And fetters flame with flaxen band,
Has yet a harder task to prove,
By firm resolve to conquer Love.
Southey, who is convinced that ‘love is indestructible,’ goes so far as
to assert that
They sin who tell us Love can die.
If further evidence of the vitality and power of this passion were
required, an appeal might be made to the language of Hebrew Scripture,
which teaches that ‘Love is strong as death.... Many waters cannot
quench love, neither can floods drown it.’
In view of testimony like this, one might be pardoned for supposing
the point in question satisfactorily established. We shall not,
however, have proceeded far in the consideration of other phases of the
subject, before we shall come upon views which it is by no means easy
to reconcile with the above conclusions. Take, for example, the theory
that a man or a woman can truly love but once. This would seem to be
the natural corollary of the belief that love is indestructible. The
argument, of course, is that the love which departs is not love at all.
As the old lines run:
Pray, how comes Love?
It comes unsought, unsent.
Pray, how goes Love?
That was not love that went.
Carlyle homologates this view. In _Sartor Resartus_, he says: ‘As your
Congreve needs a new case or wrappage for every new rocket, so each
human heart can properly exhibit but one love, if even one; the “first
love which is infinite” can be followed by no second like unto it.’
This is certainly a strong case for the first-and-only-love theory.
But let it not be supposed that we shall here miss the inevitable
differences of opinion. Among others who raise a strong protest against
this view is George Eliot, who believes there is a second love which is
greater, because more mature, than the first. ‘How is it,’ she asks,
‘that the poets have said so many fine things about our first love, and
so few about our later love? Are their first poems the best? or are
not those the best which come from their fuller thought, their larger
experience, their deep-rooted affections? The boy’s flute-like voice
has its own spring charm; but the man should yield a richer, deeper
music.’ Many other quotations to a similar purport might be given; but
the whole argument is a futile one. It is simply reasoning in a circle,
because, whatever may be advanced on this side of the question, it is
of course perfectly open to those who maintain the opposite to fall
back upon the contention that the love which was vanquished was not
love at all, and that its subjugation sufficiently proves that it was
spurious.
It may be said that this is a somewhat rough-and-ready method of
disposing of a profound and delicate psychological problem, and the
point may be further raised in connection with the kindred proposition,
that love is not incurable. Those who hold that love is indestructible
must also, in consistency, maintain that it is likewise incurable, and
inconsolable when scorned and rejected. Then, of course, they are met
with declarations like that of Shakspeare when he says: ‘Men have died
from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love;’ or
like that of Thackeray, when he remarks that ‘Young ladies have been
crossed in love, and have had their sufferings, their frantic moments
of grief and tears, their wakeful nights, and so forth; but it is only
in very sentimental novels that people occupy themselves perpetually
with this passion; and, I believe, what are called broken hearts are
very rare articles indeed.’
At the same time, there are not many who agree that
’Tis better to have loved and lost,
Than never to have loved at all.
Guarini, in his _Faithful Shepherd_, expresses a directly opposite
opinion, holding that it is far harder to lose his lady-love than never
to have seen her or called her his own. Hamlet speaks heavily enough of
‘the pangs of despised love;’ and it would be idle to deny that a large
proportion of the tragedies of real life, as well as of fiction, have
turned upon love rejected, abused, or betrayed. When Dryden says that
Pains of love be sweeter far
Than all other pleasures are,
he must not be supposed to refer to the love that has been blighted by
cold neglect or open disdain. Burns describes the pains of love when
parted from its object in very different language—as ‘A woe that no
mortal can cure.’ Dryden’s reflection is rather in the same strain as
that of the love-sick Hibernian who said it was ‘a moighty recreation
to be dying of love. It sets the heart aching so delicately there’s
no taking a wink of sleep for the pleasure of the pain.’ Moore gives
a less paradoxical and more serious exposition of the case than his
love-sick compatriot:
Yes—loving is a painful thrill,
And not to love more painful still;
But surely ’tis the worst of pain
To love and not be loved again.
Various specifics have been prescribed for the cure of love, and among
these, matrimony has been suggested as an infallible cure. A grim joke,
my masters! but one in which there is only a certain modicum of truth.
Whether, because the love is spurious, or because its fire is less
unquenchable than the poets would have us believe, it is yet too true,
and one of the saddest facts of human experience, that the love which
glows so bright and radiant on the wedding morn, may, before many years
have flown, be cold and dead as the ashes of a fire that has long gone
out.
When the idol is shattered, and love neither dies nor breaks the heart,
it sometimes—and here is another enigma—changes its nature; becomes,
in fact, the opposite of itself. The operation is not without analogy.
The arch-fiend himself was once an angel of light, and so we may find
adoring love become venomous hate.
It is a profitless task to apply the why and the wherefore to
love-affairs. Byron, who himself knew so much about love, says:
Why did she love him? Curious fool, be still;
Is human love the growth of human will?
To assume that it is, would only remove the problem still further from
the point of solution, and would seem, in many instances, to bring
the lover and the madman into still closer relationships. It is the
infatuation of love, and not the prompting of reason, that causes men
and women—but how much more frequently the latter!—to give up, often
for a worthless object, friends, happiness, reputation, wealth, and all
that life holds dear—even, in some cases, life itself. ‘The hind,’ says
Shakspeare, ‘that would be mated with the lion, must die for love;’ yet
such unions and such sacrifices are by no means uncommon—not in the
lower animal kingdom, but in the more exalted and more tangled scheme
of human affairs. Still, despot as he is, with all his huge blunders
and strange tyrannies, Love is perhaps the most welcome and beneficent
guest that knocks at the door of the human heart. Reason has her own
place and her own functions; but it is to Love, after all, that we must
look for the most generous impulses, the noblest inspirations. It is
Love that redeems our life from cold prosaic dullness, that sweetens
and enriches all its springs. There is no more refining and ennobling
influence in the life of man than that of a pure unselfish love. From
such flows every kind of mutual sympathy, mutual comfort, mutual
helpfulness. It is the highest realisation of human bliss.
A NEW PROCESS OF WHITE-LEAD MANUFACTURE.
In two former articles (June 16 and November 10, 1883) we noticed
the dangers to life and health which accompany the manufacture of
white-lead as at present carried on, and we reviewed the several
attempts made to find a substitute. We are still of opinion that such
substitutes will prove effectual in their measure; but we cannot shut
our eyes to the fact that the enormous production and consumption of
ordinary white-lead must nevertheless continue, chiefly on account of
its cheapness, for its enduring qualities, and for its capability for
purposes in jointing, calking, machinery and hydraulic use, which other
substances fail to fulfil. In these circumstances it is interesting
to know that almost coincident with the Report of Mr Redgrave, C.B.,
Her Majesty’s chief Inspector of Factories—to which we alluded in a
former article (June 16), and which so forcibly shows the evils under
the old ‘stack’ process of white-lead manufacture, as usually carried
on—there has been discovered, and brought into full operation, a
process by which white-lead of the purest and best quality is produced
in one-sixth the time, and at considerably less cost than under the
old process. The necessity for the work of women is also avoided, and
the operatives completely secured from contact with the dangerous
white-lead dust.
It may help our readers to an understanding of the subject if we quote
first a brief description of the ‘stack’ process, from a _previous_
Report by Mr Redgrave: ‘The lead is received in “pigs.” These are
melted in a furnace, and then cast in water or in moulds of various
forms best suited for the action of the acetic acid. The acid is placed
in pots of earthenware, on which the moulded lead is placed; and the
pots are then arranged in large chambers, called “stacks,” and covered
with tan. Row after row of pots and tan are placed one above the
other, until the stack is full, in which condition the stack remains
for about three months. Carbonic acid gas is evolved during this time,
escaping through the ventilators, and causes the deposit of white-lead
on the moulds of lead. If the above were the only process, it would be
comparatively innocuous; but it is the work that succeeds from which
the evil of lead-poisoning arises. The tan is carefully removed from
layer after layer; white-lead is found caked upon the moulds of lead;
but a very little motion causes it to break up into powder. The lead,
loaded with this deposit, is then carried in trays, and emptied into
cisterns of water, through which, by agitation, the white-lead passes
to the grinding-mills, and the blue lead is raked out of the cisterns
for further use. After being ground in the wet state, the material
is placed in pans and carried into the ovens to be dried; it is then
carried from the ovens to the warehouse, to be packed in barrels. Such
are the principal processes in which females are employed, and which
are most prolific of disease and death. The injuries to health arise
from the external contact with the skin of the white-lead, whether in
the dry or moist condition, and the inhalation of the dust or powder
into the lungs, or its being imbibed into the stomach through the
mouth. As for the prevention, external or internal, no means have yet
been discovered by which this could be attained. The mitigation of
the evil lies in excessive and enforced cleanliness, with the use of
special clothing and appliances when at work.’
When, however, the testimony given in Mr Redgrave’s _later_ Report
is considered, it will be seen that the ‘excessive and enforced
cleanliness, with the use of special clothing and appliances,’ fail to
accomplish their object, the chief reason being, as testified by one
sufferer: ‘The air of the factory was always full of white-lead dust.’
Another, speaking of her clothes, said: ‘Dust came from them like a
miller, and used nearly to choke me.’ And managers of factories state
to Mr Redgrave: ‘Respirators are provided, but work-people as a rule
will not wear them. The respirators are troublesome.’ The fact is,
there is this dilemma: without the respirators, lungs and stomach get
filled with the dangerous white-lead dust; with the respirators, the
perspiring, half-choked women cannot work. The problem really is how
to produce white-lead without raising this poisonous dust, as it is
well known that the grinding in oil is with any ordinary care perfectly
innocuous. The very stringent legislation lately authorised does not
touch this point.
Attempts have been made to produce white-lead by precipitation, and
thus to avoid some of the dangers; but the product is an inferior
one, being composed of minute crystals which will not blend with the
oil, and are deficient in the most important qualities necessary for
paint, and for the other purposes for which true white-lead is largely
used. The precipitated lead has also to be washed and stored, as the
white-lead from the stack process.
Happily, just at this juncture a simple but wonderful process has been
discovered, perfected and patented by Professor E. V. Gardner, of 44
Berners Street, London, W., for many years Director of the Scientific
Department, and Professor of Chemistry to the Royal Polytechnic
Institution, and who marches with the age in the application of the
wonderful power of electricity to this branch of manufacture. He avails
himself to the full of that great representative of all energy in
forming what is called a galvano-electric combination in the process of
manufacture of white-lead, as follows:
The metallic lead, cast into the form of gratings, and bent into
narrow arches, is closely ranged in order upon wooden trays covered
with pure sheet-tin—the most practically useful electro-negative to
be had. Dipped by mechanical contrivance into a certain acid mixture,
to give a chemically clean surface, and to promote the after-process
of corrosion, they are placed in chambers built of brick, from
twelve feet square and upwards, having a glass roof and windows for
observation, and having a floor of the electro-negative and highly
electro-conductive tin heated from beneath by steam to the necessary
temperature of about one hundred and twenty degrees Fahrenheit.
These chambers may each contain as small a quantity as from eight to
ten tons of lead, and range up to eight hundred or a thousand tons.
Gases, composed of a mixture of acetic acid vapour and atmospheric
air at a similar temperature, are introduced by stoneware pipes from
an ingenious apparatus where they are generated; and passing through
holes in the pipes a few inches from the tin-covered floor of the
chamber, they pass upward, and permeating the whole chamber, electric
action commences. At the end of the second day, there is a beautifully
white surface. On the third day, carbonic acid vapour is introduced
by the same means, hastening still more the formation of white-lead.
This goes on for two weeks, at the close of which time, so active has
been the action of the substances engaged, by reason of the electrical
energy, that there is more white-lead formed than under three months’
working of the same amount of lead by the old process. The gases are
then shut off, the chamber cooled, ventilated, opened, and the contents
withdrawn, the trays being emptied through a special hopper into the
‘agitator,’ a horizontal cage of round iron bars revolving in a closed
case. After being rotated a few minutes, the whole of the white-lead
is disengaged, and falls into a pit underneath, leaving the cores that
have not been converted in the cage, from which they are collected and
remelted for further use. From the pit, the white-lead is conveyed
to the mill by an endless band, on which are fixed a number of small
buckets, which, filling themselves with the white-lead as they pass
through the pit at the bottom, discharge it into the mill as they turn
over at the top, whence, after passing through the crushing-rollers,
the white-lead falls into the mixer, and issues forth, when combined
with oil, in the shape of white-lead of one unfailing quality, being
of perfect character as to body and testing powers, and of the purest
colour.
The work is continuous from first to last. As all the apparatus
is carefully closed in, there is no dust, nor do the hands of the
operatives once touch the material. _The Sanitary Record_ (October
1883) says: ‘Professor Gardner has completely revolutionised the
manufacture of white-lead. Not only has he rendered it a comparatively
innocuous industry, but he has made it a much simpler process,
and reduced the time hitherto required for its production in an
extraordinary manner, and so facilitated its rapid make, and at a much
lessened cost of production. But these great advantages of the process
sink into insignificance when compared with its hygienic working in
rescuing hundreds of poor creatures from lingering illness, not taking
into account the attendant expense of their treatment and support,
which falls on various local authorities.’
Mr Redgrave, having carefully inspected the working of the process,
has written to Professor Gardner as follows: ‘I think it right to
state that having carefully inspected your works at the bottom of Rolt
Street, Deptford, it appears to me that the process of the manufacture
of white-lead there is free from nearly all the objections on the score
of exposure of the persons employed to the injurious effects, hitherto
deemed to be inseparable from the occupation. The material and the
product are alike isolated, there is an absence of dust, and handling
or manipulating is unnecessary.’
As the white-lead manufacturers of our country are not only an
influential and wealthy body, alive to their own interest, but also
most anxious for the welfare of their operatives, they must hail this
new process with much interest, and adopt it gladly. The general public
will rejoice to be assured that the valuable and useful white-lead is
no longer prepared at the cost of life and health to many, especially
women, as has hitherto been the case.
THE SENSITIVE PLANT.
The singular phenomenon exhibited by this well-known exotic has long
been the admiration of the curious, a puzzle to the botanist, and a
standing marvel in the vegetable kingdom. The plant has the property
of contracting certain parts of its structure when touched, and is not
only sensible to the application of force, but appears to be influenced
by the surrounding elements. Sudden degrees of heat or cold, steam from
boiling water, sulphur-fumes, the odour of volatile liquids, in fact
anything that affects the nerves of animals, appears also to affect
the sensitive plant. It is in the highest degree a nervous subject,
and, like that species of the genus _homo_, is in this country a
thorough hothouse habitant. The subject of our present consideration
was originally introduced from Brazil, and, along with other varieties
possessing the same faculty in different degrees, is common to other
parts of South America. The stem of the plant is cylindrical, and
of a green or purplish colour, with two spines at the base of each
leaf, besides a few others scattered about the branches. The leaves
are pinnatifid, or divided into pairs, supported on long footstalks,
and each pinnule is furnished with fifteen or twenty pairs of oblong,
narrow, and shining leaflets. From the base of the leaf-stalks proceed
the peduncles or flower-stalks, each of which supports a bunch of very
small white or flesh-coloured flowers. The seed-vessels are united in
packets of twelve or fifteen each, and are edged with minute spines,
each husk containing three little seeds.
Dr Hook, Dufay, Duhamel, and other naturalists, have studied this plant
with equal attention, and from their observations we learn that it is
difficult to touch a leaf of a healthy mimosa—under which name the
sensitive plant is also known—even in the most delicate manner without
causing it to close. The great nerve which passes along the centre of
the leaf serves as a hinge for the sides to close upon, and this they
do with great exactness, the two sides exactly opposing each other.
If the pressure is made with considerable force, the opposite leaf of
the same pair will be affected at the same time and moved in the same
manner. Upon squeezing the leaf still harder, all the leaflets on the
same side close immediately, as if resenting the affront. The effect
may be even carried so far that the leaf-stalk will bend to the branch
from which it issues, and the whole plant collect itself as it were
into a bundle.
As soon as evening approaches, the sensitive plant begins to lower
its leaves, till at length they rest upon the stem. With the morning
light, they gradually re-open. When the leaves have even faded and
turned yellow, the plant still continues this action, and retains its
sensibility when agitated by external influences. A fine rain will
not disturb the mimosa at all; but should the rain fall heavily, and
be accompanied by wind, the plant becomes immediately affected. When
irritated and made to close by force, the time necessary for the leaves
to recover their usual position varies from ten to twenty minutes,
according to the season and the hour of the day.
Though heat and cold contribute greatly towards its alternate motion,
yet the plant is more sluggish in its movements and less sensitive
in winter than in summer. After a branch has been separated from the
shrub, the leaves still retain their sensibility, and will shut on
being touched. If the end of the detached branch is kept in water, the
leaves will continue to act for some time.
If the sensitive plant be plunged into cold water, the leaves will
close, but will afterwards re-open; and if touched in this state, will
again shut themselves, as if in the open air, but not so quickly. This
experiment does not seem to injure the plant. If the extremity of a
leaf exposed to the rays of the sun is burned with a lens or a match,
it closes instantly; and at the same moment, not only the leaflet
which is opposite to it follows its example, but all that are upon the
same stalk. If a drop of sulphuric acid is placed upon a leaf so as
to remain stationary, the plant is not immediately affected; but when
it begins to spread, the irritation is communicated from one leaflet
to another, till the whole of them on the affected stalk are closed.
Although a branch of this wonderful plant be cut through three-fourths
of its diameter, yet the leaves belonging to it retain the same degree
of sensibility, and open and shut with their usual freedom. The vapour
of boiling water affects the leaves in the same manner as if they were
burned, and for several hours they appear benumbed—in fact, seldom
recovering during the remainder of the day.
These are some of the principal phenomena connected with this very
singular plant. No doubt, other experiments have been made; but these
will serve to show how much akin is the delicate organisation of this
plant to that of the animal kingdom.
Many conjectures have been formed and many theories raised to account
satisfactorily for the working of this exquisite machine; but the
mainspring is still hidden, and has, as far as we know, eluded the
search of the naturalist. It has been supposed by some that the mimosa
is endued with a power of perception which actuates all its motions,
and is the connecting link between the animal and vegetable kingdoms.
But at least an equally rational theory is, that its movements are
purely mechanical. To enter into a discussion as to the relative merits
of these and other theories would exceed the limits of this article. We
can only contemplate the plant as one of those natural wonders which
add to our admiration of mother Nature and her products.
LOVE LIGHTS.
Pretty dreamer, far away,
Where the sheaves are golden,
Listen to a tiny lay
Puck hath late unfolden.
Once a brier loved a rose,
At her feet adoring;
Sweet she glanced from high repose,
Deaf to his imploring.
Came a certain one, yclept
Eros, heaven’s grafter,
Stole a rose-twig, and adept
Fashioned it with laughter—
Fixed it soft with cunning whim
On that hopeless brier,
Till the season saw his stem
Lordly grow, and higher.
Then the maid-rose loved him true,
Wedded to her glory:
Sleep, Mellilla’s eyelids blue;
I have told my story.
B. C.
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and 339 High Street, EDINBURGH.
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