Chapter XV: TECHNOLOGY.--A New Process for the Bleaching of Jute.--By (2)

So also it can readily be seen that when the bulbs of the Indian turnip have been dried, the crystals can no longer separate from the hard mass which surrounds them, and consequently can exert no irritant action when the dried bulbs are placed against the tongue.--_Jour. Am. Chem. Soc._

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THE WHALE-HEADED STORK.

Of all the wonders that inhabit the vast continent of Africa, the most singular one is undoubtedly the _Balaeniceps_, or whale-headed stork. It is of relatively recent discovery, and the first description of it was given by Gould in the early part of 1851. It is at present still extremely rare. The Paris Museum possesses three specimens of it, and the Boulogne Museum possesses one. These birds always excite the curiosity of the public by their strange aspect. At first sight, says W.P. Parker, in his notes upon the osteology of the balaeniceps, this bird recalls the boatbill, the heron, and the adjutant. Other birds, too, suggest themselves to the mind, such as the pelican, the toucan, the hornbills, and the podarges. The curious form of the bill, in fact, explains this comparison with birds belonging to so different groups, and the balaeniceps would merit the name of boatbill equally well with the bird so called, since its bill recalls the small fishing boats that we observe keel upward high and dry on our seashores. This bill is ten inches in length, and four inches in breadth at the base. The upper mandible, which is strongly convex, exhibits upon its median line a slight ridge, which is quite wide at its origin, and then continues to decrease and becomes sensibly depressed as far as to the center of its length, and afterward rises on approaching the anterior extremity, where it terminates in a powerful hook, which seems to form a separate part, as in the albatrosses. Throughout its whole extent, up to the beginning of the hook, this mandible presents a strong convexity over its edge, which is turned slightly inward. The lower mandible, which is powerful, and is indented at its point to receive the hook, has a very sharp edge, which, with that of the upper mandible, constitutes a pair of formidable shears. The color of the bill is pale yellow, passing to horn color toward the median ridge, and the whole surface is sprinkled with dark brown blotches. The nostrils are scarcely visible, and are situated in a narrow cleft at the base of the bill, and against the median ridge. The tongue is very small and entirely out of proportion to the vast buccal capacity. This is a character that might assimilate the balaeniceps to the pelican. The robust head, the neck, and the throat, are covered with slate-colored feathers verging on green, and not presenting the repulsive aspect of the naked skin of the adjutant. As in the latter, the skin of the throat is capable of being dilated so as to form a voluminous pouch. Upon the occiput the feathers are elongated and form a small crest. The body is robust and covered upon the back with slate-colored feathers bordered with ashen gray. Upon the breast the feathers are lanceolate, and marked with a dark median stripe. Finally, the lower parts, abdomen, sides, and thighs, are pale gray, and the remiges and retrices are black. According to Verreaux, the feathers of the under side of the tail are soft and decompounded, but at a distance they only recall the beautiful plumes of the adjutant. The well-developed wings indicate a bird of lofty flight, yet of all the bones of the limbs, anterior as well as posterior, the humerus alone is pneumatized. The strong feet terminate in four very long toes deprived at the interdigital membrane observed in most of the Ciconidae. The claws are powerful and but slightly curved, and that of the median toe is not pectinated as in the herons.

The balaeniceps is met with only in or near water, but it prefers marshes to rivers. It is abundant upon the banks of the Nile only during the hot season which precedes the rains and when the entire interior is dried up. During the rest of the year it inhabits natural ponds and swamps, where the shallow water covers vast areas and presents numerous small islands, of easier access than the banks of the Nile, which always slope more or less abruptly into deep water. In such localities it is met with in pairs or in flocks of a hundred or more, seeking its food with tireless energy, or else standing immovable upon one leg, the neck curved and the head resting upon the shoulder. When disturbed, the birds fly just above the surface of the water and stop at a short distance. But when they are startled by the firing of a gun, they ascend to a great height, fly around in a circle and hover for a short time, and then descend upon the loftiest trees, where they remain until the enemy has gone.

Water turtles, fish, frogs and lizards form the basis of their food. According to Petherick, they do not disdain dead animals, whose carcasses they disembowel with their powerful hooked beak. They pass the night upon the ground, upon trees and upon high rocks. As regards nest-making and egg-laying, opinions are most contradictory. According to Verreaux, the balaeniceps builds its nest of earth, vegetable debris, reeds, grass, etc., upon large trees. The female lays two eggs similar to those of the adjutant. It is quite difficult to reconcile this opinion with that of Petherick, who expresses himself as follows: "The balaeniceps lays in July and August, and chooses for that purpose the tall reeds or grasses that border the water or some small and slightly elevated island. They dig a hole in the ground, and the female deposits her eggs therein. I have found as many as twelve eggs in the same nest."

The whale-headed stork is still so little known that there is nothing in these contradictions that ought to surprise us. Authors are no more in accord on the subject of the affinities of this strange bird. Gould claims that it presents the closest affinities with the pelican and is the wading type of the Pelicanidae. Verreaux believes that its nearest relative is the adjutant, whose ways it has, and that it represents in this group what the boatbill represents in the heron genus. Bonaparte regards it as intermediate between the pelican and the boatbill. If we listen to Reinhurdt, we must place it, not alongside of the boatbill, but alongside of the African genus Scopus. The boatbill, says he, is merely a heron provided with a singular bill, which has but little analogy with that of the balaeniceps, and not a true resemblance. The nostrils differ in form and position in those two birds, and in the boatbill there exists beneath the lower mandible a dilatable pouch that we do not find in the balaeniceps. An osteological examination leads Parker to place the balaeniceps near the boatbill, and the present classification is based upon that opinion. The family of Ardeidae is, therefore, divided into five sub-families, the three last of which each comprises a single genus.

Ardeidae.--Ardeineae (herons).
Botaurineae (bitterns).
Scopineae (ombrette).
Cancomineae (boatbill).
Balaenicepineae (whale-headed stork).

All the whale-headed storks that have been received up to the present have come from the region of the White Nile; but Mr. H. Johnston, who traveled in Congo in 1882, asserts that he met with the bird on the River Cunene between Benguela and Angola, where it was even very common. Mr. Johnston's assertion has been confirmed by other travelers worthy of credence, but, unfortunately, the best of all confirmations is wanting, and that is a skin of this magnificent wader. We can, therefore, only make a note of Mr. Johnston's statement, and hope that some traveler may one day enrich our museums with some balaeniceps from these regions. The presence of this bird in the southwest of Africa is, after all, not impossible; yet there is one question that arises: Was the balaeniceps observed by Mr. Johnston of the same species as that of the White Nile, or was it a new type that will increase this family, which as yet comprises but one genus and one species--the _Balaeniceps rex_?--_Le Naturaliste_.

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THE CALIFORNIA RAISIN INDUSTRY.

Fresno County, for ten miles about Fresno, furnishes the best example of the enormous increase in values which follows the conversion of wheat fields and grazing land into vineyards and orchards. Not even Riverside can compare with it in the rapid evolution of a great source of wealth which ten years ago was almost unknown. What has transformed Fresno from a shambling, dirty resort of cowboys and wheat ranchers into one of the prettiest cities in California is the raisin grape. Though nearly all fruits may be grown here, yet this is pre-eminently the home of the raisin industry, and it is the raisin which in a single decade has converted 50,000 acres of wheat fields into vineyards. No other crop in California promises such speedy returns or such large profits as the raisin grape, and as the work on the vineyards is not heavy, the result has been a remarkable growth of the infant industry. It is estimated that in this county, which contains 5,000,000 acres and is nearly as large as Massachusetts, there are 400,000 acres that may be irrigated and are specially adapted to the grape. As the present crop on about 25,000 acres in full bearing is valued at $6,000,000, some idea may be formed of the revenue that will come to the Fresno vineyardists when all this choice valley land is planted and in full bearing. And what makes the prospect of permanent prosperity surer is the fact that nine out of ten new settlers are content with twenty-acre tracts, as one of these is all which a man can well care for, while the income from this little vineyard will average $4,000 above all expenses, a larger income than is enjoyed by three-quarters of the professional men throughout the country.

The raisin industry in California is very young. To be sure, dried grapes have been known since the time of the Mission Fathers, but the dried mission grape is not a raisin. The men who thirty years ago sent over to Europe for the choicest varieties of wine grapes imported among other cuttings the Muscatel, the Muscat of Alexandria, and the Feher Zagos; the three finest raisin grapes of Spain. But the raisin, like the fig, requires skillful treatment, and for years the California grower made no headway. He read all that had been written on the curing of the raisin; several enterprising men went to Spain to study the subject at first hand; but despite all this no progress was made. Finally several of the pioneer raisin men of Fresno cut loose from all precedent, dried their grapes in the simple and natural manner and made a success of it. From that time, not over ten years ago, the growth of the industry has eclipsed that of every other branch of horticulture in the State, and the total value of the product promises soon to exceed the value of the orange crop or the yield of wine and brandy.

It required a good deal of nerve for the pioneers of Fresno County to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars in bringing water upon what the old settlers regarded as a desert, fit only to grow wheat in a very wet season. In other parts of the State the Mission Fathers had dug ditches and built aqueducts, so that the settlers who came after them found a well devised water system, which they merely followed. But in Fresno no one had ever tried to grow crops by irrigation. When Fremont came through there from the mountains he found many wild cattle feeding on the rank grass that grew as high as the head of a man on horseback. The herds of the native Californians were almost equally wild. The country was one vast plain which in summer glowed under a sun that was tropical in its intensity. As late as 1860 one could travel for a day without seeing a house or any sign of habitation. The country was owned by great cattle growers, who seldom rode over their immense ranches, except at the time of the annual "round-up" of stock. About thirty years ago a number of large wheat growers secured big tracts of land around Fresno. At their head was Isaac Friedlander, known as the wheat king of the Pacific Coast. Friedlander would have transformed this country had not financial ruin overcome him. His place was taken by others, like Chapman, Easterby, Eisen and Hughes--men who believed in fruit growing and who had the courage to carry on their operations in the face of repeated failures.

The great development of Fresno has been due entirely to the colony system, which has also built up most of the flourishing cities of Southern California. In 1874 the first Fresno colony was started by W.S. Chapman. He cut up six sections of land into 20-acre tracts, and brought water from King's River. The colonists represented all classes of people, and though they made many disastrous experiments, with poor varieties of grapes and fruit, still there is no instance of failure recorded, and all who have held on to their land are now in comfortable circumstances. Some of the settlers in this colony were San Francisco school teachers. They obtained their 20-acre tracts for $400, and many of them retired on their little vineyards at the end of five or six years. One lady, named Miss Austen, had the foresight to plant all her property in the best raisin grapes, and for many years drew a larger annual revenue from the property than the whole place cost her. The central colony now has an old established look. The broad avenues are lined with enormous trees; many of the houses are exceedingly beautiful country villas. What a transformation has been wrought here may be appreciated when it is said that 150 families now produce $400,000 a year on the same land which twenty years ago supported but one family, which had a return of only $35,000 from wheat. The history of this one colony of six sections of old wheat land is the key to Fresno's prosperity. It proves better than columns of argument, or facts or figures, the immense return that careful, patient cultivation may command in this home of the grape. Near this colony are a half-dozen others which were established on the same general plan. The most noteworthy is the Malaga colony, founded by G.G. Briggs, to whom belongs the credit of introducing the raisin grape into Fresno.

Fresno City is the center from which one may drive in three directions and pass through mile after mile of these colonies, all showing signs of the wealth and comfort that raisin making has brought. Only toward the west is the land still undeveloped, but another five years promise to see this great tract, stretching away for twenty miles, also laid out in small vineyards and fruit farms. Fresno is the natural railroad center of the great San Joaquin Valley. It is on the main line of the Southern Pacific and is the most important shipping point between San Francisco and Los Angeles. The new line of the Santa Fe, which has been surveyed from Mojave up through the valley, passes through Fresno. Then there are three local lines that have the place for a terminus, notably the mountain railway, which climbs into the Sierra, and which it is expected will one day connect with the Rio Grande system and give a new transcontinental line. Here are also building round houses and machine shops of the Southern Pacific Company. These, with new factories, packing houses, and other improvements, go far to justify the sanguine expectations of the residents. There has never been a boom in Fresno, but a high railroad official recently, in speaking of the growth of the city, said: "Fresno in five years will be the second city in California." This prediction he based on the wonderful expansion of its resources in the last decade and the substantial character of all the improvements made. It is a pretty town, with wide, well-paved streets, handsome modern business blocks, and residence avenues that would do credit to any old-settled town of the East. The favorite shade tree is the umbrella tree, which has the graceful, rounded form of the horse chestnut, but with so thick a foliage that its shadow is not dappled with sunlight. Above it is an intensely dark green, while viewed from below it is the most delicate shade of pea green. Rivaling this in popularity is the pepper tree, also an evergreen, and the magnolia, fan palm, eucalyptus, or Australian blue gum, and the poplar. All these trees grow luxuriantly. It has also become the custom in planting a vineyard to put a row of the white Adriatic fig trees around the place, and to mark off ten or twenty acre tracts in the same way. The dark green foliage of the fig is a great relief to the eye when the sun beats down on the sandy soil. Leading out of Fresno are five driveways. The soil makes a natural macadam, which dries in a few hours. Throughout the year these roads are in good condition for trotting, and nearly every raisin grower is also an expert in horseflesh, and has a team that will do a mile in less than 2:30. The new race course is one of the finest in the State. Toward the west from Fresno has recently been opened a magnificent driveway, which promises in a few years to rival the Magnolia ave. of Riverside. This is called Chateau Fresno ave. It has two driveways separated by fan palms and magnolias, while along the outer borders are the same trees with other choice tropical growths, that will one day make this avenue well worth traveling many miles to see. This is the private enterprise of Mr. Theodore Kearney, who made a fortune in real estate, and it is noteworthy as an illustration of the large way in which the rich Californian goes about any work in which he takes an interest. Probably the finest avenue in Fresno is the poplar-lined main driveway through the Barton vineyard. It is a mile in length, and the trees, fully fifty feet high, stand so thickly together that when in full leaf they form a solid wall of green. The vineyard, which is a mile square, is also surrounded by a single row of these superb poplars.

A visit to one of the great raisin vineyards near Fresno is a revelation in regard to the system that is necessary in handling large quantities of grapes. The largest raisin vineyard in the State, if not in the world, is that of A.B. Butler. It comprises 640 acres, of which a trifle over 600 acres is planted to the best raisin grapes. Butler was a Texas cowboy, and came to Fresno with very little capital. He secured possession of a section of land, planted it to grapes; he read everything he could buy on raisin making, but found little in the books that was of any value. So he made a trip to Spain, and inspected all the processes in the Malaga district. He gathered many new ideas. One of the most valuable suggestions was in regard to prunings and keeping the vine free from the suckers that sap its vitality. When he returned from this trip and passed through Los Angeles County he saw that the strange disease which was killing many hundred acres of vines was nothing else than the result of faulty prunings--the retention of suckers until they gained such lusty growth that their removal proved fatal to the vine. His vineyard is as free from weeds and grass as a corner of a well kept kitchen garden. The vine leaves have that deep glossy look which betrays perfect health. When my visit was made the whole crop was on trays spread out in the vineyard. These trays had been piled up in layers of a dozen--what is technically known as boxed--as a shower had fallen the previous night, and Mr. Butler was uncertain whether he would have a crop of the choicest raisins or whether he would have to put his dried grapes in bags, and sell them for one-third of the top price. Fortunately the rain clouds cleared away. The crop was saved and the extreme hot weather that followed made the second crop almost as valuable as the first.

The method of drying and packing the raisin is peculiar and well worth a brief description. When the grape reaches a certain degree of ripeness and develops the requisite amount of saccharine matter a large force is put into the vineyard and the picking begins. The bunches of ripe grapes are placed carefully on wooden trays and are left in the field to cure. The process requires from seven days to three weeks, according to the amount of sunshine. This climate is so entirely free from dew at night that there is no danger of must. The grape cures perfectly in this way and makes a far sweeter raisin than when dried by artificial heat. When the grapes are dried sufficiently the trays are gathered and stacked in piles about as high as a man's waist. Then begins the tedious but necessary process of sorting into the sweat boxes. These boxes are about eight inches deep and hold 125 pounds of grapes. Around the sorter are three sweat boxes for the three grades of grapes. In each box are three layers of manila paper which are used at equal intervals to prevent the stems of the grapes from becoming entangled, thus breaking the fine large bunches when removed. The sorter must be an expert. He takes the bunches by the stem, placing the largest and finest in the first grade box, those which are medium sized in the second grade, and all broken and ragged bunches in the third class. When the boxes are filled they are hauled to the brick building known as the equalizer. This is constructed so as to permit ventilation at the top, but to exclude light and air as much as possible from the grapes. The boxes are piled in tiers in this house and allowed to remain in darkness for from ten to twenty days. Here they undergo a sweating process, which diffuses moisture equally throughout the contents of each box. This prevents some grapes from retaining undue moisture, and it also softens the stems and makes them pliable.

From the equalizing room the sweat boxes are taken to the packing room. Here they are first weighed. The first and second grades are passed to the sorter, while the third grade raisins are placed in a big machine that strips off the stems and grades the loose raisins in three or four sizes. These are placed in sacks and sold as loose raisins. The higher grades are carefully sorted into first and second class clusters. After this sorting the boxes are passed to women and girls, who arrange the clusters neatly in small five pound boxes with movable bottoms. These boxes are placed under slight pressure, and four of them fill one of the regular twenty pound boxes of commerce. The work of placing the raisins in the small boxes requires much practice, but women are found to be much swifter than men at this labor, and, as they are paid by the box, the more skillful earn from $2 to $3 a day. It is light, pleasant work, as the room is large, cool and well ventilated, and there is no mixing of the sexes, such as may be found in many of the San Francisco canneries. For this reason the work attracts nice girls, and one may see many attractive faces in a trip through a large packing house. One heavy shouldered, masculine-looking German woman, who, however, had long, slender fingers, was pointed out as the swiftest sorter in the room. She made regularly $3 a day. The assurance of steady work of this kind for three months draws many people to Fresno, and the regular disbursement of a large sum as wages every week goes far to explain the thrift and comfort seen on every hand.

The five pound boxes of grapes are passed to the pressing machine, where four of them are deftly transferred to a twenty pound box. The two highest grades of raisins are the Dehesa and the London layers. It has always been the ambition of California's raisin makers to produce the Dehesa brand. They know that their best raisins are equal in size and quality to the best Spanish raisins, but heretofore they have found the cost of preparing the top layer in the Spanish style very costly, as the raisins had to be flattened out (or thumbed, as it is technically called) by hand. In Spain, where women work for 20 cents a day, this hand labor cuts no figure in the cost of production, but here, with the cheapest labor at $1.50 a day, it has proved a bar to competition. American ingenuity, however, is likely to overcome this handicap of high wages. T.C. White, an old raisin grower, has invented a packing plate of metal, with depressions at regular intervals just the size of a big raisin. This plate is put at the bottom of the preliminary packing box, and when the work of packing is complete the box is reversed and the top layer, pressed into the depressions of the plate, bears every mark of the most careful hand manipulation. Mr. Butler used this plate for the first time this season, and found it a success, and there is no question of its general adoption. Every year sees more attention paid to the careful grading of raisins, as upon this depends much of their marketable value. The large packing houses have done good work in enforcing this rule, and the chief sinners who still indulge in careless packing are small growers with poor facilities. Probably the next few years will see a great increase in the number and size of the packing houses which will prepare and market most of Fresno's raisin crop. The growers also will avail themselves of the co-operative plan, for which the colony system offers peculiar advantages.

Geometrical progression is the only thing which equals the increase of Fresno's raisin product. Eighteen years ago it was less than 3,000 boxes. Last year it amounted to 1,050,000 boxes, while this year the product cannot fall below 1,250,000 boxes. New vineyards are coming into bearing every year, and this season has seen a larger planting of new vineyards than ever before. This was due mainly to the stimulus and encouragement of the McKinley bill, which was worth an incalculable sum to those who are developing the raisin industry in California. Besides raisins, Fresno produced last year 2,500,000 gallons of wine, a large part of which was shipped to the East. The railroad figures show the wealth that is produced here every year from these old wheat fields. The dried fruit crop last year was valued at $1,123,520; raisins, $1,245,768; and the total exports were $8,957,899.

The largest bearing raisin vineyard in Fresno is that of A.B. Butler, who has over 600 acres in eight year-old vines. The pack this year will be fully 120,000 boxes. As each box sells for an average of $1.75, the revenue from this vineyard will not fall far below a quarter of a million. One of the finest places in the county is Colonel Forsythe's 160-acre vineyard, from which 40,000 boxes are packed. Forsythe has paid so much attention to the packing of his raisins that his output commands a fancy price. This year he wanted to go to Europe, so he sold his crop on the vines to a packing house, receiving a check for $20,000. These, of course, are the great successes, but nearly every small raisin grower has made money, for it costs not over 11/2 cents per pound to produce the raisin, and the price seldom falls below 6 cents per pound. Good land can be secured in Fresno at from $50 to $200 per acre. The average is $75 an acre for first-class raisin land that is within ten miles of any large place. It costs $75 an acre to get a raisin vineyard into bearing. In the third year the vines pay for cultivation, and from that time on the ratio of increase is very large. Much of the work of pruning, picking, and curing grapes is light, and may be done by women and children. The only heavy labor about the vineyard is the plowing and cultivating. Fresno is a hot place in the summer, the mercury running up to 110 degrees in the shade, but this is a dry heat, which does not enervate, and, with proper protection for the head, one may work in the sun all day, without any danger of sunstroke.

The colony system, which has been brought to great perfection around Fresno, permits a family of small means to secure a good home without much capital to start with. Where no money is paid for labor, a vineyard may be brought to productiveness with very small outlay. At the same time there is so great a demand for labor in the large vineyards, that the man who has a five or ten acre tract may be sure of work nearly all the year. In some places special inducements have been held out to people of small means to secure a five-acre vineyard while they are at work in other business. One colony of this sort was started eighteen months ago near Madera, in Fresno County. A tract of 3,000 acres was planted to Muscat grapes, and then sold out in five and ten acre vineyards, on five years' time, the purchaser paying only one-fifth cash. The price of the land was $75 an acre, and it was estimated that an equal sum per acre would put the vineyard into full bearing. Thus, for $750, or, with interest, for $1,000, a man working on a small salary in San Francisco will have in five years a vineyard which should yield him a yearly revenue of $500. From the present outlook there can be no danger of over-production of raisins, any more than of California wine or dried fruits. The grower is assured of a good market for every pound of raisins he produces, and the more care he puts into the growing and packing of his crop, the larger his returns will be. For those who love life in the open air, there is nothing in California with greater attractions than raisin growing in Fresno County.--_N.Y. Tribune._

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COLD AND MORTALITY.

By Dr. B.W. RICHARDSON.

During the seven weeks of extreme atmospheric cold in which the last year ended and with which the present year opened, every one has been startled by the mortality that has prevailed among the enfeebled and aged population. Friends have been swept away in a manner most painful to recall, under the influence of an external agency, as natural as it is fatal in its course, and over which science, as yet, holds the most limited control.

In the presence of these facts questions occur to the mind which have the most practical bearing. Why should a community wake up one day with catarrh or with the back of the throat unduly red and the tonsils large? Why, in a particular village or town, shall the medical men be summoned on some particular day to a number of places to visit children with croup? What is the reason that cases of sudden death, by so-called "apoplexy," crowd together into a few hours? Why, in a given day or week, are shoals of the aged swept away, while the young live as before? These are questions which curative and preventive medicine have not yet mastered as might be desired. Curative medicine, at the name of them, too often stands abashed, if her interpreter be honest; and preventive medicine says, if her interpreter be honest, "The questions wait as yet for full interpretation."

Still, we are not altogether ignorant; some circumstances appear to be followed by effects so definite, that we may almost consider we have before us, in true position, cause and effect. Let us look at this position in reference to _the simple influence of temperature on the value of life_.

If we observe the fluctuation of the thermometer by the side of the mortality of the nation at large, no calculable relationship seems, at first sight, to be traceable between the one and the other. But if, in connection with the mortality, care be taken to isolate cases, and to divide them into groups according to the ages of those who die, a singular and significant series of facts follow, which show that after a given age a sudden decline of the temperature influences mortality by what may be considered a definite law. The law is, that variations of temperature exert no marked influence on the mortality of the population under the age of thirty years; but after the age of thirty is reached, a fall of temperature, sufficient to cause an increased number of deaths, acts in a regular manner, as it may be said, in waves or lines of intensity, according to the ages of the people. If we make these lines nine years long, we discover that they double in effect at each successive point. Thus, if the, fall in the temperature be sufficient to increase the mortality at the rate of one person of the age of thirty, the increase will run as follows: 1 death at 30 years of age will become 2 deaths at 39 years of age, 4 at 48 years, 8 at 57 years, 16 at 66 years, 33 at 75 years, and 64 at 84 years.

In these calculations nothing seems to be wanting that should render them trustworthy; they resulted from inquiries conducted on the largest scale; they were computed by one of our greatest authorities in vital statistics, the late Dr. William Farr, and they accord with what we gather from common daily observation. They supply, in a word, the scientific details and refinements of a rough estimate founded on universal experience, and they lead us to think very gravely on many subjects which may not have occurred to us before, and which are as curious as they are important.

We often hear persons who know little about vital phenomena, by which term I mean nothing mysterious, but simply the physics embraced in those phenomena which we connect with form and motion under the term life, harping on the one string, that man knows nothing of the laws of life and death. But what an answer to such presumption do the facts rendered above supply. Life and death are here reduced, on given conditions, to reasonings as clear and positive as are the reasonings on the development of heat by the combustion of fuel. It is not necessary for the vital philosopher to go out into the towns and villages to take a new census of deaths to enable him to give us his readings of the general mortality under the conditions specified. He may sit in his cabinet, and, as he reads his thermometer day by day, predict results. There is a fall of temperature that shall be known by experience to be sufficiently deep and prolonged to cause an increase of one death among those members of the community who have reached thirty years. Then, rising by a definite rule, there have died sixty-four, in proportion to that one, of those who have reached eighty-four years. This is sound calculation, and it leads to reflection. It leads one to ask, what, if the law be so definite, are curative and preventive medicine doing meanwhile, that they shall not disturb it? I fear that they hardly produce perturbations, and I do not see why they should; because, as the truth opens itself to the mind, the tremendous external change in the forces of the universe that leads to the result, is not to be grappled with nor interfered with by any specific method of human invention. The cause is too general, too overwhelming, too grasping. It is like the lightning stroke in its distance from our command; but it is widely spread, not pointed and concentrate; prolonged, not instantaneous; and, by virtue of these properties, is so much the more subtile and devastating.

At first it seems easy to explain the reason why a sudden fall in temperature should lead to an increase in the number of deaths, and it is to be admitted that, to a certain extent, the reason is clear.

ANIMAL POWER AT DIFFERENT PERIODS OF LIFE.

Without entering on the question whether heat is the animating principle of all living organisms, we may accept that in the evolution of heat in the body we have a measurement of the capacity of the body to sustain motion, which is only another phrase for expressing the resistance of the body to death. For example, if we assume that a healthy man of thirty respires sufficient air per day to produce as much heat as would raise fifty pounds of water at 32 deg. Fahr. to 212 deg. Fahr., and if we assume that a man of sixty in the same temperature is only able to respire so much air as shall cause him to evolve so much heat as would raise forty pounds of water from 32 deg. to 212 deg., we see a general reason why the older man should feel an effect from a sudden change in the temperature of the air which the younger would not feel; and if we assume, further, that a man of eighty could in the same time produce as much heat as would raise only twenty pounds of water from 32 deg. to 212 deg., we see a good reason why the oldest should suffer more from a decrease of external temperature than the other two. It is necessary, however, to know more than this general statement of an approximate fact; we ought to understand the method by which the reduction of temperature influences, and the details of the physiological process connected with the phenomena. When a human body is living after the age when the period of its growth is completed and before the period of its decay has commenced, it produces, when it is quite healthy, by its own chemical processes, so much heat or force as shall enable it, within given bounds, (1) to move its own machinery; (2) to call forth, at will, a limited measure of extra force which has been lying latent in its organism; and (3) to supply a fluctuating loss that must be conveyed away by contact with the surrounding air, by the earth, and by other bodies that it may touch, and which are colder than itself. There is thus produced in the body, _applied_ force, _reserve_ force, and _waste_ force, and these distributions of the whole force generated, when correctly applied, maintain the perfect organism in such balance that life is true and steady. So much active force carries with it the power to perform so much labor; so much reserve force carries with it the power to perform a measure of new or extra labor to meet emergencies; so much waste force enables the body to resist the external vicissitudes without trenching on the supply that is always wanted to keep the heart pulsating, the chest breathing, the glands secreting or excreting, the digestive apparatus moving, and the brain thinking or absorbing.

Let us, even in the prime of manhood, disturb the distribution of force ever so little, and straightway our life, which is the resultant of force, is disturbed. If we use the active force too long, we become exhausted, and call on the reserve; if we continue the process, the result is failure more or less perfect, sleep, and, in the end, the last long sleep. Let us, instead of exhausting the force, cut it off at the sources where it is generated; let us remove the carbon or coal that should go in as fuel food, and we create prostration, and in continuance a waning animal fire, sleep, and death; or let us, instead of removing or withdrawing the supply of fuel, cut off the supply of air, as by immersion of the body in water, or by making it breathe a vapor that weakens the combination of oxygen with carbon--such a vapor as chloroform--and again we produce, at once, prostration, sleep, or death, according to the extent to which we have conducted the process. Lastly, if instead of using up unduly the active and reserve force, or of suppressing the evolution of force by the withdrawal of its sources, we expose the body to such an external temperature that it is robbed of its heat faster than it can generate it; if to supply the waste heat we draw upon the active and reserve forces, we call forth immediately the same condition as would follow extreme over-exertion, or suppression of the development of force; we call forth exhaustion and sleep, and, if we go far enough, death.

We have had in view, in the above description, a man in the prime of life, in the center of growth, and decay. In regard to the force of animation in him, let us look at him now retrospectively and prospectively. In the past his has been a growing, developing body, and in the course of development he has produced an excess of force commensurate with the demands of his growth; this has enabled him gradually to bear more fatigue and more exposure, without exhaustion, and even with ease, until he has reached his maximum. When he has stopped in development, when he stands on a fair level with the external forces that are opposed to him, then his own force, for a short time balanced, soon stands second in command. He feels cold more tenderly; if his rest be broken, the demand for artificial heat is more urgent; if he lose or miss food, he sinks quickly; and, returning to our facts, as to the influence of the external temperature on mortality, these are the reasons why a fall in the thermometer sweeps away our population according to age so ruthlessly and decisively.

If we analyze the facts further by the side of the diseases which kill the old, we find those diseases to be numerous in name, but all of two types. They are diseases which of themselves tend either to produce undue loss of force, or that tend to prevent the development of force at its origin. Thus affections which are accompanied with exhaustive loss of fluids from the body, such as diabetes, dropsies, and haemorrhages, are of the first class; affections in which due supply of air to the lungs is prevented are of the second class, especially bronchitis, a disease so commonly assigned as the cause of the deaths among the members of the aged and enfeebled population, that succeed immediately on an extreme fall of the thermometer.

FALL OF TEMPERATURE--MODE OF ACTION.

In what has been written above I have stated simply and in open terms the fact that the fall of temperature produces a specified series of results, by reducing the force of the living organism, and disposing it to die. We may from this point investigate, from a physiological point of view, the mode by which the effect is produced in the economy. How does the decline of temperature act? Is the process simple or compound?

EXTRACTION OF HEAT.

The process is compound, and into it there enter three elements. In the first place, the body is robbed rapidly of its waste force, and the reserve and active elements of force are, consequently, called upon to the depression of the organism altogether. This obtains because the medium surrounding the body, the air, unless it be artificially heated, removes from its contact with the body a larger proportion of heat than can be spared; and it might be possible to produce such an influence on the body by sudden extraction of its heat as to destroy it at once by the mere act. If a man could be surrounded with frozen mercury he would die instantaneously, as from shock, by the immediate extraction of his heat. But in ordinary cases, and under ordinary circumstances, the mere rapid extraction of waste heat is not sufficient to account for all the mischief produced by a low temperature; for by artificial warmth and non-conducting garments, we counteract the influence, and that, too, in a manner which proves pretty successful. We may, therefore, leave this element of extraction of heat as a most important, but not as the sole, agent of evil.

SUPPRESSED OXIDATION.

The second element is the effect on the process of oxidation of blood under the influence of cold. We all are aware that if a portion of dead animal or vegetable matter be placed at a low temperature, it keeps for a considerable time; and we have evidence of dead animals which, clothed in thick ribbed ice, have been retained from putrefaction for centuries. Hence we say that cold is an antiseptic as alcohol is, and chloroform, and ammonia, and other similar bodies. Cold is an antiseptic then, but why? Because it prevents, even in the presence of a ferment, the union of oxygen gas with combustible matter. The molecules of oxygen, in order that they shall combine, and in their combination evolve heat, require to be distributed, and to be distributed by the form of motion known as heat; deprive them of this activity, and they come into communion with themselves, are attracted to each other, and lose to the extent of this attraction their power of combining with the molecules of other bodies for which they have an affinity. In an analogous, but more obvious way, we may see the same effect of motion in the microscopic examination of blood. In the blood, while it is circulating briskly in its vessels, there are distributed through it, without contact with each other, the millions of oxygen carriers called blood corpuscles. In the circulation in the free channels of the body, the arteries and veins, it is motion that keeps these corpuscles apart; we draw a drop of blood and let it come to rest on the microscope glass, and as the motion ceases the separated corpuscles run together, and adhere so firmly that we cannot easily separate them without their disintegration. If we were able to drive them in this state round the body, through the vessels, they would not combine readily with the tissues; they have, in fact, forfeited the condition necessary for such combination. So with the oxygen they carry; when its invisible molecules are deprived of the force called heat, which is motion, they do not readily combine with new matter. But perfect combination of oxygen and carbon in the blood is essential to every act of life. In the constant clash of molecule of oxygen with molecule of carbon in the blood lies the mainspring of all animal motion; the motion of the heart itself is secondary to that. Destroy that union, however slightly, and the balance is lost, and the animal body is, in a plain word, _ill_.

Cold or decreased temperature, below a given standard, which for sake of comparison we may take at a mean of 40 deg. Fahr., reduces this combination of oxygen and carbon in blood. In my Lettsomian lectures to the Medical Society of London, delivered in 1860, I entered very fully into this subject, and illustrated points of it largely by experiment. Since then I have done more, and although I have not time here to state the details of these researches, I will epitomize the principal facts. I found then that, by exposing blood in chambers into which air can pass in and out, the blood could be oxidized at temperatures of 70 deg. if the distribution of air and blood were effectually secured, and I also found a proper standard of oxidation from a proper temperature. Afterward I proceeded to test for combination at lower temperatures, and discovered a gradually decreasing scale until I arrived at 40 deg. Fahr., when efficient combination ceased. Of course, my method was a very crude imitation of nature, but it was sufficient to show this fair and reliable result, that the oxidation of blood decreases as the temperature of the oxygen decreases.

From this point I went to animal life itself. I exposed animals to pure cold oxygen and to cold atmospheric air, and compared the results with other experiments in which animals of similar weight were exposed to warm air and warm oxygen. The facts gleaned were most important, for they proved conclusively that the products of combustion, that is to say, the products resulting from the union of oxygen and carbon, were reduced in proportion as the temperature of the oxygen was reduced. In the course of this inquiry another singular and instructive fact was elicited. It has been long known that at ordinary temperature, say 60 deg., pure neutral oxygen does not support animal life so well as oxygen that is diluted with nitrogen. In the nitrogen the molecules of oxygen are more freely distributed under the influence of motion, that is the meaning of the observed fact. What, then, would be the respective influence of low and high temperatures on the respiration of pure oxygen? To settle this question, animals of the same size and weight were placed in equal measures of oxygen gas and common air at a temperature of 30 deg. Fahr., and with the inevitable result that the animal in the pure oxygen ceased to respire one-third sooner than did the animal in common air. Carrying the inquiry further, I found that if the oxygen gas were warmed to 50 deg. Fahr., the respiration was continued six times as long as in the previous experiment, while if the warming were carried to 70 deg., it was sustained twenty-four times as long. I reversed the experiment; I made oxygen with cold produce anaesthetic sleep in a warm-blooded animal.

I need not carry this argument further; it is the easiest of the demonstrative facts of physiological science that reduction of temperature lessens the combining power of oxygen for blood, and therewith causes a reduction of animal force, and a tendency to arrest of that force, which, in the end, means _death_.

MECHANICAL COLD.

The third element in the action of cold is more purely mechanical, and this, though in a sense secondary, is of immense import. When any body, capable of expansion by heat, that is to say, by radiant motion of its own particles, is reduced in temperature, it loses volume, contracts, or shrinks. The animal body is no exception to this rule; a ring that will fit tightly to the warm finger will fall off the same finger after exposure to cold. The whole of the soft parts shrink, and the vessels contract and empty themselves of their blood. Cold applied to the skin in an extreme degree blanches the skin, and renders it insensible and bloodless, so that if you prick it it does not bleed, neither does it feel. In cases where the body altogether is exposed to extreme cold this shrinking of the external parts is universal; the whole surface becomes pale and insensible; the blood in the small vessels superficially placed is forced inward upon the heart and vessels of the interior organs; the brain is oppressed with blood; sleep, or coma, as it is technically called, follows, and at last life is suspended.

In exposure to the lowest wave of temperature in this country these extreme effects are not commonly developed; but minor effects are brought out which are most significant. In particular, the effect on the lungs is strongly marked. The capillary vessels of the lungs, making up that fine network which plays over the computed six hundred millions of air vesicles, undergo paralysis when the cold air enters, and in proportion as such obstruction from this cause is decisive, the blood that should be brought to the air vesicles is impeded, and the process of oxidation is mechanically as well as chemically suppressed. The same contraction is also exerted on the vessels of the skin, driving the blood into the interior and better protected organs. Hence the reason why on leaving a warm room to enter a cold frosty air there is an immediate action of the visceral organs from pressure of blood on them, and not unfrequently a tendency to diarrhoea from temporary congestion of the digestive tract. Three factors are at work, in fact, whenever the low wave of temperature affects the animal body; abstraction of heat from the body, beyond what is natural; arrest of chemical action and of combustion; paralysis of the minute vessels exposed to the cold.

COMBINED EFFECTS.