Great Britain -- Social conditions -- 19th century; London (England) -- Description and travel
Drawing nearer, I discern that these are not mangles, but intricate
machines, set with knives and saws and planes, which cut smooth and
straight here, and slantwise there, and now cut such a depth, and now
miss cutting altogether, according to the predestined requirements of the
pieces of wood that are pushed on below them: each of which pieces is to
be an oar, and is roughly adapted to that purpose before it takes its
final leave of far-off forests, and sails for England. Likewise I
discern that the butterflies are not true butterflies, but wooden
shavings, which, being spirted up from the wood by the violence of the
machinery, and kept in rapid and not equal movement by the impulse of its
rotation on the air, flutter and play, and rise and fall, and conduct
themselves as like butterflies as heart could wish. Suddenly the noise
and motion cease, and the butterflies drop dead. An oar has been made
since I came in, wanting the shaped handle. As quickly as I can follow
it with my eye and thought, the same oar is carried to a turning lathe.
A whirl and a Nick! Handle made. Oar finished.
The exquisite beauty and efficiency of this machinery need no
illustration, but happen to have a pointed illustration to-day. A pair
of oars of unusual size chance to be wanted for a special purpose, and
they have to be made by hand. Side by side with the subtle and facile
machine, and side by side with the fast-growing pile of oars on the
floor, a man shapes out these special oars with an axe. Attended by no
butterflies, and chipping and dinting, by comparison as leisurely as if
he were a labouring Pagan getting them ready against his decease at
threescore and ten, to take with him as a present to Charon for his boat,
the man (aged about thirty) plies his task. The machine would make a
regulation oar while the man wipes his forehead. The man might be buried
in a mound made of the strips of thin, broad, wooden ribbon torn from the
wood whirled into oars as the minutes fall from the clock, before he had
done a forenoon’s work with his axe.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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