was hurriedly published in a Scotch newspaper without being revised by
the press-corrector, and Her Majesty, instead of saying that certain
negotiations ‘will, I doubt not, lead to satisfactory results,’ was
reported as saying, ‘will, I doubt, not lead to satisfactory results.’
So much for the misplacing of a comma!
With increased literature have come better systems of ‘reading’ and
correcting, and greater accuracy has been attained. Such mistakes
as above quoted are exceptional, and the morning newspaper may now
be read week after week with but few misprints. A good example of
accuracy in printing tables of figures—in which it is so difficult to
avoid errors—may be seen in _Bradshaw’s Railway Guide_, every monthly
part of which contains from seven to eight hundred thousand figures.
Astronomical and mathematical tables require great care in printing,
and very few are issued which can be relied upon as absolutely
correct. Charles Babbage superintended the production of a set of
trigonometrical tables in 1827 which perhaps stand unrivalled in this
respect. They were prepared for the Ordnance Survey of England and
Ireland, and a limited number of copies printed—it is said only thirty.
They consist of tables of logarithms and log. sines, tangents, cosines
and cotangents, _to every second_. Roughly speaking, they contain about
six millions of figures. The proof-sheets were revised by several sets
of readers, and were carefully examined and compared with other tables
no less than seven times. From Mr Babbage’s preface, we learn that
after the final stereotyping, seven errors were found in the logarithms
and one in the differences. These being corrected, the stereotyped
sheets were hung up in the Hall at Cambridge University, and a reward
offered to any one who could find an inaccuracy. Since their first
issue in 1827, no error has been discovered, and it may reasonably be
concluded that they are absolutely correct.
‘THE KING COUNTRY.’
The recent visit of King Tawhiao to this country has awakened a deep
and widespread interest in New Zealand and its inhabitants. The Maori
king has been fêted and feasted far beyond his desires, and has paid
the penalty of greatness. But he has suffered martyrdom in a good
cause; and if he has not succeeded in bringing the wrongs of the
Maoris home to the Pakehas, he has certainly aroused a very general
curiosity as to the character and resources of the mysterious ‘King
Country’ of which he is the titular chieftain. The publication of Mr
J. H. Kerry-Nicholls’s volume of travels—entitled _The King Country,
or Explorations in New Zealand_ (London: Sampson Low)—in this unknown
region is, therefore, peculiarly well timed. Until within the last few
years, ‘the King Country’—as a vast tract of the finest land in North
Island is still known—was a _terra incognita_ to Europeans. Rivalries
of race constituted a barrier more impassable than the _aukati_ line
itself, which separates the Maori lands from the European portion of
the colony, and is marked on the one side by the farms and homesteads
of the settlers, and on the other by the huts of the natives. In its
vast forests, over its precipitous mountains, along its trackless
plains, the natives alone wandered. It was an _imperium in imperio_, a
fastness in which aboriginal sovereignty sat enthroned, deaf to all
the offers of civilisation.
It was through this unknown country that Mr Kerry-Nicholls pushed
his way in company only with an interpreter. With but three horses,
which were ultimately reduced to two, he accomplished more than six
hundred miles of travel, discovered many new streams, penetrated almost
inaccessible regions of mountainous forest, found extensive plains,
traced the sources of three of the principal rivers of the colony,
examined the unknown shores of its largest lake, ascended one of its
highest mountains, experienced degrees of temperature varying from
eighty degrees in the shade to twelve degrees below freezing-point, and
successfully traversed from south to north a territory with an area of
ten thousand square miles, which had been, from the early history of
the colony, rigorously closed to Europeans. It is scarcely necessary
to add that the records of these wanderings constitute a singularly
interesting volume of discovery and adventure, which can hardly fail
to prove of some practical utility to the colony, and a welcome
contribution to geographical science.
‘The King Country’ comprises one of the finest tracts of land not
only in New Zealand, but in some respects in the southern hemisphere.
It is much more than merely picturesque, and in this respect alone
it can compete with the finest scenery the world can produce. Its
natural advantages are of the highest order. It is throughout well
watered, and in parts exuberantly fertile; while even the mountains
are richly clothed with forest trees and shrubs. The southern portion
is drained by the Whanganui River, which is fed by many tributaries,
flowing from the highest mountain-ranges in the central and southern
divisions of the island; while the Mokau River and its affluents flow
from the central region to the coast. In the north, the Waipa and
numberless minor streams flow from the mountains into the Waikoto River
itself, which has from time immemorial been renowned in Maori fable
and romance. Again, more than a dozen streams flow into Lake Taupo,
an immense reservoir, some twenty-four miles long by fourteen broad,
which lies almost in the midst of the central tableland; while the
Waikoto is the only effluent river. During the rainy season, the waters
of this lake, having only this one outlet, rise rapidly; and with the
continuance of heavy winds, its waves are lashed into fury, and break
upon its shores with all the force of a raging sea.
Geologically speaking, this district presents problems of surpassing
interest. Here can be seen side by side the relics of the stupendous
action of volcanic fires, and of the scarcely less potent force of
the glacier. It is contended that the formation of North Island must
be attributed to submarine volcanic eruptions, which, perhaps by slow
degrees, perhaps rapidly, forced upwards the Taupo tableland. These
fires bursting again through the plains, caused mountains to rise up
in the form of serrated ridges and truncated cones, which poured out
streams of lava and enormous deposits of pumice over the surrounding
country. Probably the basin of the lake was once an active crater,
from which the first vast pumice-plains flowed; while later, the
mighty Ruapehu, and, when it became extinct, the still active
Tongariro, became the outlet of the volcanic fire. That this element
is still largely active in many parts of the country is shown by the
geysers, solfataras, fumaroles, and hot springs which form one of the
characteristic features of North Island. Thus the ‘lake country’—as
the district round Lake Rorotua is commonly known—is ‘a region of
eternal fire.’ The conditions of existence here are certainly novel.
The natives bathe in such of the thermal springs as are of suitable
temperature, at all times of the day, and in a very primitive fashion.
In others, again, they cook their food and warm their houses by the
same means.
These natural phenomena occur in many other districts, such, for
instance, as that round Lake Rotokawa, and the districts near the
native settlement of Tokanu, on the south side of Lake Taupo; while on
the northern slope of Tongariro are some of the largest and most active
boiling springs in the country. Moreover, the mountains possess all
the rock formations in which gold, coal, iron, and other minerals are
found to exist. Thus, the Kaimanawa Mountains, which are situated in
almost the centre of the island, and stretch across the great central
tableland to an extent of eighty miles, offer a peculiarly rich field
to the geologist. Mr Kerry-Nicholls reports the existence of abundant
auriferous indications, and confidently expresses his opinion that here
lies a probable Eldorado.
It is not our purpose to do more than mention the adventurous
journeyings recorded in this volume. Frustrated, owing to disputes
between the natives and the colonial government, in an attempt to
enter ‘the King Country’ from the north, the traveller successfully
essayed to pass the southern boundary-line. By throwing himself upon
the good-will of the natives, going fearlessly among them, respecting
their customs, and following as nearly as possible their mode of life,
and, in fact, for the time becoming a Maori, he succeeded at a time
when many Europeans would not only have failed, but probably have paid
the extreme penalty for their rashness. In one case, it is true, he
only achieved his purpose by dint of exercising the greatest secrecy.
Tongariro is _tapu_, or strictly sacred, in the eyes of the Maoris,
and could only be ascended by a European without their knowledge.
This is one of the most perfect volcanic cones in the world. But the
resources of this rich district, from whatever point of view they may
be considered, are still awaiting development. Its flora and fauna have
still to be collected and classified. Its agricultural and industrial
resources are still unknown; but we have evidence to show that these
are worthy of attention.
THE MOULMEIN ELEPHANTS.
Some time ago there was a discussion in the learned journals regarding
‘intellect in brutes;’ and I thought then, as I think now, that much
of the controversy depended on the definition we assign to the word
‘intellect.’ Some say that it is merely an exaltation of the natural
instinct of the brute; others, that it is an exhibition of true
reason. But then, what is instinct? Some arguers mystify their hearers,
and exhibit their own ignorance of the subject by replying: ‘Instinct
is only that in animals which we call reason in man.’ Well, this is
not the place to argue the subject; but I shall exhibit certain facts,
observed by myself, in the behaviour of the elephants employed in the
Moulmein timber-yards, and leave my readers to judge whether they were
due to instinct or reason.
Anchored abreast of Aga Synd Abdul Hosein’s timber-yard, and within
bare swinging distance of the shore, I had ample opportunities of
minutely observing and recording the marvellous illustrations of the
elephant’s intelligence. These animals are largely employed in the
timber-yards, and their functions consist in helping to embark and
disembark the huge teak-logs, or move them about the yard; in fact,
without them work would be at a stand-still. What struck me at once
was the wonderful combination of enormous power with the gentlest,
most loving docility. Here were huge logs being moved about as if they
were matches, and yet with the utmost regard to any one in the way. A
case in point. We were landing one day at the Aga’s wharf, and found
that the ebbing tide had left a thick layer of treacherous slime on
the wooden slope, rendering it impossible for a lady to land. Seeing
this, the manager called out to a mahout or driver, and in a moment his
elephant pushed a log down the slope, just stopping short of the boat,
and affording the lady a dry surface to step out upon. There must have
been intellect in this act; for the great log was not pushed down at
random on the wharf, nor into collision with the boat, but exactly at
the right spot and into the right place.
All elephant-work is performed either by the trunk or right foot
in pushing; by trunk and tusks combined, as in carrying logs; or
by the strength of the whole body in dragging. Dragging-elephants
are furnished with a light wooden pack-saddle, on which the mahout
sits sideways, and to which the traction-chain is attached. This is
Y-shaped, the leg being greatly prolonged and ending in a hook. Let
us watch the handling of this log—twenty feet long, by sixteen inches
square—which has to be dragged across the yard. The chain is passed
round it by an assistant and then firmly hooked; and now the elephant
has to do the rest. His first action is to get his hind-legs well
within the V of the chain, and then he starts, the log helplessly
following. Arrived at its destination, the elephant disencumbers
himself of the log by unhooking the chain with the finger of his trunk,
and then pulling it from under the log, or pushing the latter to one
side. Now, mark what was involved in this apparently simple operation,
the sole guidance to which was either the voice of the mahout, a pat
from his stick, or a tap from his heels. First, there was the getting
inside the V. Why did the old fellow do that? He has learned from
experience that if he did not, traction would be interfered with, and
his legs rubbed by the chain. Was not his action, therefore, dictated
by reason? Secondly, there was the unhooking of the chain, which
instinct never could have prompted. Imitation was at work; the elephant
had seen that the unhooking of the chain liberated the log, and had
learned to follow the example; showing thereby the domination of reason.
Here are some logs being adjusted on the wharf-slope. Note the ease
with which the elephant pushes each into its place with, apparently,
the slightest movement of trunk or foot. Mark this one, which, by a
greater than necessary exercise of force, has become tilted up against
its fellow. The elephant has noted it too, and half-kneeling, and
getting his tusks under it, he pulls the log backwards a little, and it
drops square with its fellow. What dictated that action? Mathematical
order and precision belong to the bee, and are said to be instinctively
implanted in that humble animal; but could there have been anything
in this elephant’s antecedents to have prepared it for rearranging a
dislocated log? Surely the impulse seized it at the moment, and must
have been due to a sense of order or tidiness implying the presence of
reason. Odd lengths of log, varying from four to six feet, are carried
about the yard by elephants, a species of work which is distasteful
to them, as exhibiting their awkward points. Indeed, they evidently
feel degraded by it, for they set to work with an air of resignation
quite foreign to their shifting or dragging feats. There they rejoice
in their great strength, and are fond of exhibiting it. Here, little
strength is needed; but the operations involve roughish treatment
of the nose, and we know that all animals, including man, are very
particular as to how their noses are handled.
The elephant is proud of his strength, but sensitive with regard to
his trunk, especially when that delicate organ is brought to bear upon
any rough work; and as the securing of a log between the trunk and
tusks necessitates a large amount of awkward movement, I noticed that
the selected elephant approached the job with reluctance. Resigned
to his fate, he half-kneels before the odious object, and gets the
points of his tusks under it; then he wriggles it up the ivory tramway
with his trunk, and secures it therewith _in situ_. His troubles now
commence; for on rising to his feet, the hateful log, obeying the laws
of gravity, at once tends to drop; and to obviate this, the poor brute
has to raise his head on high. Thus constrained, he commences his march
with slow stateliness, as if to make the best of a bad job, and not let
the world at large know that he is virtually walking blindfold. And so
he is; for the elevation of his head upsets the axis of his vision, and
he has to walk more by touch than by sight.
I have thus attempted to describe the main duties which elephants
have to discharge in the timber-yards, and I have mentioned that they
are guided by the voice, stick, or heels of the mahout. Watching them
from shipboard, you are quite close enough to note every movement of
the animal, but not sufficiently near to catch the signal, so that
the elephantine actions seem purely automatic, and therefore the
more astonishing. But when you are alongside the animal, and can see
and hear the simple signals under which he works, you are equally
astonished at the thorough manner in which he understands what he is
expected to do, and the very little prompting he requires.
On one occasion, I arranged with a mahout to bring up his elephant to
where I was standing, that I might indicate the work to be done, the
mahout to be absolutely silent. Standing by a six-foot log, I beckoned
to the mahout, and up came the elephant. Arrived at the spot, and being
without chains, he must have opined that dragging was not intended.
There remained, then, pushing or carrying, the latter operation being
the one which the sagacious creature saw was intended, for he proceeded
at once with his awkward preparations for carrying it away. Throughout
this test the mahout was absolutely silent, and, as far as I could see,
quite passive. The result of it was that the elephant divined: what I,
a stranger, wished it to do, and did it.
On another occasion, I applied the test to a difficult object, an
eighteen-inch cube of teak, which the dear old fellow at once arranged
to carry off; but how to do it, he could not at first determine. As his
tusks diverged more than eighteen inches, they were no support, and the
many sharp corners of the cube sorely tried the delicate trunk. After
some failures, he managed to seize the fragment by the centre, and then
raise it up below the tusks against his lower lip. As he had virtually
accomplished the task, I discontinued the experiment, expressing my
satisfaction and delight to the manager, who somewhat damped my ardour
by informing me that the mahout, while abstaining from use of voice or
stick, might have conveyed his wishes to the elephant by pressure with
his heels!
But a moment’s reflection increased my admiration at the elephant’s
intelligence, for, allowing that the mahout’s heels _had_ pressed his
side, how could such pressure inform him that he was neither to drag
nor push, but carry? Surely the mahout could not have possessed a code
of pressure-signals with which he had indoctrinated the elephant in
prospect of curious visitors. If he had, then it must have included
voice and stick signalling as well, to either of which I might have
resorted. No; I believe that the elephant acted independently of
signals, and reasoned on what he had to do, by what was laid before him.
Hitherto, we have seen the elephant in the yard; let us follow him
into the mill, and there admire the triumph of reason over instinct.
We all know how naturally timid and nervous the elephant is, and how
susceptible to noise. Well, watch this noble old fellow solemnly
dragging in a huge log to the sawmill. Onward he moves, undismayed
by the horrid panting of the engine or the screeching of the saws.
Instinct would have tempted him to turn tail and flee from the noisy
turmoil; reason keeps him at his task, confident that amid the uproar
and apparent confusion, perfect order and safety prevail. And so, with
flapping ears and swaying trunk, he yields up his log to the grip of
the remorseless saw, and goes off unconcerned to find a fresh victim.
It was very pleasing to see that the Aga’s elephants were kindly
treated and well cared for; the goading _ánkūs_ (iron hook; and prod)
was nowhere to be seen. A daily as well as a rigidly observed weekly
rest was secured to them; besides, their cleanliness is well looked
after; and morning and evening they are taken into the river to be
well scrubbed, the termination of each bath being a triple dive, which
they enjoy immensely.
On a second visit to Moulmein, I noticed another totally different
illustration of confiding reason in the elephant. We were at anchor in
the river in a strongly flowing tide, when a deeply sunk raft laden
with green forage, two men, and two elephants, swept swiftly past. The
elephants stood motionless and quite unconcerned, knowing that they
were under secure pilotage, and quite safe as long as they remained
quiet. If they had proved restless, the raft must have come to grief.
GUM-ARABIC AND THE SOUDAN.
According to the _Scientific American_, the gum-arabic supply appears
to have been in a great measure cut off owing to the state of affairs
in the Soudan. It says: ‘Gum-arabic comes almost exclusively from the
Soudan, and owing to the operations of El Madhi, there have been no
receipts of any consequence for a year past. In confectionery it makes
about thirty per cent. of the best quality of gum-drops, marsh-mallow,
and jujube paste. The annual supply from the Soudan has heretofore been
from twenty to twenty-five thousand bags of four to six hundred pounds
each, and there is usually a stock held in London about equal to one
year’s receipts. This reserve is now about exhausted, and the gum has
been steadily advancing in price from the ordinary figures of fourpence
to fivepence per pound, until it now commands from one shilling and
threepence to two shillings, according to quality.’
ONE BY ONE.
Though from the boughs to which they’ve long been clinging,
The autumn leaves are dropping one by one,
Yet from their dust, new forms of beauty, springing,
Shall smile again in summer’s gentle sun.
Though one by one the pearly drops of morning,
From drooping flowers, on viewless pinions rise,
We’ll see them yet the gorgeous clouds adorning
With glowing arches of celestial dyes.
Though one by one the stars are fading slowly
That all night long kept vigil in the sky,
The distant mountain-peaks, like prophets holy,
Proclaim that morning’s light and song are nigh.
Though with slow step goes forth the sower weeping,
And on earth’s lap his precious treasure leaves,
Yet comes the harvest, with its joyous reaping,
When shall be gathered home the ripened sheaves.
Though one by one the friends we fondly cherish
Withdraw from ours, the cold and trembling hand,
And leave us sorrowful, they do not perish—
They yet shall greet us in a fairer land.
Yes; from all climes, where’er the faithful slumber
’Neath scorching suns, or arctic snow and frost,
Stainless they’ll rise, in myriads without number;
All, all, shall meet—there shall not one be lost.
A. M‘L.
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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON,
and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
* * * * *
_All Rights Reserved._