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of it. Perhaps not, but I have had experience of several faithful retainers,
and invariably found them to be unmitigated tyrants, assuming power,
repudiating responsibility, and being practically the master or mistress of
the household.
Then we come to the great question of slavery in its various bearings.
Putting aside the now acknowledged diversity of races, and the well-
known fact that the negro in a state of slavery to a European is infinitely
better off than he would have been in his own country, where there is no
law but that of might, we must entertain the question of enforced servitude,
i.e. where the servants have no choice either in entering or leaving their
situations.
It is, of course, opposed, and rightly, to our modern English ideas that a
slave, under such a name, should exist on British ground. Yet there are
thousands of Englishmen who are more wholly enslaved than was any
negro in the worst times of slavery. The chains may not be of visible iron,
nor the whips of tangible thongs, but they are, perhaps, all the more galling
and biting.

Some of my readers may be aware that slavery exists in the insect world,
and probably existed long before man came on earth.
There are many species of Ants which are absolutely incapable of
managing their own nests or rearing their own young, and which, in
consequence, impress into their service the workers of other species of Ant,
and hand over to them the entire labour of the establishment. They can
fight, and they can establish fresh colonies, but they cannot build nests, nor
nurse their young, and so they impress into their service those Ants whose
instinct teaches them to do both.
Periodically the master Ants, if we may so call them, set off on a slave-
hunting expedition. They find out the nest of the special Ant whose aid they
need, penetrate into it, and bear off the pupæ, or “ants’ eggs,” as they are
popularly called. These are carried to their new home, and are speedily
hatched. They know no other home, and, led by instinct, set to work as
industriously as if they had never been removed.
 Those who have watched their habits are unanimous in declaring that
they seem perfectly happy and contented. No compulsion is used towards
them, and they work because told to do so by their own instinct. Work they
must, and it does not in the least matter to them for whom the work is done.

Another branch of this subject is shown in the accompanying

illustration, namely, the pleasure garden or playground.
This is, as we all know, a token of high civilisation, and even in the
ancient times the hanging gardens of Babylon were reckoned as the greatest
wonders of that great city, the then mistress of the world.
No savage ever dreamed of such a thing as a pleasure garden, nor could
appreciate it if he saw it. Yet there are birds which far surpass the savage in
this respect, and which build recreation grounds for the sole purpose of
amusement.
These are the well-known Bower-birds of Australia, which I sincerely
hope may not be extirpated by the white man, as has been the case with so
many creatures, including the aborigines of Tasmania themselves.
The Bower-birds, which are distantly related to our thrush and blackbird,
but are about as large as jackdaws, have a curious habit of building arched
bowers quite independent of their nests.
The shape of one of these bowers is shown in the accompanying
illustration.
The bird first weaves a sort of platform of flexible sticks, and then
fastens into them a number of other sticks, so set that they form a sort of
arched gallery. Through this gallery the birds love to run, and they
invariably decorate the ends with anything pretty that they can pick up, such
as feathers, coloured stones, shells, ornaments, and the like. So well is this
proclivity known, that whenever any one who is living in the Bush loses
any small piece of property, such as a pencil-case or watch-key, or even a
tobacco-pipe, he always goes to the Bower-bird’s pleasure garden, and
mostly discovers the lost property.

At the Zoological Gardens these Bower-birds have long lived, and it is a

most interesting sight to watch them weaving their platforms, raising the
bowers over them, and then keep running in at one end and out at the other,
like children at play, and with their burnished plumage gleaming in the
sunbeams.
The right-hand figure simply depicts a modern pleasure garden, and
needs no description.
 USEFUL ARTS.

CHAPTER IX.

ARTIFICIAL WARMTH.—RING AND STAPLE.—THE FAN.

Various Modes of warming Houses.—The Fire of the American Indian and the Kafir.—
The Oil-lamp of the Esquimaux.—The open Fireplace and Chimney Stoves.—The
laminated Stove and its Powers.—Gills of the Lobster, Crab, and various Fishes.—
Mode in which the Gills act.—Why Fishes lie with their Heads against the Stream.—
Drowning a Fish.—The Ring and Staple, and their various Uses.—Head-bones of the
Fishing-frog or Angler-fish.—The Fan and its Modifications.—Japanese and Chinese
Fans.—The Feather Fan.—The Palm-leaf.—Indian Fans.—The Hive Bee and its
Wings.—Fans of the Essequibo and South Sea Islanders.—The Fan Fire-guard.—
Antennæ of the Cockchafer.—Burial.—Various Modes of disposing of the Dead.—
Ordinary Habits of dying Animals.—Dead Insects.—The Funeral-ant and its wonderful
Habits.

Artificial Warmth.

P ASSING from the direct to the indirect comforts of a household, we will

take Artificial Warmth.
The savage, as a matter of necessity, makes a fire in the middle of his
hut, and lets the smoke have its own way. Sometimes, as is the case with the
North American Indians, the top of the conical hut is open, and the whole
edifice is a single chimney of large dimensions, something like the
“chimney-corner” of past days, which only survives in such places as the
New Forest.
Then there are the various Kafir tribes of Southern Africa. They have no
aperture in their huts except the tiny doorway, which can only be entered on
hands and knees. But they must have their fire. No argument can persuade
them that they had better make their fire and cook their food outside the hut.
So the wood-smoke fills the hut, coats it with a lining of soot, and gets out
as it can through the sticks and withes of which the simple edifice is built.
As a contrast, we have the oil-lamp of Esquimaux-land, where there is
no provision for ventilation, where the snow-houses are tightly closed and
crammed with inhabitants, and where no one seems to need fresh air.
The next step in civilisation is to construct a tube for the purpose of
carrying off the smoke, such as we know by the name of chimney or flue,
and to place the fire within it. We English people have an ingrained love for
the open fireplace, and though it really is an expensive arrangement, it is
worth the cost. Granting that it carries much of the heat into the chimney
instead of throwing it into the room, it has at least the advantage of acting
as a ventilator, of ejecting air which has been rendered poisonous by
respiration, and drawing a fresh supply from the outer atmosphere.
In some parts of the world, especially in Germany and the United States,
the place of the open fire is taken by closed stoves, without any ventilation
whatever, much to the discomfiture of ordinary Englishmen. Still, there are
buildings, such as public halls and places of worship, in which open
fireplaces are wholly impracticable, and where it is, therefore, necessary to
make use of the stove.
It need hardly be said that in such cases the chief object is to procure the
greatest amount of heat with the least expenditure of fuel, and that object
seems to be best attained by the Laminated Stove shown on the right hand
of the illustration.

In this stove, the outer surface, instead of being plain, is divided into a
number of perpendicular plates, which are heated by the contained fire, and
expose a very large surface of hot metal to the air. Thus the heat, instead of
being wasted by being drawn through the flue or chimney, is thrown into
the room, and keeps up a perpetual supply of warm air.
 That the invention of this stove is an ingenious one nobody can deny.
But Nature has been long in advance of Art in the way of exposing as large
a surface as possible with the least expenditure of space.
Very familiar examples of this structure may be found in the many
creatures which inhabit the waters and breathe by means of gills, which
extract the oxygen of the water.
Take, for example, a Lobster or a Crab, open it, and look at the white,
pointed, uneatable objects which are popularly called “ladies’ fingers.”
These are the gills, or breathing apparatus, and their structure is really
wonderful. They are composed of innumerable laminæ, or very thin plates,
covered with an exceedingly fine membrane, and placed closely side by
side, but with sufficient distance between them to allow the water to
percolate the whole structure.
With the aid of an ordinary pocket lens the observer may make out a
most wonderful system of blood-vessels, which permeate every one of the
myriad laminæ, and which extract the life-giving oxygen from the water as
it passes between them.
Then, to pass to animals of a higher order, take the gills of fishes. Any
fish will do, provided that it be fresh, and, if it can be examined
immediately after death, so much the better. Taking things reciprocally, the
gills of the fish and the laminæ of the stove, are identical in principle,
namely, the exposure of much surface with little loss of space.
If possible, the observer should inject the blood-vessels of the gills with
the conventional crimson and blue wax, showing the currents of the arterial
and venous blood. Each lamina forms a most wondrous object, and may be
gazed upon for weeks with increasing admiration.
Every one who has watched the habits of fishes must have noticed that in
running waters they always have their heads against the stream, and do not
greatly care about shifting their positions.
In still waters, especially such as those of the ordinary glass aquaria, the
fish are perpetually on the move, whereas in such a river as the Dove of
Derbyshire, and even the Darenth of Kent, large trout may be seen almost
motionless, but invariably with their heads directed up the stream.
The reason is evident enough. As long as the fish lies with its head up
the stream the water flows through its gills, and enables it to breathe. Were
the passage of the water stopped, the fish would be drowned. Consequently,
all good anglers, when they hook a fish which is worth taking, keep its head
down the stream, prevent the water from washing over its gills, and
consequently render it so weak by deprivation of oxygen, that it becomes an
easy prey, and is rendered subservient to a line of a single hair. Let the fish
breathe, and a single struggle would smash a line of treble the strength. But
keep it from breathing by directing its head down the stream, and it rapidly
loses all strength, and can be directed into the landing-net, or brought
within the scope of the gaff, without a chance of escape.

I need hardly remark that on the right-hand side of the illustration is

shown a Laminated Stove, and that on the left are drawings of the gills of
the Shark tribe and the common Trout. If the reader would really like to
look into the subject for himself, I should suggest the purchase of a cod’s
head and shoulders and a lobster. The breathing apparatus can be removed
from each for examination, and the remainder will serve as a first course for
dinner.
Ring and Staple.
Humble, and apparently insignificant, as the principle of the Ring and
Staple may be, we owe no small amount of our domestic comfort to it. It
meets us in all kinds of ways, in the hinges of our boxes, in the padlocks of
our doors, in the innside fastenings for our horses, in the seaside fastenings
for ships’ cables, and in a thousand other ways too many to enumerate.

On the right-hand side of the next illustration is shown the Ring and
Staple as used for the purpose of mooring ships and boats, it being
absolutely necessary that the machinery, simple as it is, must be capable of
working in any direction, and with some latitude as to the extent.
 On the left hand are shown two of the wonderful bones which are found
in the head of the Fishing-frog or Angler-fish (Lophius), and which serve as
decoys, by means of which the smaller fish are entrapped into the vast jaws
of the Angler-fish.
It is clearly necessary that these singular appendages should be capable
of movement in every direction, and this object is attained by the structure
which is here shown, and which is almost equal to the ball-and-socket joint
for its freedom of movement. It will even allow of partial rotation, so as to
cause the little strip of skin at its end to assume the aspect of a living worm,
and entice the smaller fish into the jaws of the dread trap that lies open
before them.
A figure of this fish may be seen on page 92.
The Fan.
Except in permanently cold countries, a Fan of some kind seems to be an
absolute necessity. Sometimes, as in the greater part of Europe, it is used
only by the softer sex. The harder sex would often be only too glad to use it
if they dared, and the same observation is equally true with regard to the
parasol.
But, in such lands as Japan and China, the Fan is an absolute necessity of
existence. Men, women, and children alike carry their Fan, and almost
perpetually use it. I remember, when the troupe of Japanese acrobats were
in England, that one of them exhibited the national use of the Fan in an
excessively ludicrous manner.
One of his comrades ascended to the roof of a lofty building, hung by his
legs to one of the rafters, and held in his hands a bamboo pole which was
twenty feet long. Another Japanese also ascended, climbed over his
comrade, and settled on the bamboo pole, to which he clung only by the
clasp of his bare feet. Suddenly he slipped down the pole, stopped himself
when within a few inches of the end, squatted there with perfect unconcern,
though at least forty feet from the ground, took his fan from the back of his
neck, and fanned himself while gravely surveying the startled audience.

Perhaps some of my readers may remember Chang, the Chinese giant,

who, by the way, in private life was a polished gentleman. He was never
without his fan, always keeping it fluttering gently with an ease only to be
acquired by a lifelong practice, and I really think that if he had been
deprived of it he would have been seriously ill. How he slept without it is a
wonder, for in his own house the fan was incessantly in motion, and was
worked with apparent unconsciousness on his part.
I have often wished that in our country the ladies would manage their
fans in the same quiet way when they are in a church or a concert-room, for
the perpetual rattle of the joints is enough to distract any preacher or
conductor, and very often does so.
As to the shape of the Fan, it varies greatly according to the country, but
it may almost invariably be traced to some familiar object.
There is, for example, the common Japanese Fan or Screen, which is
avowedly made on the model of the Palm-leaf, the ribs of the leaf being
represented by split portions of a bamboo stem. The right-hand figure in the
preceding illustration is taken from one of the common sixpenny Japanese
fans that may be seen in many shop-windows.
 There are exactly sixty ribs in the fan, all produced by splitting the
bamboo into strips, kept in their place by a slight rod of the same material,
and covered with two pieces of thin printed paper. Seeing that the original
cost cannot be more than a penny, it is wonderful how such articles can be
produced, and give a living to the makers.
The reader will observe that the shape of the Japanese Fan is almost
exactly that of the Palm-leaf, with the exception of the jagged edges, and a
better pattern could not be found. Then there are many Indian Fans framed
on the same model, but which revolve on their handles, and are swung
slowly round and round by the servants before the guests, and thus become
miniature punkahs.
Here, again, we may find a parallel in Nature. The common hive bee
ventilates its dwelling by using its wings in lieu of fans. When the hive is
really in want of fresh air, the bees set to work, and wave their wings
backwards and forwards for a considerable time, so that they necessarily
expel the foul air from the interior of the hive, and create a partial vacuum,
which can only be filled by fresh air from without.
Fans of very similar shape are in use among the South Sea Islanders and
the inhabitants of the Essequibo district. They are often used as bellows
when a fire has to be raised, but their primary object is to be employed as
fans.

Next we come to those fans which are made of flattened sticks, which
move on a pivot. This is, indeed, the ordinary form of the fan at the present
day, the sticks being sometimes wide enough to constitute the entire fan, but
mostly being connected with a sort of lining made with silk, paper, or
feathers. Such fans as these can be moved on their pivots, so as to occupy a
comparatively small space; and the same can be said of the modern fender-
guards, which can be folded up when the room is unoccupied, and which
form an effectual protection against the danger of ladies’ dresses coming in
contact with the fire.
Examples of such a screen, and two fans, are given on the right hand of
the accompanying illustration.
 On the left hand is shown one of the natural objects from which the fans,
&c., might well have derived their origin. It is one of the antennæ—or
horns, as they are popularly called—of the common Cockchafer. The end of
this antenna is composed of a number of flat plates, which work on a pivot
exactly like the sticks of a fan, and, like those sticks, can be folded into a
wonderfully small compass, or opened out into a fan-like shape.
Burial.
Last scene of all.
I do not think that it matters very much to one who has “shuffled off this
mortal coil” what becomes of the coil in which he had been imprisoned.
Whether the abandoned body be buried in the earth, or sunk in the sea, or
devoured by wild beasts, or consumed by fire, signifies nothing to him,
though it may signify much to his surviving friends.
As a rule, the animals, of whatever kind they may be, contrive to dispose
of their mortal remains in some mysterious manner, so that not a vestige of
them is to be found. Take, for example, the domestic cat, and see how few
bodies are found of cats which have died natural deaths.
For instance, there was my own cat “Pret,” who lost his life from the
bites of rats. He was blind, and so lamed that he could scarcely crawl. Yet,
on the day of his death, he three times escaped from his comfortable bed in
front of the fire, dragged himself through a hedge, down a steep bank,
across a road, up another bank, through a crevice in a park fence, and curled
himself up to die under a blackberry-bush.
 Perhaps it was mistaken kindness on my part, and I should have acted
better if I had left him to die in peace. But, though I carried him back three
times, and though he was quite unable to see, he contrived to slip out of the
house, and to find the same spot for his last resting-place on this earth.
I have heard that some cats have been known to bury their young, and
Dr. J. Brown tells a most touching story of a dog that committed her dead
puppy to the river.
But as to Insects, until a few years ago, no one ever dreamed that the
principle of burial could be found among them. What millions of insects die
in every year, and how seldom is a dead insect found! Flies, gnats, and the
smaller insects might escape observation, but the large moths, butterflies,
beetles, dragon-flies, &c., are scarcely ever found dead.
In my own neighbourhood, for example, the Stag-beetle, nearly the
largest and most conspicuous of British insects, swarms to an almost
unpleasant degree, especially in the summer evenings.
Yet I have never found a dead Stag-beetle that had not been killed by
violence. What becomes of the bodies of the countless millions of creatures
that annually pass into their other world is a problem which at present no
one seems to be able to solve.

Still, there are instances where even insects are known to bury their
dead, and I scarcely need say that they are to be found among the Ants.
The story is a very curious one, and is narrated at length in the Journal
of the Linnæan Society, vol. v. p. 217.
It happened that a lady found that her little boy was being stung by ants,
and she at once killed them and threw their dead bodies away. After some
time a number of ants came out of their nest, formed a procession as
regularly organized as that of any undertaker’s funeral, dug graves for each
dead ant, laid the body in it, and covered it up again with earth.
They carried their organization to such an extent that they even had
relays of bearers. But the strangest part of the story is that several worker
ants would not assist in the funereal ceremonies. The soldiers at once set on
them, killed them, and tumbled them all promiscuously into a common
grave.
Such scenes were repeatedly witnessed by the lady, a Mrs. Hutton, who
wrote the account while she was living in New South Wales.
 USEFUL ARTS.

CHAPTER X.

WATER, AND MEANS OF PROCURING IT.

The Necessity of Water to Man.—Composition of the Human Body.—Natural and

Artificial Distillation.—The Traveller’s Tree.—Pitcher-plants and Monkey-pots.—
Stomach of the Camel, and its Analogy to the Honey-comb.—Dewdrops.—Use of the
Still at Sea.—Perspiration and its cooling Properties.—The Turkish Bath.—Perfume
and Ether Spray.—Condenser of the Low-pressure Steam-engine.—The Dry and Wet
Bulb Thermometer.—Ice produced in a red-hot Vessel.—Power of Water.—How
Fountains are made.—Modern System of Hydrants.—Hydraulic Mining.—The Victoria
and Niagara Falls.—Artesian Wells.—The Norton Tube, &c., in Abyssinia.—The
Water-ram and Spout-hole.

I T has often been remarked that man can live a comparatively long time
without solid food, providing that he can only obtain water, of which the
chief bulk of the human body is made. Dying by thirst is a horribly
painful death, but, according to Mr. Mills, the ill-fated Australian traveller,
“starvation on nardoo (an innutritious plant) is by no means unpleasant, but
from the weakness one feels, and the utter inability to move one’s self.”
Those who have been shipwrecked, and unable to obtain fresh water,
have always found that the tortures of thirst were infinitely harder to endure
than those of hunger; and the reader will probably remember that those who
perished in the Black Hole of Calcutta owed their deaths chiefly to thirst,
their bodies being exhausted of moisture by the heat of the room, and no
fresh supply attainable.
Civilisation especially shows itself in the way in which water is brought
within the reach of every one, even in the most crowded of cities. The
reader may probably call to mind the wonderful aqueducts of ancient Rome,
the gigantic remains of which still exist. Then, as to our own country, we
are all practically acquainted with some water company, by which the
water, more or less purified, is brought into our houses, and can be obtained
by the mere turning of a tap.
 Yet all this ingenuity is but a following of natural prototypes, as will
presently be seen; and even the familiar Water-tank, as shown at the right
hand of the illustration, has been anticipated by Nature.

On the left hand of the illustration there are three examples of natural
water-tanks, two belonging to the vegetable, and one to the animal
kingdom.

That on the extreme left, with a number of radiations, represents a

portion of a Madagascar palm, popularly called the Traveller’s Tree. Having
very large leaves, arranged in the manner there shown, the Traveller’s Tree
condenses the nightly dews, and allows them to trickle down into the
hollows of the leaf-stems.
There the water remains, out of the reach of sunbeams or wind, and if a
traveller happens to be thirsty, all he has to do is to pierce the base of one of
these gigantic leaves, and out rushes a stream of the purest water, as is
shown in the illustration.

Next to the Traveller’s Tree is shown one of those extraordinary

vegetables called Pitcher-plants, from the strange conformation of the
leaves. They inhabit Borneo, Siam, and other hot countries. In these
remarkable plants some of the leaves are developed into suitable pitchers,
with hinged lids, exactly like our hot-water jugs. They serve, however, a
different office, and contain cold water which the plant has distilled from
the dew.
As the monkeys are in the habit of resorting to these plants when thirsty,
they are sometimes called Monkey-pots. There is an admirable account of
the Pitcher-plants and their development in the Transactions of the Linnæan
Society, vol. xxii. part iv. The scientific name of those plants is Nepenthes.

Below the vegetable comes a rather celebrated animal cistern, namely, a

portion of one of the stomachs of a Camel.
It exactly corresponds with that part of an ox which butchers call
“honey-comb tripe,” and consists of a multitude of cells, which can be
closed or opened at will. When the camel takes in its provision of water, it
can treat this portion of the stomach much as the hive bee treats the honey-
bag, and fill its cells with water.
By degrees, when it finds the necessity for moisture, it can squeeze the
water out of these receptacles into the digestive portion of the interior, and
so can sustain life for a wonderfully long time under conditions which
would kill any other animal. I may remark, by the way, that the amount
which a camel can drink, and the length of time through which it can endure
its desert life, have been much exaggerated. There is another point to be
considered, namely, the curious resemblance between these cells and the
honey-comb of the hive bee. Every one knows that honey, no matter how
tightly closed, will crystallize and lose its best qualities if kept in jars,
whereas if it be allowed to remain in the waxen comb, where it is divided
into very small portions, it will remain good for years.
It is just the same with the cells of the camel’s stomach, they being able
to preserve water in a pure state by distributing it among a number of small
cells, which can be opened or closed at will.
Then we come to the various means of obtaining water.
Reference has already been made to the Filter, by which foul water can
be made pure for human consumption, and we will therefore pass to another
mode of obtaining pure water, namely, the Still.
In former days, if there were a failure of the supply of fresh water on
board ship, the whole of the occupants must necessarily perish. Now,
however, no such danger exists, as every well-furnished ship carries at least
one Still, by means of which the sea-water can be made to abandon its salt,
and to give out nothing but pure water fit for drinking.
Even in cases where no regular Still has been on board, an extemporised
Still has been made from a kettle, a gun barrel, or piece of lead piping, or
anything of a similar nature.

The principle of the Still is simple enough, and is shown by the diagram,
rather than drawing, on the right hand of the illustration. There is a vessel in
which liquid is boiled. From the upper part of it rises a tube through which
the steam must pass as it is generated. The tube in question is generally of
considerable length, and is coiled inside a vessel filled with cold water,
rendered colder by ice, if possible.
As the steam passes through the cold tube condensation takes place, and
it becomes liquid again, but deprived of its heavier particles, so that if sea-
water be placed in the still, the salt is left in the vessel, and nothing but pure
water passes through the tube. In dissecting-rooms a small still is almost
invariably kept. Many preparations are of such a nature that the spirit in
which they are placed becomes discoloured, and has to be repeatedly
changed. Now, even methylated spirit is an expensive article, and therefore,
instead of being thrown away, the discoloured spirit is placed in the still,
and reproduced in a clean and transparent state.
Nature affords innumerable examples of distillation, the chief of which
are the Dewdrops which have already been mentioned. During the daytime
the air is full of moisture drawn by the sunbeams from ocean. We cannot
see it, but it is there, and when the chill of night cools the various trees,
herbage, and other such objects, the aërial moisture is condensed upon
them, which is then known by the name of Dew.
 On the left hand of the illustration are shown the tiny Dewdrops as
hanging on the slight threads of a spider’s web, and collected in larger drops
upon a leaf.

There are many other familiar examples of the principle of

condensation, the commonest of which is the so-called steam as it pours
from the spout of a kettle. In point of fact, it is not steam at all, but only
water condensed into very small drops. At the orifice of the kettle it is quite
invisible, but when it passes into the air, and is condensed, the tiny globules
become visible. The same fact may be noticed in the Napier’s Coffee
Machine, which has already been mentioned. When the water is boiling in
the glass globe no steam is visible, though the upper portion of the globe is
entirely filled by it. But, no sooner is the cork removed, and the steam
allowed to escape, than it at once becomes visible as a white cloud, being,
indeed, a miniature copy of the rain-clouds that float above us.

Then there is that mostly invisible passage of liquid through the

multitudinous pores of the body, which is generally known as perspiration.
It is invisible in warm weather, but on a cold day is as visible as a rain
cloud.
The Turkish Bath affords a good example of this fact. Sometimes the
hottest room attains a temperature of 250° or more, water boiling at 212°.
When a bather goes into that room, he appears to have a perfectly dry skin,
the moisture being in the form of invisible steam, and swept off as soon as it
is generated.
But, if he passes at once into the cold room, he is so enveloped in vapour
that for a few moments he is wrapped in it as in a cloud, and can scarcely be
seen, the vapour having been condensed by the cold air.
 A very familiar instance of this sudden condensation may be seen in the
streets of London on any winter day. There may be a couple of omnibus
horses, nearly at the end of their day’s work, and quite tired out. Suddenly
they are pulled up by the driver, and as suddenly disappear for a moment or
two, being concealed in a cloud of moisture proceeding from their bodies.
Of course in a hot day there is more of the moisture, but the warmth of the
atmosphere prevents it from condensation, and so it is not visible.
One valuable property of the system of evaporation and condensation is
its cooling power. Thus it is that a person who is ill with fever tosses about
with a burning skin until the pores of the body act, and allow the normal
moisture to pass through them. Then the body cools by evaporation, and the
patient begins to amend.
So it is that the bather can endure in the Turkish bath a heat so great that
a glass of water, if held in the hand, would speedily boil, and a piece of
meat be cooked in about the same period. But, if the air were not dry
enough to carry off the perspiration, the bather would be scalded to death.
A most valuable adaptation of the principle is shown in the little glass
machine for dispersing perfumes in the form of spray. In cases of headache
it is almost invaluable, the spray cooling the heated forehead, like magic,
and at the same time filling the room with the grateful perfume.
It has even a greater claim to human gratitude, as I can personally testify.
I have the strongest objection to a surgeon’s knife, especially when I know,
from sad experience, that he is going to make very free use of it. But, on the
last occasion, I cared nothing for it, owing to the happy invention called
Ether Spray.
The effects were remarkable. First, a delicious cooling of a spot raging
with internal fires. Then it was rather colder than I liked. Then it was much
colder than I liked. Then it became almost too cold to bear, reminding me of
my childhood’s feet on the outside of the Birmingham coach in the depth of
winter.
Suddenly all sensation ceased, and the skin became white as parchment.
Out came the surgeon’s bistoury, and I looked at him with as calm
composure as if he had been whittling a deal plank. There was absolutely no
feeling whatever, the local nerves having been temporarily frozen, so great
is the power of evaporation. If it ever be my lot again to endure cold steel, I
shall have the ether spray.

On the extreme right of the illustration is seen the “Wet-bulb”

Thermometer, which carries out the same principle, the thermometer being
double, and one bulb being covered with a wet envelope, while the other is
dry.
Below is one of the many inventions for making artificial ice, all of them
depending on the cooling power of evaporation. Perhaps some of my
readers may have seen molten iron poured over the human hand without
doing the least harm, or mercury frozen in a red, or rather a white, hot
vessel. Both these phenomena are due to the cooling power of evaporation,
which is made to act with extreme rapidity, and so absorbs the heat until
even mercury is rendered solid, and can be cast in a mould like a leaden
bullet.

In the accompanying illustration we have an example of the

Condensating principle as applied to the steam-engine, and popularly
known as the “Low-pressure Engine.” In this case force is reconverted, so
to speak, and, if a cubic inch of water has been converted by heat into a
cubic foot of steam, creating a pressure in one direction, it can be
reconverted by cold, and so produce a pressure in another direction.
 It is owing to this fact that some parts of the world are always hot and
always wet, Guiana being a striking example.

The wind blows over the ocean, absorbing moisture as a sponge does
water. As it passes from the sea over the land, it is met by secondary
mountain ranges, too low to arrest its progress altogether, and high enough
to have their summits clothed in eternal snows. As soon, therefore, as the
warm, water-laden winds pass over these mountains, the moisture is
condensed by their frozen tips, and down rushes the rain in torrents.
Even in our own temperate land we can often trace the cause of a heavy
rain to the presence of a lofty hill, or even an exceptionally tall spire. The
moist climate of Oxford has been attributed by scientific men quite as much
to its spires and towers as to its low-lying situation.

Now we come to the various modes of extracting the water which is laid
up within the earth, and which only slowly ascends to the surface when
drawn up by the heat of the sun.
Water is everywhere, but the depths at which it is found are vastly
different. For example, at one house in which I lived it was not possible to
dig for three feet without coming to water. In another, no water was found
within some two hundred feet, and, as I several times relieved the old
gardener of the task of drawing the water for the day’s consumption, I have
reason to remember the depth.
 The pail, rope, and winch which were in use at that time—and may be
still, to the sorrow of the gardener—are but a sort of semi-savage way of
procuring water from the depths of the earth. It is a well-known fact that
under certain conditions water always finds its own level, minus the friction
of the channel through which it passes. On this principle all fountains are
made. Those, for example, at the Crystal Palace, which fling their waters to
such a height, are fed from tanks on the summit of the two great water
towers. And, were it not for the friction of the water in the tubes, and that of
the air, the fountains would rise as high as the tanks from which they are
fed.
Such is the case with springs, especially with those of an intermittent
character, in which latter instance the rushing of the water is exactly
coincident with the filling of the hidden tank which supplies it.
The modern Hydrant system, which bids fair to supersede the cumbrous
machinery of fire-engines, even when worked by steam, is based on the
same principle. The water-tanks are placed at such a height that, when a
hose is attached, and the tap turned, the water can be thrown over the roof
of the highest building. Such hydrants have been attached to Canterbury
Cathedral since the fire which so nearly consumed that magnificent and
venerable building.

A very remarkable use has been made of this power of water in mining
operations. Most of my readers know that in gold mines the metal is chiefly
found scattered among quartz, one of the hardest of the minerals. The usual
plan has been to dig out the quartz, pound it to powder with specially
devised machines called “stamps,” to pass the powder through mercury,
which amalgamated with the gold, and gave it up again on being heated to a
certain temperature.
 Now a different mode of mining is brought into operation, the pickaxe,
spade, and stamps, with all their expensive machinery, being abandoned,
and water made to do the duty of all three, some ingenious individual
having noticed the effect which water has on the hardest rock.
Such, for example, is the case with those wonderful Victoria Falls of
Africa, where the rushing water has cut its sinuous channel through so
many hundreds of yards of rock. Such, also, is the case with the more
celebrated, but not so wonderful, Falls of Niagara, which have been
gradually working their way backwards, having worn away the rocks over
which they fall, and which are shown to be many miles away from the spot
where the river first discharged itself over the cliff.

In fact, it is well known that the Falls are receding at a definite rate
annually, and that the rate has been calculated with scientific accuracy. The
cliffs of our own coasts-say of Margate or Ramsgate—crumble away with
equally calculable speed.
In the hydraulic mining system large tanks are erected, at least two
hundred feet above the level of the mine. From these tanks proceed pipes,
terminated by hose, just like those of our ordinary fire-engines. The miners,
instead of using pickaxe or crowbar, simply direct the streams of water
against the solid rock. Their effect is tremendous. They tear it to powder,
and carry it down the wooden troughs called “flumes,” in which the
mercury is so arranged that not a single atom of quartz rock can pass
without having its gold extracted.
The following graphic account of Hydraulic Mining at Nevada is taken
from Mr. J. K. Lord’s “Naturalist in British Columbia:”—
 “Near Nevada are the famed Hydraulic washings. The gold is
disseminated through terraces of shingle conglomerates, often three
hundred feet in thickness. These terraces are actually washed entirely off
the face of the country by propelling jets of water against them, forced by
pressure through a nozzle.
“To accomplish this, the water is brought in canals, tunnels, and wooden
aqueducts, often forty miles away from the ‘draft.’ This supply of water the
miners rent.
“As we near the washing spot, in every direction immense hose, made of
galvanized iron, and canvas tubes six feet round, coil in all directions over
the ground like gigantic serpents, converging towards a gap, where they
disappear.
“On reaching this gap, I look down into a basin or dry lake, three
hundred feet below me. The hose hangs down this cliff of shingle, and
following its course by a zigzag path, I reach a plateau of rock, from which
the shingle has already been washed.
“A man stands at the end of each hose, that has for its head a brass
nozzle. With the force of cannon-shot, water issues in a large jet from this
tube, and propelled against the shingle, guided by the men, washes it away
as easily as we could sweep a molehill from off the grass.
“The stream of water, bearing with it the materials washed from out the
cliff, runs through wooden troughs called ‘flumes,’ floored with granite.
These ‘flumes’ extend six miles. Men are stationed at regular distances to
fork out the heavy stones.
“Throughout its entire length, transverse strips of wood dam back a tiny
pond of mercury. These are called ruffles—gold-traps, in other words, that
seize on the fine dust-gold distributed through the shingle. The flumes are
cleaned about once a month, and the gold extracted from the mercury.
“I try with a powerful lens to detect gold amidst the material they are
washing, but not a trace is discoverable, and yet it pays an immense profit
to the gold-washers.”

There are two more modes of extracting water, which will be but
cursorily mentioned.
 The reader will remember that water finds its own level, and that the
terrific power of hydraulic mining is owing to the fact that the water
expends its force against the solid rock instead of ascending into the air.

It is now found that, even without artificial assistance, water has a habit
of finding its own level, and that, if it be allowed its own course, it will
contrive to find its way nearly to the highest point whence it derived its
origin. On this principle are based the Artesian Wells, which, when they
“strike water,” spurt it up in a torrent, as is the case with the now celebrated
Norton Tubes, which are screwed down into the earth like hollow gimlets,
and which always contrive to extract the water hidden beneath the surface
of the earth.
The success of our army in Abyssinia was greatly owing to these Norton
Tubes, which, being of small diameter and of peculiar make, could be
screwed into the ground when the troops made a halt, unscrewed when they
left the spot, and used again for the next halt.
Similarly, the French used the Artesian-well system with wonderful
success in Northern Africa. Water is the chief necessity of life in that part of
the world, and a nation who could cause pure cold water to spring out of the
hot and thirsty sands was naturally looked upon as something more than
human.
Yet the principle was exactly the same in both cases. Water is always
latent somewhere beneath the surface of the earth, and, if a tube can be
driven deep enough, the water will come up it.
The accompanying illustration shows the Artesian Well and Norton’s
Tube, and their similitude in principle, the tube penetrating through various
layers of soil, until it reaches the water which it seeks.
 Then there is another way by which water can be made to force itself to
a considerable height. Not being much of a mathematician, I do not
recollect the exact proportional height to which a stream of water may raise
itself, but if any one can secure a fall of some eight or ten feet, he can
furnish his house with water by means of the “Ram,” a chart of which is
shown in the illustration.

The principle of the Ram is, that the water is allowed to flow down a
tube, when it meets with a valve. This valve is suddenly closed by the
pressure, and the water is forced onwards by the shock. Much water escapes
at each blow of the valve, but that does not signify.
The force of water thus suddenly stopped is hardly appreciated. Even in
ordinary houses the sudden turning of a water-tap has been known to burst
the pipe and deluge the house with water.

In Nature a similar effect is produced, called popularly the “Spout-hole.”

It is a hole or tunnel on the seashore, passing upwards from the level of
the sea to the summit of the cliff.
When the waves are urged against the tunnel by the wind, the water is
dashed into it. Being partially checked by the friction, which acts exactly
like the water that is checked by the Ram, the wave hurls itself up the
channel, and flies out in showers of spray, high above the level of the
original wave which caused it.
In the illustration are shown the Water-ram with its globular valve, and
the safety or escape valve of the waste water. On the left is shown one of
the natural Spout-holes, with the water dashing through its tunnel into a
mass of spray.
 USEFUL ARTS.

CHAPTER XI.

AËROSTATICS.—WEIGHT OF AIR.—EXPANSION BY HEAT.

 Ascent and Descent.—The Balloon and the Parachute.—Description of the Balloon.—
The Montgolfier Balloon.—Causes of its Abandonment.—The Gas Balloon.—
Hydrogen Gas and its Manufacture.—The Gossamer Spider.—Reasons of its Ascent
and Descent.—Many Species of Gossamers.—Description of the Parachute.—Its Mode
of Action.—A Balloon converted into a Parachute.—Toy Parachutes.—Natural
Parachutes.—The Dandelion Seed and its Structure.—The Flying Squirrel.—The
Flying Monkey.—Flying Mice and Flying Opossums.—The Flying Dragon and its
Pseudo-wings.—The Flying Frog.—Weight of Air.—Pressure per Square Inch.—The
Air Ocean and its Storms.—Principle of Air-currents.—The Sun, the Earth, and the Air.
—Ventilation of Mines.—Choke-damp and Fire-damp.—The Air-shafts.—Chimneys of
Factories.—The Steam-blast.—The Barometer, and Mode of its Construction.—Water
and Mercury.—Sucking Eggs and Sugar-cane.—Expansion of Water and Metals by
Heat.—The Thermometer.—Wheel-making.

Aërostatics.

W E will begin this chapter with the only two modes at present known
by which man can ascend from the earth or descend to it with safety,
namely, the Balloon and the Parachute, the latter being generally
attached to the former, and detachable at pleasure.
The Balloon is, in fact, as its name imports, a large, hollow, air-tight ball,
filled with some substance lighter than ordinary air. The original Balloons
by Montgolfier were filled with heated air exactly like our toy fire-balloons.
Just as the supply of hot air is kept up in them by a sponge dipped in lighted
spirits of wine, so in Montgolfier’s balloons the same object was attained by
straw which was kept continually burning in a grate.
There were, however, two disadvantages about this plan. The first was
the great danger of fire, which on one occasion did ignite a balloon when at
a great height. The second was the perpetual labour required in keeping the
fire alight. Straw burns very rapidly, and so the aëronaut had no opportunity
of making those meteorologic observations in which consist almost the
entire value of the balloon.
 Then it was thought that hydrogen gas, being about fourteen times
lighter than ordinary air, would answer the purpose, and such has proved to
be the case. Formerly the gas was made at great expense from sulphuric
acid and zinc, but it is now found that the common coal-gas is quite as
efficient, very much cheaper, and fills the balloon much more rapidly.

The same principle, though not the same form, is found in Nature.
There are certain tiny spiders called Gossamers, which have a curious
power of floating in the air. They have been seen on the tops of lofty spires,
and they are sometimes so numerous that the air is full of their floating
webs, and the ground is white with those that have descended.
Their mode of ascent is this. They climb to the top of some elevated
object, if it be only a grass-blade. They then pour out a tuft of long, slender
threads, which shortly begin to tend upwards. As soon as the Spider feels
the pull, it crawls upon the web, and sails away into the air. The duration
and height of the ascent depend much on the wind and character of the
atmosphere.
The web ascends because it is for the time lighter than the atmosphere.
But, as it gradually becomes laden with the moisture that more or less fills
the air, it becomes heavier than the atmosphere, and gently sinks to the
ground.
 What may be the object of these aërial voyages no one knows. They may
be for the purpose of capturing minute insects, or they may be for mere
amusement. But in either case they are highly instructive, as showing the
principle on which the balloon was framed.
The little Gossamer Spider is shown on the left hand of the illustration,
clinging to its floating web. I believe that the Gossamer is not a single
species of Spider, but that there are many species which deserve the name,
being able to float in the air when they are small, but losing that capacity as
they increase in size and weight.

Now we come to another branch of the same subject, namely, the safe
descent from a great height by means of the Parachute.
On the right hand of the illustration is the ordinary Parachute as it
appears when open and closed, in either case having somewhat the
appearance of a large umbrella. It is hung to the balloon in its closed state,
and when detached it falls rapidly for a yard or two with startling rapidity.
The pressure of the air thus forces the ribs open, and gives sufficient
assistance to the atmosphere to insure a gentle fall.
On one memorable occasion, when the late Albert Smith was in the car
of a balloon upwards of a mile from the ground, the balloon burst.
Fortunately it burst so completely, that the silk was driven into the closely
meshed netting, and formed an extemporised parachute, which took the
voyagers to the earth with safety, except some rather severe bruises.
Children often amuse themselves with miniature parachutes. They take a
square piece of thin paper, tie threads to the four corners, and then bring the
ends together, a cork taking the place of the car. They then launch it from a
high window, and should there be a favourable breeze, it is wonderful how
far it will be carried before it comes to the ground.
Once, when a boy of eleven, and consequently thoughtless, I set a
chimney on fire by one of these Parachutes. I wished to see whether it
would go up the chimney, and come out at the top. Unfortunately it was
caught by a flame as it was launched, flew up in full blaze, and, as the
chimney needed sweeping, the result was inevitable.
 In the centre of the illustrations, and at the top, are two examples of a
well-known natural Parachute called the Dandelion seed. The resemblance
to the real Parachute is wonderful, the actual seed occupying the place of
the car, and fulfilling the same office, i.e. keeping the seed upright until it
reaches the ground.
When the tuft is closed, as is the case before the pretty ball of seeds
bursts from the green envelope in which they had been confined during the
process of development, its form bears the same startling resemblance to
the Parachute.

Passing from the vegetable world, there will be seen three examples of
Natural Parachutes. Several others will be mentioned, but we have no space
for description or figure. It will be seen, however, that the one principle
which characterizes them all is the exposure to the air of a flattened and
large surface, in proportion to the size of the object.
Before beginning the description, however, I must mention that nearly
all animal parachutes can to a certain extent guide their course, while
neither the balloon, the gossamer, the parachute, nor the various winged
seeds have the least power of guidance, but must follow every current of air
in which they may happen to float.

The upper figure represents a Flying Squirrel.

There are many species of Flying Squirrel, but they all agree in one
point. The skin of their sides is modified into a very thin fold, which
extends as far as the feet.
It is very elastic, so that when it is not in use it falls into folds or
wrinkles, and is hardly perceptible. But should the Squirrel wish to pass
from one tree to another, without coming to the ground, it spreads its legs as
widely as possible, so as to stretch the membrane into a wide, flat surface. It
then boldly springs into the air, and sweeps upon its mark with a sort of
skimming movement. Except that it does not revolve, it passes through the
air much after the fashion of an oyster-shell when thrown horizontally.
Many mammalia are constructed after a similar fashion, such as the
Colugo, or Flying Monkey, the Flying Mice, and the Flying Phalangists, or
“Opossums,” as they are popularly called.

In the centre is the Flying Dragon, or small lizard, which very probably
gave rise to the fabled Dragons in which our ancestors so devoutly believed.
Indeed, on looking back at the old illustrated works on Natural History,
there can be but little doubt on the subject.
In this creature, the ribs, instead of the legs, carry the flat and elastic
membranes. When simply crawling on the branches, after the manner of
tree-lizards, the ribs lie flat against the sides, and the membranes collapse,
so that the shape of the body is little different from that of any crawling
lizard.
But the ribs are movable at will, and, when the creature wishes to pass
from one tree to another, it extends the ribs, stretches the membranes, and
launches itself into the air, exactly as has been narrated of the Flying
Squirrel.

The lowest figure represents a most extraordinary animal, called the

Flying Frog. Only one specimen is believed to be known, and that was
discovered in Borneo by Mr. Wallace.
Here we have an analogy with the bats of the present day and the
pterodactyles of the past, namely, the elongation of the toes, and the
stretching of a web between them. In the two latter animals, however, only
the toes of the two fore-legs are elongated, whereas, with the Flying Frog,
the elongation is found in both pairs of limbs. The ends of the toes are
furnished with adhesive pads, like those of the tree-frogs, to which it is
probably related.
By means of the four membranes, the creature is able to sweep through
the air for some distance, and, indeed, this power was the reason why it was
caught. It was seen to skim from one tree to another, and was immediately
secured. Had it remained sticking on the tree, it would probably have
escaped observation.
Weight of Air.
We have already noticed that hydrogen gas is fourteen times lighter than
air, and infer necessarily that the weight of the atmosphere must be very
considerable if so heavy an object as a balloon, with its car, instruments,
sand-bags, and passengers, can rise and float in it.
We are not conscious of its weight, because it permeates us, and the
pressure is neutralised. But, in fact, we live at the bottom of a vast ocean
which we call the atmosphere; and as, on an average, there is a pressure of
fifteen pounds on every square inch of surface, we have to sustain an almost
incredible weight. Let, for example, any one measure the surface of his own
hand, reduce it to square inches, add together fifteen pounds for every
square inch, and he will then appreciate the weight of the atmospheric
ocean in which we live. On an average, every human being endures a
pressure of some ninety thousand pounds.
This ocean is in perpetual movement, sometimes violently, which we
call storm; sometimes gently, which we call breeze; and sometimes very
gently, which we call calm. There are air-spouts as well as water-spouts;
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