RECEIVING--TO GIVE AGAIN
“O end to which our currents tend,
Inevitable Sea!”--A. H. CLOUGH.
“All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.”
So wrote the wisest of men, long centuries ago; and the words are true
in a world-wide sense, which the writer with all his wisdom could not
then have fully grasped.
“All the rivers” meant to him a great many streams, large and small, in
southern Asia, and in southern Europe, with some in northern Africa.
“All the rivers” of the world _now_---- Let us see what it means.
The chief work of a river is to drain the land; to bear superfluous
waters into the great deep. Water lying stagnant on land becomes
harmful. Immense supplies are perpetually needed; but it must be fresh
water, clear water, running water, water newly fallen from the skies,
or newly received from ever fresh because ever renewed springs. Never
stagnant water.
So Earth’s rivers--we are talking of land-rivers now--gathering to
themselves the multitude of lesser streams and tributaries, which in
their turn have been earlier fed by an infinite number of burns and
runnels in country and town, hurry downward to the Ocean, with rich
presents from the Land. But all the while, Land expects “to receive as
much again.”
When we stand beside a broad river, watching the steady flow, hearing
the little murmurs of sound and the soft suck and “swish” against the
banks, we do not often realise the greatness of the task which that
river may have in hand.
Suppose we are on the banks of the Seine, the mother-stream of gay
Paris. Many a century has Paris lived; but the Seine existed countless
centuries before Paris was ever heard of. Year by year the Seine drains
away surplus water from some twenty-three thousand square miles of
French territory. Year by year the Seine carries down to the Ocean a
gift of more than five cubic miles of water. Five hundred cubic miles
in the course of a century!
Or suppose we turn to the Rhine, that river of castles and legends,
which starts with the meltings of over one hundred and fifty glaciers,
and is said to be fed in its course by something like twelve thousand
lesser streams. The Rhine drains, at the very least, between thirty
and forty thousand square miles of country; and it pays to the Ocean
an annual tribute of more than ten cubic miles of water. More than a
thousand cubic miles each hundred years.
Let us take a look at the Yangtsekiang--a Chinese river of special
interest for British trade. It drains over six hundred and fifty
thousand square miles of land; and each year it hands over to the Ocean
more than one hundred and twenty-five cubic miles of water.
See the Mississippi. More than a million square miles of American
territory are drained by it; and its annual gift to the Ocean amounts,
like that of the great Chinese river, to over one hundred and
twenty-five cubic miles of water.
Or once more--take the Amazon. By that mighty stream more than two
million square miles of land are drained; and more than five hundred
cubic miles of water are poured annually into the sea. So the Amazon
presents to the Ocean in the course of a year what the Seine presents
in the course of a century.
It has been reckoned that “all the rivers” of Earth combined pour
every year into the sea a mass of water equal to about six thousand
five hundred cubic miles. This would suffice to fill a vast tank, one
mile broad, one mile deep, reaching the whole way from the north of
Scotland to the south of Africa.
“All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.” It does not
overflow its limits. And long ago as King Solomon wrote these words, he
was able to give the reason. “_Unto the place from whence the rivers
come, thither they return again._”
The ocean receives these generous gifts from the land, only to be
generous in return. That which the ocean freely accepts she gives
again, lavishly and royally. Enormous supplies of water are needed on
land, and it is the work of the ocean to meet that need.
Throughout the world, and especially within the tropics, a constant
drying up of the sea-surface is going on. This passing away of visible
water out of sight is, like countless other everyday events, very
extraordinary; though we think nothing of it because of its familiarity.
A tumbler of water is spilt upon a boarded floor. “Oh, never mind,”
says a careless voice. “It will soon dry up.” Yes, of course it will;
and who troubles himself to think what the “drying up” means? Particle
by particle the spilt water will creep softly away, not as a liquid but
as a vapour, into the atmosphere, there to float, hidden from sight,
and to be carried hither and thither wherever the air may be moving.
Had such a thing never been seen before, it would arouse the wonderment
of every thoughtful mind in Europe. But miracles of daily occurrence
cease to be miracles.
Some few solids, such as camphor, have the same property of passing
slowly out of sight into the air, though it is a much slower process
with camphor than with water. Snow and ice also, when there is no thaw,
dry off gradually. I have known a whole slight fall of snow disappear
thus, without any thaw.
Vapour is always present in the air; sometimes a large amount, as much
as the atmosphere is able at that particular temperature to hold;
sometimes a less amount, not so much as the air could contain. In the
latter case “drying” goes on briskly; in the former case it languishes,
and wet clothes, wet pavements, remain long damp.
Warm air can hide away a much more abundant supply of vapour than cold
air; so the hotter and drier the air, the quicker is the evaporation
or drying-up of water-surfaces. This is remarkably seen in the Red
Sea. An amount of water passes away from that sea in a single year,
sufficient to bring down its level some fifteen or twenty feet,--which
it would do, but for a powerful current always flowing in from the
Indian Ocean.
When sea-water thus passes off in vapour, it leaves the salt behind.
Were this amount of evaporation to go on steadily in the Red Sea,
without any fresh supplies of water being received, about two thousand
years would suffice to dry up the whole Sea, nothing but a great mass
of salt remaining in its bed.
If the Red Sea alone loses in one year a slice of water, fifteen or
twenty feet thick, imagine what the enormous quantity must be which is
raised, year by year, from the surfaces of all tropical oceans, and in
a less degree from the seas in colder regions. The weight of the whole
could only be told in hundreds of millions of millions of tons. And
this vast mass is drawn up, gently and mildly, particle by particle; to
be wafted by breezes to regions where water is urgently required, and
there to be poured down as rain upon the thirsty ground. Thus the great
exchange is carried on, with steady sequence, between Land and Ocean,
Ocean and Land.
When showers come to gladden the hearts of our farmers, and to provide
food for the people, they might sometimes give a thought to the
Ocean--to the manner in which, with Sun and Air as helpers, he sends
aloft millions of tons of water, for the use of those on land.
For “unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return
again.”
There are parts of the world where rains, like winds, come at regular
and almost unfailing dates. In disappointing years, when they fail, an
Empire may be disorganised in consequence.
But in our British Isles no such regularity has sway; and a pleasing
uncertainty prevails about Weather in general. This gives scope for
something to talk about, and something to grumble at. What the average
Briton would do without these perpetual possibilities is a serious
question.
No doubt our Weather _is_ a very uncertain quantity to be reckoned
with. Yet it may be that we are unfair to our friend the Ocean, who
does so much for us in the weather-line--ever at work as he is, night
and day, sending upward supplies of water, bringing to our shore stores
of tropical heat, softening the westerly breezes which excel.
Is English weather really so bad as is popularly supposed? There are
climates and climates in the world; some worse, some better. May it not
be that ours really is, in many respects, not worse but better? Perhaps
a slight digression here will be pardoned, for the sake of Old Ocean’s
good name, in his dealings with the British Isles.
Foggy days, dull and damp days, are apt to make a more lasting
impression upon some people’s memories than sunny days. One reason for
the generally mournful idea of British weather may be due to the fact
that foreigners, Frenchmen especially, are by nature more light-hearted
than Englishmen, and that they keep chiefly in mind their sunny days,
while we perhaps keep chiefly in mind our dull days.
To gain a fair estimate of average British weather, long and careful
observation is necessary. There is absolutely no safe criterion, save
that of record-keeping. Not many people have the perseverance to do
this for any length of time, and few non-scientific people have the
fairness of mind and judgment to do it dependably.
It is in my power to tell of a record which has been kept, steadily,
carefully, perseveringly, by an English lady during many years, and
to give the results at which she arrived. Without being strictly
scientific she was--I have to say “was,” since she has passed from our
midst--accurate, regular, conscientious, and fair-minded. For all this
I can vouch from personal knowledge. At the same time that she kept
records of the weather, she registered day by day the readings of her
thermometer and the daily amount of rainfall. With the two latter we
are not now concerned.
Her method as to weather-registration was as follows. Four marks were
used: =X= for a thoroughly fine day; =V= for a day in which fine and
dull mingled, but in which the fine predominated; =I= for a day in
which again the two mingled, but in which the dull or rain had the
best of the matter; and =O= for a day which could only be described as
decidedly bad.
Of course many days occur which it is difficult to assign to either
class, especially of the two middle divisions. But a constant endeavour
was made to keep a fair proportion. If one doubtful day were placed,
for instance, in the =V= division, the next equally doubtful day would
be carefully placed in the =I= division, to ensure accuracy.
At the end of each month all these four classes were added up
separately. Also, to simplify results, the Good and the Half-good, the
Bad and the Half-bad, were classed in two columns as comprehensively
Good and Bad. From these two columns curious results were obtained.
It should be stated that the lady in question lived at Reigate, and was
seldom absent from home, never more than for a few weeks at a time.
The record is thus mainly of one place. Now and again a short absence
occurred, and her observations were then carried on wherever she might
be; but the absences were so few and generally so short as to be
unimportant.
Before going farther, it is worth while for the reader to ask himself,
perhaps also to ask one or two friends, what might be the proportions
of “Good” and “Bad” days that he or they would expect to find in the
English climate, as the result of such a computation?
Would it be three-quarters bad and one-quarter good? Or could it be
possibly half bad and half good?
Here is the actual result:--
A.D. Bad Days. Good Days.
1886 89 276
1887 59 306
1888 85 280
1889 107 258
1890 85 280
1891 91 274
1892 77 288
1893 71 294
1894 109 242
1895 88 277
1896 86 282
If the second column be added up, the sum-total amounts to three
thousand and fifty-seven days. If the first column be also added up,
the sum-total amounts to nine hundred and forty-seven days. A very
simple calculation, which anybody may work out, will show that the
proportion of “Good” days towards “Bad” days is that of about Three to
One.
Who would have thought it? Not certainly the majority of friends to
whom I have appealed for an opinion. Not even an able scientific man,
who frankly confessed his astonishment.
Over three-quarters of fairly Good Weather, as opposed to under
one-quarter of fairly Bad Weather--and this the average of eleven
years! Have we not given the rein too freely to our National grumbling
tendencies? Would it not be better if we thought more of the sunshine,
less of the clouds and rain?
It may perhaps be of interest to some to know more exactly the
proportions of the four classes during those years. Both in these and
in the former columns it will be noted that one year of the eleven is
a few days short of the full length--the year 1894. This seems to have
been the only lapse in regularity.
Here is the fuller statement:--
A.D. Bad. Half-bad. Half-good. Good.
1886 15 74 86 190
1887 16 43 116 190
1888 18 67 110 171
1889 12 95 113 145
1890 19 66 110 170
1891 21 70 107 167
1892 17 60 95 193
1893 17 54 87 207
1894 19 90 106 136
1895 19 69 84 193
1896 22 64 115 165
So if we owe our weather to the Ocean’s influences, it appears that we
have more to be thankful for than to complain of.
King Charles II., wise in word though not in deed, is reported to have
said that in England a man could work more days in the open air than in
any other country. Whether this be so or not, it at least shows that
the Merry Monarch was not one in the army of weather-complainers.