Month: December 2014

The Development of the Intellect

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING
THE MENTAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE HUMAN BEING
IN THE FIRST YEARS OF LIFE

BY
W. PREYER
PROFESSOR OF PHYSIOLOGY IN JENA

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL GERMAN
By H. W. BROWN
TEACHER IN THE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL AT WORCESTER, MASS.

NEW YORK

1895

hero3

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

knightsdream

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING
THE MENTAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE HUMAN BEING
IN THE FIRST YEARS OF LIFE

BY
W. PREYER
PROFESSOR OF PHYSIOLOGY IN JENA

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL GERMAN
By H. W. BROWN
TEACHER IN THE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL AT WORCESTER, MASS.

NEW YORK

1895

 brain

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

knightsdream

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

OBSERVATIONS CONCERNING
THE MENTAL DEVELOPMENT OF THE HUMAN BEING
IN THE FIRST YEARS OF LIFE

BY
W. PREYER
PROFESSOR OF PHYSIOLOGY IN JENA

TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL GERMAN
By H. W. BROWN
TEACHER IN THE STATE NORMAL SCHOOL AT WORCESTER, MASS.

NEW YORK

1895

 brain

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

knightsdream

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

Dreams

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

hero4

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

knightsdream

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

 

An early analysis of the effect of dreams on our sub/unconsciousness. Excerpt below:

The subject which I have to discuss here is so complex, it raises so many questions of all kinds, difficult, obscure, some psychological, others physiological and metaphysical; in order to be treated in a complete manner it requires such a long development—and we have so little space, that I shall ask your permission to dispense with all preamble, to set aside unessentials, and to go at once to the heart of the question.

A dream is this. I perceive objects and there is nothing there. I see men; I seem to speak to them and I hear what they answer; there is no one there and I have not spoken. It is all as if real things and real persons were there, then on waking all has disappeared, both persons and things. How does this happen?

knightsdream

But, first, is it true that there is nothing there? I mean, is there not presented a[Pg 16] certain sense material to our eyes, to our ears, to our touch, etc., during sleep as well as during waking?

Close the eyes and look attentively at what goes on in the field of our vision. Many persons questioned on this point would say that nothing goes on, that they see nothing. No wonder at this, for a certain amount of practise is necessary to be able to observe oneself satisfactorily. But just give the requisite effort of attention, and you will distinguish, little by little, many things. First, in general, a black background. Upon this black background occasionally brilliant points which come and go, rising and descending, slowly and sedately. More often, spots of many colors, sometimes very dull, sometimes, on the contrary, with certain people, so brilliant that reality cannot compare with it. These spots spread and shrink, changing form and color, constantly displacing one another. Sometimes the change is slow and gradual, sometimes again it is a whirlwind of vertiginous rapidity. Whence comes all this phantasmagoria? The physiologists and[Pg 17] the psychologists have studied this play of colors. “Ocular spectra,” “colored spots,” “phosphenes,” such are the names that they have given to the phenomenon. They explain it either by the slight modifications which occur ceaselessly in the retinal circulation, or by the pressure that the closed lid exerts upon the eyeball, causing a mechanical excitation of the optic nerve. But the explanation of the phenomenon and the name that is given to it matters little. It occurs universally and it constitutes—I may say at once—the principal material of which we shape our dreams, “such stuff as dreams are made on.”

knightsdream

Thirty or forty years ago, M. Alfred Maury and, about the same time, M. d’Hervey, of St. Denis, had observed that at the moment of falling asleep these colored spots and moving forms consolidate, fix themselves, take on definite outlines, the outlines of the objects and of the persons which people our dreams. But this is an observation to be accepted with caution, since it emanates from psychologists already half asleep. More recently an[Pg 18] American psychologist, Professor Ladd, of Yale, has devised a more rigorous method, but of difficult application, because it requires a sort of training. It consists in acquiring the habit on awakening in the morning of keeping the eyes closed and retaining for some minutes the dream that is fading from the field of vision and soon would doubtless have faded from that of memory. Then one sees the figures and objects of the dream melt away little by little into phosphenes, identifying themselves with the colored spots that the eye really perceives when the lids are closed. One reads, for example, a newspaper; that is the dream. One awakens and there remains of the newspaper, whose definite outlines are erased, only a white spot with black marks here and there; that is the reality. Or our dream takes us upon the open sea—round about us the ocean spreads its waves of yellowish gray with here and there a crown of white foam. On awakening, it is all lost in a great spot, half yellow and half gray, sown with brilliant points. The spot was there, the brill[Pg 19]iant points were there. There was really presented to our perceptions, in sleep, a visual dust, and it was this dust which served for the fabrication of our dreams.

Lessons in Music Form

Subtitle: A Manual of Analysis. This is for all the music theory lovers out there! Details in the excerpt:

hero5hero5

 

[Illustration: Example 2. Fragment of Beethoven.]

Compare the groups marked a and b, and observe how the principles of unity and variety are both active in these four measures, and how their effect is heightened by the formation of c.

(5) The figures of the accompaniment, though reproduced in uniform rhythmic values and melodic direction, undergo constant modifications in pitch and in shape, similar, to those shown in Ex. 2. See, again, No. 37 of the Songs Without Words and note the changes in the formation of the otherwise uniform six-tone groups.

 

LESSON 1.—The student is to study this chapter thoroughly, and write answers to the following questions; if possible, without reference to the text:—

1. What does Form in music mean?

2. Define the conditions which constitute good form.

3. When is a composition faulty in form?

4. What do discriminating listeners recognize in music?

5. What is the difference between the sounds of music and those of language?

6. How does this prove the necessity of form?

7. By what is the presence of form in music shown?

8. What is the beat?

9. What is the measure?

10. By what means are the measures indicated, (1) to the reader; (2) to the listener?

11. To what does the further multiplication of the beats give rise?

12. What are cadences?

13. What purpose do they serve in music?

14. What is the best general name for a melody?

15. What object does it fulfil in music form?

 

16. What are the two vital requisites upon which the enjoyment of an art creation depends?

17. What purpose does Unity serve?

18. What purpose does Variety serve?

19. What is the great problem of the art-creator?

20. Define the conditions that confirm the principle of unity in music.

21. Define the evidences of variety in music.

 

Subtitle: A Manual of Analysis. This is for all the music theory lovers out there! Details in the excerpt:

beethoven

 

[Illustration: Example 2. Fragment of Beethoven.]

Compare the groups marked a and b, and observe how the principles of unity and variety are both active in these four measures, and how their effect is heightened by the formation of c.

(5) The figures of the accompaniment, though reproduced in uniform rhythmic values and melodic direction, undergo constant modifications in pitch and in shape, similar, to those shown in Ex. 2. See, again, No. 37 of the Songs Without Words and note the changes in the formation of the otherwise uniform six-tone groups.

Subtitle: A Manual of Analysis. This is for all the music theory lovers out there! Details in the excerpt:

beethoven

 

[Illustration: Example 2. Fragment of Beethoven.]

Compare the groups marked a and b, and observe how the principles of unity and variety are both active in these four measures, and how their effect is heightened by the formation of c.

(5) The figures of the accompaniment, though reproduced in uniform rhythmic values and melodic direction, undergo constant modifications in pitch and in shape, similar, to those shown in Ex. 2. See, again, No. 37 of the Songs Without Words and note the changes in the formation of the otherwise uniform six-tone groups.

Subtitle: A Manual of Analysis. This is for all the music theory lovers out there! Details in the excerpt:

beethoven

 

[Illustration: Example 2. Fragment of Beethoven.]

Compare the groups marked a and b, and observe how the principles of unity and variety are both active in these four measures, and how their effect is heightened by the formation of c.

(5) The figures of the accompaniment, though reproduced in uniform rhythmic values and melodic direction, undergo constant modifications in pitch and in shape, similar, to those shown in Ex. 2. See, again, No. 37 of the Songs Without Words and note the changes in the formation of the otherwise uniform six-tone groups.

 

Life of Chopin

An excellent account of the famed composer, most known for his piano pieces. Excert below:

chopin

To a people, always prompt in its recognition of genius, and ready to sympathize in the joys and woes of a truly great artist, this work will be one of exceeding interest. It is a short, glowing, and generous sketch, from the hand of Franz Liszt, (who, considered in the double light of composer and performer, has no living equal,) of the original and romantic Chopin; the most ethereal, subtle, and delicate among our modern tone-poets. It is a rare thing for a great artist to write on art, to leave the passionate worlds of sounds or colors for the colder realm of words; rarer still for him to abdicate, even temporarily, his own throne, to stand patiently and hold aloft the blazing torch of his own genius, to illume the gloomy grave of another: yet this has Liszt done through love for Chopin.

It is a matter of considerable interest to note how the nervous and agile fingers, accustomed to sovereign rule over the keys, handle the pen; how the musician feels as a man; how he estimates art and artists. Liszt is a man of extensive culture, vivid imagination, and great knowledge of the world; and, in addition to their high artistic value, his lines glow with poetic fervor, with impassioned eloquence.

His musical criticisms are refined and acute, but without repulsive technicalities or scientific terms, ever sparkling with the poetic ardor of the generous soul through which the discriminating, yet appreciative awards were poured. Ah! in these days of degenerate rivalries and bitter jealousies, let us welcome a proof of affection so tender as his “Life of Chopin”!

It would be impossible for the reader of this book to remain ignorant of the exactions of art. While, through its eloquence and subtle analysis of character, it appeals to the cultivated literary tastes of our people, it opens for them a dazzling perspective into that strange world of tones, of whose magical realm they know, comparatively speaking, so little. It is intelligible to all who think or feel; requiring no knowledge of music for its comprehension.

The compositions of Chopin are now the mode, the rage. Every one asks for them, every one tries to play them. We have, however, but few remarks upon the peculiarities of his style, or the proper manner of producing his works. His compositions, generally perfect in form, are never abstract conceptions, but had their birth in his soul, sprang from the events of his life, and are full of individual and national idiosyncrasies, of psychological interest.

Liszt knew Chopin both as man and artist; Chopin loved to hear him interpret his music, and himself taught the great Pianist the mysteries of his undulating rhythm and original motifs. The broad and noble criticisms contained in this book are absolutely essential for the musical culture of the thousands now laboriously but vainly struggling to perform his elaborate works, and who, having no key to their multiplied complexities of expression, frequently fail in rendering them aright.

And the masses in this country, full of vivid perception and intelligent curiosity, who, not playing themselves, would yet fain follow with the heart compositions which they are told are of so much artistic value, will here find a key to guide them through the tuneful labyrinth. Some of Chopin’s best works are analyzed herein. He wrote for the HEART OF HIS PEOPLE; their joys, sorrows, and caprices are immortalized by the power of his art.

He was a strictly national tone-poet, and to understand him fully, something must be known of the brave and haughty, but unhappy country which he so loved. Liszt felt this, and has been exceedingly happy in the short sketch given of Poland. We actually know more of its picturesque and characteristic customs after a perusal of his graphic pages, than after a long course of dry historical details.

His remarks on the Polonaise and Mazourka are full of the philosophy and essence of history. These dances grew directly from the heart of the Polish people; repeating the martial valor and haughty love of noble exhibition of their men; the tenderness, devotion, and subtle coquetry of their women—they were of course favorite forms with Chopin; their national character made them dear to the national poet. The remarks of Liszt on these dances are given with a knowledge so acute of the traits of the nation in which they originated, with such a gorgeousness of description and correctness of detail, that they rather resemble a highly finished picture, than a colder work of words only.

They have all the splendor of a brilliant painting. He seizes the secrets of the nationality of these forms, traces them through the heart of the Polish people, follows them through their marvelous transfiguration in the pages of the Polish artist, and reads by their light much of the sensitive and exclusive character of Chopin, analyzing it with the skill of love, while depicting it with romantic eloquence.

An excellent account of the famed composer, most known for his piano pieces. Excert below:

 

To a people, always prompt in its recognition of genius, and ready to sympathize in the joys and woes of a truly great artist, this work will be one of exceeding interest. It is a short, glowing, and generous sketch, from the hand of Franz Liszt, (who, considered in the double light of composer and performer, has no living equal,) of the original and romantic Chopin; the most ethereal, subtle, and delicate among our modern tone-poets. It is a rare thing for a great artist to write on art, to leave the passionate worlds of sounds or colors for the colder realm of words; rarer still for him to abdicate, even temporarily, his own throne, to stand patiently and hold aloft the blazing torch of his own genius, to illume the gloomy grave of another: yet this has Liszt done through love for Chopin.

It is a matter of considerable interest to note how the nervous and agile fingers, accustomed to sovereign rule over the keys, handle the pen; how the musician feels as a man; how he estimates art and artists. Liszt is a man of extensive culture, vivid imagination, and great knowledge of the world; and, in addition to their high artistic value, his lines glow with poetic fervor, with impassioned eloquence.chopin

His musical criticisms are refined and acute, but without repulsive technicalities or scientific terms, ever sparkling with the poetic ardor of the generous soul through which the discriminating, yet appreciative awards were poured. Ah! in these days of degenerate rivalries and bitter jealousies, let us welcome a proof of affection so tender as his “Life of Chopin”!

It would be impossible for the reader of this book to remain ignorant of the exactions of art. While, through its eloquence and subtle analysis of character, it appeals to the cultivated literary tastes of our people, it opens for them a dazzling perspective into that strange world of tones, of whose magical realm they know, comparatively speaking, so little. It is intelligible to all who think or feel; requiring no knowledge of music for its comprehension.

The compositions of Chopin are now the mode, the rage. Every one asks for them, every one tries to play them. We have, however, but few remarks upon the peculiarities of his style, or the proper manner of producing his works. His compositions, generally perfect in form, are never abstract conceptions, but had their birth in his soul, sprang from the events of his life, and are full of individual and national idiosyncrasies, of psychological interest.

Liszt knew Chopin both as man and artist; Chopin loved to hear him interpret his music, and himself taught the great Pianist the mysteries of his undulating rhythm and original motifs. The broad and noble criticisms contained in this book are absolutely essential for the musical culture of the thousands now laboriously but vainly struggling to perform his elaborate works, and who, having no key to their multiplied complexities of expression, frequently fail in rendering them aright.

And the masses in this country, full of vivid perception and intelligent curiosity, who, not playing themselves, would yet fain follow with the heart compositions which they are told are of so much artistic value, will here find a key to guide them through the tuneful labyrinth. Some of Chopin’s best works are analyzed herein. He wrote for the HEART OF HIS PEOPLE; their joys, sorrows, and caprices are immortalized by the power of his art.

He was a strictly national tone-poet, and to understand him fully, something must be known of the brave and haughty, but unhappy country which he so loved. Liszt felt this, and has been exceedingly happy in the short sketch given of Poland. We actually know more of its picturesque and characteristic customs after a perusal of his graphic pages, than after a long course of dry historical details.

His remarks on the Polonaise and Mazourka are full of the philosophy and essence of history. These dances grew directly from the heart of the Polish people; repeating the martial valor and haughty love of noble exhibition of their men; the tenderness, devotion, and subtle coquetry of their women—they were of course favorite forms with Chopin; their national character made them dear to the national poet. The remarks of Liszt on these dances are given with a knowledge so acute of the traits of the nation in which they originated, with such a gorgeousness of description and correctness of detail, that they rather resemble a highly finished picture, than a colder work of words only.

They have all the splendor of a brilliant painting. He seizes the secrets of the nationality of these forms, traces them through the heart of the Polish people, follows them through their marvelous transfiguration in the pages of the Polish artist, and reads by their light much of the sensitive and exclusive character of Chopin, analyzing it with the skill of love, while depicting it with romantic eloquence.

 

 

The Children of Odin

Written by Padraic Colum in the late 1800s, these tales have been collected here into on large volume of the saga of the adventures of the gods and goddesses of Asgard. Excerpt below:

horsemen

THOR AND LOKI IN THE GIANTS’ CITY

All but a few of the Dwellers of Asgard had come to the feast offered by Ægir the Old, the Giant King of the Sea. Frigga, the queenly wife of Odin, was there, and Frey and Freya; Iduna, who guarded the Apples of Youth, and Bragi, her husband; Tyr, the great swordsman, and Niörd, the God of the Sea, Skadi, who wedded Niörd and whose hatred for Loki was fierce, and Sif, whose golden hair was once shorn off by Loki the mischievous. Thor and Loki were there. The Dwellers of Asgard, gathered together in the hall of Ægir, waited for Odin.

Before Odin came Loki made the company merry by the tales that he told in mockery of Thor. Loki long since had his lips unloosed from the thong that the Dwarf Brock had sewn them with. And Thor had forgotten the wrong[Pg 103] that he had done to Sif. Loki had been with Thor in his wanderings through Jötunheim, and about these wanderings he now told mocking tales.

He told how he had seen Thor in his chariot of brass drawn by two goats go across Bifröst, the Rainbow Bridge. None of the Æsir or the Vanir knew on what adventure Thor was bent. But Loki followed him and Thor kept him in his company.

As they traveled on in the brass chariot drawn by the two goats, Thor told Loki of the adventure on which he was bent. He would go into Jötunheim, even into Utgard, the Giants’ City, and he would try his strength against the Giants. He was not afraid of aught that might happen, for he carried Miölnir, his hammer, with him.

Their way was through Midgard, the World of Men. Once, as they were traveling on, night came upon them as they were hungry and in need of shelter. They saw a peasant’s hut and they drove the chariot toward it. Unyoking the goats and leaving them standing in a hollow beside the chariot, the two, looking not like Dwellers in Asgard, but like men traveling through the country, knocked at the door of the hut and asked for food and shelter.

They could have shelter, the peasant and his wife told them, but they could not have food. There was little in that place, and what little there had been they had eaten for supper. The peasant showed them the inside of the hut: it was poor and bare, and there was nothing there to give anyone. In the morning, the peasant said, he would go down to the river and catch some fish for a meal.[Pg 104]

“We can’t wait until morning, we must eat now,” said Thor, “and I think I can provide a good meal for us all.” He went over to where his goats stood in the hollow beside the chariot of brass, and, striking them with his hammer, he left them lifeless on the ground. He skinned the goats then, and taking up the bones very carefully, he left them down on the skins. Skins and bones he lifted up and bringing them into the house he left them in a hole above the peasant’s fireplace. “No one,” said he in a commanding voice, “must touch the bones that I leave here.”

Then he brought the meat into the house. Soon it was cooked and laid smoking on the table. The peasant and his wife and his son sat round the board with Thor and Loki. They had not eaten plentifully for many days, and now the man and the woman fed themselves well.

Thialfi was the name of the peasant’s son. He was a growing lad and had an appetite that had not been satisfied for long. While the meat was on the table his father and mother had kept him going here and there, carrying water, putting fagots on the fire, and holding a blazing stick so that those at the table might see to eat. There was not much left for him when he was able to sit down, for Thor and Loki had great appetites, and the lad’s father and mother had eaten to make up for days of want. So Thialfi got little out of that plentiful feast.

When the meal was finished they lay down on the benches. Thor, because he had made a long journey that day, slept very soundly. Thialfi lay down on a bench, too, but his thoughts were still upon the food. When all were[Pg 105] asleep, he thought, he would take one of the bones that were in the skins above him, and break and gnaw it.

So in the dead of the night the lad stood up on the bench and took down the goatskins that Thor had left so carefully there. He took out a bone, broke it, and gnawed it for the marrow. Loki was awake and saw him do this, but he, relishing mischief as much as ever, did nothing to stay the lad.

He put the bone he had broken back in the skins and he left the skins back in the hole above the fireplace. Then he went to sleep on the bench.

In the morning, as soon as they were up, the first thing Thor did was to take the skins out of the hole. He carried them carefully out to the hollow where he had left the goats standing. He put each goatskin down with the bones in it. He struck each with his hammer, and the goats sprang up alive, horns and hoofs and all.

But one was not as he had been before. He limped badly. Thor examined the leg and found out that one bone was broken. In terrible anger he turned on the peasant, his wife, and his son. “A bone of this goat has been broken under your roof,” he shouted. “For that I shall destroy your house and leave you all dead under it.” Thialfi wept. Then he came forward and touched the knees of Thor. “I did not know what harm I did,” he said. “I broke the bone.”

Thor had his hammer lifted up to crush him into the earth. But he could not bring it down on the weeping boy. He let his hammer rest on the ground again. “You will[Pg 106] have to do much service for me for having lamed my goat,” he said. “Come with me.”

And so the lad Thialfi went off with Thor and Loki. Thor took in his powerful hands the shafts of the chariot of brass and he dragged it into a lonely mountain hollow where neither men nor Giants came. And they left the goats in a great, empty forest to stay resting there until Thor called to them again.

A Chinese Wonder Book

One wonders if this was actually inspired/written by an expert on the subject. Judge for yourself:

The Strange Tale of Doctor Dog

doctordog

Far up in the mountains of the Province of Hunan in the central part of China, there once lived in a small village a rich gentleman who had only one child. This girl, like the daughter of Kwan-yu in the story of the Great Bell, was the very joy of her father’s life.

Now Mr. Min, for that was this gentleman’s name, was famous throughout the whole district for his learning, and, as he was also the owner of much property, he spared no effort to teach Honeysuckle the wisdom of the sages, and to give her everything she craved. Of [40]course this was enough to spoil most children, but Honeysuckle was not at all like other children. As sweet as the flower from which she took her name, she listened to her father’s slightest command, and obeyed without ever waiting to be told a second time.

Her father often bought kites for her, of every kind and shape. There were fish, birds, butterflies, lizards and huge dragons, one of which had a tail more than thirty feet long. Mr. Min was very skilful in flying these kites for little Honeysuckle, and so naturally did his birds and butterflies circle round and hover about in the air that almost any little western boy would have been deceived and said, “Why, there is a real bird, and not a kite at all!” Then again, he would fasten a queer little instrument to the string, which made a kind of humming noise, as he waved his hand from side to side. “It is the wind singing, Daddy,” cried Honeysuckle, clapping her hands with joy; “singing a kite-song to both of us.” Sometimes, to teach his little darling a lesson if she had been the least naughty, Mr. Min would fasten queerly twisted scraps of paper, on which were written many Chinese words, to the string of her favourite kite.

“What are you doing, Daddy?” Honeysuckle would ask. “What can those queer-looking papers be?”

“On every piece is written a sin that we have done.”

[41]“What is a sin, Daddy?”

“Oh, when Honeysuckle has been naughty; that is a sin!” he answered gently. “Your old nurse is afraid to scold you, and if you are to grow up to be a good woman, Daddy must teach you what is right.”

Then Mr. Min would send the kite up high—high over the house-tops, even higher than the tall Pagoda on the hillside. When all his cord was let out, he would pick up two sharp stones, and, handing them to Honeysuckle, would say, “Now, daughter, cut the string, and the wind will carry away the sins that are written down on the scraps of paper.”

“But, Daddy, the kite is so pretty. Mayn’t we keep our sins a little longer?” she would innocently ask.

“No, child; it is dangerous to hold on to one’s sins. Virtue is the foundation of happiness,” he would reply sternly, choking back his laughter at her question. “Make haste and cut the cord.”

So Honeysuckle, always obedient—at least with her father—would saw the string in two between the sharp stones, and with a childish cry of despair would watch her favourite kite, blown by the wind, sail farther and farther away, until at last, straining her eyes, she could see it sink slowly to the earth in some far-distant meadow.

[42]“Now laugh and be happy,” Mr. Min would say, “for your sins are all gone. See that you don’t get a new supply of them.”

Honeysuckle was also fond of seeing the Punch and Judy show, for, you must know, this old-fashioned amusement for children was enjoyed by little folks in China, perhaps three thousand years before your great-grandfather was born. It is even said that the great Emperor, Mu, when he saw these little dancing images for the first time, was greatly enraged at seeing one of them making eyes at his favourite wife. He ordered the showman to be put to death, and it was with difficulty the poor fellow persuaded his Majesty that the dancing puppets were not really alive at all, but only images of cloth and clay.

No wonder then Honeysuckle liked to see Punch and Judy if the Son of Heaven himself had been deceived by their queer antics into thinking them real people of flesh and blood.

But we must hurry on with our story, or some of our readers will be asking, “But where is Dr. Dog? Are you never coming to the hero of this tale?” One day when Honeysuckle was sitting inside a shady pavilion that overlooked a tiny fish-pond, she was suddenly seized with a violent attack of colic. Frantic with pain, [43]she told a servant to summon her father, and then without further ado, she fell over in a faint upon the ground.

When Mr. Min reached his daughter’s side, she was still unconscious. After sending for the family physician to come post haste, he got his daughter to bed, but although she recovered from her fainting fit, the extreme pain continued until the poor girl was almost dead from exhaustion.

Now, when the learned doctor arrived and peered at her from under his gigantic spectacles, he could not discover the cause of her trouble. However, like some of our western medical men, he did not confess his ignorance, but proceeded to prescribe a huge dose of boiling water, to be followed a little later by a compound of pulverized deer’s horn and dried toadskin.

Poor Honeysuckle lay in agony for three days, all the time growing weaker and weaker from loss of sleep. Every great doctor in the district had been summoned for consultation; two had come from Changsha, the chief city of the province, but all to no avail. It was one of those cases that seem to be beyond the power of even the most learned physicians. In the hope of receiving the great reward offered by the desperate father, these wise men searched from cover to cover in the great Chinese Cyclopedia of Medicine, trying in vain to find a [44]method of treating the unhappy maiden. There was even thought of calling in a certain foreign physician from England, who was in a distant city, and was supposed, on account of some marvellous cures he had brought to pass, to be in direct league with the devil. However, the city magistrate would not allow Mr. Min to call in this outsider, for fear trouble might be stirred up among the people.

Mr. Min sent out a proclamation in every direction, describing his daughter’s illness, and offering to bestow on her a handsome dowry and give her in marriage to whoever should be the means of bringing her back to health and happiness. He then sat at her bedside and waited, feeling that he had done all that was in his power. There were many answers to his invitation. Physicians, old and young, came from every part of the Empire to try their skill, and when they had seen poor Honeysuckle and also the huge pile of silver shoes her father offered as a wedding gift, they all fought with might and main for her life; some having been attracted by her great beauty and excellent reputation, others by the tremendous reward.

But, alas for poor Honeysuckle! Not one of all those wise men could cure her! One day, when she was feeling a slight change for the better, she called her father, and, clasping his hand with her tiny one said, “Were it not for your love I would give up this hard [45]fight and pass over into the dark wood; or, as my old grandmother says, fly up into the Western Heavens. For your sake, because I am your only child, and especially because you have no son, I have struggled hard to live, but now I feel that the next attack of that dreadful pain will carry me away. And oh, I do not want to die!”

Here Honeysuckle wept as if her heart would break, and her old father wept too, for the more she suffered the more he loved her.

Just then her face began to turn pale. “It is coming! The pain is coming, father! Very soon I shall be no more. Good-bye, father! Good-bye; good——.” Here her voice broke and a great sob almost broke her father’s heart. He turned away from her bedside; he could not bear to see her suffer. He walked outside and sat down on a rustic bench; his head fell upon his bosom, and the great salt tears trickled down his long grey beard.

As Mr. Min sat thus overcome with grief, he was startled at hearing a low whine. Looking up he saw, to his astonishment, a shaggy mountain dog about the size of a Newfoundland. The huge beast looked into the old man’s eyes with so intelligent and human an expression, with such a sad and wistful gaze, that the greybeard addressed him, saying, “Why have you come? To cure my daughter?”

[46]The dog replied with three short barks, wagging his tail vigorously and turning toward the half-opened door that led into the room where the girl lay.

By this time, willing to try any chance whatever of reviving his daughter, Mr. Min bade the animal follow him into Honeysuckle’s apartment. Placing his forepaws upon the side of her bed, the dog looked long and steadily at the wasted form before him and held his ear intently for a moment over the maiden’s heart. Then, with a slight cough he deposited from his mouth into her outstretched hand, a tiny stone. Touching her wrist with his right paw, he motioned to her to swallow the stone.

honeysuckle

“Yes, my dear, obey him,” counselled her father, as she turned to him inquiringly, “for good Dr. Dog has been sent to your bedside by the mountain fairies, who have heard of your illness and who wish to invite you back to life again.”

Without further delay the sick girl, who was by this time almost burned away by the fever, raised her hand to her lips and swallowed the tiny charm. Wonder of wonders! No sooner had it passed her lips than a miracle occurred. The red flush passed away from her face, the pulse resumed its normal beat, the pains departed from her body, and she arose from the bed well and smiling.

[47]Flinging her arms about her father’s neck, she cried out in joy, “Oh, I am well again; well and happy; thanks to the medicine of the good physician.”

The noble dog barked three times, wild with delight at hearing these tearful words of gratitude, bowed low, and put his nose in Honeysuckle’s outstretched hand.

Mr. Min, greatly moved by his daughter’s magical recovery, turned to the strange physician, saying, “Noble Sir, were it not for the form you have taken, for some unknown reason, I would willingly give four times the sum in silver that I promised for the cure of the girl, into your possession. As it is, I suppose you have no use for silver, but remember that so long as we live, whatever we have is yours for the asking, and I beg of you to prolong your visit, to make this the home of your old age—in short, remain here for ever as my guest—nay, as a member of my family.”

Hunting Dogs

The subtitle for this Describes in a Practical Manner the Training, Handling, Treatment, Breeds, Etc., Best Adapted for Night Hunting as Well as Gun Dogs for Daylight Sport

In training hounds, one should remember that they will always have a hobby for the first game they learn to hunt; therefore, we should be careful to start them first at the right kind as for instance: If you desire to have an all around hound that will hunt coon, fox and rabbit and to hunt each game well, and in order to succeed you must break him in on coon first, then when he knows the “A, B, C,” of Mr. Coon, you can break him on foxes and then on rabbits in the day time and when you will hunt coon he will pay no attention to the fox or rabbit even if he would see one in front of him, providing there are coons in that bush.

dog2

If you desire to have a true deer hound, train him first on deer, then on foxes, but you must in all cases train them well on one kind before you start on another; therefore, a hound thus trained will always hunt deer in preference to fox. The same would exist if the dog was first trained on the fox.

Some people claim that it takes from three to five years to train a hound right. Well, this is not always the case. Young hounds twelve to fifteen months old are often taken from the city into the bush and in three days would hunt deer as well as other dogs of five and six years’ training. The reason for this is that these dogs take as naturally to hunting as ducks do to water. These dogs are born with the hunting instinct in them and being very intelligent, will start at once to beat a bush as well as an old timer, as soon as they have seen the game once they will remember it all their life and you can train them to hunt any kind whether it is a bear, deer, fox, etc.

Of a necessity in treating on the general subject of training hunting dogs, some suggestions are applicable to all kinds, while others have individual bearing. Under the subject of this chapter will be given subdivisions relating to specific training for specific hunting in so far as required.

There are some fundamental lessons that all hunting dogs should be taught to do and some things which he is not to do.

Let him begin to follow you when he is three or four months old; take him through herds of sheep and cattle, and if he starts after them, scold him; if he continues chasing them, whip him. I do not believe in whipping where it can be avoided, but if compelled to, do not take a club or a No. 10 boot, but a switch; and I never correct a dog by pulling his ears for fear of hurting his hearing, as a dog that is hard of hearing is not an A No. 1 dog. Never set your dog on stock of any kind nor allow him to run after other dogs or house-cats.

Dog Stories

Some short stories about our canine friends written in the late 1800s:

CANINE INTELLIGENCE.

[July 24, 1886.]

You often give us pleasant anecdotes of our four-footed friends. You may think the following worthy of record. I have a little dog, a not particularly well-bred fox-terrier. He is much attached to me, and shows by his obedience, and sometimes in his disobedience, that he understands a good deal. Yesterday I was away all day, and he, I am told, was very uneasy, and searched everywhere for me. Every day at 5 p.m. I go to church. Toby seems to know this is not an ordinary walk, and never offers to come with me. But yesterday, when the bell began, he started off and took up his position by the vestry door. I believe he reasoned with himself, “There goes the bell; now I shall catch the Vicar.”

William Quennell.

dog
THE DOG AND THE FERRY.

[April 4, 1885.]

Reading from time to time many pleasant anecdotes in the columns of the Spectator—which, by the way, I receive as regularly, and read as eagerly, as when resident in England many years ago—relative to the sagacity of dogs, I send the following, thinking it possible you may deem it worthy of insertion.

Some three years ago I was “having a spell” in Brisbane, after a lengthened sojourn on a sheep station in the interior of Queensland. During my stay in the city I had the good fortune to gain the friendship of a gentleman who owned a magnificent collie. My friend, his dog Sweep, and myself, were frequently together, engaged either in yachting among the islands of Moreton Bay, or ‘possum hunting under the towering eucalypti which fringe the banks of the river Brisbane. Naturally “Sweep” (who was a most lovable animal) and myself soon began to entertain a warm friendship for one[Pg 34] another, which friendship gave rise to the anecdote I am about to relate. Returning to my hotel about midnight from the house of a friend, I was not a little startled at finding my hand suddenly seized from behind by a dog, which, however, I at once recognised as my handsome acquaintance, Sweep. I patted him, at the same time endeavouring to withdraw the hand which he held firmly, but gently, between his teeth. It was of no use, as, in spite of all my endearments, he insisted on retaining his hold, wriggling along by my side, and vigorously wagging his tail, as though he would say, “Don’t be afraid; it’s all right.” We soon reached a point in the main street down which we were walking, where a side avenue branched off towards the river. My way lay right ahead. Sweep, however, insisted on my taking the road which lay at a right-angle to my course. I felt some annoyance at his persistence, as I was both tired and sleepy; but, having no choice in the matter, I followed his lead. Having walked some two or three hundred yards down his street, he[Pg 35] released his hold, dancing round me, then running on for a few yards and looking back to see if I were following. Becoming interested, I determined to see what he was after, so, without further resistance, I followed submissively. At last, having reached the river, which at this place was about four hundred yards wide, he, with many joyous barks, ran down the ferry steps, and jumped into the empty boat of the ferryman. At last I was able to guess at his motive for forcing me to follow him. His master, who lived across the river, had accidentally lost sight of his dog returning from his office in the city; and Sweep appeared to understand perfectly that unless the boatman received his fare he, Sweep, would not be carried over, my friend frequently sending the dog over by himself when wishing to attend concerts, &c., invariably paying the fare as of an ordinary passenger. The ferryman, who at once recognised my canine friend, laughed heartily when I told him how I had been served, took my penny, and set off at once for “Kangaroo Point,” Sweep[Pg 36] gaily barking “good-night” until he reached the opposite bank. I heard subsequently that he used to swim the river when left behind; but having had two narrow escapes from sharks, his nerves had become somewhat shaken so far as water was concerned.

J. Wm. Creighton.

[Pg 37]

THE REASON OF DOGS.

[Nov. 13, 1875.]

Having often read, with great pleasure, the anecdotes about dogs which from time to time appear in the Spectator, I venture to send you one which has come under my own observation, and which, it seems to me, shows an effort of reasoning implying two distinct ideas—one the consequence of the other—more interesting than many of those clever performances of educated dogs which may or may not be merely mechanical actions.

The dog who performed the following trick was then a great, half-grown, awkward puppy, whose education, up to that time, had been much neglected. It has been better attended to since, and now, although sportsmen probably consider such an animal sadly thrown away upon a lady, he is a very pleasant friend and companion. My two dogs, Guy and Denis, form as capital a pair, for contrast’s sake, as one need wish to see. They are both handsome dogs of their [Pg 38]kind—Guy, a fine black retriever, with no white hair upon him, and, I believe, in the eyes of sportsmen, as well as those of his mistress, a very desirable possession, good-tempered, clever, and affectionate; Denis, as naughty and spoilt a little fellow as ever existed, and a great pet, also black, except for his yellow paws and chest, but covered with long, loose locks, instead of Guy’s small, crisp curls.

Denis is exceedingly comic, and a constant source of amusement. He is very faithful to his mistress, whose bedside during illness he has refused to leave, even for food; but it must be confessed that he is not amiably disposed towards most people, and is a perfect tyrant over the other animals. Some account of the two dogs’ character is necessary, to explain the little scene which took place between them one evening about a year ago. Guy, it must be premised, is at least twelve months younger than Denis, consequently, when the former first arrived—a miserable and very ugly little puppy, a few weeks old, more like a small black jug than any known animal of the canine species,[Pg 39] having had the mange, and lost all his hair—Denis undertook his education, and ruled him so severely that his influence lasted a long while; indeed, even after Guy had grown so big that Denis almost needed to stand upon his hind legs in order to snap at him, the great dog would crouch meekly at a growling remonstrance from the little master, and never dared to invade his rights—to approach his plate of food, or to drink before him. Now a days Guy has discovered his own power, and although too good-natured an animal ever to ill-treat the little dog, no longer allows any liberties, but at the same time, when the scene which I am about to describe took place, he was still under the impression that Denis’s wrath was a terrible and dangerous matter.

And now for my story, which, it seems to me, shows as much real reasoning power in an untrained animal as any anecdote that I ever read. One evening I took my two dogs to the kitchen, to give them the rare treat of a bone apiece. (Dogs were certainly never intended to make Natal their home,[Pg 40] for, in order to keep them alive at all, they should never be given anything that they like, especially meat, and even then the most careful management often fails in preserving them from disease and death.) One of my sisters was with me, and together we watched the dogs over their supper. Guy, with his great mouth, and ravenous, growing appetite, made short work with his, every vestige of which had vanished; while little Denis was still contentedly sucking away at his small share, not very hungry, and taking his pleasures sedately, like a gentleman, as he is. And then Guy began to watch the other with an envious eye, evidently casting about in his mind how he might gain possession of that bone. He was even then, though not full grown, so big and strong that he could have taken it by force with the greatest ease; but such an idea did not cross his mind; he decided to employ stratagem to win the prize. I must mention here, that amongst other naughty practices of my dogs, is that of rushing out of the house and barking violently upon the slightest sound without.[Pg 41] This is Denis’s fault, which Guy, in spite of all my lessons, has contracted from him. With the evident intention of sending Denis out, Guy suddenly started up, and began to bark towards the door in an excited manner, but not running out himself, as he certainly would have done, had he really heard anything. Down went Denis’s bone, and out rushed he, barking at the top of his voice. Did Guy follow him? Oh, dear no! he had no such intentions; he sneaked up to Denis’s bone immediately, picked it up, and ran to the other end of the room. But when he had got it, he did not know what to do with it; there was no hiding-place for him there, and he dare neither await Denis’s return openly, nor risk meeting him at the door. My sister and I were, by this time, both sitting on a bench against the wall, watching the scene between the dogs, and Guy, after running once round the room, with the bone in his mouth, came and crept in beneath my seat, where he was hidden by my dress, and where he lay, not eating the bone, and in perfect silence. Presently Master Denis[Pg 42] trotted back, quite unconscious, and shaking the curls out of his eyes, as much as to say, “My dear fellow! what a fuss you’ve made; there’s nothing there.” He looked about for his bone for a few minutes, but soon gave up the search, and began to amuse himself with other things. After a while, I, forgetting the culprit beneath my seat, rose, and crossed the room, leaving him exposed. Guy was in a great fright; he jumped up, and running to my sister, who was still seated, he stood up with his forepaws upon her lap, and the bone still untouched in his mouth, as though begging her protection. Denis, however, did not observe him, and after a few minutes, Guy’s courage returned, and finally he ventured to lie down, with the bone between his paws, and began to gnaw it, keeping one eye fixed on Denis the while. This, however, was going a step too far. Denis was attracted by the sound, and recognised his own bone the moment that he looked round. He marched up to Guy (who immediately stopped eating) and stood before him. Denis growled, and Guy slowly removed[Pg 43] one great paw from his prize. Denis advanced a step, with another growl; Guy removed the other paw, and slunk back a little, whereupon Master Denis calmly walked up, took possession of his bone, and went off with it.

I am bound, however, to remark that after another half-hour’s contented amusement over it, he resigned the remainder, which was too hard for his small mouth, to Guy, who finished the last morsel with great satisfaction. Now that he is full grown, Guy still gives up to Denis in many little ways, but it is evidently through generosity only, for he has proved himself perfectly capable of taking his own part. But he is very gentle with his little playmate, except at night, when he lies across my door-way—entirely of his own accord—and will allow no one and nothing to enter without my command.

Nouveau moyen de préparer la couche sensible des plaques destinées à recevoir les images photographiques

Ned, that's me!

 

Yeah I don’t know what any of this means:

MANIÈRE D’OPÉRER.

Première préparation de la plaque.

Nota.—Pour être plus court dans la description qui va suivre, j’indiquerai chaque substance en abrégé. Ainsi je dirai, pour désigner la solution aqueuse de bichlorure de mercure, sublimé; pour la solution de cyanure de mercure, cyanure; pour l’huile de pétrole acidulée, huile; pour la dissolution de chlorure d’or et de platine, or et platine; et pour l’oxyde de fer, rouge seulement.

On polit la plaque avec du sublimé et du tripoli d’abord, et ensuite avec du rouge[7], jusqu’à ce qu’on arrive à un beau noir. Puis, on pose la plaque sur le plan horizontal et on y verse la solution de cyanure que l’on chauffe avec la lampe, absolument comme si l’on fixait une épreuve au chlorure d’or. Le mercure se dépose et forme une couche blanchâtre. On laisse un peu refroidir la plaque, et après avoir renversé le liquide, on la sèche en la frottant avec du coton et en la saupoudrant de rouge.

Il s’agit maintenant de polir la couche blanchâtre déposée par le mercure. Avec un tampon de coton imbibé d’huile et de rouge, on frotte cette couche juste assez pour qu’elle devienne d’un beau noir. Ou pourra, en dernier lieu, frotter assez fortement, mais avec du coton seul, pour amincir le plus possible la couche acidulée.

Ensuite on place la plaque sur le plan horizontal et on y verse la dissolution d’or et de platine. On chauffe comme à l’ordinaire; on laisse refroidir et puis on renverse le liquide que l’on sèche, en frottant légèrement avec du coton et du rouge.

Il faut faire cette opération avec soin, surtout lorsqu’on ne doit pas continuer immédiatement l’épreuve; car autrement, on laisserait sur la plaque des lignes de liquide, qu’il est toujours difficile de faire disparaître. Par ce dernier frottage la plaque ne doit être que séchée et non pas polie.

Ici se borne la première préparation de la plaque, celle qui peut être faite longtemps à l’avance.

Seconde préparation.

Nota. Je ne crois pas convenable de mettre entre cette opération et l’iodage de la plaque un intervalle de plus de douze heures.

Nous avons laissé la plaque avec un dépôt d’or et de platine. Pour polir cette couche métallique, il faut prendre avec un tampon de coton de l’huile et du rouge, et frotter jusqu’à ce que la plaque redevienne noire; et puis avec de l’alcool et du coton seulement, on enlève le plus possible cette couche d’huile et de rouge.

Alors on frotte assez fortement, et en repassant plusieurs fois aux mêmes endroits, la plaque avec du coton imprégné de cyanure. Comme cette couche sèche très-promptement, elle pourrait laisser sur la plaque des traces d’inégalité; pour éviter cela, il faut repasser le cyanure, et pendant que la plaque est encore humide, avec un tampon imbibé d’un peu d’huile on s’empresse de frotter sur toute la surface de la plaque, et de mêler ainsi ces deux substances; puis, avec un tampon de coton sec, on frotte pour unir et en même temps pour dessécher la plaque, en ayant soin d’enlever du tampon de coton les parties qui s’humectent de cyanure et d’huile. Enfin, comme le coton laisse encore des traces, on saupoudre également la plaque d’un peu de rouge que l’on fait tomber en frottant légèrement et en rond.

Ensuite, avec un tampon imprégné d’huile seulement, on frotte la plaque également, et de manière à faire revenir le bruni du métal; et puis on saupoudre avec du rouge, et l’on frotte très-légèrement en rond, de manière à faire tomber tout le rouge qui entraîne avec lui la surabondance de la couche acidulée[8].

Enfin, avec un tampon de coton un peu ferme, on frotte fortement pour donner le dernier poli[9].

Il n’est pas nécessaire de renouveler souvent les tampons imbibés d’huile et de rouge; il faut seulement les garantir de la poussière.

J’ai dit plus haut que la première préparation de la plaque peut servir indéfiniment; mais on comprend que la seconde doit être modifiée selon qu’on opère sur une plaque qui a reçu une épreuve fixée ou une non fixée.

Sur l’épreuve fixée.

Il faut enlever les taches laissées par l’eau du lavage, avec l’oxyde rouge et de l’eau faiblement acidulée d’acide nitrique (à 2 degrés dans cette saison, et moins dans l’été).

Ensuite, il faut polir la plaque avec de l’huile et du rouge pour enlever toutes les traces de l’image qu’on efface.

On continue alors l’opération comme je viens de le dire plus haut pour la seconde préparation de la plaque neuve et à partir de l’emploi de l’alcool.

Sur l’épreuve non fixée (mais dont la couche sensible a été enlevée comme à l’ordinaire, dans l’hyposulfite de soude).

D’abord, il faut frotter la plaque avec de l’alcool et du rouge pour enlever les traces de l’huile qui a servi à faire l’épreuve précédente.

On continue ensuite comme il est indiqué plus haut pour la plaque neuve, et à partir de l’emploi de l’alcool.

Making Your Camera Pay

Making Your Camera Pay

Ah, an excellent treatise on photography as a profession or side-job. Excerpt below:

The most remarkable news-photographs ever made—they were exposed at the South Pole—brought $3,000 from Leslie’s (now no longer published) for “First Rights,” and $1,000 more from International Feature Service for “Second Rights.” Some photographers have realized hundreds of dollars from lucky shots; an extraordinary photograph may bring from $25 to $100; but the average price paid is $3.00; and, indeed, there are some editors who unblushingly offer as little as ten or twenty-five cents for prints; and some who find it impossible, unwise, or unnecessary to pay for prints at all.

Although the average price paid is not astounding, it is a good return on the cost of making; also, the abundant opportunities for salable prints compensate for what each cheque lacks. A photographer who is wide-awake and moving ought not to find it difficult to sell at least ten prints each week, if not more, when one considers the large number of available subjects and the multitude of magazines.

Newspapers pay for prints according to their breadth of circulation. A widely-read daily will pay more for photographs than one of small circulation. Very often, newspaper-editors prefer that the press-photographer send a bill for his services. If you are asked to do that, do not hesitate to charge a price you think is entirely just; but don’t grasp the opportunity to profiteer. Better, discover the price asked by the newspaper’s favorite commercial-photographer, and mark down your price accordingly. That is business; it isn’t taking an unfair advantage.

Whatever the price that is paid, don’t object if you think it is too low; accept the payment and seek a more remunerative market next time. This applies to magazines as well as to newspapers.

The prices paid by magazines vary likewise, but none of any reputation pays less than one dollar per print. There are many factors which decide the size of the cheque which the press-photographer receives. The first is the circulation of the publication, for its financial reserve depends on the number of buyers. The size of the print in some instances decides the price paid. Thus, one magazine pays $1.00 for prints of one size and $2.00 for larger ones. However, there are not many magazines who pay according to the size of print.

Sometimes, retouching must be applied to a print in order to make it suitable for reproduction; and, as the service of a retoucher is expensive, something is deducted from the photographer’s cheque to pay for the work. Popular Science is a magazine of that policy. The photographer can avoid such deductions from his cheques by supplying photographs of such quality that they will need no retouching.

If a photograph is offered for the exclusive use of one magazine it may bring a higher price than if it were non-exclusive. Thus, Collier’s pays $3.00 for non-exclusive prints and $5.00 for exclusive ones. Some few magazines rarely accept any print that is not exclusive; indeed, non-exclusiveness may be a reason for rejection. Calendar-makers and postcard-makers, of course, buy only exclusive rights. A publisher is always more favorably inclined toward an exclusive than toward a non-exclusive print; and, very often, the added favor means added dollars to the payment.

The use to which a print is put is also a deciding factor in payment. A print bought for use as a cover-illustration will bring home a bigger cheque than if it were used merely as one of many illustrations. Too, Illustrated World pays $3.00 and more for prints used in its pictorial section, but $2.00 for those used in its mechanical department. Other magazines do not make this distinction.

After all, the price paid depends wholly on the usefulness and quality of the print. If, sometimes, as in the case of the Ladies’ Home Journal, the payment is made with a view to the photographer’s reputation, it is only because news-photographers of experience produce prints of a higher average quality than beginners do. But, if a beginner “delivers the goods,” the editor is just as glad to pay to him the large cheque as he is to pay it to any one else.

A few examples of prices paid will be of interest. Collier’s pays $3.00 for non-exclusive prints and $5.00 for exclusive prints, and from $25.00 to $100.00 a page for layouts (spreads). Illustrated World pays $3.00 for each print. Popular Mechanics pays $3.00 and up, and $25.00 a page for layouts. Popular Science reimburses at the rate of $3.00 for each photograph, and sometimes more. The Saturday Blade pays $2.00 for each. The Thompson Art Company pays from $1.00 to $5.00. Underwood and Underwood pay from $3.00 and up, according to the value of the print. The Woodman and Teirman Printing Company pays at rates varying from $5.00 to $50.00.

“But when is payment made?” you ask. The answer is, “Either upon acceptance or upon publication.”

By far, most magazines pay according to the more desirable plan—upon acceptance. As soon as such a magazine decides that a photograph is useful to it, it mails a cheque to the sender. Sometimes, a receipt is sent with the cheque, which the recipient must sign and return; but, more often, the cheque itself is the receipt. Payment upon acceptance is by far the more desirable method, for with it the worker is paid as soon as his work is done; there is no waiting for weeks and months for payment, as in the case of pay-on-publication magazines.

There are a few magazines who wait until the photograph actually appears in the pages of the publication before payment is made. In such cases, the photographer has no recourse but to wait until the editor is ready to print his contribution whenever it may be.

In the case of pay-on-publication magazines, notice is usually sent that the photograph has been accepted for publication and that it will be paid for as soon as it is published. Sometimes, no notice is given at all of publication or acceptance; and in that case the photographer must scan each issue of the magazine in order to find his contribution when it appears, or he must wait until the cheque arrives that denotes publication. Either method is uncertain; but there is nothing to do but to endure it. Some publications even wait for some time after publication before making payment, as in the case of the Kansas City Star, which pays on the fifteenth of the month following publication, and the Saturday Blade which also mails all cheques the month following publication. This is a discouraging policy; but as the cheque always arrives in the end, there is little to be said in condemnation of it; the photographer is obliged to make the best of it.

The contributor should always keep a record of prints accepted and to be paid for on publication. Otherwise, by an oversight, a cheque for published material may never come, and the photographer may never miss it. Too, a cheque may arrive unexpectedly from a forgotten source and cause an attack of heart-failure.

The beginner does not achieve mountain-top prices except by a lucky shot now and then. Prices increase with your experience and your reputation.

The photographer who develops his “nose for news” until it can scent a salable photograph in every conceivable situation is the photographer who has the large cheques forced upon him.

The sky-high cheques come to the camerist who, night and day, through sunshine and storm, earthquake and cyclone, is always “hot on the trail” of the salable photograph that is tucked away somewhere, where only a keen scent and a large amount of perseverance can lead him; and when he arrives, the subject will be singing truthfully, “Shoot me and the wor-rld is tha-hine.” There are enough of these subjects to shame the biggest choir on earth by their “singing.” However, the photographer must know good music when he hears it.

Have you ever wakened in the drear dead of a dismal night, possessed body and soul with a great desire—an incontrollable, all-moving, all-consuming, maddening desire that knows no satisfaction—a desire for a new camera or a better lens? It is a sensation more disconcerting than that of the father who is detected by his small son in the act of rifling the latter’s bank for car-fare. Never would I be so unwise as to cultivate that desire in any one; for that reason I do not here go deeply into a discussion of the best kind of camera for press-photography! Unless the camera you now possess is of a hopelessly mediocre grade, it will do very well.

A reflex camera is of course the ideal instrument for the purpose, for sharp focusing is so easy and so necessary. The high speeds of the focal-plane shutter incorporated into such a camera will rarely be utilised by the average user; but its other features are admirable.

However, the hand-camera of the folding type is supreme. It is so light it can be carried for a long time without fatigue; the user of one is inconspicuous when making exposures; the cost of operation as well as the original outlay is comparatively small—and there are several dozen more things in favor of it, including its greater depth-of-field, which is most important.

The lens is the heart of the camera, and some cameras have “heart-trouble.” If you intend seriously to market photographs you should possess an anastigmat lens; not necessarily an F/4.5 lens, nor even an F/6.3 lens if too expensive; in that case an F/7.5 lens will do very well. An F/7.5 anastigmat is slightly slower than a rapid-rectilinear of U.S.4 aperture; but its excellence lies in its ability—as with all anastigmats—to form images of razor-edge sharpness, which is a prime requisite of a print intended to grace a page of a periodical. A rapid-rectilinear lens will do very well if you are always assured of sunshine or bright clouds to supply exposure-light—and in such conditions even the lowly single-achromatic lens will suffice.

Now you see I have agreed that virtually any lens that will form a sharp image will meet the requirements. Indeed, to paraphrase Lincoln: “For the sort of thing a lens is intended to do, I would say it is just the lens to do it.” In other words, each lens has its limitations and abilities very sharply defined; and these limits the user must know and appreciate.

And the shutter; it is folly to put a poor lens in a good shutter, and just as absurd to do the opposite. An expensive shutter with high speeds cannot be successfully used except with a lens capable of large aperture—otherwise underexposure will result. A speed of 1/300 second is the highest available in an ordinary between-the-lens shutter, and that is sufficient for almost anything.

The slower speeds, as one-fifth, one-half and one second are in my opinion more usable than the extremely fast ones. Speeds varying from one second to 1/300 second are embodied in two well-known shutters: the Optimo and the Ilex Acme. The one is on a par with the other. But no such high-grade shutter is needed unless the high speeds are necessary to the user, for the slower speeds may be given with the indicator at B. But enough! This is not a manual on the elements of photography.

The requirements of the apparatus to be used for press-photography are that the lens produce a sharp and clear image, the shutter work accurately, and the whole be brought into play quickly.

I have used every sort of camera; reflex, 8 × 10 view, 5 × 7 view, hand-cameras with anastigmat, rapid-rectilinear and single lenses, and box-cameras, and they are all entirely satisfactory “for the things they were intended to do.”

The camera I have used most and which is my favorite is a Folding Kodak, that makes 3¼ by 4¼ photographs, and is equipped with an Ilex Anastigmat working at F/6.3, in an Ilex Acme shutter. To this I have added a direct-view finder for reasons apparent to any one who has tried to photograph high-speed subjects by peeking into the little reflecting-finder. This camera has served me admirably for interiors, flashlights, outdoors, high-speed work, portraiture, and anything else to which I have applied it. Your own camera should do the same for you.

A photographer comes to know his camera as a mother knows her baby—and if he doesn’t he will be no more successful than the mother who does not understand her child. The camera-worker must forget all about manufacturers’ claims and should judge his tool by experience; he must ignore most of the theory and rely wholly on practice. In short, he must know his camera inside and out, what it will do and what it will not do; everything must be at his finger-tips ready for instant use. Coupled with that is the need of the ability to produce, sometimes, within an hour after making the exposure, crisp, sharp, sparkling prints.

After all, no more qualifications are required of the press-photographer than of most other photographers. He may have to work like lightning, snap his shutter literally under the very hoofs of racing-horses, rush out of a warm and cozy bed into a chill and bleak night—but “it’s all in the game.” If any one of the old veteran press-photographers were to lead the life of an ordinary business-man, he would die of ennui. When the camerist makes photographs for publishers it is zip-dash—and later, cash.

It is the exciting life of a never-sleep reporter, with a camera to manage instead of a pencil.