A Curious Legend — Standing Rock

1874

The new Indian agency between Grand River and Fort Rice, called Standing Rock, derives its name from a large boulder standing out alone upon the prairie about three miles from the river. There is a strange Indian superstition connected with this rock, and the Sioux City (Iowa) Journal thus tells it:

"Many years ago a powerful band of Indians made that section their stamping grounds. The chief of the band deserted his old wife for a young squaw. This so grieved the old Queen that she went back to the river, and sat upon the ground and mourned for several days. Upon the ninth day of her grief she turned into this large boulder.

"The Indians at that agency all believe this story to this day, and worship the boulder as a god. The rock has been decorated with ribbons, pieces of red flannel, and every high-colored piece of cloth they have been able to get hold of since time out of mind. These decorations are replaced as often as they become decayed or blown away by the winds.

"At the time of our visit it was trimmed in the most gorgeous trappings imaginable. Every portion of it was covered either with ribbons and rags or paint. Within a few inches of the sacred stone is a pail of water, which is never allowed to become empty; for it is the belief of those ignorant people that the old Queen of their ancestors frequently assumes the form of a squaw and drinks the water.

"In former years she drank much more than at present, they say; but this is easily explained. Then there was more game there, which, in wandering to the pail, drank the water. To disturb this bucket or any portion of the trimmings of the petrified squaw is considered a great offence against the Great Spirit, and is punishable by death."

Petrarch's Tomb Opened

1874

A singular ceremony lately took place at Arqua, in North Italy, where Petrarch lies buried. The tomb of the poet was opened in the presence of the municipal officers of the town and a few invited spectators that the remains had been inclosed in an imperfectly-made coffin, and that the bones, thus exposed to the effects to the atmosphere, were discolored and moist.

The skull, of medium size, was entire, the development of the forehead being yet perceptible. Several of the teeth were well preserved, and the bones of the body were but little decayed. From the size of the skeleton it was easy to infer that Petrarch must have been a large, robust man.

Permission to examine these honored remains had been given by the authorities to certain students of anthropology, and it was to aid in their researches that the coffin was opened. These gentlemen took accurate measurements of the remains, which were then carefully placed in a new coffin.

The brief exposure to the air, however, had its effect, and the skull partially fell in, while some of the bones were resolved into dust before the eyes of the spectators of this curious exhibition of mortality.

Absence Inspires Love

1874

But Not Always!

"A man should absent himself from his family at least six hours a day," remarks a well-known lady writer, "if he wishes to secure its happiness and its own."

This signifies, we presume, that uninterrupted domestic intimacy is fatal to peace and affection. Newly-married couples will hardly be able to comprehend the philosophy of such a notion. And yet, "too much of a good thing," even, "is good for nothing!" And excess of happiness possibly may render happiness itself unenjoyable.

Satiety is a sad foe to satisfaction. We do not believe, nevertheless, that this absence is indispensable to the life of love. Small absences naturally tend to keep alive that exciting suspense which is conducive to the perpetuation of affection; but when those absences become regular they lose their exciting force. There is no state of suspense in them, under these circumstances; and it is suspense that is the exciting cause in the premises.

Mutual sufferings endear those who love each other. Mutual hopes and mutual fears stimulate the mutual passion; and unexpected separations, however temporary, inspire both; while separations that are frequent and anticipated become commonplace, and inspire neither.

Lessons of Winter

1874

There is no season of the year so well calculated to bind us together in the ties of a common brotherhood as is winter. Nature claims and receives our sympathy in all her varied aspects.

In the spring we rejoice in her renewed activity, and greet with delight her balmy air and budding beauty. As the summer approaches, we disperse to behold her in new phases and to enjoy her cool breezes from mountain and sea. In the fall we witness with tender sadness the departure of the gorgeous foliage and rich bloom, and still linger lovingly among her shadows. But when nature puts on her winter's dress, she bears a different message to us all.

With the bleak wind and stinging frost she sends us from her presence for a time, and bids us draw closer to one another for warmth and comfort. She brings more forcibly to the mind the delights of home and friends, and at the same time speaks impressively of the pain and sorrow, poverty and woe that call for sympathy and help.

Each season has its appropriate lesson, and that of winter is surely intended to strengthen within us the spirit of humanity that shall blossom into brotherly love and kindness. As the dusk of twilight calls the children away from outdoor play to assemble in the home, and brighten the family with their cheerful presence, so winter calls the human family from their summer rambles into a more intimate communion and sympathy with each other.

It is a pleasant task to learn one part of winter's teachings, that which relates to social and domestic union. The festivities of Thanksgiving and Christmas, the long winter evenings, the cheerful fireside, the lectures, concerts and social gatherings, the hilarity of the young, and the cheerful sympathy of the old all draw families and friends together in closer bonds.

All honor to the merry pastimes, the genial society, the friendly harmony which winter inaugurates. Let parents and children devote themselves more assiduously to each other, let brothers and sisters strengthen fraternal love by kindly offices and close companionship, let acquaintances blossom into friends, and friendly intercourse ripen affection, and, above all, let the sympathy thus developed serve to inspire each with higher purposes and nobler aims, and one part of winter's mission, will have been accomplished.

The Music of the Thrush

1874

The thrush is scarcely surpassed by any other bird excepting the nightingale, and pours forth his full wealth of song in every varied form, upheaving his parded breast, and looking out upon the still landscape with bright restless eyes. We hear him singing in the early morning before the round sun has scaled the hill-tops; he keeps up his roll of music throughout the day, and closes at night without any apparent fatigue; there is no diminution of sound; no feebleness; he seems more like a good instrument, which, after being played on for hours, sends forth a sweeter sound; he is no weak traveler, who, having gone a long day's journey, drags wearily up the last hill at sunset.

You cannot fail to distinguish his voice from among the warblers of the woods; not that his notes are always alike, but there is some regular modulation, or natural sweetness, which, however varied, "still does his touch the strain prolong," and you know it is his own, and could not be deceived even if he had hidden himself in the carcass of an owl.

I recollect well, that nearly one of the first birds I reared when a country boy, was a thrush; he was the pride and delight of the whole neighborhood; even the neighbors forgave him breaking their slumber so early in the morning, for the sweetness of his song. An old fisherman who arose with the break of day, and who resided in the adjoining house, made the opening of his music a clock to get up by; and he never was deceived in the time but once, and that was one really beautiful moon-light morning, which streamed in brilliant beams through the opening in the window shutters, and lured the lovely bird into the belief that it was day. — English Country Life.

Catching Cold, Cough, Consumption

1874

Antique Medical Advice That Might Still Be Good — Who Knows?

A large number of fatal diseases result from taking cold, and often from such slight causes, apparently, as to appear incredible. But, although the causes are various, the result is the same, and arises from the violation of a single principle, to wit, cooling off too soon after exercise. Perhaps this may be more practically instructive if individual instances are named, which, in the opinion of those subsequently seeking advice in the various stages of consumption, were the causes of the great misfortune, premising that when the cold is once taken, marvelously slight causes serve to increase it for the first few days — causes which under ordinary circumstances, even a moderately healthful system would have warded off.

Rachel the tragedienne, increased the cold which ended her life by insufficient clothing in the cars, traveling from New York to Boston; this was her own statement.

The immediate cause of the last illness of Abbott Lawrence, the financier and the philanthropist, was an injudicious change of clothing.

An eminent clergyman got into a cold bed in mid-winter, fifteen minutes after preaching an earnest discourse; he was instantly chilled and died within forty-eight hours.

A promising young teacher walked two miles for exercise, and on returning to his room, it being considered too late to light a fire, sat for half an hour reading a book, and before he knew it a chill passed over him. The next day he had spitting of blood, which was the beginning of the end.

A mother sat sewing for her children to a late hour in the night, and noticing that the fire had gone out, she concluded to retire at once; but thinking she could "finish" in a few minutes, she forgot the passing time, until an hour or more had passed, and she found herself "thoroughly chilled" and a month's illness followed to pay for that one hour.

A little cold taken after a public speech in Chicago, so "little" that no attention was paid to it for several days, culminating in the fatal illness of Stephen A. Douglas. It was a slight cold taken in mid-summer, resulting in congestion of the lungs, that hurried Elizabeth Barrett Browning to the grave within a week. A vigorous young man laid down on an ice chest on a warm summer's day, fell asleep, waked up in a chill which ended in confirmed consumption, of which he died three years later. A man in robust health and in the prime of life began the practise of a cold bath every morning on getting out of bed and standing with his bare feet on a zinc floor during the whole operation; his health soon declined, and ultimately his constitution was entirely undermined.

Many a cold, cough, and consumption are incited into action by pulling off the hat or overcoat as do men, and the bonnet and shawl as do women, immediately on entering the house in winter after a walk. An interval of at least five or ten minutes should be allowed, for however warm or "close" the apartment may appear on first entering, it will seem much less so at the end of five minutes, if the outer garments remain as they were before entering. Any one who judiciously uses this observation, will find a multifold reward in the course of a lifetime.

Paul de Kock — A Great Novelist's Oddities

1874

During the whole life of Paul de Kock he never left the suburbs of Paris, simply because he was mortally afraid of meeting with an accident in traveling. He never, in his long career, rode in a carriage, and the idea of entering a railway car seemed frightful to him.

He was so notional that he could not write with any pen except coarse goose quills, which he cut himself, and one day, when he had to sign a document, at the "mairie" of his "rondissement," he took his old goose quill to write his name with it. He wrote a very fine hand, but very legible. He never read his own proofsheets, because typographical errors, which he considered inexcusable, owing to the legibility of his copy, made him exceedingly angry.

Most romantic was his first interview with the woman who afterward became his wife. One day in the winter time a sleigh drove past the little Belleville where Paul de Kock kept bachelor's hall. In the sleigh sat a young woman. The horse ran away and the young woman was thrown out. The fall had stunned her, and De Kock carried her kindly into his house and cared for her. She proved to be the daughter of a well-to-do hack-driver, was only eighteen, and very pretty. Paul de Kock fell at once in love with her, and four or five days afterwards his betrothal with M'lle. Jeanne Perrin was duly celebrated.

Note: Paul de Kock is mentioned in James Joyce's Ulysses as an author Molly Bloom read. "Yes. Get another of Paul de Kock's. Nice name he has."

The Arrangement of Cut Flowers

1874

The London Gardener says that of all the various mistakes made by persons in arranging flowers, the commonest is that of putting too many in a vase; and next to that, is the mistake of putting too great a variety of colors in one bouquet. Every flower in a group should be clearly distinguishable and determinable without pulling the nosegay to pieces; the calyx of a cove pink should never be hid by being plunged into the head of a white phlox, however well the colors may look.

Sweet peas never look so well in the hands as they do on the boughs over which they climb, because they cannot be carried without crowding them; but put them lightly in a vase with an equal number of mignonette, or rather, ornament a vase half full of mignonette, with a few blossoms of sweet peas, and you get a charming effect, because you follow the natural arrangement by avoiding crowding of the blossoms, and putting them with the green foliage which they want to set them off.

Few people are aware, until they try it, how easy it is to spoil such a pleasing combination as this; a piece of calceolaria, scarlet geranium, or blue salvia, would ruin it effectually. Such decided colors as these require to be grouped in another vase, and should not even be placed on the table with sweet peas.


Laugh and Be Healthy

The physiological benefit of laughter is explained in the Archiv fur Psychiatrie: The comic-like tickling causes a reflex action of the sympathetic nerve, by which the caliber of the vascular portions of the system is diminished, and their nervous power increased. The average pressure of the cerebral vessels on the brain substance is thus decreased, and this is compensated for by the forced expiration of laughter, and the larger amount of blood thus called to the lungs. We always feel good when we laugh, but until now we never knew the scientific reason why.

The Intelligence of Toads

1874

The belief is common in old countries that toads live a hundred years without partaking food, for they have been found in little cavities of rocks, where is no apparent entrance to admit the animal, and hence the theory that the toad must have been there when the rock was formed, or thrown up ages ago. The toad can live a long time on water or moisture alone, as it imbibes it rapidly through its very porous skin; but that it lives thus a hundred years is totally absurd, the most reasonable solution of the problem being that a very small, almost imperceptible crack or opening at the cavity exists, through which an egg of a toad was washed in, and hatched or grew or developed into a fair-sized creature, and there lived and thrived a reasonable time on small insects which now and then crept or drifted in.

The intelligence of a toad is certainly remarkable. When an insect is too large to swallow, it thrusts the creature against a stone to push it down its throat. On one occasion, when a toad was attempting to swallow a locust, the head was down the former's throat, the hinder parts protruding. The toad then sought a stone or clod, but as none was to be found, he lowered his head and crept along, pushing the locust against the ground. But the ground was too smooth (a rolled path), and the angle at which the locust lay to the ground too small, and thus no progress was made. To increase the angle he straightened up his hind legs, but in vain. At length he threw up his hind quarters, and actually stood on his head, or rather on the locust sticking out of his mouth and, after repeating this once or twice, succeeded in getting himself outside his dinner.

On another occasion a toad was seen to dispose of an earthworm, which was so long that it had to be swallowed by sections. But while one end was in the toad's stomach the other end was coiled about his head. He waited until the worm's writhing gave him a chance, and swallowed half an inch; then taking a nip with his jaws, waited for a chance to draw in another half inch. But there were so many half inches to dispose of, that at length his jaws grew tired, lost their firmness of grip, and the worm crawled out five-eighths of an inch between each half-inch swallowing. The toad perceiving this, brought its right hand to his jaws, grasping his abdomen with his foot, and by a little effort got hold of the worm in his stomach from outside; he thus, by his foot, held fast to what he had gained by each swallow, and presently succeeded in getting the worm entirely down.

Old Style and New Style Calendars

1874

When the calendar of Julius Caesar was reformed under Pope Gregory XIII, in 1582, by a brief it was ordered that October 5th should be called October 15th. The adoption of the Gregorian calendar in England took place September, 1752, when the 3rd of the month was called the 14th. To change Old Style to New add 11 days. George Washington was born Feb. 11, 1732, O.S., but adding the 11 days, we celebrate the 22nd in honor of his birth. If the revolution of the earth around the sun occupied exactly 365¼ days, the calendar would never need correction. As that is about 11 minutes longer than the real period, we add a day every four years to February, omitting it in 1700, 1800, and 1900.


A Solemn Thought

Ten thousand human beings set forth together on their journey. After ten years one-third at least have disappeared. At the middle point of the common measure of life but half are still upon the road. Faster and faster, as the ranks grow thinner, they that remain till now become weary and lie down to rest no more. At threescore and ten a band of some four hundred still struggle on. At ninety these have been reduced to a handful of thirty trembling patriarchs. Year after year they fall in diminishing numbers. One lingers, perhaps, a lonely marvel, till the century is over. We look again and the work of death is finished.

Signature of the Cross, Signing with an "X"

1874

The mark which persons, who are unable to write are required to make instead of their signatures, is in the form of a cross; and this practice having been formerly followed by kings and nobles, is constantly referred to as an instance of the deplorable ignorance of ancient times.

This signature is not, however, invariably a proof of such ignorance. Anciently the use of the mark was not confined to illiterate persons; for among the Saxons the mark of the cross, as an attestation of the good faith of the person signing was required to be attached to the signature of those who could write, as well to stand in the place of the signature of those who could not write. In those times, if a man could write, even read, his knowledge was considered proof that he was in holy orders. The clericus, or clerk was synonymous with penman; and the laity, or people who were not clerks, did not feel any urgent necessity for the use of letters.

The ancient use of the cross was therefore universal, alike by those who could and those who could not write; it was indeed the symbol of an oath, from its sacred associations, as well as the mark generally adopted. Hence the origin of the expression, "God save the mark," as a form of ejaculation approaching the character of an oath.


The Friendship of Men

I know nothing which life has to offer so satisfying as the profound good understanding which can subsist, after much exchange of good offices, between two virtuous men, each of whom is sure of himself and of his friend. It is a happiness which postpones all other gratifications and makes politics and commerce and churches cheap. For, when men shall meet as they ought, each a benefactor, a shower of stars, clothed with thoughts, with deeds, with accomplishments, it would be the festival of nature which all things announce. — Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Rossini's Lesson to an Organ Grinder

1874

The London Echo should have thought that it would be as easy to teach a cow to dance a minuet as to give an organ grinder any idea of time.

It appears, however, that the composer Rossini was of a different opinion. It is said that when he lived in the Chaussee d'Antin, he came one day upon a man playing "Di Tanti Palpiti" on a hurdy-gurdy. The performer was astonished to hear a voice from the crowd suddenly exclaim, "Faster, faster!" "How faster?" says the organ man. "Turn the handle quicker; it is allegro." "But, sir, I don't know——" "Like this; so—so, and Rossini rushed upon the organ and ground out the tune to the proper time. "Thank you, sir," said the man; "I shall remember the lesson;" and in fact on the next day he was heard in the same place playing "Di Tanti Palpiti" as he had been taught. "Bravo, bravo, bravo!" exclaimed Rossini from a window, and dropped a louis d'or at the man's feet. The Echo scarcely knows whether to admire most the condescension of the composer or the docility of the grinder.

Too Late — People Who Are Never On Time

1874

Some people are always too late, and therefore accomplish through life nothing worth naming. If they promise to meet you at such an hour, they are never present until thirty minutes after. No matter how important the business is to either yourself or to him, he is just as tardy. If he takes a passage in the steamboat, he arrives just as the boat has left the wharf, and the train has started a few minutes before he arrives. His dinner has been waiting for him so long that the cook is out of patience. This course the character we have described always pursues. He is never in season at a church, at a place of business, at his meals, or in his bed. Persons of such habits we cannot but despise. Always speak in season, and be ready at the appointed hour. We would not give a fig for a man who is not punctual to his engagements, and who never makes up his mind to a certain course till the time is lost. Those who hang back, hesitate and tremble — who are never at hand for a journey, a trading, a sweetheart or anything else — are poor sloths, and are ill-calculated to get a living in this stirring world.

Comment (2007): Yes, that is exactly true. It's not that I "despise" people who are always late, like the article says, but I don't care for the habit. A few minutes, maybe. But if you have an appointment, try to make it. I was in school and there was a classmate who was always late. Then it was his responsibility to take a few of us to a class outing. Since I'm a clock watcher and usually early, I probably would've been the first one there. But this nitwit, late as always, doesn't show up until way past the time he was supposed to be there to pick us up. So naturally we get to the class outing, a field trip kind of thing where people were actually going to meet us for a tour, way late. It's embarrassing. I actually knew then something of this guy's post graduate life and work, but only by hearsay. And what was it that I heard the people he worked with complaining about? Always late!

The Boy Organist — Mozart

1874

Mozart's first experience of a large organ was in the monastery of a little town on the banks of the Danube. He was then only six years old, and in company with his father had left his home in Salzburg, and started upon a long course of travel.

All day long they had been sailing down that majestic river, past crumbling ruins, frowning castles, cloisters hidden away among the crags, towering cliffs, quiet villages nestled in sunny valleys, and here and there a deep gorge that opened back from the gliding river, its hollow distance blue with fathomless shadow, and its loneliness and stillness stirring the boy's heart like some dim and vast cathedral.

The company of monks with whom they had been traveling that day were at supper in the refectory of the cloister, when father Mozart took Wolfgang into the chapel to see the organ.

And now as the boy gazed with something of awe upon the great instrument looming up in the shadows of the great empty church, his face lit up with serene satisfaction, and every motion and attitude of the little figure expressed a wondering reverence. What tones must even now be slumbering in those mighty pipes? Tones which, if once awakened, could give utterance to all that voiceless beauty which the day's scenes had showed him — life and death, present and past; the peaceful river and the deserted ruin; the sunshine unfailing and the unfailing shadow at its side.

"Father," said the boy, "explain to me those pedals at the organ's feet, and let me play?"

Well pleased, the father complied. Then Wolfgang pushed aside the stool, and when father Mozart had filled the great bellows, the elfin organist stood upon the pedals, and trod them as though he had never needed to have their management explained.

How the deep tones woke the somber stillness of the old church. The organ seemed some great uncouth creature, roaring for very joy at the caresses of the marvelous child.

The monks, eating their supper in the refectory, heard the tones and dropped knife and fork in astonishment. The organist of the brotherhood was among them; but never had he played with such power and freedom. They listened; some grew pale; others crossed themselves; till the prior rose up, summoned all his courage, and hastened in the chapel. The others followed, but when they looked up into the organ-loft, lo! there was no form of any organist to be seen, though the deep tones still massed themselves in new harmonies, and made the stone arches thrill with their power.

"It is the devil himself," cried the first one of the monks, drawing closer to one of his companions, and giving a second look over his shoulder into the darkness of the aisle.

"It is a miracle," said another. But when the oldest of their number mounted the stairs to the organ front, he stood petrified with amazement. There stood the tiny figure, treading from pedal to pedal, and at the same time clutching the keys above with his little hands, gathering handfuls of those wonderful chords as if they were violets, and flinging them out into the solemn gloom behind him. He heard nothing, saw nothing besides; his eyes beamed like stars, and his whole face lighted with impassioned joy. Louder and fuller rose the harmonies, streaming forth in swelling billows, till at last they seemed to reach a sunny shore, on which they broke; and then a whispering ripple of faintest melody lingered a moment in the air, like the last murmur of a wind harp, and all was still.

Significance of the Fingers

1874

Each finger, and the mount at the base of it, is named from a planet. In the normal hand the second finger is the longest, the third the next longest, the first nearly as long as the third, and much longer than the fourth or little finger.

Jupiter is the first finger. If it be long and not ill-shapen, and if the mount at its base be well developed, it indicates a noble and lofty character, and a religious-minded person. If disproportionately long, it will mean different things according to the type of hand in which it may be found, or according to the type of that particular finger; in the first type, an over-long first finger would denote an inclination to the fantastic or the exaggerated in religious matters; or it might, perhaps, mean religious madness; or, if other signs in the hand favored this view, it could be taken to denote pride. Pride is a form of worship — the culture of self. In the second type of hand, the excessive development of Jupiter might mean ambition, or, if it were in a hand that was eminently unselfish, it would stand for a something puritanical in manners and morals — a too great severity. In the third type, a very long first finger would probably signify vanity.

The second finger is Saturn. If too prominent it announces melancholy, or misanthropy, or downright cruelty, according to the type of hand; but if the finger be within due proportion, this sadness may take the form of pity for others, or it may mean merely a becoming gravity.

The third finger is Apollo, and belongs to the arts. In a "pointed" hand Apollo will give poetry and music composition; in a "square" hand, painting, sculpture, (here art leaves the domain of the purely contemplative; it becomes partly active from the combination of manual skill with what is only imaginative;) and in a "spade-shaped" hand Apollo will give histrionic power, an aptitude for acting, or a love of theatrical amusements. On the stage art is joined in the closest manner to motion.

The fourth finger is Mercury. If well proportioned it promises a scientific turn of mind, resourcefulness and diplomacy — tact.

The thumb is Venus. Chirognomy and palmistry agree in almost all particulars about the thumb. In both systems it is treated as the most important part of the hand. The upper joint, that with the nail, stands for the will; the second division, the reasoning faculties; the base, the animal instincts. — St. Paul's Magazine.

Strong-Minded Women

1874

You must not think, the woman's-rights movement is a new idea, It dates back as far as the days of Theseus, when Hypolita, the Queen of the Amazons, was vanquished by the Grecian hero, who compelled that strong-minded woman to marry him. Shakespeare, in the "Midsummer Night's Dream," has made a very charming use of that ancient tradition, as, no doubt, all our readers well know.

Even in the present generation these female warriors exist in the Kingdom of Dahomey; their principal drill consists in yelling, firing, and then running at full speed out of danger.

The ancient Amazons, however, seem to have been of a far superior race of beings to the black heroines of Africa, if we may judge from what Herodotus says of the Amazons.

"These Amazons," says Herodotus (Book iv., 110-117), "the Scythians call Aiorpata; and this name in the Greek means man-slayers, for they call a man aior, and pata means to kill." He goes on to tell us that, with a lively, womanly fury, these Amazons, being captured by the Greeks and taken away, "as many as could fill three ships," rose against their captors, when asleep, and cut them all to pieces. But when they had done that, they could not navigate the ships, and were carried at the mercy of the winds to a part of the coast of Scythia. The Scythians, a herd of whose horses they stole, thought they were a set of smaller and more impudent men, and gave the impertinent creatures a beating, till, by their dead bodies, they found that their enemies were women. They then changed their tactics, and sent out only the young men to make love to them; and so these cruel man-slayers were subdued.

It is a very pretty story. There are two or three masterly touches in it that raise it in our esteem, while, at the same time, they prove the truthfulness of the Father of History. Who that knows men and women would not swear that this was true? Herodotus, who visited the descendants of these Amazons, is accounting for a corrupted speech. 1. The men were not able to learn the language of the women, but the women soon acquired that of the men. 2. The Sauromatae (their descendants) use the Scythian language, speaking it corruptly from the first, since the Amazons never learned it correctly. Ask any of the teachers at the ladies' colleges if that is not the touch of a master. 3. When the women understood the men, they (the men) spoke to them as follows: "We have parents and possessions (that's men all over); let us, then, no longer lead this kind of life, but come to our people, and live with them; and (here they put their arms round the warlike young ladies) we will have you as our wives, and none other."

It is a very pleasant episode, and would make a fine picture. The ladies, however, were equal to the occasion. "We could live with you," they said, "but not with your womankind. What would they think of us? We ride, shoot, throw the javelin, kill people and wild beasts. They sit at home, or ride in wagons, and mind household affairs. If you desire to prove yourselves honest men, go to your parents, claim your property then come back and marry us, and let us live by ourselves."

Herodotus does not tell us what the Scythian young ladies said as to a whole posse of their bravest and most marriageable men being thus carried off. The young men, taking their sweethearts' advice went home, claimed their fortunes and goods, and came back to their warlike brides; but, having got thus far, it was not in the Amazon, or woman nature, not to go further. The next morning, they cried out, "Alarm and fear are upon us (poor Amazons!); we have deprived you of your parents, them of you. What will they think of us? But since you consider us worthy to be your wives, let us leave this country which we have invaded, and, having crossed the River Tanais, let us live there." The poor men yielded; and hence, says sly old Herodotus, the descendants speak bad Scythian — just as Mrs. Malaprop or Mrs. Partington might speak bad English, never having caught the by-words cleverly — adding, a Sauromatian virgin may not marry until she has killed an enemy. "Some of them, therefore, die of old age, without being married, not being able to satisfy the law.

The Pleasures of the Dull

1874

Tormented by the pains of thinking, I have often envied the placid peace of those who cannot think at all. How delightful it must be, I have said to myself, to be able to hold the most utterly contradictory views on all things, divine and human, without the faintest suspicion as to their inconsistency, or any logical horror of inconsistency itself! Women, with occasional exceptions, are not much troubled by such inconsistencies. Are they, therefore, less happy than men? How soothing it must be to be hopelessly incapable of syllogisms! What pangs is not a mind spared that refuses to admit that if A is B, and C is A, therefore C is also B! What admirable wives and mothers and daughters there are, and what praiseworthy country parsons too, to whom all this bepuzzlement about A, B, and C, is as unintelligible as a conjurer's gibberish! Supposing it were suddenly proved that all our astronomers are wrong, and that the sun really goes round the earth, what horrible agonies should we thinking people endure who believe in mathematics and the multiplication-table, and what a hideous skepticism would darken the rest of our lives! Yet the unthinking multitude would be unmoved by a single painful thought, and would dress, dine, digest, and sleep as unconcernedly as if Copernicus and Newton had never existed.

Then, again, there is that enviable capacity for enjoying many things which in my unfortunate state of culture, I do detest. I never walk through an old house, filled with eighteenth-century furniture, without envying the simplicity and credulity of my ancestors. How easily must that generation have been pleased which saw beauty in those spindle-legged chairs and tables, and which could plaster up a Gothic roof or screen, and paint some venerable oak-carving a pale-blue color, and find itself refreshed by the effect! There are limits, indeed, to one's envy of the non-culture — I will not call it the barbarism — of the past. By no possible effort of sympathy can I wish to feel as those felt who delighted to contemplate King George IV., in his tight coat and silk stockings, sitting upon his royal sofa, with arm outstretched, as depicted by Sir Thomas Lawrence.

As to the amount of happiness connected with the mutabilities of ladies' dress, on the other hand, my thoughts are much exercised. Does it, or does it not, add to the enjoyment of one's whole life to be able to be equally delighted with a mass of false hair of reddish hue at the back of one's head, and a mass of false hair, made white with powder, on the top of one's head, and a head without any false hair at all? Take the whole amount of rapture which one has ever experienced from the contemplation of the Venus of Milo, and consider whether it is equal, in the long-run, to the daily self-complacency of the simple soul that is conscious of being always clothed as fashion demands, whether fashion prescribes four-and- twenty inches or three yards as the diameter of her gown. I go, perhaps, to a gayly-dressed evening gathering, where every woman, whether old or young, is decolletee, in varying degrees of exposure. What necks do I see! What shoulders! What complexions! Yet are not those smiling creatures happy, whose skins are as nearly as possible the same color as their dresses? Is the enjoyment of that amiable female marred by the thought that she has clothed herself in a hue which brings out most forcibly the sad fact that time is beginning its ravages upon her face and aims? And are women generally to be pitied because they are for the most part unaware of the fact that good-looking arms are not common, and that arms which are not good-looking had better be encased in some pleasant-looking sleeves than paraded before the public gaze? These are difficult questions for him to settle who speculates on the advantages of the culture of today. — Cornhill.

Comment: Do you have any idea what this poor unfortunate person is talking about?

How Long to Sleep

1874

There has been a great deal of trash written and labeled "Hygienic;" but the following so entirely accords with our own experience, that we commend it to readers as sensible:

The fact is, that as life becomes concentrated, and its pursuits more eager, short sleep and early rising becomes impossible. We take more sleep than our ancestors, and we take more because we want more. Six hours' sleep will do very well for a plowman or brick-layer, or any other man who has no exhaustion but that produced by manual labor, and the sooner he takes it after his labor is over the better. But for a man whose labor is mental, the stress of work is on his brain and nervous system, and for him who is tired in the evening with a day of mental application, neither early to bed nor early to rise is wholesome. He needs letting down to the level of repose.

The longer the interval between the active use of the brain and his retirement to bed, the better his chance of sleep and refreshment. To him an hour after midnight is probably as good as two hours before it, and even then his sleep will not so completely and quickly restore him as it will his neighbor who is physically tired. He must not only go to bed later, but lie longer. His best sleep probably lies in the early morning hours, when all the nervous excitement has passed away, and he is in absolute rest.

Note: Please don't take this old article for true advice on your own sleeping. I had to read it a couple time because I can't believe my eyes. The author discounts the exhaustion of a man who plows or lays bricks as something less than one whose labor is more mental. And since the author was a writer, guess who is being talked about there. It would seem that he or she is feeling a bit superior to those others. It seems like the truth would be just the opposite, or neither. There's a lot of looking-down on people in these old articles, a lot of snobby upper class hoity-toityness.


Perseverance

A poor woman had a supply of coals laid at her door by a charitable neighbor. A very little girl came out with a fire-shovel, and began to take a shovelful at a time and carry it to a sort of bin in the cellar. I said: "Do you expect to get all that coal in with your little shovel?" She was quite confused with my question, but her answer was striking: "Yes, sir; if I work long enough." Humble worker, make up for your want of ability by abundant continuance in well-doing, and your lifework will not be trivial. The repetition of small efforts will effect more than the occasional use of great talents.

Blushing – The Learned Darwin's Take on It

1874

The man who does not blush now and then is scarcely human. According to Darwin, blushing originated at a very late period in the long line of our descent. The learned thinker explains: "The relaxation of the small arteries of the surface, on which blushing depends, seems to have primarily resulted from earnest attention directed to the appearance of our own persons, especially of our faces, aided by habit, inheritance, and the ready flow of nerve-force along accustomed channels; and afterwards, to have been extended by the power of association to self-attention directed to moral conduct."

There are some men who lie brazenly, so repeatedly and so persistently in the very face of the truth, that the question may well be asked if they ever blush. Certainly they have no scruples in regard to moral conduct. The coarse animal must linger in these men, for their conscience is dead and they do not know the meaning of morality.

Darwin holds that it does not seem possible that any animal, until mental powers had been developed to an equal degree with those of man, would have been sensitive about its personal appearance or moral conduct. Hence it is his opinion that animals have not the power to blush. Impudent liars and braggarts, also, never blush, and so they are hardly human.


The Boy and the Nuts

A boy once found some nuts in a jar. Like all boys, he was fond of nuts, and was glad to hear that he might put his hand once in the jar, and have all the nuts he could then take out. He thrust his hand down the neck of the jar, and took hold of all the nuts he could. When his hand was quite full, he did his best to draw it out of the jar. But the neck of the jar was small, and his hand was so full of nuts, that he could not draw it out. He felt so sad, that tears fell from his eyes. His friend who stood near told him to let go half the nuts. He did so, and then drew out his hand with ease. We shall find it so in life: men lose all, if they try to get too much.


What is the difference between a tenant and the son of a widow? The tenant has to pay rents, but the son of a widow has not two parents.

Miserable Homes – Let Home Be Home Indeed

1874

What a mistake some good people make when they maintain, within the home circle, the rigid rule and decorum which becomes irksome even during committee meeting; when parents and children assemble at the table in solemn silence, and finish the meal within the prescribed minutes; and the late arrival at the breakfast table is scowled at, reprimanded, and remarked upon by mother and father, aunt and uncle, until the more punctual juniors come to regard him as a black sheep.

Oh, horrid home, where the little boys are never seen without their school books, or the little girl without a towel to hem; where ma no more dares to buy a rattle for the baby without mentioning the expenditure to pa, than anybody dares to throw open the parlor shutters or tuck up the curtains, or even at the table to have more of this dish or less of that.

The small boy who hates fat is not accommodated, as Jack Sprat's wife was, by anybody. The tall girl, who naturally likes pudding, has her triangular wedge, and no more; while the eldest son, outgrowing his liking for the dish, is reproved for the leaving of a piece on his plate.

Order and good housekeeping are charming, but the good order of a person, and the regular supply of rations necessary in a workhouse, are not suitable for home. Home is no home unless as far as reason will allow, the taste and wishes of the youngest child are consulted; unless there is freedom of word and action, speech and love, and good will without measure.

When I was a child home was the place where the wicked ceased from troubling, and the weary were at rest. Everything was always forgiven there. There was no awful rod behind the door, no domestic dungeon under the roof. I do not think I grew up a worse woman because I was not whipped, or put to bed without my supper for dressing the bed-post in grandmother's best lace cap, or making paper dolls, against orders, in the front parlor — because life was not made a burden to me by forcing fat into my unwilling mouth, and sugar candy forbidden as though it was poison.

I could shed tears over the wretched homeless children of the house where discipline, as strict as that of the army, is maintained, though their fare is costly and the dress perfect, and their future prospects as to an inheritance final. They are more to be pitied than the children of any poor man, who clusters about their parents' knee without any fear of chiding; who are encouraged to tell their troubles, and kindly lead away from follies; and who will not, in later days, remember "pa" as the old gentleman who flogged them, and "ma" as the old lady who kept the keys, and boxed their ears for them, but think of them with that respect and reverence due by a child to its parents. — The Household.