EVERYDAY OBJECTS

MURRAY AND GIBB, EDINBURGH,
PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY'S STATIONERY OFFICE.

EVERYDAY OBJECTS.

(Frontispiece.)

Everyday Objects

or

WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS.

EDITED AND ENLARGED BY
W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS,
AUTHOR OF "THE CIRCLE OF THE YEAR," "SWORD AND PEN,"
"BEFORE THE CONQUEST," ETC.

"To know

That which about us lies in daily life,

Is the prime wisdom."

Milton.

WILLIAM P. NIMMO:
LONDON: 14 KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND;
AND EDINBURGH.
1876.

PREFACE.

———◇———

The very favourable reception accorded both by Press and Public to the "Circle of the Year," has induced me to prepare a second volume, similar in design, but dealing with different branches of the same subject. As the former was founded on the first series of a popular French work, "Les Saisons," by M. Hoefer, so the present has been suggested by the second series; but in availing myself of it, I have omitted much, I have revised more, and at various parts my additions have been considerable. And here, as in my former effort, I have written from a popular rather than a scientific point of view. It has not been my object to sketch the outlines or lay down the foundations of any science; but to show, as best I could, how much of wonder and beauty enters into our daily life, and what inexhaustible sources of study lie at our very feet. It is, perhaps, a misfortune of our common systems of education that they too much neglect the tuition of the eye; that the young are not taught to mark the curious and interesting objects which are comprehended within their daily vision; that they know so much about ancient mythology and so little about modern science,—so much about gods and heroes, so little about stars and flowers.

I have called this volume "Everyday Objects," not because those which it describes may be seen every day, but because they mostly belong to the region of the commonplace and familiar; and I have called it "Picturesque Aspects of Natural History," because I have endeavoured, in companionship with my French collaborateur, to indicate the poetical side of the various sciences into which I have presumed to penetrate. If it should awaken a love of nature in any breast, or develop a spirit of inquiry, which may lead the student further and further on the path of knowledge, the labour bestowed upon these pages will not have been in vain.

The instinct of curiosity,—says M. Hoefer, in his preface to the first series of "Les Saisons,"—is the awakening of the intellectual life: it commences with the lisping of the child, accompanies the adult in every phase of his existence, and, far from becoming extinct with the last throb of the heart, revives before the unknown shadows of the grave. What, then, is there in the whole world of greater importance to follow and direct than the movements and impulses of this curiosity, of these uncertain pulsations of the soul? In this lies the secret of all education; and upon education depends the future of humanity.

Unfortunately, he continues, the methods hitherto employed have been absolutely insufficient. And the insufficiency is most notable as regards the imperfect and defective training given to the instinct of curiosity. Observe the child. Of everything which excites his attention, he never fails to ask you the reason why. It is thus that he enters into the connexion of "cause" and "effect." It is a sign. But instead of following up this natural indication, and developing the thought by the exercise of the reason, we proceed as if the being under our charge were incapable of reason; we overload the memory of the child with a multitude of words, whose value he cannot understand until later in life, and perhaps never. The true direction of the mind is to proceed from the thought to the word, and not from the word to the thought. It is for want of having recognised and applied this principle that our educational systems have failed so utterly.

Let us take, for example, the study of nature. No science, assuredly, ought to prove more attractive to the mind than natural history. Yet mark how repulsive zoology, botany, and mineralogy are made at the very outset, by the dryness of their nomenclatures and the dreariness of their classifications. Undoubtedly, it is necessary to lay down a course of study in the midst of the marvels which everywhere surround us; undoubtedly names are required for the objects which attract our notice. But are not the methods we employ directly opposed to the end we set before ourselves?

I address myself to parents and teachers; and I say to them, Do you wish to inculcate a love of science, and yet put into the hands of your children or pupils books which differ as widely from the book of nature as human brotherhood—(a fiction!)—differs from universal gravitation? Instead of familiarising us at first with the animals and plants within our everyday reach, you collect, under the same irrevocable iron "form," genera and species never intended to meet in any one particular zone, and many of which are so rare that few persons will ever be fortunate enough to see them except in collections and engravings. And, curious to state, the rarest species nearly always obtain your preferences; judging, at least, from the minute descriptions which you consecrate to them. Monstrous absurdity! You seek at a distance that which lies close to your hands, as if the Everyday Objects above, beneath, and around, were unworthy of the science you profess.

But here we must pause. Upon the principles thus laid down by M. Hoefer, have been founded the two unpretending companion volumes, of which the second is now submitted to the lenient judgment of the public.

W. H. DAVENPORT ADAMS.

CONTENTS.

———◇———

BOOK I.
——♦——
WINTER.

Lastly, came Winter clothèd all in frieze,

Chattering his teeth for cold that did him chill;

Whilst on his hoary beard his breath did freeze,

And the dull drops, that from his purpled bill

As from a limbeck did adown distil:

In his right hand a tippèd staff he held,

With which his feeble steps he stayèd still;

For he was faint with cold, and weak with eld;

That scarce his loosèd limbs he able was to wield.

—Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Canto vi.

(Of Mutability).

You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,

Wherein the birds were wont to build their bower,

And now are clothed with moss and hoary frost,

Instead of blossoms, wherewith your buds did flower;

I see your tears that from your boughs do rain,

Whose drops in dreary icicles remain.

—Spenser, The Shepherd's Calendar,

Eclogue I.

CHAPTER I.
WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN THE HEAVENS.

Skies flower'd with stars,

Violet, rose, or pearl-hued, or soft blue,

Golden, or green, the light now blended, now

Alternate.

—P. J. Bailey, Festus.

Our observation of the celestial phenomena may most easily be made in the winter-time. Then the nights are long, and the vault of heaven is crowded with stars, and, unilluminated by the moon, exhibits all its splendours. In the other seasons of the year, and particularly in summer, the twilight gleam encroaches, so to speak, upon a portion of the nights, which are otherwise so brief, and precludes our vision from any exact estimate of the stars. Those demitints, those soft subdued reflections of light, scarcely permit the eye to distinguish even stars of the first and second magnitude, which shine like spots of dull gold on a background of pale silver.

The Number of the Stars.

How many are the stars?

To such a question comes the immediate answer, They are infinite in number.

But, after a little meditation, we begin to perceive that the question, apparently so simple, is, in reality, one of very great complexity. Let us endeavour to disentangle its various threads.

We must not forget that, in every scientific analysis, it is important we should, in the first place, separate two intimately united elements,—the individual who observes, and the product of the observation. The former, the "sensorial factor," is subject to every condition of space and time; the second, the "intellectual factor," tends, by its generalisations, to free itself from those very conditions which are the inseparable co-efficients of matter and movement. The individual passes; save from an outer standpoint, we know not whence he comes, nor whither he goes. The product of the observation remains; transmissible from generation to generation, it will gradually expand and increase, if it be founded upon truth; but, on the contrary, its splendour will wane, and will eventually disappear, if it be founded upon error. Eternal is this spectacle of actors and puppets succeeding one another uninterruptedly upon the same stage! As one falls, another steps forward into his place, and so the great army marches forward with unbroken ranks.

He who, "in cities pent," sees the sky only through a garret window, or in the narrow intervals between house and house, can form no accurate idea of the magnificence of the firmament. The peasant, the shepherd, or the labourer, spent with his daily work, prefers sleep to astronomical vigils; and even amongst those more favoured sons of fortune, who enjoy sufficient leisure, but few are found who feel a genuine pleasure in the study of the stars. Though they are the poetry of heaven, their music is inaudible to the majority of souls. We content ourselves with an occasional careless glance at their serene loveliness, and then turn again to the pleasures or avocations of commonplace life.

But, come; let us arouse ourselves! Let us quit the city for awhile; let us throw off all thought of its too-engrossing pursuits; let us find time to count the stars. Gentle readers, I ask you to follow me.

Ah, me! how small is the train of followers! How great my delusion in supposing that a complete phalanx of students of the celestial wonders would reply to my invitation!

We have now arrived in the open country; and here, on the summit of this gentle ascent, crowned with a clump of leafless trees, we pause. The sky glitters with a cold, keen light, which is reflected back by the snowy plains. While the eye ranges delightedly over the starry vault, the ear is struck by the distant sound of bells, which, at the midnight hour, ring in the infant year—ring in so many hopes and expected joys, and unexpected sorrows—ring out so many passing pleasures and rudely dissipated visions.

Fig. 1.

As the chime glides softly over the meadows, and along the resounding vales, and through the leafless woods, repeated by echo after echo, until its music dies away in the distance, like our recollections of the dreams of youth, we murmur to ourselves that solemn song of the poet, which so aptly blends the regrets of the past with the anticipations of the future; we exclaim—

"Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light:

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

"Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

"Ring out old shapes of foul disease;

Ring out the harrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

"Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be."[1]

The spectacle is majestic and impressive. Let us seek, in the first place, to ascertain our position in reference to the four points of the compass—the four cardinal points. But how is this to be done? By day it is easy enough. I have only to turn myself towards the sun when it has reached the highest point of its diurnal course, and there, in front of me, lies the south, in my rear the north, the east on my left, and on my right the west.

But is it possible to ascertain one's position during the absence of the "orb of day?"

Both possible and easy, provided the sky be clear and cloudless.

But this condition is as necessary by day as by night. How can we determine in which direction lies the south, if the sun be hidden from our gaze by an uniformly opaque atmosphere, and if objects, lit up by a diffuse light, project no shadow at any time of the day?

Endeavour to group together the stars which more particularly strike your gaze; and be careful, in these groupings, to define every fantastic figure which is suggested by your vivid imagination. Undoubtedly, our earliest ancestors, the "world's gray forefathers," proceeded in this manner, in their anxiety to lay hold of some definite guiding-marks in yonder ocean of sparkling atoms. And to study a science by its history is to follow up its successive development.

The Great and the Little Bear.

Observe yonder very remarkable group of seven stars; nearly all are of the same splendour, and they are so arranged as to figure an antique chariot, provided with a somewhat curved axle pole.

Observe it carefully. And not far from this group you will detect another, by no means so conspicuous, but exactly resembling it in form. This second chariot is turned in an inverse direction, and the stars composing it, with three exceptions, are much less brilliant.

Here, then, are two groups of stars, clearly distinguished by their configuration—two constellations, for such is the scientific name given to all the stellar groups.

Fig. 2.—The Great Bear and Little Bear.

It has been the fortune of the first of these two groups to strike the eye of the most indifferent observer from the remotest antiquity; and its likeness to a quadriga early procured it the name of a car or chariot. For those Christians who pleased themselves in studding the sky with Biblical personages, it is David's Chariot. This species of apotheosis was borrowed from the Pagans. They placed in the skies their divinities, their demigods, their heroes, and the principal facts and stories of their mythology. For the Greeks and Romans the "Chariot of David" was the female of the Bear, an ursa, or ἀρκτὸς. Whence came this transfiguration? Listen to the fanciful old myth.

Callisto was the most beautiful of the daughters of the King Lycaon. Jupiter, who may appropriately be styled the "Don Juan" or "Lovelace" of the heathen Olympus, fell in love with her; and she bore him a son, named Arcas, who gave his name to Arcadia, that land of song and fable, groves and streams, where Lycaon exercised his sovereign sway. Juno, the queen of heaven, and wife of the so-called king of gods and men, transported by her jealous rage, changed Callisto into a she-bear; who, one day, would have been unwittingly slain by Arcas, if Jupiter, opportunely appearing on the scene, had not metamorphosed the hunter into another animal, Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear. According to this myth, the Little Bear will be but a transformation of the former, who was the Great Bear, or, before all and above all, the Bear.

It is somewhat surprising, according to certain writers, that Homer should refer to only one of these constellations:—

Ἄρκτοιθ᾿ ἥν καὶ ἄμαξαν ἐπίκλησιν καλέουσιν.[2]

(The Bear, which men the Chariot also name).

But the learned commentators who have censured the poet for making no distinction between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor, probably never looked at the starry vault with an attentive eye; otherwise, like all the world, they might have convinced themselves that the seven stars, septem triones (whence the word "septentrion"), forming the beautiful constellation, which, undoubtedly, long before Homer's time, was known as "The Bear" or "The Celestial Chariot," were all that could be seen. With a single exception, these stars are of the second magnitude—that is to say, they, so far as regards their brilliancy, rank next to the most brilliant stars of the firmament. The least conspicuous star in the group—one of the third magnitude—occupies the base of the pole of the Celestial Chariot, or of the Bear's tail; it is the fourth star counting from the extremity of the tail. On celestial charts, it is particularised by the fourth letter of the Greek alphabet, δ (delta).

Observe, in passing, that the first of these charts, wherein the stars of a constellation were indicated by Greek characters, appeared in 1603, at Augsburg, under the title of "Uranometria." Its author, Jean Bayer, an amateur astronomer, who died in 1660, conceived the idea of designating by the first letters of the Greek alphabet—α, β, γ, δ, and so on—the most noticeable stars. The animals bearing the names of the constellations are drawn in this map with very considerable care; but it requires, let us hasten to add, much imagination and good-will to recognise, in the form of a stellar group, the animal shown in the drawing.

Thus far Ursa Major. The four stars of the quadriga, or chariot, have been employed to form the dorso-lumbar region of the animal; the three others define its tail; and, finally, twenty-four little stars, some of which are hardly visible to the naked eye, compose the head and paws of the celestial "plantigrade."

As for Ursa Minor, it is impossible to distinguish it immediately when you are unaccustomed to surveying or examining the celestial vault. To detect its position, you require to be forewarned of it; to know, in the first place, that there exists in the vicinity of the Bear an exactly similar stellar group. The point of the tail—α in Ursa Minor—alone possesses a splendour comparable to that of the principal stars in Ursa Major. But how construct a figure with one star? The four other stars, two of which mark the anterior part of the animal's body, and two others the tail, properly so called, are only of the third magnitude: they are marked β, γ, δ, ε. Finally, the stars which define the posterior portion, marked ζ and η on Bayer's chart, are only of the fourth magnitude--in other words, are scarcely visible. The eye, to detect them, must be wholly free from any gleam of light.

Many generations passed before they succeeded in discovering what a single individual solved during his brief career. All Homer's contemporaries, and, prior to these, tens of millions of mortals, had contemplated the sky, and yet none of them had detected the difference between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. The distinction, therefore, is of a comparatively recent date; probably does not date back earlier than the sixth century before the Christian era.

Let us recall ourselves, now, to the question propounded. The first impression produced by the aspect of the sky during a beautiful winter night is, we repeat, that the number of the stars is infinite. This wholly spontaneous thought, which, to some extent, imposes itself on the mind long before the reason attempts any calculation, is, strange to say, both false and true.

But how can a thought be both false and true? Nothing is easier than to explain the seeming contradiction. We shall return to it hereafter, after we have indulged in some indispensable digressions.

Orion.

One of the finest and loftiest flights of Longfellow's imagination is to be found in his poem on the occultation of Orion. He has seldom, if ever, sounded a more vigorous strain. After alluding to that music of the spheres which Pythagoras dreamed of, and which Shakespeare has described in a passage of great beauty, he continues:—

"Beneath the sky's triumphal arch

This music sounded like a march,

And with its chorus seemed to be

Preluding some great tragedy.

Sirius was rising in the east;

And, slow ascending one by one,

The kindling constellations shone.

Begirt with many a blazing star,

Stood the great giant Algebar,

Orion, hunter of the beast!

His sword hung gleaming by his side;

And, on his arm, the lion's hide

Scattered across the midnight air

The golden radiance of its hair."

The most ancient observer who wished, with his own eyes, to assure himself whether the number of the stars was infinite, must have quickly perceived that, in spite of an apparent impossibility, it is no difficult task to complete their enumeration. To execute this operation conveniently, however, we must invent a process; and of all processes, the simplest, and that which first occurs to the mind, is to group the stars by configurations which, to a certain degree, are mnemo-technical. Such, in our belief, is the true origin—a point so often and laboriously discussed—of the asterisms or constellations. Their fanciful, mythological, or poetical embellishments, are of later date.

The census or enumeration of the stars, which we suppose to have commenced during our winter nights, must at first have been limited to the most characteristic groups, composed of the most brilliant points. In this scientific labour the first rank would necessarily be occupied by Arctos (or Ursa Major) and Orion. Why? Because these two constellations attract and rivet everybody's gaze.

Fig. 3.—Orion.

Orion is situated on the side opposite to the Great Bear. It is the most beautiful constellation in our western sky. You may easily recognise it by three stars, very close together, which are inscribed, as it were, in the centre of a great trapezium of four stars, two of which are of the first magnitude. Beneath the three first stars, called the Three Kings, or Orion's Belt, is visible a small stellar group of the fourth and fifth magnitude, near which, with a good average glass, may be distinguished the largest and most remarkable of the nebulæ.

Here we find the mythologists—those theologians of the Greco-Roman polytheism—at disagreement. According to an ancient legend, immortalised by Homer—

"Aurora sought Orion's love,...

Till, in Ortygia, Dian's wingèd dart

Had pierced the hapless hunter to the heart."[3]

The giant, in the lower world, is still animated by a burning passion for the chase—

"There huge Orion, of portentous size,

Swift through the gloom a giant-hunter flies;

A ponderous mace of brass, with direful sway,

Aloft he whirls, to crush the savage prey;

Stern beasts in trains that by his truncheon fell,

Now, grisly forms, shoot o'er the lawns of hell."[4]

According to later traditions, the giant Orion, son of Tura and Neptune, was endowed by his father with the faculty of walking upon the sea as well as upon earth. He abandoned himself to the fierce joys of the chase in the wooded isle of Crete, to whose shades he had accompanied Diana and Latona. Swollen with pride, he defied to combat all the monsters of the universe, and was slain by a scorpion which the earth had engendered under his feet. But, through the intercession of Diana, a place was given to him in the firmament opposite Scorpio.

Diurnal Movement.

Let us put aside these dreams of the world's youth, and return to the reality.

Nature, transformed by the ancients into a multiple divinity, never fails to overwhelm with surprise the observer who interrogates her with simplicity and without any preconcerted system. And it was thus that he who first undertook to enumerate the stars, by the help of the constellations, made at once the greatest and most unexpected discovery. What, in fact, was not his astonishment on seeing the gradual displacement of objects which, at the first glance, appeared immovable!

To this very natural astonishment soon succeeded, we doubt not, a desire to analyse the phenomenon. The most beautiful constellations of the firmament, Ursa and Orion, will have their points of repery on the star-gemmed sphere. An attentive study, eagerly pursued through a certain lapse of time, would teach him that Orion rises and sets like the sun and the moon, while the Bear, remaining perpetually above the horizon, neither rises nor sets. Stimulated by curiosity, the observer would afterwards assure himself that the whole of the celestial vault revolved upon an axis, while the stars divided into groups; remain fixed, fixed in this sense, that they constantly maintain among themselves the same relations of distance. The idea of a solid sphere, to which the stars were attached like golden nails, then came quite naturally to the human mind. Such, undoubtedly, was the origin of the discovery of diurnal movement; of that general movement which carries all the stars from west to east, to bring them back to the same points in the course of one complete day.

To hear our professors of astronomy invariably repeating, that "the spectator of the starry vault may see, every moment, new stars rising above the horizon,—may see them mount the sky,—halt in their upward march when they have attained a certain elevation,—afterwards re-descend, and pass below the horizon;"—to hear, we say, these words incessantly reproduced, one would think that a cursory glance at the sky would suffice to reveal the general movement, and that what is within the ken of the first comer, should not be called a discovery.

But we see in this another of those illusions which blind contemporaries as to the time-long efforts of their predecessors to discover the very results which long ago became our common patrimony. Unquestionably, if you have eyes, you cannot fail to see the apparent movement of the earth and moon; but from thence to the relation of the whole celestial sphere is a wide interval. How many men are there who possess, on the one hand, sufficient patience to fix their gaze only for a couple of hours on the same point of the starry firmament; and, on the other, sufficient intelligence to estimate the relation of this point to a fixed point of the horizon, and to measure, by the thought, the interval separating these two points? Let each one ask himself.

Determination of the Cardinal Points.

However it may be, the discovery of the rotation of the celestial system must have been rapidly brought to perfection as it was transmitted from one generation to another. It must soon have been recognised that this sphere is inclined in such a manner that one of its poles—the poles of the world, which, in reality, are simply the prolonged extremities of the axis of terrestrial rotation—is always above the horizon, while the other remains below. And this phenomenon would lead to the geometrical conception of an axis of rotation of the celestial sphere. Thus we may explain, with perfect ease, why the Bear and the neighbouring constellations should describe perfect circles, and the other and more distant constellations only arcs of circles, of a greater or lesser diameter; finally, without even looking at the sky, we can understand that some stars there are which show themselves on the horizon, only to disappear immediately, and others which remain completely invisible to the inhabitants of our climates. By a singularly fortunate coincidence, the pole, that geometrical point around which revolve those circumpolar constellations that are continually above our horizon, is occupied by a star "well known to fame," and hence, on the faith of its renown, supposed by many people to be a star of peculiar brilliancy.[5] It is named the Polar Star (α in Ursa Minor), and is between the second and third magnitude.

Now if, with arms extended, we so place ourselves that our back shall be turned to Polaris, we shall have opposite to us the point of the arc occupied by the sun at noon; on our left the east, and on our right the west. It is thus we may easily learn our position in the absence of the orb of day.

The discovery of this simple mode of guidance was, nevertheless, an epoch in history. From thence the mariner grew bold enough to quit the coast, which he had hitherto hugged with timorous prudence, and venture out into the open sea. Thenceforth, the darkness disappeared; new countries were revealed to one another, and nations, which from time immemorial had remained apart, were brought into frequent communication.

It was with eyes fixed upon the Bear, which alone does not bathe itself in the waters of Ocean, that Ulysses set out from Calypso's enchanted island.

According to Homer, who reflects in his immortal work the condition of scientific knowledge among his contemporaries, the ocean was a great broad river, surrounding the earth with circumfluent volume, and in its waves the stars were bathed or extinguished in the evening, to be rekindled in the morning on the opposite side.

By saying that the Bear alone does not bathe in the waters of Ocean[6]—

Οῖη δʹ ἄμμορός ἐστι λοετρῶν ᾿Ωκεανοῑο—

the poet plainly shows that Ursa Minor, and the other circumpolar constellations, were unknown in his time.

If the knowledge of these constellations was from the beginning so useful and so necessary to navigation, the constellation nearest to the pole could not, at first, have served as a guide to any but a people essentially maritime. And here we find the Phœnicians, or Tyrians, in the foremost rank.

After reminding us that Ursa Major was also called Helice, or "the spiral," as in the famous passage in the "Argonauta" of Apollonius Rhodius,—

"Night in the east poured darkness; on the sea

The wakeful sailor to Orion's star

And Helicè turned heedful,"—

and Ursa Minor, Cynosura,—that is, the dog's tail,—Manilius,[7] a Latin poet, who wrote at the beginning of the Christian era, goes on to say:—

"At one of the extremities of the world's axis are two constellations, well known to the hapless mariner: they are his guides when the bait of gain impels him across the ocean. Helice is the larger, and describes the larger circle: it is recognised by its seven stars, which rival one another in splendour; and by this it is that the Greeks steer their barks. The smaller, Cynosura, describes a lesser circle: it is inferior both in size and lustre; but, according to the witness of the Tyrians, is of greater importance. For the Phœnicians no safer guide exists when they seek to approach a coast invisible from the high seas."

The testimony of Manilius is confirmed by that of Aratus and Strabo. The pseudo-Eratosthenes, in his book on the constellations, refers to Ursa Minor under the name of Φοινίκη, the "Phœnician." It appears, then, to be established that the Phœnicians were the first to group a constellation of the same general outline as Helice, the Little Bear, or Ursa Minor. But that, as we have already explained, the two constellations do not lie in the same direction, every one may see:

"Nec paribus positæ sunt frontibus; utraque caudam

Vergit in alterius rostrum, sequiturque sequentem."[8]

Not in the same direction do they face:

The one its tail towards the other's snout

Turns, and they thus, pursuing, each pursue.

Certain it is that the Phœnicians, as experienced seamen, would guide their course by the constellation lying nearest to the pole. But was this constellation the same which we now-a-days call Ursa Minor? It is quite allowable for us to put such a question, because everybody knows that, owing to the movement of the terrestrial axis around the poles of the ecliptic, the axis of the world (the terrestrial axis prolonged) is displaced to an extent which becomes perfectly appreciable at the end of a certain time.[9] We may calculate, therefore, that the pole, now situated, as we have already said, near the star Polaris (α in Ursa Minor), was formerly at some distance from it. So, at the epoch of the greatest prosperity of the Phœnician people, or about three thousand years ago, the north pole would nearly correspond with a star in Draco, now 24° 52' distant.

[This constellation is shown in [fig. 2], between Ursa Major and Ursa Minor; the α in Draco is a star surrounded by a circle, like the Polar Star, α in Ursa Minor.]

That the constellation of Draco was well known to the ancients, we may gather from a passage in the "Phenomena" of Aratus, a work partly translated by Cicero:—

"The Dragon, like the sinuous course of a river, uncoils his long scaly body, and surrounds with undulating folds the two constellations of Ursa Major and Ursa Minor."

Bringing together these different facts for the sake of comparison, we arrive at the conclusion that the Polar Star, by whose scintillating light the early mariners steered their tiny keels, was not the Polaris of to-day—α in Ursa Minor—but α in the constellation of the Dragon.

The Arabs, those navigators of the Waterless Sea (as they poetically designate the desert of Sahara), have bestowed particular appellations on several stars; but they guide themselves rather by their radiance than by their position. Thus, such stars as α Draco, α Cepheus, α Cygnus, which have occupied, and, in the course of centuries, will again occupy the place of Polaris, have received no special denomination; while the stars of Ursa Major, α and β (occupying the posterior angles of the chariot), are called Dubke and Merak;[10] γ, δ, ε, ζ, η, which follow in due succession—Phegæa, or Phad, Megrez, Alioth, Mizar, and Ackaïr, or Benetnasch. Certain stars in the same constellation, which are barely visible, have also received distinctive names: such is Alcor, a star between the fifth and sixth magnitude, in the tail of Ursa Major, between Mizar and Benetnasch. This star, it is true, had a special use: it served the Arabs as the test of a good eyesight.

A further proof that the Arabs founded their stellar nomenclature almost exclusively upon the lustre and colour of the stars, is obvious in the names which they gave to the stars forming the constellation of Orion. (See Fig. 2.) Thus, α and β, two stars of the first magnitude, occupying the right or eastern shoulder, and the left or western foot of the giant-hunter, are called respectively, Betelguese and Rigel; the star γ, named Bellatrix, in the left shoulder, is of the second magnitude, like the stars δ, ε, ζ, which represent Orion's Belt, and bear the names of "the Three Kings" and "St James's Staff." Now the star η marking the right knee or inferior eastern angle of the brilliant trapezium, is only of the third magnitude; therefore, it has received no special designation.

The colour by which some stars are distinguished could not have failed to be remarked by those observers who first began to enumerate, or take census of, the celestial bodies. Thus Sirius, the most refulgent of the stars of heaven, situated in Canis Major, is of a bluish-white, like Rigel; and Arcturus, situated on the prolongation of the tail of Ursa Major, is reddish-yellow, like Betelguese.

Sirius, or the Dog-star, rose heliacally at the hottest time of the year, and hence the Greeks were accustomed to ascribe all the diseases of the season to its influence. It was—

"The star

Autumnal; of all stars, in dead of night,

Conspicuous most, and named Orion's dog:

Brightest it shines, but ominous, and dire

Disease portends to miserable man."

To sum up: the figurative grouping of the stars, the variety of their luminous magnificence, their position towards Polaris, the determination of that position by the longitudinal circles passing through the axis of the world, and twisted perpendicularly to this axis by the circles parallel to the Equator,—such is the aggregate of the elements which must, at a very early period, have presided over the enumeration of those sparkling points, each of which is the centre of a system.

Finally, are there any stars which the eye cannot perceive? Such a question would never have been propounded to the ancients. And why? Because no reasoning would have drawn from them an admission that it was possible by artificial means to enlarge the range of our eyesight. They would have deemed it madness to pretend to improve and develope what is not of human creation; the visual apparatus, as it is bestowed on us by nature, they supposed to be the most perfect instrument which man could imagine. And, in truth, nothing could fairly be objected to this way of looking at things.

The 48 constellations (21 northern, 12 zodiacal, and 15 austral) indicated by Ptolemæus, contain a total of 1026 stars, whose relative positions had been determined by Hipparchus. To undertake an enumeration of the stars, and to transmit the result to posterity, appeared to Pliny an audacity before which even a god would have recoiled (Hipparchus—ausus, rem etiam Deo improbam, annumerare posteris stellas).[11]

Yet numerous doubts had already risen in the mind of Hipparchus as to the accuracy of the number recognised. In the first place, the ancients undoubtedly knew, as we do, that the visual faculty is not the same in all individuals; that there are some who, in the same celestial space, see more stars than others. Many persons can discern up to stars of the seventh magnitude, while with others the sight fails far within that limit. The ancients must also have known, as we do, that, for the enumeration to be complete, the sky must be observed from all the points of the terrestrial surface on which man is planted. Even in our own days the catalogues of the southern heavens are far from being perfect. Finally, more than two thousand years before the time of Galileo, Democritus had already enunciated the opinion that the Milky Way was a mass of innumerable stars. All these signs should have been accepted as warnings against premature affirmations.

The invention of telescopes suddenly enlarged the question, and it became necessary to establish a line of demarcation between the number of stars visible to the naked eye and the number visible through the agency of the telescope. Argelander, the author of the "Uranometria," has found that the stars visible to the naked eye, over the entire surface of the heavens, range from 5000 to 5800. Otto Struve, employing Herschel's method of computation, has estimated at upwards of twenty millions (20,374,034) the number of stars visible with the Herschel 20-feet telescope.

But, in presence of all the nebulæ resolvable into stellar masses, and before the development of the artificial range of our sight,—in presence, finally, of that hopeless perspective which the more we discover the more we perceive how much there remains to discover,—are we not forcibly carried back to our point of departure?

Fig. 4.

Ought not the imagination which, at the first glance, led us to believe the number of stars to be infinite,—ought it not to draw us nearer to the truth?

How should the imagination reveal to us, without difficulty, what the intellect, assisted by the senses, can only discover after ages of assiduous exertion?

These questions, it seems to us, are worthy of our studious consideration.

We subjoin a table of the constellations in both hemispheres, with the number of stars in each, for the convenience of our younger readers.

CHAPTER II.
WHAT MAY BE SEEN UPON THE EARTH.

Ah, bitter chill it was!

The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,

And silent was the flock in woolly fold.

—Keats.

The winter of 1867-68 will count among the severest recorded in meteorological annals. As early as the winter solstice the cold began to make itself felt. In a few days the centigrade thermometer sank to 12° below zero, through the influence of a very keen north-east wind. At Paris, where, on an average, the winter temperature is two degrees higher than in the surrounding country, the Seine was completely frozen for upwards of a fortnight. To meet with a similar phenomenon we must go back as far as 1788. In January 1830, when, on the 17th, the temperature sank down to 17°.3, the Seine was also frozen, but the ice speedily melted. The extreme cold of 1788 coincides, like that of 1830, with the appearance of two comets. In bringing together these and other similar facts, some writers are induced to believe themselves authorised in establishing theories which attribute a certain frigorific influence to the comets. But no such coincidence existed in the winter of 1867-68, nor in any other years signalised by the occurrence of excessive frost.

What are we to think of the supposed influence of the moon upon the weather?

This question, so constantly revived, is here not out of place. The exceptionally prolonged cold, during which the thermometer remained for three weeks below zero, the barometer oscillating between 76° and 76°·5, commenced on the 22d of December, three days before the new moon; now, it is on Christmas-day, at 48 min. past 11 p.m., that the moon is found in conjunction,—that is to say, has become completely invisible to us by passing between the earth and the sun. And the thaw, which terminated this period of frost, commenced on the 12th of the following January, just three days after the full moon; the exact moment of its opposition, when the moon reflected upon us the whole hemisphere of its borrowed lustre, took place on the 9th, at 2 min. past 11 in the evening. It is then in the neighbourhood of the syzygies (conjunction and opposition) of the moon that we must place the commencement and termination of the cold period to which we have been alluding.

We should not have thought of recalling these coincidences, if it had not occurred to us that some meteorologists, in accordance with the popular belief, have attributed to the syzygies a marked influence on the changes of the weather. Toaldo has deduced from half-a-century's observations, taken at Padua, this general fact, that the maximum of influence manifests itself at the syzygies, and somewhat more at the new than at the full moon; that the minimum coincides with the first and second quarter; that the action of the perigee (minima distance of the moon from the earth) is equal to that of the full moon; and that the action of the apogee (maxima distance of the moon from the earth) is double that of the quarters. Observe that the Italian meteorologist extended this influence to three days before and three days after a phase, for the moon's passage through the syzygies; while he restricted it to a day before and a day after, for the quadratures.

The work which Toaldo did for the climate of Padua, Pilgram had already executed for that of Vienna. But the result at which he arrived, after five-and-twenty years of observation (from 1763 to 1788), was the contrary to that of Toaldo: namely, that the new moon is the least active of all the phases in reference to changes of weather. What, then, are we to conclude? That the problem is one of extreme difficulty, and that there are probably several elements necessary to its solution, which at present escape us. Then, too, we ought to have a clear understanding of what is meant by "changes of weather;" we must eliminate all vagueness from the word, and not allow it to be governed by any preconceived theory.

The Snow.

Thick clouds ascend, in whose capacious womb

A vapoury deluge lies, to snow congealed.

Heavy they roll their fleecy world along,

And the sky saddens with the gathered storm.

Through the hushed air the whitening shower descends;

At first thin wavering; till at last the flakes

Fall broad, and wide, and fast, dimming the day

With a continual flow.

—Thomson, The Seasons.

The earth is covered with snow; it is enveloped, as the poets say, in a shroud of white. But this phrase, poetical as it may appear, is, in reality, inadmissible. A shroud is used to wrap round a dead body, a corpse, whose elements, since they are no longer maintained united by the undefinable principle of life, go to form other compounds,—more permanent and lasting,—which will mingle with the earth, the water, and the air. But the earth which the snow covers preserves, on the contrary, the germ of life in the seeds and roots of plants; it rests itself, only for the purpose of communicating, at the return of spring, a new impulse to the sap, whose circulation sleeps during winter.

The moment is propitious for studying the snow: come, then, let us examine it.

And, first, what is snow? Put a little into the hollow of your hand, and see what transpires.

It melts, and leaves nothing but water as a residuum.

Snow, then, is frozen water,—water which existed in the atmosphere in the state of vapour, and which, to speak the language of physicists, has passed from the gaseous state into the liquid, and thence into the solid. If you doubt its identity with water, let a chemist analyse a portion of it for you: he will tell you that it is composed, like distilled water, of hydrogen and oxygen, in the proportion of two parts of the former to one part of the latter. The reader will, of course, understand that we abstract all foreign substances which may accidentally have got mixed up with it.

Fig. 5.—A Snowy Landscape.

It was once a wide-spread opinion that snow is favourable to vegetation, on account of the salts which it contains. Analysis, however, gave a negative result; it demonstrated the absence of these salts. Recourse was then had to another hypothesis: it was supposed that the air contained in snow is richer in oxygen than the free air, and that to the action of this gas must be attributed its fertilising property. Another error! The truth really is, that snow maintains the soil which it covers at a perceptibly constant temperature, and that, when thawing, it mellows it by its aqueous infiltrations; so that if, before a fall of snow, the earth has experienced the action of a strong frost capable of killing injurious insects, all the chances will be in favour of a fertile year.

Snow forms crystals. To observe them clearly, you must examine the snow which falls in very cold and dry weather. It then appears to be a dust composed of little thin plates. Look at the small flake which has fallen on your coat-sleeve; it is isolated; hasten to examine it before it melts, or before other flakes become amalgamated with it. What a graceful star! (Fig. 6, a). It is formed of six regular rays. There are others which have only three, four, or five rays. But on inspecting these more closely, you see that many of these rays are broken or abortive, and that, when finally analysed, each star possesses the same number of rays.

Why are there continually six rays? Why are there never more nor fewer than this number? One might suspect in nature a peculiar affection for the number six; as, for example, in the cells of the bees and the wasps, which form a regular hexagon (Fig. 6, b). Why, in the infinity of polygons, has the instinct of these insects only chosen one hexagon? What is the reason for this preference?

Fig. 6.

If you interrogate geometry, it will reply to you that, of all the polygons inscribed in a circle (Fig. 6, c), there is but one whose sides are equal to the radius of that circle; and this polygon is exactly that of the bee and wasp's cell. Here, then, is a very singular coincidence. If you afterwards examine very minutely the work of the bee, you will find in each cell of the honeycomb a pyramidal base, composed of three equal rhombs, whose angles solve a grand geometrical problem, that of giving the maximum of space with the minimum of matter. The papier-maché combs of the wasp are formed of a single row of cells, each of which has a nearly level bottom. This is all that is required; for these cells are destined, not for the reception of honey, but only of the larvæ, the offspring of their architects.

Do not think that you have but to pick up a thumbful of snow to procure your crystals! These change their form very quickly, and it is almost impossible to detect it in snow which has remained for any length of time upon the ground. The great flakes which fall in relatively mild weather, when the temperature borders upon freezing-point, are often nothing better than masses of small amorphous atoms of ice; to get at the crystals, you must remove the kind of icy varnish which encases them.

For the accurate observation of the crystallisation of water which precipitates itself in the air, we have at our disposal a means as simple as convenient—a pane of glass. All we have to do is to arrange everything in such a manner that the congelation shall be both slow and certain; on this condition alone can we obtain well-defined crystals. A cold room is best adapted for this kind of experimentation; and thus you will frequently see deposited upon the window-glass, in an uninhabited chamber, some exceedingly graceful designs, as follow.

Fig. 7.

These are asteriæ,—arborescent, and leaf-like crystals,—imitating the beautiful foliage of ferns and mosses. The severer the cold, the more regular, be it understood, is the formation of these crystals.

Owing to its dazzling whiteness, snow is a great reflector of light, and singularly illuminates the darkness of the winter nights. The long dreary nights of the polar world are lit up by the glories of the magnetic auroras, joined to the radiancy of the snow. This induces us to repeat a question which we have often addressed to ourselves, namely,—under what aspect must the very varied changes which the solar light experiences on the surface of our planet be presented to the inhabitants of Mars and Venus? A more attentive observation of the ashen-gray light of the moon, which appears to be principally produced by the reflection of the more or less luminous face of the earth, may perhaps one day provide us with an answer to our question.

Before quitting this subject, let us remember that both snow and frost are of great utility to the husbandman. The latter, by expanding the humidity with which the hard clods are penetrated, crumbles them into powder, and renders stiff land porous, friable, and mellow. It also clears the soil from the plague of insect life, which, if it increased without so powerful a check, would probably prove a terrible injury to the crops. Moreover, it so hardens in winter the moist soft ground as to permit of the necessary field operations being carried on. Snow, as Dr Child remarks,[12] is even more useful. It covers up the tender plants with a thick mantle, which defends them against the attacks of excessive cold. "God giveth snow like wool," and for somewhat the same purposes as wool. The mantle which so closely wraps about the gaunt limbs of the winter-stricken earth neither allows the internal heat to escape nor the external cold to enter in. It has been found that the inner surface of the snow seldom falls much below 32° F., although the temperature of the external air may be many degrees under the freezing-point; and it is known that this amount of cold can be endured by the crops without injury, so long as their covering protects them from the raking influence of the wind. In climates where the winter's cold is longer and more intense than in England, the protective influence of snow is much more plainly shown. Where it lies long and deep, it opens out routes that were impracticable in summer on account of their ruggedness, and prepares a smooth path for the sledge, or for the "lumberer," over which the largest trunks of the forest may be carried with ease to the river or canal.

In the polar regions (we quote from Dr Child) snow supplies the ever-ready material out of which the Esquimaux construct their houses, and hardy explorers extemporise the huts in which they find shelter when absent from their ships on distant expeditions. Nor are the ships themselves considered "snug winter quarters" until their sides have been banked up in walls of snow, and the roof raised over the deck has been thickly covered with it. Snow huts are warmer than might have been expected. If built upon ice over the sea, their temperature is sensibly influenced by the heat of the unfrozen water below, which is said seldom to fall much under 40° F. in any part of the ocean. Even where the external temperature has sunk to 20° or 30° below zero, sufficient warmth is produced in a snow hut by the huddling together of three or four persons within it. When Dr Elisha Kane, the American explorer, passed a cold arctic winter's night in a hut beyond Smith's Sound, the temperature produced by its complement of lodgers, and two or three oil lamps, reached 90° F.; so that he was compelled by the heat to follow the example of the rest of the party, and partially to divest himself of his clothing. Yet in lat. 79° N., Dr Kane marked a temperature of 75° below zero in the month of February. No fluid could resist it. Even chloric ether became solid, and the air was pungent and acrid in respiration.

Red Snow.

As if it had been ordained that there should be nothing absolute in nature, snow itself, the very type of whiteness, sometimes exhibits the most curious colouring. Who, for instance, has not heard tell of red snow? Its existence was even known to Pliny, the great Roman naturalist, and he attributed it to a dust with which the snow became covered after it had lain several days on the ground. "Snow itself," he says[13] "reddens with old age" (Ipsa nix vetustate rubescit).

Benedict de Saussure was the first who described red snow like a naturalist.[14] He observed it on the occasion of his ascent of Mont Breven, near Chamounix, in 1760; and was greatly astonished at seeing the snow tinted in various places of an extremely vivid red. "In the middle of each patch," he says, "was the greatest intensity of colour, and the middle, moreover, was of a lower level than the edges. On examining this red snow closely, I saw that its colour depended upon a fine powder which mingled with it, and which penetrated to a depth of two or three inches. This powder could not have descended from the summit of the mountain, since it was found in localities isolated and even remote from the rocks; nor did it seem to have been deposited by the winds, since it did not lie in drifts. One would have said that it was a production of the snow itself, a residuum of its thaw.... What at first suggested this opinion was the fact that the colour, extremely weak on the edges of each concave patch, gradually grew deeper as it approached the bottom, where the trickling water had carried down a greater quantity of residuum."

The learned Swiss naturalist found this red snow on many other mountains, and during a certain period of thaw, subjected it to various experiments, which led him to the conclusion that it was a vegetable matter, "a dust, or pollen, of the stamens of plants." Slightly odorous, it exhaled, during combustion, a scent not unlike that of sealing-wax.

Ramond met with red snow in the Pyrenees, at an elevation of 7800 feet. He discovered in it, when burnt on incandescent coals, the odour of opium or of chicory. He supposed that the little deep red lamellæ which coloured the snow were mica, and looked upon the mica as a product of the decomposition of the rocks by the action of the sun and breezes of spring. But this opinion was overthrown by Captain Ross, who, in 1819, found red snow in Baffin's Bay (lat. 85° 54' N.), to a depth of thirteen feet, over a soil perfectly free from mica. Other explorers affirm that in those regions they have never met with the red snow more than three to four inches deep. Captain Parry, in his Polar voyage, found this coloured snow principally in the track of his sledges; and, agreeing with Sir John Ross, he supposed it to derive its redness from the presence of a kind of mushroom, of the genus Uredo, to which Bauer has given the name of Uredo nivalis.[15] According to experiments made by Bauer on specimens brought from the Polar regions, these tiny mushrooms are, on the average, a fiftieth of a millimètre in diameter; they develop themselves like vegetables; the youngest are sometimes colourless; when entirely freed from snow, they grow black under the influence of an intense cold, without losing their germinative faculty, and give birth, under the influence of a higher temperature, to a green matter.

Let us continue to examine the difference of opinion between naturalists.

De Candolle declared the red snow of the polar regions to be identical with that of the Alps, after having carefully compared the two. But he saw in it a genus of cryptogams, differing from the genus Uredo.[16] Robert Brown asserted that it was a kind of alga, allied to the Tremella cruenta. Azara was of this same opinion, except that, instead of a tremella, he recognised in it an alga of the genus Protococcus, which he called Protococcus kermesinus, because its colour resembled that of the kermes, or cochineal.

In the opinion of the observers whom we have cited, the colouring corpuscles of the snow belong to the vegetable kingdom. This opinion was supported by numerous adherents, and soon acquired so great an authority, that, in an assembly of naturalists at Lausanne, De Candolle overwhelmed with sarcasm a communication from Lamont, Prior of the Hospice of St Bernard, on the "animality of red snow." And yet this last hypothesis was not so rash as might have been supposed; for Dr Scoresby, to whom we owe a profound study on the crystalline forms of snow, had already attributed to an animal matter the colouring of the snow and polar ice.

Now-a-days, however, it may be regarded as finally settled that this phenomenon is due to the immense aggregation of minute plants belonging to the species called Protococcus nivalis;[17] so called in allusion to the extreme simplicity of its organisation, and the peculiar nature of its habitat. If we place a portion of the snow coloured with this plant upon a piece of white paper, says Mr Macmillan,[18] and allow it to melt and evaporate, we find a residuum of granules just sufficient to give a faint crimson tinge to the paper. Placed under the microscope, these granules resolve themselves into spherical purple cells, from the 1/1000th to the 1/3000th part of an inch in diameter. Each of these cells has an opening, surrounded by serrated or indented lines, whose smallest diameter does not exceed the 1/5000th part of an inch! When perfect, the plant is not unlike a red-currant berry; as it decays, the red colouring matter fades into a deep orange, and the deep orange changes into a dull brown. The thickness of the wall of the cell does not exceed the 1/20000th part of an inch! Each cell may be considered a distinct individual plant, since it is perfectly independent of others with which it may be aggregated, and performs for and by itself all the functions of growth and reproduction, having a containing membrane which absorbs liquids and gases from the surrounding matrix or elements, a contained fluid of peculiar character, formed out of these materials, and a number of excessively minute granules, equivalent to spores, or, as some would say, to cellular buds, which are to become the genus of new plants. There is something, adds Mr Macmillan, extremely mysterious in the performance of these widely different functions, by an organism which appears so excessively simple. That one and the same primitive cell should thus minister equally to absorption, nutrition, and reproduction, is an extraordinary illustration of the fact, that the smallest and simplest organised object is, in itself, and for the part it was created to perform in the operations of nature, as admirably adapted as the largest and most complicated.

Fig. 8.—Protococcus nivalis.

The Eternal Snows.

The epithet "eternal" or "perpetual," applied to snow, would appear to savour of the ambitious, if not of the profane. Can we say of anything which belongs to earth that it is "eternal?" Assuredly not. The earth has not always worn the aspect which it now wears, and, at a period not far distant from its origin, could not in any region have been covered with snow. Now, whatever has had a beginning cannot be eternal. Many authors have, for this reason, substituted for the word eternal the word perpetual. But the latter is equally inapplicable. Who will venture to affirm that our globe or its system will endure perpetually?

This difficulty, however, is one which need not particularly embarrass us. We have been long accustomed to look upon language as a simple mask, or, at least, as a very dubious interpreter of thought. And we shall, therefore, continue to use indifferently the words "eternal" and "perpetual."

Let us suppose that two travellers set out from the equator, that plane of separation between the northern and the southern hemispheres. Let us also suppose that each proceeds in a diametrically opposite direction to the other, pursuing his route along one of those meridian lines which divide the earth into longitudinal portions, like the slices of a melon (to compare great things with small). The following will be their climatic stages:—

At first the two travellers will each traverse a moiety of the torrid zone, limited below and above the Equator by two parallel circles,—in the northern hemisphere by the Tropic of Cancer, and in the southern by the Tropic of Capricorn. Do not let these appellations alarm you: they show, once more, the narrow connexity of the heaven with the earth; tropic, coming from the Greek τροπή signifies a return—the sun returns from his apparent excursions, after having passed from the tropics to the zenith. For these circles form the extreme limits of the sun's march towards the north and towards the south: they are the two solstices—the summer solstice, when the sun enters the zodiacal sign of Cancer, and the winter solstice, when it enters the sign of Capricorn. The torrid zone is the only one which is thus divided into two portions by the Equinoctial, and which the sun passes twice a year to the zenith, that is, to the point directly above the heads of the inhabitants.

After having crossed the tropics, one of our two travellers will enter the North Temperate Zone, bounded by the Arctic Polar Circle—the other, the South Temperate Zone, bounded by the Antarctic Polar Circle. Having passed the polar circles, they will find themselves speedily arrested by ice and snow which never melt—by eternal ice and snow. These inhospitable regions compose the two frigid zones, which cover, like two immense hoods (forming the 0·82 parts of the terrestrial surface), the one, the northern hemisphere, the other, the southern.[19]

In their progress through these various climates, our two travellers will arrive at a very curious comparative result,—that the southern hemisphere is colder than the northern. This difference becomes especially recognisable below the 50th degree of south latitude; so that, after passing the Antarctic Circle, the ice opposes the voyager's course with nearly insurmountable obstacles; while, in the northern hemisphere, the whaler frequently penetrates to Spitzbergen, situated much nearer to the Pole than to the Polar Circle. This is a general fact; we confine ourselves to putting it forward.

Let us now suppose that our two travellers, always ready to compare the results of their inquiries, accomplish the ascent of a very lofty mountain situated under the Equator, such as Chimborazo. In the course of their ascent, they will traverse the same climates and the same zones which had marked the stages of their journey from the Equator to the Poles: at their starting-point they will find themselves in the Torrid zone, then will come the Temperate and the Frigid zones, the latter rendered inaccessible by glaciers and eternal snows. These vertical zones of the mountain are characterised by vegetables and animals whose types are found in the corresponding horizontal zones of the terrestrial surface. But what is most remarkable is, that there exists between the northern and the southern slopes of the mountain the same difference as between the southern and northern hemispheres: the line of the eternal snows descends much lower on the northern than on the southern slope, in the same manner as, in the southern hemisphere, the polar ice advances much nearer the Equator than in the northern.

Such is the general view-point which we must adopt for the clearer comprehension of the details of observation. Of course, when speaking of the limit of the eternal snows, we refer only to the lower limit, that is to say, to the greatest elevation attained by the snow-line in the course of a single year. As for the upper limit, it entirely escapes us; for the summits of the loftiest mountains do not reach the atmospheric strata which, by virtue of their refraction, cannot contain any vesicular, aqueous, or condensable vapour.

The line of eternal snow which, at the poles, is found on the level of the ground, gradually rises as we approach the torrid zone, where it attains its maximum of elevation, from 13,000 to 17,000 feet. This phenomenon does not exclusively depend upon the geographical latitude, nor on the mean annual temperature of the locality: it is the result of an aggregate of diverse circumstances which we have not the space here to enumerate and discuss. We shall content ourselves with placing before the reader a table which will show the remarkable differences existing in the height of the perpetual snow-line in various places.

The Line of Perpetual Snow.

The Inhabitants of the Eternal Snows.

If men have the faculty of living under all climates, they make use of that faculty, as we know, with extreme reserve. They have never permanently inhabited the polar regions and the perpetually snowy summits of the mountains: it is only at intervals that a few pioneers have temporarily ventured thither. Starting from this fact, it was long believed that the zone of eternal snows was not inhabited by any living being. Even men of science admitted, as an article of faith, that where man could not fix his residence no animal could live. They made, however, a concession with respect to vegetables, and particularly as regarded the lichens and the mosses.

Well, observation and research conjointly, have erased this article of faith from the scientific code. It has been demonstrated that the icy regions, which man visits only at rare intervals, and where he sojourns but for a time, are the home of a certain number of animal species, more or less allied to the human species. The scientific exploration of these regions dates only from our own time. Spitzbergen, and the summit of the Alps,—such are our points of comparison.

It is difficult to conceive of anything more interesting than the historical exposition of the limited Fauna glacialis. First, let us take the discovery, comparatively recent, of a small rodent of the mouse order.

The Arvicola Leucurus, or Arctic Vole.