Harper's New Monthly Magazine, Vol. 1. No 1, June 1850

Mrs. Leigh knelt down by the bed, and spoke in the most soothing tones.

"Lizzie, dear, don't speak so. I'm thy mother, darling; don't be afeard of me. I never left off loving thee, Lizzie. I was always a-thinking of thee. Thy father forgave thee afore he died." (There was a little start here, but no sound was heard). "Lizzie, lass, I'll do aught for thee; I'll live for thee; only don't be afeard of me. Whate'er thou art or hast been, we'll ne'er speak on't. We'll leave th' oud times behind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm. I but left it to find thee, my lass; and God has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. And God is good, too, Lizzie. Thou hast not forgot thy Bible, I'll be bound, for thou wert always a scholar. I'm no reader, but I learnt off them texts to comfort me a bit, and I've said them many a time a day to myself. Lizzie, lass, don't hide thy head so, it's thy mother as is speaking to thee. Thy little child clung to me only yesterday; and if it's gone to be an angel, it will speak to God for thee. Nay, don't sob a that 'as; thou shalt have it again in heaven; I know thou'lt strive to get there, for thy little Nancy's sake – and listen! I'll tell thee God's promises to them that are penitent; only don't be afeard."

Mrs. Leigh folded her hands, and strove to speak very clearly, while she repeated every tender and merciful text she could remember. She could tell from the breathing that her daughter was listening; but she was so dizzy and sick herself when she had ended, that she could not go on speaking. It was all she could do to keep from crying aloud.

At last she heard her daughter's voice.

"Where have they taken her to?" she asked.

"She is down stairs. So quiet, and peaceful, and happy she looks."

"Could she speak? Oh, if God – if I might but have heard her little voice! Mother, I used to dream of it. May I see her once again – Oh, mother, if I strive very hard, and God is very merciful, and I go to Heaven, I shall not know her – I shall not know my own again – she will shun me as a stranger, and cling to Susan Palmer and to you. Oh woe! Oh woe!" She shook with exceeding sorrow.

In her earnestness of speech she had uncovered her face, and tried to read Mrs. Leigh's thoughts through her looks. And when she saw those aged eyes brimming full of tears, and marked the quivering lips, she threw her arms round the faithful mother's neck, and wept there as she had done in many a childish sorrow, but with a deeper, a more wretched grief. Her mother hushed her on her breast; and lulled her as if she were a baby; and she grew still and quiet.

They sat thus for a long, long time. At last Susan Palmer came up with some tea and bread and butter for Mrs. Leigh. She watched the mother feed her sick, unwilling child, with every fond inducement to eat which she could devise; they neither of them took notice of Susan's presence. That night they lay in each other's arms; but Susan slept on the ground beside them.

They took the little corpse (the little unconscious sacrifice, whose early calling-home had reclaimed her poor, wandering mother), to the hills, which in her life-time she had never seen. They dared not lay her by the stern grandfather in Milne-row church-yard, but they bore her to a lone moorland grave-yard, where long ago the Quakers used to bury their dead. They laid her there on the sunny slope, where the earliest spring-flowers blow.

Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs. Leigh and Lizzie dwell in a cottage so secluded that, until you drop into the very hollow where it is placed, you do not see it. Tom is a schoolmaster in Rochdale, and he and Will help to support their mother. I only know that, if the cottage be hidden in a green hollow of the hills, every sound of sorrow in the whole upland is heard there – every call of suffering or of sickness for help, is listened to by a sad, gentle-looking woman, who rarely smiles (and when she does, her smile is more sad than other people's tears), but who comes out of her seclusion whenever there's a shadow in any household. Many hearts bless Lizzie Leigh, but she – she prays always and ever for forgiveness – such forgiveness as may enable her to see her child once more. Mrs. Leigh is quiet and happy. Lizzie is to her eyes something precious – as the lost piece of silver – found once more. Susan is the bright one who brings sunshine to all. Children grow around her and call her blessed. One is called Nanny. Her, Lizzie often takes to the sunny grave-yard in the up-lands, and while the little creature gathers the daisies, and makes chains, Lizzie sits by a little grave, and weeps bitterly.

STEAM

How wonderful are the revolutions which steam has wrought in the world! The diamond, we are told, is but pure carbon; and the dream of the alchymist has long been to disentomb the gem in its translucent purity from the sooty mass dug up from the coal-field. But if the visionary has failed to extricate the fair spirit from its earthly cerements, the practical philosopher has produced from the grimy lump a gem, in comparison to which the diamond is valueless – has evoked a Titanic power, before which the gods of ancient fable could not hold their heaven for an hour; a power wielding the thunderbolt of Jove, the sledge of Vulcan, the club of Hercules; which takes to itself the talaria of Mercury, the speed of Iris, and the hundred arms of Briareus. Ay, the carbon gives us, indeed, the diamond after all; the white and feathery vapor that hisses from the panting tube, is the priceless pearl of the modern utilitarian. Without steam man is nothing – a mere zoological specimen – Lord Monboddo's ape, without the caudal elongation of the vertebræ. With steam, man is every thing. A creature that unites in himself the nature and the power of every animal; more wonderful than the ornithorhynchus – he is fish, flesh, and fowl. He can traverse the illimitable ocean with the gambolings of the porpoise, and the snort of the whale; rove through the regions of the earth with the speed of the antelope, and the patient strength of the camel; he essays to fly through the air with the steam-wing of the aeronauticon, though as yet his pinions are not well fledged, and his efforts have been somewhat Icarian. And, albeit our own steam aeronavigation is chiefly confined to those involuntary gambols (as Sterne happily called Sancho's blanket tossing), which we now and then take at the instance of an exploding boiler, yet may we have good hope that our grandchildren will be able to "take the wings of the morning," and sip their cup of tea genuine at Pekin. He is more than human, and little less than Divinity. Were Aristotle alive, he would define the genus "homo" – neither as "animal ridens," nor yet "animal sentiens," but "Animal Vaporans." True it is, doubtless, that man alone can enjoy his joke. He hath his laugh, when the monkey can but grin and the ape jabber – his thinking he shares with the dog and the elephant; but who is there that can "get up the steam" but man? "Man," say we, "is an animal that vaporeth!" and we will wager one of Stephenson's patent high-pressure engines again our cook's potato-steamer, that Dr. Whately will affirm our definition. —Dublin University Magazine.

[From The Ladies' Companion.]

PAPERS ON WATER. – No. 1

why is hard water unfit for domestic purposes?

Few subjects have attracted more attention among sanitary reformers, than the necessity of obtaining a copious supply of water to the dwellers in large cities. Experience has shown that the supply should be at least twenty gallons daily for each inhabitant, although forty gallons are necessary to carry out to the full extent all the sanitary improvements deemed desirable for the well-being of a population. But in looking to quantity of supply, quality has been thought of less importance; there could not be a more gross error, or one more fatal to civic economy and domestic comfort. As we are anxious to instruct the readers of this Journal in the science of every-day life, we propose to consider the subject of water-supply in some detail, and in the present article to explain the serious inconveniences which result from an injudicious selection of hard water for domestic purposes.

The water found in springs, brooks, and rivers, has its primary origin in the rain of the district, unless there should happen to be some accidental infiltration from the sea or other great natural reservoirs. This rain, falling on the upper soil, either runs off in streams, or, percolating through it and the porous beds beneath, gushes out in the form of springs wherever it meets with an impervious bed which refuses it a passage; pits sunk down to the latter detect it there, and these form the ordinary wells. In its passage through the pervious rocks, it takes up soluble impurities, varying in their amount and character with the nature of the geological formations, these impurities being either mineral, vegetable, or animal matter. The mineral ingredients may be chalk, gypsum, common salt, and different other compounds but it is the earthy salts generally which impress peculiar qualities on the water.

The salts of lime and magnesia communicate to water the quality termed hardness, a property which every one understands, but which it would be very difficult to describe. By far the most common giver of hardness is chalk, or, as chemists term it, carbonate of lime; a substance not soluble in pure water, but readily so in water containing carbonic acid. Rain water always contains this acid, and is, therefore, a solvent for the chalk disseminated in the different geological formations through which it percolates. Gypsum, familiarly known as plaster of Paris, and termed sulphate of lime by chemists, is also extensively diffused in rocks, and being itself soluble in water, becomes a very common hardening ingredient, though not of such frequent occurrence as chalk. Any earthy salt, such as chalk or gypsum, decomposes soap, and prevents its action as a detergent. Soap consists of an oily acid combined generally with soda. Now, when this is added to water containing lime, that earth unites with the oily acid, forming an insoluble soap, of no use as a detergent; this insoluble lime-soap is the curd which appears in hard water during washing with soap. Hard water is of no use as a cleanser, until all the lime has been removed by uniting with the oily acid of the soap. Every hundred gallons of Thames water destroy in this way thirty ounces of soap before becoming a detergent. But as this is an enormous waste, the dwellers in towns, supplied with hard water, resort to other methods of washing, so as to economize soap. If our readers in London observe their habits in washing, they will perceive that the principal quantity of the water is used by them not as a cleanser, but merely for the purposes of rinsing off the very sparing amount employed for detergent purposes. In London, we do not wash ourselves in but out of the basin. A small quantity of water is taken on the hands and saturated with soap so as to form a lather; the ablution is now made with this quantity, and the water in the basin is only used to rinse it off. The process of washing with soft water is entirely different, the whole quantity being applied as a detergent. To illustrate this difference an experiment may be made, by washing the hands alternately in rain and then in hard water, such as that supplied to London; and the value of the soft water for the purposes of washing will be at once recognized. Even without soap, the soft water moistens the hand, while hard water flows off, just as if the skin had been smeared with oil. Now, although the soap may be economized in personal ablution by the uncomfortable method here described, it is impossible to obtain this economy in the washing of linen. In this case, the whole of the water must be saturated with soap before it is available. Soda is, to a certain extent, substituted with a view to economy, as much as £30,000 worth of soda being annually used in the metropolis to compensate for the hard quality of the water; and, perhaps, as an approximative calculation, £200,000 worth of soap is annually wasted without being useful as a detergent. This enormous tax on the community results from the hardness both of the well and river water; the former being generally much harder than the latter. But this expense, large as it may seem, is not the only consequence of a bad water supply. The labor required to wash with hard water is very much greater than that necessary when it is soft, this labor being represented in the excessive charges for washing. In fact, extraordinary as it may appear, it has recently been shown in evidence before the General Board of Health, that the washerwoman's interest in the community is actually greater than that of the cotton-spinner, with all his enormous capital. An instance of this will suffice to show our meaning: a gentleman buys one dozen shirts at a cost of £4, three of these are washed every week, the charge being fourpence each, making an annual account of £2 12s. The set of shirts, with careful management, lasts for three years, and has cost in washing £7 16s. The cotton-spinner's interest in the shirts and that of the shirt-maker's combined, did not exceed £4, while the washerwoman's interest is nearly double. A considerable portion of this amount is unavoidable; but a very large part is due to the excessive charges for washing rendered necessary by the waste of soap and increased labor required for cleansing. A family in London, with an annual income of £600, spends about one-twelfth of the amount, or £50, in the expenses of the laundry. On an average, every person in London, rich and poor, spends one shilling per week, or fifty-two shillings a year for washing. Hence, at least five million two hundred thousand pounds is the annual amount expended in the metropolis alone for this purpose. Yet, large as this amount is – and it matters not whether it be represented in the labors of household washing or that of the professed laundress – it is obvious that the greatest part of it is expended in actual labor, for the washerwoman is rarely a rich or even a thriving person. Hence, it follows that this labor, barely remunerative as it is, must be made excessive from some extraneous cause; for it is found by experience that one-half the charge is ample compensation in a country district supplied with soft water. The tear and wear of clothes by the system necessary for washing in hard water, is very important in the economical consideration of the question. The difference in this respect, between hard and soft water, is very striking. It has been calculated that the extra cost to ladies in London in the one article of collars, by the unnecessary tear and wear, as compared with country districts, is not less than, but probably much exceeds, £20,000.

We now proceed to draw attention to the inconvenience of hard water in cooking. It is well known that greens, peas, French beans, and other green vegetables, lose much of their delicate color by being boiled in hard water. They not only become yellow, but assume a shriveled and disagreeable appearance, losing much of their delicacy to the taste. For making tea the evil is still more obvious. It is extremely difficult to obtain a good infusion of tea with hard water, however much may be wasted in the attempt. We endeavor to overcome the difficulty by the addition of soda, but the tea thus made is always inferior. One reason of this is, that it is difficult to adjust the quantity of the soda. Tea contains nearly 16 per cent. of cheese or casein, and this dissolves in water rendered alkaline by soda; and although the nutritious qualities are increased by this solution, the delicacy of the flavor is impaired. The water commonly used in London requires, at the very least, one-fifth more tea to produce an infusion of the same strength as that obtained by soft water. This, calculated on the whole amount of tea consumed in London, resolves itself into a pecuniary consideration of great magnitude.

The effect of hard water upon the health of the lower animals is very obvious. Horses, sheep, and pigeons, refuse it whenever they can obtain a supply of soft water. They prefer the muddiest pool of the latter to the most brilliant and sparkling spring of the former. In all of them it produces colic, and sometimes more serious diseases. The coats of horses drinking hard water soon become rough, and stare, and they quickly fall out of condition. It is not, however, known that it exerts similar influences upon the health of man, although analogy would lead us to expect that a beverage unsuited to the lower animals can not be favorable to the human constitution. Persons with tender skins can not wash in hard water, because the insoluble salts left by evaporation produce an intolerable irritation.

In order to simplify the explanation of the action of hard water, attention has been confined to that possessing lime. But hard waters frequently contain magnesia, and in that case a very remarkable phenomenon attends their use. At a certain strength the magnesian salt does not decompose the soap, or retard the formation of a lather, but the addition of soft water developes this latent hardness. With such waters, the extraordinary anomaly appears, that the more soft water is added to them, up to a certain point, the harder do they become. Some of the wells at Doncaster are very remarkable in this respect, for when their hard water is diluted with eight times the quantity of pure soft distilled water, the resulting mixture is as hard – that is, it decomposes as much soap – as the undiluted water. Thus the dilution of such water with four or five times its bulk of soft rain water actually makes it harder. The cause of this anomaly has not yet been satisfactorily made out, but it only occurs in waters abounding in magnesia.

Having now explained the inconveniences of the hardening ingredients of water, we propose to show in the next article the action of other deteriorating constituents; and after having done so, it will become our duty to point out the various modes by which the evils thus exposed may best be counteracted or remedied.

    L.P.

EARLY RISING

Did you but know, when bathed in dew,
How sweet the little violet grew,
Amidst the thorny brake;
How fragrant blew the ambient air,
O'er beds of primroses so fair,
Your pillow you'd forsake.

Paler than the autumnal leaf,
Or the wan hue of pining grief,
The cheek of sloth shall grow;
Nor can cosmetic, wash, or ball,
Nature's own favorite tints recall,
If once you let them go.

    Herrick.

[From Household Words.]

A TALE OF THE GOOD OLD TIMES

An alderman of the ancient borough of Beetlebury, and churchwarden of the parish of St. Wulfstan's, in the said borough, Mr. Blenkinsop might have been called, in the language of the sixteenth century, a man of worship. This title would probably have pleased him very much, it being an obsolete one, and he entertaining an extraordinary regard for all things obsolete, or thoroughly deserving to be so. He looked up with profound veneration to the griffins which formed the waterspouts of St. Wulfstan's church, and he almost worshiped an old boot under the name of a black jack, which on the affidavit of a foresworn broker, he had bought for a drinking-vessel of the sixteenth century. Mr. Blenkinsop even more admired the wisdom of our ancestors than he did their furniture and fashions. He believed that none of their statutes and ordinances could possibly be improved on, and in this persuasion had petitioned parliament against every just or merciful change, which, since he had arrived at man's estate, had been in the laws. He had successively opposed all the Beetlebury improvements, gas, water-works, infant schools, mechanics' institute, and library. He had been active in an agitation against any measure for the improvement of the public health, and being a strong advocate of intra-mural interment, was instrumental in defeating an attempt to establish a pretty cemetery outside Beetlebury. He had successfully resisted a project for removing the pig-market from the middle of High-street. Through his influence the shambles, which were corporation property, had been allowed to remain where they were, namely, close to the Town-hall, and immediately under his own and his brethren's noses. In short, he had regularly, consistently, and nobly done his best to frustrate every scheme that was proposed for the comfort and advantage of his fellow creatures. For this conduct he was highly esteemed and respected, and, indeed, his hostility to any interference with disease, had procured him the honor of a public testimonial; shortly after the presentation of which, with several neat speeches, the cholera broke out in Beetlebury.

The truth is, that Mr. Blenkinsop's views on the subject of public health and popular institutions were supposed to be economical (though they were, in truth, desperately costly), and so pleased some of the rate-payers. Besides, he withstood ameliorations, and defended nuisances and abuses with all the heartiness of an actual philanthropist. Moreover, he was a jovial fellow – a boon companion; and his love of antiquity leant particularly toward old ale and old port wine. Of both of these beverages he had been partaking rather largely at a visitation-dinner, where, after the retirement of the bishop and his clergy, festivities were kept up till late, under the presidency of the deputy-registrar. One of the last to quit the Crown and Mitre was Mr. Blenkinsop.

He lived in a remote part of the town, whither, as he did not walk exactly in a right line, it may be allowable perhaps, to say that he bent his course. Many of the dwellers in Beetlebury High-street, awakened at half-past twelve on that night, by somebody passing below, singing, not very distinctly, were indebted, little as they may have suspected it, to Alderman Blenkinsop, for their serenade.

"With a jolly full bottle let each man be armed,"

In his homeward way stood the Market Cross; a fine medieval structure, supported on a series of circular steps by a groined arch, which served as a canopy to the stone figure of an ancient burgess. This was the effigies of Wynkyn de Vokes, once mayor of Beetlebury, and a great benefactor to the town; in which he had founded almhouses and a grammar-school, a. d. 1440. The post was formerly occupied by St. Wulfstan; but De Vokes had been removed from the Town Hall in Cromwell's time, and promoted to the vacant pedestal, vice Wulfstan, demolished. Mr. Blenkinsop highly revered this work of art, and he now stopped to take a view of it by moonlight. In that doubtful glimmer, it seemed almost life-like. Mr. Blenkinsop had not much imagination, yet he could well nigh fancy he was looking upon the veritable Wynkyn, with his bonnet, beard, furred gown, and staff, and his great book under his arm. So vivid was this impression, that it impelled him to apostrophize the statue.

"Fine old fellow!" said Mr. Blenkinsop. "Rare old buck! We shall never look upon your like again. Ah! the good old times – the jolly good old times! No times like the good old times, my ancient worthy. No such times as the good old times!"

"And pray, sir, what times do you call the good old times?" in distinct and deliberate accents, answered – according to the positive affirmation of Mr. Blenkinsop, subsequently made before divers witnesses – the Statue.

Mr. Blenkinsop is sure that he was in the perfect possession of his senses. He is certain that he was not the dupe of ventriloquism, or any other illusion. The value of these convictions must be a question between him and the world, to whose perusal the facts of his tale, simply as stated by himself, are here submitted.

When first he heard the Statue speak, Mr. Blenkinsop says, he certainly experienced a kind of sudden shock, a momentary feeling of consternation. But this soon abated in a wonderful manner. The Statue's voice was quite mild and gentle – not in the least grim – had no funereal twang in it, and was quite different from the tone a statue might be expected to take by any body who had derived his notions on that subject from having heard the representative of the class in "Don Giovanni."

"Well, what times do you mean by the good old times?" repeated the Statue, quite familiarly. The churchwarden was able to reply with some composure, that such a question coming from such a quarter had taken him a little by surprise.

"Come, come, Mr. Blenkinsop," said the Statue, "don't be astonished. 'Tis half-past twelve, and a moonlight night, as your favorite police, the sleepy and infirm old watchman, says. Don't you know that we statues are apt to speak when spoken to, at these hours? Collect yourself. I will help you to answer my own question. Let us go back step by step; and allow me to lead you. To begin. By the good old times, do you mean the reign of George the Third?"

"The last of them, sir," replied Mr. Blenkinsop, very respectfully, "I am inclined to think, were seen by the people who lived in those days."

"I should hope so," the Statue replied. "Those the good old old times? What! Mr. Blenkinsop, when men were hanged by dozens, almost weekly, for paltry thefts. When a nursing woman was dragged to the gallows with a child at her breast, for shop-lifting, to the value of a shilling. When you lost your American colonies, and plunged into war with France, which, to say nothing of the useless bloodshed it cost, has left you saddled with the national debt. Surely you will not call these the good old times, will you, Mr. Blenkinsop?"

"Not exactly, sir; no, on reflection I don't know that I can," answered Mr. Blenkinsop. He had now – it was such a civil, well-spoken statue – lost all sense of the preternatural horror of his situation, and scratched his head, just as if he had been posed in argument by an ordinary mortal.

"Well then," resumed the Statue, "my dear sir, shall we take the two or three reigns preceding? What think you of the then existing state of prisons and prison discipline? Unfortunate debtors confined indiscriminately with felons, in the midst of filth, vice, and misery unspeakable. Criminals under sentence of death tippling in the condemned cell, with the Ordinary for their pot-companion. Flogging, a common punishment of women convicted of larceny. What say you of the times when London streets were absolutely dangerous, and the passenger ran the risk of being hustled and robbed even in the daytime? When not only Hounslow and Bagshot Heath, but the public roads swarmed with robbers, and a stage-coach was as frequently plundered as a hen-roost. When, indeed, 'the road' was esteemed the legitimate resource of a gentleman in difficulties, and a highwayman was commonly called 'Captain' – if not respected accordingly. When cock-fighting, bear-baiting, and bull-baiting were popular, nay, fashionable amusements. When the bulk of the landed gentry could barely read and write, and divided their time between fox-hunting and guzzling. When duelist was a hero, and it was an honor to have 'killed your man.' When a gentleman could hardly open his mouth without uttering a profane or filthy oath. When the country was continually in peril of civil war; through a disputed succession; and two murderous insurrections, followed by more murderous executions, actually took place. This era of inhumanity, shamelessness, brigandage, brutality, and personal and political insecurity, what say you of it, Mr. Blenkinsop? Do you regard this wig and pigtail period as constituting the good old times, respected friend?"