is laid under water until the fires within are reduced to their wonted level.

Assailed on the one hand by heat, the body resists the attack, if resistance be possible, until the store of moisture is dissipated; assailed on the other by cold, it keeps the enemy at bay until the hoarded fuel is expended. Thus protected, thus provisioned, let us ask whether these human hearths are not entitled to rank among the standing marvels of creation; for is it not startling to find that, let the climate be mild or rigorous, let the wind blow from the sultry desert or come loaded with polar sleet, let the fluctuations of temperature be as violent as they may without us, there shall still be a calm, unchanging, undying summer within us?

GEORGE WILSON.

In order to understand the production of animal heat, we must recall to recollection what takes place when charcoal is burned in air. When this is going on, the charcoal combining with the oxygen of the air, begins to disappear, and forms a gas called carbonic acid, containing both the charcoal and the oxygen.

Air, in its passage through the body of the animal, is changed in a similar manner. Ordinary air, as we inspire it, contains only about one two-thousandth of its volume of carbonic acid; but the air we breathe out or expire contains one-fiftieth of its volume of carbonic acid.

The air from our fire-places obtains its carbonic acid by the burning of the charcoal of the coals; and the air breathed out by the animal obtains its carbonic acid by the burning of charcoal in the body. The breath thus contains a gas or air, which, however clear, yet contains charcoal, and the quantity of charcoal thus given out by each man is twelve ounces a day, which in a year amounts to upwards of two cwt. A family of ten annually breathe out a ton of coal matter.

Whether charcoal is burned in our grates or in our frames, the total amount of heat produced is the same. It is true that no part of the animal becomes red hot as the coals in our fire-places do, but by diffusing the heat over a lengthened period, it makes up for its comparatively small intensity.

In the combustion of charcoal in our ordinary fires, it burns with great rapidity, and the heat for a short time is intense; but when burned to keep up the animal heat, burning goes on more slowly, and, as a consequence, the heat is never so intense. In both cases, however, the same amount of heat is ultimately given off during combustion.

The heat generated in the animal system by vital action has a constant tendency to escape and be dissipated at the surface of the body. By interposing a non-conducting substance between the surface of the body and the external atmosphere, we prevent the loss of heat which would otherwise take place. Wool, fur, hair, and feathers are the warmest clothing; not because they impart heat to the body, but because they are bad conductors of heat, and therefore prevent the warmth of the body from being drawn off by the cold air.

D. W.

THE WHALE FISHERY.

For more than a hundred years the whale fishery was confined to the sea between Spitzbergen and Greenland, but early in the eighteenth century Davis Strait began to be frequented, and the ships sent thither gradually increased in number. This station was, however, soon fished out too, the whales seeking refuge from their assailants in the more distant recesses of the Arctic Seas. The north-western shores of Baffin Sea are now the principal resort of the whale fishers. This great sea was discovered in 1615, by William Baffin, the most learned navigator of his age, and one of the greatest names in the annals of Arctic adventure. Davis Strait, which forms the southern part of Baffin Sea, was discovered in 1585, by the celebrated John Davis, another of the noble band of Arctic adventurers.

The Greenland whale has no affinity with fishes; it is as much a mammal as the ox or the elephant, having warm blood, breathing air, bringing forth living young, and suckling them with true milk. Fishes are dependent for existence on the air contained in the water, but the whale has to come to the surface to breathe. The waters of the sea contain a considerable amount of air, supplied in various ways-by the dashing of the waves on the shore, by the storms which agitate its surface, and by the general circulation of the ocean currents.

The length of the Greenland whale is from fifty to sixty feet; but there is another species, called the great rorqual, which has been found nearly one hundred feet in length.

The gullet of the whale is so small as not to admit the passage of a fish so large as a herring; hence its support is derived from creatures of very small bulk. When the whale feeds it swims with its mouth wide open. The water with all its contents rushes into the immense cavity, and filters out at the sides between the plates of whalebone, which are so close together, and so finely fringed on the inner edge with hair, that every particle of solid matter is retained.

Though the whale, like all other mammalia, is formed for breathing air alone, and must therefore come to the surface of the sea at certain intervals, yet these intervals are occasionally of great length. The whale can remain an hour under water, or, in an emergency, even nearly two hours, though it ordinarily comes up to breathe at intervals of eight or ten minutes, except when feeding, when it is sometimes a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes submerged.

It is an object of importance that the act of breathing should be performed with as little effort as possible, and therefore the windpipe is not made to terminate in the mouth, nor in nostrils placed at the extremity of the muzzle. If this were the case it would require a large portion of the head and body to be projected from the water, or else that the animal should throw itself into a perpendicular position; either of which postures would be inconvenient when swimming rapidly, as, for example, endeavouring to escape when harpooned. The windpipe, therefore, communicates with the air at the very top of the head; which, by a peculiar rising or hump at that part, is the very highest part of the animal when horizontal: it can thus breathe when none of its body is exposed except the very orifice itself. The whale often begins to breathe when a little below the surface, and then the force with which the air is expired blows up the water lying above in a jet or stream: this, with the condensed moisture of the breath itself, constitutes what are called "the spoutings," which are attended with a rushing noise that may be heard upwards of a mile off.

In the agony and terror caused by the blow of the harpoon, the whale usually plunges directly downward into the depths of the sea, and that with such force that the mouth has been found, on returning to the surface, covered with the mud of the bottom; while in some instances the skull, and in others the jaws, have been fractured by the violence with which they have struck the ground. A whale has been known to descend perpendicularly to the depth of a mile, as measured by the length of line "run out;" where the pressure of the immense body of water above must have

been equal to a ton upon every square inch! Mr. Scoresby mentions a case in which a boat was accidentally entangled and carried down by a whale, but immediately recovered. From the intense pressure, the water had been forced into the pores of the solid oak, so that it was completely saturated, and sunk like lead: the paint came off in large sheets; and the wood, thrown aside to be used as fuel, was found to be useless, for it would not burn. A piece of the lightest fir-wood, which was in the boat, came up in exactly the same soaked condition, having totally lost the power of floating. To resist such a pressure as this, the blow-holes of the whale tribe are closed with a valve-like stopper of great density and elasticity, somewhat resembling India-rubber, which, accurately fitting the orifice, excludes all water from the windpipe, becoming more tightly inserted in proportion to the pressure.

CAPTURING THE WHALE.

THE capture of this immense animal, from its vast strength, the fickle element on which it is pursued, and the dangers peculiar to the Arctic regions, is an adventure of extraordinary hazard. The ships, built for the purpose, and strengthened with abundance of oak and iron, leave the northern ports of this country early in April, and by the end of the month usually reach the scene of their enterprise. Arrived within the limits of constant day, an unceasing watch is kept for whales, by an officer stationed in a snug sort of pulpit called the crow's nest, made of hoops and canvas, and well secured at the main-top-mast head.

The boats, which combine strength and lightness, are always kept hanging over the sides and quarters of the ship, ready furnished for pursuit, so that, on the appearance of a whale being announced from aloft, one or more boats can be despatched in less than a minute.

Each boat carries a harpooner (whose station is in the bow), a steersman, and several rowers. In an open space in the bow of

the boat is placed a line, sometimes more than 4,000 feet in length, coiled up with beautiful regularity and scrupulous care. The end of this is fastened to the harpoon, a most important weapon, made of the toughest iron, somewhat in the form of an anchor, but brought to an edge and point. Instead of steel being employed, as is commonly supposed, the very softest iron is chosen for this important implement, so that it may be scraped to an edge with a knife. A long staff is affixed to the harpoon, by which it is wielded.

The boat is swiftly but silently rowed up to the unconscious whale, and, when within a few yards, the harpooner darts his weapon into its body. Smarting and surprised, the animal descends into the depth of the ocean, but carries the harpoon sticking fast by the barbs, while the coiled line runs out with amazing velocity. A sheave or pulley is provided, over which it passes; but if by accident it slips out of its place, the friction is so great that the bow of the boat is speedily enveloped in smoke, and instances are not unfrequent of the gunwale bursting into a flame, or even of the head of the boat being actually sawn off by the line. To prevent this, a bucket of water is always kept at hand, to allay the friction.

When a boat is "fast" to the whale, a little flag is instantly hoisted in the stern, as a signal to the ship, and other boats are at once despatched to its assistance. Sometimes, before help can arrive, the united lines of the boats first sent are all run out; in which case the men are obliged to cut the line, and lose it with the whale, or the boat would be dragged under water. But generally some of the free boats can approach sufficiently near the animal, on its return to the surface, to dart another harpoon into its body. Perhaps it again dives, but soon returns much exhausted. The men now thrust into its body long and slender steel lances; and, aiming at the vitals, these wounds soon prove fatal: blood mixed with water is discharged from the blow-holes, and presently streams of blood alone are ejected, which frequently drench the boats and men, and colour the sea far around. Sometimes the last agony of the victim is marked by convulsive motions with the tail, attended