THE EFFECTS OF ADEQUATE RESPIRATION IN SPECIAL CASES.
When the nutrition of the body is promoted by effective respiration, and waste matters are promptly removed, the chances that tubercle will be developed in persons who are predisposed thereto are reduced to a minimum.
Better materials are furnished by the nutritive processes to renew the tissues, so that the occurrence of those degenerations that result in various fatal affections, peculiar to the decline of life, are rendered much less probable or are prevented altogether, and the chances that death shall take place by old age is increased. The system possesses much greater resisting power against the influence of malaria and the poisons that give rise to typhoid fever, scarlatina, diphtheria, measles, etc.
When the motions of a woman's respiratory organs are normal and are properly communicated to the pelvic organs, she enjoys the greatest possible immunity attainable against the development of any diseases peculiar to the sex.
VITAL DISCOVERIES IN OBSTRUCTED AIR AND VENTILATION.[1]
I suppose that we all consider ourselves to be sufficiently impressed with the importance of ventilation. If I should stop here to declaim against foul exhalations, or to dwell upon the virtues of fresh air, you might feel inclined to interrupt me by saying, "Oh, we know all about that! If you have anything practical to advance, come to the point." Gentlemen, I beg your pardon, but I must say that the great fact concerning ventilation, as yet, is that its strongest advocates are not conscious of one-half the seriousness of the subject; and the second fact is that the supposed means of ventilation prescribed by science fail to secure it.
This, then, is my point to-night—the supreme necessity, still urgent, and universally urgent, for a reformation of the breath of life. I believe in a promised time when the days of a man's life shall again be as the days of a tree. And next to the abolition of vice and sin, I believe that the very grandest factor of such result must be an entire disuse of obstructed air for the lungs. I propose to bring forward some evidence of the necessity, and likewise of the possibility, of a reform so radical and sweeping as this. The subject is too wide for the occasion. I shall be able to read only extracts from what I have prepared, in the few minutes that you can give with patience to my unpracticed lecturing.
The best prescription that doctors have to give (when we are not too far gone to take it) is to live out of doors. Why is this? Why is life out of doors proverbially synonymous with robust health? Why is it that a superior vitality, and a singular exemption from disease, notoriously distinguish dwellers in the open air, by land or sea? Without disparaging the virtues of exercise or of bracing temperature, indispensable as these are for the recuperation of enfeebled constitutions, we must admit that among the native and settled inhabitants of the open air high health is the rule in warm climates as well as in cold, and with the very laziest mortals that bask in the sun, or loaf in the woods. The fact is that simple vegetative health seems to be nearly independent of all other external conditions but that of a pure natural diet for the lungs. Man in nature seems to thrive as spontaneously as plants, by the free grace of air, earth, and sun. On the other hand, the very diseases from which houses are supposed to defend us—that most numerous class resulting from colds—are the special scourge of the lives that are most carefully shielded from their commonly supposed cause—exposure to the open air. Those diseases diminish, and entirely disappear, just so far as exposure in the pure and freely moving air becomes complete and habitual. Soldiers, inured to camp life, catch cold if they once sleep in a house; and, generally speaking, the inhabitants of the free air contract colds only by exposure to confined exhalations from their own or other bodies, within the walls of houses. The explanation of this is plain and simple: Carbonic acid detained within four walls accumulates in place of the breath of life—oxygen—and narcotizes the excretory function of the skin. The moment that this great and continual vent of waste and impurity from the system is obstructed, internal derangement ensues in every direction. All hands, so to speak, are strained to extra duty to discharge the noxious accumulation. The lungs labor to discharge the load thrown back upon them, with hastened respiration, increased combustion, and feverish heat. The pores of the mucous membrane in the nose, throat, alimentary canal, or bronchial passages, are forced by an aggravated discharge (or catarrh), and this congestive and inflammatory pressure is a fever also. There is nothing of "cold" about it except as an auxiliary and antecedent, in cases where an external chill has struck upon nerves already half paralyzed by the universal narcotic—carbonic acid—which house dwellers may be said to "smoke" perpetually.
So much for nerve-poison; but blood-poisoning is a still more terrible characteristic of house-protected existence. It is now the almost universal opinion of the medical profession that the whole class of malarial and zymotic diseases that make such frightful progress and havoc in the most civilized communities, are due to living germs with which the exhalations of organic waste and decay are everywhere loaded in inconceivable numbers. They are known to multiply themselves many times over, every two or three hours. They swarm into the blood by millions, through all the absorbents, especially those of the lungs, that drink the atmosphere in which they are suffered to linger and propagate. Mr. Dancer, the eminent microscopist, counted in a sample from such an atmosphere a number of organized germs equivalent to 3,700,000 in the volume of air hourly inhaled by one person. That is over 60,000 germs per minute, and about 2,000 in every breath. In the blood, they still propagate, and feed, and grow, consuming its oxygen, thus defeating its purification, and turning that stream of otherwise healthful and invigorating nutrition into a stream of effete and corrupt matter—a sewer rather than a river of life—or at best an impoverished and impure supply for the support of existence.
The same pestilential but invisible hosts of bacteria, mustered and bred in the close filthiness of Oriental cities, and jungles, swarm out as Asiatic cholera on the wings of the wind, sweeping the wide world with havoc. Settled on the tropical shores of the Eastern Atlantic, they lie in wait for their victims in the sluggish and terrible coast fever. On the western coast of the same ocean, perhaps from some cause connected with oceanic or atmospheric currents, they make devastating irruptions inland, as yellow fever, in every direction where the walls of their enclosure are low enough to be freely passed. These, let us remember, are all essentially the same organic poison that is engendered wherever life and death are plying their perpetual game; and this, like Cleopatra's "worm, will do its kind" in the veins of man, wherever obstructions, natural or artificial, temporary or permanent, interfere with its prompt diffusion in the vastness of the general atmosphere. Our "house of life" stands generously open, for every "inmate bad" to come and go through the absorbent, unquestioned, except in the stomach, where the tangible poisons have to go by the act of swallowing and where they are often challenged and ejected. It seems at first thought very strange that we are not so well protected by natural instinct or sensibility from the subtle poisons of the atmosphere as from those that can affect us only by the voluntary act of swallowing. The obvious explanation, however, of this apparent neglect is that Nature protects us in general from gaseous poisons by her own system of ventilation; and if, when we devise houses, necessarily excluding that system, we fail to devise also a sufficient substitute for it, the consequences of such negligence are as fairly due as when we swallow tangible poison.
I have hitherto referred only to the dispersion of poisonous exhalations, as if the best and most necessary thing the atmosphere can do for us were to dilute the dose to a comparatively harmless potency. But this is now known to be not the true remedial process with respect to the zymotic germs. The most wonderful achievement of recent investigation reveals a philosophy of both bane and antidote that astonishes us with its simplicity as much as with its efficiency. At the moment when humanity stands aghast at the announcement that germs are not destroyed by disinfectants, comes the counter discovery that they are rendered harmless by oxygen. It seems that it makes no difference, really, of what sort or from what source are the bacteria that we take into the blood. The only material difference to us depends on the sort of atmosphere in which their hourly generations are bred. For example, the bacteria developed in confined air, from a simple infusion of hay, are found by experiment to be as capable of generating that most terrible of blood poisoners, the malignant pustule, as are the bacteria taken from the pustule itself.
On the other hand, the bacteria from the malignant pustule itself, after propagating for a few hours in pure and free air, become a perfectly harmless race, and are actually injected into the blood with impunity. The explanation of the strange discovery is this—note its extreme simplicity—bacteria bred in copious oxygen perish for want of it as soon as they enter the blood vessels; whereas those inured to an unventilated atmosphere for a few generations, which means only a few hours, are prepared to thrive and propagate infinitely within our veins; and that is the whole mystery of blood poisoning and zymotic diseases. Taken in connection with the narcotic or nerve-poisoning power of carbonic acid (to which all the classes of diseases resulting from colds are due), we have also in this simple but grand discovery the whole mystery of the question with which we set out—why free air is health, and why sickness is a purely domestic product. The restitution of natural health to mankind demands only, but demands absolutely, the constant diffusion in copious and continuous floods of atmospheric oxygen, of the nerve-poisoning carbonic acid of combustion (organic and inorganic), and of the blood-poisoning bacteria of organic decomposition.
We find, then, as a matter both of experience and of philosophy, that life or death, in the main and in the long run, turns on the single pivot of atmospheric movement or obstruction. The resistance of mere rising ground or dense vegetation to a free movement of the air from low-lying levels performs an obstructive office similar to that of the walls and roofs of houses, and with like effect. The invariable condition of unhealthy seasons and days is a state of rarefaction and stagnation of the atmosphere, when the poison-freighted vapor cannot be lifted and dispersed, and every one complains of the sultry, close, "muggy" (meaning murky) feeling of the air. Few reflect, when fretted by the boisterous winds of March, upon the vital office they perform in dispersing and sanitating the bacteria-laden exhalations let loose by the first warmth from the soaked soil and the macerated deposits of the former year.
The passing air, then, that we breathe so lightly, is on other business, and carries a load we little think of, and that is not to be trifled with. This grand carrier of nature, on business of life or death, must not be detained, must not be hindered! or they who interfere with the business by restraining walls and roofs will take the consequences. It is a good deal like stopping a bullet, except as to consciousness and suddenness of effect.
That men live at all in their obstructed and therefore poison-loaded atmosphere, is a proof of the wonderful efficiency of the protective economy of Nature within us; so wonderful, indeed, that few can believe the fact of living to be consistent with the real existence of such a deadly environment as science pretends to reveal. It is a common impression, therefore, that actual results fail to justify the alarm sounded by sanitarians. Hence the necessity for calling attention at the outset to an ample and manifest equivalent for the deadly dose of confined exhalations taken daily by all civilized men. We perceive that that dose is not lost, like the Humboldt River, in a "sink," but reappears, like the wide-sown grass, in a perennial and universal crop of diseases, almost numberless and ever increasing in number, peculiar to house-dwellers. The trail of these plagues stops nowhere else; it leads straight to the imprisoned atmosphere in our artificial inclosures, and there it ends. That marvelous protective economy of Nature within us, to which we have referred, is no perpetual guaranty against the consequences of our negligence; it is only a limited reprieve, to afford space for repentance; and unless we hasten to improve the day of grace, the suspended sentence comes down, upon us at last with force the more accumulated by delay.
Now, therefore, the grand problem of sanitary science (almost untouched, almost unrecognized) proves to be no other and no less than this:
What can be done to remedy the obstructive nature of an inclosure, so that its gaseous contents shall move off, and be replaced by pure air, as freely, as rapidly, and as incessantly, as in the open atmosphere?
It happens to be the most necessary preliminary in approaching this problem, to show how not to do it, for that, respectfully be it spoken, is what we have hitherto practiced, as results abundantly prove. Fallacies, both vulgar and scientific, obstruct our way. A fundamental fallacy respects the very nature of the work, which is supposed to be to get in fresh air. In point of fact, this care is both unnecessary and comparatively useless. Take care of the bad air, and the fresh air will take care of itself. Only make room for it, and you cannot keep it out. On the other hand, unless you first make room for it, you cannot keep it in; pump it in and blow it in as you may, you only blow it through, as the Jordan flows comparatively uncontaminated through the Dead Sea. This is a law of fluids that must be kept in view. The pure air is quite as ready to get out as to get in; while the air loaded with poisonous vapors is as sluggish as a gorged serpent, and will not budge but on compulsion. Such compulsion the grand system of wind suction, actuated by the sun, supplies on the scale of the universe; and this we must imitate and adapt for our more limited purposes.
It would seem as if we need not pause to notice so shallow though common a notion as that which usually comes in right here, namely, that confined air will move off somehow of itself, if you give it liberty; being supposed to be much like a cat in a bag, wanting only a hole to make its escape. Air is ponderable matter—as much so as lead—and equally requires force of some kind to set it or keep it in motion. But applied philosophy itself relies on a fallacious, or, at best, inadequate source of motive power for ventilation. It gravely prescribes ventilating flues and even holes, and promises us that the warmed air within the house will rise through these flues and holes, carrying its impurities away with it, from the pressure of the cooler and denser air without. But we very well know that the best of flues and chimneys will draw only by favor of lively fires or clear weather. They fail us utterly when most needed, in warm and murky weather, when the barometer is low, and the thin atmosphere drops, down its damp and dirty contents, burying us to the chimney tops in a pestilent congregation of vapors.
Nevertheless, so far as I can discover, these holes and flues, at best a little fire at the bottom of the latter, are the sole and all-sufficient expedients of science and architecture for ventilation to this day, in spite of their total failure in experience. I can find nothing in standard treatises or examples from philosophers or architects, beyond a theoretical calculation on so much expansion of air from so many units of heat, and hence so much ascensional force inferred in the ventilating flue—a result which never comes to pass, yet none the less continues to be cheerfully relied on. Unfortunately for the facts, they contradict the philosophy, and are only to be ignored with silent contempt. A French Academician's report on the ventilation of a large public building, lately reprinted by the Smithsonian Institution, states with absolute assurance and exactness the cubic feet of air changed per minute, with the precise volume and velocity of its ascension, by burning a peck of coal at the bottom of the trunk flue. No mention is made of the anemometer or any other gauge of the result asserted, and we are left to the suspicion that it is merely a matter of theoretical inference, as usual; for every one who has had any acquaintance with practical tests in these matters knows that no such movement of air ever takes place under such conditions, unless by exceptional favor of the weather.
I have seen a tall steam boiler chimney induce through a four inch pipe a suction strong enough to exhaust the air from a large room as fast as perfect ventilation would require. But this, it is well known, requires four hundred or five hundred degrees of heat in the chimney. I never saw an ordinary domestic fire of coals produce any noticeable ventilating suction, without the use of a blower, urging the combustion to fury, and I presume nobody else ever did.
But, while nobody ever saw an active suction of air produced by the mere heat of a still or unexcited fire—unless the quantity of heat were on a very large scale—everybody has seen a roaring current sucked through the narrowed throat of a chimney or a stove by a blazing handful of shavings, paper, or straw. It is very remarkable, when you come to think of it, that the burning of an insignificant piece of paper, with less heat in it, perhaps, than a pea of anthracite, will cause a rush of air that a bushel of anthracite cannot in the least degree imitate. It is not only a curious but a most important fact. In short, it is the cardinal fact on which ventilation practically turns. But what is the nature of it? There are three factors in the phenomenon. In the first place, the mechanical peculiarity of flame, or gas in the moment of combustion, as compared with a gas like air merely heated, is an almost explosive velocity of ascent. The physical peculiarity from which this results is the intensity of its heat—commonly stated at 2,000 degrees, as to our common illuminating gas—acting instantaneously throughout its mass, just as in gunpowder. The gas goes up the flue in its own flash, like the ignited charge in the barrel of a gun: the burning coals can only send, and by a leisurely messenger, namely, the moderately heated gases, and contiguous air, that rise only by the gravitation or pressure of the surrounding atmosphere.
And yet it is not the small flame itself that roars in the chimney but the rush of air induced by it. The semi-explosion of flame is but for an instant, though constantly renewed, and its explosive impulse cannot carry its light products of combustion very far through stationary and resistant air. It is the induction of air carried with it by such semi-explosive impulse (under proper mechanical conditions) that is strange to our observation and understanding, and is the second factor in the phenomenon we are accounting for and preparing to utilize.
The process, as it actually is, may be clearly exhibited by a very simple means. Let anyone take a tube, say an inch in diameter—a roll of paper will do as well as anything—and, applying it closely to his mouth, try the whole force of his lungs through it upon any light object. The amount of effect will be found surprisingly small; and unless the tube is a short one, it will be so far absorbed by friction and atmospheric resistance as to be almost imperceptible. Then let him hold the same tube near to the mouth, but not in contact, and repeat the experiment. With the best adjustment, the effect may be described as tenfold or fifty-fold, or almost any fold—the effect of the simple blowing being merely nominal as compared with the induced current added by blowing into the tube instead of in it. The blast enters the free and open orifice with all the contiguous air which its surface friction and the vacuum of its movement can involve in its rolling vortex. While the entrance is thus crowded with pressure, the exit is free; and the result at the exit is a blast of well sustained velocity and magnified volume; ready itself to repeat the miracle on a still larger scale if provided with the apparatus for doing so. To test this, now place a second and larger tube in such position as to prolong the first in a straight line, but with a slight interval between the meeting ends; so that the blast, as magnified in volume in entering the first tube, may enter in like manner the second tube and be magnified again. With correct adjustments this experiment will prove more surprising than the first. Put on a third and still larger tube in the same way, and still larger surprise will meet a still larger volume and force of blast, like a stiff breeze set in motion by the puny effort of a single expiration. Of course, the prime impulse must bear a certain proportion to the result; and the inductive or tractional friction of the initial blast, of flame or breath, will be used up at length unless re-enforced. In ventilating practice, there is such re-enforcement, from an excess of gravity in the cooler atmosphere outside the flue in which the flame is operating with its heat as well as its ascensional traction; so that there has been found no limit to the extensions and fresh inductions that may be added to the first or trunk flue, with increase rather than diminution of power at every point. But the terms on which such extensions must be made have been referred to in our illustration, and must be accurately ascertained and observed. They constitute what is, in effect, the third factor in the phenomenon of a roaring draught, and also, therefore, ineffective ventilation. That is, the entering or induced current of air must always find its channel of progress and exit certain correct degrees larger than the opening by which it entered. Every one knows that a stove or chimney wide open admits of but little suction in connection with even the blaze of paper or shavings.
The mobility of air seems almost preternatural, when the proper conditions for setting a current in motion are supplied. But without a current established, it is surprising in turn to find how obstinately and elusively immovable it can be. It is like tossing a feather; or trying to drive a swarm of flies; dodging and evading every impulse applied. But, given a flue, to define and conduct a stream; an upright flue, to take advantage of the slighter gravity of the warmed air within it; and a flue contracted at the inlet and expanded as it rises, so as to free, diffuse, and lighten the column of air, toward the exit; then, initiate an induced current of air at the inlet, by the injection of a jet of gas in the state of semi-explosive action called flame; the pressure pushing upward from the crowded entrance finds easier way and less resistance the farther it goes in the expanding flue; the warmth and reduced gravity of the stream comes in as an auxiliary in overcoming friction and any exceptional obstruction in the state of the atmosphere; and now, as the ball is once set rolling, with a little aid instead of resistance from gravitation, its initial impulse all the while sustained by the gas jet, and friction reduced to a very small incident—there is nothing to prevent the current rolling on with accelerated velocity (within the limitations imposed by increasing friction) and rolling on forever. I might, if I had time, add a curious consideration of the law of vortex motion in elastic fluids, demonstrated by Helmholtz, which relieves the motion of such fluids from friction, as wheels facilitate the movement of a solid; and which also sucks into the rolling vortex the contiguous air, thus entraining it, as we have seen, so much more effectively than could be done by a direct and rigid current, like a jet of water, for instance. A wheel set in motion on an almost frictionless bearing of metalline, runs without perceptible abatement of velocity, until one begins to involuntarily question whether it will ever stop. In the all but free winds that roll with minimized friction in the higher atmosphere, there seems to be a self-moving force; so persistent is simple momentum in a mass so infinitesimally obstructed and so infinitely wheeled. An active current of air in a ventilating flue is only less perfect in the same conditions; and so it is quite conceivable, and not incredible, that such a current may be gradually established and thenceforward permanently maintained by a small motor flame barely more than enough to overbalance the minimized friction. This is not a supposed or theoretically inferred fact, like the facts of ventilation sometimes alleged by theorists. On the contrary, the theory I have offered is merely an attempt to explain facts that I have witnessed and that anyone can verify with the anemometer. But the theory by no means covers the art and mystery of ventilation; for ventilation is truly an art as well as a mystery. The art lies in a consummate experience of the sizes, proportions, and forms of flues, their inlets, expansions, and exits, with many other incidental adaptations necessary, in order to insure under all circumstances the regular exhaustion of any specific volume of air required, per minute. And this art has by one man been achieved. It would be a double injustice if I should neglect from any motive to inform my audience to whom I am indebted for what I know about ventilation practically, and even for the knowledge that there is any such fact as a practicable ventilation of houses; one who is no theorist, but who has felt his way experimentally with his own hands, for a lifetime, to a practical mastery of the art to which I have attempted to fit a theory; every one present who is well informed on this subject must have anticipated already in mind the name of Henry A. Gouge.
Read by Wm. C. Conant before the Polytechnic Association of the American Institute, New York, May 10, 1883.
THE RECENT ERUPTION OF ETNA.
On the morning of the 20th of March, a long series of earthquakes spread alarm throughout all the cities and numerous villages that are scattered over the sides of Mt. Etna. The shocks followed each other at intervals of a few minutes; dull subterranean rumblings were heard; and a catastrophe was seen to be impending. Toward evening the ground cracked at the lower part of the south side of the mountain, at the limit of the cultivated zone, and at four kilometers to the north of the village of Nicolosi. There formed on the earth a large number of very wide fissures, through which escaped great volumes of steam and gases which enveloped the mountain in a thick haze; and toward night, a very bright red light, which, seen from Catania, seemed to come out in great waves from the foot of the mountain, announced the coming of the lava.
Eleven eruptions occurred during the night, and shot into the air fiery scoriæ which, in a short time, formed three hillocks from forty to fifty meters in height. The jet of scoriæ was accompanied with strong detonations, and the oscillations of the ground were of such violence that the bells in the villages of Nicolosi and Pedara rang of themselves. The general consternation was the greater in that the locality in which the eruptive phenomena were manifesting themselves was nearly the same as that which formed the theater of the celebrated eruption of 1669. This locality overlooks an inclined plane which is given up to cultivation, and in which are scattered, at a short distance from the place of the eruption, twelve villages having a total population of 20,000 inhabitants. On the second day the character, of the eruption had become of a very alarming character. New fissures showed themselves up to the vicinity of Nicolosi, and the lava flowed in great waves over the circumjacent lands. This seemed to indicate a lengthy eruption; but, to the surprise of those interested in volcanic phenomena, on the third day the eruptive movement began to decrease, and, during the night, stopped entirely. This was a very fortunate circumstance, for this eruption would have caused immense damages. It cannot be disguised, however, that the eruptive attendants of this conflagration remain under conditions such as to constitute a permanent danger for the neighboring villages. It has happened, in fact, that in consequence of the quick cessation of the eruption, those secondary phenomena through which nature usually provides a solid closing of the parasitic craters have not occurred. So it is probable that when a new eruption takes place it will be at the same point at which manifested itself the one that has just abated.—La Nature.
PHYSICS WITHOUT APPARATUS.
Take an ordinary wine bottle and place it in front of and within a few inches of a lighted candle. Blow against the bottle with your mouth at about four or six inches distant from it and in a line with the flame. Very curiously, notwithstanding the presence of the bottle and its interception of the current of air, the candle will be immediately extinguished as if there were no obstacle in the way. This phenomenon is readily understood when we reflect that the bottle receives the current of air on its polished surface and divides it into two, one of which is guided to the right and the other to the left. These two currents, after separating and driving back the surrounding air, meet again at the very spot at which the flame is situated, and extinguish the candle.
MODE OF EXTINGUISHING A CANDLE PLACED BEHIND A BOTTLE.
It is evident that the experiment can be reproduced by putting the candle behind a stove pipe, a cylinder of glass or metal, a cylindrical tin box, or any other object of the same form with a diameter greater than that of a bottle, but not having a rough or angular surface, since the latter would cause the current to be lost in the surrounding air.
THE TRAVELS OF THE SUN.
Some recent discussions of the constitution of the sun have turned in part upon what is known as the sun's proper motion in space. This is one of the most surprising and interesting things that science has ever brought to light, and yet it is something of which comparatively few persons have any knowledge. It is customary to look upon the sun as if it were the center of the universe, an immovable fiery globe around which the earth and other planets revolve while it remains fixed in one place. Nothing could be further from the truth. The sun is, in fact, the most wonderful of travelers. He is flying through space at the rate of not less than a hundred and sixty millions of miles in a year, and the earth and her sister planets are his fellow voyagers, which, obeying his overpowering attraction, circle about him as he advances. In other words, if we could take up a position in open space in advance of the sun, we should see him rushing toward us at the rate of some 450,000 miles a day, chased by his whole family of shining worlds and the vast swarms of meteoric bodies which obey his attraction.
The general direction of this motion of the solar system has been known since the time of Sir William Herschel. It is toward the constellation Hercules, which, at this season, may be seen in the northeastern sky at 9 o'clock in the evening. As the line of this motion makes an angle of fifty odd degrees with the plane of the earth's orbit, it follows that the earth is not like a horse at a windlass, circling around the sun forever in one beaten path, but like a ship belonging to a fleet whose leader is continually pushing its prow into unexplored waters.
The path of the earth through space is spiral, so that it is all the time advancing into new regions along with the sun. She is on a boundless voyage of discovery, and her human crew are born and die in widely separated tracts of space. Think of the distance over which the travels of the sun have borne the earth only since the beginning of human history! Six thousand years ago the earth and sun were about a million millions of miles further from the stars in Hercules than they are to-day. Columbus and his contemporaries lived when the earth was in a region of the universe more than sixty thousand millions of miles from the place where it is now, so that since his time the whole human race has been making a voyage through space, in comparison with which his longest voyage was as the footstep of a fly.
Thus the great events in the history of the world may be said to have occurred in different parts of the universe. An almost inconceivable distance separates the spot which the earth occupied in the time of Alexander from that which it occupied when Cæsar invaded Gaul. The sun and the earth have wandered so far from their birthplace that the mind staggers in the attempt to guess at the stupendous distance which now probably separates them from it. It may be that the motion of the solar system is orbital and that our sun and many of the stars, his fellow suns, are revolving around some common center, but if so, no means has yet been devised of detecting the form or dimensions of his orbit. So far as we can see, the sun is moving in a straight line.
Since space is believed to be filled with some sort of ethereal medium, curious consequences are seen to follow from the motions that have been described. A solid globe like the earth rushing at great speed through such a medium will encounter some resistance. If the medium be exceedingly rare, as it must be in fact, the resistance will be correspondingly small, but still there will be resistance. If the sun stood still, the earth, owing to the inclination of its axis to the plane of its orbit, around the sun, would encounter the resistance of the ether principally on its northern hemisphere from summer to winter, and on its southern hemisphere from winter to summer. But in consequence of the motion of the sun shared by the earth, this law of distribution is changed, and from summer to winter the earth plows through the ether with its north pole foremost, while from winter to summer, although the resistance of the ether is encountered more evenly by the two hemispheres, yet it is still felt principally in the northern hemisphere, and the south pole remains practically protected. It follows that the southern hemisphere, and particularly the south polar regions are more or less completely sheltered the whole year around. It might then be supposed that the impact of the particles of the ether shouldered aside by the earth in its swift flight and the compression produced in front of the advancing globe would tend to raise the temperature of the northern hemisphere as compared with the southern hemisphere, while the south pole, being more or less directly in the wake of the earth, and in a region of rarefaction of the ether, would constantly possess a remarkably low temperature.
Now, it is known that the south polar regions are more covered with ice and snow than those of the north, and that the temperature there the year around is lower. Whether this difference is owing to the effects of the earth's journey through the ether, is a question.
The sun, too, moves with his northern hemisphere foremost, and it is worthy of remark that it has been suspected that the northern hemisphere of the sun radiates more heat than the southern.
But whatever effect it may or may not have upon the meteorological condition of the earth, the fact that the solar system is thus voyaging through space is in itself exceedingly interesting. Not the wildest traveler's dream presents to the imagination such a voyage as this on which every inhabitant of the earth is bound. A glance at a star map shows that the direction in which we are going is carrying us toward a region of the heavens exceedingly rich in stars, many, and perhaps most, of which are greater suns than ours. There can be little doubt that when the sun arrives in the neighborhood of those stars, he will be surrounded by celestial scenery very different from and much more brilliant than that of the region of space in which he now is. The inhabitants of the globe at that distant period will certainly behold new and far more glorious heavens, though the earth may be unchanged.—N.Y. Sun.
PROPAGATION OF MAPLE TREES.
I do not presume that all people over three score years of age are so entirely ignorant as I am, but probably there are some. I have lived more than sixty years almost in the woods, and I never observed, and never heard any other person speak of, the blooming, seeding, and maturing of the water maple. I have a beautiful low of water maple shade trees along the street in front of my house. In March, 1882, I observed that they were in bloom, and many bees were swarming about them. After the bees left them I noticed the seed (specimens inclosed of this spring's growth) in millions. As the leaves put out in April the little knife blade seeds fell off, so thick as to almost cover the ground. My grandson picked up three or four hatfuls, and I sent the seed to my farm and had them drilled in like wheat, when I planted corn. The result is I have from 300 to 500 beautiful maples from 6 inches to three feet high. I noticed the blooms again this spring, but a cold snap killed the blooms, and only now and then can I find a seed. I had a sugar tree in my yard, which bloomed and bore seed which did not fall off through the summer. My yard now has as many little sugar trees as it has leaves of blue grass.
It strikes me that the gathering and planting of maple seed is the best way to wood the prairies of the West and the worn-out lands of the Eastern and Middle States. The tree is valuable for shade and for timber, and is as rapid in growth as any tree within my knowledge. I noticed some trees of this sort yesterday which are from 2½ to 3½ feet in diameter. The lumber from such timber makes beautiful furniture. This is intended only for those who have been as non-observant as myself, and not the wise, who are always posted.
Franklin, Tenn. J.B.M.
The seeds inclosed were the samaras of Acer rubrum, called the "soft" maple in many localities, and "red" maple in others. We have seen trees only three or four inches in diameter full of blossoms. This is one of the earliest trees to bloom in spring, and the pretty winged samaras soon mature and fall. The sugar maple, Acer saccharinum, blossoms later, and the seeds are persistent till autumn, and lie on the ground all winter before germinating. The lumber from this latter is more valuable than soft maple, being harder, heavier, and taking a better polish. Soft maple makes an ox-yoke which is durable and not heavy. In early times a decoction of the bark was frequently used for making a black ink.—Country Gentleman.
DIOSCOREA RETUSA.
One of the most elegant plants one can have in a greenhouse is this twiner, a native of South Africa. It has slender stems clothed with distinctly veined leaves, and produces a profusion of creamy white fragrant flowers in pendulous clusters, as shown in the annexed engraving, for which we are indebted to Messrs Veitch of Chelsea, who distributed the plant a few years ago. On several occasions Messrs Veitch have exhibited it trained parasol fashion and covered abundantly with elegant drooping clusters of flowers, and as such it has been much admired. When planted out in a warmish greenhouse and allowed to twine at will around an upright pillar, it is seen to the best advantage, and, though not showy, makes a pleasing contrast with other gayly tinted flowers. It is so unlike any other ornamental plant in cultivation, that it ought to become more widely known than it appears to be at present.—The Garden.
RAVAGES OF A RARE SCOLYTID BEETLE IN THE SUGAR MAPLES OF NORTHEASTERN NEW YORK.
About the first of last August (1882) I noticed that a large percentage of the undergrowth of the sugar maple (Acer saccharinum) in Lewis County, Northeastern New York, seemed to be dying The leaves drooped and withered, and finally shriveled and dried, but still clung to the branches.
The majority of the plants affected were bushes a centimeter or two in thickness, and averaging from one to two meters in height, though a few exceeded these dimensions. On attempting to pull them up they uniformly, and almost without exception, broke off at the level of the ground, leaving the root undisturbed. A glance at the broken end sufficed to reveal the mystery, for it was perforated, both vertically and horizontally, by the tubular excavations of a little Scolytid beetle which, in most instances, was found still engaged in his work of destruction.
At this time the wood immediately above the part actually invaded by the insect was still sound, but a couple of months later it was generally found to be rotten. During September and October I dug up and examined a large number of apparently healthy young maples of about the size of those already mentioned, and was somewhat surprised to discover that fully ten per cent. of them were infested with the same beetles, though the excavations had not as yet been sufficiently extensive to affect the outward appearance of the bush. They must all die during the coming winter, and next spring will show that, in Lewis County alone, hundreds of thousands of young sugar maples perished from the ravages of this Scolytid during the summer of 1882.
Dr. George H Horn, of Philadelphia, to whom I sent specimens for identification, writes me that the beetle is Corthylus punctatissimus, Zim, and that nothing is known of its habits. I take pleasure, therefore, in contributing the present account, meager as it is, of its operations, and have illustrated it with a few rough sketches that are all of the natural size, excepting those of the insects themselves, which are magnified about nine diameters.
The hole which constitutes the entrance to the excavation is, without exception, at or very near the surface of the ground, and is invariably beneath the layer of dead and decaying leaves that everywhere covers the soil in our Northern deciduous forests. Each burrow consists of a primary, more or less horizontal, circular canal, that passes completely around the bush, but does not perforate into the entrance hole, for it generally takes a slightly spiral course, so that when back to the starting point it falls either a little above, or a little below it—commonly the latter (see Figs. 1 and 2).
FIGS. 1 and 2—Mines of Corthylus punctatissimus.
It follows the periphery so closely that the outer layer of growing wood, separating it from the bark, does not average 0.25 mm. in thickness, and yet I have never known it to cut entirely through this, so as to lie in contact with the bark.
From this primary circular excavation issue, at right angles, and generally in both directions (up and down), a varying number of straight tubes, parallel to the axis of the plant (see Figs. 1, 2, and 3). They average five or six millimeters in length, and commonly terminate blindly, a mature beetle being usually found in the end of each. Sometimes, but rarely, one or more of those vertical excavations is found to extend farther, and, bending at a right angle, to take a turn around the circumference of the bush, thus constituting a second horizontal circular canal from which, as from the primary one, a varying number of short vertical tubes branch off. And in very exceptional cases these excavations extend still deeper, and there may be three, or even four, more or less complete circular canals. Such an unusual state of things exists in the specimen from which Fig 3 is taken.
FIGS. 3 and 4—Mines of Corthylus punctatissimus.
It will be seen that with few exceptions, the most important of which is shown in Fig 4, all the excavations (including both the horizontal canals and their vertical off shoots) are made in the sap-wood immediately under the bark, and not in the hard and comparatively dry central portion. This is, doubtless, because the outer layers of the wood are softer and more juicy, and therefore more easily cut, besides containing more nutriment and being, doubt less, better relished than the drier interior.
This beetle does not bore, like some insects, but devours bodily all the wood that is removed in making its burrows. The depth of each vertical tube may be taken as an index to the length of time the animal has been at work, and the number of these tubes generally tells how many inhabit each bush, for as a general rule each individual makes but one hole, and is commonly found at the bottom of it. All of the excavations are black inside.
The beetle is sub-cylindric in outline, and very small, measuring but 3.5 mm in length. Its color is a dark chestnut brown, some specimens being almost black. Its head is bent down under the thorax, and cannot be seen from above (see Fig. 5).
FIG 5.—Corthylus punctatissimus.
Should this species become abundant and widely dispersed, it could but exercise a disastrous influence upon the maple forests of the future—G. Hart Merriam, M D, in American Naturalist.
THE RED SPIDER.
(Tetranyehus telarius.)
The red spider is not correctly speaking an insect, though it is commonly spoken of as such, neither is it a spider, as its name would imply, but an acarus or mite. Whether its name is correct or not, it is a most destructive and troublesome pest wherever it makes its presence felt, it by no means confines itself to one or only a few kinds of plants, as many insects do, but it is very indiscriminate in its choice of food, and it attacks both plants grown under glass and those in the open air. When these pests are present in large numbers, the leaves on which they feed soon present a sickly yellow or scorched appearance, for the supply of sap is drawn off by myriads of these little mites, which congregate on the under sides of the leaves, where they live in a very delicate web, which they spin, and multiply very rapidly; this web and the excrement of the red spider soon choke up the pores of the leaves, which, deprived of their proper amount of sap, and unable to procure the carbon from the atmosphere which they so much need, are soon in a sorry plight. However promiscuous these mites may be in their choice of food plants—melons, cucumbers, kidney beans, hops, vines, apple, pear, plum, peach trees, limes, roses, laurustinus, cactuses, clover, ferns, orchids, and various stove and greenhouse plants being their particular favorites—they are by no means insensible to the difference between dryness and moisture. To the latter they have a most decided objection, and it is only in warm and dry situations that they give much trouble, and it is nearly always in dry seasons that plants, etc., out of doors suffer most from these pests. Fruit trees grown against walls are particularly liable to be attacked, since from their position the air round them is generally warm and dry, and the cracks and boles in the walls are favorite places for the red spider to shelter in, so that extra care should be taken to prevent them from being infested, this may best be effected by syringing the trees well night and morning with plain water, directing the water particularly to the under sides of the leaves, so as, if possible, to wash off the spiders and their webs. If the trees be already attacked, adding soft soap and sulphur to the water will destroy them.
FIG. 1—Red Spider (magnified). A 1. Ditto (natural size). 2. Underside of head. 3. Foot. 4. Spinneret.
Sulphur is one of the most efficient agents known for killing them, but it will not, however, mix properly with water in its ordinary form, but should be teated according to the following recipe:
Boil together in four gallons of water 1 lb. of flowers of sulphur and 2 lb. of fresh lime, and add 1½ lb. of soft soap, and, before using, 3 gallons more of water, or mix 4 oz of sulphate of lime with half that weight of soft soap, and, when well mixed, add 1 gallon of hot water. Use when cool enough to bear your hand in it. Any insecticide containing sulphur is useful. The walls should be well washed with some insecticide of this kind. Old walls in which the pointing is bad and the bricks full of nail holes, etc., are very difficult to keep free from red spider. They should be painted over with a strong solution of soot water mixed with clay to form a paint. To a gallon of this paint add 1 lb. of flowers of sulphur and 2 oz of soft soap.
This mixture should be thoroughly rubbed with a brush into every crack and crevice of the walls, and if applied regularly every year would probably prevent the trees from being badly attacked. As the red spider passes the winter under some shelter, frequently choosing stones, rubbish, etc., near the roots of the trees, keeping the ground near the trees clean and well cultivated will tend greatly to diminish their numbers. In vineries one of the best ways of destroying these creatures is to paint the hot water pipes with one part of fresh lime and two parts of flowers of sulphur mixed into a paint. If a flue is painted in this way, great care should be taken that the sulphur does not burn, or much damage may be done, as the flues may become much hotter than hot water pipes. During the earlier stages of growth keep the atmosphere moist and impregnated with ammonia by a layer of fresh stable litter, or by painting the hot water pipes with guano made into a paint, as long as the air in the house is kept moist there is not much danger of a bad attack. As soon as the leaves are off, the canes should be dressed with the recipe already given for painting the walls, and two inches or so of the surface soil removed and replaced with fresh and all the wood and iron work of the house well scrubbed. If carnations are attacked, tying up some flowers of sulphur in a muslin bag and sulphuring the plants liberally, and washing them well in three days' time has been recommended.
Tobacco water and tobacco smoke will also kill these pests, but as neither tobacco nor sulphuring the hot water pipes can always be resorted to with safety in houses, by far the better way is to keep a sharp look out for this pest, and as soon as a plant is found to be attacked to at once clean it with an insecticide which it is known the plant will bear, and by this means prevent other plants from being infested. These little mites breed with astonishing rapidity, so that great care should be exercised in at once stopping an attack. A lady friend of mine had some castor oil plants growing in pots in a window which were badly attacked, and found that some lady-birds soon made short work of the mites and cleared the plants. The red spider lays its eggs among the threads of the web which it weaves over the under sides of the leaves; the eggs are round and white; the young spiders are hatched in about a week, and they very much resemble their parents in general appearance, but they have only three pairs of legs instead of four at first, and they do not acquire the fourth pair until they have changed their skins several times; they are, of course, much smaller in size, but are, however, in proportion just as destructive as the older ones. They obtain the juices of the leaves by eating through the skin with their mandibles, and then thrusting in their probosces or suckers (Fig. 2), through which they draw out the juices. These little creatures are so transparent, that it is very difficult to make out all the details of their mouths accurately. The females are very fertile, and breed with great rapidity under favorable circumstances all the year round.
The red spiders, as I have already stated, are not real spiders, but belong to the family Acarina or mites, a family included in the same class (the arachnida) as the true spiders, from which they may be easily distinguished by the want of any apparent division between the head and thorax and body; in the true spiders the head and thorax are united together and form one piece, to which the body is joined by a slender waist. The arachnidæ are followed by the myriapoda (centipedes, etc.), and these by the insectiæ or true insects. The red spiders belong to the kind of mites called spinning mites, to distinguish them from those which do not form a web of any kind. It is not quite certain at present whether there is only one or more species of red spider; but this is immaterial to the horticulturist, as their habits and the means for their destruction are the same. The red spider (Tetranychus telarius—Fig. 1) is very minute, not measuring more than the sixtieth of an inch in length when full grown; their color is very variable, some individuals being nearly white, others greenish, or various shades of orange, and red. This variation in color probably depends somewhat on their age or food—the red ones are generally supposed to be the most mature. The head is furnished with a pair of pointed mandibles, between which is a pointed beak or sucker (Fig. 2). The legs are eight in number; the two front pairs project forward and the other two backward; they are covered with long stiff hairs; the extremities of the feet are provided with long bent hairs, which are each terminated by a knob. The legs and feet appear to be only used in drawing out the threads and weaving the web. The thread is secreted by a nipple or spinneret (Fig. 4) situated near the apex of the body on the under side. The upper surface of the body is sparingly covered with long stiff hairs.—G.S.S., in The Garden.
THE HELODERMA HORRIDUM.
The discussion of the curious lizard found in our Western Territories and in Mexico, and variously known as the "Montana alligator," "the Gila monster," and "the Mexican heloderma," is becoming decidedly interesting.
As noted in a recent issue of the SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN, a live specimen was sent last summer to Sir John Lubbock, and by him presented to the London Zoological Gardens. At first it was handled as any other lizard would be, without special fear of its bite, although its mouth is well armed with teeth. Subsequent investigation has convinced its keepers that the creature is not a fit subject for careless handling; that its native reputation is justified by fact; and that it is an exception to all known lizards, in that its teeth are poison fangs comparable with those of venomous serpents.
Speaking of the Mexican reputation of the lizard, in a recent issue of Knowledge, Dr. Andrew Wilson, whose opinion will be respected by all naturalists, says that "without direct evidence of such a statement no man of science, basing his knowledge of lizard nature on the exact knowledge to hand, would have hesitated in rejecting the story as, at least, improbable. Yet it is clear that the stories of the New World may have had an actual basis of fact; for the Heloderma horridum has been, beyond doubt, proved to be poisonous in as high a degree as a cobra or a rattlesnake.
"At first the lizard was freely handled by those in charge at Regent's Park, and being a lizard, was regarded as harmless. It was certainly dull and inactive, a result probably due to its long voyage and to the want of food. Thanks, however, to the examination of Dr. Gunther, of the British Museum, and to actual experiment, we now know that Heloderma will require in future to be classed among the deadly enemies of other animals. Examining its mouth, Dr. Gunther found that its teeth formed a literal series of poison fangs. Each tooth, apparently, possesses a poison gland; and lizards, it may be added, are plentifully supplied with these organs as a rule. Experimenting upon the virulence of the poison, Heloderma was made to bite a frog and a guinea pig. The frog died in one minute, and the guinea-pig in three. The virus required to produce these effects must be of singularly acute and powerful nature. It is to be hoped that no case of human misadventure at the teeth of Heloderma may happen. There can be no question, judging from the analogy of serpent-bite, that the poison of the lizard would affect man."
In an article in the London Field, Mr. W.B. Tegetmeier states that this remarkable lizard was first described in the Isis, in 1829, by the German naturalist Wiegmann, who gave it the name it bears, and noted the ophidian character of its teeth.
In the Comptes Rendus of 1875, M.F. Sumichrast gave a much more detailed account of the habits and mode of life of this animal, and forwarded specimens in alcohol to Paris, where they were dissected and carefully described. The results of these investigations have been published in the third part of the "Mission Scientifique an Mexique," which, being devoted to reptiles, has been edited by Messrs. Aug. Dumeril and Becourt.
The heloderm, according to M.F. Sumichrast, inhabits the hot zone of Mexico—that intervening between the high mountains and the Pacific in the districts bordering the Gulf of Tehuantepec. It is found only where the climate is dry and hot; and on the moister eastern slopes of the mountain chain that receive the damp winds from the Gulf of Mexico it is entirely unknown. Of its habits but little is known, as it appears to be, like many lizards, nocturnal, or seminocturnal, in its movements, and, moreover, it is viewed with extreme dread by the natives, who regard it as equally poisonous with the most venomous serpents. It is obviously, however, a terrestrial animal, as it has not a swimming tail flattened from side to side, nor the climbing feet that so characteristically mark arboreal lizards. Sumichrast further states that the animal has a strong nauseous smell, and that when irritated it secretes a large quantity of gluey saliva. In order to test its supposed poisonous property, he caused a young one to bite a pullet under the wing. In a few minutes the adjacent parts became violet in color, convulsions ensued, from which the bird partially recovered, but it died at the expiration of twelve hours. A large cat was also caused to be bitten in the foot by the same heloderm; it was not killed, but the limb became swollen, and the cat continued mewing for several hours, as if in extreme pain. The dead specimens sent to Europe have been carefully examined as to the character of the teeth. Sections of these have been made, which demonstrate the existence of a canal in each, totally distinct from and anterior to the pulp cavity; but the soft parts had not been examined with sufficient care to determine the existence or non-existence of any poison gland in immediate connection with these perforated teeth until Dr. Gunther's observations were made, as described by Dr. Wilson.
Hitherto, as noted in a previous article, American naturalists have regarded the heloderm as quite harmless—an opinion well sustained by the judgment of many persons in Arizona and other parts of the West by whom the reptile has been kept as an interesting though ugly pet. While the Indians and native Mexicans believe the creature to be venomous, we have never heard an instance in which the bite of it has proved fatal.
A correspondent of the SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN, "C.E.J.," writing from Salt Lake City, Utah, under date of September 8, says, after referring to the article on the heloderm in our issue of August 26:
"Having resided in the southern part of this Territory for seventeen years, where the mercury often reaches 110° or more in the shade, and handled a number of these 'monsters,' I can say that I never yet knew anybody or anything to have perished from their bite. We have often had two or three of them tied in the door-yard by a hind leg, and the children have freely played around them—picking them up by the nape of the neck and watching them snap off a small bit from the end of a stick when poked at them. We have fed them raw egg and milk; the latter they take with great relish. At one time a small canine came too near the mouth of our alligator (mountain alligator, we call them), when it instantly caught the pup by the under jaw and held on as only it could (they have a powerful jaw), nor would it release its hold until choked near to death, which was done by taking it behind the bony framework of the head, between the thumb and finger, and pressing hard. The pup did considerable howling for half an hour, by which time the jaw was much swollen, remaining so for two or three days, after which it was all right again. By this I could only conclude that the animal was but slightly poisonous. I never knew of a human being having been bitten by one. My sister kept one about the house for several weeks, and fed it from her hands and with a spoon. The specimens have generally been sent (through the Deseret Museum) to colleges and museums in the East.
"The Indians have a great fear that these animals produce at will good or bad weather, and will not molest them. Many times they have come to see them, and told us that we should let them go or they would talk to the storm spirit and send wind and water and fire upon us. An old Indian I once talked with told me of another who was bitten on the hand, and said it swelled up the arm badly, but he recovered. From some reason we never find specimens less than 12 or 14 inches long, I never saw a young one. There is a nice stuffed specimen, 18 inches long, in our museum here."
Sir John Lubbock's specimen, shown in the engraving herewith, for which we are indebted to the London Field, is about 19 inches in length. Its general color is a creamy buff, with dark brown markings. The forepart of the head and muzzle is entirely dark, the upper eyelid being indicated by a light stripe. The entire body is covered with circular warts. It is fed upon eggs, which it eats greedily.
It would be interesting to know whether the northern specimens, if venomous at all, are as fully equipped with poison bags and fangs as Dr. Gunther finds the Mexican specimen to be. Some of our Western or Mexican readers may be able to make comparative tests. Meantime it would be prudent to limit the use of the "monster" as a children's pet.
The foregoing appeared in the SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN of Oct. 7, 1882.
We are now indebted to a correspondent, Mr. Wm. Y. Beach, of the Grand View Mine, Grant County, Southern Arizona, for a fine specimen of this singular reptile, just received alive. The example sent to us is about twenty inches long, and answers very well to the description of the monster and the engraving above given.
In the course of an hour after opening the box in which the reptile had been confined during its eight days' journey by rail, it became very much at home, stretching and crawling about our office floor with much apparent satisfaction.
Our correspondent is located in the mountains, some nine miles distant from the Gila River. He states that the reptile he sends was found in one of the shops pertaining to the mine, which had been left unoccupied for a week or so.
Apropos to the foregoing, we have received the following letter from another correspondent in Arizona:
To the Editor of the Scientific American:
My attention has been called to an article in your issue of Oct. 7, 1882, relating to the Heloderma horridum, or commonly known as the Gila Monster.
During a residence of ten years in Arizona I have had many opportunities of learning the habits of these reptiles, and I am satisfied their bite will produce serious effects, if not death, of the human race. I know of one instance where a gentleman of my acquaintance by the name of Bostick, at the Tiga Top mining camp, in Arizona, was bitten on the fingers, and suffered all the symptoms of poison from snake bite. He was confined to his bed for six weeks and subsequently died. I am of the opinion his death was in part caused by the effects of the poison of the Gila Monster.
The Hualzar Indians are very much afraid of them, and one I showed the picture to of the Monster in your paper remarked, "Chinamuck," which in Hualzar language means "very bad." He said if an Indian is bitten, he sometimes dies.
I have seen them nearly two feet in length. Never, to my knowledge, are they kept as pets in our portion of Arizona. They live on mice and other small animals, and when aggravated can jump several times their length.
W.E. DAY, M.D.
Huckberry, Mahone Co., Ar. T., April, 1883.
THE KANGAROO.
To the Editor of the Scientific American:
In page 69 of your issue of 3d of February, 1883, I notice among the "Challenger Notes" of Professor Mosely the statement that "Among stockmen, and even some well educated people in Australia, there is a conviction that the young kangaroo grows out as a sort of bud on the teat of the mother within the pouch." Some eighteen months ago I noticed a paragraph wherein some learned professor was reported to have set at rest the contested point as to whether the kangaroo come into being in the same manner as the calves of the cow and other mammals, or whether the young grows, as alleged, upon the teat of its dam within the pouch. The learned professor in question asserted that it did not so grow upon the teat; but, with all due respect to the professor's claim to credibility on other matters, I must in this instance take the liberty of stating that he is in error. The young kangaroo actually oozes out, if I may use such an expression, from the teat. Strange as the statement may seem, it is a fact that the first indication of life on the part of the kangaroo offspring is a very slight eruption, in size not larger than an ordinary pin head. This growth gradually resolves itself into the form of the marsupial, and is not detached until close upon the expiring of of the fourth month. It is carried by the mother during that period, and thenceforth exists partially at least on herbage. Indeed, from the fourth till the seventh month it is almost constantly in the pouch, only coming out occasionally toward the close of evening to crop the grass. I had at one time in my possession a specimen of the kangaroo germ which I cut from off the teat, complete in form, whose entire weight was less than an ounce; and, at the same time, I had a kangaroo in my possession which measured seven feet six inches from the top of the ears to the extremity of the tail.
Your readers would doubtless feel interested with a few particulars as to my life among the kangaroos in a genuine kangaroo country. I have read somewhere about the exceeding beauty of the eyes of the gazelle; how noted hunters have alleged that their nature so softened on looking into the animal's eyes that they (the hunters) had no heart to destroy the creature. Now, I have never seen a gazelle, and so cannot indulge in comparisons; but if their eyes are more beautiful than those of a middle-aged kangaroo, they may indeed be all that huntsmen say of them. With respect to the old kangaroos, their eyes and face are simply atrocious in their repulsive ugliness.
Nothing in nature could surpass the affection which the female kangaroo manifests for her young. There is something absolutely touching in the anxious solicitude displayed by the dam while the young ones are at play. On the least alarm the youngster instantly ensconces himself in the pouch of his gentle mother, and should he, in the exuberance of his joy, thrust his head out from his place of refuge, it is instantly thrust back by his dam. I have, on several occasions, by hard riding, pressed a doe to dire extremity, and it has only been when hope had entirely forsaken her, or when her capture was inevitable, that she has reluctantly thrown out the fawn. Their method of warfare has often reminded me of the style of two practiced pugilists, the aim of each being to firmly gripe his opponent by the shoulder, upon accomplishing which, the long hind leg, with its horny blade projecting from its toe, comes into formidable play. It is lifted and drawn downward with a rapid movement, and one or other of the combatants soon shows the entrails laid bare, which is usually the grand finale. The sparring that takes place between the marsupials while trying to get the advantageous gripe is marvelous—I had almost said scientific; for the style and rapidity of the animals' movements might excite the admiration of the Tipton Slasher.
Strangely enough, these animals have their social distinctions almost as well defined as in the case of the human species. Thus, one herd will not, on any consideration, associate with another; each tribe has its rendezvous for morning and evening reunions, and each its leader or king, who is the first to raise an alarm on the approach of danger, and the first to lead the way, whether in ignominious retreat, confronting a recognized foe, or standing at bay. These leaders are generally extremely cunning, one old stager with whom I was intimately acquainted having baffled all attempts to effect its capture for more than ten months. I got him at last by a stratagem. He had a knack of always keeping near a flock of sheep, and on the approach of the dogs dodged among them.
By this means he had always succeeded in effecting his escape, and more than that, this noble savage had actually drowned several of our best dogs, for, if at any time a dog came upon him at a distance from the sheep flocks, he would make for a neighboring swamp, on nearing which he has been known to turn round upon the pursuing dog, seize him, and carry him for some distance right into the swamp, and then thrust the dog's head under water, holding him there till he was drowned. It was amusing to see how some of our old knowing warrior dogs gave him best when they noticed that he was approaching a flock of sheep, well remembering, from former experience, that it was of no use trying to get him on that occasion, and that when near the water the attempt at his capture was both dangerous and impracticable.
If you take a new and inexperienced dog into your hunt after an old man, he invariably gets his throat ripped up, or is otherwise maltreated until well used to the sport. After a dog has had one season's experience he becomes a warrior, and it is a wonderfully clever kangaroo that can scratch him after he has attained that position. The young recruit, if we may so speak of a dog who has never had any practice, is over-impetuous, rushing into the treacherous embraces of the close hugger somewhat unadvisedly, and is fortunate if he escapes with his life as a penalty for his rashness. The dog of experience always gripes his marsupial adversary by the butt end of the tail, close to the rump, or at its juncture with the spinal vertebræ. Once the dog has thrown his kangaroo, he makes for the throat, which he gripes firmly, while at the same time he is careful to keep his own body as far as he conveniently can from the quarry's dangerous hind quarters. In this position dog and kangaroo work round and round for some time until one or the other of the combatants is exhausted. It is noteworthy that the kangaroo will only make use of its sharp teeth in cases of the direst extremity. On such occasions, however, it must be conceded that the bite is one of a most formidable character—one not to be any means underrated or despised.
Should those few incidents prove of sufficient interest in your estimation, I may state that I shall willingly, at some future time, forward you particulars of the "ways peculiar" of the emirs, bandicoots, wombats, opossums, and other remarkable animals, the observance of which formed almost my sole amusement during a rather lengthy sojourn in the bush of South Australia.
SEPTIMUS FREARSON.
Adelaide, S.A., April, 1883.
JAPANESE PEPPERMINT.
In more than one periodical the botanical name of this plant has been given as Mentha arvensis, var. purpurascens. It will be well, therefore, to point out that this is an error before the statement is further copied and the mistake perpetuated. The plant has green foliage, with not a trace of purple, and less deserves the name purpurascens than the true peppermint (Mentha piperita), of which a purplish leaved form is well known. The mistake probably arose in the first place in a printer's error. The history is as follows:
For some years past a large quantity of a substance called menthol has been imported into this country, and extensively used as a topical application for the relief of neuralgia, and in some instances as an antiseptic. This substance in appearance closely resembles Epsom salts, and consists of crystals deposited in the oil of peppermint distilled from the Japanese peppermint plant. This oil, when separated from the crystals, is now largely used to flavor cheap peppermint lozenges, being less expensive than the English oil. The crystals deposit naturally in the oil upon keeping, but the Japanese extract the whole of it by submitting the oil several times in succession to a low temperature, when all the menthol crystallizes out from the oil and falls to the bottom of the vessel. The source of the Japanese peppermint oil has been stated to be Mentha arvensis, var. javanica. On examining several specimens of this plant in our national herbaria I found that the leaves tasted like those of the common garden mint (Mentha viridis), and not at all like peppermint, and that therefore the oil and menthol could not possibly be derived from this plant.
I then asked my friend, Mr. T. Christy, who takes great interest in medicinal plants, to endeavor to get specimens from Japan of the plant yielding the oil. After many vain attempts, he at last succeeded in obtaining live plants. These were cultivated in his garden at Malvern House, Sydenham, and when they flowered I examined the plant and found that it differed from other forms of M. arvensis in the taste, in the acuminate segments of the calyx of the flower, and in the longer leaf stalks; the leaves also taper more toward the base. Dr. Franchet, the greatest living authority on Japanese plants, to whom I sent specimens, confirmed my opinion as to the variety deserving a special name, and M. Malinvaud, a well known authority on mints, suggested the name piperascens, which I adopted, calling the plant Mentha arvensis, var. piperascens. Specimens of the plant kindly lent by Mr. Christy for the purpose were exhibited by me at an evening meeting of the Linnæan Society, and by a printer's error in the report of the remarks then made, the name of the plant appeared in print as Mentha arvensis, var. purpurascens.
I trust that the present note, through the medium of The Garden, will prevent the perpetuation of this error. This is the more important, as I hope that the plant will come into cultivation in this country. It is a robust plant of rapid growth, as easily cultivated as the English peppermint, and seems to require less moisture, and is therefore capable of cultivation in a great variety of localities. The increasing demand for menthol, which can only be procured in small quantities from the English peppermint, and the high price of English peppermint oil, lead to the hope that instead of importing menthol from Japan, it will be prepared in this country from the Japanese plant.
With the appliances of more advanced civilization, it ought to be possible for the oil and menthol to be made in this country at less price than the Japanese products now cost.
At the present time large quantities of cheap peppermint oil are imported into this country from the United States, and Chinese oil is imported into Bombay for use in the Government medical stores. There is no reason why this should be the case if the Japanese plant were cultivated in this country. In Ireland, where labor is cheap and the climate moist, this crop might afford a valuable source of income to enterprising cultivators. It may be interesting to note here that the plant used in China closely resembles the Japanese one, differing chiefly in the narrower and more glabrous leaves. I have therefore named it Mentha arvensis f. glabrata, from specimens sent to me from Hong Kong, by Mr. C. Ford, the director of the Botanic Gardens there.
E.M. HOLMES.