Chapter II

Mr. Ellin—the gentleman mentioned in the last chapter—was a man who went where he liked, and being a gossiping, leisurely person, he liked to go almost anywhere. He could not be rich, he lived so quietly; and yet he must have had some money, for, without apparent profession, he continued to keep a house and a servant. He always spoke of himself as having once been a worker; but if so, that could not have been very long since, for he still looked far from old. Sometimes of an evening, under a little social conversational excitement, he would look quite young; but he was changeable in mood, and complexion, and expression, and had chamelion eyes, sometimes blue and merry, sometimes grey and dark, and anon green and gleaming. On the whole he might be called a fair man, of average height, rather thin and rather wiry. He had not resided more than two years in the present neighbourhood; his antecedents were unknown there; but as the Rector, a man of good family and standing, and of undoubted scrupulousness in the choice of acquaintance, had introduced him, he found everywhere a prompt reception, of which nothing in his conduct had yet seemed to prove him unworthy. Some people, indeed, dubbed him “a character,” and fancied him “eccentric;” but others could not see the appropriateness of the epithets. He always seemed to them very harmless and quiet, not always perhaps so perfectly unreserved and comprehensible as might be wished. He had a discomposing expression in his eye; and sometimes in conversation an ambiguous diction; but still they believed he meant no harm.

Mr. Ellin often called on the Misses Wilcox; he sometimes took tea with them; he appeared to like tea and muffins, and not to dislike the kind of conversation which usually accompanies that refreshment; he was said to be a good shot, a good angler.—He proved himself an excellent gossip—he liked gossip well. On the whole he liked women’s society, and did not seem to be particular in requiring difficult accomplishments or rare endowments in his female acquaintance. The Misses Wilcox, for instance, were not much less shallow than the china saucer which held their teacups; yet Mr. Ellin got on perfectly well with them, and had apparently great pleasure in hearing them discuss all the details of their school. He knew the names of all their young ladies too, and would shake hands with them if he met them walking out; he knew their examination days and gala days, and more than once accompanied Mr. Cecil, the curate, when he went to examine in ecclesiastical history.

This ceremony took place weekly, on Wednesday afternoons, after which Mr. Cecil sometimes stayed to tea, and usually found two or three lady parishioners invited to meet him. Mr. Ellin was also pretty sure to be there. Rumour gave one of the Misses Wilcox in anticipated wedlock to the curate, and furnished his friend with a second in the same tender relation; so that it is to be conjectured they made a social, pleasant party under such interesting circumstances. Their evenings rarely passed without Miss Fitzgibbon being introduced—all worked muslin and streaming sash and elaborated ringlets; others of the pupils would also be called in, perhaps to sing, to show off a little at the piano, or sometimes to repeat poetry. Miss Wilcox conscientiously cultivated display in her young ladies, thinking she thus fulfilled a duty to herself and to them, at once spreading her own fame and giving the children self-possessed manners.

It was curious to note how, on these occasions, good, genuine natural qualities still vindicated their superiority to counterfeit, artificial advantages. While “dear Miss Fitzgibbon,” dressed up and flattered as she was, could only sidle round the circle with the crestfallen air which seemed natural to her, just giving her hand to the guests, then almost snatching it away, and sneaking in unmannerly haste to the place allotted to her at Miss Wilcox’s side, which place she filled like a piece of furniture, neither smiling nor speaking the evening through—while such was _her_ deportment, certain of her companions, as Mary Franks, Jessy Newton, &c., handsome, open-countenanced little damsels—fearless because harmless—would enter with a smile of salutation and a blush of pleasure, make their pretty reverence at the drawing-room door, stretch a friendly little hand to such visitors as they knew, and sit down to the piano to play their well-practised duet with an innocent, obliging readiness which won all hearts.

There was a girl called Diana—the girl alluded to before as having once been Miss Sterling’s pupil—a daring, brave girl, much loved and a little feared by her comrades. She had good faculties, both physical and mental—was clever, honest, and dauntless. In the schoolroom she set her young brow like a rock against Miss Fitzgibbon’s pretensions; she found also heart and spirit to withstand them in the drawing-room. One evening, when the curate had been summoned away by some piece of duty directly after tea, and there was no stranger present but Mr. Ellin, Diana had been called in to play a long, difficult piece of music which she could execute like a master. She was still in the midst of her performance, when—Mr. Ellin having for the first time, perhaps, recognized the existence of the heiress by asking if she was cold—Miss Wilcox took the opportunity of launching into a strain of commendation on Miss Fitzgibbon’s inanimate behaviour, terming it lady-like, modest, and exemplary. Whether Miss Wilcox’s constrained tone betrayed how far she was from really feeling the approbation she expressed, how entirely she spoke from a sense of duty, and not because she felt it possible to be in any degree charmed by the personage she praised—or whether Diana, who was by nature hasty, had a sudden fit of irritability—is not quite certain, but she turned on her music-stool:—

“Ma’am,” said she to Miss Wilcox, “that girl does not deserve so much praise. Her behaviour is not at all exemplary. In the schoolroom she is insolently distant. For my part I denounce her airs; there is not one of us but is as good or better than she, though we may not be as rich.”

And Diana shut up the piano, took her music-book under her arm, curtsied, and vanished.

Strange to relate, Miss Wilcox said not a word at the time; nor was Diana subsequently reprimanded for this outbreak. Miss Fitzgibbon had now been three months in the school, and probably the governess had had leisure to wear out her early raptures of partiality.

Indeed, as time advanced, this evil often seemed likely to right itself; again and again it seemed that Miss Fitzgibbon was about to fall to her proper level, but then, somewhat provokingly to the lovers of reason and justice, some little incident would occur to invest her insignificance with artificial interest. Once it was the arrival of a great basket of hothouse fruit—melons, grapes, and pines—as a present to Miss Wilcox in Miss Fitzgibbon’s name. Whether it was that a share of these luscious productions was imparted too freely to the nominal donor, or whether she had had a surfeit of cake on Miss Mabel Wilcox’s birthday, it so befel, that in some disturbed state of the digestive organs Miss Fitzgibbon took to sleep-walking. She one night terrified the school into a panic by passing through the bedrooms, all white in her night-dress, moaning and holding out her hands as she went.

Dr. Percy was then sent for; his medicines, probably, did not suit the case; for within a fortnight after the somnambulistic feat, Miss Wilcox going upstairs in the dark, trod on something which she thought was the cat, and on calling for a light, found her darling Matilda Fitzgibbon curled round on the landing, blue, cold, and stiff, without any light in her half-open eyes, or any colour in her lips, or movement in her limbs. She was not soon roused from this fit; her senses seemed half scattered; and Miss Wilcox had now an undeniable excuse for keeping her all day on the drawing-room sofa, and making more of her than ever.

There comes a day of reckoning both for petted heiresses and partial governesses.

One clear winter morning, as Mr. Ellin was seated at breakfast, enjoying his bachelor’s easy chair and damp, fresh London newspaper, a note was brought to him marked “private,” and “in haste.” The last injunction was vain, for William Ellin did nothing in haste—he had no haste in him; he wondered anybody should be so foolish as to hurry; life was short enough without it. He looked at the little note—three-cornered, scented, and feminine. He knew the handwriting; it came from the very lady Rumour had so often assigned him as his own. The bachelor took out a morocco case, selected from a variety of little instruments a pair of tiny scissors, cut round the seal, and read:—“Miss Wilcox’s compliments to Mr. Ellin, and she should be truly glad to see him for a few minutes, if at leisure. Miss W. requires a little advice. She will reserve explanations till she sees Mr. E.”

Mr. Ellin very quietly finished his breakfast; then, as it was a very fine December day—hoar and crisp, but serene, and not bitter—he carefully prepared himself for the cold, took his cane, and set out. He liked the walk; the air was still; the sun not wholly ineffectual; the path firm, and but lightly powdered with snow. He made his journey as long as he could by going round through many fields, and through winding, unfrequented lanes. When there was a tree in the way conveniently placed for support, he would sometimes stop, lean his back against the trunk, fold his arms, and muse. If Rumour could have seen him, she would have affirmed that he was thinking about Miss Wilcox; perhaps when he arrives at the Lodge his demeanour will inform us whether such an idea be warranted.

At last he stands at the door and rings the bell; he is admitted, and shown into the parlour—a smaller and a more private room than the drawing-room. Miss Wilcox occupies it; she is seated at her writing-table; she rises—not without air and grace—to receive her visitor. This air and grace she learnt in France; for she was in a Parisian school for six months, and learnt there a little French, and a stock of gestures and courtesies. No: it is certainly not impossible that Mr. Ellin may admire Miss Wilcox. She is not without prettiness, any more than are her sisters; and she and they are one and all smart and showy. Bright stone-blue is a colour they like in dress; a crimson bow rarely fails to be pinned on somewhere to give contrast; positive colours generally—grass-greens, red violets, deep yellows—are in favour with them; all harmonies are at a discount. Many people would think Miss Wilcox, standing there in her blue merino dress and pomegranate ribbon, a very agreeable woman. She has regular features; the nose is a little sharp, the lips a little thin, good complexion, light red hair. She is very business-like, very practical; she never in her life knew a refinement of feeling or of thought; she is entirely limited, respectable, and self-satisfied. She has a cool, prominent eye; sharp and shallow pupil, unshrinking and inexpansive; pale irid; light eyelashes, light brow. Miss Wilcox is a very proper and decorous person; but she could not be delicate or modest, because she is naturally destitute of sensitiveness. Her voice, when she speaks, has no vibration; her face no expression; her manner no emotion. Blush or tremor she never knew.

“What can I do for you, Miss Wilcox?” says Mr. Ellin, approaching the writing-table, and taking a chair beside it.

“Perhaps you can advise me,” was the answer; “or perhaps you can give me some information. I feel so thoroughly puzzled, and really fear all is not right.”

“Where? and how?”

“I will have redress if it be possible,” pursued the lady; “but how to set about obtaining it! Draw to the fire, Mr. Ellin; it is a cold day.”

They both drew to the fire. She continued:—

“You know the Christmas holidays are near?”

He nodded.

“Well, about a fortnight since, I wrote, as is customary, to the friends of my pupils, notifying the day when we break up, and requesting that, if it was desired that any girl should stay the vacation, intimation should be sent accordingly. Satisfactory and prompt answers came to all the notes except one—that addressed to Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire, May Park, Midland County—Matilda Fitzgibbon’s father, you know.”

“What? won’t he let her go home?”

“Let her go home, my dear sir! you shall hear. Two weeks elapsed, during which I daily expected an answer; none came. I felt annoyed at the delay, as I had particularly requested a speedy reply. This very morning I had made up my mind to write again, when—what do you think the post brought me?”

“I should like to know.”

“My own letter—actually my own—returned from the post-office, with an intimation—such an intimation!—but read for yourself.”

She handed to Mr. Ellin an envelope; he took from it the returned note and a paper—the paper bore a hastily-scrawled line or two. It said, in brief terms, that there was no such place in Midland County as May Park, and that no such person had ever been heard of there as Conway Fitzgibbon, Esquire.

On reading this, Mr. Ellin slightly opened his eyes.

“I hardly thought it was so bad as this,” said he.

“What? you did think it was bad then? You suspected that something was wrong?”

“Really! I scarcely knew what I thought or suspected. How very odd, no such place as May Park! The grand mansion, the grounds, the oaks, the deer, vanished clean away. And then Fitzgibbon himself! But you saw Fitzgibbon—he came in his carriage?”

“In his carriage!” echoed Miss Wilcox; “a most stylish equipage, and himself a most distinguished person. Do you think, after all, there is some mistake?”

“Certainly, a mistake; but when it is rectified I don’t think Fitzgibbon or May Park will be forthcoming. Shall I run down to Midland County and look after these two precious objects?”

“Oh! would you be so good, Mr. Ellin? I knew you would be so kind; personal inquiry, you know—there’s nothing like it.”

“Nothing at all. Meantime, what shall you do with the child—the pseudo-heiress, if pseudo she be? Shall you correct her—let her know her place?”

“I think,” responded Miss Wilcox, reflectively—“I think not exactly as yet; my plan is to do nothing in a hurry; we will inquire first. If after all she should turn out to be connected as was at first supposed, one had better not do anything which one might afterwards regret. No; I shall make no difference with her till I hear from you again.”

“Very good. As you please,” said Mr. Ellin, with that coolness which made him so convenient a counsellor in Miss Wilcox’s opinion. In his dry laconism she found the response suited to her outer worldliness. She thought he said enough if he did not oppose her. The comment he stinted so avariciously she did not want.

Mr. Ellin “ran down,” as he said, to Midland County. It was an errand that seemed to suit him; for he had curious predilections as well as peculiar methods of his own. Any secret quest was to his taste; perhaps there was something of the amateur detective in him. He could conduct an inquiry and draw no attention. His quiet face never looked inquisitive, nor did his sleepless eye betray vigilance.

He was away about a week. The day after his return, he appeared in Miss Wilcox’s presence as cool as if he had seen her but yesterday. Confronting her with that fathomless face he liked to show her, he first told her he had done nothing.

Let Mr. Ellin be as enigmatical as he would, he never puzzled Miss Wilcox. She never saw enigma in the man. Some people feared, because they did not understand, him; to her it had not yet occurred to begin to spell his nature or analyze his character. If she had an impression about him, it was, that he was an idle but obliging man, not aggressive, of few words, but often convenient. Whether he were clever and deep, or deficient and shallow, close or open, odd or ordinary, she saw no practical end to be answered by inquiry, and therefore did not inquire.

“Why had he done nothing?” she now asked.

“Chiefly because there was nothing to do.”

“Then he could give her no information?”

“Not much: only this, indeed—Conway Fitzgibbon was a man of straw; May Park a house of cards. There was no vestige of such man or mansion in Midland County, or in any other shire in England. Tradition herself had nothing to say about either the name or the place. The Oracle of old deeds and registers, when consulted, had not responded.

“Who can he be, then, that came here, and who is this child?”

“That’s just what I can’t tell you:—an incapacity which makes me say I have done nothing.”

“And how am I to get paid?”

“Can’t tell you that either.”

“A quarter’s board and education owing, and masters’ terms besides,” pursued Miss Wilcox. “How infamous! I can’t afford the loss.”

“And if we were only in the good old times,” said Mr. Ellin, “where we ought to be, you might just send Miss Matilda out to the plantations in Virginia, sell her for what she is worth, and pay yourself.”

“Matilda, indeed, and Fitzgibbon! A little impostor! I wonder what her real name is?”

“Betty Hodge? Poll Smith? Hannah Jones?” suggested Mr. Ellin.

“Now,” cried Miss Wilcox, “give me credit for sagacity! It’s very odd, but try as I would—and I made every effort—I never could really like that child. She has had every indulgence in this house; and I am sure I made great sacrifice of feeling to principle in showing her much attention; for I could not make any one believe the degree of antipathy I have all along felt towards her.”

“Yes. I can believe it. I saw it.”

“Did you? Well—it proves that my discernment is rarely at fault. Her game is up now, however; and time it was. I have said nothing to her yet; but now—”

“Have her in whilst I am here,” said Mr. Ellin. “Has she known of this business? Is she in the secret? Is she herself an accomplice, or a mere tool? Have her in.”

Miss Wilcox rang the bell, demanded Matilda Fitzgibbon, and the false heiress soon appeared. She came in her ringlets, her sash, and her furbelowed dress adornments—alas! no longer acceptable.

“Stand there!” said Miss Wilcox, sternly, checking her as she approached the hearth. “Stand there on the farther side of the table. I have a few questions to put to you, and your business will be to answer them. And mind—let us have the truth. _We will not endure lies._”

Ever since Miss Fitzgibbon had been found in the fit, her face had retained a peculiar paleness and her eyes a dark orbit. When thus addressed, she began to shake and blanch like conscious guilt personified.

“Who are you?” demanded Miss Wilcox. “What do you know about yourself?”

A sort of half-interjection escaped the girl’s lips; it was a sound expressing partly fear, and partly the shock the nerves feel when an evil, very long expected, at last and suddenly arrives.

“Keep yourself still, and reply, if you please,” said Miss Wilcox, whom nobody should blame for lacking pity, because nature had not made her compassionate. “What is your name? We know you have no right to that of Matilda Fitzgibbon.”

She gave no answer.

“I do insist upon a reply. Speak you shall, sooner or later. So you had better do it at once.”

This inquisition had evidently a very strong effect upon the subject of it. She stood as if palsied, trying to speak, but apparently not competent to articulate.

Miss Wilcox did not fly into a passion, but she grew very stern and urgent; spoke a little loud; and there was a dry clamour in her raised voice which seemed to beat upon the ear and bewilder the brain. Her interest had been injured—her pocket wounded—she was vindicating her rights—and she had no eye to see, and no nerve to feel, but for the point in hand. Mr. Ellin appeared to consider himself strictly a looker-on; he stood on the hearth very quiet.

At last the culprit spoke. A low voice escaped her lips. “Oh, my head!” she cried, lifting her hands to her forehead. She staggered, but caught the door and did not fall. Some accusers might have been startled by such a cry—even silenced; not so Miss Wilcox. She was neither cruel nor violent; but she was coarse, because insensible. Having just drawn breath, she went on, harsh as ever.

Mr. Ellin, leaving the hearth, deliberately paced up the room as if he were tired of standing still, and would walk a little for a change. In returning and passing near the door and the criminal, a faint breath seemed to seek his ear, whispering his name—

“Oh, Mr. Ellin!”

The child dropped as she spoke. A curious voice—not like Mr. Ellin’s, though it came from his lips—asked Miss Wilcox to cease speaking, and say no more. He gathered from the floor what had fallen on it. She seemed overcome, but not unconscious. Resting beside Mr. Ellin, in a few minutes she again drew breath. She raised her eyes to him.

“Come, my little one; have no fear,” said he.

Reposing her head against him, she gradually became reassured. It did not cost him another word to bring her round; even that strong trembling was calmed by the mere effects of his protection. He told Miss Wilcox, with remarkable tranquillity, but still with a certain decision, that the little girl must be put to bed. He carried her upstairs, and saw her laid there himself. Returning to Miss Wilcox, he said:

“Say no more to her. Beware, or you will do more mischief than you think or wish. That kind of nature is very different from yours. It is not possible that you should like it; but let it alone. We will talk more on the subject to-morrow. Let me question her.”

Under Chloroform.

Most people take an interest in any authentic account of the mode in which important surgical operations are performed, whenever opportunity is offered of gratifying their very natural curiosity. Such opportunities are however somewhat rare. The columns of the newspaper press not unfrequently supply brief, and sometimes curiously incorrect, particulars of the injuries resulting from “an appalling accident” of the night previous, to some unfortunate workman who has fallen from a scaffold, or been mutilated by a railway train. Scraps of hearsay are eagerly gathered up by the penny-a-liner, who, like the fireman’s dog of notorious ubiquity, is always first on the spot after the occurrence of a catastrophe; and a remarkable combination of technical phrases culled from the brief remarks of the surgeon in attendance, and from the slender stock which has accumulated in the reporter’s brain from previous experiences, makes its appearance in to-morrow’s daily journals, and is certain to be reproduced in all the weeklies of Saturday next. Then it is the great public learns with profound horror that some poor victim’s shoulder-joint has been dislocated in three places, that the carotid artery was pronounced (surgeons are invariably said to “pronounce”) to be fractured, or that there was great contusion and ecchymosis (always a trying word for the compositor) about the spine, and that amputation would probably be necessary.

But sometimes it happens that an over-prying public, with a curiosity not much in this instance to be commended, peeps within the pages of the medical press, hoping to unravel some of the mysteries of professional craft. Ten to one that it gets nothing but error for its pains. The technicalities which medical men must necessarily employ when writing for each other, are instructive only to the initiated, and are pregnant with blunders for the simple reader. And few people make more mistakes than our medical amateur who, on the strength of a weekly perusal of _The Lancet_ at his club, sets up as an authority in the social circle on questions of physiology and physic.

Occasionally, moreover, after dinner, when the ladies have left the table, and the men alone remain to empty decanters and derange a dessert, one has the gratification of meeting some very young gentleman, who, the week before last, presented his proud father with the diploma of “the college,” elegantly framed and glazed, in return for an education which has cost five years and a thousand pounds, and who astonishes his elderly associates with a highly-tinted sketch of some operative achievement, in which perchance he assisted at the hospital. As he surveys the auditory, silent and absorbed by his heart-stirring description, and complacently witnesses the admiration which such evidence of his own familiarity with harrowing scenes, and of his apparent absence of emotion, elicits, it is to be feared that its influence, associated with that of the port, a beverage appreciated by our young friend, if one may judge by the quantity he imbibes, tends to render the information obtained, as one may say almost at first hand, not so absolutely trustworthy as a man of fact is accustomed to desire.

After a due survey then of the varied sources from which most people obtain information respecting the topics in question, and after some observation of the character and quality of the knowledge so acquired, we have formed the deliberate conclusion that they possess very erroneous, and very inadequate notions about the nature of a surgical operation. No doubt all admire the _sang-froid_ and skill, possession of which is necessary to make a good surgical operator—qualities, by the way, which are perhaps more frequently developed by training, than found already existing as a natural inheritance. But it is germane to our purpose to remember that everybody has a direct practical concern in the existence of an available supply of the necessary talent to meet a certain demand on the part of the body politic, for no one knows how soon his own personal necessities may not be such as to give him the strongest possible interest in its exercise: a demand that is absolutely inevitable;—for be assured that, without any wish to alarm you, gentle reader, Mr Neison will, if requested to make the calculation, inform us at once what the numerical chances are that your own well-proportioned nether limb will, or will not, fall before the surgeon’s knife, or that that undoubtedly hard and well-developed cranium may not yet be scientifically explored by “trepan” or “trephine.” He will estimate with unerring certainty the probability (to nine places of decimals, if you demand it) that your own fair person may become the subject of some unpleasing excrescence; and also what the chances are that you must seek the surgeon’s aid to remove it. While Mr. Buckle will stoutly maintain, and you will find it hard to gainsay him, that, given the present conditions of existence, a certain ascertainable number of tumours, broken legs, and natural-born deformities will regularly make their appearance every year among the human family. And he will probably add, that it is perfectly within the province of possibility to calculate, if we had all the required data, the exact number of individuals who have the requisite courage to submit to operation; as of those who will not have heart to do so, and who will inevitably die without benefit of surgery; together with the exact per-centage to the population of those who will, and who will not, put faith in the blessed boon of chloroform.

It is a blessed boon; and in olden times the possessor of such a secret would have been the most potent wizard of which the earth has yet heard tell. What miracles might not have been performed by it! What dogmas might not have been made divine and true by its influence! Happy was it that those great powers, the magic of chemical and electrical discovery, have been brought to light in a time when they can be used mainly to enlighten and bless, and not to darken and oppress mankind!

But that word chloroform is happily significant that it is to no scene of suffering that we would introduce our readers. There is no need to shrink, or to question the taste which exhibits the details of a surgical operation to the vulgar eye. It is not designed, even in this stirring time, after the fashion of ancient Rome, to deaden our sensibilities, or to accustom our youth to witness deeds of blood and violence without shrinking. No trace of suffering will be visible in the picture which shall pass before us. So great is the triumph which modern surgical art displays, so great the boon which it has conferred upon humanity! It is this which we propose to illustrate, by describing the single and simple process involved in cutting off a leg.

Permit us first, however, to cast a passing glance, by way of contrast, to the established and orthodox fashion of performing that operation some centuries ago. Bear with us but a moment, and in imagination hope that then, when painless surgery was unknown, no patient lacked support in his hour of trial (long _hours_ then, in truth!) from that great and never-failing source which flows, unmeasured and unfathomable, for all humanity, alike in every age.

Until the last three or four hundred years, amputation of a limb was very rarely performed, except when, from injury or disease, its extremity had begun to mortify; and then, few surgeons ventured to make incisions in the sound portion, but limited themselves to an operation through the tissues which had already lost their vitality. This timidity was due to the fact that they were unacquainted with any effectual means of stopping the bleeding from the larger arteries divided by the knife. Certain and easy as is the control of such bleeding now, by the simple process of tying a piece of thread or silk round the extremity of the bleeding vessel (as we shall hereafter see), it was unknown, at all events as applicable to amputation, to any surgical writer from Hippocrates, 400 B.C., or from Celsus, who flourished in the first Christian century, to the fifteenth. Consequently, the numerous instances of injury and disease, in which life is now saved by a timely resort to amputation, were then always fatal. Hence, also, arose the various expedients which the more adventurous operators of the time resorted to, in order to stop fatal bleeding, with the effect only of increasing the patient’s torture, and with the attainment of no good result. Thus the incisions were performed with a red-hot knife, that the divided vessels, seared and charred by the horrible contact, might contract, or become plugged, and so be prevented from bleeding (Albucasis, 11th century). Effective for the instant, the force of the circulation quickly overpowered the slender obstruction, and fatal hæmorrhage, sooner or later, took place. Yet this plan continued more or less in vogue down to the discovery of the ligature in the 16th century, and was practised even later in Germany by the celebrated Hildanus (1641); although he subsequently adopted the new method. According to another fashion, the surgeon, after making a tedious division of the flesh down to the bone, with studied endeavour not to divide the arteries until the last moment, relied on applications of red-hot irons, or of some styptic fluid, usually a powerful acid or astringent, to arrest the bleeding. If these were not successful, a vessel of boiling pitch was at hand, ready prepared, into which the bleeding stump was plunged. Between Scylla and Charybdis, the patient rarely escaped with life; either he died from loss of blood in a few hours, or less; or if the dreadful remedies succeeded, he survived a day or two, to die of fever or exhaustion. After an earlier method, that of Guido di Caulico (1363), a bandage of plaster was made to encircle the member so tightly that mortification attacked all the parts below, which then, after the lapse of months, dropped off, a horribly loathsome and offensive mass. Another surgeon, Botalli (1560), invented a machine to sever the limb in an instant by a single stroke; and it was not uncommon at this period to effect the same purpose by the hatchet, or by a powerful mallet and chisel.

It is to Ambrose Paré, the great French surgeon, who flourished in the 16th century, that we owe the application of the ligature (used long before in ordinary wounds) to the bleeding arteries in amputation. He discarded the use of the red-hot cautery, and of all the frightful adjuncts already described; and accomplished his purpose by carrying the thread round the vessel by means of a needle passed through the soft parts adjacent—a method of adjustment which, although still in use, is now employed only in exceptional instances. Richard Wiseman, sometimes styled the father of English surgery, who practised about the middle of the 17th century, is believed to have been the first to employ the ligature in our own country, and to relinquish the application of heated irons. At this era also, the circulation of the blood was discovered by the renowned Harvey, and the distinction between arteries and veins being thenceforth clearly understood, the value of the ligature was rendered more than ever obvious.

But enough of this: let us soothe our ruffled nerves by seeing how the thing is done to-day. We will take a quiet post of observation in the area of the operating theatre at one of our metropolitan hospitals, in this year of our Lord 1860. Notice is posted that amputation of the thigh will be performed at 2 o’clock P.M., and we occupy our seat ten minutes before the hour.

The area itself is small, of a horse-shoe form, and surrounded by seats rising on a steep incline one above another, to the number of eight or nine tiers. From 100 to 150 students occupy these, and pack pretty closely, especially on the lower rows, whence the best view is obtained. For an assemblage of youths between eighteen and twenty-five years, who have nothing to do but to wait, they are tolerably well-behaved and quiet. Three or four practical jokers, however, it is evident, are distributed among them, and so the time passes all the quicker for the rest. The clock has not long struck two, when the folding-doors open, and in walk two or three of the leading surgeons of the hospital, followed by a staff of dressers, and a few professional lookers-on; the latter being confined to seats reserved for them on the lowest and innermost tier. A small table, covered with instruments, occupies a place on one side of the area; water, sponges, towels, and lint, are placed on the opposite. The surgeon who is about to operate, rapidly glances over the table, and sees that his instruments are all there, and in readiness. He requests a colleague to take charge of the tourniquet, and with a word deputes one assistant to “take the flaps,” another to hold the limb, a third to hand the instruments, and the last to take charge of the sponges. This done, and while the patient is inhaling chloroform in an adjoining apartment, under the care of a gentleman who makes that his special duty, the operator gives to the now hushed and listening auditory, a brief history of the circumstances which led to an incurable disease of the left knee-joint, and the reasons why he decides on the operation about to be performed. He has scarcely closed, when the unconscious patient is brought in by a couple of sturdy porters, and laid upon the operating table, a small, but strong and steady erection, four feet long by two feet wide, which stands in the centre of the area. The left being the doomed leg, the right is fastened by a bandage to one of the supports of the table, so as to be out of harm’s way; while the dresser, who has special charge of the case, is seated on a low stool at the foot of the table, and supports the left. The surgeon who assists, encircles the upper part of the thigh with the tourniquet, placing its pad over the femoral artery, the chief vessel which supplies the limb with blood, and prepares to screw up the instrument, thus to make sure that no considerable amount of the vital fluid can be lost. The operator, standing on the left side of the corresponding leg, and holding in his right hand a narrow, straight knife, of which the blade is at least ten inches long, and looks marvellously bright and sharp, directs his eye to him who gives the chloroform, and awaits the signal that the patient has become perfectly insensible. All is silence profound: every assistant stands in his place, which is carefully arranged so as not to intercept the view of those around.

The words “quite ready” are no sooner whispered, than the operator, grasping firmly with his left hand the flesh which forms the front part of the patient’s thigh, thrusts quietly and deliberately the sharp blade horizontally through the limb, from its outer to its inner side, so that the thigh is transfixed a little above its central axis, and in front of the bone. He next cuts directly downwards, in the plane of the limb, for about four inches, and then obliquely outwards, so as to form a flap, which is seized and turned upwards out of the way by the appointed assistant. A similar transfixion is again made, commencing at the same spot, but the knife is this time carried behind the bone; a similar incision follows, and another flap is formed and held away as before. Lastly, with a rapid circular sweep round the bone he divides all left uncut; and handing the knife to an assistant, who takes it, and gives a saw in return, the operator divides the bone with a few workmanlike strokes, and the limb is severed from the body. A rustling sound of general movement and deeper breathing is heard among the lookers-on, who have followed with straining and critical eyes every act which has contributed to the accomplishment of the task; and some one of the younger students is heard to whisper to his neighbour, “Five and thirty seconds: not bad, by Jove!”

The operator now seats himself on the stool just vacated by the dresser, who has carried away the leg, and seeks in the cut surfaces before him the end of the main artery on which to place a ligature. There is no flow of blood, only a little oozing, for the tourniquet holds life’s current hard and fast. Only five minutes’ uncontrolled flow of the current from that great artery now so perfectly compressed, and our patient’s career in this world would be closed for ever. How is it permanently held in check? and what have we to substitute now for the hissing, sparkling, and sputtering iron, and the boiling pitch? The operator takes hold of the cut end of the artery with a slender, delicately made pair of forceps, and draws it out a little, while an assistant passes round the end so drawn out a ligature of exceedingly fine whipcord, fine but strong, and carefully ties it there with double knot, and so effectually closes the vessel. A similar process is applied to perhaps six or seven other but smaller vessels, the tourniquet is removed, and no bleeding ensues. Altogether the patient has lost little more than half-a-pint of blood! The flaps are placed in apposition, the bone is well covered by them, a few stitches are put through their edges, some cool wet lint is applied all around the stump, and the patient, slumbering peacefully, is carried off to a comfortable bed ready prepared in some adjacent ward. Half an hour hence that patient will regain consciousness, and probably the first observation he makes will be, “I am quite ready for the operation, when is it going to begin?” And it takes no little repetition of the assurance that all is over to make him realize the happy truth.

So it is that he who loses the limb knows less about the process than any one concerned; infinitely less, my gentle reader, than you who have shared with us the quiet corner, and have seen all without losing consciousness, or fainting. It was an early day in the medical session, and many new men were there; one at least was observed to become very—very pale, and then slowly disappear: no one knows how or where, for neither we in the area nor those elsewhere had leisure or care to inquire.

What might have happened to somebody else had he been witness before these blessed days of chloroform, can, in the nature of things, be only a matter for speculation. It may even be surmised by some theorist, and without hazarding a very improbable guess, that a similar catastrophe might, perhaps, under such aggravating circumstances, and at a greener age, have rendered utterly futile, on his part, any attempt to describe what modern skill and science now accomplish in cutting off the leg of a patient Under Chloroform.

The How and Why of Long Shots and Straight Shots.

On a windy, unpleasant day in 1746, a great mathematician and philosopher was exhibiting to a select company in the gardens of the Charterhouse his skill in shooting round a corner with a bent gun-barrel. If he had requested the editor of the _Cornhill Magazine_ of the day to publish his experiments, it is probable that he would have been refused. Now, when every morning paper informs us at breakfast, in its best type, of how far off we may be killed, and the evening papers analyze the same with the commencement of a hot debate on the French Treaty, to give us a pleasing subject for our dreams, we think that perhaps our unprofessional readers may like to know _the how_ and _the why_ of these far-reaching organs of peace on earth and good-will among faithful allies.

Supposing, then, reader—for it is to such that this article is addressed—that you are wholly ignorant of the science of gunnery, and of its principal establisher, Benjamin Robins, and have, therefore, been laughing at him, the poor silly philosopher,—if you will read the following extract from his work on Gunnery, you will see that if he did a foolish thing, he certainly sometimes wrote a wise one:—“I shall, therefore, close this paper with predicting that whatever State shall thoroughly comprehend the nature and advantages of rifled-barrel pieces, and, having facilitated and completed their construction, shall introduce into their armies their general use, with a dexterity in the management of them, they will by this means acquire a superiority which will almost equal anything that has been done at any time by the particular excellence of any one kind of arms; and will, perhaps, fall but little short of the wonderful effects which histories relate to have been formerly produced by the first inventors of fire-arms.”

Now to our distinguished countryman, Mr. Benjamin Robins, is due the credit of having first pointed out the reasons why _smooth bores_—and smooth bore is now almost as great a term of reproach with us rifle volunteers as dog is with a Turk—were constantly, in fact, universally, in the habit of shooting round corners, and the experiment mentioned was only a means of bringing the fact more strikingly before the obtuse faculties of the Royal Society, whom we may imagine to have been intense admirers of brown-bess—also now a term of reproach in constant use. Mr. Robins did more; he pointed out the advantage of elongated rifle bullets; showed us how to determine—and partially, as far as his limited means permitted, himself determined—the enormous resistance of the atmosphere to the motion of projectiles; in fact, smoothed the way for all our present _discoveries_; and, treason though it be to say so, left the science of gunnery much as we have it now. Though principally from increased mechanical powers of construction, better material and improved machinery, we have advanced considerably in the Art or practice of destruction.

Let us endeavour, first, to understand something of the movement of gun-shots in their simplest form. A gun-barrel, consisting of a bar of metal thicker at one end (where it has to withstand the first shock of the gunpowder) than at the other, is bored out throughout its length into a smooth hollow cylinder; this cylinder is closed at one end by the breech, which has a small opening in it, through which the charge is ignited. A charge of powder is placed in the closed end, and on the top of this the ball, say, a spherical one, such as our ancestors in their simplicity considered the best. The powder being ignited, rapidly, though not instantaneously, becomes converted into gas, and the _permanent_ gases generated will, at the temperature estimated to be produced by the combustion (3,000° Fahr.), occupy a volume under the pressure of the atmosphere alone of over 2,000 times that of the bulk of the powder. This point, as well as the elasticity of the gases, both of the permanent ones and of the vapour of water or steam from the moisture in the powder, has never been accurately determined,[15] and various estimates have been formed; but if we take Dr. Hutton’s—a rather low one, viz.—that the first force of fired gunpowder was equal to 2,000 atmospheres (30,000 lbs. on the square inch), and that, as Mr. Robins computed, the velocity of expansion was about 7,000 feet per second, we shall have some idea of the enormous force which is exerted in the direction of the bullet to move it, of the breech of the gun to make it kick, and of the sides of the barrel to burst it. Notwithstanding Mr. Robins’ advice, we certainly never, till very lately, made the most of the power of committing homicide supplied by this powerful agent; but we used it in the most wasteful and vicious manner. All improvements—and many were suggested at different times to remedy defects, which he principally pointed out, like the inventions of printing and of gunpowder itself—lay fallow for long before they were taken up. They were premature. If our fathers had killed men clumsily, why should we not do the same? No one cared much, except the professionals, whether it required 100 or 1,000 bullets, on an average, to kill a man at 100 yards’ distance. Now we take more interest in such amusements; every one’s attention is turned to the best means of thinning his fellow-creatures; and we are not at all content with the glorious uncertainty which formerly prevailed when every bullet found its own billet: we like to kill our particular man, not his next neighbour, or one thirty yards off.

In order to see why we are so much more certain with our Whitworth, or Enfield, or Armstrong, of hitting the man we aim at, let us first examine how a bullet flies; and then by understanding how (badly) our fathers applied the force we have described to make it fly, we shall be able to appreciate how well we do it ourselves.

In consequence of the sudden generation of this enormous quantity of gas, then, in the confined space of the barrel, the bullet is projected into the air, and if it were not acted on by any other force, would proceed for ever in the line in which it started; gravity, however, at once asserts its sway, and keeps pulling it down towards the earth. These two forces together would make it describe a curve, known as the parabola. There is, however, another retarding influence, the air; and though Galileo, and Newton in particular, pointed out the great effect it would have, several philosophers, in fact the majority, still believed that a parabola was the curve described by the path of a shot. It remained for Mr. Robins to establish this point and to prove the great resistance the air offered: to this we shall have to recur again presently. Let us first see _how_ a shot is projected. If the bullet fitted the bore of the gun perfectly, the whole force in that direction would be exerted on it; but in order that the gun might be more easily loaded—and this was more especially the case with cannon—the bullet was made somewhat smaller than the bore or interior cylinder; a space was therefore left between the two, termed windage, and through this windage a great deal of gas rushed out, and was wasted; but the bad effect did not stop there: rushing over the top of the bullet, as it rested on the bottom of the bore, it pressed it down hard—hard enough in guns of soft metal, as brass, after a few rounds to make a very perceptible dint—and forcing it along at the same time made it rebound first against one side and then the other of the bore, and hence the direction in which it left the bore was not the axis or central line of the cylinder, but varied according to the side it struck last. This was one cause of inaccuracy, and could, of course, be obviated to a great extent, though at the cost of difficulty in loading, by making the bullet fit tight; but another and more important cause of deflection was the various rotatory or spinning motions the bullet received from friction against the sides of the bore, and also from its often not being a homogeneous sphere; that is, the density of the metal not being the same throughout, the centre of gravity did not coincide with the centre of the sphere as it should have done.

Looking down upon the spinning bullet.]

Let us try to understand the effect of this rotation. A bullet in moving rapidly through the air, separates it; and if its velocity is at all greater than the velocity with which the air can refill the space from which it has been cleared behind it, it must create a more or less complete vacuum. Now when the barometer stands at thirty inches, air will rush into a vacuum at the rate of 1,344 feet per second; and if the bullet is moving at a greater velocity than this, there will be a total vacuum behind it. But it can be easily understood that even when moving with a less velocity, there will be a greater density of air before than behind. If the bullet be rotating on a vertical axis—that is, spinning like a top, point downwards, as in the diagram No. 1, from left to right, in the direction indicated by the crooked arrow, at the same time that it is moving forward (sideways it would be in the top) as indicated by the straight arrow,—it is evident that the left half rotates _with_ the general motion of translation of the bullet, and the right half backwards _against_ this motion, and therefore that on the left side it is moving quicker relatively to the air through which it is passing than on the right side. And its rough surface preventing the air escaping round it on that side, while it, as it were, assists it on the other side, the air becomes denser where shown by the dark lines, and tends to deflect the bullet in the other direction, that is, in the direction in which the anterior or front surface is moving.[16]

Looking at the bullet sideways.]

If the bullet rotate on a horizontal axis at right angles to the direction of its motion of translation (that is, like a top thrown spinning with its point sideways, when it would strike the object thrown at with its side), shown in the diagram No. 2; if the anterior portion be moving, as shown by the arrow, from above downwards, it is evident, for the same reasons, that the air will become denser, as shown, and assist the action of gravity in bringing the ball to the ground—that is, decrease the range. A spherical bullet resting on the bottom of the bore of a gun would always have a greater tendency to rotate in this manner than in a contrary direction; for the friction against the bore would be augmented by the weight of the ball in striking against the bottom, and diminished by it when striking against the top.

Shot were constructed in 1851 to try the effect of rotation in the above-mentioned and in the opposite directions. They were made excentric, that is, lop-sided, by taking out a portion of the metal on one side, and replacing it either with a heavier or lighter body. The manner in which they would rotate was, therefore, known; for, not to use too scientific language, the light side moved first, and according to the relative positions of the heavy and light side when placed against the charge so the rotation took place. Thus, when the light side was resting against the bore of the gun, the rotation was exactly contrary to the direction shown in diagram No. 2; and a range of 5,566 yards was obtained from a 10-inch gun, being 916 yards farther than with a concentric shot from the same gun. The deflections to the right and left were proportionately large, according as the light side was placed to the left or right.

We need not specify further; this will be sufficient to show the reason why the smooth bore with a spherical bullet never made a straight long shot, for it was not only that the bullet did not go in the direction in which it was aimed, but it did not even follow the direction in which it started. This was well shown by Mr. Robins in the experiment we commenced with. He bent the end of a gun barrel to the _left_, and aimed by the straight part. As would be naturally expected, the shot passed through the first tissue-paper screen 1½ inches to the left of the track of a bullet, which had been previously fired from a straight barrel in the same line with which the crooked barrel had been aimed, and 3 inches to the left on the second screen; but as he had predicted, and as the company could hardly have expected, on the wall which was behind, the bullet struck 14 inches to the right of the track, showing that though it had gone at first as directed by the bent portion of the barrel, yet as the bullet in being turned had _rolled against_ the right-hand side of this portion of the barrel, it had a rotatory motion impressed upon it, by which the anterior portion moved from left to right, and the bullet, after moving away from, turned back and crossed the track of the other bullet again, or was _incurvated_ to the right.

We now see why spherical bullets from a smooth bore, though they may fly almost perfectly accurately a short distance, cannot be depended on in the least for a long distance, as the bullet which might strike within 1 inch at 100 yards would not strike within 2 inches at 200 yards, and still less within 3 inches at 300 yards of the mark at which it was fired.

The cause of these deflections we have seen is almost wholly rotation or _spin_. The object of the _rifle_ is to place this rotation under our control, and if the bullet must spin, to make it spin always in the same direction, and in the way which will suit our purpose best. With this object the interior of the cylindrical bore which we have been considering as smooth, is scored or indented with spiral grooves or furrows. As we are merely concerned with the principles, and not with the constructive details, we need only mention that the number of these grooves varies in different rifles from two to forty; that their shape and size, though dependent on certain conditions, is, we might almost say, a matter of fashion; and that Mr. Whitworth, in his almost perfect rifle, uses a hexagonal bore, and Mr. Lancaster makes a smooth oval-bored rifle; but that in all, the deviations from the circle of the interior cylinder do not pass straight from end to end of the barrel, but _spirally_, and constitute, in fact, a female screw. The bullet, fitting tight and entering the grooves, is constrained to rotate while being forced out of the barrel by the gunpowder, in the same manner that a screw is necessarily twisted while being drawn out of a hole or nut; and this rotation or spin being impressed upon it by the same force which projects it from the barrel, continues during the flight. This spin is different in direction from those we have been considering previously; it is like the spin of a top thrown point foremost, the axis of rotation coincident with the line of flight. While it remains in this position (coinciding with the line of flight) none of the deflecting effects of the air we have mentioned can come into operation, as the resistance is equal on all sides; and not only that, but if there are any irregularities on the surface of the ball, as they are brought rapidly first on one side and then on the other of the point or pole of rotation, they can have no effect in deflecting it to one side more than to the other. Hence the accuracy, or straight shooting, of our modern gun, the rifle.

We have before mentioned that Robins pointed out the enormous effect of the resistance of the atmosphere to the passage of a shot; and “because,” as he says, “I am fully satisfied that the resistance of the air is almost the only source of the numerous difficulties which have hitherto embarrassed that science,” viz. gunnery, he considered it above all things necessary to determine its amount; for which purpose he invented the Ballistic Pendulum and Whirling Machine. His experiments were made principally with small bullets; but a more extended series of experiments was made by Dr. Hutton with the same machines, and on the Continent and in America by Major Mordecai, with a ballistic pendulum of improved construction. It appears from these that when a ball of two inches diameter is moving with a great velocity, it meets with a resistance of which the following examples will give an idea: at a velocity of 1,800 feet per second the resistance is 85½ lbs., and at a velocity of 2,000 feet, 102 lbs. If we wish to increase the range, then, we must overcome this resistance in some way. As the resistance is nearly proportionate to the surface, that is, twice as great on a surface of two square inches as on a surface of one square inch, we must do so by increasing the weight of the shot. For it is evident that if two shot of different weights start with the same velocity, and meet with the same resistance, the heavier one, having the greater momentum, will maintain its velocity the longest. Throw a cork and a stone of the same size with the same force—the cork will only go a few yards, while the stone will go perhaps ten times as far. In the smooth-bored cannon this could only be effected _partially_ by increasing the size of the shot, when the surface exposed to the resistance of the air increased only as the square of the diameter, while the weight increased in a greater ratio, as the cube of the diameter. Hence the longer range and greater penetration of heavy guns. As, however, with a rotating body the tendency is always for the axis of rotation to remain parallel to its original direction—thus a top while spinning may move about the floor, but remains upright on its point, and does not fall till the spin is exhausted—we have with rifles a means by which we can keep a bullet always in the same direction. In order to comply with the condition, then, of exposing a small surface to the resistance of the air while the bullet’s weight is increased, we reject the spherical form, and make it a long cylinder; and to make it the more easily cut through the air, we terminate it with a conical point.

Thus compare Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder with the ordinary or old 3-pounder; the shot weigh the same, but the diameter of Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder shot is 1·5 or 1½ inches, while the diameter of the old 3-pounder shot is 2·91 inches, or nearly three inches; and the surfaces they expose to the resistance of the air are 2·25, or 2¼ square inches, and 8·47 nearly, or nearly 8½ square inches; that is, Mr. Whitworth’s bullet, with the same weight to overcome it, meets with a resistance of a little more than a quarter that which the old bullet met with, and has the advantage of a sharp point to boot. Hence the enormous range attained,—9,688 yards.

The very same causes which make the fire of a rifle accurate, tend also to make it inaccurate, paradoxical as it may seem; but this inaccuracy being to a certain extent regular and known beforehand, is not of so much consequence, though it is a decided disadvantage. It may—not to be too mathematical—be explained thus:—The axis of rotation having, as we said, a tendency always to remain parallel to its original direction, when a rifle bullet or picket (the long projectile we have described) is fired at a high angle of elevation—that is, slanting upwards into the air, in order that before it fells it may reach a distant object,—it is evident from the diagram, that if the direction of the axis of rotation remains, as shown by the lines _p_ _p_ _p_, which represent the shot at different portions of the range parallel to the original direction in the gun, the bullet or picket will not always remain with its point only presented in the direction in which it is moving, but one side of the bullet will be partially opposed to the resistance of the air. The air on that side (in front) will be denser than behind, and the disturbing or deflecting influences before described will come into operation, the two opposite tendencies described in the text and the note to a certain extent counteracting one another. While at the same time the resistance of the air has a tendency to turn the bullet from the sideways position in which it is moving with respect to the line of flight (and the effect of this is the greater the less spin the bullet has to constrain it to keep its original direction), the result of which force, conspiring with the force described in the note, is to give it a slight angular rotation round another axis, and deflect the bullet by constantly changing its general direction (this second axis of rotation) to the side to which the rifling turns. This was exemplified in the late practice with Mr. Whitworth’s gun. When firing at the very long range of 9,000 yards the 3-pounder threw constantly to the right from 32 to 89 yards.

The rotation of the earth about its axis tends to throw the projectile always to the right of the object aimed at. Space will not permit of our entering on this subject; but the principle is the same as that which in M. Foucault's experiment with the vibrating pendulum caused its plane of vibration apparently to constantly deviate to the right.

The time of flight of the shot from Mr. Whitworth’s 3-pounder gun is unknown to us; we are unable, therefore, to calculate the deflection due on this account, but as an illustration we may give this deflection, calculated for the long range attained with the 10-inch gun (5,600 yards), from Captain Boxer’s, R.A., _Treatise on Artillery_. He finds it to be very nearly 11 yards.

Windage, one of the faults of the spherical bullet, permitting a great escape of the gas, and therefore wasting the force of the powder, has been overcome in various ways in the cylindro-conical picket. The Minié principle consists in hollowing out the base of the ball conically, placing in this hollow an iron cup or piece of wood, which being driven forward by the explosion of the charge further into the conical hollow, enlarges or expands the ball, and makes it fit tight and take the impression of the grooves, though the bullet, when put into the gun, is small enough to be easily rammed down. It is now found that the conical hollow alone, without the cup or plug, is almost equally effective in expanding the ball. We have termed this the Minié principle; Captain Norton, however, undoubtedly has a prior claim (which has been allowed by the British Government, we believe) to this invention. He was before his time. There was no cause for, and therefore the shooting mania was not strong upon us.

With breech-loaders, doing away with windage and making the bullet take the rifling, is an easy matter. The breech into which the bullet is put at once, without being passed through the muzzle, is made slightly larger than the rest of the bore; the bullet on being pushed forward by the force of the powder is squeezed into the narrower portion, and effectually prevents all escape of gas. It is thus with the Armstrong gun. Robins said of the breech-loaders of his day, “And, perhaps, somewhat of this kind, though not in the manner now practised, would be, of all others, the most perfect method for the construction of these barrels.” Mr. Whitworth, on the other hand, uses—well, we have avoided details thus far, and every newspaper has described them so fully, that our readers must be thoroughly acquainted with them. Let us conclude, as we began, with Robins, and hope that his prediction that “they,” the armies of the enlightened nations which perfect rifles, “will by this means acquire a superiority which will almost equal anything that has been done at any time.”

FOOTNOTES

[15] It is not at all certain whether Marriott’s law of the elasticity being as the density is true, when the gases are so highly condensed.

[16] This tendency is found in practice to overcome the tendency that there is for the ball to be deflected in the opposite direction, from the greater friction arising from the greater density of the air pressing against the anterior surface than against the posterior surface.