“See where hope and beauty glow,
Dancing down the bending bow.”
She opened the window, and looked out over the landscape. There was
a most lovely rainbow in the skies. It arched over a broad heaven,
and the green earth beneath it sent up a grateful fragrance, and all
the flowers looked up lovingly at the rainbow, and gave it smile for
smile. Water-drops twinkled like stars among the green leaves of the
gently waving trees; and, as the sunbeams glistened on the gilt vane
of the distant church-spire, it gleamed in the air like a tongue of
golden flame. What a chirping from the green boughs and the hedge-rows!
The lark in the sky sent messages of love down to the linnet in the
brushwood, and the robin on the thorn. The breeze sprung up, and sang
through the leafy boughs of the Poplar and the Elm, and light and music
mingled together, as if nature had clustered her beauties and joys
for a service of thanksgiving. Far and wide, and upward, spread the
various melody. It seemed as if every voice had wings, fluttering with
delight, and bearing away into the blue air the silent gratitude of the
flowers, and the prayers of all beautiful though voiceless things.
Mary sat at the window, and with cheek resting on her hand, she looked
over the beautiful scene. The beauty-drops all around trickled to the
very roots of her affections; her heart throbbed, her eyes glistened,
and the breathing of her bosom heaved it as gently as if the waves
of some soft music-stream were flowing there. She saw that all was
good—storm and calm, rain and sunshine, summer and winter—all was good;
and her young spirit hallowed it, and rested in a sabbath of calm.
Presently the rainbow melted away, the clouds fell to the horizon, and
the sun spread his bright beams over a broad, blue sky. Mary put on
her little straw-hat, and went down into the garden. Near the steps
was a large flower-pot, with a rose-tree in it. It was half-blown; the
rain-drops were glistening in its leaves; its fragrance was passing
into the air, and making it delicious and sweet; its blushing tints
were exquisitely lovely; the mere looking at the rainbow seemed to
have increased its beauty. Mary took the flower in her hand—smelled
it—kissed its leaves—and then a pulse of music throbbed at her heart,
and the little maiden sang:—
“I dream of my Rose when the spirits of light
Dance on the beautiful margins of night,
And the mists of the morning unclose;
When at murmuring eve, the angel of rest
Foldeth us lovingly close to her breast,
Then I think of my own pretty Rose.
Beautiful world, that so well can impart
The lessons of loveliness fit for the heart!
A stream of sweet tenderness flows
From bird and from flower—from streamlet and sky—
From beauty below and from beauty on high,
And the smiles of my own pretty Rose.”
“Ah! Miss Mary!” said a voice, “I am always glad to hear you sing, and
particularly such a happy, thankful song as that.”
Mary started, for she did not know that any one was by to hear her
sing. She turned, and saw the farmer’s wife, one of their nearest
neighbours, who had come in silently by the garden-wicket, with a
milk-pail in her hand, which she was going to take into the kitchen.
“We are going to have a change of weather at last, Miss!”
“Are we?” said Mary. “How do you know that?”
“The wind that is blowing now has dried up a good deal of wet already,
and my husband says, that if it goes on blowing in the night, it will
be quite dry under foot by to-morrow morning.”
“I am very glad to hear it,” said Mary, “for Johnny and I have been
engaged, for some time past, to go to my aunt’s; but the rain has
prevented us. To-morrow, you think there is a chance for us, do you?”
“I have no doubt of it, my dear; but if you like, I will give you a
signal of fair weather early in the morning. You know my boy Jem minds
his father’s sheep on those downs yonder. He plays the flageolet pretty
well, and he always takes it with him to amuse himself when he is alone
on the hills. When the wind is blowing from the quarter where it is
now, you can hear him very plainly, as you sometimes have, no doubt. I
will tell him to play to-morrow morning, about six o’clock; and if you
can hear him, you may be sure that the wind is in the dry quarter, and
may reckon on a fine day.”
“Thank you!” said Mary, “let it be so, if you please. Tell him to play
loud and well.”
That day passed in happy, tranquil beauty. A fresh breeze swept over
the hills and leas, and sang through the boughs all the evening long;
and when the little maiden went to bed, its murmuring hushed her to
slumber. Pleasant was her sleep, and beautiful and innocent her dreams!
Tick, tick, tick! went the clock upon the stair-case, and the wind went
on whistling and sighing through all the night hours. At five o’clock
in the morning, the light shone strong into the bed-chamber, and every
cock in the neighbourhood was crowing. The little maiden turned over
on her pillow; but she still slept. Six o’clock! and not awake yet?
Suddenly the little bird fluttered his wings, and gave a long shake of
his music at the very top of his voice. Then he sang:—
“What! my maiden—sleeping still?
Hark! the music on the hill!”
Mary awoke, and the first sounds she heard after the calling of her
bird, were the notes of a flageolet from the downs. She got up and
dressed, drew up the blind of her window and looked out—and, oh! what a
clear, dry, beautiful, fresh, sparkling morning!
Oh! happy day! Now, Johnny, my dear, we shall go to auntie’s, and play
in the meadow and garden through the bright sunny hours. Up! up! and be
stirring every one! Get the breakfast over in a twinkling, and out with
the pony chaise! Now they are off! Johnny and Mary, side by side, and
one of her fond arms around him.
Auntie’s was an exceedingly nice place to go to. She had an excellent
house, and beautiful grounds attached to it. There was a lawn and
shrubbery, and flower-beds, and fountain, a dog and a peacock, and,
oh! such a beautiful little pet lamb! Cousins Julia and George wove a
garland of flowers and gave it to Johnny, who put it round the lamb’s
neck. Mary got a basin of milk from the kitchen, and the gentle little
creature lapped it from her hand.
[Illustration]
Thus, sometimes out of doors, sometimes in, sometimes in the greenhouse
and shrubbery, sometimes in the paddock,—sometimes playing with the
dog, sometimes with the lamb, and always with each other, the happy
children flew on the wings of golden hours to the evening of the day.
While the chaise was being got ready to take them home, Mary wandered
alone for a moment or two into a retired part of the garden, and while
there, she carelessly, and without thinking of what she did, rubbed the
magic ring upon her finger.
The fairy instantly appeared.
“What, Fairy! have you come back again? I was not thinking of you. I
did not know that I had rubbed the ring. I did not intend to trouble
you.”
“I know you did not; but I have come for all that. Mary, my child, I am
very happy indeed, to find that you have attended so well to my little
bird, and that you have grown so patient and spiritual. I have come now
to say that the time has arrived when we fairies must have our gifts
returned to us. Give me that little ring from your finger.”
The little maiden obeyed, and put the ring into the fairy’s hand.
“Good, my child! what I am now going to say to you will, I fear, be
rather painful. It is this:—by the time you get home you will find I
have taken away the beautiful magic bird. You remember that it was but
a loan until my return?”
“Oh, dear Fairy! don’t! don’t! Pray don’t take it away,” cried the
child, bursting into tears.
“Hush, my pretty one! Remember you are not, and never will be, without
the teaching of beautiful things. Has not every bird in the skies a
voice for you? Do not the rainbows speak of love and beauty? Do not
your own roses breathe sweet affection on you? And the wind, and the
rain, and the stars, and the trees, have they not already been teachers
of wisdom to you? My darling, you are not forgotten! ‘Day unto day
uttereth speech, and night unto night showeth forth knowledge’ for you
and for all that are willing to learn.”
The fairy vanished. Mary bowed her head and dried up her tears. She
went into the house, kissed her aunt and cousins affectionately, and
went home with Johnny in the pony chaise.
Her after life was something like this experience of her youth. It
had its rainy season and its disappointments; it had its rainbow of
hope and beauty; it had its winds and its storms; its sunshine and its
calms; and it had, too, a still small voice within it singing like a
magic bird. By listening to what it said and obeying it, she made it on
the whole a life of happiness and beauty.
[Illustration]
The Electric Telegraph.
Most wondrous specimen of art,
With Nature’s laws combined,
Thou actest an enchanter’s part,
Unrivalled in its kind.
United, at a moment’s date
Two distant spots we see;
Whilst time and space, annihilate,
Are set at nought by thee.
The fabled wonders, which of old
Our childhood loved to read,
Have scarcely equal wonders told,
To match thy light’ning speed.
The waive of the magician’s wand
Bade distant scenes appear;—
Whilst far off lands, at thy command,
Obediently hear.
O’er miles and miles the message flies;
Yet scarcely it is said—
When lo!—the listener replies
Before a moment’s fled.
When shall thy new-found influence cease?—
How far will it extend?—
Shall not its curious powers increase?—
Remotest nations blend.
Yet enemies thou needs’t must find—
True merit raises spite—
Then think of all the foes combined
With which thou’lt have to fight:
Ambassadors—who’ll be sent back
From every foreign nation—
With secretaries at their back,
All dying of vexation.
The post-office destroyed will be—
For where’s the use of writing?—
While answers will come back to us
While queries we’re inditing.
Let’s have a talk, then, quite at ease,
And gossip while we may;
Let’s chat awhile with the Chinese,
And jest with Paraguay.
We’ll ask a riddle in Peru—
Tell tales in Ispahan,—
Just speak a word in Timbuctoo—
And whisper in Japan.
As round the world thy influence rolls,
For one, I shall not wonder
To find, through thee, the very poles
Cannot be kept asunder.
[Illustration: A day at the Hall]
Juvenile Day at the Hall.
An old English Hall is one of the finest and most noble of mansions.
Our country abounds with them; and happy may be, I will not say is, he
who possesses one. Old Leckford Hall, in Suffolk, and Helmingham Hall,
in the same place, have ever commanded my veneration; but there is one,
which now shall be nameless, that I used, in my youth, to love to pay a
visit to.
The said hall stood in a secluded situation, deeply embowered. On three
sides it was surrounded by a park, on the fourth by meadows, edged
by the river. Close by, on one side of the house, was a thick grove
of lofty trees, along the verge of which runs one of the principal
avenues to it through the park. It is an irregular building of great
antiquity, probably erected about the termination of feudal warfare,
when defence became no longer to be an object in a country mansion.
Many circumstances in the interior of the house, however, seemed
appropriate to feudal times. The hall is very spacious, floored with
stones and lighted by large transoms that are closed with casements.
Its walls are hung with old military accoutrements, that have long been
left a prey to the rust. At one end of the hall is a range of coats of
mail and helmets, and there is on every side abundance of old-fashioned
pistols and guns, many of them with matchlocks. Immediately below the
cornice hangs a row of leathern jerkins, made in the form of a shirt,
supposed to have been worn as armour by the vassals. A large oak table,
reaching nearly from one end of the room to the other, might have
feasted the whole neighbourhood, and an appendage to one end of it made
it answer, at other times, for the old game of shuffle-board. The rest
of the furniture is in a suitable style, particularly an aged chair of
curious workmanship, an old carved chest, a grave-looking old ebony
cabinet inlaid with precious stones, while the walls were hung with
noble pieces of tapestry, representing the hunting of Diana, and other
strange subjects of sylvan classicality.
The entrance into the hall was by a lofty porch, but there was a
winding stair at one side of it, that led from the front door to a
quadrangle within. At the other it opened into a gloomy staircase,
by which you ascended to the first-floor, and, passing the doors of
some bed-chambers, entered a narrow gallery, which extends along the
back part of the house from one end to the other, and looks upon
an old garden, with high walls all round it, and having niches for
medallions, in which the busts of the twelve Cæsars appear in all their
naked-necked and unadorned beauty. The gallery is hung with portraits,
chiefly in the Spanish dresses of the sixteenth century. In one of
the bed-chambers, which you pass in going towards the gallery, is a
bedstead hung with blue furniture, which time has now made dingy and
thread-bare. The other bed-rooms sympathise with this, and the whole
brought back to me the glory of former days.
The hall of the country squire was usually the scene of hospitality.
At the upper end was placed the _orsille_, or high table, a little
elevated above the floor, and here the master of the mansion presided,
with an authority, if not a state, which almost equalled that of the
potent Baron. The table was divided into upper and lower messes by a
high salt-cellar, and the rank and consequence of the visitors were
marked by the situation of their seats above and below the salt-cellar;
a custom which not only distinguished the relative dignity of the
guests, but extended likewise to the freemen; the wine frequently
circulating only above the salt-cellar, and the dishes below it being
of a coarser kind than those near the head of the table.
Such was an old hall in ancient times. And such remains the old hall
to which I have alluded, with this difference, that the people, the
manners, and the customs have changed. The old hall is now tenanted by
a gentleman of birth and fortune, who is also the spiritual guide of
the scattered flocks of his somewhat extensive domain. He is, indeed,
the “Good Shepherd of the Sheep,” and the sheep love him and follow
him. It is his delight to make all cheerful about him, and nothing
affords him greater pleasure than to give a grand treat at the hall
to the young people, especially the children of the villagers round
him. Once a year he has what he calls a “Juvenile Day at the Hall.” He
invites both rich and poor, and mingles them together for their mutual
good—deeming nothing to be more delightful than the text of scripture,
“rich and poor meet together, for the Lord is the maker of them all.”
[Illustration]
It was a beautiful day in the latter end of June, that the “Juvenile
Day at the Hall” took place. The day was ushered in by the jingle
of the three bells of the little church or chapel close to the
hall, and within its precincts. A flag was placed upon the little
tower, and festoons of flowers were tastefully arranged in the
avenue that led from the church to the mansion. Presently was seen
the village schoolmaster, an old cripple with a very white head,
and with his “four-and-twenty free boys” in their blue jackets and
cord contrivances, and looking all fresh and rosy. Then came the
schoolmistress, with her “clear-starched” cap, neat muslin apron, and
demure demeanour, with her “twenty-four girls” in “russet brown.”
The boys had their traps, bats, and balls, their kites, their
stumps and wicket-markers, and were ready for “hog-over hie,”
“prisoners’-base,” “stay-out,” or any other delightful game. And
the girls were ready for a dance, or a romp, as the occasion might
require—or for a roll down the slope, or for “hunt-the-slipper,” or
“honey-pots,” or any other exhilirating game. Within the hall were the
juveniles of higher stamp—there were the good clergyman’s sons and
daughters, three of the former and four of the latter; there were also
the sons and daughters of the mayor of the Town; and of the half-pay
captains in the valley. Then there were the apothecary’s two daughters,
so proud that their father’s occupation disgusted them; and the
steward’s two sons, fine, noble looking youths, so humble, that they
looked more like gentlemen, than any other persons. However, pride
soon met with a fall, for the apothecary’s two daughters had a roll
down the slope without stopping, a ride on the ponies, and a dance with
the village-school dux—that is the boy who could do “fluxions;” and
long before night, the poor and the rich, the rustic and the genteel,
mingled in the most delightful harmony imaginable. The good old rector,
who was all joy to see young people so happy, often found the tears
coming into his eyes, and all seemed to share his sympathy.
It would be tedious for me to mention all the “noble sports” and funny
entertainments the young ones amused themselves with during this happy,
jolly day—from the drawing of a crooked stick for a plough, to the
noble game of cricket; or hand-kites arose in various directions, or
tired groups of boys exhausted their games on the great meadow. But it
was a crowning joy to find the whole assembled at nightfall, just as
the sun descended to his rest, to partake of a sumptuous entertainment,
finished well by rich, old black-currant wine, and other innocent
drinks. To hear the shouts—the hearty shouts of the youngsters—to see
the beautiful rosy cheeks of the village girls, and the freshened looks
of those, whose false education had made them lack-a-dasical! All were
free, and hearty, and joyous, and when the “Hymn of Praise” was sung
after supper, it appeared to old Peter Parley as the most delightful
thing of all.
I wish those who read Peter Parley’s Annual would encourage these
kind of mysteries. I mean those hundreds of rich persons who can give
the “children of the poor” a treat in such a manner. Our good Queen
Victoria has set us an example in this particular, which all would do
well to follow, and poor old Peter says, in consequence:—“God bless
the Queen of England.”
God bless the Queen of England and happy may she reign,
Through many years of peaceful strength, our freedom to maintain;
May virtue be the brightest gem to sparkle in her crown,
A loyal people’s ardent love the safeguard of her throne.
[Illustration]
Something about Ships and Shipping.
The launch of a “first-rate” man-of-war is one of the finest sights in
the world, as it exhibits the triumph of mechanical genius, and the
wonderful perseverance of man. The building of such a ship is a work
of great skill, labour, and assiduity, and no country possesses these
qualities in greater proportion than Englishmen. It may be interesting
to my young friends, were I to explain, in brief, the methods used in
the construction of a ship, that when they see a mighty castle floating
on the seas, such as the Duke of Wellington, carrying one hundred and
thirty-one guns, they may know something about the means taken to
produce such gigantic effects.
In building large ships, a good ship-yard is essential. It must be
a place to which the tide flows daily, and containing a good depth
of water, with plenty of room, so that the ship, when launched, may
not run a-ground. The most celebrated ship-yards for the building of
men-of-war in England, are those of Chatham, Plymouth, Pembroke, and
Portsmouth, and in these places the building of ships is performed on a
very grand scale, and very large numbers of workmen are employed.
[Illustration]
The first thing done in ship-building, is, what is called “laying down
the stocks.” The stocks are large masses of timber, higher at one end
than at the other, forming what is called an inclined plane, which is
carried out into the water some distance, to allow the vessel to be so
far immersed, before she leaves their support, as nearly to float her.
The ship is supported in an upright position on the stocks or ways by
strong pieces of timber, called the cradle, which can be just seen in
the picture of the launch, jutting out under the stern of the ship. The
cradle is not fixed to the stocks, but moves loosely upon them, and
when the ship is to be launched, slides down the ways with the ship,
and falls to pieces when she reaches the water.
The first thing done when the stocks are built, is the laying down of
that part of the ship called the keel. This is laid down in the middle
of the stocks, and is supported by pieces of wood placed across the
said stocks. On the top of the keel branch out, on each side, long,
bent, square timbers, called the ribs, which, at the lower poop in the
middle of the ship, form nearly a quarter of a circle on each side, and
are afterwards carried nearly upright. Upon these timbers, when they
cross the keel, is laid, in the same direction as the keel, another
long square timber, called the kelson. The keel and kelson are fastened
together, at every place where the floor timbers cross them, by iron
bolts passed through all. That portion of the ribs which touches and
crosses the keel is called the “floor timbers;” upon the kelson are the
steps of the masts.
The ribs are divided into several parts, which are called futtocks. To
the ribs the planking is nailed, and bolted through them; after which
the seams are caulked. This is done by forcing oakum, saturated in tar
or pitch, into the spaces between the planks, when a good coat of tar
is laid over the whole. That part of the ship which is always under
water is covered with thin sheets of copper. This is done to prevent
the attack of a destructive little animal called the wood-worm, which
eats its way into and through the planks, making holes nearly an inch
in diameter. These holes would, by admitting the water into the hold
of the ship, soon sink her, as it is impossible to stop the ravages of
these insects while the ship is at sea. The worm attacks every part
that is below the water-line in such immense numbers, that every plank
in the bottom of a vessel that has not the protection of copper has
been found full of them on her arrival into port.
The ribs of the ship are of a bent form. Of course no tree would be
large enough to form them of one piece; they are, therefore, made in
different lengths, each length being called a futtock; and they are
distinguished as first, second, or third futtock, according to their
position in the ship. These are joined together with great exactness:
if not joined properly the vessel would soon tumble to pieces,
for, when on a heavy sea, a ship is very much strained in various
directions, and the creaking noise the timbers make is so dreadful,
that inexperienced persons think the ship is going to pieces.
A great deal also depends on the position in which these ribs are
placed, not only for the purpose of containing her cargo, but to enable
the ship to sail well. Now, if the broadest part be placed too near the
stern or after-part of the vessel, which is towards you in the drawing
of the launch, she will not pass through the water so swiftly as she
would if it were nearer to her bow, or the fore-part of the ship.
[Illustration]
In the after-part of the ship is the captain’s cabin; the poop is
directly over it; and here is the quarter-deck; the middle of the upper
deck is called the waist or gangway, and beyond that (forward) the
fore-castle. These are all the divisions of the upper-deck, which is
largest in the ship, and, in some of our great men-of-war, is three
hundred feet long—the depth of hold being from fifty to sixty, and the
breadth fifty-five feet.
The next deck is the main-deck, and immediately under the captain’s
cabin is the admiral’s state cabin. In the fore-part of the ship is
the galley or cook’s room, and near to it the sick bay. These are the
principal divisions of the main-deck. A portion of this deck, in front
of the admiral’s cabin, is commonly called the half-deck.
Under the admiral’s cabin is the ward-room, where the lieutenants and
other commissioned officers mess. This is on the middle deck. In the
after-part is the gun-room, where the mates, some of the midshipmen,
the assistant masters, and assistant surgeon, and the ship’s clerks
mess.
The following are in the hold:—1. The boatswain’s and carpenter’s
store-room; 2. The powder magazine; 3. The tanks and water-casks;
4. The shot-well; 5. The pump-well; 6. The provision-stores; 7. The
spirit-room; 8. The bread-room. The after-magazine is situated under
the front of the great gun-room. Thus the ship is now described so far
as her hull is concerned, and now I will say a few words about getting
in the masts.
When this is to be accomplished, which is rather a formidable job, the
ship is first taken alongside of a shear-hulk, or into a dry dock,
by the side of which are erected shears. A very fine specimen of the
latter machinery is to be seen in Woolwich Dock-yard. The shear-hulk
is a large, strongly-built vessel, and well moored by strong chains in
a convenient spot on the water, where any ship can approach her. This
vessel is fitted with a strong, perpendicular mast; and two others,
called the shears, fixed on pivots or hinges to strong frame-work on
the deck. The upper ends, meeting in a point, are suspended by strong
latches from the mast-head in a slanting direction, leaning to such a
distance over the side of the hulk, as to hold the mast to be fixed in
the ship alongside her directly over the holes in the deck; when they
are lowered into their places, and fixed tight with wedges—of course it
is only the lower masts that require the adoption of this method to fix
them in their places—and when their great length and consequent weight
are considered, it is very certain none better could be used.
The length of the main-mast in a large, first-rate ship, is about one
hundred and eighty feet from the keel to the top; the main-top-mast is
sixty feet; above it the main-top-gallant-mast, forty-four feet, being
altogether about two hundred and sixty feet, from which, if we deduct
fifty-two feet, the depth of the hull, we have left two hundred and
eight feet, the height of the main-mast above the deck. In light winds,
royal and sky-sail-masts are set, which will add from thirty to forty
feet to its height.
Large men-of-war, such as the one I have described, will carry a great
number of hands; they frequently amount to a thousand, of which two
hundred are marines; yet, although a ship is thus thronged with people,
the admirable order and regularity with which everything is conducted,
preserves her from many of the disasters to which smaller ships with
fewer hands are liable.
It has been ascertained that the actual weight of a seventy-four
gun-ship, including the hull, rigging, guns, stores, officers and
men, together with six-months’ provisions, amounts to two thousand
eight-hundred _tons_, and the quantity of water displaced when the ship
is afloat is equal to about one hundred thousand cubic feet.
The stowage of large ships is admirable. The live-stock often forms
a considerable item in a ship’s stowage. It is generally for the use
of the officers, and consists of cows, sheep, pigs, and poultry. The
latter, and sheep, are stowed away upon the main-deck, under the waist,
between the guns; and the pigs in that part of the ship called the
manger, on the lower or gun-deck; the cows are kept in boxes or stalls;
the sheep in pens, in one or two tiers; and the poultry in hen-coops.
The whole are under the charge of the butcher and poulterer.
I could tell you a great deal more about ships and shipping, but space
prevents me doing so; and as a great many of our ships are now engaged
in the war against Russia, it will not be out of place to hope that our
brave sailors may not be “savagely slaughtered” by the Russians, and
that the Great Bear may have his claws clipped before we have done with
him.
[Illustration]
Manufacture of Ropes.
Hemp is a plant belonging to the same species as the moss and nettle,
and the quantity used in Great Britain is prodigious. Latterly a large
quantity has been grown in Ireland, and one of the chief objects of the
Irish Industrial Exhibition of last year was to promote the indigenous
growth of Flax and Hemp. An acre of land in Ireland produces on an
average thirty-six or thirty-eight stone of hemp, and the season for
sowing it extends from the 25th of March, to the 15th of June.
What the muscles and sinews are to the human frame, and what wings are
to birds, ropes and sails are to ships. Their manufacture is at all
times of the greatest consequence to our country, and the celerity with
which they can be produced, is one of the wonders of this mechanical
age.
The materiel for a great deal of our cordage comes from Russia, and
more than a million of pounds, of which sixty-three make a ton,
are annually imported to this country; their value is estimated at
something more than half-a-million sterling. It comes over in large
bundles weighing nearly a ton each, which are separated into heads or
layers, each containing twelve or fourteen pounds of hemp.
The qualities of good hemp are a long, fine, and thin fibre, free from
woody particles, and possessed of strength and toughness. The first
process it undergoes is that called heckling. This is performed in the
following manner:—On the surface of a small bench before him, each
heckeller has before him a stand on which are situated, point upwards,
a number of sharp steel spikes, sixty or seventy in number—these
constitute what is technically called the “heckle.” The workman
then taking a head or layer of the hemp in his hand, strikes it on
the points of the heckle and draws it between the spikes, repeating
the operation several times with each head, by which the fibres are
straightened, and the thicker ones split by the sharp points of the
wires, and all the loose fragments are loosened and fall to the ground.
The fibres now drawn out into long parallel threads, have to undergo
the process of twisting. The fibre has to be twisted into yarn, the
yarns into rope. A rope consists of several parts, and in most cases,
is a twisting within a twisting, being built up by threes. In the
subjoined figure we have a ship’s rope or cable. A. B. B. B. shows the
three smaller ropes which forms it. C. the three ropes called strands,
and dissecting one of these, D. we find it to be composed of a number
of threads called yarns, and if we untwist one of the yarns, we arrive
finally at the hempen-fibres themselves.
[Illustration]
The first stage, therefore, of making hemp into rope, is spinning it
into yarn, and this brings us at once to what is technically called
the “rope-walk,” a long narrow space of ground, at one end of which is
a wheel, three or four feet in diameter, round which a band passes in
such a manner as to give rotation to a small number of hooks or whirls
disposed round a semicircular frame above the wheel. Each spinner has a
bundle of hemp round his waist, the double or bight being in front and
the ends crossing each other behind. With his left hand he draws out a
few fibres and fastens them on one of the hooks with his right, which
holds a piece of thick woollen cloth—he grasps these fibres, a boy then
turns the wheel and the spinner walks backwards—the man draws out more
and more fibres from his bundle as he recedes, and the twist which is
given to them by the rotation of the hooks on the wheel makes each
length of fibre entangle itself among those previously drawn out; while
the pressure of the right hand regulates the hardness or closeness of
the twist. The spinner, by his long practice and skill, is enabled to
make any description of yarn, either fine or coarse, by the manner in
which he supplies the hemp to the revolving wheel, and can produce
with the greatest nicety, any given length of yarn from a given weight
of hemp. Each spinner can make about a thousand feet of yarn in about
twelve minutes.
[Illustration]
This process is in many manufactories performed by machinery, but
the hand-made yarn is decidedly the best. When a spinning walk is
in full operation, there are twelve spinners at different parts of
its length, in three groups, each group being distant three or four
hundred feet from the next adjoining, and all the twelve hooks or
whirls of the wheel being engaged at once. As the yarns are twisted,
they are wound in large bundles upon reels, each reel containing about
two-hundred-and-fifty rounds of yarn.
If the hemp should be used for the manufacture of tarred rope—the yarn
is now tarred—the reels of yarn are first warped into a haul, that is,
the yarns are unwound from the reel and stretched out straight and
parallel, and assembled together in a large group, called “a haul,”
consisting of between three and four hundred yarns, each a hundred feet
long. The haul is dipped into a copper of hot tar, and, being dragged
through a grip or gauge, the superfluous tar is squeezed out; by the
aid of a capstan the haul is gradually drawn forward until the whole
has passed through the tar kettle.
The next process in the formation of a rope is the making of the
strand. This may be composed of any number of yarns—in a cable twelve
inches in circumference there are eighty yarns in a strand, and in
the very largest rope cables three hundred and sixty; however, few
if any ropes are now made of the last dimensions, as chain cables
have superseded hempen cables of large size; the latter being, in the
present day, seldom more than twelve inches in circumference, except
for Her Majesty’s navy.
The making of the strand of a rope is now performed by machinery. A
frame consisting of a great variety of bobbins, each loaded with yarn
and posted upon a pivot so as to rotate easily, occupies one end of
the factory; the ends of all these yarns, from twenty to eighty, are
made to pass through an equal number of small holes in a convex plate
attached to the central machine, and then combined into one close
group. This group next passes through a tube, whose diameter is such
as to compress the yarns into close contact, and lastly is wound on
a large reel attached to the machine. Meanwhile the twist is given
to the strand by a remarkable arrangement—the whole of the machinery
from the tube to the reel rotates round a horizontal axis, and in so
doing imparts a twist to the strand, which is passing round the various
wheels. The different arrangements are very beautiful. In the first
place each bobbin rotating separately on its axle, gives off just as
much yarn as the strand requires, so that all become equally strained
by the outer yarns being somewhat longer than the inner. Then the
arrangement of the holes in the plate and of the tube bring all the
yarns to their proper position in the strand, and lastly by changing
the wheels in the machine, the strand becomes more or less hard by
twisting at a more or less acute angle. If the strand be drawn more
swiftly through, while the machine is revolving with a given velocity,
the intensity or closeness of the twist is diminished, if less swiftly
then the twist is increased. Such are some of the beautiful results of
machinery.
To twist the strands into a rope is called “laying” a rope. In the
laying walk a revolving wheel placed near the end is provided with
hooks, whereon the three strands to form the rope are fixed. These
hooks are made to rotate by the action of the wheel, its prime mover
being horse or steam-power. At the other end of the walk all the
strands are fixed to one hook, which revolves in an opposite direction
to the others. To equalize the hardness of the twist or lay, a conical
or rather bee-hived piece of wood called a “top” is inserted between
the three strands—groves being cut in the surface of the “top” for
their reception. This “top” thus placed prevents the strands from
twisting, except in the direction of the smaller end; while a man
stationed immediately behind, compresses the rope by a simple piece
of apparatus, and causes the twist to become hard and firm. The “top”
as the rope closes behind it is slowly urged on from one end to the
other—if small it is managed by a top-man, but if large it is supported
on a carriage, as in the engraving. No difference exists in making a
larger or smaller rope, so far as the principle is concerned. The three
strands are twisted round each other in the same manner by an apparatus
more or less powerful according to the size of the rope.
[Illustration]
From three such ropes as these a cable is formed in precisely the same
manner, the three being fixed to three revolving hooks at one end,
and one at the other, and a travelling top being used to regulate and
harden the twist. In the twisting process it is natural that the rope
should gradually shorten as it is formed; provision is made for this
shortening in the arrangement of the apparatus. The wheels to which
the three strands are fixed on three separate hooks is a fixture at
one end of the walk, but the other ends of the strands are fastened to
a moveable sledge, which is so weighted as to travel gradually up the
walk just as fast as the rope diminishes in length.
[Illustration]
San Rosalia.
Who has not heard the curious history of San Rosalia, the saint of
Palermo, whose name is prefixed to this article? She was, according to
the legend, the daughter of William the Good, who reigned in the year
1159. At the age of fifteen she retired to Monte Pelegrino, in order
to spend the remainder of her life in religious solitude; and a period
of nearly five hundred years elapsed without her ever being heard of.
In 1624, a plague, which threatened to depopulate the capital, raged
at Palermo. A hermit, whose name is not given in the legend, dreamed
that the bones of the saint were on the top of Mount Pelegrino, and
that, if they were carried in procession round the walls of the city,
the plague would cease. After prayers and supplications, he induced a
number of persons to go in procession to the top of the mountain, where
the remains of Rosalia were found in a cave. Some say that the body
was fresh, and looked as if she had died at the age of fifteen, while
others assert that there were only the bones. Which account is the true
one Peter Parley does not pretend to inquire; but one thing is certain,
that they were carried round the city walls, and the plague greatly
ceased. This was accounted as a miracle, and churches were built to
her honor. A chapel was erected on the top of the mountain were she was
found, and priests appointed to perform divine service.
[Illustration]
To facilitate the approach to these sacred relics, the pious and
grateful Palermotans, after immense labour, constructed on the face of
the mountain a road which is nearly perpendicular, and very dangerous.
This, however, by no means operates as a check to the devotion of the
hundreds who seek the protection and patronage of the saints.
In the vault beneath the chapel, which has long been the resting-place
for her bones, there was an inscription, which differs from the monkish
legend. It states her to be the daughter of Count Sinibaldus, who lived
at the period when the irruptions of the Saracens were so frequent in
Italy, and that Rosalia first retired to a cave on Mount Quesquina,
in order to preserve herself from the disciples of Mohammed, and
afterwards to Mount Pelegrino, where she died a nun.
The bones of this Saint are now annually carried about the City in a
large silver box; and, according to popular belief, she has, several
times since her discovery, saved the Sicilians from the plague. Long
before the celebration of the festival she becomes the subject of
general conversation, and excites the greatest interest. Her triumphal
car is made of very great height, and drawn through the principal
streets by a number of caparisoned mules, preceded by dragoons with
trumpets. On the lower part of the conveyance is an orchestra, and
above it is a small temple, in the interior of which are figures
of different saints, and, on the top of all, a large statue of San
Rosalia. Every side of the carriage is decorated with flowers; and
during the ceremony the streets are crowded with people, and the
windows, to all of which are balconies, are filled with ladies. At
night there is an illumination.
The amusements at this Palermo rejoicing vary each day. One night the
Flora gardens are illuminated, on another one of the streets, and, in
the day-time, horse-races. The latter, from their peculiarities, are
worthy of notice. The horses start from the bottom of the principal
street, near the Porto Felice, and run to the Porto Nuovo. They have
no riders, but have small bladders fixed on their backs, in which are
inserted sharp spikes, serving by the motion to urge them on. The
prizes run for are generally small, consisting of from ten to fifteen
ounces in dollars, fastened to a board; and the horse that wins is led
in procession, with the prize before him.
The illumination of the Madre Chiesa, which is the cathedral church of
Palermo, excites the admiration of all travellers. It is here where
the box containing the bones of St. Rosalia is deposited. The last
ceremony is a grand procession, in which the silver box is carried by
the principal citizen. Immense crowds endeavour to get near it to touch
it, for they consider it a remedy for all evils.
The approach of the festival produces general joy and happiness;
and the people are so attached to the memory of the Saint, that it
is supposed that any attempt to suppress her commemoration would be
attended with the most serious consequences.
[Illustration]
Christmas Day at the Diggings.
Gold is now every man’s business. The earth is yielding it by the
hand-full and spade-full. Already nearly fifty millions sterling have
been raised by the rude exertions of a part of the population who might
have been starving upon six-shillings a-week, in delving and ditching.
And it is a wonderful sight to see thousands upon thousands of brisk,
brawny, and sturdy men, in their shirt-sleeves washing the productive
earth, and rocking the gold to rest in their own pockets—the finest
of all kinds of cradling. Boys and girls too even lend their aid. The
boys are trained in the digging, and the girls in the washing—the boys
find the “pockets” as they are called, and the girls make purses for
it. Along the banks of the various creeks, it is delightful to see the
throng of men and boys, and girls and women, busy with tin dishes and
cradles, making their ounces and half-ounces of “pure, bright, slippery
gold” in a-day.
[Illustration: _Christmas-day in Australia_]
But one of the most beautiful of all sights is to see a “Christmas
Day” at the diggings. Here, in Australia, there are no “snow-flakes
thickly falling,”—no drifts twenty or thirty feet high—no coughing,
wheezings, and sneezings—no swamps and sore throats, quinseys and
influenzas—no noses blue and fingers numbed—dark skies and piercing
north-easters—but lovely, balmy, warm, clear, bright sunshine, and the
plum-pudding, and the roast beef, and the mince pies, and all the other
delicious viands of which England is so proud, smoke upon the grass
sward, beneath the delicious shade of overhanging boughs, and redolent
with all the ambrosial gifts of nature. And joy reigns there in all its
fullest majesty: and love reigns there in all its holiest excess of
affection: and hope reigns there, looking boldly upon the future. Nor
is faith absent entirely—though the sound of the “church-going bell”
is not heard—although no organ peal ascends in the fretted vault—yet
the mind of the good man turns to “God and to his worship,” and the
joyful time of merry Christmas is not spent without remembrance of
Him who brought “peace on earth and good-will to man.” And thus it is
that Christmas Day at the Diggings is a true holiday to all, and that
joy and mirth abound, to the delight of hearts who do not forget their
old homes and their old religion, but pledge them with prayers, and
blessings, and songs of gladness. So let us remain, my young friends,
wherever it may please a good God to cast us—true to our country, to
our religion, to our institutions, our old friends, and to all that
we loved, or that is worthy of love: and let us never forget our old
customs—our “Easters,” our “Whitsuntides,” and our “Christmases,” and
all those old things which our infancy, our youth, and our manhood have
consecrated to the best of thoughts and of feelings, and which have
engendered so many happy hours among us. “Hurrah! then,” says Old Peter
Parley, “for a Christmas Day at the Diggings.”
[Illustration]
The Owl.