the sun had dried the streamlets and drank up the sparkling dew; None noticed the cup of water as a beautiful act of love, Save the angels keeping the record, away in that land above; But the record shall never perish, and the trifling deed shall live, For heaven demands but little from those who have least to give!

“It was only a kind word spoken to a weeping little child, But the thread of its grief was broken, and the little one sweetly smiled; And nobody stayed to notice so tiny an act of love, Save the angels keeping the record in the wonderful book above. And she who had spoken kindly went on her quiet way, Nor dreamt such a simple action should count at the last great day. But the pitying words of comfort were heard with a song of joy, And the listening angels blessed her from their beautiful home on high.

“It isn’t the world-praised wonders that are best in our Father’s sight, Nor the wreaths of fading laurels that garnish fame’s dizzy height; But the pitying love and kindness, the work of the warm caress, The beautiful hope and patience and self-forgetfulness; The trifle in secret given, the prayer in the quiet night, And the little unnoticed nothings, are good in our Father’s sight.”

There is always some one to smile at, somebody to give your chair to, somebody to whom a book, a flower, or even an old paper, will be a boon. These small attentions will open the way to confidence, will make it possible that in need these friends will give you opportunities to help them which, unless you had shown thoughtfulness and regard for them, they could never have done. A quiet, sympathetic look or smile many a time unbars a heart that needs help which you can give.

EASY LESSONS IN ANIMAL BIOLOGY.