BOOK IV.--AUTUMN.

CHAP.

I. WHAT MAY BE SEEN IN THE HEAVENS:--

The Circle, and the uniform Movement of the Stars

(according to the Theory of the Ancients destroyed

by Kepler), 289

The Solar Constitution, 292

Result of recent Astronomical Researches, 296

II. WHAT MAY BE SEEN ON THE EARTH:--

Chemical action of Light, 312

Action of Heat, 313

Arable Land, 318

Mushrooms or Agarics, 325

The Number of Vegetable Species distributed over the

whole Surface of the Globe, 337

The Harvest Bug, 349

The Cheese Mite, 354

The Number of Animal Species distributed over the whole

Surface of the Globe, 356

What is Chlorophyll? 366

Carnations and Pinks, 371

The Eglantine and the Convolvulus, 379

Metamorphosis: a Physico-philosophical Meditation, 384

* * * * *

APPENDIX, 405

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.

[Illustration]

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_.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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.

[Illustration: 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?

[Illustration: 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.

NORTHERN CONSTELLATIONS.

Ursa Minor, the Lesser Bear, 24

Ursa Major, the Great Bear, 87

Perseus, and Head of Medusa, 59

Auriga, the Charioteer, 66

Boötes, the Herdsman, 54

Draco, the Dragon, 80

Cepheus, 35

Canes Venatici, the Greyhounds Asteria and Chara, 28

Cor Caroli (Heart of Charles II.), 3

Triangulum, the Triangle, 16

Triangulum Minus, the Lesser Triangle, 10

Musca, the Fly, 6

Lynx, 44

Leo Minor, the Lesser Lion, 53

Coma Berenicis, Hair of Queen Berenice, 43

Cameleopardalis, the Giraffe, 58

Mons Menelaus, Mt. Menelaus, 4

Corona Borealis, the Northern Crown, 21

Serpens, the Serpent, 64

Scutum Sobieski, Sobieski's Shield, 8

Hercules, with the Dog Cerberus, 113

Serpentarius, or Ophiuchus, the Serpent-Bearer, 74

Taurus Poniatowski, Poniatowski's Bull, 7

Lyra, the Harp, 22

Vulpeculus et Anser, the Fox and Goose, 37

Sagitta, the Arrow, 18

Aquila, the Eagle, with Antinous, 71

Delphinus, the Dolphin, 18

Cygnus, the Swan, 81

Cassiopeia, the Lady in her Chair, 55

Equulus, the Horse's Head, 10

Lacerta, the Lizard, 16

Pegasus, the Flying Horse, 89

Andromeda, 11

Tarandus, the Rein-deer, 12

SOUTHERN CONSTELLATIONS.

Phœnix, 13

Apparatus Sculptoris, the Sculptor's Tools, 12

Eridanus Fluvius, the River Po, 84

Hydrus, the Water-Snake, 10

Cetus, the Whale, 97

Fornax Chemica, the Chemical Furnace, 19

Horologium, the Clock, 12

Rheticulus Rhomboidialus, 10

Xiphias Dorado, the Sword-Fish, 7

Celapraxitellis, the Engraver's Tools, 16

Lepus, the Hare, 19

Columba Noachi, Noah's Dove, 10

Orion, 78

Argo Navis, the Ship Argo, 64

Canis Major, the Great Dog, 31

Equulus Pictoris, 8

Monoceros, the Unicorn, 31

Canis Minor, the Lesser Dog, 14

Chameleon, 10

Pyxis Nautica, the Mariner's Compass, 4

Piscis Volans, the Flying-Fish, 8

Hydra, the Serpent, 60

Sextans, the Sextant, 41

Robur Carolinum (Charles II.'s Oak), 12

Antlia Pneumatica, the Air-Pump, 3

Crater, the Cup, 31

Corvus, the Crow, 9

Crux, the Cross, 6

Apis Musca, the Bee or Fly, 4

Avis Indica, the Bird of Paradise, 11

Circinus, the Mariner's Compass, 4

Centaurus, the Centaur, 35

Lupus, the Wolf, 24

Norma, or Euclid's Square, 12

Triangulum Australe, the Southern Triangle, 5

Ara, the Altar, 9

Telescopium, the Telescope, 9

Corona Australis, the Southern Crown, 12

Pavo, the Peacock, 14

Indus, the Indian, 12

Microscopium, the Microscope, 10

Octans Hadliensis, Hadley's Octant, 43

Grus, the Crane, 14

Toucan, the American Goose, 9

Piscis Australis, the Southern Fish, 24

Mons Mensa, the Table Mountain, 30

ZODIACAL CONSTELLATIONS.

Aries, the Ram, 66

Taurus, the Bull, 141

Gemini, the Twins, 85

Cancer, the Crab, 83

Leo, the Lion, 95

Virgo, the Virgin, 110

Libra, the Balance, 51

Scorpio, the Scorpion, 44

Sagittarius, the Archer, 69

Capricornus, the Goat, 51

Aquarius, the Water-Bearer, 108

Pisces, the Fishes, 113

FOOTNOTES

[Footnote 1: Tennyson, "In Memoriam," cvi.]

[Footnote 2: Homer, "Odyssey," v. 273.]

[Footnote 3: Homer, "Odyssey," Book v., 121-124.]

[Footnote 4: Ibid., Book xi., 571-574.]

[Footnote 5: The pole-star, however, is not the true polar point, but

distant from it about 1° 32', which, in A.D. 2100, will be decreased

to 26' 30".]

[Footnote 6: Homer, "Odyssey," Book v., 275.]

[Footnote 7: Manilius, "Astronomicon," Book i., 291-300.]

[Footnote 8: Manilius, "Astronomicon," i., 308, 309.]

[Footnote 9: This displacement amounts to about fifty seconds

annually, or, more accurately, to 50".3. It is easy, therefore, to

calculate that the complete rotation of the terrestrial axis around

the poles of the ecliptic will occupy 25,765 years.]

[Footnote 10: These are also called the Pointers, because an

imaginary line from the lower to the upper, prolonged in the same

direction, passes nearly over the Polar Star.]

[Footnote 11: Pliny, "Historia Naturalis," Book ii., 24.]

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration]

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.

[Illustration: 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?

[Illustration: _a b c_

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.

[Illustration: 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 40º F. in any part of

the ocean. Even where the external temperature has sunk to 20º or

30º 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 90º 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.

79º N., Dr Kane marked a temperature of 75º 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.

[Illustration: 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.

+-----------+-------------------------+----------------+

| Latitude. | Place. | Height of |

| (Degs.) | | Snow-Line. |

+-----------+-------------------------+----------------+

| 79 N. | Spitzbergen | 0 |

| 71 | Mageroe (Norway) | 2,350 |

| 70 to 60 | Norway (Interior of) | 3,500 to 5,100 |

| 65 | Iceland | 3,050 |

| 54 | Oonalashka (W. America) | 3,510 |

| 50 | Altai Mountains | 7,034 |

| 45 | Alps, The, N. declivity | 8,885 |

| 45 | Do., S. declivity | 9,150 |

| 43 | The Caucasus | 11,863 |

| 43 | The Pyrenees | 9,000 |

| 40 | Mount Ararat | 14,150 |

| 36 | Karakorum, N. side | 17,500 |

| 36 | Do., S. side | 19,300 |

| 36 | Kuen-luen, N. side | 15,000 |

| 35 | Do., S. side | 15,680 |

| 29 | Himalaya, N. side | 19,560 |

| 28 | Do., N. side | 15,500 |

| 17 | Cordilleras of Mexico | 14,650 |

| 13 | Ethiopian Mountains | 14,075 |

| | | |

| 1 S. | Andes, in Quito | 15,680 |

| 16 | Do., in Bolivia, E. | 15,800 |

| 18 | Do., in Bolivia, W. | 18,400 |

| 33 | Do., in Chili | 14,600 |

| 43 | Do., in Patagonia | 6,300 |

| 54 | Strait of Magelhaens | 3,700 |

+-----------+-------------------------+----------------+

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.

On the 8th of January 1832, a Swiss naturalist, M. Hugi, started

from Soleure to study the winter condition of the classic glacier of

Grindelwald. The undertaking was in many respects a difficult one;

the sides of the Mettenberg, bordering on this glacier, were covered

with an uniform stratum of hardened snow; a pathway had to be cut out

with the pickaxe. M. Hugi and his companions did not arrive at the

Stierreg until towards evening.

[Illustration: FIG. 9.--Among the Alps.]

A goatherd lives there during the summer. They sought around and

about for his little cabin, but, on the uniform white carpet of snow

which covered everything, no sign of it could be detected. At length

they came upon a little mound, which they immediately proceeded to

excavate; and late in the night they discovered the roof of the hut.

They then redoubled their efforts to sweep away the snow obstructing

the door. On opening it a score of mice emerged from the cabin, some

of which they killed.

For a picture of the poor victims we are indebted to M. Hugi. "These

little rodents are of a yellowish gray, and very slender; from the

head to the tip of the tail they measure about nine inches. The hind

paws are of a length wholly disproportionate to the fore paws. The

tail and ears are naked; their transparency is remarkable.... This

animal," adds M. Hugi, "appeared to me completely unknown, and I do

not remember to have seen it in any zoological collection."

After determining its genus and species, the intrepid explorer of the

Alps was entitled to have given it a name; but this honour escaped

him.

[Illustration: FIG. 10.--The Arctic Vole.]

The same little rodent has since been found in many other parts of

the Alps; notably among the rocks of the Grands-Mulets, some 12,500

feet above the sea-level.

Desirous of comparing the climate of Spitzbergen with that of the

summit of the Alps, M. Martins established himself, in 1841, with

his friend, A. Bravais, on the Faulhorn. "While," he says, "we were

engaged in our experiments, we often perceived a little animal

passing swiftly by us, and stealthily gliding into its burrow. We

remarked that it was also found in the _auberge_, or inn, and that

it fed upon Alpine plants. At the first glance, its resemblance to

the common mouse led us to think that this inconvenient guest had

followed man into his abode on the Faulhorn, as it had formerly

crossed the seas on board ship. But a more attentive examination

showed me that, far from being a mouse, it was a species of vole,

which had hitherto escaped the researches of naturalists. I

designated it by the name of the snow-vole, _Arvicola nivalis_."

It was the same animal which M. Hugi had discovered nine years

before. The ice was broken, and names, both generic and specific,

afterwards fell like hail on the body of our poor little rodent. Some

would have had it called--

Hypudæus alpinus.

Hypudæus petrophilus.

Hypudæus nivicola.

Hypudæus Hugei.

Others, and fewer in number, preferred the designation of

"White-tailed Vole,"--

Arvicola leucurus.

Others again, "the Lebrun vole,"--

Arvicola Lebrunii.

Which of all these names shall prevail? We cannot say, and it matters

very little to us. Perhaps the nomenclators may in time agree among

themselves upon the appellation of the genus. However this may be, we

know--and it is an important fact--that a mammal exists at altitudes

where men could not live, and that he is found in the Alps, above

even the lower limit of the perpetual snows. Is it the only mammal

which can live at such a height?

THE MARMOT.

Who, in the wide world of London, where so many waifs and strays are

drifting with the great current of human life, has not observed the

Savoyard wanderer with his dancing marmot? If the man did not attract

our notice, his curious companion would. In form he belongs partly

to the bear, and partly to the rat. Naturalists have, therefore,

expressly created for him the genus _Arctomys_,--a Latinised Greek

name, signifying "The Bear-Rat."

In fact, the marmot resembles Harlequin's cloak, or rather, if it

be permissible to compare little things with great, the Austrian

Empire,--a composite of territories and races; and Buffon has

described him very aptly. He has, he says, the nose, the lips,

and the shape of the head of the hare; the hair and nails of the

badger; the teeth of the beaver; the cat's whiskers; the eyes of the

dormouse; the feet of the bear, with a short tail and truncated ears.

Add to this that the marmot--he is a little larger than a rabbit--is

omnivorous like man and the bear, with whom he shares his aptitude

for dance and sport. While he eats any and everything, he

nevertheless prefers vegetable food to all other kinds; and with his

orange-coloured incisors gnaws the bark of shrubs. He rarely drinks,

but when he does drink takes a hearty draught; is particularly fond

of milk; drinks it by raising his head at each mouthful, like a hen,

and giving utterance to an audible murmur of contentment, just as

if he were reciting his _Benedicite_. Will it be in allusion to

this characteristic that the common French phrase has originated,

_Marmotter des prières_?[20]

During the summer the marmots inhabit the snowy summits of the Alps.

At the beginning of autumn they descend to a lower level, for the

purpose of excavating the burrows in which they pass the winter,

completely benumbed by the frost. This is the time when the hunters

easily capture them; they have nothing to do but to dig (_creuser_

is the technical word); and frequently they are found as many as ten

or twelve in the same burrow, rolled up like balls, and buried in a

litter of hay. Their sleep, says De Saussure, is so profound, that

the hunter deposits them in his sack and carries them away without

awakening them. The Chamounix hunters, he adds, have already entirely

expelled or destroyed the goats formerly so abundant on their

mountains; and it is probable that, in less than a century, we shall

see neither chamois nor marmots.

This prophecy of De Saussure's is on the point of being realised.

Still, even at the present day, marmots are not very rare in the

Valais and the canton of Ticino (du Tissin), where they are called

_Mure montane_ (mountain rats); a phrase from which is derived,

without doubt, the appellation _marmot_. They prefer as their abode

the stony islets which rise here and there in the midst of the rocks.

The ears of travellers who venture into the barrenest recesses of the

Alps of the Bernese Oberland are sometimes struck by a very sharp

whistling, for which, at first, they find it difficult to account. It

is the young marmot's cry of alarm; for the old appear to be deprived

of this strident faculty.

For a considerable period only a single species was known--the marmot

properly so called (_Arctomys marmotta_, Gmelin); but four others

must now be added:--1st, The marmot of the Caucasus (_Arctomys

musicus_), still imperfectly known; 2d, The marmot of Canada

(_Arctomys empetra_), who clambers up the trees like a cat, and is

distributed throughout all North America, particularly in Hudson's

Bay, and Alaska, on the north-west coast; 3d, The _Arctomys monax_,

who appears to be peculiar to Maryland; 4th, The Russian marmot

(_Arctomys citillus_), of the size of a field-mouse, and of a brown

colour, spotted with white; 5th, The marmot of Siberia (_Arctomys

bobac_), smaller than the common species, of a yellow gray, and

building vast burrows shaped like a funnel.

Will the reader permit us an allusion, in passing, to a question

which we do not see discussed in books of natural history? Formerly

among the treasures of ancient druggists figured a kind of panacea,

called "Graetz's balls." What were these "Graetz's balls," at one

time esteemed as a universal medicine, but no longer included in our

pharmacopeia?

This was their origin:--The subterranean dwellings which certain

species of marmots construct with so much skill, are each composed

of two galleries, which unite together like the arms of a Y, and

terminate in a _cul-de-sac_. There are found the globules of clay

known as "Graetz's balls." They are an industrial product of

our rodents, as M. Oscar Schmidt established in 1866, by close

observation of the _Arctomys bobac_ of the Zoological Garden of

Vienna. The marmot creates these balls by scratching up the earth,

and appears to amuse himself--a child's amusement!--by rolling them

to and fro in his galleries.

THE CHAMOIS.

"Even so

This way the chamois leapt."[21]

Must we omit this graceful ruminant from the number of mammals

inhabiting the eternal snows? No; for it is not of his own will that

the chamois has taken refuge upon the snowy peaks of the Alps. If we

meet with him there, it is because he seeks to shelter himself from

the destructive instincts of man.

The chamois is one of those animal species which, before a century,

perhaps, will have disappeared; his bones will then figure in the

palæontological museums by the side of the skeletons of extinct

species. There, too, will be displayed the famous _chamois balls_,

each of the size of a nut, covered with a shining substance

resembling leather, of an agreeable odour, and seeming to be a morbid

dejection, composed of roots and other undigested matter. These

balls, the _bezoars_ of the old physicians, were regarded as a remedy

against every ill the human flesh is heir to; it was even professed

that they rendered soldiers invulnerable, and were a better defence

against bullets than the finest armour ever wrought by the smiths of

Milan. How precious a remedy for this epoch of civilisation, when

man--is he much wiser than his supposed progenitor, the ape?--seeks

to replace the cholera and the pestilence by the most terrific

engines of destruction!

* * * * *

The birds inhabiting the inhospitable region of the snows are more

numerous than the mammals. Let us briefly refer to a few of the more

important.

THE EAGLE AND THE WREN.

In speaking of the eagle, Tennyson's noble lines to that "imperial

bird" will occur to every reader, from the force and clearness of the

picture which they present:--

"He clasps the crag with hookèd hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ringed with the azure world, he stands.

"The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls."

The affection of the eagle for his "mountain walls" may be easily

understood. This giant bird, with his carnivorous instincts, is

endowed with a remarkable tenacity of life, and can exist in habitats

wholly inaccessible to man. But it is strange that a bird, which

is as common a type of humility as the eagle is of ambition, and

which we almost always cite as a contrast to the eagle--we mean, the

delicate little wren--should also be found among the snow and ice,

the silence and solitude, of the loftiest mountain regions.

To study the flight of the eagle, we should repair to Alpine

highlands. When he has reached a certain altitude of the atmosphere,

the royal bird descends obliquely, as upon an inclined plane, with

a rush and a din of wings, and at a speed of upwards of thirty-six

yards per second. We assured ourselves of the accuracy of this fact

during an ascent of Mount Hochkœrpf, in the canton of Glaris. The

bird traversed in six minutes a space of 40,000 Swiss feet, which

is equal to about forty yards per second. This result agrees, on

the whole, with the observations of a traveller, who wrote in the

_Nouvelle Gazette de Zurich_, on the 26th of August 1863:--

"A society of tourists set out from Corri to climb the Stützerhorn,

which is 8400 feet in height. From the summit they perceived an

enormous eagle, which, having taken his flight from Calanda, beyond

the Rhine, directed his course towards the Stützerhorn, for the

purpose of halting, after a certain inflection, on the side of the

Rothhorn."

The duration of the flight was five minutes; the interval between

the starting-point and the point of arrival, two French leagues and

a half. In three hundred seconds, therefore, the eagle must have

traversed a space of 3000 Swiss feet, which is equal to a speed of

forty-five yards per second. Hence, the swiftness of the eagle's

flight is nearly equal to the velocity of sound.

One of the most admirable descriptions of the habits of this bird

with which we are acquainted, is furnished by the well-known

naturalist Macgillivray:--

"There he stands"--on his lonely crag--"nearly erect, with his

tail depressed, his large wings half raised by his side, his neck

stretched out, and his eye glistening as he glances around. Like

other robbers of the desert, he has a noble aspect, an imperative

mien, a look of proud defiance; but his nobility has a cast of

clownishness, and his falconship a vulturine tinge. Still he is a

noble bird, powerful, independent, proud, and ferocious, regardless

of the weal or woe of others, and intent only on the gratification of

his own appetite; without generosity, without honour; bold against

the defenceless, but ever ready to sneak from danger. Such is his

nobility, about which men have so raved.

"Suddenly he raises his wings, for he has heard the whistle of the

shepherd on the crag, and bounding forward, he springs into the air.

Hardly do those vigorous flaps serve at first to prevent his descent,

but now curving upwards, he glides majestically along. As he passes

the corner of that buttressed and battlemented crag, forth rush two

ravens from their nest, croaking fiercely. While one flies above

him, the other steals beneath, and they essay to strike him, but

dare not, for they have an instinctive knowledge of the power of his

grasp; and, after following him a little way, they return to their

home, vainly exulting in the thought of having driven him from their

neighbourhood.

"But on a far journey, he advances in a direct line, flapping his

great wings at regular intervals, then shooting along without seeming

to move them. In ten minutes he has progressed three miles, although

he is in no haste, and now disappears behind the shoulder of the

hill. But we may follow him in imagination, for his habits being well

known to us, we may be allowed the ornithological license of tracing

them in continuance."

[Illustration: FIG. 11.--The Eagle's Habitat.]

Homeward bound,--Mr Macgillivray continues,--after having supplied

his own wants, he knows that his young must be provided with

food. Therefore he sweeps across the moor, at a height of two or

three hundred feet, bending his course to either side, his wings

wide-spread, his neck and feet retracted, now beating the air, and

again sailing smoothly along. Suddenly he halts, poises himself for

a moment, stoops, but recovers himself without touching the ground.

The object of his regards, a golden plover, which he spied on her

nest, has contrived to elude him, and he does not care to pursue

her. Now, then, he ascends a little, wheels in short abrupt curves,

presently rushes down headlong, assumes the horizontal position when

close to the ground, prevents himself from being dashed against it by

expanding his wings and tail, thrusts forth his talons, and grasping

a poor, terrified ptarmigan that sat cowering among the gray lichens,

squeezes it to death, raises his head exultingly, utters a clear,

shrill cry, and, rising from the ground, pursues his journey.

As he passes a tall cliff overhanging a silent lake, he is attacked

by a fierce peregrine falcon, which darts and plunges at him, as

if resolved to deprive him of his booty, or drive him headlong to

the ground. A more formidable foe is this than the raven; and the

eagle, with a scream and a yelp, throws himself into postures of

defence, until, at length, the hawk, perceiving that the tyrant has

no intention of plundering his nest, leaves him to pursue his course

without further molestation. Over dense woods, and green fields,

and scattered hamlets, the eagle speeds; and now he enters the long

river-valley, near whose upper end, cradled in mist, rises the rock

of his eyrie. About a mile from it he meets his mate, who has been

abroad on a similar design, and is returning with a white hare as

her spoil. With loud strident cries they congratulate each other,

cries that alarm the drowsy shepherd on the green strath below, who,

remembering the lambs carried off in spring-time, discharges at them

a volley of maledictions.

Their nest is of considerable size, but rudely constructed; a pile

of twigs and heather and dead sticks, somewhat hollow in the middle,

where lies a thin deposit of wool and feathers. Here repose the

eaglets, two in number, and clothed in soft white down.

* * * * *

[Illustration: FIG. 12.--The Lammergeier.]

Independently of the species which, like the _Pandion haliætus_, and

the _Aquila nævia_, inhabit the lower regions, the eagles which visit

the Alps are very remarkable. Thus, the species of _Gypaëtos_, which

the inhabitants designate under the name of the _Lammergeier_, or

"Lamb-slayer," is the European condor. The spread of his wings is

about ten feet; he weighs from eighteen to twenty-four pounds, and

can easily carry off in his talons kids, lambs, and even children.

The _Steinadler_, which, like the preceding, belongs to the

inaccessible mountains of the cantons of Glaris, Schwyz, the Grisons,

Appenzell, and Berne, would seem to be a variety or sub-species of

the _Aquila imperialis_. The inhabitants of Eblingen, a village on

the borders of the Lake of Brienz, hunt him vigorously. Finally, some

eagles there are which only sojourn in the Alps temporarily; they

appear to be astray; such are--

The _Circæetus leucopsis_, which has a particular affection for

serpent-haunted districts;

The _Haliætus leucocephala_, with head and tail of a milky white,

belonging to the north of Europe and America; and

The _Neophron percnopterus_, or Egyptian eagle, of carrion-like

odour, which is sometimes met with in the neighbourhood of Geneva.

The tawny-headed vulture (_Vultur fulvus_), and the ashy vulture

(_Vultur cinereus_), with gray-brown mouth, and a brownish collar

round his bare neck, are extremely rare in Switzerland.

* * * * *

But we now take leave of the eagle, and turn our attention to the

lowly wren, whose charming but simple music has been described in

charming but simple verse by Bishop Mant:--

"The quick note of the russet wren,

Familiar to the haunts of men;

He quits in hollowed wall his bower,

And through the winter's gloomy hour

Sings cheerily; nor yet hath lost

His blitheness, chilled by pinching frost,

Nor yet is forced for warmth to cleave

To caverned nook or straw-built cave,--

Sing, gentle bird! sing on, designed

A lesson for our anxious kind,

That we, like thee, with hearts content"----

[Illustration: FIG. 13.--The Wren.]

The wren here referred to is a British species, the common wren, or

_Troglodytes vulgaris_, one of the smallest of our British songsters;

a restless, lively bird, which twitters about the hedgerows in

summer, and about the garden and shrubbery in winter, and chanting

his mellow song even under the gloomy sky of December. Allied to this

familiar bird is the Gold-crowned Knight,[22] or _Sylvia regulus_,

which is found in the Alpine deserts at an elevation of 9000 to

10,000 feet. Like our own Jenny Wren, he has a very fine, slender

bill, which denotes his insectivorous propensities. He is easily

known by the little crest of silky feathers which he wears on his

head, like a diadem, and also by his peculiar cry of _souci-î-î-î_.

Our crowned knight is very partial to the society of the tits, and,

like them, he is easily caught with birdlime. He is so fond of

the company of other birds, that, when he finds himself alone, he

becomes disquieted; his prolonged tiny chirp grows plaintive; and

he flies to and fro in quest of comrades. He may be regarded as a

trustworthy barometer, for, prior to rainy weather, his song is

very loud and incessant. Devoted to the pursuit of insects or their

larvæ, he seems to pay no attention to the passer-by; he flutters

vivaciously from branch to branch, and puts himself in all imaginable

positions, sometimes with his head upwards, sometimes with his head

downwards. We have often watched, with extreme gratification, the

acrobatic tricks of our Lilliputian gymnast. Occasionally, before

he perches, you will see him, in a frenzy of indecision, rapidly

agitating his wings, and revolving them like a wheel. If you look

at him, while thus engaged, _against_ the light, you will think you

see a tiny, ethereal, diaphanous spinning-top. After "assisting" at

such a spectacle, which the first wood will furnish, you will not be

indisposed to admit with us, that the bird designated by the Greeks

τροχιλος, or "little wheel," and whose identity has so often been

discussed, was, in reality, our golden-crested knight. Moreover,

he is a true cosmopolite, in every acceptation of the word. Not

only does he never quit us, not only does he remain faithful to us

throughout the year, but we meet with him over all Europe. He is

also found in Asia, and even, it is said, in America, from the West

Indies to Canada. His flight being very short, it is supposed that he

passed from one hemisphere to another by way of Behring's Strait. It

is certain, at all events, that he discovered the New World before

Christopher Columbus.

During the severe cold of the winter of 1867-8, we saw our knight--a

very rare circumstance--haunt the vicinity of our houses, though he

prefers the green shade of the forests, and especially of the forests

of pine and fir. He who has seen him pecking at the bark and leaves

of these trees, while the ground was covered with snow, and during a

frost of 10° below zero (C.), will feel no astonishment at meeting

him upon the snowy summits of the Alps.

Yet this pet bird of ours, this Lilliputian warbler, does not weigh

more, with all his feathers, than a quarter of an ounce, or the two

thousandth part of an eagle. Away with the hunter who would attempt

such tiny game! A bird so small that he glides through the meshes

of a net,--so delicate, that if you would not irreparably injure

your "specimen," you must shoot him with a few grains of finest

shot,--a bird of such frail appearance, withstanding all climates,

and distributed over the entire surface of the globe,--here is a

subject worthy the meditation of man, who pretends to be the "lord of

creation!"

THE SNOW-BUNTING--(_Emberiza plectrophanes nivalis_).

This is the snow-lark-bunting of Macgillivray, and a species of

the genus _Plectrophanes_. In Scotland, he is frequently called

the Snow-flake, and, in other parts of Great Britain, the Snow or

Oat-fowl. His weight does not exceed an ounce and a half. His bill

and legs are black; his forehead and crown white, with an admixture

of black on the hind part of the head; black are the back and sides,

but each wing is marked by a broad belt of white; the quill feathers

are black, with white bases; the secondaries are white, with black

spots on the interior webs.

[Illustration: FIG. 14.--The Crests of Inaccessible Rocks.]

The snow-bunting's favourite localities, where he loves to build his

nest, are the crests of inaccessible rocks, surrounded by vast fields

of snow, in whose midst the sun and tempest have created a few oases.

The most he does is to approach the hospices of Monts St Bernard and

St Gothard, and construct his nest under the eaves of their roofs.

This nest, made of long blades of grass, is lined internally with

hair and the feathers of poultry. At the beginning of May, the female

lays six eggs of a snowy whiteness, and the male assists in hatching

them, and bringing up the young. The bill of the latter is, at first,

of a bright yellow, which turns black, like that of the parents, as

they grow older.

The snow-bunting rarely descends into the wooded region. Of a very

sprightly disposition, he spends nearly all his life in the midst

of the snows and the ice. His song somewhat resembles that of the

finch, which he also resembles in size and social instincts; for he

may frequently be seen in numerous bands hovering above the highest

mountains.

The snow-bunting is also met with in the northern districts of Asia

and America.

THE RED-BILLED CROW--(_Corvus pyrrhocorax_).

The familiar cry of this bird, who resembles the thrush,--the

_krapp-krapp_ of the red-billed crow (_la corneille des

nieges_),--agreeably falls on the ear of the traveller, when

wandering through solitudes devoid of any other living being. By

their cries and their presence these birds animate the denuded

rocks which rise like promontories in seas of ice. They are easily

distinguished from other species by their coral-red bills; whence

their name of _Pyrrhocorax_. They nest in troops in the crevices of

the most inaccessible rocks, and propagate there from generation to

generation. Their presence is indicated by enormous heaps of ordure,

veritable guano, which might well be used for manure. Their abrupt

ascents and strident cries are signs of bad weather, which the

mountaineer knows how to profit by.

If caught when young, these birds are easily domesticated. M.

Tschudi, in his "Life among the Alps," relates the history of one who

had been tamed. He would himself go in quest of the bread, cheese,

and fruits which composed his repast; then, holding in his claws the

prize he had coveted, devour it with avidity. What remained of his

meal he carefully concealed in paper, and would gallantly defend the

hidden treasure against whomsoever dared to approach it, against

dogs as well as man. Fire had a singular attraction for him; he

would extract from a lamp the burning wick, and swallow it without

sustaining any injury; he would swallow even the _débris_ of the

charcoal as he fluttered about the chimney. He showed an excessive

joy at the sight of smoke, and loudly clapped his wings. Whenever

he caught sight of any burning coal, he did not fail to pick up

immediately all the paper, rags, or twigs he could lay his claws on;

these he would place in the stove, and amuse himself by watching the

smoke they gave forth. If a stranger entered the room, he gave vent

to the most deafening cries, though he was exceedingly gentle and

familiar towards persons with whom he was acquainted. His friends and

favourites he distinguished in a peculiar manner; he ran in front

of them, displayed his joy by expanding his wings, and alternately

perched himself on their hands, their head, their shoulders, eyeing

them all over, and bending his head as if to kiss them. Every morning

he entered his master's bedroom, called him by his name, posted

himself on his pillow, and waited tranquilly until he awoke; then he

expressed his satisfaction by all kinds of gestures and noises.

REPTILES.

Close to the line of perpetual snow a black variety of vipers has

been met with; but none of the serpent race ever _cross_ that line.

The only reptile found within the boundaries of the snowy region is

a kind of lizard (_Zootoca pyrrhogastra_), the only one, perhaps,

of all the vertebrata which could live at an elevation above the

sea-level of more than 9500 feet, buried in the snow for upwards of

ten months.

During the few bright summer weeks, he feeds upon some rare insects

and spiders.

The frigid zone is so far the natural habitat of these lizards, that

they would rather die of hunger than live in the more genial regions

to which men have wished to transplant them. In length they nearly

equal our common lizards, but they are not quite so big; their back

is of a chesnut brown, marked with black streaks and dots; the throat

is bluish; the belly of the male is of a greenish blue, spotted with

black, while that of the female is of so lively a red as to have

suggested the name of the species, _Pyrrhogastra_; just as the name

of the genus is derived from the circumstance that the young are

hatched in the mother's belly, and are born alive like the young of

a mammal. This statement, too, holds good with respect to the viper,

which also endures the cold of elevated regions.

INFERIOR ANIMALS.

Our information is still very incomplete so far as relates to the

molluscs, the arachnida, and the insects which inhabit the frigid

zone. The Alpine snail (_Helix Alpicola_), so remarkable for its

transparency, appears to be the sole mollusc which, in certain

localities, attains to an elevation of 7000 feet. It is, however,

surpassed by the earthworm, which is not only distributed over the

surface of every country, but ascends to the snowy summits of the

loftiest mountains. Few animals have their geographical distribution

so extended both horizontally and vertically; and only some species

of spiders and millepeds keep company with the earthworm.

Among the other inhabitants of the snows have also been observed a

dozen species of butterflies,--nearly all diurnal,--for the phalænæ

(?), or nocturnal Lepidoptera, appear to be much more sensible to

the cold. M. Agassiz saw the "Little Vulcan" (_Vanessa urticæ_)

fluttering in the snowy desert which borders on the glacier of Aar,

as if it were completely in its element. The wings of the majority of

these butterflies are sombre-coloured; their caterpillars live upon

the auriculas, and seem to accomplish their metamorphoses in regions

uninhabitable to us. The leaf-wasp (_Tenthredo spinacula_) appears to

deposit its larvæ, at a height of nearly 10,000 feet, in the galls

of the Alpine rose (_rhododendron ferrugineum_ and _rhododendron

hirsutum_.)

* * * * *

The coleoptera have also numerous representatives in the region of

perpetual snows, with this difference--equally characteristic of

other animals--that, upon the southern declivity, they ascend 1000 to

1500 feet higher than on the northern. We may mention, as specially

distributed in the topmost zone of the Alpine world:--

The _Chrysomela salicina_, a pretty little beetle, sometimes

blue, sometimes deep green, and finely punctuated, which lives

almost exclusively upon a species of dwarf willow (_Salix

retusa_).

The _Nebria Escheri_, a black beetle, about two thirds of an inch

long, with feet and antennæ of a brownish red; and

The _Nebria Chevrierii_, with rust-coloured feet and antennæ,

common in the sources of the Rhine.

* * * * *

Special mention must be made of the _Snow-Flea_. Do not think we

are referring to an insect of the same species as our common fleas:

the snow-flea approximates much more closely to the lice family

than to the fleas, though it hops like the latter. The history of

its discovery dates back as far as 1839. At this epoch, M. Desor, a

learned Swiss naturalist, had undertaken some researches upon the

glaciers. Accompanied by some friends, he set out from the hospice

of the Grimsel, and arrived in the vicinity of the glacier of the

Lower Aar. He had commenced his observations, when suddenly he heard

Agassiz calling him, and shouting, "Come, come, make haste; here are

your Mont Rosa fleas." Desor ran to the spot, and saw under a stone

the little creatures whom Agassiz persisted in taking to be veritable

lice, pretending they had been accidentally brought to these heights.

"I recognised with extreme joy," says M. Desor, "the little creatures

whose loss I had regretted a year before. They are not pretty, but,

on the contrary, very ugly. However, they showed, in opposition to

the opinion of Agassiz, that they really inhabited the glacier,

and were not merely chance visitors. We found them by thousands

under other stones. ... Our guide, with whom the glaciers were old

acquaintances, had never seen them before, and the tiny creatures

excited his astonishment. What surprised us most was the rapidity

with which they penetrated into even the most compact ice, till they

resembled blood-corpuscles circulating in their vessels. This fact

shows that there exist, in the hardest and most transparent ice,

certain capillary fissures which escape an unskilled eye: it also

proves that the glaciers, on their surface, and down to a certain

depth, are by no means incompatible with the development of organised

beings."[23]

The tiny insect in question was at first baptized by the name of

_Desoria saltans_ (order of the _Thysanouræ_ of Latreille), but has

since received definitively the name of _Desoria glacialis_. It

belongs to the family of the _Poduræ_, singular creatures which, by

virtue of their form, are a link between the earwigs and the spiders.

These are its generic characters:--

[Illustration: FIG. 15.--_Desoria glacialis_; _a_, natural size; _b_,

enlarged.]

The body elongated, cylindrical, garnished with long setiform hairs,

and composed of eight segments, six of which are perfectly distinct,

and two (the two latter) very short, and scarcely perceptible;

four-jointed antennæ, longer than the head; long, slender,

cylindrical feet; forked tail, silky, and transversely wrinkled;

seven eyes, laterally grouped at the base of each antenna; body

without scales.

[Illustration: FIG. 16.--_Podura plumbea_; _a_, natural size; _b_,

enlarged.]

The _Desoria glacialis_, a species at present unique, is of a velvety

black, and about one-sixth of an inch in length.

The _Podura plumbea_ (or "Spring Tail"), common enough in England,

and found under all kinds of stones, will give the reader an idea of

the flea of the glaciers.

On comparing these two species, we remark, first, that the _Podura

plumbea_ is somewhat longer and thicker in body than the flea of the

glaciers (see Fig. 16; _a_, natural size; _b_, enlarged); but it is

more particularly by the length of its antennæ that we distinguish

it. It owes its specific name of _Plumbea_ to the livid blue or

leaden colour of the scales which cover its body. These scales

resemble those of butterflies; only they are much smaller, more

finely situated, and very variable in form and size (Fig. 17). In

catching it great care is required, for it is so easily crushed; it

is, besides, very soft to the touch, though, when examined with a

microscope, it is seen to bristle all over with hairs, apparently

very hard.

[Illustration: FIG. 17.]

Our _poduræ_ have also the faculty of leaping, and cling by thousands

to humid places, especially to mosses and the under-surface of

stones. The mechanism of their leap is explained by the presence of a

forked, flexible, and elastic appendage, lodged in a kind of ventral

groove beneath the last segments; by projecting this rapidly behind,

the whole body of the animal is thrown forward. At the slightest

contact the insect folds up its caudal appendage under its belly,

and you would then suppose it did not possess one. This circumstance

explains why, in many books of natural history of good repute, the

_poduræ_, and especially so common a species as the _Podura plumbea_,

are represented without this characteristic instrument.

HERBACEOUS PLANTS WHICH BEST ENDURE THE COLD OF WINTER.

The "way to look at things," which is the true foundation of science,

varies, not only according to a man's degree of intellectual

cultivation, but according to his social condition or profession.

The herborist has eyes only for the plants in which he deals,--the

"simples" which, as we read in old Gerarde, wrought such wonderful

cures in the days of our forefathers,--and from the most exquisite

flowers he turns with indifference. The gardener, on the other hand,

is wholly absorbed by his love and his hate,--his charming exotics,

and his troublesome weeds. The latter he regards with much the same

feelings as a society wholly composed of honest men would regard

an infusion of the "dangerous elements;" for weeds, like rogues,

take what is not their own, and deprive others of their means of

sustenance. But to classify plants according to their virtues or

vices is not worthy of science, exclaims the rigid botanist. Would

you mingle vile self-interest with the pure study of the vegetable

kingdom? Remember that all selfish feelings ought to be banished from

the sublime sanctuary of analysis and synthesis.

This sounds exceedingly well. Disinterested words, from whatever

quarter they come, always produce--perhaps, on account of their

comparative rarity--an admirable effect. But what is their real

value? To ascertain it, the listener must be able to seize, like so

many luminous threads, all the emotions which are acting upon the

heart and tongue of the speaker. But we are very far from having

arrived at this degree of perfection. Shall we ever attain to it?

Yes, because we can conceive its possibility. But, until that golden

epoch, the pure love of science will always remain a myth, and we

shall not have universally understood the necessity of seeking in the

profound study of nature the grand destiny of man.

It is among the weeds and noxious plants that we shall find the

species capable of enduring longest the cold of winter. What part,

then, do they fulfil in the economy of creation? An ambitious, but

not a novel question, which has often been propounded in reference to

our parasitical insects.

The best answer which we can make to it is this: Everything invites

us to work. Labour is imposed even upon him who least desires it.

Earth will yield a return only in proportion to the care we bestow

upon her.

If, after having toiled and sown, we had nothing to do but to gather

in the harvest, every person would become an agriculturist. But a

soil which is not manured will soon grow exhausted; and if it be

neither ploughed nor harrowed, instead of barley or vegetables,

it will soon be covered with tares; rank weeds will flourish in

every field. Such is the chastisement reserved for sloth,--the true

"original sin" of the human race.

Well, then, it is among the weeds, everywhere so common, that we meet

with the plants best able to brave the rigours of frost.

THE DOG MERCURY.

The annual _Dog Mercury_ (_Mercurialis annua_) is one of the most

tenacious. It attracts the passer-by, if he condescend to bestow a

glance upon it, only by its extreme abundance; it propagates very

largely, though it is by no means partial to all localities. For

instance, it avoids the woods as persistently as its congener, the

common Dog Mercury (_Mercurialis perennis_) seeks them. It prefers

the vicinity of human habitations and uncultivated fields. If let

alone, it spreads with a dangerous rapidity, and invades every garden

which is not kept in the most exquisite order. Still, we must not

deal too harshly with it. It is not altogether unfriendly to man. In

truth, owing to its laxative properties, it renders him invaluable

services. The country people have great faith in fomentations of

Dog Mercury and honey. Understand, we pray you, that not an atom of

mercury enters into it, despite its significant name; but a decoction

of the annual Dog Mercury, mixed with a little thick honey, answers

all the purposes of those lenitive clysters which are so beneficial

to excitable temperaments. The leaves of the plant are eaten in

Germany like spinach.

Of the _Mercurialis perennis_ Mr Sowerby writes:--"This plant was

formerly used in medicine, but has long been abandoned as a remedy.

It is extremely acrid, and even poisonous, though recommended in some

old books as a good pot-herb, probably from being confounded with the

annual species. When steeped in water, the leaves give out a fine

blue colour resembling indigo. This colouring matter is turned red by

acids, and destroyed by alkalis, but is otherwise permanent; it might

possibly prove valuable as a dye, if any means could be discovered

of fixing it, and the herb has been introduced into this work with

the view of drawing the attention of chemists to the subject; no

experiments seem to have been lately made upon it."

[Illustration: FIG. 18.]

Let us now advise you how to distinguish our medicinal plant from

the "ill weeds" with which it loves to associate. Its ovate, rough,

irregularly-dentated, and petiolated leaves would not give it a

sufficiently marked character, had it no other features peculiar to

itself. But observe the yellowish-green _glomerules_, arranged, like

millet, on a long frail spike. (Fig. 18, _a_.) They exhale, as your

nose will inform you, a peculiar aroma, like that of spiced bread: no

other plant but our Dog Mercury is gifted with this odour. Now, bring

your magnifying-glass to bear upon it; with the point of a knife or

a feather open one of the grains which form the _glomerules_ of the

spike; out of it will leap, as if impelled by an invisible spring,

a large number of stamens, easily distinguished by their elastic

thread-like anthers, covered with tiny yellow beads. Each greenish

grain is a _flower_; the calyx, which also serves as the corolla, is

represented by three little petals, forming the external envelope of

the little flower. (Fig. 18, _b_.) But something essential is still

wanting; in the centre of the stamens you do not find any pistil. Why

is so important an organ wanting? Because our little rounded flowers,

with their spice-bread odour, have but one sex, are _unisexual_; they

are male flowers, since they are furnished only with stamens. In

vain do you hunt on the same stem for their companions, the female

flowers. You will find them only upon _other_ stems, distinct from

those which bear the male flowers. The Dog Mercury, then, is a plant

whose two sexes are lodged in two different houses, οἴκοι--is, in

fact, a _dioecious_ species.

But you are sure to find the female flowers in the immediate

neighbourhood of the stems with the male flowers. They are easily

recognised by their larger and darker leaves (Fig. 18, _c_);

and especially by their little twin pods, green, wrinkled, and

pedicellate,[24] which garnish the axil of the leaves. (Fig. 18,

_d_.) From this characteristic the female mercury was formerly

mistaken for the _male_; and many centuries elapsed before

naturalists recognised, what now-a-days seems so simple, that the

little pods, joined in couples, and containing each a grain, composed

the _fruit_ of a single plant; that every fruit proceeds from an

ovary; and that every ovary is a sign of the feminine sex.

In the _Historia Naturalis_ of Pliny, who was at once so acute and so

credulous an observer, we first meet with the name of _Mercurialis_.

"The plant is so denominated," he says,[25] "because it was

discovered by Mercury. Its juice, mingled with that of the _hibiscus_

(a species of the _Malvaceæ_) and the purslain, forms a kind of

unguent, with which, if you thoroughly rub the hands, they can touch

molten lead without being injured."

The description which Dioscorides[26] gives of the _Linozosis_, which

he also calls _Parthenion_, or _Mercury's Plant_ (Ἑρμου

βοτάνιον), applies, in the main, to our Dog Mercury. It is true

that its leaves "are not like those of the basilic"

(φίλλα ὄμοια ὁκίμῳ); but they resemble in all

respects those of the smooth variety of cultivated mint; and,

apparently, the basilic of Dioscorides was one of our mints. The fruit

of the female, he adds,--evidently meaning the male flowers,--are

disposed in clusters.

Both species of the Herb or Dog Mercury belong to the family

_Euphorbiaceæ_.

Our attention must now be directed to another point. It is a fact,

that in winters of moderate severity the Mercury continues to infest

our gardens and cultivated fields. It only succumbs to a frost equal

to six to ten degrees below freezing-point; then its congealed stem

totters, and grows black, and its leaves mingle so completely with

the soil that it is difficult to discover any vestiges.

How singular a contrast! The plants most destructive in our kitchen

gardens are frequently the most useful in medicine. There are no

drugs more popular than the weeds which we call Herb Mercury, Garden

Nightshade, and Dog's-tooth grass. All belong to families whose

properties are strongly marked. As already stated, the Mercury

ranks among the _Euphorbiaceæ_, remarkable for their acrid and

more or less purgative juice. In this family occur the most violent

drastics, such as the _Croton tiglium_, whose oil (expressed from the

seeds) has long been considered an efficacious medicine. The Garden

Nightshade is one of the _Solanaceæ_, and cousin-german of the useful

potato; and the Dog's-tooth grass, whose roots compose three-fourths

of our possets, is of the same family as our cereals.

THE GARDEN NIGHTSHADE.

[Illustration: FIG. 19.]