“No! why not? Do you think yourself better than other children?”
No answer.
“Is it because people tell you you are rich, you won’t play?”
The young lady was gone. He stretched his hand to arrest her, but she
wheeled beyond his reach, and ran quickly out of sight.
“An only child,” pleaded Miss Wilcox; “possibly spoiled by her papa, you
know; we must excuse a little pettishness.”
“Humph! I am afraid there is not a little to excuse.”
CHAPTER II.
Mr. Ellin—the gentleman mentioned in the last chapter—was a man who went
where he liked, and being a gossiping, leisurely person, he liked to go
almost anywhere. He could not be rich, he lived so quietly; and yet he
must have had some money, for, without apparent profession, he continued
to keep a house and a servant. He always spoke of himself as having once
been a worker; but if so, that could not have been very long since, for
he still looked far from old. Sometimes of an evening, under a little
social conversational excitement, he would look quite young; but he was
changeable in mood, and complexion, and expression, and had chamelion
eyes, sometimes blue and merry, sometimes grey and dark, and anon green
and gleaming. On the whole he might be called a fair man, of average
height, rather thin and rather wiry. He had not resided more than two
years in the present neighbourhood; his antecedents were unknown there;
but as the Rector, a man of good family and standing, and of undoubted
scrupulousness in the choice of acquaintance, had introduced him, he
found everywhere a prompt reception, of which nothing in his conduct had
yet seemed to prove him unworthy. Some people, indeed, dubbed him “a
character,” and fancied him “eccentric;” but others could not see the
appropriateness of the epithets. He always seemed to them very harmless
and quiet, not always perhaps so perfectly unreserved and comprehensible
as might be wished. He had a discomposing expression in his eye; and
sometimes in conversation an ambiguous diction; but still they believed
he meant no harm.
Mr. Ellin often called on the Misses Wilcox; he sometimes took tea with
them; he appeared to like tea and muffins, and not to dislike the kind
of conversation which usually accompanies that refreshment; he was
said to be a good shot, a good angler.—He proved himself an excellent
gossip—he liked gossip well. On the whole he liked women’s society, and
did not seem to be particular in requiring difficult accomplishments
or rare endowments in his female acquaintance. The Misses Wilcox, for
instance, were not much less shallow than the china saucer which held
their teacups; yet Mr. Ellin got on perfectly well with them, and had
apparently great pleasure in hearing them discuss all the details of
their school. He knew the names of all their young ladies too, and
would shake hands with them if he met them walking out; he knew their
examination days and gala days, and more than once accompanied Mr. Cecil,
the curate, when he went to examine in ecclesiastical history.
This ceremony took place weekly, on Wednesday afternoons, after which
Mr. Cecil sometimes stayed to tea, and usually found two or three lady
parishioners invited to meet him. Mr. Ellin was also pretty sure to be
there. Rumour gave one of the Misses Wilcox in anticipated wedlock to
the curate, and furnished his friend with a second in the same tender
relation; so that it is to be conjectured they made a social, pleasant
party under such interesting circumstances. Their evenings rarely passed
without Miss Fitzgibbon being introduced—all worked muslin and streaming
sash and elaborated ringlets; others of the pupils would also be called
in, perhaps to sing, to show off a little at the piano, or sometimes to
repeat poetry. Miss Wilcox conscientiously cultivated display in her
young ladies, thinking she thus fulfilled a duty to herself and to them,
at once spreading her own fame and giving the children self-possessed
manners.
It was curious to note how, on these occasions, good, genuine natural
qualities still vindicated their superiority to counterfeit, artificial
advantages. While “dear Miss Fitzgibbon,” dressed up and flattered as she
was, could only sidle round the circle with the crestfallen air which
seemed natural to her, just giving her hand to the guests, then almost
snatching it away, and sneaking in unmannerly haste to the place allotted
to her at Miss Wilcox’s side, which place she filled like a piece of
furniture, neither smiling nor speaking the evening through—while such
was _her_ deportment, certain of her companions, as Mary Franks, Jessy
Newton, &c., handsome, open-countenanced little damsels—fearless because
harmless—would enter with a smile of salutation and a blush of pleasure,
make their pretty reverence at the drawing-room door, stretch a friendly
little hand to such visitors as they knew, and sit down to the piano to
play their well-practised duet with an innocent, obliging readiness which
won all hearts.
There was a girl called Diana—the girl alluded to before as having
once been Miss Sterling’s pupil—a daring, brave girl, much loved and
a little feared by her comrades. She had good faculties, both physical
and mental—was clever, honest, and dauntless. In the schoolroom she set
her young brow like a rock against Miss Fitzgibbon’s pretensions; she
found also heart and spirit to withstand them in the drawing-room. One
evening, when the curate had been summoned away by some piece of duty
directly after tea, and there was no stranger present but Mr. Ellin,
Diana had been called in to play a long, difficult piece of music
which she could execute like a master. She was still in the midst of
her performance, when—Mr. Ellin having for the first time, perhaps,
recognized the existence of the heiress by asking if she was cold—Miss
Wilcox took the opportunity of launching into a strain of commendation on
Miss Fitzgibbon’s inanimate behaviour, terming it lady-like, modest, and
exemplary. Whether Miss Wilcox’s constrained tone betrayed how far she
was from really feeling the approbation she expressed, how entirely she
spoke from a sense of duty, and not because she felt it possible to be in
any degree charmed by the personage she praised—or whether Diana, who was
by nature hasty, had a sudden fit of irritability—is not quite certain,
but she turned on her music-stool:—
“Ma’am,” said she to Miss Wilcox, “that girl does not deserve so much
praise. Her behaviour is not at all exemplary. In the schoolroom she is
insolently distant. For my part I denounce her airs; there is not one of
us but is as good or better than she, though we may not be as rich.”
And Diana shut up the piano, took her music-book under her arm, curtsied,
and vanished.
Strange to relate, Miss Wilcox said not a word at the time; nor was Diana
subsequently reprimanded for this outbreak. Miss Fitzgibbon had now been
three months in the school, and probably the governess had had leisure to
wear out her early raptures of partiality.
Indeed, as time advanced, this evil often seemed likely to right itself;
again and again it seemed that Miss Fitzgibbon was about to fall to her
proper level, but then, somewhat provokingly to the lovers of reason and
justice, some little incident would occur to invest her insignificance
with artificial interest. Once it was the arrival of a great basket of
hothouse fruit—melons, grapes, and pines—as a present to Miss Wilcox in
Miss Fitzgibbon’s name. Whether it was that a share of these luscious
productions was imparted too freely to the nominal donor, or whether she
had had a surfeit of cake on Miss Mabel Wilcox’s birthday, it so befel,
that in some disturbed state of the digestive organs Miss Fitzgibbon took
to sleep-walking. She one night terrified the school into a panic by
passing through the bedrooms, all white in her night-dress, moaning and
holding out her hands as she went.
Dr. Percy was then sent for; his medicines, probably, did not suit the
case; for within a fortnight after the somnambulistic feat, Miss Wilcox
going upstairs in the dark, trod on something which she thought was the
cat, and on calling for a light, found her darling Matilda Fitzgibbon
curled round on the landing, blue, cold, and stiff, without any light in
her half-open eyes, or any colour in her lips, or movement in her limbs.
She was not soon roused from this fit; her senses seemed half scattered;
and Miss Wilcox had now an undeniable excuse for keeping her all day on
the drawing-room sofa, and making more of her than ever.
There comes a day of reckoning both for petted heiresses and partial
governesses.
One clear winter morning, as Mr. Ellin was seated at breakfast, enjoying
his bachelor’s easy chair and damp, fresh London newspaper, a note was
brought to him marked “private,” and “in haste.” The last injunction was
vain, for William Ellin did nothing in haste—he had no haste in him; he
wondered anybody should be so foolish as to hurry; life was short enough
without it. He looked at the little note—three-cornered, scented, and
feminine. He knew the handwriting; it came from the very lady Rumour had
so often assigned him as his own. The bachelor took out a morocco case,
selected from a variety of little instruments a pair of tiny scissors,
cut round the seal, and read:—“Miss Wilcox’s compliments to Mr. Ellin,
and she should be truly glad to see him for a few minutes, if at leisure.
Miss W. requires a little advice. She will reserve explanations till she
sees Mr. E.”
Mr. Ellin very quietly finished his breakfast; then, as it was a very
fine December day—hoar and crisp, but serene, and not bitter—he carefully
prepared himself for the cold, took his cane, and set out. He liked
the walk; the air was still; the sun not wholly ineffectual; the path
firm, and but lightly powdered with snow. He made his journey as long
as he could by going round through many fields, and through winding,
unfrequented lanes. When there was a tree in the way conveniently placed
for support, he would sometimes stop, lean his back against the trunk,
fold his arms, and muse. If Rumour could have seen him, she would have
affirmed that he was thinking about Miss Wilcox; perhaps when he arrives
at the Lodge his demeanour will inform us whether such an idea be
warranted.
At last he stands at the door and rings the bell; he is admitted,
and shown into the parlour—a smaller and a more private room than
the drawing-room. Miss Wilcox occupies it; she is seated at her
writing-table; she rises—not without air and grace—to receive her
visitor. This air and grace she learnt in France; for she was in a
Parisian school for six months, and learnt there a little French, and
a stock of gestures and courtesies. No: it is certainly not impossible
that Mr. Ellin may admire Miss Wilcox. She is not without prettiness,
any more than are her sisters; and she and they are one and all smart
and showy. Bright stone-blue is a colour they like in dress; a crimson
bow rarely fails to be pinned on somewhere to give contrast; positive
colours generally—grass-greens, red violets, deep yellows—are in favour
with them; all harmonies are at a discount. Many people would think
Miss Wilcox, standing there in her blue merino dress and pomegranate
ribbon, a very agreeable woman. She has regular features; the nose is
a little sharp, the lips a little thin, good complexion, light red
hair. She is very business-like, very practical; she never in her life
knew a refinement of feeling or of thought; she is entirely limited,
respectable, and self-satisfied. She has a cool, prominent eye; sharp and
shallow pupil, unshrinking and inexpansive; pale irid; light eyelashes,
light brow. Miss Wilcox is a very proper and decorous person; but she
could not be delicate or modest, because she is naturally destitute of
sensitiveness. Her voice, when she speaks, has no vibration; her face no
expression; her manner no emotion. Blush or tremor she never knew.
“What can I do for you, Miss Wilcox?” says Mr. Ellin, approaching the
writing-table, and taking a chair beside it.
“Perhaps you can advise me,” was the answer; “or perhaps you can give me
some information. I feel so thoroughly puzzled, and really fear all is
not right.”
“Where? and how?”
“I will have redress if it be possible,” pursued the lady; “but how to
set about obtaining it! Draw to the fire, Mr. Ellin; it is a cold day.”
They both drew to the fire. She continued:—
“You know the Christmas holidays are near?”
He nodded.
“Well, about a fortnight since, I wrote, as is customary, to the friends
of my pupils, notifying the day when we break up, and requesting that, if
it was desired that any girl should stay the vacation, intimation should
be sent accordingly. Satisfactory and prompt answers came to all the
notes except one—that addressed to Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire, May Park,
Midland County—Matilda Fitzgibbon’s father, you know.”
“What? won’t he let her go home?”
“Let her go home, my dear sir! you shall hear. Two weeks elapsed, during
which I daily expected an answer; none came. I felt annoyed at the delay,
as I had particularly requested a speedy reply. This very morning I had
made up my mind to write again, when—what do you think the post brought
me?”
“I should like to know.”
“My own letter—actually my own—returned from the post-office, with an
intimation—such an intimation!—but read for yourself.”
She handed to Mr. Ellin an envelope; he took from it the returned note
and a paper—the paper bore a hastily-scrawled line or two. It said,
in brief terms, that there was no such place in Midland County as May
Park, and that no such person had ever been heard of there as Conway
Fitzgibbon, Esquire.
On reading this, Mr. Ellin slightly opened his eyes.
“I hardly thought it was so bad as this,” said he.
“What? you did think it was bad then? You suspected that something was
wrong?”
“Really! I scarcely knew what I thought or suspected. How very odd, no
such place as May Park! The grand mansion, the grounds, the oaks, the
deer, vanished clean away. And then Fitzgibbon himself! But you saw
Fitzgibbon—he came in his carriage?”
“In his carriage!” echoed Miss Wilcox; “a most stylish equipage, and
himself a most distinguished person. Do you think, after all, there is
some mistake?”
“Certainly, a mistake; but when it is rectified I don’t think Fitzgibbon
or May Park will be forthcoming. Shall I run down to Midland County and
look after these two precious objects?”
“Oh! would you be so good, Mr. Ellin? I knew you would be so kind;
personal inquiry, you know—there’s nothing like it.”
“Nothing at all. Meantime, what shall you do with the child—the
pseudo-heiress, if pseudo she be? Shall you correct her—let her know her
place?”
“I think,” responded Miss Wilcox, reflectively—“I think not exactly as
yet; my plan is to do nothing in a hurry; we will inquire first. If after
all she should turn out to be connected as was at first supposed, one had
better not do anything which one might afterwards regret. No; I shall
make no difference with her till I hear from you again.”
“Very good. As you please,” said Mr. Ellin, with that coolness which
made him so convenient a counsellor in Miss Wilcox’s opinion. In his dry
laconism she found the response suited to her outer worldliness. She
thought he said enough if he did not oppose her. The comment he stinted
so avariciously she did not want.
Mr. Ellin “ran down,” as he said, to Midland County. It was an errand
that seemed to suit him; for he had curious predilections as well as
peculiar methods of his own. Any secret quest was to his taste; perhaps
there was something of the amateur detective in him. He could conduct an
inquiry and draw no attention. His quiet face never looked inquisitive,
nor did his sleepless eye betray vigilance.
He was away about a week. The day after his return, he appeared in
Miss Wilcox’s presence as cool as if he had seen her but yesterday.
Confronting her with that fathomless face he liked to show her, he first
told her he had done nothing.
Let Mr. Ellin be as enigmatical as he would, he never puzzled Miss
Wilcox. She never saw enigma in the man. Some people feared, because
they did not understand, him; to her it had not yet occurred to begin
to spell his nature or analyze his character. If she had an impression
about him, it was, that he was an idle but obliging man, not aggressive,
of few words, but often convenient. Whether he were clever and deep,
or deficient and shallow, close or open, odd or ordinary, she saw no
practical end to be answered by inquiry, and therefore did not inquire.
“Why had he done nothing?” she now asked.
“Chiefly because there was nothing to do.”
“Then he could give her no information?”
“Not much: only this, indeed—Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May
Park a house of cards. There was no vestige of such man or mansion in
Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had
nothing to say about either the name or the place. The Oracle of old
deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded.
“Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?”
“That’s just what I can’t tell you:—an incapacity which makes me say I
have done nothing.”
“And how am I to get paid?”
“Can’t tell you that either.”
“A quarter’s board and education owing, and masters’ terms besides,”
pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.”
“And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we
ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in
Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.”
“Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor! I wonder what her
real name is?”
“Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin.
“Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity! It’s very odd,
but try as I would—and I made every effort—I never could really like that
child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made
great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention;
for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all
along felt towards her.”
“Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.”
“Did you? Well—it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game
is up now, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but
now—”
“Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this
business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere
tool? Have her in.”
Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false
heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her
furbelowed dress adornments—alas! no longer acceptable.
“Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox, sternly, checking her as she approached
the hearth. “Stand there on the farther side of the table. I have a few
questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And
mind—let us have the truth. _We will not endure lies._”
Ever since Miss Fitzgibbon had been found in the fit, her face had
retained a peculiar paleness and her eyes a dark orbit. When thus
addressed, she began to shake and blanch like conscious guilt personified.
“Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself?”
A sort of half-interjection escaped the girl’s lips; it was a sound
expressing partly fear, and partly the shock the nerves feel when an
evil, very long expected, at last and suddenly arrives.
“Keep yourself still, and reply, if you please,” said Miss Wilcox, whom
nobody should blame for lacking pity, because nature had not made her
compassionate. “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of
Matilda Fitzgibbon.”
She gave no answer.
“I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or later. So you had
better do it at once.”
This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject
of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not
competent to articulate.
Miss Wilcox did not fly into a passion, but she grew very stern and
urgent; spoke a little loud; and there was a dry clamour in her raised
voice which seemed to beat upon the ear and bewilder the brain. Her
interest had been injured—her pocket wounded—she was vindicating her
rights—and she had no eye to see, and no nerve to feel, but for the point
in hand. Mr. Ellin appeared to consider himself strictly a looker-on; he
stood on the hearth very quiet.
At last the culprit spoke. A low voice escaped her lips. “Oh, my head!”
she cried, lifting her hands to her forehead. She staggered, but caught
the door and did not fall. Some accusers might have been startled by
such a cry—even silenced; not so Miss Wilcox. She was neither cruel
nor violent; but she was coarse, because insensible. Having just drawn
breath, she went on, harsh as ever.
Mr. Ellin, leaving the hearth, deliberately paced up the room as if he
were tired of standing still, and would walk a little for a change. In
returning and passing near the door and the criminal, a faint breath
seemed to seek his ear, whispering his name—
“Oh, Mr. Ellin!”
The child dropped as she spoke. A curious voice—not like Mr. Ellin’s,
though it came from his lips—asked Miss Wilcox to cease speaking, and say
no more. He gathered from the floor what had fallen on it. She seemed
overcome, but not unconscious. Resting beside Mr. Ellin, in a few minutes
she again drew breath. She raised her eyes to him.
“Come, my little one; have no fear,” said he.
Reposing her head against him, she gradually became reassured. It did
not cost him another word to bring her round; even that strong trembling
was calmed by the mere effects of his protection. He told Miss Wilcox,
with remarkable tranquillity, but still with a certain decision, that the
little girl must be put to bed. He carried her upstairs, and saw her laid
there himself. Returning to Miss Wilcox, he said:
“Say no more to her. Beware, or you will do more mischief than you think
or wish. That kind of nature is very different from yours. It is not
possible that you should like it; but let it alone. We will talk more on
the subject to-morrow. Let me question her.”
Under Chloroform.
Most people take an interest in any authentic account of the mode
in which important surgical operations are performed, whenever
opportunity is offered of gratifying their very natural curiosity. Such
opportunities are however somewhat rare. The columns of the newspaper
press not unfrequently supply brief, and sometimes curiously incorrect,
particulars of the injuries resulting from “an appalling accident” of
the night previous, to some unfortunate workman who has fallen from a
scaffold, or been mutilated by a railway train. Scraps of hearsay are
eagerly gathered up by the penny-a-liner, who, like the fireman’s dog
of notorious ubiquity, is always first on the spot after the occurrence
of a catastrophe; and a remarkable combination of technical phrases
culled from the brief remarks of the surgeon in attendance, and from the
slender stock which has accumulated in the reporter’s brain from previous
experiences, makes its appearance in to-morrow’s daily journals, and is
certain to be reproduced in all the weeklies of Saturday next. Then it
is the great public learns with profound horror that some poor victim’s
shoulder-joint has been dislocated in three places, that the carotid
artery was pronounced (surgeons are invariably said to “pronounce”) to
be fractured, or that there was great contusion and ecchymosis (always
a trying word for the compositor) about the spine, and that amputation
would probably be necessary.
But sometimes it happens that an over-prying public, with a curiosity
not much in this instance to be commended, peeps within the pages of the
medical press, hoping to unravel some of the mysteries of professional
craft. Ten to one that it gets nothing but error for its pains. The
technicalities which medical men must necessarily employ when writing
for each other, are instructive only to the initiated, and are pregnant
with blunders for the simple reader. And few people make more mistakes
than our medical amateur who, on the strength of a weekly perusal of _The
Lancet_ at his club, sets up as an authority in the social circle on
questions of physiology and physic.
Occasionally, moreover, after dinner, when the ladies have left the
table, and the men alone remain to empty decanters and derange a dessert,
one has the gratification of meeting some very young gentleman, who, the
week before last, presented his proud father with the diploma of “the
college,” elegantly framed and glazed, in return for an education which
has cost five years and a thousand pounds, and who astonishes his elderly
associates with a highly-tinted sketch of some operative achievement, in
which perchance he assisted at the hospital. As he surveys the auditory,
silent and absorbed by his heart-stirring description, and complacently
witnesses the admiration which such evidence of his own familiarity with
harrowing scenes, and of his apparent absence of emotion, elicits, it
is to be feared that its influence, associated with that of the port,
a beverage appreciated by our young friend, if one may judge by the
quantity he imbibes, tends to render the information obtained, as one may
say almost at first hand, not so absolutely trustworthy as a man of fact
is accustomed to desire.
After a due survey then of the varied sources from which most people
obtain information respecting the topics in question, and after some
observation of the character and quality of the knowledge so acquired, we
have formed the deliberate conclusion that they possess very erroneous,
and very inadequate notions about the nature of a surgical operation.
No doubt all admire the _sang-froid_ and skill, possession of which
is necessary to make a good surgical operator—qualities, by the way,
which are perhaps more frequently developed by training, than found
already existing as a natural inheritance. But it is germane to our
purpose to remember that everybody has a direct practical concern in
the existence of an available supply of the necessary talent to meet a
certain demand on the part of the body politic, for no one knows how
soon his own personal necessities may not be such as to give him the
strongest possible interest in its exercise: a demand that is absolutely
inevitable;—for be assured that, without any wish to alarm you, gentle
reader, Mr Neison will, if requested to make the calculation, inform us
at once what the numerical chances are that your own well-proportioned
nether limb will, or will not, fall before the surgeon’s knife, or
that that undoubtedly hard and well-developed cranium may not yet be
scientifically explored by “trepan” or “trephine.” He will estimate
with unerring certainty the probability (to nine places of decimals, if
you demand it) that your own fair person may become the subject of some
unpleasing excrescence; and also what the chances are that you must seek
the surgeon’s aid to remove it. While Mr. Buckle will stoutly maintain,
and you will find it hard to gainsay him, that, given the present
conditions of existence, a certain ascertainable number of tumours,
broken legs, and natural-born deformities will regularly make their
appearance every year among the human family. And he will probably add,
that it is perfectly within the province of possibility to calculate,
if we had all the required data, the exact number of individuals who
have the requisite courage to submit to operation; as of those who will
not have heart to do so, and who will inevitably die without benefit of
surgery; together with the exact per-centage to the population of those
who will, and who will not, put faith in the blessed boon of chloroform.
It is a blessed boon; and in olden times the possessor of such a secret
would have been the most potent wizard of which the earth has yet heard
tell. What miracles might not have been performed by it! What dogmas
might not have been made divine and true by its influence! Happy was it
that those great powers, the magic of chemical and electrical discovery,
have been brought to light in a time when they can be used mainly to
enlighten and bless, and not to darken and oppress mankind!
But that word chloroform is happily significant that it is to no scene
of suffering that we would introduce our readers. There is no need
to shrink, or to question the taste which exhibits the details of
a surgical operation to the vulgar eye. It is not designed, even in
this stirring time, after the fashion of ancient Rome, to deaden our
sensibilities, or to accustom our youth to witness deeds of blood and
violence without shrinking. No trace of suffering will be visible in the
picture which shall pass before us. So great is the triumph which modern
surgical art displays, so great the boon which it has conferred upon
humanity! It is this which we propose to illustrate, by describing the
single and simple process involved in cutting off a leg.
Permit us first, however, to cast a passing glance, by way of contrast,
to the established and orthodox fashion of performing that operation
some centuries ago. Bear with us but a moment, and in imagination hope
that then, when painless surgery was unknown, no patient lacked support
in his hour of trial (long _hours_ then, in truth!) from that great and
never-failing source which flows, unmeasured and unfathomable, for all
humanity, alike in every age.
Until the last three or four hundred years, amputation of a limb was very
rarely performed, except when, from injury or disease, its extremity had
begun to mortify; and then, few surgeons ventured to make incisions in
the sound portion, but limited themselves to an operation through the
tissues which had already lost their vitality. This timidity was due to
the fact that they were unacquainted with any effectual means of stopping
the bleeding from the larger arteries divided by the knife. Certain
and easy as is the control of such bleeding now, by the simple process
of tying a piece of thread or silk round the extremity of the bleeding
vessel (as we shall hereafter see), it was unknown, at all events as
applicable to amputation, to any surgical writer from Hippocrates, 400
B.C., or from Celsus, who flourished in the first Christian century,
to the fifteenth. Consequently, the numerous instances of injury and
disease, in which life is now saved by a timely resort to amputation,
were then always fatal. Hence, also, arose the various expedients which
the more adventurous operators of the time resorted to, in order to
stop fatal bleeding, with the effect only of increasing the patient’s
torture, and with the attainment of no good result. Thus the incisions
were performed with a red-hot knife, that the divided vessels, seared
and charred by the horrible contact, might contract, or become plugged,
and so be prevented from bleeding (Albucasis, 11th century). Effective
for the instant, the force of the circulation quickly overpowered the
slender obstruction, and fatal hæmorrhage, sooner or later, took place.
Yet this plan continued more or less in vogue down to the discovery of
the ligature in the 16th century, and was practised even later in Germany
by the celebrated Hildanus (1641); although he subsequently adopted the
new method. According to another fashion, the surgeon, after making a
tedious division of the flesh down to the bone, with studied endeavour
not to divide the arteries until the last moment, relied on applications
of red-hot irons, or of some styptic fluid, usually a powerful acid or
astringent, to arrest the bleeding. If these were not successful, a
vessel of boiling pitch was at hand, ready prepared, into which the
bleeding stump was plunged. Between Scylla and Charybdis, the patient
rarely escaped with life; either he died from loss of blood in a few
hours, or less; or if the dreadful remedies succeeded, he survived a day
or two, to die of fever or exhaustion. After an earlier method, that of
Guido di Caulico (1363), a bandage of plaster was made to encircle the
member so tightly that mortification attacked all the parts below, which
then, after the lapse of months, dropped off, a horribly loathsome and
offensive mass. Another surgeon, Botalli (1560), invented a machine to
sever the limb in an instant by a single stroke; and it was not uncommon
at this period to effect the same purpose by the hatchet, or by a
powerful mallet and chisel.
It is to Ambrose Paré, the great French surgeon, who flourished in the
16th century, that we owe the application of the ligature (used long
before in ordinary wounds) to the bleeding arteries in amputation. He
discarded the use of the red-hot cautery, and of all the frightful
adjuncts already described; and accomplished his purpose by carrying the
thread round the vessel by means of a needle passed through the soft
parts adjacent—a method of adjustment which, although still in use, is
now employed only in exceptional instances. Richard Wiseman, sometimes
styled the father of English surgery, who practised about the middle
of the 17th century, is believed to have been the first to employ the
ligature in our own country, and to relinquish the application of heated
irons. At this era also, the circulation of the blood was discovered by
the renowned Harvey, and the distinction between arteries and veins being
thenceforth clearly understood, the value of the ligature was rendered
more than ever obvious.
But enough of this: let us soothe our ruffled nerves by seeing how the
thing is done to-day. We will take a quiet post of observation in the
area of the operating theatre at one of our metropolitan hospitals, in
this year of our Lord 1860. Notice is posted that amputation of the thigh
will be performed at 2 o’clock P.M., and we occupy our seat ten minutes
before the hour.
The area itself is small, of a horse-shoe form, and surrounded by seats
rising on a steep incline one above another, to the number of eight
or nine tiers. From 100 to 150 students occupy these, and pack pretty
closely, especially on the lower rows, whence the best view is obtained.
For an assemblage of youths between eighteen and twenty-five years,
who have nothing to do but to wait, they are tolerably well-behaved
and quiet. Three or four practical jokers, however, it is evident, are
distributed among them, and so the time passes all the quicker for the
rest. The clock has not long struck two, when the folding-doors open, and
in walk two or three of the leading surgeons of the hospital, followed
by a staff of dressers, and a few professional lookers-on; the latter
being confined to seats reserved for them on the lowest and innermost
tier. A small table, covered with instruments, occupies a place on one
side of the area; water, sponges, towels, and lint, are placed on the
opposite. The surgeon who is about to operate, rapidly glances over the
table, and sees that his instruments are all there, and in readiness.
He requests a colleague to take charge of the tourniquet, and with a
word deputes one assistant to “take the flaps,” another to hold the
limb, a third to hand the instruments, and the last to take charge of
the sponges. This done, and while the patient is inhaling chloroform in
an adjoining apartment, under the care of a gentleman who makes that
his special duty, the operator gives to the now hushed and listening
auditory, a brief history of the circumstances which led to an incurable
disease of the left knee-joint, and the reasons why he decides on the
operation about to be performed. He has scarcely closed, when the
unconscious patient is brought in by a couple of sturdy porters, and
laid upon the operating table, a small, but strong and steady erection,
four feet long by two feet wide, which stands in the centre of the area.
The left being the doomed leg, the right is fastened by a bandage to one
of the supports of the table, so as to be out of harm’s way; while the
dresser, who has special charge of the case, is seated on a low stool at
the foot of the table, and supports the left. The surgeon who assists,
encircles the upper part of the thigh with the tourniquet, placing its
pad over the femoral artery, the chief vessel which supplies the limb
with blood, and prepares to screw up the instrument, thus to make sure
that no considerable amount of the vital fluid can be lost. The operator,
standing on the left side of the corresponding leg, and holding in his
right hand a narrow, straight knife, of which the blade is at least ten
inches long, and looks marvellously bright and sharp, directs his eye to
him who gives the chloroform, and awaits the signal that the patient has
become perfectly insensible. All is silence profound: every assistant
stands in his place, which is carefully arranged so as not to intercept
the view of those around.
The words “quite ready” are no sooner whispered, than the operator,
grasping firmly with his left hand the flesh which forms the front part
of the patient’s thigh, thrusts quietly and deliberately the sharp blade
horizontally through the limb, from its outer to its inner side, so that
the thigh is transfixed a little above its central axis, and in front
of the bone. He next cuts directly downwards, in the plane of the limb,
for about four inches, and then obliquely outwards, so as to form a
flap, which is seized and turned upwards out of the way by the appointed
assistant. A similar transfixion is again made, commencing at the same
spot, but the knife is this time carried behind the bone; a similar
incision follows, and another flap is formed and held away as before.
Lastly, with a rapid circular sweep round the bone he divides all left
uncut; and handing the knife to an assistant, who takes it, and gives
a saw in return, the operator divides the bone with a few workmanlike
strokes, and the limb is severed from the body. A rustling sound of
general movement and deeper breathing is heard among the lookers-on,
who have followed with straining and critical eyes every act which has
contributed to the accomplishment of the task; and some one of the
younger students is heard to whisper to his neighbour, “Five and thirty
seconds: not bad, by Jove!”
The operator now seats himself on the stool just vacated by the dresser,
who has carried away the leg, and seeks in the cut surfaces before him
the end of the main artery on which to place a ligature. There is no flow
of blood, only a little oozing, for the tourniquet holds life’s current
hard and fast. Only five minutes’ uncontrolled flow of the current from
that great artery now so perfectly compressed, and our patient’s career
in this world would be closed for ever. How is it permanently held in
check? and what have we to substitute now for the hissing, sparkling, and
sputtering iron, and the boiling pitch? The operator takes hold of the
cut end of the artery with a slender, delicately made pair of forceps,
and draws it out a little, while an assistant passes round the end so
drawn out a ligature of exceedingly fine whipcord, fine but strong, and
carefully ties it there with double knot, and so effectually closes the
vessel. A similar process is applied to perhaps six or seven other but
smaller vessels, the tourniquet is removed, and no bleeding ensues.
Altogether the patient has lost little more than half-a-pint of blood!
The flaps are placed in apposition, the bone is well covered by them, a
few stitches are put through their edges, some cool wet lint is applied
all around the stump, and the patient, slumbering peacefully, is carried
off to a comfortable bed ready prepared in some adjacent ward. Half an
hour hence that patient will regain consciousness, and probably the first
observation he makes will be, “I am quite ready for the operation, when
is it going to begin?” And it takes no little repetition of the assurance
that all is over to make him realize the happy truth.
So it is that he who loses the limb knows less about the process than
any one concerned; infinitely less, my gentle reader, than you who
have shared with us the quiet corner, and have seen all without losing
consciousness, or fainting. It was an early day in the medical session,
and many new men were there; one at least was observed to become
very—very pale, and then slowly disappear: no one knows how or where, for
neither we in the area nor those elsewhere had leisure or care to inquire.
What might have happened to somebody else had he been witness before
these blessed days of chloroform, can, in the nature of things, be only
a matter for speculation. It may even be surmised by some theorist, and
without hazarding a very improbable guess, that a similar catastrophe
might, perhaps, under such aggravating circumstances, and at a greener
age, have rendered utterly futile, on his part, any attempt to describe
what modern skill and science now accomplish in cutting off the leg of a
patient Under Chloroform.
The How and Why of Long Shots and Straight Shots.
On a windy, unpleasant day in 1746, a great mathematician and philosopher
was exhibiting to a select company in the gardens of the Charterhouse
his skill in shooting round a corner with a bent gun-barrel. If he had
requested the editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_ of the day to publish his
experiments, it is probable that he would have been refused. Now, when
every morning paper informs us at breakfast, in its best type, of how far
off we may be killed, and the evening papers analyze the same with the
commencement of a hot debate on the French Treaty, to give us a pleasing
subject for our dreams, we think that perhaps our unprofessional readers
may like to know _the how_ and _the why_ of these far-reaching organs of
peace on earth and good-will among faithful allies.
Supposing, then, reader—for it is to such that this article is
addressed—that you are wholly ignorant of the science of gunnery, and
of its principal establisher, Benjamin Robins, and have, therefore,
been laughing at him, the poor silly philosopher,—if you will read the
following extract from his work on Gunnery, you will see that if he did
a foolish thing, he certainly sometimes wrote a wise one:—“I shall,
therefore, close this paper with predicting that whatever State shall
thoroughly comprehend the nature and advantages of rifled-barrel pieces,
and, having facilitated and completed their construction, shall introduce
into their armies their general use, with a dexterity in the management
of them, they will by this means acquire a superiority which will
almost equal anything that has been done at any time by the particular
excellence of any one kind of arms; and will, perhaps, fall but little
short of the wonderful effects which histories relate to have been
formerly produced by the first inventors of fire-arms.”
Now to our distinguished countryman, Mr. Benjamin Robins, is due the
credit of having first pointed out the reasons why _smooth bores_—and
smooth bore is now almost as great a term of reproach with us rifle
volunteers as dog is with a Turk—were constantly, in fact, universally,
in the habit of shooting round corners, and the experiment mentioned
was only a means of bringing the fact more strikingly before the obtuse
faculties of the Royal Society, whom we may imagine to have been intense
admirers of brown-bess—also now a term of reproach in constant use.
Mr. Robins did more; he pointed out the advantage of elongated rifle
bullets; showed us how to determine—and partially, as far as his limited
means permitted, himself determined—the enormous resistance of the
atmosphere to the motion of projectiles; in fact, smoothed the way for
all our present _discoveries_; and, treason though it be to say so, left
the science of gunnery much as we have it now. Though principally from
increased mechanical powers of construction, better material and improved
machinery, we have advanced considerably in the Art or practice of
destruction.
Let us endeavour, first, to understand something of the movement of
gun-shots in their simplest form. A gun-barrel, consisting of a bar of
metal thicker at one end (where it has to withstand the first shock of
the gunpowder) than at the other, is bored out throughout its length
into a smooth hollow cylinder; this cylinder is closed at one end by the
breech, which has a small opening in it, through which the charge is
ignited. A charge of powder is placed in the closed end, and on the top
of this the ball, say, a spherical one, such as our ancestors in their
simplicity considered the best. The powder being ignited, rapidly, though
not instantaneously, becomes converted into gas, and the _permanent_
gases generated will, at the temperature estimated to be produced by the
combustion (3,000° Fahr.), occupy a volume under the pressure of the
atmosphere alone of over 2,000 times that of the bulk of the powder. This
point, as well as the elasticity of the gases, both of the permanent ones
and of the vapour of water or steam from the moisture in the powder, has
never been accurately determined,[15] and various estimates have been
formed; but if we take Dr. Hutton’s—a rather low one, viz.—that the first
force of fired gunpowder was equal to 2,000 atmospheres (30,000 lbs.
on the square inch), and that, as Mr. Robins computed, the velocity of
expansion was about 7,000 feet per second, we shall have some idea of
the enormous force which is exerted in the direction of the bullet to
move it, of the breech of the gun to make it kick, and of the sides of
the barrel to burst it. Notwithstanding Mr. Robins’ advice, we certainly
never, till very lately, made the most of the power of committing
homicide supplied by this powerful agent; but we used it in the most
wasteful and vicious manner. All improvements—and many were suggested
at different times to remedy defects, which he principally pointed out,
like the inventions of printing and of gunpowder itself—lay fallow for
long before they were taken up. They were premature. If our fathers had
killed men clumsily, why should we not do the same? No one cared much,
except the professionals, whether it required 100 or 1,000 bullets, on an
average, to kill a man at 100 yards’ distance. Now we take more interest
in such amusements; every one’s attention is turned to the best means of
thinning his fellow-creatures; and we are not at all content with the
glorious uncertainty which formerly prevailed when every bullet found its
own billet: we like to kill our particular man, not his next neighbour,
or one thirty yards off.
In order to see why we are so much more certain with our Whitworth, or
Enfield, or Armstrong, of hitting the man we aim at, let us first examine
how a bullet flies; and then by understanding how (badly) our fathers
applied the force we have described to make it fly, we shall be able to
appreciate how well we do it ourselves.
In consequence of the sudden generation of this enormous quantity of gas,
then, in the confined space of the barrel, the bullet is projected into
the air, and if it were not acted on by any other force, would proceed
for ever in the line in which it started; gravity, however, at once
asserts its sway, and keeps pulling it down towards the earth. These two
forces together would make it describe a curve, known as the parabola.
There is, however, another retarding influence, the air; and though
Galileo, and Newton in particular, pointed out the great effect it would
have, several philosophers, in fact the majority, still believed that a
parabola was the curve described by the path of a shot. It remained for
Mr. Robins to establish this point and to prove the great resistance the
air offered: to this we shall have to recur again presently. Let us first
see _how_ a shot is projected. If the bullet fitted the bore of the gun
perfectly, the whole force in that direction would be exerted on it;
but in order that the gun might be more easily loaded—and this was more
especially the case with cannon—the bullet was made somewhat smaller than
the bore or interior cylinder; a space was therefore left between the
two, termed windage, and through this windage a great deal of gas rushed
out, and was wasted; but the bad effect did not stop there: rushing over
the top of the bullet, as it rested on the bottom of the bore, it pressed
it down hard—hard enough in guns of soft metal, as brass, after a few
rounds to make a very perceptible dint—and forcing it along at the same
time made it rebound first against one side and then the other of the
bore, and hence the direction in which it left the bore was not the axis
or central line of the cylinder, but varied according to the side it
struck last. This was one cause of inaccuracy, and could, of course, be
obviated to a great extent, though at the cost of difficulty in loading,
by making the bullet fit tight; but another and more important cause
of deflection was the various rotatory or spinning motions the bullet
received from friction against the sides of the bore, and also from its
often not being a homogeneous sphere; that is, the density of the metal
not being the same throughout, the centre of gravity did not coincide
with the centre of the sphere as it should have done.
[Illustration: No. 1.
Looking down upon the spinning bullet.]
Let us try to understand the effect of this rotation. A bullet in moving
rapidly through the air, separates it; and if its velocity is at all
greater than the velocity with which the air can refill the space from
which it has been cleared behind it, it must create a more or less
complete vacuum. Now when the barometer stands at thirty inches, air
will rush into a vacuum at the rate of 1,344 feet per second; and if the
bullet is moving at a greater velocity than this, there will be a total
vacuum behind it. But it can be easily understood that even when moving
with a less velocity, there will be a greater density of air before than
behind. If the bullet be rotating on a vertical axis—that is, spinning
like a top, point downwards, as in the diagram No. 1, from left to right,
in the direction indicated by the crooked arrow, at the same time that
it is moving forward (sideways it would be in the top) as indicated by
the straight arrow,—it is evident that the left half rotates _with_ the
general motion of translation of the bullet, and the right half backwards
_against_ this motion, and therefore that on the left side it is moving
quicker relatively to the air through which it is passing than on the
right side. And its rough surface preventing the air escaping round it on
that side, while it, as it were, assists it on the other side, the air
becomes denser where shown by the dark lines, and tends to deflect the
bullet in the other direction, that is, in the direction in which the
anterior or front surface is moving.[16]
[Illustration: No. 2.
Looking at the bullet sideways.]
If the bullet rotate on a horizontal axis at right angles to the
direction of its motion of translation (that is, like a top thrown
spinning with its point sideways, when it would strike the object thrown
at with its side), shown in the diagram No. 2; if the anterior portion
be moving, as shown by the arrow, from above downwards, it is evident,
for the same reasons, that the air will become denser, as shown, and
assist the action of gravity in bringing the ball to the ground—that is,
decrease the range. A spherical bullet resting on the bottom of the bore
of a gun would always have a greater tendency to rotate in this manner
than in a contrary direction; for the friction against the bore would be
augmented by the weight of the ball in striking against the bottom, and
diminished by it when striking against the top.
Shot were constructed in 1851 to try the effect of rotation in the
above-mentioned and in the opposite directions. They were made excentric,
that is, lop-sided, by taking out a portion of the metal on one side, and
replacing it either with a heavier or lighter body. The manner in which
they would rotate was, therefore, known; for, not to use too scientific
language, the light side moved first, and according to the relative
positions of the heavy and light side when placed against the charge so
the rotation took place. Thus, when the light side was resting against
the bore of the gun, the rotation was exactly contrary to the direction
shown in diagram No. 2; and a range of 5,566 yards was obtained from a
10-inch gun, being 916 yards farther than with a concentric shot from
the same gun. The deflections to the right and left were proportionately
large, according as the light side was placed to the left or right.
We need not specify further; this will be sufficient to show the reason
why the smooth bore with a spherical bullet never made a straight long
shot, for it was not only that the bullet did not go in the direction in
which it was aimed, but it did not even follow the direction in which it
started. This was well shown by Mr. Robins in the experiment we commenced
with. He bent the end of a gun barrel to the _left_, and aimed by the
straight part. As would be naturally expected, the shot passed through
the first tissue-paper screen 1½ inches to the left of the track of a
bullet, which had been previously fired from a straight barrel in the
same line with which the crooked barrel had been aimed, and 3 inches
to the left on the second screen; but as he had predicted, and as the
company could hardly have expected, on the wall which was behind, the
bullet struck 14 inches to the right of the track, showing that though it
had gone at first as directed by the bent portion of the barrel, yet as
the bullet in being turned had _rolled against_ the right-hand side of
this portion of the barrel, it had a rotatory motion impressed upon it,
by which the anterior portion moved from left to right, and the bullet,
after moving away from, turned back and crossed the track of the other
bullet again, or was _incurvated_ to the right.
We now see why spherical bullets from a smooth bore, though they may fly
almost perfectly accurately a short distance, cannot be depended on in
the least for a long distance, as the bullet which might strike within
1 inch at 100 yards would not strike within 2 inches at 200 yards, and
still less within 3 inches at 300 yards of the mark at which it was fired.
The cause of these deflections we have seen is almost wholly rotation
or _spin_. The object of the _rifle_ is to place this rotation under
our control, and if the bullet must spin, to make it spin always in
the same direction, and in the way which will suit our purpose best.
With this object the interior of the cylindrical bore which we have
been considering as smooth, is scored or indented with spiral grooves
or furrows. As we are merely concerned with the principles, and not
with the constructive details, we need only mention that the number of
these grooves varies in different rifles from two to forty; that their
shape and size, though dependent on certain conditions, is, we might
almost say, a matter of fashion; and that Mr. Whitworth, in his almost
perfect rifle, uses a hexagonal bore, and Mr. Lancaster makes a smooth
oval-bored rifle; but that in all, the deviations from the circle of the
interior cylinder do not pass straight from end to end of the barrel,
but _spirally_, and constitute, in fact, a female screw. The bullet,
fitting tight and entering the grooves, is constrained to rotate while
being forced out of the barrel by the gunpowder, in the same manner
that a screw is necessarily twisted while being drawn out of a hole
or nut; and this rotation or spin being impressed upon it by the same
force which projects it from the barrel, continues during the flight.
This spin is different in direction from those we have been considering
previously; it is like the spin of a top thrown point foremost, the axis
of rotation coincident with the line of flight. While it remains in this
position (coinciding with the line of flight) none of the deflecting
effects of the air we have mentioned can come into operation, as the
resistance is equal on all sides; and not only that, but if there are any
irregularities on the surface of the ball, as they are brought rapidly
first on one side and then on the other of the point or pole of rotation,
they can have no effect in deflecting it to one side more than to the
other. Hence the accuracy, or straight shooting, of our modern gun, the
rifle.
We have before mentioned that Robins pointed out the enormous effect
of the resistance of the atmosphere to the passage of a shot; and
“because,” as he says, “I am fully satisfied that the resistance of
the air is almost the only source of the numerous difficulties which
have hitherto embarrassed that science,” viz. gunnery, he considered it
above all things necessary to determine its amount; for which purpose he
invented the Ballistic Pendulum and Whirling Machine. His experiments
were made principally with small bullets; but a more extended series of
experiments was made by Dr. Hutton with the same machines, and on the
Continent and in America by Major Mordecai, with a ballistic pendulum
of improved construction. It appears from these that when a ball of
two inches diameter is moving with a great velocity, it meets with a
resistance of which the following examples will give an idea: at a
velocity of 1,800 feet per second the resistance is 85½ lbs., and at a
velocity of 2,000 feet, 102 lbs. If we wish to increase the range, then,
we must overcome this resistance in some way. As the resistance is nearly
proportionate to the surface, that is, twice as great on a surface of
two square inches as on a surface of one square inch, we must do so by
increasing the weight of the shot. For it is evident that if two shot of
different weights start with the same velocity, and meet with the same
resistance, the heavier one, having the greater momentum, will maintain
its velocity the longest. Throw a cork and a stone of the same size with
the same force—the cork will only go a few yards, while the stone will
go perhaps ten times as far. In the smooth-bored cannon this could only
be effected _partially_ by increasing the size of the shot, when the
surface exposed to the resistance of the air increased only as the square
of the diameter, while the weight increased in a greater ratio, as the
cube of the diameter. Hence the longer range and greater penetration of
heavy guns. As, however, with a rotating body the tendency is always for
the axis of rotation to remain parallel to its original direction—thus a
top while spinning may move about the floor, but remains upright on its
point, and does not fall till the spin is exhausted—we have with rifles
a means by which we can keep a bullet always in the same direction. In
order to comply with the condition, then, of exposing a small surface
to the resistance of the air while the bullet’s weight is increased, we
reject the spherical form, and make it a long cylinder; and to make it
the more easily cut through the air, we terminate it with a conical point.
Thus compare Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder with the ordinary or old
3-pounder; the shot weigh the same, but the diameter of Mr. Whitworth’s
3-pounder shot is 1·5 or 1½ inches, while the diameter of the old
3-pounder shot is 2·91 inches, or nearly three inches; and the surfaces
they expose to the resistance of the air are 2·25, or 2¼ square inches,
and 8·47 nearly, or nearly 8½ square inches; that is, Mr. Whitworth’s
bullet, with the same weight to overcome it, meets with a resistance of
a little more than a quarter that which the old bullet met with, and
has the advantage of a sharp point to boot. Hence the enormous range
attained,—9,688 yards.
The very same causes which make the fire of a rifle accurate, tend also
to make it inaccurate, paradoxical as it may seem; but this inaccuracy
being to a certain extent regular and known beforehand, is not of so much
consequence, though it is a decided disadvantage. It may—not to be too
mathematical—be explained thus:—The axis of rotation having, as we said,
a tendency always to remain parallel to its original direction, when a
rifle bullet or picket (the long projectile we have described) is fired
at a high angle of elevation—that is, slanting upwards into the air, in
order that before it fells it may reach a distant object,—it is evident
from the diagram, that if the direction of the axis of rotation remains,
as shown by the lines _p_ _p_ _p_, which represent the shot at different
portions of the range parallel to the original direction in the gun, the
bullet or picket will not always remain with its point only presented
in the direction in which it is moving, but one side of the bullet will
be partially opposed to the resistance of the air. The air on that side
(in front) will be denser than behind, and the disturbing or deflecting
influences before described will come into operation, the two opposite
tendencies described in the text and the note to a certain extent
counteracting one another. While at the same time the resistance of the
air has a tendency to turn the bullet from the sideways position in which
it is moving with respect to the line of flight (and the effect of this
is the greater the less spin the bullet has to constrain it to keep its
original direction), the result of which force, conspiring with the force
described in the note, is to give it a slight angular rotation round
another axis, and deflect the bullet by constantly changing its general
direction (this second axis of rotation) to the side to which the rifling
turns. This was exemplified in the late practice with Mr. Whitworth’s
gun. When firing at the very long range of 9,000 yards the 3-pounder
threw constantly to the right from 32 to 89 yards.
[Illustration: No. 3.]
The rotation of the earth about its axis tends to throw the projectile
always to the right of the object aimed at. Space will not permit of our
entering on this subject; but the principle is the same as that which in
M. Foucault's experiment with the vibrating pendulum caused its plane of
vibration apparently to constantly deviate to the right.
The time of flight of the shot from Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder gun is
unknown to us; we are unable, therefore, to calculate the deflection due
on this account, but as an illustration we may give this deflection,
calculated for the long range attained with the 10-inch gun (5,600
yards), from Captain Boxer’s, R.A., _Treatise on Artillery_. He finds it
to be very nearly 11 yards.
Windage, one of the faults of the spherical bullet, permitting a great
escape of the gas, and therefore wasting the force of the powder, has
been overcome in various ways in the cylindro-conical picket. The Minié
principle consists in hollowing out the base of the ball conically,
placing in this hollow an iron cup or piece of wood, which being driven
forward by the explosion of the charge further into the conical hollow,
enlarges or expands the ball, and makes it fit tight and take the
impression of the grooves, though the bullet, when put into the gun, is
small enough to be easily rammed down. It is now found that the conical
hollow alone, without the cup or plug, is almost equally effective in
expanding the ball. We have termed this the Minié principle; Captain
Norton, however, undoubtedly has a prior claim (which has been allowed by
the British Government, we believe) to this invention. He was before his
time. There was no cause for, and therefore the shooting mania was not
strong upon us.
With breech-loaders, doing away with windage and making the bullet take
the rifling, is an easy matter. The breech into which the bullet is
put at once, without being passed through the muzzle, is made slightly
larger than the rest of the bore; the bullet on being pushed forward
by the force of the powder is squeezed into the narrower portion, and
effectually prevents all escape of gas. It is thus with the Armstrong
gun. Robins said of the breech-loaders of his day, “And, perhaps,
somewhat of this kind, though not in the manner now practised, would be,
of all others, the most perfect method for the construction of these
barrels.” Mr. Whitworth, on the other hand, uses—well, we have avoided
details thus far, and every newspaper has described them so fully, that
our readers must be thoroughly acquainted with them. Let us conclude,
as we began, with Robins, and hope that his prediction that “they,” the
armies of the enlightened nations which perfect rifles, “will by this
means acquire a superiority which will almost equal anything that has
been done at any time.”
FOOTNOTES
[15] It is not at all certain whether Marriott’s law of the elasticity
being as the density is true, when the gases are so highly condensed.
[16] This tendency is found in practice to overcome the tendency that
there is for the ball to be deflected in the opposite direction, from the
greater friction arising from the greater density of the air pressing
against the anterior surface than against the posterior surface.