The frost lies thick upon the pane,The fields are white with falling snows,O’er frost-bank, in meadow-lane,The drifted ice of winter glows.The buds that crowned the mountain-side,The moss that fringed the lakelet’s shore,Passed with the fleeting summer-tide,And spring’s fair graces are no more.I trace the pictures on the pane,Then turn, where in my quiet roomThe summer lives for me again,And June’s sweet gifts in freshness bloom.’Mid emerald moss and growing vines,The fair lobelia’s lifted face,Nestled among the lilies shines,That blossom in their snowy grace.With tender hands I lift them up,Sweet flowers, no breath of winter dimmed!How pure each radiant jeweled cup,Each vase with sparkling nectar brimmed.The aloe’s flood of molten flame,The vervain with its crimson hue.The rose that with the spring-time came,And in the mountain’s fastness grew.The white alyssum, small and fair,The red camelia’s blushing dyes,The jasmine’s golden blossoms rare,The larkspur, blue as summer skies,The sweet narcissus’s yellow blooms,The zinnia, with its violet rays,The pink, with all its rich perfumes,The crowning charm of August days.Without the snowflakes softly fall,An airy mist from cloud and sky,Within, their perfume over all,The buds in rosy fragrance lie.The pale acacia’s tinted gleams,The white carnation’s heart of gold,The phlox that grows beside the streamsThat gem the forests dim and old.I wonder when life’s spring is past,And snows are falling soft as now,When autumn glories fade at last,And frosts lie thick upon the bough,If some true deed that I have wrought,May, like the flowers, its blooms unclose,Some fair and unforgotten thoughtGrow grand beneath life’s winter snows.SCIENCE AND COMMON SENSE.By CHARLES KINGSLEY.The scientific method needs no definition; for it is simply the exercise of common sense. It is not a peculiar, unique, professional, or mysterious process of the understanding; but the same which all men employ, from the cradle to the grave, in forming correct conclusions.Every one who knows the philosophic writings of Mr. John Stuart Mill, will be familiar with this opinion. But to those who have no leisure to study him, I should recommend the reading of Professor Huxley’s third lecture on the origin of species.In that he shows, with great logical skill, as well as with some humor, how the man who, on rising in the morning finds the parlor-window open, the spoons and teapot gone, the mark of a dirty hand on the window-sill, and that of a hob-nailed boot outside, and comes to the conclusion that someone has broken open the window, and stolen the plate, arrives at that hypothesis—for it is nothing more—by a long and complex train of inductions and deductions of just the same kind as those which, according to the Baconian philosophy, are to be used for investigating the deepest secrets of Nature.This is true, even of those sciences which involve long mathematical calculations. In fact, the stating of the problem to be solved is the most important element in the calculation; and that is so thoroughly a labor of common sense that an utterly uneducated man may, and often does, state an abstruse problem clearly and correctly; seeing what ought to be proved, and perhaps how to prove it, though he may be unable to work the problem out for want of mathematical knowledge.But that mathematical knowledge is not—as all Cambridge men are surely aware—the result of any special gift. It is merely the development of those conceptions of form and number which every human being possesses; and any person of average intellect can make himself a fair mathematician if he will only pay continuous attention; in plain English, think enough about the subject.There are sciences, again, which do not involve mathematical calculation; for instance, botany, zoölogy, geology, which are just now passing from their old stage of classificatory sciences into the rank of organic ones. These are, without doubt, altogether within the scope of the merest common sense. Any man or woman of average intellect, if they will but observe and think for themselves, freely, boldly, patiently, accurately, may judge for themselves of the conclusions of these sciences, and may add to these conclusions fresh and important discoveries.Let me illustrate my meaning by an example. A man—I do not say a geologist, but simply a man, ’squire or ploughman—sees a small valley, say one of the side-glens which open into the larger valleys in any country. He wishes to ascertain its age.He has, at first sight, a very simple measure—that of denudation. He sees that the glen is now being eaten out by a little stream, the product of innumerable springs which arise along its sides, and which are fed entirely by the rain on the moors above. He finds, on observation, that this stream brings down some ten cubic yards of sand and gravel, on an average, every year. The actual quantity of earth which has been removed to make the glen may be several million cubic yards. Here is an easy sum in arithmetic. At the rate of ten cubic yards a year, the stream has taken several hundred thousand years to make the glen.You will observe that this result is obtained by mere common sense. He has a right to assume that the stream originally began the glen, because he finds it in the act of enlarging it; just as much right as he has to assume, if he find a hole in his pocket, and his last coin in the act of falling through it, that the rest of his money has fallen through the same hole. It is a sufficient cause, and the simplest. A number of observations as to the present rate of denudation, and a sum which any railroad contractor can do in his head, to determine the solid contents of the valley, are all that are needed. The method is that of science: but it is also that of simple common sense. You will remember, therefore, that this is no mere theory or hypothesis, but a pretty fair and simple conclusion from palpable facts; that the probability lies with the belief that the glen is some hundreds of thousands of years old; that it is not the observer’s business to prove it further, but other persons’ to disprove it, if they can.But does the matter end here? No. And, for certain reasons, it is good that it should not end here.The observer, if he be a cautious man, begins to see if he can disprove his own conclusions; moreover, being human, he is probably somewhat awed, if not appalled, by his own conclusions. Hundreds of thousands of years spent in making that little glen! Common sense would say that the longer it took to make, the less wonder there was in its being made at last: but the instinctive human feeling is the opposite. There is in men, and there remains in them, even after they are civilized, and all other forms of the dread of Nature have died out in them, a dread of size, of vast space, of vast time; that latter, mind, being always imagined as space, as we confess when we speak instinctively of a space of time. They will not understand that size is merely a relative, not an absolute term; that if we were a thousand times larger than we are, the universe would be a thousand times smaller than it is; that if we could think a thousand times faster than we do, time would be a thousand times longer than it is; that there is One in whom we live, and move, and have our being, to whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. I believe this dread of size to be merely, like all other superstitions, a result of bodily fear; a development of the instinct which makes a little dog run away from a big dog. Be that as it may, every observer has it; and so the man’s conclusion seems to him strange, doubtful: he will reconsider it.Moreover, if he be an experienced man, he is well aware that first guesses, first hypotheses, are not always the right ones: and if he be a modest man, he will consider the fact that many thousands of thoughtful men in all ages, and many thousands still, would say, that the glen can only be a few thousand, possibly a few hundred, years old. And he will feel bound to consider their opinion; as far as it is, like his own, drawn from facts, but no further.So he casts about for all other methods by which the glen may have been produced, to see if any one of them will account for it in a shorter time.1. Was it made by an earthquake? No; for the strata on both sides are identical, at the same level, and in the same plane.2. Or by a mighty current? If so, the flood must have run in at the upper end before it ran out at the lower. But nothing has run in at the upper end. All round above are the undisturbed gravel-beds of the horizontal moor, without channel or depression.3. Or by water draining off a vast flat as it was upheaved out of the sea? That is a likely guess. The valley at its upper end spreads out like the fingers of a hand, as the gullies in tide-muds do.But that hypothesis will not stand. There is no vast unbroken flat behind the glen. Right and left of it are other similar glens, parted from it by long narrow ridges: thesealso must be explained on the same hypothesis; but they can not. For there could not have been surface-drainage to make them all, or a tenth of them. There are no other possible hypotheses; and so he must fall back on the original theory—the rain, the springs, the brook; they have done it all, even as they are doing it this day.But is not that still a hasty assumption? May not their denuding power have been far greater in old times than now?Why should it? Because there was more rain then than now? That he must put out of court; there is no evidence of it whatsoever.Because the land was more friable originally? Well, there is a great deal to be said for that. The experience of every countryman tells him that bare or fallow land is more easily washed away than land under vegetation. And no doubt, when these gravels and sands rose from the sea, they were barren for hundreds of years. He has some measure of the time required, but he can tell roughly how long it takes for sands and shingles left by the sea to become covered by vegetation. But he must allow that the friability of the land must have been originally much greater than now, for hundreds of years.But again, does that fact really cut off any great space of time from his hundreds of thousands of years? For when the land first rose from the sea, that glen was not there. Some slight bay or bend in the shore determined its site. That stream was not there. It was split up into a million little springs, oozing side by side from the shore, and having each a very minute denuding power, which kept continually increasing by combination as the glen ate its way inwards, and the rainfall drained by all these little springs was collected into the one central stream. So that when the ground being bare was most liable to be denuded, the water was least able to do it; and as the denuding power of the water increased, the land, being covered with vegetation, became more and more able to resist it.So the two disturbing elements in the calculation may be fairly set off against each other, as making a difference of only a few thousands or tens of thousands of years either way; and the age of the glen may fairly be, if not a million years, yet such a length of years as mankind still speak of with bated breath, as if forsooth it would do them some harm.I trust that every scientific man will agree with me, that the imaginary ’squire or ploughman would have been conducting his investigation strictly according to the laws of the Baconian philosophy. You will remark, meanwhile, that he has not used a single scientific term, or referred to a single scientific investigation; and has observed nothing and thought nothing, which might not have been observed and thought by any one who chose to use his common sense, and not to be afraid.But because he has come round, after all this further investigation, to something very like his first conclusion, was all that further investigation useless? No—a thousand times, no. It is this very verification of hypotheses which makes the sound ones safe, and destroys the unsound. It is this struggle with all sorts of superstitions which makes science strong and sure, and her march irresistible, winning ground slowly, but never receding from it. It is this buffeting of adversity which compels her not to rest dangerously upon the shallow sand of first guesses, and single observations; but to strike her roots down, deep, wide, and interlaced, into the solid ground of actual facts.It is very necessary to insist on this point. For there have been men in all past ages—I do not say whether there are any such now, but I am inclined to think there will be hereafter,—men who have tried to represent scientific method as something difficult, mysterious, peculiar, unique, not to be attained by the unscientific mass; and this not for the purpose of exalting science, but rather of discrediting her. For as long as the masses, educated or uneducated, are ignorant of what scientific method is, they will look on scientific men, as the middle age looked on necromancers, as a privileged, but awful and uncanny caste, possessed of mighty secrets; who may do them great good, but also may do them great harm. Which belief on the part of the masses will enable these persons to install themselves as the critics of science, though not scientific men themselves: and—as Shakspere has it—to talk of Robin Hood, though they never shot in his bow. Thus they become mediators to the masses between the scientific and the unscientific worlds. They tell them, You are not to trust the conclusions of men of science at first hand. You are not fit judges of their facts or of their methods. It is we who will, by a cautious electicism, choose out for you such of their conclusions as are safe for you; and them we will advise you to believe. To the scientific man, on the other hand, as often as anything is discovered unpleasing to them, they will say, imperiously andex cathedrâ, Your new theory contradicts the established facts of science. For they will know well that whatever the men of science think of their assertion, the masses will believe it; totally unaware that the speakers are by their very terms showing their ignorance of science; and that what they call established facts scientific men call merely provisional conclusions, which they would throw away to-morrow without a pang were the known facts explained better by a fresh theory, or did fresh facts require one.This has happened too often. It is in the interest of superstition that it should happen again; and the best way to prevent it surely is to tell the masses, Scientific method is no peculiar mystery, requiring a peculiar initiation. It is simply common sense, combined with uncommon courage, which includes uncommon honesty and uncommon patience; and if you will be brave, honest, patient, rational, you will need no mystagogues to tell you what in science to believe and what not to believe; for you will be just as good judges of scientific facts and theories as those who assume the right of guiding your convictions. You are men and women: and more than that you need not be.THE SORROW OF THE SEA.By ALEXANDER ANDERSON.A day of fading light upon the sea;Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;And ever with its monotone to me,The sorrow of the waves.They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,For ever feeling with their foamy handsFor something they have lost.Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,A boat or two against the light is seen,Dipping their sides within the liquid breastOf waters dark and green.And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, lightUpon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,Wait for the coming night.But still, though all this life and motion meet,My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,Or dimly stir to answer at my feetThe sorrow of the sea.ANECDOTES OF FASHION.By I. D’ISRAELI.The origin of many fashions was in the endeavor to conceal some deformity of the inventor; hence the cushions, ruffs, hoops, and other monstrous devices. If a reigning beauty chanced to have an unequal hip, those who had very handsome hips would load them with that false rump which the other was compelled by the unkindness of nature to substitute. Patches were invented in England in the reign of Edward VI by a foreign lady, who in this manner ingeniously covered a wen on her neck. Full-bottomed wigs were invented by a French barber, one Duviller, whose name they perpetuated, for the purpose of concealing an elevation in the shoulder of the Dauphin. Charles VII of France introduced long coats to hide his ill-made legs. Shoes with very long points, full two feet in length, were invented by Henry Plantagenet, Duke of Anjou, to conceal a large excrescence on one of his feet. When Francis I was obliged to wear his hair short, owing to a wound he received in the head, it became a prevailing fashion at court. Others, on the contrary, adapted fashions to set off their peculiar beauties; as Isabella of Bavaria, remarkable for her gallantry, and the fairness of her complexion, introduced the fashion of leaving the shoulders and part of the neck uncovered.Fashions have frequently originated from circumstances as silly as the following one. Isabella, daughter of Philip II, and wife of the Archduke Albert, vowed not to change her linen till Ostend was taken; this siege, unluckily for her comfort, lasted three years; and the supposed color of the archduchess’s linen gave rise to a fashionable color, hence calledl’Isabeau, or the Isabella; a kind of whitish-yellow-dingy. Sometimes they originate in some temporary event: as after the battle of Steenkirk, where the allies wore large cravats, by which the French frequently seized hold of them, a circumstance perpetuated on the medals of Louis XIV, cravats were called Steenkirks; and after the battle of Ramillies, wigs received that denomination.The hair has in all ages been an endless topic for the declamation of the moralist, and the favorite object of fashion. If thebeau mondewore their hair luxuriant, or their wig enormous, the preachers, as in Charles the Second’s reign, instantly were seen in the pulpit with their hair cut shorter, and their sermon longer, in consequence; respect was, however, paid by the world to the size of thewig, in spite of thehair-cutterin the pulpit. Our judges, and until lately our physicians, well knew its magical effect. In the reign of Charles II the hair-dress of the ladies was very elaborate; it was not only curled and frizzled with the nicest art, but set off with certain artificial curls, then too emphatically known by the pathetic terms ofheart-breakersandlove-locks. So late as William and Mary, lads, and even children, wore wigs; and if they had not wigs, they curled their hair to resemble this fashionable ornament. Women then were the hair-dressers.The courts in all ages and in every country are the modelers of fashions, so that all the ridicule, of which these are so susceptible, must fall on them, and not upon their servile imitators the citizens. This complaint is made even so far back as in 1586, by Jean des Caures, an old French moralist, who, in declaiming against the fashions of his day, notices one, of the ladies carrying mirrors fixed to their waists, which seemed to employ their eyes in perpetual activity. From this mode will result, according to honest Des Caures, their eternal damnation. “Alas!” he exclaims, “in what age do we live: to see such depravity which we see, that induces them even to bring into church these scandalous mirrors hanging about their waists! Let all histories divine, human, and profane be consulted; never will it be found that these objects of vanity were ever thus brought into public by the most meretricious of the sex. It is true, at present none but the ladies of the court venture to wear them; but long it will not be before every citizen’s daughter, and every female servant, will wear them!” Such in all times has been the rise and decline of fashion; and the absurd mimicry of the citizens, even of the lowest classes, to their very ruin, in straining to rival the newest fashion, has mortified and galled the courtier.LANGUAGE IN ANIMALS.By RICHARD BUDD PAINTER.No one who has clearly observed animals, birds, bees, and other creatures, can possibly deny their possession of a faculty of communicating ideas to one another.Admitting this fully, my object therefore will be, while elicitating some of the facts concerning animal language, to maintain the consistency of my argument in regard to man, as contrasted with animals, by showing that such animal language is not of an intellectual kind, but only such as is necessary for the conduct, and use, of the highest phases of the animal “instinctive mind,” according to its ordained capacity in each species.In my opinion, every kind of animal possesses a different sort of language; and which is peculiar to its genus; just as in the case of different races of man, a language which though capable of interpretation by a member of the group which speaks it, can not be generally understood by other races in minute detail; although among both men and animals there are a few cries, etc., that can be generally understood; as those of alarm communicated by screams, stamping of the ground, etc. But we must note that whatever may be the kind and extent of language in animals, it is in them alwaysexpressive only of animal sensations and sense impressions and reasonings.Particular animals, birds, insects, etc., bark, gibber, bray, sing, crow, grunt, rub their wing-cases (crickets), etc., showing that each has a different language, and different modes of expressing emotion: showing, too, by these differences that their sorts of minds must vary much more from one another, than do the minds of men in their different human varieties; for men do not employ such immensely different modes of conveying their ideas and feelings by sounds as is the case in animals with their lowing, snorting, barking, etc.The making of these very different sounds by different animals is therefore to me the clearest possible proof that different animals possess different sorts of mind; yet of course there is some general resemblance, as is the case in so many of God’s works made diversely in specific instances, yet on the same general plan in the main. I said just now that, while fully admitting the possession of a kind of language by animals, I should maintain strictly that it is not of an intellectual character, and I may be asked what I mean by this assertion.My answer is that I believe the language of the animal is limited chiefly to the expression of animal needs; and animal sensations; and the conveyance of such requirements, and feelings to their kind; although it can doubtless be used also for communicating in some slight degree such ideas concerning animal experiences and feelings as their feeble reasoning powers enable them to arrive at; such as the devices for protection, and escape from danger; and the manifestation and interpretation of the sort of questionings, and answerings which occur when two dogs meet, as shown by the wagging of tails, and pleased looks, or the reverse; and which seem to indicate as if the dogs could by gesture, etc.,ask, and reply to one another, whether it is to be peace, or war.My belief is that the mind of the mere animal is in no ease able to reach beyond the limit of simple ministration to the animal needs, and animal feelings, and instincts of the creature according to its kind; and that it can never form pure intellectual ideas, such as those of intellectual love; intellectual hatred; intellectual ideas as to time; space; God, etc. Nor can it form the mental abstractions—words—and by the use of these arrive at the intellectual operation of mind which their employment renders possible.MODES OF EXPRESSING LANGUAGE IN ANIMALS.These may take place—First—Byvocal intonations(as in man) in brutes and birds: and I may remark that all brutes possess a tongue, larynx, and vocal cords; and that birds have these also, with the exception that the bird’s larynx (syrinx) is rather modified from that of man and the mammalia; still we know its perfection; and we know how the parrot can use it.Secondly—By gestureand visual regard, as seen in dogs, and in birds.Thirdly—By means of sounds other than vocal, as is witnessed in the stamping on the ground by various animals to intimate danger. Also the noises of insects made by rubbing their wing-cases (elytra) together, as in the cricket, etc.Fourthly—By means of touch, as in the cases of ants, bees, and other insects, which can convey meanings by crossing their antennæ.Fifthly—Other signs, etc., perhaps, with which we have no acquaintance, and can form no conjecture.Sixthly—Information can also probably be ascertained by smell.By any one of these means separately, or together, it doubtless is possible for very numerous species of creatures to communicate with their kind by means of a language,—little articulate it may be—but still more or less articulate, according to endowment.Let us now consider animal language by whatever mode effected; and to do so I propose to divide the subject into two sections.First—The language of the sensations.Second—The language of the instinctive mind.First—The language expressive of the bodily sensations.This, I have no doubt, is in great measure, if not entirely, automatic, for like as when you tread on a man’s toe, or give him a thump on the back, he involuntarily cries out—Oh! So when you tread on a cat’s tail, she gives utterance to her characteristic scream.But it is not only bodily pain that can be proclaimed aloud, but hosts of other sensations can also be expressed in various ways. The lamb, or the kitten, feels the sensation of hunger, and it doubtless involuntarily bleats, or mews, for its mother; although it does not in the least know the meaning of “Ba,” or “Mew,” or why it gives utterance to such sounds.And so of the notes of the crowing cock, the “gobbling” turkey, and the sibilant cricket, etc.And then as to numbers of other cries, etc., too numerous to mention; such as the chirping of sparrows on the approach of rain, the moaning and whining of animals in pain, the cackling of the hen after laying an egg, etc.,—all these arise doubtless from bodily sensations, and may be termed the language of the involuntary or automatic part of the organic mind.Second—The language of the instinctive mind.I have above briefly spoken of the language expressive of the bodily sensations, and have termed it really the automatic language of what I call the “organic mind,” or “vital force.” Now we must speak of the language capable of being used by the “instinctive mind”—a language, I believe, that is sometimes involuntary or automatic, but which at other times is under the voluntary control of such kind of will, judgment, and choice as is capable of being exercised by the creature according to its mental endowment as decreed and specialized.Thus, by sounds or gestures, or other modes, animals, birds, insects, etc., can express fear of danger, friendliness, hatred, anger, triumph, etc.; and in some instances, as in the bee, can communicate such special information as that the “queen is dead,” etc.See two dogs meet: they evidently quite understand each other, and by wagging of tails and bright glances, or the reverse; and a cheerful bark or a savage snarl, can quickly intimate whether a gambol or a fight is to result. No doubt, as in man, this result will be greatly guided by the state of the bodily sensations (digestion, etc.), and as to age and natural character; but yet the dogs’ communications, we may be sure are only concerning pure animal sensations or concerns, and never assume an intellectual character, such as, “How is your beloved mistress?” etc.Then look at the watchful bird on the tree-top, or the sentinel bull on the hillock; each can sound the alarm, because its intuition or its experience tells of danger. And then look at a party of rooks holding a palaver; who can doubt but that in some way they communicate certain feelings and perhaps ideas? And so as to hosts of other birds and beasts; but then their mental processes cannot possibly—for reasons which I have repeatedly given—be considered as of an intellectual sort like that of man, indeed it very probably may be of so different a kind to ours that we can not even guess at the nature of it.I have not space to illustrate all the visible manifestations of the different phases of mind in animals, but to mention only one other, who can doubt but that in regard to triumph after a victory, the cock when he gets on an elevation and crows must experience some of the pride of conquest, and must have a sort of conception of the abstract idea of exultation in regard to his courage and prowess?And yet although, as in my opinion, we must not delude ourselves by thinking that the foregoing are simply produced by reflex actions arising only from bodily sensations; so we must not equally be misled by supposing that such results arise from intellectual reasoning. No! in my opinion, although all these acts and sounds are performed, and produced, in some measure—and in some measure only—according to the dictates of asort of conscious will; and a sort of abstract reasoning(in some cases), yet they can only occur, or be done, strictly according to the caliber, and quality, and specific endowment of the kind ofnon-intellectual mind with which the creature has been gifted by God—a caliber, and quality, and specific sort of mind which I will not pretend to be able, in any way, to explain the nature of, or essential mode of working.Those who employ their time ill are the first to complain of its shortness. As they spend it in dressing, eating, sleeping, foolish conversation, in determining what they ought to do, and often in doing nothing, time is wanting to them for their real business and pleasures: those, on the contrary, who make the best use of it have plenty and to spare.—La Bruyère.Even though it were true what many say, that education gives not to man another heart, nor another temperament, that it changes nothing in reality, and touches only the outside crust, I would not hesitate to say that it is not useless.—La Bruyère.THE ELECTRIC LIGHT.By A. A. CAMPBELL SWINTON.It seems at present that electricity is to be the illuminating agent of the future, and that, as gas has now all but superseded candles and oil, so in turn gas will soon be superseded by electricity. The reasons for this change are several and various, and follow that most immutable of natural laws, the law of the survival of the fittest.About the commencement of the present century, Sir Humphry Davy, the eminent chemist, succeeded in producing at the Royal Institution the most brilliant light then known. By passing the electricity derived from an enormous battery of four thousand plates through two charcoal points separated from one another, he obtained in air a continuous electric discharge four inches in length, which was increased to seven inches when the experiment was repeatedin vacuo.This discharge, or arc, as it is called, consisted of very minute particles of charcoal, which being raised to white heat by the resistance offered by the points to the electric current, were also by its means conveyed with great rapidity from one charcoal point to the other, emitting during their passage a light of dazzling brilliancy. The discharge of heated particles being continuous, the arc could be maintained for a considerable length of time.This light, however, was entirely impracticable for any but purely experimental purposes. A battery of four thousand plates is not easily maintained in working order, and besides, the expense of such an arrangement puts it entirely out of the question. Of late years, however, a new method of producing electricity on a large scale has been discovered in the dynamo-electric machine, by means of which currents of great volume and intensity can be obtained from the power generated by a steam engine, water wheel, or other prime motor.This great discovery instigated scientific men to try and bring the electric light within the range of practical utility, in which end they have already been eminently successful.It was found that as the charcoal points in Davy’s lamp in process of time became oxidized and burnt away, it was necessary to have some arrangement by which they should be maintained at a constant distance from one another. This problem was first solved by Duboscq, a Frenchsavant, who by the combined action of the electric current and a system of clockwork, succeeded in obtaining a constant and steady light. Gas carbon, as found incrusted on the inside of gas retorts, was at the same time substituted for the charcoal employed by Davy, as it was found to burn more equally and to last much longer.In July, 1877, a new form of electric light apparatus was introduced into France and elsewhere, which, from its practical simplicity, attracted a large amount of attention. This invention is due to Mr. Jablochkoff, a Russian engineer, and is known as the Jablochkoff candle. In this form of regulator all clockwork and mechanism are avoided; the two carbons are placed side by side, in parallel lines, and are separated by some substance which, though readily fusible, at the same time offers so enormous a resistance to the passage of the electric current as practically to prevent its passage through it at all. Kaolin clay and plaster of Paris have both been employed for this purpose with success. The current not being able to pass through the insulating material, can only pass between the two carbons at the extremity of the candle, where the arc is therefore formed. As the carbons burn away, the insulating material melts, and an uninterrupted light is obtained. As it is found that one carbon burns away more quickly than the other, in this form of lamp the electric current is supplied alternately in different directions, which makes the carbons burn equally, the reversions of the electricity being so rapid that the arc is to all appearances continuous. This lamp has been largely employed in Paris, and is at present in actual operation on the Thames embankment. Its chief defects are its great expense and the unsteady character of the light, which, owing to the oxidation of the insulating material, flickers and changes color. Another lamp, and one which has been largely used in Europe and in America, is the Brush regulator, called after its inventor. In this form the carbons are vertically one above the other, the upper one being controlled by an electro magnet, which supports it, allowing it to descend of its own weight when, through the distance between the carbons becoming too great, the current is weakened, and the magnet unable to support its load, thus keeping the arc of a constant length. There are a large number of other arc regulators, some of which work very well, and are largely employed; but they are most of them based on a very similar principle to that of the Brush lamp, and therefore they need no special description.It has been found, however, that, adapted as some of the arc regulators are for the illumination of streets and large areas, none of them are at all able to compete with gas in the lighting of private houses. Not only do they require the constant attention of skilled workmen to renew the carbons and to clean the mechanism, but they give far too strong and dazzling a light for any but very large apartments.For domestic lighting we therefore come to quite a new departure in electric lamps; instead of the arc we have the incandescent regulator.If an intense electric current be transmitted through a fine platinum wire, the latter will, in a very few seconds, become white hot, and give a considerable amount of light. If such a platinum wire be enclosed in a glass globe, from which the air has been extracted, we have one kind of incandescent lamp, so called because the light is produced through the incandescence or intense heating of a platinum or other conductor. It was a lamp such as this that, when brought out by Mr. Edison two years ago, produced such a scare among holders of gas shares. It was not, however, a practical invention; it was found that the electric current constantly melted the platinum, or broke the glass envelope, after which the lamp was of course entirely useless. In vain Mr. Edison tried various alloys of platinum and iridium; nothing of that nature was found that could resist the intense heat produced by the electricity. While, however, the incandescent lamp was not progressing very rapidly in America, in England Mr. Swan, of Newcastle, who had been experimenting with the electric light for some time, brought out another kind of regulator, which has given rise to great expectations. The Swan lamp consists of a pear-shaped globe, blown out of glass, and from which all the air, or at least as much as can be, has been exhausted. In this globe there is a tiny carbon filament, manufactured of carbonized thread, in the form of a loop, which is attached to two platinum wires which project through the glass bulb. On an electric current being passed through the carbon, by means of wires attached to the platinum projections, a soft yet brilliant light is obtained. These lamps, which give a light corresponding in power and color to an ordinary gas flame, can now be obtained for five shillings each, and it is probable that this price may yet be still further reduced.Mr. Edison also, having abandoned his earlier platino-iridium regulator, has brought out another lamp very similar to Mr. Swan’s. In his case the carbon filament is formed of carbonized bamboo, and the glass bulb is of an elongated form. Incandescent lamps have also been invented by Maxim, Crooks, Fox Lane, and others; but they only differ in details of manufacture from those of Swan and Edison.Among edifices now entirely illuminated by the Swan system may be mentioned twenty-one steam vessels, including several war ships—theCity of Rome, an Anchor Liner, which is second only to theGreat Easternin point of size, and several passenger boats in the Cunard and White Star Lines.One of the greatest objections to gas as an indoor illuminant is the fact that not only does it burn a large amount of the oxygen of the air, but it also gives off during combustion carbonic acid gas and other poisonous vapors, besides a great amount of heat, thus vitiating the atmosphere. In public buildings where there is much gas burnt and little ventilation, this is seen to advantage, the air becoming in a short space of time hot and unwholesome. Now in the case of the incandescent electric light, this is altogether altered, the incandescent filament which produces the light, although in itself enormously hot, is too small in point of size to radiate much heat, and the fact of its being hermetically enclosed in a glass globe, which is impervious to the atmosphere, entirely prevents the escape of any noxious gases. The same circumstance prevents there being any consumption of oxygen.These facts make the electric light far more wholesome than gas for the illumination of music-halls, churches, or other places of concourse. In a recent trial in the Town Hall at Birmingham, the employment of gas raised the temperature of the atmosphere thirty-eight degrees in three hours, while the building was equally well lighted with electricity for seven hours with a rise in temperature of only two degrees. Thus, after a period of lighting by electricity 2.33 times as long as by gas, the temperature at the ceiling was increased by only 1-19th of the amount due to gas.Another great advantage consequent to the employment of incandescent lighting, is the greater immunity from accidental fire; for as the carbon filament is instantly entirely consumed, the moment the glass envelope is broken it is impossible for the lamp to ignite anything in its vicinity however inflammable. The experiment has been tried of breaking a lighted incandescent lamp in a vessel containing gunpowder, with perfect safety. As these lamps may be placed in any position, they lend themselves very readily to ornamental and decorative purposes. At the recent electrical exhibition at the Crystal Palace a very beautiful chandelier of Edison lamps was shown, in which the lamps, which were of very small size, formed the petals of finely worked glass and brass flowers. This chandelier had a really magnificent effect when lighted.These and other facts too numerous to mention, demonstrate that electricity, when properly applied, will be a far more elegant, safe, and wholesome agent for illuminating purposes, than coal-gas as now employed. But in order to have the full benefits of its use, a system is required by which the electric current shall be produced and conveyed to the lamps.Not only has Mr. Edison invented an incandescent lamp, but he has also identified his name with a very complete system for producing the light on a large scale to suit both domestic and commercial requirements. In the first place he has invented a peculiar form of dynamo-machine, which when driven at great speed by powerful steam or water engines, produces the electricity in great quantity at some central station. From this centre the current is conveyed by copper wires laid under the streets or over the roofs of the houses, these conductors being tapped of their electric fluid by smaller wires which convey the electricity into the houses, in a way similar to that in which gas is conveyed by small pipes from the larger street mains. In each house is an electric meter, a special invention of Mr. Edison’s, which measures the quantity of electricity which passes through it. This meter is very ingenious, and therefore the principle on which it is based may be described. If a current of electricity be passed through a solution of sulphate of copper, contained in a copper jar, the sulphate solution is decomposed and metallic copper is deposited on the inside of the jar. Now it has been proved by experiment, that the amount of copper deposited is always directly proportional to the strength and duration of the electric current. Mr. Edison’s meter consists of such an arrangement, and he finds that by weighing the copper jar, so as to determine exactly what it has gained in weight through the metallic deposition of the solution it contains, he can accurately calculate in units the amount of electricity that has passed through the meter. By means of this beautiful discovery electricity can be supplied and paid for in a manner very similar to that employed in the case of gas at the present time.Within the building to be illuminated, the electric fluid reaches the lamps along small copper wires, about the thickness of ordinary bell wire, which are covered with a coating of gutta percha to prevent the escape of the electricity, which might cause sparks or even fire, or in any case seriously injure any one who might come in contact with the bare metal, by giving him a very violent if not fatal electric shock. The lamps themselves may be fixed to ordinary gas brackets. Mr. Edison has designed some special ones, and the light can be turned on and off, by means of a tap or button, with as great or even still greater facility than gas.Mr. Edison has recently established a central station in New York, from which he proposes to light the houses included in an area of a wide radius from the center. In part of this area the installation of the lamps and wires is now complete, and the light is giving every satisfaction, the cost being considerably below that of gas, which in the United States is very expensive. It must be remembered that electric lighting is comparatively a new science, and not yet fully understood. There is very little doubt that, by practice, it will before long approach more nearly to perfection, and sooner or later entirely supersede gas, the arc form of lamp being employed for the illumination of streets and large areas, while the incandescent pattern meets domestic requirements.—Good Words.
The frost lies thick upon the pane,The fields are white with falling snows,O’er frost-bank, in meadow-lane,The drifted ice of winter glows.The buds that crowned the mountain-side,The moss that fringed the lakelet’s shore,Passed with the fleeting summer-tide,And spring’s fair graces are no more.I trace the pictures on the pane,Then turn, where in my quiet roomThe summer lives for me again,And June’s sweet gifts in freshness bloom.’Mid emerald moss and growing vines,The fair lobelia’s lifted face,Nestled among the lilies shines,That blossom in their snowy grace.With tender hands I lift them up,Sweet flowers, no breath of winter dimmed!How pure each radiant jeweled cup,Each vase with sparkling nectar brimmed.The aloe’s flood of molten flame,The vervain with its crimson hue.The rose that with the spring-time came,And in the mountain’s fastness grew.The white alyssum, small and fair,The red camelia’s blushing dyes,The jasmine’s golden blossoms rare,The larkspur, blue as summer skies,The sweet narcissus’s yellow blooms,The zinnia, with its violet rays,The pink, with all its rich perfumes,The crowning charm of August days.Without the snowflakes softly fall,An airy mist from cloud and sky,Within, their perfume over all,The buds in rosy fragrance lie.The pale acacia’s tinted gleams,The white carnation’s heart of gold,The phlox that grows beside the streamsThat gem the forests dim and old.I wonder when life’s spring is past,And snows are falling soft as now,When autumn glories fade at last,And frosts lie thick upon the bough,If some true deed that I have wrought,May, like the flowers, its blooms unclose,Some fair and unforgotten thoughtGrow grand beneath life’s winter snows.
The frost lies thick upon the pane,The fields are white with falling snows,O’er frost-bank, in meadow-lane,The drifted ice of winter glows.The buds that crowned the mountain-side,The moss that fringed the lakelet’s shore,Passed with the fleeting summer-tide,And spring’s fair graces are no more.
The frost lies thick upon the pane,
The fields are white with falling snows,
O’er frost-bank, in meadow-lane,
The drifted ice of winter glows.
The buds that crowned the mountain-side,
The moss that fringed the lakelet’s shore,
Passed with the fleeting summer-tide,
And spring’s fair graces are no more.
I trace the pictures on the pane,Then turn, where in my quiet roomThe summer lives for me again,And June’s sweet gifts in freshness bloom.’Mid emerald moss and growing vines,The fair lobelia’s lifted face,Nestled among the lilies shines,That blossom in their snowy grace.
I trace the pictures on the pane,
Then turn, where in my quiet room
The summer lives for me again,
And June’s sweet gifts in freshness bloom.
’Mid emerald moss and growing vines,
The fair lobelia’s lifted face,
Nestled among the lilies shines,
That blossom in their snowy grace.
With tender hands I lift them up,Sweet flowers, no breath of winter dimmed!How pure each radiant jeweled cup,Each vase with sparkling nectar brimmed.The aloe’s flood of molten flame,The vervain with its crimson hue.The rose that with the spring-time came,And in the mountain’s fastness grew.
With tender hands I lift them up,
Sweet flowers, no breath of winter dimmed!
How pure each radiant jeweled cup,
Each vase with sparkling nectar brimmed.
The aloe’s flood of molten flame,
The vervain with its crimson hue.
The rose that with the spring-time came,
And in the mountain’s fastness grew.
The white alyssum, small and fair,The red camelia’s blushing dyes,The jasmine’s golden blossoms rare,The larkspur, blue as summer skies,The sweet narcissus’s yellow blooms,The zinnia, with its violet rays,The pink, with all its rich perfumes,The crowning charm of August days.
The white alyssum, small and fair,
The red camelia’s blushing dyes,
The jasmine’s golden blossoms rare,
The larkspur, blue as summer skies,
The sweet narcissus’s yellow blooms,
The zinnia, with its violet rays,
The pink, with all its rich perfumes,
The crowning charm of August days.
Without the snowflakes softly fall,An airy mist from cloud and sky,Within, their perfume over all,The buds in rosy fragrance lie.The pale acacia’s tinted gleams,The white carnation’s heart of gold,The phlox that grows beside the streamsThat gem the forests dim and old.
Without the snowflakes softly fall,
An airy mist from cloud and sky,
Within, their perfume over all,
The buds in rosy fragrance lie.
The pale acacia’s tinted gleams,
The white carnation’s heart of gold,
The phlox that grows beside the streams
That gem the forests dim and old.
I wonder when life’s spring is past,And snows are falling soft as now,When autumn glories fade at last,And frosts lie thick upon the bough,If some true deed that I have wrought,May, like the flowers, its blooms unclose,Some fair and unforgotten thoughtGrow grand beneath life’s winter snows.
I wonder when life’s spring is past,
And snows are falling soft as now,
When autumn glories fade at last,
And frosts lie thick upon the bough,
If some true deed that I have wrought,
May, like the flowers, its blooms unclose,
Some fair and unforgotten thought
Grow grand beneath life’s winter snows.
By CHARLES KINGSLEY.
The scientific method needs no definition; for it is simply the exercise of common sense. It is not a peculiar, unique, professional, or mysterious process of the understanding; but the same which all men employ, from the cradle to the grave, in forming correct conclusions.
Every one who knows the philosophic writings of Mr. John Stuart Mill, will be familiar with this opinion. But to those who have no leisure to study him, I should recommend the reading of Professor Huxley’s third lecture on the origin of species.
In that he shows, with great logical skill, as well as with some humor, how the man who, on rising in the morning finds the parlor-window open, the spoons and teapot gone, the mark of a dirty hand on the window-sill, and that of a hob-nailed boot outside, and comes to the conclusion that someone has broken open the window, and stolen the plate, arrives at that hypothesis—for it is nothing more—by a long and complex train of inductions and deductions of just the same kind as those which, according to the Baconian philosophy, are to be used for investigating the deepest secrets of Nature.
This is true, even of those sciences which involve long mathematical calculations. In fact, the stating of the problem to be solved is the most important element in the calculation; and that is so thoroughly a labor of common sense that an utterly uneducated man may, and often does, state an abstruse problem clearly and correctly; seeing what ought to be proved, and perhaps how to prove it, though he may be unable to work the problem out for want of mathematical knowledge.
But that mathematical knowledge is not—as all Cambridge men are surely aware—the result of any special gift. It is merely the development of those conceptions of form and number which every human being possesses; and any person of average intellect can make himself a fair mathematician if he will only pay continuous attention; in plain English, think enough about the subject.
There are sciences, again, which do not involve mathematical calculation; for instance, botany, zoölogy, geology, which are just now passing from their old stage of classificatory sciences into the rank of organic ones. These are, without doubt, altogether within the scope of the merest common sense. Any man or woman of average intellect, if they will but observe and think for themselves, freely, boldly, patiently, accurately, may judge for themselves of the conclusions of these sciences, and may add to these conclusions fresh and important discoveries.
Let me illustrate my meaning by an example. A man—I do not say a geologist, but simply a man, ’squire or ploughman—sees a small valley, say one of the side-glens which open into the larger valleys in any country. He wishes to ascertain its age.
He has, at first sight, a very simple measure—that of denudation. He sees that the glen is now being eaten out by a little stream, the product of innumerable springs which arise along its sides, and which are fed entirely by the rain on the moors above. He finds, on observation, that this stream brings down some ten cubic yards of sand and gravel, on an average, every year. The actual quantity of earth which has been removed to make the glen may be several million cubic yards. Here is an easy sum in arithmetic. At the rate of ten cubic yards a year, the stream has taken several hundred thousand years to make the glen.
You will observe that this result is obtained by mere common sense. He has a right to assume that the stream originally began the glen, because he finds it in the act of enlarging it; just as much right as he has to assume, if he find a hole in his pocket, and his last coin in the act of falling through it, that the rest of his money has fallen through the same hole. It is a sufficient cause, and the simplest. A number of observations as to the present rate of denudation, and a sum which any railroad contractor can do in his head, to determine the solid contents of the valley, are all that are needed. The method is that of science: but it is also that of simple common sense. You will remember, therefore, that this is no mere theory or hypothesis, but a pretty fair and simple conclusion from palpable facts; that the probability lies with the belief that the glen is some hundreds of thousands of years old; that it is not the observer’s business to prove it further, but other persons’ to disprove it, if they can.
But does the matter end here? No. And, for certain reasons, it is good that it should not end here.
The observer, if he be a cautious man, begins to see if he can disprove his own conclusions; moreover, being human, he is probably somewhat awed, if not appalled, by his own conclusions. Hundreds of thousands of years spent in making that little glen! Common sense would say that the longer it took to make, the less wonder there was in its being made at last: but the instinctive human feeling is the opposite. There is in men, and there remains in them, even after they are civilized, and all other forms of the dread of Nature have died out in them, a dread of size, of vast space, of vast time; that latter, mind, being always imagined as space, as we confess when we speak instinctively of a space of time. They will not understand that size is merely a relative, not an absolute term; that if we were a thousand times larger than we are, the universe would be a thousand times smaller than it is; that if we could think a thousand times faster than we do, time would be a thousand times longer than it is; that there is One in whom we live, and move, and have our being, to whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day. I believe this dread of size to be merely, like all other superstitions, a result of bodily fear; a development of the instinct which makes a little dog run away from a big dog. Be that as it may, every observer has it; and so the man’s conclusion seems to him strange, doubtful: he will reconsider it.
Moreover, if he be an experienced man, he is well aware that first guesses, first hypotheses, are not always the right ones: and if he be a modest man, he will consider the fact that many thousands of thoughtful men in all ages, and many thousands still, would say, that the glen can only be a few thousand, possibly a few hundred, years old. And he will feel bound to consider their opinion; as far as it is, like his own, drawn from facts, but no further.
So he casts about for all other methods by which the glen may have been produced, to see if any one of them will account for it in a shorter time.
1. Was it made by an earthquake? No; for the strata on both sides are identical, at the same level, and in the same plane.
2. Or by a mighty current? If so, the flood must have run in at the upper end before it ran out at the lower. But nothing has run in at the upper end. All round above are the undisturbed gravel-beds of the horizontal moor, without channel or depression.
3. Or by water draining off a vast flat as it was upheaved out of the sea? That is a likely guess. The valley at its upper end spreads out like the fingers of a hand, as the gullies in tide-muds do.
But that hypothesis will not stand. There is no vast unbroken flat behind the glen. Right and left of it are other similar glens, parted from it by long narrow ridges: thesealso must be explained on the same hypothesis; but they can not. For there could not have been surface-drainage to make them all, or a tenth of them. There are no other possible hypotheses; and so he must fall back on the original theory—the rain, the springs, the brook; they have done it all, even as they are doing it this day.
But is not that still a hasty assumption? May not their denuding power have been far greater in old times than now?
Why should it? Because there was more rain then than now? That he must put out of court; there is no evidence of it whatsoever.
Because the land was more friable originally? Well, there is a great deal to be said for that. The experience of every countryman tells him that bare or fallow land is more easily washed away than land under vegetation. And no doubt, when these gravels and sands rose from the sea, they were barren for hundreds of years. He has some measure of the time required, but he can tell roughly how long it takes for sands and shingles left by the sea to become covered by vegetation. But he must allow that the friability of the land must have been originally much greater than now, for hundreds of years.
But again, does that fact really cut off any great space of time from his hundreds of thousands of years? For when the land first rose from the sea, that glen was not there. Some slight bay or bend in the shore determined its site. That stream was not there. It was split up into a million little springs, oozing side by side from the shore, and having each a very minute denuding power, which kept continually increasing by combination as the glen ate its way inwards, and the rainfall drained by all these little springs was collected into the one central stream. So that when the ground being bare was most liable to be denuded, the water was least able to do it; and as the denuding power of the water increased, the land, being covered with vegetation, became more and more able to resist it.
So the two disturbing elements in the calculation may be fairly set off against each other, as making a difference of only a few thousands or tens of thousands of years either way; and the age of the glen may fairly be, if not a million years, yet such a length of years as mankind still speak of with bated breath, as if forsooth it would do them some harm.
I trust that every scientific man will agree with me, that the imaginary ’squire or ploughman would have been conducting his investigation strictly according to the laws of the Baconian philosophy. You will remark, meanwhile, that he has not used a single scientific term, or referred to a single scientific investigation; and has observed nothing and thought nothing, which might not have been observed and thought by any one who chose to use his common sense, and not to be afraid.
But because he has come round, after all this further investigation, to something very like his first conclusion, was all that further investigation useless? No—a thousand times, no. It is this very verification of hypotheses which makes the sound ones safe, and destroys the unsound. It is this struggle with all sorts of superstitions which makes science strong and sure, and her march irresistible, winning ground slowly, but never receding from it. It is this buffeting of adversity which compels her not to rest dangerously upon the shallow sand of first guesses, and single observations; but to strike her roots down, deep, wide, and interlaced, into the solid ground of actual facts.
It is very necessary to insist on this point. For there have been men in all past ages—I do not say whether there are any such now, but I am inclined to think there will be hereafter,—men who have tried to represent scientific method as something difficult, mysterious, peculiar, unique, not to be attained by the unscientific mass; and this not for the purpose of exalting science, but rather of discrediting her. For as long as the masses, educated or uneducated, are ignorant of what scientific method is, they will look on scientific men, as the middle age looked on necromancers, as a privileged, but awful and uncanny caste, possessed of mighty secrets; who may do them great good, but also may do them great harm. Which belief on the part of the masses will enable these persons to install themselves as the critics of science, though not scientific men themselves: and—as Shakspere has it—to talk of Robin Hood, though they never shot in his bow. Thus they become mediators to the masses between the scientific and the unscientific worlds. They tell them, You are not to trust the conclusions of men of science at first hand. You are not fit judges of their facts or of their methods. It is we who will, by a cautious electicism, choose out for you such of their conclusions as are safe for you; and them we will advise you to believe. To the scientific man, on the other hand, as often as anything is discovered unpleasing to them, they will say, imperiously andex cathedrâ, Your new theory contradicts the established facts of science. For they will know well that whatever the men of science think of their assertion, the masses will believe it; totally unaware that the speakers are by their very terms showing their ignorance of science; and that what they call established facts scientific men call merely provisional conclusions, which they would throw away to-morrow without a pang were the known facts explained better by a fresh theory, or did fresh facts require one.
This has happened too often. It is in the interest of superstition that it should happen again; and the best way to prevent it surely is to tell the masses, Scientific method is no peculiar mystery, requiring a peculiar initiation. It is simply common sense, combined with uncommon courage, which includes uncommon honesty and uncommon patience; and if you will be brave, honest, patient, rational, you will need no mystagogues to tell you what in science to believe and what not to believe; for you will be just as good judges of scientific facts and theories as those who assume the right of guiding your convictions. You are men and women: and more than that you need not be.
By ALEXANDER ANDERSON.
A day of fading light upon the sea;Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;And ever with its monotone to me,The sorrow of the waves.They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,For ever feeling with their foamy handsFor something they have lost.Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,A boat or two against the light is seen,Dipping their sides within the liquid breastOf waters dark and green.And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, lightUpon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,Wait for the coming night.But still, though all this life and motion meet,My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,Or dimly stir to answer at my feetThe sorrow of the sea.
A day of fading light upon the sea;Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;And ever with its monotone to me,The sorrow of the waves.They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,For ever feeling with their foamy handsFor something they have lost.Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,A boat or two against the light is seen,Dipping their sides within the liquid breastOf waters dark and green.And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, lightUpon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,Wait for the coming night.But still, though all this life and motion meet,My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,Or dimly stir to answer at my feetThe sorrow of the sea.
A day of fading light upon the sea;Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;And ever with its monotone to me,The sorrow of the waves.
A day of fading light upon the sea;
Of sea-birds winging to their rocky caves;
And ever with its monotone to me,
The sorrow of the waves.
They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,For ever feeling with their foamy handsFor something they have lost.
They leap and lash among the rocks and sands,
White lipp’d, as with a guilty secret toss’d,
For ever feeling with their foamy hands
For something they have lost.
Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,A boat or two against the light is seen,Dipping their sides within the liquid breastOf waters dark and green.
Far out, and swaying in a sweet unrest,
A boat or two against the light is seen,
Dipping their sides within the liquid breast
Of waters dark and green.
And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, lightUpon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,Wait for the coming night.
And farther still, where sea and sky have kiss’d,
There falls, as if from heaven’s own threshold, light
Upon faint hills that, half enswathed in mist,
Wait for the coming night.
But still, though all this life and motion meet,My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,Or dimly stir to answer at my feetThe sorrow of the sea.
But still, though all this life and motion meet,
My thoughts are wingless and lie dead in me,
Or dimly stir to answer at my feet
The sorrow of the sea.
By I. D’ISRAELI.
The origin of many fashions was in the endeavor to conceal some deformity of the inventor; hence the cushions, ruffs, hoops, and other monstrous devices. If a reigning beauty chanced to have an unequal hip, those who had very handsome hips would load them with that false rump which the other was compelled by the unkindness of nature to substitute. Patches were invented in England in the reign of Edward VI by a foreign lady, who in this manner ingeniously covered a wen on her neck. Full-bottomed wigs were invented by a French barber, one Duviller, whose name they perpetuated, for the purpose of concealing an elevation in the shoulder of the Dauphin. Charles VII of France introduced long coats to hide his ill-made legs. Shoes with very long points, full two feet in length, were invented by Henry Plantagenet, Duke of Anjou, to conceal a large excrescence on one of his feet. When Francis I was obliged to wear his hair short, owing to a wound he received in the head, it became a prevailing fashion at court. Others, on the contrary, adapted fashions to set off their peculiar beauties; as Isabella of Bavaria, remarkable for her gallantry, and the fairness of her complexion, introduced the fashion of leaving the shoulders and part of the neck uncovered.
Fashions have frequently originated from circumstances as silly as the following one. Isabella, daughter of Philip II, and wife of the Archduke Albert, vowed not to change her linen till Ostend was taken; this siege, unluckily for her comfort, lasted three years; and the supposed color of the archduchess’s linen gave rise to a fashionable color, hence calledl’Isabeau, or the Isabella; a kind of whitish-yellow-dingy. Sometimes they originate in some temporary event: as after the battle of Steenkirk, where the allies wore large cravats, by which the French frequently seized hold of them, a circumstance perpetuated on the medals of Louis XIV, cravats were called Steenkirks; and after the battle of Ramillies, wigs received that denomination.
The hair has in all ages been an endless topic for the declamation of the moralist, and the favorite object of fashion. If thebeau mondewore their hair luxuriant, or their wig enormous, the preachers, as in Charles the Second’s reign, instantly were seen in the pulpit with their hair cut shorter, and their sermon longer, in consequence; respect was, however, paid by the world to the size of thewig, in spite of thehair-cutterin the pulpit. Our judges, and until lately our physicians, well knew its magical effect. In the reign of Charles II the hair-dress of the ladies was very elaborate; it was not only curled and frizzled with the nicest art, but set off with certain artificial curls, then too emphatically known by the pathetic terms ofheart-breakersandlove-locks. So late as William and Mary, lads, and even children, wore wigs; and if they had not wigs, they curled their hair to resemble this fashionable ornament. Women then were the hair-dressers.
The courts in all ages and in every country are the modelers of fashions, so that all the ridicule, of which these are so susceptible, must fall on them, and not upon their servile imitators the citizens. This complaint is made even so far back as in 1586, by Jean des Caures, an old French moralist, who, in declaiming against the fashions of his day, notices one, of the ladies carrying mirrors fixed to their waists, which seemed to employ their eyes in perpetual activity. From this mode will result, according to honest Des Caures, their eternal damnation. “Alas!” he exclaims, “in what age do we live: to see such depravity which we see, that induces them even to bring into church these scandalous mirrors hanging about their waists! Let all histories divine, human, and profane be consulted; never will it be found that these objects of vanity were ever thus brought into public by the most meretricious of the sex. It is true, at present none but the ladies of the court venture to wear them; but long it will not be before every citizen’s daughter, and every female servant, will wear them!” Such in all times has been the rise and decline of fashion; and the absurd mimicry of the citizens, even of the lowest classes, to their very ruin, in straining to rival the newest fashion, has mortified and galled the courtier.
By RICHARD BUDD PAINTER.
No one who has clearly observed animals, birds, bees, and other creatures, can possibly deny their possession of a faculty of communicating ideas to one another.
Admitting this fully, my object therefore will be, while elicitating some of the facts concerning animal language, to maintain the consistency of my argument in regard to man, as contrasted with animals, by showing that such animal language is not of an intellectual kind, but only such as is necessary for the conduct, and use, of the highest phases of the animal “instinctive mind,” according to its ordained capacity in each species.
In my opinion, every kind of animal possesses a different sort of language; and which is peculiar to its genus; just as in the case of different races of man, a language which though capable of interpretation by a member of the group which speaks it, can not be generally understood by other races in minute detail; although among both men and animals there are a few cries, etc., that can be generally understood; as those of alarm communicated by screams, stamping of the ground, etc. But we must note that whatever may be the kind and extent of language in animals, it is in them alwaysexpressive only of animal sensations and sense impressions and reasonings.
Particular animals, birds, insects, etc., bark, gibber, bray, sing, crow, grunt, rub their wing-cases (crickets), etc., showing that each has a different language, and different modes of expressing emotion: showing, too, by these differences that their sorts of minds must vary much more from one another, than do the minds of men in their different human varieties; for men do not employ such immensely different modes of conveying their ideas and feelings by sounds as is the case in animals with their lowing, snorting, barking, etc.
The making of these very different sounds by different animals is therefore to me the clearest possible proof that different animals possess different sorts of mind; yet of course there is some general resemblance, as is the case in so many of God’s works made diversely in specific instances, yet on the same general plan in the main. I said just now that, while fully admitting the possession of a kind of language by animals, I should maintain strictly that it is not of an intellectual character, and I may be asked what I mean by this assertion.
My answer is that I believe the language of the animal is limited chiefly to the expression of animal needs; and animal sensations; and the conveyance of such requirements, and feelings to their kind; although it can doubtless be used also for communicating in some slight degree such ideas concerning animal experiences and feelings as their feeble reasoning powers enable them to arrive at; such as the devices for protection, and escape from danger; and the manifestation and interpretation of the sort of questionings, and answerings which occur when two dogs meet, as shown by the wagging of tails, and pleased looks, or the reverse; and which seem to indicate as if the dogs could by gesture, etc.,ask, and reply to one another, whether it is to be peace, or war.
My belief is that the mind of the mere animal is in no ease able to reach beyond the limit of simple ministration to the animal needs, and animal feelings, and instincts of the creature according to its kind; and that it can never form pure intellectual ideas, such as those of intellectual love; intellectual hatred; intellectual ideas as to time; space; God, etc. Nor can it form the mental abstractions—words—and by the use of these arrive at the intellectual operation of mind which their employment renders possible.
These may take place—
First—Byvocal intonations(as in man) in brutes and birds: and I may remark that all brutes possess a tongue, larynx, and vocal cords; and that birds have these also, with the exception that the bird’s larynx (syrinx) is rather modified from that of man and the mammalia; still we know its perfection; and we know how the parrot can use it.
Secondly—By gestureand visual regard, as seen in dogs, and in birds.
Thirdly—By means of sounds other than vocal, as is witnessed in the stamping on the ground by various animals to intimate danger. Also the noises of insects made by rubbing their wing-cases (elytra) together, as in the cricket, etc.
Fourthly—By means of touch, as in the cases of ants, bees, and other insects, which can convey meanings by crossing their antennæ.
Fifthly—Other signs, etc., perhaps, with which we have no acquaintance, and can form no conjecture.
Sixthly—Information can also probably be ascertained by smell.
By any one of these means separately, or together, it doubtless is possible for very numerous species of creatures to communicate with their kind by means of a language,—little articulate it may be—but still more or less articulate, according to endowment.
Let us now consider animal language by whatever mode effected; and to do so I propose to divide the subject into two sections.
First—The language of the sensations.
Second—The language of the instinctive mind.
First—The language expressive of the bodily sensations.
This, I have no doubt, is in great measure, if not entirely, automatic, for like as when you tread on a man’s toe, or give him a thump on the back, he involuntarily cries out—Oh! So when you tread on a cat’s tail, she gives utterance to her characteristic scream.
But it is not only bodily pain that can be proclaimed aloud, but hosts of other sensations can also be expressed in various ways. The lamb, or the kitten, feels the sensation of hunger, and it doubtless involuntarily bleats, or mews, for its mother; although it does not in the least know the meaning of “Ba,” or “Mew,” or why it gives utterance to such sounds.
And so of the notes of the crowing cock, the “gobbling” turkey, and the sibilant cricket, etc.
And then as to numbers of other cries, etc., too numerous to mention; such as the chirping of sparrows on the approach of rain, the moaning and whining of animals in pain, the cackling of the hen after laying an egg, etc.,—all these arise doubtless from bodily sensations, and may be termed the language of the involuntary or automatic part of the organic mind.
Second—The language of the instinctive mind.
I have above briefly spoken of the language expressive of the bodily sensations, and have termed it really the automatic language of what I call the “organic mind,” or “vital force.” Now we must speak of the language capable of being used by the “instinctive mind”—a language, I believe, that is sometimes involuntary or automatic, but which at other times is under the voluntary control of such kind of will, judgment, and choice as is capable of being exercised by the creature according to its mental endowment as decreed and specialized.
Thus, by sounds or gestures, or other modes, animals, birds, insects, etc., can express fear of danger, friendliness, hatred, anger, triumph, etc.; and in some instances, as in the bee, can communicate such special information as that the “queen is dead,” etc.
See two dogs meet: they evidently quite understand each other, and by wagging of tails and bright glances, or the reverse; and a cheerful bark or a savage snarl, can quickly intimate whether a gambol or a fight is to result. No doubt, as in man, this result will be greatly guided by the state of the bodily sensations (digestion, etc.), and as to age and natural character; but yet the dogs’ communications, we may be sure are only concerning pure animal sensations or concerns, and never assume an intellectual character, such as, “How is your beloved mistress?” etc.
Then look at the watchful bird on the tree-top, or the sentinel bull on the hillock; each can sound the alarm, because its intuition or its experience tells of danger. And then look at a party of rooks holding a palaver; who can doubt but that in some way they communicate certain feelings and perhaps ideas? And so as to hosts of other birds and beasts; but then their mental processes cannot possibly—for reasons which I have repeatedly given—be considered as of an intellectual sort like that of man, indeed it very probably may be of so different a kind to ours that we can not even guess at the nature of it.
I have not space to illustrate all the visible manifestations of the different phases of mind in animals, but to mention only one other, who can doubt but that in regard to triumph after a victory, the cock when he gets on an elevation and crows must experience some of the pride of conquest, and must have a sort of conception of the abstract idea of exultation in regard to his courage and prowess?
And yet although, as in my opinion, we must not delude ourselves by thinking that the foregoing are simply produced by reflex actions arising only from bodily sensations; so we must not equally be misled by supposing that such results arise from intellectual reasoning. No! in my opinion, although all these acts and sounds are performed, and produced, in some measure—and in some measure only—according to the dictates of asort of conscious will; and a sort of abstract reasoning(in some cases), yet they can only occur, or be done, strictly according to the caliber, and quality, and specific endowment of the kind ofnon-intellectual mind with which the creature has been gifted by God—a caliber, and quality, and specific sort of mind which I will not pretend to be able, in any way, to explain the nature of, or essential mode of working.
Those who employ their time ill are the first to complain of its shortness. As they spend it in dressing, eating, sleeping, foolish conversation, in determining what they ought to do, and often in doing nothing, time is wanting to them for their real business and pleasures: those, on the contrary, who make the best use of it have plenty and to spare.—La Bruyère.
Those who employ their time ill are the first to complain of its shortness. As they spend it in dressing, eating, sleeping, foolish conversation, in determining what they ought to do, and often in doing nothing, time is wanting to them for their real business and pleasures: those, on the contrary, who make the best use of it have plenty and to spare.—La Bruyère.
Even though it were true what many say, that education gives not to man another heart, nor another temperament, that it changes nothing in reality, and touches only the outside crust, I would not hesitate to say that it is not useless.—La Bruyère.
Even though it were true what many say, that education gives not to man another heart, nor another temperament, that it changes nothing in reality, and touches only the outside crust, I would not hesitate to say that it is not useless.—La Bruyère.
By A. A. CAMPBELL SWINTON.
It seems at present that electricity is to be the illuminating agent of the future, and that, as gas has now all but superseded candles and oil, so in turn gas will soon be superseded by electricity. The reasons for this change are several and various, and follow that most immutable of natural laws, the law of the survival of the fittest.
About the commencement of the present century, Sir Humphry Davy, the eminent chemist, succeeded in producing at the Royal Institution the most brilliant light then known. By passing the electricity derived from an enormous battery of four thousand plates through two charcoal points separated from one another, he obtained in air a continuous electric discharge four inches in length, which was increased to seven inches when the experiment was repeatedin vacuo.
This discharge, or arc, as it is called, consisted of very minute particles of charcoal, which being raised to white heat by the resistance offered by the points to the electric current, were also by its means conveyed with great rapidity from one charcoal point to the other, emitting during their passage a light of dazzling brilliancy. The discharge of heated particles being continuous, the arc could be maintained for a considerable length of time.
This light, however, was entirely impracticable for any but purely experimental purposes. A battery of four thousand plates is not easily maintained in working order, and besides, the expense of such an arrangement puts it entirely out of the question. Of late years, however, a new method of producing electricity on a large scale has been discovered in the dynamo-electric machine, by means of which currents of great volume and intensity can be obtained from the power generated by a steam engine, water wheel, or other prime motor.
This great discovery instigated scientific men to try and bring the electric light within the range of practical utility, in which end they have already been eminently successful.
It was found that as the charcoal points in Davy’s lamp in process of time became oxidized and burnt away, it was necessary to have some arrangement by which they should be maintained at a constant distance from one another. This problem was first solved by Duboscq, a Frenchsavant, who by the combined action of the electric current and a system of clockwork, succeeded in obtaining a constant and steady light. Gas carbon, as found incrusted on the inside of gas retorts, was at the same time substituted for the charcoal employed by Davy, as it was found to burn more equally and to last much longer.
In July, 1877, a new form of electric light apparatus was introduced into France and elsewhere, which, from its practical simplicity, attracted a large amount of attention. This invention is due to Mr. Jablochkoff, a Russian engineer, and is known as the Jablochkoff candle. In this form of regulator all clockwork and mechanism are avoided; the two carbons are placed side by side, in parallel lines, and are separated by some substance which, though readily fusible, at the same time offers so enormous a resistance to the passage of the electric current as practically to prevent its passage through it at all. Kaolin clay and plaster of Paris have both been employed for this purpose with success. The current not being able to pass through the insulating material, can only pass between the two carbons at the extremity of the candle, where the arc is therefore formed. As the carbons burn away, the insulating material melts, and an uninterrupted light is obtained. As it is found that one carbon burns away more quickly than the other, in this form of lamp the electric current is supplied alternately in different directions, which makes the carbons burn equally, the reversions of the electricity being so rapid that the arc is to all appearances continuous. This lamp has been largely employed in Paris, and is at present in actual operation on the Thames embankment. Its chief defects are its great expense and the unsteady character of the light, which, owing to the oxidation of the insulating material, flickers and changes color. Another lamp, and one which has been largely used in Europe and in America, is the Brush regulator, called after its inventor. In this form the carbons are vertically one above the other, the upper one being controlled by an electro magnet, which supports it, allowing it to descend of its own weight when, through the distance between the carbons becoming too great, the current is weakened, and the magnet unable to support its load, thus keeping the arc of a constant length. There are a large number of other arc regulators, some of which work very well, and are largely employed; but they are most of them based on a very similar principle to that of the Brush lamp, and therefore they need no special description.
It has been found, however, that, adapted as some of the arc regulators are for the illumination of streets and large areas, none of them are at all able to compete with gas in the lighting of private houses. Not only do they require the constant attention of skilled workmen to renew the carbons and to clean the mechanism, but they give far too strong and dazzling a light for any but very large apartments.
For domestic lighting we therefore come to quite a new departure in electric lamps; instead of the arc we have the incandescent regulator.
If an intense electric current be transmitted through a fine platinum wire, the latter will, in a very few seconds, become white hot, and give a considerable amount of light. If such a platinum wire be enclosed in a glass globe, from which the air has been extracted, we have one kind of incandescent lamp, so called because the light is produced through the incandescence or intense heating of a platinum or other conductor. It was a lamp such as this that, when brought out by Mr. Edison two years ago, produced such a scare among holders of gas shares. It was not, however, a practical invention; it was found that the electric current constantly melted the platinum, or broke the glass envelope, after which the lamp was of course entirely useless. In vain Mr. Edison tried various alloys of platinum and iridium; nothing of that nature was found that could resist the intense heat produced by the electricity. While, however, the incandescent lamp was not progressing very rapidly in America, in England Mr. Swan, of Newcastle, who had been experimenting with the electric light for some time, brought out another kind of regulator, which has given rise to great expectations. The Swan lamp consists of a pear-shaped globe, blown out of glass, and from which all the air, or at least as much as can be, has been exhausted. In this globe there is a tiny carbon filament, manufactured of carbonized thread, in the form of a loop, which is attached to two platinum wires which project through the glass bulb. On an electric current being passed through the carbon, by means of wires attached to the platinum projections, a soft yet brilliant light is obtained. These lamps, which give a light corresponding in power and color to an ordinary gas flame, can now be obtained for five shillings each, and it is probable that this price may yet be still further reduced.
Mr. Edison also, having abandoned his earlier platino-iridium regulator, has brought out another lamp very similar to Mr. Swan’s. In his case the carbon filament is formed of carbonized bamboo, and the glass bulb is of an elongated form. Incandescent lamps have also been invented by Maxim, Crooks, Fox Lane, and others; but they only differ in details of manufacture from those of Swan and Edison.
Among edifices now entirely illuminated by the Swan system may be mentioned twenty-one steam vessels, including several war ships—theCity of Rome, an Anchor Liner, which is second only to theGreat Easternin point of size, and several passenger boats in the Cunard and White Star Lines.
One of the greatest objections to gas as an indoor illuminant is the fact that not only does it burn a large amount of the oxygen of the air, but it also gives off during combustion carbonic acid gas and other poisonous vapors, besides a great amount of heat, thus vitiating the atmosphere. In public buildings where there is much gas burnt and little ventilation, this is seen to advantage, the air becoming in a short space of time hot and unwholesome. Now in the case of the incandescent electric light, this is altogether altered, the incandescent filament which produces the light, although in itself enormously hot, is too small in point of size to radiate much heat, and the fact of its being hermetically enclosed in a glass globe, which is impervious to the atmosphere, entirely prevents the escape of any noxious gases. The same circumstance prevents there being any consumption of oxygen.
These facts make the electric light far more wholesome than gas for the illumination of music-halls, churches, or other places of concourse. In a recent trial in the Town Hall at Birmingham, the employment of gas raised the temperature of the atmosphere thirty-eight degrees in three hours, while the building was equally well lighted with electricity for seven hours with a rise in temperature of only two degrees. Thus, after a period of lighting by electricity 2.33 times as long as by gas, the temperature at the ceiling was increased by only 1-19th of the amount due to gas.
Another great advantage consequent to the employment of incandescent lighting, is the greater immunity from accidental fire; for as the carbon filament is instantly entirely consumed, the moment the glass envelope is broken it is impossible for the lamp to ignite anything in its vicinity however inflammable. The experiment has been tried of breaking a lighted incandescent lamp in a vessel containing gunpowder, with perfect safety. As these lamps may be placed in any position, they lend themselves very readily to ornamental and decorative purposes. At the recent electrical exhibition at the Crystal Palace a very beautiful chandelier of Edison lamps was shown, in which the lamps, which were of very small size, formed the petals of finely worked glass and brass flowers. This chandelier had a really magnificent effect when lighted.
These and other facts too numerous to mention, demonstrate that electricity, when properly applied, will be a far more elegant, safe, and wholesome agent for illuminating purposes, than coal-gas as now employed. But in order to have the full benefits of its use, a system is required by which the electric current shall be produced and conveyed to the lamps.
Not only has Mr. Edison invented an incandescent lamp, but he has also identified his name with a very complete system for producing the light on a large scale to suit both domestic and commercial requirements. In the first place he has invented a peculiar form of dynamo-machine, which when driven at great speed by powerful steam or water engines, produces the electricity in great quantity at some central station. From this centre the current is conveyed by copper wires laid under the streets or over the roofs of the houses, these conductors being tapped of their electric fluid by smaller wires which convey the electricity into the houses, in a way similar to that in which gas is conveyed by small pipes from the larger street mains. In each house is an electric meter, a special invention of Mr. Edison’s, which measures the quantity of electricity which passes through it. This meter is very ingenious, and therefore the principle on which it is based may be described. If a current of electricity be passed through a solution of sulphate of copper, contained in a copper jar, the sulphate solution is decomposed and metallic copper is deposited on the inside of the jar. Now it has been proved by experiment, that the amount of copper deposited is always directly proportional to the strength and duration of the electric current. Mr. Edison’s meter consists of such an arrangement, and he finds that by weighing the copper jar, so as to determine exactly what it has gained in weight through the metallic deposition of the solution it contains, he can accurately calculate in units the amount of electricity that has passed through the meter. By means of this beautiful discovery electricity can be supplied and paid for in a manner very similar to that employed in the case of gas at the present time.
Within the building to be illuminated, the electric fluid reaches the lamps along small copper wires, about the thickness of ordinary bell wire, which are covered with a coating of gutta percha to prevent the escape of the electricity, which might cause sparks or even fire, or in any case seriously injure any one who might come in contact with the bare metal, by giving him a very violent if not fatal electric shock. The lamps themselves may be fixed to ordinary gas brackets. Mr. Edison has designed some special ones, and the light can be turned on and off, by means of a tap or button, with as great or even still greater facility than gas.
Mr. Edison has recently established a central station in New York, from which he proposes to light the houses included in an area of a wide radius from the center. In part of this area the installation of the lamps and wires is now complete, and the light is giving every satisfaction, the cost being considerably below that of gas, which in the United States is very expensive. It must be remembered that electric lighting is comparatively a new science, and not yet fully understood. There is very little doubt that, by practice, it will before long approach more nearly to perfection, and sooner or later entirely supersede gas, the arc form of lamp being employed for the illumination of streets and large areas, while the incandescent pattern meets domestic requirements.—Good Words.