The storm has spent itself before the next morning. Katie can see that,
as she listlessly looks out of the bay-window of the breakfast-room.
One would hardly suppose the treacherous gale had been holding such
wild revels the night before. The tossing waves that had leaped with
frothy crests over the serrated rocks of the Short Reefs, are placid
enough now--dancing perhaps over those who went down a few hours
before into the cruel depths. Lady Dillworth has a headache; she
listens calmly to Liddy, who blushing and blooming, pours forth her
rose-coloured confidences, and swallows her coffee between whiles.
Hunter is helping the groom to carry her boxes down-stairs; and Miss
Delmere, with only a few minutes to spare, is selfish in the exuberance
of her joy, and cannot see the dark circles round Katie's sleepless
eyes nor note the deep sadness of her looks. At length she goes away,
and the Admiral enters the room.
'You are just in time, Herbert; Hunter has brought up some fresh
coffee.'
'None for me, thank you. I knew you would be engaged with Miss Delmere;
and as I had papers to examine, I had my breakfast brought to the
library.'
'Liddy is gone away now.'
'Yes; I met her in the hall, and saw her into the carriage. I've
brought you the newspaper, Katie; you will see the wreck of the
unfortunate ship I told you of yesterday.'
'The _Daring_! Is she wrecked?' Katie takes the paper into her
trembling hands, but cannot read a word for the throbbing of her brows
and the dizziness of her eyes.
Her husband goes on: 'Yes; she went to pieces in the gale, and every
soul on board would have gone down with her had not a merchant-ship
passed by the merest chance. Twenty-three men are lost. At least they
went away in the _Daring's_ large cutter; but no boat could have lived
out the storm.'
'How dreadful!' Katie starts at the sound of her own voice, it is so
deep and hoarse.
'Dreadful indeed! What makes the matter worse is, that in all human
probability every man might have been saved and the ship also, had not
an atrociously wrong act been perpetrated.'
Katie hears a rustle of paper; she knows by instinct what is coming,
but she dares not lift her head.
The Admiral goes on in an agitated tone: 'Some one has tampered with my
papers, has even dared to meddle with my orders. I directed the _Leo_
to be sent out at once to the scene of the wreck; but from malignity or
some other motive, the name _Leoni_ was substituted.'
'Wouldn't that ship do as well, Herbert?'
'Certainly not. She would never reach the Short Reefs in such a gale.
I fully suspect she's foundered at sea or gone on the rocks herself.
I'll find out who did it! If I thought Reeves, or any one else at his
instigation, had been guilty, I'd, I'd'----
There is no saying how the sentence might have ended. Katie has risen
from her seat, and stands before her husband trembling.
'I did it, Herbert! _I_ altered your order!'
'You, Katie!--you, my wife!'
'Yes; but I never thought my silly act would lead to such misfortune.'
'What was your motive, Kate? Surely you could not have wished to injure
_me_? To set me up as a mark of inefficiency and ridicule?'
'O no; a thousand times _no_. But Captain Reeves was helping me to get
up our charade, and I altered the ship's name that he might not have
to go away.' Here Lady Dillworth's voice fails her. She cannot utter
another word, so choked and gasping is her breath; the bare blank
sentence remains as it was: 'I altered the ship's name that he might
not have to go away.'
The Admiral does not reply. There is a stillness in the room as though
some one had died there. A burst of passion, an angry storm of words
would be a relief; and Katie glances up in alarm to see her husband
looking down sadly at her. He is pale as death; his lips are set and
firm; a dim haze has clouded his eyes, as though unshed tears are
springing there; but there is no sign of resentment in his face--only
pity, a tender, touching, tremulous pity, an infinite yearning for
something gone, a regret, sorrowful and deep! Yet all so mixed with
intense love, that Katie knows for the first time in her life what
passionate boundless strength there is in his affection for her. A
sudden understanding of how dear she is to him dawns upon her; she
feels he would give his very life for her.
Katie would have flown to his arms, and told him his love is fully
returned, that at last she feels his worth and goodness; she would have
fallen at his feet and there have craved for pardon; but he puts her
gently yet firmly away.
'My poor, poor Katie! Have I then spoiled your young life? I might have
suspected this; but I was blind and selfish. Forgive me, my poor child,
forgive me! I would give worlds to restore you your freedom again!'
Ere Katie has fully grasped the meaning of his words, he has gone out
of the room; she hears him walk rapidly down the stairs and out of
the house. A sense of numbness creeps over her; she sits for a while
like one stunned. How long she remains crouching on the sofa she never
knows; a whole lifetime of anguish seems crushed into that space. All
the brightness of youth appears to die out at her husband's departure;
his retreating footstep sounds like a knell of departed hope.
After a time, Lady Dillworth rouses herself; even sorrow cannot endure
for ever. She recollects it is near the hour for luncheon, and then
Herbert will come home. She dresses herself in the robes she had on
when he made her the offer of marriage. _Why_ she has done this,
she does not confess even to herself; but perhaps she imagines old
associations may soften present misunderstandings. She goes down to the
dining-room and waits. The table is laid for luncheon, and the bright
fire glitters on the silver and glasses and flowers. All is so pleasant
and cheerful and homelike! And even then a thrill of satisfaction comes
over her that now Liddy Delmere is gone she will be able to devote
all her time to her husband--have him all to herself. But the luncheon
hour passes, and then the door opens and Hunter enters with a letter on
a salver. The address is written in a rapid unsteady hand, as though
the fingers trembled. She sees it is Sir Herbert's writing, and tears
open the envelope with a sense of impending trouble, that blanches her
cheeks and chills her heart. The words run thus:
'No one shall ever know you did the mischief, my poor Katie; the blame
shall rest on me alone, and I will bear it willingly for your sake. But
my professional career is over; men will never again trust my judgment
or deem me fit to command. I was proud of my standing in the service
and of an untarnished reputation; but you have spoiled it all, merely
to enjoy a short interval more of Walter Reeves's society. Why did
you not tell me he was so dear to you? You should have said before we
married _I_ could never make you happy. Yet I will not blame you, my
poor wife. My own selfish blindness has caused all this misery. Before
this letter reaches you, I shall be on my way to London to resign my
appointment.'
This was all! But the contents fell like a blow on her heart. Katie
sits alone in that quiet room while the iron pierces her soul. The
untasted luncheon stands on the table till the fire goes out and the
shades of night gather round. Then Hunter knocks at the door in alarm,
to know if 'my Lady' will have the things removed. Katie rouses herself
to tell him that while his master is away she will henceforth have her
meals laid in her boudoir, and that she will receive no visitors in Sir
Herbert's absence.
Hunter sees her pallid face and tear-stained eyes, and draws his own
conclusions, and thinks things 'never went on like that in the _first_
Lady Dillworth's time, anyhow.'
THE GUACHO.
'Will you ride over with me to the neighbouring village?' asked my
friend Senhor Pedro da Silva. 'There is a _festa_ there to-day. And
as you are a stranger in the country, you will see some feats of
horsemanship quite as clever as can be shewn in the circus rings of old
England.'
'With the greatest pleasure,' I replied. 'I have often heard of the
wonderful horsemen called Guachos, and desire much to see if the
accounts are really true.'
'I think you will not be disappointed. He and his horse are one;
sometimes he acts as its tyrant, but more frequently they are friends.
From infancy they have scoured over the immense Pampas of South
America, frequently amidst violent storms of thunder, wind, and
rain. His address and grace on horseback yield neither to your best
fox-hunters nor to the American Indian. But here is Antonio with our
steeds; let us mount.'
An hour's ride over the dull arid plains of Buenos Ayres, covered with
the grass now so much cultivated in our gardens, and admired for its
light leathery tufts waving in the wind, brought us to San Joachim,
where the people were already collecting in their holiday attire, and
exchanging friendly greetings on all sides. The gay striking dresses of
the Guachos mingled in every group. The _poncho_ or mantle of cloth,
woven in bright coloured stripes, has a hole in the centre through
which the head is passed, and falls down to the hips in graceful folds.
The nether garment is a combination of bedgown and trousers, bordered
by a fringe or even rich lace on these festa days, which varies from
two to six inches deep according to the wealth of the wearer. Then
to-day the great jack-boots of untanned leather are exchanged for the
smartest patent leather, with bright scarlet tops, and enormous spurs
at the heels. A wide-brimmed Spanish hat is worn, a purple or yellow
handkerchief twisted round it; whilst the belt encircling the waist
sparkles with the dollars sewn upon it--often the whole fortune of
the owner. His weapons are attached to this girdle, consisting of a
formidable knife, a lasso, and a bolas, which may not be so familiar
to the English reader as the lasso. There are two balls fastened
together by short leathern straps, to which another thong is attached,
by which it is thrown; this is whirled violently round the head before
propulsion, and entangles itself in the legs of the horse or cow to be
captured.
But whilst we are gaily chatting to Senhor Pedro's many friends the
games are beginning, and we hasten off to the ground. There we find two
lines of mounted Guachos, from ten to twenty on each side, just so far
apart as to allow a rider to pass between the ranks; all are on the
alert and holding the lasso ready for use. One whom they call Massimo,
an evident favourite with the crowd, comes tearing along at a gallop
and dashes in between the lines. The first horseman in the ranks throws
his lasso at Massimo's horse as he flashes past, but misses, amidst the
derisive shouts of those around; then the second, quick as lightning
casts his; and so on down the ranks. Presently, however, the horse
is lassoed and brought to the ground; and the skilful rider alights
uninjured on his feet, smoking his cigarette as coolly as when he
started from the post. The dexterity and watchfulness of the men, who
can throw the lasso so as to entangle the feet of a horse while going
at full speed, are simply wonderful. Another and another followed with
varying fortunes; sometimes the first struck down the horse and rider,
rarely was it that one escaped altogether. The popularity of the famous
chief Rosas was said to be founded on his proficiency in this adroit
but cruel art, and no man can be their chief who is not the cleverest
among them: renown on horseback is the one great virtue that exalts a
man in their eyes; cruelty to their favourite animal does not seem to
enter into their thoughts!
But at length they weary of this sport, and move off a little way to
vary it with another. Now we seem to have moved back a few hundred
years, and find a pastime of the middle ages still lingering among
these descendants of the Spaniards, who doubtless introduced it into
the New World. In those days it was called the game of the quintain. A
pole was firmly planted in the ground, with a cross-bar, to which was
hung the figure of a misbelieving Saracen, well armed and holding a
large sword. The horseman tilted at full gallop against this puppet;
and as it moved lightly on a pivot, unless it were well struck in the
breast, it revolved, and the sword smote the assailant on the back
amidst the laughter of the crowd. Here in the wild Pampas the trial
of skill is greater. A kind of gibbet is erected, to which is hung a
finger-ring by a string. The Guacho, instead of the spear of knightly
days, holds a weapon more characteristic of his work in the _saladero_,
where the cattle are killed and salted--namely, a skewer. One after
another the Guachos gallop at full speed and try to push the skewer
into the ring and carry it off. Antonio, Luis, and Melito succeeded
admirably; but many a novice failed in the difficult task. Still it was
a pretty sight, and enjoyed apparently by both horses and men.
Then came the inevitable horse-races, which are of almost daily
occurrence, when associates challenge one another, and they strike off
in a moment in a straight line until they disappear in the horizon. In
this case, however, a wide straight avenue near the village was chosen
for a short, rapid, and often renewed race; a pastime for the idle, and
the occasion of ruinous bets. The riders were dressed with the greatest
elegance; their horses well chosen from the corral, and covered with
silver ornaments. The bridle is of the leather of a foal, finely
plaited and mounted with silver; stirrup, bit, and spurs of the same
metal. A glittering silver belt, sometimes of a flowery pattern, and of
colossal proportions, hangs round the breast, and a silver strap across
the forehead. The saddle is a wonderful piece of mechanism, forming the
Guacho's 'bed by night and chest of drawers by day;' it is very heavy,
and consists of ten parts; skins, carpets, and cow-hides intermingled
with other necessaries. Off they go at last from the post, spurring and
urging their steeds like modern centaurs, handling them in a manner
well worthy of admiration, and with the most perfect elegance. When
the winner came in, many a by-stander had lost all his possessions,
so mad a race of gamblers are they. As a last resource, they pledge
their horse, and expose themselves, if they lose, to the lowest of
humiliations--that of going away on foot!
We turned at last towards home, leaving the roystering spirits to
finish off their day at the _pulperia_. This it is which takes the
place of the club, the café, the newsroom, and the home. A cottage,
neither more simple nor more luxurious than any other to be found
in the Pampas, covered with thatch; the walls of dried mud, or more
frequently of rushes sparged with mud; the flooring being of trodden
earth; into which the rain penetrates, the sun never enters, and where
a hot damp air is the prevailing atmosphere. Before the door stands a
row of strong posts, to which the horses of the guests are tied; the
new-comer jumps off, and there leaves his steed, saddled and bridled,
for many weary hours in the hot sun or pouring rain; whilst he, to use
a native expression, 'satisfies his vices' in the _pulperia_. The door
is open to all comers, and great outward politeness reigns within;
there is a continual exchange of gallantries, to which the Spanish
language easily lends itself; but reason soon loses its sway, and the
strangest bets are offered and taken. Sometimes it is between two
friends as to who shall first lose blood; when the whole company sally
out, knives are drawn between the duellers, and a combat, often much
more ridiculous than valiant, ensues!
The following morning, Senhor Pedro proposed that we should ride out
and see the Guacho at work and in his home. 'You seem to have been
interested in him yesterday,' he said, 'and he belongs to a type that
is unique. Notwithstanding the hatred of the original inhabitants
towards their invaders, the two races were mixed, and these unions
produced the Guacho. Look at his tall figure, bony square face
embrowned by the sun, and stiff black hair--there you see the Indian;
whilst the Spaniard is in his proud haughty manner, in his vanity, and
also in his great sobriety. He drinks water and eats his dried meat
without bread, not from contempt for better food, but from a horror of
work. To earn his daily food is not so much his aim as to get money
to bet with. He will go into the _saladero_, where, knife in hand, he
will kill, skin, and cut up the cattle for salting, and find enjoyment
rather than labour in it. He easily gains in a few hours a wage that
suffices; and as soon as it is paid, he jumps on his horse and rides
off to the _pulperia_ to gamble it away.'
Thus conversing, we reached a hut which could scarcely be surpassed in
its misery. Placed alone in the middle of the plain, without any garden
or cultivated ground, not a tree to cast a welcome shadow, or a hand to
repair the dilapidated walls, it seemed formed to repulse rather than
attract the owner. At our approach, the mother came out, surrounded by
her children, her complexion approaching the mulatto, for the air of
the Pampas quickly destroys the fineness of the skin. It is only in the
capital, Buenos Ayres, that handsome Creole types are to be seen, where
fine features of an Indian class surpass European beauty, even when
the tint is olive. The wife, like the husband, hates work: her only
occupation is to boil some water, pour it over maté or tea of Paraguay,
and drink it through a metal tube. Her children, at the age of three
or four, can sit on horseback and gallop over the plain with no other
bridle than a cord passed through the horse's mouth. At six they watch
the sheep, and at ten are ready to break in the most spirited colts.
Only everything they do must be on horseback: they will neither use
their arms nor legs.
'Good-morning, Senorita,' said my friend. 'Where shall we find your
husband?'
'He is gone, Senhor, to break in some horses for Senhor Melisos; it is
not far from here.'
'So much the better. We will ride on and see him at work.'
We reached the place; and the Guacho came out to meet us.
'Will you shew my friend your feat at the gate?' said Senhor Pedro.
'With the greatest pleasure,' answered the flattered Guacho. He jumped
on to the top transverse bar which forms the gate of the corral, and
calling to another man to open the lower ones and drive out a troop of
horses at full gallop, he, with the most astonishing skill, singled one
out with his eye, dropped down on to it, and rode off without saddle or
bridle at the top of its speed. Soon returning, he proceeded to break a
horse that had been previously caught in the plains. The Guacho threw
two lassos, one over the neck, the other on the hind-legs. Several men
hold the colt tightly whilst he saddles and passes a cord through the
mouth of the animal; and when the first paroxysms of fear have passed,
the tamer jumps on, and pressing his powerful knees into its sides,
the lasso is withdrawn. The horse and rider then start on a furious
course, from which they both return exhausted, in the midst of the
_vivats_ which resound from every side. All that is now required is for
the breaker to ride ten or fifteen leagues, when he gives up the horse
to the owner and receives his fee. They are never taught to trot, but
have an easy movement; and a man has been known to ride two hundred
miles a day without fatigue, and living only on dried meat and maté.
THE GERM THEORY AGAIN.
We have on several occasions alluded to the Germ theory, by which is
meant the theory that invisible germs, capable of producing animalculæ
and of spreading disease are constantly floating in the atmosphere--and
that the more impure the air the greater are the number of these germs.
We revert to the subject, because it is debated in all quarters, and it
is as well that our readers should know something of what is causing so
much controversy. Some surgeons distinguished as operators are great
believers in the Germ theory; so much so, that before beginning, for
instance, to cut off a leg, they cause a certain germ-killing liquid to
shower like spray near the part operated on; by which, as is alleged,
the wound is kept free of anything noxious. Whether there be germs or
not, the use of disinfectants in the air is said to be beneficial.
Notably the celebrated carbolic-acid plan of Professor Lister has met
with marked success, and is practised by the greatest surgeons of our
time. But though the air certainly contains something which favours
decomposition, it is by no means yet proved that that something _is_
made up of germs.
Professor Tyndall has been the principal advocate of the Germ theory,
and has written some papers strongly in its favour. Professor Bastian
takes an opposite opinion. He thinks that living organisms may
originate in disease by spontaneous generation. His notions are that
if germs are continually floating about in the air, they would drop
everywhere and anywhere alike. This argument applies more forcibly
to the fact which Dr Bastian discovered--namely, that he was able to
get life in flasks containing inorganic solutions, but that he always
failed if such solutions were not made up of salts containing oxygen,
hydrogen, carbon, and nitrogen; that is to say, of the elements of
life. If the organisms are really the result of a molecular arrangement
of the 'mother-liquid,' we should expect to find them only in those
fluids which already contain the elements necessary for their
composition. Three speculations are involved in these experiments:
on the one hand, that low forms of life do occasionally arise by
spontaneous generation; on the other hand, either that the heat which
is usually considered destructive of life and germinating power is in
reality nothing of the kind; or that Dr Bastian's experiments were
incorrectly performed.
Since the publication of Dr Bastian's observations, a very lively
controversy has been carried on in scientific quarters between the
supporters of the germ theory and of the theory of spontaneous
generation. Dr Bastian's work was conducted with great care and in
the presence of some distinguished authorities. Dr Sanderson, on the
other hand, found that upon increasing the heat which is applied to the
flasks, no organisms were produced; but until we have reason to doubt
the generally received opinion as to the amount of heat necessary to
destroy life, this result may be equally well explained according to
either of the two theories.
Dr Bastian insists that the organic solutions in his own flasks are
not found by him to undergo putrefaction where every precaution is
taken for withholding the entrance of air. Thus a simple piece of
cotton-wool, which acts as a kind of sieve, will when placed in
the mouth of a flask prevent decomposition. Professor Tyndall has
invented the most ingenious contrivances for illustrating his views.
In one case he employed a chamber the walls of which were covered by
a sticky substance. The particles of dust in the air were allowed to
collect and adhere to the sides, and the air in the vessel, as shewn
by its non-reflection of a beam of light, was rendered comparatively
dustless. Flasks were now introduced, and they remained for a long
period free from organisms. On repeating some of these experiments
this year, however, Professor Tyndall found that many of the infusions
which had previously been preserved from putrefaction with ease,
were now found, when placed under the same conditions, to swarm
with life. Still he refused to believe in 'spontaneous generation,'
and preferred to consider that the production of life in his flasks
was due to some fault in his experiments, and that the air of the
Royal Institution was not so pure this year as it was last. Instead,
therefore, of introducing his fluids by means of an open pipette, as he
had previously done, he now made use of a 'separating funnel,' and by
this means the fluids found their way into the flasks without exposure
to the air. The result of these precautions was that no organisms
appeared. The objection, however, that we have to find is, that no
guarantee can be given that will enable us to ascertain whether the air
is really free from particles of organic matter or not. Last year the
air was considered to be pure because moteless; but this year, though
moteless, it was found to be impure.
Professor Tyndall and his friends are so exceedingly confident in the
power of the germs of the atmosphere, that they attribute to their
influence every known case of putrefaction; and they do so because they
believe that they have proved that whenever the air can be excluded
from a putrescible fluid, putrefaction will not take place. But Dr
Bastian has succeeded in producing life out of organic infusions from
which the air has been excluded, and which have been previously raised
by him to temperatures hitherto considered by scientific authority as
fatal to life. Thus the question resolves itself into this: What is the
exact point of heat which kills the germs of bacteria? At present we do
not know, and we have therefore no right to make any supposition upon
this point in favour of either of the two theories.
Since Dr Bastian's experiments were first made public, the holders of
the Germ theory have gradually raised what we may call the thermal
death-point of bacteria, in order to explain away the results of his
experiments by the light of their own theory. If Dr Bastian's fluids
did develop life, they say, the germs must have entered into them by
some means or other; and if he superheated these fluids, the fact of
the germs surviving the process shews that they must be possessed of
greater enduring power than we have given them credit for.
Curiously enough, Professor Tyndall declares that frequent applications
of a low degree of heat, and applied at intervals, have a far greater
'sterilising effect' than a single application of a high temperature.
For a given fluid may contain germs of all ages. If such a fluid be
boiled for a considerable time, all the germs of recent formation will
be killed; but those of a greater age will merely be softened, but
still capable of reanimation. If, however, the fluid be heated for a
short time only, the recent germs will be destroyed, while an older
crop will be liberated. A second application of heat destroys this
second crop, and brings a third into play. Further heat will awaken
successive crops, until at length a point is reached when the toughest
germ must yield. This is certainly a most ingenious explanation of the
difficulty.
A very interesting contribution to this subject has lately been made
by Dr Bastian and others; and we will now briefly describe the main
results of their researches. It has long been known that slightly
alkaline organic fluids are more difficult to sterilise than those
which are slightly acid. Pasteur the French chemist says that animal
water in its normally acid state becomes sterile at one hundred degrees
centigrade; but that if the infusion is first rendered alkaline by the
addition of potash, the application of a little more heat is necessary,
in order to insure sterility. If we bear in mind the two theories, we
shall see that these observations of Pasteur may be explained according
to either of them. We may believe that the germs in the infusion are
fortified against the destructive action of heat by liquor potassæ;
or on the other hand, we may hold that the spontaneous generation of
organisms is favoured by the presence of an alkali. Acting upon these
data, Dr Bastian heated a similar fluid in its acid condition to the
temperature of one hundred degrees; so that, according to Pasteur,
it was now barren. He then added a quantity of potash sufficient to
neutralise the acid, the addition of the alkali thus being made _after_
instead of before the boiling; and he then allowed the fluid so treated
to stand at a temperature of about one hundred and fifteen degrees
Fahrenheit. In a short time swarms of bacteria appeared.
Dr Roberts, however, considers that this result was obtained because
sufficient precaution had not been taken by Dr Bastian to prevent
the entry of germs, which might have been introduced by the potash.
Accordingly, he filled a small flask with an ounce of the acid
infusion, and then sealed up his potash in a capillary tube. The potash
was then heated in oil to two hundred and eighty degrees Fahrenheit,
and kept for fifteen minutes. The tube of potash was now introduced
into the flask containing the infusion, and the flask was boiled for
five minutes, and sealed. The flask was now kept for some time in order
to test its sterility. When this was ascertained, the flask was shaken,
so that the little tube of potash inside was broken, and the potash
was thus allowed to mingle with and neutralise the infusion. The flask
was now maintained at a low temperature of one hundred and fifteen
degrees Fahrenheit, and it remained perfectly clear. And so Dr Roberts
concludes that liquor potassæ has no power to excite the generation of
organisms in a sterilised infusion. Professor Tyndall repeated these
experiments with additional precautions, and obtained similar results.
The _general_ conclusion which is drawn from various experiments by the
advocates of the Germ theory is, that liquor potassæ has no inherent
power to stimulate the production of bacteria, and that any apparent
power of this kind which it may seem to possess is due to the presence
of germs within it. These germs they consider are not destroyed until
the potash has been raised to the temperature of one hundred degrees
centigrade if solid, and to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade if
liquid. Dr Bastian, who repeated his former experiments with every
possible precaution, found no difference in his results. Moreover, he
discovered that liquor potassæ, when added in proper quantities, is
just as efficacious in stimulating the development of life after it has
been heated to one hundred and ten degrees centigrade, as when it has
been heated to only one hundred degrees. Pasteur will consequently have
to raise the temperature which he considers sufficient to destroy the
germs contained in a solution of strong liquor potassæ to a point still
higher than one hundred and ten degrees.
But there is still another proof that liquor potassæ if previously
heated to one hundred degrees does not induce fermentation in virtue
of its germs, because if only one or two drops be added, the infusion
will remain as barren as ever; while a few more drops will immediately
start the process of fermentation. Now if the potash really induced
fermentation because it brought germs along with it, two drops would be
quite as efficacious as any other amount. Finally, Dr Bastian has shewn
us that an excess of alkali prevents fermentation, and to this fact
he attributes the failure of Pasteur to develop life when he employed
solid potash. He had added too much of the alkali.
It is impossible to draw any _definite_ conclusion from these as from
the other experiments, until we know the precise temperature which
is fatal to germinal life. Dr Bastian indeed thinks that he has been
able to shew that bacteria and their germs cannot exist at higher
temperatures than one hundred and forty degrees Fahrenheit; but his
evidence here is not quite conclusive. He does not deny the existence
of germs nor their probable influence in producing life; he merely
says that his experiments furnish evidence to shew that in some cases
organisms may spring into existence without the aid of a parent. The
strong points of his case are, that as fast as his adversaries can
suggest precautions to insure the destruction of germs, he has been
able to shew life under the altered conditions; and that whenever the
supposed death-point of bacteria has been raised on account of his
experiments, he has succeeded in obtaining life after having submitted
his flasks to the required temperatures.
How this most interesting controversy will end, we cannot foretell;
but we hope that the further researches of our scientific men upon the
subject will ultimately lead to the discovery of the truth. Meanwhile,
we observe that Dr Richardson, at the late Sanitary Congress at
Leamington, entirely dissented from the theory of germs being the
origin of disease, and characterised it as the wildest and most distant
from the phenomena to be explained, ever conceived. As no one contests
the fact that pure air is a very important factor in promoting health
and averting the insidious approaches of disease, people keeping that
in mind need not practically give themselves much concern about germs.
See that you draw pure air into the lungs. That is an advice to which
no theorist can take exception.
OCEAN-VOYAGES IN SMALL BOATS.
It is perhaps not generally known that adventurous persons occasionally
cross the Atlantic from the American coast to England in small boats.
The undertaking is dangerous, but is accomplished. Twenty-four years
ago, when on board a Cunard steamer, our vessel passed an open
sailing-boat containing two men on a voyage from America to Europe.
They had no means for taking an observation, but trusted to fall in
with large ships, from which they would get information as to where
they were. On sighting them, our captain knew what they wanted, and
hung out a black board on which were inscribed in chalk the latitude
and longitude. This was satisfactory, and on they went on their
perilous expedition. What came of them we know not. We were told
that men who run risks of this kind, and who happen not to procure
information as to their whereabouts, are apt to make strange mistakes
in their voyage to England; such, for instance, as running on the coast
of Spain instead of the British Islands--the whole thing a curious
instance of reckless daring.
Small vessels, possibly better provided, have made runs which have
attracted the admiring attention of nautical men, for the exceptional
circumstances under which they occurred, but without reference
to competition or bonus. In 1859 three Cornish fishermen, in a
fishing-boat of small tonnage, sailed from Newlyn near Penzance to the
Cape of Good Hope, and thence across the Indian Ocean to Melbourne,
where they arrived 'all well.' We do not find the actual tonnage named.
In 1866 a small yacht of twenty-five tons, hailing from Dublin, set out
from Liverpool, and safely reached New South Wales after a run of a
hundred and thirty days. The distance was set down at sixteen thousand
miles. It was regarded, and justly regarded, as a bold adventure in
1874, when a schooner of only fifty-four tons safely brought over a
cargo of deals from St Johns, New Brunswick, to Dublin, with but seven
hands to manage the craft.
Boat-voyages, however, are evidently more remarkable than those of
clippers, yachts, and schooners; on account of the extremely small
dimensions of the craft which have ventured to brave the perils of the
ocean, and of the paucity of hands to manage the sails and helm during
a period measured by months--under privations of various kinds.
Eleven years ago the Americans gave an indication of spirit and pluck
in the conception and fulfilment of a very bold enterprise. Mr Hudson,
the owner of a small craft named the _Red White and Blue_, fitted
it up for an ocean-trip to England. It was a life-boat, built of
galvanised iron, only twenty-six feet in length, six feet in breadth
of beam, and three feet deep from deck to hold. Small as it was, the
_Red White and Blue_ carried what sailors call a very cloud of canvas;
it had mainsail, spritsails, staysails, courses, topsails, royals,
top-gallants, sternsails, trysails, three masts, bowsprit, booms,
yards, gaffs, jib-boom, yard-tops, cross jack yards, spankers, and all
the rest of it--an enormous amount of furniture, one would think, for
so small a house. The boat was sharp at both ends, had water-tight
compartments lengthwise and transverse, and safety-valves which would
enable her to right herself in a few minutes if flooded. There was
a tiny cockpit for the steersman near the mizzen-mast, in which he
sat somewhat in the same position as Mr Macgregor in his _Rob Roy_
canoe. The air-cylinders at each end of the boat and along the sides,
customary in life-boats, assisted in maintaining the buoyancy and
upright position. It is amusing to read of a mainmast only seven feet
high and a bowsprit of two feet in length; but the juvenile ship was
proportionate in all these matters, and bravely she looked, a plucky
handsome little craft.
The crew of the _Red White and Blue_ was as exceptional as the boat
itself. The owner, Captain John M. Hudson, took the command; Mr Frank
E. Fitch acted as mate; while in lieu of petty officers, able seamen,
and ordinary seamen was a dog named 'Fanny.' On the 9th of July 1866
the pigmy ship took farewell of Sandy Hook, near New York, on a voyage
of unknown duration and uncertain vicissitude. At midnight on the 18th
the boat struck against something hard and solid, but fortunately
without receiving much damage. They sailed on till the 5th of August,
when they fell in with the brig _Princess Royal_, hailing from
Yarmouth, and obtained a bottle of rum, two newspapers (very precious
to the wayfarers), and a signal-lamp. Narrowly escaping a complete
overturn on the 8th, they spoke with the barque _Welle Merryman_, from
which they obtained two bottles of brandy. After another peril of
capsizing, they at length sighted English land, the Bill of Portland,
on the 14th. Beating up the Channel, the boat entered Margate Harbour
on the 16th, after being thirty-seven days at sea. The little craft
created no small astonishment at Margate. As there was no chronometer
on board, the calculations of distance, direction, &c. had to be made
by compass, line, and dead-reckoning. So little opportunity had there
been of obtaining a fire, that the food (mostly preserved in air-tight
tins) had to be eaten cold. The original store of a hundred and twenty
gallons of water supplied their wants with this essential requisite.
Poor Fanny the dog did not at all relish the voyage; constant exposure
to the weather so weakened her that she died soon after reaching
Margate. When the _Red White and Blue_ was afterwards exhibited at the
Crystal Palace, a little incredulity was expressed as to the reality of
the voyage; but as the names of the vessels spoken with were given and
the dates of meeting, there seems no reason to doubt the faithfulness
of the narrative. The two navigators, however, did not return to
America in the same way; they had 'had enough of it.'
A still bolder achievement, in so far as the number of the crew was
concerned, was that of Alfred Johnson, who in June 1876 started from
America in a small boat manned only _by himself_. Quitting the port
of Gloucester, Massachusetts, on the 15th, he had fine weather for a
time, but then experienced some of the peril of Atlantic voyaging
under exceptional circumstances. Fogs and head winds compelled him to
put into Shake Harbour, where he had his compass corrected. Starting
again on the 25th, he experienced tolerably fair weather until the 7th
of July, when a heavy gale set in from the south-west. The combings of
the hatchway were started, and the water, finding entrance, damaged
some of his provisions. The gale subsiding, he was favoured with fine
weather and fair wind until the 16th; and a strong breeze in the right
direction coming on, he made good progress till the 2d of August. When
about three hundred miles from the Irish coast, the wind increased to
a hurricane; he hove to, but in unshipping his mast for this purpose,
the boat got broadside on a large wave and was upset. Johnson clambered
on the upturned bottom, where he remained for about twenty minutes. By
dexterous management he succeeded in righting the boat, got in, and
pumped it dry; everything, however, was wetted by the upset, and he
lost his square-sail and kerosene lamp.
Wending his way as winds permitted, he reached within a hundred miles
of the Irish coast by the 7th, spoke a ship, and obtained some bread
and fresh water--both of which had become very scanty with him. On
the following day he got soundings, but fog prevented him from seeing
land. On the 10th he sighted Milford, near the south-west extremity
of Wales. He landed at Abercastle in Pembrokeshire on the 11th, after
being fifty-seven days at sea; starting again, he put into Holyhead,
and finally arrived at Liverpool on the 21st. The little _Centennial_,
which measured only twenty feet in length over all, had run about
seventy miles a day on an average. Johnson maintained his general
health excellently well, though suffering from want of sleep.
The little boat that has recently crossed the Atlantic differed from
Johnson's in this among other particulars, that it had a crew of two
persons, one of whom was a woman. Certainly this woman will have
something to talk about for the rest of her life: seeing that we may
safely assign to her a position such as her sex has never before
occupied--that of having managed half the navigation of a little
ocean-craft for some three thousand miles. The _New Bedford_, so
designated after the town of the same name in Massachusetts (the state
from which Johnson also hailed), is only twenty feet long, with a
burden of a little over a ton and a half; built of cedar, and rigged as
(in sailor-phrase) a 'leg-of-mutton schooner;' with two masts and one
anchor. Anything less ocean-like we can hardly conceive. Captain Thomas
Crapo, the owner of this little affair, is an active man in the prime
of life; and his better-half proves herself worthy to be the helpmate
of such a man. On the 28th of May in the present year, Captain and Mrs
Crapo embarked in their tiny ocean-boat, provided with such provisions
and stores as they could stow away under the deck. The steersman (or
steerswoman) sat in a sunken recess near the stern, with head and bust
above the level of the deck; the other took any standing-place that he
could get for managing the sails, rope, anchor, &c. The boat had no
chronometer; and the progress had to be measured as best it could by
dead-reckoning.
The boat, soon after leaving New Bedford, was forced by stress of
weather to seek a few days' shelter at Chatham, a small port in the
same state. Hoisting sail again on the 2d of June, the boat set off
with a fair wind; and all went well for three days. An adverse wind
then sprang up, a fog overspread the sky, and for ten days the voyage
continued under these unfavourable circumstances. Whilst near the
shoal known as the Great Banks, a keg was seen floating; this was
secured, and the iron hoops utilised (with the aid of canvas) in making
a drogue--one which was included among the outfit of the boat being
found too light for its purpose. The boat, after lying to for three
or four days in a gale of wind, started again, and sailed on till the
21st of June, when another gale necessitated another stoppage. The
_New Bedford_ sighted the steamer _Batavia_, which offered to take
the lonely pair of navigators on board: an offer kindly appreciated,
but courteously declined. After this meeting, a succession of gales
was encountered, and the rudder broke; a spare oar was made to act as
a substitute. The sea ran so very high that even when lying down to
rest, husband and wife had to lie on wet clothes, everything on board
being sloppy and half saturated. At one portion of this trying period
Captain Crapo had to steer for seventy hours uninterruptedly, his wife
being incapacitated from rendering the aid which was her wont; and on
another occasion he had to pay eighteen hours' close attention to the
drogue. The voyage terminated on the 21st of July, after a duration of
fifty-four days. The average sleep of the captain did not exceed four
hours a day; and he had no sleep at all during the last seventy hours
of the run. He had intended to make Falmouth his port of arrival, but
was glad to make for Penzance instead.
The surname of Crapo, we were informed by the captain, is not uncommon
at New Bedford. The good wife is Swedish by descent, Scotch by birth,
American by marriage--a citizen of the world. In examining the boat
closely (which we have done), it becomes more than ever a marvel how
it could have formed the home of a married couple for seven weeks.
Descending through a small hatchway, the feet rest on the floor of (let
us say) the state-cabin, an apartment three feet high; consequently the
head and body project above the hatchway. By spreading blankets and
rugs, and crouching down by degrees, a would-be sleeper can lie down
under the deck, or two sleepers close to the two sides of the boat. The
wife of course acted as stewardess, cook, parlour-maid, scullery-maid,
&c., leaving her husband to manage most of the navigation. The
sperm-oil lamp for the compass-binnacle; the kerosene or petroleum lamp
for the cooking-stove; the receptacles for biscuit and preserved meats
and vegetables; the butler's pantry for a few bottles of spirits; the
vessels for containing water--all were packed into a marvellously small
space. The drogue (already mentioned) is a kind of floating anchor
which, dragged after the vessel by means of a long rope, helps to
steady it in certain states of the wind. Five hundred pounds weight of
stores and six hundred of iron ballast, kept the boat sufficiently low
in the water.
Such were the interior arrangements of one of those strange small
vessels which adventurously attempt to cross the Atlantic.
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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