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The Popular Science Monthly, September, 1900

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Title: The Popular Science Monthly, September, 1900

Author: Various

Editor: James McKeen Cattell


        
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Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY, SEPTEMBER, 1900 ***

Transcriber’s note: Table of Contents added by Transcriber.




CONTENTS


  The Modern Occult                           449
  Birds As Flying Machines                    473
  Electric Automobiles                        479
  The Human Body As an Engine                 491
  Chapters on the Stars                       500
  The Psychology of Red. (II.)                517
  The Expenditure of the Working Classes      527
  The Conquest of the Tropics                 540
  Discussion and Correspondence               546
  Scientific Literature                       550
  The Progress of Science                     555




  THE
  POPULAR SCIENCE
  MONTHLY

  EDITED BY
  J. McKEEN CATTELL

  VOL. LVII
  MAY TO OCTOBER, 1900

  NEW YORK AND LONDON
  McCLURE, PHILLIPS AND COMPANY
  1900




  COPYRIGHT, 1900,
  BY McCLURE, PHILLIPS AND COMPANY.




THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.

SEPTEMBER, 1900.




THE MODERN OCCULT.

BY PROFESSOR JOSEPH JASTROW,

UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN.


If that imaginary individual so convenient for literary illustration,
a visitor from Mars, were to alight upon our planet at the present
time, and if his intellectual interests induced him to take a survey
of mundane views of what is “in heaven above, or on the earth beneath
or in the waters under the earth,” of terrestrial opinions in regard
to the great problems of mind and matter, of government and society,
of life and death--our Martian observer might conceivably report
that a limited portion of mankind were guided by views that were the
outcome of accumulated toil, and generations of studious devotion,
representing a slow and tortuous, but progressive growth through error
and superstition, and at the cost of persecution and bloodshed; that
they maintained institutions of learning where the fruits of such
thought could be imparted and the seeds cultivated to bear still more
richly, but that outside of this respectable yet influential minority
there were endless upholders of utterly unlike notions and of widely
diverging beliefs, clamoring like the builders of the tower of Babel in
diverse tongues.

It is well at least occasionally to remember that our conceptions of
science and of truth, of the nature of logic and of evidence, are not
so universally held as we unreflectingly assume or as we hopefully
wish. Almost every one of the fundamental and indisputable tenets of
science is regarded as hopelessly in error by some ardent would-be
reformer. One Hampden declares that the earth is a motionless plane
with the North Pole as the center; one Carpenter gives a hundred
remarkable reasons why the earth is not round, with a challenge to
the scientists of America to disprove them; one Symmes regarded the
earth as hollow and habitable within, with openings at the poles which
he offered to explore for the consideration of the “patronage of this
and the new worlds”; while Symmes, Jr., explains how the interior is
lighted, and that it probably forms the home of the lost tribes of
Israel; and one Teed announces on equally conclusive evidence that the
earth is a “stationary concave cell ... with people, Sun, Moon, Planets
and Stars on the inside,” the whole constituting an “alchemico-organic
structure, a Gigantic Electro-Magnetic Battery.” If we were to pass
from opinions regarding the shape of the earth to the many other and
complex problems that appeal to human interests, it would be equally
easy to collect ‘ideas’ comparable to these in value, evidence and
eccentricity. With the conspicuously pathological outgrowth of
brain-functioning--although its representatives in the literature of my
topic are neither few nor far between--I shall not specifically deal;
and yet the general abuse of logic, the helpless flounderings in the
mire of delusive analogy, the baseless assumptions, which characterize
insane or ‘crank’ productions, are readily found in modern occult
literature.

The occult consists of a mixed aggregate of movements and doctrines,
which may be the expressions of kindred interests and dispositions
but present no essential community of content. Such members of this
cluster of beliefs as in our day and generation have attained a
considerable adherence or still retain it from former generations
constitute the modern occult. The prominent characteristic of the
occult is its marked divergence in trend and belief from the recognized
standards and achievements of human thought. This divergence is one
of attitude and logic and general perspective. It is a divergence of
intellectual temperament that distorts the normal reactions to science
and evidence and to the general significance and values of the factors
of our complicated natures and our equally complicated environment.
At least it is this in extreme and pronounced forms; and shades
from it through an irregular variety of tints to a vague and often
unconscious susceptibility for the unusual and eccentric, combined
with an instability of conviction regarding established beliefs that
is more often the expression of the weakness of ignorance than of the
courage of independence. Occult doctrines are also likely to involve
and to proceed upon mysticism and superstition; and their theme centers
about such problems as the nature of mental action, the conception
of life and death, the effect of cosmic conditions upon human events
and endowment, the delineation of character, the nature and treatment
of disease, or indeed about any of the larger or smaller realms of
knowledge that combine with a strong human and possibly a practical
interest, a considerable complexity of basal principles and general
relations.

In surveying the more notable instances of the modern occult, it
is well while bearing in mind the particular form of occultism or
mysticism, or it may be merely of superstition and error, which one or
another of the occult movements exhibits, to emphasize the importance
of the intellectual motive or temperament that inclines to the occult.
It is important to inquire not only what is believed, but what is the
nature of the evidence that induces belief, what attracts and then
makes converts, what the influences by which the belief spreads. Two
classes of motives or interests are conspicuous; the one prominently
intellectual or theoretical, the other moderately or grossly practical.
Movements in which the former interest dominates contain elements
that command respect even when they do not engage sympathy; they
frequently appeal, though it may be unwisely, to worthy impulses
and lofty aspirations. Amongst the movements presenting prominent
practical aspects are to be found instances of the most irreverent and
pernicious, as well as of the most vulgar, ignorant and fraudulent
schemes which have been devised to mislead the human mind. Most occult
movements, however, are of a mixed character, and in their career the
speculative and the practical change in importance at different times
or in different lands, or at the hands of variously minded leaders. Few
escape and some seem especially designed for the partisanship of that
class who are seeking whom they may devour; and stimulated by the greed
for gain or the love for notoriety, set their snares for the eternally
gullible. Fortunately, it must be added that the interest in the occult
is under the sway of the law of fashion, and many a mental garment
which is donned in spite of the protest of reason and propriety, is
quietly laid aside when the dictum of the hour pronounces it unbecoming.

Historically considered, the occult points back to distant epochs
and foreign civilizations; to ages when the facts of nature were but
weakly grasped, when belief was largely dominated by the authority
of tradition, when even the ablest minds fostered or assented to
superstition, when the social conditions of life were inimical to
independent thought and the mass of men were cut off from intellectual
growth of even the most elementary kind. Pseudo-science flourished in
the absence of true knowledge, and imaginative insight and unfounded
belief held the office intended for inductive reason. Ignorance
inevitably led to error and false views to false practices. In a
sympathetic environment of this kind the occultist flourished and
displayed the impressive insignia of exclusive wisdom. His attitude was
that of one seeking to solve an enigma, to find the key to a strange
puzzle; his search was for some mystic charm, some talismanic formula,
some magical procedure, which shall dispel the mist that hides the
face of nature and expose her secrets to his ecstatic gaze. By one
all-encompassing, masterful effort the correct solution was to be
discovered or revealed; and at once and for all, ignorance would give
place to true knowledge, science and nature become as an open book,
doubt and despair be replaced by the serenity of perfect wisdom. As our
ordinary senses and faculties are obviously insufficient to accomplish
such ends, supernatural powers must be appealed to, a transcendental
sphere of spiritual activity must be cultivated capable of perceiving
through the hidden symbolism of apparent phenomena, the underlying
relations of cosmic structure and final purposes. Long periods of
training and devotion, seclusion from the world, contemplation of inner
mysteries, lead the initiate through the various stages of adeptship up
to the final plane of communion with the infinite and the comprehension
of truth in all things. This form of occultism reaches its fullest
and purest expression in Oriental wisdom-religions. These vie in
interest to the historian with the mythology and philosophy of Greece
and Rome; and we of the Occident feel free to profit by their ethical
and philosophical content, and to cherish the impulses which gave
them life. But when such views are forcibly transplanted to our age
and clime, when they are decked in garments so unlike their original
vestments, particularly when they are associated with dubious practices
and come into violent conflict with the truth that has accumulated
since they first had birth, their aspect is profoundly altered and they
come within the circle of the modern occult.

       *       *       *       *       *

Of this character is Theosophy, an occult movement brought into recent
prominence by the works and personality of Mme. Blavatsky. The story
of the checkered career of that remarkable woman is fairly accessible.
Born in Russia in 1831 as Helen Petrovna, daughter of Colonel Hahn, of
the Russian army, she was married at the age of seventeen to an elderly
gentleman, M. Blavatsky. She is described in girlhood as a person of
passionate temper and wilful and erratic disposition. She separated
or escaped from her husband after a few months of married life and
entered upon an extended period of travel and adventure, in which
‘psychic’ experiences and the search for unusual persons and beliefs
were prominent. She absorbed Hindu wisdom from the adepts of India;
she sat at the feet of a thaumaturgist at Cairo; she journeyed to
Canada to meet the medicine man of the Red Indians, and to New Orleans
to observe the practices of Voodoo among the negroes. It is difficult
to know what to believe in the accounts prepared by her enthusiastic
followers. Violations of physical laws were constantly occurring in her
presence, and “sporadic outbreaks of rappings and feats of impulsive
pots, pans, beds and chairs insisted on making themselves notorious.”
In 1873 she came to New York and sat in ‘spiritualistic’ circles,
assuming an assent to their theories, but claiming to see through and
beyond the manifestations the operations of her theosophic guides in
astral projection. At one of these séances she met Colonel Olcott and
assisted him in the foundation of the Theosophical Society in New York
in October, 1875. Mme. Blavatsky directed the thought of this society
to the doctrines of Indian occultism, and reported the appearance in
New York of a Hindu Mahatma, who left a turban behind him as evidence
of his astral visit. Later Mme. Blavatsky and Colonel Olcott (who
remained her staunch supporter, but whom she referred to in private as
a ‘psychologized baby’) went to India and at Adyar established a shrine
from which were mysteriously issued answers to letters placed within
its recesses, from which inaccessible facts were revealed and a variety
of interesting marvels performed. Discords arose within her household
and led to the publication by M. and Mme. Coulomb, her confederates, of
letters illuminating the tricks of the trade by which the miracles had
been produced. Mme. Blavatsky pronounced the letters to be forgeries,
but they were sufficiently momentous to bring Mr. Hodgson to India to
investigate for the Society for Psychical Research. He was able to
deprive many of the miracles of their mystery, to show how the ‘shrine’
from which the Mahatma’s messages emanated was accessible to Mme.
Blavatsky by the aid of sliding panels and secret drawers, to show that
these messages were in style, spelling and handwriting the counterpart
of Mme. Blavatsky’s, to show that many of the phenomena were the result
of planned collusion and that others were created by the limitless
credulity and the imaginative exaggeration of the witnesses--‘domestic
imbeciles,’ as madame confidentially called them. The report of
the society convicted ‘the Priestess of Isis’ of “a long continued
combination with other persons to produce by ordinary means a series
of apparent marvels for the support of the Theosophic movement”; and
concludes with these words: “For our own part, we regard her neither
as the mouthpiece of hidden seers nor as a mere vulgar adventuress; we
think that she has achieved a title to permanent remembrance as one of
the most accomplished, ingenious and interesting impostors in history.”
Mme. Blavatsky died in 1891, and her ashes were divided between Adyar,
London and New York.

The Theosophic movement continues, though with abated vigor, owing
partly to the above-mentioned disclosures, but probably more to the
increasing propagandism of other cults, to the lack of a leader
of Mme. Blavatsky’s genius, or to the inevitable ebb and flow of
such interests. Mme. Blavatsky continued to expound Theosophy after
the exposures, and Mrs. Besant, Mr. Sinnett and others were ready
to take up the work at her death. However, miracles are no longer
performed, and no immediately practical ends are proclaimed. Individual
development and evolution, mystic discourses on adeptship and Karma
and Maya and Nirvana, communion with the higher ends of life, the
cultivation of an esoteric psychic insight, form the goal of present
endeavor. The Mahatmas are giving “intellectual instructions,
enormously more interesting than even the exhibition of their abnormal
powers.” ... The modern Theosophist seeks to appeal to men and women
of philosophical inclinations, for whom an element of mysticism has
its charm, and who are intellectually at unrest with the conceptions
underlying modern science and modern life. Such persons are quite
likely to be well-educated, refined and sincere. We may believe them
intellectually misguided; we may recognize the fraud to which their
leader resorted to glorify her creed, but we must equally recognize
the absence of many pernicious tendencies in their teachings which
characterize other and more practical occult movements.

Spiritualism, another member of the modern occult family, presents
a combination of features rather difficult to portray; but its
public career of half a century has probably rendered its tenets and
practices fairly familiar. For, like other movements, it presents both
doctrines and manifestations, and, like other movements, it achieved
its popularity through its manifestations and emphasized the doctrines
to maintain the interest and solidarity of its numerous converts.
Deliberate fraud has been repeatedly demonstrated in a large number of
alleged ‘spiritualistic’ manifestations; in many more the very nature
of the phenomena and of the conditions under which they appear is so
strongly suggestive of trickery as to render any other hypothesis
of their origin improbable and unnecessary. Unconscious deception,
exaggerated and distorted reports, defective and misleading observation
have been demonstrated to be most potent reagents, whereby alleged
miracles are made to throw off their mystifying envelopings and to
leave a simple deposit of intelligible and often commonplace fact. That
the methods of this or that medium have not been brought within the
range of such explanation may be admitted, but the admission carries
with it no bias in favor of the spiritualistic hypothesis. It may be
urged, however, that where there is much smoke there is apt to be some
fire; yet there is little prospect of discovering the nature of the
fire until the smoke has been completely cleared away. Perhaps it has
been snatched from heaven by a materialized Prometheus; perhaps it may
prove to be the trick of a _ridiculus mus_ gnawing at a match. However,
the main point to be insisted upon with regard to such manifestations
is that their interpretation and their explanation demand technical
knowledge and training, or at least special adaptability to such
pursuits. “The problem cannot be solved and settled by amateurs, nor by
‘common sense’ that

  Delivers brawling judgments all day long,
  On all things unashamed.”

Spiritualism represents a systematization of popular beliefs and
superstitions, modified by echoes of religious and philosophical
doctrines; and is thus not wholly occult. Its main purpose was to
establish the reality of communication with departed spirits; the
means which at first spontaneously presented themselves and later
were devised for this purpose were in large measure not original.
The rappings are in accord with the traditional folk-lore behavior of
ghosts, though their transformation into a signal code may have been
due to the originality of the Fox children; the planchette has its
analogies in Chinese and European modes of divination; clairvoyance
was incorporated from the phenomena of artificial somnambulism, as
practiced by the successors of Mesmer; the ‘sensitive’ or ‘medium’
suggests the same origin as well as the popular belief in the gift of
supernatural powers to favored individuals; others of the phenomena
such as ‘levitation’ and ‘cabinet performances’ have counterparts
in Oriental magic; ‘slate-writing,’ ‘form materializations,’
‘spirit-messages’ and ‘spirit photographs’ are, in the main, modern
contributions. These various phenomena as ordinarily presented breed
the typical atmosphere of the séance chamber, which resists precise
analysis, but in which it is easy to detect morbid credulity, blind
prepossession and emotional contagion; while the dependence of the
phenomena on the character of the medium offers strong temptation
alike to shrewdness, eccentricity and dishonesty. On the side of his
teachings the spiritualist is likewise not strikingly original. The
relations of his beliefs to those that grew about the revelations of
Swedenborg, to the speculations of the German ‘pneumatologists’ and
to other philosophical doctrines, though perhaps not intimate, are
yet traceable and interesting; and in another view the ‘spiritualist’
is as old as man himself and finds his antecedents in the necromancer
of Chaldea, or in the Shaman of Siberia, or the Angekok of Greenland,
or the spirit-doctor of the Karens. The modern mediums are simply
repeating with new costumes and improved scenic effects the mystic
drama of primitive man.

Spiritualism thus appeals to a deep-seated craving in human nature,
that of assurance of personal immortality and of communion with the
departed. Just so long as a portion of mankind will accept material
evidence of such a belief, and will even countenance the irreverence,
the triviality and the vulgarity surrounding the manifestations, just
so long as these persons will misjudge their own powers of detecting
how the alleged supernatural appearances were really produced and
remain unimpressed by the principles upon which alone a consistent
explanation is possible, just so long will spiritualism and kindred
delusions flourish.

As to the present-day status of this cult it is not easy to speak
positively. Its clientèle has apparently greatly diminished; it still
numbers amongst its adherents men and women of culture and education
and many more who cannot be said to possess these qualities. There
seems to be a considerable class of persons who believe that natural
laws are insufficient to account for their personal experiences and
those of others, and who temporarily or permanently incline to a
spiritualistic hypothesis in preference to any other. Spiritualists
of this intellectual temper can, however, form but a small portion of
those who are enrolled under its creed. If one may judge by the tone
and contents of current spiritualistic literature, the rank and file to
which Spiritualism appeals present an unintellectual occult company,
credulously accepting what they wish to believe, utterly regardless
of the intrinsic significance of evidence or hypothesis, vibrating
from one extreme or absurdity to another, and blindly following a
blinder or more fanatic leader or a self-interested charlatan. While
for the most extravagant and unreasonable expressions of Spiritualism
one would probably turn to the literature of a few decades ago, yet
the symptoms presented by the Spiritualism of to-day are unmistakably
of the same character, and form a complex as characteristic as the
symptom-complex of hysteria or epilepsy, and which, _faute de mieux_,
may be termed occult. It is a type of occultism of a particularly
pernicious character because of its power to lead a parasitic life upon
the established growths of religious beliefs and interests, and at
the same time to administer to the needs of an unfortunate but widely
prevalent passion for special signs and omens and the interpretation
of personal experiences. It is a weak though comprehensible nature
that becomes bewildered in the presence of a few experiences that seem
homeless among the generous provisions of modern science, and runs off
panic-stricken to find shelter in a system that satisfies a narrow
personal craving at the sacrifice of broadly established principles,
nurtured and grown strong in the hardy and beneficent atmosphere of
science. It is a weaker and an ignorant nature that is attracted to
the cruder forms of such beliefs, be it by the impulsive yielding to
emotional susceptibility, by the contagion of an unfortunate mental
environment, or by the absence of the steadying power of religious
faith or of logical vigor or of confidence in the knowledge of others.
Spiritualism finds converts in both camps and assembles them under the
flag of the occult.[A]

    [A] To prevent misunderstanding it is well to repeat that
        I am speaking of the general average of thorough-going
        spiritualists. The fact that a few mediums have engaged
        the attention of scientifically minded investigators has
        no bearing on the motives which lead most persons to make
        a professional call on a medium, or to join a circle.
        The further fact that these investigators have at times
        found themselves baffled by the medium’s performances,
        and that a few of them have announced their readiness to
        accept the spiritualistic hypothesis is of importance in
        some aspects, but does not determine the general trend
        of the spiritualistic movement in the direction in which
        it is considered in the present discussion. It may also
        prevent misunderstanding of other parts of my presentation
        to continue this footnote by adding that I desire to
        distinguish sharply between the occult and what has
        unwisely been termed Psychical Research--unwisely because
        such research is either truly psychological and requires no
        differentiation from other allied and legitimate research,
        or it is something other than psychological which is
        inaptly expressed by calling it ‘psychical.’ I admit and
        emphasize that the majority of such research is the result
        of a scientific motive and is far removed from the occult.
        I therefore shall say nothing of Psychical Research and
        regret that it is necessary even to deny its possible
        inclusion in the occult. Such inclusion is, however,
        suggested by much that is talked of and written under the
        name of Psychic Research, and there can be no doubt that
        the interest of many members of Psychic Research Societies
        and of readers of their publications, is essentially of
        an occult nature. Whatever in these publications seems to
        favor mystery and to substantiate supernormal powers is
        readily absorbed, and its bearings fancifully interpreted
        and exaggerated; the more critical and successfully
        explanatory papers meet with a less extended and less
        sensational reception. Unless most wisely directed, Psychic
        Research is likely, by not letting the right hand know
        what the left hand is doing, to foster the undesirable
        propensities of human nature as rapidly as it antagonizes
        them. Like indiscriminate alms-giving it has the
        possibilities of affording relief and of making paupers at
        the same time. While I regard the acceptance of telepathy
        as an established phenomenon, as absolutely unwarranted and
        most unfortunate, and while I feel a keen personal regret
        that men whose ability and opinions I estimate highly have
        announced their belief in a spiritualistic explanation of
        their personal experiences with a particular medium, yet
        my personal regret and my logical disapproval of these
        conclusions have obviously no bearing upon the general
        questions under discussion. The scientific investigation of
        the same phenomena which have formed the subject matter of
        occult beliefs, is radically different in motive, method
        and result from the truly occult.

The wane in the popularity of Spiritualism may be due in part to
frequent exposures, in part to the passing of the occult interest to
pastures new, and in part to other and less accessible causes. Such
interest may again become dominant by the success or innovations
of some original medium or by the appearance of some unforeseen
circumstances; at present there is a disposition to take up ‘spiritual
healing’ and ‘spiritual readings of the future’ rather than mere
assurances from the dead, and thus to emulate the practical success
of more recently established rivals. The history of Spiritualism, by
its importance and its extravagance of doctrine and practice, forms
an essential and an instructive chapter in the history of belief; and
there is no difficulty in tracing the imprints of its footsteps on the
sands of the occult.

The impress of ancient and mediæval lore upon latter-day occultism
is conspicuous in the survivals of Alchemy and Astrology. Phrenology
represents a more recent pseudo-science, but one sufficiently obsolete
to be considered under the same head, as may also Palmistry, which has
relations both to an ancient form of divination and to a more modern
development after the manner of Physiognomy. The common characteristic
of these is their devotion to a practical end. Alchemy occupies a
somewhat distinct position. The original alchemists sought the secret
of converting the baser metals into gold, in itself a sufficiently
alluring and human occupation. There is no reason why such a problem
should assume an occult aspect, except the sufficient one that ordinary
procedures have not proved capable to effect the desired end. It is a
proverbial fault of ambitious inexperience to attack valiantly large
problems with endless confidence and sweeping aspiration. It is well
enough in shaping your ideas to hitch your wagon to a star; yet the
temporary utility of horses need not be overlooked; but shooting arrows
at the stars is apt to prove an idle pastime. If we are willing to
forget for the moment that the same development of logic and experiment
that makes possible the mental and material equipment of the modern
chemist makes impossible his consideration of the alchemist’s search,
we may note how far the inherent constitution of the elements, to say
nothing of their possible transmutation, has eluded his most ultimate
analysis. How immeasurably farther it was removed from the grasp of
the alchemist can hardly be expressed. But this is a scientific and
not an occult view of the matter; it was not by progressive training
in marksmanship that the occultist hoped to send his arrows to the
stars. His was a mystic search for the magical transmutation, the
elixir of life or the philosopher’s stone. One might suppose that
once the world has agreed that these ends are past finding out, the
alchemist, like the maker of stone arrow-heads, would have found his
occupation gone and have left no successor. His modern representative,
however, is an interesting and by no means extinct species. He seems
to flourish in France, but may be found in Germany, in England and in
this country. He is rarely a pure alchemist (although so recently as
1854 one of them offered to manufacture gold for the French mint), but
represents the pure type of occultist. He calls himself a Rosicrucian;
he establishes a university of the higher studies and becomes a
Professor of Hermetic Philosophy. His thought is mystic, and symbolism
has an endless fascination for him. The mystic significance of numbers,
extravagant analogies of correspondence, the traditional hidden
meanings of the Kabbalah fairly intoxicate him; and verbose accounts of
momentous relations and of unintelligible discoveries run riot in his
writings. His science is not a mere Chemistry, but a Hyper-Chemistry;
his transmutations are not merely material but spiritual. Like
all followers of an esoteric belief, he must stand apart from his
fellow-men; he must cultivate the higher ‘psychic’ powers so that
eventually he may be able by the mere action of his will to cause the
atoms to group themselves into gold.

The modern alchemist is, however, a general occultist; he may be also
an astrologer or a magnetist or a theosophist. But he is foremost
an ardent enthusiast for exclusive and unusual lore--not the common
and superficial possessions of misguided democratic science. He goes
through the forms of study, remains superior to the baser practical
ends of life, and finds his reward in the self-satisfaction of
exclusive wisdom. In Paris, at least, he forms part of a rather
respectable salon, speaking socially, or a ‘company of educated
charlatans,’ speaking scientifically. His class does not constitute a
large proportion of modern occultists, but they present a prominent
form of its intellectual temperament. “There are also people,” says
Mr. Lang, “who so dislike our detention in the prison house of old
unvarying laws that their bias is in favor of anything which may tend
to prove that science in her contemporary mood is not infallible. As
the Frenchman did not care what sort of a scheme he invested money in,
provided that it annoys the English, so many persons do not care what
they invest belief in, provided that it irritates men of science.” Of
such is the kingdom of alchemists and their brethren.

Astrology, phrenology, physiognomy and palmistry have in common a
search for knowledge whereby to regulate the affairs of life, to
foretell the future, to comprehend one’s destiny and capabilities. They
aim to secure success or at least to be forearmed against failure by
being forewarned. This is a natural, a practical, and in no essential
way, an occult desire. It becomes occult, or better, superstitious,
when it is satisfied by appeals to relations and influences which
do not exist, and by false interpretation of what may be admitted
as measurably and vaguely true and about equally important. When
not engaged in their usual occupation of building most startling
superstructures on the weakest foundations, practical occultists are
like Dr. Holmes’ katydid, “saying an undisputed thing in such a solemn
way.” They will not hearken to the experience of the ages that success
cannot be secured nor character read by discovering their mystic
stigmata; they will not learn from physiology and psychology that the
mental capabilities, the moral and emotional endowment of an individual
are not stamped on his body so that they may be revealed by half an
hour’s use of the calipers and tape-measure; they will not listen when
science and common sense unite in teaching that the knowledge of mental
powers is not such as may be applied by rule of thumb to individual
cases, but that like much other valuable knowledge, it proceeds by
the exercise of sound judgment, and must as a rule rest content with
suggestive generalizations and imperfectly established correlations.
An educated man with wholesome interests and a vigorous logical sense
can consider a possible science of character and the means of aiding
its advance without danger and with some profit. But this meat is sheer
poison to those who are usually attracted to such speculations, while
it offers to the unscrupulous charlatan a most convenient net to spread
for the unwary. In so far as these occult mariners, the astrologists
and phrenologists and _id genus omne_ are sincere, and in so far
represent superstition rather than commercial fraud, they simply ignore
through obstinacy or ignorance the light-houses and charts and the
other aids to modern navigation, and persist in steering their craft
by an occult compass. In some cases they are professedly setting out,
not for any harbor marked on terrestrial maps, but their expedition is
for the golden fleece or for the apples of the Hesperides; and with
loud-voiced advertisements of their skill as pilots, they proceed to
form stock companies for the promotion of the enterprise and to sell
the shares to credulous speculators.

It would be a profitless task to review the alleged data of astrology
or phrenology or palmistry except for the illustrations which they
readily yield of the nature of the conceptions and the logic which
command a certain popular interest and acceptance. The interest in
these notions, is, as Mr. Lang argues about ghosts and rappings and
bogles, in how they come to be believed rather than in how much or how
little they chance to be true. In examining the professed evidence
for the facts and laws and principles (_sit venia verbis_) that
pervade astrology or phrenology or palmistry or dream-interpretation,
or beliefs of that ilk, we find the flimsiest kind of texture that
will hardly bear examination and holds together only so long as it is
kept secluded from the light of day. Far-fetched analogy, baseless
assertion, the uncritical assimilation of popular superstitions, a
great deal of prophecy after the event--it is wonderful how clearly
the astrologer finds the indications of Napoleon’s career in his
horoscope, or the phrenologist reads them in the Napoleonic cranial
protuberances--much fanciful elaboration of detail, ringing the
variations on a sufficiently complex and non-demonstrable proposition,
cultivating a convenient vagueness of expression together with an
apologetic skill in providing for and explaining exceptions, the
courage to ignore failure and the shrewdness to profit by coincidences
and half-assimilated smatterings of science; and with it all an
insensibility to the moral and intellectual demands of the logical
decalogue, and you have the skeleton which clothed with one flesh
becomes astrology, and with another phrenology and with another
palmistry or solar biology or descriptive mentality or what not.
Such pseudo-sciences thrive upon that widespread and intense craving
for practical guidance of our individual affairs, which is not
satisfied with judicious applications of general principles, with due
consideration of the probabilities and uncertainties of human life, but
demands an impossible and precise revelation. Not all that passes for,
and in a way is, knowledge, is or is likely soon to become scientific;
and when a peasant parades in an academic gown the result is likely to
be a caricature.

To achieve fortune, to judge well and command one’s fellow-men, to
foretell and control the future, to be wise in worldly lore, are
natural objects of human desire; but still another is essential to
happiness. Whether we attempt to procure these good fortunes by going
early to bed and early to rise, or by more occult procedures, we
wish to be healthy as well as wealthy and wise. The maintenance of
health and the perpetuity of youth were not absent from the mediæval
occultist’s search, and formed an essential part of the benefits to
be conferred by the elixir of life and the philosopher’s stone. A
series of superstitions and extravagant systems are conspicuous in
the antecedents and the bye-paths of the history of medicine, and
are related to it much as astrology is to astronomy or alchemy to
chemistry; and because medicine in part remains, and to previous
generations was conspicuously an empirical art rather than a science,
it offers great opportunity for practical error and misapplied partial
knowledge. It is not necessary to go back to early civilizations or
to primitive peoples, among whom the medicine-man and the priest were
one and alike appealing to occult powers, nor to early theories of
disease which beheld in insanity the obsession of demons and resorted
to exorcism to cast them out; it is not necessary to consider the
various personages who acquired notoriety as healers by laying on of
hands or by appeal to faith, or who like Mesmer introduced the system
of Animal Magnetism, or like some of his followers, sought directions
for healing from the clairvoyant dicta of somnambules; it is not
necessary to ransack folk-lore superstitions and popular remedies for
the treatment of disease; for the modern forms of ‘irregular’ healing
offer sufficient illustrations of occult methods of escaping the ills
that flesh is heir to.

The existence of a special term for a medical impostor is doubtless
the result of the prevalence of the class thus named, but quackery and
occult medicine though mutually overlapping, can by no means be held
accountable for one another’s failings. Many forms of quackery proceed
on the basis of superstitions or fanciful or exaggerated notions
containing occult elements, but for the present purpose it is wise to
limit attention to those in which this occult factor is distinctive;
for medical quackery in its larger relations is neither modern nor
occult. Occult healing takes its distinctive character from the theory
underlying the practice rather than from the nature of the practice.
It is not so much what is done as why it is done or pretended to be
done or not done, that determines its occult character. A factor of
prominence in modern occult healing is indeed one that in other forms
characterized many of its predecessors and was rarely wholly absent
from the connection between the procedure and the result; this is the
mental factor, which may be called upon to give character to a theory
of disease, or be utilized consciously or unconsciously as a curative
principle. It is not implied that ‘mental medicine’ is necessarily
and intrinsically occult, but only that the general trend of modern
occult notions regarding disease may be best portrayed in certain
typical forms of ‘psychic’ healing. The legitimate recognition of
the importance of mental conditions in health and disease is one of
the results of the union of modern psychology and modern medicine.
An exaggerated and extravagant as well as pretentious and illogical
over-statement and misstatement of this principle may properly be
considered as occult.

Among such systems there is one which by its momentary prominence
overshadows all others, and for this reason as well as for its
more explicit or rather extended statement of principles, must be
accorded special attention. I need hardly say that I refer to that
egregious misnomer, Christian Science. This system is said to have
been discovered by or revealed to Mrs. Mary Baker Glover Eddy in 1866.
Several of its most distinctive positions (without their religious
setting) are to be found in the writings and were used in the practice
of Mr. or Dr. P. P. Quimby (1802-1866), whom Mrs. Eddy professionally
consulted shortly before she began her own propagandum. On its
theoretical side the system presents a series of quasi-metaphysical
principles, and also a professed interpretation of the Scriptures; on
its practical side it offers a means of curing or avoiding disease and
includes under disease also what is more generally described as sin
and misfortune. With Christian Science as a religious movement I shall
not directly deal; I wish, however, to point out that this assumption
of a religious aspect finds a parallel in Spiritualism and Theosophy
and doubtless forms one of the most potent reasons for the success
of these occult movements. It would be a most dangerous principle to
admit that the treatment of disease and the right to ignore hygiene
can become the perquisite of any religious faith. It would be equally
unwarranted to permit the principles which are responsible for such
beliefs to take shelter behind the ramparts of religious tolerance; for
the essential principles of Christian Science do not constitute a form
of Christianity any more than they constitute a science; but in so far
as they do not altogether elude description, pertain to the domain over
which medicine, physiology and psychology hold sway. As David Harum,
in speaking of his church-going habits, characteristically explains,
“the one I stay away from when I don’t go’s the Prespyteriun,” so the
doctrines which Christian Science ‘stays away from’ are those over
which recognized departments of academic learning have the authority to
decide.

Mrs. Eddy’s magnum opus serving at once as the text-book of the
‘science’ and as a revised version of the Scriptures--Science and
Health, with Key to the Scriptures--has been circulated to the extent
of one hundred and seventy thousand copies. I shall not give an account
of this book nor subject its more tangible tenets to a logical review;
I must be content to recommend its pages as suggestive reading for the
student of the occult and to set forth in the credentials of quotation
marks some of the dicta concerning disease. Yet it may be due to the
author of this system to begin by citing what are declared to be its
fundamental tenets, even if their connection with what is built upon
them is far from evident.

    “The fundamental propositions of Christian Science are summarized
    in the four following, to me _self-evident_ propositions. Even
    if read backward, these propositions will be found to agree in
    statement and proof:

    1. God is All in all.

    2. God is good. Good is Mind.

    3. God, Spirit, being all, nothing is matter.

    4. Life, God, omnipotent Good, deny death, evil, sin,
    disease--Disease, sin, evil, death, deny Good, omnipotent God,
    Life.”

    “What is termed disease does not exist.” “Matter has no being.”
    “All is mind.” “Matter is but the subjective state of what is here
    termed _mortal mind_.” “All disease is the result of education,
    and can carry its ill-effects no farther than mortal mind maps
    out the way.” “The fear of dissevered bodily members, or a belief
    in such a possibility, is reflected on the body, in the shape
    of headache, fractured bones, dislocated joints, and so on, as
    directly as shame is seen rising to the cheek. This human error
    about physical wounds and colics is part and parcel of the delusion
    that matter can feel and see, having sensation and substance.”
    “Insanity implies belief in a diseased brain, while physical
    ailments (so-called) arise from belief that some other portions
    of the body are deranged.... A bunion would produce insanity as
    perceptible as that produced by congestion of the brain, were it
    not that mortal mind calls the bunion an unconscious portion of
    the body. Reverse this belief and the results would be different.”
    “We weep because others weep, we yawn because they yawn, and we
    have small-pox because others have it; but mortal mind, not matter,
    contains and carries the infection.” “A Christian Scientist never
    gives medicine, never recommends hygiene, never manipulates.”
    “Anatomy, Physiology, Treatises on Health, sustained by what is
    termed material law, are the husbandmen of sickness and disease.”
    “You can even educate a healthy horse so far in physiology that
    he will take cold without his blanket.” “If exposure to a draught
    of air while in a state of perspiration is followed by chills,
    dry cough, influenza, congestive symptoms in the lungs, or hints
    of inflammatory rheumatism, your Mind-remedy is safe and sure.
    If you are a Christian Scientist, such symptoms will not follow
    from the exposure; but if you believe in laws of matter and their
    fatal effects when transgressed, you are not fit to conduct your
    own case or to destroy the bad effects of belief. When the fear
    subsides and the conviction abides that you have broken no law,
    neither rheumatism, consumption nor any other disease will ever
    result from exposure to the weather.” “Destroy fear and you end
    the fever.” “To prevent disease or cure it mentally let spirit
    destroy the dream of sense. If you wish to heal by argument,
    find the type of the ailment, get its name and array your mental
    plea against the physical. Argue with the patient (mentally, not
    audibly) that he has no disease, and conform the argument to the
    evidence. Mentally insist that health is the everlasting fact, and
    sickness the temporal falsity. Then realize the presence of health
    and the corporeal senses will respond, so be it.” “My publications
    alone heal more sickness than an unconscientious student can begin
    to reach.” “The quotient when numbers have been divided by a fixd
    rule, are not more unquestionable than the scientific tests I have
    made of the effects of truth upon the sick.” “I am never mistaken
    in my scientific diagnosis of disease.” “Outside of Christian
    Science all is vague and hypothetical, the opposite of Truth.”
    “Outside Christian Science all is error.”

Surely this is a remarkable product of mortal mind! It would perhaps
be an interesting _tour de force_, though hardly so entertaining as
‘Alice in Wonderland,’ to construct a universe on the assertions and
hypotheses which Christian Science presents; but it would have less
resemblance to the world we know than has Alice’s Wonderland. For any
person for whom logic and evidence are something more real than ghosts
or myths, the feat must always be relegated to the airy realm of the
imagination and must not be brought in contact with earthly realities.
And yet the extravagance of Mrs. Eddy’s book, its superb disdain of
vulgar fact, its transcendental self-confidence, its solemn assumption
that reiteration and variation of assertion somehow spontaneously
generate proof or self-evidence, its shrewd assimilation of a
theological flavor, its occasional successes in producing a presentable
travesty of scientific truth--all these distinctions may be found in
many a dust-covered volume, that represents the intensity of conviction
of some equally enthusiastic and equally inspired occultist, but one
less successful in securing a chorus to echo his refrain.

I cannot dismiss ‘Eddyism’ without illustrating the peculiar structures
under which, in an effort to be consistent, it is forced to take
shelter. Since disease is always of purely mental origin, it follows
that disease and its symptoms cannot ensue without the conscious
coöperation of the patient; since “Christian Science divests material
drugs of their imaginary power,” it follows that the labels on the
bottles that stand on the druggist’s shelves are correspondingly
meaningless. And it becomes an interesting problem to inquire how
the consensus of mortal mind came about that associates one set of
symptoms with prussic acid, and another with alcohol, and another
with quinine. Inhaling oxygen or common air would prepare one for the
surgeon’s knife, and prussic acid or alcohol have no more effect than
water, if only a congress of nations would pronounce the former to be
anæsthetic and promulgate a decree that the latter shall be harmless.
Christian Science does not flinch from this position. “If a dose of
poison is swallowed through mistake and the patient dies, even though
physician and patient are expecting favorable results, does belief,
you ask, cause this death? Even so, and as directly as if the poison
had been intentionally taken. In such cases a few persons believe the
potion swallowed by the patient to be harmless; but the vast majority
of mankind, though they know nothing of this particular case and this
special person, believe the arsenic, the strychnine, or whatever the
drug used, to be poisonous, for it has been set down as a poison by
mortal mind. The consequence is that the result is controlled by
the majority of opinions outside, not by the infinitesimal minority
of opinions in the sick chamber.” But why should the opinions of οἳ
πολλοι {hoi polloi} be of influence in such a case, and the enlightened
minorities be sufficient to effect the marvellous cures in all the
other cases? Christian Scientists do not take cold in draughts in
spite of the contrary opinions or illusions of misguided majorities.
The logical Christian Scientist need not eat, “for the truth is food
does not affect the life of man,” and should not renounce his faith
by adding, “but it would be foolish to venture beyond our present
understanding, foolish to stop eating, until we gain more goodness
and a clearer comprehension of the living God.” And if he is a mental
physician he must be a mental surgeon, too, and not plead that, “Until
the advancing age admits the efficacy and supremacy of mind, it is
better to leave the adjustment of broken bones and dislocations to the
fingers of surgeons.” But it is unprofitable to consider the weakness
of any occult system in its encounters with actual science and actual
fact. It is simply as a real and prominent menace to rationality that
these doctrines naturally attract consideration. As illustrations of
present-day occult beliefs we are naturally tempted to inquire what
measure of (perverted) truth they may contain; but the more worthy
question is, How do such perversions come to find so large a company of
‘supporting listeners’? For to any one who can read and be convinced
by the sequence of words of this system, ordinary logic has no power,
and to him the world of reality brings no message. No form of the
modern occult antagonizes the foundations of science so brusquely as
this one. The possibility of science rests on the thorough and absolute
distinction between the subjective and the objective. In what measure a
man loses the power to draw this distinction clearly and as other men
do, in that measure he becomes irrational and insane. The objective
exists; and no amount of thinking it away, or thinking it differently,
will change it. That is what is understood by ultimate scientific
truth; something that will endure unmodified by passing ways of viewing
it, open to every one’s verification who can come equipped with the
proper means to verify--a permanent objective to be ascertained by
careful logical inquiry, not to be determined by subjective opinion.
Logic is the language of science; Christian Science and what sane men
call science can never communicate because they do not speak the same
language.

       *       *       *       *       *

It would be unfortunate if in emphasizing the popular preëminence
of Christian Science, one were to overlook the significance of the
many other forms of ‘drugless healing’ which bid for public favor by
appeal to ignorance and to occult and superstitious instincts. Some
are allied to Christian Science and like it assimilate their cult to a
religious movement; others are unmistakably the attempts of charlatans
to lure the credulous by noisy advertisements of newly discovered and
scientifically indorsed systems of ‘psychic force,’ or some personal
‘ism.’ For many purposes it would be unjust to group together such
various systems, which in the nature of things must include sinner
and saint, the misguided sincere, the half-believers who think ‘there
may be something in it,’ or ‘that it is worth a trial,’ along with
scheming quacks and adepts in commercial fraud. They illustrate the
many and various roads traveled in the search for health by pilgrims
who are dissatisfied with the highways over which medical science goes
its steady, though it may be, uncertain gait. Among them there is both
plausible exaggeration and ignorant perversion and dishonest libel
of the relations that bind together body and mind. Among the several
schisms from the Mother Church of Christian Science there is one that
claims to be the ‘rational phase of the mental healing doctrine,’ that
acknowledges the reality of disease and the incurability of serious
organic disorders and resents any connection with the “half-fanatical
personality worship” [of Mrs. Eddy] as quite as foreign to its tenets
as would be the views of the ‘Free Religious Association’ to the
‘Pope of Rome.’ ‘Divine Healing’ exhibits its success in one notable
instance, in the establishment of a school and college, a bank, a land
and investment association, a printing and publishing office and sundry
Divine Healing Homes; and this prosperity is now to be extended by the
foundation of a city or colony of converts who shall be united by the
common bond of faith in divine healing as transmitted in the personal
power of their leader. The official organ of this movement announces
that the personification of their faith “makes her religion a business
and conducts herself upon sound business principles.” With emphatic
protest on the part of each that he alone holds the key to salvation,
and that his system is quite original and unlike any other, comes the
procession of Metaphysical Healer and Mind-Curist and Viticulturist
and Magnetic Healer and Astrological Health Guide and Phrenopathist
and Medical Clairvoyant and Psychic Scientist and Mesmerist and
Occultist. Some use or abuse the manipulations of Hypnotism; others
claim the power to concentrate the magnetism of the air and to excite
the vital fluids by arousing the proper mental vibrations, or by some
equally lucid and demonstrable procedure; some advertise magnetic cups
and positive and negative powders and absent treatment by outputs
of ‘psychic force’ and countless other imposing devices. In truth,
they form a motley crew, and with their ‘Colleges of Fine Forces’ and
‘Psychic Research Companies,’ offering diplomas and degrees for a three
weeks’ course of study or the reading of a book, represent the slums
of the occult. An account of their methods is likely to be of as much
interest to the student of fraud as to the student of opinion.

There can be no doubt that many of these systems have been stimulated
into life or into renewed vigor by the success of ‘Christian Science’;
this is particularly noticeable in the introduction of absent
treatment as a plank in their diverse platforms. This ingenious method
of restoring the health of their patients and their own exchequers
appealed to all the band of healing occultists from Spiritualist to
Vibrationist, as easily adaptable to their several systems. In much the
same way Mesmer, more than a hundred years ago, administered to the
practice which had exhausted the capacity of his personal attention by
magnetizing trees and selling magnetized water. The absent treatment
represents the occult ‘extension movement’; and unencumbered by the
hampering restrictions of physical forces, superior even to wireless
telegraphy, carries its influence into the remotest homes. From ocean
to ocean and from North to South these absent healers set apart some
hour of the day when they mentally convey their healing word to the
scattered members of their flock. On the payment of a small fee you
are made acquainted with the ‘soul-communion time-table’ for your
longitude and may know when to meet the healing vibrations as they pass
by. Others disdain any such temporal details and assure a cure merely
on payment of the fee; the healer will know sympathetically when and
how to transmit the curative impulses. Poverty and bad habits as well
as disease readily succumb to the magic of the absent treatment. Here
is the hysterical edict of one of them: ‘Join the Success Circle.’ ...
“The Centre of that Circle is my omnipotent WORD. Daily I speak it. Its
vibrations radiate more and more powerfully day by day.... As the sun
sends out vibrations ... so my WORD radiates Success to 10,000 lives as
easily as to one.”

It is impossible to appreciate fully the extravagances of these occult
healers unless one makes a sufficient sacrifice of time and patience
to read over a considerable sample of the periodical publications with
which American occultism is abundantly provided. And when one has
accomplished this task he is still at sea to account for the readers
and believers who support these various systems so undreamt of in our
philosophy. It would really seem that there is no combination of ideas
too absurd to fail entirely of a following. Carlyle without special
provocation concluded that there were about forty million persons in
England, mostly fools; what would have been his comment in the face
of this vast array of human folly! If it be urged in rejoinder that
beneath all this rubbish heap a true jewel lies buried, that the
wonderful cures and the practical success of these various systems
indicate their dependence upon an essential and valuable factor in
the cure of disease and the formation of habits, it is possible with
reservation to assent and with emphasis to demur. Such success, in
so far as it is rightly reported, exemplifies the truly remarkable
function of the mental factor in the control of normal as of disordered
physiological functions. This truth has been recognized and utilized
in unobtrusive ways for many generations, and within recent years has
received substantial elaboration from carefully conducted experiments
and observations. Specifically the therapeutic action of suggestion,
both in its more usual forms and as hypnotic suggestion, has shown
to what unexpected extent such action may proceed in susceptible
individuals. The well-informed and capable physician requires no
instruction on this point; his medical education furnishes him with
the means of determining the symptoms of true organic disorder, of
functional derangement and of the modifications of these under the more
or less unconscious interference of an unfortunate nervous system. It
is quite as human for the physician as for other mortals to err, and
there is doubtless as wide a range among them as among other pursuits,
of ability, tact and insight. ‘But when all is said and done’ the
fundamental fact remains that the utilization of the mental factor in
the alleviation of disease will be best administered by those who are
specifically trained in the knowledge of bodily and mental symptoms of
disease. Such application of an established scientific principle may
prove to be a jewel of worth in the hands of him who knows how to cut
and set it. The difference between truth and error, between science
and superstition, between what is beneficent to mankind and what is
pernicious, frequently lies in the interpretation and the spirit as
much as or more than in the fact. The utilization of mental influences
in health and disease becomes the one or the other according to the
wisdom and the truth and the insight into the real relations of things
that guide its application. As far removed as chemistry from alchemy,
as astronomy from astrology, as the doctrine of the localization of
function in the brain from phrenology, as ‘animal magnetism’ from
hypnotic suggestion, are the crude and perverse notions of Christian
Scientist or Metaphysical Healer removed from the rational application
of the influence of the mind over the body.

The growth and development of the occult forms an interesting problem
in the psychology of belief. The motives that induce the will to
believe in the several doctrines that have been passed in review are
certainly not more easy to detect and to describe than would be the
case in reference to the many other general problems--philosophical,
scientific, religious, social, political or educational--on which the
right to an opinion seems to be regarded as an inalienable heritage
of humanity or at least of democracy. Professor James tells us that
often “our faith is faith in some one else’s faith, and in the greatest
matters this is most the case.” Certainly the waves of popularity of
one cult and another reflect the potent influence of contagion in the
formation of opinion and the direction of conduct. When we look upon
the popular delusions of the past through the achromatic glasses which
historical remoteness from present conditions enables us to adjust to
our eyes, we marvel that humanity could have been so grossly misled,
that obvious relations and fallacies could have been so stupidly
overlooked, that worthless and prejudiced evidence could have been
accepted as sound and significant. But the opinions to which we incline
are all colored o’er with the deep tinge of emotional reality, which
is the living expression of our interest in them or our inclination
toward them. What they require is a more vigorous infusion of the pale
cast of thought; for the problem of the occult and the temptations to
belief which it holds out are such as can be met only by a vigorous
and critical application of a scientific logic. As logical acumen
predominates over superficial plausibility, as belief comes to be
formed and evidence estimated according to its intrinsic value rather
than according to its emotional acceptability, the propagandum of the
occult will meet with greater resistance and aversion.

The fixation of belief proceeds under the influence of both general and
special forces; the formation of a belief is at once a personal and a
social reaction--a reaction to the evidence which recorded and personal
experience presents and to the beliefs current in our environment, and
this reaction is further modified by the temperament of the reagent.
And although individual beliefs, however complex, are neither matters
of chance nor are their causes altogether past finding out, yet some of
their contributing factors are so vague and so inaccessible that they
are most profitably considered as particular results of more or less
clearly discerned general principles; and in many respects there is
more valid interest in the general principles than in the particular
results. It is interesting and it may be profitable to investigate why
this area is wooded with oak and that with maple, but it is somewhat
idle to speculate why this particular tree happens to be a maple
rather than an oak, even if it chances to stand on our property, and
to have an interest to us beyond all other trees. It is this false
concentration of the attention to the personal and individual result
that is responsible for much unwarranted belief in the occult. It
is likely that no single influence is more potent in this direction
than this unfortunate over-interest in one’s own personality and
the consequent demand for a precise explanation of one’s individual
experiences. This habit seems to me a positive vice, and I am glad to
find support in Professor James: “The chronic belief of mankind that
events may happen for the sake of their personal significance is an
abomination.” Carried over to the field of subjective experiences, this
habit sees in coincidences peculiarly significant omens and portents,
not definitely and superstitiously, it may be, but sufficiently to
obscure the consideration of the experience in any other than a
personal light. The victim of this habit will remain logically unfit
to survive the struggle against the occult. Only when the general
problem is recognized as more significant for the guidance of belief
than the attempted explicit personal explanations will these problems
stand out in their true relations. It is interesting to note that
the partaking of mince-pie at evening may induce bad dreams, but it
is hardly profitable to speculate deeply why my dream took the form
of a leering demon with the impolite habit of squatting on my chest.
The stuff that dreams are made of is not susceptible of that type of
analysis. The most generous allowance must be made for coincidences
and irrelevancies, and it must be constantly remembered that the
obscure phenomena of psychology, and, indeed, the phenomena of more
thoroughly established and intrinsically more definite sciences, cannot
be expected to pass the test of detailed and concrete combinations
of circumstances. In other classes of knowledge the temptation to
demand such explicit explanations of observations and experiences is
not so strong because of the absence of an equally strong personal
interest; but that clearly does not affect the logical status of the
problem. The reply to this argument I can readily anticipate; and I
confess that my admiration of Hamlet is somewhat dulled by reason of
that ill-advised remark to Horatio about there being more things in
heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophies. The occultist
always seizes upon that citation to refute the scientist. He prints
it as his motto on his books and journals, and regards it as a slow
poison that will in time effect the destruction of the rabble of
scientists and reveal the truth of his own Psycho-Harmonic Science
or Heliocentric Astrology. It is one thing to be open-minded and to
realize the incompleteness of scientific knowledge and to appreciate
how often what was ignored by one generation has become the science
of the next; and it is a very different thing to be impressed with
coincidences and dreams and premonitions, and to regard them as giving
the keynote to the conceptions of nature and reality, and to look
upon science as a misdirected effort. Such differences of attitude
depend frequently upon a difference of temperament as well as upon
intellectual discernment; the man or the woman who flies to the things
not dreamt of in our philosophy quite commonly does not understand the
things which our philosophy very creditably accounts for. The two types
of mind are different, and (I am again citing Professor James) “the
scientific-academic mind and the feminine-mystical mind shy from each
other’s facts just as they fly from each other’s temper and spirit.”

Certain special influences combine with these fundamental differences
of attitude to favor the spread of belief in the occult; and of these
the character of the beliefs as of the believers furnish some evidence.
At various stages of the discussion I have referred to the deceptive
nature of the argument by analogy; to the dominating sympathy with
a conclusion and the resulting assimilation and overestimation of
apparent evidence in its favor; to the frequent failure to understand
that the formation of valid opinion and the interpretation of evidence
in any field of inquiry require somewhat of expert training and special
aptitude, obviously so in technical matters, but only moderately
less so in matters misleadingly regarded as general; to bias and
superstition, to the weakness that bends easily to the influences of
contagion, to unfortunate educational limitations and perversions and,
not the least, to a defective grounding in the nature of scientific
fact and proof. The mystery attaching to the behavior of the magnet
led Mesmer to call his curative influence ‘animal magnetism’--a
conception that still prevails among latter-day occultists. The
principle of sympathetic vibration, in obedience to which a tuning-fork
takes up the vibrations of another in unison with it, is violently
transferred to imaginary brain vibrations and to still more imaginary
telepathic currents. The X-ray and wireless telegraphy are certain
to be utilized in corroboration of unproven modes of mental action,
and will be regarded as the key to clairvoyance and rapport, just as
well-known electrical phenomena have given rise to the notions of
positive and negative temperaments and mediumistic polar attraction and
repulsion. All this results from the absurd application of analogies;
for analogies even when appropriate are little more than suggestive
or at least corroborative of relations or conceptions which owe their
main support to other and more sturdy evidence. Analogy under careful
supervision may make a useful apprentice, but endless havoc results
when the servant plays the part of the master.

No better illustrations could be desired of the effects of mental
prepossession and the resulting distortion of evidence and of logical
insight, than those afforded by Spiritualism and Christian Science. In
both these movements the assimilation of a religious trend has been of
inestimable importance to their dissemination. Surely it is not merely
or mainly the evidences obtainable in the séance chamber, nor the
irresistible accumulation of cures by argument and thought-healings,
that account for the organized gatherings of Spiritualists and the
costly temples and thriving congregations of Christ Scientist. It is
the presentation of a practical doctrine of immortality and of the
spiritual nature of disease in conjunction with an accepted religious
system, that is responsible for these vast results. The ‘Key to the
Scriptures’ has immeasurably reinforced the ‘Science and Health,’
and brought believers to a new form of Christianity who never would
have been converted to a new system of medicine presented on purely
intellectual grounds. Rationality is doubtless a characteristic
tendency of humanity, but logicality is an acquired possession and one
by no means firmly established in the race at large. So long as we are
reproved by the discipline of nature and that rather promptly, we tend
to act in accordance with the established relations of things; and that
is rationality. But the more remote connections between antecedent and
consequent and the development of habits of thought which shall lead to
reliable conclusions in complex situations; and again, the ability to
distinguish between the plausible and the true, the firmness to support
principle in the face of paradox and seeming non-conformity, to think
clearly and consistently in the absence of the practical reproof of
nature--that is logicality. It is only as the result of a prolonged and
conscientious training aided by an extensive experience and a knowledge
of the historical experience of the race, that the inherent rational
tendencies develop into established logical habits and principles of
belief. For many this development remains stunted or arrested; and
they continue as children of a larger growth, leaning much on others,
rarely venturing abroad alone and wisely confining their excursions
to familiar ground. When they unfortunately become possessed with the
desire to travel, their lack of appreciation of the sights which their
journeys bring before them gives to their reports the same degree of
reliability and value as attaches to the much ridiculed comments of the
philistine _nouveaux riches_.

For these sufficient reasons it is Utopian to look forward to the day
when the occult shall have disappeared, and the lion and the lamb shall
feed and grow strong on the same nourishment. Doubtless new forms and
phases of the occult will arise to take the place of the old as their
popularity declines; and the world will be the more interesting and
more characteristically a human dwelling-place for containing all
sorts and conditions of minds. None the less it is the plain duty and
privilege of each generation to utilize every opportunity to dispel
error and superstition, and to oppose the dissemination of irrational
beliefs. It is particularly the obligation of the torch-bearers of
science to illuminate the path of progress and to transmit the light
to their successors with undiminished power and brilliancy; this flame
must burn both as a beacon-light to guide the wayfarer along the
highways of advance and as a warning against the will-of-the-wisps
that shine seductively in the bye-ways. The safest and most efficient
antidote to the spread of the pernicious tendencies inherent in the
occult lies in the cultivation of a wholesome and whole-souled interest
in the genuine and profitable problems of nature and of life, and
in the cultivation with it of a steadfast adherence to common sense
and to a true logical perspective of the significance and value of
things. These qualities, fortunately for our forefathers, are not the
prerogative of the modern; and, fortunately for posterity, are likely
to remain characteristic of the scientific and antagonistic to the
occult.




BIRDS AS FLYING MACHINES.

BY FREDERICK A. LUCAS.


From the day of Solomon onward the way of a bird in the air has been
a subject of general interest, and the attention given to the problem
of aerial navigation of late years has caused the flight of birds to
be carefully studied in the hope that it might throw some light on the
subject. There have been many conceptions, not to say misconceptions,
regarding the flight of birds; it has been assumed that their muscles
exerted a power quite beyond that of other animals, that the air
sacs of some birds and the hollow bones of others gave them a degree
of lightness quite unattainable by the use of ordinary materials,
while some have even gone so far as to suggest the presence of some
mysterious power, something like Stockton’s negative gravity, whereby
birds could set at naught the law of gravitation and rise at will like
a balloon. The strength of a bird’s muscles, of some birds’ muscles at
least, is not to be underrated; a hawk will plant its talons in a bird
of nearly its own size and weight and bear the victim bodily away, and
an osprey will carry a fish for a long distance. But a tiger has been
known to fell a bullock with a single blow of the paw, to carry a man
as a cat would carry a rat and to drag an Indian buffalo heavier than
himself. On the other hand, some of the petrels, birds which can pass
a day or so on the wing with ease, cannot rise from the water after a
hearty meal, and the humming-bird, unsurpassed in aerial evolutions,
may be trapped in a spider’s web. This shows no great power, and
long ago Marey found that the pulling force of a hawk’s great breast
muscle, applied through the humerus, amounted to 1,298 grams per square
centimeter, something like seven pounds to the square inch; not a very
heavy pull. So it seems fair to assume that while the power exerted
by a bird is great, it is very far from marvelous, probably far less
in proportion to size than the engine of Maxim’s great aeroplane, or
the naphtha motor of Professor Langley, which weighs less than ten
pounds per horse power. We may get a fair idea of what this means by
remembering that a bald eagle weighs from nine to fifteen pounds and
that he exerts but a small fraction of a horse power.

Turning to the question of the part played by the air sacs it may
be said that their value is not proved; some of the fastest birds
get along without them, while birds of the most labored flight are
sometimes well provided. In birds like the gannet and brown pelican
the air sacs and cellular tissue about the body undoubtedly serve as
buffers to break the shock of a headlong plunge into the water from
a height of a hundred to a hundred and fifty feet. Or, again, they
equalize the internal and external pressure when a soaring bird drops
suddenly from a great height, or still more often aid in oxygenating
the blood.

The hollow bones of birds are frequently cited as beautiful instances
of providential mechanics in building the strongest and largest
possible limb with the least expenditure of material, and this is
largely true. And yet birds like ducks, which cleave the air with the
speed of an express train, have the long bones filled with marrow or
saturated with fat, while the lumbering hornbill that fairly hurtles
over the tree tops has one of the most completely pneumatic skeletons
imaginable, permeated with air to the very toe tips; and the ungainly
pelican is nearly as well off. Still it is but fair to say that the
frigate bird and turkey buzzards, creatures which are most at ease when
on the wing, have extremely light and hollow bones, but comparing one
bird with another the paramount importance of a pneumatic skeleton to a
bird is not as evident as that of a pneumatic tire to a bicycle.

While it may not be easy to disprove Herr Gätke’s assertion that birds
sustain themselves in the air by the exercise of some power beyond our
own, it is pretty safe to assume that they do not, and it would seem
that the burden of proof should lie with those who take the affirmative
side of the question.

If we have nothing to learn from birds in the way of building an engine
that shall exert great power for its size and weight we may still have
something to gain in the matter of speed, although here the popular
idea is apt to be exaggerated. We often read that ducks fly at the rate
of a mile a minute, or that the swallow has a speed of two hundred
miles an hour, but it is very difficult to lay hands upon any facts
that will sustain these assertions.

So, too, homing pigeons are frequently stated to have travelled for
long distances at the rate of sixty miles an hour, but some of the
published records show that one hundred and twenty miles in two hours
and a quarter is unusually fast traveling, and this is at the rate of
only nine-tenths of a mile per minute, a speed not unusual for express
trains. However, it may be said that actual observations show that
ducks do travel from forty to fifty miles an hour, and any sportsman
will readily believe that under some conditions they attain a velocity
of a mile and a quarter a minute, although a confession of faith is not
a demonstration of an assured fact.

So far the lesson taught by the bird is that a machine of low power may
attain a very considerable speed and it remains to be seen if there is
anything to be learned concerning methods of flight. Broadly speaking,
there are two, possibly three, distinct modes of flight, by repeated
strokes of the wings and by soaring or sailing, although we find every
intermediate stage between the two, or combinations of flapping and
sailing, and as a matter of fact no bird can entirely dispense with
strokes of the wing.

The humming-bird represents the perfection of one method, the frigate
bird of the other, and in his own line each is unrivaled. These two
modes of flight are associated with equally distinct modifications
of structure, and just as we have every intermediate state of flight
between flapping and soaring so the two structural extremes are merged
into one another. The humming-bird flies as the Irishman played the
fiddle, by main strength, the frigate bird relies on his skill in
taking advantage of every varying current of air, and the skeleton of
the one indicates great muscular power while that of the other shows
its absence. No other bird has such proportionately great muscles as
the humming-bird, the keel of the sternum or breast bone from which
these muscles arise runs from one end of the body to the other while
at the same time it projects downward like the keel of a modern racing
yacht. These muscles drive at the rate of several hundred strokes a
minute a pair of small, rigid wings, the outermost bones of which are
very long while the innermost are very short, a feature calculated to
give the greatest amount of motion at the tip of the wing with the
least movement of the bones of the upper arm, to which the driving
muscles are attached. Another peculiar feature is that the outermost
feathers, the flight feathers or primaries, are long and strong, while
the innermost, those attached to the forearm, are few and weak; so far
as flight is concerned the bird could dispense with these secondaries
and not feel their loss. Finally the heart, which we may look upon
as the boiler that supplies steam for this machinery, is large and
powerful, as is necessary for such a high-pressure engine as the
little humming-bird. It is hardly to him that we would look for aid in
constructing a flying machine, the expenditure of force is too great
for the results attained, the space required for boiler and engine
leaves no room for carrying freight.

As just intimated the frigate bird is exactly the reverse of his tiny
relative; the body is a mere appendage to a pair of wings, while the
breast muscles are so small as to show at a glance that of all flying
creatures the frigate bird is the one which has most successfully
solved the problem of the conservation of energy and can obtain the
greatest amount of power with the least expenditure of muscle.

There is also a great difference between the hummer and the frigate
bird, or between flapping and sailing birds generally, in the
complexity of what may be termed the muscles of adjustment, the little
muscles that run from the shoulder to the elbow and forearm and, among
other duties, are concerned in keeping free from wrinkles that portion
of the wing which lies between the shoulder and the wrist, forming a
triangular flap with the base forming the front edge of the wing and
the apex lying in the elbow joint.

The wing of the frigate bird, too, is quite the opposite of that of
the hummer, for it is the inner portion of the wing, the upper arm and
forearm, which is elongated, and instead of the six feeble secondaries
of the humming-bird there are no less than twenty-four; instead of
a short, stiff, rounded wing we have one that is long, flexible and
pointed. Instead of a wing driven at the rate of several hundred
strokes a minute there is a wing that may be held outstretched and
apparently motionless for minutes at a time, the muscles of the frigate
bird being almost as constantly in repose as those of the other are
perpetually in motion.

If the frigate bird represents the highest type of soaring flight
two more familiar birds, the turkey buzzard and albatross, are not
far behind, and these represent two methods of sailing flight and
two distinct modifications in the type of wings. The albatross is
continually on the move, ever quartering the water as a well-trained
setter does the ground, and yet with all this movement rarely mounting
higher than fifty feet above the water and never wheeling in great
circles in mid-air. This bird has that type of wing which best fulfills
the conditions necessary for an aeroplane, being long and narrow,
so that while a fully grown albatross may spread from ten to twelve
feet from tip to tip, this wing is not more than nine inches wide.
This spread of wing, like that of the frigate bird, is gained by the
elongation of the inner bones of the wing and by increasing the number
of secondaries, there being about forty of these feathers in the wing
of the albatross.

The turkey buzzard is emphatically a high flyer, wheeling slowly about,
half a mile or a mile above the earth, while his cousin, the condor, so
Humboldt tells us, has been seen above the summit of Chimborazo. If any
bird knows how to utilize every breath of wind to the utmost that bird
is the albatross, and it is equally a delight and a marvel to see this
bird apparently setting at naught all natural laws as he sails with
outstretched pinions almost into the eye of the wind or hangs just off
the lee quarter of a ship reeling off ten or twelve knots an hour. In
this last trick, however, the gull is almost equally expert, evidently
making use of the draft from the sails as well as of the eddies caused
by the passage of the vessel.

It has long been evident that if man is to navigate the air it must
be done after the method of the albatross rather than that of the
humming-bird, by the aeroplane and not by any device to imitate the
strokes of a bird’s wings, for not only do the largest birds and
those of the longest flight for the most part sail or soar, but it
is apparent that the limit of size in a vibrating wing must soon be
reached, since in a strong wind with its varying eddies it would be
quite out of the question to manipulate such a piece of mechanism.

But in spite of the fact that sailing flight calls for the exercise
of comparatively little muscular power, the structure of the
skeleton suggests that the wing of a soaring or sailing bird needs a
particularly strong point of support, for birds which sail or soar have
the bones which sustain the direct pull of the wing strengthened or
braced as other birds do not. The shoulder joint of a bird is formed
by the shoulder blade and coracoid, this last being the bone which is
attached to the breast bone and on which comes the direct pull of the
wing, and in front of the coracoids, running downwards towards the
sternum, is the wishbone or furcula, corresponding to our collar bones
or clavicles. It is evident that the greater the length of the coracoid
the less able would it be to resist the strain brought upon it, and it
is also evident that the simultaneous downward stroke of the wings must
have a tendency to force the coracoids inwards, or towards one another.
Obviously the greater the strain the greater the need of strengthening
or bracing the coracoid to resist it, and there are in the shoulder
girdle of a bird various devices looking towards this end. In some
birds, the albatross, for example, the coracoid is short and stout,
while in others extra bracing is obtained from the wishbone.

In the humming-bird the wishbone is light and weak and so short that it
does not come near the sternum; the pigeon, a bird of powerful flight,
is little better off, for the wishbone is so long and slender that it
does little or nothing towards strengthening the shoulder joint, and
in both these birds which fly by rapid wing strokes the entire pull
of the wing is taken by the coracoid. In the frigate bird, on the
contrary, the wishbone is not only strong, but it rests upon and is
firmly soldered to the breastbone, while at its upper end it fuses with
the coracoid, thus making the firmest possible support to the wing. The
cranes, which soar well, also have the wishbone united with sternum,
and in the albatrosses and petrels the wishbone touches the breastbone
and is so curved forward as to gain strength in this way while, as
previously noted, the strength of the coracoid is increased by its
shortness. The turkey buzzard and birds of prey, some of which both
soar and flap, have the wishbone strengthened by having more material
added to make the furcula thick and strong while at the same time it is
shaped like a wide U instead of a V.

Either there is more force exerted in sailing than is at first sight
apparent or else extra strength is called for in making sudden turns,
or when it becomes necessary, as it does more or less frequently, to
take a sudden wing stroke. As wings are levers of the third order the
longer the wing the more force is required to move it and more strength
is needed at the fulcrum or shoulder joint, and since sailing birds
have long wings the need of strength is evident.

Neither birds nor any creatures that live or have lived afford us any
criterion as to the limit of size that must be placed on an aeroplane.
The largest of whales is weak and insignificant beside an ocean liner,
and the condor and albatross, with their spread of ten or twelve feet
and weight of ten to twenty pounds, tell us nothing of what may be the
possibilities of size and weight.

Among the various problems confronting the would-be navigator of the
air is that of at times making headway against a medium moving at the
rate of ten, twenty, or thirty miles an hour, sometimes even more, a
difficulty that neither locomotive nor steamer is called upon to meet.
True, an aeroplane would, to use a technical term, probably lie within
two and one-half points of the wind and could thus advantageously beat
to windward, but any deviation from a straight course means loss of
time, and nowadays time is everything.

The mode of propulsion may be, undoubtedly will be, as entirely
different from a wing as the propeller is unlike the tail of a fish,
and as the study of fish has thrown little or no light on the problems
of the proper form or best motor for a ship, it is doubtful if the
study of birds will do more for the aerodrome. Nor does it seem likely
that a study of the bird will suggest any new devices in the way of
joints, braces, or rudders, for what must be discouraging to those
engaged in solving the problems of flight is the utter inadequacy of
the bird’s wing, from a mechanical standpoint, for the work it is
called upon to do, for in all its articulations there is a freedom
of movement, an amount of play that would be inadmissible in any
machine. The shoulder, elbow and wrist joints are but loose affairs,
depending for their efficiency on the pull of the muscles; subtract
the element of life from the wing of a bird and it becomes at once
limp and useless. And herein is the key to the bird’s success as a
flying machine; it has _life_, and while the wing may reveal certain
principles of balancing, it cannot teach us all the art, for it is
done instinctively. The bird has back of it untold ages of experience
and its actions during flight demand no thought; the muscles respond
instinctively to each change in the pressure and direction of the wind,
and the bird need take no thought as to how it shall fly.

Mr. Chanute has taken the greatest step yet made towards overcoming
the difficulty of responding to changes in the velocity of the fickle
air, but whether or not it will be possible to construct apparatus that
will not only adjust itself to changes in the force of the wind, but
to eddies and changes in direction as well, remains to be seen, the
more that it must act not on planes six feet in length, but on surfaces
infinitely larger. The proper method of constructing the wings of an
aeroplane so as to insure stability and utilize the power of the wind
to the best advantage, and some hints as to balancing and steering are
the main assistance that we seem likely to gain from a study of the
structure and flight of birds.




ELECTRIC AUTOMOBILES.

BY WM. BAXTER, JR.


As electricity has been so successful in the street railway, where it
has superseded all other forms of motive power, it might naturally
be supposed that it would do equally well in the automobile; but
when the difference in the conditions is taken into consideration it
will be found that such a conclusion is not justified. In the street
railway systems the cars run continuously over the same route, and on
that account the electric current required to operate the motors can
be conveyed to them from a central power station by means of wires.
With the automobile the case is very different; the vehicle has no
fixed course, but is required to go everywhere, and the current must
be supplied from a source carried by it. If primary batteries could
be made so as to furnish electric currents at a low cost, then the
electric carriage would be in the same position as those operated by
steam or gasoline, and it could go wherever the proper chemicals to
renew the battery could be obtained. But as there are no such primary
batteries, the only way in which the current can be supplied is by the
use of storage batteries, and these cannot give out any more energy
than is put into them, and in practice cannot give quite as much. Thus
if the capacity of the battery is sufficient to run the vehicle forty
miles when this distance has been traversed the propelling power will
be exhausted, and the batteries will have to be recharged before the
carriage can go any further. If the recharging could be done in a few
minutes, the storage battery would be as good as a primary battery that
would generate electricity economically; but as it requires three or
more hours, the electrical vehicle cannot be used for long runs, unless
the user is willing to make long stops each time the battery has to
be recharged. Even then an electric vehicle could not go everywhere,
for it would be compelled to follow routes along which facilities
for recharging the batteries could be found. From this fact it can
be seen that the electric automobile carriage cannot cover the same
field as the steam or the gasoline (in the present state of electrical
development). Within the limits to which it is applicable, however, it
can perform its work in the most satisfactory manner, and, in fact,
no possible objection can be raised against it. Its operation is
noiseless and vibration of the vehicle is impossible. There is no heat
to inconvenience the passengers, no disagreeable smell, no escaping
steam. Any desired speed can be obtained, although, of course, a heavy
delivery wagon cannot be used also as a racer. The power can be made
sufficient to propel any desired load up any grade, including grades
far steeper than any to be encountered on streets or highways.

The only point in which the electric vehicle suffers in comparison
with the others is in the weight. The capacity of a storage battery is
proportional to its weight, and if it is made light, the power derived
from it will be small or the time during which it is furnished will
be short. To furnish one horse power for one hour requires about one
hundred pounds of battery, so that if the average consumption of energy
is at the rate of two horse power, one thousand pounds of battery will
keep the vehicle in motion for five hours. The weight of batteries used
in automobiles ranges from four or five hundred to about two thousand
pounds, and the distance traversed without recharging varies from
twenty-five to ninety miles, so that the radius of action of electric
vehicles can be said to vary from about twelve to forty-five miles from
the charging station.

[Illustration: FIG. 1. GENERAL ARRANGEMENT OF AN ELECTRIC CARRIAGE.]

The general arrangement of an electric carriage can be understood
from Fig. 1. The rectangle shown in broken lines at _A_ represents
the storage battery. The circle _B_ under the seat represents the
controlling switch. The motor is at _C_ and imparts motion to the axle
or wheels through the gearing contained in the casing _D_. When the
carriage is stopped the controller _B_ is turned into such a position
that all electrical connections between the battery and the motor _C_
are broken. To start the vehicle the controller _B_ is turned so as to
make the necessary electrical connections between the battery _A_ and
the motor _C_, and then the electric current passes from the battery
through the controlling switch to the motor, and thence back to the
controller and the battery. The heavy broken lines indicate the path
of the current and the arrows show the direction. The velocity of the
motor and the speed of the carriage are varied by varying the strength
of the current, and this is effected by the movement of the controlling
switch _B_. There are many ways in which the movement of this switch
can vary the strength of the current, but an explanation of any one
of them would be dry and rather technical; hence it is sufficient to
say that whatever the arrangement of the connections of the controller
with the other parts of the system, their relation is such that by the
movement of the switch handle the speed of the motor is changed from
zero to the maximum velocity.

[Illustration: FIG. 2. DOUBLE REDUCTION.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3. SINGLE REDUCTION.]

In the majority of American vehicles the motion of the motor is
transmitted to the wheels by means of spur gearing. In some cases a
single motor is used, in others two; and in one or two designs that
have come to public notice, four motors are employed, one for each
wheel of the carriage. Fig. 2 illustrates what is commonly called a
double reduction gear for single motor equipment. The outline _A_
represents the motor, _B_ being the shaft. Upon this shaft is mounted
a small pinion which meshes into a larger wheel on the intermediate
shaft _C_. This shaft carries a pinion which meshes into the wheel _D_
mounted upon the axle of the vehicle.

Fig. 3 illustrates a single reduction double motor equipment, the
motors being located at _AA_. In this arrangement the pinion on the
end of the motor shaft meshes directly into a large gear secured to
the carriage wheel, thus dispensing with the intermediate shaft _C_
of the previous figure. The single reduction gear is the more simple
in construction, but the motors run at a lower velocity, and on that
account must be larger for the same capacity. With the double motor
construction each wheel is driven independently and the axle _C_,
in Fig. 3, remains stationary, as in any ordinary vehicle; but in a
single motor equipment, arranged as in Fig. 2, the wheels are fastened
to the axle and the latter rotates. When a carriage runs round a short
curve the outer wheels will revolve faster than the inner ones, if
free to move independently, as in Fig. 3. If they are rigidly attached
to the axle, as in Fig. 2, one or the other will have to slide over
the ground, and this is decidedly objectionable with rubber tires. To
prevent this slipping of the wheels in rounding curves, the axles, in
designs following the construction of Fig. 2, are made in two parts,
and the gear _D_ is arranged so as to drive the two halves, imparting
to each one the proper velocity. Gear wheels of this kind are called
compensating gears; they are made in many designs, but the most common
form is that illustrated in Fig. 4. In this drawing _A_ is the gear _D_
of Fig. 2, and _BB_ are bevel gears which are mounted upon studs _C_,
which are virtually the spokes of wheel _AA_. Large bevel gears _E_ and
_F_ are placed on either side of _A_ _E_, being secured to _G_, which
is one-half of the axle, and _F_ and _H_, which is the other half. If
the carriage is running in a straight line, the two parts of the axle
_G_ and _H_ will revolve at the same velocity and the gears _BB_ will
not revolve around the studs _C_, but in rounding a curve one of the
halves of the axle will revolve faster than the other and then the
gears _B_ will rotate round the studs _C_. The compensating gear is not
a feature peculiar to electric vehicles; it is used on all kinds of
automobiles when the construction is such as to require it.

[Illustration: FIG. 4. COMPENSATING GEARS.]

[Illustration: FIG. 5. SINGLE MOTOR EQUIPMENTS.]

If a compensating gear is placed upon the axle the latter, instead of
supporting its end of the vehicle, will itself have to be supported,
for as it is cut in two at the center, it has no supporting strength.
By placing the compensating gear on another shaft this difficulty can
be overcome. Fig. 5 shows the construction used by the Columbia Company
in its single motor equipment. In this arrangement the motor casing is
made of sufficient length to reach from one side of the vehicle to the
other. The armature and field magnets of the motor, which are the parts
that develop the power, are located at _A_ and the compensating gear
is placed at _B_. The motor armature is mounted upon a hollow shaft,
which is connected with the compensating gear. The shafts _D_ and _C_,
upon which are mounted the pinions _E_ and _F_, are turned by the
side wheels of the compensating gear, and therefore will run at such
velocities as the motion of the carriage wheels may require.

[Illustration: FIG. 6. A COLUMBIA VICTORIA.]

[Illustration: FIG. 7. COLUMBIA VEHICLE WITH DOUBLE MOTOR EQUIPMENT.]

Fig. 6 shows a Columbia Victoria provided with a single motor equipment
arranged in accordance with the diagram, Fig. 5. Fig. 7 shows another
Columbia vehicle in which a double motor equipment is employed. The
position of the motor, with reference to the carriage wheel, in the
single motor design, is shown in Fig. 8. The gear attached to the
carriage wheel is used also as a brake wheel, a friction band being
located so as to bear against the periphery, while the pinion on the
end of the motor shaft meshes into teeth on the inner side of the
rim. This single motor design is also used in the omnibus made by the
Columbia Company, a number of which are now in regular service on Fifth
avenue, New York. These omnibuses, which are illustrated in Fig. 9,
seat eight passengers, and are able to carry as many as are willing
to crowd into them. One feature of the electric motor which fits it
admirably for automobile service is the fact that for a short time it
can put forth an effort far greater than its normal capacity, and it
can do this at all times, without any special preparation. Owing to
this feature it is practically impossible to stall the vehicle. If the
wheels run into a rut or sink into a mud hole, the motor will be able
to turn them around, and if they do not slip the carriage will be moved
ahead.

[Illustration: FIG. 8. POSITION OF MOTOR IN THE SINGLE MOTOR DESIGN.]

The management of the vehicle is exceedingly simple and entirely free
from care, the driver having nothing to tax his mind but the steering
lever and the handle of the controlling switch. As the moving parts
all have a rotatory motion and are perfectly balanced, there is no
possibility of vibration, and there is an entire absence of heat or
disagreeable odors.

[Illustration: FIG. 9. A COLUMBIA OMNIBUS.]

Any one who has observed the action of a two-horse team will have
noticed that, unless the pavement is very smooth, the tongue
continually swings from side to side, and occasionally with a
considerable amount of violence. It will be evident from this fact
that if the front axle of an automobile were the same as that of a
horse vehicle, the driver would have an unpleasant task, to say the
least, in holding the steering lever in position, and should one of
the wheels drop into a rut, the handle would be jerked violently out
of his hand and the vehicle would sheer off to one side, possibly
with serious results. To avoid this difficulty the front wheels of
horseless carriages are arranged so as to swing round on a center close
to the hub, if not actually within it. The most common construction
is illustrated in Fig. 10, the first being a view of the axle and
wheels as seen from the front, and the second a view from above. On
the left-hand side of Fig. 10, _A_ is the axle proper, and _BB_ are
the portions upon which the wheels are placed. The central part _A_ is
held rigidly to the body of the vehicle or to the truck which carries
it, and the ends _BB_ are swung round the studs _PP_ in a manner more
clearly indicated on the right-hand side. Here the levers _CC_ are
shown, and these extend from the side of _BB_. The right-angle lever
_E_ is connected with the steering lever _G_ by means of rod _F_,
hence, when _G_ is moved, rod _D_ moves, and thus levers _CC_ are
rotated round the studs _PP_, and in that way the supporting studs
_BB_ which carry the wheels are turned. As the studs _PP_ are not
exactly in line with the plane passing through the center of the rim of
the wheel, there is a slight tendency to jerk the steering handle round
when a wheel drops into a hole in the pavement, but the leverage of _B_
being very short, this tendency is so small as to be hardly noticeable.

[Illustration: FIG. 10. ARRANGEMENT OF AXLES AND WHEELS.]

[Illustration: FIG. 11. FRONT AXLE.]

[Illustration: FIG. 12. FRONT AXLE WHEELS.]

Fig. 10 illustrates the general principle upon which the front axle is
designed, but the construction of the swivel joints _P_ is far more
elaborate, as can be seen from Fig. 11, which illustrates the actual
design employed in the vehicles just described. Looking at Fig. 9,
it will be noticed that the front axle consists of two bars, one of
which runs in a straight line from side to side, while the other is
curved with the convex side upward. In Fig. 11 _B_ is the end of the
upper curved rod and _C_ is the lower straight one. These two rods
are secured into the casting _A_, which holds the part _D_ upon which
the wheel is carried, _D_ being the part _B_ at the left side of Fig.
10. The end _E_ which is broken off in the drawing extends through
the hub of the wheel and is provided with ball bearings so as to run
without friction. The upper end _F_, of _D_, is arranged so as to be
held by a ball bearing, as shown, against the end of _J_. By means of
an adjusting screw _I_ at the lower end, the parts are brought into
proper position with reference to each other. The shaded portion _H_ is
the lever _C_ at the right side of Fig. 10.

The left-hand end of Fig. 12 shows a design for front axle wheels
which is one of the many modifications of the general arrangement just
described. In this construction the wheel swings round the stud _C_,
which is placed within the hub, and in a line, or nearly so, with
the center of the rim. The rod _A_ is the axle and _F_ is the lever
extending from the inner part of the wheel hub by means of which the
steering is effected. The left-hand side of Fig. 12 is a view as seen
from the front and the right-hand side shows the device as seen from
above. In this last drawing it will be observed that as the lever _F_
is attached to the inner portion of the wheel hub, if it is moved to
one side or the other of axle _A_, by pulling or pushing on rod _G_,
the wheel will be swung round. The advantage of designs of this type
is that there is no strain whatever brought to bear upon the steering
handle, and the objection is that the wheel hub is made much larger and
the whole construction is somewhat more complicated.

[Illustration: FIG. 13. CONSTRUCTIONS SHOWING POWER APPLIED TO FRONT
WHEELS.]

The arrangement of the front axle, so as to swing the wheels round a
center close to the hub or within it, as described in the foregoing
paragraphs, is used on all types of automobiles and is not a
distinguishing feature of the electric carriage. In some of the lighter
vehicles the front wheels are held in forks of a design substantially
the same as that of the front wheel of the ordinary bicycle, the tops
of the forks being connected with each other by means of a rod, as in
the lower part of Fig. 10, so as to obtain simultaneous movement of the
two wheels by the movement of a single steering handle.

In the majority of electric vehicles the power is applied to the rear
axle, but some are made with the motors geared to the front axle. In
a few of these designs the wheels and axle are made the same as in an
ordinary carriage, so as to swing round a pivot or king bolt located
at the center of the axle and reinforced by a fifth wheel. When this
construction is used the steering gear is made so as to hold the axle
in position more firmly than in the other designs; but even with this
assistance the driver has a harder task than with the independently
swinging wheels. The advantage derived from swinging the whole axle
is that the carriage can be turned round in a very small space, and on
that account the construction is well adapted to cabs.

Several arrangements have been devised by means of which the power can
be applied to the front wheels, while these may at the same time swing
round independent centers. One of these constructions is illustrated
in Fig. 13, the first drawing presenting the appearance when seen from
above, the second being a view from the front. In the first diagram
the motor is shown at _A_, and by means of pinion _B_ and gear _C_,
motion is transmitted to the axle, which is shown more clearly in the
right-hand figure. On the ends of the axle are bevel gears _FF_, and
these mesh into other bevel gears which revolve round the vertical
studs _D_. Through this train of gearing the bevel wheels _E_ are
driven, and these are attached to the hubs of the carriage wheels. From
the first diagram of Fig. 13 it can be seen at once that the gears _EE_
can swing round _D_ in either direction without in any way interfering
with the transmission of motion from gears _FF_. The levers _HH_ are
secured to the sleeves _GG_ which swing round the studs _DD_, hence, by
connecting these with the rod _J_ and moving the latter to one side or
the other by means of the steering handle, the wheels are turned in any
direction desired.

[Illustration: FIG. 14. KRIEGER COUPÉ.]

While this construction renders the carriage as easy to steer as those
in which the motors are connected with the rear axle, it sacrifices
the advantage derived from applying the power to the front wheels,
namely, the ability to turn round in a small space.

Another design for driving the front wheels which allows them to swing
round independent pivots, is shown in Fig. 14, which is a coupé made
by Krieger in France. The power is supplied by two motors, one being
mounted on each swivel point. The construction can be understood by
considering that in the lower part of Fig. 13 the motor would be
secured to a suitable support at the end of the frame _L_, being held
in such a position that the shaft would replace pivot _D_ and a pinion
mounted thereon would gear into wheel _E_. What the advantage of this
construction may be, the writer is not able to point out; it certainly
shows, however, that there are many ways in which the object sought may
be accomplished.

[Illustration: FIG. 15. JENATZY DOG-PHAETON.]

American manufacturers of electric vehicles, at least the great
majority of them, resort to spur-gearing to transmit the motion of the
motor to the driving wheels, but with the French designers the chain
and sprocket appears to be in great favor. Fig. 15 shows a Jenatzy
vehicle (French), in which the chain is used. This construction would
not be received with favor by Americans, who as a rule desire to
have the mechanical part of the apparatus hidden from view as much
as possible. In the Jenatzy vehicle two chain gears are used, one on
each side of the body, and from the engineering point of view this
is the most desirable arrangement, as with it the driving wheels are
independently operated and a compensating gear need not be placed
upon the axle. The American designer, however, would in most cases be
controlled more by the artistic appearance and would use a single chain
which would be placed under the body of the carriage, and thus as much
out of sight as possible.

Fig. 16 shows an English design of electric dog cart. The mechanism
consists of a single motor which is connected with the axle by means of
spur gearing, this being so arranged that several different speeds can
be obtained for the vehicle with the same velocity for the motor. To
obtain variable speeds by means of gearing it is necessary to introduce
a considerable amount of complication, and in this country the opinion
of most designers appears to be that the gain effected thereby is
not sufficient to compensate for the increased complication, and
differential speed gearing is not often used.

[Illustration: FIG. 16. THE ELECTRIC MOTIVE POWER COMPANY’S DOG CART.]

A comparison of Figs. 14 and 16 with 6 and 9 will clearly show that in
so far as artistic effect is concerned, our manufacturers of electric
vehicles have little to learn from Europeans, although the industry
here is much younger than abroad. As to the operative merits, all that
can be said is that the American carriages run so well and possess such
endurance that it is probable that they are not second to any in these
respects.




THE HUMAN BODY AS AN ENGINE.

BY PROFESSOR E. B. ROSA.


There is no more interesting subject for scientific investigation
than the structure and operation, the anatomy and physiology of the
human body. That it is an amazingly complex and delicate mechanism,
performing a multitude of functions in a wonderfully perfect manner,
is, of course, an old story. That in the assimilation of its
nourishment and in the growth and repair of its tissue the body obeys
the laws of chemistry has long been understood. But that the body
obeys in everything the fundamental law of physics, namely, the law
of the conservation of energy, has not been so generally recognized.
For some years the writer was engaged in some investigations upon
this subject.[B] The development of the complex apparatus and unique
methods of the research required years of patient labor and study. One
of the features of the apparatus was an air-tight chamber, in which
a man, as the subject of the experiment, could be confined for any
desired period, eating, sleeping, working and living while under minute
observation. The experiments usually continued four or five days, but
were sometimes prolonged to eight or ten days, and the observations
were made and recorded day and night continuously for the entire period.

    [B] The work was done at Wesleyan University, in collaboration
        with Prof. W. O. Atwater, under the patronage of the
        University and the U. S. Department of Agriculture.

The atmosphere within the chamber was maintained sufficiently pure
to make a prolonged sojourn within its walls entirely comfortable.
A current of fresh air, displacing as it entered an equal quantity
of air which contained the products of respiration, was maintained
continuously. The respired air was analyzed and measured, and the
products of respiration from lungs and skin accurately determined.
The ventilating air current was maintained by a pair of measuring
air pumps, driven by an electric motor. The air was dried, both
before entering and after leaving the chamber by freezing out its
moisture. This was done by passing it through a refrigerator where its
temperature was reduced far below the freezing point. The refrigerator
was operated by an ammonia machine, driven by an electric motor. The
quantity of air was automatically recorded by the pumps.

The chamber was so constructed and fitted with electrical and other
devices as to afford the means of measuring the quantity of heat which
the subject of the experiment gave off from his body. And in order to
keep the temperature of the room constant this heat was absorbed and
carried away by a stream of cold water, the latter flowing through a
series of copper pipes within the chamber, and coming out considerably
warmer than it entered. So delicate were the regulating devices that
the temperature could be maintained constant, hour after hour, to
within one or two hundredths of a degree. In some cases the man under
investigation worked regularly eight hours a day, the work done being
measured by apparatus designed for the purpose.

Food and drink were passed into the chamber three times a day through
an air-tight trap. Both were accurately weighed, their temperature
recorded and samples reserved for chemical analysis. Solid and liquid
excreta were likewise weighed and analyzed. The observations, analyses
and computations of a single experiment thus involved a vast amount of
labor and expense, which was only justified by the importance of the
question under investigation. In order to be able to understand just
what this question is, let us see what is meant by the conservation of
matter and energy in the physical world.

The impossibility of creating or destroying matter is very generally
recognized. Its forms or properties may be altered, chemical and
physical changes may be effected, it may, indeed, vanish from sight,
but its quantity remains unchanged. Thus ice may turn to water and
water to invisible steam, but the total quantity or mass of the
substance remains constant; and if by refrigeration the steam be
brought to the condition of ice again, there will be precisely the same
amount as before. These are physical changes and are easily effected.
We simply apply heat to melt the ice and then more heat to vaporize the
water. Conversely, withdrawing heat will condense the vapor to water,
when a further subtraction of heat will change the water into ice.

Again, wood disappears when burned and seems to be destroyed. And yet
we know that the weight of the resulting smoke and ashes is exactly
equal to that of the wood. The matter has been changed in form and
composition, but its mass cannot be altered. It is not so easy to bring
the smoke and ashes into combination again and so restore the matter to
its original form as in the case of ice and steam. But this is done by
nature. Ashes go to the soil, smoke into the atmosphere. The forces of
nature bring these elements together again in plant and tree, and so
it comes about that the materials resulting from the burning of wood
again become wood, and over and over again the cycle is repeated as
time rolls on. Many other examples might be cited to show what is meant
by the indestructibility of matter, or the conservation of matter; but
these will suffice to show that the one essential fact is that the
matter or stuff of a body cannot be destroyed.

Although matter is protean and its transformations limitless, there
are certain changes which cannot be made. Iron cannot be turned into
silver, nor silver into gold, nor oxygen into nitrogen. There appear to
be indeed about seventy or eighty distinct kinds of matter, and so far
as we know one cannot be converted into another. They may be united in
countless combinations, but each is itself not only indestructible but
unchangeable. Why this is so is an interesting subject of speculation.
We do not positively know.

That energy is also something which cannot be created or destroyed is
not so generally recognized. Transformations of energy from one form
to another are constantly occurring before our very eyes; and yet we
seldom stop to think what the conservation of energy means in any given
case. Energy itself is often defined as that which has the capacity for
doing work, and work is done when force or resistance is overcome. A
hod carrier does work when, overcoming the force of gravity upon his
body and his hod of brick, he climbs to the top of a ladder; and the
work done is a measure of the energy expended. Energy stored up in his
body has been transferred to the brick in their elevated position, and
if they are allowed to fall to the ground their energy is turned into
heat, developed by their impact upon the ground. Again, work is done
by a windmill in pumping water up into an elevated reservoir, and the
so-called ‘potential’ energy which the water possesses in its elevated
position has all been transferred to the water from the wind which
drove the mill. If the water be allowed to flow down to the ground
again through a water motor the latter could drive machinery and so do
work; and the work it could do plus the heat produced by friction would
exactly equal the work done in pumping the water up to its elevated
position. Thus is the energy conserved, and not destroyed. More or less
of it is dissipated by friction, and lost, so far as useful effect may
go. But it all remains in existence, somewhere.

Again, coal is burned under the boiler of a steam engine. Heat is
produced, steam is generated, the engine does work. The coal possessed
a store of energy, potentially. That is, the coal had the capacity of
uniting with the oxygen of the air and setting free a store of energy.
This energy, potential or latent in the coal, becomes kinetic and
evident in the heat of the boiler and the work of the engine. Moreover,
the work done by the engine added to the heat given off by the boiler
and engine is exactly equal to the total store of energy possessed by
the coal. And if from a store of energy, either in the body of a man or
horse, or in a pile of wood or coal, a certain portion is expended in
doing work, the amount remaining is exactly the difference between that
expended and the original amount. In short, energy can be measured,
stored up and expended, just as truly as merchandise or money.

Thus the conservation of energy means that energy cannot be created
or destroyed; but it may be transferred from one body to another or
transformed from one form to another. Heat may be converted into work
and work into heat. The chemical energy of a zinc rod may be expended
to generate an electric current, and the latter passing through a coil
of wire or the filament of a lamp gives up its energy to produce heat
and light. The last form of this energy is equal in quantity to the
first.

Niagara represents a vast store of energy. Millions of tons of water
falling 160 feet could do a vast amount of mechanical work if properly
applied through water wheels. More than 50,000 horse power of useful
work is actually derived from Niagara’s waters, but this is only a
small fraction of the total. The energy is, however, given up in
falling, even though no useful work is done. In fact, the water is
slightly heated by the impact, and the amount of heat produced is
exactly equivalent to the mechanical energy lost by the water.

A cannon ball receives a large amount of kinetic energy from the
exploded powder as it leaves the muzzle of a great gun. If it be
suddenly stopped by a rigid target its mechanical or mass energy is at
once converted into heat; that is, into the vibratory motion of the
molecules. Ball and target are highly heated. Indeed, lead bullets are
often melted by the heat of impact. Meteors flying through space come
into our atmosphere and their speed is checked by its resistance. Part
or all of their kinetic energy is thus converted into heat. Both air
and meteor are heated; heated to so high a temperature that the meteor
becomes brilliantly luminous, and we call it a shooting star. The idea
of heat due to frictional resistance is common enough. The _exact
equivalence_ between the mechanical energy lost and the heat produced
is the thing to be especially noticed here.

Let us now take as a final example a locomotive engine. It takes on a
store of fuel and water and, directed by its engineer, sets out for
a day’s duty. The coal to be burned possesses a definite amount of
energy. Let us say every pound has one unit of energy, and suppose
5,000 pounds of coal are taken. What becomes of these 5,000 units of
energy, appearing as heat when the coal is burned?

1. A large amount of heat is required to keep the boiler and engine
hot, due to the loss of heat to the atmosphere. The engine cylinders,
as well as fire box and boiler, must be kept very hot; other parts of
the engine become more or less heated. All parts therefore continually
give off heat, and a large part of the heat produced by the burning
coal is thus expended.

2. A second portion is expended in doing work. If our locomotive
hauls a 500-ton train up a one-per cent. grade for 100 miles it would
be doing 2,640,000 foot-tons of work in addition to that required
to overcome the friction of the rails and the resistance of the
atmosphere. This would require nearly 500 units of energy which would
come from the heat of the coal. The work is done through the agency
of steam, but the energy of the steam comes from the burning coal. A
small amount of work is also done in pumping water from the tank on
the tender into the boiler and in pumping air into the reservoir for
the use of the air brakes. This may be called the internal work of the
engine. A second portion of the heat is therefore expended in internal
and external work.

3. The steam after expanding in the cylinders of the engine escapes
into the atmosphere. Although it has been cooled somewhat by expansion,
it is still hot, and carries a large amount of heat away with it.
Moreover, the smoke and hot air which pass out through the smokestack
carry away a large quantity of heat. Hot ashes likewise carry away
heat. Hence a third portion of heat is lost through smoke and steam and
ashes. And this is the largest portion of the total quantity of heat
generated by the burning coal.

When coal is burned, oxygen of the air unites chemically with the
carbon and hydrogen of the coal to form carbonic acid, or carbon
dioxid, as it is technically called, and water vapor. The incombustible
mineral matter of the coal remains as ashes. Hence smoke contains
carbonic acid gas and water vapor in addition to fine particles of
unburned coal carried away in the draft of air.

When the grade is steep a great deal of work must be done by the
locomotive, much steam is required, and the quantity of fuel burned is
large in proportion. When the road is level fuel burns less rapidly,
and when the train stops, still more slowly. At night the locomotive
rests, fires are banked and combustion is very slow. This process so
briefly and incompletely sketched, is more interesting as one examines
it closer, and a locomotive seems almost living when one considers
minutely its wonderful performance.

But interesting and instructive though the operation of the locomotive
may be, it is not for its own sake that I have mentioned it. It
is rather in order to point out a remarkable parallel between its
operation and that of a human body. A parallel, indeed, between the
operation of a complex inanimate engine of iron and steel, and a still
more complex living engine of flesh and bone and blood; both obeying
the law of the conservation of energy, as well as the other laws of
physics and chemistry.

Consider now a human body as a living engine. That man is more than
matter is, of course, conceded. But we here regard only the animal
body, guided by the brain as its engineer. The day begins, as with
the locomotive, by taking a store of fuel and water, namely, food
and drink. Food is not, however, burned in the body in a confined
receptacle, like coal in the fire box of an engine, but is digested,
assimilated and distributed through the body by means of the
circulating blood. And while some of it goes to repair bodily waste,
becoming tissue, other portions are oxidized or burned to produce
heat. Non-digestible parts of the food pass away from the body as
refuse, like ashes from the fire box of the engine. That the body
fat and muscular tissue are also burned, producing heat, is literally
true. A hibernating animal keeps his body warm all winter by burning
up his autumnal store of body fat. Even a well-fed body is constantly
wearing away, or burning away, and hence requires constant repair.
Thus we see two distinct functions for food, which should be carefully
distinguished.

In the first place, as already indicated, food repairs waste and builds
up the body. It makes blood, bone and muscular tissue. Herein we see a
departure from the parallel with the steam engine. A locomotive is a
machine which runs in a way determined by its builder. But it cannot
grow nor repair wear and tear. It requires a whole machine shop plus
skilful mechanics to do that. The body, on the other hand, not only
runs like a complex mechanism when supplied with energy, but also
builds itself up and repairs waste. We express this by saying that it
possesses vital force or life, but in just what vital force consists
is a matter of speculation and controversy. The raw material which is
employed in this work of repairing and building up is found in the
food. But not all food can be so utilized. Only those materials which
contain nitrogen, the so-called proteids, as lean meat, the casein of
milk and gluten of wheat, can be made use of in this most important
work of growth and repair.

In the second place, food is the fuel of the body and is just as truly
burned as is coal in a furnace. Moreover, the quantity of heat which
a piece of meat or a slice of bread yields when burned in the body is
just the same as if it had been burned in a stove. Complete combustion
yields a definite amount of heat wherever and whatever may be the place
and manner of burning. Any kind of food may serve as fuel for the body,
but those which consist mainly of sugar, starch and fat, which contain
no nitrogen and so cannot build up the body, are used chiefly as fuel.
These fuel foods form the bulk of our daily ration, comparatively
little being required for purposes of growth and repair.

We are hearing a good deal recently about alcohol as a food. When it is
remembered that alcohol contains no nitrogen it will be seen that it
cannot serve the first function of food, namely, the purpose of growth
and repair. It can, however, serve as fuel food, for when taken into
the body in small quantities it is assimilated and burned up, producing
the same amount of heat as if burned in a lamp. In sickness this may be
beneficial, at times when the body cannot assimilate other foods. But
the injurious effects of alcohol upon the digestive and nervous systems
are so important and far-reaching that its value as a fuel food sinks
into insignificance in comparison.

The process of combustion or burning in the fire box of our locomotive
consists, as has been said, in oxygen of the air uniting with the
carbon and hydrogen of the coal, forming carbonic acid and water, and
setting free a definite quantity of heat for every pound of fuel so
burned. So, in exactly the same way, oxygen, which has been taken up by
the blood from the air in the lungs, unites with carbon and hydrogen
in the tissues of the body and forms carbonic acid and water, yielding
precisely the same amount of heat as though the combustion had occurred
in a furnace. This idea of food, that it is literally fuel, is a very
suggestive one. And as fuels differ in the quantity of ash contained
and the amount of heat produced, so food materials differ in the
quantity of undigestible residue and in their heat-producing power.

Remembering the analogy of the steam engine, let us now inquire what
becomes of the energy supplied to the body in the fuel foods eaten,
and which is turned into heat by this process of combustion constantly
going on.

1. A large amount of heat is constantly being expended in keeping the
body warm. Like the locomotive, the body is warmer than the surrounding
air, and is constantly losing heat to the atmosphere. Unlike the
locomotive, however, the body has a nearly uniform temperature
throughout, namely, 98 degrees Fahr. The delicate regulation of
temperature which is automatically maintained in the animal body is one
of the wonders of physiology.

2. A second portion of energy is required to do the mechanical work of
the body. When a locomotive hauls a loaded train up grade, or steams
up grade alone, it is doing work in proportion to the total weight
and the height to which it is carried. So when a man walks up hill or
climbs a ladder he is lifting his body against the force of gravity,
and hence doing work. If his weight be 200 pounds he is doing twice
as much work as though he weighed only 100 pounds. If a man weighing
150 pounds climbs Bunker Hill Monument (220 feet), 33,000 foot-pounds
of work will then be done; and if he succeeds in making the ascent in
one minute, he would be doing work at the rate of one full horse power
for that minute. If he climbs a mountain two miles high in three hours
and twelve minutes he would be doing work in so lifting his body at
the rate of one quarter of a horse power. This is, of course, a faster
rate of work than an average man could maintain. In all the functions
of daily life the body is necessarily doing some mechanical work. Even
dressing and eating require a certain expenditure of energy, and in
ordinary business and manual labor the amount of mechanical work done
is considerable. Moreover, a large amount of work is done by the heart
in pumping the blood through the circulatory system, and by the chest
in respiration. This, then, the internal and external work done, as in
the locomotive, represents the second portion of energy derived from
the food eaten.

3. The warm air, carbonic acid gas and water vapor passing away from
the lungs in respiration carry with them a large amount of heat. This
corresponds to the loss of heat in the locomotive through the smoke
passing out the smokestack, and in both cases the loss is greater when
work is being done and less during inaction. The refuse products of the
body (as the ashes of the locomotive) also carry away heat. This is the
third portion of heat and is a large one.

Work is done in the locomotive by the expanding steam in the cylinders
of the engine. The steam is cooled as it expands. Hence heat disappears
when work is done; that is, is converted into mechanical energy, and a
steam engine is hence called a heat engine; an engine for converting
heat into work, according to the law of the conservation of energy.
As the pistons are pushed to and fro by the tremendous pressure of
the expanding steam, the reciprocating motion is communicated to
the great drivers of the engine by strong arms of steel. But how is
work done in the body? That is a question of prime importance and
of surpassing interest. When muscle contracts and force is exerted,
as when the body is lifted or an oar is pulled, muscular tissue (or
material stored in muscular tissue) is oxidized; that is, burned, and
heat is produced; yet not as much heat appears as would have appeared
on the combustion of the same amount of body material if no work had
been done. Apparently, then, heat has been converted into work. But we
cannot trace the process with the same clearness as in the cylinder of
a steam engine. Whether the potential energy of the body material is
directly converted into work, or whether combustion first produces heat
and a part of this heat is then converted into work, we do not know. In
other words, we do not know whether the animal body as a machine for
doing mechanical work is a heat engine or some other kind of engine.
This is a fundamental question, as well as a very difficult one, and
to a student of thermodynamics and physiology it prompts all sorts of
speculation.

When one tries to picture to himself how the potential energy of food
or body tissue can be directly converted into mechanical work, he is
apt to turn to the other alternative and imagine that in some way the
body is a heat engine. For we know that heat results from the oxidation
of tissue, and we also know how heat can be converted into mechanical
work. But we are at once confronted with a difficulty. One of the
fundamental laws of thermodynamics requires that when heat is converted
into work there shall be a difference of temperature between the source
of heat and the place to which the heated material employed passes
after doing the work. In other words, in a heat engine, whatever the
mechanism, there must be a fall of temperature, which is greater as the
relative amount of work, or efficiency, is greater. In the human body
the efficiency perhaps surpasses that of the best steam engines; hence
there should be a fall of temperature comparable with that between
the boiler and condenser of a steam engine. This may be 100 degrees
or more, and we do not know of any such difference of temperature in
the body. Indeed, we know, on the contrary, that the temperature of
the body is remarkably uniform, as already stated. It is possible,
however, that there are molecular differences of large amount. In other
words, if we could make an ultra-microscopic survey of temperature
in a muscle during contraction, there might be found places of high
temperature where combustion was occurring, and all the requirements of
a heat engine of molecular dimensions fulfilled. But this is a matter
of speculation. The process may yet be found to be electrical, or
something else quite different from that of a steam engine.

We thus find between the animal body and a locomotive engine a striking
parallel. In many particulars the chemical and physical processes going
on in the latter are found also in the former. In both, the fundamental
law of the conservation of energy is strictly observed. Nevertheless,
the animal body considered simply as a machine is far more complex in
its structure and operation than the engine, and far more of mystery
envelops its working. Much remains for the chemist and physicist and
physiologist to reveal, and no more fascinating field of research
exists.




CHAPTERS ON THE STARS.

BY PROFESSOR SIMON NEWCOMB, U. S. N.


THE SPECTRA OF THE STARS.

The principles on which spectrum analysis rests can be stated so
concisely that I shall set them forth for the special use of such
readers as may not be entirely familiar with the subject. Every one
knows that when the rays of the sun pass through a triangular prism
of glass or other transparent substance they are unequally refracted,
and thus separated into rays of different colors. These colors are not
distinct, but each runs into the other by insensible gradations, from
deep red through orange, yellow, green and blue to a faint violet.

This result is due to the fact that the light of the sun is composed of
rays of an infinite number of wave-lengths, or, as we might express it,
of an infinite number of shades of color, since to every wave-length
corresponds a definite shade. Such a spreading out of elementary
colors in the form of a visible sheet is called a spectrum. By the
spectrum of an incandescent object is meant the spectrum formed by the
light emitted by the object when passed through a refracting prism,
or otherwise separated into its elementary colors. The interest and
value which attach to the study of spectra arise from the fact that
different bodies give different kinds of spectra, according to their
constitution, their temperature and the substances of which they are
composed. In this manner it is possible, by a study of the spectrum of
a body, to reach certain inferences respecting its constitution.

In order that such a study should lead to a definite conclusion, we
must recall that to each special shade of color corresponds a definite
position in the spectrum. That is to say, there is a special kind of
light having a certain wave-length and therefore a certain shade which
will be refracted through a certain fixed angle, and will therefore
fall into a definite position in the spectrum. This position is, for
every possible kind of light, expressed by a number indicating its
wave-length.

If we form a spectrum with the light emitted by an ordinary
incandescent body, a gaslight for example, we shall find the series of
colors to be unbroken from one end of the spectrum to the other. That
is to say, there will be light in every part of the spectrum. Such a
spectrum is said to be continuous. But if we form the spectrum by means
of sunlight, we shall find the spectrum to be crossed by a great number
of more or less dark lines. This shows that in the spectrum of the sun
light of certain definite wave-lengths is wholly or partly wanting.
This fact has been observed for more than a century, but its true
significance was not seen until a comparatively recent time.

If, instead of using the light of the sun, we form a spectrum with
the light emitted by an incandescent gas, say hydrogen made luminous
by the electric spark, we shall find that the spectrum consists only
of a limited number of separate bright lines, of various colors. This
shows that such a gas, instead of emitting light of all wave-lengths,
as an incandescent solid body does, principally emits light of certain
definite wave-lengths.

It is also found that if we pass the light of a luminous solid through
a sufficiently large mass of gas, cooler than the body, the spectrum,
instead of being entirely continuous, will be crossed with dark lines
like that of the sun. This shows that light of certain wave-lengths is
absorbed by the gas. A comparison of these dark lines with the bright
lines emitted by an incandescent gas led Kirchhoff to the discovery of
the following fundamental principle:

Every gas, when cold, absorbs the same rays of light which it emits
when incandescent.

An immediate inference from this law is that the dark lines seen in
the spectrum of the sun are caused by the passage of the light through
gases either existing on the sun or forming the atmosphere of the
earth. A second inference is that we can determine what these gases are
by comparing the position of the dark lines with that of the bright
lines produced by different gases when they are made incandescent.
Hence arose the possibility of spectrum analysis, a method which has
been applied with such success to the study of the heavenly bodies.

So far as the general constitution of bodies is concerned, the canons
of spectrum analysis are these:

Firstly, when a spectrum is formed of distinct bright lines, the light
which forms it is emitted by a transparent mass of glowing gas.

Secondly, when a spectrum is entirely continuous the light emanates
from an incandescent solid, from a body composed of solid particles,
which may be ever so small, or from a mass of incandescent gas so large
and dense as not to be transparent through and through.

Thirdly, when the spectrum is continuous, except that it is crossed
by fine dark lines, the body emitting the light is surrounded by a
gas cooler than itself. The chemical constitution of this gas can be
determined by the position of the lines.

Fourthly, if, as is frequently the case, a spectrum is composed of an
irregular row of bright and shaded portions, the body is a compound
one, partly gaseous and partly solid.

It will be seen from the preceding statement that, in reality, a mass
of gas so large as not to be transparent cannot be distinguished from
a solid. It is therefore not strictly correct to say, as is sometimes
done, that an incandescent gas always gives a spectrum of bright lines.
It will give such a spectrum only when it is transparent through and
through.[C]

    [C] As this principle is not universally understood, it may be
        well to remark that it results immediately from Kirchoff’s
        law of the proportionality between the radiating and
        absorbing powers of all bodies for light of each separate
        wave-length. When a body, even if gaseous in form, is of
        such great size and density that light of no color can
        pass entirely through it, then the consequent absorption
        by the body of light of all colors shows that throughout
        the region where the absorption occurs there must be an
        emission of light of these same colors. Thus light from all
        parts of the spectrum will be emitted by the entire mass.

A gaseous mass, so large as to be opaque, would, if it were of the
same temperature inside and out, give a continuous spectrum, without
any dark lines. But the laws of temperature in such a mass show that
it will be cooler at the surface than in the interior. This cooler
envelope will absorb the rays emanating from the interior as in the
case when the latter is solid. We conclude, therefore, that the fact
that the great majority of stars show a spectrum like that of the
sun, namely, a continuous one crossed by dark lines, does not throw
any light on the question whether the matter composing the body of
the star is in a solid, liquid or gaseous state. The fact is that
the most plausible theories of the constitution of the sun lead to
the conclusion that its interior mass is really gaseous. Only the
photosphere may be to a greater or less extent solid or liquid. The
dark lines that we see in the solar spectrum are produced by the
absorption of a comparatively thin and cool layer of gas resting upon
the photosphere. Analogy as well as the general similarity of the
spectra lead us to believe that the constitution of most of the stars
is similar to that of the sun.


CLASSIFICATION OF STELLAR SPECTRA.

When the spectra of thousands of stars were recorded for study, such a
variety was found that some system of classification was necessary. The
commencement of such a system was made by Secchi in 1863. It was based
on the observed relation between the color of a star and the general
character of its spectrum.

Arranging the stars in a regular series, from blue in tint through
white to red, it was found that the number and character of the
spectral lines varied in a corresponding way. The blue stars, like
Sirius, Vega and α Aquilæ, though they had the F lines strong, as well
as the two violet lines H, had otherwise only extremely fine lines.
On the other hand, the red stars, like α Orionis and α Scorpii, show
spectra with several broad bands. Secchi was thus led to recognize
three types of spectra, as follows:

The first type is that of the white or slightly blue stars, like
Sirius, Vega, Altair, Rigel, etc. The typical spectrum of these stars
shows all seven spectral colors, interrupted by four strong, dark
lines, one in the red, one in the bluish green, and the two others in
the violet. All four of these lines belong to hydrogen. Their marked
peculiarity is their breadth, which tends to show that the absorbing
layer is of considerable thickness or is subjected to a great pressure.
Besides these broad rays, fine metallic rays are found in the brighter
stars of this type. Secchi considers that this is the most numerous
type of all, half the stars which he studied belonging to it.

[Illustration: FIG. 1. SPECTRUM OF SIRIUS.]

[Illustration: FIG. 2. SPECTRA OF α AURIGÆ AND SUN.]

[Illustration: FIG. 3. SPECTRA OF α BOOTIS AND β GEMINORUM.]

The second type is that of the somewhat yellow stars, like Capella,
Pollux, Arcturus, Procyon, etc. The most striking feature of the
spectrum of these stars is its resemblance to that of our sun. Like
the latter, it is crossed by very fine and close black rays. It would
seem that the more the star inclines toward red, the broader these
rays become and the easier it is to distinguish them. We give a figure
showing the remarkable agreement between the spectrum of Capella, which
may be taken as an example of the type, and that of the sun.

The spectra of the third type, belonging mostly to the red stars, are
composed of a double system of nebulous bands and dark lines. The
latter are fundamentally the same as in the second type, the broad
nebulous bands being an addition to the spectrum. α Herculis
may be taken as an example of this type.

[Illustration: FIG. 7. SPECTRUM WITH BOTH BRIGHT AND DARK LINES.]

It is to be remarked that, in these progressive types, the brilliancy
of the more refrangible end of the spectrum continually diminishes
relatively to that of the red end. To this is due the gradations of
color in the stars.

To these three types Secchi subsequently added a fourth, given by
comparatively few stars of a deep red color. The spectra of this class
consist principally of three bright bands, which are separated by dark
intervals. The brightest is in the green; a very faint one is in the
blue; the third is in the yellow and red, and is divided up into a
number of others.

To these types a fifth was subsequently added by Wolf and Rayet, of
the Paris Observatory. The spectra of this class show a singular
mixture of bright lines and dark bands, as if three different spectra
were combined, one continuous, one an absorption spectrum, and one an
emission spectrum from glowing gas. Less than a hundred stars of this
type have been discovered. A very remarkable peculiarity, which we
shall discuss hereafter, is that they are nearly all situated very near
the central line of the Milky Way.

[Illustration: FIG. 4. SPECTRA OF α CYGNI AND α TAURI.]

[Illustration: FIG. 5. SPECTRUM OF α ORIONIS.]

[Illustration: FIG. 6. SPECTRUM OF γ CASSIOPEIÆ]

Vogel proposed a modification of Secchi’s classification, by
subdividing each of his three types into two or three others, and
including the Wolf-Rayet stars under the second type. His definitions
are as follows:

Type I is distinguished by the intensity of the light in the more
refrangible end of the spectrum, the blue and violet. The type may be
divided into three subdivisions, designated _a_, _b_ and _c_:

In I_a_ the metallic lines are very faint, while the hydrogen lines are
distinguished by their breadth and strength.

In I_b_ the hydrogen lines are wanting.

In I_c_ the lines of hydrogen and helium both show as bright lines.
Stars showing this spectrum are now known as helium stars.

According to Vogel, the spectra of type II are distinguished by having
the metallic lines well-marked and the more refrangible end of the
spectrum much fainter than in the case of type I. He recognizes two
subdivisions:

In II_a_ the metallic lines are very numerous, especially in the yellow
and green. The hydrogen lines are strong, but not so striking as in
I_a_.

In II_b_ are found dark lines, bright lines and faint bands. In this
subdivision he includes the Wolf-Rayet stars, more generally classified
as of the fifth type.

The distinguishing mark of the third type is that, besides dark lines,
there are numerous dark bands in all parts of the spectrum, and the
more refrangible end of the latter is almost wanting. There are two
subdivisions of this type:

In III_a_ the broad bands nearest the violet end are sharp, dark and
well-defined, while those near the red end are ill-defined and faint.
In III_b_ the bands near the red end are sharp and well-defined; those
toward the violet faint and ill-defined. The character of the bands is
therefore the reverse of that in subdivision _a_.

This classification of Vogel is still generally followed in Germany
and elsewhere. It is found, however, that there are star spectra
of types intermediate to all these defined. Moreover, in each type
the individual differences are so considerable that there is no
well-defined limit to the number of classes that may be recognized. At
the Harvard Observatory a classification quite different from that of
Vogel has been used, but it is too detailed for presentation here. The
stars of type II are frequently termed Capellan stars, or Solar stars.
Certain stars of type I are termed Orion stars, owing to the number
of stars of the type found in that constellation. The stars which
show the lines of helium are known as helium stars. We mention these
designations because they frequently occur in literature. It would,
however, be outside the object of the present work to describe all
these classifications in detail. We therefore confine ourselves to a
few illustrations of spectra of the familiar types described by Secchi
and Vogel.

There are many star spectra which cannot be included in any of the
classes we have described. Up to the present time these are generally
described as stars of peculiar spectra.

As the present chapter is confined to the more general side of the
subject, we shall not attempt any description of special spectra.
These, especially the peculiar spectra of the nebulæ, of new stars, of
variable stars, etc., will be referred to, so far as necessary, in the
chapters relating to those objects.

The most interesting conclusion drawn from observations with the
spectroscope is that the stars are composed, in the main, of elements
similar to those found in our sun. As the latter contains most of the
elements found on the earth and few or none not found there, we may
say that earth and stars seem to be all made out of like matter. It
is, however, not yet easy to say that no elements unknown on the earth
exist in the heavens. It would scarcely be safe to assume that, because
the line of some terrestrial substance is found in the spectrum of a
star, it is produced by that substance. It is quite possible that an
unknown substance might show a line in appreciably the same position
as that of some substance known to us. The evidence becomes conclusive
only in the case of those elements of which the spectral lines are so
numerous that when they all coincide with lines given by a star, there
can be no doubt of the identity.


PROPER MOTIONS OF THE STARS.

We may assume that the stars are all in motion. It is true that only
a comparatively small number of stars have been actually seen to
be in motion; but as some motion exists in nearly every case where
observations would permit of its being determined, we may assume the
rule to be universal. Moreover, if a star were at rest at one time it
would be set in motion by the attraction of other stars.

Statements of the motion from different points of view illustrate in
a striking way the vast distance of the stars and the power of modern
telescopic research. If Hipparchus or Ptolemy should rise from their
sleep of 2,000 years--nay, if the earliest priests of Babylon should
come to life again and view the heavens, they would not perceive any
change to have taken place in the relative positions of the stars. The
general configurations of the constellations would be exactly that to
which they were accustomed. Had they been very exact observers they
might notice a slight difference in the position of Arcturus; but as a
general rule the unchangeability would have been manifest.

In dealing with the subject, the astronomer commonly expresses the
motion in angular measurement as so many seconds per year or per
century. The keenest eye would not, without telescopic aid, be able to
distinguish between two stars whose apparent distance is less than 2′
or 120″ of arc. The pair of stars known as (ε) Lyræ are 3′ apart; yet,
to ordinary vision they appear simply as a single star. To appreciate
what 1″ of arc means we must conceive that the distance between
these two stars is divided by 200. Yet this minute space is easily
distinguished and accurately measured by the aid of a telescope of
ordinary power.

On the other hand, if we measure the motions by terrestrial standards
they are swift indeed. Arcturus has been moving ever since the time of
Job at the rate of probably more than 200 miles per second--possibly
300 miles. Generally, however, the motion is much smaller, ranging
from an imperceptible quantity up to 5, 10 or 20 miles a second. Slow
as the angular motion is, our telescopic power is such that the motion
in the course of a very few years (with Arcturus the motion in a few
days) can be detected. As accurate determinations of positions of the
stars have been made only during a century and a half, no motions can
be positively determined except those which would become evident to
telescopic vision in that period. Only about 3,000 stars have been
accurately observed so long as this. In the large majority of cases the
interval of observation is so short or the motion so slow that nothing
can be asserted respecting the law of the motion.

The great mass of stars seem to move only a few seconds per century,
but there are some whose motions are exceptionally rapid. The general
rule is that the brighter stars have the largest proper motions. This
is what we should expect, because in the general average they are
nearer to us, and therefore their motion will subtend the greatest
angle to the eye. But this rule is only one of majorities. As a matter
of fact, the stars of largest proper motion happen to be low in the
scale of magnitude. It happens thus because the number of stars of
smaller magnitudes is so much greater than that of the brighter ones
that the very small proportion of large proper motions which they offer
over-balances those of the brighter stars.

The discovery of the star of greatest known proper motion was made by
Kapteyn, of Groningen, in 1897, coöperating with Gill and Innes, of the
Cape Observatory. While examining the photographs of the stars made
at this institution, Kapteyn was surprised to notice the impression
of a star of the eighth magnitude which at first could not be found
in any catalogue. But on comparing different star lists and different
photographs it soon became evident that the star had been previously
seen or photographed, but always in slightly varying positions. An
examination of the observed positions at various times showed that the
star had a more rapid proper motion than any other yet known. Yet,
great though this motion is, it would require nearly 150,000 years for
the star to make a complete circuit of the heavens if it moved round
the sun uniformly at its present rate.

The fact that the stars move suggests a very natural analogy to the
solar system. In the latter a number of planets revolve round the sun
as their center, each planet continually describing the same orbit,
while the various planets have different velocities. Around several
of the planets revolve one or more satellites. Were civilized men
ephemeral, observing the planets and satellites only for a few minutes,
these bodies would be described as having proper motions of their own,
as we find the stars to have. May it not then be that the stars also
form a system; that each star is moving in a fixed orbit performing
a revolution around some far-distant center in a period which may be
hundreds of thousands or hundreds of millions of years? May it not be
that there are systems of stars in which each star revolves around a
center of its own while all these systems are in revolution around a
single center?

This thought has been entertained by more than one contemplative
astronomer. Lambert’s magnificent conception of system upon system will
be described hereafter. Mädler thought that he had obtained evidence
of the revolution of the stars around Alcyone, the brightest of the
Pleiades, as a center. But, as the proper motions of the stars are
more carefully studied and their motion and direction more exactly
ascertained, it becomes very clear that when considered on a large
scale these conceptions are never realized in the actual universe as a
whole. But there are isolated cases of systems of stars which are shown
to be in some way connected by their having a common proper motion. We
shall mention some of the more notable cases.

The Pleiades are found to move together with such exactness that up
to the present time no difference in their proper motions has been
detected. This is true not only of the six stars which we readily see
with the naked eye, but of a much larger number of fainter ones made
known by the telescope. It is an interesting fact, however, that a
few stars apparently within the group do not partake of this motion,
from which it may be inferred that they do not belong to the system.
But there must be some motion among themselves, else the stars would
ultimately fall together by their mutual attraction. The amount and
nature of this motion cannot, however, be ascertained except by
centuries of observation.

Another example of the same sort is seen in five out of the seven
stars of Ursæ Major, or The Dipper. The stars are those lettered β, γ,
δ, ε and θ. All five have a proper motion in R. A. of nearly 8″ per
century, while in declination the movements are sometimes positive and
sometimes negative; that is to say, some of the stars are apparently
lessening their distance from the pole, while others are increasing
it. But when we project the motions on a map we find that the actual
direction is very nearly the same for all five stars, and the reason
why some move slightly to the north and others slightly to the south is
due to the divergence of the circles of right ascension. It is worthy
of remark that the community of motion is also shown by spectroscopic
observations of the radial motions described below.

The five stars in question are all of the second magnitude except δ,
which is of the third. It is a curious fact that no fainter stars than
these five have been found to belong to the system.

From a study of these motions Höffler has concluded that the five
stars lie nearly in the same plane and have an equal motion in one
and the same direction. From this hypothesis he has attempted to make
a determination of their relative and actual distances. The result
reached in this way cannot yet, however, be regarded as conclusive.

There are three stars in Cassiopeia, β, η and μ each having a large
proper motion in so nearly the same direction that it is difficult to
avoid at least a suspicion of some relation between them. The angular
motions are, however, so far from equal that we cannot regard the
relation as established.

In the constellation Taurus, between Aldebaran and the Pleiades, most
of the stars which have been accurately determined seem to have a
common motion. But these motions are not yet so well ascertained that
we can base anything definite upon them. They show a phenomenon which
Proctor very aptly designated as star-drift.

The systems we have just described comprise stars situated so far apart
that, but for their common motion, we should not have suspected any
relation between them. The community of origin which their connection
indicates is of great interest and importance, but the question belongs
to a later chapter.


MOTIONS IN THE LINE OF SIGHT, OR RADIAL MOTIONS.

No achievement of modern science is more remarkable than the
measurement of the velocity with which stars are moving to or from us.
This is effected by means of the spectroscope through a comparison of
the position of the spectral lines produced by the absorption of any
substance in the atmosphere of the star with the corresponding lines
produced by the same substance on the earth. The principle on which the
method depends may be illustrated by the analogous case of sound. It is
a familiar fact that if we stand alongside a railway while a locomotive
is passing us at full speed, and at the same time blowing a whistle,
the pitch of the note which we hear from the whistle is higher as the
engine is approaching than after it passes. The reason is that the
pitch of a sound depends upon the number of sound beats per second.

  A     B                                         X
  *     .      .      .      .      .      .      .
        *     .      .     .     .     .    .     .

Now, we may consider the waves which form light when they strike our
apparatus as beats in the ethereal medium which follow each other
with extraordinary rapidity, millions of millions in a second, moving
forward with a definite velocity of more than 186,000 miles a second.
Each spectral line produced by a chemical element shows that that
element, when incandescent, beats the ether a certain number of times
in a second. These beats are transmitted as waves. Since the velocity
is the same whether the number of beats per second is less or greater,
it follows that, if the body is in motion in the direction in which it
emits the light, the beats will be closer together than if it is at
rest; if moving away they will be further apart. The fundamental fact
on which this result depends is that the velocity of the light-beat
through the ether is independent of the motion of the body causing the
beat. To show the result, let A be a luminous body at rest; let the
seven dots to the right of A be the crests of seven waves or beats,
the first of which, at the end of a certain time, has reached X. The
wave-length will then be one seventh the distance A X. Now, suppose
A in motion toward X with such speed that, when the first beat has
reached X, A has reached the point B. Then the seven beats made by A
while the first beat is traveling from A to X, and A traveling from
A to B, will be crowded into the space B X, so that each wave will
be one seventh shorter than before. In other words, the wave-lengths
of the light emitted by any substance will be less or greater than
their normal length, according to the motion of the substance in
the direction in which its light is transmitted, or in the opposite
direction.

The position of a ray in the spectrum depends solely on the wave-length
of the light. It follows that the rays produced by any substance will
be displaced toward the blue or red end of the spectrum, according
as the body emitting or absorbing the rays is moving towards or from
us. This method of determining the motions of stars to or from us, or
their velocity in the line of sight from us to the star, was first put
into practice by Mr.--now Sir William--Huggins, of London. The method
has since been perfected by photographing the spectrum of a star, or
other heavenly body, side by side with that of a terrestrial substance,
rendered incandescent in the tube of a telescope. The rays of this
substance pass through the same spectroscope as those from the star,
so that, if the wave-lengths of the lines produced by the substance
were the same as those found in the star spectrum, the two lines would
correspond in position. The minute difference found on the photographic
plate is the measure of the velocity of the star in the line of sight.

It will be seen that the conclusion depends on the hypothesis that the
position of any ray produced by a substance is affected by no cause but
the motion of the substance. How and when this hypothesis may fail is
a very important question. It is found, for example, that the position
of a spectral ray may be altered by compressing the gas emitting or
absorbing the ray, and it may be inquired whether the results for
motion in the line of sight may not be vitiated by the absorbing
atmosphere of the star being under heavy pressure, thus displacing the
absorption line.

To this it may be replied that, in any case, the outer layers of the
atmosphere, through which the light must last pass, are not under
pressure. How far inner portions may produce an absorption spectrum we
cannot discuss at present, but it does not seem likely that serious
errors are thus introduced in many cases.

These measures require apparatus and manipulation of extraordinary
delicacy, in order to avoid every possible source of error. The
displacement of the lines produced by motion is in fact so minute that
great skill is required to make it evident, unless in exceptional
cases. The Mills spectrograph of the Lick Observatory in the hands of
Professor Campbell has, notwithstanding these difficulties, yielded
results of extraordinary precision. Quite a number of investigators
at some leading observatories of Europe and America are pursuing the
work of determining these motions. The determinations have almost
necessarily been limited to the brighter stars, because, owing to the
light of the star being spread over so broad a space in the spectrum,
instead of being concentrated on a point, a far longer exposure is
necessary to photograph the spectrum of a star than to photograph
the star itself. The larger the telescope the fainter the star
whose spectrum can be photographed. Vogel, of Potsdam, who has made
the most systematic sets of these measures that have yet appeared,
included few stars fainter than the second magnitude. With the largest
telescopes the spectro of stars down to about the fifth magnitude may
be photographed; beyond this it is extremely difficult to go. The limit
will probably be reached by the spectrograph of the Yerkes Observatory,
which is now being put into operation by Professors Hale and Frost.


THE MOTION OF THE SUN.

When a star is found to be seemingly in motion, as described in the
last section, we may ascribe the phenomenon to a motion either of the
star itself or of the observer. In fact no motion can be determined
or defined except by reference to some body supposed to be at rest.
In the case of any one star, we may equally well suppose the star to
be at rest and the observer in motion, or the contrary. Or we may
suppose both to have such motions that the difference of the two shall
represent the apparent movement of the star. Hence our actual result
in the case of each separate star is a relation between the motion of
the star and the motion of the sun.

I say the motion of the sun and not of the earth, because although the
observer is actually on the earth, yet the latter never leaves the
neighborhood of the sun, and, as a matter of fact, the ultimate result
in the long run must be a motion relative to the sun itself as if we
made our observations from that body. The question then arises whether
there is any criterion for determining how much of the apparent motion
of any given star should be attributed to the star itself and how much
to a motion of the sun in the opposite direction.

If we should find that the stars, in consequence of their proper
motions, all appeared to move in the same direction, we would naturally
assume that they were at rest and the sun in motion. A conclusion of
this sort was first reached by Herschel, who observed that among the
stars having notable proper motions there was a general tendency to
move from the direction of the constellation Hercules, which is in the
northern hemisphere, towards the opposite constellation Argo, in the
southern hemisphere.

Acting on this suggestion, subsequent astronomers have adopted the
practice of considering the general average of all the stars, or a
position which we may regard as their common center of gravity, to be
at rest, and then determining the motion of the sun with respect to
this center. Here we encounter the difficulty that we cannot make any
absolute determination of the position of any such center. The latter
will vary according to what particular stars we are able to include
in our estimate. What we can do is to take all the stars which appear
to have a proper motion, and determine the general direction of that
motion. This gives us a certain point in the heavens toward which the
solar system is traveling, and which is now called the _solar apex_, or
the apex of the solar way.

The apparent motion of the stars due to this motion of the solar system
is now called their _parallactic motion_, to distinguish it from the
actual motion of the star itself.

The interest which attaches to the determination of the solar apex has
led a great number of investigators to attempt it. Owing to the rather
indefinite character of the material of investigation, the uncertainty
of the proper motions, and the additions constantly made to the number
of stars which are available for the purpose in view, different
investigators have reached different results. Until quite recently, the
general conclusion was that the solar apex was situated somewhere in
the constellation Hercules. But the general trend of recent research
has been to place it in or near the adjoining constellation Lyra. This
change has arisen mainly from including a larger number of stars, whose
motions were determined with greater accuracy.

Former investigators based their conclusions entirely on stars having
considerable proper motions, these being, in general, the nearer to us.
The fact is, however, that it is better to include stars having a small
proper motion, because the advantage of their great number more than
counterbalances the disadvantage of their distance.

The conclusions reached by some recent investigators of the position of
the solar apex will now be given. We call A the right ascension of the
apex; D its declination.

Prof. Lewis Boss, from 273 stars of large proper motion found

  A = 283°.3; D = 44°.1.

If he excluded the motions of 26 stars which exceeded 40″ per century
the result was

  A = 288°.7; D = 51°.5.

A comparison of these numbers shows how much the result depends on the
special stars selected. By leaving out 26 stars the apex is changed by
5° in R. A., and 7° in declination.

It is to be remarked that the stars used by Boss are all contained in a
belt four degrees wide, extending from 1° to 5° north of the equator.

Dr. Oscar Stumpe, of Berlin, made a list of 996 stars having proper
motions between 16″ and 128″ per century. He divided them into three
groups, the first including those between 16″ and 32″; the second
between 32″ and 64″; the third between 64″ and 128″. The number of
stars in each group and the position of the apex derived from them are
as follows:

  Gr. I, 551 stars; A = 287°.4; D = × 45°.0
     II, 339            282°.2        43°.5
    III, 106            280°.2        33°.5

Porter, of Cincinnati, made a determination from a yet larger list of
stars with results of the same general character.

These determinations have the advantage that the stars are scattered
over the entire heavens, the southern as well as the northern ones.
The difference of more than 10° between the position derived from
stars with the largest proper motions, and from the other stars, is
remarkable.

The present writer, in a determination of the precessional motion,
incidentally determined the solar motion from 2,527 stars contained in
Bradley’s Catalogue which had small proper motions, and from about 600
more having larger proper motions. Of the latter the declinations only
were used. The results were:

  From small motions: A = 274°.2; D = × 31°.2
  From large motions:     276°.9        31°.4

From all these results it would seem that the most likely apex of the
solar motion is toward the point in

  Right Ascension, 280°
  Declination,      38° north.

This point is situated in the constellation Lyra, about 2° from the
first magnitude star Vega. The uncertainty of the result is more than
this difference, four or five degrees at least. We may therefore state
the conclusion in this form:

_The apex of the solar motion is in the general direction of the
constellation Lyra, and probably very near the star Vega, the brightest
of that constellation._

It must be admitted that the wide difference between the position of
the apex from large and from small proper motions, as found by Porter,
Boss and Stumpe, require explanation. Since the apparent motions of the
stars are less the greater their distance, these results, if accepted
as real, would lead to the conclusion that the position of the solar
apex derived from stars near to us was much further south than when
derived from more distant stars. This again would indicate that our
sun is one of a cluster or group of stars, having, in the general
average, a different proper motion from the more distant stars. But
this conclusion is not to be accepted as real until the subject has
been more exhaustively investigated. The result may depend on the
selection of the stars; and there is, as yet, no general agreement
among investigators as to the best way of making the determination.

The next question which arises is that of the velocity of the solar
motion. The data for this determination are more meagre and doubtful
than those for the direction of the motion. The most obvious and direct
method is to determine the parallactic motion of the stars of known
parallax. Regarding any star 90° from the apex of the solar motion as
in a state of absolute rest, we have the obvious rule that the quotient
of its parallactic motion during any period, say a century, divided
by its parallax, gives the solar motion during that period, in units
of the earth’s distance from the sun. In fact, by a motion of the sun
through one such unit, the star would have an apparent motion in the
opposite direction equal to its annual parallax. If the star were not
90° from the apex we can easily reduce its observed parallactic motion
by dividing it by the sign of its actual distance from the apex.

Since every star has, presumably, a proper motion of its own, we can
draw no conclusion from the apparent motion of any one star, owing to
the impossibility of distinguishing its actual from its parallactic
motion. We should, therefore, base our conclusion on the mean result
from a great number of stars, whose average position or center of mass
we might assume to be at rest. Here we meet the difficulty that there
are only about 60 stars whose parallaxes can be said to be determined;
and one-half of these are too near the apex, or have too small a
parallax, to permit of any conclusion being drawn from them.

A second method is based on the spectroscopic measures of the motion
of stars in the line of sight, or the line from the earth to the star.
A star at rest in the direction of the solar apex would be apparently
moving toward us with a velocity equal to that of the solar motion.
Assuming the center of mass of all the stars observed to be at rest, we
should get the solar motion from the mean of all.

Thus far, however, there are only about 50 stars whose motions in the
line of sight have been used for the determination, so that the data
are yet more meagre than in the case of the proper motions. From them,
however, using a statistical method Kapteyn has derived results which
seem to show that the actual velocity of the solar system through space
is about 16 kilometres, or 10 statute miles, per second.




THE PSYCHOLOGY OF RED. (II.)

BY HAVELOCK ELLIS.


The facts and considerations we have passed in review fairly indicate
the physiological and psychological preëminence of red among the colors
of the spectrum to which we are sensitive. What is the cause of that
preëminence?

It seems to me that two orders of causes have coöperated to produce
this predominant influence, one physical and depending on the special
effects of the long-waved portion of the spectrum on living matter,
the other psychological and resulting from the special environmental
influences to which man, and to some extent even the higher animals
generally, have been subjected. It is possible that these two
influences blend together and cannot at any point be disentangled; it
is possible that acquired aptitude may be inherited or that what seem
to be acquired aptitudes are really perpetuated congenital variations;
but on the whole the two influences are so distinct that we may deal
with them separately.

On the physical side the influence of the red rays, although there is
much evidence showing that it may be traced throughout the whole of
organic nature, is certainly most strongly and convincingly exhibited
on plants. The characteristic greenness of vegetation alone bears
witness to this fact. The red rays are life to the chlorophyll-bearing
plant, the violet rays are death. A meadow, it has been justly said, is
a vast field of tongues of fire greedily licking up the red rays and
vomiting forth the poisonous bile of blue and yellow. An experiment of
Flammarion’s has beautifully shown the widely different reaction of
plants to the red and violet rays. At the climatological station at
Juvisy he constructed four greenhouses--one of ordinary transparent
glass, another of red glass, another of green, the fourth of dark blue.
The glass was monochromatic, as carefully tested by the spectroscope,
and dark blue was used instead of violet because it was impossible to
obtain a perfect violet glass. These were all placed under uniform
meteorological and other conditions, and from certain plants such as
the sensitive plant, previously sown on the same day in the same soil,
eight of each kind were selected, all measuring 27 millimetres, and
placed by two and two in the four greenhouses on the 4th of July. On
the 15th of August there were notable differences in height, color
and sensitiveness, and these differences continued to become marked;
photographs of the plants on the 4th of October showed that while
those under blue glass had made no progress, those under red glass had
attained extraordinary development, red light acting like a manure.
While those under blue glass became insensitive, under red glass the
sensitive plants had become excessively sensitive to the least breath.
They also flowered, those under transparent glass being vigorous and
showing buds, but not flowering. The foliage under red glass was
very light, under blue darkest. Similar but less marked effects were
found in the case of geraniums, strawberries, etc. The strawberries
under blue glass were no more advanced in October than in May; though
not growing old their life was little more than a sleep. It appears,
however, that the stimulating influence of red light fails to influence
favorably the ripening of fruit. Zacharewiez, professor of agriculture
at Vaucluse, has found that red, or rather orange, produces the
greatest amount of vegetation, while as regards fruit, the finest and
earliest was grown under clear glass, violet glass, indeed, causing the
amount of fruit to increase but at the expense of the quality.

Moreover, the lowest as well as the highest plants participated in this
response to the red rays, and in even a more marked degree, for they
perish altogether under the influence of the violet rays. Marshall Ward
and others have shown that the blue, violet and ultra-violet rays, but
no others, are deleterious to bacteria. Finsen has successfully made
use of this fact in the treatment of bacterial skin diseases. Reynolds
Green has shown that while the ultra-violet rays have a destructive
influence on diastase, the red rays have a powerfully stimulating
effect, increasing diastase and converting zymogen into diastase.

While the influence of the red rays on the plant is thus so enormous
and easily demonstrated, the physical effects of red on animals seem
to be even opposite in character, although results of experiments are
somewhat contradictory. Béclard found that the larvæ of the flesh fly
raised under violet glass were three fourths larger than those raised
under green glass; the order was violet, blue, red, yellow, white,
green. In the case of tadpoles, Yung found that violet or blue was
especially favorable to the growth of frogs; he also found that fish
hatch most rapidly under violet light. Thus the influence that is
practically death to plants is that most favorable to life in animals.
Both effects, however, as Davenport truly remarks in his ‘Experimental
Morphology,’ when summing up the results of investigations, are due to
the same chemical metabolic changes, but while plants succumb to the
influence of the violet rays, animals, being more highly organized, are
able to take advantage of them and flourish.

At the same time the influence of violet rays on animal tissue is by no
means invariably beneficial; they are often too powerful a stimulant.
That the violet rays have an influence on the human skin which in
the first place, at all events, is destructive and harmful in a high
degree, is now clearly established by the observations and experiments
of Charcot, Unna, Hammer, Bowles and others, while Finsen has made
an important advance in the treatment of disease based on this fact.
The conditions called ‘sun-burn,’ ‘snow-burn,’ ‘snow-blindness,’ for
instance, which may affect even travelers on snow-fields and Arctic
explorers, are now known to be wholly due to the violet and not to the
red rays. Unna’s device of wearing a yellow veil, and Bowles’s plan of
painting the skin brown, thus shutting off the violet rays, suffice to
prevent sun-burn. The same effect is also obtained by nature, which
under the stress of sunlight, and largely through the irritation of the
violet rays themselves, weaves a pigmentary veil of yellow and brown on
the skin, which thus protects from the further injurious influence of
the violet rays and renders the sunlight a source of less alloyed joy
and health.

That the presence of the red rays, or at all events the exclusion
of the violet, is of great benefit in many skin diseases seems to
be now beyond doubt. This has been shown by Finsen in his treatment
of smallpox in red rooms; it appears that it was also known in the
Middle Ages as well as in Japan, Tonquin and Roumania, red bed-covers,
curtains or carpets being used to obtain the effect. Under the
treatment by red light not only is the skin enabled to heal healthfully
without scarring, but the whole course of the disease is beneficially
affected and abbreviated, the fever is diminished and also the risk
of complications. Another physician has discovered that a similar
beneficial effect is produced by red light in measles. A child with
a severe attack of measles was put into a room with red blinds and
a photographic lamp. The rash speedily disappeared and the fever
subsided, the child complaining only of the absence of light; the
blinds were consequently removed, and the fever, rash and prostration
returned, to disappear again when the blinds were resumed.

Whether red light, or the exclusion of violet, exerts a beneficial
influence on the hæmoglobin of the blood and on metabolism generally
has not been distinctly proved, but it seems to me to be indicated by
such experiments as those of Marti published a few years ago in the
_Atti dei Lincei_. This investigator found that while feeble irritation
of the skin promotes the formation of blood corpuscles, strong
irritation diminishes the blood corpuscles and also the hæmoglobin;
at the same time he found that darkness also diminishes the number
of red corpuscles, while continued exposure to intense light (even
at night the electric light, which, however, is rich in violet rays)
favors increased formation of red corpuscles, and in some degree of
hæmoglobin. Finsen has shown that inflammation of the skin caused by
chemical or violet light leads to contraction of the red corpuscles.

This brings us to the consideration of the influence of the red rays
on the nervous system. From time to time experiments have been made
as to the influence of various colored lights, chiefly on the insane,
as first suggested by Father Secchi in 1895. Even yet, however, the
specific mental influences of the various colors are not quite clear.
It has been found by some that the red rays are far more soothing and
comfortable, less irritating, than the total rays of uncolored light,
and Garbini found that angry infants were soothed by the light through
red glass, only slightly by that through green and not at all by other
colored light. On the other hand, it is stated that a well-known dry
plate manufacturer at Lyons was obliged to substitute green-colored
glass in the windows of his large room for the usual red because the
work people sang and gesticulated all day and the men made love to the
women, while under the influence of green glass (which also allows
yellow rays to pass) they became quiet and silent and seemed less
fatigued when they left off work. We need not attach much value to
these statements, but in this connection it is interesting to refer
to the results obtained some years ago by Féré and recorded in his
‘Sensation et Mouvement.’ Experimenting on normal subjects as well
as on nervous subjects, who were found more sensitive, with colored
light passed through glass or sheets of gelatine, he found notable
differences in muscular power, measured by the dynamometer, and in the
circulation as measured by plethysmographic tracings of the forearm
under the influence of different colors. He found in this manner with
one subject whose normal muscular power was represented by 23 that blue
light increased his power to 24, green to 28, yellow to 30, orange
to 35 and red to 42. The dynamogenic powers of the different colors
were thus found to rank in the spectral order, red representing the
climax of energy, or, as Féré puts it, “the intensity of the visual
sensation varies as the vibrations.” Féré found that colors need not
be perceived in order to show their influence, thus proving the purely
physical nature of that influence, for in a subject who was unable to
see colors with one eye, the color stimulus had the same dynamogenic
effect whether applied to the seeing or the defective eye. Increase of
volume of blood in the limbs, measured by the plethysmograph, so far as
we can rely on Féré’s experiments, ran parallel with the influence on
muscular power, culminating with red, so that no metaphor is involved,
Féré remarks, when we speak of red as a ‘warm’ color. On the insane
the results attained by the use of colored glass do not seem to be
quite coherent. Some of the earlier observers described the beneficial
effects of blue glass in soothing maniacs. Pritchard Davies, however,
was not able to find that red light had any beneficial effect, though
on some cases blue had, while Roffegean found that, in the case of a
somber and taciturn maniac who could rarely be persuaded to eat, three
hours in a red-lighted room produced a markedly beneficial effect, and
a man with delusions of persecution became quite rational and was even
in a condition to be sent home after a few days in the same room. He
also found that a violent maniac wearing a strait jacket, after a few
hours in a room with blue glass windows became quite calm and gave no
further trouble. Osburne has found, after many years’ experience, that
in the absence of structural disease violet light (for from three to
six hours) is most useful in the treatment of excitement, sleeplessness
and acute mania; red he has found of some benefit, though to a much
less degree in such cases (it must be remarked that violet light as
usually applied is not free from red), while he has not found any color
with which he has tried experiments (red, orange or violet) of benefit
in melancholia. The significance of these facts is not altogether
clear; the influence, as Pritchard Davies concluded, seems to be
largely moral, though it may be that the colors of long wave-length are
tonic and those of short wave-length sedative.

So far I have been chiefly concerned to point out that the immense
emotional impressiveness of red has a basis in physical laws, being by
no means altogether a matter of environmental associations. It is true
that the two groups of influences overlap, and that we can not always
distinguish them. We can not be sure that the greater sensitiveness
to the red rays may not have been emphasized in the organism, not
necessarily as the result of inherited acquirement, but probably as
the perpetuation of a variation of sensibility, found beneficial in
an environment where red was liable to be especially associated with
objects that were to be avoided as terrible or sought as useful. In
this way the physical and environmental factors would run in a circle.

We have to bear this consideration in mind when we take into account
the susceptibilities of animals, especially of the higher animals,
to red. The color sense, it is well known, is widely diffused among
animals; indeed this fact has been brought forward, especially by
Pouchet, to prove that there can have been no color evolution in man;
this it can scarcely be said to show, since evolution does not run in a
straight line, and it is quite conceivable and even probable that the
ancestors of man were less dependent than many lower animals, for the
means of living, on a highly developed color sense. Thus a color sense
that among some creatures is so highly developed as to include even the
ultra-violet rays, was among our own ape-like ancestors either never
developed or partially lost.

Graber, in his important investigation into the color sense of animals,
showed that of fifty animals studied by him forty showed strong color
preferences in their places of abode. In general he found, without
being able to explain the fact, that animals which prefer the dark are
red lovers, those which prefer the light are blue lovers. The common
worm, with head and tail cut off, still preferred red to blue nearly
as much as when uninjured. (This would seem to indicate the same kind
of susceptibility to unaccustomed violet rays which we have already
encountered in the phenomenon of sun-burn.) The triton and cochineal,
with eyes removed and heads covered with wax, still had delicate sense
for color and brightness. The flea infesting the dog had a finer color
sense than the bee, while nearly all the animals Graber investigated
were more or less sensitive to the ultra-red rays.

Among insects it scarcely appears, nor should we expect that there
would be any peculiarly marked predilection or aversion for red.
Cockerell and F. W. Anderson, from observations in various parts of the
United States, believe that yellow (_i. e._, the brightest color) is
the most attractive to insects, and the former doubts whether insects
can distinguish red from yellow. Among the higher animals, and even
among fishes and birds, there is not only a color sense, but a highly
emotionalized color sense, and red appears to be usually the color
that arouses the emotion. There is a proverb, ‘Women and mackerel
are caught by red,’ and perch is also said to be caught by red bait.
Sparrows appear to be repelled by red; the case is reported of a hen
sparrow, kept in captivity for ten years, which though otherwise a
fearless bird ‘would on seeing scarlet show painful signs of distress
and faint away.’ The lady who records this observation has noted the
same repugnance to red, though in a less marked degree, in other
sparrows, one of which showed a predilection for blue objects, and she
remarks that when feeding outdoor sparrows from the window they flew
away when she wore a red jacket, while a blue jacket inspired them with
confidence; other birds, she found, except a cockatoo, were unaffected
by colors. Red, it is well known, is very obnoxious to turkey cocks,
while the fury aroused in various quadrupeds by red was known at a very
early period; Seneca referred to it in the case of the bull, the most
familiar example; it is seen in buffaloes, sometimes in horses, and
also, it is said, in the hippopotamus.

The phenomena of color aversion and color predilection among insects
may possibly be in some degree a matter of physical sensibility,
varying according to the creature’s tissues, habitat and needs, but as
we approach the vertebrates and especially the mammals there can be
little doubt that it is mainly a matter of environment and association;
in other words, that it is accounted for by the color of food, the
color of blood and the color of the chief secondary sexual characters.

Let us, however, confine ourselves to man, and consider what are the
chief colored objects that are of most vital concern to the human and
most closely allied species.

One of the earliest groups of such objects--some would say the most
important group in this connection--is that of ripe fruits. Certainly
among the frugivorous apes and among many races of primitive man, the
color of fruits must be a powerful factor in developing a sensibility
for red rays, and in associating such sensibility with emotional
satisfaction. The color of fruits is most generally red, orange or
purple, and since purple is largely made up of red, it is clear that
the influence of fruits will almost exclusively bear on the rays
of long wave-length. We may reasonably suppose that the search for
fruits acted as an important factor in the development of a special
sensibility for red.

A later factor in the predilection for the red, orange and yellow
rays, though scarcely a factor in their discrimination, lies in the
fact that these are the colors of fire. Flame, apart from its beauty,
on which certain poets, Shelley especially, have often insisted, is a
source of massive physical satisfaction. Even under the conditions of
civilization we are often acutely sensitive to this fact, while under
the conditions of primitive life, in imperfect shelters, caves or
tents, where no other source of artificial light and heat is known, the
satisfaction is immensely greater. At the same time fire is associated
with food, it is a protection from wild beasts and the accompaniment of
the festival. It may even take on a sacred and symbolic character, and
the Roman goddess Vesta was, as Ovid said, simply ‘living flame.’

While fruit or fire would tend to make the emotional tone of red
pleasant, another very powerful factor in its emotional influences,
though this time as much by causing terror as pleasure, is the fact
that it is the color of blood. That ‘the blood is the life’ is a belief
instinctively stamped even on the emotions of animals, and it has not
died even in civilized man, for the sight of blood produces on many
persons a sickening and terrifying sensation which is only overcome
by habit and experience or by a very strong effort of will. It is
not surprising that in some parts of the world, and even in our own
Indo-European group of languages, the name for red is ‘blood-color.’

It is evident, however, that at a very early period of primitive
culture the blood had ceased to be merely a source of terror, or even
of the joy of battle. We find everywhere that blood is blended into
complex ritual customs, and thus associated with complex emotional
states. Among the ancient Arabians blood was smeared on the body
on various occasions, and in modern Arabia blood is still so used.
Everywhere, even in the folk-lore of modern Europe, we find that
blood is a medicine, as it is also among the primitive aborigines of
Australia, so carefully investigated by Baldwin Spencer and Gillen.
Among these latter primitive people we meet with a phenomenon of very
great significance. We find, that is, that blood is the earliest
pigment. There can be little doubt that the earliest paint used by
man--no doubt by man when in a much more primitive condition than even
the Australians--was blood. In the initiation rites of the Arunta
tribes, as described by Spencer and Gillen, the chief performer is
elaborately decorated with patterns in eagle-hawk down stuck to his
body with blood drawn from some member of the tribe. It was estimated
that one man alone, on one of these occasions, allowed five half-pints
to be taken from him during a single day; at the same time the blood is
not regarded as sufficient pigment and the down is also colored red and
yellow with ochre. Red ochre, Spencer and Gillen remark, is frequently
a substitute for blood or is used with it. Blood is a medicine, and
when any one is ill he is first rubbed over with red ochre, it being
obvious to the primitive mind that the ochre will share the remedial
properties of blood; in the same way ceremonial objects may sometimes
be rubbed over with ochre instead of blood. They associate this red
ochre especially with women’s blood; and it is said that once some
women after long walking were so exhausted that hemorrhage came on and
this gave rise to deposits of red ochre. Other red ochre pits, also,
they attribute to blood which flowed from women. It appears also that
the blood with which sacred implements used in the ritual ceremonies of
these Central Australians were smeared must be drawn from women.

Far from Australia, among the hill tribes of the Central Indian hills,
we find the same blood ritual and the same tendency to substitute
pigments for blood. Among some of the Bengal tribes, says Crooke, blood
is drawn from the husband’s little finger, mixed with betel and eaten
by the bride. A fur

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