Part 1

[Illustration:

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 151.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 20, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

NOTHING NEW.

Antiquaries are always delighted to remind us that there is nothing new under the sun. When we boast of the great European art of printing, they bring in the Chinese as evidence against us. Certain it is, however, that the Romans used movable types to mark their pottery and bread, and even to indorse their scroll-books. But if this is to be called printing, then the Accadians, and their successors the Assyrians, did the like on a grand scale many centuries before. To the last-named people, moreover, must be ascribed, so far as we at present know, the invention of a magnifying lens of rock-crystal, a thing so well made, that Sir David Brewster pronounced it a true optical instrument. It was found amid the ruins of Nimroud by Layard.

It is curious to see also how great natural laws have been dimly apprehended centuries before they were rendered demonstrable. The law of gravitation was undoubtedly discerned by Sir Isaac Newton; but it is remarkable that in Cary’s translation of Dante’s _Inferno_ an idea very like it occurs, namely:

Thou wast on the other side, so long as I Descended; when I turned, thou did’st o’erpass That point, to which from every part is dragged All heavy substance.

Of this passage, Monti remarks that if it had met the eye of Newton, it might better have awakened his thought to conceive the system of attraction than the accidental fall of an apple.

For fifty or sixty years before any real light was thrown upon the nature of gravitation, Pedro Mexia of Seville had a clear and correct idea of its action. Thus, in his _Silva de Varia Leccion_ (published in 1542, and which in various translations was in great demand until the middle of the seventeenth century), the following appears: ‘The sky is above in all parts of the earth, and the centre of the earth is below, towards which all heavy things naturally tend from whatever side of the earth; so that if God had made a hole, which by a true diameter passing through the whole earth, from the point where we are, as far as the other opposite and contrary to this, on the other side of the earth, passed through the centre of it: then if one dropped a plummet, as masons do, know that it would not pass to the other side of the earth, but would stop and place itself in the centre of it; and if from the other side one let fall another, they would meet together in the very centre, and there they would stop. It is quite true that the force might well cause the plummet to pass somewhat beyond, because its movement, so long as it was going towards the centre, would naturally be accelerated, passing somewhat beyond, but in the end it would return to its place.’

Of this old Spanish work, an English translation was made by T. Fortescue, and printed in London in 1576, entitled _The Forest, or Collection of Historyes, no less profitable than pleasant and necessary_. Another appeared in 1613 with sundry essays by other authors, entitled _The Treasurie of Ancient and Modern Times_. Considering that London publishing was on a small scale two and three centuries ago, it is difficult to believe that Newton missed seeing these works, even if he had not heard of the original. At anyrate, he must in all probability have read what Shakspeare, borrowing probably from the same source, puts into the mouth of Cressida:

But the strong base and building of my love Is as the very centre of the earth, Drawing all things to it.

_Troilus and Cressida_, act iv. scene 2.

Some anticipations of telegraphy are also very interesting. Galileo, in his _Dialogues on the Two Systems of the World_, that is, the Ptolemaic and Copernican, and which he wrote in 1632, makes Sagredo say: ‘You remind me of one who offered to sell me a secret art, by which, through the attraction of a certain magnet needle, it would be possible to converse across a space of two or three thousand miles. I said to him that I would willingly become the purchaser, provided only that I might first make a trial of the art, and that it would be sufficient for the purpose if I were to place myself in one corner of the sofa and he in the other. He replied that in so short a distance the action would be scarcely discernible; so I dismissed the fellow, and said that it was not convenient for me just then to travel into Egypt or Muscovy for the purpose of trying the experiment; but that if he chose to go there himself, I would remain in Venice and attend to the rest.’

It appears, however, that telegraphy took form as an idea two thousand years ago, for Addison, in one of his delightful essays in the _Spectator_ (No. 241), tells us that ‘Strada, in one of his Prolusions, gives an account of a chimerical correspondence between two friends by the help of a certain lodestone, which had such virtue in it, that if it touched two several needles, when one of the needles so touched began to move, the other, though at never so great a distance, moved at the same time, and in the same manner. He tells us that the two friends, being each of them possessed of one of these needles, made a kind of a dial-plate, inscribing it with the four-and-twenty letters, in the same manner as the hours of the day are marked upon the ordinary dial-plate. They then fixed one of the needles on each of these plates in such a manner that it could move round without impediment, so as to touch any of the four-and-twenty letters. Upon their separating from one another into distant countries, they agreed to withdraw themselves punctually into their closets at a certain hour of the day and to converse with one another by means of this their invention.’

In Homer’s _Odyssey_, translated by Pope, the following curious description—originally detected by an ingenious mechanic—of the Phœacian ships of old, has been well observed by the late Dr Birkbeck to be no inaccurate description of steam-navigation:

So shalt thou instant reach the realm assigned In wondrous ships, self-moved, instinct with mind.

* * * * *

Though clouds and darkness veil the encumbered sky, Fearless, through darkness and through clouds they fly; Though tempests rage—though rolls the swelling main, The seas may roll, the tempests swell in vain. E’en the stern god that o’er the waves presides, Safe as they pass, and safe repass the tides, With fury burns; whilst careless they convey Promiscuous every guest to every bay.

It would almost appear from the above passage, which for ages was considered merely a bold flight of the imagination, that the ancients were not unacquainted with some method beyond that of the ordinary sail, of propelling vessels through water with safety and celerity.

Even that horror of naval warfare, the fish-torpedo, seems to have been once afloat in the mind of Ben Jonson, although there are good reasons for thinking he derived the idea itself from Drummond the inventor, whom he visited at Hawthornden in 1619. In Jonson’s play, _The Staple of News_ (act iii. scene 1), we read:

_Thomas._ They write here one Cornelius’ son Hath made the Hollanders an invisible eel To swim the Haven at Dunkirk, and sink all The shipping there.

_Pennyboy._ But how is’t done?

_Cymbal._ I’ll show you, sir. It’s an automa, runs under water With a snug nose, and has a nimble tail Made like an auger, with which tail she wriggles Betwixt the coats of a ship, and sinks it straight.

_Pennyboy._ A most brave device To murder their flat bottoms!

Some of the most beneficent and useful discoveries in medical science appear to have been anticipated years ago. For example, certain skulls of prehistoric man have afforded the clearest evidence that even at that remote period the art of _trepanning_ must have been practised upon them. A skull found in the tomb of the Incas, near the city of Cuzco, exhibited distinct marks of having undergone a like operation. According to a reputed discovery by M. Stanislaus Julien, it appears that as far back as the third century of our era, the Chinese were in possession of an anæsthetic agent which they employed during surgical operations. A description of this was discovered by M. Julien in a work preserved in the Bibliothèque Nationale, called _Kou-kin-i-tong_, or a General Collection of Ancient and Modern Medicines, which appears to have been published in the sixteenth century. In a biographical notice of Hoa-tho, who flourished under the dynasty of Wei, between the years 220 and 230 of our era, it is stated that he gave the patient a preparation of _cannabis_ (_Ma-yo_), who in a few moments became as insensible as one plunged in drunkenness or deprived of life; then, according to the case, he made incisions, amputations, &c. After a certain number of days, the patient found himself re-established, without having experienced the slightest pain during the operation. It appears from the biography of Han that this _cannabis_ was prepared by boiling and distillation.

Of the Germ Theory of disease, it must also be said, it is no novelty. That noted physician, Athanasius Kircher, in his work on the plague—published at Rome in 1658—attributed the origin of epidemics to germs, or, as he termed them, animalcules. He argued that each kind of putrefaction gives rise to a special virus, which produces a definite species of malady.

Even sticking-plaster is not a modern surgical appliance. One of the highest living authorities in organic chemistry states that the ordinary lead-plaster now so commonly used was said to be discovered by the Roman physician Menecrates in the middle of the first century.

Some readers of this _Journal_ will remember that while the British Association was in progress at Montreal (1884), a telegram was received from Mr Caldwell in Australia, notifying that he had found _monotremes oviparous with mesoblastic ovum_—that is, that the ornithorhynchus, the duck-bill or water mole, laid eggs. This piece of news greatly interested naturalists, since it was justly regarded as furnishing one more link in the chain of evidence tending to support the evolution hypothesis. However, in a work entitled _The Literary Pancratium_, by Robert and Thomas Swinburn Carr, published in London in 1832, a quotation in the form of a footnote appears on page 8, as follows: ‘But this is New Holland, where it is summer with us when it is winter in Europe, and _vice versâ_; where the barometer rises before bad weather, and falls before good; where the north is the hot wind, and the south the cold; where the humblest house is fitted up with cedar; where the fields are fenced with mahogany, and myrtle-trees are burnt for firewood; where the _swans are black_ and the eagles white; where the kangaroo, an animal between the squirrel and the deer, has five claws on its forepaws and three talons on its hind-legs, like a bird, and yet hops on its tail; where the mole lays eggs, and has a duck’s bill; where there is a bird with a broom in its mouth instead of a tongue; where there is a fish, one half belonging to the genus _Raja_, and the other to that of _Squalus_; where the pears are made of wood, with the stalk at the broader end; and where the cherry grows with the stone on the outside.’—(Field’s _New South Wales_, page 461.)

In striking contrast to all the above-named instances of rediscovery, is that fact furnished by some Assyrian bas-reliefs—that is, that the lion, or at least the Asiatic species, has a _claw_ in the tuft of his tail. This fact, which, strangely enough, was disputed in classic times, although forty years before the birth of Christ, Didymus of Alexandria discovered it, had been quite overlooked by modern naturalists. Soon after the finding of the sculpture, Mr Bennett, an English zoologist, verified the observation.

Homer’s famous story of the battle between the frogs and the mice is doubtless a political satire. That the story was originally suggested by actual observation is not an unreasonable fancy. Homer may even have seen the mimic campaign for himself, for it is but a tradition that he was blind. In a recent number of _Nature_, a correspondent states that he saw a short time since several mice pursuing some frogs in a shed. The alacrity of the reptiles rendered the attacks of the mice futile for some time. ‘Again and again the frogs escaped from the clutches of their foes, but only to be recaptured, severely shaken, and bitten.’ They were at length ‘overpowered by the mice, which devoured a part of them.’

The first scientific expedition on record is one in which Aristotle was sent by Alexander the Great (more than 300 B.C.) for the purpose of collecting subjects for a History of Animals. In this enterprise he met with both the paper and the pearly nautilus; for in the _Historia Animalium_, he says, after describing different forms of Cephalopods, which no doubt abounded in Asiatic seas: ‘There are also two other kinds of polypes which are in shells, the one [that is, the paper nautilus] has a shell which is not naturally adherent to it; it feeds very frequently near the land, and being cast by the waves on the sand, the shell slips, and it dies; but the other [the pearly nautilus] is in a shell in which it exists after the manner of a snail, and outwardly extends its arms.’—(_Scaliger’s translation._) Nothing was added to this account during the dark ages that succeeded, nor even till some time after the revival of literature. No further information respecting the nautilus was obtained until the discovery of a living specimen early in the eighteenth century by Rumphius, a Dutch merchant and naturalist, resident at Amboyna. His drawing of the soft parts separated from the shell was greatly valued for more than a century before another specimen was found, although the shells were cast ashore in comparative abundance. This specimen was sent to Professor Owen, and formed the subject of an elaborate memoir by him in 1832. It may be said to have been the first to confirm the history of this remarkable organism given more than two thousand years before.

Here, then, we have another instance of modern research simply verifying that which was an ancient discovery.

It is even said that the stereoscope, which is Professor Wheatstone’s invention, was known to Euclid, and minutely described by Galen, the physician, sixteen centuries ago; moreover, it was still more completely defined in the works of Baptista Porta in the year 1599. As for photography, its discovery is by common consent referred to Daguerre, who announced it to the Academy of Sciences in 1839. This beautiful art has, however, been found clearly described by M. Jobard in his _Nouvelles Inventions aux Expositions Universelles_, 1857, taken from a translation from the German three hundred years ago.

An ancient gold coin _recast_ is, after all, the same precious metal; even so, truths long lost are, when found, restamped by human thought and made current again for the world’s good. How few are privileged, or have the genius, to enrich mankind with an original discovery!

BY ORDER OF THE LEAGUE.

CHAPTER XIV.

Le Gautier followed the footman into the drawing-room, where Enid was engaged with some visitors—three tall showy-looking girls, with an extremely vivacious mother. Le Gautier stood looking out of one of the windows, and noticed with satisfaction their intention of a speedy exit. For some moments the visitors remained chattering, and then, after a profusion of compliments, accompanied by much laughter, their voluminous skirts were heard switching down the broad staircase. It has often been a matter of speculation as to whether a man can be in love with two women at the same time; but without going into this delicate question, it is possible to imagine a man with a penchant for two women, though the experiment probably would be attended with great hazard and danger. Le Gautier forgot the dark-eyed Marie, as he gazed upon Enid’s fairer charms.

‘You have heard nothing of Maxwell?’ he asked after a pause in the desultory conversation. ‘A strange thing he does not write. Many men would imagine that such a thing is not altogether an accident; there are occasions when a little absence from the gaze of man is desirable, Miss Charteris.’

‘Many men, as usual, would be wrong,’ Enid answered coldly. ‘You should not shield your want of charity by these generalities, Monsieur le Gautier, though perhaps you have derived benefit from these absences yourself, you seem to understand the subject so thoroughly.’

Enid was angry at his cool insolence, and replied to his want of taste by a little plain language herself; and her random shaft went home.

‘You are severe; but really, while sorry for Maxwell, there is something in it which is comforting to me. Can you not guess what I mean?’

Enid Charteris, though guileless and pure as woman can be, had not mixed with the great world for nothing. She had had suitors enough to know what a proposal was, and above all things she dreaded one from this man. Some instinct told her he would be a dangerous enemy. ‘You speak in riddles,’ she said calmly. ‘I have not been educated to the language of diplomacy. Pray, explain yourself.’

‘Then I must be more explicit. Maxwell’s absence rids me of a dangerous rival. Now he is away, the path is all the smoother for me. Need I tell you, Miss Charteris—Enid—that I love you? Surely you must have known that for a long time past. While another was in the way, I sealed my lips; but I can restrain myself no longer now.’

‘It would be affectation not to understand you,’ Enid replied with a calmness that boded ill for Le Gautier’s success. ‘I am sorry to hear it. If you are wise, you will not put me to the pain of a refusal.’

‘I will take no refusal,’ Le Gautier burst out passionately; ‘for I swear that if you are not mine, you shall wed no other man. Enid, you must, you shall be mine! You may look upon me coldly now, but the time will come when you shall love me well enough.’

‘The time will come when I shall—love—you?’ The bitter scorn in these words stung Le Gautier to madness, stirring up a desperate passion in his veins, now that the prize seemed like slipping from his grasp. He fell at her feet on his knees. ‘Hear me!’ he exclaimed passionately—‘only listen to me, Enid. I have vowed that you are the only woman I have chosen—the only girl I could really love. Such love as mine must win a return some day; only try; only give me a little chance of hope.’

‘If you are a man, you will rise from that absurd position. Who am I, that you should kneel to me? You must take my word for it; and if you have any consideration for my feelings, you will change the subject.’

‘And this is your absolute and final decision?’

‘Yes, it is my absolute and final decision.’

Le Gautier rose to his feet, pale but smiling, and there was a darkly evil look upon his white set face. When he spoke again his words were cold and incisive. ‘Consider, before you wilfully make an enemy of me.’ He uttered the words with a low sibilation. ‘I have made you an offer—the highest compliment I could pay, and you have scornfully rejected it. The next favour you ask from me you may seek for on your knees.’

‘And to what purpose, sir, shall _I_ ask a favour from _you_?’

‘For your father,’ Le Gautier answered quietly, though his tones were deep and earnest. ‘You have guessed that Maxwell has gone away on a dangerous mission. Why should not Sir Geoffrey be chosen in his turn? And if so, who can save him? I, Hector le Gautier, and no other man.’

‘And by whose evil counsel has my poor father been dragged into your infamous Brotherhood?—By yours alone! He would be a happy man now, if he had never known you’——

‘On the contrary,’ Le Gautier interrupted, ‘I tried to save him. He has joined on his own wish. You do not credit my words. Go and ask him now if my words are not true, and that, if it is not his dearest wish that you should become my wife.’

‘He might think so,’ Enid answered haughtily; ‘but he does not wish it in his heart. Monsieur le Gautier, if you are a gentleman, you will cease this discussion. The subject is painful to me.’ She stood there, looking at him coldly and scornfully.

But her very iciness only served to increase the warmth of his passion. ‘I cannot!’ he exclaimed. ‘I will not cease! For five years, ever since I first met you at Rome, I have never ceased to love you. Bid me do anything in reason; ask me any favour; but to forget you is impossible!’

‘I am sorry for you,’ Enid said gently, touched a little by the ring of genuine passion in his voice—‘I am sorry; but it cannot be. I do not break my pledges so lightly, even if I wished to do so.’

‘Which you do not,’ Le Gautier bitterly remarked. ‘I do not care. I am desperate now. You despise and scorn me; but I will not be rejected thus. If you will not be my wife for my sake, you must for your father’s and the honour of your house.’ He stopped abruptly, for standing in the room was Sir Geoffrey, his face pale, and his whole aspect downcast and degraded to a pitiable degree.

Enid turned to her father eagerly. ‘Did you hear these words?’ she asked. ‘Can it be possible that you—that I—that the honour of our house is in any man’s hands? Can it be your wish, father, that I—I—should form an alliance with Monsieur le Gautier? Speak, and show him how mistaken he can be!’

But Sir Geoffrey never spoke. His head sank lower upon his breast. For the first time, he realised the sacrifice he had imposed upon his daughter, and so he stood there, an English gentleman no longer, but a poor enfeebled, shamefaced old man.

A wild feeling of alarm took possession of Enid as she saw this thing. ‘Why do you not speak?’ she demanded. ‘What cause have you to hesitate in indorsing my words?’

Still the baronet never spoke, never raised his head.

Enid ran swiftly to his side and threw one arm round his shoulder. She could feel the spasm that struck him as he encountered her touch. ‘Father,’ she asked in a dull even voice, ‘does your silence mean that he is right?’

‘Yes, my dear child; he is right. There is no alternative.’

There is a providence which helps us in such times as these, a numbness of the senses that for a time deadens pain. Enid’s voice was very calm as she turned to Le Gautier, standing there trying to disguise his triumph. ‘I do not know what all this means,’ she said. ‘I do not understand whence you derive your power. I cannot think now. For his sake,’ she continued, pointing to her father, ‘I consent.’

Le Gautier sprang forward; but she repelled him with a glance.