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by carbonic acid gas escaping through the centres. Carbon dioxide, not being a dough, making it light and porous. It is supporter of respiration, produces death furnished for this process either by fer- by suffocation, as, when breathed, it mentation produced by yeast added to the prevents the access of air. In deaths dough, or by baking-powder from which due to suffocation by rbon dioxide it is set free by the moisture of the dough unconsciousness is very rapidly proto which the powder has been added. duced. When there is an excess of car

Like air the gas can be liquefied by cold bon dioxide in the blood of a person, and pressure. At 60° F. a pressure of as frequently happens at hangings when 800 pounds will reduce it to a liquid. A strangulation occurs, it produces, after cubic foot of the gas at this temperature unconsciousness, violent muscular spasms, and pressure is reduced to a cubic inch of the force of which is sometimes so great fluid, the volume being decreased 1728 as to tear the muscles in two. The hortimes.

rible twitching and contortions so often The lower the temperature the less the witnessed at executions are due to these pressure required to reduce it to a liquid, spasms, yet they are painless, as unconthe pressure reqaired being in direct pro- sciousness precedes them. The origin of portion to the temperature. The gas thus the gas in these cases is in the slow comliquefied is extensively sold in strong metal bustion or oxidation which goes on in the tubes for charging soda-water fountains, body, furnishing it with its normal heat. siphon bottles, etc.

The oxygen of the air, when inhaled, is When the liquefied carbon dioxide is al- carried in the blood of the arteries to the lowed to evaporate it produces cold just tissues and given up to them; after being liquid air does. The cold is not so intense converted into carbon dioxide it is carried as that produced by liquid air, as it does in the blood of the veins to the lungs and not evaporate so rapidly, the intensity of is thence given off in expiration. It is this the cold produced being greater where gas that gives the dark color to the venous evaporation is more rapid. The pressure blood, which in the lungs is converted required to liquefy air being greater, and into the kind found in the arteries the temperature required lower, the evap- when it gives up this carbon dioxide and oration of liquid air is more rapid, though takes up oxygen. From the lungs this in both it is instantaneous when the pres- converted blood is carried back to the sure is removed. Liquefied carbon dioxide heart, to be again distributed to the tissues. is found in nature enclosed in quartz, The red blood, which is that of the artegranite, and coal.

Carbonic acid gas can ries, carries oxygen; the dark or venous be made by pouring sulphuric acid on blood carries carbon dioxide. limestone, marble, or soda, the last being The vitiation of the atmosphere of close the method used to charge soda fountains and crowded rooms is due to the accumuwhen the liquefied gas is not used.

lation of exhaled animal matter and carThat the diamond and pure charcoal

bon dioxide added to by lamps and gas are composed of exactly the same thing – jets. An addition of more than two or carbon - is proved by burning them sep- three parts to the existing four parts of arately in pure oxygen in closed vessels, carbon dioxide in ten thousand parts of allowing nothing to escape, the product air is regarded as injurious. It is calcuin both instances being this gas. The lated, from the amount of carbon dioxide greater part of all fuel being carbon, and produced, that one gas jet consumes as combustion being the rapid oxidation of much air as sixteen persons. The incana substance, the chief product of combus- descent light is the only one which contion is carbon dioxide. When charcoal is sumes no air and produces no carbon burned with a free access of air, carbon dioxide, and for this reason it may be dioxide is formed; when the supply of air is considered the hygienic light. not free, carbon monoxide results from in- In cigarette, cigar, and pipe smoking complete combustion. This carbon mon- both carbon dioxide and the poisonous caroxide is a gas having active narcotic prop- bon monoxide are formed and inhaled erties, and is the agent which produces with the smoke. It is probable that some death when illuminating-gas is inhaled, of the narcotic and injurious effects of death from this cause being due, not to smoking tobacco are due to this monoxide. suffocation, but to the effect of carbon The monoxide differs from the dioxide in monoxide on the heart, lungs, and nerve composition in having one part less of oxygen, it being composed of one part each The bottle is kept tightly closed until it is of carbon and oxygen.

When the mon- desired to use the engine, when by turnoxide is burned it produces the dioxide. ing down the bottle the acid flows into The presence of the monoxide in tobacco the soda solution. The gas is very rapsmoke can be detected by taking a fuil idly generated when the acid and the soda “draw” and blowing the smoke back solution come together, and in a very short through the pipe or cigar upon a lighted time a pressure of three hundred pounds match. The gas will then be seen burn- to the square inch can be obtained, which ing with a blue flame.

will throw a half inch stream of mingled Accumulations of carbonic acid gas, pres- water and gas about ninety feet. The ent from local causes in caves, old wells, water is here used rather as a means of and brewers' vats, have frequently been conveying the gas than for its own firethe cause of death to persons entering extinguishing properties, for the gas libthem without testing for the gas. The test erated from the water by the jar of the is made by lowering a lighted candle to impact and by the heat covers the fire, exthe bottom of the well, as the gas sinks on cluding the air much more effectually than account of its weight. If the light is ex- water, and thus smothers it. In some cities tinguished entrance would be very unsafe. more than eighty per cent of the fires are Tramps attracted by the warmth of burn- extinguished by these chemical engines. ing lime-kilns, and sleeping near them, Only one tank on the engine is used at a have been found dead from the effect of time, so that it can be kept going conthis gas, given off in the process of burn- stantly by recharging the empty tank ing limestone into lime. The deaths of while the other is used. The method of the prisoners in the Black Hole ” of Cal- charging the tank is exactly the same as cutta were due to the carbonic acid gas that used to charge a soda fountain. Any evolved from the prisoners' own bodies one can demonstrate the feasibility of exby respiration. No fresh air being ad- tinguishing fire by this gas by holding a mitted to the prison the gas accumulated lighted match close over a freshly drawn until fatal results were produced.

glass of soda water, or over a glass in One of the most practical and effective which effervescence is produced by pourapplications of carbon dioxide is in the ing vinegar on soda. chemical fire engine. Here it is the agent The reciprocity of animal and plant life which throws the stream and extinguishes with respect to carbon dioxide is interestthe fire. The engine consists of two ex- ing. Animals inhale oxygen from the atactly similar tanks, each holding sixty mosphere, and, having converted it into gallons of water. In this twenty-five carbon dioxide, respire it. Plants inhale pounds of soda is dissolved, an agitator the carbon dioxide, and, having extracted being used to facilitate its solution. In the carbon for their own nutrition, give the top of each tank there is a bottle con- back oxygen to the air. taining eleven pounds of sulphuric acid.





one of its first great sorrows in the death of Arthur Hallam, whose bride his sister was so soon to have been, and the closeknit friend of his deepest heart,

« More than my brothers are to me,”

ENNYSON loved all nature, but especially he loved the sea. From boy

hood he had found delight in the study of its every mood and change, and over and over again its echoes sound through his verse. In two poems, however, his interpretation of the sea rises into a flood tide of poetic feeling and beauty.

The first of these is the fragment Break, break, break!) When he wrote it the poet was still a young man, with his fame waiting in the unfolding years; with the ear of the world as yet but grudgingly accorded him; with his heart wrenched by

—for whom his love was to flower in that noblest of elegies, “In Memoriam.”

It was while this sorrow in its freshness touched and shadowed all the world for Tennyson, that one spring day, as he walked the pleasant English lanes about his early home at Somersby, instead of the green grass under his foot, and the


blossom-starred hawthorn hedges at his hand, he saw a wide gray sea and a gray old church, and, above the song of thrush and skylark, to his inward ear there sounded the rush of inc ng waves as they broke white and foaming against the low cliffs not a hundred yards from Clevedon church, under whose aisle Arthur Hallam had found his last resting-place. So, in that solitary walk, out of his saddened heart sprang the now familiar lines:

« Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.

"And the stately ships go on

To their haven under the hill : But oh ! for the touch of a vanished hand,

And the sound of a voice that is still! “ Break, break, break,

At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead

Will never coine back to me."

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brought him to the verge of life, with its retrospect of what has been, its outlook toward what shall be.

Not in the springtime was this, but on a ripe October day that Tennyson, to whom

one clear call” had already come, for almost the last time was making the easy journey from Aldworth to his beloved Farringford and its fair sea view, when in a moment, as he himself said, there came to him those lines which the world will not soon or willingly forget: « Sunset and evening star,

And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar

When I put out to sea.
« But such a tide as moving seems asleep.

Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home.
« Twilight and evening bell,

And after that the dark !
And may there be no sadness of farewell

When I embark;
"For though from out our bourne of Time and Place

The flood may bear me far;
I hope to see my Pilot face to face

When I have crossed the bar." That same autumn evening he wrote out the poem and showed it to his son, who at once said, “That is the crown of your life work.” It was a well-rendered verdict, and a fruitage worthy to crown Tennyson's ripened years: as simple as the language of a child; as noble as his own great genius; as devout as the faith which had been the cornerstone of his character. That he himself felt it to be the fitting finale of all he had written is shown by the fact that but a few days before his death he charged his son, Mind you put 'Crossing the Bar' at the end of all editions of my poems.”

A little later, and to the music of the great organ of Westminster Abbey a white-robed choir sang. the beautiful words as they laid the poet in his honored grave: and again and again it has been heard beside still forms, where life has passed with that outgoing tide.

As “Break, break, break” has become part of the literature of sorrow, so "Crossing the Bar” has entered into the literature of faith, and many a heart looking to that hour when it in turn shall drift beyond the “bourne of Time and Place shall voice its own inspiring assurance,

« I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.”


A poem that voices, as hardly any other, the hopeless yearning, the longing of bereavement, the sob of all hearts that ache and eyes that weep.

It is not as an expression of the sea, but because he has made the sea to stand for the sorrow, the mystery, the inexorableness of death, that the worid has made it part of the literature of grief, and multitudes of hearts who never heard the murmur of a wave or watched the foam of a breaker have through it voiced a passion all their own.

Tennyson was an old man of past fourscore when he wrote the other poem which is to this the complement, the antithesis, the gloria for the threnody,"Crossing the Bar.” In this the sea is no longer to the poet a lament for the dead, but has become the pathway to immortal life,"When that which drew from out the boundless deep

Turns again home." Beyond the breakers he sees, not ships of human freightage, but the vision of the Pilot, -«that Divine and Unseen,” to quote his words of explanation, “who is always guiding us."

In the long years that lay between the two poems Tennyson had known the best that life can give of love, and honor, and world-wide fame; the obscure young poet who so sadly paced the Somersby lanes had become England's laureate, the friend of England's queen, and one of England's peers. Rich also with heart experience, with high purpose, with fulfilled endeavor, had been these years that had now



of machine-made work; but the product, nevertheless, is often art, since brains and art taste and feeling have to do with it; and, where there is an artist at work, there are the qualities that go to make an artistic production.

Much, obviously and necessarily, depends upon the operator. What differ

HAT photography is in these days

making great strides is manifest not

only by the many exhibits to be seen in our chief towns and by the founding of Salons where choice specimens of the photographic art are placed permanently on view, but by the appeal of the profession for artistic judgments on the results of its individual and collective work. The desire for criticism is in itself an evidence of progress, while the increasing attractions of the exhibits entitle the profession to the recognition in art circles which photography is now receiving, to the extent even of being accorded space on the walls of the Royal Academy of England and other notable galleries. Those who deem photography merely an interesting pastime and refuse to treat as artistic what they consider only a mechanical “snap-shot” device, will doubtless frown upon the attempt to coquet with camera work and will reject the claim made for it to rank among the fine arts. This attitude, however, is inconsiderate and even unfair, when we note not only how much pictorial and decorative value there is in a modern photograph, but recognize its many delicate beauties, and, in the hands of a clever practitioner, the high distinction reached in skilled photography, with its delightful surprises and numberless subtle pictorial effects. Nor, aside from our interest in its charmingly varied products, would it be just to shut our eyes to the fact that photography has exerted an important influence upon art, which has thus been cheapened to its students and lovers, or to the further fact that, as has been claimed for it, the work of the camera has largely influenced the artist in the choice of a subject. It is a cheap- a superciliousway of treating it to think of it only as a mechanical device – a matter of putting in a glass plate or a film in a black box, focusing, and then pressing the button. There is, of course, this mechanical labor in photography, as there is in much else




ences there are, both among amateurs and professionals, may be seen at a glance at the displays in some photographic exhibition, even where only excellent work is exhibited. What contrasts there are, even in the better class of work, it does not take a professional to note. In one exhibit we sometimes detect a certain quality which we find missing in its neighbor, while in portrait work one artist will give a character and individuality to his





siasts, but have attracted also trained and well-equipped artists, numbers of whom have sought out and highly commended his work. In the Salon several notable examples of his art have been given a place on the walls. These include both landscape and portrait work, and each possesses the strong and distinctive qualities characteristic of high art. Some examples of Mr. Minns's work will be found in these pages, though in the half-tone reproductions not a little is necessarily lost, both of the portrait strength and, in the case of landscapes, of their subtle atmospheric beauty. The out-of-door subjects consist of scenes in and near the valley of the Cuyahoga River, in the vicinity of Akron. The feeling and sentiment in these examples

as apparent as are the skill and judgment which have enabled Mr. Minns to seize the conditions of light and atmosphere most favorable to the making of an artistic picture. Strong and realistic is Mr. Minns's work in portraiture: this is specially seen in the head designed



H. W. MINNS (Photographed by Eva Gamble W'alborn)

subject which another utterly fails to impart. Nor are these differences those alone inherent in the picture-subjects exhibited, be they portrait or landscape. They are due chiefly to the educated taste and feeling of the manipulator and to the intelligent study of his profession and the high ideal he has of his art. A notable example of this we have recently had the pleasure of meeting with in the person and work of a clever Ohio photographer, many of whose excellent pictures have received commendation in high art circles and been received with distinction in the photographic Salon lately founded in the State, as well as at the national conventions of the profession held at Celeron, on Lake Chautauqua, and at Put-in-Bay, on Lake Erie.

The photographer to whom we refer is Mr. Harvey W. Minns, of Akron, Ohio; a true artist, who possesses not only great enthusiasm for his work, but has the nous, the intelligent perception of his art, which enables him constantly to elevate his ideals and artistically to increase the high character of his productions. Mr. Minns's exhibits have caught the eye not only of many amateur and professional enthu


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