Chapter V: Front Matter (5)

AGASSIZ, THE TEACHER.

A prominent trait in the character of Agassiz was his dislike of ostentation. This is eminently illustrated in his virtual rejection of all titles. He possessed all the honors that Universities and learned societies could bestow, but made no use of them. On the title page of his great works we find only “Louis Agassiz.” There was, however, one title in which he did take pride—the only one he ever assumed. In his last will he described himself as “Louis Agassiz, teacher.” An intimate personal friend alluding to this, says that “he gloried in the title of schoolmaster, preferring it to that of professor.” He deemed the profession of teacher “the noblest of all professions, but included in that category all good and great minds engaged in disseminating knowledge or in increasing it.”

The desire to know something of his methods and ideas of teaching, is often expressed. His methods were simple, but radically different from prevailing methods. He despised recitations by rote from text-books—allowed the use of books only for reference, and urged the selection of such as were authoritative and the work of original investigators. In teaching Natural History his leading purpose was to stimulate and secure independent observation. A fine illustration of this was given anonymously by one of his pupils, who subsequently became a successful entomologist, in _Every Saturday_, in 1874, which we venture to quote entire, as affording perhaps the best conception of his method:

“It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterward proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoölogy, I purposed to devote myself specially to insects.

“‘When do you wish to begin?’ he asked.

“‘Now,’ I replied.

“This seemed to please him, and with an energetic ‘Very well,’ he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. ‘Take this fish,’ said he, ‘and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen.’

“With that he left me, but in a moment he returned with explicit instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. ‘No man is fit to be a naturalist,’ said he, ‘who does not know how to take care of specimens.’

“I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall the huge, neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish, was infectious, and though this alcohol had ‘a very ancient and fish-like smell,’ I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred precincts, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered that no amount of eau de cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a shadow. In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the Professor, who had, however, left the museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd animals stored in the upper department, my specimen was dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed—an hour—another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free.

“On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum, but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish—and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned. ‘That is right,’ said he; ‘a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked.’

“With these encouraging words, he added: ‘Well, what is it like?’

“He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts whose names were still unknown to me; the fringed gill-arches and movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshy lips, and lidless eyes; the lateral line, the spinous fins, and forked tail; the compressed and arched body. When I had finished he waited as if expecting more, and then, with an air of disappointment:

“‘You have not looked very carefully. Why,’ he continued more earnestly, ‘You haven’t even seen one of the most conspicuous features of the animal, which is as plainly before your eyes as the fish itself; look again, look again!’ and he left me to my misery.

“I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish. But now I set myself to work with a will, and discovered one new thing after another, until I saw how just the Professor’s criticism had been. The afternoon passed quickly, and when, towards its close, the Professor inquired:

“‘Do you see it yet?’

“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am certain I do not—but I see how little I saw before.’

“‘That is next best,’ said he earnestly, ‘but I won’t hear you now; put away your fish and go home; perhaps you will be ready with a better answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish.’

“This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all night, studying, without the object before me, what this unknown but most visible feature might be; but also, without reviewing my new discoveries, I must give an exact account of them the next day. I had a bad memory; so I walked home by Charles River in a distracted state, with my two perplexities.

“The cordial greeting from the Professor the next morning was reassuring; here was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I, that I should see for myself what he saw—‘Do you perhaps mean,’ I asked, ‘that the fish has symmetrical sides with paired organs?’

“His thoroughly pleased ‘Of course, of course!’ repaid the wakeful hours of the previous night. After he had discoursed most enthusiastically—as he always did—upon the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I should do next. ‘Oh, look at your fish!’ he said, and left me again to my own devices.

“In a little more than an hour he returned and heard my new catalogue. ‘That is good, that is good!’ he repeated; ‘but that is not all; go on;’ and so for three long days he placed that fish before my eyes, forbidding me to look at anything else, or to use any artificial aid. ‘Look, look, look,’ was his repeated injunction.

“This was the best entomological lesson I ever had—a lesson whose influence has extended to the details of every subsequent study; a legacy the Professor has left to me, as he has left it to many others, of inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we can not part.

“A year afterward, some of us were amusing ourselves with chalking outlandish beasts upon the museum black-board. We drew prancing star-fishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra-headed worms; stately craw-fishes, standing on their tails, bearing aloft umbrellas; and grotesque fishes with gaping mouths and staring eyes.

“The Professor came in shortly after and was amused as any at our experiments. He looked at the fishes. ‘Hæmulons, every one of them,’ he said; ‘Mr. ⸺ drew them.’

“True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing but Hæmulons. The fourth day a second fish of the same group was placed beside the first, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances and differences between the two; another and another followed, until the entire family lay before me, and a whole legion of jars covered the table and surrounding shelves; the odor had become a pleasant perfume; and even now, the sight of an old, six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant memories!

“The whole group of Hæmulons was thus brought in review; and, whether engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, the preparation and examination of the bony framework, or the description of the various parts, Agassiz’s training in the method of observing facts and their orderly arrangement, was ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not to be content with them. ‘Facts are stupid things,’ he would say, ‘until brought into connection with some general law.’

“At the end of eight months it was almost with reluctance that I left these friends and turned to insects; but what I had gained by this outside experience has been of greater value than years of later investigation in my favorite groups.”

In Prof. Agassiz’s opening lecture to the Anderson School at Penikese some notable sayings occur, a few of which are quoted in further illustration of his ideas. “It is a great mistake to suppose that _any one_ can teach the elements of a science. This is indeed the most difficult part of instruction, and it requires the most mature teachers.”

“Not by a superficial familiarity with many things, but _by a thorough knowledge of a few things_, does any one grow in mental strength and vigor. De Candolle told me that he could teach all he knew with a dozen plants. Unquestionably he could have done it better with so few than with many, certainly for beginners. If a teacher does not require many specimens, so they be well selected, neither should he seek for them far and wide. _Let the pupil find in his daily walks the illustrations and repeated evidence of what he has heard in the school room._ I think there should be a little museum in every school room, some dozen specimens of radiates, a few hundred shells, a hundred insects with some crustacea and worms, a few fishes, birds and mammalia, enough to characterize every class in the animal kingdom. Pupils should be encouraged to find their own specimens, and taught to handle them. This training is of greater value and wider application than it may seem. Delicacy of manipulation, such as the higher kinds of investigation demand requires the whole organization to be brought into harmony with the mental action. The whole nervous system must be in subordination to the intellectual purpose. Even the pulsation of the arteries must not disturb the steadiness of attitude and gaze of the investigator.”

“The study of Nature is a mental struggle for the mastery of the external world. If we do not consider it in this light we shall hardly succeed in the highest aims of the naturalist. It is truly a struggle of man for an intellectual assimilation of the thought of God.”

HIS UNSELFISHNESS.

Another eminent trait in the character of Agassiz was his unselfish devotion to his life-work; the development and dissemination of scientific knowledge. Many anecdotes have been told in illustration of this trait. Every one has read of his reply to a proposition to direct his scientific efforts in a scheme for personal emolument: “_I can not afford to waste my time in making money._” A sentiment perfectly natural to him, but which struck every other mind as something so unique as to be reckoned sublime.

When asked how he contrived to preserve his scientific independence while living in a community which was generally hostile to all opinion which clashed with its theological and political beliefs and passions, he replied: “Why the reason is plain—I never was a quarter of a dollar ahead in the world, and I never expect to be. When a man of science wants money for himself, he may be compelled to subordinate science to public opinion; when he wants money simply for the advancement of science, he gets it somehow, because it is known that not a cent sticks in his own pocket.”

At one time when his museum was in need of money, and he had applied to the legislature of Massachusetts for an appropriation, two intelligent legislators, evidently farmers, who were considering the propriety of voting the sum required, were overheard: “I don’t know much,” said one, “about the value of this museum as a means of education, but of one thing I am certain, that if we give Agassiz the money he wants, _he_ will not make a dollar by it; that’s in his favor.” The appropriation was made—though probably no other man could have been similarly successful.

HIS RELIGIOUS NATURE.

Perhaps the most appreciative analysis of Agassiz’s work and character that has ever been written, appeared in _Harper’s Magazine_ for June, 1879. It was written by E. P. Whipple, his intimate friend for over thirty years. In this most admirable article will be found a just estimate of Agassiz’s religious views. The author says: “No justice can be done to Agassiz which does not recognize the deep religiousness of his nature.” Agassiz is represented as using the following words: “I will frankly tell you that my experience in prolonged scientific investigation convinces me that a belief in God—a God who is behind and within the chaos of ungeneralized facts beyond the present vanishing points of human knowledge—adds a wonderful stimulus to the man who attempts to penetrate into the region of the unknown. For myself I may say that I now never make the preparations for penetrating into some small province of nature hitherto undiscovered without breathing a prayer to the Being who hides his secrets from me only to allure me graciously on to the unfolding of them. I sometimes hear preachers speak of the sad condition of men who live without God in the world, but a scientist who lives without God in the world seems to me worse off than ordinary men.”

The same author says: “Of one thing I am sure, he had a deep conviction, as strong as that of Augustine, or Bernard, or Luther, or Edwards, or Wesley, or Channing, that there were means of communication between the Divine and the human mind.”

HISTORY OF THE GLACIAL THEORY, AS TOLD BY AGASSIZ.

As a geologist the name of Agassiz will always be associated with what is known in scientific parlance as “The Glacial Theory of Drift.” This was first advanced by him, and by him was it triumphantly sustained. The history of the growth and development of this important thought in his mind, is worthy of attention—both because of its intrinsic interest and importance and because it is an exhibition of the methods of research, scientific insight and powers of generalization characteristic of Agassiz.

It is given here substantially as he gave it at the Anderson School at Penikese. This theory proposes to account for the huge boulders that are so profusely scattered over the surface of the continent north of the 40th parallel of latitude—and for all the gravel beds that are found in the same localities, by assuming that during a comparatively recent geological period the continents were covered with ice many thousand feet in thickness, moving from the poles toward the equator—as glaciers move down the Alps and other mountain regions, and doing the same kind of work on a larger scale. This daring conception was received at first by scientific men almost with contempt and derision—but is now generally accepted.

Glaciers are accumulations of ice, descending by gravity combined with other forces and conditions, down mountain slopes, along valleys, from snow-covered elevations. They are streams or rivers of ice varying in depth from a few hundred to thousands of feet. They are fed by the snows and frozen mist of regions above the limits of perpetual snow. They stretch far below the limit of perpetual snow, because their masses are too thick to be melted by the heat of the summer.

Some of them reach down to the very orchards and the grain fields and the blooming gardens of the valley; remaining all summer long within a few hundred feet of the homes and cultivated fields of the inhabitants. They bear upon their bosom vast streams of stones and rocks that have fallen from the mountain slopes or have been torn from their places by the movement of the glaciers. These they carry to their termination and deposit in the valleys. These accumulations of stones, often many square miles in extent and hundreds of feet in thickness, are called moraines. Glaciers are not confined to mountain lands. Their domain is rather in the polar regions, where vast masses of ice accumulate and move forward by the same laws and in obedience to the same forces that govern the formation and movement of mountain glaciers. They produce similar effects, only upon a far grander scale.

The summer of 1836 Agassiz passed at the foot of the Alps with his old friend Charpentier, who was familiar with the geology of Switzerland and had devoted a great deal of his time to the study of the glaciers. Charpentier had been told by the shepherds of the Alps that the glaciers had brought down the rocks that were scattered through the valleys. The scientists had previously believed them to have been transported by water. Venetz, a Swiss civil engineer, told him that the peasants were right, and the scientists wrong. “Upon this hint we acted,” said Agassiz, “and together we went to ascertain the facts.” Many of the leading geologists of the time believed with Werner, of Freiburg, Saxony, that the loose unstratified material upon the surface of the earth should be referred to the Noachian deluge as a sufficient explanation. From this belief these phenomena were called Diluvium, or drift. Others, with Hutton and Playfair, of Edinburgh, maintained that all rocks were derived in one way or another by the agency of heat. That great master, Leopold von Buch, soon showed that both were right, in part. “Von Buch,” said Agassiz, “was a wonderful man—one of the great original investigators—a man of indomitable perseverance. He traveled all over Europe on foot, to study its geology. I have known him to go from Berlin to Stockholm for the sake of comparing a single fossil with one there—or to start to St. Petersburg with only an extra pair of socks in his pocket.” Yet he was a German nobleman, and was welcome at the Emperor’s court—though an exceedingly modest and humble man. Geology owes its present form to Leopold von Buch, and to no one else. He was a pupil of Werner, but had discarded Werner’s errors. In his travels in Scandinavia he laid the foundation of geology as now known and understood. He had noticed the loose boulders all over the sides of the mountains, and in the valleys of Switzerland, to the Jura. He explained them by assuming that formerly there were large lakes high up in the Alps, that had broken their barriers and rushed down the mountains, carrying every thing with them and sweeping the materials over an extensive territory. This opinion was received as final, and the matter rested. Agassiz upon investigation, began to doubt, and soon satisfied himself that the boulders were in positions in which they could not have been placed by water. Charpentier and Venetz, from the hint of the Alpine shepherds, had concluded that all the phenomena were produced by the Alpine glaciers. Agassiz agreed with them only so far as the range of Switzerland was concerned. But there were boulders outside of Switzerland, beyond its valleys and mountains, that were of such materials as were not found in the Alps. Germany was covered with them clear up to the shores of the Baltic. Agassiz had observed them in France, and was told that boulders of the same kind were abundant in Scandinavia. “Then,” said Agassiz, “_it dawned upon me that there might once have been glaciers in countries where they are not now found, and they might have extended much farther than any we know of now_.”

Surely this was a moment of inspiration—the first glimpse of the light which has since become clear and perfect day. So Agassiz conceived the idea of studying the glaciers, and went to work. In prosecuting his investigations he passed nine successive summer vacations upon the surface of the glaciers of the Alps, devoting his entire time to this one object. During one season he slept seventy-one consecutive nights upon the ice, under the stars. He said, “I studied glaciers to see how they were made; to see how they worked; what they did, and what effects they produced upon the countries where found. I was soon familiar with the condition of the surfaces under a glacier. I saw that they are smoothed, polished, grooved, scratched—as though a gigantic file had moved across them. I compared their effects with those produced by the action of water on rocks, in rivers, on the sea shore, in all sorts of places and conditions, and I found that wherever water was at work the surface of rocks was acted upon in a manner entirely different from that of ice. Ice acts like a plane; water wears into ruts. Pebbles by the motion of water are smoothed and rounded, but never polished. The effects are produced by pounding and not by rubbing. But when ice moves over a solid surface the moving mass between would be rolled, rubbed and polished. Scratches will be made, rectilinear in direction, if the mass moves continuously in one direction. The pebbles are found not only polished, but also themselves scratched. In this way I learned to discriminate between loose pebbles formed by water and those formed by ice. I next noticed that erratic boulders were found to be always associated with scratched materials, and lay over the surface, scratched. The materials were not stratified, as were river deposits, but piled pell mell together. Satisfied with the correctness of my observations in southern Europe, I asked myself whether any other country, England, for example, in which there was no suspicion of glaciers ever having existed, would exhibit the same phenomena. In 1840 I went to England with this idea in view.

“It was said, ‘Agassiz has gone to England on a glacier hunt,’ and I was laughed at all over Europe. There were at that time many harsh discussions going on between scientific men and others, and much heart-burning among the scientists themselves. But all geologists were satisfied, and agreed that the drift materials were all produced by the agency of water. Leopold von Buch, the veteran, was the leader in this opinion. So by my assertion that the drift had never been touched by water, I had offended the great master, and I was only a boy, and had only my convictions. _But I knew from my own investigations that I was right_, and I fought my way, not by argument or prevailing influence, but by evidence. In 1838, two years before my trip to England, I requested Dr. Buckland, of Oxford, to come over and see me in Switzerland, and allow me to show him the evidence of my convictions. Buckland was Professor of Geology in Oxford University, author of the Bridgewater treatise on geology, and afterward Dean of Westminster. He accepted my invitation and became satisfied that the holders of the old opinions had not seen all the facts—that the water theory, in short, was erroneous. I found in him the first friend ready to investigate and explore. So when I went to England in 1840 I readily induced him to accompany me in my journey. In company with him I traveled over most of that country and Scotland. The morning on which we approached the castle of the Duke of Argyle is one I never shall forget, for as we looked from the top of the coach upon the valley in which the castle lay, reminding me so strongly of some of the familiar landscapes of Switzerland, I said to Dr. Buckland: ‘Here we shall find our first indications of glaciers;’ _and we actually had to ride over glacial moraines_ to reach the castle. We traveled over nearly the whole of Great Britain, and I made a geological map of the island to which, I think, not much has since been added. Everywhere I found abundant evidence of glaciers, everywhere scratched surfaces, covered with scratched boulders. Moraines piled up, and elevations swept. _Then I did not hesitate to go beyond my facts, and generalize_; and my generalization was this: As all mountain centers, all high lands, constitute centers around which erratic boulders are scattered, and as in that country, these mountain centers are now all below the snow-line—that is, the line of perpetual snow—there must have been a colder climate, _and glaciers must have existed upon mountains now below the line of perpetual snow_. But this is true not only of England, but also of other countries. All boulders come from their own mountain centers, and similar phenomena are found in many parts of Europe, and on the other continents. There are also still more telling facts. There are spaces, now impassable, intervening between the drift boulders and their origin, that must have been bridged over by ice. There are boulders in Great Britain that must have come from Scandinavia across the North Sea. Those which are spread over northern Germany also came from Scandinavia, as is proven by the fossils they contain, and must therefore have crossed the Baltic Sea. These and similar facts lead to a broader generalization. _There was a time when the whole globe was very much colder than now, when a great geological winter spread over the whole earth._ This period I called the glacial period. It was anterior to our present state of things, but subsequent to a period much warmer than now.” That the age immediately preceding, which geology calls the Tertiary, was much warmer, is proven by the fact that the remains of tropical animals are scattered all over the American continent. Elephants, rhinoceroses, tigers, camels, and many other tropical animals roamed over the northern parts of the continent. They are all gone, and over their remains, and covering the continent everywhere from Baffin’s Bay to Cape Horn, are the erratic boulders and the drift. An examination of the drift phenomena of North America led Agassiz to the conclusion that during this succeeding geological winter our continent was covered by a sheet of ice many thousands of feet—not less than a mile—in thickness.

Such is a brief account of the history of the inception and growth of this now well known theory. From 1837 to 1840 no geologist was bold enough to admit its truth; now no one is bold enough to deny it, except in unimportant particulars. It has stood the test of years of violent controversy. It stands now among the established facts of science. “In some recent geological writings,” says Dr. Thomas Hill, “it is assumed as a doctrine accepted from time immemorial, yet we all know that forty-five years ago Agassiz was the only man who had ever peered into the silent desert of that new thought.” Sir Roderick Murchison, the great English geologist, once said of the glacial theory: “I have been for twenty years opposing Agassiz’s views, and now I find that I have been for twenty years opposing the truth.” The establishment of this theory has a significance not thought of originally by its propounder. In one of his lectures on Brazil he thus states the case: “If this doctrine be true, you see at once how this intense cold must have modified the surface of the globe, to the extent of excluding life from its surface—of interrupting the normal course of the vital phenomena, and preparing the surface of the earth for the new creation which now exists upon it. I attach great importance in a philosophical point of view to the study of this ice period; because, if demonstrated that such was once the condition of our earth, it will follow that the doctrine of transmutation of species, and of the descent of animals that live now, from those of past days, is cut at the root by this winter, which put an end to all living beings on the surface of the globe.”

* * * * *

Archbishop Usher, when crossing the Channel from Ireland to England, was wrecked on some part of the coast of Wales. After having reached the shore, he made the best of his way to the house of a clergyman, who resided not far from the spot on which he was cast. Without communicating his exalted station, the archbishop introduced himself as a brother clergyman in distress, and stated the particulars of his misfortune. The Cambrian divine, suspecting his unknown visitor to be an impostor, gave him no very courteous reception, and said: “I dare say, you can’t tell me how many commandments there are?” “There are eleven,” replied the archbishop, very meekly. “Repeat the eleventh,” rejoined the other, “and I will relieve your distress.” “Then _you_ will put the commandment in practice,” answered the primate: “A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another.”

TRAINED NURSES.

By LULIE W. WINCHESTER.

It is my purpose in this paper to explain the duties of a nurse, and above all to endeavor to influence those of my sisters who are asking the old question, “What can I do?” to enter this field of usefulness, and make honored and helpful places for themselves in the ranks of this profession. It seems to me that the mission of the physician and nurse is more closely allied than any other, to that of our Savior, who went about doing good, who came not to be ministered unto but to minister, who walked throughout Judea, Samaria and Galilee, laying his hand on the poor, sick and oppressed, with its life and health-giving touch.

The Bellevue Hospital Training School in New York City is the pioneer, being the first one established in the United States. It was commenced as an experiment in 1873 with six nurses, and has succeeded so well as to now accommodate sixty, who have the charge of fourteen wards. It is the largest, and in many respects the best, offering a greater variety of disease, and therefore giving the nurses more knowledge and experience in the treatment of the various ills to which humanity is subjected. Soon after the establishment of this school a similar one was started in St. Catharines, Canada, by the late well-known Dr. Mack. He sent to England for three trained nurses who took charge of the school at the General and Marine Hospital. It was very small at first, but now accommodates fifteen or twenty nurses. For a long time it was the only school in Canada, but within the last few years one has been established in Toronto. The course of training at the St. Catharines school is somewhat longer than in others, viz.: Three months on probation, and a term of three years, with a monthly salary and house and street uniform provided.

The school at the Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston is widely known for its excellence, as also the Buffalo General Hospital School. In San Francisco there is but one small school at the Women’s and Children’s Hospital on Thirteenth Street. Indeed, it is the only one on the coast, and finds employment but for six or eight nurses. It seems strange that such an enterprising city as San Francisco should not take more decided steps toward the establishment of a larger school, with more variety in nursing. But it is a work that will grow and spread as the necessity for skillful nursing becomes more apparent. In all these schools the term is about the same, a month on probation, and a two years’ course, with a monthly salary and house uniform, which is usually a seersucker dress, long full white apron, and dainty white muslin or linen cap.

The training consists of lectures by the medical staff and superintendent, on anatomy, physiology, hygiene, and the general principles of nursing, the observation and recording of symptoms, the diet of the sick, and the best methods of managing helpless patients. Instruction is given in the wards on the dressing of wounds, the application of blisters, fomentations, poultices, cups and leeches; the use of catheters and administration of enemas, methods of applying friction, bandaging, making beds, changing and drawing sheets, moving patients and preventing bed-sores, and the application of trusses and uterine appliances.

At the end of the term examinations are held, and the successful ones receive their diplomas. Some choose to follow the vocation of private nurses, others seek a position as head nurse in some institution, while others are by their superior intelligence and education to become in their turn superintendents of other training schools.

The qualifications necessary for a young woman to procure entrance on probation are a sound constitution, no defects in either hearing or sight, a common school education, and a good moral character. Certificates of the above must be presented—that of health from a physician.

Exceptions are sometimes made in the matter of sight and hearing, as for instance, one nurse in the institution I was connected with, was totally deaf in one ear; the other was perfectly well, however, and she was a very successful nurse. There were several who were obliged to wear glasses, but did not seem at all unfitted for their duties. But generally the rules are strict, as must needs be, in order to keep up the good name and reputation of a school.

Other qualifications are also indispensable in order to become a good nurse, although they are not always specified in the demands. Gentleness in manner, voice, touch and footstep is important. What is more annoying than a sharp, impatient voice, heavy step and touch? The poor patient’s nerves are all set on edge by such an attendant. I remember one poor woman in my ward, wasted almost to a skeleton with consumption, who asked me once while bathing her, what another nurse’s occupation had been before entering the hospital. She said the nurse was kind-hearted enough, but oh! so loud and hard and heavy about everything. I replied that I believed she had worked on a farm in the old country. “I thought so,” said the patient, “it seems as if she were more used to handling animals than human beings; she bathes me like she was rubbing down a horse or scrubbing the kitchen table.” And that is true of many. There is nothing more soothing than a light, delicate, but firm touch in handling invalids.

Another thing to be cultivated is an even temper. Remember that an invalid is hardly to be considered a responsible person, no more so than a child, so bear all his whims and caprices with cheerfulness and equanimity. A bright, cheerful, sunny nurse or doctor is often better than medicine. I do not mean constant joking and laughing, but a prevailing atmosphere of sunshine.

They are blessed indeed who are born with a bright, hopeful nature. But it can be cultivated—I know from experience—by dwelling in constant communion with Him who is the light of the world.

Another thing that Miss Nightingale lays great stress upon is the habit of observation. A nurse should be quick to notice all changes in the temperature, respiration and appetite of the patient, together with numerous other changes and variations which can not here be mentioned. A quick, observing nurse, is an invaluable aid to a physician. This faculty is natural in a great many persons, and it may be cultivated.

In attending private cases the nurse must take great heed to her ways, not to be too forward or talkative, and above all to guard sacredly all family matters which may come under her observation.

The motto of the ancient Spartans at their public dinners, “No word spoken here, goes out there” (the door), might well be adopted by her. Of all things, a gossiping nurse is most odious, and she soon loses her reputation.

Here is the routine for one day at the hospital I was employed in: The nurses rise at six, dress, and put their rooms in order, and hurry down to breakfast, which is served at half-past six. At seven they are in their wards, to relieve the night nurses. The first thing is to serve breakfast; after that is cleared away comes the bathing of helpless patients, and making the beds; then the long ward is swept twice from top to bottom, and every thing picked up, dusted, and put straight. Wounds are then dressed and medicines given out, and all is ready for the doctor’s visit at ten. After that comes the milk or beef-tea lunch for those who require it, and general waiting on and attending to the various wants of the patients (which are always numerous, whether real or fancied). Dinner is served in the ward at half-past twelve, and half an hour later for the nurses. After dinner more medicines are given out, and the time is filled with the general attendance, for of course some patients need a great deal more care than others; fomentations and poultices must be applied, the bed of a restless patient re-made, a broken limb bathed and re-bandaged, etc. Supper comes at half-past five, and after that the night work begins, making the beds smooth and comfortable for the poor, tired bodies, giving out medicines, and putting the wards straight for the house physician’s visit. The head nurse goes from bed to bed with him, giving a report of each patient, that suitable directions may be given the night nurse. At eight o’clock the nurses go off duty, tired perhaps, but happy in the consciousness that they have done their best. Every nurse has an hour off during the day, for rest or exercise in the open air, with an afternoon once a week.

And now let me appeal to the female portion of the tens of thousands of readers of THE CHAUTAUQUAN, at least to those of them who want a vocation. Will you not take up this work? You will find a rich reward in so doing, not only financially (though it is a paying business), but the gladness and content you will feel in doing your share toward relieving the suffering and distress in this world will amply repay you for the hard and disagreeable part of your labor—for it has its disagreeable side, I admit. No one has greater opportunities for doing good than the loyal, consecrated Christian nurse. Just think of the many cups of cold water that can be given, the sweet word of Scripture that can be whispered in the ear of some sufferer, to prove a soft and comforting pillow for his weary head. Think of the bread of life it will be your privilege to break and distribute to the helpless and needy. Think of the dying who can be pointed upward, and led to place their trust in Him who is the Resurrection and the Life. If you have a talent for music, it can be used to advantage in the hospital ward. There is no limit to the opportunities you will find opening before you. We can not all be Florence Nightingales or Sister Doras, but we can be our best selves.

EIGHT CENTURIES WITH WALTER SCOTT.

By WALLACE BRUCE.

“Woodstock” closed with the return of Charles the Second from long exile, and his hearty reception _en route_ from the cliffs of Dover to London. “Peveril of the Peak” opens with a mixed assembly of Presbyterians and Cavaliers convened at Martindale Castle in honor of “The Blessed Restoration of His most Sacred Majesty.”

As might be premised, the gathering is not entirely harmonious. By wise foresight they are constrained to enter the castle by different gates, and to take their repast in different rooms. In this prologue to the story the reader notes the art with which Scott illustrates history. “By different routes, and forming each a sort of a procession, as if the adherents of each party were desirous of exhibiting its strength and numbers, the two several factions approached the castle; and so distinct did they appear in dress, aspect and manners, that it seemed as if the revelers of a bridal party, and the sad attendants upon a funeral solemnity, were moving toward the same point from different quarters. The Puritan party consisted chiefly of the middling gentry, with others whom industry or successful speculations in commerce or in mining had raised into eminence—the persons who feel most umbrage from the over-shadowing aristocracy, and are usually the most vehement in defense of what they hold to be their rights. Their dress was in general studiously simple and unostentatious, or only remarkable by the contradictory affectation of extreme simplicity or carelessness. The dark color of their cloaks, varying from absolute black to what was called sad-colored, their steeple-crowned hats, with their broad shadowy brims, their long swords, suspended by a simple strap around the loins, without shoulder-belt, sword-knot, plate, buckles, or any of the other decorations with which the Cavaliers loved to adorn their trusty rapiers—the shortness of their hair, which made their ears appear of disproportioned size—above all the stern and gloomy gravity of their looks, announced their belonging to that class of enthusiasts, who, resolute and undismayed, had cast down the former fabric of government, and who now regarded with somewhat more than suspicion that which had been so unexpectedly substituted in its stead.”

The paragraph in which Scott portrays the Cavalier is none the less graphic: “If the Puritan was affectedly plain in his dress, and ridiculously precise in his manners, the Cavalier often carried his love of ornament into tawdry finery, and his contempt of hypocricy into licentious profligacy. Gay, gallant fellows, young and old, thronged together toward the ancient castle. Feathers waved, lace glittered, spears jingled, steeds caracoled; and here and there a petronel or pistol was fired off by some one, who found his own natural talents for making a noise inadequate to the dignity of the occasion. Boys halloo’d and whooped, ‘Down with the Rump,’ and ‘Fie upon Oliver!’ The revelry of the Cavaliers may be easily conceived, since it had the usual accompaniments of singing, jesting, quaffing of healths, and playing of tunes, which have in almost every age and quarter of the world been the accompaniments of festive cheer. The enjoyments of the Puritans were of a different and less noisy character. They neither sung, jested, heard music, nor drank healths; and yet they seemed none the less, in their own phrase, to enjoy the creature-comforts which the frailty of humanity rendered grateful to their outward man.”

It seems almost marvelous that Scott, who loved rank and ancestral dignity, could lay aside his prejudices and speak so eloquently and fairly of the Puritan. His history of Napoleon is generally regarded unfair and distorted; and it could hardly have been otherwise following so closely upon the great triumph of Wellington; but we, as Americans and descendants of those who gave up home and comfort to establish a free government, have reason to feel grateful that the greatest novelist, or, if that is objected to by any of our readers, the greatest historical novelist that Britain has produced, was born and reared with an unprejudiced mind.

It may seem strange to the reader of history to find the Cavalier and the strict Presbyterian, so different in principle, now hand in hand in policy; but the reader must remember that the party which brought Charles to the block consisted of two factors, styled by the haughty Countess of Derby with indignant sarcasm: “Varieties of the same monster, for the Presbyterians hallooed while the others hunted, and bound the victims whom the Independents massacred.” Misery according to Shakspere makes a person acquainted with strange bedfellows; and the politics of those days made England acquainted with strange coalitions. One choice only remained to that distracted nation—Charles the Second or the rule of the army; and to the common sense of discordant factions a solid government seemed preferable to anarchy. To the sensible Presbyterian the divine right of kings was better than the less divine right of petty leaders. The Independents, so powerful under Cromwell, were weak under the government of his son Richard. The people demanded a free Parliament, and a free Parliament meant the restoration of the Stuarts. As Macaulay tersely puts it: “A united army had long kept down a divided nation; but the nation was now united and the army was divided.”

Scott, also, in passing, refers to the ejection of the Presbyterian clergy, which took place on St. Bartholomew’s day, when two thousand Presbyterian pastors were displaced and silenced throughout England; even in church matters the rule held good—that the spoils belonged to the victors: the great Baxter, Reynolds and Calamy refused bishoprics, and many ministers declined deaneries, preferring starvation and a clear conscience to the wealth and flattery of a corrupt court.

Five years pass by and we are transported with Julian Peveril, son of the old knight, from the peaks of northern Derbyshire, which form the water-shed of central England, to the picturesque island of Man, the origin of whose name is still a mystery, whose ruins carry the visitor back beyond the legends of King Arthur and the dominion of the Romans to the dim twilight days of the Druids. To this strong sea-girded fortress the brave Countess of Derby fled after the execution of her husband at Bolton le Moor, and she has left in history a character for courage and hardihood allied to cruelty, in the execution of Edward Christian, who in her absence had yielded up the island to the Parliament forces. It is here that the young Peveril dreams away his boyhood, sharing his studies and recreations with the son of the Countess.