Kitabı oku: «Harper's New Monthly Magazine, No. VI, November 1850, Vol. I», sayfa 21

SPIDER'S SILK

Urged by the increased demand for the threads which the silk-worm yields, many ingenious men have endeavored to turn the cocoons of other insects to account. In search of new fibres to weave into garments, men have dived to the bottom of the sea, to watch the operations of the pinna and the common mussel. Ingenious experimentalists have endeavored to adapt the threads which hold the mussel firmly to the rock, to the purposes of the loom; and the day will probably arrive when the minute thread of that diminutive insect, known as the money-spinner, will be reeled, thrown, and woven into fabrics fit for Titania and her court.

In the early part of last century, an enthusiastic French gentleman turned his attention to spiders' webs. He discovered that certain spiders not only erected their webs to trap unsuspecting flies, but that the females, when they had laid their eggs, forthwith wove a cocoon, of strong silken threads, about them. These cocoons are known more familiarly as spiders' bags. The common webs of spiders are too slight and fragile to be put to any use; but the French experimentalist in question, Monsieur Bon, was led to believe that the cocoons of the female spiders were more solidly built than the mere traps of the ferocious males. Various experiments led M. Bon to adopt the short-legged silk spider as the most productive kind. Of this species he made a large collection. He employed a number of persons to go in search of them; and, as the prisoners were brought to him, one by one, he inclosed them in separate paper cells, in which he pricked holes to admit the air. He kept them in close confinement, and he observed that their imprisonment did not appear to affect their health. None of them, so far as he could observe, sickened for want of exercise; and, as a jailer, he appears to have been indefatigable, occupying himself catching flies, and delivering them over to the tender mercies of his prisoners. After a protracted confinement in these miniature Bastiles, the grim M. Bon opened the doors, and found that the majority of his prisoners had beguiled their time in forming their bags. Spiders exude their threads from papillæ or nipples, placed at the hinder part of their body. The thread, when it leaves them, is a glutinous liquid, which hardens on exposure to the air. It has been found that, by squeezing a spider, and placing the finger against its papillæ, the liquid of which the thread or silk is made may be drawn out to a great length.

M. Reaumur, the rival experimentalist to M. Bon, discovered that the papillæ are formed of an immense number of smaller papillæ, from each of which a minute and distinct thread is spun. He asserted that, with a microscope, he counted as many as seventy distinct fibres proceeding from the papillæ of one spider, and that there were many more threads too minute and numerous to compute. He jumped to a result, however, that is sufficiently astonishing, namely, that a thousand distinct fibres proceed from each papillæ; and there being five large papillæ, that every thread of spider's silk is composed of at least five thousand fibres. In the heat of that enthusiasm, with which the microscope filled speculative minds in the beginning of last century, M. Leuwenhoek ventured to assert that a hundred of the threads of a full-grown spider were not equal to the diameter of one single hair of his beard. This assertion leads to the astounding arithmetical deduction, that if the spider's threads and the philosopher's hair be both round, ten thousand threads are not bigger than such a hair; and, computing the diameter of a thread spun by a young spider as compared with that of an adult spider, four millions of the fibres of a young spider's web do not equal a single hair of M. Leuwenhoek's beard. The enthusiastic experimentalist must have suffered horrible martyrdom under the razor, with such an exaggerated notion of his beard as these calculations must have given him. A clever writer, in Lardner's Cyclopædia notices these measurements, and shows that M. Leuwenhoek went far beyond the limits of reality in his calculation.

M. Bon's collection of spiders continued to thrive; and, in due season, he found that the greater number of them had completed their cocoons or bags. He then dislodged the bags from the paper boxes; threw them into warm water, and kept washing them until they were quite free from dirt of any kind. The next process was to make a preparation of soap, saltpetre, and gum-arabic dissolved in water. Into this preparation the bags were thrown, and set to boil over a gentle fire for the space of three hours. When they were taken out and the soap had been rinsed from them, they appeared to be composed of fine, strong, ash-colored silk. Before being carded on fine cards, they were set out for some days to dry thoroughly. The carding, according to M. Bon, was an easy matter: and he affirmed that the threads of the silk he obtained were stronger and finer than those of the silk-worm. M. Reaumur, however, who was dispatched to the scene of M. Bon's investigations by the Royal Academy of Paris, gave a different version of the matter. He found, that whereas the thread of the spider's bag will sustain only thirty-six grains, that of the silkworm will support a weight of two drachms and a half – or four times the weight sustained by the spider-thread. Though M. Bon was certainly an enthusiast on behalf of spiders, M. Reaumur as undoubtedly had a strong predilection in favor of the bombyx; and the result of these contending prejudices was, that M. Bon's investigations were overrated by a few, and utterly disregarded by the majority of his countrymen. He injured himself by rash assertions. He endeavored to make out that spiders were more prolific, and yielded a proportionably larger quantity of silk than silkworms. These assertions were disproved, but in no kindly spirit, by M. Reaumur. To do away with the impression that spiders and their webs were venomous, M. Bon not only asserted, with truth, that their bite was harmless, but he even went so far as to subject his favorite insect to a chemical analysis, and he succeeded in extracting from it a volatile salt which he christened Montpelier drops, and recommended strongly as an efficacious medicine in lethargic states.

M. Bon undoubtedly produced, from the silk of his spiders, a material that readily absorbed all kinds of dyes, and was capable of being worked in any loom. With his carded spider's silk the enthusiastic experimentalist wove gloves and stockings, which he presented to one or two learned societies. To these productions several eminent men took particular exceptions. They discovered that the fineness of the separate threads of the silk detracted from its lustre, and inevitably produced a fabric less refulgent than those woven from the silkworm. M. Reaumur's most conclusive fact against the adoption of spider's silk as an article of manufacture, was deduced from his observations on the combativeness of spiders. He discovered that they had not arrived at that state of civilization when communities find it most to the general advantage to live on terms of mutual amity and confidence; on the contrary, the spider-world, according to M. Reaumur (we are writing of a hundred and forty years ago), was in a continual state of warfare; nay, not a few spiders were habitual cannibals. Having collected about five thousand spiders (enough to scare the most courageous old lady), M. Reaumur shut them up in companies varying in number from fifty to one hundred. On opening the cells, after the lapse of a few days, "what was the horror of our hero," as the graphic novelist writes, "to behold the scene which met his gaze!" Where fifty spiders, happy and full of life, had a short time before existed, only about two bloated insects now remained – they had devoured their fellow spiders! This horrible custom of the spider-world accounts for the small proportion of spiders in comparison to the immense number of eggs which they produce. So formidable a difficulty could only be met by rearing each spider in a separate cage; whether this separation is practicable – that is to say, whether it can be made to repay the trouble it would require – is a matter yet to be decided.

Against M. Bon's treatise on behalf of spider's silk, M. Reaumur urged further objections. He asserted that, when compared with silkworm's silk, spider's silk was deficient both in quality and in quantity. His calculation went to show that the silk of twelve spiders did not more than equal that of one bombyx; and that no less than fifty-five thousand two hundred and ninety-six spiders must be reared to produce one pound of silk. This calculation is now held to be exaggerated; and the spirit of partisanship in which M. Reaumur's report was evidently concocted, favors the supposition that he made the most of any objections he could bring to bear against M. Bon.

M. Bon's experiments are valuable as far as they go; spider's silk may be safely set down as an untried raw material. The objections of M. Reaumur, reasonable in some respects, are not at all conclusive. It is of course undeniable that the silkworm produces a larger quantity of silk than any species of spider; but, on the other hand, the spider's silk may possess certain qualities adapted to particular fabrics, which would justify its cultivation. At the Great Industrial Show, we shall probably find some specimens of spider's silk; such contributions would be useful and suggestive. The idea of brushing down cobwebs to convert them into ball-room stockings, forces upon us the association of two most incongruous ideas; but that this transformation is not impossible, the Royal Society, who are the possessors of some of M. Bon's spider-fabric, can satisfactorily demonstrate.

[From the Dublin University Magazine.]

THE RAILWAY

 
The silent glen, the sunless stream,
To wandering boyhood dear,
And treasur'd still in many a dream,
They are no longer here;
A huge red mound of earth is thrown
Across the glen so wild and lone,
The stream so cold and clear;
And lightning speed, and thundering sound,
Pass hourly o'er the unsightly mound.
 
 
Nor this alone – for many a mile
Along that iron way,
No verdant banks or hedgerows smile
In summer's glory gay;
Thro' chasms that yawn as though the earth
Were rent in some strange mountain-birth,
Whose depth excludes the day,
We're born away at headlong pace,
To win from time the wearying race!
 
 
The wayside inn, with homelike air,
No longer tempts a guest
To taste its unpretending fare,
Or seek its welcome rest.
The prancing team – the merry horn —
The cool fresh road at early morn —
The coachman's ready jest;
All, all to distant dream-land gone,
While shrieking trains are hurrying on.
 
 
Yet greet we them with thankful hearts,
And eyes that own no tear,
'Tis nothing now, the space which parts
The distant from the dear;
The wing that to her cherish'd nest
Bears home the bird's exulting breast,
Has found its rival here.
With speed like hers we too can haste,
The bliss of meeting hearts to taste.
 
 
For me, I gaze along the line
To watch the approaching train,
And deem it still, 'twixt me and mine,
A rude, but welcome chain
To bind us in a world, whose ties
Each passing hour to sever tries,
But here may try in vain;
To bring us near home many an art,
Stern fate employs to keep apart.
 

[From Bentley's Miscellany.]

THE BLIND SISTER, OR CRIME AND ITS PUNISHMENT

For real comfort, snugness, and often rural beauty, where are there in the wide world any dwellings that can equal the cottage homes of England's middle classes? Whether they be clad with ivy and woodbine, half hidden by forest-trees, and approached by silent, shady lanes, or, glaring with stucco and green paint, stand perched upon flights of steps, by the side of dusty suburban roads – whether they be cockney-christened with fine titles, and dignified as villas, halls, or lodges, or rejoice in such sweet names as Oak Cottage or Linden Grove – still within their humble walls, before all other places, are to be found content, and peace, and pure domestic love.

Upon the slope of a gentle hill, about a mile from a large town, where I was attending to the practice of an absent friend, there stood a neat and pretty residence, with slated roof and trellised porch. A light verandah shaded the narrow French windows, opening from the favorite drawing-room upon a trim, smooth lawn, studded with gay parterres, and bounded by a sweetbriar hedge; and here old Mrs. Reed, the widow of a clergyman, was busily employed, one lovely autumn afternoon, peering through her spectacles at the fast-fading flowers, or plucking from some favorite shrub the "sear and yellow leaf" that spoke of the summer passed away, and the dreary season hurrying on apace. Her daughter, a pale and delicate-looking girl, sat with her drooping head leant against the open window-frame, watching her mother sorrowfully as she felt her own declining health, and thought how her parent's waning years might pass away, uncared for, and unsolaced by a daughter's love. Within the room, a young man was reclining lazily upon a sofa; rather handsome, about the middle height, but had it not been for a stubby mustache, very long hair, and his rather slovenly costume – peculiarities which he considered indispensable to his profession as an artist – there was nothing in his appearance to distinguish him from the generality of young English gentlemen of his age and station. Presently there fell upon his ear the notes of a beautiful symphony, played with most exquisite taste upon the harp, and gradually blending with a woman's voice, deep, soft and tremulous, every now and then, as if with intense feeling, in one of those elaborate yet enervating melodies that have their birth in sunny Italy. The performer was about twenty-five years of age, of haughty and dazzling beauty. Her dark wavy hair, gathered behind into a large glossy knot, was decked on one side with a bunch of pink rose buds. A full white robe, that covered, without hiding, the outline of her bust and arms, was bound at the waist with a thick cord and tassel of black silk and gold, adding all that dress could add to the elegance of her tall and splendid figure. Then, as she rose and stretched out her jeweled hand to tighten a loose string, the ineffable grace of the studied attitude in which she stood for some moments showed her to be well skilled in those fascinating arts that so often captivate the senses before the heart is touched.

This lady was the daughter of Mrs. Reed's only sister, who in her youth had run away with an Italian music master. Signor Arnatti, although a poor adventurer, was not quite devoid of honor, for, when first married, he really loved his English wife, and proudly introduced her to his friends at Florence, where her rank and fortune were made much of, and she was caressed and fêted until half wild with pleasure and excitement. But this was not to last. Her husband, a man of violent and ungovernable temper, was heard to utter certain obnoxious political opinions; and it being discovered that he was connected with a dangerous conspiracy against the existing government, a speedy flight alone saved him from the scaffold or perpetual imprisonment. They sought a temporary home in Paris, where, after dissipating much of their little fortune at the gambling-table, he met with a sudden and violent death in a night-brawl, just in time to save his wife and child from poverty. The young widow, who of late had thought more of her infant than its father, was not long inconsolable. Discarded by her own relations, who, with bitter and cruel taunts, had refused all communication with her, and now too proud to return to them again, she settled with her little girl in Italy, where a small income enabled her to lead a life of unrestrained gayety, that soon became almost necessary to her existence. Here young Catherine was reared and educated, flattered and spoiled by all about her; and encouraged by her vain mother to expect nothing less than an alliance with high rank and wealth, she refused many advantageous offers of marriage, and ere long gained the character of a heartless and unprincipled coquette, especially among the English visitors, who constituted a great part of the society in which she moved. Her mother corresponded occasionally with Mrs. Reed; and the sisters still cherished an affection for each other, which increased as they advanced in years; but their ideas, their views, even their religion was different, and the letters they exchanged once, or at most twice a year, afforded but little satisfaction to either. When the cholera visited Italy, Madame Arnatti was seized with a presentiment that fate had already numbered her among its victims, and, under the influence of this feeling, wrote a long and touching letter to her sister, freely confessing the sin and folly of her conduct in regard to her daughter's management, of whom she gave a long description, softened, it is true, by a mother's hand, yet containing many painful truths, that must have caused the doting parent infinite sorrow to utter. She concluded by repeating her conviction that her end was near, and consigning Catherine to her sister's care, with an entreaty that she would take her from the immoral and polluted atmosphere in which they lived, and try the effect of her piety, and kindness, and steady English habits on the young woman's violent and ungovernable passions. Months passed away; and then Mrs. Reed received a letter from Catherine herself, telling of her mother's death; also one from a lady, in whose company she was traveling homeward, in accordance with her mother's dying wish. Another long interval elapsed, and the good lady was preparing to visit London for the purpose of consulting an eminent physician on her daughter's state of health when news reached the cottage of Miss Arnatti's arrival in that city, which had been retarded thus long by tedious quarantine laws, illness, and other causes.

Her guardian was apparently glad enough to get rid of the charge she had undertaken, and within a week Catherine removed to her aunt's lodgings, where she was received and treated with every affectionate attention; but a constant yearning after gayety and amusements, indelicate and unfeeling as it appeared to her relatives, so soon after the loss of an only parent; the freedom and boldness of her manners when in company or in public, and her overbearing conduct to those about her, augured but little in favor of such an addition to their circle. However, the good aunt hoped for better things from the removal to her quiet country-home. Their stay in London was even shorter than they had intended, and, for some time after their return to the cottage, Miss Arnatti endeavored to adapt herself to the habits that must have been so strange and new to her; she even sought, and made herself agreeable in the very orderly but cheerful society where her aunt and cousin introduced her, although Annie Reed's increasing weakness prevented them from receiving much company at their own house.

Edwin Reed, Catherine's other cousin, was absent on a tour in Wales, and had only returned a few days previous to the afternoon on which we have described him as listening, enraptured, to the lady's native music. Seating herself at the piano, she followed this by a brilliant waltz, the merry, sparkling notes of which made the eye brighten and the brain whirl, from very sympathy; and then returning to her favorite instrument, she sang, to a low, plaintive accompaniment, a simple English ballad, telling of man's heartlessness, and woman's frailty and despair. The last verse ran:

 
So faith and hope her soul forsaking,
Each day to heavier sorrow waking
This cruel love her heart was breaking
Yet, ere her breath
Was hushed in death,
She breathed a prayer
For her betrayer —
Angels to heaven her poor soul taking.
 

Scarcely had she finished, when, as if in thorough contempt of the maiden's weakness, she drew her hand violently across the strings with a discordant crash, that startled poor little Annie painfully, and pushing the harp from her with an impatient gesture, abruptly quitted the room.

The old lady had gone in to enjoy a gossip with her next-door neighbor, and so the brother and sister were alone. The signs of tears were on the latter's cheek as Edwin approached and sat down by her side; attributing this to her extreme sensibility wrought upon by what they had just heard, he spoke some kind and cheering words, and then began to talk enthusiastically of their cousin's beauty and accomplishments. She listened to him quietly for some time, and then,

"Dear brother," she said, timidly, "you must forgive me for what I am about to say, when it is to warn and caution you against those very charms that have already made such an impression on you. I am not one, Edwin, as you know, to speak ill, even of my enemies, if such there be; and to any other but yourself would hide her faults, and try to think of some pleasing trait on which to dwell, when her name was mentioned. Nay, do not interrupt me, for rest assured, I am only prompted by a sister's love. I have seen much of Catherine, and heard more; I fear her dreadful temper – her different faith; although, indeed, she seems to neglect all religious duties, even those of her own church. Then I think of her rudeness and inattention to our dear mother, who is so kind and gentle to her. Had you been in London when we first met, you would not wonder at our being shocked and pained at all we witnessed there."

"But, Annie, dear," said her brother, "why should you talk thus earnestly to me? Surely I may admire and praise a handsome woman, without falling hopelessly in love."

"You may, or you may not," continued Annie, warmly. "But this I know and feel, that, unless she were to change in every manner, thought, and action, she is the last person in the world that I would see possess a hold upon my brother's heart. Why, do you know, she makes a boast of the many lovers she has encouraged and discarded; and even shows, with ill-timed jests, letters from her admirers, containing protestations of affection, and sentiments that any woman of common feeling would at least consider sacred."

"And have you nothing, then, to say in her favor?" said young Reed, quietly. "Can you make no allowance for the manner in which she has been brought up? or, may she never change from what you represent her?"

"She may, perhaps; but let me beg of you, Edwin, to pause, and think, and not be infatuated and led away, against your better judgment, as so many have already been."

"Why, my dear sister," he replied, "if we were on the point of running off together, you could not be more earnest in the matter; but I have really never entertained such thoughts as you suggest, and if I did, should consider myself quite at liberty to act as I pleased, whether I were guided by your counsel or not."

"Well, Edwin, be not angry with me; perhaps I have spoken too strongly on the subject. You know how much I have your happiness at heart, and this it is that makes me say so much. I often think I have not long to live, but while I am here would have you promise me – "

A chilly breeze swept over the lawn, and the invalid was seized with a violent fit of coughing; her brother shut the casement, and wrapped the shawl closer round her slight figure. Mrs. Reed entered the room at the same instant, and their conversation ended.

Catherine Arnatti was in her own chamber, the open window of which was within a few yards of where her cousins had been talking. Attracted thither by the sound, she listened intently, and leaning out, apparently employed in training the branches of a creeping plant, she had heard every word they uttered.

The winter passed away pleasantly enough, for two at least of the party at the cottage.

Catherine and Edwin were of necessity much thrown together; she sat to him as a model, accompanied him in his walks, and flattered him by innumerable little attentions, that were unnoticed by the others; but still her conduct to his mother and sister, although seemingly more kind of late, was insincere, and marked by a want of sympathy and affection, that often grieved him deeply. Her temper she managed to control, but sometimes not without efforts on her part that were more painful to witness than her previous outbreaks of passion. Six months had elapsed since Miss Arnatti had overheard, with feelings of hatred toward one, and thorough contempt of both speakers, the dialogue in which her faults had been so freely exposed. Yet she fully expected that young Reed would soon be at her feet, a humble follower, as other men had been; but although polite, attentive, and ever seeking her society, he still forbore to speak of love, and then, piqued and angry at his conduct, she used every means to gain his affection, without at first any real motive for so doing; soon, however, this wayward lady began to fancy that the passion she would only feign was really felt – and being so unexpectedly thwarted gave strength to this idea – and in proportion also grew her hatred toward Miss Reed, to whose influence she attributed her own failure. Before long she resolved that Edwin should be her husband, by which means her revenge on Annie would be gratified, and a tolerable position in the world obtained for herself, for she had ascertained that the young man's fortune, although at present moderate, was yet sufficient to commence with, and that his prospects and expectations were nearly all that could be desired.

Neither was Edwin altogether proof against her matchless beauty. At times he felt an almost irresistible impulse to kneel before her, and avow himself a slave forever, and as often would some hasty word or uncongenial sentiment turn his thoughts into another channel; and then they carried him away to an old country seat in Wales, where he had spent the summer of last year on a visit to some friends of his family. A young lady, of good birth and education, resided there as governess to some half-dozen wild and turbulent children. Her kind and unobtrusive manners and gentle voice first attracted his attention toward her; and although perhaps not handsome, her pale sweet face and dark blue eye made an impression that deepened each day as he discovered fresh beauties in her intellectual and superior mind. After an acquaintance of some months he made an offer of his hand, and her conduct on this occasion only confirmed the ardent affection he entertained for her. Candidly admitting that she could joyfully unite her lot with his, she told her previous history, and begged the young man to test his feelings well before allying himself to a poor and portionless girl, and for this purpose prayed that twelve months might elapse before the subject of their marriage were renewed. She would not doubt him then; still he might see others, who would seem more worthy of his regard: but if, in that time, his sentiments were unchanged, all that she had to give was his forever. In vain he tried to alter this resolution; her arguments were stronger than his own, and so at last, with renewed vows of fidelity, he reluctantly bade her farewell. For various reasons he had kept this attachment a secret from his family, not altogether sure of the light in which they might view it; and the position of the young governess would have been rendered doubly painful, had those under whose roof she dwelt been made acquainted with the circumstances. Although fully aware in cooler moments that, even had he known no other, his cousin Catherine was a person with whom, as a companion for life, he could never hope for real happiness, still he knew the danger of his situation, and resolved not without a struggle, to tear himself away from the sphere of her attractions; and so, one evening, Edwin announced his intention of setting off next day on a walking excursion through Scotland, proposing to visit Wales on his return. Different were the feelings with which each of the ladies received this intelligence. Catherine, who had but the day before refused a pressing invitation to join a gay party, assembled at the London mansion of one of her old acquaintances, turned away and bit her lip with rage and chagrin, as Miss Reed repeated to her mother, who had grown deaf of late, over and over again to make her understand, that Edwin was about to leave them for a time – was going to Scotland, and purposed leaving by the mail on the morrow night. She had of course no objection to offer, being but too glad to believe that nothing more than friendship existed between her son and sister's child; yet wondered much what had led to such a sudden resolution.

Catherine Arnatti never closed her eyes that night; one instant fancying that Edwin loved her, and only paused to own it for fear of a refusal, and flattering herself that he would not leave without. These thoughts gave way to bitter disappointment, hatred, and vows of revenge against him, and all connected with him, more particularly his sister, whose words she now recalled, torturing herself with the idea that Annie had extorted a promise from her brother never to wed his cousin while she lived; and the sickly girl had improved much since then, and might, after all, be restored to perfect health; then, the first time for years, she wept – cried bitterly at the thought of being separated from one against whom she had but just before been breathing threats and imprecations, and yet imagined was the only man she had ever really loved. A calmer mood succeeded, and she lay down, resolving and discarding schemes to gain her wishes, that occupied her mind till daylight.

The next day passed in busy preparations; Edwin avoiding, as he dreaded, the result of a private interview with his cousin. Toward the afternoon Miss Reed and her mother happened to be engaged with their medical attendant, who opportunely called that day, and often paid longer visits than were absolutely necessary; and Catherine, who with difficulty had restrained her emotions, seizing on the opportunity, and scarcely waiting to knock at the door, entered Edwin's apartment. He was engaged in packing a small portmanteau, and looking up, beheld her standing there, pale and agitated, more beautiful he thought than ever, and yet a combination of the angel and the fiend. Some moments passed in silence; then, advancing quickly, holding out her hand, she spoke in a husky voice: