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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 403, December 5, 1829

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Дата написания1970-01-01

Язык книгиen

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"4. A miniature knife, enfolding 75 articles, which weigh but 7 dwts., exquisitely wrought and valued at 50 guineas.

"5. A common quill, containing 24 dozen of scissors, perfect in form, and made of polished steel.

"These are kept as trophies of skill, in the perfect execution of which, the manufacturer considers that he displays his power of producing any useful articles of which the Sheffield manufacture consists. Mr. Rodgers obligingly conducted me through his various workshops, and I discovered that the perfection of the Sheffield manufacture arises from the judicious division of labour. I saw knives, razors, &c. &c., produced in a few minutes from the raw material. I saw dinner knives made from the steel bar and all the process of hammering it into form, welding the tang of the handle to the steel of the blade, hardening the metal by cooling it in water and tempering it by de-carbonizing it in the fire with a rapidity and facility that were astonishing.

"The number of hands through which a common table knife passes in its formation is worthy of being known to all who use them. The bar steel is heated in the forge by the maker, and he and the striker reduce it in a few minutes into the shape of a knife. He then heats a bar of iron and welds it to the steel so as to form the tang of the blade which goes into the handle. All this is done with the simplest tools and contrivances. A few strokes of the hammer in connexion with some trifling moulds and measures, attached to the anvil, perfect, in two or three minutes the blade and its tang or shank. Two men, the maker and striker, produce about nine blades in an hour, or seven dozen and a half per day.

"The rough blade thus produced then passes through the hands of the filer, who files the blade into form by means of a pattern in hard steel. It then goes to the halters to be hafted in ivory, horn, &c. as may be required; it next proceeds to the finisher, to Mr. Rodgers for examination, and is then packed for sale or exportation. In this progression every table-knife, pocket-knife, or pen-knife, passes step by step, through no less than sixteen hands, involving in the language of Mr. Rodgers, at least 144 separate stages of workmanship in the production of a single pen-knife. The prices vary from 2s. 6d. per dozen knives and forks, to £10."

(To be concluded in our next.)

FUN

Monosyllables are always expressive, but seldom more comprehensive than in this instance. A thousand recollections of urchin waggeries spring up at its repetition. Our present example is "Skying a Copper," from Mr. Hood's Comic Annual, of which a copious notice will be found in the SUPPLEMENT published with the present number.

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."—Sea Song

As Mister B. and Mrs. B. One night were sitting down to tea, With toast and muffins hot— They heard a loud and sudden bounce, That made the very china flounce, They could not for a time pronounce If they were safe or shot— For memory brought a deed to match At Deptford done by night— Before one eye appear'd a Patch In t'other eye a Blight! To be belabour'd out of life, Without some small attempt at strife, Our nature will not grovel; One impulse mov'd both man and dame, He seized the tongs—she did the same, Leaving the ruffian, if he came, The poker and the shovel. Suppose the couple standing so, When rushing footsteps from below Made pulses fast and fervent; And first burst in the frantic cat, All steaming like a brewer's rat, And then—as white as my cravat— Poor Mary May, the servant! Lord how the couple's teeth did chatter, Master and Mistress both flew at her, "Speak! Fire? or Murder? What's the matter?" Till Mary getting breath, Upon her tale began to touch With rapid tongue, full trotting, such As if she thought she had too much To tell before her death:— "We was both, Ma'am, in the wash-house, Ma'am, a-standing at our tubs, And Mrs. Round was seconding what little things I rubs; 'Mary,' says she to me, 'I say'—and there she stops for coughin, 'That dratted copper flue has took to smokin very often, But please the pigs,'—for that's her way of swearing in a passion, 'I'll blow it up, and not be set a coughin in this fashion!' Well down she takes my master's horn—I mean his horn for loading. And empties every grain alive for to set the flue exploding. 'Lawk, Mrs. Round?' says I, and stares, 'that quantum is unproper, I'm sartin sure it can't not take a pound to sky a copper; You'll powder both our heads off, so I tells you, with its puff, But she only dried her fingers, and she takes a pinch of snuff.' Well, when the pinch is over—'Teach your Grandmother to suck A powder horn,' says she—Well, says I, I wish you luck. Them words sets up her back, so with her hands upon her hips, 'Come,' says she, quite in a huff, 'come keep your tongue inside your lips; Afore ever you was born, I was well used to things like these; I shall put it in the grate, and let it burn up by degrees.' So in it goes, and Bounce—O Lord! it gives us such a rattle, I thought we both were cannonized, like Sogers in a battle! Up goes the copper like a squib, and us on both our backs, And bless the tubs, they bundled off, and split all into cracks Well, there I fainted dead away, and might have been cut shorter, But Providence was kind, and brought me to with scalding water I first looks round for Mrs. Round, and sees her at a distance, As stiff as starch, and looked as dead as any thing in existence; All scorched and grimed, and more than that, I sees the copper slap Right on her head, for all the world like a percussion copper cap. Well, I crooks her little fingers, and crumps them well up together, As humanity pints out, and burnt her nostrums with a feather; But for all as I can do, to restore her to her mortality, She never gives a sign of a return to sensuality. Thinks I, well there she lies, as dead as my own late departed mother, Well, she'll wash no more in this world, whatever she does in t'other. So I gives myself to scramble up the linens for a minute, Lawk, sich a shirt! thinks I, it's well my master wasn't in it; Oh! I never, never, never, never, never, see a sight so shockin; Here lays a leg, and there a leg—I mean, you know, a stockin— Bodies all slit and torn to rags, and many a tattered skirt, And arms burnt off and sides and backs all scotched and black with dirt; But as nobody was in 'em—none but—nobody was hurt! Well, there I am, a scrambling up the things, all in a lump. When, mercy on us! such a groan as makes my heart to jump. And there she is, a-lying with a crazy sort of eye, A staring at the wash-house roof, laid open to the sky: Then she beckons with a finger, and so down to her I reaches, And puts my ear agin her mouth to hear her dying speeches, For, poor soul! she has a husband and young orphans, as I knew; Well, Ma'am, you won't believe it, but it's Gospel fact and true, But these words is all she whispered—'Why, where is the powder blew'"

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 403, December 5, 1829

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(To be concluded in our next.)

FUN

A REPORT FROM BELOW!

"Blow high, blow low."—Sea Song

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