Part 20

I admit the probability of an ice-sheet extending as Mr. Geikie describes, but maintain that it thinned out rapidly seaward, and there became a mere ice-floe, such as now impedes the navigation of Smith’s Sound and other portions of the Arctic Ocean. The Orkneys and Shetlands, with which I am also unacquainted, must afford similar crucial instances, always taking into account the fact that the larger islands may have been independently glaciated by the accumulations due to their own glacial resources. It is the small rocks standing at considerable distance from the shores of larger masses of land that supply the required test-conditions.

From the above it will be seen that I agree with Mr. Geikie in regarding the till as a “moraine profonde,” but differ as to the mode and place of its deposition. He argues that it was formed under glaciers of the thickness he describes, while their whole weight rested upon it.

This appears to me to be physically impossible. If such glaciers are capable of eroding solid rocks, the slimy mud of their own deposits could not possibly have resisted them. The only case where this might have happened is where a mountain-wall has blocked the further downward progress of a glacier, or in pockets, or steep hollows which a glacier might have bridged over and filled up; but such pockets are by no means the characteristic localities of till, though the till of Switzerland may possibly show examples of the first case. The great depth of the inland lakes of Norway, their bottoms being usually far below that of the present sea-bottom, is in direct contradiction of this. They should, before all places, be filled with till, if the till were a ground moraine formed on land; but all we know of them confirms the belief that the glaciers deepened them by erosion instead of shallowing them by deposition.

Mr. Geikie’s able defence of Ramsay’s theory of lake-basin erosion is curiously inconsistent with his arguments in favor of the ground moraine.

I fully concur with Mr. Geikie’s arguments against the iceberg theory of the formation of the till. This, I think, he has completely refuted.

Before concluding I must say a few words on those curious lenticular beds of sand and gravel in the till which appear so very puzzling. A simple explanation is suggested in connection with the above-sketched view of the formation of the till. All glaciers, whether in arctic or temperate climates, are washed by streamlets during summer, and these commonly terminate in the form of a stream or cascade pouring down a “moulin”—a well bored by themselves and reaching the bottom of the glacier. Now what must be the action of such a downflow of water upon my supposed submarine bed of till just grazing the bottom of the glacier? Obviously, to wash away the fine clayey particles, and leave behind the coarser sand or gravel. It must form just such a basin or lenticular cavity as Mr. Geikie describes. The oblong shape of these, their longer axis coinciding with the general course of the glacier, would be produced by the onward progress of the moulin. The accordance of their other features with this explanation will be seen on reading Mr. Geikie’s description (pp. 18, 19, etc).

The general absence of marine animals and their occasional exceptional occurrence in the intercalated beds is just what might be expected under the conditions I have sketched. In the gloomy subglacial depths of the sea, drenched with continual supplies of fresh water and cooled below the freezing-point by the action of salt water on the ice, ordinary marine life would be impossible; while, on the other hand, any recession of the glacial limit would restore the conditions of arctic animal life, to be again obliterated with the renewed outward growth of the floating skirts of the inland ice-mantle.

But I must now refrain from the further discussion of these and other collateral details, but hope to return to them in another paper.

In “Through Norway with Ladies” I have touched lightly upon some of these, and have more particularly described some curious and very extensive evidences of secondary glaciation that quite escaped my attention on my first visit, and which, too, have been equally overlooked by other observers. In the above I have endeavored to keep as nearly as possible to the main subject of the origin of the till and the character of the ancient ice-sheet.

THE BAROMETER AND THE WEATHER.

The barometer was invented by Torricelli, an Italian philosopher of the seventeenth century. It consists essentially of a long tube open at one end and closed at the other, and partly filled with mercury; but instead of being filled like ordinary vessels, with the open end or mouth upwards and the closed end or bottom downwards, the barometer-tube is inverted, and has its open mouth downwards. This open mouth is either dipped into a little cup of mercury or bent a little upwards.

Why does not the mercury run out of this lower open end and overflow the little cup when it is inverted after being filled?

The answer to this question includes the whole mystery and principle of the barometer. The mercury does not fall down because something pushes it up and supports it with a certain degree of pressure, and that something is the atmosphere which extends all round the world, and presses downwards and sideways and upwards—in every direction, in fact—with a force equal to its weight, i.e., with a pressure equal to about 15 lbs. on every square inch. A column or perpendicular square stick of air one inch thick each way, and extending from the surface of the sea up to the top of the atmosphere, weighs about 15 lbs.; other columns or sticks next to it on all sides weigh the same, and so on with every portion; and all these are for ever squeezing down and against each other, and, being fluid, transmit their pressure in every direction, and against the earth and everything upon it, and therefore upon the mercury of the barometer-tube.

We have supposed the air to be made up of columns or sticks of air one inch each way, but might have taken any other size, and the weight and pressure would be proportionate. Now mercury, bulk for bulk, is so much heavier than air, that a stick or column of this liquid metal about 30 inches high weighs as much as a stick or column of air of same thickness reaching from the surface of the earth to the top of the atmosphere; therefore, the 30-inch stick of mercury balances the pressure of the many miles of atmosphere, and is supported by it. Thus the column of mercury may be used to counterbalance the atmosphere and show us its weight; and such a column of mercury is a barometer, or “weight measure.” The word barometer is compounded of the two Greek words—baros, weight, and metron, a measure.

If you take a glass tube a yard long, stopped at one end and open at the other, fill it with mercury, stop the open end with your thumb, then invert the tube and just dip the open end in a little cup of mercury, some of the mercury in the tube will fall into the cup, but not all; only six inches will fall, the other 30 inches will remain, with an empty space between it and the stopped end of the tube. When you have done this you will have made a rude barometer. If you prop up the tube, and watch it carefully from day to day, you will find that the height of the column of mercury will continually vary. If you live at the sea-level, or thereabouts, it will sometimes rise more than 30 inches above the level of the mercury in the cup, and frequently fall below that height. If you live on the top of a high mountain, or on any high ground, it will never reach 30 inches, will still be variable, its average height less than if you lived on lower ground; and the higher you go the less will be this average height of the mercury.

The reason of this is easily understood. When we ascend a mountain we leave some portion of the atmosphere below us, and of course less remains above; this smaller quantity must have less weight and press the mercury less forcibly. If the barometer tells the truth, it must show this difference; and it does so with such accuracy that by means of a barometer, or rather of two barometers—one at the foot of the mountain and one at its summit—we may, by their difference, measure the height of the mountain provided we know the rules for making the requisite calculations.

The old-fashioned barometer, with a large dial-face and hands like a clock, is called the “wheel barometer,” because the mercury, in rising and falling, moves a little glass float resting upon the mercury of the open bent end of the tube; to this float and its counterpoise a fine cord is attached; and this cord goes round a little grooved wheel to which the hands are attached. Thus the rising and falling of the mercury moves the float, the float-cord turns the wheel, and the wheel moves the hand that points to the words and figures on the dial. When this hand moves towards the right, or in the direction of an advancing clock-hand, the barometer is rising; when it goes backwards, or opposite to the clock-hand movement, the mercury is falling. By opening the little door at the back of such a barometer, the above-described mechanism is seen. In doing this, or otherwise moving your barometer, be careful always to keep it upright.

It sometimes happens to these wheel barometers that they, suddenly cease to act; and in most cases the owner of the barometer may save the trouble and expense of sending it to the optician by observing whether the cord has slipped from the little wheel, and if so, simply replacing it in the groove upon its edge. If, however, the mischief is caused by the tube being broken, which is seen at once by the mercury having run out, the case is serious, and demands professional aid.

The upright barometer, which shows the surface of the mercury itself, is the most accurate instrument, provided it is carefully read. This form of instrument is always used in meteorological observatories, where minute corrections are made for the expansion and contraction which variations of temperature produce upon the length of the mercury without altering its weight, and for the small fluctuations in the level of the mercury cistern. With such instruments, fitted with an apparatus called a “vernier” the height of the mercury may be read to hundredths of an inch.

The necessity for the 30 inches of mercury renders the mercurial barometer a rather cumbrous instrument: it must be more than 30 inches long, and is liable to derangement from the spilling of the mercury. On this account portable barometers of totally different construction have been invented. The “aneroid” barometer is one of these—the only one that is practically used to any extent. It contains a metal box partly filled with air; one face of the box is corrugated, and so thin that it can rise and fall like a stretched covering of india-rubber. As the pressure of the outside air varies it does rise and fall, and by a beautifully-delicate apparatus this rising and falling is magnified and represented upon the dial. Such barometers are made small enough to be carried in the pocket, and are very useful for measuring the heights of mountains; but they are not quite so accurate as the mercurial barometer, and are therefore not used for rigidly scientific measurements; but for all ordinary purposes they are accurate enough, provided they are occasionally compared with a standard mercurial barometer, and adjusted by means of a watch-key axis provided for that purpose, and seen on the back of the instrument. They are sufficiently delicate to tell the traveller in a railway whether he is ascending or descending an incline, and will indicate the difference of height between the upper and lower rooms of a three-story house. With due allowance for variations of level, the traveler may use them as weather indicators; especially as it is the direction in which the barometer is moving (whether rising or falling) rather than its absolute height that indicates changes of weather. Thus by placing the aneroid in his room on reaching his hotel at night, carefully marking its height then and there, and comparing this with another observation made on the following morning, he may use it as a weather-glass in spite of hill and dale.

Water barometers have been made on the same principle as the mercury barometer; but as water is 13½ times lighter, bulk for bulk, than mercury, the height of the column must be 13½ times 30 inches, or, allowing for variations, not less than 34 feet. This, of course, is very cumbrous; the evaporation of the water presents another considerable difficulty, still such a barometer is a very interesting instrument, as it shows the atmospheric fluctuations on 13½ times the scale of the ordinary barometer. A range of about five feet is thus obtained; and not only the great waves, but even the comparatively small ripples of the atmospheric ocean are displayed by it. In stormy weather it may be seen to rise and fall and pulsate like a living creature, so sensitively does it respond to every atmospheric fluctuation.

But why should the height of the barometer vary while it remains in the same place?

If the quantity of air surrounding the earth remains the same, and if the barometer measures its weight correctly, why should the barometer vary?

Does the atmosphere grow bigger and smaller, lighter and heavier, from time to time?

These are fair questions, and they bring us at once to some of the chief uses of the barometer. The atmosphere is a great gaseous ocean surrounding the earth, and we are creeping about on the bottom of this ocean. It has its tides and billows and whirling eddies, but all these are vastly greater than those of the watery ocean. At one time we are under the crest or rounded portion of a mighty atmospheric wave, at another the hollow between two such waves is over our heads, and thus the depth of atmosphere, or quantity of air, above us is variable. This variation is the combined result of many co-operating causes. In the first place, there are great atmospheric tides, caused, like those of the sea, by the attraction of the sun and moon; but these do not directly affect the barometer, because the attracting body supports whatever it lifts. Variations of temperature also produce important fluctuations in the height and density of the atmosphere, some of which are indicated by the barometer—others are not. Thus a mere expansion or contraction of dry air, increasing the depth or the density of the atmospheric ocean, would not affect the barometer, as mere expansion and contraction only alter the bulk without affecting the weight of the air. But our atmosphere consists not only of the permanent gases, nitrogen and oxygen; it contains besides these and carbonic acid, a considerable quantity of gaseous matter, which is not permanent, but which may be a gas at one moment—contributing its whole weight to that of the general atmosphere—and at another moment some of it may be condensed into liquid particles that fall through it more or less rapidly, and thus contribute nothing to its weight.

What, then, is this variable constituent that sometimes adds to the weight of the atmosphere and the consequent height of the barometer, and at others may suddenly cease to afford its full contribution to atmospheric pressure?

It is simply water, which, as we all know, exists as solid, liquid, or gas, according to the temperature and pressure to which it is exposed. We all know that steam when it first issues from the spout of a tea-kettle is a transparent gas, or true vapor, but that presently, by contact with the cool air, it becomes white, cloudy matter, or minute particles of water; and that, if these are still further cooled, they will become hoar-frost or snow, or solid ice. Artificial hoar-frost and snow may be formed by throwing a jet of steam into very cold, frosty air. If you take a tin canister or other metal vessel, fill it with a mixture of salt with pounded ice or snow, and then hold the outside of the canister against a jet of steam, such as issues from the spout of a tea-kettle, a snowy deposit of hoar-frost will coat the outside of the tin. Now let us consider what takes place when a warm south-westerly wind, that has swept over the tropical regions of the Atlantic ocean, reaches the comparatively cold shores of Britain. It is cooled thereby, and some of its gaseous water is condensed—forming mists, clouds, rain, hoar-frost or snow. The greater part of this forms and falls on the western coasts, on Cornwall, Ireland, the Western Highlands of Scotland. Ireland gets the lion’s share of this humidity, and hence her “emerald” verdure. The western slope of a mountain, in like manner, receives more rain than the side facing the east.

How does this condensation affect the barometer?