Some interesting researches have lately been published in an Italian journal concerning the influence of repose on the sensitiveness of the retina (a nervous network of the eye) to light and color. The researches in question—those of Bassevi—appear to corroborate investigations which were made some years ago by other observers. In the course of the investigations the subject experimented upon was made to remain in a dark room for a period varying in extent from fifteen to twenty minutes. The room was darkened, it is noted, by means of heavy curtains, through which the light could not penetrate. After the eyes of the subject had thus been rested in the darkness, it was noted that the sensitiveness of his sight had been increased threefold. The mere sense of light itself had increased eighteen times. It was further noted that the sensitiveness to light rays, after the eye had been rested, was developed in a special order; the first color which was recognized being red, then followed yellow, while green and blue respectively succeeded. If color fatigue was produced in the eye by a glass of any special hue, it was found that the color in question came last in the series in point of recognition. The first of these experiments, regarded from a practical point of view, would appear to consist in an appreciation of the revivifying power of darkness as regards the sight. The color purple of the retina is known to become redeveloped in darkness; and it is probable, therefore, that the alternation of day and night is a physical and external condition with which the sight of animals is perfectly in accord.
An article on the subject, recently published by us, has gained for us the communication of two very interesting sun dials, which we shall describe. The first, which we owe to the kindness of General Jancigny, is of the type of the circular instrument, of which we explained the method of using in our preceding article. The hour here is likewise deduced from the height of the sun converted into a horary angle by the instrument itself; but the method by which such conversion operates is a little different. Fig. 1 shows the instrument open for observation. We find here the meridian circle, M, and the equator E, of the diagram shown in Fig. 3 (No. 4); but the circle with alidade is here replaced by a small aperture movable in a slide that is placed in a position parallel with the axis of the world. Upon this slide are marked, on one side, the initials of the names of the months and on the other side the corresponding signs of the zodiac. The sun apparently describing a circle around the axis, PP¹, the rays passing through a point of the axis (small aperture of the slide) will travel over a circular cone around such axis. If, then, the apparatus be so suspended that the circle, M, shall be in the meridian, the slide parallel with the earth's axis, and the circle, E, at right angles with the slide, the pencil of solar light passing through the aperture will describe, in one day, a cone having the slide for an axis; that is to say, concentric with the equator circle. If, moreover, the aperture is properly placed, the luminous pencil will pass through the equator circle itself; to this effect, the aperture should be in a position such that the angle, a (Fig. 3, No. 4), may be equal to the declination of the sun on the day of observation. It is precisely to this end that the names of the months are inscribed upon the slide....
FIG. 1.
FIG. 1.—TRAVELER'S SUN DIAL.
The accessories of the instrument are as follows: A ring with a pivot for suspending the meridian circle, and the position of which, given by a division in degrees marked upon this circle, must correspond with the latitude of the place; two stops serving to fix the position of the equator circle; finally the latitude of various cities. The instrument was constructed at Paris, by Butterfield, probably in the last quarter of the eighteenth century.
The second instrument, which is of the same nature as the cubical sun dial—that is to say, with horary angle—is, unlike the latter, a true trinket, as interesting as a work of art as it is as an astronomical instrument. It is a little mandolin of gilded brass, and is shown of actual size in Fig. 2. The cover, which is held by a hook, may be placed in a vertical position, in which it is held by a second hook. It bears in the interior the date 1612. This is the only explicit historic datum that this little masterpiece reveals to us. Its maker, who was certainly an artist, and, as we shall see, also a man of science, had the modesty not to inscribe his name in it.
FIG. 2.
FIG. 2.—SUN DIAL IN THE FORM OF A MANDOLIN, CONSTRUCTED IN 1612.
No. 2 of Fig. 3 represents the instrument open. It rests upon the tail piece and neck of the mandolin. The cover is exactly vertical. The bottom of the mandolin is closed by a horizontal silver plate, beneath which is soldered the box of a compass designed to put the instrument in the meridian, and carrying upon its face an arrow and the indications S. OR. M. OC., that is to say, "Septentrion" (north), "Orient" (east), "Midi" (south), "Occident" (west). One of the ends of the needle of the compass is straight, while the other is forked. It is placed in a position in which it completes the arrow, thus permitting of making a very accurate observation (Fig. 2, No. 3). Around the compass, the silver plate carries the lines of hours. It is perfectly adjusted, and held in place by a screw that traverses the bottom of the instrument. In front of the compass it contains a small aperture designed to permit of the passage of the indicating thread, which, at the other end, is fastened to the cover. The silver plate is not soldered, in order that the thread may be replaced when it chances to break. On the inner part of the cover are marked in the first place the horary lines, traversed by curves that are symmetrical with respect to the vertical and having the aspect of arcs of hyperbolas. At the extremity of these lines are marked the signs of the zodiac. At the top, a pretty banderole, which appears at first sight to form a part of the ensemble of the curves, completes the design. Such is this wonderful little instrument, in which everything is arranged in harmonious lines that delight the eye and easily detract one's attention from a scientific examination of it. Let us enter upon this drier part of our subject; we shall still have room to wonder, and let us take up first the higher question.
FIG. 3.
FIG. 3.—DIAGRAM EXPLANATORY OF THE MANDOLIN SUN DIAL.
Let us consider a horizontal plane (Fig. 3, No. 2)—a plane perpendicular to the meridian, and a right line parallel with the axis of the world. Let P be a point upon this line. As we have seen, such point is the summit of a very wide cone described in one day by the solar rays. At the equinox this cone is converted into a plane, which, in a vertical plane, intersects the straight line A B. Between the vernal and autumnal equinoxes the sun is situated above this plane, and, consequently, the shadow of P describes the lower curves at A B. During winter, on the contrary, it is the upper curves that are described. It is easily seen that the curves traced by the shadow of the point P are hyperbolas whose convexity is turned toward A B. It therefore appears evident to us that the thread of our sun dial carried a knot or bead whose shadow was followed upon the curves. This shadow showed at every hour of the day the approximate date of the day of observation. The sun dial therefore served as a calendar. But how was the position of the bead found? Here we are obliged to enter into new details. Let us project the figure upon a vertical plane (Fig. 3, No. 1) and designate by H E the summits of the hyperbolas corresponding to the winter and summer solstices. If P be the position of the bead, the angles, P H H¹, P E E¹, will give the height of the sun above the horizon at noon, at the two solstices. Between these angles there should exist an angle of 47°, double the obliquity of the ecliptic, that is to say, the excursion of the sun in declination: now P E E¹-P H H¹ = E P H = 47°.
Let us carry, at H and E, the angles, O H E = H E O = 43° = 90°-47°; the angle at 0° will be equal to 180-86 = 94°. If we trace the circumference having O for a center, and passing through E and H, each point, Q, of such circumference will possess the same property as the angle, H Q E = 47°. The intersection, P, of the circumference with the straight line, N, therefore gives the position of the bead.
Let us return to our instrument. We have traced upon a diagram the distance of the points of attachment of the thread, at the intersection of the planes of projection. We have thus obtained the position of the line, N S. Then, operating as has just been said, we have marked the point, P. Now, accurately measuring all the angles, we have found: N S R = 50°; P H H¹ = 18°; P E E¹ = 65°. The first shows that the instrument has been constructed for a place on the parallel of 50°, and the others show that, at the solstices, the height of the sun was respectively 18° and 65°, decompounded as follows:
| 18° = | polar height of the place | -23½°. |
| 65° = | " | +23½°. |
The polar height of the place where the object was to be observed would therefore be 41½°, that is to say, its latitude would be 48½°.
Minor views of construction and measurement and the deformations that the instrument has undergone sufficiently explain the divergence of 1½° between the two results, which comprise between them the latitude of Paris.
After doing all the reasoning that we have just given at length, we have finally found the means by which the hypothetic bead was to be put in place. A little beyond the curves, a very small but perfectly conspicuous dot is engraved—the intersection of two lines of construction that it was doubtless desired to efface, but the scarcely visible trace of which subsists. Upon measuring with the compasses the distance between the insertion of the thread and this dot, we find exactly the distance, N P, of our diagram. Therefore there is no doubt that this dot served as a datum point. The existence of the bead upon the thread and the use of it as a rude calendar therefore appears to be certain.
The compass is to furnish us new indications. After dismounting it—an operation that the quite primitive enchasing of the face plate renders very easy—we took a copy of it, which we measured with care. The arrow forms with the line O C-O R an angle of 90° + 8°. The compass was therefore constructed in view of an eastern declination of 8°.
Now, here is what we know with most certainty as to the magnetic declination of Paris at the epoch in question:
| Years. | Declinations. |
| 1550. | 8° east. |
| 1580. | 11.30 |
| 1622. | 6.30 |
| 1634. | 4.16 |
On causing the curve (Fig. 3, No. 3) to pass through the four points thus determined, we find, for 1612, the declination 8½°. This is, with an approximation closer than that of the measurements that can be made upon the small compass, the value that we found. From these data as a whole we draw the two following conclusions: (1) The instrument was constructed at Paris; and (2) the inventor was accurately posted in the science of his time.
Certain easily perceived retouchings, moreover, show that this sun dial is not a copy, but rather an original. We are therefore in an attitude to claim, as we did at the outset, that the constructor of this pleasing object was not only an artist, but a man of science as well.
Let us compare a few dates: In 1612, Galileo and Kepler were still living. Thirty years were yet to lapse before the birth of Newton. Modern astronomy was in its tenderest infancy, and remained the privilege of a few initiated persons.—C.E. Guillaume, in La Nature.
[MIND.]
[The following article appeared originally, last year, in the German scientific monthly, Humboldt. It, is reproduced here (by permission)—the English from the hand of Mr. A.E. Shipley—as a specimen of the kind of general speculation to which modern biology is giving rise.—EDITOR.]
To Weismann is due the credit of transforming those vague ideas on the immortality of the germ plasma which have been for some time in the minds of many scientific men, myself among the number, into a clear and sharply-defined theory, against the accuracy of which no doubt can be raised either from the theoretical or from the empirical standpoint. This theory, defined as it is by Weismann, has but recently come before us, and some time must elapse before all the consequences which it entails will be evident. But there is one direction which I have for some time followed, and indeed began to think out long before Weismann's remarkable work showed the importance of this matter. I mean the origin of the conception of the immortal soul.
Before I approach the solution of this problem, it may be advisable to recall in a few words to my readers the theory of the immortality of the germ plasm.
All unicellular beings, such as the protozoa and the simpler algæ, fungi, etc., reproduce themselves by means of simple fission. The mother organism may split into two similar halves, as the amoeba does, or, as is more common in the lowest unicellular plants, it may divide into a great number of small spores. In these processes it often happens that the whole body of the mother, the entire cell, may resolve itself into two or more children; at times, however, a small portion of the mother cell remains unused. This remnant, in the spore-forming unicellular plants represented by the cell wall, is then naturally dead.
From this it follows that these unicellular beings are immortal. The mother cell divides, the daughter cells resulting from the first division repeat the process, the third generation does the same, and so on. At each division the mother cell renews its youth and multiplies, without ever dying.
External circumstances can, of course, at any moment bring about the death of these unicellular organisms, and in reality almost every series of beings which originate from one another in this way is interrupted by death. Some, however, persist. From the first appearance of living organisms on our planet till to-day, several such series—at the very least certainly one—have persisted.
The immortality of unicellular beings is not at any time absolute, but only potential. Weismann has recently directed attention to this point. External occurrences may at any moment cause the death of an individual, and in this way interrupt the immortal series; but in the intimate organization of the living plasma there exist no seeds of death. The plasma is itself immortal and will in fact live forever, provided only external circumstances are favorable.
Death is always said to be inherent in the nature of protoplasm. This is not so. The plasm, as such, is immortal.
But a further complication of great importance affects the reproduction and the rejuvenescence of these unicellular organisms; this is the process of conjugation. Two separate cells, distinct individuals, fuse together. Their protoplasmic bodies not only unite but intermingle, and their nuclei do likewise; from two individuals one results. A single cell is thus produced, and this divides. As a rule this cell seems stronger than the single individual before the union. The offspring of a double individual, originated in this way, increase for some time parthenogenetically by simple fission without conjugation, until at length a second conjugation takes place among them. I cannot consider further the origin of this universally important process of conjugation. I will only suggest that a kind of conjugation may have existed from the very beginning and may have been determined by the original method of reproduction, if such existed.
At any rate conjugation has been observed in very many plants and animals, and is possibly universally present in the living world.
Conjugation does not affect the theory of immortality. The double individual produced from the fusion of two individuals, which divides and lives on in its descendants, contains the substance of both. The conjugating cells have in no way died during the process of conjugation; they have only united.
If we examine a little more closely the history of such a "family" of unicellular beings from one period of conjugation to the next, we see that a great number of single individuals, that is, single cells, have proceeded from the double individual formed by conjugation. These may all continue to increase by splitting in two, and then the family tree is composed of dichotomously branching lines; or they may resolve themselves into numerous spores, and then the family tree exhibits a number of branches springing from the same point.
The majority of these branches end blindly with the death, caused by external circumstances, of that individual which corresponds with the branch. Only a few persist till the next period of conjugation, and then unite with other individuals and afford the opportunity for giving rise to a new family tree.
All the single individuals of such a genealogical table belong to one another, even though they be isolated. Among certain infusoria and other protista, they do, in fact, remain together and build up branching colonies. At the end of each branch is situated an infusorian (vorticella), and the whole colony represents in itself the genealogical family tree.
In the beginning, there existed no other animal organisms than these aggregations of similar unicellular beings, all of which reproduced themselves. Later on, division of labor made its appearance among the individuals of the animal colony, and it increased their dependence upon one another, so that their individuality was to a great extent lost, and they were no longer able to live independently of one another.
By the development of this process, multicellular metazoa arose from the colonies of similar protozoa, and at length culminated in the higher animals and man.
If we examine the human body, its origin and end, in the light of these facts, we shall see that a comparison between the simple immortal protozoa and man leads us to the result that man himself, or at least a part of him and that the most important, is immortal.
When we turn to the starting point of human development, we find an egg cell and a spermatozoon, which unite and whose nuclei intermingle. Thus a new cell is produced. This process is similar to the conjugation of two unicellular beings, such as two acinetiform infusoria, one of which, the female (), is larger than the other, the male (). This difference of size in the conjugating cell is, however, without importance.
From this double cell produced by conjugation many generations of cells arise by continual cell division in divergent series. Among the infusoria these are all immortal, but many of them are destroyed, and only a few persist till conjugation again takes place. The same is the case with man. Numerous series of cell families arise, which are all immortal: of these but few—strictly speaking, only one—live till the next period of conjugation and then give the impulse which results in the formation of a new diverging series of cells. The difference between man and the infusorian is only that in the former the cells which originate from the double cell (the fertilized ovum) remain together and become differentiated one from another, while in the latter the cells are usually scattered but remain alike in appearance, etc.
The seeds of death do not lie, as Weismann appears to assume, in the differentiation of the cells of the higher animals. On the contrary, all the cell series, not only those of the reproductive cells, are immortal. As a matter of fact all must die; not because they themselves contain the germs of death and have contained them from the beginning, but because the structure which is built up by them collectively finally brings about the death of all. The living plasm in every cell is itself immortal. It is the higher life of the collective organism which continually condemns countless cells to death. They die, not because they cannot continue to exist as such but because conditions necessary for their preservation are no longer present.
Thus, while the cells are themselves immortal, the whole organism which they build up is mortal. The complex inter-dependence between the single cells, which, since they have adapted themselves to division of labor, has become necessary, carries with it, from the beginning, the seeds of death. The mutual dependence ceases to work, and the various cells are killed.
The death of the individual is a consequence of the defective precision in the working of the division of labor among the cells. This defect, after a longer or shorter time, causes the death of all the cells composing the body. Only those which quit the body retain their power of living.
Of all those countless cells which, in the course of a lifetime, are thrown off from the body, only one kind is adapted for existence outside the body, namely, the reproductive cells.
Among the lower animals the reproductive cells often leave the body of their parents only after the death of the latter. This is not the case in man.
All the cell series which do not take part in the formation of reproductive cells, as well as all the reproductive cells without exception, or with only a few exceptions, die through unfavorable external conditions; just as all, or almost all, of the infusoria which arose from the double cell die before they can conjugate again.
At times, however, some of the infusoria persist till the next period of conjugation, and in the same way, from time to time, some of the human reproductive cells succeed in conjugating, and from them a new individual arises.
A man is the outgrowth of the double cell produced from the conjugation of two human reproductive cells, and consists of all the cells which arise from this and remain in connection with each other. The human individual originates at the moment of the mingling of the nuclei of the reproductive cells; and the details of this mingling determine his individual peculiarities.
The end of man is manifestly to preserve, to nourish, and to protect the series of reproductive cells which are continually developing within him, to select a suitable mate and to care for the children which he produces. His whole structure is acquired by means of selection with this one object in view, the maintenance of the series of reproductive cells.
From this standpoint the individual loses his significance and becomes, so to speak, the slave of the reproductive cells. These are the important and essential and also the undying parts of the organism. Like raveled threads whose branches separate and reunite, the series of reproductive cells permeate the successive generations of the human race. They continually give off other cell series which branch out from this network of reproductive cells, and, after a longer or shorter course, come to an end. Twigs from these branches represent the human individuals, and any one who considers the matter must recognize that, as was said above, apart from the preservation of the reproductive cell series the individuals are purposeless.
It is on this basis that the moral ordering of the world must place itself if it is to stand on any basis at all. It is an easy and a pleasant task to interpret the facts of history from this standpoint. Everything fits together and harmonizes, and each turn in the historical development of civilization when observed from this point of view acquires a simple and a clear causality.
I cannot enlarge on this topic, engaging as it is, but here a further question obtrudes itself. May there not be some connection between the actual immortality of the germ cells, the continuity of their series and the importance of the part they play, and the origin of the idea of an immortal soul? May not the former have given rise to the latter?
As a matter of fact, the series of reproductive cells possess the essential attributes of the human soul; they are the immortal living part of a man, which contain, in a latent form, his spiritual peculiarities. The immortality of the reproductive cells is only potential and is essentially different from that absolute eternal life which certain religions ascribe to the soul.
We must not, however, forget that at the time when the conception of a soul arose among men, owing to a defective knowledge of the laws of logic, no clear distinction was made between a potential immortality and an absolute life without end.
Herbert Spencer has pointed out that all religions have their origin in reverence paid to ancestors. Each religion must have a true foundation, and the deification of our forefathers has this true and natural foundation inasmuch as they belong to the same series of reproductive cells as their descendants. Of course our barbaric ancestors who initiated the ancestor worship had no idea of this motive for their religion, but that in no way disproves that this and this alone was the causa efficiens of the origin of such religions. It is indeed typical of a religion that it depends upon facts which are not discerned and which are not fully recognized.
With the origin and development of every religion the origin and development of the conception of the soul progresses step by step.
We find the justification of ancestor worship in the immortality of the reproductive cells, and in the continuity of their series. This should also take a part in the origin of the conception of the soul.
Spencer derives the conception of the existence of the soul from dreams, and from the imagination of the mentally afflicted. The savage dreams he is hunting, and wakes up to find himself at home. In his dream he talks with friends who are not present where he sleeps; he may even in the course of his dream encounter the dead. From this he draws the conclusions—(1) that he himself has two persons, one hunting while the other sleeps; (2) that his acquaintances also have a double existence; and, from those cases in which he met with the dead, (3) that they are not only double persons, but that one of the persons is dead while the other continues to live.
Thus, according to Spencer, the idea arises that man consists of two separable thinking parts, and that one of these can survive the other.
When a person faints and recovers, we say he comes to himself. That is, a part of his person left him and has returned. But in this case, as in the dream, the body has not divided, so that in a swoon the outgoing portion is not corporeal.
The savage will think that this is what remains alive after death, for he is incapable of distinguishing between a swoon and death. Then he will associate the part which leaves the body during a swoon with that which gives life, and some will regard the heart, which fails to beat after death, and others the breath, which ceases when life does, as this life-giving part or soul.
Thus far I am quoting from Spencer.
The conception of the soul, which has thus arisen, has been utilized by astute priests to obtain power over their fellow-men; while the genuine founders of religions have made use of it, and by threats of punishment, and promises of reward, have tried to induce mankind to live uprightly.
With this purpose in view, the teachers of religion have changed the original conception of the soul and have added to it the attribute of absolute immortality and eternal duration, an attribute which is in no way connected by people in a low state of development with their conception of the soul.
At the present time among the religions of all civilized people the undying soul plays an extraordinarily important part.
I start from the position that no doctrine can receive a general acceptation among men which does not depend on a truth of nature. The various religions agree on one point, and this is the doctrine of the immortal soul. Such a point of universal agreement, I am convinced, cannot have been entirely derived from the air. It must have had some foundation in fact, and the question arises, What was this foundation? Dreams and phantasms, as Spencer believes? No; there must have been something real and genuine, and the path we have entered upon to find traces of this true foundation of the conception of the soul cannot be distrusted.
We must compare the conception of the soul as held by various related religions, and strip off from it all those attributes which are not common to all. But those which all the various religions agree in ascribing to the soul we may regard as its true attributes.
It would take too long to go into the details of this examination of the conception of the soul. As the general result of a comparison of the various views of the soul we may put down the following characteristics which are invariably ascribed to it:
(1) The soul is living.
(2) It survives the body, and can continue to exist without it.
(3) During life it is contained in the body, but leaves it after death.
(4) The soul participates in the conduct of the body: after the death of the latter, causality (retribution) can still affect the soul.
The characteristics (1) to (3) hold also for the series of reproductive cells continually developing within the body; and these attributes of the germ cells may well be the true but unrecognized cause of the origin of those conceptions of the soul's character.
This like holds true for (4), although the connection is not so obvious. For this reason it will be advisable to consider the point in more detail.
It has been already indicated that the founders of religions have made use of the survival of the soul after death to endeavor to lead mankind to live righteously, by threats of punishments or promises of reward, which will affect the soul after the death of the body.
It is precisely on this point that in the most highly developed religions there is the greatest falling off from the original conception of the after-effect of human conduct on the soul, and the most astounding things are inculcated by the Koran and other works with respect to this.
But here again we may separate the true kernel from the artificial shell, and reach the conclusion that good conduct is advantageous for the soul after the death of the body, and that bad conduct is detrimental. In no other way can the Mohammedan paradise or the Christian hell be explained than as sheer anthropomorphic realizations of these facts, which can appeal even to the densest intellect.
What then is good conduct, or bad?
The question is easily asked, but without reference to external circumstances impossible to answer. Per se there is no good or bad conduct. Under certain circumstances a vulgar, brutal murder may become a glorious and heroic act, a good deed in the truest sense of the word; as, for example, in the case of Charlotte Corday. Nor must the view of one's fellow creatures be accepted as a criterion of good or bad conduct, for different parties are apt to cherish diametrically opposed opinions on one and the same subject. There remains then only one's own inner feeling or conscience. Good conduct awakes in this a feeling of pleasure, bad conduct a feeling of pain. And by this alone can we discriminate. Now let us further ask. What sort of conduct produces in our conscience pleasure and what sort of conduct induces pain? If we investigate a great number of special cases, we shall recognize that conduct which proves advantageous to the individual, to the family, to the state, and finally to mankind, produces a good conscience, and that conduct which is injurious to the same series give rise to a bad conscience. If a collision of interests arise, it is the degree of relationship which determines the influence of conduct on the conscience. As, for instance, among the clans in Scotland, a deed which is advantageous for the clan produces a good conscience, even if it be injurious to the state and to mankind.
The conscience is one of the mental faculties of man acquired by selection and rendered possible by the construction and development of the commonwealth of the state. Conscience urges us to live rightly, that is, to do those things which will help ourselves and our family, whereby our fellow creatures according to their degree of relationship may be benefited. These are good deeds, and they will merit from the teachers of religion much praise for the soul. We find, therefore, that the only possible definition of a good deed is one which will benefit the series of germ cells arising from one individual, and further which will be of use to others with their own series of germ cells, and that in proportion to the degree of connection (relationship).
It is clear that in this point also the ordinary conception of the future fate of the soul agrees fundamentally with the result of observation on the prosperity of the series of germ cells.
As all the forces of nature, known to the ignorant barbarian only by their visible workings, call forth in him certain vague and, therefore, religious ideas, which are but a reflection of these forces in an anthropomorphically distorted form, so the apparently enigmatical conception of the eternal soul is founded on the actual immortality and continuity of the germ plasma.
This is an acquisition to the dwarf growing palms, and a graceful table plant. It first appeared in the nurseries of M. Pynaert, Ghent, and is evidently a form of C. Weddelliana, having similar character, though, as shown by the accompanying illustration, it is quite distinct. The leaves are gracefully arched, the pinnules rather broader than in the type, more closely arranged, and of a deep tone of rich green. Such a small growing palm possessing elegant and distinct character should become a favorite.—The Gardener's Magazine.
COCOS PYNAERTI
COCOS PYNAERTI—A NEW PALM.
The purport of the following paper is to show that corrosion of its banks and deposition of sediment constitute the legitimate business of a river. If the bed of the Mississippi were of adamant, and its drainage slopes were armored with chilled steel, its current would do just what it has been doing in past ages—wear them away, and fill the Gulf of Mexico with the detritus.
Many thoughts were suggested by Mr. S.C. Clemens, erstwhile a Mississippi pilot, and by Mr. D.A. Curtis. Both of these gentlemen know the river.
The Mississippi River, as ordinarily regarded, has its head waters in a chain of lakes situated mainly in Beltrami and Cass counties, Minnesota. The lake most distant from the north is Elk Lake, so named in the official surveys of the U.S. Land Office. A short stream flows from Elk Lake to Lake Itaska, a beautiful sheet of water, considerably larger than Elk Lake. From Lake Itaska it flows in a general northeasterly direction, receiving the waters of innumerable springs and ponds, among them Lake Bemidji, a body of water equal in size to Lake Itaska. After a course of 135 miles the steam flows into Cass Lake, absorbing in the meantime the waters of another chain of lakes, discharged through Turtle River. From Cass Lake the waters flow a distance of twenty miles, and are poured into Lake Winnibigoshish. The latter has an area of eighty square miles; it is twice the size of Cass Lake and more than six times that of Lake Itaska. From Lake Winnibigoshish to the point where it receives the discharge of Leech Lake, the river flows through an open savannah, from a quarter of a mile to a mile in width. Forty miles beyond are Pokegama Falls. Here the river flows from Pokegama Lake, falling about fourteen feet before quiet water is reached. All the country about the headwaters is densely wooded with Norway pine on the higher ground, and with birch, maple, poplar and tamarack on the lower ground. Between Pokegama Falls and the Falls of St. Anthony, the river receives the waters of a number of other similar streams, all flowing from the lake region.
At St. Paul the navigable stage of the river practically begins, although there is more or less navigable water above the falls at certain seasons. From St. Paul to Cairo the river flows between bluffs, the terraces of Champlain times, from ten to fifty miles apart. Between the bluffs are the bottom lands, often coincident with the flood plain, along which the river channel wanders in a devious course of 1,100 miles. The soil of the bottom lands is, of course, alluvial, and was deposited by the river during past ages; that beyond the bluffs is a part of the great intermontane plain, and is sedentary—that is, it has not been materially disturbed since the plain was raised above the sea level by the uplift of the continent.
From Cairo, at the junction of the Ohio River, the plain to the southward is nearly all made land, and in a few spots only does the river touch soil which it has not itself made. Here the Lower Mississippi proper begins, and here, at some not far distant time in the past,2 was the head of the Gulf of Mexico. A fuller description of the Lower Mississippi is unnecessary here, inasmuch as the following pages are mainly devoted to this part alone.
Nearly three and a half centuries have elapsed since De Soto, that prince among explorers, traversed the broad prairies that lie between the border highlands of the Western continent, and beheld the stream which watered the future empire of the world. His chroniclers tell us that he was raised to an upright position, so that he could catch a fleeting glimpse of the restless, turbulent flood; for even then the hand of death was upon him, and soon its waters were to enshroud his mortal remains. "His soldiers," says Bancroft, "pronounced his eulogy by grieving for their loss, and the priests chanted over his body the first requiems ever heard on the Mississippi. To conceal his death, his body was wrapped in a mantle, and, in the stillness of midnight, was silently sunk in the middle of the stream." Just across the river the Arkansas was pouring in its tumultuous flood, and its confluence was the site of the future town of Napoleon, which in coming years was to be historic ground.
Worn by suffering, hardships and peril, and racked by the pestilential fever that still hovers about the river lowlands, De Soto paid the debt of nature, and his thrice decimated followers made their way back to France. It seemed a strange, incredible story that they told, for such a mighty river, with its vast plain, was beyond conception. Its source, they said, was in the north—among the eternal snows—farther than it had ever been given to man to penetrate. Its waters, they thought, were poured into the Gulf of California, or perhaps into the great Virginia Sea. Its flood, they said, was so great that if all the rivers of Europe were gathered into one channel, they would not be a tithe as large. But the people who heard these wonderful accounts were unconcerned. The French monarch knew naught but to debauch his heritance; the French courtier intrigued and plundered; the French peasant, dogged and sullen in his long suffering, dragged out his miserable existence. The flood of waters rolled on, and a hundred and thirty years must come and go before the next white man should see the sheen of its rippling.
Let us cast a retrograde glance to the history of this period. It was only fifty years before that Columbus had dropped anchor off the coral reef of Samana Cay, and thrilled the Old World by announcing the discovery of the New. Elizabeth, the virgin Queen of England, was a proud, haughty girl just entering her teens, all unmindful of her eventful future. Mary Queen of the Scots was a tiny infant in swaddling clothes. The labors of Rafael Sanzio were still fresh in the memory of his surviving pupils. Michael Angelo was in the zenith of his fame, bending his energies to the beautifying of the great cathedral. Martin Luther was in the sere old age of his life, waiting for the command of the Master, which should bid him lay down his armor. A hundred years were to elapse before Charles I. of England must pay with his life the price of his folly.
Joliet, a French trader, was a man possessed of far more brains than marked the average men of his times. He had not only the indomitable courage which is essential to the successful explorer, but he had also the rare ability to manage men; and we find him in 1672 with a commission from the French king directing him to explore the valley which was to be a part of New France. The lands which he visited must be his fee to the king; certain rights of trade he wisely secured to himself. So, with Pere Marquette, a Jesuit priest, he undertook the mission, which we may doubt whether to call a journey of discovery or an errand of diplomacy. Crossing the ocean, their route lay along the St. Lawrence River to the Great Lakes; through the Great Lakes to the country of the Illini; down the Illinois to the Mississippi, and down the Mississippi to its junction with the Arkansas. Here they encamped near the site of Napoleon. Everywhere along their route they had won the hearts of the savage Illini. They possessed that rare tact which was born in French travelers, and which no English explorer ever had. When they had reached the junction of the Arkansas, "they were kindly received by the Indian tribes." They held a council with the various chiefs, with whom they made a treaty. The treaty was celebrated by a feast, and, if we may believe the record thereof, libations of wine were freely poured forth to pledge the stipulations of the business transaction. For a heavenly possession in the uncertain future, the Indian acknowledged, by the cross raised in commemoration, that he had bartered away his earthly kingdom. The title by which the Indian held the soil wrested from the Mound-builder may not have been perfect; that of the wily Joliet may have been equally defective. But Joliet builded more wisely than he knew, for to this day, fraud, treachery and broken faith are the chief witnesses to our treaties with the aboriginal owners of the land.
Nine years after the business venture of Joliet, La Salle received letters extraordinary from the King of France, directing him to make additional explorations along the course of the great river. He organized an expedition, crossed the ocean, and made his way rapidly to the scene of his explorations. Preparing his canoes and launches, he followed the sinuous course of the river to Napoleon. His arrival was celebrated by another feast and post-prandial business agreement, and New France began its brief existence. Never in the history of the world had such an empire been founded—such another could not be formed until the domains of this had been widened from sea to sea, and the energy of Saxon, Teuton and Kelt mingled to build a greater.
To La Salle belongs the honor of tracing the true course of the Mississippi river. He charted it with a faithfulness and accuracy that would do credit to the surveys of the present day. He seemed to have noted all the important feeders and tributaries, correctly locating their points of confluence. He did not cease his work until he reached the Gulf of Mexico.3 So not only was La Salle the most indefatigable explorer of this region, but he also earned the credit of having made the most important discovery.
With La Salle's exploration the future importance of the Mississippi began; and though the railway has of late years largely supplanted it as a commercial highway, yet, with the possible exception of the Ganges, no other river in the world transports yearly a greater tonnage of merchandise. The early traders were content to carry their supplies back and forth in canoes. As settlement and business increased, the canoe gave place to the raft, and the raft yielded to the flatboat. In the course of time, steam was applied to the propulsion of boats, and the flatboat yielded to the inevitable: the palatial steamboat was supreme. But the days of the steamboat were numbered when the civil war cast its blight over the land; and when the years of strife were over, so also was the river traffic which had created the floating palaces of the Mississippi. There were several things that operated to prevent the reorganization of the fleet of steamboats which for size, beauty and capacity were found in no other part of the world. Many of these boats had been destroyed, and the companies that owned them were financially ruined. Most of those remaining were purchased or confiscated for military purposes, and rebuilt either as transports or as gunboats. A period of unparalleled railway construction began at the close of the war, and most of the traffic was turned to the railway. Finally, it was discovered that a puffy, wheezy tug, with its train of barges, costing but a few thousand dollars, and equipped with half a score of men, could, at a much less rate, tow a vastly greater cargo than the river steamer. That discovery was the knell of the old-time steamboat, and the beginning of a new era of navigation. Powerful as the railway may be, we cannot shut our eyes to the fact that a tug and train of barges will carry a cargo of merchandise from St. Paul to St. Louis for one-tenth the sum the consignee must pay for railway transportation. So, to-day, the river is just as important as a highway of commerce as it was in the palmy days of the floating palace and river greyhound. Railway traffic has enormously increased, but river traffic along the most wonderful of streams has not materially lessened.
The Mississippi is certainly a wonderful river. From Elk Lake to the Gulf of Mexico it has a variable length of about 2,800 miles; from Pass à l'Outre to the head of the Missouri its extent is nearly 4,200 miles—a length not equaled by any other river in the world. It is evident, by a moment of reflection, that a river which traverses a great extent of latitude offers much greater facilities for commerce and settlement than a longitudinal river. The Mississippi traverses a greater breadth of latitude than any other river, except the Nile, for its sources are in regions of almost arctic cold, while its delta is in a land that is practically tropical. The volume of its flood is surpassed by the Amazon and, perhaps, the Yukon. It discharges, however, three times as much water as the Danube, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and almost three hundred and fifty times as much as the Thames. It has several hundred navigable tributaries, and its navigable waters, stretched in a straight line, would reach nearly three-fourths the distance around the earth. It is one of the most sinuous of rivers. In one part of its course it flows in a channel nearly 1,400 miles long to accomplish, as the crow flies, the distance of 700 miles. In more than one place the current forms a loop ten, twenty and even thirty miles around, rather than to cut through a neck perhaps not half a mile in width. It is one of the most capricious of rivers, for its channel rarely lies in the same place during two successive seasons. The river manifests a strong inclination to move east; and were La Salle to repeat his memorable voyage, he would touch in scarcely half a score of places the course he formerly traveled; or if he were to go over exactly the same course, he must of necessity have his boats dragged over the ground, for almost the entire course over which he traveled is now dry land. Since that time the river has deserted almost all of its former channel, as if to repudiate its connection with the after-dinner treaties of two hundred years lang syne; in places its channel lies to the west, but for the greater extent it is to the eastward.4
The lower Mississippi is among the muddiest streams in the world. During the average year it brings down 7,500,000,000 cubic yards of sediment, discharging it along the lower course, or pushing it into the Gulf. As one thinks of the small amount of sediment held in a gallon or two of river water, a comprehension of this vast amount of silt is impossible. It is enough to cover a square mile in area to a depth of 268 feet. In five hundred years it would build above the sea level a State as large and as high as Rhode Island. Thus, by means of this sediment, the river has pushed its mouths fifty miles into the sea, confining its flow within narrow strips of land—natural levees made by the river itself.
The Mississippi is notable for its varying length. Within the memory of the oldest pilot the length of the river between St. Louis and New Orleans has varied more than one hundred and fifty miles, being sometimes longer and sometimes shorter, as the year may be one of drought or of excessive rainfall. Occasionally the river will shorten itself a score of miles at a single leap. The shortening invariably takes place at one of its long sinuous curves for which it is so remarkable. At a season when the volume of water begins to increase, the narrow neck of the loop gives way little by little under the continuous impact of the strengthening current. Narrower and narrower it grows as the water ceaselessly cuts away the bank. Finally the barrier is broken; there is a tumultuous meeting of waters; the next steamboat that comes along goes through a new cut; and a moat or ox-bow lake is the only reminder of the former channel.5
In 1863 the city of Vicksburg was situated on the outer curve of such a loop. At that time General Grant and his army were on the opposite side of the river, and the whole power of the Federal government was directed upon devising how the army might cross it and capture the long-beleagured city. So an army engineer conceived the idea of turning the river around the rear of the army. Accordingly, a canal was cut across the loop, in order to make an artificial channel through which its current might run. But the river steadfastly refused to accept any channel it had not itself made, and the ditch soon silted up. Twelve years or more afterward there was trouble; for the river, which had all this time so persistently ignored the canal, one stormy night, when its current was considerably swollen, took a notion to adopt the canal that it had so long refused. Next morning the good people of Vicksburg woke to find their metropolis, not on the river channel, but practically an inland town overlooking a stagnant mud flat. The town of Delta, which, the night before, was three miles below Vicksburg, was, in the morning, two miles above it. Since that time, energy and intelligence have conspired in its behalf, and Vicksburg is still an important river port; but the channel of the river is persistent, and constant effort and watchfulness alone keep a depth of water sufficient for the needs of navigation before the wharves.
The average inhabitant of the flood plain of the Mississippi is not surprised at this capriciousness of the river, for long experience has taught him to look for it. During seasons of mean or of low water, there is little or no trouble; but when floods begin to swell the current, then it is high time to be on the alert, for no one knows what a day or even an hour may bring forth. Perhaps a snag, loosened from the bank above, may come floating down the stream. It strikes a shallow place somewhere in the river, and thereupon anchors in mid-channel. Directly it does, a small riffle or bar of silt will form around it, and this, in turn, sends an eddying current over against the bank. By and by the latter begins to be chipped away, little by little. Perhaps the corrosion of the bank might not be noticed except by a bottom land planter or a riverman. But there is no time to be lost. If some unfortunate individual happens to possess belongings in that vicinity, he simply lays aside his coat and works as if he were a whole legion doing Cæsar's bidding; he well knows that in a very few hours the river will be swallowing up his real estate at the rate of half an acre to the mouthful. It is certainly hard to see one's earthly possessions disappear before the angry flood of the river, but the bottom land planter does not complain, because the experience of generations has taught him that he must expect it. A queer fortune befell Island No. 74.
Between the States of Arkansas and Mississippi there is a large island, which, for want of a name, is commonly known as Island No. 74.6 This slip of insular land is probably the only territory within the United States and not of it, for this island is without the boundaries of either State, county or township. It is not under control of the government, because it is in the possession of an owner whose claim is acknowledged by the government. The anomalous position of the island as to political situation is due to the erosion of the river as an active and the defects of statutory law as a passive agent. According to the enactment whereby the States of Arkansas and Mississippi were created, the river boundary of the former extends to mid-stream; that of the latter to mid-channel. Herein is the difficulty. A dissipated freshet turned the current against the Mississippi bank, and shifted the former position of mid-channel many rods to the eastward, so that the fortunate or unfortunate owner found his possessions lying beyond both the mid-river point of Arkansas and the mid-channel line of Mississippi. The owner of the plantation may be unhappy at time of election, for he is practically a non-resident of any political division. His grief, however, is somewhat assuaged when the tax gatherer calls, for, being outside of all political boundaries, he has no taxes to pay.
Within a few years the town of Napoleon, which has already been mentioned as the site which beheld the cross erected by Marquette and the seizure of La Salle, was the scene of still another chapter in history. Almost two hundred years from the time when Joliet and Marquette beheld the historic ground, the river turned its current against the banks, and in a few hours the crumbling walls of an old stone building, half a mile or more from the river banks, were the surviving monument that marked the former location of the town.
The Mississippi is indeed a grand study, and the people who have lived in its valley during past ages have seen the river doing just what it is doing to-day; and as race has succeeded race, each in turn has seen the landmarks of its predecessors swept away by its angry flood and buried beneath its sediment. Ever since the crests of the Appalachian and Rocky Mountains were thrust up above the sea, the river has been wearing them away, and bearing the scourings to the vast plain below. In the time of its building it has made the greatest and the richest valley on the face of the earth; next to that of the Amazon it is the largest, covering an area of one and one-quarter million square miles. The river and its tributaries drain twenty-eight States and Territories—an area equal to that of all Europe except Russia. This basin includes half the area of the United States, exclusive of Alaska. It is five times as large as Austria-Hungary, six times the size of France or Germany, nine times the area of Spain, and ten times that of the British Isles. Measured by its grain-producing capacity, this valley is capable of supporting a larger population than any other physical region on the face of the earth. Already it is the foremost region in the world in the production of grain, meat and cotton. The rich soil, sedentary on the prairie and alluvial in the bottomlands, is almost inexhaustible in its nutritious qualities. The soil cannot be "worn out" in the bottomlands, for nature restores its vitality by bringing fresh supplies from the highlands as fast or faster than the seed crop exhausts it. Sixty bushels of wheat or two bales of cotton may be harvested from an acre of bottom lands. So vast in proportions is the yearly crop of food stuffs that more than three hundred thousand freight cars and about two thousand vessels are required to move the crop from farm to market. One hundred and twenty-five thousand miles of railway, fifteen thousand miles of navigable water, exclusive of the Great Lakes, and several thousand miles of canals are insufficient to transport this enormous production; thousands of miles of railway are therefore yearly built in order to keep pace with the growth of population and the settlement of new lands. To the natural resources of the soil add the enormous mineral wealth hidden but a few feet below the surface, and wonder grows to amazement. Coal fields surpassing in extent all the remaining fields in the world; iron ore sufficient to stock the world with iron and steel for the next thousand years; copper of the finest quality; zinc, lead, salt, building stone and timber, all in quantities sufficient for a population a hundred times as great. Is it strange that wise economists point to this territory and say, "Behold the future empire of the world"? Where in the wide world is another valley in which climate, latitude and nature have been so liberal?
It is only a few years since the Indian and the bison divided between them the sole possession of this region. What a change hath the hand of destiny wrought! What a revelation, had some unseen hand lifted the curtain that separated the past from the future! Iron, steam and electricity have in them more of mysterious power than ever oriental fancy accredited to the genii of the lamp, and the future of the basin of the Mississippi will be a greater wonder than the past.
The feast of La Salle was the death warrant of the Indian, and the Aryan has crowded out the Indian, just as the latter evicted the mound builder—just as the mound builder overcame the people whose monuments of burned brick and cut stone now lie fifty feet below the surface. Only a few centuries have gone by since these happenings; can we number the years hence when rapacious hordes from another land shall drive out the effete descendants of the now sturdy Aryan?
(To be continued.)