On the south side of the earth, close to that fancied stream, or “River Ocean,” dwelt a people happy and virtuous as the Hyperboreans. They were named Æthiopians. The gods favored them highly, and at times left their Olympian abodes, going down to share their sacrifices and banquets.

On the western margin of the earth, fast by the “River Ocean,” spread out a beautiful plain named Elysiam, whither mortals, favored by the gods, were transported without tasting death, to enjoy an immortality of bliss. This happy region was also called by them “Fortunate Fields,” and “Isles of the Blessed.”

It will be borne in mind by the young reader of their fables, or legends, that the Greeks of the mythological period were an isolated people, knowing but little of geography, and nothing of any real people except those to the east and south of their own country, or near the coast of the Mediterranean.

The western portion of this sea, of unknown extent, their imagination peopled with giants and enchantresses, while around them, at unknown distances, and perhaps but remotely connected with their own earthly habitation, they placed communities enjoying the peculiar favor of the gods, having serene happiness and longevity—human, but akin to the immortals.

Of the heavens above them still less was yet known, though they studied astronomy, and noted how some bodies moved, while others were apparently stationary.

Probably they had some vague notion of life and volition in things that move, and when the sun and moon were said to rise from the ocean and drive through the air, giving light to gods and men, the language was, to them, scarcely metaphorical.

Knowing nothing of the revolution of the earth, the succession of days and nights was accounted for by supposing the sun-god to descend into the “River Ocean,” and embark in his winged boat, which carried him swiftly around the northern part of the earth, back to his place of rising in the east.

Milton, in his “Comus,” thus translates their philosophy on the subject:

THE GODS OF OLYMPUS.

Zeus (Jupiter) was the supreme god of both Greek and Roman mythology. In our English literature on the subject the Latin names occur more frequently, are more familiar, and are used without further explanation.

Before Homer wrote the “Iliad” and “Odyssey,” Jupiter had come to be regarded by the Greeks as the father of all gods and men, but he had not always that distinction. The earlier myths gave his descent, and according to some legends there was a time when Cronos, father of Jupiter, was supreme; but even he was not first in the order of the gods. The imaginary line of their descent stretched far back till lost in deepest mystery, but it led not to the Everlasting Self-existent One. According to Hesiod their highest gods were really earth born. The first beings were Chaos and Gea. The latter gave birth to Uranus—whence sprang a race of twelve Titans, six males—Oceanus, Cœus, Crius, Hyperion, Japetus, and Cronus; six females—Thia, Rhea, Themis, Mnemosyne, Phœbe, and Thetis.

The interpretation of these divinities is difficult, but they doubtless represented some real or supposed elementary forces of nature.

The different stories respecting things, not known but imagined, were often at variance, nor need we attempt to harmonize them, as each district or city had its own version. From other sources it would be possible to construct a different genealogy, but that here given was somewhat generally accepted.

Ouranos, or Uranus, is the heaven which is spread like a vail over the earth, and was much the same to the Greeks as the old Hindu god Varuna, whose name has a verbal root meaning to vail or conceal.

Having attributed some kind of intelligence and personality to the vast expanse stretching itself overhead, they represent this sovereign, Ouranos, as hurling the Cyclops with Bronte, Sterope (thunder and lightning), and other children of Gea, into the abyss called Tartarus; and that Gea, in her grief and anger, urged her other children to insurrection against their father, and to set Cronos instead on his throne.

When Cronos (time) became king he is represented as so voracious and cruel that all his children were devoured soon after each was born. The basis of this legendary fact is evident, as time swallows up the days and weeks, months and years, as they come each in its order, and thus “bears all its sons away.”

These acts of Cronos, the reputed cannibal among such as interpret the fable literally, connect with the history of Jupiter. Rhea, his wife, and the mother of Jupiter, anxious to save her child, having already lost five, determined to save her next son from a cruel fate by stratagem. A stone was given to the husband, wrapped in swaddling clothes, which he swallowed without examination or suspicion, and the little Jupiter, thus rescued, was reared by the nymphs in a cave on Mount Diete, or Ida, in Crete. He was nourished on goat’s milk, and the bees brought him honey to eat. That the cries of the child might not betray his presence, and the mother’s strategy, the Curetes, or attendant priests of Rhea, drowned his voice by the clashing of their weapons.

Jupiter thus remained hidden till he speedily became a young, but very powerful god. He then attacked and overthrew his father Cronos, whom he also compelled by a device of Gea, to bring forth the children he had already devoured. Some of the Titans, as Oceanus, Themis, Mnemosyne, and Hyperion, at once submitted to the dominion of the new ruler of the world. The others refused allegiance. But after a contest of years Jupiter, with the help of the Cyclops and Centimani, overthrew them. As a punishment they were cast into Tartarus, which was then closed by Poseidon with brazen gates.

Thessaly, which bears evident traces of having suffered much from natural convulsions, was supposed to have been the scene of this mighty war.

Jupiter and his adherents fought from Olympus, the Titans from the opposite mountain of Othrys. Thenceforward the victor shared the empire of the world with his two brothers, Poseidon and Hades. The former he made ruler of the ocean and waters, the latter he set over the infernal regions. This new order of things, however, was by no means at once securely established. The resentment of Gea led her to produce a younger and most powerful son, the great Typhœus, a monster with a hundred fire-breathing heads, whom she sent to attack the thunder-bearer. A great battle took place which shook heaven and earth, but Jupiter, by means of his crushing thunderbolts, at length overcame his antagonist, and cast him into Tartarus, or, according to others, buried him beneath Mount Ætna, in Sicily, whence at times he still breathes out fire and flames toward heaven.

“Some tell of another rebellion of the giants against the dominion of Jupiter. From the plains of Phlegra they sought to scale and storm Olympus, by piling, through their great strength, Pelion on Ossa; but after a bloody battle they too were overpowered, and shared the fate of the Titans. After that no hostile attack ever disturbed the peaceful ease of the inhabitants of Olympus.”

The character of the acknowledged chief of their deities, who is supposed against all opposition to control and rule the universe, is not drawn, in the earlier myths, as one of untarnished excellence. Yet the good predominates, and he is confessed a beneficent ruler. He was, in time, reverenced as Jupiter-pater, the source of all life in nature, and the almoner of abundant blessings for his obedient subjects and children. All the phenomena of the air were supposed to proceed from him. “He gathers and disperses the clouds, casts forth the lightnings, stirs up his thunder, sends down rain, hail, snow, and fertilizing dew upon the earth. With his ægis he produces storm and tempest, and at his pleasure stills the warring elements.”

“The ancients, however, were not content to regard Jupiter as merely a personification of nature. They regarded him also from an ethical stand-point, from which side he appears far more important and awful. They saw in him a personification, so to speak, of that principle of undeviating order and harmony, which pervades both the physical and moral world. The strict, unalterable laws, by which he rules the community of the gods, form a strong contrast with the capricious commands of his father Cronos.”

Hence Jupiter is regarded as the protector and defender of political order. From him the kings of the earth receive their sovereignty and their rights; to him they are responsible for a conscientious fulfillment of their duties. Those of them who pervert justice he never fails to punish. He also presides over their assemblies, keeps watch over their orderly course, and suggests to them wise counsels.

One of the most important props of political society is the oath; and accordingly he watches over oaths, and punishes perjury.

He also watches over boundaries, and accompanies the youths of the land as they go out to defend the borders of their country, and gives them victory over the invaders. All civil and political communities enjoy his protection; but he watches particularly over that association which is the basis of the political fabric—the family.

The head of every household was, therefore, in a certain sense, the priest of Jupiter, and presented his offerings in the name of the family. As Jupiter hospitalis, he protects the wanderer, and punishes those who violate the ancient laws of hospitality by mercilessly turning the helpless stranger from their door.

The superstition of early times saw in all physical phenomena manifestations of the divine will, and this, their earliest and chief deity, was naturally regarded as the source of inspiration, revealing his will to men in the thunder, lightning, flight of birds, and dreams. He not only had his oracle at Dodona, which was the most ancient in Greece, but also revealed the future by the mouth of his favorite son, Apollo. In hours of real trouble and grief, Achilles and other Achaians prayed to Jupiter, not only as irresistible in might, but also as just and righteous.

Yet others, and possibly the same persons under other circumstances, and in different moods, represented him as partial, unjust, fond of pleasure, changeable in his affections, and unfaithful in his love.

Greater inconsistencies and contradictions in character can scarcely be conceived of. How such confused and contradictory notions could occupy the same mind, may seem inexplicable. The Greek name of their deity, a corporeal being, was used by men having many excellent qualities, to express all they thought of, or felt, toward God, the greatest and best, worthy to be trusted and worshiped, but anthropomorphic still, having human instincts and passions, in the essential elements of his exalted nature, “altogether like unto themselves.” Their ethical conceptions were marred by unconsciously projecting their common humanity into the field of view in which their god was contemplated.

But the name that became sacred also meant the physical heaven, the sky with its clouds and vapor, and all embracing atmosphere; and as the earth by a beautiful metaphor was spoken of as the bride of the sky, which was said to overshadow the earth with his love, in every land causing the birth of all things that live and grow, so this idea of production—its primary application forgotten by a people gross and sensual—transferred to a deity of human form and passions, grew up into strange stories of license, or unlawful love. It is by no means certain that the poets and moralists, or ethical writers accepted the grosser myths as true or expressive of their own conceptions. The probability is against it. For, while Hesiod, following the popular theology describes the descent of the gods, their earthly loves, intrigues and gross immoralities, yet he, at times, turns sharply away from all such things as loathsome, to “thoughts of that pure and holy Zeus (Jupiter), who looks down from heaven to see if men will do justice, love mercy, and seek after God.”

Some regard the conceded goodness of the supreme beings as sufficient reason for misbelieving all the stories that were to their discredit; or if the stories were credited they would disprove their supposed divinity.

Euripides said:

The great poets did not invent the myths, but found them the only embodiment of the crude theology that was current among the masses, perfected them by eliminating some of the grosser parts, and sought to use them in the cause of virtue and civilization.

Even those seeming most irrational, when traced to their primary source and analyzed, were found to have something of truth, and the glimmer of their light was welcomed where without it the darkness had been yet more profound.

Dr. Ziller in his lecture on the development of Monotheism in Greece says: “The great Greek poets were her first thinkers, her sages, as they were afterward called. They sang of Zeus (Jupiter), and exalted him as the defender of righteousness, the representation of moral order.

“Archilocus says that ‘Zeus weighs and measures all the actions of good and evil men, as well as those of animals.’ ‘He is,’ said Terpandros somewhat later, ‘the source and ruler of all things.’ According to Simonides, ‘the principle of all created things rests with him, and he rules the universe by his will.’”

Thus, as time went on, ideas of the divinity were elevated, and Zeus, whose parentage and birth are chronicled as after the manner of men, became, in the general conception, the personification of the world’s government, which was delivered from the fatality of destiny, and from the promptings of caprice.

Destiny, which according to the early mythical representation, it was impossible to escape, is resolved into the will of Zeus, and the other gods, which were at first supposed to be able to oppose him, became his faithful ministers. Such is the teaching of Solon and Epicharmos.

“Be assured that nothing escapes the eyes of the divinities. God watches over us, and to him nothing is impossible.” This impulse of the imaginative faculty combined with the process of reason is most plainly seen in the conceptions of the three great poets of the fifth century, Pindar, Æschylus, and Sophocles. In the words of Pindar: “All things depend on God alone; all which befalls mortals, whether it be good or evil fortune, is due to Zeus; he can draw light from darkness, and can vail the sweet light of day in obscurity. No human action escapes him; happiness is found only in the way which leads to him; virtue and wisdom flow from him alone.”

We need not multiply quotations to show that as the Greeks advanced in civilization the earlier barbaric notions were left for those more elevating, and though mostly polytheists till visited by Christian teachers, their theology, or what was believed respecting the divine beings, was more worthy of them and had in general an elevating influence on their character. Apollo, Artemis, Ares, Hermes, Athene, Poseidon, Hera, Hephaistus, Hestia, Demeter, Aphrodite and Jupiter himself formed the body which in the days of Thucydides was worshiped, and called “the twelve gods of Olympus.”

This ordering or classification is not recognized in the poems of Homer. Hesiod more particularly describes the manner of their birth and the attributes of the Olympic gods, and hence that poem is called a Theogony.

Having mentioned the chief, the others may be briefly noticed in their order. Phœbus Apollo was called Phœbus, as being the god of light; in Homeric phrase the “Far glancing Apollo”—the last name meaning, some say, destroyer, because his rays, when powerful, can destroy the life of animals and plants. At first the name meant the sun, but in later times he was regarded as the god of light who was not confined to his habitation in the sun. “He is called the son of Zeus, because the sun, like Athene, or the dawn, springs in the morning from the sky—and son of Leto because the night, as going before his rising, may be considered as mother of the sun.”

One legendary story of his birth runs as follows: Leto, distressed, wandered through many lands seeking in vain for a resting place. At last she came to Delos (the bright land), and said if she could there find shelter it should become glorious as the birthplace of Phœbus, and that men should come from all parts to enrich his temple with their gifts. Here, then, Phœbus was born; heaven was propitious and the floating Delos, a hard and stony land, was anchored and covered itself with verdure and golden flowers. The nymphs clothed him with a spotless robe, and when Themis fed him with nectar and ambrosia, the food of gods, hating all things impure, he was at once prepared to battle with and drive away the evil powers of darkness.

With his bright arrows he slew the giant Tityus, and the Python, a monster near Delphi, that destroyed both men and cattle.

These and similar myths respecting his matchless conquering power forcibly declare the influence of the sun’s rays in scattering the night and dark gloom of winter. But though Phœbus Apollo thus appears as the foe of all that is evil or impure, other myths represent him as a terrible god of death, sending pestilences and dealing out destruction to men and animals by means of the arrows he scatters abroad.

Remembering the natural significance of the name this is perfectly consistent with the genial influence attributed to him. The sun’s rays do indeed put to flight the darkness of night and the cold of winter, but their intense heat also causes disease and death.

This is beautifully portrayed in the fable of the death of Hyacinthus that will be given in the next number. His reputation as a god of health, all powerful to protect against physical maladies is not damaged, though, in exceptional cases, his rays smite and destroy. But the healing that he brings is not alone for the outward “ills that flesh is heir to.” Diseases of the mind he cures or mitigates. Sin and crime flee from the light, and troubled souls, that escape from guilt, find consolation.

Even those pursued by the Furies he sometimes receives with tenderness and pity—a fine instance of which is found in the oft told story of Orestes.

Much of his healing power connects with his character as god of music, and from the fact of its soothing, tranquilizing influence on the soul of man.

His favorite instrument was the lyre, on which he played with masterly skill at the banquets of the gods, while the Muses accompanied him with their wondrous strains. He was regarded as the leader of the Muses and all the great singers of antiquity, as Orpheus and Linus, are mythically represented as his sons.

Of his prophetic character, statues, temples, and worship we will speak hereafter.

TEMPERANCE TEACHINGS OF SCIENCE;
Or, THE POISON PROBLEM.

BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.

CHAPTER II.—THE CAUSES OF INTEMPERANCE.

The undoubted antiquity of the poison vice has induced several able physiologists to assume the hygienic necessity of artificial stimulation. But the not less undoubted fact that there have been manful, industrious and intelligent nations of total abstainers would be an almost sufficient refutation of that inference, which is sometimes qualified by the assertion that the tonic value of alcoholic drinks is based upon the abnormal demands upon the vitality of races exposed to the vicissitudes of a rigorous climate and the manifold overstraining influences of an artificial civilization. For it can, besides, be proved that the alleged invigorating action of alcoholic drinks is an absolute delusion, and the pathological records of contemporary nations establish the fact that endemic increase of intemperate habits can nearly always be traced to causes that have no correlation whatever to the increased demands upon the physical or intellectual energies of the afflicted community. Potentially those energies have lamentably decreased among numerous races who once managed to combine nature-abiding habits with a plethora of vital vigor.

The physiologically unavoidable progressiveness of all stimulant habits is a further argument in favor of the theory that the poison vice has grown up from very small beginnings, and the genesis of the fatal germ has probably been supplied in the hypothesis of Fabio Colonna, an Italian naturalist of the seventeenth century. “Before people used wine,” says he, “they drank sweet must and preserved it, like oil, in jars or skins. But in a warm climate a saccharine fluid is apt to ferment, and some avaricious housekeeper may have drunk that spoiled stuff till she became fond of it and learned to prefer it to must.”

Avarice, aided perhaps by dietetic prurience, or indifference to the warnings of instinct, planted the baneful seed, and the laws of evolution did the rest.

But the tendency of those laws has often been checked, and as certainly often been accelerated, by less uncontrollable agencies.

The first venders of toxic stimulants (like our quack medicine philanthropists) had a personal interest in disseminating the poison habit. Reform attempts were met by appeals to the convivial interests of the stimulant-dupe, by the seduction of minors, by charges of asceticism; later by nostrum puffs and opium wars. More than two thousand years ago the worship of Bacchus was propagated by force of arms. The disciples of Ibn Hanbal, the Arabian Father Mathew, were stoned in the streets of Bagdad. The persecutions and repeated expulsions of the Grecian Pythagoreans had probably a good deal to do with the temperance teachings of their master. In Palestine, in India, in mediæval Europe, nearly every apostle of Nature had to contend with a rancorous opposition, inspired by the most sordid motives of self-interest, and our own age can in that respect not boast of much improvement. In spite of our higher standard of philanthropic principles and their numerous victories in other directions, the heartless alliance of Bacchus and Mammon still stands defiant. In our own country a full hundred thousand men, not half of them entitled to plead the excuses of poverty or ignorance, unblushingly invoke the protection of the laws in behalf of an industry involving the systematic propagation of disease, misery and crime. Wherever the interests of the poison traffic are at stake the nations of Europe have not made much progress since the time when the sumptuary laws of Lorenzo de Medici were defeated by street riots and a shrieking procession of the Florentine tavern-keepers.

The efforts of such agitators are seconded by the Instinct of Imitation. “In large cities,” says Dr. Schrodt, “one may see gamins under ten years grubbing in rubbish heaps for cigar stumps; soon after leaning against a board fence, groaning and shuddering as they pay the repeated penalty of nature, yet, all the same, repeating the experiment with the resignation of a martyr. The rich, the fashionable, do it; those whom they envy smoke; smoking, they conclude, must be something enviable.”

Without any intentional arts of persuasion the Chinese business men of San Francisco have disseminated a new poison vice by smoking poppy gum in the presence of their Caucasian employes and accustoming them to associate the sight of an opium debauch with the idea of enjoyment and recreation. Would the opponents of prohibition attempt to deny that analogous influences (the custom of “treating” friends at a public bar, the spectacle of lager beer orgies in public gardens, etc.) have a great deal to do with the initiation of boy topers?

Ignorance does not lead our dumb fellow-creatures to vicious habits, and prejudice is therefore, perhaps, the more correct name for the sad infatuation which tempts so many millions of our young men to defy the protests of instinct and make themselves the slaves of a life-destroying poison. Ignorance is nescience. Prejudice is mal-science, mis-creance, trust in erroneous teachings. Millions of children are brought up in the belief that health can be secured only by abnormal means. A pampered child complains of headache, want of appetite. Instead of curing the evil by the removal of the cause, in the way so plainly indicated by the monitions of instinct, the mother sends to the drug-store. The child must “take something.” Help must come through anti-natural means. A young rake, getting more fretful and dyspeptic from day to day, is advised to “try something,” an aloe pill, a bottle of medicated brandy, any quack “specific,” recommended by its bitterness or nauseousness. The protests of nature are calmly disregarded in such cases; a dose of medicine, according to the popular impression, can not be very effective unless it is very repulsive. Our children thus learn to mistrust the voice of their natural instincts. They try to rely on the aid of specious arts, instead of trusting their troubles in the hands of nature. Boys whose petty ailments have been palliated with stimulants will afterward be tempted to drown their sorrow in draughts of the same nepenthe, instead of biding their time, like Henry Thoreau, who preferred to “face any fate, rather than seek refuge in the mist of intoxication.” Before the friends of temperance can hope for a radical reform they must help to eradicate the deep-rooted delusion of the stimulant fallacy; the popular error which hopes to defy the laws of nature by the magic of intoxicating drugs and thus secure an access of happiness not attainable by normal means. Our text-books, our public schools, should teach the rising generation to realize the fact that the temporary advantage gained by such means is not only in every case out-weighed by the distress of a speedy reaction, but that the capacity for enjoyment itself is impaired by its repeated abuse, till only the most powerful stimulants can restore a share of that cheerfulness which the spontaneous action of the vital energies bestows on the children of nature.

We have seen that the milder stimulants often form the stepping-stones to a passion for stronger poisons. A penchant for any kind of tonic drugs, nicotine, narcotic infusions, hasheesh, the milder opiates, etc., may thus initiate a stimulant habit with an unlimited capacity of development, and there is no doubt that international traffic has relaxed the vigilance which helped our forefathers to guard their households against the introduction of foreign poison vices. Hence the curious fact that drunkenness is not prevalent—not in the most ignorant or despotic countries (Russia, Austria, and Turkey), nor in southern Italy and Spain, where alcoholic drinks of the most seductive kind are cheapest—but in the most commercial countries, western France, Great Britain, and North America. Hence also the fallacy of the brewer’s argument that the use of lager beer would prevent the dissemination of the opium habit. No stimulant vice has ever prevented the introduction of worse poisons. Among the indirect causes of intemperance we must therefore include our mistaken toleration of the minor stimulant habits. The poison vice has become a many-headed hydra, defying one-sided attacks, and it is no paradox to say that we could simplify our work of expurgation by making it more thorough.

Polydipsia is a derangement of the digestive organs characterized by a chronic thirst, which forces its victims to swallow enormous quantities of stimulating fluids. The biographer of Richard Porson, the great classic scholar, says that his poison thirst was “so outrageous that he can not be considered a mere willful drunkard; one must believe that he was driven into his excesses by some unknown disease of his constitution.” … “He would pour anything down his throat rather than endure the terrible torture of thirst. Ink, spirits of wine for the lamp, an embrocation, are among the horrible things he is reported to have swallowed in his extremity.” Polydipsia is not always due to the direct or indirect (hereditary) influence of the alcohol habit, and the origin of the disorder was long considered doubtful; but it has since been traced to a morbid condition of the kidneys, induced by the use of narcotic stimulants (tea, coffee, tobacco), but often also by gluttony.

Like certain poison plants, the stimulant habit flourishes best in a sickly soil. Whatever tends to undermine the stamina of the physical or moral constitution helps to prepare the way for an inroad of intemperance, by weakening the resistance of the protective instincts. Hence the notorious fact that gambling dens and houses of ill-fame are rank hot-beds of the alcohol vice.

Asceticism has not yet ceased to be an indirect obstacle to the success of temperance reform. The children of nature need no special holidays; to them life itself is a festival of manifold sports. Hunting, fishing, and other pursuits of primitive nations become the pastimes of later ages. For the abnormal conditions of civilized life imply the necessity of providing special means of recreation, out-door sports, competitive gymnastics, etc., in order to satisfy the craving of an importunate instinct; and too many social reformers have as yet failed to recognize the truth that the suppression of that instinct avenges itself by its perversion; by driving pleasure-seekers from the play-ground to the pot-house, as despotism has turned freemen into bandits and outlaws. “Every one who considers the world as it really exists,” says Lecky, “must have convinced himself that, in great towns, where multitudes of men of all classes and all characters are massed together, and where there are innumerable strangers, separated from all domestic ties and occupations, public amusements of an exciting order are absolutely necessary, and that to suppress them is simply to plunge an immense portion of the population into the lowest depths of vice.”

“I am a great friend to public amusements,” says Boswell’s Johnson, “for they keep people from vice.” A home missionary in the character of a promoter of harmless recreations would double the popularity of our tenets, and by vindicating our people against the charge of joy-hating bigotry deprive our opponents of their most effective weapon. The free reading-rooms and gymnasium of the New York Y. M. C. A. have done more to promote the cause of temperance than the man hunts of Sir Hudibras and all his disciples. We must change our tactics. While our anchorite allies have contrived to make virtue repulsive, our opponents have proved themselves consummate masters of the art of masking the ugliness of vice; they have strewn their path with roses and left us the thorns. Yet I hope to show that we can beat them upon their own ground, for it is not difficult to make health more attractive than disease.

But the most obstinate obstacle to a successful propagation of total abstinence principles is the drug fallacy, a delusion founded on precisely the same error which leads the dram-drinker to mistake a process of irritation for a process of invigoration. During the infancy of the healing art all medical theories were biased by the idea that sickness is an enemy whose attacks must be repulsed à main forte, by suppressing the symptoms with fire, sword and poison—not in the figurative but in the literal sense, the keystone dogma of the primitive Sangrados having been the following heroic maxim: “What drugs won’t cure must be cured with iron” (the lancet), “if that fails resort to fire.” (Quod medicamenta non curant ferrum curat, quod non curat ferram ignis curat.) But with the progress of the physiological sciences the conviction gradually gained ground that disease itself is a reconstructive process, and that the suppression of the symptoms retards the accomplishment of that reconstruction. And ever since that truth dawned upon the human mind the use of poison drugs has steadily decreased. A larger and larger number of intelligent physicians had begun to suspect that the true healing art consists in the removal of the cause, and that where diseases have been caused by unnatural habits, the reform of those habits is a better plan than the old counter-poison method; when homœopathy proved practically (though not theoretically) that medication can be entirely dispensed with. The true effect of the more virulent drugs (opium, tartar emetic, arsenic, etc.) was then studied from a physiological stand-point, and experiments proved what the medical philosopher Asclepiades, conjectured eighteen hundred years ago, namely, that if a drugged patient recovers, the true explanation is that his constitution was strong enough to overcome both the disease and the drug. Bichat, Schrodt, Magendie, Alcott, R. T. Trall, Isaac Jennings and Dio Lewis arrived at the conclusion that every disease is a protest of Nature against some violation of her laws, and that the suppression of the symptoms means to silence that protest instead of removing its cause, so that we might as well try to extinguish a fire by silencing the fire-bells, or to cure the sleepiness of a weary child by pinching its eyelids—in short, that drastic drugs, instead of “breaking up” a disease, merely interrupt it and lessen the chance of a radical cure.

Are there reasons to suppose that alcohol or any other poison, makes an exception from that general rule? We must reject the idea in toto, and I hope to show that it is refuted:

1. By the testimony of our instincts.

2. By experience.

3. By the direct or indirect concessions of the ablest physiologists.

Our instincts protest against medication. Against ninety-nine of a hundred “remedial drugs” our sense of taste warns us as urgently as against rotten eggs, verdigris, or oil of vitriol. Shall we believe that nature repudiates the means of salvation? Or that our protective instincts forsake us in the hour of our sorest need—in the hour of our struggle with a life-endangering disease? And the same instincts that protest against other poisons warn us against all kinds of alcoholic drugs. Is it an exception to that rule that the depraved taste of a drunkard may relish a glass of medicated wine or a bottle of “Hostetter’s bitters” (rye brandy)? If it is certain beyond all limits of doubt that the health of the stoutest man is no safeguard against the bane of the wretched poison, shall we believe that he can encounter it with impunity when his vital strength is exhausted by disease?

Has the stimulus of alcoholic beverages any remedial or prophylactic effect? How does alcohol counteract the contagion of climatic fevers? In precisely the same way as those fevers arrest, or rather suspend, the progress of other disorders. The vital process can not compromise with two diseases at the same time. A fit of gastric spasms interrupts a toothache. A toothache relieves a sick headache. The severest cold in the head temporarily yields to an attack of small-pox. Temporarily, I say, for the apparent relief is only a postponement of an interrupted process. During the progress of the alcohol fever (the feverish activity of the organism in its effort to rid itself of a life-endangering poison) Nature has to suspend her operations against a less dangerous foe. But each repetition of that factitious fever is followed by a reaction that suspends the prophylactic effect of the stimulus, and sooner or later the total exhaustion of the vital energies not only leaves the system at the mercy of the original foe, but far less able to resist his attacks. “There is but one appalling conclusion to be deduced from hospital records, medical statistics and the vast array of facts which bear upon the subject,” says Professor Youmans, “it is that among no class of society are the ravages of contagious diseases so wide-spread and deadly as among those who are addicted to the use of alcoholic beverages.”

Is alcohol a digestive tonic? Can we cure an indigestion by the most indigestible of all chemical product! If a starving man drops by the roadside we may get him on his legs by drenching him with a pailful of vitriol, but after rushing ahead for a few hundred steps he will drop again, more helpless than before, by just as much as the brutal stimulus has still further exhausted his little remaining strength. Thus alcohol excites, and eventually tenfold exhausts, the vigor of the digestive system. We can not bully Nature. We can not silence her protests by a fresh provocation. Fevers can be cured by refrigeration; indigestions by fasting and exercise, and at any rate the possible danger of a relapse is infinitely preferable to the sure evils of the poison drug. A few repetitions of the stimulant process may initiate the alcohol vice and sow the seeds of a life-long crop of woe and misery. A single dose of alcoholic tonics may revive the fatal passion of half-cured drunkards and forfeit their hard-earned chance of recovery. That chance, and life itself, often depend on the hope of guarding the system against a relapse of the stimulant-fever, and I would as soon snatch a plank from a drowning man as that last hope from a drunkard.

Alcohol lingers in our hospitals as slavery lingers in South America, as torture lingers in the courts of eastern Europe. Quacks prescribe it because it is the cheapest stimulant; routine doctors prescribe it because its stimulating effect is more infallible than that of other poisons; empirists prescribe it at the special request of their patients, or as a temporary prophylactic; others because they find it in the ready-made formulas of their dispensatories. There is another reason which I might forbear mentioning, but I hold that a half truth is a half untruth, and I will name that other reason. Ignorant patients demand an immediate effect. They send for a doctor, and are to pay his bill; they expect to get their money’s worth in the form of a prompt and visible result. Instead of telling the im-patient that he must commit himself into the hands of Nature, that she will cure him in her own good time, by a process of her own, and that all art can do for him is to give that process the best possible chance, and prevent a willful interruption of it—instead of saying anything of the kind, Sangrado concludes to humor the popular prejudice and to produce the desired prompt and visible effect. For that purpose alcohol is, indeed, the most reliable agent. It will spur the jaded system into a desperate effort to expel the intruder, though the strength expended in that effort should be ever so urgently needed for better purposes. The dose is administered; the patient can not doubt that a “change” of some kind or other has been effected; the habitual drunkard perhaps feels it to be a (momentary) change for the better; at all events the doctor has done something and proved that he can “control the disease.” In some exceptional cases of that sort the influence of imagination may help to cure a believing patient, or Nature may be strong enough to overcome the disease and the stimulant at one effort. And if a doctor can reconcile it with his conscience to risk such experiments how shall we prevent it? As a first step in the right direction we can refuse to swallow his prescription. Physicians have no right to experiment on the health of their patients. They have no right to expect that we shall stake our lives on the dogmas of the old stimulant theory till they have answered the objections of the Naturalistic School.

Drastic drugs are not wholly useless. There are two or three forms of disease which have (thus far) not proved amenable to any non-medicinal cure, and can hardly be trusted to the healing power of Nature:—the lues venera, scabies and prurigo, because, as a French physiologist suggests, “the cause and the symptoms are here, for once, identical, the probable proximate cause being the agency of microscopic parasites, which oppose to the action of the vital forces a life-energy of their own.” Antidotes and certain anodynes will perhaps also hold their own till we find a way of producing their effects by mechanical means.

But with these rare exceptions it is by far the safer as well as shorter way to avoid drugs, reform our habits and not interrupt the course of nature, for, properly speaking, “disease itself is a healing process.” “It is not true,” says Dr. Jennings, “that the human system, when disturbed and deranged in its natural operations, becomes suicidal in its action …; such a view presents an anomaly in the universe of God’s physical government. It is not in accordance with the known operations and manifestations of other natural laws” (“Medical Reform,” p. 29). “The idea that the symptoms of disease must be suppressed,” says Wichat, “has led to innumerable fallacies and blunders.”

Dr. Benjamin Rush said in a public lecture: “I am here incessantly led to make an apology for the instability of the theories and practice of physic, and those physicians generally become the most eminent, who have the soonest emancipated themselves from the tyranny of the schools of physic. Dissections daily convince us of our ignorance of disease and cause us to blush at our prescriptions. What mischief have we done under the belief of false facts and false theories! We have assisted in multiplying diseases; we have done more, we have increased their mortality. I will not pause to beg pardon of the faculty, for acknowledging, in this public manner, the weakness of our profession. I am pursuing Truth, and am indifferent whither I am led, if she only is my leader.”

“Our system of therapeutics,” says Jules Virey, “is so shaky (vacillant) that the soundness of the basis itself must be suspected.”

“The success of the homœopathic practice has astonished many discerning minds,” says Dr. Jennings. “It is unnecessary for my present purpose to give a particular account of the results of homœopathy; … what I now claim with respect to it is, that a wise and beneficent Providence is using it to expose a deep delusion. In the result of homœopathic practice, we have evidence in amount, and of a character sufficient, most incontestably to establish the fact that disease is a restorative process, a renovating operation, and that medicine has deceived us. The evidence is full and complete. It does not consist merely of a few isolated cases, whose recovery might be attributed to fortuitous circumstances, but it is a chain of testimony fortified by every possible circumstance. All kinds and grades of disease have passed under the ordeal, and all classes and characters of persons have been concerned in the experiment as patients or witnesses; … while the process of infinitesimally attenuating the drugs was carried to such a ridiculous extent that no one will, on sober reflection, attribute any portion of the cure to the medicine. I claim then, that homœopathy may be regarded as a providential sealing of the fate of old medical views and practices” (“Medical Reform,” p. 247).

Since physiology was first studied methodically an overwhelming array of facts has, indeed, proved that the disorders of the human organism can be cured more easily without poison drugs; more easily in the very degree that would suggest the suspicion that our entire system of therapeutics is founded upon an erroneous view of disease. The homœopathists cure their patients with milk-sugar, the exponents of the movement cure with gymnastics, the hydropathists with cold water, the disciples of Dr. Schrodt with exercise and mountain-air, the primitive Christians with prayer, Nature cures her children with rest and a partial suspension of the digestive process (the fasting cure, indicated instinctively by a loss of appetite). Let all repudiate alcohol and all can record swifter, more numerous, and more permanent cures than the disciples of the nostrum school.

Considered in connection with the foregoing remarks, these facts admit only of one conclusion, and after giving the above-mentioned exception the benefit of a (temporary) doubt, we can assert with perfect confidence that drastic drugs have no remedial value, and that every drop of alcohol administered for medicinal purposes, has increased, instead of decreasing, the weight of human misery.

There is no doubt but these views will awaken the anathemas of the poison-worshipers; but it is equally certain that before the end of this century they will become truisms. We should regard the drift of the main current rather than the incidental fluctuations of scientific theories, and all the ripple of conflicting opinions can not conceal the progress of a strong tendency toward total abstinence from all virulent drugs.

STUDIES IN KITCHEN SCIENCE AND ART.

II. WHEAT, RYE AND CORN.

BY BYRON D. HALSTED.

The three grains here treated, viz.: wheat, rye and corn, belong to the vast order of plants known as the grass family (Gramineæ). This large group of plants, the members of which are so closely related as to be quickly recognized as such, contains many of the most valuable of all cultivated plants. It not only furnishes the cereals, namely: wheat, rye, corn, oats, barley and rice, which supply the world with the larger part of its starchy food, but clothes the pasture and meadow of the farmer with the herbage so essential to the sustenance of his live stock. There is a deep and weighty truth in the familiar expression: “All flesh is grass.” Blot out the grass family from existence and nearly all forms of life would suffer, and many kinds would soon perish from the earth.

The grasses are usually low and comparatively small plants—though the bamboos of the tropics are almost treelike, with jointed stems and alternate, slender leaves. The flowers are inconspicuous, usually in spikes or spreading clusters, with three stamens, anthers versatile, styles two, stigma feathery, ovary one-celled, becoming a grain.

Wheat has probably more intrinsic value than any other plant grown. It is probably a native of southwestern Asia, but like most grains and fruits cultivated from remote antiquity, its early history is extremely uncertain. Many varieties have been produced from the original Triticum vulgare—the scientific name of wheat—but they can all be placed in the two following groups: Those that are tender called spring wheats, sown in spring, and the winter sorts that are sown in autumn, remain on the ground through the winter and are harvested the subsequent summer. The winter wheats are the more valuable and bring a higher price than the spring varieties. Some wheats have long awns to the flowers, and are termed bearded, while other sorts are nearly or entirely awnless, and are sometimes styled bald. There is a great variation in the size and color of the grain. In some varieties it is long, others short; some are white, others brown, red, and amber; some are hard, others are soft. New sorts are produced yearly, and the varieties have become practically innumerable.

The area devoted to the growth of wheat in the United States is between thirty-five and forty million acres, and the yield of the present season (1884) will not be far from 500,000,000 bushels. The average yield per acre, take the whole country through, is not far from thirteen bushels per acre. Nineteen states (and territories) cultivate over a million acres each; six over two millions, and three over three millions, namely: Illinois, 3,218,542; Iowa, 3,049,288; and Minnesota, 3,044,670 acres, as given in the last census. In the order of the number of bushels produced, the leading states stand thus: Illinois, Indiana, Ohio, Michigan, Minnesota, Iowa, California. New York stands thirteenth, and Rhode Island last, with seventeen acres and 240 bushels. It will be seen that the wheat region, strictly speaking, is in the Mississippi Valley, centering around Illinois, with a secondary area in middle California. According to the report on the cereal production of the United States by Professor Wm. H. Brewer, in the statistics of agriculture in the tenth census, the yield and quality of the wheat crops is stated to depend upon five conditions: climate, soil, variety cultivated, method of cultivation and the liability to destruction by insects. The quality of the grain depends more upon the climate than the soil. A hot, dry and sunny harvest produces a grain of the highest quality. The ideal climate for wheat growing is most nearly reached during the best years in California, and it is then and there that we have records of the greatest yields of the best of wheat.

A good rich soil is needed for successful wheat growing. This may be preserved on any farm by a well regulated system of crop rotation. It must be borne in mind that wheat has a short season for its growth and needs to have food prepared and close at hand. One of the best preparatory crops is clover. The clover sod, including the vast amount of roots, furnishes a most acceptable feeding ground for the wheat. The soil itself is not one of the items most frequently overlooked in wheat growing. The importance of good plump seed of the best varieties is rarely overestimated. There is a vast deal in the sort of wheat grown, and no one can afford to grow any but the best.

The most common diseases of wheat are rust and smut, both of vegetable origin. These troubles, which appear so suddenly and are often very destructive, are minute microscopic plants of the order of fungi, and therefore related to the moulds and mildews common on various articles of food, etc. The insect enemies are somewhat numerous, but the Hessian fly, wheat midge, joint worm, chinch bug, army worms, and Rocky Mountain locust are the most destructive. There are a few insects that prey upon the grain after it is in the granary, and these are on the increase. Among the enemies we should not forget to mention various weeds that spring up in the fields and endeavor to choke out the legitimate occupants of the soil.

The nutritive value and chemical composition of wheat grain are important points worthy of consideration here, because this general article is to be followed by one upon the culinary aspects of the grain treated. The market value of a flour largely rests upon its appearance, while the nutritive value depends upon the results determined by the analytical chemist. The average of fifty-seven analyses of winter wheat in the kernel gave:

It will be seen that there is very little chemical difference between winter and spring wheats. The composition of the flour shows a removal of nearly all the woody fiber, two thirds of the ash, nearly half the fat and a small reduction of the albuminoids, while the water is somewhat and the carb-hydrates (starch, gum, etc.) considerably increased. It will be interesting to here give an analysis of wheat bran and shorts:

By a comparison of these tables it will be easy to note the positions in the kernel occupied by the various substances. The fiber, ash, fat, and albuminoids are more abundant in the outer portion of the grain, especially the first three. It must be kept in mind that the albuminoids are the most expensive elements of food, and are frequently called the “flesh formers,” because they produce muscles. The starchy compounds are employed for the production of heat in the animal system. The functions and comparative importance of these several constituents are already given at some length in the article on the potato in a previous issue of The Chautauquan.

Rye (Secale cereale).—This grain was grown by the Egyptians and other eastern nations, and its nativity is lost in oblivion. It is of far less importance than wheat, and does not possess any remarkable tendency to vary from its normal type. It has a wider range of growth than wheat, and flourishes in cooler regions than those adapted for most of the other grains. There are both spring and winter varieties. The preparation of the soil, the seeding, harvesting, etc., are much the same as for wheat. It will succeed on a poorer soil and with less attention than wheat. On this account rye was a more important crop in the earlier centuries of the development of the human race than to-day. Rye bread was a daily food among our people in the colonial days, and in some old countries where the soil has been too much worn out for wheat rye is grown successfully. The opening up of various parts of our country by railroads has checked the rye industry, and introduced wheat in its place.

The acreage of rye in the United States in 1880 was 1,842,303 acres, yielding 19,831,595 bushels. The states producing over a million bushels are only five, namely, Pennsylvania, Illinois, New York, Wisconsin, and Iowa. The amount of rye grown in the United States in 1839 was more than that at ten, twenty, or thirty years later. Its cultivation for bread has rapidly decreased, but for other purposes there is an apparent increase. Rye makes an excellent green fodder crop, and is also employed for plowing under as a green manure. The straw is the primary crop in many sections, there being a good market for this excellent product. The chemical composition of rye differs somewhat from that of wheat, being poorer in albuminoids. The wheat flours average 11.09 per cent. of albuminoids, while that of rye is 6.65. Rye bran is, on the other hand, richer in these constituents than wheat. Professor Brewer, to whom we are indebted for many of our percentages here given, says: “These figures are so plain that they scarcely require comment, and they illustrate why fine wheat flour is so much better than fine rye bread, and also why the difference in nutritious qualities between coarse rye bread and fine rye bread is so much greater than between coarse wheat bread and fine wheat bread.” Rye is subject to fungoid attacks, one of which is of special interest—the “spurred” rye, or ergot. The fungus causes the grains to increase to several times their normal size, and become purple, hard and curved, somewhat resembling the spurs of a cock. This ergotted or “spurred” grain is very poisonous. In some parts of Europe, where rye is largely grown, there have been extensive epidemics among the people, caused by eating rye affected with ergot. The insect enemies are nearly the same as those mentioned with wheat.

Corn.—Indian corn, or maize, is the leading grain crop of the United States. The area devoted to this grain for the present year is not far from seventy million acres, and the yield will not fall much short of two thousand million bushels (2,000,000,000). According to the census of 1880, the six following states produced over a hundred million bushels each: Illinois, over three hundred and twenty-five millions; Iowa, over two hundred and seventy-five millions; Missouri, over two hundred and two millions; Indiana, over one hundred and fifteen millions; Ohio, over one hundred and eleven millions, and Kansas over one hundred and five millions. Corn is very generally distributed over the whole country, but it attains its greatest excellence on the rich lands of the western prairies.

There is but little doubt that Indian corn is of American origin. Columbus and other discoverers found it cultivated by the natives of the New World. Since that time Indian corn has been carried to all parts of the globe, and in many places it is grown with profit. The corn plant is botanically Zea mays, and is very unlike any of the other cereals in the arrangement of its flowers. The clusters of male or pollen bearing flowers are at the upper end of the stalk, forming the tassel, while the female flowers are crowded upon a spike situated upon one side of the stalk, midway between the top and the bottom. This separation of the flowers permits of ready cross fertilization; that is, the grains of one ear are very likely to be impregnated with flower-dust showered down from the tassel of a neighboring plant. The truth of this is always demonstrated when two distinct varieties, as white and yellow sorts, are planted in adjoining rows. There will be a “mixing” in nearly every ear along the border line. This ease in crossing permits the farmer to combine the good qualities of desirable sorts; in other words corn may be bred and has been bred as successfully as any kind of live stock. The corn plant also has a very plastic nature, and quickly responds to any favoring conditions of soil, climate or culture. We should therefore expect to find the number of varieties of Indian corn without number. Many attempts have been made to classify the different sorts. A common grouping is into field, sweet, pop and husk sorts. Another is into flint, Tuscarora, dent, and sweet varieties. Some of the leading characteristics in the classification are color of grain, rows on cob, size and form of grain, etc. The field varieties include dents and flints, and are grown in large areas. The sweet corns have a large per cent. of sugar, and are grown for eating in the green condition. The pop corns are small sorts, with a very hard covering. The stalks of corn vary from two to twenty feet in length, and the ears from half an ounce to a pound and a half. The number of rows of grain on the cob is always even, and ranges from four to forty. The grain varies in color; it may be white, yellow, violet, purple, blue, slate, black, or variegated.

A good corn ground is rich, warm, deep and mellow. Unlike the other cereals, the work of culture in the cornfield is only well begun when the plants appear above the surface. Being in rows there is a fine opportunity offered for weeds to come in and occupy the soil before the corn plants make enough growth to defend their rights to the land. The first enemy to the corn is the cut-worm, and the next is the crow. If it were not for the cut-worm it is probable that the crow would rarely visit the corn-field. The crow is the enemy of the cut-worm and many other injurious farm pests. He may pull some corn for two weeks in the year, but during the other fifty he is clearly on the farmer’s side. The weeds are the worst enemies to the corn, and smut comes next. This trouble is, like the wheat rust and the ergot of the rye, a member of the fungus group. The smut appears on various parts of the plant, but usually on the ear. All smutted parts should be cut out and burned, as they are unfit for food, and this prevents the spread of the disease.

The chemical composition of corn is more variable than that of wheat. The following table may be compared with that given for wheat. An average of a large number of analyses is given for each item:

The most striking difference between wheat and corn is the amount of oil or fat. In wheat this ranges from 1.26 to 2.67 per cent., while in corn it averages 5.29, or from two to three times as much. The popular opinion that corn is a heating and fattening food is therefore supported by chemical analyses. It will be seen from the table that the sweet corns contain much more fat and a larger per cent. of albuminoids than the other varieties. These, therefore, have a higher nutritive value. Whatever may have been said in favor of or against either the flint or dent varieties falls to the ground in the light of the average analyses of these classes when brought side by side. It will be seen that the differences are practically nothing. It is only a matter of fancy which is employed. Much has been said concerning color, but this is little more than skin deep, and does not affect the quality of the food derived from the grain. Those families which have become accustomed to yellow corn prefer it, and those using the white sorts like these best. It is a matter of taste, in one sense, and not of taste in another.

Chemistry shows no great difference in the percentage of albuminoids in wheat and corn, but it is a fact that all the differences can not be set down in figures. The housewife knows very well that a light, spongy bread is not easily made from corn; in other words, corn bread is very different in texture from wheat bread, even when the two flours are equally well prepared. Much may be due to the greater amount of oil in the corn, but there is little doubt that the gluten of corn is of a different texture or character than that in wheat. This most important constituent is subject to great variation in wheat, so much so that this grain grown in one locality makes a light bread, while that from another, in the same hands and under the same treatment, yields a heavy bread, and of poor quality. No one doubts that much improvement may be made in the milling of corn—as much, perhaps, as has been recently effected in that of wheat. We may look for a “new process” by which our corn bread may be vastly improved.

Corn is, however, the great fattening food for swine and other live stock, and we should be satisfied to take our corn in that transmuted form when it appears upon our tables as a fragrant spare-rib or a juicy and tender chop or beefsteak.

Of the three grains herein briefly treated we have seen that wheat stands at the head as a food for man in our country. In any form it is prepared it can be a complete and palatable food. The albuminoids (gluten, etc.) are in such abundance and form that the flour may produce snowy, spongy and most healthful bread—truly a staff of life on which all rejoice to lean. Rye is a declining grain, it being replaced by wheat. It will grow on poorer soil than wheat, but with the many kinds of commercial fertilizers at our service no one should grow rye because of an impoverished soil. Corn in all its bearings is a peer of wheat. It is in one sense our contribution to the world’s list of grains, and in this we justly take pride. It is more largely grown than any other crop, and as a source of natural wealth it stands ahead of wheat. As a plant corn is most interesting, being plastic and quickly responsive to any favoring conditions. If corn is king, as some claim, wheat is certainly queen in this royal family of cereals.

BREAD.

BY MRS. EMMA P. EWING.

The first thing to be considered in bread making is the yeast. Without good yeast it is impossible to make good bread. A great deal depends upon the quality of flour used for making bread; but unless the yeast is good the best quality of bread can not be made from the most superior grade of flour, and much excellent flour is spoiled by conjunction with worthless yeast in the attempt to make it into bread.

The compressed yeast, so much used in cities, is, in all respects, the best commercial yeast yet discovered, and when fresh, is perfectly reliable, but can not be obtained conveniently at all times, and in all places. And the housewife who is ambitious to supply her family with good bread should acquaint herself with the best method of making yeast, and have it prepared at home.

To Make Yeast.—Steep an eighth of an ounce of pressed, or a small handful of loose hops in a quart of boiling water for about five minutes. Strain the boiling infusion upon half a pint of flour, stirred to a smooth paste with a little cold water. Mix well, boil a minute; then add one ounce of salt and two ounces of white sugar. When lukewarm stir in a gill of liquid yeast or an ounce cake of compressed yeast dissolved in warm water. Let stand twenty-four hours, stirring occasionally, then cover closely, and set in a cool place. Yeast made in this manner will keep sweet for two weeks in summer, and much longer in winter, and can be used at any time during that period for starting a fresh supply of yeast, as well as for making bread.

The first step in bread making is the preparation of the ferment.

Pour gradually, stirring meanwhile, a quart of boiling water upon half a pint of wheat flour. When the mixture has cooled to about lukewarmness (80°) add a gill of yeast, stir well, cover closely, and let stand till thoroughly light and a mass of white foam. Taste it, and it bites like beer; stir it, and it seems to dance and sparkle with exuberant life, while the odor it emits is strongly alcoholic. Ferment can be kept for several hours after it becomes light and foamy without growing sour, or appearing to deteriorate in any manner. But it is better to use it as soon as it reaches this stage, as it is then undoubtedly at its very best estate. The time required for ferment to grow light, varies from two to six hours, according to the strength of the yeast put in it and the temperature of the place where it stands. When due attention is given to these things, the custom of preparing or “setting” ferment in the evening to be used in bread making the next day is a convenient one; and, as it usually proves satisfactory, is in no way objectionable.

When the ferment is perfectly light, beat vigorously into it about half a pint of flour, cover, and leave to rise. By this addition of flour the ferment is transformed into sponge, which, under favorable conditions, will rise in from half an hour to an hour. As soon as the sponge rises, add more flour, and give it another beating; and so repeat each time it rises, until it gets too stiff to be easily stirred.

The mixture is then dough, and is ready for working or kneading. After it has been kneaded till flour is no longer required to keep it from sticking to the molding board, it is of the proper consistency for bread, and may be divided into four equal parts, molded, or shaped into loaves, and put in greased bread pans to rise for the last time, preparatory to baking; or it may be set to rise in a mass before being divided into loaves.

It is very difficult to decide whether it is better to let the dough rise in a mass or in separate loaves. Bread which rises in a mass appears to be a trifle more elastic and spongy than that which rises in separate loaves; but the latter seems to excel the former in sweetness and delicacy of flavor. In either case the bread will be good.

Two points in this mode of making bread deserve special attention:

1. The flour is added repeatedly after intervals of fermentation, and as it contains fresh food for the yeast, these frequent additions of flour keep the yeast in a vigorous and healthy condition during the entire period of bread making.

2. The fermentation is always arrested in the sponge and dough before it arrives at the exhaustive point; for whenever sponge or dough is allowed to reach its utmost limit of expansion and fall back or “tumble in,” as it invariably does at this crisis, it loses something of excellence that no after labor or attention can restore.

Another method of making bread is to mix the yeast with the wetting, and gradually add flour, working it meanwhile, until the dough is of the proper consistency, when it should be kneaded upon the molding board till smooth and elastic, and then put to rise. Dough may be mixed in this manner late in the evening, and, if not kept in too warm an atmosphere, will be in proper condition for making into loaves, rolls, etc., at an early hour the next morning.

Ferment, sponge and dough are all affected by atmospheric changes, and should be mixed and kept in thick stone or earthen vessels, and covered closely to exclude the air. And care should be taken to keep them at the proper temperature, which is about 75° during the entire process of bread making. Fermentation is arrested at a temperature below 30°, proceeds slowly at 50°, rapidly at 70°, very rapidly at 90°, and can be hastened or retarded, if necessary, by increasing or diminishing the temperature.

The quantity of flour necessary to make dough of the proper consistency for bread depends considerably upon its quality, and varies from two and a half to three measures of flour to one measure of “wetting.” More flour can, however, be added, and the dough made considerably stiffer, without perceptible detriment. Dough for fancy bread and rolls should be quite stiff, so as to retain any desired shape or form. Soft, spongy bread possesses greater delicacy when freshly baked, but appears to lose its moisture and grow stale much sooner than that which is more compact.

The length of time required for kneading or working dough is materially affected by the quality of the flour. Flour exposed to the atmosphere deteriorates quite rapidly, and the moisture it absorbs so impairs the tenacity of its gluten, that bread of the best quality can not be made from it, in spite of all the working and kneading that may be given to the dough. Much less time is required kneading dough made from choice, than from inferior brands of flour.

It is an established fact that dough is rendered tough and elastic by working and kneading; but as the same result can be accomplished sooner and less laboriously by pulling and stretching, it is advisable, in making bread, to pull and stretch as well as to work and knead the dough.

Bread dough may perhaps be kneaded a good deal with advantage, but it is by no means certain that much kneading is absolutely necessary for the production of the best quality of bread. The fermentation, back of the kneading, gives life and force to dough. When this is perfect, dough, in a suitable condition for molding into loaves or rolls, shows a great deal of resisting force. It seems, in fact, to have a will of its own, and its determination to rise is almost irrepressible. You may knead it in the most resolute manner and mold it into a compact ball; but in a short time it will rise, and swell, and spread, until it has doubled in dimensions. You may thrust your fist fiercely into a batch of good dough, but the impression you make upon it is by no means a lasting one. Almost as soon as you draw back your hand it regains elasticity and resumes its original position. This irrepressible spirit in dough is the surest test of its goodness, and when perfectly developed you can do as you please with the dough. You may roll it, or twist it, or plait it, with the greatest ease. You can mold it into any form without trouble. It does not stick to the hands or the molding board. It is in its most amiable mood. It is perfectly docile and obedient except in one respect—it can not be put down and kept down; and any bread dough that can is poor stuff that will never rise to distinction or win admiration.