Nearly 12,000 natives are at present employed by the whites as indentured laborers in Papua, their terms of service ranging from three years, upon agricultural work, to not more than eighteen months in mining. Their wages range from about $1.50 to $5.00 per month, and all payments must be made in the presence of a magistrate and in coin or approved bank notes.

At every turn both employer and employed are wisely safeguarded; the native suffering imprisonment for desertion, and the employer being prohibited from getting the blacks into debt, or from treating them harshly or unjustly. Their enlistment must be voluntary and executed in the presence of a magistrate, and, after their term of service, the employer is obliged to return them to their homes.

One is impressed with the many manifestations of a fair degree of efficiency on the part of the native laborers, who are really good plantation hands and resourceful sailors. In fact, trade has always been practiced to a considerable extent by the shore tribes, the pottery of the eastern end of the coast being annually exchanged for the sago produced by the natives of the Fly River Delta. It is a picturesque sight to see the large lakatois, or trading canoes, creeping along in the shadow of the palm-fringed shores under the great wall of the mountains, the lakatoi consisting of a raft composed of six or more canoes lashed together side by side, and covered by a platform which bears a thatched hut serving to house the sailors and their wares. The craft is propelled by graceful crescent-shaped lateen sails of pandanus matting and steered by sweeps from the stern. Trading voyages of hundreds of miles are often undertaken, the lakatois starting from the east at the waning of the southeast trade wind in early November and returning a month or two later in the season of the northwest monsoon.

The Papuan is both ingenious and industrious when working in his own interest, and with tactful management he becomes a faithful and fairly efficient laborer. Perhaps the most serious defect in the present system of employment in Papua is the usually long interval between payments. The natives are not paid at intervals of less than one month and, often, not until the expiration of their three-year term of service. With almost no knowledge of arithmetic and possessed of a fund which seems large beyond the dreams of avarice, he is practically certain to be cheated by the dishonest tradesmen who flock vulture-like to centers of commercial activity. This evil might be in large measure prevented were the natives to be paid at monthly intervals, for they would then gradually become accustomed to the handling of money and would gain an appreciation of its actual value.

Generations must elapse before more than a moderate degree of civilization is developed in Papua, but the foundations are being surely and conservatively laid, and already in the civilized centers natives respect and loyally serve their British friends and masters.

In common with many another British colony, the safeguard of Papua lies not in the rifles of the whites, but in the loyal hearts of the natives themselves, and in Papua, as in Fiji, the native constabulary under the leadership of a mere handful of Europeans may be trusted to maintain order in any emergency. As Governor Murray truly states in his interesting book "Papua, or British New Guinea," the most valuable asset the colony possesses is not its all but unexplored mineral wealth or the potential value of its splendid forests and rich soil, but it is the Papuans themselves, and let us add that under the leadership of the high-minded, self-sacrificing and well-trained civil servants of Great Britain the dawn of Papuan civilization is fast breaking into the sunlight of a happiness such as has come to but few of the erstwhile savage races of the earth.

Without belittling the nobility of purpose or disregarding the self-sacrificing devotion of the missionary for his task, let us also grant to the civil servant his due share of praise. His duty he also performs in the dangerous wilds of the earth; beset with insidious disease, stifling in unending heat, exiled from home and friends, with suspicious savages around him, he labors with waning strength in that struggle against climate wherein the ultimate ruin of his body is assured. Yet in his heart there lives, growing as years elapse, the English gentleman's ideal of service, and for him it is sufficient that, though he is to be invalided and forgotten even before he dies, yet his will have been one of those rare spirits who have extended to the outer world his mother country's ideal of justice and fair play.



CONTACT ELECTRIFICATION AND THE ELECTRIC CURRENT

BY PROFESSOR FERNANDO SANFORD

STANFORD UNIVERSITY

IN a previous paper in this journal, entitled "The Discovery of Contact Electrification" (November, 1913), it was shown that the production of electric charges by the mere contact of two dissimilar metals was first discovered by Rev. Abraham Bennett, in 1789, and that it was verified by a different method by Tiberius Cavallo, in 1795. Meantime, in 1791, Dr. Galvani discovered the twitching of a frog's muscle, due to electrical stimulus. Galvani's discovery was described by himself as follows:[1]

[1] Translation from "Makers of Electricity," p 143.

'I had dissected a frog and had prepared it, as in Figure 2 of the fifth plate, and had placed it upon a table on which there was an electric machine, while I set about doing certain other things. The frog was entirely separated from the conductor of the machine, and indeed was at no small distance away from it. While one of those who were assisting me touched lightly and by chance the point of his scalpel to the internal crural nerves of the frog, suddenly all the muscles of its limbs were seen to be so contracted that they seemed to have fallen into tonic convulsions. Another of my assistants, who was making ready to take up certain experiments in electricity with me, seemed to notice that this happened only at the moment when a spark came from the conductor of the machine. He was struck by the novelty of the phenomenon, and immediately spoke to me about it, for I was at the moment occupied with other things and mentally preoccupied. I was at once tempted to repeat the experiment, so as to make clear whatever might be obscure in it. For this purpose I took up the scalpel and moved its point close to one or the other of the crural nerves of the frog, while at the same time one of my assistants elicited sparks from the electric machine. The phenomenon happened exactly as before. Strong contractions took place in every muscle of the limb, and at the very moment when the sparks appeared, the animal was seized as it were with tetanus.'

Following this original observation, Galvani made a great many experiments on the effect of electric stimulus upon the nerves of frogs and other animals. He found that the twitching of the frog's muscles could be produced by atmospheric electricity, both at the time of lightning and at other times when no lightning was visible. During these investigations he observed that when the legs of the frog were suspended from an iron railing by a hook through the spinal cord, and when this hook was of some other metal than iron, the muscles would twitch whenever the feet touched the iron railing. He tried out a number of pairs of metals, and found that when the nerve was touched by one metal and the muscle or another point on the nerve was touched by another metal and the two metals were then brought into contact or were connected through another metal or through the human body, the muscles would contract as they would when stimulated by electricity.

Galvani concluded that the contraction in this case, as in the earlier experiments, was produced by an electric stimulation, and since the metals seemed to him to serve merely as the conductors of the electric discharge, he concluded that the source of the electricity must be in the tissues of the animal body. This seemed all the more probable since it was known that certain fishes and an electric eel were capable of giving violent electric shocks. This electricity of the eels and fishes had been named animal electricity, and Galvani concluded that all animals were capable of producing this electricity in the tissues of their bodies.

He believed this electricity was to be found in various parts of the body, but that it was especially collected in the nerves and muscles. The especial property of this animal electricity seemed to be that it discharged from the nerves into the muscles, or in the contrary direction, and that to effect this discharge it would take the path of least resistance through the metal conductor or through the human body. Since during this discharge the muscle was caused to contract, Galvani concluded that the purpose of this animal electricity was to produce muscular contractions.

Galvani seems to have concerned himself principally with the physiological processes which he believed gave rise to the electric charges, but physicists began immediately to seek for other sources of the electricity. The one observation which seemed to offer a definite suggestion as to the possible source of the electrical charge was the fact that, in general two different metals must be used to connect the muscle and nerve before a discharge would take place from the one to the other. This made Galvani's theory that the metals served merely as conductors seem improbable. On the other hand, it was sometimes possible to get the muscular contractions by using a single bent wire or rod to connect the nerve and muscle, especially if the two ends were of different degrees of polish, or if one end was warmer than the other.

Volta was apparently the first to suggest that the electricity which seemed to be generated in Galvani's experiments might have its source in the contact of the two metals. Several writers called attention to an apparent relation between Galvani's experiments and a phenomenon announced by J. G. Sulzer, in 1760. Sulzer found that if pieces of lead and silver were placed upon the tongue separately no marked taste was produced by either, but that if while both were on the tongue the metals were brought into contact a strong taste was produced which he compared to the taste of iron vitriol. Here was a case of undoubted stimulation of the nerves of taste by the contact of two metals, and it seemed not improbable that other nerves might be stimulated in the same manner. In the meantime Mr. John Robison had increased the Sulzer effect greatly by building up a pile of pieces of zinc with silver shillings and placing these in contact with the tongue and the cheek.

It was the question as to the possibility of producing the electric charge by mere metallic contact which led Cavallo to make his experiments upon contact electrification. Thus Cavallo says in Volume III. of "A Complete Treatise on Electricity," published in 1795:

'The above mentioned singular properties, together with some other facts, which will be mentioned in the sequel induced Mr. Volta, to suspect that possibly in many cases the motions are occasioned by a small quantity of electricity produced by the mere contact of two different metals; though he acknowledges that he by no means comprehends in what manner this can happen. This suspicion being entertained by so eminent a philosopher as Mr. Volta, induced Dr. Lind and myself to attempt some experiment which might verify it; and with this in view we connected together a variety of metallic substances in diverse quantities, and that by means of insulated or not insulated communications; we used Mr Volta's condenser, and likewise a condenser of a new sort; the electrometer employed was of the most sensible sort; and various other contrivances were used, which it will be needless to describe in this place; but we could never obtain the smallest appearance of electricity from those metallic combinations. Yet we can infer to no other conclusion, but that if the mere combination, or contact, of the two metals produces any electricity, the quantity of it in our experiments was too small to he manifested by our instruments.'

Later, on page 111 of the same volume, he says:

'After many fruitless attempts, and after having sent to the press the preceding part of this volume, I at last hit upon a method of producing electricity by the action of metallic substances upon one another, and apparently without the interference of electric bodies. I say apparently so, because the air seems to be in a great measure concerned in those experiments, and perhaps the whole effect may be produced by that surrounding medium. But, though the irregular, contradictory, and unaccountable effects observed in these experiments do not as yet furnish any satisfactory theory, and though much is to be attributed to the circumambient air, yet the metallic substances themselves seem to be endowed with properties peculiar to each of them, and it is principally in consequence of those properties that the produced electricity is sometimes positive, at other times negative, and various in its intensity.'

Cavallo then proceeds to describe the experiments on contact electrification which were described in the previous paper referred to at the beginning of the article.

Cavallo's experiments were evidently made in 1795. In the following year Volta announced the discovery of the electrical current. In a letter written to Gren's Neues Journal der Physik, August, 1796, Volta says:

'The contact of different conductors, particularly the metallic, including pyrites and other minerals as well as charcoal, which I call dry conductors, or of the first class with moist conductors, or conductors of the second class, agitates or disturbs the electric fluid, or gives it a certain impulse. Do not ask in what manner: it is enough that it is a principle and a great principle.'

It will be seen that at this stage of his discovery Volta was inclined to attribute tho origin of the current to the contact between the metals and his moist "conductors of the second class," though later in the same article he says it is impossible to tell whether the impulse which sets the current in motion is to be attributed to the contact between the metals themselves or between the two metals and the moist conductor, since either supposition would lead to the same results.

Later, as was shown in the previous paper by the present writer Volta came to regard the metallic contact as the cause of the electromotive force. In a letter written to Gren in 1797 and published as a postscript to his letter of August, 1796, Volta says:

'Some new facts, lately discovered, seem to show that the immediate cause which excites the electric fluid, and puts it in motion, whether it be an attraction or a repulsive power, is to be ascribed much rather to the mutual contact of two different metals, than to their contact with moist conductors.'

The new facts, "lately discovered," to which Volta attributes his change of view were his repetitions of Bennett's experiments of 1789.

Volta apparently thought that the current was not only set up by the contact of the two metals of a pair, but that it was kept up by the mutual action of the metals on each other. He accordingly made no attempt to discover whether any changes took place in his circuit while the current was being generated. The chemical action on his metals and the dissociation in his electrolyte seem to have entirely escaped his attention. At least, he did not attach enough importance to them to mention them anywhere in his description of his apparatus.

In the meantime a chemical explanation of the phenomena observed by Galvani had been proposed in 1792 by Fabroni, a physicist of Florence. After discussing the Sulzer phenomenon already mentioned in this paper, Fabroni argues that the peculiar taste caused by bringing the two metals into contact while on the tongue is due to a chemical, rather than to an electrical, action. He then discusses the different chemical behavior of metals when taken singly and when placed in contact with other metals. He says:[2]

[2] The following quotations from Fabroni have been translated by the present writer from the German of Ostwald's "Elektrochemie," pp. 103, ff.



I have already frequently observed that fluid mercury retains its beautiful metallic luster for a long time when by itself; but as soon as it is amalgamated with any other metal it becomes rapidly dim or oxidized, and in consequence of its continuous oxidation increases in weight.

I have preserved pure tin for many years without its changing its silvery luster, while different alloys of this metal which I have prepared for technical purposes have behaved quite otherwise.

I have seen in the museum at Cortonne Etrusean inscriptions upon plates of pure lead which are perfectly preserved to this day' although they date from very ancient times; on the other hand, I have found with astonishment in the gallery of Florence that the so-called "piombi" or leaden medallions of different popes, in which tin and possibly some arsenic have been mixed to make them harder and more beautiful, have fallen completely to white powder, or have changed to their oxides, though they were wrapped in paper and preserved in drawers.

In the same way I have observed that the alloy which was used for soldering the copper plates upon the movable roof of the observatory at Florence has changed rapidly and in places of contact with the copper plates has gone over into a white oxide.

I have heard also in England that the iron nails which were formerly used for fastening the copper plates of the sheathing of ships were attacked on account of contact, and that the holes became enlarged until they would slip over the heads of the nails which held them in position.

It seems to me that this is sufficient to show that the metals in these cases exert a mutual influence upon each other, and that to this must be ascribed the cause of the phenomena which they show by their combination or contact.

After discussing some of the experiments on nerve stimulation which had been made by Galvani and others, Fabroni argues that these are principally, if not wholly, due to chemical action, and that the undoubted electrical phenomena which sometimes accompany them are not the cause of the muscular contractions.

In discussing the nature of the chemical changes produced in two metals by their mutual contact, Fabroni says:

'Since the metals have relationships with each other, the molecules must mutually attract each other as soon as they come into contact. One can not determine the force of this attraction, but I believe it is sufficient to weaken their cohesion so that they become inclined to go into new combinations and to more easily yield to the influence of the weakest solvents.'

In order to further show the weakening of cohesion by the contact of two metals, Fabroni describes the results of some experiments which he has made. He says:

'In order to assure myself of the truth of my assumptions, I put into different vessels filled with water:

(1) Separate pieces, for example, of gold in one, silver in another, copper in the third, likewise tin, lead, etc.

(2) In other similar vessels I put pieces of the same metals in pairs, a more oxidizable and a less oxidizable metal in each pair' but separated from each other by strips of glass

(3) Finally, I put in other vessels pairs of different metals which were placed in immediate contact with each other.

The first two series suffered no marked change, while in the latter series the more oxidizable metal became visibly covered with oxide in a few instants after the contact was made.'

Fabroni found that under the above circumstances his oxidizable metals dissolved in the water, and in some cases salts were formed which crystallized out. He then compares the metals in contact with each other in water with the metals on the tongue when brought into contact, as in Sulzer's experiment, and the two metals touching each other by which different points on a nerve were touched to produce the muscular twitchings in Galvani's experiments, and concludes that the chemical action upon the metals was the same in each case, and that the other phenomena observed must have resulted from this chemical action. It is not strange that when Volta showed later that an electric current passed between the metals in all of tho above cases Fabroni should regard the chemical action which he had previously observed as the cause of this current.

Ten years after the publication of Fabroni's original paper, Volta wrote a letter to J. C. Delamethrie which was published in Vol. I of Nicholson's Journal. This letter was written after the chemical changes in the voltaic cell had received a great deal of attention by many experimenters, the most prominent of whom was Davy. To show that Volta's theory as to the source of the current was not affected by these investigations, a quotation from this letter is given below.

'You have requested me to give you an account of the experiments by which I demonstrate, in a convincing manner, what I have always maintained, namely, that the pretended agent, or GALVANIC FLUID, is nothing but common electrical FLUID, and that this fluid is incited and moved by the simple MUTUAL CONTACT OF DIFFERENT CONDUCTORS, particularly the metallic; strewing that two metals of different kinds, connected together, produce already a small quantity of true electricity, the force and kind of which I have determined; that the effects of my new apparatus (which might be termed electromotors), whether consisting of a pile, or in a row of glasses, which have so much excited the attention of philosophers, chemists, and physicians; that these so powerful and marvelous effects are absolutely no more than the sum total of the effects of a series of several similar metallic couples or pairs; and that the chemical phenomena themselves, which are obtained by them, of the decomposition of water and other liquids, the oxidation of metals, &c., are secondary effects; effects, I mean, of this electricity, of this continual current of electrical fluid, which by the above mentioned action of the connected metals, establishes itself as soon as we form a communication between the two extremities of the apparatus, by means of a conducting bow; and when once established, maintains itself, and continues as long as the circuit remains interrupted.'[3]

[3] This seems to be a misprint for uninterrupted.



Further along in the same letter Volta reiterates his conviction that the contact of the two metals furnishes the true motive power of the current. Thus he says (p. 138):

'As to the rest, the action which excites and gives motion to the electric fluid does not exert itself, as has been erroneously thought, at the contact of the wet substance with the metal, where it exerts so very small an action, that it may be disregarded in comparison with that which takes place, as all my experiments prove, at the place of contact of different metals with each other. Consequently the true element of my electromotive apparatus, of the pile, of cups, and others that may be constructed according to the same principles, is the simple metallic couple, or pair, composed of two different metals, and not a moist substance applied to a metallic one, or inclosed between two different metals, as most philosophers have pretended. The humid strata employed in these complicated apparatus are applied therefore for no other purpose than to effect a mutual communication between all the metallic pairs, each to each, ranged in such a manner as to impel the electric fluid in one direction, or in order to make them communicate, so that there may be no action in a direction contrary to the others.'

At the end of the above letter as published in Nicholson's Journal, the editor, William Nicholson, comments at length on Volta's theory of the source of current in the cell and calls attention to the fact that Davy had already made cells by the use of a single metal and two different liquids. At the conclusion of his comments he calls attention to the fact that Bennett and Cavallo had performed experiments with contact electrification prior to Volta's experiments, and says in conclusion, after referring to Bennett,

'This last philosopher, as well as Cavallo, appears to think that different bodies have different attractions or capacities for electricity; but the singular hypothesis of electromotion, or a perpetual current of electricity being produced, by the contact of two metals is, I apprehend, peculiar to Volta.'

This peculiar theory of Volta's probably never gained many adherents and was necessarily abandoned as soon as the energy relations of the current were considered, but the controversy as to whether the electrical current or the accompanying chemical changes was the primary phenomenon soon became transferred to a quite different field, viz., to the origin of the electrical charges which Bennett had shown resulted from the contact of different metals. Bennett attempted to account for the phenomena which he had observed on the hypothesis that different substances "have a greater or less affinity with the electric fluid," and Cavallo says:

'I am inclined to suspect that different bodies have different capacities for holding the electric fluid.'

Volta reaches a similar conclusion after repeating some of Bennett's experiments. In referring to this decision of Volta as to the origin of the electric charge in contact electrification, Ostwald says:

'We stand here at a point where the most prolific error of Electrochemistry begins, the combating of which has from that time on occupied almost the greater part of the scientific work in this field.'

The error, from Ostwald's point of view, lies in the assumption that the transference of electricity from the one metal to the other is a primary phenomenon of metallic contact. He, with many others, including some of the most distinguished physicists and chemists of the past century, regard the electrical transference as a secondary phenomenon resulting from the previous oxidation of one of the metals. Thus Lodge, in discussing the opposite electrification of plates of zinc and copper when brought into contact says:

'The effective cause of the whole phenomenon in either case is the greater affinity of oxygen for zinc rather than copper.'

The apparent conflict of opinion between those who hold that the different affinities of the metals for oxygen is the cause of the rearrangement of their electrical charges when brought into contact and those who hold with Bennett and Cavallo that the metals in their natural state have different affinities for the electrical fluid must disappear when we recognize that all affinity, and consequently the affinity for oxygen, must be an electrical attraction. If zinc has an affinity for oxygen, it must be because the zinc is either electropositive or electronegative to oxygen. If it has a greater affinity for oxygen than copper has, then the zinc must be either electropositive or electronegative to copper. This being the case, and both being conductors, it is not surprising that some electricity will flow from one to the other when the two metals are brought into contact.

Those writers who attribute the oxidation theory of contact electrification to Fabroni apparently overlook the fact that not oxidation, but the weakening of the cohesion of at least one of the metals due to their contact, was the primary phenomenon in Fabroni's theory. When this is remembered, it is seen that the observations of Bennett and Fabroni, instead of furnishing arguments for two conflicting theories, actually serve, as all true scientific observations must, to supplement each other.

Thus we now know that cohesion or affinity is an electrical attraction between the atoms or molecules of a body. The only known methods of changing the electrical attraction between two bodies whose distances and directions from other bodies remain constant is by varying the magnitude of their charges or by changing the specific inductive capacity of the medium between them. Bennett observed that when two pieces of different metal in their normal electrical condition are placed in contact, there is a redistribution of the charges of their surface atoms. Fabroni observed under the same conditions a change in the surface cohesion of the two metals.

To the present writer this seems the actual sequence of phenomena, viz., a redistribution of the charges of the surface atoms of the metals, a consequent change in surface cohesion and a resultant oxidation of one of the metals.



ON CERTAIN RESEMBLANCES BETWEEN THE EARTH AND A BUTTERNUT

BY PROFESSOR A, C. LANE

TUFTS COLLEGE

THE drama of the earth's history consists in the struggle between the forces of uplift and the forces of degradation. The forces of uplift are mainly the outward expression of the inner energy and heat of the earth, whether they be the volcano belching its ashes thousands of meters into the air, or the earthquake, with the attendant crack or fault in the earth's crust, leading to a sudden displacement, and sending, far and wide, a death-dealing shock, or those mountain-building actions, which, though they may be as gentle and gradual as might be produced by the breathing of mother earth and the uplifting of her bosom thereby, nevertheless, end in the huge folds of our mountain ranges.

Against these, there are always working the forces of degradation—the slow rotting of weathering caused by the direct chemical action of the moist atmosphere or the alternation of hot and cold which crumbles rocks far above the line where rain never falls. Once the rock is rotten and decayed, it yields readily to the forces of degradation, which drag it down—the beating of the rain, the rush of the avalanche or of the landslide, the tumult of the torrent, the quieter action of the muddy river in its lower reaches or the mighty glacier which transfers fine and coarse material alike toward the sea.

These actions are always going on. Are they always equally balanced, or are there periods when the forces of elevation are more active, the forces of degradation not so powerful, as against other times in which the forces of degradation alone are at work? If there is inequality in the balance and struggle of these contending forces, the great periods or acts in the geologic drama might thus be marked off as Chamberlin suggests. Newbery, Schuchert and others have pointed out that there seem to have been great cycles of sedimentation which may be interpreted as due to the alternate success, first of the factors of elevation, then of those of degradation.

Suppose, for instance, that there has been an epoch of elevation, that mountain chains have been lifted far into the sky and volcanoes have sent their floods of lava forth, and fault-scarped cliffs run across the landscape and that then, for a while, the forces of elevation cease their work. Little by little, the mountains will be worn down to a surface of less and less relief, approaching a plain as a hyperbola approaches its asymptote—a surface which W. M. Davis has called peneplain.

But where will the material thus worn go? Into the sea. Going into the ocean it will raise the level of the sea slowly but surely. At present, for every four feet of elevation taken off the land, there will be something like one foot rise of the ocean level, and this rise may take only thirty thousand years—a long time in human history, but not so long in the history of the earth. All the time, then, that the forces of the atmosphere are wearing down the surface of the earth to the sea level the sea is rising and its waves are producing a plain of marine denudation which rises slowly to meet the peneplain which is produced by degradation. In the beginning of this cycle, where the forces of degradation have their own way, coarse material may be brought down by torrents from the mountains, and the glaciers, which find their breeding place in these high elevations, may drag down and deposit huge masses of boulder clay. But, little by little as the mountains are lowered, the sediments derived from them will become finer and finer and glaciers will find fewer and fewer sources.

Not only that, but the growth of seas extending over the continents will tend to change the climate, we shall have a moister, more insular climate, we shall have a greater surface of evaporation, and thus, on the whole, a more equable temperature throughout the world. We know that, at present, the extremes of cold and hot are found far within the interior of the continents. Continental climates are the climates of extremes, and on the whole extremes are hurtful to life. So then as the forces of degradation tend to lower the continents beneath the sea level glaciers and deserts and desert deposits alike must also disappear. Vegetation will clothe the earth, and marine life swarm in the shallow seas of the broadening continental shelf. Under the mantle of vegetation, mechanical erosion will be less, that is, the breaking up of rocks into small pieces without any very great change, but the rich soil will be charged with carbon dioxide, and chemical activity will still go on. Rivers will still contain carbonates, even though they carry very little mud, and in the oceans the corals and similar living forms will deposit the burden of lime brought into the sea by the rivers. Thus, if forces of degradation have their own way, in time there will be a gradual change in dominant character, from coarse sediments to fine, from rocks which are simply crumbled debris to rocks that are the product of chemical decay and sorting, so that we have the lime deposited as limestone in one place and the alumina and silica, in another. We shall have a change from local deposits, marine on the edges of large continents, or land deposits, very often coarse, with fossils few and far between, to rocks in which marine deposits will spread far over the present land in which will appear more traces of that life that crowded in the shallow warm seas which form on the flooded continents. We shall have a transition from deposits which may be largely formed on the surface of the continents. lakes, rivers, salt beds and gypsum beds, due to the drying up of such lakes and the wind-blown deposits of the steppes, to deposits which are almost wholly marine.

Now, I need not say (to those who are familiar with geology) that we have indications of just such alternations in times passed. There are limestones abounding in fossils, with a cosmopolitan life very wide spread to be recognized in every continent, such as used to be known as the Trenton limestone, the mountain limestone, the chalk. Perhaps every proper system and period should be marked by such a limestone in the middle. The time classed as late Permian and Triassic on the other hand was one of uplift, disturbance, volcanic action and extreme climates, which gave us the traps of Mt. Tom, the Palisades of the Hudson, the bold scenery of the Bay of Fundy and the gypsum and red beds which are generally supposed to be quite largely formed beneath the air and beds of tillite formed beneath glaciers. Then in the times succeeding, in many parts of the world, degrading forces were more effective than uplifting so that the mountains became lower, and the seas extended farther over the continents. Then the prevalence of lime sediments was so great that the "chalk" was thought to be characteristic everywhere. And about the time the "chalk" the land was reduced to a peneplain. A similar cycle may be traced from the Keweenawan rocks to the group of limestones so widespread over the North American continent and so full of fossils, which to older geologists and oil drillers have been known, in a broad way, as Trenton.

All this introduces a question—to which I wish to suggest an answer—How is it that these cycles came to be? Were the outer rock crust of the earth perfectly smooth the oceans would cover it to the depths of thousands of feet and it is only by the wrinkling of such a crust that any part of it appears above the ocean. If the earth had a cool thin crust upon a hot fluid interior, and that thin crust were able to sustain itself during geologic ages so that the shrinkage should accumulate within, until finally collapse came, giving an era of uplift, it is obvious that we could account for such cycles. There is very clear evidence that the outermost layer of the earth's crust is but a thin shell like the outer shuck or exocarp of a butternut, so thin that it is not at all possible that it can sustain itself for more than a hundred miles or so, or for more than a very few years at the outside. Hayford's[1] investigations are the latest that show that the continents project because, on the whole, they are lighter, they float, that is, above the level of the oceans because there is a mass of lighter rock below, like an iceberg in the sea. Here the likeness between nut and earth fails and it would be more like the earth if the outer shuck were thicker in certain large areas. If this extra lightness or "isostatic compensation" is equally distributed, Hayford finds[2] that the most probable value of the limiting depth is 70 (113 km.) miles, and practically certain that it is somewhere between 50 (80 km.) and 100 (150 km.) miles; if, on the other hand, this compensation is uniformly distributed through a stratum 10 (16 km.) miles thick at the bottom of the crust so that there is a bulging of the crust down into a heavier layer below to balance the projection of the mountains above, as I think much more likely, then the most probable depth for the bottom of the outer layer is 37 (60 km.) miles. This layer is much thinner than the outer layer of the figure and is supposed to yield to weight placed as, though more slowly than, new thin ice bends beneath the skater.

[1] The figure of the earth and isostasy from measurements in the U.S. Dept. of Commerce and Labor, 1909, p. 175.

[2] loc. cit., p. 175.



There are a number of facts which support this so-called theory of isostasy, according to which the crust of the earth is not capable of sustaining any very great weight, though it may be at the outside rigid, but is itself essentially like a flexible membrane resting on a layer of viscous fluid. However viscous this fluid may be and rigid to transitory quickly shifting strains like those produced by the earth's rotation, it does NOT REMAIN AT REST in a state of strain (at any rate if this strain passes limits which are relatively quite low). Not only are, according to Hayford's observations, the inequalities of the North American continent compensated for by lighter material below, so that the plumb- bob deflections are only one twentieth what they would be if they rested upon a rigid substratum of uniform density, but other facts that lead to the same conclusion are the apparent tendency of areas of sedimentation to slowly settle under their load, the apparent settling of the Great Lake region under a load of ice and springing up again since the removal of the ice. But if the theory of isostasy is true, one would at first say that there could be no great accumulation through a geologic period of stresses which would finally yield in the shape of folded mountain ranges. It has, in fact, been suggested that mountain ranges have been slowly folded and lifted as the stress which produced them accumulated and this would seem to be true if one considers only the outer crust, but on the other hand, as we have pointed out, there are indications in the history of the earth of periods of relative quiescence followed by periods of relatively considerable disturbance.

How can these two theories be reconciled in accordance with what we know of the laws of physics and chemistry and those of the earth's interior? It seems to me they can by making suppositions which are perfectly natural regarding the state of the earth's interior.

We are at liberty to suppose if the facts point that way that there are the following layers in the earth's masses:—First, the external, rigid and brittle layer; second, a layer under such temperature and pressure that it is above its plastic yield point and may be considered as a viscous fluid. The pressure must continue to increase toward the center. We do not know what is the temperature, but it is perfectly possible that at a greater depth the earth may become rigid once more if the effect of pressure in promoting solidity and rigidity continues, as Bridgman tells me he thinks probable. We do not even have to assume a change in the chemical composition of the earth's substance, though it is perfectly allowable. This, then, will be a third layer, once more rigid, perhaps extending to the center and of very considerable thickness and capable of accumulating strain from long periods. Blanketed as it would be by thousands of meters of the first two layers, any change must be relatively slow.

Kelvin in his computation of the age of the earth from cooling assumed for the interior of the earth constant conditions. It is now generally accepted that this is not probable, and that whether it cooled from a gas or coagulated from planetesimals, it became solid first at the center which then would be hottest, and both Becker[3] and A. Holmes[4] assume an initial temperature gradient. If that gradient were greater than the gradient of steady flow the conditions of steady flow would be approached most rapidly at the exterior, the loss of heat and energy would be altogether from within and it is easy to arrange for conditions mathematically in which almost all the loss of energy would come from the very interior, near the center. What will be the effect? A paradoxical one, if the part outside the center is rigid enough to be self-sustaining. The central core will become a gas!

[3] Bull. Geol. Soc. Am., Vol. 26, 1915, p. 197, etc. [4] Geological Magazine, March and April, 1913.



This is so contrary to our ordinary experience and ideas, in which loss of heat tends to change from gas to fluid and solid, that we must look into it a little to make it sound reasonable. The recent brilliant work of P. W. Bridgman (contrary to the earlier speculations of Tammann) indicates that the effect of increased pressure, at high temperature, makes a substance solid and crystalline. Crowd any atoms close enough together, and no matter how fast they expand or contract under the influence of heat the crystalline atomic forces will get to work when they are crowded within their range, and the closest packing, hence that which will yield most to the pressure, hence that which is likely to take place, is when they are all regularly arranged facing the same way. Such an arrangement we call crystalline. Just so when they want to pack the most people into the car of an elevator they ask them to all face to the front. Keep this metaphor a moment. Any one who should try to penetrate such a crowd would find it a hard job. They would offer a very effective rigidity. Now suppose them to sweat in those confined quarters their fat away, their phlogiston, their caloric. If the walls of the car remained rigid while the individuals therein shrunk they might after a while be able to turn around or even move around in a car. Such is then the supposed condition of the atoms in the FOURTH, the central, layer of the earth's crust. This assumes that the middle layer is rigid and sustains itself, like the shell of a nut, as in the figure, while within the atoms are in a less rigid condition. That such a shell might be self-sustaining is suggested by an experiment of Bridgman, who put a marble with a gas bubble in it under a pressure of something like 150,000 pounds to the square inch without producing any perceptible change.

As loss of energy from the earth's interior went on this central core of gas would enlarge until the middle shell was hardly self-supporting. Then, probably at some time of astronomic strain when the earth's, orbit was extra elliptical, it would collapse, in collapsing generate heat, and so stop the process. The collapse would be transmitted to the viscous layer which might be increased, motions set up in it, and so a wrinkling of the outer thin crust on which we live.

Then there would be four layers to the earth like the butternut of the figure. First, the inner kernel of gas; second, the hard shell or endocarp; third, a viscous layer like the sarcocarp or pulp, and outside of all the wrinkled crust of exocarp. If such is the structure of the earth we may have in the very structure of the earth itself a reason why from time to time there are collapses of the middle layer leading to elevations of portions of the outer rind, and marking off the chapters in geological history, the lines between geological systems.

There are reasons in facts of observation for believing that such is the structure of the earth, of which I have as yet said nothing. We see the interior of a glass marble, I saw the bubble in the interior of Bridgman's glass marble, how? By waves, vibrations, which start from the sun or some other source, and going through it reach my eye. Though the earth is not penetrated by sunlight it is penetrated by the waves and vibrations that start from that jar produced by a crack which we call an earthquake. These vibrations can be received by that eye of the geologist called a seismograph. The seismologist tells us there are three kinds of waves sent out in an earthquake. If you notice the explosion of a blast at a little too close distance you will notice that you see it first, then hear it, and then perhaps a little later a few chips of rock may come flying past your ears. These three things correspond somewhat to the three kinds of waves which spread forth from an earthquake. But in the case of the explosion we see the blast first, then hear later. The waves which produce the sensation of sight are, we know, lateral disturbances, the waves which produce the sensation of sound are waves of condensation, whose motion is in the direction of their propagation and they come later. In the case of the jars of earth, the reverse is true. The first set of waves to arrive are the waves which are due to compression—vibrations in the direction in which the waves are produced—and correspond to sound waves. Later come waves which are transverse sidewise disturbances of the solid mass of the earth. As we can easily see, in an earthquake jar traveling from the opposite end of the earth, there should be no insurmountable difficulty in recognizing the jar, which is a direct upthrow from one which would tilt it to the right or left. Now there is a law of Laplace by which the velocity of spread of sound waves through gas may be calculated. That this law should hold at temperatures and pressures so high as those that must exist in the middle of the earth is, of course, a question, but it will be interesting to see how nearly the actual velocity of about 10 kilometers a second compares with the velocity which such waves should have in gas of a density and under a pressure such as a gas near the center of the earth must have. Using Oldham's figures (and they seem to be confirmed by the recent investigations of E. Rudolph and S. Szirtes[18]), we find that the time of transmission of these first and fastest preliminary compression tremors is about twice the velocity of such a jar according to Laplace's law in as dense a mass of gas, provided the ratio of the specific heat of a gas at constant pressure to that of a gas at constant volume remains 1.4, which is for many substances. But as it is 1.6 for mercury the discrepancy is not more than I had expected.

[5] Gerlands, "Beitrage zur Geophysik," XI., Band, 1 Heft, 1911, p. 132. "Das kolumbianische Erdbeben am 31 January, 1906."



The second preliminary tremors arriving later are due to the lateral disturbance. Their propagation is much less rapid when the point of origin is nearly opposite the point of receival. In other words there is a core within the earth about 0.4 of the radius in radius, in which according to Oldham, these lateral waves have much less velocity. Now in a gas there is less resistance to lateral displacement than in a solid, and the less the resistance the less the velocity, so that this fact fits in with the idea of a gaseous core perfectly. If there is such n core, moreover, of less rigidity it would have less refraction. Consequently waves not striking the border above the angle of total reflection would be totally reflected, and just as around a bubble there is a dark border where the light does not get through so at a certain distance from the source of an earthquake there would be a circle (it is really about 140 degrees of arc away), where no second tremors would be felt. Here again, though seismograph stations are as yet few, fact and theory are apparently going to correspond.

The last type of earthquake waves follow around the outer layer of the crust.

There is one farther line of verification to which I had addressed myself. Is it likely that the loss of heat and energy from the central nucleus, at the rate which we know at the surface from a central nucleus of anything like 0.4 the radius of the earth, would give a shrinkage of anything like the amount indicated by the mountain ranges, in anything like the time which we are led to assign on other grounds to the geologic periods?

Rudski has also attempted to connect the shrinkage and age of the earth. Both these methods depend on how fast the earth is losing heat, that is on the geothermal gradient. Since at present, owing to the apparently large but unknown contribution of radioactivity to that gradient we know very little about what the other portion is, it seems unwise to give any figures, especially as almost all the numerical data are largely guess work. It will, however, be fair to say that very long times for the age of the earth seem to be indicated, nearer millions of millions than millions unless the radius of the gaseous core was mainly small or its rate of contraction with loss of temperature high.



THE CASH VALUE OF SCIENTIFIC RESEARCH

BY PROFESSOR T. BRAILSFORD ROBERTSON

UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA

THERE can be no doubt that the average man and woman in Europe and America to-day professes a more or less nebulous feeling of respect and admiration for the scientific investigator. This feeling is not logical, for very few have ever met or seen a scientist, fewer still have ever seen the inside of a scientific laboratory, and hardly any have ever seen scientific research in the making.

The average man in the street or man of affairs has no very clear conception of what manner of man a "scientist" may be. No especial significance attaches in his mind to the term. No picture of a personality or his work arises in the imagination when the word "scientist" is pronounced. More or less indefinitely, I suppose, it is conceded by all that a scientist is a man of vast erudition (an impression by the way which is often strikingly incorrect) who leads a dreary life with his head buried in a book or his eye glued to telescope or microscope, or perfumed with those disagreeable odors which, as everybody knows, are inseparably associated with chemicals. The purpose of this life is not very clear, but doubtless a vague feeling exists in the minds of most of us that people who are willing to pursue such an unattractive career must be worthy of admiration, for despite all the triumphs of commercialism, humanity still loves idealism, even idealism which seems objectless because it is incomprehensible.

From time to time the existence of the scientific man is recalled to the popular mind by some extravagant headlines in the daily press, announcing some utterly impossible "discovery" or some extravagantly nonsensical dictum made by an alleged "scientist." The "discovery" was never made, the dictum never uttered, but no matter; to-morrow its place will be taken by the latest political or matrimonial scandal, and the public, with excellent good sense, will forget all about it.

From time to time, also, there creeps gradually into the public consciousness a sense that SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED. Brief notices appear in the press, at first infrequently and then more frequently, and an article or two in the popular monthlies. The public becomes languidly interested in a new possibility and even discusses it, sceptically. Then of a sudden we are awakened to the realization of a new power in being. The X-ray, wireless telegraphy or the aeroplane has become the latest "marvel of science," only to develop in a very brief period into a commonplace of existence.

Many indeed are aware that we owe these "marvels" to scientific research, but very few indeed, to the shame of our schools be it spoken, have attained to the faintest realization of the indubitable fact that we owe almost the entirety of our material environment, and no small proportion of our social and spiritual environment, to the labors of scientists or of their spiritual brethren.

Long ago, in ages so remote that no record of them survives save our heritage of labor well achieved, some pastoral savage, more reflective and less practical than his brethren, took to star-gazing and noting in his memory certain strange coincidences. Doubtless he was chidden by his tribal leaders who were hard-headed men of affairs, skilled in the questionable art of imposing conventional behavior upon unruly tribesmen. But he was an inveterate dreamer, this prehistoric Newton and the fascination of the thing had gripped his mind. In due time he was gathered to his fathers, but not before he had passed on to a few chosen ones the peculiar coincidences he had observed. And thus, from age to age coincidence was added to coincidence and the result of all this "unpractical" labor was, at long last, a calendar. Let who will attempt to estimate the cash value of this discovery; I will not attempt the impossible. I will merely ask you to picture to yourselves humanity in the condition of the Australian Aboriginal or of the South African Bushman; devoid of any means of estimating time or season save by the daily passage of the sun, and I ask you, "supposing that through some vast calamity, a calamity greater even than the present war, humanity could at a stroke evolve a calendar, would it be worth while?" I for one think it would.

The evolution of the calendar is not an inapt illustration of the methods of science, and of the part which it has played in shaping the destiny of man. Out of the unregarded labors of thousands of forgotten men, and a few whom we now remember, has sprung every detail of that vast complex of machinery, method and measurement in which to-day we live and move and have our being. In all ages scientific curiosity guided by the scientific discipline of thought has forced man into new and more complex paths of progress. Lacking the spirit of research, a nation or community is merely parasitic, living upon the vital achievements of others, as Rome based her civilization upon the civilization of the Greeks. Only an indefinite and sterile refinement of the existing environment is possible under such circumstances, and humanity stays stationary or sinks back into the semibarbarism of the middle ages.

The few scattered students of nature of that day picked up the clue to her secrets exactly as it fell from the hands of the Greeks a thousand years before. The foundations of mathematics were so well laid by them that our children learn their geometry from a book written for the schools of Alexandria two thousand years ago. Modern astronomy is the natural continuation and development of the work of Hipparchus and of Ptolemy; modern physics of that of Democritus and of Archimedes; it was long before biological science outgrew the knowledge bequeathed to us by Aristotle, by Theophrastus and by Galen.[1]

[1] T. H. Huxley, "Science and Culture."



If, therefore, we ask ourselves what has been the value of science to man, the answer is that its value is practically the value of the whole world in which we find ourselves to-day, or, at any rate, the difference between the value of our world and that of a world inhabited by Neolithic savages.

The sweeping nature of this deduction may from its very comprehensiveness fail to carry conviction to the reader. But concrete illustrations of the value which scientific research may add to our environment are not far to seek. They are afforded in abundance by the dramatic achievements of the past century of human progress, in which science has begun painfully and haltingly to creep into its true place and achieve its true function.

In the year 1813 many important events occurred. The power of Napoleon was crumbling in that year and countless historians have written countless pages describing innumerable events, great and small, which accompanied that colossal downfall. But one event of that year, of which we do not read in our historical memoirs and school books was the discovery by Sir Humphry Davy, in the humble person of a bookbinder's apprentice, of the man who will probably stand out forever in the history of science as the ideal scientific man—Michael Faraday. The manner of this discovery is revealed by the following conversation between Sir Humphry Davy and his friend Pepys. "Pepys, what am I to do, here is a letter from a young man named Faraday; he has been attending my lectures, and wants me to give him employment at the Royal Institution—what can I do?" "Do?" replied Pepys, "put him to wash bottles; if he refuses he is good for nothing." "No, no," replied Davy; "we must try him with something better than that." The result was, that Davy engaged him to assist in the laboratory at weekly wages.[2]

[2] J. Tyndall, "Faraday as a Discoverer."



Davy made many important discoveries, but none of his discoveries was more important than his discovery of Faraday, and of all the events which occurred in the year 1813, the entry of Faraday into the Royal Institution was not the least significant for humanity.

On the morning of Christmas day, 1821, Faraday called his wife into his laboratory to witness, for the first time in the history of man, the revolution of a magnet around an electric current. The foundations of electromagnetics were laid and the edifice was built by Faraday upon this foundation in the fourteen succeeding years. In those years and from those labors, the electro-motor, the motor generator, the electrical utilization of water power, the electric car, electric lighting, the telephone and telegraph, in short all that is comprised in modern electrical machinery came actually or potentially into being. The little rotating magnet which Faraday showed his wife was, in fact, the first electric motor.

What was the cash value to humanity of those fourteen years of labor in a laboratory?

According to the thirteenth census of the United States, the value of the electrical machinery, apparatus and supplies produced in this country alone, in 1909 was $221,000,000. In 1907, the value of the electric light and power stations in the United States was $1,097,000,000, of the telephones $820,000,000, and the combined income from these two sources was $360,000,000. Nor does this represent a tithe of the values, as yet barely realized, which these researches placed at our disposal. Thus in its waterfalls, the United States is estimated to possess 150,000,000 available horse-power, which can only be realized through the employment of Faraday's electro-motor. This corresponds, at the conservative figure of $20 per horse-power per annum to a yearly income of $3,000,000,000, corresponding at 4 per cent. interest to a capital value of $75,000,000,0000.[3]

[3] M. T. Bogert, "The Function of Chemistry in the Conservation of our National Resources," Journal of the American Chemical Society, February, 1909.



Such was the Christmas gift which Michael Faraday presented to the world in 1821.

Faraday died a poor man in 1867, neither for lack of opportunity nor for lack of ability to grasp his opportunities, but because as his pupil Tyndall tells us, he found it necessary to choose between the pursuit of wealth and the pursuit of science, and he deliberately chose the latter. This is not a bad thing. It is perhaps as it should be, and as it has been in the vast majority of cases. But another fact which can not be viewed with like equanimity is that of all the inexhaustible wealth which Faraday poured into the lap of the world, not one millionth, not a discernible fraction, has ever been returned to science for the furtherance of its aims and its achievements, for the continuance of research.

There is no regular machinery for securing the permanent endowment of research, and it is always and everywhere a barely tolerated intruder. In the universities it crouches under the shadow of pedagogy, and snatches its time and its materials from the fragments which are left over when the all-important business of teaching the young what others have accomplished has been done. In commercial institutions it occasionally pursues a stunted career, subject to all the caprices of momentary commercial advantage and the cramped outlook of the "practical man." The investigator in the employ of a commercial undertaking is encouraged to be original, it is true, but not to be too original. He must never transcend the "practical," that is to say, the infinitesimal rearrangement of the preexisting. The institutions existing in the world which are devoted to research and, research alone can almost be counted on the fingers. The Solvay Institute in Brussels, the Nobel Institute in Stockholm, the Pasteur Institute in France, the Institute for Experimental Therapy at Frankfort, The Kaiser Wilhelm Institutes at Berlin, The Imperial Institute for Medical Research at Petrograd, the Biologisches Versuchsanstalt at Vienna, the Biological Station at Naples, the Royal Institution in London, the Wellcome Laboratories in England and at Khartoum, the Smithsonian, Wistar, Carnegie and Rockefeller Institutes in the United States; the list of research institutes of important dimensions (excluding astronomical observatories) is, I believe, practically exhausted by the above enumeration, and many of them are woefully undermanned and underequipped. At least two of them, the Solvay Institute wholly, and the Frankfort Institute for Experimental Therapy in part, owe their existence and continuance to scientific men, Solvay and Ehrlich, who have contrived to combine the pursuit of wealth and of science, and have dedicated the wealth thus procured to the science that gave it birth.

In 1900 the value of the manufacturing industries in the United States which had been developed from patented scientific inventions was no less than $395,663,958 per annum,[4] corresponding to a capital value of about $10,000,000,000. It is impossible to arrive at any accurate estimate of the proportion of this wealth which finds its way back to science to provide equipment and subsistence for the investigator, who is creating the wealth of the future. But the capital endowment of the Rockefeller and Carnegie Institutes, the two wealthiest institutes of research in the world is, according to the 1914 issue of Minerva, only $29,000,000. The total income (exclusive of additions to endowments) of all the higher institutions of learning in the United States in 1913, was only $90,000,000, of which a minute percentage was expended in research.

[4] 12th census, Vol. 10, Part 4.



If science produces so much wealth, is there no contrivance whereby we can cause a small fraction of this wealth to return automatically to science and to furnish munitions of war for fresh conquests of nature? A very small investment in research often produces colossal returns. In 1911 the income of the Kaiser Wilhelm Institute for Physical Chemistry was only $21,000. In 1913 the income of the Institute for Experimental Therapy at Frankfort, where "606" was discovered, was only $20,000; that of the Imperial Institute for Medical Research at Petrograd was $95,000, and that of the National Physical Laboratory in England (not exclusively devoted to research) was $40,000. Yet these are among the most famous research institutions in the world and have achieved results of world-wide fame and inestimable value both from a financial standpoint and from the standpoint of the physical, moral and spiritual welfare of mankind.

In 1856, Perkin, an English chemist, discovered the coal-tar (anilin) dyes. The cost of this investigation, which was carried out in an improvised, private laboratory was negligible. Yet, in 1905, the United States imported $5,635,164 worth of these dyes from Europe, and Germany exported $24,065,500 worth to all parts of the world.[5] To-day we read that great industries in this country are paralyzed because these dyes temporarily can not be imported from Germany. All of these vast results sprang from a modest little laboratory, a meager equipment and the genius and patience of one man.

[5] U. S. Census Bureau Bull. 92.



W. R. Whitney, director of the research laboratory of the General Electric Company, points out that the collective improvements in the manufacture of filaments for electric lamps, from 1901 to 1911, have saved the consumer and producer no less than $240,000,000 annually. He adds with apparently unconscious naivete that the expenses of the research laboratory in his charge aggregate more than $100,000 annually![6] A handsome investment, this, which brings in some two hundred million for an outlay of one hundred thousand.

[6] "Technology and Industrial Efficiency," McGraw-Hill Book Co., 1911.



According to Huxley the discovery by Pasteur of the means of preventing or curing anthrax, silkworm disease and chicken cholera, a fraction of that great man's life work, added annually to the wealth of France a sum equivalent to the entire indemnity paid by France to Germany after the war of 1870.

Humanity has not finished its conquest of nature; on the contrary, it has barely begun. The discipline of thought which has carried humanity so far is destined to carry it further yet. Business enterprise and politics, the all-absorbing interests of the majority of mankind, work in an endless circle. Scientific research communicates a thrust to this rotation which converts the circle into a spiral; the apex of that spiral lies far beyond our vision. We have, not decades, not centuries, not thousands of years before us; but, as astronomy assures us, in all probability, humanity has millions of years of earthly destiny to realize. Barely three thousand years of PURPOSEFUL scientific research have brought the uttermost ends of the earth to our doors; have made civilization and excluded much of the most brutal and brutalizing in life. Not more than two hundred years of research have made us masters where we were slaves; masters of distance, of the air, of the water, of the bowels of the earth, of many of the most dreaded aspects of disease and suffering. Only for forty years have we practiced antisepsis; only for sixty years have we had anesthetics; yet life to-day is well-nigh inconceivable without them. And all of this has been accomplished without any forethought on the part of the acknowledged rulers and leaders of mankind or any save the most trumpery and uncertain provision for research. What will the millions of years which stretch in front of us bring of power to mankind? We can barely foreshadow things too vast to grasp; things that will make the imaginings of Jules Verne and H. G. Wells seem puny by comparison. The future, with the uncanny control which it will bring over things that seem to us almost sacred—over life and death and development and thought itself—might well seem to us a terrifying prospect were it not for one great saving clause. Through all that may happen to man, of this we may be sure, that he will remain human; and because of that we can face the future unafraid and confident that because it will be greater, it will also be better than the present.

What can we do to accelerate the coming of this future? Not very much, it is true, but we can surely do something. We can not create geniuses, often we can not discern them, but having discerned, surely we can use them to the best advantage. It is true that all scientific research has depended and will depend upon individuals; Simon Newcomb expresses the matter thus:

'It is impressive to think how few men we should have to remove from the earth during the past three centuries to have stopped the advance of our civilization. In the seventeenth century there would only have been Galileo, Newton and a few other contemporaries, in the eighteenth they could almost have been counted on the fingers, and they have not crowded the nineteenth.'[7]

[7] "Inventors at Work," Iles, Doubleday Page, 1906.



The first thing we have to do is to discover such men, to learn to know them or suspect them when we meet them or their works. The next is to give them moral and financial recognition, and the means of doing their work. Our procedure in the past has been the reverse of this. I quote from a letter of Kepler to his friend Moestlen:

'I supplicate you, if there is a situation vacant at Tubingen, do what you can to obtain it for me, and let me know the prices of bread, wine and other necessaries of life, for my wife is not accustomed to live on beans.'

The founder of comparative psychology, J. H. Fabre, that "incomparable observer" as Darwin characterized him, is now over ninety years of age, and until very recently was actually suffering from poverty. All his life his work was stunted and crippled by poverty, and countless researches which he was the one human being qualified by genius and experience to undertake, remain to this day unperformed because he never could command the meager necessary equipment of apparatus.

Once again, what can we do?

No small proportion of the population of a modern community are alumni of some institution of higher learning, and one thing that these can do is to see to it by every means in their power that some measure of the spirit of academic freedom is preserved in their alma mater. That the spirit of inquiry and research is not merely tolerated therein but fostered and substantially supported, morally and financially.

As members of the body politic, we can assist the development of science in two ways. Firstly, by doing each our individual part towards ensuring that endowment for the university must provide not only for "teaching adolescents the rudiments of Greek and Latin" and erecting imposing buildings, but also for the furtherance of scientific research. The public readily appreciates a great educational mill for the manufacture of mediocre learning, and it always appreciates a showy building, but it is slow to realize that that which urgently and at all times needs endowment is experimental research.

Secondly, it is vital that public sentiment should be educated to the point of providing the legal machinery whereby some proportion, no matter how small, of the wealth which science pours into the lap of the community, shall return automatically to the support and expansion of scientific research. The collection of a tax upon the profits accruing from inventions (which are all ultimately if indirectly results of scientific advances) and the devotion of the proceeds from this tax to the furtherance of research would not only be a policy of wisdom in the most material sense, but it would also be a policy of bare justice.



THE PHYSICAL MICHELANGELO

BY JAMES FREDERICK ROGERS, M.D.

NEW HAVEN, CONN.

You will say that I am old and mad, but I answer that there is no better way of keeping sane and free from anxiety than by being mad.

HAD Michelangelo been less poetic and more explicit in his language, he might have said there is nothing so conducive to mental and physical wholeness as saturation of body and mind with work. The great artist was so prone to over-anxiety and met (whether needlessly or not) with so many rebuffs and disappointments, that only constant absorption in manual labor prevented spirit from fretting itself free from flesh. He toiled "furiously" in all his mighty undertakings and body and mind remained one and in superior harmony—in abundant health—for nearly four score and ten years.

This Titan got his start in life in the rugged country three miles outside Florence: a place of quarries, where stone cutters and sculptors lived and worked. His mother's health was failing and it was to the wife of one of these artisans that her baby was given to nurse. Half in jest, half in earnest, Michelangelo said one day to Vasari:

'If I have anything good in me, that comes from my birth in the pure air of your country of Arezzo, and perhaps also from the feet that with the milk of my nurse, I sucked in the chisels and hammers wherewith I make my figures.'

He began his serious study of art (and with it his course in "physical training") at fourteen, when he became apprenticed to a painter. He was not vigorous as a child, but his bodily powers unfolded and were intensified through their active expression of his imagination.

His life was devoted with passion to art. He had from the start no time for frivolity. Art became his religion—and required of him the sacrifice of all that might keep him below his highest level of power for work. His father early warned him to have a care for his health, "for," said he, "in your profession, if once you were to fall ill you would be a ruined man." To one so intent on perfection and so keenly alive to imperfection such advice must have been nearly superfluous, for the artist could not but observe the effect upon his work of any depression of his bodily well-being. He was, besides, too thrifty in all respects to think of lapsing into bodily neglect or abuse. He was severely temperate, but not ascetic, save in those times when devotion to work caused him to sleep with his clothes on, that he might not lose time in seizing the chisel when he awoke. He ate to live and to labor, and was pleased with a present of "fifteen marzolino cheeses and fourteen pounds of sausage—the latter very welcome, as was also the cheese." Over a gift of choice wines he is not so enthusiastic and the bottles found their way mostly to the tables of his friends and patrons. When intent on some work he usually "confined his diet to a piece of bread which he ate in the middle of his labors." Few hours (we have no accurate statement in the matter) were devoted to sleep. He ate comparatively little because he worked better: he slept less than many men because he worked better in consequence. Partly for protection against cold, partly perhaps for economy of time, he sometimes left his high dog-skin boots on for so long that when he removed them the scarf skin came away like the skin of a moulting serpent.

He dressed for comfort and not to mortify the flesh. Upon the receipt of a present of some shirts from his nephew he writes:

'I am very much surprised ye should have sent them to me, for they are so coarse that there is not a farm laborer here who would not be ashamed to wear them.'

He is much pleased with a finer lot selected later by his nephew's new wife. Perhaps he did not come up to modern notions of cleanliness (he was early advised by his father never to bathe but to have his body rubbed instead) but he was clean inside, which can not be said of all who make much of a well-washed skin.

His intensity of purpose and fiery energy expressed themselves in his features and form. "His face was round, his brow square, ample," and deeply furrowed: "the temples projected much beyond the ears"; his eyes were "small rather than large," of a dark (some said horn) color and peered, piercingly, from under heavy brows. The flattened nose was the result of a blow from a rival apprentice. He evidently looked the part, though for such mental powers one of his colossal statues would seem a more fitting mold.

Michelangelo experienced some illnesses, all but two of them of minor moment. In 1531 he "became alarmingly ill, and the Pope ordered him to quit most of his work and to take better care of his health." That the illness was a storm merely of the surface is evidenced sufficiently in that his fresco of the "Last Judgment," probably the most famous single picture in the world, was begun years later and completed in his sixty-sixth year. In the work of this epoch there is more than ever the evidence of a pouring forth of energy amounting almost to what the critics call violence—to terribleness of action. It was not until the age of seventy that an illness which seemed to mark any weakening of his bodily powers came upon him. At seventy-five, symptoms of calculus (a disease common in that day at fifty) appeared, but, though naturally pessimistic, he writes, "In all other respects I am pretty much as I was at thirty years." He improved under careful medical treatment, but the illness and his age were sufficient to cause him to "think of putting his spiritual and temporal affairs in better order than he had hitherto done."

He wielded the brush and the chisel with consummate skill in his seventy-fifth year. With the later loss of cunning his energy found vent more in the planning and supervising of architectural works, culminating in the building of St. Peter's, but even in these later years he took up the chisel as an outlet for superfluous energy and to induce sleep. Though the product of his hand was not good, his health was the better for this mutual exercise of mind and body. In his eighty-sixth year he is said to have sat drawing for three consecutive hours until pains and cramps in his limbs warned him that he had not the endurance of youth. For exercise, when manual labor proved a disappointment, he often took horseback rides. There was no invalidism about this great spirit, and it was not until the day before his death that he would consent to go to bed.

In a poem of his last years he burlesques his infirmities in his usual vigorous manner.

'I live alone and wretched, confined like the pith within the bark of the tree.... My voice is like a wasp imprisoned within a sack of skin and bone. ... My teeth rattle like the keys of an old musical instrument.... My face is a scarecrow.... There is a ceaseless buzzing in my ears—in one a spider spins his web, in the other a cricket chirps all night.... My catarrh, which causes a rattle in my throat, will not allow me to sleep.—Fatigue has quite broken me, and the hostlery which awaits me is Death.'

Few men at his age have had less reason to find in themselves other than the changes to be expected with the passing of years and in prose he acknowledged that he had no more affections of the flesh than were to be expected at his age. Codiva pictures him in his last years as "of good complexion; more muscular and bony than fat or fleshy in his person: healthy above all things, as well by reason of his natural constitution as of the exercise he takes, and habitual continence in food and sexual indulgence." His temperance and manual industry and his "extraordinary blamelessness in life and in every action" had been his source of preservation. He was miserly, suspicious, quarrelsome and pessimistic, but the effects of these faults were balanced by his better habits of thought and action. That he, like most great men, felt keenly the value of health, is evidenced not only by his own practice, but by his oft repeated warnings to his nephew when choosing a wife to see that whatever other qualities she might have she be healthy. The blemish of nearsight he considered a no small defect and sufficient to render a young woman unworthy of entry into the proud family of the Buonarroti. To his own father he wrote: "Look to your life and health, for a man does not come back again to patch up things ill done."

One of those who look beneath unusual human phenomena for signs of the pathologic finds Michelangelo "affected by a degree of neuropathy bordering closely upon hysterical disease." What a pity that more of us do not suffer from such degrees of neuropathy—and how much better for most of us if we had such enthusiasm for perfection, and such mania for work, at least of that health-bringing sort in which there is absorbing colabor of brain and hand. True it is that "there is no better way of keeping sane and free from anxiety than by being mad."



THE CONSERVATION OF TALENT THROUGH UTILIZATION

BY PROFESSOR JOHN M. GILLETTE

STATE UNIVERSITY OF NORTH DAKOTA

TO raise the question of how to conserve talent is not an idle inquiry. We are in no immediate danger of famine. Yet there is an enormous interest being devoted to what is known as the conservation of soil. Our forests contain an abundance of timber for near purposes, and when they are gone we shall probably find a better substitute in the direction of concrete. Still agitation and discussion proceed relative to the conservation of our timber supply. We hear of conservation of childhood, of conservation of health, of conservation of natural scenery. It is a period of agitation for conservation of resources all along the line. This is all good. Real intelligent foresight is manifesting itself. Civilized man demonstrates his superiority over uncivilized man most in the exercise of anticipation and prescience.

As compared with other natural resources, genius and talent are relatively scarce articles. This is at least the popular impression as to their quantity. Even scientific men, for the most part, incline to this opinion. Unless we are able to demonstrate that they are quite abundant this opinion must be accepted. I shall seek to show that the estimate of the amount of talent in existence which is usually accepted is too small. However, we are in no peril of so inflating the potential supply of talent and genius in the course of our remarks that they may be regarded as universal. Nor are we likely to discover such a rich lode of this commodity that the world may run riot in its consumption of the visible supply. Talent promises to remain so scarce that, granting for the moment that it is a useful agent, its supply must be conserved.

I shall use the term talent so as to include genius. Both talent and genius are of the same kind. Their essential difference consists in degree. Increase what is commonly called talent in the direction of its manifestation and it would develop into genius. Genius is commonly thought of as something abnormal, in the sense that it is essentially eccentric. A genius is generally spoken of as an eccentric, erratic, unbalanced, person. The eccentricity is then taken as constituting the substance of the quality of genius. This is undoubtedly a mistake. Because some geniuses have been erratic, the popular imagination has formed its picture of all genius as unbalanced. The majority of the world's men of genius have been as balanced and normal in their judgments as the average man. We may think of a genius as like the ordinary man in his constitution. He has the same mental faculties, the same emotions, the same kind of determinizing ability. What makes him a genius is his power of concentration in his given field of work. The moral quality, or zeal to accomplish, or energy directed toward intellectual operations stands enormously above that of the average individual. If we could confer this quality of moral will on the common normal man possibly we would raise him to that degree which we term genius.

In order to determine the worth of conserving talent we must estimate its value as a commodity, as a world asset. I shall, therefore, turn my attention first to discovering a method of reckoning the value of eminent men.

One method open to us is what may be called the individualistic test. Under this method we think of the individual as individual or of his work as a concrete case of production. One phase of this is the individual's estimate of his own powers. We may inquire what is the man's appreciation of his own worth. This is precarious because of two difficulties. There is an egotistical element in individuals. It is inherent as a historical agent of self-preservation. Most of us are like primitive groups. The ethnologist expects to find every tribe or horde of savages claiming to be THE PEOPLE. They ascribe superior qualities to their group. In their names for their group they call themselves the people, the men, and so on, indicating their point of view.

Again, an individual, however honestly he might try, could not estimate his own worth accurately. Let any of us attempt to see ourselves as others see us and we shall discover the difficulty of the undertaking. We are not able to get the perspective because our personal feelings, our necessary selfish self-appreciation, puts our judgments awry. Others close to us may do little better. They are likely to either underrate us or to exaggerate our qualities and powers. In the United States we are called on to evaluate Mr. Taft and Mr. Roosevelt. Is either of them a great man? Has either of them been a great president? Opinions differ. We are too close to them. We do not know. We give them credit, perhaps, for doing things which the age would have worked out in spite of them. Or we think things would have come inevitably which their personal efforts, it will be found, were responsible for establishing. We have not yet been able to determine accurately just how great Abraham Lincoln was. It is almost half a century since he did his work. But we live in the presence of the personal relative to him yet. Sentiment enters in and obfuscates judgment.

If we turn to the product itself as mere product we are at a loss. Unless we ask what is the import of the work we confess we do not know. A man in Connecticut has made a manikin. It walks, talks, does many of the things which human beings do. But it is not alive, it is not serviceable, it can accomplish nothing. Suppose the maker passes his life in making probably the most intricate and perfect mechanism which has been made. Is he a genius? We may admit that the products manifest great ingenuity on the part of their creator, yet we feel repelled when we think of calling the maker a genius.

The community method of rating talent is far more satisfactory. The inventor is related to his time or to human society by means of the usefulness of his invention. The statesman is rated by means of the deep-seated influence for improvement he has had on his age. The educator finds his evaluation in the constructive spirit and method he displays in bringing useful spirit and methods to light. The scientist is measured by the uplift his discovery gives to the sum and substance of human welfare. If a product which some individual creates can not be utilized by society, its creator is not regarded as having made a contribution to human progress. As a consequence he does not get a rating as genius. To get the appraisal of mankind the product of the man of talent must get generally accepted, must fill the want of society generally or of some clientele. If a man produces something merely ingenious, something which does not serve a considerable portion of humanity in the way of satisfying a want, if his creation does not pass into use, he does not step into the current of the world's history as a fruitful factor, he fails to attain to the rank of talent.

This objective measure of the value of the producer puts talent into direct relation to the concept of social evolution and progress. Society has been an evolution. Collective humanity has gone through distinctive metamorphoses. Distinct strides in advance have been made, tendencies have manifested themselves, conditions have changed so that larger satisfactions have ensued, democracy in the essential wants of mankind has been wrought out. Society is more complex in its quantitative aspect. It is more serviceable by reason of its greater specialization. Since progress stands for improvement it has come to be regarded as a desirable thing.

In the sociological conception of things the genius possesses a specific social function. He is not a passing curiosity. He is not produced for amusement. He does not stand unrelated. He is the product of his age, is articulated with its life, performs an office which is of consequence to it. He is the connecting link between the past and the future. He takes what was and so combines it anew as to produce what is to be. He is the innovator, the initiator, the agent of transformation, the creator of a new order. Hence he is the exceptional man. The masses of men are imitators. They make nothing new, add nothing to the mechanism of social structure, introduce no new functions, produce no achievements, do nothing which changes the order of things. The common people are quite as important for the purposes of society as are the talented. Society must be conserved most of the time or we should all float down the stream of change too rapidly for comfort. Hence the function of the great mass of individuals is to seize and use the achievements which the creators, the talented have brought into existence. We may conclude, therefore, that if society is to be improved and if the lives of the great body of human beings are to be endowed with more and more blessings, material and spiritual, we must look to the men of talent, the men of achievement, and to them 'alone, for the initiation of these results.

We may say, then, that we have discovered not only the method of estimating the value of talent, but also in what its value consists. If progress is desirable, talent by means of which that progress is secured is likewise valuable. And, like other things, its value is measured by its scarcity. It is now incumbent on us to attempt to discover the extent of the supply of this commodity, both actual and possible.

I shall refer to two estimates of the amount of talent in existence which have been made because they differ so much in their conclusions as to the extent of talent, and because they exhibit quite different view-points and methods.

The great English scientist and benefactor of the race, Sir Francis Galton, in his work entitled "Hereditary Genius" made a computation of the number of men of eminence in the British Isles. This estimate was made nearly a half-century ago and has generally been accepted as representing actual conditions. One means of discovering the number was by taking a catalogue of "Men of The Times" which contained about 2,500 names, one half of which were Americans and Europeans. He found that most of the men were past fifty years of age. Relative to this he states:

'It appears that in the cases of high (but by no means in that of the highest) merit, a man must outlive the age of fifty to be sure of being widely appreciated. It takes time for an able man, born in the humbler ranks of life, to emerge from them and to take his natural position.'[1]

[1] Cattell's investigations of American men of science disproves this statement for Americans. He finds that only a few men enter the ranks of that class of men after the age of fifty, and that none of that age reach the highest place. The fecund age is from 35 to 45; ("American Men of Science," p. 575.)



After eliminating the non-British individuals he compared the number of celebrities above fifty with males of the same age for the whole British population. He found about 850 who were above fifty. Of this age there were about 2,000,000 males in the British Isles. Hence the meritorious were as 425 to 1,000,000, and the more select were as 250 to 1,000,000. He stated what he considered the qualifications of the more select as follows:

'The qualifications for belonging to what I call the more select part are, in my mind, that a man should have distinguished himself pretty frequently either by purely original work, or as a leader of opinion. I wholly exclude notoriety obtained by a single act. This is a fairly well defined line, because there is not room for many men to become eminent.'

Mr. Galton made another estimate by studying an obituary list published in The Times in 1868. This contained 50 men of the select class. He considered it broader than his former estimate because it excluded men dying before they attained their broadest reputation, and more rigorous because it excluded old men who had previously attained a reputation which they were not able to sustain. He consequently lowered the age to 45. In Great Britain there were 210,000 males who died yearly of that age. This gave a result of 50 men of exceptional merit to 210,000 of the population, or 238 to the million.

His third estimate was made by the study of obituaries of many years back. This led to similar conclusions, namely, that about 250 to the million is an ample estimate of the number of eminent men. He says:

'When I speak of an eminent man, I mean one who has achieved a position that is attained by only 250 persons in each million of men, or by one person in each 4,000.'

The other estimate of the amount of talent in existence has been made by one of our most eminent American sociologists, the late Lester F. Ward. The elaborate treatment of this matter is found in his "Applied Sociology," and offers an illustration of a most rigorous and thorough application of the scientific method to the subject in question. The essential facts for the study were furnished by Odin in his work on the genesis of the literary men of France, although Candole, Jacoby and others are laid under contribution for data. Maps, tables and diagrams are used whenever they can be made to secure results. Odin's study covered the period of over five hundred years of France and French regions, or from 1300 to 1825. Out of over thirteen thousand literary names he chose some 6,200 as representing men of genius, talent or merit, the former constituting much the smaller and the latter much the larger of the total number.

The object of Ward's investigation is to discover the factor or factors in the situation which are responsible for the production of genius. In the course of examination it was seen that certain communities were very much more prolific than others in producing talent. Paris, for instance, produced 123 per 100,000; Geneva, Switzerland, 196; certain chateaux as many as 200, and some communities none at all or very few. After considering the various factors which account for the high rate in certain localities and the low rate or absence of merit in others the conclusion is reached that we should expect the presence of the meritorious class generally in even greater numbers than it has existed in the most fruitful regions of the French people.

Mr. Ward's studies have led him to conclude that talent is latent in society, that it exists in greater abundance than we have ever dared to expect, that all classes possess it equally and would manifest it equally if obstacles were removed or opportunities offered for its development. Education is the key to the situation in his estimation. It affords the opportunity which latent talent requires for its promotion, and if this were intelligently applied to all classes and to both sexes alike instead of securing one man of talent for each 4,000 persons as Mr. Galton held, we would be able to mature one for every 500 of our population. This would represent an eight-hundred-per-cent. increase of the talented class, an eight-fold multiplication. It is an estimate of not the number of the talented who are known to be such, but of society's potential or latent talent.[2]

[2] Investigations made on school children by the Binet test indicate Ward's estimate is conservative. It has been found that from two to three out of every hundred children are of exceptional ability, thus belonging to the talented, or at least merit class.



Because these estimates are so divergent, it may be worth while to consider the reason for the difference. And in taking this up we come to the fundamentally distinct point of view of the two investigators. Mr. Galton's work is an illustration of the view which regards talent as a product of the hereditary factors. Mr. Galton believed that heredity accounts for talent and that it is so dominant in the lives of the talented that it is bound to express itself as talent. In his estimation there is no such thing as latent genius, because it is in the nature of genius that it surmounts all obstacles. He says:

'By natural ability, I mean those qualities of intellect and disposition, which urge and qualify a man to perform acts which lead to reputation. I do not mean capacity without zeal, nor zeal without capacity, nor even a combination of both of them, without an adequate power of doing a great deal of very laborious work. But I mean a nature which, when left to itself, will, urged by an inherent stimulus, climb the path that leads to eminence, and has strength to reach the summit—one which, if hindered or thwarted, will fret and strive until the hindrance is overcome, and it is again free to follow its labor-saving instinct.'[2]

[3] "Hereditary Genius," pp. 37-8.



This in reality amounts to saying that the genius is omnipotent. Nothing can prevent the development of the genius. He is master of all difficulties by the very fact that he is a genius. It is also equivalent, by implication, to saying that obstacles can have no qualifying effect on the course of such an individual. A great difficulty is no more to him than a small one. Hence no matter in what circumstances he lives he is always bound to gain the maximum of his development. He could not be either greater or less than he is, notwithstanding the force of circumstances, whether obstructive or propitious. The energy of a genius is thus differentiated from all other forms of energy. Other forms of energy are modified in their course and effects by preventing obstacles. Add to or subtract from the impediments and the effect of the energy is changed by the amount of the impediments. But this doctrine completely emancipates human energy, when manifested in the form of genius, from the working of the law of cause and effect.

It is especially noteworthy that it is not what we should expect in view of the place and function of the environment in the course of evolution. To say the least environment enjoys a very respectable influence in selecting and directing the forces of development. Some men have gone so far as to make the external factors account for everything in society. Discounting this claim, the minimum biological statement is that the environment exercises a selective function relative to organic forms and variations. It opposes itself to the transmission strain, and if unfavorable to it, may eliminate it entirely. To be able to accomplish this it must be regarded as having an influence on all forms. And as there are all grades of environment from the most unfavorable to the most propitious, similarly constituted organisms living in those various environments must perforce fare differently, some being hindered others being promoted in varying degrees. That is, should the most able by birth appear in the most unfavorable environment they could not be expected to make the same gains in life as similar congenitally able who appear in the most favorable conditions.