Various
Chambers's Edinburgh Journal, No. 458
'This process of refining or toughening copper, is a delicate operation, requiring great care and attention on the part of the refiner to keep the metal in the malleable state.' It is also, beyond comparison, the most beautiful sight in the copper-works. At one particular stage of the process, we saw the mass of molten copper in the furnace—some five or six tons—assume the most beautiful and resplendent appearance it was possible to imagine. It was like a sea of 'burnished gold;' and, indeed, were it not for the intense heat, the red-hot ladles of the workmen, and other little circumstances of the kind, the stranger would have some difficulty in believing that he did not look upon a beautifully polished mirror.
We have now come to the end of the smelting process; and have left ourselves no room to describe the transformation into sheets, bars, bolts, and boilerplates which the metal undergoes in the next department of the works. These, however, are a better understood series of operations, consisting, as they do, of the usual and ordinary processes of rolling the hot metal between powerful iron rollers. Nor have we space to allude even to the vastly numerous and varied applications of the metal; although we may take the opportunity of briefly adverting to the recently discovered process of smelting copper by electricity, and of inquiring into the probability of its ever becoming an economical application.
It will be seen, in the first place, that the present mode of smelting copper, though simple in theory, appears in practice extremely complex. For this reason, within the last twenty-five years there have, we believe, been as many patents taken out to simplify and hasten the operation. Without exception, these have been proved to be altogether inapplicable. Let us see how this is explained.
Out of these numerous improvements, we select two that appear peculiarly attractive. The first is the method of precipitating the copper, in our second process, from the fused silicates containing it, by the action of the electric current—the negative pole of the battery terminating in an iron plate, which replaces the copper in the liquid mass. The second method is an improvement on this. From some experiments made at the School of Mines in Paris, it was shewn that metallic iron alone, without the aid of the battery, was capable of precipitating copper from the silicates in a state of fusion, just as it does in saline solutions at ordinary temperatures. But in applying this last method to practice—for the electricity was obviously rendered unnecessary by the discovery—it was found that the expenditure of iron was so great, that it could not be profitably applied except as a means of assisting the reduction.
'Still,' said Mr Morgan, when commenting on these methods, 'this, in point of fact, is precisely what we do. We add, as you have seen, a great proportion of slag to the melting of the calcined ore, which consists chiefly of the oxide of iron; while at the same time we derive the additional advantage of employing an excellent flux—an advantage which metallic iron does not possess. But, irrespective of these considerations, the plain fact of the matter is, that it will not pay to smelt copper expeditiously. We don't wish to do so. It is quite a matter of choice with us those continued operations; and their great advantage lies in this, that we are enabled to extract every particle of copper from the ore. By any of these other methods—very philosophical they are, I admit—we could not accomplish this. The slags would all contain more or less metal; and when I inform you, that we can afford to remelt those slags if they contain only a half per cent. of copper, you will perhaps understand our reasons for still adhering to our venerable system.'
Thus we discovered that the smelting of copper by electricity, and of reducing it with metallic iron, would not pay.
Our statistics are short, but they are heavy: about 300,000 tons of copper-ore are annually smelted at Swansea; 28,000 tons of copper are annually produced; and 600,000 tons of coal are annually burned. The value of the ore is about L.2,000,000; of the copper, L.2,600,000; of the coal, we have no correct means of ascertaining. Of the population of Swansea, about one-fourth are dependent on the smelting-works; and of these, about 3500 are directly engaged in the business. The probable amount of wages paid by the smelters is about L.135,000; and the current expenditure of the copper-works in the aggregate exceeds L.500,000 a year.
The last thing we did was to visit the Hafod Schools. These excellent schools—one for boys, one for girls, and one for infants—were erected about six years ago, and are still maintained at the expense of the Messrs Vivian. At the time of our visit, there were 600 of the rising population of the place doing their utmost to unlearn the Welsh idiom, and to acquire the art of speaking and writing the English language with propriety. We regret that we cannot dwell on this the most gratifying circumstance of our visit. Messrs Vivian & Sons are unquestionably great copper-smelters, but, in our humble opinion, the greatest action they ever did, and what must ever commend them to all good minds, was the establishment of these schools.
To us it was a change, a relief inexpressibly delightful, to emerge from the Stygian regions of the copper-works, where for the last five or six days we had wandered like an 'unshriven spirit,' and to find ourselves in contemplation of the happy faces of the scholars, and to hear the hopeful, encouraging tones of their intelligent teachers. The popular song of Children go, to and fro, was being sung in the infant school at the moment we took our leave, and we shall never forget the impression. It struck upon our senses, to use an appropriate metaphor, like the crystal stream of the desert—like the shadow of a great rock in a weary land.
THE KING OF YVETOT
There are few of our countrymen who have travelled in France but must frequently have heard proverbial allusion made to a certain monarch of Yvetot; and still fewer must be those who, having the slightest knowledge of French literature, are unacquainted with Béranger's happy lyric—
There reigned a monarch in Yvetot
But little known in story,
Who, stranger all to grief and wo,
Slept soundly without glory;
His night-cap tied by Jenny's care
(The only crown this king would wear),
He'd snooze!
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
The merry monarch of Yvetot.
His jolly court he held each day,
'Neath humble roof of rushes green;
And on a donkey riding gay,
Through all his kingdom might be seen:
A happy soul, and thinking well,
His only guard was—sooth to tell—
His dog!
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
The merry monarch of Yvetot.
No harsh exacting lord was he,
To grasp more than his folks could give;
But, mild howe'er a king may be,
His majesty, you know, must live;
And no man e'er a bumper filled,
Until the jovial prince had swilled
His share!
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
The merry monarch of Yvetot.
He ne'er sought to enlarge his states,
But was a neighbour just and kind;
A pattern to all potentates,
Would they his bright example mind.
The only tears he e'er caused fall,
Fell when he died—which you'll not call
His fault.
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!
The merry monarch of Yvetot.
It is well known that Béranger's song, from which we have extracted the preceding four verses, as translated by Anderson, was a friendly, though rather satirical remonstrance with Napoleon—of course we mean the Napoleon—touching his ambitious and bellicose policy. But it is not so well known, that there really was a kingdom of Yvetot, and that its several dynasties reigned peacefully for upwards of eleven centuries. Anderson, in a note to the song, says: 'Yvetot, a district in the north of France, possesses a monarch of its own, a sort of burlesque personage, whose royal charger is a donkey; his guard, a dog; his crown, a night-cap; and his revenue, a gratuitous draught of wine at the ale houses of his liege subjects!' Young, another translator of Béranger, not any better informed, tells us that 'the Lords of Yvetot claimed and exercised, in the olden time, some such fantastical privileges as are here alluded to.'
The translators have some excuse for their ignorance regarding the king of Yvetot; for few Frenchmen of the present day, with the exception of antiquaries, consider him to have been anything else than a popular myth. Be it our task, then, to jot down some authentic notices of that ancient, and now extinct monarchy.
Yvetot, a town and commune of ancient Normandy (Pays de Caux), in the department of Seine-Inférieure, now traversed by the railway leading from Havre de Grâce to Rouen, was, in the sixth century, the seigniory of one Vauthier, chamberlain to Clotaire I., the royal son of Clovis and Clotilda. Nothing whatever is known of the earlier part of Vauthier's history, more than that he held the fief of Yvetot from Clotaire by the feudal tenure of military service. An able and trustworthy statesman in the council-chamber, a valiant and skilful commander in the battle-field, the chamberlain lived on terms of the most intimate familiarity with his king, who ever lent a ready ear to his sage suggestions. This high honour, however, being not at all agreeable to the other followers of the court, they entered into a conspiracy to ruin the favourite chamberlain. Taking advantage of his absence, they perfidiously vilified him to the king. The chroniclers do not state what were the exact charges brought against him, but they must have been weighty and artfully insinuated, for the rude and truculent Clotaire swore that he would, with his own hand, slay the Sieur of Yvetot, when and wherever he should chance to meet with him. The reader must not be surprised at such a vow: in those days, sovereigns frequently indulged in a plurality of offices, and could upon occasion perform the duty of the executioner as well as that of the judge. Vauthier happened to have a friend at court, who sent him timely warning of this state of affairs; and not thinking it by any means prudent to expose himself to the lethal fury of a king who had unscrupulously killed his own nephews, he left the country, and joined the army of the north, then fighting against the Thuringian pagans, the enemies of Clotaire and his religion, such as it was.
After ten years of arduous service and heroic exploits, Vauthier, crowned with glory, and hoping that time had mollified the malignant feelings of the king, turned his face once more towards his native country. But at that period bad passions were not so easily effaced; besides, the accusers of Vauthier were now doubly interested in keeping him at a distance. The Lord of Yvetot, hearing how matters stood, to make sure of a favourable reception, proceeded, in the first instance, to Rome, where he made a friend of Pope Agapet, who sent him with letters to Clotaire, in the capacity of an envoy. Under the shield of so sacred a function, Vauthier had no hesitation in repairing to Soissons, and presenting himself before the king; yet, to be still more secure, he chose for that occasion the solemnities of Good Friday—the anniversary of the great day of Christian mercy. Clotaire was at the high altar of the cathedral, celebrating the holiest rites of the church before a crucifix veiled in mourning, when Vauthier made his presence known. Throwing himself on his knees in humble supplication, he presented the letters of the sovereign pontiff, and implored pardon, if he had been guilty, by the merits of Him who, on the same day, had so freely shed his blood for the salvation of all mankind. The ferocious and implacable king recognised the suppliant, and, without regard to the sanctity of either the place or the day, drew his sword, and, with one blow, struck the unfortunate chamberlain dead on the stone pavement, at the very steps of the altar.
Violent passions have, generally speaking, rapid revulsions. Scarcely was Vauthier's body cold, when the king repented his hasty deed. The clergy read to him the letters from Pope Agapet, which attested the innocence of his former favourite; and they represented to him, that he had committed the grossest description of sacrilege, the sin from which the sovereign pontiff alone could absolve. In a short time the barbarous Clotaire passed from a state of rabid fury to one of the most abject despair, so that he required little persuasion from the clergy ere he sent a messenger to Rome, bearing rich presents, to beg for absolution from the pope. The messenger arrived at Rome just as Agapet was at the point of death; yet the business being urgent, and the presents valuable, he was ushered into the sick-chamber of the dying head of the Christian church. Supported by attendants, the pope proceeded to pronounce, in a feeble voice, the penitential discipline of Clotaire. He said that the king could not expect pardon unless he gave the highest possible satisfaction to the heirs of the murdered man: but here a fit of coughing attacked and carried off his holiness, so that whatever penance he intended to inflict was never known. Clotaire, however, determined to expiate his crime, long pondered upon the meaning of the pope's dying words, and at last concluded that, as there was nothing higher than a king, the words 'highest satisfaction' meant that he should raise the heir of Vauthier to the royal dignity. Accordingly, he by charter erected the seigniory of Yvetot into a kingdom—an act in perfect consonance with the ancient French feudal law, which enfranchised the family of the vassal from all homage and duty, if his lord laid violent hands upon him.
From that time until the latter part of the eighteenth century, the descendants of Vauthier reigned as independent sovereigns of their little kingdom of Yvetot, owing neither tribute, service, nor allegiance to any other power. Consequently, until the great Revolution, which, like the bursting of a pent-up deluge, changed the features of the whole country, the inhabitants of Yvetot paid no taxes to the government of France.
Historians and jurisconsults have written many grave and learned dissertations on the curious position of this little kingdom shut up in a greater one; and, though they differ in some trifling respects, they all coincide in concluding, that the king of Yvetot, being independent of any other potentate, was never obliged to engage in quarrels which did not concern him, and accordingly lived in peace with his neighbours, whom he never pretended to frighten. Moreover, in spite of courtiers and counsellors, statecraft and politics were unknown in Yvetot; thus the king remained neuter during the various wars that raged around him, though he could bring an army of one hundred and twenty royal troops into the field. The seriousness of these disquisitions has been occasionally enlivened by a spice of pleasantry. We are told how the king of Yvetot kept his own seals, and was his own minister of finance; that his court consisted of a bishop, a dean, and four canons, not one of whom ranked higher in the church than a parish curé; four notaries, dignified by the title of judges, representing the states of the kingdom, formed the senate, and composed his majesty's privy-council; four of the best-looking of the tenants' daughters were ladies of the bed-chamber and maids of honour to the queen; four stalwart body-guards attended on all occasions of ceremony—at other times, they worked as agricultural labourers on the royal farm; a footman performed the duty of chamberlain, and, when necessary, that of herald; a groom was master of the horse; a gardener superintended the woods and forests. This, however, is only a traditionary account of the court of Yvetot; and, lest the reader should think it all a joke, we shall specify some of the documentary evidence still extant respecting that little kingdom.
A decree of the Court of Exchequer of Normandy, executed in the year 1392, mentions the king of Yvetot; and various letters-patent, granted by monarchs of France in 1401, 1450, and 1464, acknowledge and confirm the title. In the early part of the fifteenth century, when Normandy was under English rule, one John Holland, an Englishman, claimed, in the name of his master Henry VI., certain taxes and feudal duties from the kingdom of Yvetot. Strange to say, in those semi-barbarous days, the case was tried in a court of law, and the issue given against Holland, the court fully recognising the Lord of Yvetot as an independent king. A letter of Francis I., addressed to the queen of Yvetot, is still in existence. In one of the many episodes of the wars of the League, it happened that Henry IV., compelled to retreat, found himself in Yvetot, and determined not to recede further, he cheered his troops by jocularly saying: 'If we lose France, we must take possession of this fair kingdom of Yvetot.' At the coronation of his second wife, Mary de Medici, the same monarch rebuked the grand chamberlain for not assigning to Martin du Belley, then king of Yvetot, a position suitable to his regal dignity. The Belley dynasty reigned in Yvetot for 332 years. The last king of that petty kingdom was D'Albon St Marcel, who, when at the court of Louis XVI., modestly assumed no higher rank than that of a prince. The Revolution, as we have already intimated, swept away the ancient crown, and the King of Yvetot is now nothing more than the title of a song, with its burden—
Ha, ha, ha! Ho, ho, ho!