Part 24
All the observations of astronomers, both before and since the discovery of the telescope, confirm this conclusion. The long nightly watching of the Chaldean shepherds, the star-counting, star-gauging, star-mapping, and other laborious gazing of mediæval and modern astronomers, have failed to discover any collision, or any motion tending to collision, among the myriads of heavenly bodies whose positions and movements have been so faithfully and diligently studied. Thus, the hypothesis of creation which demands the destruction of two worlds in order to effect the sowing of a seed, is as inconsistent with sound dynamics as it is repugnant to common sense.
This subject suggests a similar one, which was discussed a few months since at the Acadamy of Sciences of Paris. On January 30th last M. St. Meunier read a paper on “The mode of rupture of a star, from which meteors are derived.” The author starts with the assumption that meteors have been produced by the rupture of a world, basing this assumption upon the arguments he has stated in previous papers. He discards altogether Sir W. Thomson’s idea of a collision between two worlds, but works out a conclusion quite as melancholy.
He begins, like most other builders of cosmical theories, with the hypothesis that this and all the other worlds of space began their existence in a condition of nebulous infancy; that they gradually condensed into molten liquids, and then cooled down till they obtained a thin outside crust of solid matter, resting upon a molten globe within; that this crust then gradually thickened as the world grew older and cooled down by radiation. I will not stop to discuss this nebular and cooling-down hypothesis at present, though it is but fair to state that “I don’t believe a bit of it.”
Taking all this for granted—a considerable assumption—M. St. Meunier reasons very ably upon what must follow, if we further assume that each world is somehow supplied with air and water, and that the atmosphere and the ocean of each world are limited and unconnected with those of any other world, or with any general interstellar medium.
What, then, will happen as worlds grow old? As they cool down, they must contract; the liquid inside can manage this without any inconvenience to itself, but not so with the outer spherical shell of solid matter. As the inner, or hotter part of this contracts, the cool outside must crumple up in order to follow it, and thus mountain chains and great valleys, lesser hills and dales, besides faults and slips, dykes, earthquakes, volcanoes, etc., are explained.
According to M. St. Meunier, the moon has reached a more advanced period of cosmical existence than the earth. She is our senior; and like the old man who shows his gray hairs and tottering limbs to inconsiderate youth, she shines a warning upon our gay young world, telling her that—
Let her paint an inch thick, to this favor she must come
—that the air and ocean must pass away, that all the living creatures of the earth must perish, and the desolation shall come about in this wise.
At present, the interior of our planet is described as a molten fluid, with a solid crust outside. As the world cools down with age, this crust will thicken and crack, and crack again, as the lower part contracts. This will form _rainures_, _i.e._, long narrow chasms, of vast depth, which, like those on the moon, will traverse, without deviation, the mountains, valleys, plains, and ocean-beds; the waters will fall into these, and, after violent catastrophes, arising from their boiling by contact with the hot interior, they will finally disappear from the surface, and become absorbed in the pores of the vastly-thickened earth-crust, and in the caverns, cracks, and chasms which the rending contraction will open in the interior. These cavities will continue to increase, will become of huge magnitude when the outside crust grows thick enough to form its own supporting arch, for then the fused interior will recede, and form mighty vaults that will engulf not the waters merely, but all the atmosphere likewise.
At this stage the earth, according to M. St. Meunier, will be a middle-aged world like the moon; but as old age advances the contraction of the fluid, or viscous interior beneath the outside solid crust will continue, and the _rainures_ will extend in length and depth and width, as he maintains they are now growing in the moon. This, he says, must continue till the centre solidifies, and then these cracks will reach that centre, and the world will be split through in fragments corresponding to the different _rainures_.
Thus we shall have a planet composed of several solid fragments held together only by their mutual attractions, but the rotary movement of these will, according to the French philosopher, become unequal, as “the fragments present different densities, and are situated at unequal distances from the centre; some will be accelerated, others retarded; they will rub against each other, and grind away those portions which have the weakest cohesion.” The fragments thus worn off will, “at the end of sufficient time, girdle with a complete ring the central star.” At this stage the fragments become real meteors, and then perform all the meteoric functions excepting the seed-carrying of Sir W. Thomson.
It would be an easy task to demolish these speculations, though not within the space of one of my letters. A glance at the date of this paper, and the state of Paris and the French mind at the time, may, to some extent, explain the melancholy relish with which the Parisian philosopher works out his doleful speculations. Had the French army marched vigorously to Berlin, I doubt whether this paper would ever have found its way into the “Comptes Rendus.” After the fall of Paris, and the wholesale capitulation of the French armies, it was but natural that a patriotic Frenchman, howsoever strong his philosophy, should speculate on the collapse of all the stars, and the general winding-up of the universe.
THE DYING TREES IN KENSINGTON GARDENS.
A great many trees have lately been cut down in Kensington Gardens, and the subject was brought before the House of Commons at the latter part of its last session. In reply to Mr. Ritchie’s question, Mr. Adam, the then First Commissioner of Works, made explanations which, so far as they go, are satisfactory—but the distance is very small. He states that all who have watched the trees must have seen that their decay “has become rapid and decided in the last two years,” that when the vote for the parks came on many “were either dead or hopelessly dying,” that in the more thickly planted portions of the gardens the trees were dead and dying by hundreds, owing to the impoverished soil and the terrible neglect of timely thinning fifty or sixty years ago.
Knowing the sensitiveness of the public regarding tree-cutting, Mr. Adam obtained the co-operation of a committee of experts, consisting of Sir Joseph Hooker, Mr. Clutton, and Mr. Thomas, “so distinguished as a landscape gardener,” and the late First Commissioner of Works. They had several meetings, and, as Mr. Adam informs us, “the result has been a unanimous resolution that we ought to proceed at once to clear away the dead and dying trees.” This is being done to the extent of “an absolute clearance” in some places, and the removal of numerous trees all over the gardens. We are further told that “the spaces cleared will either be trenched, drained, and replanted, or will be left open, as may appear best.” Mr. Adam adds that “the utmost care is being used in the work; that not a tree is being cut that can properly be spared; and that every effort will be made to restore life to the distinguished trees that are dying.”
I have watched the proceedings in Kensington Gardens and also in Bushey Park, and have considerable difficulty in describing the agricultural vandalism there witnessed, and expressing my opinion on it, without transgressing the bounds of conventional courtesy towards those who are responsible. I do not refer to the cutting down of the dead and dying trees, but to the proceedings by which they have been officially and artificially killed by those who ought to possess sufficient knowledge of agricultural chemistry to understand the necessary consequences of their conduct.
About forty years have elapsed since Liebig taught to all who were able and willing to learn that trees and other vegetables are composed of two classes of material: 1st, the carbon and elements of water derived from air and rain; and 2d, the nitrogenous and incombustible saline compounds derived from the soil. The possible atmospheric origin of some of the nitrogen is still under debate, but there is no doubt that all which remains behind as incombustible ash, when we burn a leaf, is so much matter taken out of the soil. Every scientific agriculturist knows that certain crops take away certain constituents from the soil, and that if this particular cropping continues without a replacing of those particular constituents of fertility, the soil must become barren in reference to the crop in question, though other crops demanding different food may still grow upon it.
The agricultural vandalism that I have watched with so much vexation is the practice of annually raking and sweeping together the fallen leaves, collecting them in barrows and carts, and then carrying them quite away from the soil in which the trees are growing, or should grow. I have inquired of the men thus employed whether they put anything on the ground to replace these leaves, and they have not merely replied in the negative, but have been evidently surprised at such a question being asked. What is finally done with the leaves I do not know; they may be used for the flower-beds or sold to outside florists. I have seen a large heap accumulated near to the Round Pond.
Now, the leaves of forest trees are just those portions containing the largest proportion of ash; or, otherwise stated, they do the most in exhausting the soil. In Epping Forest, in the New Forest, and other forests where there has been still more “terrible neglect of timely thinning,” the trees continue to grow vigorously, and have thus grown for centuries; the leaves fall on the soil wherein the trees grow, and thus continually return to it all they have taken away.
They do something besides this. During the winter they gradually decay. This decay is a process of slow combustion, giving out just as much heat as though all the leaves were gathered together and used as fuel for a bonfire; but the heat in the course of natural decay is gradually given out just when and where it is wanted, and the coating of leaves, moreover, forms a protecting winter jacket to the soil.
I am aware that the plea for this sweeping-up of leaves is the demand for tidiness; that people with thin shoes might wet their feet if they walked through a stratum of fallen leaves. The reply to this is that all reasonable demands of this class would be satisfied by clearing the footpaths, from which nobody should deviate _in the winter time_. Before the season for strolling in the grass returns, Nature will have disposed of the fallen leaves. A partial remedy may be applied by burning the leaves, then carefully distributing their ashes; but this is after all a clumsy imitation of the natural slow combustion above described, and is wasteful of the ammoniacal salts as well as of the heat. The avenues of Bushey Park are not going so rapidly as the old sylvan glories of Kensington Gardens, though the same robbery of the soil is practiced in both places. I have a theory of my own in explanation of the difference, viz., that the cloud of dust that may be seen blowing from the roadway as the vehicles drive along the Chestnut Avenue of Bushey Park, settles down on one side or the other, and supplies material which to some extent, but not sufficiently, compensates for the leaf-robbery.
The First Commissioner speaks of efforts being made to restore life to the distinguished trees that are dying. Let us hope that these include a restoration to the soil of those particular salts that have for some years past been annually carted away from it in the form of dead leaves, and that this is being done not only around the “distinguished” trees, but throughout the gardens.
Any competent analytical chemist may supply Mr. Adam with a statement of what are these particular salts. This information is obtainable by simply burning an average sample of the leaves and analyzing their ashes.
While on this subject I may add a few words on another that is closely connected with it. In some parts of the parks gardeners may be seen more or less energetically occupied in pushing and pulling mowing-machines; and carrying away the grass which is thus cut. This produces the justly admired result of a beautiful velvet lawn; but unless the continuous exhaustion of the soil is compensated, a few years of such cropping will starve it. This subject is now so well understood by all educated gardeners that it should be impossible to suppose it to be overlooked in our parks, as it is so frequently in domestic gardening. Many a lawn that a few years ago was the pride of its owner is now becoming as bald as the head of the faithful, “practical,” and obstinate old gardener who so heartily despises the “fads” of scientific theorists.
When natural mowing-machines are used, _i.e._, cattle and sheep, their droppings restore all that they take away from the soil, minus the salts contained in their own flesh, or the milk that may be removed. An interesting problem has been for some time past under the consideration of the more scientific of the Swiss agriculturists. From the mountain pasturages only milk is taken away, but this milk contains a certain quantity of phosphates, the restoration of which must be effected sooner or later, or the produce will be cut off, especially now that so much condensed milk is exported.
The wondrously rich soil of some parts of Virginia has been exhausted by unrequited tobacco crops. The quantity of ash displayed on the burnt end of a cigar demonstrates the exhausting character of tobacco crops. That which the air and water supplied to the plant is returned as invisible gases during combustion, but all the ash that remains represents what the leaves have taken from the soil, and what should be restored in order to sustain its pristine fertility.
The West India Islands have similarly suffered to a very serious extent on account of the former ignorance of the sugar planters, who used the canes as fuel in boiling down the syrup, and allowed the ashes of those canes to be washed into the sea. They were ignorant of the fact that pure sugar maybe taken away in unlimited quantities without any impoverishment of the land, seeing that it is composed merely of carbon and the elements of water, all derivable from air and rain. All that is needed to maintain the perennial fertility of a sugar plantation is to restore the stems and leaves of the cane, or carefully to distribute their ashes.
The relation of these to the soil of the sugar plantations is precisely the same as that of the leaves of the trees to the soil of Kensington Gardens, and the reckless removal of either must produce the same disastrous consequences.
THE OLEAGINOUS PRODUCTS OF THAMES MUD: WHERE THEY COME FROM AND WHERE THEY GO.
Once upon a time—and not a very long time since—a French chemist left the land of superexcellence, and crossed to the shores of foggy Albion. He proceeded to Yorkshire, his object being to make his fortune. He was so presumptuous as to believe that he might do this by picking up something which Yorkshiremen threw away. That something was soapsuds. His chemistry taught him that soap is a compound of fat and alkali, and that if a stronger acid than that belonging to the fat is added to soapsuds, the stronger acid will combine with the alkali and release the fat, the which fat thus liberated will float upon the surface of the liquid, and may then be easily skimmed off, melted together, and sold at a handsome profit.
But why leave the beautiful France and desolate himself in dreary Yorkshire merely to do this? His reason was, that the cloth workers of Yorkshire use tons and tons of soap for scouring their materials, and throw away millions of gallons of soapsuds. Besides this, there are manufactories of sulphuric acid near at hand, and a large demand for machinery grease just thereabouts. He accordingly bought iron tanks, and erected works in the midst of the busiest centre of the woolen manufacture. But he did not make his fortune all at once. On the contrary, he failed to pay expenses, for in his calculations he had omitted to allow for the fact that the soap liquor is much diluted, and therefore he must carry much water in order to obtain a little fat. This cost of carriage ruined his enterprise, and his works were offered for sale.
The purchaser was a shrewd Yorkshireman, who then was a dealer in second-hand boilers, tanks, and other iron wares. When he was about to demolish the works, the Frenchman took him into confidence, and told the story of his failure. The Yorkshireman said little, but thought much; and having finally assured himself that the carriage was the only difficulty, he concluded, after the manner of Mahomet, that if the mountain would not come to him, he might go to the mountain; and then made an offer of partnership on the basis that the Frenchman should do the chemistry of the work, and that he (the Yorkshireman) should do the rest.
Accordingly, he went to the works around, and offered to contract for the purchase of all their soapsuds, if they would allow him to put up a tank or two on their premises. This he did; the acid was added, the fat rose to the surface, was skimmed off, and carried, _without the water_, to the central works, where it was melted down, and, with very little preparation, was converted into “cold-neck grease,” and “hot-neck grease,” and used, besides, for other lubricating purposes. The Frenchman’s science and skill, united with the Yorkshireman’s practical sagacity, built up a flourishing business, and the grease thus made is still in great demand and high repute for lubricating the rolling-mills of iron works, and for many other kinds of machinery.
My readers need not be told that there are soapsuds in London as well as in Yorkshire, and they also know that the London soapsuds pass down the drains into the sewers. I may tell them that besides this there are many kinds of acids also passed into London sewers, and that others are generated by the decompositions there abounding. These acids do the Frenchman’s work upon the London soapsuds, but the separated fat, instead of rising slowly and undisturbed to form a film upon the surface of the water, is rolled and tumbled amongst its multifarious companion filth, and it sticks to whatever it may find congenial to itself. Hairs, rags, wool, ravellings of cotton, and fibres of all kinds are especially fraternal to such films of fat: they lick it up and stick it about and amid themselves; and as they and the fat roll and tumble along the sewers together, they become compounded and shaped into unsavory balls that are finally deposited on the banks of the Thames, and quietly repose in its hospitable mud.
But there is no peace even there, and the gentle rest of the fat nodules is of short duration. The mud-larks are down upon them, in spite of all their burrowing; they are gathered up and melted down. The filthiest of their associated filth is thus removed, and then, and with a very little further preparation, they appear as cakes of dark-colored hard fat, very well suited for lubricating machinery, and indifferently fit for again becoming soap, and once more repeating their former adventures.
Those gentlemen of the British press whose brilliant imagination supplies the public with their intersessional harvests of sensational adulteration panics, have obtained a fertile source of paragraphs by co-operating with the mud-larks in the manufacture of butter from Thames mud.
The origin of these stories is traceable to certain officers of the Thames police, who, having on board some of these gentlemen of the press engaged in hunting up information respecting a body found in the river, supplied their guests with a little supplementary chaff by showing them a mud-lark’s gatherings, and telling them that it was raw material from which “fine Dorset” is produced. A communication from “Our Special Correspondent” on the manufacture of butter from Thames mud accordingly appeared in the atrocity column on the following morning, and presently “went the round of the papers.”
Although it is perfectly possible by the aid of modern chemical skill to refine even such filth as this, and to churn it into a close resemblance to butter, the cost of doing so would exceed the highest price obtainable for the finest butter that comes to the London market. A skillful chemist can convert all the cotton fibres that are associated with this sewage fat into pure sugar or sugar-candy, but the manufacture of sweetmeats from Thames mud would not pay any better than the production of butter from the same source, and for the same reason.
Mutton-suet, chop-parings, and other clean, wholesome fat can be bought wholesale for less than fivepence per pound. It would cost above three times as much as this to bring the fat nodules of the Thames mud to as near an approach to butter as this sort of fat. Therefore the Thames mud-butter material would be three times as costly as that obtainable from the butcher. While the supply of mutton-suet is so far in excess of the butter-making demand that tons of it are annually used in the North for lubricating machinery, we need not fear that anything less objectionable—_i.e._, more costly to purify—will be used as a butter substitute.
LUMINOUS PAINT.
The sun is evidently going out of fashion, and is more and more excluded from “good society” as our modern substitute for civilization advances. “Serve him right!” many will say, for behaving so badly during the last two summers. The old saw, which says something about “early to bed and early to rise” is forgotten: we take “luncheon” at dinner-time, dine at supper-time, make “morning” calls and go to “morning” concerts, etc., late in the afternoon, say “Good morning” until 6 or 7 P.M.; and thus, by sleeping through the bright hours of the morning, and waking up fully only a little before sunset, the demand for artificial light becomes almost overwhelming. Not only do we require this during a longer period each day, but we insist upon more and more, and still more yet, during that period.
The rushlight of our forefathers was superseded by an exotic luxury, the big-flame candle made of Russian tallow, with a wick of Transatlantic cotton. Presently this luxurious innovation was superseded by the “mould candle;” the dip was consigned to the kitchen, and the bloated aristocrats of the period indulged in a _pair_ of candlesticks, alarming their grandmothers by the extravagance of burning two candles on one table. Presently the mould candle was snuffed out by the composite; then came the translucent pearly paraffin candle, gas light, solar lamps, moderator lamps, and paraffin lamps. Even these, with their brilliant white flame from a single wick, are now insufficient, and we have duplex and even triplex wicks to satisfy our demand for glaring mockeries of the departed sun.
Some are still living who remember the oil lamps in Cheapside and Piccadilly, and the excitement caused by the brilliancy of the new gas lamps; but now we are dissatisfied with these, and demand electric lights for common thoroughfares, or some extravagant combination of concentric or multiplex gas-jets to rival it.