Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 455

Ozone, in scientific language, is described as 'a compound of oxygen analogous to the peroxide of hydrogen, or, that it is oxygen in an allotropic state—that is, with the capability of immediate and ready action impressed upon it.' Besides being produced by electrical discharges in the atmosphere, it can be obtained artificially by the passing of what is called the electrical brush into the air from a moist wooden point, or by electrolyzed water or phosphorus. The process, when the latter substance is employed, is to put a small piece, clean scraped, about half an inch long, into a large bottle which contains just so much of water as to half cover the phosphorus, and then closing the mouth slightly, to guard against combustion, to leave it standing for a time in a temperature of about 60 degrees. Ozone soon begins to be formed, as shewn by the rising of a light column of smoke from the phosphorus, which, at the same time, becomes luminous. In five or six hours, the quantity will be abundant, when the bottle is to be emptied of its contents, washed out, and closed for use and experiment.

Whichever way the ozone be produced, it is always identical in its properties; and these are described as numerous and remarkable. Its odour is peculiar, resembling that of chlorine, and, when diluted, cannot be distinguished from what is called the electric smell. When largely diffused in atmospheric air, it causes unpleasant sensations, makes respiration difficult, and, by acting powerfully on the mucous membranes, produces catarrhal effects; and as such air will kill small animals, it shews that pure ozone must be highly injurious to the animal economy. It is insoluble in water, is powerfully electromotive, and is most strikingly energetic in numerous chemical agencies, its action on nearly all metallic bodies being to carry them at once to the state of peroxide, or to their highest point of oxidation; it changes sulphurets into sulphates, instantaneously destroys several gaseous compounds, and bleaches indigo, thus shewing its analogy with chlorine.

In proceeding to the account of his experiments, M. Schoenbein shews, that gases can be produced by chemical means, which exercise an oxidizing influence of a powerful nature, especially in their physiological effects, even when diffused through the atmosphere in very minute quantities: also, that owing to the immense number of organic beings on the earth, their daily death and decomposition, an enormous amount of gases is produced similar to those which can be obtained by artificial means; and besides these, a quantity of gaseous or volatile products, 'whose chemical nature,' as the author observes, 'is as yet unknown, but of which we can easily admit that some, at least, diffused through the air, even in very small quantities, and breathed with it, exert a most deplorable action on the animal organism. Hence it follows, that the decomposition of organic matters ought to be considered as one of the principal causes of the corruption of the air by miasmatic substances. Now, a continuous cause, and acting on so vast a scale, would necessarily diffuse through the atmosphere a considerable mass of miasmatic gases, and accumulate them till at length it would be completely poisoned, and rendered incapable of supporting animal life, if nature had not found the means of destroying these noxious matters in proportion as they are produced.'

The question then arises: What are the means employed for this object? M. Schoenbein believes that he has found it in the action of ozone, which is continually formed by the electricity of the atmosphere, and is known to be a most powerful agent of oxidation, causing serious modifications of organic bodies, and, consequently, of their physiological action. 'To assure myself,' he pursues, 'that ozone destroys the miasma arising from the decomposition of animal matters, I introduced into a balloon containing about 130 pints of air, a piece of flesh weighing four ounces, taken from a human corpse, and in a very advanced state of putrefaction. I withdrew it after a minute; the air in the balloon had acquired a strong and very repulsive odour, shewing that it was charged with an appreciable quantity—at least for the smell—of miasm caused by the putrefaction.

'To produce ozone, I introduced into the infected balloon a stick of phosphorus an inch long, with water sufficient to half cover it. At the same time, for the sake of comparison, I placed a similar quantity of phosphorus and water in another balloon full of pure atmospheric air. After some minutes, the reaction of ozone in the latter was most evidently manifested, while no trace of it was yet apparent in the former, which still gave off an odour of putrefaction. This, however, disappeared completely at the end of ten or twelve minutes, and immediately the reaction of the ozone was detected.'

The conclusion drawn from this experiment is, that the ozone destroyed the miasm by oxidation, and could only make its presence evident after the complete destruction of the noxious volatile substances. This effect is more strikingly shewn by another experiment.

A balloon of similar capacity to the one above mentioned was charged as strongly as possible with ozone, and afterwards washed with water. The same piece of flesh was suspended within it; and the opening being carefully closed, it was left inside for nine hours before the air of the balloon presented the least odour of putrefaction. The air was tested every thirty minutes by an ozonometer, and the proportion of ozone found to be gradually diminishing; but as long as the paper of the instrument exhibited the slightest trace of blue, there was no smell, which only came on as the last signs of ozone disappeared. Thus, all the miasm given off by the piece of flesh during nine hours was completely neutralised by the ozone with which the balloon had been impregnated, so small in quantity as to be but the 6000th part of a gramme. One balloon filled with ozonified air, would suffice to disinfect 540 balloons filled with miasmatic air. 'These considerations,' says M. Schoenbein, 'shew us how little the miasma of the air are to be appreciated by weight, even when they exist therein in a quantity very sensible to the smell, and how small is the proportion of ozone necessary to destroy the miasm produced by the putrefaction of organic substances, and diffused through the atmosphere.'

The presence of ozone in any vessel or in the atmosphere, may be detected by a test-paper which has been moistened with a solution composed of 1 part of pure iodide of potassium, 10 parts of starch, and 100 parts of water, boiled together for a few moments. Paper so prepared turns immediately blue when exposed to the action of ozone, the tint being lighter or darker according to the quantity. Schoenbein's ozonometer consists of 750 slips of dry bibulous paper prepared in the manner described; and with a scale of tints and instructions, sufficient to make observations on the ozone of the atmosphere twice a day for a year. After exposure to the ozone, they require to be moistened to bring out the colour.

M. Schoenbein continues: 'We must admit that the electric discharges which take place incessantly in different parts of the atmosphere, and causing therein a formation of ozone, purify the air by this means of organic, or, more generally, oxidizable miasma; and that they have thus the important office of maintaining it in a state of purity suitable to animal life. By means of atmospheric electricity, and, indirectly, nature thus attains on a great scale the object that we sometimes seek to accomplish in a limited space by fumigations with chlorine.

'Here, as in many other cases, we see nature effecting two different objects at one stroke. For if the oxidizable miasma are destroyed by atmospheric ozone, they, in turn, cause the latter to disappear, and we have seen that it is itself a miasm. This is doubtless the reason why ozone does not accumulate in the atmosphere in greater proportion than the oxidizable miasma, notwithstanding the constant formation of one and the other.

'In all times, the idea has been held, that storms purify the air, and I do not think that this opinion is ill-founded. We know, in fact, that storms give rise to a more abundant production of ozone. It is possible, and even probable, that sometimes, in particular localities, there may not be a just relation between the ozone and the oxidizable miasma in the air, and that the latter cannot be completely destroyed. Hence, in accordance with the chemical nature and physiological influence of these miasma, they would exert a marked action on the animal economy, and cause diseases among the greater number of those who breathe the infected air. But numerous experiments prove that, as a rule, the air contains free ozone, though in very variable proportions; from which we may conclude that no oxidizable miasm—sulphuretted hydrogen, for example—can exist in such an atmosphere, any more than it could exist in air containing but a trace of chlorine.

'I do not know if it be true, as has been advanced by Mr Hunt and other persons, that ozone is deficient in the atmospheric air when some wide-spread malady, such as cholera, is raging. In any case, it would be easy, by means of the prepared paper, to determine the truth or fallacy of this opinion.

'There is one fact which should particularly engage the attention of physicians and physiologists, which is, that, of all seasons, the winter is distinguished by the greatest proportion of ozone; whence it follows, that during that season the air contains least of oxidizable miasma. We can say, therefore, with respect to this class of miasma, that the air is purer in winter than in summer.

'All my observations agree in shewing, that the proportion of ozone in the air increases with the height; if this fact be general, as I am disposed to believe, we must consider the upper regions of the atmosphere as purer, with regard to oxidizable miasma, than the lower.

'The appearance of certain maladies—intermittent fever, for example—appears to be connected with certain seasons and particular geographical conditions. It would be worth while to ascertain, by ozonometric observations, whether these physiological phenomena have any relation whatever with the proportion of ozone contained in the air in which they occur.

'Considering the obscurity which prevails as to the cause of the greater part of diseases, and the great probability that many among them owe their origin to the presence of chemical agents dispersed in the atmosphere, it becomes the duty of medical men and physiologists, who interest themselves in the progress of their science, to seize earnestly all the means by which they may hope to arrive at more exact notions upon the relations which exist between abnormal physiological phenomena and external circumstances.'

Such is a summary of M. Schoenbein's views as communicated to the Medical Society of Basel; and we the more readily accord them the publicity of our columns, as, apart from the intrinsic value of the subject, it is one which has for some time excited the interest of scientific inquirers in this country. During the late visitation of cholera, reports were frequently spread that the atmosphere was deficient in ozone.

ENGLISH SISTERS OF CHARITY

How much real good could yet be done in this old, full, struggling world of ours, where so many among us have need of help, if each in his or her small circle could manage just not to leave undone some of the things that should be done. Little more is wanting to effect this than the will, or perhaps the mere suggestion. A high influence may at a time confer a considerable benefit; but very humble means, systematically exerted, even during a comparatively short season, will certainly relieve a load of misery.

In a small village towards the west of England, there dwelt, some years ago, two maiden gentlewomen, sisters, the daughters of the deceased rector of the parish. Their father had early in life entered upon his duties in this retired locality, contentedly abiding there where fate had placed him, each passing year increasing his interest in the charge which engrossed all his energies. His moderate stipend, assisted by a small private fortune, sufficed for his quiet tastes, and for the few charities required by his flock; it also enabled him to rear a large family respectably, and to start them creditably on their working way.

There was no railway near this village—even the Queen's highway was at some distance. Fields, meadows, a shady lane, a brook, and the Welsh mountains for a background, formed the picture of beauty that attracted the stranger. There was hardly what could be called a street. The cottages were clustered upon the side of the wooded bank above the stream, shrouded in gardens of apple-trees; but there was space near the foot of the hill for a green of rather handsome size, with a plane-tree in the middle of it, and a few small shops along one side. Opposite the shops was the inn, the doctor's house, the market-house, and a public reading-room; and a bylane led from the green up towards the church—an old, low-walled, steep-roofed building, with a square, dumpy tower, in which hung a peal of bells, and where was placed a large, round, clumsy window. A clump of hardwood trees enclosed the upper end of the church-yard, and extended to the back of the rector's garden, quite concealing his many-gabled dwelling. In a still, summer evening, the brook could be heard from the parlour windows of the rectory, dancing merrily along to its own music; and at those less pleasant seasons when the foliage was scanty, it could be seen here and there between the boles of the trees, sparkling in the sunshine as it rippled on, while glimpses of the rich plain beyond added to the harmony of the prospect.

The society of the village and its immediate neighbourhood was of a humble kind—neither the rich nor the great were members of it; yet there were wisdom, and prudence, and talent, and good faith to be found in this little community, where all inclined to live as brethren, kindly together. It was not a bad school this for the young to grow up in. The rector's family had here been trained; and when they grew to rise beyond it, and then passed out upon the wider world, those of them that were again heard of in their birthplace, did no discredit to its name: and all passed out, all but two—our two sisters. It is said adversity must at some time reach us all: it had been late in visiting them, for they had passed a happy youth in that quiet parsonage. At last, sorrow came, and they were left alone, the two extremes of the chain which had bound the little household together—all the intermediate links had broken; and when, upon their father's death, they had to quit their long-loved home, they found themselves verging upon old age, in circumstances that natures less strictly disciplined would have felt to have been at the least dreary. The younger sister was slightly deformed, and very delicate; the elder, though still an active woman, was quite beyond the middle of life; the income of the two, just L.30—no great elements these of either usefulness or happiness. Let us see, then, what was made of them. Some relations pressed the sisters to share their distant home, but they would not leave the village. They felt as if their work lay there. The friends they knew best were all around them; the occupations they had been used to still remained to them; the memory of all they had loved there clung to them, in the old haunts so doubly dear to the bereaved who bear affliction patiently. So they moved only to a cottage a little higher up the hill, yet within view of the church, and of the dear old house, with its garden, sheltering wood, and pleasant rivulet; and there they lived in comfort, with enough to use and much to spare, their cruse never failing them when wanted. It was a real cottage, which a labourer had left: there was no ornament about it till they added some. Rude and unfashioned did this low-thatched cabin pass to them; it was their own hands, with very little help from their light purse, which made of a mere hovel the prettiest of rural dwellings—her own hands, indeed; for Sister Anne alone was the working-bee. Sister Catherine helped by hints and smiles, and by her nimble needle; but for out-of-doors labour she had not strength. Sister Anne nailed up the trellised porch, over which gay creepers were in time to grow. Sister Anne laid out the beds of flowers, protected by a low paling from the sheep which pastured on the downs. She planned the tidy bit of garden on one side, and the little yard behind, where pig and poultry throve; but Sister Catherine watched the bee-hives near the hawthorn hedge, and plied her busy fingers by the hour to decorate the inside of their pretty cottage. They almost acted man and wife in the division of their employments, and with the best effect.

It would have astonished any one unaccustomed to the few wants of simple tastes, and to the many small gains from various trifling produce which careful industry alone can accumulate, to see the plenty consequent on skill, order, and neatness. The happiness was a joy apart, only to be felt by the sort of poetic mind of the truly benevolent, for it depended not on luxury, or even comfort, or any purely selfish feeling. It sprang from warm hearts directed by clear heads, invigorated by religious feelings, and nourished by country tastes, softened and elevated by the trials of life, till devotion to their kind became the one intention of their being; for it is as Sisters of Charity we introduce our heroines to our readers, one of a wide class in our reformed church, who, unshackled by vows, under no bondage of conventual forms, with small means, and by their own exertions and self-sacrifices, do more good in their generation than can be easily reckoned—treading in the footsteps of their Master, bearing healing as they move. Every frugal meal was shared with some one less favoured. No fragments were too small for use in Sister Anne's most skilful cookery; not a crumb, nor a dreg, nor a drop was wasted. Many a cup of comfort fed the sick or the weary, made from what, in richer households, unthrifty servants would have thrown away. There were always roots to spare from the small garden, herbs for medicines, eggs for sale, salves, and lotions, and conserves of fruit or honey. All the poor infants in the parish were neatly clothed in baby-linen made out of old garments. There were always bundles of patches to give away, so useful to poor mothers; strips of rag for hurts; old flannel, and often new; a little collection of rubbish now and then for the bagman, though very rarely, the breakage being small where there were so few hands used, and they so careful.

They gave their time, too; for they were the nurses of all the sick, the comforters of all the sorrowful, the advisers of all in difficulty—without parade. They were applied to as of course—it seemed natural. And they were sociable: they had their little tea-parties with their acquaintance; they made their little presents at Christmas-time; they sweetened life throughout their limited sphere; and all so quietly, that no one guessed the amount of their influence till it ceased. They preached 'the word' practically, producing all the charity it taught, inculcating the 'peace on earth, good-will towards men' which disposes even rude natures to the gentler feelings, and soothes the chafed murmurer by the tender influence of that love which is so kind. They were unwearied in their walk of mercy, though they met with disappointment even among the simple natures reared in this secluded spot. They bore it meekly; and when cross or trial came to those around, then could our good sisters carry comfort to afflicted friends, never pleading quite in vain for the exercise of that patience which lightens suffering. They were as mothers to the young, as daughters to the old, of all degree; for they did not ostentatiously devote themselves to the poor and ignorant alone—the so-called poor: the poor in spirit, of whatever rank, were as much their care as were the poor in purse; their charge was all who needed help—a help they gave simply, lovingly, not as meddlers, but as sisters bound to a larger family by the breaking of the ties which had united them to their own peculiar household.

There was no scenic effect visible along the humble walk of their pure benevolence, no harsh outlines to mark the course they went, or shew them to the world as devoted to particular excellence all throughout a lifetime of painful mortifications. Very noiseless was their quiet way. In a spirit of thankfulness they accepted their lot, turning its very bitterness into joy, by gratefully receiving the many pleasures still vouchsafed them; for it is a happy world, in spite of all its trials, to those who look aright for happiness. Our sisters found it and bestowed it. How many blessed their name! How many have had reason to love the memory of these two unobtrusive women, who, without name, or station, or show, or peculiarity, or distinction of any kind, were the types of a class the circle of which even this humble memorial, by its truth and suggestiveness, may aid in extending—of the true, simple, earnest, brave, holy Sisters of Charity of our country!

BRIBERY AND CORRUPTION

I am not sure about bribery and corruption. It may be a bad thing, but many seem to think otherwise. Much may be said on both sides of the question. Oh! don't tell me of a worm selling his birthright for a mess of pottage: I never read of such worms in Buffon, or even in Pliny. But if they do exist in the human form, the baseness consists in the sale, not in the quid pro quo. A mess of pottage in itself is a very good thing—I should say, a very respectable thing; and no exchange can take away from it that character. Still, if what we give for it is an heirloom, coming from our ancestors and belonging to our posterity, the transaction is shabby, and not only shabby, but dishonest. If that is proved, I don't defend the worm. Trample on him by all means—jump on him. But beware of insulting the mess of pottage, which is as respectable as when newly out of the pot. Fancy the sale to have been effected by means of some other equivalent: and that, by the way, is just what puzzles me. There are numerous other equivalents, not a whit more respectable in themselves—many far less so—which not only escape all objurgation, but serve to lift the identical transaction out of the category of basenesses. This confuses a brain like mine, even to the length of doubting whether there is any harm in the thing at all. Let us turn the question over patiently. I confess I am slow; but 'slow and sure,' you know.

Bribery and corruption is a universal element in civilised society; but let us talk in the meantime of political bribery and corruption. It is the theory of the law—if the law really has a theory—that in the matter of a parliamentary canvass, every man, as a celebrated Irish minister expressed it, should stand upon his own bottom. By this poetical figure, Lord Londonderry meant that the man should depend upon himself, upon his own merits and character, without having recourse to any extrinsic means of working upon the judgment of others. It is likewise the theory of the law, that a man who suffers his judgment to be indirectly biassed is as bad as the other—and worse: that he is, in fact, a Worm, unfit to possess his birthright, of which he should be forthwith deprived. Well, this being premised: here is the Honourable Tom Snuffleton, who wants to represent our borough, but having neither merit nor character of any convertible kind, offers money and gin instead. The substitute is accepted; and Honourable Tom, slapping his waistcoat several times, congratulates the free and independent electors on having that day set a glorious example to the world, by thus exercising their birthright and upholding their palladium; and the affair is finished amid cheers and hiccups.

When I say, however, that the substitute is accepted, I do not mean that it is accepted by, or can be offered to the whole constituency. That would be a libel. There are many of the electors who have a soul above sovereigns, and who, if they could accomplish it, would never drink anything less than claret. These persons are ambitious of being noticed by the family of Honourable Tom. They are not hungry, but they take delight in a dinner in that quarter. They also feel intensely gratified by having their wives and daughters bowed to from the family carriage. A thousand considerations like these blind them to the absence of merit and character on the part of the candidate, and lay them open to that extrinsic influence which, according to the meaning of the law, is bribery and corruption. As for the man who takes his bribe, for the sake of convenience, in the direct, portable, and exchangeable form of a sovereign, he lays it out in any pleasure or distinction he, on his part, has a fancy for. If he is a dissolute person, he spends it in the public-house; if he is a proper-behaved husband, he gives his wife a new gown; if he is a respectable, serious individual, he devotes it to the conversion of the Wid-a-wak tribe in Central Africa, and gloats upon the name of John Higgins in the subscription-list. In whichever way, however, he may seek to gratify himself, he is neither better nor worse, so far as I can see, than the voter of more elegant aspirations: they have both been bribed; they are both corrupt; they have both sold their birthright.