Title: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 15, Vol. I, April 12, 1884
Author: Various
Language: English
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LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART, FIFTH SERIES, NO. 15, VOL. I, APRIL 12,
1884 ***



[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 15.—VOL. I.      SATURDAY, APRIL 12, 1884.      PRICE 1½_d._]



NATURE AROUND LONDON.


Most people have the impression that to enjoy country sights and
sounds, and all the peaceful rural beauties and bright hues of an
English landscape, one must go a long way out of London. Mr Richard
Jefferies, in his recent volume, _Nature near London_ (Chatto and
Windus), has, with his admirable power of nature-painting, shown this
to be a mistake. About twelve miles from the great metropolis there
are to be found small picturesque villages lying in the heart of leafy
copses, and rural lanes imbedded in greenery, and filled with bird
and insect life. Here the wayfarer, weary with the dust and smoke of
London, may inhale an atmosphere laden with resinous and balmy scents,
and stretch himself in the cool grass beside streams beloved by the
angler, where patches of forget-me-nots gem the greensward with their
soft turquoise-blue, and the yellow flag hangs out in the bright summer
sunshine its gay streamers of gold.

Mr Jefferies tells us regarding one of these tiny brooks, that he
watched season after season a large trout that lay in a deep pool
under the shadow of a great beech-tree. For nearly four years, in
shadow and sunshine, he observed this veteran of the finny tribe as
he lay meditatively watching the world outside from the quiet depths
of his snug pool. The noisy little sedge-birds chattered overhead,
and the patient anglers cast their lines with crafty care by the side
of the brook; but no bait they could use had any charm for him. At
length, by slow degrees, there came to be a comparative friendliness
and confidence between the trout and the patient watcher who stood so
still and silent by the edge of the pool. Sometimes the trout would
venture out of the shadow, and raising himself over a dead branch that
lay in the water, display all his speckled beauties in the ripple and
sunshine. At last, one bright summer morning, an end came to this
quaint friendship. An awful revolution occurred in the quiet life of
the brook—the water was dammed up and let off by a side-hatch, in
order that some large pipe might be laid down; and the big trout, with
his lesser brethren, fell a victim to the predatory instincts of a
party of navvies. Our author looked in vain next day into the still
depths of the beech-tree pool; his finny friend was gone, and the place
looked empty and dull without him.

It is impossible to describe to any one who has not experienced it
for himself, how much the near neighbourhood of London enhances all
the beauties of the country, and brings out the sweet scents of the
fields and hedges. In the cool dewy mornings, the honeysuckle trailing
along the hedgerows perfumes the air all around, and mingles with the
delicious scent of the bean and hay fields. In these woodland copses,
nature has opened her flowery cornucopia and poured out her treasures
with a liberal hand. Here one stumbles upon a clump of wild-roses, with
their delicate pink glow and faint sweet perfume; there, a few steps
farther bring you to a lime-tree laden with blossoms, and you feel
the whole perfumed air heavy with the slumberous hum of the bees busy
overhead. Rabbits dart out and in from under the green palm-like fronds
of a great clump of brake-fern; the woodpeckers call to each other; the
jays screech from the leafy lanes; wood-pigeons coo from the depths
of the copse-wood. There is no blank of silence, no absence of the
companionship of living things, no lack of vivid interest for any one
who can scan with an intelligent eye the pages of nature’s great book.

Away over the rippling hayfields, the lark, mounting upwards, a tiny
speck in the cloudless blue of the summer sky, makes the air quiver
with the glad thrilling notes of his morning song; and down in the
leafy hollow of the copse, where the brook murmurs gently beneath the
overhanging boughs, the blackbird trills his mellifluous flute-like
notes. Birds, our author says, abound. ‘In some places, almost every
clod has its lark, every bush its songster.’

One particular lane, with a high hedge bordered with elm-trees, had
four or five nightingales; and a copse near it resounded in the season
with the cheerful call of the cuckoo. Magpies, which have become scarce
in many places throughout the country, are plentiful near London,
where some birds are also found which, in many country districts,
are but rare and occasional visitors, such as the blackcap, shrike,
and gorgeous kingfisher. To a student of bird-life, such spots as a
little wood, which our author christened Nightingale Copse, cannot
fail to prove a perfect paradise. It was a favourite resort not only
of nightingales, but of other migratory birds—chiff-chaffs, willow
wrens, golden-crested wrens, fieldfares, &c. In the fields bordering
the highway, partridges abounded; and Mr Jefferies counted on one
occasion as many as seventeen young pheasants all feeding together on
the wheat-stubbles. Nor is the ear the only sense which is charmed in
these woodland copses—in the hedgerows, and under the straggling trees
and bushes which border the woods, flowers abound, gleaming out in the
sunshine from between the tall grasses with a sudden surprise of vivid
colour; or spreading like enamel over the short turf; or intertwining
their gay garlands with the clustering masses of creeping bramble. Each
flower has its own peculiar habitat, where it flourishes luxuriantly.
There are patches of the yellow rock rose, of the cranesbill, of the
sweet purple wild thyme, of the starry white stitchwort, of the campion
and yellow snapdragon; while stately and tall under the shadow of the
birch-trees, the foxglove hangs out to the rustling breeze its lovely
bells of clouded purple. Nor is heath awanting; ‘the open slopes beyond
Sandown are covered with heath, growing so thickly, that even the
narrow footpaths are hidden by the overhanging bushes of it. Beneath
and amid the heath, what seems a species of lichen grows so profusely
as to give a gray undertone to the whole.’

In autumn, this stretch of heath blazes out into a deep glory of
purple, so rich and full, that it seems to give the very atmosphere a
glow of purple light. Beyond the heath, there are fir-woods, stretching
to the east and west; while southwards, the heath melts into the soft
green of corn and meadow lands, with scattered clumps of trees. The
open slopes among the straggling firs, which dot like sentinels the
borders of these pine-woods, are covered with forests of tail ferns,
amid which the browsing cows are lost to sight, and only reveal their
whereabouts by the tinkling music of the small bells suspended to their
necks.

Adders are common in these woods, and are sometimes killed for the sake
of their oil, which some folks consider a specific for deafness. It
is procured by skinning the adder and taking the fat and boiling it;
the result being a clear oil, which never thickens even in the coldest
weather. It is applied by pouring a small quantity into the ear,
exactly in the same manner as the poison was poured into the ear of the
sleeping king in _Hamlet_. Squirrels abound in these copses, and so do
weasels and stoats.

In some fields christened by our author Magpie Fields, because he one
day saw ten magpies all together in one of them, herbs abound which
are in request among herbalists for medicinal purposes. One of these
is yarrow. One day, looking at some mowers at work in a hayfield, he
saw a man in advance of the others pulling up the yarrow plants as
fast as he could and carefully laying them aside. Asking him why he
did so, he answered, that although it seemed such a common weed, it
was not without its value, for that a person sometimes came and took
away a whole trap-load of it. The flowers were boiled, and mixed with
cayenne pepper, and were then used as a remedy for colds in the chest.
Dandelions are also in request; the tender leaves are pulled in the
spring, and taken away in sackfuls to be eaten as salad. There are also
hellebore and blue scabious; and the rough-leaved comfrey; and borage
with its reminiscences of claret-cup; and groundsel, dear to the owners
of pet birds; and knotted figwort, and Aaron’s rod; and a whole tribe
of strongly scented mints and peppermints. The belief in these simples,
which made the reputation in the middle ages of many a wonder-working
doctor and village witch, is fast dying out in the country districts,
where the agricultural labourers scarcely know one herb from
another; but it flourishes still around the mighty and enlightened
metropolis. The herb self-heal is to be found in many hedgerows of many
harvest-fields, as well as on the stubbles near London; but very few
reapers now would know it if they saw it, or ever think of applying it
to any accidental cut or gash.

In the harvest and turnip-hoeing seasons, picturesque bivouac fires dot
the fields and lanes. These do not owe their existence to parties of
pleasure-seekers, who go a-gipsying under the greenwood tree, but are
rather the outcome of a hard struggle for the means of subsistence.
They belong to wandering Irish labourers, who move about from farm to
farm wherever they can get work, sleeping in barns or outhouses, and
in fine weather doing their cooking in the open air. Nothing can be
more unlike the populace of the vast adjacent metropolis than these
agricultural labourers, native or imported. Look at the ploughman
in the furrows yonder, with his stolid characterless face, vacantly
regarding the team of three stately horses before him. Intent day
by day on the earth beneath his feet, he sees, or at least notices
little else. ‘His mind imbibes the spirit of the soil,’ and cannot
rise beyond. When the plough stops, he takes out his bread and cheese;
and as he munches away, his eyes fall on the sunbeams glittering on
the roof of the Crystal Palace; but the sparkling reflection awakens
no train of thought in his uncontemplative soul; he takes no interest
except in the furrows at his feet; although near London, he is not of
it.

In the collection of English pottery in the Museum is preserved the
simple rustic memory of these tillers of the soil, the men who,
centuries ago, ploughed like this simple countryman these beautiful
English acres, scattering the seed over the furrows in the green flush
of spring, and garnering the golden grain beneath the mellow skies of
autumn. It is curious that so much of the unwritten history of our race
should be preserved by so frail a thing as earthenware. These jugs and
mugs, with their quaint mottoes and ornamentation, carry the spectator
back to the sports and habits of a bygone age.

‘May the best cock win,’ recalls a brutal sport now almost unknown. The
frog at the bottom of the jug is a rebuke to the too greedy toper;
while the motto on another cup shows that there were grumblers even in
the good old days, and that times were hard then as well as now:

    Here’s to thee, mine honest friend,
    Wishing these hard times to mend.

Beyond the woodlands and valleys which Mr Jefferies has described so
happily, are the vast South Downs, hidden in masses of gray mist.
These wide sheep-walks are seemingly endless in their extent. They are
profusely covered with flowers in their season, with patches of furze,
and with short thick grass, amid which the wild thyme luxuriates,
spreading out into soft cushions of purple which might make a seat for
a king, and permeating with its aromatic fragrance the whole keen air
of the uplands. The furze is full of bird-life. Only game has decreased
with the increase of cultivation; and with the decrease of game, foxes
have become fewer. A few years ago, they were so abundant, that a
shepherd told our author that he had sometimes seen as many as six at a
time sunning themselves on the precipitous face of the cliffs at Beachy
Head. They ascend and descend the precipice by narrow winding-paths of
their own with the greatest ease and in perfect safety, unless a couple
have a quarrel on one of the narrow rock-ledges, when fatal results
often ensue—one or both toppling over.

‘Lands of gold,’ says our author, ‘have been found, and lands of spices
and precious merchandise; but the South Downs are the land of health.
There is always the delicious air, turn where you will; and the grass,
the very touch of which refreshes.’ Besides all this, there is the
peculiar beauty which gives its chief charm to all elevated situations,
the interest of the panorama which spreads around and beneath—the
distant trees which wave in the freshening breeze; the gleam of light
which brings out into strong relief the warm bit of colouring supplied
by the tiled roof of yonder farmhouse; the flashes of sunshine which
brighten up the gloom, and chase the shadows across the swelling
uplands and green low-lying meadows beyond.

Seen in the shifting lights and glooms of a breezy autumn day, this
lofty, lonely spot seems a land of enchanted beauty, which holds the
spectator spellbound, till masses of cloud, rolling up from the sea,
throw deep purple shadows over the peaceful landscape, and warn him
that darkness is about to fall over the flower-spangled slopes and
gleaming sea beyond.



BY MEAD AND STREAM.

CHAPTER XXIII.—CHANGES.


The arrival of a stranger in Kingshope was not such an unusual
occurrence as to attract much particular attention. The villagers were
accustomed in the summer to frequent visits of bands of ‘beanfeasters’
or ‘wayzegoose’ parties, as the annual outings of the employees of
large city firms are called. On these occasions there were athletic
games on the common, pleasant roamings through the Forest, and high
revel in the _King’s Head_ or the _Cherry Tree_ afterwards. Then
there were itinerant photographers, negro minstrels, and gypsy cheap
Jacks, with caravans drawn by animals which may be best described as
the skeletons of horses in skin-tights—working the Forest ‘pitch’ or
‘lay’—these being the slang terms for any given scene of operation
for the professional vagrant. The bird-snarers and the pigeon-flyers
seemed to be always about. In the hunting season there were generally
a few guests at the _King’s Head_; and so, although every new visitor
underwent a bovine stare, he was forgotten as soon as he passed out of
sight.

Mr Beecham’s ways were so quiet, that before he had been a week in
the place, he had glided so imperceptibly into its ordinary life that
he seemed to be as much a part of it as the parson and the doctor.
His presence was of course observed, but there was little sign of
impertinent curiosity. It was understood that he was looking about
the district for a suitable house in which to settle, or for a site
on which to build one. This accounted for his long walks; and there
was nothing remarkable in the fact that his peregrinations led him
frequently by Willowmere, and sometimes into the neighbourhood of
Ringsford Manor.

Although his ways were so quiet, there was nothing reserved or
mysterious about them. The object which had brought him to Kingshope
was easily comprehended; he entered into conversation with the people
he met, and took an interest in the affairs of the place—the crops,
the weather, and the prospects of the poor during the coming winter.
Yet nothing more was known of his antecedents than that he came from
London, and that he visited the city two or three times a week. He
dressed plainly; he lived moderately at the inn—not like one who
required to reckon his expenses carefully, but like one whose tastes
were simple and easily satisfied.

The general belief was that he had belonged to one of the professions,
and that he had retired on a moderate competence, in order to devote
his time to study of some sort. He himself said nothing on the subject.

One of the first acquaintances he made was Uncle Dick, who adhered to
the kindly old country custom of giving the time of day to any one he
met in the lanes or saw passing his gates. The first salutation of the
master of Willowmere induced Mr Beecham to make inquiries about the
district, which led to future conversations. These would have speedily
introduced the stranger to the farmhouse and its mistress; but hitherto
he had not availed himself of the cordial invitation which was given
him. He was apparently satisfied with the privilege of going over the
land with Uncle Dick, inspecting his stock and admiring his horses, and
thus speedily developing a casual acquaintanceship into a friendship.
On these occasions he had opportunities of seeing and conversing with
Madge, and she formed as favourable an opinion of him as her uncle had
done.

‘Has he ever said what made him think of coming to settle hereabout?’
inquired the dame one day, after listening to their praises of the
stranger.

‘Never thought of asking him,’ replied Crawshay, wondering if there was
anything wrong in having neglected to put such a natural question.

‘He mentioned that some friends of his lived near here at one time,’
said Madge, ‘and that he had always liked the Forest.’

‘Has he spoken about any family? Is he married? Has he any children?’

‘Why, mother, you wouldn’t have me go prying into what doesn’t concern
us!’ was Crawshay’s exclamation. ‘It does seem a bit queer, though,
that he seems to have nobody belonging to him.’

Aunt Hessy thought it very queer; and when Philip came next, she asked
him to describe Mr Shield to her again.

‘He must have changed very much since I last saw him,’ she said
thoughtfully. ‘I scarcely know what put it into my head, but this Mr
Beecham is much more like what I should have fancied your uncle would
grow into, than the gentleman you describe. But foreign parts do seem
to alter people strangely. There was neighbour Hartopp’s lad went away
to California; and when he came back ten years after, it took his own
mother two whole days before she would believe that he was himself.
Yes, foreign parts do alter people strangely in appearances as well as
feelings.’

It was regarded by the little group as a good joke that Aunt Hessy
should have formed the romantic suspicion that the stranger in the
village might be her old friend Austin Shield. They did not know
anything of the confidential letter. She had said nothing about it yet,
and her conscience was much troubled on that account.

‘It’s wrong to keep a secret from Dick,’ she kept saying to herself. ‘I
know it is wrong, and I am doing it. If harm come of it, I shall never
forgive myself; I hope others may be able to do it.’

She regarded with something like fear the enthusiasm with which Philip
spoke of the social revolution he was to effect by means of the wealth
placed at his command. Yet it was a noble object the youth was aiming
at. Surely wealth could do no harm, when it was used for the purpose of
making the miserable happy, of showing men how they might prosper, and
teaching them the great lesson, that content and comfort were only to
be found in hard work. The scheme looked so feasible to her, and was
so good, that she remained silent lest she should mar the work. She
bore the stings of conscience, and prayed that Philip might pass safely
through the ordeal to which he was unconsciously being subjected. He
talked of the bounty of his uncle, and she was uneasy, knowing that
this bounty might prove his ruin, although she was quite unable to see
how that could come about as matters looked at present. She was simply
afraid, and began to understand why preachers often spoke of gold as
a fiend—the more dangerous because it appeared as the agent of good.
Then there was the coming of this stranger at the same time that Philip
met his uncle in London. Of course there was nothing to associate the
two in her mind except the period of their arrival. But she was puzzled.

‘There is not the slightest resemblance between the two men, I assure
you,’ Philip said; ‘but there is this strong resemblance between my
uncle as he is now and as he was, by your own account, when you knew
him long ago—he is as odd in his ways as ever. He will not discuss
anything with me except by letter. That, you might say, was no more
than prudent, as it can leave no room for dispute as to what we say to
each other.’

‘He wants to make you careful,’ said the dame, with some feeling of
relief; for this arrangement seemed to prove that he was desirous of
helping Philip to pass the test.

‘But, besides, he will scarcely see me at all; and when he does, he is
as short with me and in as great a hurry to get rid of me as he was on
the first day I called on him. When I try to explain things to him, he
says: “All right; go your own way. If you want me to consider anything,
you must write it out for me.” I don’t mind it now, having got used to
it; but sometimes I cannot help wondering’——

Philip checked himself, as if he had been about to say something which
he suddenly remembered should not be spoken even to his dearest friends.

‘Well?’ queried Uncle Dick, looking at him along the line of his
churchwarden pipe as if it were a gun and he were taking aim. ‘What are
you stopping for? You can’t help wondering at what?’

‘Only at his droll ways,’ answered Philip. ‘I should have thought that
risking so much money in my hand, he would have been anxious to have
the fullest particulars of all that I was doing with it.’

‘So should I, lad. What does your father say about it?’

‘Nothing more than that he will want to speak to me one day soon. He is
not pleased.’

‘There don’t seem to me much to be not pleased about.—Eh, mother?’

‘We’ll see after a bit,’ answered the dame, cautiously, but smiling.
‘We don’t know yet whether Philip is to prove himself a very wise man
or’——

‘Or a fool,’ interrupted Crawshay, with one of his hearty laughs.

‘Nay, Dick; not that. Philip will never prove himself a fool; but he
might do worse—he might prove himself a sensible man doing foolish
things.’

The stranger who provoked this discussion went on in his calm way,
seeking what apparently he could not find, but always with a pleasant
smile or a kindly ‘good-day’ to the people he met in the fields and
lanes.

One of his favourite halting-places was at the stile which gave access
from the roadway to the Willowmere meadows. On the opposite side of the
road were the willows and beeches, bordering the river. Four of the
latter trees were known as the ‘dancing beeches,’ from the position in
which they stood, as if they had suddenly halted whilst whirling round
in a country-dance; and when the wind blew, their branches interlaced
and creaked in unison, as if they wanted to begin the dance again.
This was a famous trysting-place, and in the summer-time the swains
and their maidens would ‘wander in the meadows where the May-flowers
grow.’ This is the burden of a rustic ballad which you would often
hear chanted in the quiet evenings. It served the double purpose of
supplying the place of conversation and of agreeably expressing the
thoughts of the singers. Uncle Dick sometimes saw and heard them; but
with kindly indifference to his clover, he would shake his head and
turn away, remembering that he, too, had once been young.

Mr Beecham resting on the stile could, by an easy movement of the
head, command nearly the whole of the hollow in which the village lay;
and looking upward, could catch glimpses of Willowmere House peering
through the apple and pear trees of the orchard.

After the lapse of years, how new it all looks, and yet how old;
how changed, and yet familiar. There is the church, the same gray
weather-beaten pile, in spite of the vicar’s manful efforts to get it
put into a state of thorough repair. The vicar himself is the same
cheery good friend in gladness, and the sympathising comforter in
sorrow; his hair is almost gray now, and his figure is inclined to be
rotund; but he is still the same. There are, however, new gravestones
in the churchyard, and they bear the names of old friends. Their places
in the world have been easily filled up; their places in the memory of
the survivors never can be. Ay, there is change indeed.

But here is the golden autumn, its lustre slowly growing dim under the
touch of approaching winter; there are the green fields and the red
ploughed lands—they are just as they looked long ago, although his
eyes see them through the sad haze which separates him from the past.
There are the sounds of the cattle, the ripple of the river, and the
rustle of the trees—sounds to which he gave no particular heed in the
old time, and now they are like the voices of welcoming friends.

So the present steps by us; pain and sorrow plant milestones on our
way; by-and-by the eye glances tenderly backward and over them, and in
old age we hear the voices of our youth.

‘Good-afternoon, Mr Beecham. Do you think it will rain?’

He lifted his head, and bowed to Madge and Philip as they were about to
pass over the stile. He looked up at the sky.

‘I am afraid it will rain; but you will be home before it begins, I
think.’

Philip gave her his hand; she mounted the three foot-worn wooden steps
and descended on the meadow side.

‘I hope you will always have a strong hand to help you over the stiles,
Miss Heathcote,’ he said, smiling; but there seemed to be as much of
earnest as of jest in his meaning.

‘I believe she may fairly count upon that, Mr Beecham,’ answered Philip.

‘The pity is, we so seldom find what we count upon,’ said Mr Beecham,
shaking his head.

‘Then we must make the best of what we do find,’ replied Philip
cheerfully, ‘and scramble over somehow without a helping hand.’

The two passed on at a smart pace up the meadow, Mr Beecham looking
after them with a dream in his eyes.

Overhead, on this afternoon, was a sky gloomy and threatening; but on
the horizon were rivers of pale golden light, giving hope and courage
to the weary ones who were like to faint by the wayside. Suddenly a
white light relieved the gloom immediately above, and the golden rivers
were lashed with dark promontories; but still, the farthest point was
light. Again suddenly a white glory burst through the gloom, dazzling
the eyes and breaking the clouds into fantastic shapes, which fled from
it like the witches of evil fleeing before the majestic genii of good.
Another change, and all gradually toned down into the soft repose of a
calm evening, bearing the promise of a pleasant day to follow.

‘I have lived alone too much,’ muttered Mr Beecham with a long-drawn
breath, which is the only approach to a sigh ventured upon by a man
past middle age; ‘and my own morbid broodings make me superstitious,
showing me symbols in everything. I hope this one may turn out well,
however.’

Philip and Madge had disappeared by this time, and Mr Beecham walked
slowly on to the village.

When the young people reached the homestead, Madge announced that
Philip had come to tell them something very important, which he had
refused to reveal until they should be in the house.

Aunt Hessy glanced uneasily from one to the other; but seeing no
sign of disturbance on either face, her uneasiness passed away. She
concluded that it was some jest with which Philip had been teasing
Madge.

‘I have seen Mr Shield again to-day,’ he began, ‘and I have received
new instructions from him.’

‘He is not going to send you off to Griqualand, after all?’ queried
Madge quickly.

‘O no; but maybe you would prefer that he should order me off there,
rather than tell me to take chambers in town.’

‘Chambers in town! What can that be for?’

‘Well, he was as short and bustling as ever; he never seems to have
time to discuss anything. “That’s what I want,” he says; “if you don’t
like it, write, and tell me why.” All he said about it was that he
desired me to feel independent.’

The uneasy expression reappeared on Aunt Hessy’s face.

‘Have you consented to make this change?’ she asked quietly.

‘I could see no objection; and in several ways the arrangement will be
convenient. I made it clear that it was not in any way to be considered
as a step towards separating me from my family. He said I could please
myself as regarded my family—he had nothing to do with that.... Do you
not like it, Madge?’

The clear eyes looked wistfully in his face. ‘No, Philip; I do not like
it. But perhaps Mr Shield is right; and it may be as well that you
should have the experience of being away from us for a time at least.’

‘Living away from you! Why I shall be here as often as ever!’

She said nothing; and Aunt Hessy put the apparently irrelevant question:

‘Have you seen Mr Beecham to-day, Madge?’

‘We saw him by the stile at the foot of the meadow as we passed.’

Aunt Hessy, with evident disappointment, abandoned the droll fancy
which had for a time possessed her mind.



SOME QUEER DISHES.


If, in England, a man was pushed to discover a new animal food, it
would, I think, be a long time before he hit upon bats as at all likely
to furnish him with a desirable addition to his table, even if their
diminutive size did not place an insuperable obstacle in the way of
their being so utilised. But in many of the South Sea Islands where
the flying-fox—a species of bat, fifteen inches or so across the
wings—is common, it is used as food by the natives, and its flesh is
by no means to be despised even by epicures. This animal, frugivorous
in his tastes as a rule, does not for all that turn up his nose at a
plump moth or a succulent beetle when they chance to come in his way;
but he usually confines himself to fruit—ripe bananas of the best
quality and plenty of them being about his mark; and dreadful havoc he
and his friends would make in the banana gardens, if the natives—well
aware of his habits—did not hasten to bind quantities of dead leaves
round the ripening fruit, and so preserve it from his attacks. It
would seem absurd to a stranger to the country to be informed that
such an insignificant animal as a bat could seriously threaten the
fruit-harvest in countries where it is so abundant; but he would
change his opinion when informed that the flying-foxes often settle in
hundreds in any likely plantation; and as they always destroy very much
more than they consume, the loss and inconvenience they cause to the
natives may be properly estimated.

The bat in question is not so strictly nocturnal in his habits as his
English brother; and although he usually sallies out at sunset, yet I
have often noticed them sailing about in broad daylight, provided the
weather was dull and overcast; the flight is even and regular, very
like that of a rook, and not in the least resembling the extremely
erratic mode of progression affected by our native species. If in their
manner of flying—a few steady flaps and then a long sail—they remind
one of the rook, they also resemble our old friend in their habit of
assembling together at bedtime, when they all retire to roost on the
same grove of trees, and hang head downwards with their wings wrapped
round their bodies, looking like a collection of large cobwebs.

It must not, however, be supposed that the meeting and subsequent
proceedings take place in silence; the contrary is the case; and an
immense amount of chattering is carried on for a considerable time,
when no doubt all the affairs of the day are duly discussed, as well
as other matters amatory and otherwise. In the old heathen times, the
rookeries were strongly tabooed by the priests; and even to the present
day, the natives, more especially the old men, have an evident aversion
to interfere with the sacred trees, a feeling which does not in the
least prevent them from killing all the bats they can in other places.

The natives prepare them for food by first cutting off the wings and
then passing the body through the fire, to remove the fur, and with
it the strong foxy smell with which it is impregnated. It is then
carefully scraped, split open, and afterwards grilled on the coals
spitchcock fashion, when it is ready for consumption; and is capital
eating, having a rich gamy flavour something between a hare and a
woodcock.

I was so much encouraged by the success of my first essay at
bat-eating, that I afterwards had a pie made of several I had shot, and
from my previous experience, rather looked forward to a good dinner;
but when the pastry was cut open, I was grievously disappointed by
finding that the fetid odour peculiar to the live animal had survived
the cooking—from being unable to escape from the pastry—rendering it
utterly uneatable, and so for the future contented myself with bat _au
naturel_—that is, native fashion.

The above-mentioned animal is very common in Australia, and is quite
as great a nuisance among the orchards there as he is in the islands;
but it will be some considerable time, I fancy, before our colonial
brothers utilise him in the kitchen.

I don’t suppose that many people—at least English people, who are
tolerably prejudiced in their way—have ever voluntarily gone in for
a cuttle-fish or octopus diet, as they are horribly weird, uncanny
animals to look at; and few, I opine, would feel inclined to make
a ‘square meal’ off the shiny creatures, at least until other more
prepossessing kinds of food remained to be tried. Nevertheless,
throughout the whole of the Pacific, including Japan, all the different
varieties of cuttle and octopus are regarded as a _bonne bouche_ of
peculiar excellence; and both in its capture and preparation, the
natives display considerable ingenuity. I remember once, when sailing
in the tropics, seeing one morning the deck of our little schooner
nearly covered with that very elegant little cuttle-fish called the
‘flying-squid.’ The sea had been very rough during the night, and I
could never properly ascertain whether the squid had come on board of
their own accord, attracted by the light—as the men affirmed—or had
been left there by a heavy sea we had shipped just before daylight.
Anyway, our cook, a smart Maltese, at once set to work to collect
them, and then, much to the disgust of the sailors, who are the most
prejudiced of mortals, he forthwith proceeded to cook them for the
cabin table, and sent us down dishes of squid both curried and fried
that were much approved of by all who partook of them; and proved a
delightful change after the long course of ‘salt junk’ and tinned soup
and bouillie that the slow sailing of our little craft had obliged us
to adopt.

These fish were about six inches long, had large brilliant eyes of
a set expression, and were furnished with a pair of flippers or
wings. They also—unlike any other kind of fish that I am acquainted
with—rejoice in a couple of tails, in lieu of the orthodox number. The
body, almost transparent, was of a delicate olive brown. Altogether,
they were pretty little things, and tasted even better than they looked.

I am now about to introduce my readers to a dish of octopus prepared
_secundum artem_ by a South Sea native. The octopus is by no means,
without proper apparatus, an easy animal to lay hold of; on the
contrary, it demands all the cunning of the most experienced South Sea
fisherman to wile him from his haunts in the coral and to secure a
good number for a feast.

But here is my Tongese friend Fakatene, just about to launch his
_hamatefna_, or fishing-canoe; and we cannot do better than accompany
him on his trip, and lend a hand in catching the fish we are to
partake of. But first, just notice how ingeniously his tiny vessel
is constructed out of timber of the bread-fruit tree. This tree does
not, so far south—we are in about twenty-three degrees five minutes
south—attain to any great size, and the timber, therefore, is
proportionately small and scarce, which accounts for the small size of
the pieces used. The hull, you notice, is pretty well in one piece,
except that queer-shaped bit so artfully let in near the bows, and so
close-fitting all round that even a penknife could not be introduced
between the seams; and were it not for the difference in the grain of
the wood, the ingenious patch would never be detected. The top sides
are formed of several small planks neatly sewn on to the hull with
sinnet, and joined in the same manner to one another; and yet, with all
this patching, she exceeds in beauty, in the grace of her lines, and in
her extreme buoyancy in the water, the finest four-oar ever turned out
by Searle in his most palmy days.

Fakatene is pleased with our admiration of his highly prized canoe,
and takes some pains to explain that she was moulded on the lines of
the bonito, one of the swiftest of fishes. Not such a bad idea that,
we consider, for a poor native; but one that we intellectual white men
are much too proud, not to say too conceited, to follow; so we go in
for all kinds of scientific curves and angles, with the result that
our builders are constantly producing craft that will neither pull nor
sail, and that would have been a disgrace to Noah himself, or even to
prehistoric man.—But to return to our canoe. She is provided with an
outrigger called a ‘thama,’ to prevent capsizing; with a carved-wood
bailer, in case we ship a sea or make any water from the working of
the seams; also with a long three-pronged fish-spear, a few lines, a
bamboo of fresh water; and last, but not least, with the inevitable
fire-stick, or smouldering twist of tapa cloth, to furnish a light for
our friend’s _seluka_ (cigarette). Off at last; and Fakatene, who poled
swiftly over the shallow part of the reef, has taken to his paddle,
and coasting along the island for some distance, we soon come to a
favourable spot for our purpose; so we drop anchor—a large stone—and
business commences.

The octopus dwells in holes in the reef, keeping only a portion of
his body exposed, so that, while he can look out for his prey, he can
at the same time quickly withdraw within his hole, directly his dread
enemy the shark appears, who is always foraging about the reefs in
search of adventurous cuttles.

Now, I must tell you that the octopus, although partial enough to
crabs, is particularly fond of the inhabitant of the spotted cowrie or
ear-shell, so common in our shops; and so Fakatene, well aware of this
fact, has prepared a cunning bait, artfully constructed of a number of
small plates of the shell fastened together in such a manner that while
similar in appearance to the real thing, yet, being much heavier, and
not containing any air, sinks at once, which a real shell would not
do. Our friend now lowers his line, with the shell-bait attached, until
it touches the bottom, and then raising it a few inches off the ground,
jerks it gently up and down. Presently, a pull on the line shows that
the fish has taken the bait; more jerking on the part of the native;
which the octopus replies to by at once throwing out a fresh arm. The
jerking still continues; until the fish, dreading the escape of his
prey, lets go his hold of the rocks, and wraps the whole of his body
round the shell; when the native, perceiving that his line is no longer
fast to the ground, gently hauls up the line, and finally deposits an
immense octopus in the bottom of the canoe. Our new friend no sooner
finds himself caught, than he lets go the deceptive bait, and with his
great goggle eyes staring hard at nothing in particular, sprawls about
in the most awkward fashion, at the same time giving vent to a species
of grunt, until at last he finally retires into the darkest corner he
can find, and collapses into a lump of grayish-looking jelly, about a
third part of his apparent size when in motion.

Having by the same means secured several more fish, we return to land,
when the canoe is duly housed, and Fakatene disposes of the octopi by
turning them inside out and hanging them up to dry in the sun, having
first carefully saved all the sepia left in the fish, as this is
esteemed a great luxury, and an indispensable ingredient in preparing
the sauce.

When the cuttle is to be cooked, it is first of all carefully cleaned
and scraped, when all the outer skin, including the hideous-looking
suckers, comes off. The fish is then cut in pieces, and having been
tied up in a banana-leaf, is baked in an oven for a considerable
time in conjunction with cocoa-nut milk and a certain proportion of
the inky-hued sepia above mentioned, and which, as is well known, is
made use of by the fish when alive to obscure the water when escaping
from the pursuit of its enemies. It takes some time to cook octopus
properly, as it is naturally tough and stringy; but when well prepared,
it is one of the most delicate and luscious dishes I ever tasted;
and, singular to say, the cooking converts the tripy, stringy-looking
substance into a solid meaty food, bearing a curious resemblance to
lobster both in taste and colour, only rather firmer in texture; a most
unlooked-for occurrence in such dissimilar articles.



A WITNESS FOR THE DEFENCE.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.—CHAPTER II.


When I got back to town, the sessions were only a week off; so the
first thing I did was to call on the solicitor in charge of my murder
case, in order to learn from him how it stood, and to take it off his
hands. The magistrate, of course, had sent the prisoner for trial.
When I came to read the depositions, the case against him seemed
perfectly simple, and as conclusive as circumstantial evidence could
make it. The crime had not occurred so long ago but that a diligent
search had unearthed several witnesses. The servant-girl, who had now
become the wife of a dairyman in the immediate neighbourhood, was
found. She proved the bad conduct of young Harden, and the ill-will
which gradually grew up between him and her former mistress. She also
spoke to his ejectment from the house on the day of the murder, and
to his threats at the street-door. She swore to the knife, which had
been in the possession of the police ever since, as having belonged
to the prisoner. There were other witnesses to the same facts; and
the landlord, my client, and several others, proved the flourishing
of the identical knife and the ominous words in the public-house. To
complete the chain, the man who had instructed me proved the finding of
the knife in the room where the murder was committed; and two or three
witnesses remembered being by his side and seeing him stoop down and
pick it up. These, with the final facts of his sudden disappearance and
changes of name, appeared both to me and to my friend to be capable of
being spun into a rope quite strong enough to swing John Harden out of
the world.

‘But,’ said my solicitor-friend, ‘the queerest thing of all is that no
one is going to appear for the prisoner.’

‘No one to appear for him?’

‘No one. Young Elkin holds a watching brief on behalf of the prisoner’s
master, and that is all. He said Harden had been in Mr Slocum’s—that’s
his master—service for over seven years, behaving extremely well all
the time. He was invaluable to his old master, who is something of
an invalid. He had turned religious, and was disgusted at his former
wicked life.’

‘But I suppose he has money—or, at anyrate, if Slocum is so fond of
him, why doesn’t he pay for the defence?’

‘Why, it seems that his notion of religion forbids Harden to avail
himself of worldly arts. Slocum is only too anxious to retain some
one; but Harden won’t have it, and no one can persuade him. Says he
is in the hands of a Higher Power, and it shall be given him what he
shall speak, and all the rest of it. He wanted to make a speech to the
magistrate; but Slocum, by Elkin’s advice, did manage to induce him to
hold his tongue for the present, and say he would reserve his defence.
Of course they hope he will come to his senses before the trial. But I
don’t know how that will be. I never saw such an obstinate pig. Only
gave in to his master about not speaking because the poor man began to
whimper in court!’

The main part of my work had been done for me, and it only remained
to bespeak copies of the depositions, see the witnesses, and make
sure that they intended to say at the Old Bailey substantially the
same things as they had said at the police court—a most necessary
precaution, the imagination being so vivid in people of this class that
they are very likely to amplify their tale if possible—and prepare the
brief for the prosecuting counsel. This done, I had but to let things
take their course.

When the day of the trial came, I was betimes in my place at the
Central Criminal Court, having various other cases in hand there. The
prisoners, as is customary, were first put up and arraigned—that is,
had the substance of their several indictments read over to them—and
were called on to plead ‘guilty’ or ‘not guilty.’ These disposed of,
the case for John Harden was called, and I looked at him with some
curiosity. No sooner had I done so than I knew that his was a face
upon which at some time or other I had looked before, and of which I
had taken note. It is a useful peculiarity of mine that I never forget
a face to which I have once paid any attention, and I can generally
recollect the place and circumstances under which I last saw it. But
here the latter part of my powers failed me. I knew the face well, but
could not imagine when and where I had beheld it. I even knew that I
had seen the man bare-headed, and that he was not then, as now, bald on
the crown. The thing worried me not a little. In the meanwhile, John
Harden was being put up to take his trial for the murder of Agatha
Harden.

‘I, m’lud, appear to prosecute in this case,’ said my counsel, starting
up and down again like the blade of a knife.

‘Does nobody appear for the prisoner?’ asked the judge.

‘I understand, m’lud, that the prisoner is not represented,’ said
counsel, appearing and disappearing as before.

‘My lord,’ said an agitated voice from the body of the court, ‘I have
used all possible efforts’——

‘Si-lence!’ proclaimed the usher.

‘Who is that?’ inquired the judge, looking over his spectacles.

‘My lord, I am this foolish fellow’s master; and I am perfectly
convinced’——

‘I cannot hear you, sir. If the prisoner wishes to have counsel
assigned to him for his defence, I will name a gentleman, and will
take care that the prisoner shall have due opportunity for his
instruction; and if you desire to give evidence on his behalf, you can
do so.—Prisoner, is it your wish that counsel be assigned to you for
your defence?’

Harden had been standing with his head slightly bent, and his clasped
hands resting on the rail of the dock. He now looked up at the judge,
and replied in a grave and impassive voice: ‘My lord, I wish no help
but the help of God. I am in His hands, and I am an innocent man. If
He sees good to deliver me, He will do so. Who am I, that I should
interfere with His work?’

‘You appear to me,’ said the judge gently, ‘to be under an unfortunate
delusion. You say rightly that you are in God’s hands; but that should
not hinder you from using such instruments for your deliverance as he
offers you. Once more I will ask, do you now desire to be represented
by counsel?’

‘I do not, my lord.’

‘So be it.—Now, Mr Clincher.’

Rising once more, counsel for the prosecution proceeded to open his
case. It was clear and straightforward, put concisely and tellingly,
and embraced the facts which the reader already knows. He then called
his witnesses; and as each after each left the box, it was easy to see
from the faces of the jury that things were likely to go hard with the
prisoner. Always, in answer to the inquiry, ‘Do you wish to put any
questions to this witness?’ Harden replied: ‘No, my lord. He has said
the truth, for all I know.’

So smoothly did the trial run its course, that only one incident
called for remark. This was when my client got into the box; and so
indecently eager did he appear to be to procure the conviction of the
prisoner, that he twice called down upon himself a severe rebuke from
the judge, for persistently volunteering irrelevant statements to
Harden’s prejudice. And when counsel at length said, ‘That, m’lud, is
my case,’ and sat down, but little doubt remained as to the prisoner’s
fate. I still sat with my gaze fascinated by the set face in the dock,
trying—trying to remember when and where I had last looked upon it.

‘Do you propose, prisoner, to call any witnesses?’ asked the judge.

‘Only my master, my lord—Mr Slocum. He’ll speak for me, and he’ll say,
I know, that I’m not the man to kill any living thing.’

‘Very well.—And now, before calling him, do you desire to address the
jury?’

The interest of the case, which, except for that interest which is
inseparable from a trial for murder, had slightly flagged, revived now
that a human being was virtually at grips with death. For what had just
passed meant that there was no defence or attempt at a defence, that
the jury must convict, and that the man must die, without hope of mercy
for so cowardly and ungrateful a murderer. There was not a sound in the
court. It was late in the afternoon, and the winter sun was setting.
Its rays lit up the crimson hangings, the scarlet robes of the judge,
the intent faces, all looking one way, the drooping head and white
composed countenance of the prisoner—the man standing up there in full
health and strength, and whose life was going down with the sun.

‘I have but a few words to say, my lord and gentlemen. I didn’t do it.
I was bad enough, and maybe cruel enough in those days, to do it; but I
didn’t. I was so drunk and so mad, my lord and gentlemen, that I might
have done it if it had happened earlier in the day, unknown almost to
myself, and be standing here rightly enough. But I _know_ I couldn’t
have done it, and why? Because I was miles away at the time. My poor
aunt, as I’ve heard from what has been said, must have been killed
between a quarter to and a quarter past eight in the evening. Well, at
eight o’clock I was at least five miles off. If I’d done it directly
the girl went out of the house—as she says, at a quarter to eight—it
isn’t according to reason that I could have broke open the cupboard,
took the money, and got five miles off in a quarter of an hour.’ He
stopped, and drew the cuff of his coat across his forehead.

Where _had_ I seen him before? Where and when had I seen him do that
very action?

‘O gentlemen, I couldn’t have done it! I couldn’t, bad as I was! I
know, now, how bad that must have been—the mercy of God has been upon
me since those days—but bad as I was, I owed her too much, and knew
it, to have hurt her in any way. Won’t you believe me? I tell you I was
miles away at the time—miles away. Who can tell us you’re saying true?
you will ask. No one, I suppose. Not a soul was near me that I knew, to
come here and speak the truth for me this day. But I know the same God
that saved Daniel can save me from a sorry end, if it is His will to
do it—if not, His will be done! I’m keeping you too long, only saying
the same over and over again. I’ll just tell you how it was, and I’ve
done, and you must do as duty bids you.’

Another pause. The silence of death, or rather of a deathbed. The faces
in the distance of the darkened court shimmered through the gloom, like
those of spectres waiting to welcome a coming shade. Then the gas-light
burst forth, and all sprang into sudden distinctness, and there was a
general half-stir as of relief.

‘Oh, isn’t there one here that can speak for me? Is there any one who
remembers the great gas-main explosion in —— Street that year?’

There was again a stir, and a more decided one. Clearly there were
many in court who remembered it. I did, for one. And remembering it,
I seemed as one in a tunnel, who sees the glimmer from the distant
opening, but can distinguish no feature of the landscape beyond.

‘I was there—that night. It was the night of the day I was turned
out of doors—the night of the murder. How I came to be there, so far
from my aunt’s neighbourhood, I don’t know, but I found myself working
hard, helping to lift the stones and timber of the house-fronts that
were blown in, and getting the poor crushed people out. I worked a long
time, till I was like to drop; and a policeman clapped me on the back
and gave me a word of praise and a drink of beer out of a can. I wonder
where that policeman is now, and if he’d remember?’

He did not respond, wherever he might be. No one to help—no friendly
plank to bridge over the yawning grave. What was it, this that I was
trying so hard to recall?

‘I wandered off after that into the by-streets. I knew those parts
well. I had had a comrade who used to live there, and many a wicked and
foolish prank we’d played thereabouts. The beer I had just drunk on an
empty stomach had muddled me again a bit, but I was quite sober enough
to know every step of the way I went, and remember it now. I turned up
Hoadley Street, and then to the left along Blewitt Street; and just
when my aunt must have been struggling with the wretch that took her
life, whoever it was, I heard a clock strike eight. I did, gentlemen,
and I suppose I never thought of it since; but now I remember it as
clear as day. I was standing at the time at the corner of Hauraki
Street.’

It all came back to me in a moment! I heard the patter of the rain
on the cab-roof—I saw the gleam of the infrequent lights on the wet
flags—I listened to the objurgations of the cabman at the obstructing
dray—I took note of the reflection in the mirror, the queer
street-name which would not rhyme so as to make sense. The strokes of
the clock striking eight were in my ears. I saw the lamp at the corner,
and the man underneath looking up at it—the man with the short broad
face, the sharp chin, the long thin mouth turned down at the corners,
and the blank in the front teeth—the innocent man I was hounding to
his death—the prisoner at the bar!

As I sprang to my feet, down with a crash went my bag full of papers,
my hat and umbrella, so that even the impassive judge gave a start, and
the usher, waking up, once more proclaimed ‘Si-lence!’ with shocked
and injured inflection. Heedless of the majesty of the law, I beckoned
to my counsel, and as he leaned over to me in surprise, I whispered
earnestly in his ear. I never saw the human face express more entire
astonishment. However, seeing that I was unmistakably in earnest, he
merely nodded and rose to his feet.

‘Your lordship will pardon me,’ he said, ‘for interfering at this
stage between the prisoner and the jury; but I am instructed to make a
communication which I feel sure will be as astounding to your lordship
and the jury as it is to myself. I think I may say that it is the most
surprising and unprecedented thing which ever occurred in a court of
justice. My lord, the solicitor who instructs me to prosecute tenders
himself as a witness for the defence!’



OUR HEALTH.

BY DR ANDREW WILSON, F.R.S.E.


II. FOOD AND HEALTH.

From the point of view of the political economist, the idle man has no
right to participate in the food-supply of the active worker. Whatever
may be the correctness and force of the arguments which the economist
may use by way of proving that the non-worker and non-producer has
no right to participate in the ordinary nutritive supply of his
fellows, the physiological standpoint assumes another and different
aspect. The idle man grows hungry and thirsty with the regularity of
the man who works. He demands food and drink as does his energetic
companion; and the plea that idleness can need no food-support,
may be met in a singularly happy and forcible fashion by a plain
scientific consideration. In the first instance, the idle man might,
by an appeal to science, show, that whilst he apparently spent life
without exertion, his bodily functions really represented in their
ordinary working an immense amount of labour. Sleeping or waking, that
bodily pumping-engine the heart does not fail to discharge its work,
in the circulation of the blood. The rise and fall of the chest in
the sleeping man remind us that it is not death but his ‘twin-brother
sleep,’ that we are observing. If we make a calculation respecting the
work which the heart of a man, idle or active, performs in twenty-four
hours, we may discover that it represents an amount of labour equal to
one hundred and twenty foot-tons. That is to say, if we could gather
all the force expended by the heart during its work of twenty-four
hours into one huge lift, such force would be equal to that required
to raise one hundred and twenty tons-weight one foot high. Similarly,
the work of the muscles of breathing in twenty-four hours, represents
a force equal to that required to lift twenty-one tons one foot high.
These are only two examples out of many, which the ordinary work and
labour of mere vegetative existence, without taking into consideration
any work performed—in the popular sense of the term—involves.

We thus discover that, apart altogether from the every-day labour of
life, in which brain and muscles engage, an immense amount of work is
performed in the mere act of keeping ourselves alive. Nowhere in nature
is work performed without proportionate waste, or wear and tear of the
machine that works. This dictum holds quite as true of the human body
as of the steam-engine. And as the engine or other machine requires to
be supplied with the conditions necessary for the production of force,
so the living body similarly demands a supply of material from which
its energy (or the power of doing work) can be derived. As the engine
obtains the necessary conditions from the fuel and water it consumes,
so the living body derives its energy from the food upon which it
subsists. Food in this light is therefore merely matter taken from the
outside world, and from which our bodies derive the substances required
for the repair of the waste which the continual work of life entails.
In the young, food serves a double purpose—it supplies material for
growth, and it also affords substance from which the supply of force is
derived. In the adult, whilst no doubt, to a certain extent, the food
supplies actual loss of substance, it is more especially devoted to the
performance of work, and of maintaining that equilibrium or balance
between work and repair, which, as we have seen, constitutes health.

Viewed in this light, the first important rule for food-taking is
founded on the plain fact, that in the food we must find the substances
necessary for the repair of our bodies, and for the production of the
energy through which work is performed. Food-substances in this light
fall into two well-marked classes—namely, into _Nitrogenous_ and
_Non-nitrogenous_ substances. Another classification of foods divides
them into _organic_ and _inorganic_, the former being derived from
animals and plants—that is, from living beings—while the latter are
derived from the world of non-living matter. Thus, animal and plant
substances represent organic foods; while water and minerals, both of
which are absolutely essential for the support of the body, represent
inorganic food materials. It would appear that from living matter
alone, do we obtain the materials for generating force. The inorganic
water and minerals, however, appear to be absolutely necessary for the
chemical alterations and changes which are continually taking place
within the body.

Adopting the classification of foods into the _Nitrogenous_ and
_Non-nitrogenous_ groups, we discover examples of the first class in
such substances as _albumen_, seen familiarly in white of egg and other
substances; _gluten_, found in flour; _gelatin_, obtained from hoofs
and horns; _legumin_, obtained from certain vegetables; _casein_, found
in milk; and allied chemical substances. These substances possess a
remarkable similarity or uniformity of composition. It would appear
that in the process of digestion they are reduced to a nearly similar
state, and on this account they can replace one another to a certain
extent in the dietaries of mankind.

The nitrogenous foods have often been popularly termed ‘flesh-formers,’
and doubtless this name is well merited. For, as the result of
experiment, it would seem that the chief duty performed by the
nitrogenous parts of our food is that of building up and repairing the
tissues of the body. They also produce heat, through being chemically
changed in the blood, and thus aid in the production of force or
energy. But it would also appear tolerably certain, that in a complex
fashion the nitrogenous parts of our bodies assist or regulate in a
very exact manner the oxidation or chemical combustion of the tissues.

It should be noted that nitrogenous foods are composed chemically of
the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen; the presence
of the last element giving the characteristic name and chemical
features to the group. Most of these foods in addition contain small
proportions of sulphur and phosphorus.

An interesting advance in our knowledge of the part played by
nitrogenous foods in the work of the body was made, when an idea
of Liebig was overthrown by later experimentation. Liebig supposed
that the nitrogenous foods required first to be actually converted
into tissue—that is, into bodily substance—before their energy
or work-producing power could be liberated. In this view, muscular
force, through which we move, was believed to be dependent on the
changes, destructive or otherwise, which take place in the muscles. The
substance called _urea_, chiefly given off as a waste product by the
kidneys and chemically representing nitrogenous waste, was in Liebig’s
view regarded as representing the results of muscular force which
had been exerted. But two scientists, Fick and Wislicenus of Zurich,
proved, by a laborious series of personal experiments in mountain
ascents, that a non-nitrogenous diet will maintain the body for a short
time during the performance of severe work, no great increase in the
amount of urea given off being noticed. The work in question was proved
to have been performed on the carbon and hydrogen of the food consumed.
These experiments have led to the now accepted view, that a muscle,
instead of losing substance during work and thus wasting, in reality
consumes nitrogen, and grows. The exhaustion of the muscle is dependent
not so much on chemical waste, as on the accumulation within it of the
waste products of other foods. The muscle, in other words, is merely
the agent whereby so much energy, derived from the food, is converted
into actual and applied force. Did muscle really waste, as Liebig
supposed, the heart’s substance would be entirely consumed by its work
of one week!

Such being the functions and nature of nitrogenous foods, we may now
glance at the non-nitrogenous division. Four groups of foods are
included in this latter class—namely (1) Starches and sugars, or
‘amyloids’ as they are often termed; (2) fats and oils; (3) minerals;
(4) water. The _starches and sugars_ include not merely starch and
sugar, as ordinarily known, but various gums, and certain acids,
such as lactic and acetic acids. Starch, as in bread, is a most
important food. These foods appear to go directly to maintain animal
heat, and to give energy, or the power of doing work, to the animal
frame. The heat-producing powers of starches and sugars are certainly
inferior to those of the fats and oils. But starches and sugars can
be converted into fat within the system; and hence persons who suffer
from a tendency to obesity are warned to exclude these foods from
their dietaries. Starches and sugars likewise appear to assist in
some measure the digestion of nitrogenous foods. That _fats and oils_
are heat-producing foods is a fact taught us by the common experience
of mankind that northern nations consume the greatest proportion of
fat. The heat-producing powers of fat have been set down at two and
a half times as great as those of starch and sugar; and there is no
doubt that, in addition to assisting in the conversion of food into
body substances, the fatty parts of our food also assist in the work
of removing waste matters from the body. Fat, in addition, being
chemically burned in the blood, gives rise to the force which we exert
in ordinary muscular work.

The _mineral_ parts of our food play an important part in the
maintenance of the frame. We thus require iron for the blood,
phosphorus for the brain and nerves, and lime for the bones; whilst
a variety of other minerals is likewise found in the blood and other
fluids of the frame. The uses of the mineral constituents of our
body are still a matter of speculation. Small as may be the quantity
of certain minerals required for the support of the body, serious
health-derangement may result when we are deprived of these substances.
Thus, scurvy appears to be a disease associated with the want of the
mineral potash in the blood; and the cure of this disease is therefore
accomplished when we supply to the blood those mineral elements which
have previously been deficient. Common salt, or chloride of sodium, as
it is chemically termed, although not entering into the composition
of the body, appears to form an important part of all the secretions;
and there can be little doubt that this mineral aids the formation and
chemical integrity of the gastric juice of the stomach.

_Water_ forms the last item in the list of non-nitrogenous foods. Of
all foods, perhaps, water is the most important, seeing that it is a
substance which, in the absence of all other nourishment, can sustain
life for a period numbering many days. Thus, whilst a man dies in
from six to seven days when deprived of solid food and water, life
may be prolonged to as many as sixty days on water alone. The high
importance of water as a food is abundantly proved, when we discover
that it constitutes about two-thirds of the weight of the body; that it
enters into the composition of the brain to the extent of eighty per
cent.; that the blood consists of nearly eighty per cent. of water;
and that even bone contains ten per cent. of this fluid. Entering thus
into the composition of every fluid and tissue of the body, and being
perpetually given off from lungs, skin, and kidneys in the ordinary
work of life, there is little wonder that water assumes the first place
amongst foods. Regarding the uses of water as a food, we see that
it dissolves and conveys other foods throughout the system; that it
assists in removing waste products; and that it also takes a share in
regulating the temperature of the body through its evaporation on the
skin.

Having thus considered the chemistry of foods, we may now pass
to discuss the natural rules which science describes for the
health-regulation of life in the matter of diet. A primary rule for
food-taking is that which shows that, for the due support of the
body, we require a combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous
foods. This fact is proved by the consideration that milk, ‘nature’s
own food,’ on which the human being grows rapidly in early life, is
a compound of both classes of foods. So also, in an egg, from which
is formed an animal body, we find a combination of the two classes.
Death results if we attempt to feed on either class alone; and as the
body consists of both classes of substances, the justification for
the combination of foods is complete. Man can obtain the required
combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous foods from animals
alone, from vegetables alone, or from animals and vegetables combined.
The water, of course, which is an absolutely essential feature of all
dietaries, is regarded as an additional item. In regulating the dietary
of mankind, it is found that the food of nations is determined largely,
or completely, by their situation on the earth’s surface. Thus, the
northern nations are largely animal feeders; whilst the southern
peoples of the world are to a great extent vegetarians. Individual
experience and taste produce amongst the units of a nation special
proclivities in the way of diet. But we can readily see that mankind,
with that elasticity of constitution and power to avail themselves of
their surroundings, can adapt themselves to their environments, and
become animal feeders, vegetable feeders, or subsist on a mixed dietary
at will. This is the true solution of the vegetarian controversy. It is
climate and race which determine the food of a nation. It is individual
intelligence, liking, and constitution which determine variations and
departures from the dietaries of the race.

The relations between food and work naturally present themselves
as topics of the highest importance. In determining the standard
of health, it is clear that from our food alone, we can obtain the
energy or power of work required for the discharge of the duties of
life. An interesting point therefore arises regarding the differences
which are entailed by varying conditions and amounts of labour. Dr
Letheby tells us that an adult man in _idleness_ requires, to obtain
from his food for the support of his body, 2.67 ounces of nitrogenous
matter and 19.16 ounces of non-nitrogenous matter per day. If the
individual is to participate in _ordinary labour_, the amount of
nitrogenous matter obtained from his food must be increased to 4.56
ounces, while the non-nitrogenous must be represented by 29.24 ounces.
In the case, lastly, of _active labour_ the amount of food required
must be increased to 5.81 ounces of nitrogenous, and 34.97 ounces of
non-nitrogenous matter.

Dalton gives the following as the quantity of food, per day, required
for the healthy man, taking free exercise in the open air: meat,
sixteen ounces; bread, nineteen ounces; fat or butter, three and a
half ounces; water, fifty-two fluid ounces. It ought to be borne in
mind that these amounts of food represent the diet for a whole day
compressed, so to speak, into a convenient and readily understood form.
Another calculation, setting down the daily amount of food required by
an adult, at nitrogenous matter three hundred grains, and carbon at
four thousand grains, shows that these amounts would be obtained from
eighteen ounces of bread; one ounce of butter; four ounces of milk;
two ounces of bacon; eight ounces of potatoes; six ounces of cabbage;
three and a half ounces of cheese; one ounce of sugar; three-quarters
of an ounce of salt; and water (alone, and in beverages) sixty-six and
a quarter ounces—a total of no less than six pounds fourteen and a
quarter ounces. Summing up the question of the amounts of food required
by a healthy adult daily, and _excluding water in all forms as a matter
of separate calculation_, it may be said that four and a half ounces of
pure nitrogenous matter would be required in addition to three ounces
of fatty food, fourteen ounces of starch or sugar, and one ounce of
mineral matter. An ordinary adult consuming in twenty-four hours, food
items equal to those contained in one pound of meat and two pounds
of bread, may be regarded as consuming food of sufficient amount for
ordinary work. When the work is increased, the diet must naturally be
increased likewise. We find that persons in active employment require
about a fifth part more nitrogenous food, and about twice the quantity
of fat consumed by those engaged in light work; the sugars and starches
remaining the same.

An interesting practical calculation has been made regarding the
amounts of different foods required to perform a given and fixed piece
of work. Taking the work performed by the German observers already
named, as a standard, namely, that of raising a man’s weight (one
hundred and forty pounds) ten thousand feet high, it has been found
that the amounts and cost of various foods required for the performance
of this work is as follows: Bread, 2.345 pounds, cost 3½d.; oatmeal,
1.281 pounds, cost 3½d.; potatoes, 5.068 pounds, cost 5¼d.; beef-fat,
0.555 pounds, cost 5¼d.; cheese, 1.156 pounds, cost 11½d.; butter,
0.693 pounds, cost 1s. 0½d.; lean beef, 3.532 pounds, cost 3s. 6½d.;
pale ale, nine bottles, cost 4s. 6d.

The proportion of the different food-elements in an ordinary
dietary has been set down as follows: nitrogenous matter one, fats
six, starches and sugars three; and these proportions appear to be
represented with singular exactness in the ordinary dietaries which
experience has recommended to mankind. Excess of food in the matter of
nitrogenous elements tends to induce diseases of an inflammatory and
gouty nature, and likewise leads to fatty degeneration of the tissues.
When, on the other hand, there exists lack of nitrogenous substances,
the individual experiences weakness, want of muscular power, and
general prostration. The healthy mean is that in which the proportions
of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous food are maintained as above
indicated.

In the construction of dietaries, a few practical hints remain for
notice. Thus, as regards sex, the dietaries of women are usually, in
the case of the working-classes, estimated at one-tenth less than those
of the opposite sex. Age has an important influence in determining
the amount and quality of food. The growing body consumes more food,
relatively to work and weight, than the adult, inasmuch as it requires
material for new tissue. An infant under eight or nine months should
receive no starch whatever in its dietary, because it is unable to
digest that substance. Health is naturally a condition in which the
question of foods assumes a high importance, and various dietaries,
as is well known, are adapted for the cure of disease. The relation
of food to work has already been alluded to, and statistics detailed;
but it may be added that the brain-worker requires his food in a
more readily digestible form, and also in smaller bulk and in more
concentrated shape, than the muscle-worker or ordinary labourer. What
has been said concerning foods will tend to show how wide is the field
which the subject of nutrition occupies. It may only here be added,
that the education of the individual in health laws and in the science
of foods and food-taking, forms the only sure basis for the intelligent
regulation of that all-important work—the nourishment and due
support of the frame in relation to the work we perform and to every
circumstance of life.



THE COMMON-SENSE OF SUPERSTITIONS.


Out of a medley of magpies, May cats, broken looking-glasses, crickets,
village cures, lucky days, and tumbles up-stairs, there dawns a hint
towards the solving of a very puzzling problem. The problem is, not
why these things are called lucky or unlucky, but how it is that
multitudes grow up in every generation to believe the same absurdities,
and that still in this world of common-sense such items of uncommon
nonsense keep their character for ‘coming true.’ How is this, and
where do the secret links exist between the sense and the nonsense? If
any one takes the trouble to gather together about a hundred rustic
superstitions and old beliefs of quackery, the reason of the character
for ‘coming true’—that is, the reason of the traditional hold upon the
people—will presently begin to be plainly written across the whole
medley, dawning by degrees, just as writing in acid might dawn upon an
apparently blank missive held to the heat.

Most superstitions are signs of ill-luck. This in itself is a tell-tale
fact. Unlucky omens are so numerous, that no believer could escape
them for long; and in all likelihood he observes not only the unlucky
signs, but his ill-luck following. The truth is, that the magpie on his
path had no connection with his loss of money; and on his wedding-day,
his bride’s unlucky glance in the looking-glass after she was fully
arrayed, had nothing to do with her discontent as a wife; nor need
the servant who broke the looking-glass have cried, looking forward
to seven years of ill-luck. In all three cases, as all the neighbours
knew, the ill-luck came. But it came because of the prepossessed frame
of mind that observed and discounted these signs. The superstitious
character lacks those practical and courageous qualities which wrest
luck from fortune and make the best of life. The omens of ill-luck
have come to the fortunate as often; but they were never noticed,
because they who were cheerily fighting the battle had better use for
their time. At this moment, the present writer knows of no household
more radiantly prosperous than one in which the largest looking-glass
was broken a few days after a move to their newly-built home; and no
marriage more replete with happiness than a Saturday marriage, though
proverbially Saturday’s marriage ‘has no luck at all.’ Of course,
neither the prosperous household nor the well-matched pair were of that
languid and timid mind that takes nervous note of superstitions.

But, it may be objected, there are signs of good luck too, though
not so many. Certainly; and there is no truth better known than that
courage commands success, and such courage in exceptional cases may
come from a very trivial encouragement. There is a country superstition
that if a man sets off running and runs round in a circle, when he
hears the cuckoo for the first time, he will never be out of work till
spring comes again. But the man who valued steady work would exert
himself in a more sensible direction than unproductive circle-running,
and be safe from idle days. Again, if a tumble up-stairs is lucky,
the predisposition to luck is in the person who will be active and
quick enough to run up the staircase. Another good omen, the turning
of a garment inside out in dressing, though it seems to tell of the
slovenliness that will not succeed, has probably an origin that
indicated something better; it is a country saying, and it might
well refer to the hurry and awkwardness of rising without artificial
light before day—a habit likely to help the farmer’s household to
good fortune. Or as proof of the real nature of many good signs which
time has perverted into superstitions, can we doubt that the crickets
which chirp round the hearth for luck were first noticed there because
crickets, as a rule, only come to a warm and cosy fireside—the kind of
hearth that marks a happy cottage home?

A simple grain of common-sense like this must have been the origin of
many senseless observances. It was necessary to guard ladders from
being knocked down, so superstition began to warn the passers-by: if
the children went under the ladder, they would not grow; if girls went,
they would have no chance of being married within the year; and if
a man passed under, he would be hanged—in memory of the criminal’s
ladder under the gibbet.

To take another original grain of common-sense. Warnings against
carelessness assumed the form of omens. To spill the salt was
unfortunate; or in some country places, to spill new milk; or in parts
of Southern Europe, to spill the oil. Leonardo da Vinci painted spilt
salt near Judas in his famous ‘Last Supper.’ It is one of the most
widespread of ill omens, though in different places there are shades of
difference; for instance, in Holland it betokens a shipwreck.

Beside the superstitious disposition being what we may call an unlucky
disposition, and beside the germ of encouragement that makes its own
success out of some ‘good signs,’ and the atom of original prudence
that still exists in some so-called bad omens, there are two other
reasons why superstitions still keep hold of the people by a reputation
for ‘coming true.’ These two reasons cover a great deal of ground
in our theory of explanation. The first is the vague character of
forecasts. For instance, we all know the rhymes about the luck of
birthdays, which country-people of different shires repeat rather
variously. One Scottish version is:

    Monday’s bairn is fair of face;
    Tuesday’s bairn is full of grace;
    Wednesday’s bairn is a child of woe;
    Thursday’s bairn has far to go;
    Friday’s bairn is loving and giving;
    Saturday’s bairn works hard for a living;
    But the bairn that is born on the Sabbath day,
    Is lively and bonnie, and wise and gay.

Contrast with this the English version:

    Born of a Monday, fair in face;
    Born of a Tuesday, full of God’s grace;
    Born of a Wednesday, merry and glad;
    Born of a Thursday, sour and sad;
    Born of a Friday, godly given;
    Born of a Saturday, work for your living;
    Born of a Sunday, never shall we want—
    So there ends the week, and there’s an end on’t.

Any superstitious rustic who, from the page of the cottage Bible, dug
out the deep secret of the day of his birth, would easily find the
rhyme true of himself for any day of the week. Any country girl would
trust it was true, if she was born on a Monday. And who that came
on a Tuesday would confess himself graceless? But about Wednesday’s
bairn there seems to be a difference of opinion among the prophets:
one rhyme predicts ‘a child of woe;’ the other says, ‘merry and glad;’
while a third, well known in Devonshire, says, ‘sour and grum;’ and
thereby, from self-contradiction, the old rhyme goes down like a house
of cards. But all the rhymsters are agreed that Saturday’s child works
hard for his living—as no doubt the children of every other day of
the week work too, in the sphere of labouring country-life in which
these old sayings are known. And as variable as this forecast there
are many others; for every firm believer in superstition has a secret
satisfaction in proving it true; and which of us is there that could
not read our life as the interpretation of any forecast, since we all
can look at the bright or the dark side, having known alike the good
and the evil days?

The other reason for the reputation for truth is, that, for credulous
folk, unlucky omens are too terrible to be put to the test. If they
were freely tried, they would be detected as a mental tyranny, a
popular fraud; and in a few generations would be remembered by the
rustic classes, only as the learned now remember the foolish excitement
of their forefathers in science, seeking the Elixir of Life and the
Philosopher’s Stone. If dinner-parties of thirteen were to become
the fashion, we should not see, as we often see now, the cautious
arrangements of Christmas invitations, or even the timid compromise of
bringing in a side-table to accommodate the thirteenth. But which of
the credulous would dare to test these things? It reminds the writer
of a doubt—still unsolved—whether the taste of parsley would cause a
parrot to drop down dead. Parsley as a parrot-poison was heard of in
childhood, not as a superstition, but as a physical fact. What if it
were true? The _if_ was too terrible. We had visions of our feathered
gray ‘Prince Charlie’ seizing the green stuff in his hooked beak,
and rolling off the perch in mortal agonies. So we disbelieved, but
coward-like avoided the chance, just as all the world avoids thirteen
at table.

As to superstitious cures, some of them contain slight elements of
medicinal value; but most depend upon that influence upon the nerves
which is well known to be capable of giving energy for a time and
allaying pain. Some of the old cures were decidedly disagreeable and
troublesome. The native of Devonshire who wanted to get rid of a wart
was solemnly enjoined to steal a piece of meat, and after rubbing
the wart with it, throw it over his left shoulder over a wall. The
Hertfordshire villager, when afflicted with ague, might be cured if he
would go to Berkhampstead, where oak-trees grew at the cross-roads; and
after pegging himself by a lock of hair to the trunk of one of these
trees, he was to give a vigorous jump, and rid himself at once of the
ague and the tuft of hair. The loss of the hair was so painful, and the
loss of the ague so doubtful, that the Berkhampstead folks many years
ago ceased to go to ‘the cross-oaks.’ The ague, the toothache, and
dog-bites were the subject of many charms. In the former two maladies,
a nervous impression might go far to cure; and in the last, a charm
against hydrophobia would protect the simple believer from the great
peril that is in a brooding fear of madness. The ludicrous cures were
a legion in themselves. It seems heartlessly unkind to give a poor
dog the measles; but many an old nurse took a lock of hair from the
nape of the sick child’s neck, made a sort of sandwich of it between
bread-and-butter, and watched at the door to transfer, or fancy she had
transferred, the measles to a stray dog—probably a stray dog, because
only an ill-fed animal would take her bread. Equally unkind was it to
strive to give our dumb friend the whooping-cough; but by the same
process, with a bunch of hair and a piece of meat, the nurse could be
guilty of that absurdity as well.

Have any of our readers ever encountered a toad with the
whooping-cough? The Cheshire toads ought to be sometimes found crowing
and whooping and in need of change of air; for the superstitious
Cheshire woman whose child has the cough, knows that she has only
to poke a toad’s head into her child’s mouth to transfer the
whooping-cough to the toad. Query, Is the disease also transferred—and
in that case, what are the alarming results—when the victim of
whooping-cough gets rid of it by being passed nine times under and over
a donkey? The cure for rickets is to pass the child under and over
the donkey nine-times-nine turns. This was actually done in London
as late as 1845; when a man and a woman, solemnly counting, passed
the unfortunate child under and over the unsuspecting moke eighty-one
times, in the midst of an admiring crowd. If there was one pass more
or less, the charm would fail—a broad enough hint of the excuses
that could be made when such cures as these were sought in vain. The
eighty-one turns must have confused the counters’ arithmetic, as no
doubt the child had personal objections, and lifted its voice aloud;
and sore must have been the trial even to the patience of a donkey.

So, to sum up, we would suggest that superstitions keep their false
character for truth, firstly, because those who observe them therein
prove their own leaning towards ill-luck; secondly, because forecasts
are vague, and interpretations can be traced somehow in the chances of
life; thirdly, because the penalty of ill omens is so dreaded, that
the credulous shrink from putting them to the test; fourthly, because
there are nervous cures, and love-charms, and dreams, in which anxious
consciousness points right—the wish being father to the thought;
fifthly, victims of superstition are secretly pleased when (by chance)
an unlucky omen comes true, and have a satisfaction even in relating
their misfortunes; while, since no one tells of the cases that do _not_
come true, every chance fulfilment is a new rivet in the chain that
ought long ago to have fallen to pieces.



NOXIOUS MANUFACTURES.


There is just now a most wholesome activity in regard to the national
health, and the public are peculiarly interested in the various details
of our sanitary machinery. Of this, by no means the least important
department is that instituted under the Alkali Works Regulation
Act, 1881, or, in other words, the inspection of noxious works and
factories. In connection with the pollution of rivers, this is an
old grievance; but too little has hitherto been done to realise or
to remedy the evil in its general effects upon the public health. So
greatly, too, have works prejudicial to health increased of late years,
that their inspection has been decided upon none too soon. Probably, it
will never be known how far the death-rate has been influenced by this
cause. It is, however, one of the unavoidable penalties of civilisation
that we should live under unwholesome conditions of life.

A multitude of influences injurious to health spring into active
existence with the development of commerce and the growth of luxury.
Most of these are evident enough. All the elements, indeed, are
equally guilty. The earth, air, fire, and water, are allied against
civilised humanity; and modern science is constantly bringing to
light disagreeable facts in this connection. We have long lived in
the comfortable belief that Mother Earth was the great purifier.
The reverse is, it seems, nearer the truth. Years after the germs
of infection have been consigned to the ground, they have been
disinterred, and found to be not a whit diminished in virulence.
Archæologists should, we are told, beware of handling newly found
relics, lest, perchance, they should contract some archaic disease.
Even mummies, it appears, in spite of their venerable respectability,
are objects of legitimate suspicion! Fire, too, has a dreary catalogue
of sins to answer for. It not only robs us of much of the oxygen, of
which those of us who live in the towns have so scanty a supply, but it
gives us in exchange unconsumed carbon in quantities which fill the air
with smut. In smoke alone it furnishes us with food for reflection—and
digestion—and probably will continue to do so for some time to come.

Again, water is the most insidious enemy of all. The most indispensable
of the elements—and we are reminded of our obligations to it pretty
frequently—it is credited with doing the greatest harm. In league
with unnatural substances, it has developed such an affinity for
noxious matter that it appears that nothing short of boiling can
possibly enable us to drink it with any security. To most people, cold
boiled water will not seem a very attractive beverage, but it has the
advantage of being in many ways a safe one.

The air, too, is anything but true to the trust committed to her
charge. We have long confidingly believed in her good-will. Our sewers,
drains, and chimneys discharge their pestilent exhalations into the
air; but instead of carrying these away into space, she receives them
only to bestow them upon us again.

The outlook is indeed gloomy, and unless we make some progress in
sanitary science, it is not a little difficult to see how we are to
continue to support the burden of civilised existence.

In this connection, it is reassuring to know that something is being
done to lessen these ominously numerous artificial dangers. The works
which come within the scope of the Alkali, &c. Works Act, 1881, are
very injurious to life. The manufacture of alkalies, acids, chemical
manures, salt, and cement, alike involve processes prejudicial to
health. More than one thousand of these were visited by the inspectors,
appointed in pursuance of the above Act, during the year 1882; and
it is interesting to know that some intelligent means are being
devised whereby the offensive character of these manufactures may be
diminished. To take a single cause of mischief. The manufacture of
alkalies and acids has long been conducted in such a way that the
proportion of noxious matter which was allowed to escape into the
chimney, or atmosphere, often reached from twenty to forty grains per
cubic foot of air, twenty being a not uncommon amount. The maximum
amount which might be allowed to escape with impunity has been
estimated at four grains per cubic foot; and it is a very important
feature of the Act that it has been instrumental in reducing this
very considerably. In the alkali works proper the escape has been
brought down to two grains, while in some cases it is under one. The
sulphuric acid works alone are now conspicuous for their failings in
this important respect, the average escape in those examined during the
year being 5.5. Again, chemical manure-works have long been a pregnant
source of annoyance to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood in which
these are carried on.

It is, curiously enough, the smaller establishments of the kind which
are the most harmful. The larger works have long employed the most
complete processes, because the escape of effluvia would otherwise
have been so great, that it would have speedily aroused hostile action
on the part of the public. The imposition of preventive measures
in the case of the smaller works—in many of which no precautions
whatever have hitherto been adopted—is attended with some difficulty,
since it involves an expenditure which would in some cases be almost
prohibitive. It appears, indeed, that no maximum of escape can be fixed
in works of this kind, and all that remains to be done is to render it
compulsory that processes should be adopted for washing out such gases
as are soluble, and for burning those which are more susceptible to
such a method of treatment. Since such pernicious agents as fluorine
compounds escape during the action of sulphuric acid upon phosphates,
the question is one of some urgency. Again, another cause of complaint
is the escape of sulphuretted hydrogen during the process of making
sulphate of ammonia. In the larger gas-liquor-works the gas is burned,
and converted into sulphuric acid in lead chambers; while in others it
is passed through oxide of iron; and both these methods are perfectly
satisfactory when properly carried out. Again, the discharge of
sulphurous or muriatic gases evolved in extracting salt from brine is
an evil which has remained unremedied almost down to the present time.
Not the least curious feature of this question, too, is the fact that
many of the products of distillation are so valuable that it is more
than mere neglect to throw them away in the form of noxious gases. It
is unnecessary to describe here the state of the salt districts. They
might serve as a type of the abomination of desolation. The combined
effect of the gases and the soot, which pours forth in prodigious
volumes and from the chimneys of nearly a hundred salt-works in
Cheshire alone, is most deplorable.

The only possible conclusion from this Report is that we are still far
behindhand in these matters. We have, for instance, long continued
to burn coal on the same principle, and are very slow to believe in
any of the new methods which have been and are continually being
introduced. Yet not only is black smoke very much more injurious to
animal and vegetable life than when it has been rendered colourless by
burning, but it is peculiarly wasteful. It has long been known that
many valuable commodities could be obtained from coal; and but too
little progress has hitherto been made in this direction. It is, then,
all the more interesting to know that in some works in the north of
England the gases from the blast furnaces have been cooled and washed,
and ammoniacal salts obtained in such quantities as to make the process
economical; while by the ‘Young and Beilby’ process it is contended
that not only can the fuel be consumed for nothing, but that there will
be several shillings a ton profit.

So far as manufactures are concerned, there certainly seems to be
no valid reason why the rule that they must consume their own smoke
should not be much more freely enforced. In the case of the alkali
trades, which have long been in a very bad state, it is, of course,
an unfortunate time to suggest the necessity for the outlay of more
capital in improved works. But the exigencies of the public health are
paramount, and needlessly offensive processes cannot be tolerated much
longer. Such a case as that reported from Widnes, where waste heaps of
offensive matter, consisting chiefly of sulphur and lime, are allowed
to accumulate, although the sulphur could be extracted at a profit, and
so prevented from poisoning the streams for miles around, is certainly
difficult to explain. The drainage from these heaps alone is estimated
as carrying away twelve tons or seventy pounds-worth of sulphur a day.
But perhaps as soon as some satisfactory system for eliminating the
sulphur has been hit upon, this will be remedied. We have certainly
much yet to learn in sanitary science. The old theories are one by one
being exploded, and it will no longer do for us to poison the air we
breathe, under the pleasing impression that its purifying properties
are inexhaustible. Civilisation has made such strides that she has
succeeded in overturning the equilibrium of nature. The equilibrium
must be restored.



TRIMMING THE FEET OF ELEPHANTS.


The feet of elephants kept for show purposes are trimmed two or three
times a year. The sole of an elephant’s foot is heavily covered with
a thick horny substance of material similar to the three toe-nails on
each foot; and as it grows thicker and thicker, it tends to contract
and crack, often laming the animal. Barnum the American showman
recently subjected his elephants to the trimming process at one of
the towns where he was exhibiting. With a knife about two feet long,
great pieces of horn, six inches by four, and a quarter of an inch
thick, were shaved off. Often pieces of glass, wire, nails, and other
things are found imbedded in the foot, which have been picked up during
street parades. Sometimes these irritating morsels work up into the
leg and produce a festering sore. A large nail was found imbedded in
the foot of one of the elephants, which had to be extracted with a
pair of pincers, and the wound syringed with warm water. During the
operation, the huge creature appeared to suffer great pain, but seemed
to know that it would afterwards obtain relief, and therefore bore it
patiently, and trumpeted its pleasure at the close. Three times around
an elephant’s front-hoof is said to be his exact height.



SONNETS OF PRAISE.


THE VALES.

    The nestling vales lie sheltered from rough winds,
    As little babes in tender keeping grow,
    Some narrow gorge each flowery limit binds;
    Thus we from childish eyes hide elder woe.
    The vales are thick with corn, with plenty shine;
    Thus should the children smile in sunny glee,
    For One hath blessed them with a love divine,
    The untried pilgrims of life’s stormy sea.
    Though rough winds cannot enter, gentle rain
    Refreshes the green vale, till springs arise,
    Their source the snow-clad hills; so age should gain,
    By gentle teaching childhood’s eager eyes.
    Rain fills the pools, the thirsty vale is blest;
    Thus should the children thrive, by love caressed.


THE MOUNTAINS.

    The lofty mountains with their snowy crests,
    God’s ensigns, praise their Lord throughout the land;
    Their heights, which few can reach, in human breasts
    Inspiring awe, yet quake beneath His hand.
    Oft ’twixt their summits and the lower earth,
    The wreathing cloud-mists roll, alone they dwell
    As sight-dimmed age. Our cries of pain or mirth
    Molest them not; thus age with deadening spell
    Benumbs our ears, yet near each lonely peak
    Sing mountain birds, sunbeams each summit crown.
    From highest heaven thus God’s saints may seek
    Refuge in thoughts divine, though long years drown
    Earth’s sounds; on mountain crest reposed the Ark,
    Our home above shines clear, as earth grows dark.

            M. P.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

       *       *       *       *       *

_All Rights Reserved._

       *       *       *       *       *

[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 236: missing word “pounds” inserted—“3.532 pounds”.]



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature, Science, and Art, Fifth Series, No. 15, Vol. I, April 12, 1884" ***

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