James Buchanan - "Modern Atheism under its forms of Pantheism, Materialism, Secularism, Development, and Natural Laws"

Franz Liszt; letters collected by La Mara and translated - "Letters of Franz Liszt, Volume 2: From Rome to the End"

Upton Sinclair - "The Second Story Man"

Queen Victoria - "The Letters of Queen Victoria, Volume 1 (of 3), 1837 to 1843)"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

The History of a Mouthful of Bread

J >> Jean Mace >> The History of a Mouthful of Bread




The tubes of distribution, which run out from the machine in all
directions, are called with us _arteries_; the return tubes, which
bring back the water to the machine, are called _veins._

Finally, we have not exactly the _filters_ employed to clear the
water from the impurities contracted as it goes along, for no such
thing exists in us. There are in our case the refuse-chambers of which
I have already spoken, in connexion with the liver, where the blood
disembarrasses itself of any useless materials, and from which it comes
out with clean pockets, so to speak, reverting to the comparison of
which we have already availed ourselves.

As you see, then, everything comes round again; and the bright idea
which our professors hit upon in order to satisfy the caprice of the
banker is exactly carried out in your own body, only a thousand times
more perfectly than could have been done by them all, even with all
their science added to all his money.

I mentioned that the shrewdest of the party boasted about making an
artificial heart. But, let me tell you, there is one thing I would
have defied him to imitate, by any expedient he could devise, and that
is the inimitable construction of the _arteries_ and _veins,_ and the
incomprehensible delicacy of their innumerable ramifications.

Let us talk a little about these marvellous tubes, and begin with the
arteries, which have the most important part to play.

Did you ever see a doctor try the pulse of his patient? Take hold of
your own wrist and search a little above the thumb. You will soon find
the place and feel something beating against your finger. There is an
artery which passes there, and the little beating you feel is the
rebound of the pulsations, of your heart. Every time that the left
_ventricle,_ by contracting itself, chases the blood into the arteries,
these, of which the tissue is very elastic, become distended all at
once, and then contract again, repeating the process whenever a fresh
gush of blood arrives, so that their movement is exactly regulated by
the movement of the heart. It is true the two movements are in a
contrary direction; that is to say, the artery becomes distended, while
the heart contracts, and contracts when the heart enlarges itself; but
that makes no difference to the doctor. What he wants to know is, with
what force and rapidity the heart of the patient beats, and I will
explain why. It is an interesting point in the history of circulation.

When you were very little--very little indeed, my dear child--your
heart beat from 130 to 140 times in a minute. Afterwards the beats
sank to 100 per minute; then to fewer still. At present I cannot tell
you the precise number: perhaps, about ninety. When you are a grown-up
young lady, it will beat about eighty times in the minute; when you
are a mother, about seventy-three times; when a grandmother (if such
a blessing be granted you), only from fifty to sixty times, perhaps
even fewer. People tell of an old man of eighty-four whose heart beat
only twenty-nine times in the sixty seconds.

Observe that in all my calculations I have taken special care to prefix
the word _about_ to the numbers mentioned. And this because, in
point of fact, the heart is a capricious creature, which has no exact
rules to go by. It changes its pace on every occasion--fear, joy, every
emotion which agitates the soul, quickens or retards its movements;
and derangements of health may be detected by its pulsations, which
are infinitely varied in character. In fever, for instance, which is
nothing but a race of the blood at full speed, the hearts of grown-up
people beat as quickly as those of little children; sometimes, indeed,
more quickly still. In certain maladies it goes with great sudden
leaps, like a galloping horse; in others it trots in little jerks;
while in some cases it moves slowly and wearily, and its throbs are
so weak that one can scarcely feel them.

These pulsations, then, afford important revelations to the doctor.
The heart is for him a gossiping confidant, who lets out the secrets
of illnesses, however closely they may fancy themselves hidden in the
remote depths of the body. When the doctor lays his finger on the
patient's pulse, it is precisely the same thing to him as if he had
laid it on his heart, only with this difference, that the one is much
less difficult to do, and much sooner done than the other.

The artery of the wrist is in fact a small heart, not only because it
follows all the movements of the large one, but because it carries
forward the work which the other begins, and assists also in propelling
the blood to the furthest extremities of the limbs, driving it on in
its turn at each of its own contractions. Imagine a fire-engine, whose
pipes should take up and drive forwards along their whole length the
water which is thrown upon the fire, and you will have some idea of
the marvellous machine which is at work in our behalf within us. Nor
are you to suppose that the wrist-artery is a specially privileged
one, because it has been chosen to hold intercourse with physicians.
All the others are equally serviceable; and if they cannot all be
used for "feeling the pulse," it is because they are generally more
deeply buried in the flesh, where it is not easy to reach them.

Observe your mother when she is packing a trunk, and you will see that
whatever she is most afraid maybe spoiled, she is most careful to put
in the middle, so that it may be least exposed to accidents. And this
is what a kind Providence has done with the arteries, which have the
utmost cause to dread accidents; whilst the veins, which are much
better able to bear rough usage, are allowed to wander about freely
just under the skin. But when the bones happen to take up a great deal
of room, and come near the skin themselves, as is the case in the
wrist, the artery is forced, whether he likes it or not, to venture
to the surface, and then we are able to put our fingers upon him.

And there are others in the same sort of situation; the artery of the
foot for instance. But only just think how far from agreeable it would
be to have to take off your shoe and present your foot to the doctor!

The artery which passes to the temple, just by the ear, is another
affair. That would answer the purpose very well in fact, and I even
advise you to make use of it when you want to feel your own pulse. It
is more easily found than the other even, and its pulsations are still
more easily perceptible. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, it
is better for the doctor to take his patient by the hand than by the
head. Merely as a matter of good manners.

I will now make you acquainted with the principal arteries, and the
manner in which they distribute the blood through the body.

The whole of the blood driven out by the left ventricle at each of its
contractions, passes into one large canal called the _aorta_. The
_aorta_ as it goes away at first ascends; then bends back in a curve;
and from this curve, which is called the _arch of the aorta_ (from its
shape) diverge right and left, certain branch-pipes which carry the
blood into the two arms and on each side of the head; and which are, in
fact, the beginning, or upper end, of those whose pulsations we feel
with our fingers in the two wrists and at the temples.

The supply to the upper part of the body being secured, the _aorta_
begins to descend. But now imagine of what importance it must be, that
this head-artery--the foster-father of the whole body--should be
sheltered from every accident. The _aorta_ once divided, death is
inevitable; you might as well have your head cut off at once; and
thus it has been fixed in the best--that is to say, the safest--place.
Of course you know what is meant by the _backbone_ or _spine_, called
also the _vertebral column_, in consequence of its being made like a
sort of column composed of a series of small bones fastened together,
which are named _vertebrae_. Touch it and feel how solid it is, and how
few dangers there can be for anything placed behind it. Well, that is
the rampart which has been given to the _Aorta_. As this descends, it
slips behind the heart and takes up its place in front of the _vertebral
column_ which it follows all the way down the back, just to the top of
the loins. There it is, so to speak, almost unassailable; in fact hardly
any cases are known of the _Aorta_ being wounded; to get at it, it would
be necessary to bestow one of those blows which used to be given in the
time of the Crusades, which cut the body in two. There was an end of the
_Aorta_, as of every thing else then; it was unfortunately not worth
talking about any longer!

The next time you see a fish on the table, ask to be shown the large
central bone. It is the fish's _vertebral column_, and it will give you
an idea of your own, for it is constructed on the same plan. You will
perceive a blackish thread running all along it--that is _the aorta_.

As it descends, the _aorta_ sends off on its passage a great number of
arteries which carry the blood into all parts of the body. Arrived at
the loins it forms a fork; dividing into two great branches, which
continue their descent, one on each side the body, down to the very
extremities of the two feet.

As you perceive, dear child, this is not very difficult to remember.
A large fork, whose two points are at the tips of the feet, the handle
of which curves at the top like the crook of a crozier; from this curve
come four branches, which pass into the two arms and to the two sides
of the head--and this is the whole story. But of course, it would be
another affair were I to enter into the detail of all the ramifications.
Here it is that all engineers, past, present, and future, are baffled,
defeated and outdone! Choose any place you please upon your body, and
run the finest needle you can find into it what will issue from the
puncture?

"Thanks for the proposal," you say; "I have no occasion to try the
experiment, to discover that blood will come out."

You say that very readily, young lady; but have you ever asked yourself,
what is implied by your being so sure before hand that you can bring
blood from any part of your body if you choose to prick it, though
never so slightly? It implies that there is not on your whole frame
a spot the size of a needle's point, which has not its own little canal
filled with blood; for if there were such a one, there at any rate the
needle would pass in without tearing the canal, and causing the blood
to flow out. And now count the number of places from the top to the
bottom of your dear little self, on which one could put the point of
a needle, and even when you have counted them all, do not fancy you
have arrived at the number of the tiny tubes of blood. Compared to
these, your needle is a coarse stake, and tears not one but a thousand
of these little tubes in its passage.

That seems to you rather a strong expression, does it not? But let me
make good my boldness. A needle's point is very fine, I admit; but a
person who could not see it without spectacles must have very poor
sight. Whereas the last subdivisions of the blood-tubes are so
attenuated, that the best eyes in the world, your own included, cannot
distinguish them. You are astonished at this, and yet it is nothing
compared to what follows.

No doubt you have heard of the microscope,--that wonderful instrument
by which you may see objects a thousand, a hundred thousand, a million
times, if necessary, larger than they really are. With the microscope,
therefore, as a matter of course, we can see a good many of those tiny
canals which elude our unaided sight. But, alas! we discover at the
same time that these are by no means the last subdivisions. The canals
invisible to our naked eyes subdivide themselves again into others,
and these into others again, and so it goes on, till at last--the man
at the microscope can see no more, but the subdivisions still continue.

You were ready to exclaim, at my talking of thousands of canals being
torn by a needle in passing through; but had I even said millions, it
may be doubted whether I should have spoken the whole truth.

Besides, when you consider the office of the blood, you can easily
understand that if there were a single atom of the body left unvisited
by him, that atom could never be nourished. Do I say nourished? I have
made here a supposition altogether inadmissible; it could have no
existence at all, since it is the blood only which produces it.

These imperceptible canals of blood have been called _capillaries_,
from the Latin word, _capillus_, which means a hair; because the
old learned men, who had no suspicion of the wonders hereafter to be
revealed by the microscope, could think of no better way of expressing
their delicacy, than by comparing them to hairs. Very likely they
thought even this a great compliment, but your delicate fair hairs,
fine as they are, are absolute cables--and coarse cables too, believe
me, compared to the _capillary vessels_ which extend to every portion
of your body.

Observe further, that each of these arterial _capillaries_ is
necessarily composed (being the continuation of the large ones) of
three coats enclosed one within the other, which can be perfectly
distinguished in arteries of a tolerable size; add to this that within
these coats there is blood, and in the blood some thirty substances
we know of, not to speak of those we do not know; and then you will
begin to form some notion of the marvels collected together in each
poor little morsel of your body, however minute a one you may picture
to yourself.



LETTER XV.

THE NOURISHMENT OF THE ORGANS.

When I said formerly that our dear and wonderful steward the blood,
was everywhere at once, you little suspected the prodigies involved
in that _everywhere_. But you will have a glimpse of them now, when I
tell you it is at the extremities of the _capillary arteries_ that he
carries on his distribution of goods, and accomplishes a mysterious act
of nutrition; a wonder much greater even than that of which we have just
spoken. Here, indeed, the question is no longer mechanical divisions,
whose delicacy, surprising as it may be, is yet within our powers of
comprehension. What is more surprising still, what moreover we cannot
comprehend at all, is the delicate sensitiveness of tact--I would almost
say of instinct--with which each one of the million millions of tiny
atoms of which our body is composed, draws out of the blood--the common
food of all--exactly that aliment which is necessary to it, leaving the
rest to his neighbor, and this without ever making a mistake.

You have never thought about this; for children go on living at their
ease, as if it was the simplest thing in the world to do; never
suspecting even that their life is a continued miracle, and never, of
course, therefore, feeling bound to be grateful to the Author of that
miracle. And alas! how many hundreds of people live and die children
in that respect.

But what would happen, I should like to know, if the eye took to seizing
upon the food of the nail, if the hairs stopped on the way what was
intended for the muscles, if the tongue absorbed what ought to go to
the teeth, and the teeth what ought to go to the tongue! Yet what
prevents their doing so? Can you tell me? They all drink alike out of
the same cup. The same blood goes to furnish them all. The substances
that it brings to the eye are the same as those which it brings to the
nail; and nevertheless the eye takes from it that which makes an eye,
and the nail that which makes a nail.

How is this done, do you think? that is the question.

When the doctors reply to this, that each organ has its peculiar
sensibility, which makes it recognize and imbibe from the blood one
particular substance and no other, they are strangely mistaken if they
flatter themselves that they have really answered anything. They have
done nothing but reproduce the question in other words, for it is
precisely that sensibility which requires explanation, and to tell us
that it exists, does not explain much, you must own. If you were to
ask why you had got a headache, and some one were to reply that it was
because your head ached, you would not be much the wiser I fancy.

Each of our organs, then, may be considered as a distinct being, having
its separate life, and its particular likings. These organs behave
towards the blood like men who recognize some friend in a crowd, and
proceed to seize him by the arm; and when I told you just now that
they never made a mistake, I spoke of their regular course of action
in ordinary circumstances. Like men, they also make mistakes sometimes,
in certain cases; and take one substance for another, or do not
recognize the one they are in need of; an unanswerable proof that at
other times they exercise a sort of discernment, and do not act by a
sort of fatality, as one might be tempted to believe. Look at the
bones, for instance. They are composed of _gelatine_ (which cooks
serve up under the name of meat-jelly, but which would be more properly
called bone-jelly), and of phosphate of lime, a kind of stone of which
we have spoken before, if I remember rightly, and from which they get
all their solidity. Originally, the substance of the bone is entirely
gelatinous, and the phosphate of lime deposits itself therein by
degrees, as time goes on, and always in greater abundance as we advance
in age.

Properly the bones borrow only gelatine and phosphate of lime from the
blood. But when they come to be broken, their texture or _tissue_
inflames in the fractured place; and then it changes its tastes, if
I may so express myself; and, lo and behold, extracts from the blood
that which forms certain little fleshy shoots, which unite together
from the two sides of the fracture, and so mend the broken bone. Here is
one exception to the rule.

Again, in certain diseases, the bones suddenly quarrel with the
phosphate of lime; they will not hear of it any longer, they will not
accept a fresh supply; and as the old wears out by degrees, by reason
of the continual destruction of which I spoke the other day, the bones
become more and more enfeebled, and soon can no longer support the
body. A second exception this.

Finally, when old age comes on, the bones end by being so much
encumbered with phosphate of lime, that they have no room to admit the
fresh supply which keeps coming to them in the blood. What becomes of
it then? It goes to seek its fortune elsewhere; and there are charitable
souls, who forgetting their instinctive antipathies, consent to give
it hospitality, though much to the prejudice of the poor old man
himself, who is no longer served so well as formerly, by the incautious
servants who have allowed themselves to be thus fatally beguiled; but
no one consults him. It is the arteries especially, and sometimes
the muscles, which take this great liberty, and it is not unusual among
old people to meet with these fairly _ossified_--that is to say,
changed into bone, thanks to the phosphate of lime with which they
have consented to burden themselves. This is a third exception, and
I will spare you any others.

What may we infer from all this, my dear child? Well, two things.
First, that we know nothing at all about the whole affair; a fact which
at once places us on a footing with the most learned philosophers in
the world. Secondly, that our body is a perpetual miracle; a miracle
which eats and drinks and walks, and which we must not look down upon
for so doing: for God dwells therein. I should have to come back to
this at every turn, if I wanted to fathom everything I have to tell
you about. Each tip of hair which you grow, is an incomprehensible
prodigy which would puzzle us for ever, if we did not call to our aid
those eternal laws which have made us what we are, and to which it is
very just our spirits should submit, since we could not exist for one
second were they to cease from making themselves obeyed in our bodies.

Reflect on this, my dear little pupil. Young as you may be, you can
already understand from it, that there is above you something which
demands your respect. The good God, to whom your mother makes you pray
every night, on your knees, with folded hands, is not so far off as
you might perhaps suppose. He is not a being of the fancy, secluded
in the depths of that unknown space which men call Heaven, in order
to give it a name. If His all-powerful hand reaches thus into the
innermost recesses of your body, His voice speaks also in your heart,
and to what it says you must listen.



LETTER XVI.

THE ORGANS.

Contrary to my custom, my dear child, I made use, in the last chapter,
of a new word, without giving an explanation of it.

I spoke to you of _our organs_, and we have not yet ascertained what an
_organ_ is.

You probably knew what I meant, because it is a word which is used in
conversation and pretty well understood by everybody. But I am bent
upon giving you a more exact idea of it, for the trouble will be well
bestowed. If I did not do this at once it was because there is a good
deal to tell about, and that would have carried me too far away from
my subject.

_Organ_, comes from the Greek word _organon_, and means _instrument_. It
was used particularly to signify instruments of music, so much so that
our word "organ" comes from it. Our bodily organs then, are
_instruments_, or _tools_ if you like it better, which have been given
to us, wherewith to perform all the acts of life; and as there is not
one part of the body which is not of use to us for some purpose or
other, our body is, in point of fact, from head to foot a compound of
_organs_. Thus the hand is the tool which we make use of to lay hold of
anything--so an _organ_; the eye is the instrument of sight--so an
_organ_; the heart is the machine which causes the blood to circulate--
so an organ; the liver fabricates the bile--it is an organ therefore;
the bones are the framework which support the weight of the body--so
organs; the muscles are the power which sets the bones in movement--
organs also, therefore; the skin is the armor which protects them--so an
organ: in fact everything within us is an organ. If there was any corner
of our body which was not an organ, it would be useless to us, and we
should not, therefore, have received it, because God makes nothing
without a use.

Here lies the secret of that great miracle which is called life. I do
not know whether you will be able to understand me thoroughly, but
open your ears, as if some one was going to explain addition to you;
this is not more difficult.

Life is in reality the total of an addition sum. Each one of our organs
is a distinct being which has its particular nature and special office;
its separate life consequently; and our individual life is the sum
total of all these lesser lives, independent one of the other, but
which nevertheless blend together by a mysterious combination, into
one common life, which is everywhere and nowhere at the same time. It
follows from this, that the more organs a being has, the greater is
the sum total; the more, consequently, is life developed in him.
Remember this when we begin to study life in the lower animals. In
proportion as you find the number of _organs_ diminish, you will
find life diminishing in power, until we arrive at beings who have,
as it were, only one organ apparent, and whose life is so insignificant,
that we have some difficulty in giving an account of it, and are saying
the utmost that can be said in calling it life at all.

But this comparison of life to the total of an addition sum, is too
dry; and, although it has its appropriate side, yet it might give you
a false idea of life; which is what always happens when one tries to
solve inscrutable questions and hidden mysteries by a matter-of-fact
illustration.

Let us try for something more to the purpose.

I told you that the Greek word _organon_ was applied especially
to instruments of music. Well, let us consider our organs as so many
musical instruments. You have, probably, sometimes been at a concert.
Each of the instruments in the orchestra performs its own part, does
it not? The little flute pipes through all its holes; the double-bass
pours thunder from its chords: the violin sighs with his; the cymbals
clash; the Chinese bells dance to their own tinkling; all go at it in
their own fashion, each independently of the other. And yet, when the
orchestra is in good tune together, and well played, you hear but one
sound; and to you the result of all these various noises, each of which
would have no meaning alone, is music composed by some great artist
whom you do not see. It is no longer a flute, a double-bass, or a violin
which you hoar; it is a symphony of Beethoven's, an oratorio of Haydn's,
or Mozart's overture to _Don Juan_.

Life is just like this. All the instruments are playing together, and
there is but one music; music written by God.

But wait! when I say _life is just like this_, let us come to an
understanding. Life is _some_thing like it, that is all, for as
to telling you what life is, I shall not attempt it. I know nothing
about it, do you see, though that is a painful confession to have to
make to a pupil; but in this case it does not distress me, and you are
welcome to hunt the world through for a master, who in this matter
does know anything. I could make a hundred other comparisons, but
theywould all fail in some point or other. Shall I tell you where this
one fails? In an orchestra there is always a musician by the side of
the instrument. Now with us we see the instrument well enough, but we
cannot see the musician.

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