Part 14

Man has endeavoured by many means to defend himself from this persecutor. He has rubbed himself with medicaments, and has hung up boughs of shrubs to which it is supposed that the mosquito has an objection. He has invented pastilles, whose smoke, it was hoped, would lull his foe into a lethargy; but at all these and similar measures the mosquito laughs. The only resource affording even a partial protection is the mosquito curtain. In theory this device is excellent. Man enclosed within a curtain of gauze ought to be unassailable. Unfortunately the practice does not follow the theory. However secure the curtains, however great the pains bestowed in seeing that no mosquito was present when the man was tucked up inside them, we doubt whether history records a single example of complete success having attended the arrangement. Do what man will, the mosquito will be there. Its favourite plan is to be beforehand with a man, and to hide somewhere until man has entered his muslin tent. Every effort will, it knows, be made to dislodge it; the curtains will be shaken, towels will be flapped here and there, every nook and corner will, as it seems, be examined, but the mosquito will manage in one way or other to evade the search. But even in the exceptional cases where it is routed out, the mosquito knows that it is but for a time. If there is a hole in the curtains, be it only the size of a knitting-needle, it will find it and get through; and in the event of the curtains being absolutely new, it is sure to find some point at which the tucking up has been imperfectly done. But most of all it relies upon entering with the would-be sleeper. The latter is well aware of this. He listens first for the sound of wings, but at this moment the mosquito is discreetly silent. Then he untucks a small portion of the curtain, his attendant flaps a towel wildly, and under cover of this he plunges hastily through the orifice, which is at once closed behind him. Then, in spite of a thousand similar experiences, the man flatters himself that this time he has evaded the mosquito, and lies down to rest. Stronger and stronger grows the hope as the minutes pass on, and at last it almost blooms into certainty as he finally turns over and composes himself for sleep. Drowsiness steals over him, when, just as consciousness is leaving him, the mosquito sounds a triumphant bugle-blast close to his ear. Then the ordinary man sits up in bed as if he were shot, and swears. This is, unfortunately, all but universal. The best and most patient of men have found it absolutely impossible to avoid using bad language at this crisis. There is a shout for the attendant, a light is brought and placed on a table near the curtain. Then the battle begins in grim earnest, the man against the mosquito; the one silent and watchful, his arms outside the sheet ready for instant action, the other, agile, ubiquitous, intent on exasperating and not on attacking its victim, now resting for a time in a corner, then making a rapid dash at the nose or ear, then disappearing again, and lying silent for some minutes. Occasionally, very occasionally, the man is victor, and with a rapid clutch will grasp and annihilate the mosquito as it passes by his face. In the vast majority of cases the man’s watchfulness is in vain. Hours pass, and Nature asserts herself. The mosquito has had amusement enough, and now, meaning business, remains quiet until its victim dozes off. Not until he is sound asleep will it this time move. Then it settles lightly upon him, inserts its delicate proboscis in one of the pores of his skin, pours in a tiny drop of venom to dilute the blood, and then having drunk till its body has swelled to many times its original size, heavily flies away, and fastens itself to the curtain, where it falls an easy victim to the vengeance of the sleeper in the morning. Such is the conflict when one mosquito has found an entrance. When, as is more usual, half a dozen have entered, it is, as may be imagined, still more dire and disastrous; and the sleeper in the morning wakes with perhaps an eye closed, and his face swollen and disfigured by bumps almost beyond knowledge.

The existence of the mosquito can be accounted for only upon the ground that he was sent as a special trial to man’s temper, but in that case Nature evidently miscalculated the amount of self-control that man possesses. A trial can hardly be considered as a trial when the result is certain, and the breakdown of man’s temper under the attacks of the mosquito is universal and complete. It would have been enough had the mosquito been endowed with activity, craft, and voracity. The trial would have been in that case ample, but exceptional men might have passed through it unscathed. It was the addition of the trumpet that settled the matter. No such exasperating sound is to be heard on earth. Good resolutions crumble to nought before it. The most patient and the most stoical of mortals are as much moved by it as their weaker brethren, and the native of the Arctic Circle and he of the Equator alike in their respective languages utter words of despair and profanity. We may hope, however, that science has not yet spoken its last word, and that some future Pasteur or Koch may discover a bacillus capable of creating a contagious and fatal disease among mosquitoes, and that by this means man may be relieved of a burden almost too heavy for him.

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THE COW.

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ALTHOUGH the cow is always with us, we know but little about her beyond her likes and dislikes in the matter of food. We have, indeed, by dint of long perseverance, transformed the wild cow into an eating machine—a vehicle for the conversion of feeding stuffs into milk and meat. Her brain is to us a sealed book, which so far no sage has made it his business to open. No one, however, can doubt that the cow does a great deal of thinking. In this respect it is among beasts as is the owl among birds. No one can watch a herd of cattle ruminating tranquilly, without being impressed with the conviction that they are thinking deeply. Whether they are meditating over the legends that have been handed down to them of the time when they wandered wild and free on mountain and moor, or are wondering why man busies himself in supplying them with the food most to their liking, while he requires no active service in return, as he does from the horse, we know not.

The eye of the ox is soft and meditative; it has not inspired modern poets, but the ancients recognised its beauty, and the Greeks could find no more complimentary epithet for the Queen of the Gods than to call her ox-eyed. Such an eye should certainly indicate a philosophic mind, and it is in this direction that we must regard it as probable that the cow’s ruminations are directed. We may credit her with having arrived at a conclusion to her own satisfaction as to the points that have engaged the attention of a Darwin or a Spencer, but one can scarce conjecture that the cerebral organisation of the cow was beforehand with man in the discovery of the steam-engine or the electric telegraph. The Arabs and the Orientals, with their deep knowledge of the occult, were evidently impressed with the idea that the cow’s brain is so stored with knowledge that it would be a danger to mankind were she able to put her thoughts into words. This is shown by the fact that, while in their legends the gift of speech is frequently bestowed on horses, storks, and birds of many kinds, there is no instance of a cow being so favoured. It may be said that the dog is similarly omitted; but the dog is an animal looked down upon in the East. It is there never admitted to the intimacy of man, and, having been habitually repressed, has not acquired the traits of character that distinguish it in Western countries. But in whatever light the matter is looked at, it cannot be doubted that it is unfortunate for the world that so profound a thinker as the cow is unable to communicate her conclusions to man.

The cow, as distinct from the bull, is in its wild state a timid animal, and it is somewhat singular that although she has lost much of that timidity, she largely inspires the feeling among the female sex. Next to the mouse, the ordinary woman fears the cow. The dog, a really more alarming animal, she is not afraid of; the horse inspires her with no terror; but the sight of two or three cows in a lane throws her off her balance. On such an occasion a woman will perform feats of activity quite beyond her at ordinary times: she will climb a five-barred gate, or squeeze herself through a gap in a hedge, regardless of rents or scratches, with as much speed and alacrity as she would manifest in leaping on a chair in the presence of that ferocious animal the mouse. We believe that this unreasoning terror has its origin in the pernicious nursery legend of the cow with the crumpled horn. It is true that that animal is related to have suffered the maiden all forlorn to milk her, but she afterwards tossed the dog; and it is the pictorial representations of her while performing this feat that have impressed the juvenile mind. The mere fact that there are few precedents for a woman being tossed by a cow goes for nothing, nor that the animal’s disposition is peaceable in the extreme; it can, therefore, be hardly questioned that the timidity excited in the female mind by the cow must be founded upon some lost legend of antiquity. It may be that Eve had trouble in her first efforts to procure lacteal fluid from the cow, or that the specimen chosen to perpetuate the race in the Ark was rendered savage and dangerous from its long imprisonment there; but no legend that would give favour to either theory has come down to us.

In her wild state the cow is compelled to take considerable exercise in order to obtain a sufficient amount of sustenance; the domesticated animal, having no need to do so, has developed habits of laziness. She has become constitutionally averse to exertion; but Providence, by sending the fly, has done much to counteract the effects of this tendency. It has been calculated by mechanical engineers that the amount of energy required to switch away flies with a cow’s tail is equivalent to that which would raise a weight of seven pounds one foot. Intelligent observers estimate that upon a hot day when the flies are troublesome, a cow will switch her tail thirty times in the course of a minute, thus expending an amount of energy per hour sufficient, if otherwise employed, to lift nearly six tons’ weight one foot from the ground; so that, considering the number of cows in Great Britain, it is clear that an amount of power in comparison to which that of Niagara is as nothing is being wasted. The thoughtful agriculturist will surely perceive that as an expenditure of energy means loss of flesh and decreased production of milk, it would be to his interest to envelop his cattle in mosquito curtains during the summer months.

The cow is best seen in a state of repose. Either as lying down or standing in the shade of a tree, dreamily chewing the cud, and vaguely wondering whether beet or turnips will form the staple of her supper, there are few animals more taking to the eye. She can walk, too, without forfeiting our respect, but she is a lamentable spectacle when she runs. The poetry of motion does not exist in the case of the cow, and yet it is clear that she takes the greatest pains about her running, and puts her whole heart into it; personally, then, she is not to blame in that the result is, as an exhibition, a failure. The fault lies in nature rather than in the individual. In the course of the Darwinian process of transforming, let us say a mole into a cow, it was clearly in the creature’s mind that the day would come when she would be milked. Each of the countless generations required to bring her to her present form kept this contingency steadily in view, and practised kicking sideways. The result is, so far as the milkmaid is concerned, a superb success, and the cow is able to kick sideways in a manner that excites the envious admiration of the horse; but, as was to be expected, with the acquisition of the sideway motion the cow’s leg lost the power possessed so pre-eminently by the horse and mule of delivering a good, fair, square kick backwards; and even in running, what may be called the side action predominates over the fore and aft. Doubtless the cow knew her own business, and deliberately sacrificed gracefulness of action to the joy of being able to kick over a milkmaid. The lover of grace may regret that it should be so, but has no right to complain of the cow pleasing herself. The original mole probably foresaw that her far-off descendant would be a creature of few active enjoyments, and of a steady and tranquil nature, and considered that she was perfectly justified in making some sacrifice in order to enable the cow of the future to enjoy at least one piece of lively fun.

On the whole, however, the cow may fairly claim to be an eminently worthy and respectable animal, and to be of great importance to man. Some may feel inclined to say, of vital importance; but this may be disputed. It is due in a great degree to the attention that man has bestowed upon her that she has developed her capacity for putting on flesh, and her abnormal secretion of milk. Had man not found her ready to his hand, and foreseen her capacity in this direction, he might have turned his attention to the mastodon, which in that case would now be grazing in vast numbers among the woods planted for his sustenance, and would be affording mountains of flesh and tuns of milk, while mastodon butter might have been able to hold its own against margarine and other fatty compounds. The cow deserves great credit for developing herself into her wild type from some wandering germ or other, but for her progression to her present status she has to thank the care and attention she has received from man.

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THE OCTOPUS AND CUTTLE FISH.

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ALTHOUGH dignified by the name of a fish, the cuttle fish has nothing in common with the finny inhabitants of the sea, save that its existence is passed beneath the surface of the water. It stands alone, apart from all living creatures, with scarcely a point of resemblance to any of them, its nearest relations being, perhaps, the sea anemones—those lovely inhabitants of pools among rocks. Nature would seem to have created the octopus in an idle moment, in order to show how she could diverge from her regular course, and turn out a creature with a multiplicity of arms, without body or legs, and with its head in the middle of its stomach. As usual, she succeeded to perfection, but was so horrified with the monster she had made that she threw it into the sea, and endowed it with a diabolical disposition. The octopus resembles an ogre dwelling in its cave, conscious that its distorted shape will not bear the light, and stretching out its arms studded with suckers to grasp and draw down to its mouth any living thing that passes within its reach. The cuttle fish varies in size from the squid, beloved by gourmands who dwell on the shores of the Mediterranean, to the monster octopus who throws his arms round boats and drags them to the bottom. Some, indeed, in the Indian seas, are reported to grow to a size that renders them formidable even to ships, wrapping them in its embrace and dragging the sailors from the deck or shrouds. Even allowing for exaggeration, there can be little doubt that enormous specimens are occasionally met with, and that these would be formidable to small vessels. Bodies have been cast ashore whose arms have measured thirty feet in length, and these could well pluck a sailor from the deck of a ship. On our own shores they are, happily, never met with of formidable size, but comparatively large ones are encountered not far south; for it may be taken that the desperate struggle described by Victor Hugo in “The Toilers of the Sea” was at least not considered by him to be impossible, and that he had heard from fishermen of the existence of creatures as large as the one he described. The octopus appears almost insensible to pain, and the hacking off of one or more of its tentacles does not seem to cause it any inconvenience. Its body—or rather its stomach—is its only vital part, and even this must be almost cut into pieces before it will relinquish the hold it has obtained of a prey. The beak of a parrot is the last thing one would expect to find in the centre of these waving tentacles, and Nature apparently placed it there as the crowning effort in the work of construction of this monster.

Among birds, beasts, and fishes we may seek in vain for a prototype of the octopus. To find one we must go to man, and we shall find that, in his way, the professional money-lender bears a close resemblance to this creature. The waving arms, that by their resemblance to great seaweeds lull a passing fish into a sense of security, are represented in the case of the money-lender by flattering and unctuous advertisements, which, catching the eye of the unwary, persuade him that money is to be had for asking, upon terms to suit all pockets; but, as in the case of the octopus, once the suckers catch hold, there is no escape; nearer and nearer the victim is drawn, in spite of his struggles, to the parrot mouth that will tear him to pieces, and swallow up him and his belongings. The analogy is in all ways extremely close, and yet the man who would shudder at the thought of entering a cave in the depth of whose waters the octopus is lurking, will enter the professional money-lender’s den with an unmoved countenance and an even pulse. Happily, there is every reason for supposing that the fish which form the staple of the diet of the octopus suffer less in the process of destruction than does the victim of the money-lender. Fish are certainly almost, if not entirely, insensible to pain, and there is no reason to suppose that they are gifted with strong powers of imagination; it may therefore be believed that although a fish may struggle to escape from the grip of the tentacle, it feels none of the horror that seizes a human victim when once grasped by one of the larger species, and that its doom is hidden from it until the savage beak seizes it, and at once puts an end to its existence.

While man can to a certain extent enter into the feelings of a large proportion of the animal creation, it is beyond his power to imagine himself an octopus, or to get himself en rapport with its thoughts. Has it any higher impulses? Is it naturally cruel, or does it view its own methods and conduct from a strictly business point? Does it persuade itself that it is an estimable character? Is it in its own private circle affectionate and domesticated? Has it the power of discussing passing events with its congeners, and exchanging views as to the flavour of the various fish that form its diet, or as to advantageous spots for ambush? We can answer none of these questions. It certainly has but a small chance of leading a higher life. The subterranean world it sees around it is full of strife and destruction. “The large fish eat the smaller fish, and so on ad infinitum.” It only plays the same game as those around it, but by different methods, and there is no reason, because those methods are repugnant to us, that the octopus should be of the same opinion. Man is singularly intolerant in such matters. He himself kills the creatures he requires for food either by knocking them on the head, by cutting their throats, or by shooting them. Fish he captures either with nets or with a hook which sticks into their mouth or throat. And yet he criticises severely the methods of the animal creation. He dislikes the spider because like a fisherman it catches its prey in nets. He shudders at the cat because it plays with its victim just as the angler does. He is shocked because the octopus lies in wait for its prey and lassoes it as it passes. There is, in fact, no pleasing man, and he is shocked at all methods of killing, even at that most closely resembling those which he himself employs in slaying the creatures on which he feeds. We fear that there is a great deal of humbug about human susceptibilities.

Some of the cuttle fish are large manufacturers of ink. These, instead of anchoring themselves to the bottom, float near the surface, and their chance of obtaining food would be small were it not for their power of ejecting ink, and thus clouding the water and veiling themselves from sight—a habit which also affords them a method of escape when themselves attacked by the shark or other formidable enemy. This method is not unknown to man, and several well-known instances might be adduced of public men who, after having by loose assertions brought a formidable opponent down upon them, escape under a cloud of misleading words, phrases, and explanations that explain nothing, and retractions that leave the matter as it was before. Seeing that the peculiar variety of ink secreted by the cuttle fish is of a very valuable kind, it is somewhat remarkable that no enterprising manufacturer has as yet taken the matter in hand and established an aqueous farm for the breeding and rearing of cuttle fish. Indian ink and sepia are both so valuable that such an enterprise ought to pay handsome profits, and if the oyster can be cultivated, why not the cuttle fish? It would, of course, be necessary that the retaining walls of the gigantic aquarium indicated should be impervious to the passing of cuttle fish even in their earliest stage. Otherwise the proprietors would be liable very speedily to be indicted as a nuisance by the lodging-house keepers and owners of bathing machines of the nearest sea-side watering places. But this could doubtless be effected, and then no argument could be adduced that the cuttle fish should necessarily be a nuisance to their neighbours that would not equally apply to the wild beasts at a menagerie. In the latter case one occasionally breaks out and causes consternation, and, possibly, damage, and even if an octopus should do the same there could be no very valid ground for complaint. As the squid when cooked furnishes a somewhat gelatinous food not altogether dissimilar to calf’s head, it is probable that the flesh of the larger varieties might be utilised for the manufacture of mock turtle, and another source of revenue would, therefore, be open to their breeders. It is clear from these remarks that the cuttle fish has not hitherto received the careful consideration that it deserves, and the dislike we feel for its form and habits has blinded us to the benefits that might with culture and domestication be derived from it.

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THE BACILLUS.

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HAD the learned Linnæus been informed that there existed a creature of which he had taken no account, which exercised a much larger influence upon the fortunes and happiness of man than any of those which he so laboriously arranged and classified, he would have smiled the smile of incredulity. But just as it is but within the present century that mankind has awoke to the enormous power and usefulness of steam and electricity, so it is only within the last ten or fifteen years that he has attained to the knowledge of the existence of the demon bacillus, who has sprung at a bound into the position of man’s deadliest enemy. Secretiveness must be assigned the first place among the characteristics of the bacillus. Since man first appeared upon earth this scourge must have carried on its deadly work, and heaped up a hecatomb of victims in comparison to which those who have perished by war or by famine are but an insignificant handful; and yet man has pursued his way in the blindest ignorance of the very existence of his indefatigable enemy.

Even yet comparatively few people are aware of the personal peculiarities of the bacillus, or could describe with any approach to accuracy the difference between the allied tribes, each of which represents some form or other of disease or death, and the scientific men who are so actively busying themselves in counteracting its work are very chary of describing its personal peculiarities. When these are more generally understood it will probably lead to a revolution in art. The artist of other days who wished to convey to the beholder that the personage depicted was in imminent peril of his life could find no better means of doing so than by placing behind him a shadowy figure with a death’s head and skeleton arms holding a dart. This childish representation can no longer be tolerated, and the artist of the future will have only to depict hovering over the principal figure a bacillus, and the beholder will at once understand not only that death is impending, but will be able to distinguish from the characteristics of the bacillus whether it will take the form of consumption, typhoid, small-pox, or other disease. This will be of vast utility in the painting of historical personages, as no questions can arise centuries later as to the cause of their death, the disease of which they died being clearly indicated by the accompanying bacillus, which, of course, will in future be appended to every posthumous portrait.

It is mortifying to human vanity to reflect that for some sixty centuries, at the shortest computation, man has been taking all sorts of pains to protect himself against minor dangers, in absolute ignorance of the bacillus fiend in his midst. Against the wild beast and the snake he has waged open warfare. He has covered himself with armour to protect himself from the weapons of human foes. He has furnished his ships with lifeboats, he has placed trap-doors in the roofs of his houses to afford an escape in case of fire, and has invented the safety lamp as a protection for those who work in mines. He has muzzled the dog in order to escape the fabulously remote risk of hydrophobia, and he has laid down strict regulations to diminish the chances of his being blown up by explosives. He has fenced himself in by sanitary regulations to preserve himself against the evil effect of foul smells, and has flattered himself that by these and many other precautions he has done what he could to ensure for himself prolonged life. And yet all this time the bacillus has been carrying on his work unsuspected, laughing, in whatever passes as his sleeve, as he yearly sweeps away his tens of millions of victims. It has, in fact, been a new and terrible illustration of the saying, “Out of sight, out of mind.” Proud man, who slays the whale for its oil, and the elephant for its ivory, has been slain by his invisible foe, the bacillus; and, like a soldier brought down by a long range bullet, has not even had the satisfaction of knowing who was his slayer.

The microscope has long since discovered to him the existence of innumerable creatures, invisible to the naked eye; he has learnt that the water he drank teemed with animated atoms; that many of the rocks were composed solely of their minute skeletons; that a layer of them reposed on the depth of ocean; that countless numbers of them were borne with the floating dust in the air. Some of these discoveries caused him wonder and admiration, others a certain sense of uneasiness and disgust; but when he discovered that neither he nor his ancestors had suffered any material inconvenience from imbibing these countless hosts in their drinks, or inhaling them in the atmosphere, he ceased to trouble himself about them, and went on his way regardless of their existence. The case has been wholly changed by the discovery of the bacillus, and man stands aghast alike at the terribly destructive and deadly nature of his foe, and at his own impotency to guard himself against its attacks. His feelings resemble those of the solitary traveller who finds that the forest through which he is passing is swarming with desperate and determined enemies, who are bent upon taking his life.

It needs no great powers of prevision to perceive that the discovery of the bacillus must lead to an enormous revolution in our methods of life. It is not man’s nature to submit passively to tyranny and oppression; and now that we are beginning to form some idea of the number and deadly nature of our foe, we shall assuredly embark upon a prolonged and desperate warfare with him. Inventors will, in the first place, devote all their energies to discovering a means of defence against his attacks. We may expect that just as our ancestors clad themselves in armour to protect themselves against human weapons, so in the future we shall wear some sort of covering, composed, perhaps, of extremely thin and flexible glass, to prevent the bacillus coming in contact with our skin; or we may paint ourselves on emerging from our baths with some compound which may be discovered to be lethal to him. The passages to our lungs will doubtless be defended by a respiratory apparatus that will filter him out of the air as it passes in. While thus we endeavour in every way to defend ourselves against his attacks, we shall take the offensive against him when he succeeds in eluding these precautions, and effecting an entrance. Unfortunately, at present the bacillus shows himself to be almost invulnerable; but, like Achilles, he has a weak spot in his heel. While able, so far as is at present known, to defy all drugs and poisons with which he can be attacked while dwelling in the human frame, he has none of the hardihood of the cannibal, and is unable to support a diet consisting of infusions of his own relations. A boiled decoction of his children or cousins is fatal to him. It is upon this line that our combat with him is likely, at any rate for a time, to be fought out.

This discovery has thrown a lurid light upon many ancient and Eastern legends. These have hitherto been entirely misunderstood or not understood at all. Saturn was, we know, to be destroyed by his children; and Arab stories abound with instances where princes and rulers having been warned that their offspring would be the cause of their death, the children were accordingly confined in towers and prisons to prevent the fulfilment of these prophecies. Hitherto, such tales have appeared mere fables, originating in human fancy; but it can now be seen that the Ancients and the Orientals alike had some kind of prevision of the bacillus, and that this creature was pre-figured in the legends of Saturn and of the Arabian rulers. This is another proof, were it needed, of the vast store of knowledge possessed in former times by the Orientals. It is impossible, at this early stage of the conflict between man and the bacillus, to form any very definite opinion as to the side with which victory will finally rest; but, judging from the past, there is good ground for belief that man will in the end come out conqueror. In legendary tales man, valiant, fearless, and determined, always proved himself the victor, though opposed by the invisible powers of the air; and from this we may gather much comfort. It is with invisible powers that this battle has to be waged; and summoning to our aid, as we are happily able to do, all the hidden powers of the good fairies, Chemistry and Electricity, we may venture confidently to hope for a final victory over the swarming legions of the bacillus.

THE END.