Within the last few years a singular interest has arisen in the subject of dust, smoke, and fog, and several scientific researches into the nature and properties of these phenomena have been recently conducted. It so happened that at the time I received a request from the secretary of this society to lecture here this afternoon I was in the middle of a research connected with dust, which I had been carrying on for some months in conjunction with Mr. J.W. Clark, Demonstrator of Physics in University College, Liverpool, and which had led us to some interesting results. It struck me that possibly some sort of account of this investigation might not be unacceptable to a learned body such as this, and accordingly I telegraphed off to Mr. Moss the title of this afternoon's lecture. But now that the time has come for me to approach the subject before you, I find myself conscious of some misgivings, and the misgivings are founded upon this ground: that the subject is not one that lends itself easily to experimental demonstration before an audience. Many of the experiments can only be made on a small scale, and require to be watched closely.

However, by help of diagrams and by not confining myself too closely to our special investigation, but dealing somewhat with the wider subject of dust in general, I may hope to render myself and my subject intelligible if not very entertaining.

First of all, I draw no distinction between "dust" and "smoke." It would be possible to draw such a distinction, but it would hardly be in accordance with usage. Dust might be defined as smoke which had settled, and the term smoke applied to solid particles still suspended in the air. But at present the term "smoke" is applied to solid particles produced by combustion only, and "dust" to particles owing their floating existence to some other cause. This is evidently an unessential distinction, and for the present I shall use either term without distinction, meaning by dust or smoke, solid particles floating in the air. Then "fog"; this differs from smoke only in the fact that the particles are liquid instead of solid. And the three terms dust, smoke, and fog, come to much the same thing, only that the latter term is applied when the suspended particles are liquid. I do not think, however, that we usually apply the term "fog" when the liquid particles are pure water; we call it then mostly either mist or cloud. The name "fog," at any rate in towns, carries with it the idea of a hideous, greasy compound, consisting of smoke and mist and sulphur and filth, as unlike the mists on a Highland mountain as a country meadow is unlike a city slum.

Nevertheless, the finest cloud or mist that ever existed consists simply of little globules of water suspended in air, and thus for our present purpose differs in no important respect from fog, dust, and smoke. A cloud or mist is, in fact, fine water-dust. Rain is coarse water-dust formed by the aggregation of smaller globules, and varying in fineness from the Scotch mist to the tropical deluge. It has often been asked how it is that clouds and mists are able to float about when water is so much heavier (800 times heavier) than air. The answer to this is easy. It depends on the resistance or viscosity of fluids, and on the smallness of the particles concerned. Bodies falling far through fluids acquire a "terminal velocity," at which they are in stable equilibrium - their weight being exactly equal to the resistance - and this terminal velocity is greater for large particles than for small; consequently we have all sorts of rain velocity, depending on the size of the drops; and large particles of dust settle more quickly than small.

Cloud-spherules are falling therefore, but falling very slowly.

To recognize the presence of dust in air there are two principal tests; the first is, the obvious one of looking at it with plenty of light, the way one is accustomed to look for anything else; the other is a method of Mr. John Aitken's, viz., to observe the condensation of water vapor.

Take these in order. When a sunbeam enters a darkened room through a chink, it is commonly said to be rendered visible by the motes or dust particles dancing in it; but of course really it is not the motes which make the sunbeam visible, but the sunbeam the motes. A dust particle is illuminated like any other solid screen, and is able to send a sufficient fraction of light to our eyes to render itself visible. If there are no such particles in the beam - nothing but clear, invisible air - then of course nothing is seen, and the beam plunges on its way quite invisible to us unless we place our eyes in its course. In other words, to be visible, light must enter the eye. (A concentrated beam was passed through an empty tube, and then ordinary air let in.)

The other test, that of Mr. Aitken, depends on the condensation of steam. When a jet of steam finds itself in dusty air, it condenses around each dust particle as a nucleus, and forms the white visible cloud popularly called steam. In the absence of nuclei Mr. Aitken has shown that the steam cannot condense until it is highly supersaturated, and that when it does it condenses straight into rain - that is, into large drops which fall. The condensation of steam is a more delicate test for dust than is a beam of light. A curious illustration of the action of nuclei in condensing moisture has just occurred to me, in the experiment - well known to children - of writing on a reasonably clean window-pane with, say, a blunt wooden point, and then breathing on the glass; the condensation of the breath renders the writing legible. No doubt the nuclei are partially wiped away by the writing, and the moisture will condense into larger drops with less light-scattering power along the written lines than over the general surface of the pane where the nuclei are plentiful, and the drops therefore numerous and minute.

Mr. Aitken points out that if the air were ever quite dustless, vapor could not condense, but the air would gradually get into a horribly supersaturated condition, soaking all our walls and clothes, dripping from every leaf, and penetrating everywhere, instead of falling in an honest shower, against which umbrellas and slate roofs are some protection. But let us understand what sort of dust it is which is necessary for this condensing process. It is not the dust and smoke of towns, it is not the dust of a country road; all such particles as these are gross and large compared with those which are able to act as condensers of moisture. The fine dust of Mr. Aitken exists everywhere, even in the upper regions of the atmosphere; many of its particles are of ultra-microscopic fineness, one of them must exist in every raindrop, nay, even in every spherule of a mist or cloud, but it is only occasionally that one can find them with the microscope. It is to such particles as these that we owe the blue of the sky, and yet they are sufficiently gross and tangible to be capable of being filtered out of the air by a packed mass of cotton-wool. Such dust as this, then, we need never be afraid of being without.