The mighty deep

“ALL the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.”

So wrote the wisest of men, long centuries ago; and the words are true in a world-wide sense, which the writer with all his wisdom could not then have fully grasped.

“All the rivers” meant to him a great many streams, large and small, in southern Asia, and in southern Europe, with some in northern Africa. “All the rivers” of the world now—— Let us see what it means.

The chief work of a river is to drain the land; to bear superfluous waters into the great deep. Water lying stagnant on land becomes harmful. Immense supplies are perpetually needed; but it must be fresh water, clear water, running water, water newly fallen from the skies, or newly received from ever fresh because ever renewed springs. Never stagnant water.

So Earth’s rivers—we are talking of land-rivers now—gathering to themselves the multitude of lesser streams and tributaries, which in their turn have been earlier fed by an infinite number of burns and runnels in country and town, hurry downward to the Ocean, with rich presents from the Land. But all the while, Land expects “to receive as much again.”

When we stand beside a broad river, watching the steady flow, hearing the little murmurs of sound and the soft suck and “swish” against the banks, we do not often realise the greatness of the task which that river may have in hand.

Suppose we are on the banks of the Seine, the mother-stream of gay Paris. Many a century has Paris lived; but the Seine existed countless centuries before Paris was ever heard of. Year by year the Seine drains away surplus water from some twenty-three thousand square miles of French territory. Year by year the Seine carries down to the Ocean a gift of more than five cubic miles of water. Five hundred cubic miles in the course of a century!

Or suppose we turn to the Rhine, that river of castles and legends, which starts with the meltings of over one hundred and fifty glaciers, and is said to be fed in its course by something like twelve thousand lesser streams. The Rhine drains, at the very least, between thirty and forty thousand square miles of country; and it pays to the Ocean an annual tribute of more than ten cubic miles of water. More than a thousand cubic miles each hundred years.

Let us take a look at the Yangtsekiang—a Chinese river of special interest for British trade. It drains over six hundred and fifty thousand square miles of land; and each year it hands over to the Ocean more than one hundred and twenty-five cubic miles of water.

See the Mississippi. More than a million square miles of American territory are drained by it; and its annual gift to the Ocean amounts, like that of the great Chinese river, to over one hundred and twenty-five cubic miles of water.

Or once more—take the Amazon. By that mighty stream more than two million square miles of land are drained; and more than five hundred cubic miles of water are poured annually into the sea. So the Amazon presents to the Ocean in the course of a year what the Seine presents in the course of a century.

It has been reckoned that “all the rivers” of Earth combined pour every year into the sea a mass of water equal to about six thousand five hundred cubic miles. This would suffice to fill a vast tank, one mile broad, one mile deep, reaching the whole way from the north of Scotland to the south of Africa.

“All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full.” It does not overflow its limits. And long ago as King Solomon wrote these words, he was able to give the reason. “Unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.”

The ocean receives these generous gifts from the land, only to be generous in return. That which the ocean freely accepts she gives again, lavishly and royally. Enormous supplies of water are needed on land, and it is the work of the ocean to meet that need.

Throughout the world, and especially within the tropics, a constant drying up of the sea-surface is going on. This passing away of visible water out of sight is, like countless other everyday events, very extraordinary; though we think nothing of it because of its familiarity.

A tumbler of water is spilt upon a boarded floor. “Oh, never mind,” says a careless voice. “It will soon dry up.” Yes, of course it will; and who troubles himself to think what the “drying up” means? Particle by particle the spilt water will creep softly away, not as a liquid but as a vapour, into the atmosphere, there to float, hidden from sight, and to be carried hither and thither wherever the air may be moving.

Had such a thing never been seen before, it would arouse the wonderment of every thoughtful mind in Europe. But miracles of daily occurrence cease to be miracles.

Some few solids, such as camphor, have the same property of passing slowly out of sight into the air, though it is a much slower process with camphor than with water. Snow and ice also, when there is no thaw, dry off gradually. I have known a whole slight fall of snow disappear thus, without any thaw.

Vapour is always present in the air; sometimes a large amount, as much as the atmosphere is able at that particular temperature to hold; sometimes a less amount, not so much as the air could contain. In the latter case “drying” goes on briskly; in the former case it languishes, and wet clothes, wet pavements, remain long damp.

Warm air can hide away a much more abundant supply of vapour than cold air; so the hotter and drier the air, the quicker is the evaporation or drying-up of water-surfaces. This is remarkably seen in the Red Sea. An amount of water passes away from that sea in a single year, sufficient to bring down its level some fifteen or twenty feet,—which it would do, but for a powerful current always flowing in from the Indian Ocean.

When sea-water thus passes off in vapour, it leaves the salt behind. Were this amount of evaporation to go on steadily in the Red Sea, without any fresh supplies of water being received, about two thousand years would suffice to dry up the whole Sea, nothing but a great mass of salt remaining in its bed.

If the Red Sea alone loses in one year a slice of water, fifteen or twenty feet thick, imagine what the enormous quantity must be which is raised, year by year, from the surfaces of all tropical oceans, and in a less degree from the seas in colder regions. The weight of the whole could only be told in hundreds of millions of millions of tons. And this vast mass is drawn up, gently and mildly, particle by particle; to be wafted by breezes to regions where water is urgently required, and there to be poured down as rain upon the thirsty ground. Thus the great exchange is carried on, with steady sequence, between Land and Ocean, Ocean and Land.

When showers come to gladden the hearts of our farmers, and to provide food for the people, they might sometimes give a thought to the Ocean—to the manner in which, with Sun and Air as helpers, he sends aloft millions of tons of water, for the use of those on land.

For “unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.”

There are parts of the world where rains, like winds, come at regular and almost unfailing dates. In disappointing years, when they fail, an Empire may be disorganised in consequence.

But in our British Isles no such regularity has sway; and a pleasing uncertainty prevails about Weather in general. This gives scope for something to talk about, and something to grumble at. What the average Briton would do without these perpetual possibilities is a serious question.

No doubt our Weather is a very uncertain quantity to be reckoned with. Yet it may be that we are unfair to our friend the Ocean, who does so much for us in the weather-line—ever at work as he is, night and day, sending upward supplies of water, bringing to our shore stores of tropical heat, softening the westerly breezes which excel.

Is English weather really so bad as is popularly supposed? There are climates and climates in the world; some worse, some better. May it not be that ours really is, in many respects, not worse but better? Perhaps a slight digression here will be pardoned, for the sake of Old Ocean’s good name, in his dealings with the British Isles.

Foggy days, dull and damp days, are apt to make a more lasting impression upon some people’s memories than sunny days. One reason for the generally mournful idea of British weather may be due to the fact that foreigners, Frenchmen especially, are by nature more light-hearted than Englishmen, and that they keep chiefly in mind their sunny days, while we perhaps keep chiefly in mind our dull days.

To gain a fair estimate of average British weather, long and careful observation is necessary. There is absolutely no safe criterion, save that of record-keeping. Not many people have the perseverance to do this for any length of time, and few non-scientific people have the fairness of mind and judgment to do it dependably.

It is in my power to tell of a record which has been kept, steadily, carefully, perseveringly, by an English lady during many years, and to give the results at which she arrived. Without being strictly scientific she was—I have to say “was,” since she has passed from our midst—accurate, regular, conscientious, and fair-minded. For all this I can vouch from personal knowledge. At the same time that she kept records of the weather, she registered day by day the readings of her thermometer and the daily amount of rainfall. With the two latter we are not now concerned.

Her method as to weather-registration was as follows. Four marks were used: X for a thoroughly fine day; V for a day in which fine and dull mingled, but in which the fine predominated; I for a day in which again the two mingled, but in which the dull or rain had the best of the matter; and O for a day which could only be described as decidedly bad.

Of course many days occur which it is difficult to assign to either class, especially of the two middle divisions. But a constant endeavour was made to keep a fair proportion. If one doubtful day were placed, for instance, in the V division, the next equally doubtful day would be carefully placed in the I division, to ensure accuracy.

At the end of each month all these four classes were added up separately. Also, to simplify results, the Good and the Half-good, the Bad and the Half-bad, were classed in two columns as comprehensively Good and Bad. From these two columns curious results were obtained.

It should be stated that the lady in question lived at Reigate, and was seldom absent from home, never more than for a few weeks at a time. The record is thus mainly of one place. Now and again a short absence occurred, and her observations were then carried on wherever she might be; but the absences were so few and generally so short as to be unimportant.

Before going farther, it is worth while for the reader to ask himself, perhaps also to ask one or two friends, what might be the proportions of “Good” and “Bad” days that he or they would expect to find in the English climate, as the result of such a computation?

Would it be three-quarters bad and one-quarter good? Or could it be possibly half bad and half good?

Here is the actual result:—

If the second column be added up, the sum-total amounts to three thousand and fifty-seven days. If the first column be also added up, the sum-total amounts to nine hundred and forty-seven days. A very simple calculation, which anybody may work out, will show that the proportion of “Good” days towards “Bad” days is that of about Three to One.

Who would have thought it? Not certainly the majority of friends to whom I have appealed for an opinion. Not even an able scientific man, who frankly confessed his astonishment.

Over three-quarters of fairly Good Weather, as opposed to under one-quarter of fairly Bad Weather—and this the average of eleven years! Have we not given the rein too freely to our National grumbling tendencies? Would it not be better if we thought more of the sunshine, less of the clouds and rain?

It may perhaps be of interest to some to know more exactly the proportions of the four classes during those years. Both in these and in the former columns it will be noted that one year of the eleven is a few days short of the full length—the year 1894. This seems to have been the only lapse in regularity.

Here is the fuller statement:—

So if we owe our weather to the Ocean’s influences, it appears that we have more to be thankful for than to complain of.

King Charles II., wise in word though not in deed, is reported to have said that in England a man could work more days in the open air than in any other country. Whether this be so or not, it at least shows that the Merry Monarch was not one in the army of weather-complainers.