Chapter II: Part 2

‘O gentlemen, I couldn’t have done it! I couldn’t, bad as I was! I know, now, how bad that must have been—the mercy of God has been upon me since those days—but bad as I was, I owed her too much, and knew it, to have hurt her in any way. Won’t you believe me? I tell you I was miles away at the time—miles away. Who can tell us you’re saying true? you will ask. No one, I suppose. Not a soul was near me that I knew, to come here and speak the truth for me this day. But I know the same God that saved Daniel can save me from a sorry end, if it is His will to do it—if not, His will be done! I’m keeping you too long, only saying the same over and over again. I’ll just tell you how it was, and I’ve done, and you must do as duty bids you.’

Another pause. The silence of death, or rather of a deathbed. The faces in the distance of the darkened court shimmered through the gloom, like those of spectres waiting to welcome a coming shade. Then the gas-light burst forth, and all sprang into sudden distinctness, and there was a general half-stir as of relief.

‘Oh, isn’t there one here that can speak for me? Is there any one who remembers the great gas-main explosion in —— Street that year?’

There was again a stir, and a more decided one. Clearly there were many in court who remembered it. I did, for one. And remembering it, I seemed as one in a tunnel, who sees the glimmer from the distant opening, but can distinguish no feature of the landscape beyond.

‘I was there—that night. It was the night of the day I was turned out of doors—the night of the murder. How I came to be there, so far from my aunt’s neighbourhood, I don’t know, but I found myself working hard, helping to lift the stones and timber of the house-fronts that were blown in, and getting the poor crushed people out. I worked a long time, till I was like to drop; and a policeman clapped me on the back and gave me a word of praise and a drink of beer out of a can. I wonder where that policeman is now, and if he’d remember?’

He did not respond, wherever he might be. No one to help—no friendly plank to bridge over the yawning grave. What was it, this that I was trying so hard to recall?

‘I wandered off after that into the by-streets. I knew those parts well. I had had a comrade who used to live there, and many a wicked and foolish prank we’d played thereabouts. The beer I had just drunk on an empty stomach had muddled me again a bit, but I was quite sober enough to know every step of the way I went, and remember it now. I turned up Hoadley Street, and then to the left along Blewitt Street; and just when my aunt must have been struggling with the wretch that took her life, whoever it was, I heard a clock strike eight. I did, gentlemen, and I suppose I never thought of it since; but now I remember it as clear as day. I was standing at the time at the corner of Hauraki Street.’

It all came back to me in a moment! I heard the patter of the rain on the cab-roof—I saw the gleam of the infrequent lights on the wet flags—I listened to the objurgations of the cabman at the obstructing dray—I took note of the reflection in the mirror, the queer street-name which would not rhyme so as to make sense. The strokes of the clock striking eight were in my ears. I saw the lamp at the corner, and the man underneath looking up at it—the man with the short broad face, the sharp chin, the long thin mouth turned down at the corners, and the blank in the front teeth—the innocent man I was hounding to his death—the prisoner at the bar!

As I sprang to my feet, down with a crash went my bag full of papers, my hat and umbrella, so that even the impassive judge gave a start, and the usher, waking up, once more proclaimed ‘Si-lence!’ with shocked and injured inflection. Heedless of the majesty of the law, I beckoned to my counsel, and as he leaned over to me in surprise, I whispered earnestly in his ear. I never saw the human face express more entire astonishment. However, seeing that I was unmistakably in earnest, he merely nodded and rose to his feet.

‘Your lordship will pardon me,’ he said, ‘for interfering at this stage between the prisoner and the jury; but I am instructed to make a communication which I feel sure will be as astounding to your lordship and the jury as it is to myself. I think I may say that it is the most surprising and unprecedented thing which ever occurred in a court of justice. My lord, the solicitor who instructs me to prosecute tenders himself as a witness for the defence!’

OUR HEALTH.

BY DR ANDREW WILSON, F.R.S.E.

II. FOOD AND HEALTH.

From the point of view of the political economist, the idle man has no right to participate in the food-supply of the active worker. Whatever may be the correctness and force of the arguments which the economist may use by way of proving that the non-worker and non-producer has no right to participate in the ordinary nutritive supply of his fellows, the physiological standpoint assumes another and different aspect. The idle man grows hungry and thirsty with the regularity of the man who works. He demands food and drink as does his energetic companion; and the plea that idleness can need no food-support, may be met in a singularly happy and forcible fashion by a plain scientific consideration. In the first instance, the idle man might, by an appeal to science, show, that whilst he apparently spent life without exertion, his bodily functions really represented in their ordinary working an immense amount of labour. Sleeping or waking, that bodily pumping-engine the heart does not fail to discharge its work, in the circulation of the blood. The rise and fall of the chest in the sleeping man remind us that it is not death but his ‘twin-brother sleep,’ that we are observing. If we make a calculation respecting the work which the heart of a man, idle or active, performs in twenty-four hours, we may discover that it represents an amount of labour equal to one hundred and twenty foot-tons. That is to say, if we could gather all the force expended by the heart during its work of twenty-four hours into one huge lift, such force would be equal to that required to raise one hundred and twenty tons-weight one foot high. Similarly, the work of the muscles of breathing in twenty-four hours, represents a force equal to that required to lift twenty-one tons one foot high. These are only two examples out of many, which the ordinary work and labour of mere vegetative existence, without taking into consideration any work performed—in the popular sense of the term—involves.

We thus discover that, apart altogether from the every-day labour of life, in which brain and muscles engage, an immense amount of work is performed in the mere act of keeping ourselves alive. Nowhere in nature is work performed without proportionate waste, or wear and tear of the machine that works. This dictum holds quite as true of the human body as of the steam-engine. And as the engine or other machine requires to be supplied with the conditions necessary for the production of force, so the living body similarly demands a supply of material from which its energy (or the power of doing work) can be derived. As the engine obtains the necessary conditions from the fuel and water it consumes, so the living body derives its energy from the food upon which it subsists. Food in this light is therefore merely matter taken from the outside world, and from which our bodies derive the substances required for the repair of the waste which the continual work of life entails. In the young, food serves a double purpose—it supplies material for growth, and it also affords substance from which the supply of force is derived. In the adult, whilst no doubt, to a certain extent, the food supplies actual loss of substance, it is more especially devoted to the performance of work, and of maintaining that equilibrium or balance between work and repair, which, as we have seen, constitutes health.

Viewed in this light, the first important rule for food-taking is founded on the plain fact, that in the food we must find the substances necessary for the repair of our bodies, and for the production of the energy through which work is performed. Food-substances in this light fall into two well-marked classes—namely, into _Nitrogenous_ and _Non-nitrogenous_ substances. Another classification of foods divides them into _organic_ and _inorganic_, the former being derived from animals and plants—that is, from living beings—while the latter are derived from the world of non-living matter. Thus, animal and plant substances represent organic foods; while water and minerals, both of which are absolutely essential for the support of the body, represent inorganic food materials. It would appear that from living matter alone, do we obtain the materials for generating force. The inorganic water and minerals, however, appear to be absolutely necessary for the chemical alterations and changes which are continually taking place within the body.

Adopting the classification of foods into the _Nitrogenous_ and _Non-nitrogenous_ groups, we discover examples of the first class in such substances as _albumen_, seen familiarly in white of egg and other substances; _gluten_, found in flour; _gelatin_, obtained from hoofs and horns; _legumin_, obtained from certain vegetables; _casein_, found in milk; and allied chemical substances. These substances possess a remarkable similarity or uniformity of composition. It would appear that in the process of digestion they are reduced to a nearly similar state, and on this account they can replace one another to a certain extent in the dietaries of mankind.

The nitrogenous foods have often been popularly termed ‘flesh-formers,’ and doubtless this name is well merited. For, as the result of experiment, it would seem that the chief duty performed by the nitrogenous parts of our food is that of building up and repairing the tissues of the body. They also produce heat, through being chemically changed in the blood, and thus aid in the production of force or energy. But it would also appear tolerably certain, that in a complex fashion the nitrogenous parts of our bodies assist or regulate in a very exact manner the oxidation or chemical combustion of the tissues.

It should be noted that nitrogenous foods are composed chemically of the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen; the presence of the last element giving the characteristic name and chemical features to the group. Most of these foods in addition contain small proportions of sulphur and phosphorus.

An interesting advance in our knowledge of the part played by nitrogenous foods in the work of the body was made, when an idea of Liebig was overthrown by later experimentation. Liebig supposed that the nitrogenous foods required first to be actually converted into tissue—that is, into bodily substance—before their energy or work-producing power could be liberated. In this view, muscular force, through which we move, was believed to be dependent on the changes, destructive or otherwise, which take place in the muscles. The substance called _urea_, chiefly given off as a waste product by the kidneys and chemically representing nitrogenous waste, was in Liebig’s view regarded as representing the results of muscular force which had been exerted. But two scientists, Fick and Wislicenus of Zurich, proved, by a laborious series of personal experiments in mountain ascents, that a non-nitrogenous diet will maintain the body for a short time during the performance of severe work, no great increase in the amount of urea given off being noticed. The work in question was proved to have been performed on the carbon and hydrogen of the food consumed. These experiments have led to the now accepted view, that a muscle, instead of losing substance during work and thus wasting, in reality consumes nitrogen, and grows. The exhaustion of the muscle is dependent not so much on chemical waste, as on the accumulation within it of the waste products of other foods. The muscle, in other words, is merely the agent whereby so much energy, derived from the food, is converted into actual and applied force. Did muscle really waste, as Liebig supposed, the heart’s substance would be entirely consumed by its work of one week!

Such being the functions and nature of nitrogenous foods, we may now glance at the non-nitrogenous division. Four groups of foods are included in this latter class—namely (1) Starches and sugars, or ‘amyloids’ as they are often termed; (2) fats and oils; (3) minerals; (4) water. The _starches and sugars_ include not merely starch and sugar, as ordinarily known, but various gums, and certain acids, such as lactic and acetic acids. Starch, as in bread, is a most important food. These foods appear to go directly to maintain animal heat, and to give energy, or the power of doing work, to the animal frame. The heat-producing powers of starches and sugars are certainly inferior to those of the fats and oils. But starches and sugars can be converted into fat within the system; and hence persons who suffer from a tendency to obesity are warned to exclude these foods from their dietaries. Starches and sugars likewise appear to assist in some measure the digestion of nitrogenous foods. That _fats and oils_ are heat-producing foods is a fact taught us by the common experience of mankind that northern nations consume the greatest proportion of fat. The heat-producing powers of fat have been set down at two and a half times as great as those of starch and sugar; and there is no doubt that, in addition to assisting in the conversion of food into body substances, the fatty parts of our food also assist in the work of removing waste matters from the body. Fat, in addition, being chemically burned in the blood, gives rise to the force which we exert in ordinary muscular work.

The _mineral_ parts of our food play an important part in the maintenance of the frame. We thus require iron for the blood, phosphorus for the brain and nerves, and lime for the bones; whilst a variety of other minerals is likewise found in the blood and other fluids of the frame. The uses of the mineral constituents of our body are still a matter of speculation. Small as may be the quantity of certain minerals required for the support of the body, serious health-derangement may result when we are deprived of these substances. Thus, scurvy appears to be a disease associated with the want of the mineral potash in the blood; and the cure of this disease is therefore accomplished when we supply to the blood those mineral elements which have previously been deficient. Common salt, or chloride of sodium, as it is chemically termed, although not entering into the composition of the body, appears to form an important part of all the secretions; and there can be little doubt that this mineral aids the formation and chemical integrity of the gastric juice of the stomach.

_Water_ forms the last item in the list of non-nitrogenous foods. Of all foods, perhaps, water is the most important, seeing that it is a substance which, in the absence of all other nourishment, can sustain life for a period numbering many days. Thus, whilst a man dies in from six to seven days when deprived of solid food and water, life may be prolonged to as many as sixty days on water alone. The high importance of water as a food is abundantly proved, when we discover that it constitutes about two-thirds of the weight of the body; that it enters into the composition of the brain to the extent of eighty per cent.; that the blood consists of nearly eighty per cent. of water; and that even bone contains ten per cent. of this fluid. Entering thus into the composition of every fluid and tissue of the body, and being perpetually given off from lungs, skin, and kidneys in the ordinary work of life, there is little wonder that water assumes the first place amongst foods. Regarding the uses of water as a food, we see that it dissolves and conveys other foods throughout the system; that it assists in removing waste products; and that it also takes a share in regulating the temperature of the body through its evaporation on the skin.

Having thus considered the chemistry of foods, we may now pass to discuss the natural rules which science describes for the health-regulation of life in the matter of diet. A primary rule for food-taking is that which shows that, for the due support of the body, we require a combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous foods. This fact is proved by the consideration that milk, ‘nature’s own food,’ on which the human being grows rapidly in early life, is a compound of both classes of foods. So also, in an egg, from which is formed an animal body, we find a combination of the two classes. Death results if we attempt to feed on either class alone; and as the body consists of both classes of substances, the justification for the combination of foods is complete. Man can obtain the required combination of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous foods from animals alone, from vegetables alone, or from animals and vegetables combined. The water, of course, which is an absolutely essential feature of all dietaries, is regarded as an additional item. In regulating the dietary of mankind, it is found that the food of nations is determined largely, or completely, by their situation on the earth’s surface. Thus, the northern nations are largely animal feeders; whilst the southern peoples of the world are to a great extent vegetarians. Individual experience and taste produce amongst the units of a nation special proclivities in the way of diet. But we can readily see that mankind, with that elasticity of constitution and power to avail themselves of their surroundings, can adapt themselves to their environments, and become animal feeders, vegetable feeders, or subsist on a mixed dietary at will. This is the true solution of the vegetarian controversy. It is climate and race which determine the food of a nation. It is individual intelligence, liking, and constitution which determine variations and departures from the dietaries of the race.

The relations between food and work naturally present themselves as topics of the highest importance. In determining the standard of health, it is clear that from our food alone, we can obtain the energy or power of work required for the discharge of the duties of life. An interesting point therefore arises regarding the differences which are entailed by varying conditions and amounts of labour. Dr Letheby tells us that an adult man in _idleness_ requires, to obtain from his food for the support of his body, 2.67 ounces of nitrogenous matter and 19.16 ounces of non-nitrogenous matter per day. If the individual is to participate in _ordinary labour_, the amount of nitrogenous matter obtained from his food must be increased to 4.56 ounces, while the non-nitrogenous must be represented by 29.24 ounces. In the case, lastly, of _active labour_ the amount of food required must be increased to 5.81 ounces of nitrogenous, and 34.97 ounces of non-nitrogenous matter.

Dalton gives the following as the quantity of food, per day, required for the healthy man, taking free exercise in the open air: meat, sixteen ounces; bread, nineteen ounces; fat or butter, three and a half ounces; water, fifty-two fluid ounces. It ought to be borne in mind that these amounts of food represent the diet for a whole day compressed, so to speak, into a convenient and readily understood form. Another calculation, setting down the daily amount of food required by an adult, at nitrogenous matter three hundred grains, and carbon at four thousand grains, shows that these amounts would be obtained from eighteen ounces of bread; one ounce of butter; four ounces of milk; two ounces of bacon; eight ounces of potatoes; six ounces of cabbage; three and a half ounces of cheese; one ounce of sugar; three-quarters of an ounce of salt; and water (alone, and in beverages) sixty-six and a quarter ounces—a total of no less than six pounds fourteen and a quarter ounces. Summing up the question of the amounts of food required by a healthy adult daily, and _excluding water in all forms as a matter of separate calculation_, it may be said that four and a half ounces of pure nitrogenous matter would be required in addition to three ounces of fatty food, fourteen ounces of starch or sugar, and one ounce of mineral matter. An ordinary adult consuming in twenty-four hours, food items equal to those contained in one pound of meat and two pounds of bread, may be regarded as consuming food of sufficient amount for ordinary work. When the work is increased, the diet must naturally be increased likewise. We find that persons in active employment require about a fifth part more nitrogenous food, and about twice the quantity of fat consumed by those engaged in light work; the sugars and starches remaining the same.

An interesting practical calculation has been made regarding the amounts of different foods required to perform a given and fixed piece of work. Taking the work performed by the German observers already named, as a standard, namely, that of raising a man’s weight (one hundred and forty pounds) ten thousand feet high, it has been found that the amounts and cost of various foods required for the performance of this work is as follows: Bread, 2.345 pounds, cost 3½d.; oatmeal, 1.281 pounds, cost 3½d.; potatoes, 5.068 pounds, cost 5¼d.; beef-fat, 0.555 pounds, cost 5¼d.; cheese, 1.156 pounds, cost 11½d.; butter, 0.693 pounds, cost 1s. 0½d.; lean beef, 3.532 pounds, cost 3s. 6½d.; pale ale, nine bottles, cost 4s. 6d.

The proportion of the different food-elements in an ordinary dietary has been set down as follows: nitrogenous matter one, fats six, starches and sugars three; and these proportions appear to be represented with singular exactness in the ordinary dietaries which experience has recommended to mankind. Excess of food in the matter of nitrogenous elements tends to induce diseases of an inflammatory and gouty nature, and likewise leads to fatty degeneration of the tissues. When, on the other hand, there exists lack of nitrogenous substances, the individual experiences weakness, want of muscular power, and general prostration. The healthy mean is that in which the proportions of nitrogenous and non-nitrogenous food are maintained as above indicated.

In the construction of dietaries, a few practical hints remain for notice. Thus, as regards sex, the dietaries of women are usually, in the case of the working-classes, estimated at one-tenth less than those of the opposite sex. Age has an important influence in determining the amount and quality of food. The growing body consumes more food, relatively to work and weight, than the adult, inasmuch as it requires material for new tissue. An infant under eight or nine months should receive no starch whatever in its dietary, because it is unable to digest that substance. Health is naturally a condition in which the question of foods assumes a high importance, and various dietaries, as is well known, are adapted for the cure of disease. The relation of food to work has already been alluded to, and statistics detailed; but it may be added that the brain-worker requires his food in a more readily digestible form, and also in smaller bulk and in more concentrated shape, than the muscle-worker or ordinary labourer. What has been said concerning foods will tend to show how wide is the field which the subject of nutrition occupies. It may only here be added, that the education of the individual in health laws and in the science of foods and food-taking, forms the only sure basis for the intelligent regulation of that all-important work—the nourishment and due support of the frame in relation to the work we perform and to every circumstance of life.

THE COMMON-SENSE OF SUPERSTITIONS.

Out of a medley of magpies, May cats, broken looking-glasses, crickets, village cures, lucky days, and tumbles up-stairs, there dawns a hint towards the solving of a very puzzling problem. The problem is, not why these things are called lucky or unlucky, but how it is that multitudes grow up in every generation to believe the same absurdities, and that still in this world of common-sense such items of uncommon nonsense keep their character for ‘coming true.’ How is this, and where do the secret links exist between the sense and the nonsense? If any one takes the trouble to gather together about a hundred rustic superstitions and old beliefs of quackery, the reason of the character for ‘coming true’—that is, the reason of the traditional hold upon the people—will presently begin to be plainly written across the whole medley, dawning by degrees, just as writing in acid might dawn upon an apparently blank missive held to the heat.

Most superstitions are signs of ill-luck. This in itself is a tell-tale fact. Unlucky omens are so numerous, that no believer could escape them for long; and in all likelihood he observes not only the unlucky signs, but his ill-luck following. The truth is, that the magpie on his path had no connection with his loss of money; and on his wedding-day, his bride’s unlucky glance in the looking-glass after she was fully arrayed, had nothing to do with her discontent as a wife; nor need the servant who broke the looking-glass have cried, looking forward to seven years of ill-luck. In all three cases, as all the neighbours knew, the ill-luck came. But it came because of the prepossessed frame of mind that observed and discounted these signs. The superstitious character lacks those practical and courageous qualities which wrest luck from fortune and make the best of life. The omens of ill-luck have come to the fortunate as often; but they were never noticed, because they who were cheerily fighting the battle had better use for their time. At this moment, the present writer knows of no household more radiantly prosperous than one in which the largest looking-glass was broken a few days after a move to their newly-built home; and no marriage more replete with happiness than a Saturday marriage, though proverbially Saturday’s marriage ‘has no luck at all.’ Of course, neither the prosperous household nor the well-matched pair were of that languid and timid mind that takes nervous note of superstitions.

But, it may be objected, there are signs of good luck too, though not so many. Certainly; and there is no truth better known than that courage commands success, and such courage in exceptional cases may come from a very trivial encouragement. There is a country superstition that if a man sets off running and runs round in a circle, when he hears the cuckoo for the first time, he will never be out of work till spring comes again. But the man who valued steady work would exert himself in a more sensible direction than unproductive circle-running, and be safe from idle days. Again, if a tumble up-stairs is lucky, the predisposition to luck is in the person who will be active and quick enough to run up the staircase. Another good omen, the turning of a garment inside out in dressing, though it seems to tell of the slovenliness that will not succeed, has probably an origin that indicated something better; it is a country saying, and it might well refer to the hurry and awkwardness of rising without artificial light before day—a habit likely to help the farmer’s household to good fortune. Or as proof of the real nature of many good signs which time has perverted into superstitions, can we doubt that the crickets which chirp round the hearth for luck were first noticed there because crickets, as a rule, only come to a warm and cosy fireside—the kind of hearth that marks a happy cottage home?

A simple grain of common-sense like this must have been the origin of many senseless observances. It was necessary to guard ladders from being knocked down, so superstition began to warn the passers-by: if the children went under the ladder, they would not grow; if girls went, they would have no chance of being married within the year; and if a man passed under, he would be hanged—in memory of the criminal’s ladder under the gibbet.

To take another original grain of common-sense. Warnings against carelessness assumed the form of omens. To spill the salt was unfortunate; or in some country places, to spill new milk; or in parts of Southern Europe, to spill the oil. Leonardo da Vinci painted spilt salt near Judas in his famous ‘Last Supper.’ It is one of the most widespread of ill omens, though in different places there are shades of difference; for instance, in Holland it betokens a shipwreck.

Beside the superstitious disposition being what we may call an unlucky disposition, and beside the germ of encouragement that makes its own success out of some ‘good signs,’ and the atom of original prudence that still exists in some so-called bad omens, there are two other reasons why superstitions still keep hold of the people by a reputation for ‘coming true.’ These two reasons cover a great deal of ground in our theory of explanation. The first is the vague character of forecasts. For instance, we all know the rhymes about the luck of birthdays, which country-people of different shires repeat rather variously. One Scottish version is:

Monday’s bairn is fair of face;
Tuesday’s bairn is full of grace;
Wednesday’s bairn is a child of woe;
Thursday’s bairn has far to go;
Friday’s bairn is loving and giving;
Saturday’s bairn works hard for a living;
But the bairn that is born on the Sabbath day,
Is lively and bonnie, and wise and gay.

Contrast with this the English version:

Born of a Monday, fair in face;
Born of a Tuesday, full of God’s grace;
Born of a Wednesday, merry and glad;
Born of a Thursday, sour and sad;
Born of a Friday, godly given;
Born of a Saturday, work for your living;
Born of a Sunday, never shall we want—
So there ends the week, and there’s an end on’t.

Any superstitious rustic who, from the page of the cottage Bible, dug out the deep secret of the day of his birth, would easily find the rhyme true of himself for any day of the week. Any country girl would trust it was true, if she was born on a Monday. And who that came on a Tuesday would confess himself graceless? But about Wednesday’s bairn there seems to be a difference of opinion among the prophets: one rhyme predicts ‘a child of woe;’ the other says, ‘merry and glad;’ while a third, well known in Devonshire, says, ‘sour and grum;’ and thereby, from self-contradiction, the old rhyme goes down like a house of cards. But all the rhymsters are agreed that Saturday’s child works hard for his living—as no doubt the children of every other day of the week work too, in the sphere of labouring country-life in which these old sayings are known. And as variable as this forecast there are many others; for every firm believer in superstition has a secret satisfaction in proving it true; and which of us is there that could not read our life as the interpretation of any forecast, since we all can look at the bright or the dark side, having known alike the good and the evil days?

The other reason for the reputation for truth is, that, for credulous folk, unlucky omens are too terrible to be put to the test. If they were freely tried, they would be detected as a mental tyranny, a popular fraud; and in a few generations would be remembered by the rustic classes, only as the learned now remember the foolish excitement of their forefathers in science, seeking the Elixir of Life and the Philosopher’s Stone. If dinner-parties of thirteen were to become the fashion, we should not see, as we often see now, the cautious arrangements of Christmas invitations, or even the timid compromise of bringing in a side-table to accommodate the thirteenth. But which of the credulous would dare to test these things? It reminds the writer of a doubt—still unsolved—whether the taste of parsley would cause a parrot to drop down dead. Parsley as a parrot-poison was heard of in childhood, not as a superstition, but as a physical fact. What if it were true? The _if_ was too terrible. We had visions of our feathered gray ‘Prince Charlie’ seizing the green stuff in his hooked beak, and rolling off the perch in mortal agonies. So we disbelieved, but coward-like avoided the chance, just as all the world avoids thirteen at table.

As to superstitious cures, some of them contain slight elements of medicinal value; but most depend upon that influence upon the nerves which is well known to be capable of giving energy for a time and allaying pain. Some of the old cures were decidedly disagreeable and troublesome. The native of Devonshire who wanted to get rid of a wart was solemnly enjoined to steal a piece of meat, and after rubbing the wart with it, throw it over his left shoulder over a wall. The Hertfordshire villager, when afflicted with ague, might be cured if he would go to Berkhampstead, where oak-trees grew at the cross-roads; and after pegging himself by a lock of hair to the trunk of one of these trees, he was to give a vigorous jump, and rid himself at once of the ague and the tuft of hair. The loss of the hair was so painful, and the loss of the ague so doubtful, that the Berkhampstead folks many years ago ceased to go to ‘the cross-oaks.’ The ague, the toothache, and dog-bites were the subject of many charms. In the former two maladies, a nervous impression might go far to cure; and in the last, a charm against hydrophobia would protect the simple believer from the great peril that is in a brooding fear of madness. The ludicrous cures were a legion in themselves. It seems heartlessly unkind to give a poor dog the measles; but many an old nurse took a lock of hair from the nape of the sick child’s neck, made a sort of sandwich of it between bread-and-butter, and watched at the door to transfer, or fancy she had transferred, the measles to a stray dog—probably a stray dog, because only an ill-fed animal would take her bread. Equally unkind was it to strive to give our dumb friend the whooping-cough; but by the same process, with a bunch of hair and a piece of meat, the nurse could be guilty of that absurdity as well.

Have any of our readers ever encountered a toad with the whooping-cough? The Cheshire toads ought to be sometimes found crowing and whooping and in need of change of air; for the superstitious Cheshire woman whose child has the cough, knows that she has only to poke a toad’s head into her child’s mouth to transfer the whooping-cough to the toad. Query, Is the disease also transferred—and in that case, what are the alarming results—when the victim of whooping-cough gets rid of it by being passed nine times under and over a donkey? The cure for rickets is to pass the child under and over the donkey nine-times-nine turns. This was actually done in London as late as 1845; when a man and a woman, solemnly counting, passed the unfortunate child under and over the unsuspecting moke eighty-one times, in the midst of an admiring crowd. If there was one pass more or less, the charm would fail—a broad enough hint of the excuses that could be made when such cures as these were sought in vain. The eighty-one turns must have confused the counters’ arithmetic, as no doubt the child had personal objections, and lifted its voice aloud; and sore must have been the trial even to the patience of a donkey.

So, to sum up, we would suggest that superstitions keep their false character for truth, firstly, because those who observe them therein prove their own leaning towards ill-luck; secondly, because forecasts are vague, and interpretations can be traced somehow in the chances of life; thirdly, because the penalty of ill omens is so dreaded, that the credulous shrink from putting them to the test; fourthly, because there are nervous cures, and love-charms, and dreams, in which anxious consciousness points right—the wish being father to the thought; fifthly, victims of superstition are secretly pleased when (by chance) an unlucky omen comes true, and have a satisfaction even in relating their misfortunes; while, since no one tells of the cases that do _not_ come true, every chance fulfilment is a new rivet in the chain that ought long ago to have fallen to pieces.

NOXIOUS MANUFACTURES.

There is just now a most wholesome activity in regard to the national health, and the public are peculiarly interested in the various details of our sanitary machinery. Of this, by no means the least important department is that instituted under the Alkali Works Regulation Act, 1881, or, in other words, the inspection of noxious works and factories. In connection with the pollution of rivers, this is an old grievance; but too little has hitherto been done to realise or to remedy the evil in its general effects upon the public health. So greatly, too, have works prejudicial to health increased of late years, that their inspection has been decided upon none too soon. Probably, it will never be known how far the death-rate has been influenced by this cause. It is, however, one of the unavoidable penalties of civilisation that we should live under unwholesome conditions of life.

A multitude of influences injurious to health spring into active existence with the development of commerce and the growth of luxury. Most of these are evident enough. All the elements, indeed, are equally guilty. The earth, air, fire, and water, are allied against civilised humanity; and modern science is constantly bringing to light disagreeable facts in this connection. We have long lived in the comfortable belief that Mother Earth was the great purifier. The reverse is, it seems, nearer the truth. Years after the germs of infection have been consigned to the ground, they have been disinterred, and found to be not a whit diminished in virulence. Archæologists should, we are told, beware of handling newly found relics, lest, perchance, they should contract some archaic disease. Even mummies, it appears, in spite of their venerable respectability, are objects of legitimate suspicion! Fire, too, has a dreary catalogue of sins to answer for. It not only robs us of much of the oxygen, of which those of us who live in the towns have so scanty a supply, but it gives us in exchange unconsumed carbon in quantities which fill the air with smut. In smoke alone it furnishes us with food for reflection—and digestion—and probably will continue to do so for some time to come.

Again, water is the most insidious enemy of all. The most indispensable of the elements—and we are reminded of our obligations to it pretty frequently—it is credited with doing the greatest harm. In league with unnatural substances, it has developed such an affinity for noxious matter that it appears that nothing short of boiling can possibly enable us to drink it with any security. To most people, cold boiled water will not seem a very attractive beverage, but it has the advantage of being in many ways a safe one.

The air, too, is anything but true to the trust committed to her charge. We have long confidingly believed in her good-will. Our sewers, drains, and chimneys discharge their pestilent exhalations into the air; but instead of carrying these away into space, she receives them only to bestow them upon us again.

The outlook is indeed gloomy, and unless we make some progress in sanitary science, it is not a little difficult to see how we are to continue to support the burden of civilised existence.

In this connection, it is reassuring to know that something is being done to lessen these ominously numerous artificial dangers. The works which come within the scope of the Alkali, &c. Works Act, 1881, are very injurious to life. The manufacture of alkalies, acids, chemical manures, salt, and cement, alike involve processes prejudicial to health. More than one thousand of these were visited by the inspectors, appointed in pursuance of the above Act, during the year 1882; and it is interesting to know that some intelligent means are being devised whereby the offensive character of these manufactures may be diminished. To take a single cause of mischief. The manufacture of alkalies and acids has long been conducted in such a way that the proportion of noxious matter which was allowed to escape into the chimney, or atmosphere, often reached from twenty to forty grains per cubic foot of air, twenty being a not uncommon amount. The maximum amount which might be allowed to escape with impunity has been estimated at four grains per cubic foot; and it is a very important feature of the Act that it has been instrumental in reducing this very considerably. In the alkali works proper the escape has been brought down to two grains, while in some cases it is under one. The sulphuric acid works alone are now conspicuous for their failings in this important respect, the average escape in those examined during the year being 5.5. Again, chemical manure-works have long been a pregnant source of annoyance to the inhabitants of the neighbourhood in which these are carried on.

It is, curiously enough, the smaller establishments of the kind which are the most harmful. The larger works have long employed the most complete processes, because the escape of effluvia would otherwise have been so great, that it would have speedily aroused hostile action on the part of the public. The imposition of preventive measures in the case of the smaller works—in many of which no precautions whatever have hitherto been adopted—is attended with some difficulty, since it involves an expenditure which would in some cases be almost prohibitive. It appears, indeed, that no maximum of escape can be fixed in works of this kind, and all that remains to be done is to render it compulsory that processes should be adopted for washing out such gases as are soluble, and for burning those which are more susceptible to such a method of treatment. Since such pernicious agents as fluorine compounds escape during the action of sulphuric acid upon phosphates, the question is one of some urgency. Again, another cause of complaint is the escape of sulphuretted hydrogen during the process of making sulphate of ammonia. In the larger gas-liquor-works the gas is burned, and converted into sulphuric acid in lead chambers; while in others it is passed through oxide of iron; and both these methods are perfectly satisfactory when properly carried out. Again, the discharge of sulphurous or muriatic gases evolved in extracting salt from brine is an evil which has remained unremedied almost down to the present time. Not the least curious feature of this question, too, is the fact that many of the products of distillation are so valuable that it is more than mere neglect to throw them away in the form of noxious gases. It is unnecessary to describe here the state of the salt districts. They might serve as a type of the abomination of desolation. The combined effect of the gases and the soot, which pours forth in prodigious volumes and from the chimneys of nearly a hundred salt-works in Cheshire alone, is most deplorable.

The only possible conclusion from this Report is that we are still far behindhand in these matters. We have, for instance, long continued to burn coal on the same principle, and are very slow to believe in any of the new methods which have been and are continually being introduced. Yet not only is black smoke very much more injurious to animal and vegetable life than when it has been rendered colourless by burning, but it is peculiarly wasteful. It has long been known that many valuable commodities could be obtained from coal; and but too little progress has hitherto been made in this direction. It is, then, all the more interesting to know that in some works in the north of England the gases from the blast furnaces have been cooled and washed, and ammoniacal salts obtained in such quantities as to make the process economical; while by the ‘Young and Beilby’ process it is contended that not only can the fuel be consumed for nothing, but that there will be several shillings a ton profit.

So far as manufactures are concerned, there certainly seems to be no valid reason why the rule that they must consume their own smoke should not be much more freely enforced. In the case of the alkali trades, which have long been in a very bad state, it is, of course, an unfortunate time to suggest the necessity for the outlay of more capital in improved works. But the exigencies of the public health are paramount, and needlessly offensive processes cannot be tolerated much longer. Such a case as that reported from Widnes, where waste heaps of offensive matter, consisting chiefly of sulphur and lime, are allowed to accumulate, although the sulphur could be extracted at a profit, and so prevented from poisoning the streams for miles around, is certainly difficult to explain. The drainage from these heaps alone is estimated as carrying away twelve tons or seventy pounds-worth of sulphur a day. But perhaps as soon as some satisfactory system for eliminating the sulphur has been hit upon, this will be remedied. We have certainly much yet to learn in sanitary science. The old theories are one by one being exploded, and it will no longer do for us to poison the air we breathe, under the pleasing impression that its purifying properties are inexhaustible. Civilisation has made such strides that she has succeeded in overturning the equilibrium of nature. The equilibrium must be restored.

TRIMMING THE FEET OF ELEPHANTS.

The feet of elephants kept for show purposes are trimmed two or three times a year. The sole of an elephant’s foot is heavily covered with a thick horny substance of material similar to the three toe-nails on each foot; and as it grows thicker and thicker, it tends to contract and crack, often laming the animal. Barnum the American showman recently subjected his elephants to the trimming process at one of the towns where he was exhibiting. With a knife about two feet long, great pieces of horn, six inches by four, and a quarter of an inch thick, were shaved off. Often pieces of glass, wire, nails, and other things are found imbedded in the foot, which have been picked up during street parades. Sometimes these irritating morsels work up into the leg and produce a festering sore. A large nail was found imbedded in the foot of one of the elephants, which had to be extracted with a pair of pincers, and the wound syringed with warm water. During the operation, the huge creature appeared to suffer great pain, but seemed to know that it would afterwards obtain relief, and therefore bore it patiently, and trumpeted its pleasure at the close. Three times around an elephant’s front-hoof is said to be his exact height.

SONNETS OF PRAISE.

THE VALES.

The nestling vales lie sheltered from rough winds,
As little babes in tender keeping grow,
Some narrow gorge each flowery limit binds;
Thus we from childish eyes hide elder woe.
The vales are thick with corn, with plenty shine;
Thus should the children smile in sunny glee,
For One hath blessed them with a love divine,
The untried pilgrims of life’s stormy sea.
Though rough winds cannot enter, gentle rain
Refreshes the green vale, till springs arise,
Their source the snow-clad hills; so age should gain,
By gentle teaching childhood’s eager eyes.
Rain fills the pools, the thirsty vale is blest;
Thus should the children thrive, by love caressed.

THE MOUNTAINS.

The lofty mountains with their snowy crests,
God’s ensigns, praise their Lord throughout the land;
Their heights, which few can reach, in human breasts
Inspiring awe, yet quake beneath His hand.
Oft ’twixt their summits and the lower earth,
The wreathing cloud-mists roll, alone they dwell
As sight-dimmed age. Our cries of pain or mirth
Molest them not; thus age with deadening spell
Benumbs our ears, yet near each lonely peak
Sing mountain birds, sunbeams each summit crown.
From highest heaven thus God’s saints may seek
Refuge in thoughts divine, though long years drown
Earth’s sounds; on mountain crest reposed the Ark,
Our home above shines clear, as earth grows dark.

M. P.

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Printed and Published by W. & R. CHAMBERS, 47 Paternoster Row, LONDON, and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.

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_All Rights Reserved._

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[Transcriber’s note—the following changes have been made to this text.

Page 236: missing word “pounds” inserted—“3.532 pounds”.]