Chapter I: Part 1

CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL

OF

POPULAR

LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART

Fifth Series

ESTABLISHED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS, 1832

CONDUCTED BY R. CHAMBERS (SECUNDUS)

NO. 114.—VOL. III. SATURDAY, MARCH 6, 1886. PRICE 1½_d._]

COCAINE.

A new discovery in medicine, which has established its claim to general utility, is as much a matter for congratulation on the part of the general public as on the part of the members of that profession whose duty it is to use it. The stir in the world which Simpson’s grand discovery of chloroform excited is still well remembered, and upon reflection, persons even now could not fail to be impressed with the incalculable amount of relief from suffering of which the drug is the source, if they were to pay a visit to one of our large hospitals and judge for themselves. It is true that chloroform has some drawbacks; it is even true that indirectly, if not directly fatal results have followed its use; but what good thing is free from all blemish, and how, ‘in this best of all possible worlds,’ can we expect everything to be as we should wish?

The discovery of ether, it should be remembered, afforded surgeons the opportunity in after-years of making a choice between the two drugs. Fortunately, in this connection the effects of each are different in certain particulars, so that, in a given number of cases, the use of ether is advisable, and chloroform is to be avoided. The explanation of this can be readily understood. The effect of chloroform is to depress the action of the heart. In cases of an overdose of this drug, the heart is paralysed; and when death occurs during its administration, there need not necessarily have been more than a very small dose given; but owing to some undiscovered weakness of the heart, which the drug unfortunately becomes the means of rendering manifest, sudden stoppage of the organ takes place, with, of course, death as a consequence. On the other hand, ether has exactly the opposite effect. The heart’s action is stimulated during its administration, and the contractions of the organ are rendered more vigorous. Thus, whenever there is any suspected weakness of the heart in patients to whom an anæsthetic is about to be administered, there is no hesitation on the part of the surgeon in using ether, which under these circumstances is certainly the safest drug to employ.

But apart from these considerations, all drugs which possess the property of producing what is called general anæsthesia, are associated with certain discomforts, certain inconveniences which materially detract from their usefulness. It is not necessary here to specify the nature of these, for the knowledge of them has almost become common property, so that there are persons who would preferably endure the suffering of an operation than submit to the administration of an anæsthetic, the after-effects of which, perhaps, previous experience has taught them to be careful to avoid. Surely, then, under these circumstances, it must be a matter of extreme comfort for the public to know that a drug has been discovered whose property is such as to enable the surgeon in many cases to dispense with either ether or chloroform during the performance of an operation. This is the new discovery which agreeably startled the world of medicine towards the end of the year 1884. The drug in question is called Cocaine, from Coca—though sometimes also written cucaine and cuca—and it possesses the remarkable property of causing local anæsthesia when applied to a mucous membrane, of which more anon. The plant from which this alkaloid is derived is _Erythroxylon coca_, which is largely cultivated in the warm valleys of the eastern slopes of the Andes, between five and six thousand feet above the level of the sea, where almost the only variation of the climate is from wet to dry, where frost is unknown, and where it rains more or less every month in the year.

A few details with reference to this remarkable plant may not here be out of place. It is described as a ‘shrub from four to six feet high, branches straight and alternate, leaves in form and size like tea-leaves, flowers, with a small yellowish white corolla, ten stamens, and three pistils. In raising the plant from the seed, the sowing is commenced in December and January, when the rain begins, and continues until April. The seeds are spread on the surface of the soil in a small nursery or raising-ground, over which there is generally a thatch-roof. At the end of about fourteen days, they come up, the young plants being continually watered and protected from the sun. At the end of eighteen months, the plants yield their first harvest, and continue to yield for upwards of forty years. The first harvest, the leaves are picked very carefully one by one, to avoid disturbing the roots of the young tender plants. Gathering takes place three times, and even four times in the year. The most abundant harvest takes place in March, immediately after the rains. With plenty of watering, forty days suffice to cover the plants with leaves afresh. It is necessary to weed the ground very carefully, especially while the plants are young. The harvest is gathered by women and children. The greatest care is required in the drying of the leaves; for too much sun causes them to dry up and lose their flavour; while, if packed up moist, they become fetid. They are generally exposed to the sun in thin layers.’ Such is, in brief, the account of the plant whose alkaloid, cocaine, has attained so marked a popularity within the short space of a few months.

Although the plant has only recently become known to us, its virtues have long been recognised by the natives of that part of the world in which it grows. It is stated that in 1583 the Indians consumed one hundred thousand ‘cestos’ of coca, worth 2½ dollars each in Guzco, and four dollars in Potosi. In 1591 an excise of five per cent. was imposed on coca; and in 1746 and 1750, this duty yielded eight hundred and fifteen hundred dollars respectively, from Caravaya alone. Between 1785 and 1795, the coca traffic was calculated at 1,207,436 dollars in the Peruvian vice-royalty, and including that of Buenos Ayres, 2,641,478 dollars. The coca trade is a government monopoly in Bolivia, the state reserving the right of purchasing from the growers and reselling to the consumer. This right is generally farmed out to the highest bidder. The proximate annual produce of coca in Peru is about fifteen million pounds, the average yield being about eight hundred pounds an acre. More than ten million pounds are produced annually in Bolivia; so that the annual yield of coca throughout South America, including Peru, Bolivia, Ecuador, and Pasto, may be estimated at thirty million pounds.

It is scarcely pleasant news for us to learn that the natives who cultivate the coca-plant themselves absorb so much of the products of their own cultivation. We have here, doubtless, the explanation of the costliness of cocaine and the scarcity of the drug in England. This can hardly be otherwise, it is to be feared, for some time to come, when we remember that the reliance upon the extraordinary virtues of the coca-leaf amongst the Peruvian Indians is so strong, that in the Huanuco province they believe that if a dying man can taste a leaf placed upon his tongue, it is a sure sign of his future happiness! When Weston the pedestrian was performing his feats of endurance in England, it was noticed that from time to time he placed something in his mouth, which he afterwards chewed. For long he refused to divulge what the nature of this substance was, but at last he acknowledged that he always provided himself with some coca-leaves; and he added, that the chewing of these gave him strength, and enabled him more easily to accomplish his allotted task.

In the states above referred to, the natives are accustomed to use the leaves largely for the purpose of allaying hunger. Now, the sense of hunger takes origin in the nerves of the stomach, and it is evident that if these nerves are rendered incapable of exercising their functions, the sensations to which they give rise must decline and remain temporarily in abeyance. This is precisely what takes place when coca-leaves are eaten. Their effect is to paralyse for the time being the sensitive ends of the nerves of the stomach, and to establish practically a condition of local anæsthesia within the interior of that organ. The sensation of hunger, of course, under such circumstances becomes impossible; and the native, after eating a few leaves, goes on his way rejoicing, with the same sensations as if he had partaken of a hearty repast.

Although cocaine has been known for a good many years, and has from time to time formed the subject of inquiry amongst distinguished British and continental savants, including the veteran Sir R. Christison, it was reserved for Dr Carl Koller of Vienna to demonstrate the practical use to which its marvellous property could be put. It occurred to this gentleman that the drug might be of use in the department of diseases of the eye. With this object in view, he experimented upon the eyes of animals, applying the drug in solution of a certain strength, and carefully noting the results. He found that in the course of a few moments, after the drug had been instilled several times into the conjunctival sac of an animal, the organ became insensible; that he was able to touch the cornea—the front part of the eye, which is endowed with extreme sensibility—with a pin without the least flinching on the part of the animal. Experimenting further, he ascertained that the insensibility was not confined to the superficial parts of the eye, but that it extended throughout the corneal substance, even to the structures within the ocular globe, and thus the fact so far of the utility of the drug for operative purposes came to be established. Then he turned his attention to cases in which the eye was the seat of disease, and the cornea acutely inflamed and painful, and he found that much relief from the symptoms was obtained by the use of the drug. Soon after this, he commenced to employ cocaine in operations performed upon the eyes of patients. The results were highly satisfactory; and since then, cataracts have been operated on, squinting eyes put straight, foreign bodies upon the cornea removed painlessly and with ease, under the influence of the drug. In cataract especially, cocaine is of great value; this operation can be performed by its means without the slightest sensation of pain, and yet the patient is fully conscious, and is of course able to follow during its performance the precise instructions of the surgeon.

Now, to an outside observer, cocaine is apt to produce impressions somewhat akin to the marvellous. Here is a description which a writer gives in a recent number of the _St James’s Gazette_. A camel-hair brush is dipped into a small bottle containing a fluid as transparent as water. With the brush so charged, the part—let us say a portion of the tongue—is painted several times. After an interval of about a dozen minutes, another brush is taken, but in this instance a glass one, and dipped into a bottle, the fumes, colour, and label of which establish its contents as fuming nitric acid. The tongue is freely brushed with the acid, great care being observed in so doing, and submits to the procedure without the slightest recoil indicative of pain.

Such is cocaine, and such is its effect upon every mucous membrane. We have referred to its utility in the practice of ophthalmic surgeons; but it is not only in this department of the healing art that cocaine has been found useful; it can be employed whenever an operation upon any mucous membrane has to be performed. The drug has been used in the extraction and stopping of teeth; and results, nothing less than startling in their completeness, have been obtained with cocaine in all branches of medicine and surgery, bringing relief to thousands of sufferers, and—it is true to remark—more than that, unqualified gratification to the physician or surgeon in charge. Even that immemorial bugbear, sea-sickness, has often fled before the influence of cocaine.

One word more. In the present prosaic condition of the world, when the surfeit of new discoveries seems to have bred in this connection the familiarity which produces the conventional contempt, it is refreshing to draw attention to a discovery which has surpassed the ordinary standard of greatness sufficiently to enable it to figure as a wonder of the age. Cocaine flashed like a meteor before the eyes of the medical world, but, unlike a meteor, its impressions have proved to be enduring; while it is destined in the future to occupy a high position in the estimation of those whom duty requires to combat the ravages of disease.

IN ALL SHADES.

BY GRANT ALLEN,

AUTHOR OF ‘BABYLON,’ ‘STRANGE STORIES,’ ETC. ETC.

CHAPTER XII.

On the morning when the _Severn_ was to reach Trinidad, everybody was up betimes and eagerly looking for the expected land. Nora and Marian went up on deck before breakfast, and there found Dr Whitaker, opera-glass in hand, scanning the horizon for the first sight of his native island. ‘I haven’t seen it or my dear father,’ he said to Marian, ‘for nearly ten years, and I can’t tell you how anxious I am once more to see him. I wonder whether he’ll have altered much! But there—ten years is a long time. After ten years, one’s pictures of home and friends begin to get terribly indefinite. Still, I shall know him—I’m sure I shall know him. He’ll be on the wharf to welcome us in, and I’m sure I shall recognise his dear old face again.’

‘Your father’s very well known in the island, the captain tells me,’ Marian said, anxious to show some interest in what interested him so much. ‘I believe he was very influential in helping to get slavery abolished.’

‘He was,’ the young doctor answered, kindling up afresh with his ever-ready enthusiasm—‘he was; very influential. Mr Wilberforce considered that my father, Robert Whitaker, was one of his most powerful coloured supporters in any of the colonies. I’m proud of my father, Mrs Hawthorn—proud of the part he bore in the great revolution which freed my race. I’m proud to think that I’m the son of such a man as Robert Whitaker.’

‘Now, then, ladies,’ the captain put in drily, coming upon them suddenly from behind; ‘breakfast’s ready, and you won’t sight Trinidad, I take it, for at least another fifty minutes. Plenty of time to get your breakfast quietly and comfortably, and pack your traps up, before you come in sight of the Port-o’-Spain lighthouse.’

After breakfast, they all hurried up on deck once more, and soon the gray peaks and rocky sierras of Trinidad began to heave in sight straight in front of them. Slowly the land drew closer and closer, till at last the port and town lay full in sight before them. Dr Whitaker was overflowing with excitement as they reached the wharf. ‘In ten minutes,’ he cried to Marian—‘in ten minutes, I shall see my dear father.’

It was a strange and motley scene, ever fresh and interesting to the new-comer from Europe, that first glimpse of tropical life from the crowded deck of an ocean steamer. The _Severn_ stood off, waiting for the gangways to be lowered on board, but close up to the high wooden pier of the lively, bustling, little harbour. In front lay the busy wharf, all alive with a teeming swarm of black faces—men in light and ragged jackets, women in thin white muslins and scarlet turbans, children barefooted and half naked, lying sprawling idly in the very eye of the sun. Behind, white houses with green venetian blinds; waving palm-trees; tall hills; a blazing pale blue sky; a great haze of light and shimmer and glare and fervour. All round, boats full of noisy negroes, gesticulating, shouting, swearing, laughing, and showing their big teeth every second anew in boisterous merriment. A general pervading sense of bustle and life, all meaningless and all ineffectual; much noise and little labour; a ceaseless chattering, as of monkeys in a menagerie; a purposeless running up and down on the pier and ’longshore with wonderful gesticulations; a babel of inarticulate sounds and cries and shouting and giggling. Nothing of it all clearly visible as an individual fact at first; only a confused mass of heads and faces and bandanas and dresses, out of which, as the early hubbub of arrival subsided a little, there stood forth prominently a single foremost figure—the figure of a big, heavy, oily, fat, dark mulatto, gray-haired and smooth-faced, dressed in a dirty white linen suit, and waving his soiled silk pocket-handkerchief ostentatiously before the eyes of the assembled passengers. A supple, vulgar, oleaginous man altogether, with an astonishing air of conceited self-importance, and a profound consciousness of the admiring eyes of the whole surrounding negro populace.

‘How d’ye do, captain?’ he shouted aloud in a clear but thick and slightly negro voice, mouthing his words with much volubility in the true semi-articulate African fashion. ‘Glad to see de _Severn_ has come in puncshual to her time as usual. Good ship, de _Severn_; neber minds storms or nuffin.—Well, sah, who have you got on board? I’ve come down to meet de doctor and Mr Hawtorn. Trinidad is proud to welcome back her children to her shores agin. Got ’em on board, captain?—got ’em on board, sah?’

‘All right, Bobby,’ the captain answered, with easy familiarity. ‘Been having a pull at the mainsheet this morning?—Ah, I thought so. I thought you’d taken a cargo of rum aboard. Ah, you sly dog! You’ve got the look of it.’

‘Massa Bobby, him doan’t let de rum spile in him cellar,’ a ragged fat negress standing by shouted out in a stentorian voice. ‘Him know de way to keep him from spilin’, so pour him down him own troat in time—eh, Massa Bobby?’

‘Rum,’ the oily mulatto responded cheerfully, but with great dignity, raising his fat brown hand impressively before him—‘rum is de staple produck an’ chief commercial commodity of de great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad. To drink a moderate quantity of rum every mornin’ before brekfuss is de best way of encouragin’ de principal manufacture of dis island. I do my duty in dat respeck, I flatter myself, as faithfully as any pusson in de whole of Trinidad, not exceptin’ His Excellency de governor, who ought to set de best example to de entire community. As de recognised representative of de coloured people of dis colony, I feel bound to teach dem to encourage de manufacture of rum by my own pussonal example an’ earnest endeavour.’ And he threw back his greasy neck playfully in a pantomimic representation of the art of drinking off a good glassful of rum-and-water.

The negroes behind laughed immoderately at this sally of the man addressed as Bobby, and cheered him on with loud vociferations. ‘Evidently,’ Edward said to Nora, with a face of some disgust, ‘this creature is the chartered buffoon and chief jester to the whole of Trinidad. They all seem to recognise him and laugh at him, and I see even the captain himself knows him well of old, evidently.’

‘Bless your soul, yes,’ the captain said, overhearing the remark. ‘Everybody in the island knows Bobby. Good-natured old man, but conceited as a peacock, and foolish too.—Everybody knows you here,’ raising his voice; ‘don’t they, Bobby?’

The gray-haired mulatto took off his broad-brimmed Panama hat and bowed profoundly. ‘I flatter myself,’ he said, looking round about him complacently on the crowd of negroes, ‘dere isn’t a better known man in de whole great an’ flourishin’ island of Trinidad dan Bobby Whitaker.’

Edward and Marian started suddenly, and even Nora gave a little shiver of surprise and disappointment. ‘Whitaker,’ Edward repeated slowly—‘Whitaker—Bobby Whitaker!—You don’t mean to tell us, surely, captain, that that man’s our Dr Whitaker’s father!’

‘Yes, I do,’ the captain answered, smiling grimly. ‘That’s his father.—Dr Whitaker! hi, you, sir; where have you got to? Don’t you see?—there’s your father.’

Edward turned at once to seek for him, full of a sudden unspoken compassion. He had not far to seek. A little way off, standing irresolutely by the gunwale, with a strange terrified look in his handsome large eyes, and a painful twitching nervously evident at the trembling corners of his full mouth, Dr Whitaker gazed intently and speechlessly at the fat mulatto in the white linen suit. It was clear that the old man did not yet recognise his son; but the son had recognised his father instantaneously and unhesitatingly, as he stood there playing the buffoon in broad daylight before the whole assembled ship’s company. Edward looked at the poor young fellow with profound commiseration. Never in his life before had he seen shame and humiliation more legibly written on a man’s very limbs and features. The unhappy young mulatto, thunderstruck by the blow, had collapsed entirely. It was too terrible for him. Coming in, fresh from his English education, full of youthful hopes and vivid enthusiasms, proud of the father he had more than half forgotten, and anxious to meet once more that ideal picture he had carried away with him of the liberator of Trinidad—here he was met, on the very threshold of his native island, by this horrible living contradiction of all his fervent fancies and imaginings. The Robert Whitaker he had once known faded away as if by magic into absolute nonentity, and that voluble, greasy, self-satisfied, buffoonish old brown man was the only thing left that he could now possibly call ‘my father.’

Edward pitied him far too earnestly to obtrude just then upon his shame and sorrow. But the poor mulatto, meeting his eyes accidentally for a single second, turned upon him such a mutely appealing look of profound anguish, that Edward moved over slowly toward the grim captain and whispered to him in a low undertone: ‘Don’t speak to that man Whitaker again, I beg of you. Don’t you see his poor son there’s dying of shame for him?’

The captain stared back at him with the same curious half-sardonic look that Marian had more than once noticed upon his impassive features. ‘Dying of shame!’ he answered, smiling carelessly. ‘Ho, ho, ho! that’s a good one! Dying of shame is he, for poor old Bobby! Why, sooner or later, you know, he’ll have to get used to him. Besides, I tell you, whether you talk to him or whether you don’t, old Bobby’ll go on talking about himself as long as there’s anybody left anywhere about who’ll stand and listen to him.—You just hark there to what he’s saying now. What’s he up to next, I wonder?’

‘Yes, ladies and gentlemen,’ the old mulatto was proceeding aloud, addressing now in a set speech the laughing passengers on board the _Severn_, ‘I’m de Honourable Robert Whitaker, commonly called Bobby Whitaker, de leadin’ member of de coloured party in dis island. Along wit my lamented friend Mr Wilberforce, an’ de British parliament, I was de chief instrument in procurin’ de abolition of slavery an’ de freedom of de slaves troughout de whole English possessions. Millions of my fellow-men were moanin’ an’ groanin’ in a painful bondage. I have a heart dat cannot witstand de appeal of misery. I laboured for dem; I toiled for dem; I bore de brunt of de battle; an’ in de end I conquered—I conquered. Wit de aid of my friend Mr Wilberforce, by superhuman exertions, I succeeded in passin’ de grand act of slavery emancipation. You behold in me de leadin’ actor in dat famous great an’ impressive drama. I’m an ole man now; but I have prospered in dis world, as de just always do, says de Psalmist, an’ I shall be glad to see any of you whenever you choose at my own residence, an’ to offer you in confidence a glass of de excellent staple produck of dis island—I allude to de wine of de country, de admirable beverage known as rum!’

There was another peal of foolish laughter from the crowd of negroes at this one ancient threadbare joke, and a faint titter from the sillier passengers on board the _Severn_. Edward looked over appealingly at the old buffoon; but the mulatto misunderstood his look of deprecation, and bowed once more profoundly, with immense importance, straight at him, like a sovereign acknowledging the plaudits of his subjects.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘I shall be happy to see any of you—you, sah, or you—at my own estate, Whitaker Hall, in dis island, whenever you find it convenient to visit me. You have on board my son, Dr Whitaker, de future leader of de coloured party in de Council of Trinidad; an’ you have no doubt succeeded in makin’ his acquaintance in de course of your voyage from de shores of England. Dr Whitaker, of de University of Edinburgh, after pursuin’ his studies’——

The poor young man gave an audible groan, and turned away, in his poignant disgrace, to the very furthest end of the vessel. It was terrible enough to have all his hopes dashed and falsified in this awful fashion; but to be humiliated and shamed by name before the staring eyes of all his fellow-passengers, that last straw was more than his poor bursting heart could possibly endure. He walked away, broken and tottering, and leaned over the opposite side of the vessel, letting the hot tears trickle unreproved down his dusky cheeks into the ocean below.

At that very moment, before the man they called Bobby Whitaker could finish his sentence, a tall white man, of handsome and imposing presence, walked out quietly from among the knot of people behind the negroes, and laid his hand with a commanding air on the fat old mulatto’s broad shoulder. Bobby Whitaker turned round suddenly and listened with attention to something that the white man whispered gently but firmly at his astonished ear. Then his lower jaw dropped in surprise, and he fell behind, abashed for a second, into the confused background of laughing negroes. Partly from his childish recollections, but partly, too, by the aid of the photographs, Edward immediately recognised the tall white man. ‘Marian, Marian!’ he cried, waving his hand in welcome towards the new-comer, ‘it’s my father, my father!’

And even as he spoke, a pang of pain ran through him as he thought of the difference between the two first greetings. He couldn’t help feeling proud in his heart of hearts of the very look and bearing of his own father—tall, erect, with his handsome, clear-cut face and full white beard, the exact type of a self-respecting and respected English gentleman; and yet, the mere reflex of his own pride and satisfaction revealed to him at once the bitter poignancy of Dr Whitaker’s unspeakable disappointment. As the two men stood there on the wharf side by side, in quiet conversation, James Hawthorn with his grave, severe, earnest expression, and Bobby Whitaker with his greasy, vulgar, negro joviality speaking out from every crease in his fat chin and every sparkle of his small pig’s eyes, the contrast between them was so vast and so apparent, that it seemed to make the old mulatto’s natural vulgarity and coarseness of fibre more obvious and more unmistakable than ever to all beholders.

In a minute more, a gangway was hastily lowered from the wharf on to the deck; and the first man that came down it, pushed in front of a great crowd of eager, grinning, and elbowing negroes—mostly in search of small jobs among the passengers—was Bobby Whitaker. The moment he reached the deck, he seemed to take possession of it and of all the passengers by pure instinct, as if he were father to the whole shipload of them. The captain, the crew, and the other authorities were effaced instantly. Bobby Whitaker, with easy, greasy geniality, stood bowing and waving his hand on every side, in an access of universal graciousness towards the entire company. ‘My son!’ he said, looking round him inquiringly—‘my son, Dr Whitaker, of de Edinburgh University—where is he?—where is he? My dear boy! Let him come forward and embrace his fader!’

Dr Whitaker, in spite of his humiliation, had all a mulatto’s impulsive affectionateness. Ashamed and abashed as he was, he yet rushed forward with unaffected emotion to take his father’s outstretched hand. But old Bobby had no idea of getting over this important meeting in such a simple and undemonstrative manner; for him, it was a magnificent opportunity for theatrical display, on no account to be thrown away before the faces of so many distinguished European strangers. Holding his son for a second at arm’s length, in the centre of a little circle that quickly gathered around the oddly matched pair, he surveyed the young doctor with a piercing glance from head to foot, sticking his neck a little on one side with critical severity, and then, bursting into a broad grin of oily delight, he exclaimed, in a loud, stagey soliloquy: ‘My son, my son, my own dear son, Wilberforce Clarkson Whitaker! De inheritor of de tree names most intimately bound up wit de great revolution I have had de pride and de honour of effectin’ for unborn millions of my African bredderin’. My son, my son! We receive you wit transport! Welcome to Trinidad—welcome to Trinidad!’

SHOT-FIRING IN COAL-MINES: AN IMPROVED METHOD.

Shot-firing or blasting in coal-mines is a subject which has for many years engaged the attention of mining experts and scientists, in consequence of the disastrous explosions which have so frequently resulted therefrom; but the discovering of an agent or the devising of a method by which the operation would be attended with perfect safety, has hitherto remained a problem too difficult to solve. At a very remote date in mining history, the use of explosives for blasting purposes was altogether unknown, and the various minerals, &c., were obtained from the bowels of the earth by means of hammer and wedge. Large quantities of these products were not then required, and the laborious and primitive method adopted for procuring them was fully equal to supplying the demand. But as time rolled on, mining produce became in much greater request, and means had to be devised which would enable mine-owners to meet the growing requirements of commerce and civilisation. Gunpowder was consequently utilised for this purpose, being first employed on the continent in 1620; and in the same year it was introduced into England as a blasting agent by some German miners brought over by Prince Rupert, and who employed it at the copper mine at Ecton in Staffordshire. Gradually it came into general use as a means of rapidly developing the mineral resources of the earth; and by its use, the output of our coal-mines has been increased by more than fifty per cent.

To its employment for obtaining coal, however, there were some great objections, both from a pecuniary and hygienic point of view. Large quantities of coal were converted into ‘slack,’ or a semi-pulverised state, in some cases to the extent of twenty-five per cent., and therefore great loss was sustained by the colliery proprietor, the marketable value of slack being very small. Again, the explosion of gunpowder is always attended with the formation of immense volumes of sulphuretted hydrogen, carbonic anhydride, and other gases, which are so deleterious to health, that, for a considerable space of time after a charge has been fired, the miners cannot work in that vicinity. Where large quantities of this substance are daily used, these noxious gases contaminate the air passing through the mine to such an extent that in the course of time they exercise an injurious effect on the health of the workmen.

Under these circumstances it was very desirable that other agents should be employed; but it is only within the last thirty years that other explosive substances have been submitted to mine-owners. The first of these was gun-cotton, which was invented by Professor Schönbein in 1846. It was not, however, until some years after its discovery that it came into use as a mining agent, such serious explosions attending its manufacture and storing, immediately after its introduction to the world, that no one would have more to do with so deadly an explosive. Eventually, however, it was ascertained how to render it safer, and it came into extensive use as a mining agent. Though it burns harmlessly away when simply ignited, yet, when fired by means of a detonator, as is done for mining purposes, it possesses some six times the explosive power of gunpowder; and its combustion in this way is so complete that no noxious gases are given off. It can be used either in the form of yarn or in a compressed block. When used in the former state, it is the opinion of many that its combustion is too rapid, and that it is thereby prevented doing its full amount of effective work. It bursts the minerals asunder with great force; but it lacks the cutting property which is essential to the performance of good work. The compressed cotton is free from these defects. It possesses all the force of yarn cotton; and in consequence of its slower combustion, it cuts in such a way as to make the block of mineral ready for the next charge. This latter is a great advantage to the workman, and hence the gun-cotton used for mining purposes is generally in a compressed state. By the use of this agent, mining of all descriptions was immensely facilitated, and the dangerous operation of ‘tamping,’ or filling the shot-hole with brick or coal dust rammed hard, was rendered unnecessary.

At a somewhat later period, nitro-glycerine attracted much attention, the first to attempt its use as an explosive agent being Alfred Nobel, a Swedish engineer, in 1864. So far as explosive power was concerned, it was all that could be desired, possessing ten times the force of gunpowder, and therefore being of nearly double the strength of gun-cotton. On the other hand, it was open to most serious objections. The danger of its exploding from concussion was very great, and many dreadful accidents have thus been caused by it. The liquid also, when poured into a shot-hole, has frequently run into some unknown crevice, and when fired, has produced an explosion under the very feet of the miners. To obviate this in some degree, cartridges have been employed; but in whatever light it is viewed, nitro-glycerine is a most perilous explosive.

To remove many of the dangers associated with the use of nitro-glycerine, particularly those of concussion, Mr Nobel invented dynamite, which was tried and approved as a mining agent at Merstham in 1868. When properly prepared, it constitutes one of the safest, most convenient, and most powerful explosives applicable to industrial purposes. It burns without explosion when placed in a fire or brought into contact with a lighted match. If struck with a hammer on an anvil, the portion struck takes fire without igniting the dynamite around it; and if packed with moderate care, it may be transported by road, railway, or canal with little danger of an explosion either from heat, sparks, friction, concussion, or collision. Such conditions of safety, however, entirely depend upon dynamite being properly made. If the _Kieselguhr_ or porous infusorial earth, of which it contains about twenty-five per cent., be not properly dried and prepared, so as not only to absorb but to permanently hold in absorption the nitro-glycerine mixed with it, exudation is apt to take place; and if this only occurs to the extent of a thin greasy layer over the surface, there are present all the dangers of nitro-glycerine pure and simple. It is of a pasty consistence, and thus possesses the advantage that, whilst being very little less powerful as an explosive than nitro-glycerine, bore-holes can be filled with it without the dangers attending that liquid, and no cartridge case is required.

Since the introduction of dynamite, several other nitro-compounds have been brought forward as blasting agents, such, for instance, as dualine, lithofracteur, blasting gelatine, and gelatine-dynamite. With the exception of the two last named, however, they have not found much favour as mining agents in this country, and their use is mainly confined to the continent.

Whilst all the explosives mentioned in this article are more or less suited to blasting in mines, so far as their propulsive force is concerned, yet the use of each and all is attended with great danger in a coal-mine, and for the following reason: coal, being of vegetable or organic origin, is constantly giving off numerous gases, the most dangerous of which, under ordinary circumstances, is methylic hydride or marsh-gas, known in mining districts as fire-damp. It is of an inflammable nature; and when it becomes mixed with from seven to ten times its volume of air, it is highly explosive. It was the presence of this gas in coal-mines that gave rise to the researches of Humphry Davy and George Stephenson, and which resulted in the production of two kinds of safety-lamp, differing but little from each other in construction. As a mark of distinction for his invention, the first-named gentleman received the honour of knighthood. Explosive as is methylic hydride when mixed with air in the proportions stated, it becomes infinitely more so when the air contains a proportion of coal-dust. A very small percentage of fire-damp when mixed with air and coal-dust is sufficient to cause a disastrous explosion. In all dry coal-mines there is a considerable quantity of coal-dust (coal in a state of impalpable powder) lying about, and a certain proportion of it is always floating in the air through the workings of the mine. Now, when explosives are used, no matter how they are ignited, their combustion is always attended with the formation of a mass of flame, and consequently there is always great danger of an explosion of fire-damp taking place. Especially is this the case with gunpowder, which, requiring to be used in large quantities to produce the desired effect, is accompanied with much flame at the moment of its ignition. Gun-cotton being a much more powerful explosive than powder, can be used in far smaller proportions, and therefore to a certain extent possesses an advantage over it, inasmuch as its combustion is not attended with so great a mass of flame; thus to some extent, though only very slightly, reducing the danger of an explosion of fire-damp. In addition to showing flame at the moment of its ignition, dynamite possesses the drawback, that the _Kieselguhr_ is liable to become incandescent, and whilst in this state, to be blown about by the force of the explosion of the blasting charge, and so fire any gas or mixture of gas and coal-dust which may be in the vicinity.

But great as is the danger always attending blasting in coal-mines, it becomes immeasurably greater in the case of a blown-out shot—that is, a shot which blows out the tamping, and does not bring down the coal—for the flame then issues unobstructed from the bore-hole, and extending for some distance, is free to ignite any inflammable mixture with which it may come in contact. To blown-out shots or charges is due the majority of colliery explosions. Before a shot is fired in a seam of coal, a portion of the latter is hewn away at the top to a depth of four or five feet, and is continued down one side, near the bore-hole, so as to decrease the resistance to be overcome by the explosive. If the shot-hole has been properly drilled, the blasting agent does its work; but if the hole has been drilled into the ‘fast’—that is, if it has been bored farther into the seam than the cavity produced by hewing out a portion of the coal extends—a blown-out shot is the result; for the charge of explosive is in such a case placed in the solid bed of coal, and the resistance, consequently, being too great to be overcome, the ramming with which the shot has been fixed in its place is forced out, an outlet being thus formed, through which the propulsive power of the explosive issues without bringing down any of the coal.

From what has been said, it will be seen that the great desideratum of mine-owners has been the discovery of an agent whose propulsive power could be utilised without any attendant flame, or the devising of a method by which the ordinary explosives could be rendered harmless in this respect—that is, that their flame could be extinguished at the moment of its formation. Mining experts, scientists, and others have for years been endeavouring to solve this problem, but without success. At last, however, an invention has been brought forward which leaves but little doubt that all difficulties have now been overcome, and that so soon as the appliance is in general use, colliery explosions resulting from shot-firing will be at an end, and the dreadful loss of life and limb with which they are too frequently attended will be a thing of the past.

The invention, which has been patented, is introduced by Mr Miles Settle, managing director of the Madeley Coal and Iron Company, Staffordshire. The explosive used is gelatine-dynamite (a chemical combination of gun-wood and nitro-glycerine), three ounces of which are equal in explosive power to a pound of gunpowder. It is of a straw colour, and about the consistence of soap. The design of the patent is to inclose the charge of gelatine-dynamite in a tin case or any other material, not necessarily waterproof, and to insert this in a larger case of oiled paper, india-rubber, tin, or anything that is waterproof. Projections from the sides and ends of the inner case keep it in such a position that when the outer vessel is filled with water, the cartridge case is completely surrounded with fluid. A detonator is fixed to the explosive, and this is in turn connected with a magneto-electric machine. When the outer case has been so secured as to prevent the escape of the water, the whole is inserted in the shot-hole, and is fixed there by ramming, as for an ordinary powder shot. The operator then retires to a safe distance and fires the charge by electricity. No flame accompanies its explosion, as at the moment of its formation it is extinguished by the water surrounding the cartridge. In addition to this, the water causes the gelatine-dynamite to exert its power equally in all directions, and it also absorbs the gases formed by the combustion of the explosive, so rendering it possible for men to commence working at the coal immediately after the discharging of the shot. Moreover, the coal dislodged by this method contains a minimum of slack, and there is therefore a great saving to the colliery proprietor in this respect.

The cartridge has recently been put to some very severe tests in some of the most fiery coal-mines in North Staffordshire; in fact, shots have been fired with this explosive in mines which are so gaseous that blasting is strictly prohibited in them, and the coal has to be obtained by the expensive and ancient method of hammer and wedge. In some of these fiery mines, blown-out shots have actually occurred; and all the experts who were present at the time expressed a unanimous opinion that had such a circumstance happened in the ordinary method of blasting, a disastrous explosion would inevitably have been the result. To prove the safety with which one of these cartridges can be fired, they have been exploded in bags of coal-dust, and not the slightest vestige of flame has attended their combustion. Gunpowder has been exploded under similar circumstances, with the result that the coal-dust instantly became ignited, and shot into the air for several yards like one sheet of flame.

All the experts who have witnessed the experiments, both on the surface and down in the mine, have expressed their perfect satisfaction with the invention in every way, and have stated their belief that it can be used with entire safety in the most fiery mines. The government Inspector of Mines for North Staffordshire, who has been present at some of the experiments, has announced that he is prepared to report to the Home Office that the appliance possesses the element of safety which is claimed for it.

A magneto-electric machine is used to fire the shot in preference to an electric battery, as the former is considered much the safer of the two. With a magneto-electric machine, the current, as is well known, is generated by friction, and it can therefore be broken simultaneously with the firing of the shot; whilst in an electric battery it is generated for the most part by means of strong acids, and cannot be broken without disconnecting one of the wires from the battery. It is just possible, therefore, that as the current is continuous in the last-named machine, the two wires might still remain so close together after the discharging of a shot as to allow a spark to pass between them, which in a very fiery mine would certainly cause an explosion.

Looking at the construction of Mr Settle’s patent and at the very severe tests to which it has been subjected, there seems every reason to believe that at last has been solved the difficult problem of shot-firing with safety in coal-mines, and that henceforth explosions arising from this cause will be unknown. Such disasters are among the most dreadful calamities which can overtake a community; and only those who have been eye-witnesses of the widespread sorrow and suffering they entail—whole villages and districts being in a moment plunged into mourning, and dozens of children rendered fatherless or orphans—can form an adequate idea of the boon which the ‘water-cartridge’ promises to be to the mining population. That the highest expectations concerning it may be fully realised, is the devout wish of all who are connected with the management or working of our collieries, and who are so frequently called upon to witness some of the saddest and most heartrending spectacles that it is possible for humanity to gaze upon.

THE HAUNTED JUNGLE.

A LEGEND OF NORTH CEYLON.

IN THREE CHAPTERS.

CHAP. I.—THE PÚSÁRI’S ADVENTURE.

Buried in the depths of the great Thorokádú jungle lay the little village of Pandiyán. Half-a-dozen low, round, mud-huts with conical roofs, thatched with rice-straw, each with its _pandál_ or workshed, granary, and cooking-pot stand, composed the village. A strong stake-fence surrounded each hut, intended as much to keep off the village cattle as a protection from the wild beasts which infested the surrounding jungle. On two sides of the village the jungle rose like a wall; on the third side lay the village tank. Along the _bund_ or dam grew a number of giant marúthú trees, with their spreading, twisted roots in the water, and their long branches hanging gracefully over it. The placid surface of the tank, with its dark background of jungle, looked like a plate of burnished silver, and lay clear and unruffled save by the splash of some water-bird fishing, or the movements of a slowly swimming crocodile. On the top of the dam, under a gigantic tree, and overlooking the village, stood a little temple. It was a small mud-hut, painted in vertical stripes of red and white. A rudely hewn stone idol, smeared with oil and coarse paint, and representing Púliya the jungle-god, stood on a niche at the farther end. A rough slab of stone, on which lay withered offerings of flowers; an iron trident stuck in the ground before the door; a dirty brass lamp, and a bell, comprised the rest of the sacred furniture and utensils. Through a gap in the wall of jungle, on the other side of the village, could be seen the rice-fields irrigated by the tank, an expanse of emerald green. Picturesque watch-huts and stacks of last season’s straw stood here and there in the fields.

It was late in the afternoon and very hot. To the shade of a group of huge dense-foliaged tamarind trees that stood in the centre of the village all the animal population of Pandiyán appeared to have come. Black mud-covered buffaloes all standing and staring stupidly; dwarf village cattle wandering restlessly about, pestered by swarms of flies; mangy, gaunt, pariah dogs snarling viciously at each other; and long-legged, skinny fowls—all had sought protection from the burning rays of the sun under the shady trees.

At one end of the village, nearest to the little temple, stood a hut, round the door of which was congregated nearly the whole population of the village. More than a score of persons, men, women, and children, stood round an object in their midst, all talking excitedly to each other and everybody at once. It was a buffalo they were looking at, and the interest and excitement they showed arose from its having sustained a severe injury. There was a gaping wound on its hind-leg, its hock sinew having been cut through. The great ungainly brute, though so seriously hurt, stood patient and quiet, looking about with a heavy stupid air.

Among the crowd surrounding the buffalo was a young girl, whose light colour, clean bright clothes, and profusion of jewellery, showed her to be of superior caste and position to the others. She was Vallee, the daughter of Ráman Ummiyan, the _púsári_ or village priest of Pandiyán. She was a handsome girl, about fifteen years old; tall, slender, and graceful, with regular features; large dark eyes, finely arched eyebrows, and small sensitive mouth. She was engaged in washing the blood and dirt from the buffalo’s wound. It was evident, from the remarks addressed to her by the bystanders, condoling with her or offering advice, that her father was the owner of the wounded animal.

‘It is no use, child,’ said an old man who had been examining the wound. ‘He will never plough again. The sinew is cut through, and he will be lame for life.’

‘Ap-pah! What will my father say when he comes home?’ exclaimed Vallee.

‘Ah, there will be a breaking of pots then, no doubt,’ replied the old man.—‘Where was the beast found?’ he added.

‘Suriyan found him standing in the river helpless this afternoon, and drove him home on three legs,’ replied Vallee.

‘Perhaps he cut himself on the sharp rocks in the river,’ suggested a bystander.

‘No, no!’ said the old man. ‘The cut was made by a knife; and we would not have to go far to find the owner of the knife,’ he added, muttering.

‘You are right enough, father,’ whispered the other, who had overheard the old man’s remark. ‘We know very well who did this, and the púsári will know too! There will be trouble when he comes home.—Ah, here he comes!’

As he spoke, a man emerged from the jungle and entered the village, and seeing the crowd, walked hastily towards it. It was Ráman Ummiyan, the village priest. He was a tall, spare man, clad in a single yellow garment. Several strings of sacred beads encircled his neck; and his forehead, breast, and shoulders were smeared with consecrated ashes. His face indicated a man of strong passions. His keen, close-set eyes; deeply lined forehead; thin, sensitive nostrils; hard, straight mouth, and other strongly marked features, showed him to be of an irritable, quarrelsome disposition. As he advanced, the little crowd round the wounded buffalo opened and made way for him.

‘What is this? What is the matter with it?’ he exclaimed as he glanced at the animal.

‘See! father,’ replied Vallee, pointing to the wound. ‘Suriyan found it at the river, and has just driven it here.’

For a moment the púsári bent and looked at the wound; then he burst into a furious rage. Striking the end of his stick heavily on the ground, he exclaimed passionately: ‘It is Iyan Elúvan who has done this!’

The púsári and the man he spoke of were fellow-villagers and deadly enemies. The feud between them had arisen from a quarrel about a field which both men claimed. On going to law, the púsári had won the case, and the other consequently hated him with a deep and deadly hatred. Iyan Elúvan was a man of a cruel, malignant, cunning nature, and never lost an opportunity of injuring or harassing his enemy. The quarrel was now some years old, but his hatred was just as bitter as ever. Many a time had the púsári had cause to regret having incurred his neighbour’s ill-will. He was not equal to him in audacity and cunning, and was also a much poorer man. He had brought many actions against his enemy; but the latter’s keener brain and longer purse had almost always enabled him to get the better of his adversary. The object of each man was to drive the other out of the village; but the interests of both of them in the village were too great to permit either to leave, so they lived on within a stone’s-throw of one another, deadly enemies, always on the watch to injure each other in every possible way.