[Illustration:
A. C. CHAPMAN, Del J. A. ADAMS Sc
CANUTE’S REPROOF.
]
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[Illustration: EVENINGS AT HOME OR, THE JUVENILE BUDGET OPENED.]
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EVENINGS AT HOME;
OR,
THE JUVENILE BUDGET OPENED.
BY DR. AIKIN AND MRS. BARBAULD.
Revised Edition.
FROM THE FIFTEENTH LONDON EDITION.
ILLUSTRATED WITH ENGRAVINGS AFTER HARVEY AND CHAPMAN, BY ADAMS.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
82 CLIFF STREET.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE BY THE AMERICAN PUBLISHERS.
In presenting to the American public this new and beautiful edition of a
work that has been established as a favourite for nearly half a century,
the publishers do not think it needful to enlarge upon its merits, or to
point out the attractions which have secured for it a popularity so
universal and long continued. Fifteen editions in England, and probably
an equal or greater number in this country, have already borne testimony
in that behalf, much stronger than any praises which they can bestow.
Yet they may be permitted briefly to suggest a comparison between this
charming specimen of the good old school, and most of the illustrated
works that have recently been brought out in such profusion, professedly
for the entertainment and instruction of youth; works, in the majority
of which there is exhibited so little of that peculiar talent required
for imparting instruction with entertainment, and so little judgment in
the choice of subjects, as well as in the manner of dealing with them.
The great defect of these books—at least the greater portion of them—is
the total want of pure and unaffected simplicity; the principal
characteristic of well-trained youth, and therefore indispensable in
everything designed for youthful readers. Multitudes of authors have
written, of late years, for childhood; but small, indeed, is the number
of those who, like Mrs. Barbauld and Dr. Aikin, possess the faculty of
adaptation to the tastes and intellects of children; and in the effort
to make books suited to those tastes and intellects, they succeed only
in producing things too puerile for grown-up people, and so tainted with
the affectation of simplicity that the natural feelings of the child can
give to them no sympathy. And it would be a subject for rejoicing if
this were the worst or only fault with which some of them are
chargeable.
The nearest approach to perfection that a book written for young people
can make, is to give the idea of having been written by one of them.
When a child reads a story, and fancies that he could write just such
another, we may be sure that the author has hit the mark. This test of
excellence the “Evenings at Home” bears with a success unrivalled, as
must be within the experience of many parents. There is scarcely another
book ever placed in the hands of children, from the age of four or five
years to that of twelve or fourteen, which they read with so much
delight, or remember so long and well, or by which they are so strongly
incited to the attempt at composition.
Knowing the excellence of the work, and its enduring popularity, the
publishers have thought it worthy of a better style of publication than
it has ever enjoyed in this country; they have therefore brought out
this handsome edition on the best of paper, and for its embellishment
secured the valuable services of the same unrivalled engraver on wood
who illustrated their “Fairy Book,” and their editions of “Robinson
Crusoe,” the “Pilgrim’s Progress,” the “Life of Christ,” &c.
PREFACE TO THE FIFTEENTH LONDON EDITION.
The thirteenth edition of “Evenings at Home,” a work which has not been
superseded in general estimation by any later publication for the
instruction and amusement of youth, appeared in 1823, enriched with the
addition of some new pieces, and carefully revised and corrected
throughout by Mr. Arthur Aikin. Since that time, its venerable author,
and his distinguished sister and coadjutor, have both paid the debt of
nature; and it appears proper to introduce this posthumous
republication, by an account of their respective shares in its
production. The plan, then, of the work originated solely with Dr.
Aikin; the Introduction and Epilogue are both his, and about eleven
parts in twelve of the whole. The pieces written by Mrs. Barbauld,
including one found among her papers, and now first printed, are, the
Young Mouse; the Wasp and Bee; Alfred, a Drama; Animals and their
Countries; Canute’s Reproof to his Courtiers; the Mask of Nature; Things
by their Right Names; the Goose and Horse; On Manufactures; the
Flying-Fish; a Lesson on the Art of Distinguishing; the Phenix and Dove;
the Manufacture of Paper; the Four Sisters; and Live Dolls;—amounting to
fifteen out of one hundred and one.
A new arrangement of the matter has been followed in this edition, for
which the editor is answerable. Her father was precluded from attending
to this point in the first instance, by the manner in which the work
grew under his hand. The volumes came out one or two at a time, with an
interval of several years between the earliest and the latest. He did
not at first contemplate so extensive a work; but his invention flowed
freely—the applause of parents and the delight of children invited him
to proceed; the slight thread by which he had connected the pieces was
capable of being drawn out indefinitely, and the plan was confessedly
that of a miscellany. Under these circumstances, it appeared allowable
on a view of the whole work, to change the order, so as to conduct the
young reader, in a gentle progress, from the easier pieces to the more
difficult; or rather, to adapt the different volumes to different ages,
by which the inconvenience might be avoided of either putting the whole
set into the hands of a child, while one portion of its contents would
not be intelligible to him, or withholding the whole until another
portion should have ceased to be interesting. This idea the editor has,
to the best of her ability, put in execution. Should she thus be the
humble means of extending, in any degree, the influence of her father’s
wisdom and genius—of his extensive knowledge, his manly principles, and
his genuine benevolence and tenderness of heart—her pains will be amply
rewarded.
CONTENTS.
Introduction page 9
The Young Mouse 11
The Wasp and Bee 12
The Goose and Horse 12
The Flying-Fish 13
The Little Dog 14
Travellers’ Wonders 15
The Discontented Squirrel 19
On the Marten 22
Mouse, Lapdog, and Monkey 24
Animals and their Countries 25
The Mask of Nature 25
The Farmyard Journal 27
The Price of Pleasure 30
The Rat with a Bell 32
The Dog balked of his Dinner 33
The Kid 36
How to make the Best of it 39
Order and Disorder 40
Live Dolls 43
The Hog and other Animals 46
The Bullies 49
The Travelled Ant 50
The Colonists 56
The Dog and his Relations 60
The History and Adventures of a Cat 62
Canute’s Reproof to his Courtiers 67
On Things to be Learned 68
On the Oak 74
Alfred 80
On the Pine and Fir Tribe 85
On Different Stations in Life 90
The Rookery 94
The Ship 97
Things by their Right Names 103
The Transmigrations of Indur 105
The Swallow and Tortoise 117
The Grass-Tribe 119
A Tea-Lecture 122
The Kidnappers 126
On Manufactures 129
On the Art of Distinguishing 138
The Phenix and Dove 144
The Manufacture of Paper 145
The Two Robbers 148
The Council of Quadrupeds 150
Tit for Tat 158
On Wines and Spirits 160
The Boy without a Genius 166
Half a Crown’s Worth 170
Trial 172
The Leguminous Plants 179
On Man 183
Walking the Streets 187
The Compound-Flowered Plants 189
Presence of Mind 192
Phaeton Junior 198
Why an Apple falls 203
Nature and Education 206
Aversion subdued 207
The Little Philosopher 213
What Animals are made for 216
True Heroism 219
On Metals 222
Flying and Swimming 230
The Female Choice 232
On Metals 234
Eyes and No Eyes 242
Why the Earth moves round the Sun 249
The Umbelliferous Plants 252
Humble Life, or the Cottagers 256
The Birthday Gift 261
On Earths and Stones 263
Show and Use, or the Two Presents 275
The Cruciform-Flowered Plants 277
The Native Village 281
Perseverance against Fortune 287
The Goldfinch and Linnet 297
The Price of a Victory 300
Good Company 304
The Wanderer’s Return 306
Difference and Agreement, or Sunday Morning 312
The Landlord’s Visit 314
On Emblems 320
Ledyard’s Praise of Women 325
Generous Revenge 327
The Power of Habit 330
The Cost of a War 333
Great Men 337
The Four Sisters 341
The Gain of a Loss 344
Wise Men 346
A Friend in Need 349
Earth and her Children 357
A Secret Character Unveiled 359
A Globe-Lecture 367
Envy and Emulation 375
Providence, or the Shipwreck 377
Epilogue 382
[Illustration]
INTRODUCTION
The mansion-house of the pleasant village of _Beechgrove_, was inhabited
by the family of FAIRBORNE, consisting of the master and mistress, and a
numerous progeny of children of both sexes. Of these, part were educated
at home under their parents’ care, and part were sent out to school. The
house was seldom unprovided with visiters, the intimate friends or
relations of the owners, who were entertained with cheerfulness and
hospitality, free from ceremony and parade. They formed, during their
stay, part of the family; and were ready to concur with Mr. and Mrs.
Fairborne in any little domestic plan for varying their amusements, and
particularly for promoting the instruction and entertainment of the
younger part of the household. As some of them were accustomed to
writing, they would frequently produce a fable, a story, or dialogue,
adapted to the age and understanding of the young people. It was always
considered as a high favour when they would so employ themselves; and
when the pieces were once read over, they were carefully deposited by
Mrs. Fairborne in a box, of which she kept the key. None of these were
allowed to be taken out again till all the children were assembled in
the holydays. It was then made one of the evening amusements of the
family to _rummage the budget_, as their phrase was. One of the least
children was sent to the box, who putting in its little hand, drew out
the paper that came next, and brought it into the parlour. This was then
read distinctly by one of the older ones; and after it had undergone
sufficient consideration, another little messenger was despatched for a
fresh supply; and so on, till as much time had been spent in this manner
as the parents thought proper. Other children were admitted to these
readings; and as the _Budget of Beechgrove Hall_ became somewhat
celebrated in the neighbourhood, its proprietors were at length urged to
lay it open to the public. They were induced to comply; and thus,
without further preface, begins the “First Evening.”
[Illustration:
EVENING I.
]
THE YOUNG MOUSE.—A FABLE.
A young mouse lived in a cupboard where sweetmeats were kept; she dined
every day upon biscuit, marmalade, or fine sugar. Never had any little
mouse lived so well. She had often ventured to peep at the family while
they sat at supper; nay, she had sometimes stolen down on the carpet,
and picked up the crumbs, and nobody had ever hurt her. She would have
been quite happy, but that she was sometimes frightened by the cat, and
then she ran trembling to the hole behind the wainscot. One day she came
running to her mother in great joy. “Mother,” said she, “the good people
of this family have built me a house to live in; it is in the cupboard:
I am sure it is for me, for it is just big enough: the bottom is of
wood, and it is covered all over with wires! and I dare say they have
made it on purpose to screen me from that terrible cat, which ran after
me so often; there is an entrance just big enough for me, but puss
cannot follow; and they have been so good as to put in some toasted
cheese, which smells so deliciously, that I should have run in directly
and taken possession of my new house, but I thought I would tell you
first, that we might go in together, and both lodge there to-night, for
it will hold us both.”
“My dear child,” said the old mouse, “it is most happy that you did not
go in, for this house is called a trap, and you would never have come
out again, except to have been devoured, or put to death in some way or
other. Though man has not so fierce a look as a cat, he is as much our
enemy, and has still more cunning.”
THE WASP AND BEE.—A FABLE.
A wasp met a bee, and said to him, “Pray, can you tell me what is the
reason that men are so ill-natured to me, while they are so fond of you?
We are both very much alike, only that the broad golden rings about my
body make me much handsomer than you are: we are both winged insects, we
both love honey, and we both sting people when we are angry, yet men
always hate me and try to kill me, though I am much more familiar with
them than you are, and pay them visits in their houses, and at their
tea-table, and at all their meals; while you are very shy, and hardly
ever come near them: yet they build you curious houses, thatched with
straw, and take care of and feed you in the winter very often:—I wonder
what is the reason?”
The bee said, “Because you never do them any good, but, on the contrary,
are very troublesome and mischievous; therefore, they do not like to see
you, but they know that I am busy all day long in making them honey. You
had better pay them fewer visits, and try to be useful.”
THE GOOSE AND HORSE.—A FABLE.
A goose, who was plucking grass upon a common, thought herself affronted
by a _horse_ who fed near her, and in hissing accents thus addressed
him: “I am certainly a more noble and perfect animal than you, for the
whole range and extent of your faculties is confined to one element. I
can walk upon the ground as well as you: I have besides wings, with
which I can raise myself in the air; and when I please, I can sport in
ponds and lakes, and refresh myself in the cool waters: I enjoy the
different powers of a bird, a fish, and a quadruped.”
The _horse_, snorting somewhat disdainfully, replied, “It is true you
inhabit three elements, but you make no very distinguished figure in any
one of them. You fly, indeed; but your flight is so heavy and clumsy,
that you have no right to put yourself on a level with the lark or the
swallow. You can swim on the surface of the waters, but you cannot live
in them as fishes do; you cannot find your food in that element, nor
glide smoothly along the bottom of the waves. And when you walk, or
rather waddle, upon the ground, with your broad feet, and your long neck
stretched out, hissing at every one who passes by, you bring upon
yourself the derision of all beholders. I confess that I am only formed
to move upon the ground; but how graceful is my make! how well turned my
limbs! how highly finished my whole body! how great my strength! how
astonishing my speed! I had far rather be confined to one element, and
be admired in that, than be a _goose_ in all.”
THE FLYING-FISH.
The flying-fish, says the fable, had originally no wings, but being of
an ambitious and discontented temper, she repined at being always
confined to the waters, and wished to soar in the air. “If I could fly
like the birds,” said she, “I should not only see more of the beauties
of nature, but I should be able to escape from those fish which are
continually pursuing me, and which render my life miserable.” She
therefore petitioned Jupiter for a pair of wings; and immediately she
perceived her fins to expand. They suddenly grew to the length of her
whole body, and became at the same time so strong as to do the office of
a pinion. She was at first much pleased with her new powers, and looked
with an air of disdain on all her former companions; but she soon
perceived herself exposed to new dangers. When flying in the air, she
was incessantly pursued by the tropic bird and the albatross; and when
for safety she dropped into the water, she was so fatigued with her
flight, that she was less able than ever to escape from her old enemies
the fish. Finding herself more unhappy than before, she now begged of
Jupiter to recall his present; but Jupiter said to her, “When I gave you
your wings, I well knew they would prove a curse; but your proud and
restless disposition deserved this disappointment. Now, therefore, what
you begged as a favour, keep as a punishment!”
THE LITTLE DOG.—A FABLE.
“What shall I do,” said a very little dog one day to his mother, “to
show my gratitude to our good master, and make myself of some value to
him? I cannot draw or carry burdens, like the horse, nor give him milk,
like the cow; nor lend him my covering for his clothing, like the sheep;
nor produce him eggs, like the poultry; nor catch mice and rats so well
as the cat. I cannot divert him with singing, like the canaries and
linnets; nor can I defend him against robbers, like our relation Towzer.
I should not be of use to him even if I were dead, as the hogs are. I am
a poor insignificant creature, not worth the cost of keeping; and I
don’t see that I can do a single thing to entitle me to his regard.” So
saying, the poor little dog hung down his head in silent despondency.
“My dear child,” replied his mother, “though your abilities are but
small, yet a hearty good will is sufficient to supply all defects. Do
but love him dearly, and prove your love by all the means in your power,
and you will not fail to please him.”
The little dog was comforted with this assurance; and on his master’s
approach, ran to him, licked his feet, gambolled before him, and every
now and then stopped, wagging his tail, and looking up to his master
with expressions of the most humble and affectionate attachment. The
master observed him. “Ah, little Fido,” said he, “you are an honest,
good-natured little fellow!”—and stooped down to pat his head. Poor Fido
was ready to go out of his wits for joy.
Fido was now his master’s constant companion in his walks, playing and
skipping round him, and amusing him by a thousand sportive tricks. He
took care, however, not to be troublesome by leaping on him with dirty
paws, nor would he follow him into the parlour, unless invited. He also
attempted to make himself useful by a number of little services. He
would drive away the sparrows as they were stealing the chickens’ food,
and would run and bark with the utmost fury at any strange pigs or other
animals that offered to come into the yard. He kept the poultry, geese,
and pigs, from straying beyond their bounds, and particularly from doing
mischief in the garden. He was always ready to alarm Towzer if there was
any suspicious noise about the house, day or night. If his master pulled
off his coat in the field to help his workmen, as he would sometimes do,
Fido always sat by it, and would not suffer either man or beast to touch
it. By this means he came to be considered as a very trusty protector of
his master’s property.
His master was once confined to his bed with a dangerous illness. Fido
planted himself at the chamber-door, and could not be persuaded to leave
it, even to take food; and as soon as his master was so far recovered as
to sit up, Fido being admitted into the room, ran up to him with such
marks of excessive joy and affection, as would have melted any heart to
behold. This circumstance wonderfully endeared him to his master; and,
some time after, he had an opportunity of doing him a very important
service. One hot day, after dinner, his master was sleeping in a
summer-house with Fido by his side. The building was old and crazy; and
the dog, who was faithfully watching his master, perceived the walls
shake, and pieces of mortar fall from the ceiling. He comprehended the
danger, and began barking to awake his master; and this not sufficing,
he jumped up and gently bit his finger. The master, upon this, started
up, and had just time to get out of the door before the whole building
fell down. Fido, who was behind, got hurt by some rubbish which fell
upon him; on which his master had him taken care of with the utmost
tenderness, and ever after acknowledged his obligation to this animal as
the preserver of his life. Thus his love and fidelity had their full
reward.
MORAL.—The poorest man may repay his obligations to the richest and
greatest by faithful and affectionate service—the meanest creature may
obtain the favour and regard of the Creator himself, by humble gratitude
and steadfast obedience.
TRAVELLERS’ WONDERS.
One winter’s evening, as _Captain Compass_ was sitting by the fireside
with his children all around him, little Jack said to him, “Papa, pray
tell us some stories about what you have seen in your voyages. I have
been vastly entertained, while you were abroad, with Gulliver’s Travels,
and the Adventures of Sinbad the Sailor; and I think, as you have gone
round and round the world, you must have met with things as wonderful as
they did.”—“No, my dear,” said the captain, “I never met with
Lilliputians or Brobdignagians, I assure you, nor ever saw the black
loadstone mountain, or the valley of diamonds; but, to be sure, I have
seen a great variety of people, and their different manners and ways of
living; and if it will be any entertainment to you, I will tell you some
curious particulars of what I observed.”—“Pray do, papa,” cried Jack and
all his brothers and sisters: so they drew close round him, and he began
as follows:—
“Well, then—I was once, about this time of the year, in a country where
it was very cold, and the poor inhabitants had much ado to keep
themselves from starving. They were clad partly in the skins of beasts,
made smooth and soft by a particular art, but chiefly in garments made
from the outward covering of a middle-sized quadruped, which they were
so cruel as to strip off his back while he was alive. They dwelt in
habitations, part of which was sunk underground. The materials were
either stones, or earth hardened by fire; and so violent in that country
were the storms of wind and rain, that many of them covered their roofs
all over with stones. The walls of their houses had holes to let in the
light: but to prevent the cold air and wet from coming in, they were
covered by a sort of transparent stone, made artificially of melted sand
or flints. As wood was rather scarce, I know not what they would have
done for firing, had they not discovered in the bowels of the earth a
very extraordinary kind of stone, which when put among burning wood,
caught fire and flamed like a torch.”
“Dear me,” said Jack, “what a wonderful stone! I suppose it was somewhat
like what we call fire-stones, that shine so when we rub them
together.”—“I don’t think they would burn,” replied the captain;
“besides, these are of a darker colour.”
“Well—but their diet too was remarkable. Some of them ate fish that had
been hung up in the smoke till they were quite dry and hard; and along
with it they ate either the roots of plants, or a sort of coarse black
cake made of powdered seeds. These were the poorer class; the richer had
a whiter kind of cake, which they were fond of daubing over with a
greasy matter that was the product of a large animal among them. This
grease they used, too, in almost all their dishes, and, when fresh, it
really was not unpalatable. They likewise devoured the flesh of many
birds and beasts when they could get it; and ate the leaves and other
parts of a variety of vegetables growing in the country, some absolutely
raw, others variously prepared by the aid of fire. Another great article
of food was the curd of milk, pressed into a hard mass and salted. This
had so rank a smell, that persons of weak stomachs often could not bear
to come near it. For drink, they made great use of the water in which
certain dry leaves had been steeped. These leaves, I was told, came from
a great distance. They had likewise a method of preparing a liquor of
the seeds of a grasslike plant steeped in water with the addition of a
bitter herb, and then set to work or ferment. I was prevailed upon to
taste it, and thought it at first nauseous enough, but in time I liked
it pretty well. When a large quantity of the ingredients is used, it
becomes perfectly intoxicating. But what astonished me most, was their
use of a liquor so excessively hot and pungent that it seems like liquid
fire. I once got a mouthful of it by mistake, taking it for water, which
it resembles in appearance, but I thought it would instantly have taken
away my breath. Indeed, people are not unfrequently killed by it; and
yet many of them will swallow it greedily whenever they can get it.
This, too, is said to be prepared from the seeds abovementioned, which
are innocent and even salutary in their natural state, though made to
yield such a pernicious juice. The strangest custom that I believe
prevails in any nation I found here, which was, that some take a mighty
pleasure in filling their mouths full of stinking smoke and others, in
thrusting a nasty powder up their nostrils.”
“I should think it would choke them,” said Jack. “It almost did me,”
answered his father, “only to stand by while they did it—but use, it is
truly said, is second nature.”
“I was glad enough to leave this cold climate; and about half a year
after, I fell in with a people enjoying a delicious temperature of air,
and a country full of beauty and verdure. The trees and shrubs were
furnished with a great variety of fruits, which, with other vegetable
products, constituted a large part of the food of the inhabitants. I
particularly relished certain berries growing in bunches, some white and
some red, of a very pleasant sourish taste, and so transparent that one
might see the seeds at their very centre. Here were whole fields full of
extremely odoriferous flowers, which they told me were succeeded by pods
bearing seeds, that afforded good nourishment to man and beast. A great
variety of birds enlivened the groves and woods; among which I was
entertained with one, that without any teaching spoke almost as
articulately as a parrot, though indeed it was only a repetition of a
single word. The people were tolerably gentle and civilized, and
possessed many of the arts of life. Their dress was very various. Many
were clad only in a thin cloth made of the long fibres of the stalk of a
plant cultivated for the purpose, which they prepared by soaking in
water, and then beating with large mallets. Others wore cloth woven from
a sort of vegetable wool, growing in pods upon bushes. But the most
singular material was a fine glossy stuff, used chiefly by the richer
classes, which, as I was credibly informed, is manufactured out of the
webs of caterpillars—a most wonderful circumstance, if we consider the
immense number of caterpillars necessary to the production of so large a
quantity of stuff as I saw used. This people are very fantastic in their
dress, especially the women, whose apparel consists of a great number of
articles impossible to be described, and strangely disguising the
natural form of the body. In some instances they seem very cleanly; but
in others, the Hottentots can scarce go beyond them; particularly in the
management of their hair, which is all matted and stiffened with the fat
of swine and other animals, mixed up with powders of various colours and
ingredients. Like most Indian nations, they use feathers in their
head-dress. One thing surprised me much, which was, that they bring up
in their houses an animal of the tiger-kind, with formidable teeth and
claws, which, notwithstanding its natural ferocity, is played with and
caressed by the most timid and delicate of their women.”
“I am sure I would not play with it,” said Jack. “Why, you might chance
to get an ugly scratch if you did,” said the captain.
“The language of this nation seems very harsh and unintelligible to a
foreigner, yet they converse among one another with great ease and
quickness. One of the oddest customs is that which men use on saluting
each other. Let the weather be what it will, they uncover their heads,
and remain uncovered for some time, if they mean to be extraordinarily
respectful.”
“Why that’s like pulling off our hats,” said Jack.—“Ah, ah! papa,” cried
Betsy, “I have found you out. You have been telling us of our own
country, and what is done at home, all this while!”—“But,” said Jack,
“we don’t burn stones or eat grease and powdered seeds, or wear skins
and caterpillars’ webs, or play with tigers.”—“No?” said the
Captain—“pray, what are coals but stones? and is not butter, grease; and
corn, seeds: and leather, skins; and silk, the web of a kind of
caterpillar? And may we not as well call a cat an animal of the tiger
kind, as a tiger an animal of the cat-kind? So, if you recollect what I
have been describing, you will find, with Betsy’s help, that all the
other wonderful things I have told you of are matters familiar among
ourselves. But I meant to show you, that a foreigner might easily
represent everything as equally strange and wonderful among us as we
could do with respect to his country; and also to make you sensible that
we daily call a great many things by their names, without ever inquiring
into their nature and properties; so that, in reality, it is only their
names, and not the things themselves, with which we are acquainted.”
THE DISCONTENTED SQUIRREL.
In a pleasant wood, on the western side of a ridge of mountains, there
lived a _squirrel_, who had passed two or three years of his life very
happily. At length, he began to grow discontented, and one day fell into
the following soliloquy:—
“What, must I spend all my time in this spot, running up and down the
same trees, gathering nuts and acorns, and dozing away months together
in a hole! I see a great many of the birds who inhabit this wood ramble
about to a distance wherever their fancy leads them; and, at the
approach of winter, set out for some remote country, where they enjoy
summer weather all the year round. My neighbour cuckoo tells me he is
just going; and even little nightingale will soon follow. To be sure, I
have not wings like them, but I have legs nimble enough; and if one does
not use them, one might as well be a mole or a dormouse. I dare say I
could easily reach to that blue ridge which I see from the tops of the
trees, which no doubt must be a fine place; for the sun comes directly
from it every morning, and it often appears all covered with red and
yellow, and the finest colours imaginable. There can be no harm, at
least, in trying; for I can soon get back again if I don’t like it. I am
resolved to go, and I will set out to-morrow morning.”
When squirrel had taken this resolution, he could not sleep all night
for thinking of it; and at peep of day, prudently taking with him as
much provision as he could conveniently carry, he began his journey in
high spirits. He presently got to the outside of the wood, and entered
upon the open moors that reached to the foot of the hills. These he
crossed before the sun was gotten high; and then, having eaten his
breakfast with an excellent appetite, he began to ascend. It was heavy
toilsome work scrambling up the steep sides of the mountains; but
squirrel was used to climbing; so for awhile he proceeded expeditiously.
Often, however, was he obliged to stop and take breath; so that it was a
good deal past noon before he had arrived at the summit of the first
cliff. Here he sat down to eat his dinner; and looking back, was
wonderfully pleased with the fine prospect. The wood in which he lived
lay far beneath his feet; and he viewed with scorn the humble habitation
in which he had been born and bred.
When he looked forward, however, he was somewhat discouraged to observe
that another eminence rose above him, full as distant as that to which
he had already reached; and he now began to feel stiff and fatigued.
However, after a little rest, he set out again, though not so briskly as
before. The ground was rugged, brown, and bare; and to his great
surprise, instead of finding it warmer as he got nearer the sun, he felt
it grow colder and colder. He had not travelled two hours before his
strength and spirits were almost spent; and he seriously thought of
giving up the point, and returning before night should come on. While he
was thus deliberating with himself, clouds began to gather round the
mountain, and to take away all view of distant objects. Presently, a
storm of mingled snow and hail came down, driven by a violent wind,
which pelted poor squirrel most pitifully, and made him quite unable to
move forward or backward. Besides, he had completely lost his road, and
did not know which way to turn toward that despised home which it was
now his only desire again to reach. The storm lasted till the approach
of night; and it was as much as he could do, benumbed and weary as he
was, to crawl to the hollow of a rock at some distance, which was the
best lodging he could find for the night. His provisions were spent; so
that, hungry and shivering, he crept into the farthest corner of the
cavern, and rolling himself up, with his bushy tail over his back, he
got a little sleep, though disturbed by the cold, and the shrill
whistling of the wind among the stones.
The morning broke over the distant tops of the mountains, when squirrel,
half frozen and famished, came out of his lodging, and advanced, as well
as he could, toward the brow of the hill, that he might discover which
way to take. As he was slowly creeping along, a hungry kite, soaring in
the air above, descried him, and making a stoop carried him off in her
talons. Poor squirrel, losing his senses with the fright, was borne away
with vast rapidity, and seemed inevitably doomed to become food for the
kite’s young ones: when an eagle, who had seen the kite seize her prey,
pursued her in order to take it from her; and overtaking her, gave her
such a buffet, as caused her to drop the squirrel in order to defend
herself. The poor animal kept falling through the air a long time, till
at last he alighted in the midst of a thick tree, the leaves and tender
boughs of which so broke his fall, that, though stunned and breathless,
he escaped without material injury, and after lying a while, came to
himself again. But what was his pleasure and surprise, to find himself
in the very tree which contained his nest. “Ah!” said he, “my dear
native place and peaceful home! if ever I am again tempted to leave you,
may I undergo a second time all the miseries and dangers from which I
have now so wonderfully escaped.”
[Illustration:
The Mask of Nature, p. 25.
EVENING II.
]
ON THE MARTEN.
“Look up, my dear,” said his papa to Little William, “at those
birds’nests above the chamber-windows, beneath the eaves of the house.
Some, you see, are just begun—nothing but a little clay stuck against
the wall. Others are half finished; and others are quite built—close and
tight—leaving nothing but a small hole for the birds to come in and go
out at.”
“What are they?” said William.
“They are martens’ nests,” replied his father; “and there you see the
owners. How busily they fly backward and forward, bringing clay and dirt
in their bills, and laying it upon their work, forming it into shape
with their bills and feet! The nests are built very strong and thick,
like a mud wall, and are lined with feathers to make a soft bed for the
young. Martens are a kind of swallows. They feed on flies, gnats, and
other insects; and always build in towns and villages about the houses.
People do not molest them, for they do good rather than harm, and it is
very amusing to view their manners and actions. See how swiftly they
skim through the air in pursuit of their prey! In the morning they are
up by daybreak, and twitter about your window while you are asleep in
bed; and all day long they are upon the wing, getting food for
themselves and their young. As soon as they have caught a few flies,
they hasten to their nests, pop into the hole, and feed their little
ones. I’ll tell you a story about the great care they take of their
young. A pair of martens once built their nest in a porch; and when they
had young ones, it happened that one of them climbing up to the hole
before he was fledged, fell out, and, lighting upon the stones, was
killed. The old birds, perceiving this accident, went and got short bits
of strong straw, and stuck them with mud, like palisades, all round the
hole of the nest, in order to keep the other little ones from tumbling
after their poor brother.”
“How cunning that was!” cried William.
“Yes,” said his father; “and I can tell you another story of their
sagacity, and also of their disposition to help one another. A saucy
cock-sparrow (you know what impudent rogues they are!) had got into a
marten’s nest while the owner was abroad; and when he returned, the
sparrow put his head out of the hole and pecked at the marten with open
bill, as he attempted to enter his own house. The poor marten was sadly
provoked at this injustice, but was unable by his own strength to right
himself. So he flew away and gathered a number of his companions, who
all came with bits of clay in their bills, with which they plastered up
the hole of the nest, and kept the sparrow in prison, who died miserably
for want of food and air.”
“He was rightly served,” said William.
“So he was,” rejoined his papa. “Well; I have more to say about the
sagacity of these birds. In autumn, when it begins to be cold weather,
the other swallows assemble upon the roofs of high buildings, and
prepare for their departure to a warmer country; for as all the insects
here die in the winter, they would have nothing to live on if they were
to stay. They take several short flights in flocks round and round, in
order to try their strength, and then on some fine calm day, they set
out together for a long journey southward, over sea and land, to a very
distant country.”
“But how do they find their way?” said William.
“We say,” answered his father, “that they are taught by _instinct_; that
is, God has implanted in their minds a desire of travelling at the
season which he knows to be proper, and has also given them an impulse
to take the right road. They steer their course through the wide air
directly to the proper spot. Sometimes, however, storms and contrary
winds meet them and drive the poor birds about till they are quite spent
and fall into the sea, unless they happen to meet with a ship, on which
they can light and rest themselves. The swallows from this country are
supposed to go as far as the middle of Africa to spend the winter, where
the weather is always warm, and insects are to be met with all the year.
In spring they take another long journey back again to these northern
countries. Sometimes, when we have fine weather very early, a few of
them come too soon; for when it changes to frost and snow again, the
poor creatures are starved for want of food, or perish from the cold.
Hence arises the proverb,
‘One swallow does not make a summer.’
But when a great many of them are come, we may be sure that winter is
over, so that we are always very glad to see them again. The martens
find their way back over a great length of sea and land to the very same
villages and houses where they were bred. This has been discovered by
catching some of them, and marking them. They repair their old nests, or
build new ones, and then set about laying eggs and hatching their young.
Pretty things! I hope you will never knock down their nests, or take
their eggs or young ones! for, as they come such a long way to visit us,
and lodge in our houses without fear, we ought to use them kindly.”
MOUSE, LAPDOG, AND MONKEY.—A FABLE.
A poor little mouse, being half starved, ventured one day to steal from
behind the wainscot while the family were at dinner, and, trembling all
the while, picked up a few crumbs which were scattered on the ground.
She was soon observed, however; everybody was immediately alarmed; some
called for the cat; others took up whatever was at hand, and endeavoured
to crush her to pieces; and the poor terrified animal was driven round
the room in an agony of terror. At length, however, she was fortunate
enough to gain her hole, where she sat panting with fatigue. When the
family were again seated, a lapdog and a monkey came into the room. The
former jumped into the lap of his mistress, fawned upon every one of the
children, and made his court so effectually, that he was rewarded with
some of the best morsels of the entertainment. The monkey, on the other
hand, forced himself into notice by his grimaces. He played a thousand
little mischievous tricks, and was regaled, at the appearance of the
dessert, with plenty of nuts and apples. The unfortunate little mouse,
who saw from her hiding-place everything that passed, sighed in anguish
of heart, and said to herself, “Alas! how ignorant was I, to imagine
that poverty and distress were sufficient recommendations to the charity
of the opulent. I now find, that whoever is not master of fawning and
buffoonery, is but ill qualified for a dependant, and will not be
suffered even to pick up the crumbs that fall from the table.”
ANIMALS AND THEIR COUNTRIES.
O’er Afric’s sand the tawny lion stalks:
On Phasis’ banks the graceful pheasant walks:
The lonely eagle builds on Kilda’s shore:
Germania’s forests feed the tusky boar:
From Alp to Alp the sprightly ibex bounds:
With peaceful lowings Britain’s isle resounds:
The Lapland peasant o’er the frozen meer
Is drawn in sledges by the swift raindeer:
The river-horse and scaly crocodile
Infest the reedy banks of fruitful Nile:
Dire dipsas hiss o’er Mauritania’s plain:
And seals and spouting whales sport in the northern Main.
THE MASK OF NATURE.
Who is this beautiful Virgin that approaches clothed in a robe of light
green? She has a garland of flowers on her head, and flowers spring up
wherever she sets her foot. The snow, which covered the fields, and the
ice, which was in the rivers, melt away when she breathes upon them. The
young lambs frisk about her, and the birds warble in their little
throats to welcome her coming; and when they see her, they begin to
choose their mates, and to build their nests. Youths and maidens have
you seen this beautiful Virgin? If you have, tell me who she is, and
what is her name.
Who is this that cometh from the south, thinly clad in a light
transparent garment; her breath is hot and sultry; she seeks the
refreshment of the cool shade; she seeks the clear streams, and crystal
brooks, to bathe her languid limbs? The brooks and rivulets fly from
her, and are dried up at her approach. She cools her parched lips with
berries, and the grateful acid of all fruits,—the seedy melon, the sharp
apple, and the red pulp of the juicy cherry, which are poured out
plentifully around her. The tanned haymakers welcome her coming; and the
sheepshearer, who clips the fleeces off his flock with his sounding
shears. When she cometh let me lie under the thick shade of a spreading
beach-tree—let me walk with her in the early morning, when the dew is
yet upon the grass—let me wander with her in the soft twilight, when the
shepherd shuts his fold, and the star of evening appears. Who is she
that cometh from the south? Youths and maidens, tell me, if you know,
who she is, and what is her name.
Who is he that cometh with sober pace, stealing upon us unawares? His
garments are red with the blood of the grape, and his temples are bound
with a sheaf of ripe wheat. His hair is thin and begins to fall, and the
auburn is mixed with mournful gray. He shakes the brown nuts from the
tree. He winds the horn, and calls the hunters to their sport. The gun
sounds:—the trembling partridge and the beautiful pheasant flutter,
bleeding in the air, and fall dead at the sportsman’s feet. Who is he
that is crowned with a wheat-sheaf? Youths and maidens, tell me, if you
know, who he is, and what is his name.
Who is he that cometh from the north, clothed in furs and warm wool? He
wraps his cloak close about him. His head is bald; his beard is made of
sharp icicles. He loves the blazing fire high piled upon the hearth, and
the wine sparkling in the glass. He binds skates to his feet, and skims
over the frozen lakes. His breath is piercing and cold, and no little
flower dares to peep above the surface of the ground, when he is by.
Whatever he touches turns to ice. If he were to stroke you with his cold
hand, you would be quite stiff and dead, like a piece of marble. Youths
and maidens, do you see him? He is coming fast upon us, and soon he will
be here. Tell me, if you know, who he is, and what is his name.
THE FARMYARD JOURNAL.
“DEAR TOM:—
“Since we parted at the breaking up I have been for most of the
time at a pleasant farm in Hertfordshire, where I have employed
myself in rambling about the country and assisting, as well as I
could, in the work going on at home and in the fields. On wet
days, and in the evenings, I have amused myself with keeping a
journal of all the great events that have happened among us; and
hoping that, when you are tired of the bustle of your busy town,
you may receive some entertainment from comparing our transactions
with yours, I have copied out for your perusal, one of the days in
my memorandum-book.
“Pray, let me know in return what you are doing, and believe me,
“Your very affectionate friend,
“_Hazel Farm_.”
“RICHARD MARKWELL.”
JOURNAL.
_June 10th._ Last night we had a dreadful alarm. A violent scream was
heard from the henroost; the geese all set up a cackle, and the dogs
barked. Ned, the boy who lies over the stable, jumped up, and ran into
the yard, when he observed a fox galloping away with a chicken in his
mouth, and the dogs in full chase after him. They could not overtake
him, and soon returned. Upon further examination, the large white cock
was found lying on the ground, all bloody, with his comb torn almost
off, and his feathers all ruffled, and the speckled hen and three
chickens lay dead beside him. The cock recovered, but appeared terribly
frightened. It seems that the fox had jumped over the garden-hedge, and
then crossing part of the yard behind the straw, had crept into the
henroost through a broken pale. John the carpenter was sent for, to make
all fast, and prevent the like mischief again.
Early this morning the brindled cow was delivered of a fine bull-calf.
Both are likely to do well. The calf is to be fattened for the butcher.
The duck-eggs that were sat upon by the old black hen, were hatched this
day, and the ducklings all directly ran into the pond, to the great
terror of the hen, who went round and round, clucking with all her might
in order to call them out, but they did not regard her. An old drake
took the little ones under his care, and they swam about very merrily.
As Dolly this morning was milking the new cow that was bought at the
fair, she kicked with her hind legs, and threw down the milk-pail, at
the same time knocking Dolly off her stool into the dirt. For this
offence the cow was sentenced to have her head fastened to the rack, and
her legs tied together.
A kite was observed to hover a long while over the yard with an
intention of carrying off some of the young chickens, but the hens
called their broods together under their wings, and the cocks put
themselves in order of battle, so that the kite was disappointed. At
length, one chicken, not minding its mother, but straggling heedlessly
to a distance, was descried by the kite, who made a sudden swoop, and
seized it in his talons. The chicken cried out, and the cocks and hens
all screamed; when Ralph, the farmer’s son, who saw the attack, snatched
up a loaded gun, and just as the kite was flying off with his prey,
fired and brought him dead to the ground, along with the poor chicken,
who was killed in the fall. The dead body of the kite was nailed up
against the wall, by way of a warning to his wicked comrades.
In the forenoon we were alarmed with strange noises approaching us, and
looking out we saw a number of people with frying-pans, warming-pans,
tongs, and pokers, beating, ringing, and making all possible din. We
soon discovered them to be our neighbours of the next farm, in pursuit
of a swarm of bees which was hovering in the air over their heads. The
bees at length alighted on the tall pear-tree in our orchard, and hung
in a bunch from one of the boughs. A ladder was got, and a man
ascending, with gloves on his hands, and an apron tied over his head,
swept them into a hive which was rubbed on the inside with honey and
sweet herbs. But as he was descending, some bees, which had got under
his gloves, stung him in such a manner, that he hastily threw down the
hive, upon which the greater part of the bees fell out, and began in a
rage to fly among the crowd, and sting all whom they lit upon. Away
scampered the people, the women shrieking, the children roaring; and
poor Adam, who had held the hive, was assailed so furiously, that he was
obliged to throw himself on the ground, and creep under the
gooseberry-bushes. At length, the bees began to return to the hive, in
which the queen-bee had remained; and after a while, all being quietly
settled, a cloth was thrown over it, and the swarm was carried home.
About noon, three pigs broke into the garden, where they were rioting
upon the carrots and turnips, and doing a great deal of mischief by
trampling the beds and rooting up the plants with their snouts, when
they were spied by old Towzer the mastiff, who ran among them, and
laying hold of their long ears with his teeth, made them squeal most
dismally, and get out of the garden as fast as they could.
Roger the ploughman, when he came for his dinner, brought word that he
had discovered a partridge’s nest with sixteen eggs in the home-field.
Upon which the farmer went out and broke them all; saying, that he did
not choose to rear birds upon his corn, which he was not allowed to
catch, but must leave to some qualified sportsman, who would besides
break down his fences in the pursuit.
A sheep-washing was held this day at the mill-pool, when seven-score
were well washed, and then penned in the high meadow to dry. Many of
them made great resistance at being thrown into the water; and the old
ram being dragged to the brink by a boy at each horn, and a third
pushing behind, by a sudden spring threw two of them into the water, to
the great diversion of the spectators.
Toward the dusk of the evening, the squire’s mongrel greyhound, which
had been long suspected of worrying sheep, was caught in the fact. He
had killed two lambs, and was making a hearty meal upon one of them,
when he was disturbed by the approach of the shepherd’s boy, and
directly leaped the hedge and made off. The dead bodies were taken to
the squire’s, with an endictment of wilful murder against the dog. But
when they came to look for the culprit, he was not to be found in any
part of the premises, and is supposed to have fled his country through
consciousness of his heinous offence.
Joseph, who sleeps in the garret at the old end of the house, after
having been some time in bed, came down stairs in his shirt, as pale as
ashes, and frightened the maids, who were going up. It was some time
before he could tell what was the matter; at length, he said he had
heard some dreadful noises overhead, which he was sure must be made by
some ghost or evil spirit; nay, he thought he had seen something moving,
though he owned he durst hardly lift up his eyes. He concluded with
declaring, that he would rather sit up all night in the kitchen than go
to his room again. The maids were almost as much alarmed as he, and did
not know what to do; but their master overhearing their talk, came out
and insisted upon their accompanying him to the spot, in order to search
into the affair. They all went into the garret, and for a while heard
nothing; when their master ordered the candle to be taken away, and
every one to keep quite still. Joseph and the maids stuck close to each
other, and trembled every limb. At length, a kind of groaning or snoring
began to be heard, which grew louder and louder, with intervals of a
strange sort of hissing. “That’s it!” whispered Joseph, drawing back
toward the door—the maids were ready to sink, and even the farmer
himself was a little disconcerted. The noise seemed to come from the
rafters near the thatch. In a while a glimpse of moonlight shining
through a hole at the place, plainly discovered the shadow of something
stirring; and on looking intently, something like feathers was
perceived. The farmer now began to suspect what the case was; and
ordering up a short ladder bid Joseph climb to the spot, and thrust his
hand into the hole. This he did rather unwillingly, and soon drew it
back, crying loudly that he was bit. However, gathering courage, he put
it in again, and pulled out a large white owl, another at the same time
being heard to fly away. The cause of the alarm was now made clear
enough; and poor Joseph, after being heartily jeered by the maids,
though they had been as much frightened as he, sneaked into bed, and the
house soon became quiet.
THE PRICE OF PLEASURE.
“I think I will take a ride,” said the little _Lord Linger_, after
breakfast; “bring me my boots, and let my horse be brought to the door.”
The horse was saddled, and his lordship’s spurs were putting on.
“No,” said he, “I’ll have my low chair and the ponies, and take a drive
round the park.”
The horse was led back, and the ponies were almost harnessed, when his
lordship sent his valet to countermand them. He would walk into the
cornfield, and see how the new pointer hunted.
“After all,” says he, “I think I will stay at home, and play a game or
two at billiards.”
He played half a game, but could not make a stroke to please himself.
His tutor, who was present, now thought it a good opportunity to ask his
lordship if he would read a little.
“Why—I think—I will; for I am tired of doing nothing. What shall we
have?”
“Your lordship left off last time in one of the finest passages of the
Æneid. Suppose we finish it?”
“Well—ay; but—no—I had rather go on with Hume’s history. Or—suppose we
do some geography?”
“With all my heart. The globes are upon the study-table.”
They went to the study; and the little lord, leaning upon his elbows,
looked at the globe—then twirled it round two or three times—and then
listened patiently while the tutor explained some of its parts and uses.
But while he was in the midst of a problem, “Come,” said his lordship,
“now for a little Virgil.”
The book was brought; and the pupil, with a good deal of help, got
through twenty lines.
“Well,” said he, ringing the bell, “I think we have done a good deal.
Tom! bring my bow and arrows.”
The fine London-made bow, in its green case, and the quiver with all its
appurtenances, were brought, and his lordship went down to the place
where the shooting-butts were erected. He aimed a few shots at the
target, but not coming near it, he shot all the remainder at random, and
then ordered out his horse.
He sauntered, with a servant at his heels, for a mile or two through the
lanes, and came, just as the clock struck twelve, to a village-green,
close by which a school was kept. A door flew open, and out burst a
shoal of boys, who, spreading over the green, with immoderate
vociferation, instantly began a variety of sports. Some fell to marbles,
some to trap-ball, some to leap-frog. In short, not one of the whole
crew but was eagerly employed. Everything was noise, motion, and
pleasure. Lord Linger, riding slowly up, espied one of his tenants’
sons, who had been formerly admitted as a playfellow of his, and called
him from the throng.
“Jack,” said he, “how do you like school?”
“O, pretty well, my lord.”
“What—have you a good deal of play?”
“O no! We have only from twelve to two for playing and eating our
dinners; and then an hour before supper.”
“That is very little, indeed!”
“But _we play heartily when we do play, and work when we work_. Good-by,
my lord! it is my turn to go in at trap!”
So saying, Jack ran off.
“I wish I was a school-boy!” cried the little lord to himself.
THE RAT WITH A BELL.—A FABLE.
A large old house in the country was so extremely infested with rats
that nothing could be secured from their depredations. They scaled the
walls to attack flitches of bacon, though hung as high as the ceiling.
Hanging shelves afforded no protection to the cheese and pastry. They
penetrated by sap into the store-room, and plundered it of preserves and
sweetmeats. They gnawed through cupboard-doors, undermined floors, and
ran races behind the wainscots. The cats could not get at them; they
were too cunning and too well fed to meddle with poison; and traps only
now and then caught a heedless straggler. One of these, however, on
being taken, was the occasion of practising a new device. This was, to
fasten a collar with a small bell about the prisoner’s neck, and then
turn him loose again.
Overjoyed at the recovery of his liberty, the rat ran into the nearest
hole, and went in search of his companions. They heard at a distance the
bell tinkle-tinkle through the dark passages, and suspecting some enemy
had got among them, away they scoured, some one way and some another.
The bell-bearer pursued; and soon guessing the cause of their flight, he
was greatly amused by it. Wherever he approached, it was all
hurry-scurry, and not a tail of one of them was to be seen. He chased
his old friends from hole to hole, and room to room, laughing all the
while at their fears, and increasing them by all the means in his power.
Presently, he had the whole house to himself. “That’s right,” quoth he,
“the fewer the better cheer.” So he rioted alone among the good things,
and stuffed till he could hardly walk.
For two or three days this course of life went on very pleasantly. He
ate, and ate, and played the bugbear to perfection. At length, he grew
tired of this lonely condition, and longed to mix with his companions
again upon the former footing. But the difficulty was, how to get rid of
his bell. He pulled and tugged with his fore-feet, and almost wore the
skin off his neck in the attempt, but all in vain. The bell was now his
plague and torment. He wandered from room to room earnestly desiring to
make himself known to one of his companions, but they all kept out of
his reach. At last, as he was moping about disconsolate he fell in
puss’s way, and was devoured in an instant.
He who is raised so much above his fellow-creatures as to be the object
of their terror, must suffer for it in losing all the comforts of
society. He is a solitary being in the midst of crowds. He keeps them at
a distance, and they equally shun him. Dread and affection cannot
subsist together.
THE DOG BALKED OF HIS DINNER.—A TALE.
_Think yourself sure of nothing till you’ve got it_:
This is the lesson of the day.
In metaphoric language I might say,
Count not your bird before you’ve shot it.
Quoth Proverb, “’Twixt the cup and lip
There’s many a slip.”
Not every guest invited sits at table,
So says _my_ fable.
A man once gave a dinner to his friend;
His friend!—his patron I should rather think
By all the loads of meat and drink,
And fruits and gellies without end,
Sent home the morning of the feast.
_Jowler_, his dog, a social beast,
Soon as he smelt the matter out, away
Scampers to old acquaintance _Tray_,
And, with expressions kind and hearty,
Invites him to the party.
Tray wanted little pressing to a dinner;
He was, in truth, a gormandizing sinner.
He lick’d his chops, and wagg’d his tail,
“Dear friend!” he cried, “I will not fail
But what’s your hour?”
“We dine at four;
But if you come an hour too soon,
You’ll find there’s something to be done.”
His friend withdrawn, Tray, full of glee,
As blithe as blithe could be,
Skipp’d, danced, and play’d full many an antic
Like one half frantic,
Then sober in the sun lay winking,
But could not sleep for thinking.
He thought o’er every dainty dish,
Fried, boil’d and roast,
Flesh, fowl, and fish,
With tripes and toast,
Fit for a dog to eat;
And in his fancy made a treat,
Might grace a bill of fare
For my lord-mayor.
At length, just on the stroke of three,
Forth sallied he;
And through a well-known hole
He slyly stole
Pop on the scene of action.
Here he beheld, with wondrous satisfaction
All hands employ’d in drawing, stuffing,
Skewering, spitting, and basting;
The red-faced cook sweating and puffing,
Chopping, mixing, and tasting.
Tray skulk’d about, now here, now there
Peep’d into this, and smelt at that,
And lick’d the gravy, and the fat,
And cried, “O rare! how I shall fare!”
But Fortune, spiteful as Old Nick,
Resolved to play our dog a trick;
She made the cook
Just cast a look
Where Tray, beneath the dresser lying,
His promised bliss was eying.
A cook while cooking is a sort of fury,
A maxim worth remem’bring, I assure ye.
Tray found it true,
And so may you,
If e’er you choose to try.
“How now!” quoth she, “what’s this I spy?
A nasty cur! who let him in?
Would he were hang’d with all his kin!
A pretty kitchen-guest, indeed!
But I shall pack him off with speed.”
So saying, on poor Tray she flew,
And dragg’d the culprit forth to view;
Then, to his terror and amazement,
Whirl’d him like lightning through the casement.
[Illustration:
EVENING III.
]
THE KID.
One bleak day in March, _Sylvia_, returning from a visit to the
sheepfold, met with a young kidling deserted by its dam on the naked
heath. It was bleating piteously, and was so benumbed with the cold that
it could scarcely stand. Sylvia took it up in her arms, and pressed it
close to her bosom. She hastened home, and showing her little foundling
to her parents, begged she might rear it for her own. They consented;
and Sylvia immediately got a basketful of clean straw, and made a bed
for him on the hearth. She warmed some milk, and held it to him in a
platter The poor creature drank it up eagerly, and then licked her hand
for more. _Sylvia_ was delighted. She chafed his tender legs with her
warm hands, and soon saw him jump out of his basket and frisk across the
room. When full, he lay down again, and took a comfortable nap.
The next day, the kid had a name bestowed upon him. As he gave tokens of
being an excellent jumper, it was _Capriole_. He was introduced to all
the rest of the family, and the younger children were allowed to stroke
and pat him; but Sylvia would let nobody be intimate with him out
herself. The great mastiff was charged not to hurt him, and indeed, he
had no intention to do it.
Within a few days, Capriole followed Sylvia all about the house; trotted
by her side into the yard; ran races with her in the home-field; fed out
of her hand; and was declared pet and favourite. As the spring advanced,
Sylvia roamed in the fields, and gathered wild flowers, with which she
wove garlands, and hung them round the kid’s neck. He could not be kept,
however, from munching his finery when he could reach it with his mouth.
He was likewise rather troublesome in thrusting his nose into the
meal-tub and flour-box, and following people into the dairy, and sipping
the milk that was set for cream. He now and then got a blow for his
intrusion; but his mistress always took his part, and indulged him in
every liberty.
Capriole’s horns now began to bud, and a little white beard sprouted at
the end of his chin. He grew bold enough to put himself into a fighting
posture whenever he was offended. He butted down little Colin into the
dirt; quarrelled with the geese for their allowance of corn; and held
many a stout battle with the old turkey-cock. Everybody said, “Capriole
is growing too saucy; he must be sent away, or taught better manners.”
But Sylvia still stood his friend, and he repaid her love with many
tender caresses.
The farmhouse where Sylvia lived was situated in a sweet valley, by the
side of a clear stream bordered with trees. Above the house rose a
sloping meadow, and beyond that, was an open common covered with purple
heath and yellow furze. Farther on, at some distance, rose a steep hill,
the summit of which was a bare craggy rock, scarcely accessible to human
feet. Capriole, ranging at his pleasure, often got upon the common, and
was pleased with browsing the short grass and wild herbs which grew
there. Still, however, when his mistress came to see him, he would run
bounding at her call and accompany her back to the farm.
One fine summer’s day, Sylvia, after having finished the business of the
morning, wanted to play with her kid; and missing him, she went to the
side of the common, and called aloud, “Capriole! Capriole!” expecting to
see him come running to her as usual. No Capriole came. She went on and
on, still calling her kid with the most endearing accents; but nothing
was to be seen of him. Her heart began to flutter. “What can be come of
him? Surely somebody must have stolen him; or perhaps the neighbours’
dogs have worried him. Oh, my poor Capriole! my dear Capriole! I shall
never see you again!” and Sylvia began to weep.
She still went on, looking wistfully all around, and making the place
echo with “Capriole! Capriole! where are you, my Capriole?” till, at
length, she came to the foot of the steep hill. She climbed up its sides
to get a better view. No kid was to be seen. She sat down and wept and
wrung her hands. After a while she fancied she heard a bleating like the
well-known voice of her Capriole. She started up, and looked toward the
sound, which seemed a great way overhead. At length, she spied, just on
the edge of a steep crag, her Capriole peeping over. She stretched out
her hands to him, and began to call, but with a timid voice, lest in his
impatience to return to her, he should leap down and break his neck. But
there was no such danger. Capriole was inhaling the fresh breeze of the
mountains, and enjoying with rapture the scenes for which nature
designed him. His bleating was the expression of joy, and he bestowed
not a thought on his kind mistress, nor paid the least attention to her
call. Sylvia ascended as high as she could toward him, and called louder
and louder, but all in vain. Capriole leaped from rock to rock, cropped
the fine herbage in the clefts, and was quite lost in the pleasure of
his new existence.
Poor Sylvia stayed till she was tired, and then returned disconsolate to
the farm, to relate her misfortune. She got her brothers to accompany
her back to the hill, and took with her a slice of white bread and some
milk to tempt the little wanderer home. But he had mounted still higher,
and had joined a herd of companions of the same species, with whom he
was frisking and sporting. He had neither eyes nor ears for his old
friends of the valley. All former habits were broken at once, and he had
commenced free commoner of nature. Sylvia came back crying, as much from
vexation as sorrow. “The little ungrateful thing,” said she; “so well as
I loved him, and so kindly as I treated him, to desert me in this way at
last!—But he was always a rover.”
“Take care, then, Sylvia,” said her mother, “how you set your heart upon
_rovers_ again!”
HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT.
Robinet, a peasant of Lorraine, after a hard day’s work at the next
market-town, was running home with a basket in his hand. “What a
delicious supper shall I have!” said he to himself. “This piece of kid
well stewed down, with my onions sliced, thickened with my meal, and
seasoned with my salt and pepper, will make a dish for the bishop of the
diocese. Then I have a good piece of barley-loaf at home to finish with.
How I long to be at it!”
A noise in the hedge now attracted his notice, and he spied a squirrel
nimbly running up a tree, and popping into a hole between the branches.
“Ha!” thought he, “what a nice present a nest of young squirrels will be
to my little master! I’ll try if I can get it.” Upon this, he set down
his basket in the road, and began to climb the tree. He had half
ascended, when casting a look at his basket, he saw a dog with his nose
in it, ferreting out the piece of kid’s flesh. He made all possible
speed down, but the dog was too quick for him, and ran off with the meat
in his mouth. Robinet looked after him. “Well,” said he, “then I must be
contented with soupe maigre—and no bad thing neither.”
He travelled on, and came to a little public-house by the roadside,
where an acquaintance of his was sitting on a bench drinking. He invited
Robinet to take a draught. Robinet seated himself by his friend, and set
his basket on the bench close by him. A tame raven, which was kept at
the house, came slyly behind him, and perching on the basket, stole away
the bag in which the meal was tied up, and hopped off with it to his
hole. Robinet did not perceive the theft till he had got on his way
again. He returned to search for his bag, but could hear no tidings of
it. “Well,” says he, “my soup will be the thinner; but I will boil a
slice of bread with it, and that will do it some good at least.”
He went on again, and arrived at a little brook, over which was laid a
narrow plank. A young woman coming up to pass at the same time, Robinet
gallantly offered his hand. As soon as she was got to the middle, either
through fear or sport, she shrieked out, and cried she was falling.
Robinet hastening to support her with his other hand, let his basket
drop into the stream. As soon as she was safe over, he jumped in and
recovered it; but when he took it out he perceived that all the salt was
melted, and the pepper washed away. Nothing was now left but the onions.
“Well!” says Robinet, “then I must sup to-night upon roasted onions and
barley-bread. Last night I had the bread alone. To-morrow morning it
will not signify what I had.” So saying, he trudged on singing as
before.
ORDER AND DISORDER.—A FAIRY TALE.
Juliet was a clever, well-disposed girl, but apt to be heedless. She
could learn her lessons very well, but commonly as much time was taken
up in getting her things together as in doing what she was set about. If
she was at work, there was generally the housewife to seek in one place,
and the thread-papers in another. The scissors were left in her pocket
upstairs, and the thimble was rolling about the floor. In writing, the
copybook was generally missing, the ink dried up, and the pens, new and
old, all tumbled about the cupboard. The slate and slate-pencil were
never found together. In making her exercises, the English dictionary
always came to hand instead of the French grammar; and when she was to
read a chapter, she usually got hold of Robinson Crusoe, or the World
Displayed, instead of the Testament.
Juliet’s mamma was almost tired of teaching her, so she sent her to make
a visit to an old lady in the country, a very good woman, but rather
strict with young folks. Here she was shut up in a room above stairs by
herself after breakfast every day, till she had quite finished the tasks
set her. This house was one of the very few that are still haunted by
fairies. One of these, whose name was _Disorder_, took a pleasure in
plaguing poor Juliet. She was a frightful figure to look at, being
crooked and squint-eyed, with her hair hanging about her face, and her
dress put on all awry, and full of rents and tatters. She prevailed on
the old lady to let her set Juliet her tasks; so one morning she came up
with a workbag full of threads of silk of all sorts of colours, mixed
and entangled together, and a flower very nicely worked to copy. It was
a pansy, and the gradual melting of its hues into one another was
imitated with great accuracy and beauty. “Here, miss,” said she, “my
mistress has sent you a piece of work to do, and she insists upon having
it done before you come down to dinner. You will find all the materials
in this bag.”
Juliet took the flower and the bag, and turned out all the silks upon
the table. She slowly pulled out a red and a purple, and a blue and a
yellow, and at length fixed upon one to begin working with. After taking
two or three stitches, and looking at her model, she found another shade
was wanted. This was to be hunted out from the bunch, and a long while
it took her to find it. It was soon necessary to change it for another.
Juliet saw that, in going on at this rate, it would take days instead of
hours to work the flower, so she laid down the needle and fell a crying.
After this had continued some time, she was startled at the sound of
something stamping on the floor; and taking her handkerchief from her
eyes, she spied a diminutive female figure advancing toward her. She was
upright as an arrow, and had not so much as a hair out of its place, or
the least article of her dress rumpled or discomposed. When she came up
to Juliet, “My dear,” said she, “I heard you crying, and knowing you to
be a good girl in the main, I am come to your assistance. My name is
_Order_: your mamma is well acquainted with me, though this is the first
time you ever saw me; but I hope we shall know one another better for
the future.” She then jumped upon the table, and with a wand gave a tap
upon the heap of entangled silk.—Immediately the threads separated, and
arranged themselves in a long row consisting of little skeins, in which
all of the same colour were collected together, those approaching
nearest in shade being placed next each other. This done, she
disappeared. Juliet, as soon as her surprise was over, resumed her work,
and found it go on with ease and pleasure. She finished the flower by
dinner-time, and obtained great praise for the neatness of the
execution.
The next day the ill-natured fairy came up, with a great book under her
arm. “This,” said she, “is my mistress’s house-book, and she says you
must draw out against dinner an exact account of what it has cost her
last year in all the articles of housekeeping, including clothes, rent,
taxes, wages, and the like. You must state separately the amount of
every article, under the heads of baker, butcher, milliner, shoemaker,
and so forth, taking special care not to miss a single thing entered
down in the book. Here is a quire of paper and a parcel of pens.” So
saying, with a malicious grin, she left her.
Julia turned pale at the very thought of the task she had to perform.
She opened the great book, and saw all the pages closely written, but in
the most confused manner possible. Here was, “Paid Mr. Crusty for a
week’s bread and baking” so much. Then, “Paid Mr. Pinchtoe for shoes,”
so much. “Paid half a year’s rent,” so much. Then came a butcher’s bill,
succeeded by a milliner’s, and that by a tallow-chandler’s. “What shall
I do?” cried poor Juliet—“where am I to begin, and how can I possibly
pick out all these things? Was ever such a tedious, perplexing task? O
that my good little creature were here again with her wand!”
She had but just uttered these words when the fairy Order stood before
her. “Don’t be startled, my dear,” said she; “I knew your wish, and made
haste to comply with it. Let me see your book.” She turned over a few
leaves, and then cried, “I see my crossgrained sister has played you a
trick. She has brought you the _daybook_ instead of the _leger_; but I
will set the matter to rights instantly.” She vanished, and presently
returned with another book, in which she showed Juliet every one of the
articles required, standing at the tops of the pages, and all the
particulars entered under them from the daybook; so that there was
nothing for her to do but cast up the sums, and copy out the heads with
their amount in single lines. As Juliet was a ready accountant, she was
not long in finishing the business, and produced her account neatly
written on one sheet of paper, at dinner.
The next day, Juliet’s tormentor brought her up a large box full of
letters stamped upon small bits of ivory, capitals and common letters of
all sorts, but jumbled together promiscuously, as if they had been
shaken in a bag. “Now, miss,” said she, “before you come down to dinner,
you must exactly copy out this poem in these ivory letters, placing them
line by line on the floor of your room.”
Juliet thought at first that this task would be pretty sport enough; but
when she set about it, she found such trouble in hunting out the letters
she wanted, every one seeming to come to hand before the right one, that
she proceeded very slowly; and the poem being a long one, it was plain
that night would come before it was finished. Sitting down and crying
for her kind friend was, therefore, her only resource.
Order was not far distant, for, indeed, she had been watching her
proceedings all the while. She made herself visible, and giving a tap on
the letters with her wand, they immediately arranged themselves
alphabetically in little double heaps, the small in one, and the great
in the other. After this operation, Juliet’s task went on with such
expedition, that she called up the old lady an hour before dinner, to be
witness to its completion.
The good lady kissed her, and told her, that as she hoped she was now
made fully sensible of the benefits of order, and the inconveniences of
disorder, she would not confine her any longer to work by herself at set
tasks, but she should come and sit with her. Juliet took such pains to
please her, by doing everything with the greatest neatness and
regularity, and reforming all her careless habits, that when she was
sent back to her mother, the following presents were made her,
constantly to remind her of the beauty and advantage of order:—
A cabinet of English coins, in which all the gold and silver money of
the kings was arranged in the order of their reigns.
A set of plaster casts of the Roman emperors.
A cabinet of beautiful shells, displayed according to the most approved
system.
A very complete box of water-colours, and another of crayons, sorted in
all the shades of the primary colours.
And a very nice housewife, with all the implements belonging to a
seamstress, and a good store of the best needles in sizes.
LIVE DOLLS.
Mrs. Lacour was accustomed to lay out for her daughter, a girl about
eight years old, a great deal of money in playthings. One morning Eliza
(that was her name) was in raptures over a new wax-doll, which her mamma
had given two guineas for in Fleet street. By means of a concealed wire,
it had been made to open and shut its eyes, to the no small surprise of
the little girl, not unmixed with a certain degree of terror, when her
mother first exhibited the phenomenon; but having had the principle
explained to her, she had spent the greatest part of the morning in
moving the wires up and down, and making them alternately open and shut
the eyelids. It is true the mechanism had one defect, which we record,
in hopes that the ingenuity of future doll-makers may find a remedy for
it. The doll shut her eyes after the manner of a bird, by drawing up the
membrane over the eye, instead of letting the eyelid fall over it, as is
the custom in human creatures; but as Eliza had not studied comparative
anatomy, this slight irregularity was not noticed. She was still in
raptures over her new acquisition, when she was surprised by a visit
from Mrs. Dorcas, a maiden sister of her father, who sometimes called
upon her. “Look here, my dear aunt,” said she, “what a charming doll I
have got; see, now its eyes are shut, now they are open again—how
curious! I dare say you cannot guess how I do it. I can hardly help
fancying it alive. To-morrow I shall begin to dress it, for it must have
a fine worked cap, with a laced border, and a long muslin robe and
shoes. I do not know whether it should have shoes yet, for it is only a
baby; and I shall lay it in the cradle, and rock it; and when I want it
to go to sleep, its eyes shall be shut, and in the morning they shall be
open again, just as if it were really alive: I wish it could eat and
drink—why could they not make its mouth to open?”
_Mrs. D._ Your doll is very pretty, indeed, and I commend you for
intending to make its clothes yourself, but would not you like better to
have a real live doll to dress?
_Eliza._ O yes! that I should, indeed; but I believe—I am afraid there
is no such doll.
_Mrs. D._ I will find you such a one if you will dress it.
_Eliza._ And will it open its mouth and eat?
_Mrs. D._ Yes, it will.
_Eliza._ And can it speak, too?
_Mrs. D._ I do not say it can speak yet; it has not been taught; but you
shall hear its voice, and you shall see it breathe; your doll does not
breathe. [Eliza took her doll and placed her hand upon its waxen bosom,
as if she expected to feel it heave.] And the clothes you will make will
warm it too. A wax-doll is not warmed by its clothes. Your doll is as
cold when she is wrapped up in a quilt and placed in the cradle as if
she were laid naked upon a marble slab.
_Eliza._ Is she?
_Mrs. D._ Yes; you may convince yourself of that whenever you please;
but this live doll will not only be warmed by the clothes you make, but
perhaps she may die if you do not make them.
_Eliza._ O! do not let her die—I will set about making the clothes
directly.
_Mrs. D._ Then come along with me.
Eliza sallied forth with her aunt Dorcas: she was all the way silent,
and breathless with expectation. After leading her through a few
streets, her aunt stopped at a house, and asked to be shown into the
workroom. It was a room where a number of young girls were sitting at a
long table, with cheerful and busy looks. The table was covered with
workbags, needlecases, thread-papers, and such like sewing implements,
and spread with flannel, calico, dimity, and old linen; one of the girls
was making a cap, another a petticoat, a third a frock—the elder ones
were cutting out the cloth—some of the little ones were stretching out
their hands to hold a skein of thread for the others to wind; not one
was unemployed. “What are they all doing?” said Eliza.
_Mrs. D._ They are all working for live dolls.
_Eliza._ But where are the dolls?
_Mrs. D._ You cannot see them yet; they would suffer if the clothes were
not prepared for them before they came.
_Eliza._ But here are no laces nor worked muslins; here is nothing very
pretty.
_Mrs. D._ No, because pretty things seldom have the property of keeping
the wearers warm.
_Eliza._ But who are they working for?
At that instant, a woman, with a child upon her bosom, pale, but with a
countenance shining with joy and gratitude, entered the workroom,
pouring out her thanks to the good young ladies, as she truly called
them, for their well-timed bounty. “But for you,” she said, “this dear
little infant might perhaps have perished, or at least its little limbs
would have been chilled with cold for want of good and substantial
clothing. My husband was ill, and could not work, and I had no money to
buy anything but necessary food. If I could have bought the materials,
or if you had given them me, I could not have cut them out and contrived
them, and made them up myself: for I was never taught to be handy at my
needle as you have been, ladies. I was only set to coarse work. Look
what a sweet little infant it is, and how comfortable he looks. God
bless you, dear ladies! and make you all happy wives and mothers, when
the time comes!” The girls, with great pleasure, rose when she had
finished her address to them; and after congratulating the mother, took
the infant, and handing it from one to another, kissed and played with
it. Eliza, too, advanced, but timidly, and as if she had not yet earned
a right to caress it. “Approach, my niece,” said Mrs. Dorcas, “kiss the
lips of this infant, and imbibe that affection which is one of the
characteristics of your sex. Women are made to love children, and they
should begin to love them while they themselves are children; nor is
there any surer way of learning to love a being, than by doing good to
it. You see now why I brought you hither. This is the live doll I
promised you; its limbs are not the work of a clumsy mechanic, they are
fashioned by consummate wisdom and skill, and it will not always remain
as it is: this little frame has a principle of improvement in it—it has
powers that will unfold themselves by degrees—the limbs will stretch and
grow; after a while it will walk, it will speak, it will play, it will
be like one of you. How precious then is the life of such a creature!
But it has pleased the Creator of all things that this excellent being
should come into the world naked and helpless; it has neither hair, nor
wool, nor fur, nor feathers to keep it warm; if not clothed and
cherished, it would soon be killed with the cold. It is, therefore, very
desirable to help those poor people who cannot afford to clothe their
infants, lest so admirable a work of God as a human creature should
perish for want of care. There is a great deal of pain and danger in
bearing children in any situation of life; but when people are poor as
well as sick, the distress is very much increased. These good young
ladies, Eliza, have formed a society among themselves for making
baby-linen for the poor. Nobody bid them do it; it was entirely of their
own accord. They have agreed to subscribe a penny a week out of their
little pocket-money. A penny is a very small matter; girls who have a
great deal of money perhaps would not suppose it worth thinking about,
but a great many pennies every week will in time come to a sum that is
not so contemptible. With this they buy the materials, such as warm
flannels, coarse printed cottons, and dimity. Their mammas give them,
every now and then, some fine old linen and cast-off clothes; but the
value of their work is a great deal more than that of the materials: if
they did not cut and contrive, and make them up, they would be of little
service comparatively to the poor people; besides, the doing so will
make them clever managers when they come to have children of their own.
None of these good girls are above fourteen; and they have clothed a
number of little helpless infants, and made, as you have seen, the
mothers’ hearts very glad. Now, if you wish it, I dare say they will let
you work with them; but here is no finery, and if you like better to
work for your wax-doll, do so.”—“O, no!” said Eliza, “the live doll for
me;” and she bespoke a place at the long worktable.
THE HOG AND OTHER ANIMALS.
A debate once arose among the animals in a farmyard, which of them was
most valued by their common master. After the horse, the ox, the cow,
the sheep, and the dog, had stated their several pretensions, the hog
took up the discourse.
“It is plain,” said he, “that the greatest value must be set upon that
animal which is kept most for his own sake, without expecting from him
any return of use and service. Now, which of you can boast so much in
that respect as I can?
“As for you, horse, though you are very well fed and lodged, and have
servants to attend upon you, and make you sleek and clean, yet all this
is for the sake of your labour. Do not I see you taken out early every
morning, put in chains, or fastened to the shafts of a heavy cart, and
not brought back till noon; when, after a short respite, you are taken
to work again till late in the evening? I may say just the same to the
ox, except that he works for poorer fare.
“For you, Mrs. Cow, who are so dainty over your chopped straw and
grains, you are thought worth keeping only for your milk, which is
drained from you twice a day to the last drop, while your poor young
ones are taken from you, and sent I know not whither.
“You, poor innocent sheep, who are turned out to shift for yourselves
upon the bare hills, or penned upon the fallows with now and then a
withered turnip or some musty hay, you pay dearly enough for your keep
by resigning your warm coat every year, for want of which you are liable
to be frozen to death on some of the cold nights before summer.
“As for the dog, who prides himself so much on being admitted to our
master’s table, and made his companion, that he will scarce condescend
to reckon himself one of us, he is obliged to do all the offices of a
domestic servant by day, and to keep watch during the night, while we
are quietly asleep.
“In short, you are all of you creatures maintained for use—poor
subservient things, made to be enslaved or pillaged. I, on the contrary,
have a warm stye and plenty of provisions all at free cost. I have
nothing to do but grow fat and follow my amusement; and my master is
best pleased when he sees me lying at ease in the sun, or filling my
belly.”
Thus argued the hog, and put the rest to silence by so much logic and
rhetoric. This was not long before winter set in. It proved a very
scarce season for fodder of all kinds; so that the farmer began to
consider how he was to maintain all his live stock till spring. “It will
be impossible for me,” thought he, “to keep them all; I must therefore
part with those I can best spare. As for my horses and working oxen, I
shall have business enough to employ them; they must be kept, cost what
it will. My cows will not give me much milk in the winter, but they will
calve in the spring, and be ready for the new grass. I must not lose the
profit of my dairy. The sheep, poor things, will take care of themselves
as long as there is a bite upon the hills; and if deep snow comes, we
must do with them as well as we can by the help of a few turnips and
some hay, for I must have their wool at shearing-time to make out my
rent with. But my hogs will eat me out of house and home, without doing
me any good. They must go to pot, that’s certain; and the sooner I get
rid of the fat ones, the better.”
So saying, he singled out the orator as one of the prime among them, and
sent him to the butcher the very next day.
[Illustration:
EVENING IV.
]
THE BULLIES.
As young Francis was walking through a village with his tutor, they were
annoyed by two or three cur-dogs, that came running after them with
looks of the utmost fury, snarling and barking as if they would tear
their throats, and seeming every moment ready to fly upon them. Francis
every now and then stopped and shook his stick at them, or stooped down
to pick up a stone, upon which the curs retreated as fast as they came;
but as soon as he turned about, they were after his heels again. This
lasted till they came to a farmyard, through which their road lay. A
large mastiff was lying down in it at his ease in the sun. Francis was
almost afraid to pass him, and kept as close to his tutor as possible.
However, the dog took not the least notice of them.
Presently, they came upon a common, where, going near a flock of geese,
they were assailed with hissings, and pursued some way by these foolish
birds, which, stretching out their long necks, made a very ridiculous
figure. Francis only laughed at them, though he was tempted to give the
foremost a switch across his neck. A little further was a herd of cows
with a bull among them, upon which Francis looked with some degree of
apprehension; but they kept quietly grazing, and did not take their
heads from the ground as he passed.
“It is a lucky thing,” said Francis to his tutor, “that mastiffs and
bulls are not so quarrelsome as curs and geese; but what can be the
reason of it?”
“The reason,” replied the tutor, “is, that paltry and contemptible
animals, possessing no confidence in their own strength and courage, and
knowing themselves liable to injury from most of those that come in
their way, think it safer to take the part of bullies, and to make a
show of attacking those of whom in reality they are afraid: whereas,
animals which are conscious of force sufficient for their own
protection, suspecting no evil designs from others, entertain none
themselves, but maintain dignified composure.
“Thus you will find it among mankind. Weak, mean, petty characters are
suspicious, snarling, and petulant. They raise an outcry against their
superiors in talents and reputation, of whom they stand in awe, and put
on airs of defiance and insolence through mere cowardice. But the truly
great are calm and inoffensive. They fear no injury, and offer none.
They even suffer slight attacks to go unnoticed, conscious of their
power to right themselves whenever the occasion shall seem to require
it.”
THE TRAVELLED ANT.
There was a garden enclosed with high brick walls, and laid out somewhat
in the old fashion. Under the walls were wide beds planted with flowers,
garden-stuff, and fruit-trees. Next to them was a broad gravel-walk
running round the garden; and the middle was laid out in grass-plots,
and beds of flowers and shrubs with a fish-pond in the centre.
Near the root of one of the wall fruit-trees, a numerous colony of ants
was established, which had extended its subterraneous works over great
part of the bed in its neighbourhood. One day, two of the inhabitants,
meeting in a gallery under ground, fell into the following
conversation:—
“Ha! my friend,” said the first, “is it you? I am glad to see you. Where
have you been this long time? All your acquaintance have been in pain
about you, lest some accident should have befallen you.”
“Why,” replied the other, “I am, indeed, a sort of stranger, for you
must know I am but just returned from a long journey.”
“A journey! whither, pray, and on what account?”
“A tour of mere curiosity. I had long felt dissatisfied with knowing so
little about this world of ours; so, at length, I took a resolution to
explore it. And I may now boast that I have gone round its utmost
extremities, and that no considerable part of it has escaped my
researches.”
“Wonderful! What a traveller you have been, and what sights you must
have seen!”
“Why, yes—I have seen more than most ants, to be sure; but it has been
at the expense of so much toil and danger, that I know not whether it
was worth the pains.”
“Would you oblige me with some account of your adventures?”
“Willingly: I set out, then, early one sunshiny morning; and, after
crossing our territory and the line of plantation by which it is
bordered; I came upon a wide open plain, where, as far as the eye could
reach, not a single green thing was to be descried, but the hard soil
was everywhere covered with huge stones, which made travelling equally
painful to the eye and the feet. As I was toiling onward, I heard a
rumbling noise behind me, which became louder and louder. I looked back,
and with the utmost horror beheld a prodigious rolling mountain
approaching me so fast that it was impossible to get out of the way. I
threw myself flat on the ground behind a stone, and lay expecting
nothing but present death. The mountain soon passed over me, and I
continued (I know not how long) in a state of insensibility. When I
recovered, I began to stretch my limbs one by one, and, to my surprise,
found myself not in the least injured! but the stone beside me was
almost buried in the earth by the crash!”
“What an escape!”
“A wonderful one, indeed. I journeyed on over the desert, and at length
came to the end of it, and entered upon a wide green tract consisting
chiefly of tall, narrow, pointed leaves, which grew so thick and
entangled, that it was with the greatest difficulty I could make my way
between them; and I should continually have lost my road, had I not
taken care to keep the sun in view before me. When I had got near the
middle of this region, I was startled with the sight of a huge
four-legged monster, with a yellow speckled skin, which took a flying
leap directly over me. Somewhat farther, before I was aware, I ran upon
one of those long, round, crawling creatures, without head, tail, or
legs, which we sometimes meet with under ground, near our settlement. As
soon as he felt me upon him, he drew back into his hole so swiftly, that
he was near drawing me in along with him. However, I jumped off, and
proceeded on my way.
“With much labour I got, at last, to the end of this perplexed tract,
and came to an open space like that in which we live, in the midst of
which grew trees so tall that I could not see to their tops. Being
hungry, I climbed the first I came to, in expectation of finding some
fruit; but after a weary search I returned empty. I tried several others
with no better success. There were, indeed, leaves and flowers in
plenty, but nothing of which I could make a meal; so that I might have
been famished, had I not found some sour harsh berries upon the ground,
on which I made a poor repast. While I was doing this, a greater danger
than any of the former befell me. One of those two-legged feathered
creatures, which we often see to our cost, jumped down from a bough, and
picked up in his enormous beak the very berry on which I was standing.
Luckily, he did not swallow it immediately, but flew up again with it to
the tree; and, in the meantime, I disengaged myself, and fell from a
vast height to the ground, but received no hurt.
“I crossed this plantation, and came to another entangled green like the
first. After I had laboured through it, I came on a sudden to the side
of a vast glittering plain, the nature of which I could not possibly
guess at. I walked along a fallen leaf which lay on the side, and coming
to the farther edge of it, I was greatly surprised to see another ant
coming from below to meet me. I advanced to give him a fraternal
embrace; but instead of what I expected, I met a cold yielding matter,
in which I should have sunk, had I not speedily turned about, and caught
hold of the leaf, by which I drew myself up again. And now I found this
great plain to consist of that fluid which sometimes falls from the sky,
and causes so much trouble by filling our holes.
“As I stood considering how to proceed on my journey, a gentle breeze
arose, which, before I was aware, carried the leaf I was upon away from
the solid land into this yielding fluid, which, however, bore it up and
me along with it. At first, I was greatly alarmed, and ran round and
round my leaf in order to find some way of getting back; but perceiving
this to be impracticable, I resigned myself to my fate, and even began
to take some pleasure in the easy motion by which I was borne forward.
But what new and wonderful forms of living creatures did I see
inhabiting this liquid land! Bodies of prodigious bulk, covered with
shining scales of various colours, shot by me with vast rapidity, and
sported a thousand ways. They had large heads and staring eyes,
tremendous wide mouths, but no legs; and they seemed to be carried on by
the action of something like small wings planted on various parts of the
body, and especially at the end of the tail, which continually waved
about. Other smaller creatures, of a great variety of extraordinary
forms, were moving through the clear fluid, or resting upon its surface;
and I saw with terror numbers of them continually seized and swallowed
by the larger ones before-mentioned.
“When I had got near the middle, the smooth surface of this plain was
all roughened, and moved up and down, so as to toss about my leaf, and
nearly overset it. I trembled to think what would become of me, should I
be thrown amidst all these terrible monsters. At last, however, I got
safe to the other side, and with joy set my feet on dry land again. I
ascended a gentle green slope, which led to a tall plantation like that
I had before passed through. Another green plain, and another stony
desert, succeeded; which brought me, at length, to the opposite boundary
of our world, enclosed by the same immense mound rising to the heavens,
which limits us on this side.
“Here I fell in with another nation of our species differing little in
way of life from ourselves. They invited me to their settlement, and
entertained me hospitably, and I accompanied them in several excursions
in the neighbourhood. There was a charming fruit-tree at no great
distance, to which we made frequent visits. One day as I was regaling
deliciously on the heart of a green-gage plum, I felt myself on a sudden
carried along with great swiftness, till I got into a dark place, where
a horrid crash threw me upon a soft moist piece of flesh, whence I was
soon driven forth in a torrent of wind and moisture, and found myself on
the ground all covered with slime. I disengaged myself with difficulty
and looking up, descried one of those enormous two-legged animals, which
often shake the ground over our heads, and put us in terror.
“My new friends now began to hint to me that it was time to depart, ‘for
you know we are not fond of naturalizing strangers.’ And lucky, indeed,
it was for me that I received the hint when I did; for I had but just
left the place, and was travelling over a neighbouring eminence, when I
heard behind me a tremendous noise; and looking back I saw the whole of
their settlement blown into the air with a prodigious explosion of fire
and smoke. Numbers of half-burnt bodies, together with the ruins of
their habitations, were thrown to a vast distance around; and such a
suffocating vapour arose, that I lay for some time deprived of sense and
motion. From some of the wretched fugitives I learned that the disaster
was attributed to subterranean fire bursting its way to the surface: the
cause of which, however, was supposed to be connected with the
machinations of that malignant two-legged monster, from whose jaws I had
so narrowly escaped, who had been observed, just before the explosion,
to pour through the holes leading to the great apartment of the
settlement, a number of black shining grains.
“On my return from this remote country, I kept along the boundary-wall,
which I knew by observation must at length bring me back to my own home.
I met with several wandering tribes of our species in my road, and
frequently joined their foraging parties in search of food. One day, a
company of us, allured by the smell of something sweet, climbed some
lofty pillars, on which was placed a vast round edifice, having only one
entrance. At this, were continually going in and coming out those winged
animals, somewhat like ourselves in form, but many times bigger, and
armed with a dreadful sting, which we so often meet with sipping the
juices of flowers; but whether they were the architects of this great
mansion, or it was built for them by some beneficent being of great
powers, I am unable to decide. It seemed, however, to be the place where
they deposited what they so industriously collect; for they were
perpetually arriving loaded with a fragrant substance, which they
carried in, and then returned empty. We had a great desire to enter with
them, but were deterred by their formidable appearance, and a kind of
angry hum, which continually proceeded from the house. At length two or
three of the boldest of our party, watching a time when the entrance was
pretty free, ventured to go in: but we soon saw them driven out in great
haste, and trampled down and massacred at the gateway. The rest of us
made a speedy retreat.
“Two more adventures which happened to me had very nearly prevented my
return to my own country. Having one evening, together with a companion,
taken up my quarters in an empty snail-shell, there came on such a
shower of rain in the night, that the shell was presently filled. I
awaked just suffocated; but, luckily, having my head turned towards the
mouth of the shell, I rose to the top, and made a shift to crawl to a
dry place. My companion, who had got farther into the shell, never rose
again.
“Not long after, as I was travelling under the wall, I descried a
curious pit, with a circular orifice, gradually growing narrower to the
bottom. On coming close to the brink in order to survey it, the edge,
which was of fine sand, gave way and I slid down the pit. As soon as I
had reached the bottom, a creature with a huge pair of horns and
dreadful claws made his appearance from beneath the sand, and attempted
to seize me. I flew back, and ran up the side of the pit; when he threw
over me such a shower of sand as blinded me, and had like to have
brought me down again. However, by exerting all my strength, I got out
of his reach, and did not cease running till I was at a considerable
distance. I was afterward informed that this was the den of an antlion,
a terrible foe of our species, which, not equalling us in speed, is
obliged to make use of this crafty device to entrap his heedless prey.
“This was the last of my perils. To my great joy, I reached my native
place last night, where I mean to stay content for the future. I do not
know how far I have benefited from my travels, but one important
conclusion I have drawn from them.”
“What is that?” said his friend.
“Why, you know it is the current opinion with us, that everything in
this world was made for our use. Now, I have seen such vast tracts not
at all fit for our residence, and peopled with creatures so much larger
and stronger than ourselves, that I cannot help being convinced that the
Creator had in view their accommodation as well as ours, in making this
world.”
“I confess this seems probable enough; but you had better keep your
opinion to yourself.”
“Why so?”
“You know we ants are a vain race, and make high pretensions to wisdom
as well as antiquity. We shall be affronted with any attempts to lessen
our importance in our own eyes.”
“But there is no wisdom in being deceived.”
“Well—do as you think proper. Meantime, farewell, and thanks for the
entertainment you have given me.”
“Farewell!”
THE COLONISTS.
“Come,” said Mr. Barlow to his boys, “I have a new play for you. I will
be the founder of a colony; and you shall be people of different trades
and professions coming to offer yourselves to go with me. What are you,
_A._?”
_A._ I am a farmer, sir.
_Mr. B._ Very well! Farming is the chief thing we have to depend upon,
so we cannot have too much of it. But you must be a working farmer, not
a gentleman-farmer. Labourers will be scarce among us, and every man
must put his own hand to the plough. There will be woods to clear, and
marshes to drain, and a great deal of stubborn work to do.
_A._ I shall be ready to do my part, sir.
_Mr. B._ Well, then, I shall entertain you willingly, and as many more
of your profession as you can bring. You shall have land enough, and
utensils; and you may fall to work as soon as you please. Now for the
next.
_B._ I am a miller, sir.
_Mr. B._ A very useful trade! The corn we grow must be ground, or it
will do us little good. But what will you do for a mill, my friend?
_B._ I suppose we must make one, sir.
_Mr. B._ True; but then you must bring with you a millwright for the
purpose. As for millstones, we will take them out with us. Who is next?
_C._ I am a carpenter, sir.
_Mr. B._ The most necessary man that could offer! We shall find you work
enough, never fear. There will be houses to build, fences to make, and
all kinds of wooden furniture to provide. But our timber is all growing.
You will have a great deal of hard work to do in felling trees, and
sawing planks, and shaping posts and the like. You must be a
field-carpenter as well as a house-carpenter.
_C._ I will, sir.
_Mr. B._ Very well! then I engage you, but you had better bring two or
three able hands along with you.
_D._ I am a blacksmith, sir.
_Mr. B._ An excellent companion for the carpenter! We cannot do without
either of you; so you may bring your great bellows and anvil, and we
will set up a forge for you as soon as we arrive. But, by-the-by, we
shall want a mason for that purpose.
_E._ I am one, sir.
_Mr. B._ That’s well. Though we may live in loghouses at first, we shall
want brick or stone work for chimneys, and hearths, and ovens; so there
will be employment for a mason. But if you can make bricks and burn
lime, too, you will be still more useful.
_E._ I will try what I can do, sir.
_Mr. B._ No man can do more. I engage you. Who is next?
_F._ I am a shoemaker, sir.
_Mr. B._ And shoes we cannot well do without. But can you make them,
like Eumæus in the Odyssey, out of a raw hide? for I fear we shall get
no leather.
_F._ But I can dress hides, too.
_Mr. B._ Can you?—then you are a clever fellow, and I will have you,
though I give you double wages.
_G._ I am a tailor, sir.
_Mr. B._ Well—though it will be some time before we want holyday-suits,
yet we must not go naked; so there will be work for the tailor But you
are not above mending and botching, I hope, for we must not mind patched
clothes while we work in the woods.
_G._ I am not, sir.
_Mr. B._ Then I engage you, too.
_H._ I am a weaver, sir.
_Mr. B._ Weaving is a very useful art, but I question if we can find
room for it in our colony for the present. We shall not grow either hemp
or flax for some time to come, and it will be cheaper for us to import
our cloth than to make it. In a few years, however, we may be very glad
of you.
_J._ I am a silversmith and jeweller, sir.
_Mr. B._ Then, my friend, you cannot go to a worse place than a new
colony to set up your trade in. You will break us, or we shall starve
you.
_J._ But I understand clock and watch making, too.
_Mr. B._ That is somewhat more to our purpose, for we shall want to know
how time goes. But I doubt we cannot give you sufficient encouragement
for a long time to come. For the present you had better stay where you
are.
_K._ I am a barber and hairdresser, sir.
_Mr. B._ Alas! what can we do with you? If you will shave our men’s
rough beards once a week, and crop their hair once a quarter, and be
content to help the carpenter, or follow the plough the rest of your
time, we shall reward you accordingly. But you will have no ladies and
gentlemen to dress for a ball, or wigs to curl and powder for Sundays, I
assure you. Your trade will not stand by itself with us for a great time
to come.
_L._ I am a medical man, sir.
_Mr. B._ Then, sir, you are very welcome. Health is the first of
blessings, and if you can give us that, you will be a valuable man
indeed. But I hope you understand surgery as well as physic, for we are
likely enough to get cuts and bruises, and broken bones occasionally.
_L._ I have had experience in that branch too, sir.
_Mr. B._ And if you understand the nature of plants, and their uses both
in medicine and diet, it will be a great addition to your usefulness.
_L._ Botany has been a favourite study with me, sir; and I have some
knowledge of chymistry, and the other parts of natural history, too.
_Mr. B._ Then you will be a treasure to us, sir, and I shall be happy to
make it worth your while to go with us.
_M._ I, sir, am a lawyer.
_Mr. B._ Sir, your most obedient servant. When we are rich enough to go
to law, we will let you know.
_N._ I am a schoolmaster, sir.
_Mr. B._ That is a profession which I am sure I do not mean to
undervalue; and as soon as ever we have young folks in our colony, we
shall be glad of your services. Though we are to be hard-working, plain
people, we do not intend to be ignorant, and we shall make it a point to
have every one taught reading and writing, at least. In the meantime,
till we have employment enough for you in teaching, you may keep the
accounts and records of the colony: and on Sunday you may read prayers
to all those that choose to attend upon you.
_N._ With all my heart, sir.
_Mr. B._ Then I engage you. Who comes here with so bold an air?
_O._ I am a soldier, sir; will you have me?
_Mr. B._ We are peaceable people, and I hope shall have no occasion to
fight. We mean honestly to purchase our land from the natives, and to be
just and fair in all our dealings with them. William Penn, the founder
of Pennsylvania followed that plan; and when the Indians were at war
with all the other European settlers, a person in a quaker’s habit might
pass through all their most ferocious tribes without the least injury.
It is my intention, however, to make all my colonists soldiers, so far
as to be able to defend themselves if attacked, and that being the case,
we shall have no need of _soldiers by trade_.
_P._ I am a gentleman, sir; and I have a great desire to accompany you,
because I hear game is very plentiful in that country.
_Mr. B._ A gentleman! And what good will you do us, sir?
_P._ O, sir, that is not at all my intention. I only mean to amuse
myself.
_Mr. B._ But do you mean, sir, that we should pay for your amusement?
_P._ As to maintenance, I expect to be able to kill game enough for my
own eating, with a little bread and garden-stuff, which you will give
me. Then I will be content with a house somewhat better than the common
ones; and your barber shall be my valet; so I shall give very little
trouble.
_Mr. B._ And pray, sir, what inducement can we have for doing all this
for you?
_P._ Why, sir, you will have the credit of having _one gentleman_ at
least in your colony.
_Mr. B._ Ha, ha, ha! A facetious gentleman, truly! Well, sir, when we
are ambitious of such a distinction, we will send for you.
[Illustration:
EVENING V.
]
THE DOG AND HIS RELATIONS.
Keeper was a farmer’s mastiff, honest, brave, and vigilant. One day, as
he was ranging at some distance from home, he espied a wolf and a fox
sitting together at the corner of a wood. Keeper, not much liking their
looks, though by no means fearing them, was turning another way, when
they called after him, and civilly desired him to stay, “Surely, sir,”
says Reynard, “you wo’n’t disown your relations. My cousin Gaunt and I
were just talking over family-matters, and we both agreed that we had
the honour of reckoning you among our kin. You must know that, according
to the best accounts, the wolves and dogs were originally one race in
the forests of Armenia; but the dogs, taking to living with man, have
since become inhabitants of towns and villages, while the wolves have
retained their ancient mode of life. As to my ancestors, the foxes, they
were a branch of the same family, who settled farther northward, where
they became stinted in their growth, and adopted the custom of living in
holes under ground. The cold has sharpened our noses, and given us a
thicker fur and bushy tails to keep us warm. But we have all a family
likeness which it is impossible to mistake; and I am sure it is our
interest to be good friends with each other.”
The wolf was of the same opinion; and Keeper, looking narrowly at them,
could not help acknowledging their relationship. As he had a generous
heart, he readily entered into friendship with them. They took a ramble
together; but Keeper was rather surprised at observing the suspicious
shyness with which some of the weaker sort of animals surveyed them, and
wondered at the hasty flight of a flock of sheep as soon as they came
within view. However, he gave his cousins a cordial invitation to come
and see him at his yard, and then took his leave.
They did not fail to come the next day about dusk. Keeper received them
kindly, and treated them with part of his own supper. They stayed with
him till after dark, and then marched off with many compliments. The
next morning word was brought to the farm that a goose and three
goslings were missing, and that a couple of lambs were found almost
devoured in the home-field. Keeper was too honest himself readily to
suspect others, so he never thought of his kinsmen on the occasion. Soon
after, they paid him a second evening visit; and next day, another loss
appeared, of a hen and her chickens, and a fat sheep. Now Keeper could
not help mistrusting a little, and blamed himself for admitting
strangers without his master’s knowledge. However, he still did not love
to think ill of his own relations.
They came a third time. Keeper received them rather coldly; and hinted
that he should like better to see them in the daytime; but they excused
themselves for want of leisure. When they took their leave he resolved
to follow at some distance and watch their motions. A litter of young
pigs happened to be lying under a haystack without the yard. The wolf
seized one by the back, and ran off with him. The pig set up a most
dismal squeal; and Keeper, running up at the noise, caught his dear
cousin in the fact. He flew at him and made him relinquish his prey,
though not without much snarling and growling. The fox, who had been
prowling about the henroost, now came up, and began to make
protestations of his own innocence, with heavy reproaches against the
wolf for thus disgracing the family. “Begone, scoundrels both!” cried
Keeper; “I know you now too well. You may be of my blood, but I am sure
you are not of my spirit. Keeper holds no kindred with villains.” So
saying, he drove them from the premises.
THE HISTORY AND ADVENTURES OF A CAT.
Some days ago died GRIMALKIN, the favourite tabby-cat of Mrs. Petlove.
Her disorder was a shortness of breath, proceeding partly from old age,
and partly from fat. As she felt her end approaching, she called her
children to her, and with a great deal of difficulty spoke as follows:—
“Before I depart from this world, my children, I mean, if my breath will
give me leave, to relate to you the principal events of my life, as the
variety of scenes I have gone through may afford you some useful
instruction for avoiding those dangers to which our species are
particularly exposed.
“Without further preface, then, I was born at a farmhouse, in a village
some miles hence; and almost as soon as I came into the world, I was
very near leaving it again. My mother brought five of us at a litter;
and as the frugal people of the house only kept cats to be useful, and
were already sufficiently stocked, we were immediately doomed to be
drowned; and accordingly, a boy was ordered to take us all and throw us
into the horsepond. This commission he performed with the pleasure boys
seem naturally to take in acts of cruelty, and we were presently set a
swimming. While we were struggling for life, a little girl, daughter to
the farmer, came running to the pond-side, and begged very hard that she
might save one of us, and bring him up for her own. After some dispute
her request was granted; and the boy, reaching out his arm, took hold of
me, who was luckily nearest him, and brought me out when I was just
spent. I was laid on the grass, and it was some time before I recovered.
The girl then restored me to my mother, who was overjoyed to get again
one of her little ones; and for fear of another mischance, she took me
in her mouth to a dark hole, where she kept me till I could see, and was
able to run by her side. As soon as I came to light again, my little
mistress took possession of me, and tended me very carefully. Her
fondness, indeed, was sometimes troublesome, as she pinched my sides
with carrying me, and once or twice hurt me a good deal by letting me
fall. Soon, however, I became strong and active, and played and
gambolled all day long, to the great delight of my mistress and her
companions.
“At this time I had another narrow escape. A man brought into the house
a strange dog, who had been taught to worry all the cats that came in
his way. My mother slunk away at his entrance; but I, thinking, like a
little fool as I was, that I was able to protect myself, stayed on the
floor, growling, and setting up my back by way of defiance. The dog
instantly ran at me, and before I could get my claws ready, seized me
with his mouth, and began to gripe and shake me most terribly. I
screamed out, and, by good luck, my mistress was within hearing. She ran
to us, but was not able to disengage me; however, a servant, seeing her
distress took a great stick, and gave the dog such a bang on the back,
that he was forced to let me go. He had used me so roughly, that I was
not able to stand for some time; but by care and a good constitution I
recovered.
“I was now running after everybody’s heels, by which means I got one day
locked up in the dairy. I was not sorry for this accident, thinking to
feast upon the cream and other good things. But having climbed a shelf
to get at a bowl of cream, I unluckily fell backward into a large vessel
of buttermilk, where I should probably have been drowned, had not the
maid heard the noise, and come to see what was the matter. She took me
out, scolding bitterly at me, and after making me undergo a severe
discipline at the pump to clean me, she dismissed me with a good
whipping. I took care not to follow her into the dairy again.
“After a while I began to get into the yard, and my mother took me into
the barn on a mousing expedition. I shall never forget the pleasure this
gave me. We sat by a hole, and presently out came a mouse with a brood
of young ones. My mother darted among them, and first demolished the old
one, and then pursued the little ones, who ran about squeaking in
dreadful perplexity. I now thought it was time for me to do something,
and accordingly ran after a straggler, and soon overtook it. O, how
proud was I, as I stood over my trembling captive, and patted him with
my paws! My pride, however, soon met with a check; for seeing one day a
large rat I courageously flew at him; but instead of running from me, he
gave me such a bite on the nose, that I ran away to my mother mewing
piteously, with my face all bloody and swelled. For some time I did not
meddle with rats again; but at length, growing stronger and more
skilful, I feared neither rats nor any other vermin, and acquired the
reputation of an excellent hunter.
“I had some other escapes about this time. Once I happened to meet with
some poisoned food laid for the rats, and eating it, I was thrown into a
disorder that was very near killing me. At another time, I chanced to
set my foot in a rat-trap, and received so many deep wounds from its
teeth, that though I was loosened as gently as possible by the people
who heard me cry, I was rendered lame for some weeks after.
“Time went on, and I arrived at my full growth; and forming an
acquaintance with a male-cat about my age, after a decent resistance by
scolding, biting, and scratching, we made a match of it. I became a
mother in due time, and had the mortification of seeing several broods
of my kittens disposed of in the same manner as my brothers and sisters
had been. I shall mention two or three more adventures in the order I
remember them. I was once prowling for birds along a hedge at some
distance from home, when the ‘squire’s grayhounds came that way a
coursing. As soon as they spied me, they set off full speed, and running
much faster than I could do, were just behind me, when I reached a tree,
and saved myself by climbing it. But a greater danger befell me on
meeting with a parcel of boys returning from school. They surrounded me
before I was aware, and obliged me to take refuge in a tree; but I soon
found that a poor defence against such enemies; for they assembled about
it, and threw stones on all sides, so that I could not avoid receiving
many hard blows, one of which brought me senseless to the ground. The
biggest boy now seized me, and proposed to the rest making what he
called rare sport with me. This sport was to tie me to a board, and
launching me on a pond, to set some water-dogs at me, who were to duck
and half drown me, while I was to defend myself by biting their noses,
and scratching their eyes. Already was I bound, and just ready to be set
a sailing when the schoolmaster taking a walk that way, and seeing the
bustle, came up, and obliged the boys to set me at liberty, severely
reprimanding them for their cruel intentions.
“The next remarkable incident of my life was the occasion of my removal
from the country. My mistress’s brother had a tame linnet, of which he
was very fond; for it would come and light on his shoulder when he
called for it, and feed out of his hand; and it sung well besides. This
bird was usually either in its cage or upon a high perch; but one
unlucky day, when he and I were alone in the room together, he came down
on the table to pick up crumbs. I spied him, and not being able to
resist the temptation, sprung at him, and catching him in my claws, soon
began to devour him. I had almost finished when his master came into the
room; and seeing me with the remains of poor linnet in my mouth, he ran
to me in the greatest fury, and after chasing me several times round the
room, at length caught me. He was proceeding instantly to hang me, when
his sister, by many entreaties and tears, persuaded him, after a good
whipping, to forgive me, upon the promise that I should be sent away.
Accordingly, the next market-day I was despatched in the cart to a
relation of theirs in this town, who wanted a good cat, as the house was
overrun with mice.
“In the service of this family I continued a good while, performing my
duty as a mouser extremely well, so that I was in high esteem. I soon
became acquainted with all the particulars of a town life, and
distinguished my activity in climbing walls and houses, and jumping from
roof to roof, either in pursuit of prey, or upon gossiping parties with
my companions. Once, however, I had like to have suffered for my
venturing; for having made a great jump from one house to another, I lit
upon a loose tile, which giving way with me, I fell from a vast height
into the street, and should certainly have been killed, had I not had
the luck to light in a dung-cart, whence I escaped with no other injury
but being half stifled with filth.
“Notwithstanding the danger I had run from killing the linnet, I am
sorry to confess that I was again guilty of a similar offence. I
contrived one night to leap down from a roof upon the board of some
pigeon-holes, which led to a garret inhabited by those birds. I entered,
and finding them asleep, made sad havoc among all that were within my
reach, killing and sucking the blood of near a dozen. I was near paying
dearly for this, too; for on attempting to return, I found it was
impossible for me to leap up again to the place whence I had descended,
so that, after several dangerous trials, I was obliged to wait trembling
in the place where I had committed all these murders, till the owner
came up in the morning to feed his pigeons. I rushed out between his
legs as soon as the door was opened, and had the good fortune to get
safe down stairs, and make my escape through a window unknown; but never
shall I forget the horrors I felt that night! Let my double danger be a
warning to you, my children, to control your savage appetites, and on no
account to do harm to those creatures which, like ourselves, are under
the protection of man. We cats all lie under a bad name for treacherous
dispositions in this respect, and with shame I must acknowledge it is
but too well merited.
“Well—but my breath begins to fail me, and I must hasten to a
conclusion. I still lived in the same family, when our present kind
mistress, Mrs. Petlove, having lost a favourite tabby, advertised a very
handsome price for another, that should as nearly as possible resemble
her dead darling. My owners, tempted by the offer, took me for the good
lady’s inspection, and I had the honour of being preferred to a
multitude of rivals. I was immediately settled in the comfortable
mansion we now inhabit, and had many favours and indulgences bestowed
upon me, such as I had never before experienced. Among these I reckon
one of the principal that of being allowed to rear all my children, and
to see them grow up in peace and plenty. My adventures here have been
few; for after the monkey had spitefully bit off the last joint of my
tail, (for which I had the satisfaction to see him soundly corrected,) I
kept beyond the length of his chain; and neither the parrot nor lapdogs
ever dared to molest me. One of the greatest afflictions I have felt
here was the stifling of a whole litter of my kittens by a fat old lady,
a friend of my mistress, who sat down on the chair where they lay, and
never perceived the mischief she was doing till she rose, though I
pulled her clothes and used all the means in my power to show my
uneasiness. This misfortune my mistress took to heart almost as much as
myself, and the lady has never since entered our doors. Indeed, both I
and mine had ever been treated here with the utmost kindness—perhaps
with too much; for, to the pampering me with delicacies, together with
Mrs. Abigail’s frequent washings, I attribute this asthma, which is now
putting an end to my life rather sooner than its natural period. But I
know all was meant well; and with my last breath I charge you all to
show your gratitude to our worthy mistress, by every return in your
power.
“And now, my dear children, farewell; we shall perhaps meet again in a
land where there are no dogs to worry us, or boys to torment us—Adieu!”
Having thus said, Grimalkin became speechless, and presently departed
this life, to the great grief of all the family.
CANUTE’S REPROOF TO HIS COURTIERS.
PERSONS.
CANUTE King of England.
OSWALD, OFFA Courtiers.
Scene—_The seaside, near Southampton. The tide coming in._
_Canute._ Is it true, my friends, what you have so often told me, that I
am the greatest of monarchs?
_Offa._ It is true, my liege; you are the most powerful of all kings.
_Oswald._ We are all your slaves; we kiss the dust of your feet.
_Offa._ Not only we, but even the elements, are your slaves. The land
obeys you from shore to shore; and the sea obeys you.
_Canute._ Does the sea, with its loud boisterous waves, obey me? Will
that terrible element be still at my bidding?
_Offa._ Yes, the sea is yours; it was made to bear your ships upon its
bosom, and to pour the treasures of the world at your royal feet. It is
boisterous to your enemies, but it knows you to be its sovereign.
_Canute._ Is not the tide coming up?
_Oswald._ Yes, my liege; you may perceive the swell already.
_Canute._ Bring me a chair, then; set it here upon the sands.
_Offa._ Where the tide is coming up, my gracious lord?
_Canute._ Yes, set it just here.
_Oswald_ (_aside_). I wonder what he is going to do!
_Offa_ (_aside_). Surely, he is not such a fool as to believe us!
_Canute._ O, mighty ocean! thou art my subject: my courtiers tell me so;
and it is thy bounden duty to obey me. Thus, then, I stretch my sceptre
over thee, and command thee to retire. Roll back thy swelling waves, nor
let them presume to wet the feet of me, thy royal master.
_Oswald_ (_aside_). I believe the sea will pay very little regard to his
royal commands.
_Offa._ See how fast the tide rises!
_Oswald._ The next wave will come up to the chair. It is folly to stay;
we shall be covered with salt water.
_Canute._ Well, does the sea obey my commands? If it be my subject, it
is a very rebellious subject. See how it swells and dashes the angry
foam and salt spray over my sacred person. Vile sycophants! did you
think I was the dupe of your base lies? that I believed your abject
flatteries? Know, there is only one Being whom the sea will obey. He is
sovereign of heaven and earth, King of kings, and Lord of lords. It is
only he who can say to the ocean—“Thus far shalt thou go, but no
farther, and here shall thy proud waves be stayed.” A king is but a man;
and a man is but a worm. Shall a worm assume the power of the great God,
and think the elements will obey him? Take away this crown, I will never
wear it more. May kings learn to be humble from my example, and
courtiers learn truth from your disgrace.
DIALOGUE, ON THINGS TO BE LEARNED,
BETWEEN MAMMA AND KITTY.
_Kitty._ Pray, mamma, may I leave off working? I am tired.
_Mamma._ You have done very little, my dear; you know you were to finish
all that hem.
_K._ But I had rather write now, mamma, or read, or get my French
grammar.
_M._ I know very well what that means, Kitty; you had rather do anything
than what I set you about.
_K._ No, mamma; but you know I can work very well already, and I have a
great many more things to learn. There’s Miss Rich that cannot sew half
so well as I, and she is learning music and drawing already, besides
dancing, and I don’t know how many other things. She tells me that they
hardly work at all in their school.
_M._ Your tongue runs at a great rate, my dear; but, in the first place,
you cannot sew very well for if you could, you would not have been so
long in doing this little piece. Then I hope you will allow that mammas
know better what is proper for their little girls to learn than they do
themselves?
_K._ To be sure, mamma; but as I suppose I must learn all these things
some time or other, I thought you would like to have me begin them soon,
for I have often heard you say that children cannot be set too early
about what is necessary for them to do.
_M._ That’s very true; but all things are not equally necessary to every
one; for some that are very fit for one, are scarcely proper at all for
others.
_K._ Why, mamma?
_M._ Because, my dear, it is the purpose of all education to fit persons
for the station in which they are hereafter to live; and you know there
are very great differences in that respect, both among men and women.
_K._ Are there? I thought all _ladies_ lived alike.
_M._ It is usual to call all well-educated women, who have no occasion
to work for their livelihood, _ladies_; but, if you will think a little,
you must see that they live very differently from each other, for their
fathers and husbands are in very different ranks and situations in the
world, you know.
_K._ Yes, I know that some are lords, and some are ‘squires, and some
are clergymen, and some are merchants, and some are doctors, and some
are shopkeepers.
_M._ Well: and do you think the wives and daughters of these persons can
have just the same things to do, and the same duties to perform? You
know how I spend my time. I have to go to market and provide for the
family, to look after the servants, to help in taking care of you
children, and in teaching you to see that your clothes are in proper
condition, and assist in making and mending for myself, and you, and
your papa. All this is my necessary duty; and besides this, I must go
out a visiting to keep up our acquaintance; this I call partly business,
and partly amusement. Then when I am tired, and have done all that I
think necessary, I may amuse myself with reading, or in any other proper
way. Now a great many of these employments do not belong to Lady
Wealthy, or Mrs. Rich, who keep housekeepers and governesses, and
servants of all kinds, to do everything for them. It is very proper,
therefore, for them to pay more attention to music, drawing, ornamental
work, and any other elegant manner of passing their time and making
themselves agreeable.
_K._ And shall I have all the same things to do, mamma, that you have?
_M._ It is impossible, my dear, to foresee what your future station will
be; but you have no reason to expect that if you have a family you will
have fewer duties to perform than I have. This is the way of life for
which your education should prepare you; and everything will be useful
and important for you to learn, in proportion as it will make you fit
for this.
_K._ But when I am grown a young lady, shall I not have to visit, and go
to assemblies and plays, as Miss Wilsons and Miss Johnsons do?
_M._ It is very likely you may enter into some amusement of this sort:
but even then you will have several more serious employments, which will
take up a much greater part of your time; and if you do not do them
properly, you will have no right to partake of the others.
_K._ What will they be, mamma?
_M._ Why, don’t you think it proper that you should assist me in my
household affairs a little, as soon as you are able?
_K._ O yes, mamma, I should be very glad to do that.
_M._ Well, consider what talents will be necessary for that purpose;
will not a good hand at your needle be one of the very first qualities?
_K._ I believe it will.
_M._ Yes, and not only in assisting _me_, but in making things for
_yourself_. You know how we admired Miss Smart’s ingenuity when she was
with us, in contriving and making so many articles of her dress, for
which she must otherwise have gone to the milliner’s, which would have
cost a great deal of money.
_K._ Yes; she made my pretty bonnet, and she made you a very handsome
cap.
_M._ Very true; she was so clever as not only to furnish herself with
these things, but to oblige her friends with some of her work. And I
dare say she does a great deal of plain work also for herself and her
mother. Well, then, you are convinced of the importance of this
business, I hope.
_K._ Yes, mamma.
_M._ Reading and writing are such necessary parts of education, that I
need not say much to you about them.
_K._ O no, for I love reading dearly.
_M._ I know you do, if you can get entertaining stories to read, but
there are many things also to be read for instruction, which perhaps may
not be so pleasant at first.
_K._ But what need is there of so many books of this sort?
_M._ Some are to teach you your duty to your Maker, and your
fellow-creatures, of which I hope you are sensible you ought not to be
ignorant. Then it is very right to be acquainted with geography; for you
remember how poor Miss Blunder was laughed at for saying that if ever
she went to France, it should be by land.
_K._ That was because England is an island, and all surrounded with
water, was it not?
_M._ Yes, Great Britain, which contains both England and Scotland, is an
island. Well, it is very useful to knew something of the nature of
plants, and animals, and minerals, because we are always using some or
other of them. Something, too, of the heavenly bodies is very proper to
be known, both that we may admire the power and wisdom of God in
creating them, and that we may not make foolish mistakes, when their
natures and properties are the subject of conversation. The knowledge of
history too, is very important, especially that of our own country; and
in short, everything that makes part of the discourse of rational and
well-educated people, ought in some degree to be studied by every one
who has proper opportunities.
_K._ Yes, I like some of those things very well. But pray, mamma, what
do I learn French for—am I ever to live in France?
_M._ Probably not, my dear; but there are a great many books written in
French that are very well worth reading; and it may every now and then
happen that you may be in company with foreigners who cannot speak
English, and as they almost all talk French, you may be able to converse
with them in that language.
_K._ Yes, I remember there was a gentleman here that came from Germany,
I think, and he could hardly speak a word of English, but papa and you
could talk to him in French; and I wished very much to be able to
understand what you were saying, for I believe part of it was about me.
_M._ It was. Well, then, you see the use of French. But I cannot say
this is a _necessary_ part of knowledge to young women in general, only
it is well worth acquiring, if a person has leisure and opportunity. I
will tell you, however, what is quite necessary for one in your station,
and that is, to write a good hand, and to cast accounts well.
_K._ I should like to write well, because then I should send letters to
my friends when I pleased, and it would not be such a scrawl as our maid
Betty writes, that I dare say her friends can hardly make it out.
_M._ She had not the advantage of learning when young, for you know she
taught herself since she came to us, which was a very sensible thing of
her, and I suppose she will improve. Well, but accounts are almost as
necessary as writing; for how could I cast up all the market-bills and
tradesman’s accounts, and keep my housebooks, without it?
_K._ And what is the use of that, mamma?
_M._ It is of use to prevent our being overcharged in anything, and to
know exactly how much we spend, and whether or not we are exceeding our
income, and in what articles we ought to be more saving. Without keeping
accounts the richest man might soon come to be ruined, before he knew
that his affairs were going wrong.
_K._ But do women always keep accounts? I thought that was generally the
business of the men.
_M._ It is their business to keep the accounts belonging to their trade,
or profession, or estate; but it is the business of their wives to keep
all the household accounts; and a woman almost in any rank, unless,
perhaps, some of the highest of all, is to blame if she does not take
upon her this necessary office. I remember a remarkable instance of the
benefit which a young lady derived from an attention to this point. An
eminent merchant in London failed for a great sum!
_K._ What does that mean, mamma?
_M._ That he owed a great deal more than he could pay. His creditors,
that is, those to whom he was indebted, on examining his accounts, found
great deficiencies which they could not make out; for he had kept his
books very irregularly, and had omitted to put down many things that he
had bought and sold. They suspected, therefore, that great waste had
been made in the family expenses; and they were the more suspicious of
this, as a daughter, who was a very genteel young lady, was his
housekeeper, his wife being dead. She was told of this; upon which, when
the creditors were all met, she sent them her housebooks for their
examination. They were all written in a very fair hand, and every single
article was entered with the greatest regularity, and the sums were all
cast up with perfect exactness. The gentlemen were so highly pleased
with the proof of the young lady’s ability, that they all agreed to make
her a handsome present out of the effects; and one of the richest of
them, who was in want of a clever wife, soon after paid his addresses to
her, and married her.
_K._ That was very lucky, for I suppose she took care of her poor father
when she was rich. But I shall have nothing of that sort to do a great
while.
_M._ No; but young women should keep their own account of clothes and
pocket-money, and other expenses, as I intend you shall do when you grow
up.
_K._ Am I not to learn dancing, and music, and drawing, too, mamma?
_M._ Dancing you shall certainly learn pretty soon, because it is not
only an agreeable accomplishment in itself, but is useful in forming the
body to ease and elegance in all its motions. As to the other two, they
are merely ornamental accomplishments, which, though a woman of middling
station may be admired for possessing, yet she will never be censured
for being without. The propriety of attempting to acquire them must
depend on natural genius for them, and upon leisure and other accidental
circumstances. For some they are too expensive, and many are unable to
make such progress in them as will repay the pains of beginning. It is
soon enough, however, for us to think about these things, and at any
rate they are not to come in till you have made a very good proficiency
in what is useful and necessary. But I see you have now finished what I
set you about, so you shall take a walk with me into the marketplace,
where I have two or three things to buy.
_K._ Shall we not call at the bookseller’s, to inquire for those new
books that Miss Reader was talking about?
_M._ Perhaps we may. Now lay up your work neatly, and get on your hat
and tippet.
[Illustration:
Alfred the Great, _p. 80_
EVENING VI.
]
ON THE OAK.—A DIALOGUE.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Tutor._—Come, my boys, let us sit down awhile under yon shady tree. I
don’t know how your young legs feel, but mine are almost tired.
_Geo._ I am not tired, but I am very hot.
_Har._ And I am hot and very dry, too.
_Tut._ When you have cooled yourself, you may drink out of that clear
brook. In the meantime, we will read a little out of a book I have in my
pocket. [_They go and sit down at the foot of the tree._]
_Har._ What an amazing large tree! How wide its branches spread! Pray
what tree is it?
_Geo._ I can tell you that. It is an oak. Don’t you see the acorns?
_Tut._ Yes, it is an oak—the noblest tree this country produces; not
only grand and beautiful to the sight, but of the greatest importance
from its uses.
_Har._ I should like to know something about it?
_Tut._ Very well; then instead of reading we will sit and talk about
oaks. George, who knew the oak by its acorns—should you have known it if
there had been none?
_Geo._ I don’t know; I believe not.
_Tut._ Observe, then, in the first place, that its bark is very rugged.
Then see in what manner it grows: its great arms run out almost
horizontally from its trunk, giving the whole tree a sort of round form,
and making it spread far on every side. Its branches are also subject to
be crooked or kneed. By these marks you might guess at an oak even in
winter, when quite bare of leaves. But its leaves afford a surer mark of
distinction, since they differ a good deal from those of other English
trees, being neither whole and even at the edges, nor yet cut like the
teeth of a saw, but rather deeply scolloped, and formed into several
rounded divisions. Their colour is a fine deep green. Then the fruit—
_Har._ Fruit!
_Tut._ Yes; all kinds of plants have what may properly be called fruit,
though we are apt to give that name only to such as are food for man.
The fruit of a plant is the seed, with what contains it. This, in the
oak, is called an acorn, which is a kind of nut, partly enclosed in a
cup.
_Geo._ Acorn-cups are very pretty things. I have made boats of them, and
set them swimming in a basin.
_Tut._ And if you were no bigger than a fairy, you might use them for
drinking cups, as those imaginary little beings are said to do.
Pearly drops of dew we drink,
In acorn-cups filled to the brink.
_Har._ Are acorns good to eat?
_Geo._ No; that they are not. I have tried, and did not like them at
all.
_Tut._ In the early ages of man, before he cultivated the earth, but
lived upon such wild products as Nature afforded, we are told that
acorns made a considerable part of his food; and at this day they are
eaten in Spain and Greece, and in some other of the southern countries
of Europe. But they are sweeter and better flavoured than ours, and are
produced by a different species of oak. The chief use which we make of
those which grow in this country is to feed hogs. In those parts of
England where oak-woods are common, great herds of swine are kept, which
are driven into the woods in autumn, when the acorns fall, and provide
for themselves plentifully for two or three months. This, however, is a
small part of the praise of the oak. You will be surprised when I tell
you that to this tree our country owes its chief glory and security.
_Har._ Ay! how can that be?
_Tut._ I don’t know whether in your reading you have ever met with the
story, that Athens, a famous city in Greece, consulting the oracle how
it might best defend itself against its enemies, was advised to trust to
wooden walls.
_Har._ Wooden walls? that’s odd. I should think stone-walls better; for
wooden ones might be set on fire.
_Tut._ True: but the meaning was, that as Athens was a place of great
trade, and its people were skilled in maritime affairs, they ought to
trust to their ships. Well, this is the case with Great Britain. As it
is an island, it has no need of walls and fortifications, while it
possesses ships to keep all enemies at a distance. Now, we have the
greatest and finest navy in the world, by which we both defend
ourselves, and attack other nations, when they insult us; and this is
all built of oak.
_Geo._ Would no other wood do to build ships?
_Tut._ None nearly so well, especially for men-of-war; for it is the
stoutest and strongest wood we have; and, therefore, best fitted, both
to keep sound under water, and to bear the blows and shocks of the
waves, and the terrible strokes of cannon-balls. It is a peculiar
excellence for this last purpose, that oak is not so liable to splinter
or shiver as other woods, so that a ball can pass through it without
making a large hole. Did you never hear the old song,
Hearts of oak are our ships, hearts of oak are our men, &c.?
_Geo._ No.
_Tut._ It was made at a time when England was more successful in war
than had ever before been known, and our success was properly attributed
chiefly to our fleet, the great support of which is the British oak so I
hope you will look upon oaks with due respect.
_Har._ Yes; it shall always be my favourite tree.
_Tut._ Had not Pope reason, when he said, in his _Windsor Forest_,
“Let India boast her plants, nor envy we
The weeping amber, or the balmy tree,
While by our oaks the precious loads are borne,
And realms commanded which those trees adorn!”
These lines refer to its use as well for merchant-ships as for
men-of-war; and, in fact, all our ships are for the most part built
either of native or foreign oak.
_Geo._ Are the masts of ships made of oak?
_Tut._ No; it would be too heavy. Besides, it would not be easy to find
trunks of oak long and straight enough for that purpose. They are made
of various sorts of fir or pine, which grow very tall and taper.
_Geo._ Is oak wood used for anything besides ship-building?
_Tut._ O yes; it is one of the principal woods of the carpenter, being
employed wherever great strength and durability are required. It is used
for door and window frames, and the beams that are laid in walls to
strengthen them. Floors and staircases are sometimes made with it; and
in old houses in the country, which were built when oak was more
plentiful than at present, almost all the timber about them was oak. It
is also occasionally used for furniture, as tables, chairs, drawers, and
bedsteads; though mahogany has now much taken its place for the better
sort of goods, and the lighter and softer woods for the cheaper; for the
hardness of oak renders it difficult and expensive to work. It is still,
however, the chief material used in mill-work, in bridge and water
works, for wagon and cart bodies, for threshing-floors, for large casks
and tubs, and for the last piece of furniture a man has occasion for.
What is that, do you think, George?
_Geo._ I don’t know.
_Har._ A coffin.
_Tut._ So it is.
_Har._ But why should that be made of such strong wood?
_Tut._ There can be no other reason than that weak attachment we are apt
to have for our bodies when we are done with them, which has made men in
various countries desirous of keeping them as long as possible from
decay. But I have not yet done with the uses of the oak. Were either of
you ever in a tanner’s yard?
_Geo._ We often go by one at the end of the town; but we dare not go in
for fear of the great dog.
_Tut._ But he is always chained in the daytime.
_Har._ Yes; but he barks so loud and looks so fierce, that we were
afraid he would break his chain.
_Tut._ I doubt you are a couple of cowards. However, I suppose you came
near enough to observe great stacks of bark in the yard.
_Geo._ O yes; there are several.
_Tut._ Those are oak-bark, and it is used in tanning the hides.
_Har._ What does it do to them?
_Tut._ I’ll tell you. The hide, when taken from the animal, after being
steeped in lime and water to get off the hair and grease, is put to soak
in a liquor made by steeping oak-bark in water. This liquor is strongly
astringent, or binding, and has the property of converting skin into
leather. The change which the hide thus undergoes renders it at the same
time less liable to decay, and soft and pliable when dry; for raw skins,
by drying, acquire nearly the hardness and consistence of horn. Other
things are also tanned for the purpose of preserving them, as
fishing-nets and boat-sails. This use of the bark of the oak makes it a
very valuable commodity; and you may see people in the woods carefully
stripping the oaks when cut down, and piling up the bark in heaps.
_Geo._ I have seen such heaps of bark, but I thought they were only to
burn.
_Tut._ No; they are much too valuable for that. Well, but I have another
use of the oak to mention, and that is in dying.
_Har._ Dying! I wonder what colour it can die?
_Tut._ Oak sawdust is a principal ingredient in dying fustians. By
various mixtures and management it is made to give them all the
different shades of drab and brown. Then, all the parts of the oak, like
all other astringent vegetables, produce a dark blue or black by the
addition of any preparation of iron. The bark is sometimes used in this
way for dying black. And did you never see what the boys call an
oak-apple?
_Geo._ Yes; I have gathered them myself.
_Tut._ Do you know what they are?
_Geo._ I thought they were the fruit of the oak.
_Tut._ No; I have told you that the acorns are the fruits. These are
excrescences formed by an insect.
_Geo._ An insect! how can they make such a thing?
_Tut._ It is a sort of fly, that has the power of piercing the outer
skin of the oak boughs, under which it lays its eggs. The part then
swells into a kind of ball, and the young insects, when hatched, eat
their way out. Well this ball or apple is a pretty strong astringent,
and is sometimes used in dying black. But in the warm countries there is
a species of oak which bears round excrescences of the same kind, called
galls, which become hard, and are the strongest astringents known. They
are the principal ingredients in the black dies, and common ink is made
with them, together with a substance called green vitriol, or copperas,
which contains iron.
I have now told you the chief uses that I can recollect of the oak; and
these are so important, that whoever drops an acorn into the ground, and
takes proper care of it when it comes up, may be said to be a benefactor
to his country. Besides, no sight can be more beautiful and majestic
than a fine oak-wood. It is an ornament fit for the habitation of the
first nobleman in the land.
_Har._ I wonder, then, that all rich gentlemen who have ground enough do
not cover it with oaks.
_Tut._ Many of them, especially of late years, have made great
plantations of these trees. But all soils do not suit them; and then
there is another circumstance which prevents many from being at this
trouble and expense, which is the long time an oak takes in growing, so
that no person can reasonably expect to profit by those of his own
planting. An oak of fifty years is greatly short of its full growth, and
they are scarcely arrived at perfection under a century. However, it is
our duty to think of posterity as well as ourselves; and they who
receive oaks from their ancestors, ought certainly to furnish others to
their successors.
_Har._ Then I think that every one who cuts down an oak should be
obliged to plant another.
_Tut._ Very right—but he should plant two or three for one, for fear of
accidents in their growing.
I will now repeat to you some verses describing the oak in its state of
full growth, or rather of beginning to decay, with the various animals
living upon it—and then we will walk.
“See where yon _Oak_ its awful structure rears,
The massy growth of twice a hundred years;
Survey his rugged trunk with moss o’ergrown,
His lusty arms in rude disorder thrown,
His forking branches wide at distance spread,
And dark’ning half the sky, his lofty head.
A mighty castle, built by Nature’s hands,
Peopled by various living tribes, he stands.
His airy top the clamorous rooks invest,
And crowd the waving boughs with many a nest.
Midway the nimble squirrel builds his bower;
And sharp-billed pies the insect tribes devour
That gnaw beneath the bark their secret ways,
While unperceived the stately pile decays.”
ALFRED.—A DRAMA.
PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.
ALFRED King of England.
GUBBA a Farmer.
GANDELIN his Wife.
ELLA an Officer of Alfred.
Scene—_The Isle of Athelney_.
_Alfred._ How retired and quiet is everything in this little spot! The
river winds its silent waters round this retreat; and the tangled bushes
of the thicket fence it from the attack of an enemy. The bloody Danes
have not yet pierced into this wild solitude. I believe I am safe from
their pursuit. But I hope I shall find some inhabitants here, otherwise
I shall die of hunger. Ha! here is a narrow path through the wood, and I
think I see the smoke of a cottage rising between the trees. I will bend
my steps thither.
Scene—_Before the Cottage_.
GUBBA _coming forward_. GANDELIN, _within_.
_Alfred._ Good even to you, good man. Are you disposed to show
hospitality to a poor traveller?
_Gubba._ Why truly there are so many poor travellers now-a-days, that if
we entertain them all, we shall have nothing left for ourselves.
However, come along to my wife, and we will see what can be done for
you. Wife, I am very weary: I have been chopping wood all day.
_Gandelin._ You are always ready for your supper, but it is not ready
for you, I assure you: the cakes will take an hour to bake, and the sun
is yet high; it has not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have you
with you, I trow?
_Alfred._ Good mother, I am a stranger; and entreat you to afford me
food and shelter.
_Gandelin._ Good mother, quotha! Good wife, if you please, and welcome.
But I do not love strangers; and the land has no reason to love them. It
has never been a merry day for Old England since strangers came into it.
_Alfred._ I am not a stranger in England, though I am a stranger here. I
am a trueborn Englishman.
_Gubba._ And do you hate those wicked Danes, that eat us up, and burn
our houses, and drive away our cattle?
_Alfred._ I do hate them.
_Gandelin._ Heartily! he does not speak heartily, husband.
_Alfred._ Heartily I hate them; most heartily.
_Gubba._ Give me thy hand, then; thou art an honest fellow.
_Alfred._ I was with King Alfred in the last battle he fought.
_Gandelin._ With King Alfred? Heaven bless him!
_Gubba._ What is become of our good king?
_Alfred._ Did you love him, then?
_Gubba._ Yes, as much as a poor man may love a king; and kneeled down
and prayed for him every night, that he might conquer those Danish
wolves; but it was not to be so.
_Alfred._ You could not love Alfred better than I did.
_Gubba._ But what is become of him?
_Alfred._ He is thought to be dead.
_Gubba._ Well, these are sad times; Heaven help us! Come, you shall be
welcome to share the brown loaf with us; I suppose you are too sharp set
to be nice.
_Gandelin._ Ay, come with us; you shall be as welcome as a prince! But
hark ye, husband; though I am very willing to be charitable to this
stranger, (it would be a sin to be otherwise,) yet there is no reason he
should not do something to maintain himself: he looks strong and
capable.
_Gubba._ Why, that’s true. What can you do, friend?
_Alfred._ I am very willing to help you in anything you choose to set me
about. It will please me best to earn my bread before I eat it.
_Gubba._ Let me see. Can you tie up fagots neatly?
_Alfred._ I have not been used to it. I am afraid I should be awkward.
_Gubba._ Can you thatch? There is a piece blown off the cowhouse.
_Alfred._ Alas! I cannot thatch.
_Gandelin._ Ask him if he can weave rushes: we want some new baskets.
_Alfred._ I have never learned.
_Gubba._ Can you stack hay?
_Alfred._ No.
_Gubba._ Why, here’s a fellow! and yet he hath as many pair of hands as
his neighbours. Dame, can you employ him in the house? He might lay wood
on the fire, and rub the tables.
_Gandelin._ Let him watch these cakes, then: I must go and milk the
kine.
_Gubba._ And I’ll go and stack the wood, since supper is not ready.
_Gandelin._ But pray, observe, friend; do not let the cakes burn; turn
them often on the hearth.
_Alfred._ I shall observe your directions.
ALFRED _alone_.
_Alfred._ For myself, I could bear it: but England, my bleeding country,
for thee my heart is wrung with bitter anguish!—From the Humber to the
Thames the rivers are stained with blood. My brave soldiers cut to
pieces! My poor people—some massacred, others driven from their warm
homes, stripped, abused, insulted; and I, whom Heaven appointed their
shepherd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the ravenous jaws
of these devourers! Gracious Heaven! if I am not worthy to save this
land from the Danish sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more
success than I have done, and let me spend my life in this obscure
cottage, in these servile offices: I shall be content if England is
happy. O! here come my blunt host and hostess.
_Enter_ GUBBA _and_ GANDELIN.
_Gandelin._ Help me down with the pail, husband. This new milk, with the
cakes, will make an excellent supper: but, mercy on us, how they are
burnt! black as my shoe; they have not once been turned: you oaf, you
lubber, you lazy loon—
_Alfred._ Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it: but my mind was full of sad
thoughts.
_Gubba._ Come, wife, you must forgive him; perhaps he is in love. I
remember when I was in love with thee——
_Gandelin._ You remember!
_Gubba._ Yes, dame, I do remember it, though it is many a long year
since; my mother was making a kettle of furmety—
_Gandelin._ Pr’y thee, hold thy tongue, and let us eat our suppers.
_Alfred._ How refreshing is this sweet new milk, and this wholesome
bread!
_Gubba._ Eat heartily, friend. Where shall we lodge him, Gandelin?
_Gandelin._ We have but one bed you know; but there is fresh straw in
the barn.
_Alfred_ (_aside_). If I shall not lodge like a king, at least I shall
lodge like a soldier. Alas! how many of my poor soldiers are stretched
on the bare ground!
_Gandelin._ What noise do I hear! It is the tramping of horses. Good
husband, go and see what is the matter!
_Alfred._ Heaven forbid my misfortunes should bring destruction on this
simple family! I had rather have perished in the wood.
GUBBA _returns, followed by_ ELLA, _with his sword drawn_.
_Gandelin._ Mercy defend us, a sword!
_Gubba._ The Danes! the Danes! O, do not kill us!
_Ella_ (_kneeling_). My liege, my lord, my sovereign! have I found you?
_Alfred_ (_embracing him_). My brave Ella!
_Ella._ I bring you good news, my sovereign! Your troops that were shut
up in Kinwith Castle made a desperate sally—the Danes were slaughtered.
The fierce Hubba lies gasping on the plain.
_Alfred._ Is it possible! Am I yet a king!
_Ella._ Their famous standard, the Danish raven, is taken; their troops
are panic-struck; the English soldiers call aloud for _Alfred_. Here is
a letter which will inform you of more particulars. (_Gives a letter._)
_Gubba_ (_aside_). What will become of us? Ah! dame, that tongue of
thine has undone us!
_Gandelin._ O, my poor dear husband! we shall all be hanged, that’s
certain. But who could have thought it was the king?
_Gubba._ Why, Gandelin, do you see we might have guessed he was born to
be a king, or some such great man, because, you know, he was fit for
nothing else.
_Alfred_ (_coming forward_). God be praised for these tidings! Hope is
sprung up out of the depth of despair. O, my friend! shall I again shine
in arms—again fight at the head of my brave Englishmen—lead them on to
victory! Our friends shall now lift their heads again.
_Ella._ Yes, you have many friends, who have long been obliged, like
their master, to skulk in deserts and caves, and wander from cottage to
cottage. When they hear you are alive and in arms again, they will leave
their fastnesses, and flock to your standard.
_Alfred._ I am impatient to meet them: my people shall be revenged.
_Gubba and Gandelin_ (_throwing themselves at the feet of_ ALFRED). O,
my lord——
_Gandelin._ We hope your majesty will put us to a merciful death.
Indeed, we did not know your majesty’s grace.
_Gubba._ If your majesty could but pardon my wife’s tongue; she means no
harm, poor woman!
_Alfred._ Pardon you, good people! I not only pardon you, but thank you.
You have afforded me protection in my distress; and if ever I am seated
again on the throne of England, my first care shall be to reward your
hospitality. I am now going to protect _you_. Come, my faithful Ella, to
arms! to arms! My bosom burns to face once more the haughty Dane; and
here I vow to Heaven, that I will never sheath the sword against these
robbers, till either I lose my life in this just cause, or
“Till dove-like peace return to England’s shore,
And war and slaughter vex the land no more.”
[Illustration:
EVENING VII.
]
ON THE PINE AND FIR TRIBE.—A DIALOGUE.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Tutor._ Let us sit down awhile on this bench, and look about us. What a
charming prospect!
_Harry._ I admire those pleasure-grounds. What beautiful clumps of trees
there are in that lawn!
_George._ But what a dark gloomy wood that is at the back of the house!
_Tut._ It is a fir plantation; and those trees always look dismal in the
summer, when there are so many finer greens to compare them with. But
the winter is their time for show, when other trees are stripped of
their verdure.
_Geo._ Then they are evergreens.
_Tut._ Yes; most of the fir tribe are evergreens; and as they are
generally natives of cold mountainous countries, they contribute greatly
to cheer the wintry landscape.
_Geo._ You were so good when we walked out last, to tell us a great deal
about oaks. I thought it one of the prettiest lessons I ever heard. I
should be glad if you would give us such another about firs.
_Har._ So should I, too, I’m sure.
_Tut._ With all my heart, and I am pleased that you ask me. Nothing is
so great an encouragement to a tutor as to find his pupils of their own
accord seeking after useful knowledge.
_Geo._ And I think it is very useful to know such things as these.
_Tut._ Certainly it is. Well, then—you may know the pine or fir tribe in
general at first sight, as most of them are of a bluish-green colour,
and all have leaves consisting of a strong narrow pointed blade, which
gives them somewhat of a stiff appearance. Then all of them bear a hard
scaly fruit, of a longish or conical form.
_Har._ Are they what we call fir-apples?
_Tut._ Yes; that is one of the names boys give them.
_Har._ We often pick them up under trees, and throw them at each other.
_Geo._ I have sometimes brought home my pocket full to burn. They make a
fine clear flame.
_Tut._ Well—do you know where the seeds lie in them.
_Geo._ No—have they any?
_Tut._ Yes—at the bottom of every scale lie two winged seeds; but when
the scales open, the seeds fall out: so that you can seldom find any in
those you pick up.
_Har._ Are the seeds good for anything?
_Tut._ There is a kind of pine in the south of Europe called the
_stone-pine_, the kernels of which are eaten, and said to be as sweet as
an almond. And birds pick out the seeds of other sorts, though they are
so well defended by the woody scales.
_Har._ They must have good strong bills then.
_Tut._ Of this tribe of trees a variety of species are found in
different countries, and are cultivated in this. But the only kind
native here is the _wild-pine_ or _Scotch-fir_. Of this, there are large
natural forests in the Highlands of Scotland; and the principal
plantations consist of it. It is a hardy sort, fit for barren and
mountainous soils, but grows slowly.
_Geo._ Pray, what are those very tall trees that grow in two rows before
the old hall in our village?
_Tut._ They are the _common_ or _spruce fir_, a native of Norway, and
other northern countries, and one of the loftiest of the tribe. But
observe those trees that grow singly in the grounds opposite to us with
widespread branches spreading downward, and trailing on the ground,
thence gradually lessening till the top of the tree ends almost in a
point.
_Har._ What beautiful trees!
_Tut._ They are the Pines called _Larches_, natives of the Alps and
Apennines, introduced into this country about the middle of the last
century, for the purpose, at first, of decorating our gardens, and of
which extensive plantations for timber have since been made, both in
England and Scotland. These are not properly evergreens, as they shed
their leaves in winter, but quickly recover them again. Then we have
besides the _Weymouth pine_, which is the tallest species in America—the
_silver fir_, so called from the silvery hue of its foliage—the
_pinaster_—and a tree of ancient fame, the _cedar of Lebanon_.
_Geo._ I suppose that is a very great tree?
_Tut._ It grows to a large size, but is slow in coming to its full
growth.
_Geo._ Are pines and firs very useful trees?
_Tut._ Perhaps the most so of any. By much the greatest part of the wood
at present used among us comes from them.
_Har._ What—more than from the oak?
_Tut._ Yes, much more. Almost all the timber used in building houses,
for floors, beams, rafters, and roofs, is fir.
_Geo._ Does it all grow in this country?
_Tut._ Scarcely any of it. Norway, Sweden, and Russia, are the countries
from which we draw our timber, and a vast trade there is in it. You have
seen timber-yards?
_Geo._ O yes—several.
_Tut._ In them you would observe some very long thick beams, called
balks. These are whole trees, only stripped of the bark and squared. You
would also see great piles of planks and boards, of different lengths
and thickness. Those are called _deal_, and are brought over ready sawn
from the countries where they grow. They are of different colours. The
white are chiefly from the fir-tree; the yellow and red from the pine.
_Har._ I suppose there must be great forests of them in those countries,
or else they could not send us so much.
_Tut._ Yes: the mountains of Norway are overrun with them, enough for
the supply of all Europe; but on account of their ruggedness, and the
want of roads, it is found impossible to get the trees, when felled,
down to the seacoast, unless they grow near some river.
_Geo._ How do they manage then?
_Tut._ They take the opportunity when the rivers are swelled with rains
or melted snow, and tumble the trees into them, when they are carried
down to the mouth of the rivers, where they are stopped by a kind of
pens.
_Har._ I should like to see them swimming down the stream.
_Tut._ Yes—it would be curious enough; for in some places these torrents
roll over rocks, making steep waterfalls, down which the trees are
carried headlong, and do not rise again till they are got to a great
distance; and many of them are broken, and torn to pieces in the
passage.
_Geo._ Are these woods used for anything besides building?
_Tut._ For a variety of purposes; such as boxes, trunks, packing-cases,
pales, wainscots, and the like. Deal is a very soft wood, easily worked,
light, and cheap, which makes it preferred for so many uses, though it
is not very durable, and is very liable to split.
_Har._ Yes—I know my box is made of deal, and the lid is split all to
pieces with driving nails into it.
_Geo._ Are ships ever built with fir?
_Tut._ It was one of the first woods made use of for naval purposes; and
in the poets you will find the words _pine_ and _fir_ frequently
employed to signify _ship_. But as navigation has improved, the stronger
and more durable woods have generally taken its place. However, in the
countries where fir is very plentiful, large ships are still built with
it; for though they last but a short time, they cost so little in
proportion, that the profit of a few voyages is sufficient to repay the
expense. Then, from the great lightness of the wood, they swim higher in
the water, and consequently will bear more loading. Most of the large
ships that bring timber from Archangel, in Russia, are built of fir. As
for the masts of ships, those I have already told you are all made of
fir or pine, on account of their straightness and lightness.
_Geo._ Are there not some lines in Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ about that?
_Tut._ Yes: the spear of Satan is magnified by a comparison with a lofty
pine.
His spear, to equal which the tallest pine,
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand.
_Har._ I remember, too, that the walking-staff of the giant Polypheme
was a pine.
_Tut._ Ay—so Homer and Ovid tell us, and he must have been a giant
indeed, to use such a stick. Well, so much for the wood of these trees.
But I have more to say about their uses.
_Har._ I am glad of it.
_Tut._ All of the tribe contain a juice of a bitterish taste and strong
fragrant smell. This, in some, is so abundant as to flow out from
incisions; when it is called _turpentine_. The larch, in particular,
yields a large quantity. Turpentine is one of the substances called
resinous; it is sticky, transparent, very inflammable, and will not mix
_with_ water, but will dissolve in spirits of wine.
_Geo._ What is it used for?
_Tut._ It is used medicinally, particularly in the composition of
plasters and ointments. It also is an ingredient in varnishes, cements,
and the like. An oil distilled from turpentine is employed in medicine,
and is much used by painters for mixing up their colours. What remains
after getting this oil is common _resin_. All these substances take fire
very easily, and burn with a great flame; and the wood of the pine has
so much of this quality, when dry, that it is often used for torches.
_Har._ I know deal shavings burn very briskly.
_Geo._ Yes; and matches are made of bits of deal dipped in brimstone.
_Tut._ True,—and when it was the custom to burn the bodies of the dead,
as you read in Homer and other old authors, the pines and pitch-trees
composed great part of the funeral pile.
_Har._ But what are pitch-trees? Does pitch grow upon trees?
_Tut._ I was going on to tell you about that. _Tar_ is a product of the
trees of this kind, especially of one species, called the pitch-pine.
The wood is burnt in a sort of oven made in the earth, and the resinous
juice sweats out, and acquires a peculiar taste and a black colour from
the fire. This is tar. Tar when boiled down to dryness becomes _pitch_.
_Geo._ Tar and pitch are chiefly used about ships; are they not?
_Tut._ They resist moisture, and therefore are of great service in
preventing things from decaying that are exposed to wet. For this
reason, the cables and other ropes of ships are well soaked with tar;
and the sides of ships are covered with pitch mixed with other
ingredients. Their seams, too, or the places where the planks join, are
filled with tow dipped in a composition of resin, tallow, and pitch, to
keep out the water. Wood for paling, for piles, for coverings of roofs
and other purposes of the like nature, is often tarred over. Cisterns
and casks are pitched to prevent leaking.
_Har._ But what are sheep tarred for after they are sheared?
_Tut._ To cure wounds and sores in their skin. For the like purposes an
ointment made with tar is often rubbed upon children’s heads. Several
parts of the pine are medicinal. The tops and green cones of the
spruce-fir are fermented with treacle, and the liquor, called
_spruce-beer_, is much drunk in America, particularly for the scurvy.
_Geo._ Is it pleasant?
_Tut._ Not to those who are unaccustomed to it. Well—I have now finished
my lesson, so let us walk.
_Har._ Shall we go through the grounds?
_Tut._ Yes; and then we will view some of the different kinds of fir and
pine more closely, and I will show you the difference of their leaves
and cones, by which they are distinguished.
ON DIFFERENT STATIONS IN LIFE.—A DIALOGUE.
Little Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon’s visit to
Miss Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving
rainy, she was sent home in Sir Thomas’s coach; and on her return, the
following conversation passed between her and her mother:—
_Mrs. Meanwell._ Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleasant visit?
_Sally._ O yes, mamma, very pleasant; you cannot think how many fine
things I have seen. And then it is so charming to ride in a coach!
_Mrs. M._ I suppose Miss Harriet showed you all her playthings?
_Sally._ O yes, such fine large dolls, so smartly dressed as I never saw
in my life before. Then she has a baby-house, and all sorts of furniture
in it; and a grotto all made of shells, and shining stones. And then she
showed me all her fine clothes for the next ball; there’s a white slip
all full of spangles, and pink ribands; you can’t think how beautiful it
looks!
_Mrs. M._ And what did you admire most of all these fine things?
_Sally._ I don’t know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in
the coach better than all the rest. Why don’t we keep a coach; and why
have I not such fine clothes and playthings as Miss Harriet?
_Mrs. M._ Because we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not so rich
by a great deal, as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon
such things, we should not be able to procure food and raiment and other
necessaries for you all.
_Sally._ But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?
_Mrs. M._ Sir Thomas had a large estate left him by his father; but your
papa has little but what he gains by his own industry.
_Sally._ But why should not papa be as rich as anybody else? I am sure
he deserves it as well.
_Mrs. M._ Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer
than he, that are also very deserving?
_Sally._ Are there?
_Mrs. M._ Yes, to be sure. Don’t you know what a number of poor people
there are all around us, who have few of the comforts we enjoy? What do
you think of Ploughman the labourer? I believe you never saw him idle in
your life.
_Sally._ No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not
return till almost bedtime, unless it be for his dinner.
_Mrs. M._ Well! how do you think his wife and children live? should you
like that we should change places with them?
_Sally._ O, no! they are so dirty and ragged.
_Mrs. M._ They are, indeed, poor creatures; but I am afraid they suffer
worse evils than that.
_Sally._ What mamma?
_Mrs. M._ Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they
could eat. And then in winter they must be half frozen for want of fire
and warm clothing. How do you think you could bear all this?
_Sally._ Indeed, I don’t know. But I have seen Ploughman’s wife carry
great brown loaves into the house; and I remember once eating some brown
bread and milk, and I thought it very good.
_Mrs. M._ I believe you would not much like it constantly; besides, they
can hardly get enough of that. But you seem to know almost as little of
the poor as the young French princess did.
_Sally._ What was that, mamma?
_Mrs. M._ Why, there had been one year so bad a harvest in France that
numbers of the poor were famished to death. This calamity was so much
talked of, that it reached the court, and was mentioned before the young
princesses. “Dear me!” said one of them, “how _silly_ that was! Why,
rather than be famished, I would eat bread and cheese.” Her governess
was then obliged to acquaint her that the greatest part of her father’s
subjects scarcely ever eat anything better than black bread all their
lives; and that vast numbers would now think themselves very happy to
get only half their usual pittance of that. Such wretchedness as this
was what the princess had not the least idea of; and the account shocked
her so much, that she was glad to sacrifice all her finery to afford
some relief to the sufferings of the poor.
_Sally._ But I hope there is nobody famished in our country.
_Mrs. M._ I hope not, for we have laws by which every person is entitled
to relief from the parish, if he is unable to gain a subsistence; and
were there no laws about it, I am sure it would be our duty to part with
every superfluity, rather than let a fellow-creature perish for want of
necessaries.
_Sally._ Then do you think it was wrong for Miss Pemberton to have all
those fine things?
_Mrs. M._ No, my dear, if they are suitable to her fortune, and do not
consume the money which ought to be employed in more useful things to
herself and others.
_Sally._ But why might she not be contented with such things as I have;
and give the money that the rest cost to the poor?
_Mrs. M._ Because she can afford both to be charitable to the poor, and
also to indulge herself in these pleasures. But do you recollect that
the children of Mr. White the baker, and Mr. Shape the tailor, might
just ask the same questions about you?
_Sally._ How so?
_Mrs. M._ Are not you as much better dressed, and as much more
plentifully supplied with playthings than they are, as Miss Harriet is
than you?
_Sally._ Why, I believe I may, for I remember Polly White was very glad
of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for such a sash as mine,
but her mother would not let her have one.
_Mrs. M._ Then you see, my dear, that there are many who have fewer
things to be thankful for than _you_ have; and you may also learn what
ought to be the true measure of the expectations of children, and the
indulgences of parents.
_Sally._ I don’t quite understand you, mamma.
_Mrs. M._ Everything ought to be suited to the station in which we live
or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I
do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent
pleasure of our children: but it would be very wrong in us to lay out so
much on this account as would oblige us to spare in more necessary
articles; as in their education, and the common household expenses
required in our way of living. Besides, it would be so far from making
you happier, that it would be doing you the greatest injury.
_Sally._ How could that be, mamma?
_Mrs. M._ If you were now to be dressed like Miss Pemberton, don’t you
think you would be greatly mortified at being worse dressed when you
came to be a young woman?
_Sally._ I believe I should, mamma; for then perhaps I might go to
assemblies; and to be sure I should like to be as smart then as at any
time.
_Mrs. M._ Well, but it would be still more improper for us to dress you
then beyond our circumstances, because your necessary clothes will then
cost more, you know. Then, if we were now to hire a coach or chair for
you to go visiting in, should you like to leave it off ever afterward?
But you have no reason to expect that you will be able to have those
indulgences when you are a woman. And so it is in everything else. The
more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you
will require hereafter: for custom makes things so familiar to us, that
while we enjoy them less we want them more.
_Sally._ How is that, mamma?
_Mrs. M._ Why, don’t you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach
this evening more than Miss Harriet should have done?
_Sally._ I suppose I have; because if Miss Harriet liked it so well, she
would be always riding, for I know she might have the coach whenever she
pleased.
_Mrs. M._ But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a
coach again, which would think it the greater hardship? You could walk,
you know, as you have always done before; but she would rather stay at
home, I believe, than expose herself to the cold wind, and trudge
through the wet and dirt in pattens.
_Sally._ I believe so, too; and now, mamma, I see that all you have told
me is very right.
_Mrs. M._ Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, so as to make you
cheerful and contented in your station, which you see is so much happier
than that of many and many other children. So now we will talk no more
on the subject.
[Illustration:
EVENING VIII.
]
THE ROOKERY.
“There the hoarse-voiced hungry rook,
Near her stick-built nest doth croak,
Waving on the topmost bough.”
These lines Mr. Stangrove repeated pointing up to a rookery, as he was
walking in an avenue of tall trees, with his son Francis.
_Francis._ Is that a rookery, papa?
_Mr. Stangrove._ It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make?
_Fr._ Yes; and I see them hopping about among the boughs. Pray, are not
rooks the same with crows?
_Mr. St._ They are a species of crow; but they differ from the carrion
crow and raven in not living upon dead flesh, but upon corn and other
seeds, and grass. They indeed pick up beetles and other insects and
worms. See what a number of them have lighted on yonder ploughed field,
almost blackening it over.
_Fr._ What are they doing?
_Mr. St._ Searching for grubs and worms. You see the men in the field do
not molest them, for they do a great deal of service by destroying
grubs, which, if they were suffered to grow to winged insects, would do
much mischief to the trees and plants.
_Fr._ But do they hurt the corn?
_Mr. St._ Yes, they tear up a good deal of green corn, if they are not
driven away. But upon the whole, rooks are reckoned the farmers’
friends; and they do not choose to have them destroyed.
_Fr._ Do all rooks live in rookeries?
_Mr. St._ It is the general nature of them to associate together, and
build in numbers on the same or adjoining trees. But this is often in
the midst of woods or natural groves. However, they have no objections
to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall
trees, though it be close to a house; and this is commonly called a
rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midst of
towns; and I have seen a rookery in a churchyard in one of the closest
parts of London.
_Fr._ I think a rookery is a sort of town itself.
_Mr. St._ It is: a village in the air, peopled with numerous
inhabitants; and nothing can be more amusing than to view them all in
motion, flying to and fro, and busied in their several occupations. The
spring is their busiest time. Early in the year they begin to repair
their nests or build new ones.
_Fr._ Do they all work together or every one for itself?
_Mr. St._ Each pair, after they have coupled, build their own nest; and
instead of helping, they are very apt to steal the materials from one
another. If both birds go out at once in search of sticks, they often
find at their return, the work all destroyed, and the materials carried
off; so that one of them generally stays at home to keep watch. However,
I have met with a story which shows that they are not without some sense
of the criminality of thieving. There was in a rookery a lazy pair of
rooks, who never went out to get sticks for themselves, but made a
practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helped
themselves from their nests. They had served most of the community in
this manner and by these means had just finished their own nest; when
all the other rooks in a rage, fell upon them at once, pulled their nest
in pieces, beat them soundly, and drove them from their society.
_Fr._ That was very right—I should have liked to have seen it. But why
do they live together if they do not help one another?
_Mr. St._ They probably receive pleasure from the company of their own
kind, as men and various other creatures do. Then, though they do not
assist one another in building, they are mutually serviceable in many
ways. If a large bird of prey hovers about a rookery for the purpose of
carrying off any of the young ones, they all unite to drive him away.
When they are feeding in a flock, several are placed as sentinels upon
the trees all round, who give the alarm if any danger approaches. They
often go a long way from home to feed; but every evening the whole flock
returns, making a loud cawing as they fly, as if to direct and call in
the stragglers. The older rooks take the lead: you may distinguish them
by the whiteness of their bills, occasioned by their frequent digging in
the ground, by which the black feathers at the root of the bill are worn
off.
_Fr._ Do rooks always keep to the same trees?
_Mr. St._ Yes; they are much attached to them, and when the trees happen
to be cut down, they seem greatly distressed, and keep hovering about
them as they are falling, and will scarcely desert them when they lie on
the ground.
_Fr._ Poor things! I suppose they feel as we should if our town was
burnt down or overthrown by an earthquake.
_Mr. St._ No doubt. The societies of animals greatly resemble those of
men; and that of rooks is like those of men in a savage state, such as
the communities of the North American Indians. It is a sort of league
for mutual aid and defence, but in which every one is left to do as he
pleases, without any obligation to employ himself for the whole body.
Others unite in a manner resembling more civilized societies of men.
This is the case with the beavers. They perform great public works by
the united efforts of the whole community, such as damming up streams,
and constructing mounds for their habitations. As these are works of
great art and labour, some of them must probably act under the direction
of others, and be compelled to work whether they will or not. Many
curious stories are told to this purpose by those who have observed them
in their remotest haunts, where they exercise their full sagacity.
_Fr._ But are they all true?
_Mr. St._ That is more than I can answer for; yet what we certainly know
of the economy of bees may justify us in believing extraordinary things
of the sagacity of animals. The society of bees goes farther than that
of beavers, and, in some respects, beyond most among men themselves.
They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in
common, but they lay up a store of provision, which is the property of
the whole community, and is not used except at certain seasons, and
under certain regulations. A beehive is a true image of a commonwealth,
where no member acts for himself alone, but for the whole body.
_Fr._ But there are drones among them who do not work at all.
_Mr. St._ Yes; and at the approach of winter they are driven out of the
hive, and left to perish with cold and hunger. But I have not leisure at
present to tell you more about bees. You shall one day see them at work
in a glass hive. In the meantime, remember one thing, which applies to
all the societies of animals; and I wish it did as well to all those of
men likewise.
_Fr._ What is that?
_Mr. St._ The principle upon which they all associate, is to obtain some
benefit for the _whole body_, not to give particular advantages to a
few.
THE SHIP.
Charles Osborn, when at home in the holydays, had a visit from a
schoolfellow who was just entered as a midshipman on board of a
man-of-war. _Tom Hardy_ (that was his name) was a free-hearted, spirited
lad, and a favourite among his companions; but he never liked his book,
and had left school ignorant of almost everything he came there to
learn. What was worse, he had got a contempt for learning of all kinds,
and was fond of showing it. “What does your father mean,” says he, to
Charles, “to keep you moping and studying over things of no use in the
world but to plague folks?—Why can’t you go into his majesty’s service
like me, and be made a gentleman of? You are old enough, and I know you
are a lad of spirit.” This kind of talk made some impression upon young
_Osborn_. He became less attentive to the lessons his father set him,
and less willing to enter into instructive conversation. This change
gave his father much concern; but as he knew the cause, he thought it
best, instead of employing direct authority, to attempt to give a new
impression to his son’s mind, which might counteract the effect of his
companion’s suggestions.
Being acquainted with an East India captain, who was on the point of
sailing, he went with his son to pay him a farewell visit on board his
ship. They were shown all about the vessel, and viewed all the
preparations for so long a voyage. They saw her weigh anchor and unfurl
her sails; and they took leave of their friend amid the shouts of the
seamen and all the bustle of departure.
Charles was highly delighted with this scene, and as they were returning
could think and talk of nothing else. It was easy, therefore, for his
father to lead him into the following train of discourse:—
After Charles had been warmly expressing his admiration of the grand
sight of a large ship completely fitted out and getting under sail, “I
do not wonder,” said his father, “that you are so much struck with it;
it is, in reality, one of the finest spectacles created by human skill,
and the noblest triumph of art over untaught nature. Near two thousand
years ago, when Julius Cesar came over to this island, he found the
natives in possession of no other kind of vessel than a sort of canoe,
formed of wickerwork covered with hides, no bigger than a man or two
could carry. But the largest ship in Cesar’s fleet was not more superior
to these, than the Indiaman you have been seeing is to what that was.
Our savage ancestors ventured only to paddle along the rivers and
coasts, or cross small arms of the sea in calm weather; and Cesar
himself would have been alarmed to be a few days out of sight of land.
But the ship we have just left is going by itself to the opposite side
of the globe, prepared to encounter the tempestuous winds and
mountainous waves of the vast Southern ocean, and to find its way to its
destined port, though many weeks must pass with nothing in view but sea
and sky. Now what do you think can be the cause of this prodigious
difference in the powers of man at one period and another?”
Charles was silent.
_Fa._ Is it not that there is a great deal more knowledge in one than in
the other?
_Ch._ To be sure it is.
_Fa._ Would it not, think you, be as impossible for any number of men
untaught, by their utmost efforts, to build and navigate such a ship as
we have seen, as to fly through the air?
_Ch._ I suppose it would.
_Fa._ That we may be the more sensible of this, let us consider how many
arts and professions are necessary for this purpose. Come—you shall
begin to name them, and if you forget any, I will put you in mind. What
is the first?
_Ch._ The ship-carpenter, I think.
_Fa._ True—what does he do?
_Ch._ He builds the ship.
_Fa._ How is that done?
_Ch._ By fastening the planks and beams together.
_Fa._ But do you suppose he can do this as a common carpenter makes a
box or set of shelves?
_Ch._ I do not know.
_Fa._ Do you not think that such a vast bulk requires a good deal of
contrivance to bring it into shape, and fit it for all its purposes?
_Ch._ Yes.
_Fa._ Some ships, you have heard, sail quicker than others—some bear
storms better—some carry more lading—some draw less water—and so on. You
do not suppose all these things are left to chance?
_Ch._ No.
_Fa._ In order to produce these effects with certainty, it is necessary
to study proportions very exactly, and to lay down an accurate scale by
mathematical lines and figures after which to build the ship. Much has
been written upon this subject, and nice calculations have been made of
the resistance a ship meets with in making way through the water, and
the best means of overcoming it; also of the action of the wind on the
sails, and their action in pushing on the ship by means of the masts.
All these must be understood by a perfect master of ship-building.
_Ch._ But I think I know ship-builders who have never had an education
to fit them for understanding these things.
_Fa._ Very likely; but they have followed by rote the rules laid down by
others; and as they work merely by imitation, they cannot alter or
improve as occasion may require. Then, though common merchant-ships are
trusted to such builders, yet, in constructing men-of-war and Indiamen
persons of science are always employed. The French, however, attend to
this matter more than we do, and, in consequence, their ships generally
sail better than ours.
_Ch._ But need a captain of a ship know all these things?
_Fa._ It may not be absolutely necessary; yet occasions may frequently
arise in which it would be of great advantage for him to be able to
judge and give direction in these matters. But suppose the ship
built—what comes next?
_Ch._ I think she must be rigged.
_Fa._ Well—who are employed for this purpose?
_Ch._ Mast-makers, ropemakers, sailmakers, and I know not how many other
people.
_Fa._ These are all mechanical trades; and though in carrying them on
much ingenuity has been applied in the invention of machines and tools,
yet we will not stop to consider them. Suppose her, then, rigged—what
next?
_Ch._ She must take in her guns and powder.
_Fa._ Stop there and reflect how many arts you have now set to work.
Gunpowder is one of the greatest inventions of modern times, and what
has given such a superiority to civilized nations over the barbarous? An
English frigate, surrounded by the canoes of all the savages in the
world, would easily beat them off by means of her guns; and if Cesar
were to come again to England with his fleet, a battery of cannon would
sink all his ships, and set his legions a swimming in the sea. But the
making of gunpowder, and the casting of cannon, are arts that require an
exact knowledge of the science of _Chymistry_.
_Ch._ What is that?
_Fa._ It comprehends the knowledge of all the properties of metals and
minerals, salts, sulphur, oils, and gums, and of the action of fire, and
water, and air upon all substances, and the effects of mixing different
things together. Gunpowder is a mixture of three things only; saltpetre
or nitre, sulphur or brimstone, and charcoal. But who could have thought
such a wonderful effect would have been produced by it?
_Ch._ Was it not first discovered by accident?
_Fa._ Yes; but it was by one who was making chymical experiments, and
many more experiments have been employed to bring it to perfection.
_Ch._ But need a captain know how to make gunpowder and cannon?
_Fa._ It is not necessary, though it may often be useful to him.
However, it is quite necessary that he should know how to employ them.
Now the sciences of gunnery and fortification depend entirely upon
mathematical principles; for by these are calculated the direction of a
ball through the air, the distance it would reach to, and the force with
which it will strike any thing. All engineers, therefore, must be good
mathematicians.
_Ch._ But I think have heard of gunners being little better than common
men.
_Fa._ True—there is a way of doing that business, as well as many
others, by mere practice: and an uneducated man may acquire skill in
pointing a cannon, as well as in shooting with a common gun. But this is
only in ordinary cases, and an abler head is required to direct.
Well—now suppose your ship completely fitted out for sea, and the wind
blowing fair; how will you navigate her?
_Ch._ I would spread the sails, and steer by the rudder.
_Fa._ Very well—but how would you find your way to the port you are
bound for?
_Ch._ That I cannot tell.
_Fa._ Nor, perhaps, can I make you exactly comprehend it; but I can show
you enough to convince you that it is an affair that requires much
knowledge and early study. In former times, when a vessel left the sight
of land, it was steered by observation of the sun by day, and the moon
and stars by night. The sun, you know, rises in the east, and sets in
the west; and at noon, in these parts of the world, it is exactly south
of us. These points, therefore, may be found out when the sun shines.
The moon and stars vary: however, their place in the sky may be known by
exact observation. Then, there is one star that always points to the
north pole, and is therefore called the pole-star. This was of great use
in navigation, and the word pole-star is often used by the poets to
signify a sure guide. Do you recollect the description in Homer’s
Odyssey, when Ulysses sails away by himself from the island of
Calypso—how he steers by the stars?
_Ch._ I think I remember the lines in Pope’s translation.
_Fa._ Repeat them, then.
_Ch._
“Placed at the helm he sat, and mark’d the skies,
Nor closed in sleep his ever-watchful eyes;
There view’d the Pleiades, and the Northern Team,
And great Orion’s more effulgent beam,
To which, around the axle of the sky,
The Bear revolving points his golden eye:
Who shines exalted on th’ ethereal plain,
Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main.”
_Fa._ Very well; they are fine lines, indeed! You see, then, how long
ago sailors thought it necessary to study astronomy. But as it
frequently happens, especially in stormy weather, that the stars are not
to be seen, this method was subject to great uncertainty, which rendered
it dangerous to undertake distant voyages. At length, near 500 years
since, a property was discovered in a mineral, called the magnet or
loadstone, which removed the difficulty. This was, its _polarity_, or
quality of always pointing to the poles of the earth, that is, due north
and south. This it can communicate to any piece of iron; so that a
needle well rubbed in a particular manner by a loadstone, and then
balanced upon its centre so as to turn round freely, will always point
to the north. With an instrument called a mariner’s compass, made of one
of these needles, and a card marked with all the points—north, south,
east, west, and the divisions between these, a ship may be steered to
any part of the globe.
_Ch._ It is a very easy matter, then.
_Fa._ Not quite so easy, neither. In a long voyage, cross or contrary
winds blow a ship out of her direct course, so that without nice
calculations both of the straight track she has gone, and all the
deviations from it, the sailors would not know where they were, nor to
what point to steer. It is also frequently necessary to take
observations, as they call it; that is, to observe with an instrument
where the sun’s place in the sky is at noon, by which they can determine
the _latitude_ they are in. Other observations are necessary to
determine their _longitude_. What these mean, I can show you upon the
globe. It is enough now to say that, by means of both together, they can
tell the exact spot they are on at any time; and then, by consulting
their map, and setting their compass, they can steer right to the place
they want. But all this requires a very exact knowledge of astronomy,
the use of the globes, mathematics, and arithmetic, which you may
suppose is not to be acquired without much study. A great number of
curious instruments have been invented to assist in these operations; so
that there is scarcely any matter in which so much art and science have
been employed as in navigation; and none but a very learned and
civilized nation can excel in it.
_Ch._ But how is Tom Hardy to do? for I am pretty sure he does not
understand any of these things.
_Fa._ He must learn them, if he means to come to anything in his
profession. He may, indeed, head a pressgang, or command a boat’s crew
without them; but he will never be fit to take charge of a man-of-war,
or even a merchant-ship.
_Ch._ However, he need not learn Latin and Greek.
_Fa._ I cannot say, indeed, that a sailor has occasion for those
languages; but a knowledge of Latin makes it much easier to acquire all
modern languages; and I hope you do not think them unnecessary to him.
_Ch._ I did not know they were of much importance.
_Fa._ No! Do you think that one who may probably visit most countries in
Europe, and their foreign settlements, should be able to converse in no
other language than his own? If the knowledge of languages is not useful
to _him_, I know not to whom it is so. He can hardly do at all without
knowing some; and the more the better.
_Ch._ Poor Tom! then I doubt he has not chosen so well as he thinks.
_Fa._ I doubt so, too.
Here ended the conversation. They soon after reached home, and Charles
did not forget to desire his father to show him on the globe what
longitude and latitude meant.
THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES.
_Charles._ Papa, you grow very lazy. Last winter you used to tell us
stories, and now you never tell us any; and we are all got round the
fire quite ready to hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have a very pretty
one.
_Father._ With all my heart—What shall it be?
_Ch._ A bloody murder, papa!
_Fa._ A bloody murder! Well then—once upon a time some men dressed all
alike....
_Ch._ With black crapes over their faces?
_Fa._ No; they had steel caps on.—having crossed a dark heath, wound
cautiously along the skirts of a deep forest....
_Ch._ They were ill-looking fellows, I dare say?
_Fa._ I cannot say so; on the contrary, they were as tall, personable
men as most one shall see: leaving on their right hand an old ruined
tower on the hill....
_Ch._ At midnight, just as the clock struck twelve; was it not, papa?
_Fa._ No, really; it was on a fine balmy summer’s morning;—they moved
forward, one behind another....
_Ch._ As still as death, creeping along under the hedges?
_Fa._ On the contrary—they walked remarkably upright; and so far from
endeavouring to be hushed and still, they made a loud noise as they came
along, with several sorts of instruments.
_Ch._ But, papa, they would be found out immediately.
_Fa._ They did not seem to wish to conceal themselves: on the contrary,
they gloried in what they were about. They moved forward, I say, to a
large plain, where stood a neat pretty village which they set on fire.
_Ch._ Set a village on fire, wicked wretches!
_Fa._ And while it was burning they murdered—twenty thousand men.
_Ch._ O fie! papa! You don’t intend I should believe this; I thought all
along you were making up a tale, as you often do; but you shall not
catch me this time. What! they lay still, I suppose, and let these
fellows cut their throats?
_Fa._ No, truly, they resisted as long as they could.
_Ch._ How should these men kill twenty thousand people, pray?
_Fa._ Why not? the _murderers_ were thirty thousand.
_Ch._ O, now I have found you out! you mean a BATTLE.
_Fa._ Indeed I do. I do not know any _murders_ half so bloody.
[Illustration:
EVENING IX.
]
THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF INDUR.
At the time when fairies and genii possessed the powers which they have
now lost, there lived in the country of the Bramins, a man named Indur,
who was distinguished, not only for that gentleness of disposition and
humanity towards all living creatures, which are so much cultivated
among those people, but for an insatiable curiosity respecting the
nature and way of life of all animals. In pursuit of knowledge of this
kind he would frequently spend the night among lonely rocks, or in the
midst of thick forests; and there under shelter of a hanging cliff, or
mounted upon a high tree, he would watch the motions and actions of all
the animals that seek their prey in the night; and remaining in the same
spot till the break of day, he would observe this tribe of creatures
retiring to their dens, and all others coming forth to enjoy the beams
of the rising sun. On these occasions, if he saw any opportunity of
exercising his benevolence toward animals in distress, he never failed
to make use of it; and many times rescued the small bird from the
pitiless hawk, and the lamb or kid from the gripe of the wolf and lynx.
One day as he was sitting on a tree in the forest, a little frolicsome
monkey, in taking a great leap from one bough to another, chanced to
miss its hold, and fell from a great height to the ground. As it lay
there unable to move, Indur espied a large venomous serpent advancing to
make the poor defenceless creature his prey. He immediately descended
from his post, and taking the little monkey in his arms, ran with it to
the tree, and gently placed it upon a bough. In the meantime, the
enraged serpent pursuing him, overtook him before he could mount the
tree, and bit him in the leg. Presently, the limb began to swell, and
the effects of the venom became visible over Indur’s whole frame. He
grew faint, sick, and pale; and sinking on the ground was sensible that
his last moments were fast approaching. As thus he lay, he was surprised
to hear a human voice from the tree; and looking up, he beheld, on the
bow where he had placed the monkey, a beautiful woman, who thus
addressed him:—“Indur, I am truly grieved that thy kindness to me should
have been the cause of thy destruction. Know that, in the form of the
poor monkey, it was the potent fairy Perizinda to whom thou gavest
succour. Obliged to pass a certain number of days every year under the
shape of an animal, I have chosen this form; and though not mortal, I
should have suffered extreme agonies from the bite of the serpent, hadst
thou not so humanely assisted me. It is not in my power to prevent the
fatal effect of the poison; but I am able to grant thee any wish thou
shalt form respecting the future state of existence to which thou art
now hastening. Speak then, before it be too late, and let me show my
gratitude.”—“Great Perizinda!” replied Indur, “since you deign so
bounteously to return my service, this is the request that I make; in
all my transmigrations may I retain a rational soul, with the memory of
the adventures I have gone through; and when death sets me free from one
body, may I instantly animate another in the prime of its powers and
faculties, without passing through the helpless state of infancy.”—“It
is granted,” answered the fairy; and immediately, breaking a small
branch from the tree, and breathing on it, she threw it down to Indur,
and bid him hold it fast in his hand. He did so, and presently expired.
Instantly, he found himself in a green valley, by the side of a clear
stream, grazing amid a herd of antelopes. He admired his elegant shape,
sleek, spotted skin, and polished spiral horns; and drank with delight
of the cool rivulet, cropped the juicy herb, and sported with his
companions. Soon an alarm was given of the approach of an enemy; and
they all set off with the swiftness of the wind, to the neighbouring
immense plains, where they were presently out of the reach of injury.
Indur was highly delighted with the ease and rapidity of his motions;
and snuffing the keen air of the desert, bounded away, scarcely deigning
to touch the ground with his feet. This way of life went on very
pleasantly for some time, till at length the herd was one morning
alarmed with noises of trumpets, drums, and loud shouts on every side.
They started, and ran first to the right, then to the left, but were
continually driven back by the surrounding crowd, which now appeared to
be a whole army of hunters, with the king of the country, and all his
nobles, assembled at a solemn chase, after the manner of the Eastern
people. And now the circle began to close, and numbers of affrighted
animals of various kinds thronged together in the centre, keeping as far
as possible from the dangers that approached them from all quarters. The
huntsmen were now come near enough to reach their game with their
arrows; and the prince and his lords shot at them as they passed and
repassed, killing and wounding great numbers. Indur and his surviving
companions, seeing no other means of escape, resolved to make a bold
push toward that part of the ring which was the most weakly guarded; and
though many perished in the attempt, yet a few, leaping over the heads
of the people, got clear away: Indur was among the number. But while he
was scouring over the plain, rejoicing in his good fortune and conduct,
an enemy swifter than himself overtook him. This was a falcon, who, let
loose by one of the huntsmen, dashed like lightning after the fugitives;
and alighting upon the head of Indur, began to tear his eyes with his
beak, and flap his wings over his face. Indur, terrified and blinded,
knew not which way he went; and instead of proceeding straight-forward,
turned round and came again toward the hunters. One of these, riding
full speed with a javelin in his hand, came up to him, and ran the
weapon into his side. He fell down, and with repeated wounds was soon
despatched.
When the struggle of death was over, Indur was equally surprised and
pleased on finding himself soaring high in the air, as one of a flight
of wild geese, in their annual migration to breed in the arctic regions.
With vast delight he sprung forward on easy wing through the immense
fields of air, and surveyed beneath him extensive tracts of earth
perpetually varying with plains, mountains, rivers, lakes, and woods. At
the approach of night the flock lighted on the ground, and fed on the
green corn or grass; and at daybreak they were again on the wing,
arranged in regular wedge-like body, with an experienced leader at their
head. Thus for many days they continued their journey, passing over
countries inhabited by various nations, till at length they arrived in
the remotest part of Lapland, and settled in a wide marshy lake, filled
with numerous reedy islands, and surrounded on all sides with dark
forests of pine and birch. Here, in perfect security from man and
hurtful animals, they followed the great business of breeding and
providing for their young, living plentifully upon the insects and
aquatic reptiles that abounded in this sheltered spot. Indur with great
pleasure exercised his various powers of swimming, diving, and flying;
sailing round the islands, penetrating into every creek and bay, and
visiting the deepest recesses of the woods. He surveyed with
astonishment the sun, instead of rising and setting, making a complete
circle in the heavens, and cheering the earth with a perpetual day. Here
he met with innumerable tribes of kindred birds varying in size,
plumage, and voice, but all passing their time in a similar manner, and
furnished with the same powers for providing food and a safe retreat for
themselves and their young. The whole lake was covered with parties
fishing or sporting, and resounded with their loud cries; while the
islands were filled with their nests, and new broods of young were
continually coming forth and launching upon the surface of the waters.
One day, Indur’s curiosity having led him at a distance from his
companions to the woody border of the lake, he was near paying dear for
his heedlessness; for a fox, that lay in wait among the bushes, sprung
upon him, and it was with the utmost difficulty that by a strong
exertion he broke from his hold, not without the loss of some feathers.
Summer now drawing to an end, the vast congregation of water-fowl begun
to break up; and large bodies of them daily took their way southward, to
pass the winter in climates where the waters are never so frozen as to
become uninhabitable by the feathered race. The wild geese, to whom
Indur belonged, proceeded with their young ones, by long daily journeys
across Sweden, the Baltic sea, Poland and Turkey, to Lesser Asia, and
finished their journey at the celebrated plains on the banks of the
Cayster, a noted resort for their species ever since the age of Homer,
who in some very beautiful verses has described the manners and actions
of the various tribes of aquatic birds in that favourite spot.[1] Here
they soon recruited from the fatigue of their march, and enjoyed
themselves in the delicious climate till winter. This season, though
here extremely mild, yet making the means of sustenance somewhat scarce,
they were obliged to make foraging excursions to the cultivated lands in
the neighbourhood. Having committed great depredations upon a fine field
of young wheat, the owner spread a net on the ground, in which Indur,
with several of his companions, had the misfortune to be caught. No
mercy was shown them, but as they were taken out one by one, their necks
were all broken.
Footnote 1:
Not less their number than th’ embodied cranes,
Or milk-white swans on Asia’s wat’ry plains,
That o’er the windings of Cayster’s springs
Stretch their long necks, and clap their rustling wings
Now tower aloft, and course in airy rounds;
Now light with noise; with noise the field resounds.—POPE’S _Homer_.
Indur was not immediately sensible of the next change he underwent,
which was into a dormouse, fast asleep into a hole at the foot of a
bush. As it was in a country where the winter was pretty severe, he did
not awake for some weeks; when a thaw having taken place, and the sun
beginning to warm the earth, he unrolled himself one day, stretched,
opened his eyes, and not being able to make out where he was, he roused
a female companion whom he found by his side. When she was sufficiently
awakened, and they both began to feel hungry, she led the way to a
magazine of nuts and acorns, where they made a comfortable meal, and
soon fell asleep again. This nap having lasted a few days, they awaked a
second time, and having eaten, they ventured to crawl to the mouth of
their hole, where, pulling away some withered grass and leaves, they
peeped out into the open air. After taking a turn or two in the sun,
they grew chill, and went down again, stopping up the entrance after
them. The cold weather returning, they took another long nap, till, at
length, spring being fairly set in, they roused in earnest, and began to
make daily excursions abroad. Their winter-stock of provisions being now
exhausted, they were for some time reduced to great straits, and obliged
to dig for roots and pig-nuts. Their fare was mended as the season
advanced, and they made a nest near the bottom of a tree, where they
brought up a young family. They never ranged far from home, nor ascended
the higher branches of the tree, and passed great part of their time in
sleep, even during the midst of summer. When autumn came, they were
busily employed in collecting the nuts, acorns, and other dry fruits
that fell from the trees, and laying them up in their storehouses
underground. One day, as Indur was thus closely engaged at some distance
from his dwelling, he was seized by a wildcat, who, after tormenting him
for a time, gave him a gripe, and put him out of his pain.
From one of the smallest and most defenceless of animals, Indur found
himself instantly changed into a majestic elephant, in a lofty forest in
the isle of Ceylon. Elated with this wonderful advancement in the scale
of creation, he stalked along with conscious dignity, and surveyed with
pleasing wonder his own form and that of his companions, together with
the rich scenery of the ever-verdant woods, which perfumed the air with
their spicy odour, and lifted their tall heads to the clouds. Here,
fearing no injury, and not desirous to do any, the gigantic herd roamed
at large, feeding on the green branches which they tore down with their
trunks, and bathing in deep rivers during the heat of the day; and,
reposing in the depths of the forests, reclined against the massy trunks
of trees by night. It was long before Indur met with any adventure that
could lead him to doubt his security. But, one day, having penetrated
into a close entangled thicket, he espied, lurking under the thick
covert, a grim tiger, whose eyes flashed rage and fury. Though the tiger
was one of the largest of his species, yet his bulk was trifling
compared with that of an elephant, a single foot of which seemed
sufficient to crush him; yet the fierceness and cruelty of his looks,
his angry growl, and grinning teeth, struck some terror into Indur.
There was little time, however, for reflection: for when Indur had
advanced a single step, the tiger, setting up a roar, sprung to meet
him, attempting to seize his lifted trunk. Indur was dexterous enough to
receive him upon one of his tusks, and exerting all his strength, threw
the tiger to a great distance. He was somewhat stunned by the fall, but
recovering, renewed the assault with redoubled fury. Indur again, and a
third time, threw him off; after which the tiger, turning about, bounded
away into the midst of the thicket. Indur drew back, and rejoined his
companions, with some abatement in the confidence he had placed in his
size and strength, which had not prevented him from undergoing so
dangerous an attack.
Soon after, he joined the rest of the herd, in an expedition beyond the
bounds of the forest, to make depredations on some fields of maize. They
committed great havoc, devouring part, but tearing up and trampling down
much more; when the inhabitants taking the alarm, assembled in great
numbers, and with fierce shouts and flaming brands drove them back to
the woods. Not contented with this, they were resolved to make them pay
for the mischief they had done, by taking some prisoners. For this
purpose they enclosed a large space among the trees with strong posts
and stakes, bringing it to a narrower and narrower compass, and ending
at last in a passage only capable of admitting one elephant at a time.
This was divided into several apartments, by strong cross-bars, which
would lift up and down. They then sent out some tame female elephants
bred to the business, who approaching the herd of wild ones, inveigled
the males to follow them toward the enclosures. Indur was among the
first who was decoyed by their artifices; and with some others following
heedlessly, he got into the narrowest part of the enclosure, opposite to
the passage. Here they stood awhile, doubting whether they should go
farther. But the females leading the way, and uttering their cry of
invitation, they ventured at length to follow. When a sufficient number
was in the passage, the bars were let down by men placed for that
purpose, and the elephants were fairly caught in a trap. As soon as they
were sensible of their situation, they fell into a fit of rage, and with
all their efforts endeavoured to break through. But the hunters throwing
nooses over them, bound them fast with strong ropes and chains to the
post on each side, and thus kept them without food or sleep for three
days; when being exhausted with hunger and fatigue, they gave signs of
sufficient tameness. They were now let out one by one, and bound each of
them to two large tame elephants with riders on their backs, and thus
without resistance were led away close prisoners. They were then put
into separate stables, and by proper discipline, were presently rendered
quite tame and gentle.
Not long after, Indur, with five more, was sent over from Ceylon to the
continent of India, and sold to one of the princes of the country. He
was now trained to all the services elephants are there employed in;
which were, to carry people on his back in a kind of sedan, or litter,
to draw cannon, ships, and other great weights, to kneel and rise at
command, make obeisance to his lord, and perform all the motions and
attitudes he was ordered. Thus he lived a long time well fed and
caressed, clothed in costly trappings on days of ceremony, and
contributing to the pomp of Eastern royalty. At length, a war broke out,
and Indur came to be employed in a different scene. After proper
training he was marched with a number of his fellows, into the field,
bearing on his back a small wooden tower, in which were placed some
soldiers with a small field-piece. They soon came in sight of the enemy,
and both sides were drawn up for battle. Indur and the rest were urged
forward by their leaders wondering at the same time at the scene in
which they were engaged, so contrary to their nature and manners.
Presently, all was involved in smoke and fire. The elephants advancing,
soon put to flight those who were drawn up before them; but their career
was stopped by a battery of cannon, which played furiously against them.
Their vast bodies offered a fair mark to the balls, which presently
struck down some, and wounded others. Indur received a shot on one of
his tusks, which broke it, and put him to such pain and affright, that,
turning about, he ran with all speed over the plain; and falling in with
a body of their own infantry, he burst through, trampling down whole
ranks, and filling them with terror and confusion. His leader having now
lost all command over him, and finding him hurtful to his own party,
applied the sharp instrument he carried to the nape of his neck, and
driving it in with all his force, pierced his spinal marrow, so that he
fell lifeless to the ground.
In the next stage of his existence, Indur, to his great surprise, found
even the vast bulk of the elephant prodigiously exceeded; for he was now
a whale of the largest species, rolling in the midst of the arctic seas.
As he darted along, the lash of his tail made whirlpools in the mighty
deep. When he opened his immense jaws he drew in a flood of brine,
which, on rising to the surface, he spouted out again in a rushing
fountain, that rose high in the air with the noise of a mighty cataract.
All the other inhabitants of the ocean seemed as nothing to him. He
swallowed, almost without knowing it, whole shoals of the smaller kinds;
and the larger swiftly turned aside at his approach. “Now,” he cried to
himself, “whatever other evils await me, I am certainly secure from the
molestation of other animals; for what is the creature that can dare to
cope with me, or measure his strength with mine?” Having said this, he
saw swimming near him a fish not a quarter of his length, armed with a
dreadful row of teeth. This was a grampus, which directly flying upon
Indur, fastened on him, and made his great teeth meet in his flesh.
Indur roared with pain, and lashed the sea, till it was all in a foam,
but could neither reach nor shake off his cruel foe. He rolled over and
over, rose and sunk, and exerted all his boasted strength; but to no
purpose. At length, the grampus quitted his hold, and left him not a
little mortified with the adventure. This was, however, forgotten, and
Indur received pleasure from his new situation, as he roamed through the
boundless fields of ocean, now diving to its very bottom, now shooting
swiftly to its surface, and sporting with his companions in unwieldly
gambols. Having chosen a mate, he took his course with her southward,
and, in due time, brought up two young ones, of whom he was extremely
fond. The summer season being arrived, he more frequently than usual
rose to the surface, and basking in the sunbeams, floated unmoved with a
large part of his huge body above the waves. As he was thus one day
enjoying a profound sleep, he was awakened by a sharp instrument
penetrating deep into his back. Instantly, he sprung away with the
swiftness of lightning, and feeling the weapon still sticking, he dived
into the recesses of the deep, and stayed there till want of air obliged
him to ascend to the surface. Here another harpoon was plunged into him,
the smart of which again made him fly from his unseen foes; but, after a
shorter course, he was again compelled to rise, much weakened by the
loss of blood, which, gushing in a torrent, tinged the waters as he
passed. Another wound was inflicted, which soon brought him almost
lifeless to the surface; and the line fastened to the first harpoon
being now pulled in, this enormous creature was brought, an unresisting
prey, to the side of a ship, where he was soon quietly despatched, and
then cut to pieces.
The soul of this huge carcass had next a much narrower lodging, for
Indur was changed into a bee, which, with a great multitude of its young
companions, was on flight in search of a new settlement, their parents
having driven them out of the hive, which was unable to contain them
all. After a rambling excursion, the queen, by whom all their motions
were directed, settled on the branch of a lofty tree. They all
immediately clustered round her, and soon formed a large black bunch,
depending from the bough. A man presently planting a ladder, ascended
with a beehive, and swept them in. After they were quietly settled in
their new habitation, they were placed on a stand in the garden along
with some other colonies, and left to begin their labours. Every fine
morning, as soon as the sun was up, the greatest part of them sallied
forth, and roamed over the garden and the neighbouring fields in search
of fresh and fragrant flowers. They first collected a quantity of gluey
matter, with which they lined all the inside of their house. Then they
brought wax, and began to make their cells, building them with the
utmost regularity, though it was their first attempt, and they had no
teacher. As fast as they were built, some were filled with liquid honey,
gathered from the nectaries of flowers; and as they filled the cells,
they sealed them up with a thin covering of wax. In other cells, the
queen-bee deposited her eggs, which were to supply a new progeny for the
ensuing year. Nothing could be a more pleasing sight than to behold on a
sunshiny day the insects continually going forth to their labour, while
others were as constantly arriving at the mouth of the hole, either with
yellow balls of wax under their thighs, or full of the honey which they
had drawn in with their trunks for the purpose of spouting it out into
the cells of the honeycomb. Indur felt much delight in this useful and
active way of life, and was always one of the first abroad at the dawn,
and latest home in the evening. On rainy and foggy days they stayed at
home, and employed themselves in finishing their cells, and all the
necessary work within doors; and Indur, though endued with human reason,
could not but admire the readiness with which he and the rest formed the
most regular plans of work, all corresponding in design and execution,
guided by instinct alone.
The end of autumn now approaching, the bees had filled their combs with
honey; and nothing more being to be got abroad, they stayed within
doors, passing most of their time in sleep. They ate a little of their
store, but with great frugality; and all their meals were made in
public, none daring to make free with the common stock by himself. The
owner of the hives now came and took them one by one into his hand, that
he might judge by the weight whether or no they were full of honey. That
in which Indur was, proved to be one of the heaviest; and it was
therefore resolved to take the contents. For this purpose, one cold
night, when the bees were all fast asleep, the hive was placed over a
hole in the ground, in which were put brimstone matches set on fire. The
fumes rose into the hive, and soon suffocated great part of the bees,
and stupified the rest, so that they all fell from the combs. Indur was
among the dead.
He soon revived in the form of a young rabbit in a spacious warren. This
was like a populous town; being everywhere hollowed by burrows running
deep under ground, and each inhabited by one or more families. In the
evening the warren was covered with a vast number of rabbits, old and
young, some feeding, others frisking about, and pursuing one another in
wanton sport. At the least alarm, they all hurried into the holes
nearest them, and were in an instant safe from enemies, who either could
not follow them at all or, if they did, were foiled in the chase by the
numerous ways and turnings in the earth, communicating with each other,
so as to afford easy means of escape. Indur delighted much in this
secure and social life; and taking a mate, was soon the father of a
numerous offspring. Several of the little ones, however, not being
sufficiently careful, fell a prey either to hawks and crows, continually
hovering over the warren, or to cats, foxes, and other wild quadrupeds,
who used every art to catch them at a distance from their holes. Indur
himself ran several hazards. He was once very near being caught by a
little dog trained for the purpose, who kept playing round for a
considerable time, not seeming to attend to the rabbits, till having got
near, he all at once darted into the midst of them. Another time he
received some shot from a sportsman who lay on the watch behind a hedge
adjoining the warren.
The number of rabbits here was so great, that a hard winter coming on,
which killed most of the vegetables, or buried them deep under the snow,
they were reduced to great straits, and many were famished to death.
Some turnips and hay, however, which were laid for them, preserved the
greater part. The approach of spring renewed their sport and pleasure;
and Indur was made the father of another family. One night, however, was
fatal to them all. As they were sleeping, they were alarmed by the
attack of a ferret; and running with great speed to the mouth of their
burrow to escape it, they were all caught in nets placed over their
holes. Indur, with the rest, was despatched by a blow on the back of the
neck, and his body was sent to the nearest market-town.
His next change was into a young mastiff, brought up in a farmyard.
Having nearly acquired his full size, he was sent as a present to a
gentleman in the neighbourhood, who wanted a faithful guard for his
house and grounds. Indur presently attached himself to his master and
all his family, and showed every mark of a noble and generous nature.
Though fierce as a lion whenever he thought the persons or property of
his friends invaded, he was as gentle as a lamb at other times, and
would patiently suffer any kind of freedoms from those he loved. He
permitted the children of the house to lug him about, ride on his back,
and use him as roughly as their little hands were capable of; never,
even when hurt, showing any displeasure further than by a low growl. He
was extremely indulgent to all the other animals of his species in the
yard; and when abroad would treat the impertinent barking of little dogs
with silent contempt. Once, indeed, being provoked beyond bearing, not
only by the noise, but by the snaps of a malicious whelp, he suddenly
seized him in his open mouth; but when the bystanders thought that the
poor cur was going instantly to be destroyed, they were equally diverted
and pleased at seeing Indur go to the side of a muddy ditch, and drop
his antagonist unhurt into the middle of it.
He had, however, more serious conflicts frequently to sustain. He was
accustomed to attend the servant on market-days to the neighbouring
town, when it was his office to guard the provision cart, while the man
was making his purchases in the shops. On these occasions the boldest
dogs in the street would sometimes make an onset in a body; and while
some of them were engaging Indur, others would be mounting the cart, and
pulling down the meat-baskets. Indur had much ado to defend himself and
the baggage, too; however, he never failed to make some of the
assailants pay dearly for their impudence; and by his loud barking, he
summoned his human fellow-servant to his assistance, in time to prevent
their depredations.
At length, his courage was exerted on the most important service to
which it could be applied. His master returning home late one evening,
was attacked near his own house by three armed ruffians. Indur heard his
voice calling for help, and instantly flew to his relief. He seized one
of the villains by the throat, brought him to the ground, and presently
disabled him. The master, in the meantime, was keeping off the other two
with a large stick, but had received several wounds with a cutlass; and
one of the men had presented a pistol, and was just on the point of
firing. At this moment, Indur, leaving his vanquished foe on the ground,
rushed forward, and seizing the man’s arm, made him drop the pistol. The
master took it up; on which the other robber fled. He now advanced to
him with whom Indur was engaged, and fired the pistol at him. The ball
broke the man’s arm, and thence entered the body of Indur, and mortally
wounded him. He fell, but had the satisfaction of seeing his master
remain lord of the field; and the servants now coming up, made prisoners
of the two wounded robbers. The master threw himself by the side of
Indur, and expressed the warmest concern at the accident which had made
him the cause of death of the faithful animal that had preserved his
life. Indur died licking his hand.
So generous a nature was now no longer to be annexed to a brutal form.
Indur awaking as it were from a trance, found himself again in the happy
region he had formerly inhabited, and recommenced the innocent life of a
Bramin. He cherished the memory of his transmigrations, and handed them
down to posterity, in a relation from which the preceding account has
been extracted for the amusement of our young readers.
[Illustration:
EVENING X.
]
THE SWALLOW AND TORTOISE.
A tortoise in a garden’s bound,
An ancient inmate of the place,
Had left his winter-quarters underground,
And, with a sober pace,
Was crawling o’er a sunny bed,
And thrusting from his shell his pretty toad-like head.
Just come from sea, a swallow,
As to and fro he nimbly flew,
Beat our old racer hollow:
At length, he stopped direct in view,
And said, “Acquaintance brisk and gay,
How have you fared this many a day?”
“Thank you,” replied the close housekeeper,
“Since you and I last autumn parted,
I’ve been a precious sleeper,
And never stirred nor started,
But in my hole I lay as snug
As fleas within a rug;
Nor did I put my head abroad
Till all the snow and ice were thawed.”
“But I,” rejoined the bird,
“Who love cold weather just as well as you,
Soon as the warning blasts I heard.
Away I flew,
And mounting in the wind,
Left gloomy winter far behind.
Directed by the mid-day sun,
O’er sea and land my venturous course I steered,
Nor was my distant journey done
Till Afric’s verdant coast appeared.
There, all the season long,
I chased gay butterflies and gnats,
And gave my negro friends a morning song,
And housed at night among the bats.
Then, at the call of spring,
I northward turned my wing,
And here again her joyous message bring.”
“Lord! what a deal of heedless ranging,”
Returned the reptile grave,
“For ever hurrying, bustling, changing,
As if it were your life to save!
Why need you visit foreign nations?
Rather like me, and some of your relations,
Take out a pleasant half-year’s nap,
Secure from trouble and mishap.”
“A pleasant nap, indeed!” replied the swallow
“When I can neither see nor fly,
The bright example I may follow
‘Till then, in truth, not I!
I measure time by its employment,
And only value life for life’s enjoyment
As good be buried all at once,
As doze out half one’s days, like you, you stupid dunce!”
THE GRASS-TRIBE.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Harry._ Pray, what is that growing on the other side of the hedge?
_George._ Why it is corn—don’t you see it is in ear.
_Har._ Yes—but it seems too short for corn; and the corn we just now
passed is not in ear by a great deal.
_Geo._ Then I don’t know what it is. Pray, sir, will you tell us?
_Tut._ I don’t wonder you were puzzled about it. It is a sort of grass
sown for hay, and is called rye-grass.
_Har._ But how happens it that it is so very like corn?
_Tut._ There is no great wonder in that, for all corn is really a kind
of grass; on the other hand, if you were a Lilliputian, every species of
grass would appear to you amazing large corn.
_Geo._ Then there is no difference between corn and grass, but the size?
_Tut._ None at all.
_Har._ But we eat corn; and grass is not good to eat.
_Tut._ It is only the seeds of corn that we eat: we leave the stalks and
leaves for cows and horses. Now we might eat the seeds of grass, if they
were big enough to be worth gathering; and some particular kinds are in
fact eaten in certain countries.
_Har._ But are wheat and barley really grass?
_Tut._ Yes—they are a species of that great family of plants, which
botanists call _grasses_; and I will take this opportunity of telling
you something about them. Go, George, and pull us up a root of that
rye-grass. Harry and I will sit down on this stile till you come to us?
_Har._ Here is grass enough all round us.
_Tut._ Well, then, pull up a few roots that you see in ear.
_Geo._ Here is my grass.
_Har._ And here is mine.
_Tut._ Well—spread them all in a handkerchief before us. Now look at the
roots of them all. What do you call them?
_Geo._ I think they are what you have told us—_fibrous_ roots.
_Tut._ Right—they consist of a bundle of strings. Then look at their
stalks—you will find them jointed and hollow, like the straw of corn.
_Har._ So they are.
_Tut._ The leaves, you see, of all the kinds are very long and narrow,
tapering to a point at their ends. Those of corn, you know, are the
same.
_Har._ Yes—they are so like grass at first, that I can never tell the
difference.
_Tut._ Next observe the ears, or heads. Some of these, you see, are
thick, and close, like those of wheat or barley; others are more loose
and open, like oats. The first are generally called _spikes_; the second
_panicles_. If you examine them closely, you will find that they all
consist of a number of distinct husky bodies, which are properly the
flowers; each of which is succeeded by a single seed. I dare say you
have picked ears of wheat?
_Har._ O yes—I am very fond of them!
_Tut._ Well then—you found that the grains all lay single, contained in
a scaly husk making a part of the ear, or head. Before the seed was
formed, there was a flower in its place. I do not mean a gay
fine-coloured flower, but a few scales with threads coming out among
them, each crowned with a white tip. And soon after the ears of corn
appear you will find their flowers open, and these white tips coming out
of them. This is the structure of the flowers and flowering heads of
every one of the grass tribe.
_Geo._ But what are the _beards_ of corn?
_Tut._ The beards are bristles or points running out from the ends of
the husks. They are properly called _awns_. Most of the grass-tribe have
something of these, but they are much longer in some kinds than in
others. In barley, you know, they are very long, and give the whole
field a sort of downy or silky appearance, especially when waved by the
wind.
_Har._ Are there the same kinds of corn and grass in all countries?
_Tut._ No. With respect to corn, that is in all countries the product of
cultivation; and different sorts are found best to suit different
climates. Thus, in the northern parts of the temperate zone, oats and
rye are chiefly grown. In the middle and southern, barley and wheat.
Wheat is universally the species preferred for bread-corn; but there are
various kinds of it, differing from each other in size of grain, colour,
and other qualities
_Har._ Does not the best wheat of all grow in England?
_Tut._ By no means. Wheat is better suited to the warmer climates, and
it is only by great attention and upon particular soils that it is made
to succeed well here. On the other hand, the torrid zone is too hot for
wheat and our other grains; and they chiefly cultivate rice there, and
Indian corn.
_Geo._ I have seen heads of Indian corn as thick as my wrist, but they
do not look at all like our corn.
_Tut._ Yes—the seeds all grow single in a sort of chaffy head; and the
stalk and leaves resemble those of the grass-tribe, but of a gigantic
size. But there are other plants of this family, which perhaps you have
not thought of.
_Geo._ What are they?
_Tut._ Canes and reeds—from the sugarcanes and bamboo of the tropics, to
the common reed of our ditches, of which you make arrows. All these have
the general character of the grasses.
_Har._ I know that reeds have very fine feathery heads, like the tops of
grass.
_Tut._ They have so. And the stalks are composed of many joints; as are
also those of the sugarcane, and of the common cane which grows in the
southern countries of Europe, and of which fishing-rods are often made,
as well as of the bamboo imported hither for walking-sticks, and applied
to many more important uses in the countries of which it is a native.
Some of these are very tall plants, but the seeds of them are small in
proportion, and not useful for food. But there is yet another kind of
grasslike plants common among us.
_Geo._ What is that?
_Tut._ Have you not observed in the marshes, and on the sides of
ditches, a coarse broader-leaved sort of grass with large dark-coloured
spikes? This is _sedge_, in Latin _carex_, and there are many sorts of
it.
_Har._ What is that good for?
_Tut._ It is eaten by cattle, both fresh and dry, but is inferior in
quality to good grass.
_Geo._ What is it that makes one kind of grass better than another?
_Tut._ There are various properties which give value to grasses. Some
spread more than others, resist frost and drought better; yield a
greater crop of leaves, and are therefore better for pasturage and hay.
The juices of some are more nourishing and sweet than those of others.
In general, however, different grasses are suited to different soils;
and by improving soils, the quality of the grass is improved.
_Geo._ Does grass grow in all countries?
_Tut._ Yes—the green turf, which naturally covers fertile soils of all
countries, is chiefly composed of grasses of various kinds. They form,
therefore, the verdant carpet extended over the earth; and humble as
they are, contribute more to beauty and utility, than any other part of
the vegetable creation.
_Har._ What—more than trees?
_Tut._ Yes, certainly. A land entirely covered with trees would be
gloomy, unwholesome, and scarcely inhabitable; whereas, the meadow, the
down, and the cornfield, afford the most agreeable prospects to the eye,
and furnish every necessary, and many of the luxuries of life. Give us
corn and grass, and what shall we want for food?
_Har._ Let me see—what should we have? There’s bread and flour for
puddings.
_Geo._ Ay, and milk, for you know cows live on grass and hay—so there’s
cheese and butter and all things that are made of milk.
_Tut._ And are there not all kinds of meat too, and poultry? And then
for drink, there are beer and ale, which are made from barley. For all
these we are chiefly indebted to _the grasses_.
_Geo._ Then I am sure we are very much obliged to the grasses.
_Tut._ Well—let us now walk homeward. Some time hence you shall make a
collection of all the kinds of grasses, and learn to know them from each
other.
A TEA LECTURE.
_Tutor_—_Pupil_.
_Tutor._ Come—the tea is ready. Lay by your book, and let us talk a
little. You have assisted in tea-making a great many times, and yet I
dare say you never considered what kind of an operation it was.
_Pupil._ An operation of cookery—is it not?
_Tut._ You may call it so: but it is properly an operation of
_chymistry_.
_Pup._ Of chymistry! I thought that had been a very deep sort of a
business.
_Tut._ O—there are many things in common life that belong to the deepest
of sciences. Making tea is the chymical operation called _infusion_,
which is, when a hot liquor is poured upon a substance in order to
extract something from it. The water, you see, extracts from the
tea-leaves their colour, taste, and flavour.
_Pup._ Would not cold water do the same?
_Tut._ It would, but more slowly. Heat assists almost all liquors in
their power of extracting the virtues of herbs and other substances.
Thus good housewives were formerly used to boil their tea, in order to
get all goodness from it as completely as possible. The greater heat and
agitation of boiling make it act more powerfully. The liquor in which a
substance has been boiled is called a _decoction_ of that substance.
_Pup._ Then we had a decoction of mutton at dinner to-day.
_Tut._ We had—broth is a decoction, and so are gruel and barley-water.
But when anything is put to steep in a cold liquor it is called
_maceration_. The ingredients of which ink is made are _macerated_. In
all these cases, you see, the whole substance does not mix with the
liquor, but only part of it. The reason is, that part of it is _soluble_
in the liquor, and part not.
_Pup._ What is the meaning of that?
_Tut._ Solution is when a solid put into a fluid entirely disappears in
it, leaving the liquor clear. Thus when I throw this lump of sugar into
my tea, you see it gradually wastes away till it is all gone, and then I
can taste it in every single drop of my tea; but the tea is as clear as
before.
_Pup._ Salt would do the same.
_Tut._ It would. But if I were to throw in a lump of chalk, it would lie
undissolved at the bottom.
_Pup._ But it would make the water white.
_Tut._ True, while it was stirred; and then it would be a _diffusion_.
But while the chalk was thus mixed with the liquor, it would lose its
transparency, and not recover it again till, by standing, the chalk had
all subsided and left the liquor as it was before.
_Pup._ How is the cream mixed with the tea?
_Tut._ Why, that is only _diffused_, for it takes away the transparency
of the tea. But the particles of cream being finer and lighter than
those of chalk, it remains longer united with the liquor. However, in
time the cream would separate too, and rise to the top, leaving the tea
clear. Now, suppose you had a mixture of sugar, salt, chalk, and
tea-leaves, and were to throw it into water, either hot or cold; what
would be the effect?
_Pup._ The sugar and salt would be dissolved and disappear. The
tea-leaves would yield their colour and taste. The chalk—I do not know
what would become of that.
_Tut._ Why, if the mixture were stirred, the chalk would be diffused
through it, and make it _turbid_ or muddy; but on standing, it would
leave it unchanged.
_Pup._ Then there would remain at bottom the chalk and tea-leaves?
_Tut._ Yes. The clear liquor would contain in _solution_ salt, sugar,
and those particles of the tea in which its colour and taste consisted;
the remainder of the tea and the chalk would lie undissolved.
_Pup._ Then I suppose tea-leaves, after the tea is made, are lighter
than at first.
_Tut._ Undoubtedly. If taken out and dried they would be found to have
lost part of their weight, and the water would have gained it.
Sometimes, however, it is an extremely small portion of a substance
which is soluble, but it is that in which its most remarkable qualities
reside. Thus a small piece of spice will communicate a strong flavour to
a large quantity of liquid, with very little loss of weight.
_Pup._ Will all liquors dissolve the same things?
_Tut._ By no means. Many dissolve in water that will not in spirit of
wine; and the contrary. And upon this difference many curious matters in
the arts are founded. Thus, spirit-varnish is made of a solution of
various gums or resins in spirits that will not dissolve in water.
Therefore, when it has been laid over any surface with a brush, and is
become dry, the rain or moisture of the air will not affect it. This is
the case with the beautiful varnish laid upon coaches. On the other
hand, the varnish left by gum-water could not be washed off by spirits.
_Pup._ I remember when I made gum-water, upon setting the cup in a warm
place, it all dried away, and left the gum just as it was before. Would
the same happen if I had sugar or salt dissolved in water?
_Tut._ Yes, upon exposing the solution to warmth, it would dry away, and
you would get back your salt and sugar in a solid state as before.
_Pup._ But if I were to do so with a cup of tea, what should I get?
_Tut._ Not tea-leaves, certainly! But your question requires a little
previous explanation. It is the property of heat to make most things fly
off in vapour, which is called _evaporation_, or _exhalation_. But this
it does in very different degrees to different substances. Some are very
easily made to _evaporate_; others very difficultly; and others not at
all by the most violent fire we can raise. Fluids in general are easily
_evaporable_; but not equally so. Spirit of wine flies off in vapour
much sooner than water; so that if you had a mixture of the two, by
applying a gentle heat you might drive off almost all the spirit, while
the greater part of the water would remain. Water, again, is more
evaporable than oil. Some solid substances are much disposed to
evaporate: thus, smelling salts may by a little heat be entirely driven
away in the air. But in general, solids are more _fixed_ than fluids;
and, therefore, when a solid is dissolved in a fluid, it may commonly be
recovered again by evaporation. By this operation common salt is got
from seawater and salt springs, both artificially, and, in hot
countries, by the natural heat of the sun. When the water is no more
than is just sufficient to dissolve the salt, it is called a _saturated
solution_, and on evaporating the water further, the salt begins to
separate, forming little regular masses called _crystals_. Sugar may be
made in like manner to form crystals, and then it is sugar-candy.
_Pup._ But what is a sirup?
_Tut._ That is when so much sugar is dissolved as sensibly to thicken
the liquor, but not to separate from it. Well—now to your question about
tea. On exposing it to considerable heat, those fine particles in which
its flavour consists, being as _volatile_ or evaporable as the water,
would fly off along with it; and when the liquor came to dryness, there
would be left only those particles in which its roughness and colour
consist. This would make what is called an _extract_ of a plant.
_Pup._ What becomes of the water that evaporates?
_Tut._ It ascends into the air, and unites with it. But if in its way it
be stopped by any cold body, it is _condensed_, that is, it returns to
the state of water again. Lift up the lid of the teapot and you will
find water collected on the inside of it, which is condensed steam from
the hot tea beneath. Hold a spoon or knife in the way of the steam which
bursts out of the spout of the teakettle, and you will find it
immediately covered with drops. This operation of turning a fluid into
vapour, and then condensing it, is called _distillation_. For this
purpose, the vessel in which the liquor is heated is closely covered
with another called the head, into which the steam rises and is
condensed. It is then drawn off by means of a pipe into another vessel
called the receiver. In this way all sweet-scented and aromatic liquors
are drawn from fragrant vegetables, by means of water or spirits. The
fragrant part being very volatile rises along with the steam of the
water or spirit, and remains united with it after it is condensed.
Rosewater, and spirits of lavender, are liquors of this kind.
_Pup._ Then the water collected on the inside of the teapot-lid should
have the fragrance of the tea.
_Tut._ It should—but unless the tea were fine, you could scarcely
perceive it.
_Pup._ I think I have heard of making salt water fresh by distilling.
_Tut._ Yes. That is an old discovery lately revived. The salt in
seawater, being of a fixed nature, does not rise with the steam; and
therefore, on condensing the steam, the water is found to be fresh. And
this indeed is the method nature employs in raising water by exhalation
from the ocean, which, collecting in clouds, is condensed in the cold
region of the air, and falls down in rain.
But our tea is done: so we will now put an end to our chymical lecture.
_Pup._ But is this real chymistry?
_Tut._ Yes, it is.
_Pup._ Why, I understand it all without any difficulty.
_Tut._ I intended you should.
THE KIDNAPPERS.
Mr. B. was accustomed to read in the evening to his young folks some
select story, and then ask them in turn what they thought of it. From
the reflections they made on these occasions, he was enabled to form a
judgment of their dispositions, and was led to throw in remarks of his
own, by which their hearts and understandings might be improved. One
night he read the following narrative from Churchill’s Voyages:—
“In some voyages of discovery made from Denmark to Greenland, the
sailors were instructed to seize some of the natives by force or
stratagem, and bring them away. In consequence of these orders, several
Greenlanders were kidnapped and brought to Denmark. Though they were
treated there with kindness, the poor wretches were always melancholy,
and were observed frequently to turn their faces toward the north, and
sigh bitterly. They made several attempts to escape, by putting out to
sea in their little canoes, which had been brought with them. One of
them had got as far as thirty leagues from land before he was overtaken.
It was remarked that this poor man, whenever he met a woman with a child
in her arms, used to utter a deep sigh; whence it was conjectured that
he had left a wife and child behind him. They all pined away one after
another, and died miserably.”
“Now, Edward,” said he, “what is your opinion of this story?”
_Ed._ Poor creatures! I think it was barbarous to take them from home.
_Mr. B._ It was, indeed!
_Ed._ Have civilized nations any right to behave so to savages?
_Mr. B._ I think you may readily answer that question yourself. Suppose
you were a savage—what would be your opinion?
_Ed._ I dare say I should think it very wrong. But can savages think
about right and wrong as we do?
_Mr. B._ Why not? are they not men?
_Ed._ Yes; but not like civilized men, sure?
_Mr. B._ I know no important difference between ourselves and those
people we are pleased to call savage, but in the degree of knowledge and
virtue possessed by each. And I believe many individuals among the
Greenlanders as well as other unpolished people, exceed in these
respects many among us. In the present case I am sure the Danish sailors
showed themselves the greater savages.
_Ed._ But what did they take away the Greenlanders for?
_Mr. B._ The pretence was, that they might be brought to be instructed
in a Christian country, and then sent back to civilize their countrymen.
_Ed._ And was not that a good thing?
_Mr. B._ Certainly, if it were done by proper means; but to attempt it
by an act of violence and injustice could not be right: for they could
teach them nothing so good as their example was bad; and the poor people
were not likely to learn willingly from those who had begun with
injuring them so cruelly.
_Ed._ I remember Captain Cook, brought over somebody from Otaheite; and
poor Lee Boo was brought here from the Pelew islands. But I believe they
both came of their own accord?
_Mr. B._ They did. And it is a great proof of the better way of thinking
of modern voyagers than former ones, that they do not consider it as
justifiable to use violence even for the supposed benefit of the people
they visit.
_Ed._ I have read of taking possession of a newly-discovered country by
setting up the king’s standard or some such ceremony, though it was full
of inhabitants.
_Mr. B._ Such was formerly the custom; and a more impudent mockery of
all right and justice can scarcely be conceived. Yet this, I am sorry to
say, is the title by which European nations claim the greatest part of
their foreign settlements.
_Ed._ And might not the natives drive them out again, if they were able?
_Mr. B._ I am sure I do not know why they might not; _for force can
never give right_. Now, Harry, tell me what _you_ think of the story.
_Harry._ I think it very strange that people should want to go back to
such a cold dismal place as Greenland.
_Mr. B._ Why what country do you love best in the world?
_Har._ England, to be sure!
_Mr. B._ But England is by no means the warmest and finest country. Here
are no grapes growing in the fields, nor oranges in the woods and
hedges, as there are in more southern climates.
_Har._ I should like them very well, to be sure—but then England is my
own native country, where you and mamma and all my friends live. Besides
it is a very pleasant country, too.
_Mr. B._ As to your first reason, you must be sensible that the
Greenlander can say just the same; and the poor fellow who left a wife
and children behind, must have had the strongest of all ties to make him
wish to return. Do you think I should be easy to be separated from all
of you?
_Har._ No; and I am sure we should not be easy, neither.
_Mr. B._ Home, my dear, wherever it is, is the spot toward which a good
heart is the most strongly drawn. Then, as for the pleasantness of a
place, that all depends upon habit. The Greenlander, being accustomed to
the way of living, and all the objects of his own country, could not
relish any other so well. He loved whale-fat and seal as well as you can
do pudding and beef. He thought rowing his little boat amid the
boisterous waves pleasanter employment than driving a plough or a cart.
He fenced himself against the winter’s cold by warm clothing; and the
long night of many weeks, which you would think so gloomy, was to him a
season of ease and festivity in his habitation underground. It is a very
kind and wise dispensation of Providence, that every part of the world
is rendered most agreeable to those who live in it.
Now little Mary what have you to say?
_Mary._ I have only to say, that if they were to offer to carry me away
from home, I would scratch their eyes out!
_Mr. B._ Well said, my girl! stand up for yourself. Let nobody run away
with you—_against your will_.
_Mary._ That I won’t.
[Illustration:
EVENING XI.
]
ON MANUFACTURES.
_Father_—_Henry._
_Henry._ My dear father, you observed the other day that we had a great
many manufactures in England. Pray, what is a manufacture?
_Father._ A manufacture is something made by the hand of man. It is
derived from two Latin words, _manus_, the hand, and _facere_, to make.
Manufactures are therefore opposed to productions, which latter are what
the bounty of nature spontaneously affords; as fruits, corn, marble.
_Hen._ But there is a great deal of trouble with corn: you have often
made me take notice how much pains it costs the farmer to plough his
ground, and put the seed in the earth, and keep it clear from weeds.
_Fa._ Very true: but the farmer does not make the corn; he only prepares
for it a proper soil and situation, and removes every hinderance arising
from the hardness of the ground, or the neighbourhood of other plants,
which might obstruct the secret and wonderful process of vegetation; but
with the vegetation itself he has nothing to do. It is not _his_ hand
that draws out the slender fibres of the root, pushes up the green
stalk, and by degrees the spiky ear; swells the grain, and embrowns it
with that rich tinge of tawny russet, which informs the husbandman it is
time to put in his sickle: all this operation is performed without his
care, or even knowledge.
_Hen._ Now, then, I understand; corn is a _production_, and bread is a
_manufacture_.
_Fa._ Bread is certainly, in strictness of speech, a manufacture; but we
do not in general apply the term to anything in which the original
material is so little changed. If we wanted to speak of bread
philosophically, we should say, it is a preparation of corn.
_Hen._ Is sugar a manufacture?
_Fa._ No, for the same reason. Besides which, I do not recollect the
term being applied to any article of food; I suppose from an idea that
food is of too perishable a nature, and generally obtained by a process
too simple to deserve the name. We say, therefore, sugar-works,
oil-mills, chocolate-works; we do not say a beer-manufactory, but a
brewery; but this is only a nicety of language, for properly all those
are manufactories, if there is much of art and curiosity in the process.
_Hen._ Do we say a manufactory of pictures?
_Fa._ No; but for a different reason. A picture, especially if it belong
to any of the higher kinds of painting, is an effort of genius. A
picture cannot be produced by any given combinations of canvass and
colour. It is the hand, indeed, that executes, but the head that works.
Sir Joshua Reynolds could not have gone, when he was engaged to paint a
picture, and hired workmen, the one to draw the eyes, another the nose,
a third the mouth: the whole must be the painter’s own, that particular
painter’s, and no other; and no one who has not his ideas can do his
work. His work is therefore nobler, of a higher species.
_Hen._ Pray, give me an instance of a manufacture.
_Fa._ The making of watches is a manufacture: the silver, iron, gold, or
whatever else is used in it, are productions, the materials of the work;
but it is by the wonderful art of man that they are wrought into the
numberless wheels and springs of which this complicated machine is
composed.
_Hen._ Then is there not as much art in making a watch as a picture?
Does not the head work?
_Fa._ Certainly, in the original invention of watches, as much, or more,
than in painting; but when once invented, the art of watchmaking is
capable of being reduced to a mere mechanical labour, which may be
exercised by any man of common capacity, according to certain precise
rules, when made familiar to him by practice: of this painting is not
capable.
_Hen._ But, my dear father, making books surely requires a great deal of
thinking and study; and yet I remember the other day at dinner a
gentleman said that Mr. Pica had manufactured a large volume in less
than a fortnight.
_Fa._ It was meant to convey a satirical remark on his book because it
was compiled from other authors, from whom he had taken a page in one
place, and a page in another; so that it was not produced by the labour
of his brain, but of his hands. Thus you heard your mother complain that
the London cream was manufactured; which was a pointed and concise way
of saying that the cream was not what it ought to be, or what it
pretended to be: for cream, when genuine, is a pure production; but when
mixed up and adulterated with flour and isinglass, and I know not what,
it becomes a manufacture. It was as much as to say, art has been here
where it has no business; where it is not beneficial, but hurtful. A
great deal of the delicacy of language depends upon an accurate
knowledge of the specific meaning of single terms, and a nice attention
to their relative propriety.
_Hen._ Have all nations manufactures?
_Fa._ All that are in any degree cultivated; but it very often happens
that countries naturally the poorest have manufactures of the greatest
extent and variety.
_Hen._ Why so?
_Fa._ For the same reason, I apprehend, that individuals, who are rich
without any labour of their own, are seldom so industrious and active as
those who depend upon their own exertions: thus the Spaniards, who
possess the richest gold and silver mines in the world, are in want of
many conveniences of life which are enjoyed in London and Amsterdam.
_Hen._ I can comprehend that: I believe if my uncle Leger were to find a
gold mine under his warehouse, he would soon shut up his shop.
_Fa._ I believe so. It is not, however, easy to establish manufactures
in a _very poor_ nation: they require science and genius for their
invention, art and contrivance for their execution; order, peace, and
union, for their flourishing. They require, too, a number of men to
combine together in an undertaking, and to prosecute it with the most
patient industry; they require, therefore, laws and government for their
protection. If you see extensive manufactures in any nation, you may be
sure it is a civilized nation, you may be sure property is accurately
ascertained and protected. They require great expenses for their first
establishment, costly machines for shortening manual labour, and money
and credit for purchasing materials from distant countries. There is not
a single manufacture of Great Britain which does not require, in some
part or other of its process, productions from the different parts of
the globe, oils, drugs, varnish, quicksilver, and the like: it requires,
therefore, _ships_ and a friendly intercourse with foreign nations, to
transport commodities and exchange productions. We could not be a
manufacturing, unless we were also a commercial nation. They require
time to take root in any place, and their excellence often depends upon
some nice and delicate circumstance; a peculiar quality, for instance,
in the air or water, or some other local circumstance not easily
ascertained. Thus, I have heard that the Irish women spin better than
the English, because the moister temperature of their climate makes
their skin more soft and their fingers more flexible: thus again we
cannot die so beautiful a scarlet as the French can, though with the
same drugs, perhaps on account of the superior purity of the air. But
though so much is necessary for the perfection of the more curious and
complicated manufactures, all nations possess those which are
subservient to the common conveniences of life;—the loom and the forge,
particularly, are of the highest antiquity.
_Hen._ Yes; I remember Hector bids Andromache return to her apartments,
and employ herself in weaving with her maids; and I remember the shield
of Achilles.
_Fa._ True; and you likewise remember, in an earlier period, the fine
linen of Egypt: and to go still higher, the working of iron and brass is
recorded of Tubal-Cain before the flood.
_Hen._ Which is the most important, manufactures or agriculture?
_Fa._ Agriculture is the most _necessary_, because it is first of all
necessary that man should live; but almost all the enjoyments and
comforts of life are produced by manufactures.
_Hen._ Why are we obliged to take so much pains to make ourselves
comfortable?
_Fa._ To exercise our industry. Nature provides the materials for man.
She pours out at his feet a profusion of gems, metals, dies, plants,
ores, bark, stones, gums, wax, marbles, woods, roots, skins, earth, and
minerals of all kinds! She has likewise given him tools.
_Hen._ I did not know that nature gave us tools.
_Fa._ No! what are those two instruments you carry always about with
you, so strong and yet so flexible, so nicely jointed, and branched out
into five long, taper, unequal divisions, any of which may be contracted
or stretched out at pleasure; the extremities of which have a feeling so
wonderfully delicate, and which are strengthened and defended by horn?
_Hen._ The hands?
_Fa._ Yes. Man is as much superior to the brutes in his outward form, by
means of the hand, as he is in his mind by the gifts of reason. The
trunk of the elephant comes perhaps the nearest to it in its exquisite
feeling and flexibility, (it is, indeed, called his hand in Latin,) and
accordingly that animal has always been reckoned the wisest of brutes.
When Nature gave man the hand, she said to him. “Exercise your ingenuity
and work.” As soon as ever a man rises above the state of a savage, he
begins to contrive and to make things, in order to improve his forlorn
condition: thus you may remember Thomson represents Industry coming to
the poor shivering wretch, and teaching him the arts of life:—
“Taught him to chip the wood, and hew the stone,
Till by degrees the finished fabric rose;
Tore from his limbs the bloody-polluted fur,
And wrapped them in the woolly vestment warm,
Or bright in glossy silk and flowing lawn.”
_Hen._ It must require a great deal of knowledge, I suppose, for so many
curious works; what kind of knowledge is most necessary?
_Fa._ There is not any which may not be occasionally employed; but the
two sciences which most assist the manufacturer are _mechanics_ and
_chymistry_; the one for building mills, working mines, and in general
for constructing wheels, wedges, pulleys, &c., either to shorten the
labour of man, by performing it in less time, or to perform what the
strength of man alone could not accomplish; the other in fusing and
working ores, in dying and bleaching, and extracting the virtues of
various substances for particular uses; making of soap, for instance, is
a chymical operation; and by chymistry an ingenious gentleman has lately
found out a way of bleaching a piece of cloth in eight-and-forty hours,
which by the common process would have taken up a great many weeks. You
have heard of Sir Richard Arkwright, who died lately?
_Hen._ Yes, I have heard he was at first only a barber, and shaved
people for a penny apiece.
_Fa._ He did so; but having a strong turn for mechanics, he invented, or
at least perfected a machine, by which one pair of hands may do the work
of twenty or thirty; and, as in this country every one is free to rise
by merit, he acquired the largest fortune in the country, had a great
many hundreds of workmen under his orders, and had leave given him by
the king to put _Sir_ before his name.
_Hen._ Did that do him any good?
_Fa._ It pleased him, I suppose, or he would not have accepted of it;
and you will allow, I imagine, that if titles are used, it does honour
to those who bestow them, when they are given to such as have made
themselves noticed for something useful. Arkwright used to say, that if
he had time to perfect his inventions, he would put a fleece of wool
into a box, and it should come out broadcloth.
_Hen._ What did he mean by that? Was there any fairy in the box to turn
it into broadcloth with her wand?
_Fa._ He was assisted by the only fairies that ever had the power of
transformation—art and industry: he meant that he would contrive so many
machines, wheel within wheel, that the combing, carding, and various
other operations, should be performed by mechanism, almost without the
hand of man.
_Hen._ I think, if I had not been told, I should never have been able to
guess that my coat came off the back of the sheep.
_Fa._ You hardly would; but there are manufactures in which the material
is much more changed than in woollen cloth. What can be meaner in
appearance than sand and ashes? Would you imagine anything beautiful
could be made out of such a mixture? Yet the furnace transforms this
into that transparent crystal we call glass, than which nothing is more
sparkling, more brilliant, more full of lustre. It throws about the rays
of light as if it had life and motion.
_Hen._ There is a glass shop in London which always puts me in mind of
Aladdin’s palace.
_Fa._ It is certain that if a person, ignorant of the manufacture, were
to see one of our capital shops, he would think all the treasures of
Golconda were centred there, and that every drop of cut-glass was worth
a prince’s ransom. Again, who would suppose, on seeing the green stalks
of a plant, that it could be formed into a texture so smooth, so
snowy-white, so firm, and yet so flexible as to wrap round the limbs,
and adapt itself to every movement of the body? Who would guess this
fibrous stalk could be made to float in such light undulating folds as
in our lawns and cambrics; not less fine, we presume, than that
transparent drapery which the Romans called _ventus textilis_, _woven
wind_?
_Hen._ I wonder how anybody can spin such fine thread!
_Fa._ Their fingers must have the touch of a spider, that, as Pope says,
“Feels at each thread, and lives along the line;”
and, indeed, you recollect that Arachne was a spinster. Lace is a still
finer production from flax, and is one of those in which the original
material is most improved. How many times the price of a pound of flax
do you think that flax will be worth when made into lace?
_Hen._ A great many times, I suppose.
_Fa._ Flax at the best hand is bought at fourteen pence a pound. They
make lace at Valenciennes, in French Flanders, of ten guineas a yard—I
believe, indeed, higher—but we will say ten guineas; this yard of lace
will weigh probably more than half an ounce: what is the value of half
an ounce of flax?
_Hen._ It comes to one farthing and three quarters of a farthing.
_Fa._ Right: now tell me how many times the original value the lace is
worth.
_Hen._ Prodigious! it is worth 5760 times as much as the flax it is made
of!
_Fa._ Yet there is another material that is still more improveable than
flax.
_Hen._ What can that be?
_Fa._ Iron. The price of pig-iron is ten shillings a hundred weight;
this is not quite one farthing for two ounces: now you have seen some of
the beautiful cut-steel that looks like diamonds?
_Hen._ Yes, I have seen buckles, and pins, and watchchains.
_Fa._ Then you can form an idea of it: but you have only seen the most
common sorts. There was a chain made at Woodstock, in Oxford shire, and
sent to France, which weighed only two ounces, and cost 170_l._
Calculate how many times that had increased its value.
_Hen._ Amazing! it was worth 163,600 times the value of the iron it was
made of!
_Fa._ That is what manufacture can do: here man is a kind of creator
and, like the great Creator, he may please himself with his work, and
say it is good. In the last-mentioned manufacture, too, that of steel,
the English have the honour of excelling all the world.
_Hen._ What are the chief manufactures of England?
_Fa._ We have at present a greater variety than I can pretend to
enumerate, but our staple manufacture is woollen cloth. England abounds
in fine pastures and extensive downs, which feed great numbers of sheep:
hence our wool has always been a valuable article of trade; but we did
not always know how to work it. We used to sell it to the Flemish or
Lombards, who wrought it into cloth; till, in the year 1326, Edward the
Third invited some Flemish weavers over to teach us the art; but there
was not much made in England till the reign of Henry the Seventh.
Manchester and Birmingham are towns which have arisen to great
consequence from small beginnings, almost within the memory of old men
now living; the first for cotton and muslin goods, the second for
cutlery and hardware, in which we at this moment excel all Europe. Of
late years, too, carpets, beautiful as fine tapestry, have been
fabricated in this country. Our clocks and watches are greatly esteemed.
The earthenware plates and dishes, which we all use in common, and the
elegant set for the tea-table, ornamented with musical instruments,
which we admired in our visit yesterday, belong to a very extensive
manufactory, the seat of which is at Burslem, in Staffordshire. The
principal potteries there belong to one person, an excellent chymist,
and a man of great taste; he, in conjunction with another man of taste,
who is since dead, has made our clay more valuable than the finest
porcelain of China. He has moulded it into all the forms of grace and
beauty that are to be met with in the precious remains of the Greek and
Etruscan artists. In the more common articles he has pencilled it with
the most elegant designs, shaped it into shells and leaves, twisted it
into wickerwork, and trailed the ductile foliage round the light basket.
He has filled our cabinets and chimney-pieces with urns, lamps, and
vases, on which are lightly traced, with the purest simplicity, the fine
forms and floating draperies of Herculaneum. In short, he has given to
our houses a classic air, and has made every saloon and every
dining-room schools of taste. I should add that there is a great demand
abroad for this elegant manufacture. The emperess of Russia has some
magnificent services of it; and the other day one was sent to the king
of Spain, intended as a present from him to the archbishop of Toledo,
which cost a thousand pounds. Some morning you shall go through the
rooms in the London warehouse.
_Hen._ I should like very much to see manufactures, now you have told me
some curious things about them.
_Fa._ You will do well! There is much more entertainment to a cultivated
mind in seeing a pin made, than in many a fashionable diversion which
young people half ruin themselves to attend. In the meantime I will give
you some account of one of the most elegant of them, which is _paper_.
_Hen._ Pray do, my dear father.
_Fa._ It shall be left for another evening, however, for it is now late.
Good-night.
[Illustration:
The Two Robbers, p. 148.
EVENING XII.
]
A LESSON IN THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING.
_Father._ Come hither, Charles; what is that you see grazing in the
meadow before you?
_Charles._ It is a horse.
_Fa._ Whose horse is it?
_Ch._ I do not know; I never saw it before.
_Fa._ How do you know it is a horse, if you never saw it before?
_Ch._ Because it is like other horses.
_Fa._ Are all horses alike, then?
_Ch._ Yes.
_Fa._ If they are alike, how do you know one horse from another?
_Ch._ They are not quite alike.
_Fa._ But they are so much alike, that you can easily distinguish a
horse from a cow?
_Ch._ Yes, indeed.
_Fa._ Or from a cabbage?
_Ch._ A horse from a cabbage? yes, surely I can.
_Fa._ Very well; then let us see if you can tell how a horse differs
from a cabbage?
_Ch._ Very easily; a horse is alive?
_Fa._ True; and how is every thing called which is alive?
_Ch._ I believe all things that are alive are called _animals_.
_Fa._ Right; but can you tell me what a horse and a cabbage are alike
in?
_Ch._ Nothing, I believe.
_Fa._ Yes, there is one thing in which the slenderest moss that grows
upon the wall is like the greatest man or the highest angel.
_Ch._ Because God made them.
_Fa._ Yes: and how do you call everything that is made?
_Ch._ A creature.
_Fa._ A horse, then, is a creature, but also a living creature; that is
to say, an animal.
_Ch._ And a cabbage is a dead creature: that is the difference.
_Fa._ Not so, neither; nothing is dead that has never been alive.
_Ch._ What must I call it, then, if it is neither dead nor alive?
_Fa._ An inanimate creature; there is the animate and inanimate
creation. Plants, stones, metals, are of the latter class; horses belong
to the former.
_Ch._ But the gardener told me some of my cabbages were _dead_, and some
were _alive_.
_Fa._ Very true. Plants have a _vegetative_ life, a principle of growth
and decay; this is common to them with all organized bodies; but they
have not sensation, at least we do not know they have—they have not
life, therefore in the sense in which animals enjoy it.
_Ch._ A horse is called an animal, then?
_Fa._ Yes; but a salmon is an animal; and so is a sparrow; how will you
distinguish a horse from these?
_Ch._ A salmon lives in the water, and swims; a sparrow flies and lives
in the air.
_Fa._ I think a salmon could not walk on the ground, even if it could
live out of the water.
_Ch._ No, indeed, it has no legs.
_Fa._ And a bird cannot gallop like a horse.
_Ch._ No; It hops upon its two slender legs.
_Fa._ How many legs has a horse?
_Ch._ Four.
_Fa._ And an ox?
_Ch._ Four likewise.
_Fa._ And a camel?
_Ch._ Four still.
_Fa._ Do you know any animals which live upon the earth that have not
four legs?
_Ch._ I think not; they have all four legs, except worms and insects,
and such things.
_Fa._ You remember, I suppose, what an animal is called that has four
legs; you have it in your little books?
_Ch._ A quadruped.
_Fa._ A horse then, is a _quadruped_: by this we distinguish him from
birds, fishes, and insects.
_Ch._ And from men.
_Fa._ True; but if you had been talking about birds, you would not have
found it so easy to distinguish them.
_Ch._ How so? a man is not at all like a bird.
_Fa._ Yet an ancient philosopher could find no way to distinguish them,
but by calling man a _two-legged animal without feathers_.
_Ch._ I think he was very silly; they are not at all alike, though they
have both two legs.
_Fa._ Another ancient philosopher, called Diogenes, was of your opinion.
He stripped a cock of his feathers, and turned him into the school where
Plato, that was his name, was teaching, and said, “Here is Plato’s man
for you!”
_Ch._ I wish I had been there, I should have laughed very much.
_Fa._ Probably. Before we laugh at others, however, let us see what we
can do ourselves. We have not yet found anything which will distinguish
a horse from an elephant, or from a Norway rat.
_Ch._ Oh, that is easy enough! An elephant is very large, and a rat is
very small; a horse is neither large nor small.
_Fa._ Before we go any farther look what is settled on the skirt of your
coat.
_Ch._ It is a butterfly: what a prodigiously large one! I never saw such
a one before.
_Fa._ Is it larger than a rat, think you?
_Ch._ No, that it is not.
_Fa._ Yet you called the butterfly large, and you called the rat small.
_Ch._ It is very large for a butterfly.
_Fa._ It is so. You see, therefore, that large and small are _relative
terms_.
_Ch._ I do not well understand that phrase.
_Fa._ It means that they have no precise and determinate signification
in themselves, but are applied differently according to the other ideas
which you join with them, and the different positions in which you view
them. This butterfly, therefore, is _large_, compared with those of its
own species, and _small_ compared with many other species of animals.
Besides, there is no circumstance which varies more than the size of
individuals. If you were to give an idea of a horse from its size, you
would certainly say it was much bigger than a dog; yet if you take the
smallest Shetland horse, and the largest Irish greyhound, you will find
them very much upon a par; size, therefore, is not a circumstance by
which you can accurately distinguish one animal from another; nor yet is
colour.
_Ch._ No; there are black horses, and bay, and white, and pied.
_Fa._ But you have not seen that variety of colours in a hare for
instance.
_Ch._ No, a hare is always brown.
_Fa._ Yet if you were to depend upon that circumstance, you would not
convey the idea of a hare to a mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia;
for he sees them white as snow. We must, therefore find out some
circumstances that do not change like size and colour, and I may add
shape, though they are not so obvious, nor perhaps so striking. Look at
the feet of quadrupeds; are they all alike?
_Ch._ No: some have long taper claws, and some have thick clumsy feet
without claws.
_Fa._ The thick feet are horny: are they not?
_Ch._ Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs.
_Fa._ And the feet that are not covered with horn and are divided into
claws, are called _digitated_, from _digitus_, a finger; because they
are parted like fingers. Here, then, we have one grand division of
quadrupeds into _hoofed_ and _digitated_. Of which division is the
horse?
_Ch._ He is hoofed.
_Fa._ There are a great many different kinds of horses; did you ever
know one that was not hoofed?
_Ch._ No, never.
_Fa._ Do you think we run any hazard of a stranger telling us, “Sir,
horses are hoofed indeed in your country; but in mine, which is in a
different climate, and where we feed them differently, they have claws?”
_Ch._ No, I dare say not.
_Fa._ Then we have got something to our purpose; a circumstance easily
marked, which always belongs to the animal, under every variation of
situation or treatment. But an ox is hoofed, and so is a sheep; we must
distinguish still farther. You have often stood by, I suppose, while the
smith was shoeing a horse. What kind of a hoof has he?
_Ch._ It is round and all in one piece.
_Fa._ And is that of an ox so?
_Ch._ No, it is divided.
_Fa._ A horse, then, is not only hoofed but _whole-hoofed_. Now how many
quadrupeds do you think there are in the world that are whole-hoofed?
_Ch._ Indeed I do not know.
_Fa._ There are, among all animals that we are acquainted with, either
in this country or in any other, only the horse, the ass, and the zebra,
which is a species of the wild ass. Now, therefore, you see we have
nearly accomplished our purpose; we have only to distinguish him from
the ass.
_Ch._ That is easily done, I believe; I should be sorry if any body
could mistake my little horse for an ass.
_Fa._ It is not so easy, however, as you imagine; the eye readily
distinguishes them by the air and general appearance, but naturalists
have been rather puzzled to fix upon any specific difference, which may
serve the purpose of a definition. Some have, therefore, fixed upon the
ears, others on the mane and tail. What kind of ears has an ass?
_Ch._ Oh, very long clumsy ears! Asses’ ears are always laughed at.
_Fa._ And the horse?
_Ch._ The horse has small ears, nicely turned and upright.
_Fa._ And the mane, is there no difference there?
_Ch._ The horse has a fine long flowing mane; the ass has hardly any.
_Fa._ And the tail: is it not fuller of hair in the horse than in the
ass?
_Ch._ Yes; the ass has only a few long hairs at the end of the tail; but
the horse has a long bushy tail when it is not cut.
_Fa._ Which, by the way, it is a pity it ever should. Now, then, observe
what particulars we have got. _A horse is an animal of the quadruped
kind, whole-hoofed, with short erect ears, a flowing mane, and a tail
covered in every part with long hairs._ Now is there any other animal,
think you, in the world, that answers these particulars?
_Ch._ I do not know; this does not tell us a great deal about him.
_Fa._ And yet it tells us enough to distinguish him from all the
different tribes of the creation which we are acquainted with in any
part of the earth. Do you know now what we have been making?
_Ch._ What?
_Fa._ A DEFINITION. It is the business of a definition to distinguish
precisely the thing defined from any other thing, and to do it in as few
terms as possible. Its object is to separate the subject of definition,
first from those with which it has only a general resemblance, then,
from those which agree with it in a greater variety of particulars; and
so on till by constantly throwing out all which have not the qualities
we have taken notice of, we come at length to the individual or the
species we wish to ascertain. It is a kind of chase, and resembles the
manner of hunting in some countries, where they first enclose a large
circle with their dogs, nets, and horses; and then, by degrees, draw
their toils closer and closer, driving their game before them till it is
at length brought into so narrow a compass that the sportsmen have
nothing to do but to knock down their prey.
_Ch._ Just as we have been hunting this horse, till at last we held him
fast by his ears and tail.
_Fa._ I should observe to you, that in the definition naturalists give
of a horse it is generally mentioned that he has six cutting teeth in
each jaw; because this circumstance of the teeth has been found a very
convenient one for characterizing large classes: but as it is not
absolutely necessary here, I have omitted it; a definition being the
most perfect the fewer particulars you make use of, provided you can say
with certainty from those particulars the object so characterized must
be this and no other whatever.
_Ch._ But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I should not know what
kind of animal it was by this definition.
_Fa._ Let us hear, then, how you would give me an idea of a horse.
_Ch._ I would say it was a fine large prancing creature with slender
legs and an arched neck, and a sleek, smooth skin, and a tail that
sweeps the ground, and that he snorts and neighs very loud, and tosses
his head, and runs as swift as the wind.
_Fa._ I think you learned some verses upon the horse in your last
lesson? Repeat them.
_Ch._
The wanton courser thus with reins unbound
Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground;
Pamper’d and proud, he seeks the wonted tides,
And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides
His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies;
His mane dishevell’d o’er his shoulders flies;
He snuffs the females in the distant plain,
And springs, exulting, to his fields again.—POPE’S _Homer_.
_Fa._ You have said very well; but this is not a _definition_, it is a
_description_.
_Ch._ What is the difference?
_Fa._ A description is intended to give you a lively picture of an
object, as if you saw it; it ought to be very full. A definition gives
no picture to those who have not seen it: it rather tells you what its
subject is not, than what it is, by giving you such clear specific
marks, that it shall not be possible to confound it with anything else;
and hence it is of the greatest use in throwing things into classes. We
have a great many beautiful descriptions from ancient authors so loosely
worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are meant by them:
whereas, if they had given us definitions, three lines would have
ascertained their meaning.
_Ch._ I like a description best, papa.
_Fa._ Perhaps so; I believe I should have done the same at your age.
Remember, however, that nothing is more useful than to learn to form
ideas with precision, and to express them with accuracy; I have not
given you a definition to teach you what a horse is, but to teach you to
_think_.
THE PHENIX AND DOVE.
A Phenix, who had long inhabited the solitary deserts of Arabia, once
flew so near the habitations of men as to meet with a tame dove, who was
sitting on her nest, with wings expanded, and fondly brooding over her
young ones, while she expected her mate, who was foraging abroad to
procure them food. The phenix, with a kind of insulting compassion, said
to her, “Poor bird, how much I pity thee! confined to a single spot, and
sunk in domestic cares, thou art continually employed either in laying
eggs or providing for thy brood; and thou exhausteth thy life and
strength in perpetuating a feeble and defenceless race. As to myself, I
live exempt from toil, care, and misfortune. I feed upon nothing less
precious than rich gums and spices. I fly through the trackless regions
of the air, and when I am seen by men, am gazed at with curiosity and
astonishment! I have no one to control my range, no one to provide for;
and when I have fulfilled my five centuries of life, and seen the
revolution of ages, I rather vanish than die, and a successor, without
my care, springs up from my ashes. I am an image of the great sun whom I
adore; and glory in being like him, single and alone, and having no
likeness.”
The dove replied, “O, phenix, I pity thee much more than thou affectest
to pity me! What pleasure canst thou enjoy, who livest forlorn and
solitary in a trackless and unpeopled desert? who hast no mate to caress
thee, no young ones to excite thy tenderness and reward thy cares, no
kindred, no society among thy fellows? Not long life only, but
immortality itself would be a curse, if it were to be bestowed on such
uncomfortable terms. For my part, I know that my life will be short, and
therefore I employ it in raising a numerous posterity, and in opening my
heart to all the sweets of domestic happiness. I am beloved by my
partner; I am dear to man; and shall leave marks behind me that I have
lived. As to the sun, to whom thou hast presumed to compare thyself,
that glorious being is so totally different from, and so infinitely
superior to, all the creatures upon earth, that it does not become us to
liken ourselves to him, or to determine upon the manner of his
existence. One obvious difference, however, thou mayest remark; that the
sun, though alone, by his prolific heat produces all things, and though
he shines so high above our heads, gives us reason every moment to bless
his beams; whereas thou, swelling with imaginary greatness, dreamest
away a long period of existence, equally void of comfort and of
usefulness.”
THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.
_Father._ I will now, as I promised, give you an account of the elegant
and useful manufacture of _paper_, the basis of which is itself a
manufacture. This delicate and beautiful substance is made from the
meanest and most disgusting materials, from old rags, which have passed
from one poor person to another, and have perhaps at length dropped in
tatters from the child of the beggar. These are carefully picked up from
dunghills, or bought from servants by Jews, who make it their business
to go about and collect them. They sell them to the rag-merchant, who
gives them from two pence to four pence a pound, according to their
quality; and he, when he has got a sufficient quantity, disposes of them
to the owner of the papermill. He gives them first to women to sort and
pick, agreeably to their different degrees of fineness; they also with a
knife cut out carefully all the seams, which they throw into a basket
for other purposes; they then put them into the dusting-engine, a large
circular wire sieve, where they receive some degree of cleansing. The
rags are then conveyed to the mill. Here they were formerly beat to
pieces with vast hammers, which rose and fell continually with a most
tremendous noise, that was heard at a great distance. But now they put
the rags into a large trough or cistern, into which a pipe of clear
spring water is constantly flowing. In this cistern is placed a
cylinder, about two feet long, set thick round with rows of iron spikes,
standing as near as they can to one another without touching. At the
bottom of the trough there are corresponding rows of spikes. The
cylinder is made to whirl round with inconceivable rapidity, and with
these iron teeth rends and tears the cloth in every possible direction;
till, by the assistance of the water, which continually flows through
the cistern, it is thoroughly masticated, and reduced to a fine pulp;
and by the same process all its impurities are cleansed away, and it is
restored to its original whiteness. This process takes about six hours.
To improve the colour they then put in a little smalt, which gives it a
bluish cast, which all paper has more or less: the French paper has less
of it than ours. This fine pulp is next put into a copper of warm water.
It is the substance of paper, but the form must now be given it: for
this purpose they use a mould. It is made of wire, strong one way, and
crossed with finer. This mould they just dip horizontally into the
copper and take it out again. It has a little wooden frame on the edge,
by means of which it retains as much of the pulp as is wanted for the
thickness of the sheet, and the water runs off through the interstices
of the wires. Another man instantly receives it, opens the frame, and
turns out the thin sheet, which has now shape, but not consistence, upon
soft felt, which is placed on the ground to receive it. On that is
placed another piece of felt, and then another sheet of paper, and so
on, till they have made a pile of forty or fifty. They are then pressed
with a large screw-press, moved by a long lever, which forcibly squeezes
the water out of them, and gives them immediate consistence. There is
still, however, a great deal to be done. The felts are taken off, and
thrown on one side, and the paper on the other, whence it is dexterously
taken up with an instrument in the form of a T, three sheets at a time,
and hung on lines to dry. There it hangs for a week or ten days, which
likewise further whitens it; and any knots and roughness it may have are
picked off carefully by the women. It is then sized. Size is a kind of
glue; and without this preparation the paper would not bear ink; it
would run and blot as you see it does on gray paper. The sheets are just
dipped into the size and taken out again. The exact degree of sizing is
a matter of nicety, which can only be known by experience. They are then
hung up again to dry, and when dry, taken to the finishing-room, where
they are examined anew, pressed in the dry-presses, which give them
their last gloss and smoothness; counted up into quires, made up into
reams, and sent to the stationer’s, from whom we have it, after he has
folded it again and cut the edges; some too he makes to shine like
satin, by hot-pressing it, or glossing it with hot plates. The whole
process of papermaking takes about three weeks.
_Har._ It is a very curious process indeed. I shall almost scruple for
the future to blacken a sheet of paper with a careless scrawl, now I
know how much pains it costs to make it so white and beautiful.
_Fa._ It is true that there is hardly anything we use with so much waste
and profusion as this manufacture: we should think ourselves confined in
the use of it, if we might not tear, disperse, and destroy it in a
thousand ways; so that it is really astonishing whence linen enough can
be procured to answer so vast a demand. As to the coarse brown papers,
of which an astonishing quantity is used by every shopkeeper in
packages, &c., these are made chiefly of oakum, that is, old hempen
ropes. A fine paper is made in China of silk.
_Har._ I have heard lately of woven paper; pray, what is that? they
cannot weave paper, surely!
_Fa._ Your question is very natural. In order to answer it, I must
desire you to take a sheet of common paper, and hold it up against the
light. Do not you see marks in it?
_Har._ I see a great many white lines running along lengthwise, like
ribs, and smaller that cross them. I see, too, letters and the figure of
a crown.
_Fa._ These are all the marks of the wires; the thickness of the wire
prevents so much of the pulp lying upon the sheet in those places,
consequently wherever the wires are the paper is thinner, and you see
the light through more readily, which gives that appearance of white
lines. The letters, too, are worked in the wire, and are the maker’s
name. Now, to prevent these lines, which take off from the beauty of the
paper, particularly of drawing-paper, there have been lately used moulds
of brass wire, exceeding fine, of equal thickness, and woven or latticed
one within another: the marks therefore of these are easily pressed out,
so as to be hardly visible; if you look at this sheet you will see it is
quite smooth.
_Har._ It is so.
_Fa._ I should mention to you, that there is a discovery very lately
made, by which they can make paper equal to any in whiteness, of the
coarsest brown rags, and even of died cotton; which they have till now
been obliged to throw by for inferior purposes.
_Har._ That is like what you told me before of bleaching cloth in a few
hours.
_Fa._ It is indeed founded upon the same discovery. The paper made of
these brown rags is likewise more valuable, from being very tough and
strong, almost like parchment.
_Har._ When was the making of paper found out?
_Fa._ It is a disputed point, but probably in the fourteenth century.
The invention has been of almost equal consequence to literature with
that of printing itself; and shows how the arts and sciences, like
children of the same family, mutually assist and bring forward each
other.
THE TWO ROBBERS.
Scene—_Alexander the Great in his tent. Guards. A man with a fierce
countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him._
_Alex._ What, art thou the Thracian robber of whose exploits I have
heard so much?
_Rob._ I am a Thracian and a soldier.
_A._ A soldier!—a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the
country! could honour thy courage, but I must detest and punish thy
crimes.
_R._ What have I done, of which _you_ can complain?
_A._ Hast thou not set at defiance my authority, violated the public
peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and properties of thy
fellow-subjects?
_R._ Alexander, I am your captive—I must hear what you please to say,
and endure what you please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered; and
if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man.
_A._ Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power
to silence those with whom I deign to converse!
_R._ I must then answer your question by another. How have _you_ passed
your life?
_A._ Like a hero. Ask Fame and she will tell you. Among the brave, I
have been the bravest; among sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors,
the mightiest.
_R._ And does not fame speak of me, too? Was there ever a bolder captain
of a more valiant band? Was there ever—but I scorn to boast. You
yourself know that I have not been easily subdued.
_A._ Still, what are you but a robber—a base dishonest robber?
_R._ And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too, gone about the earth
like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of peace and
industry;—plundering, ravaging, killing without law, without justice,
merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done
to a single district with a hundred followers, you have done to whole
nations with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you
have ruined kings and princes. If I have burnt a few hamlets, you have
desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is
then the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private
man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?
_A._ But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I
have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts,
commerce, and philosophy.
_R._ I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from the rich. I
have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of
mankind; and have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I
know, indeed, little of the philosophy you talk of; but I believe
neither you nor I shall ever repay to the world the mischiefs we have
done it.
_A._ Leave me—take off his chains, and use him well. (_Exit robber._)
Are we then so much alike?—Alexander to a robber?—Let me reflect.
[Illustration:
EVENING XIII.
]
THE COUNCIL OF QUADRUPEDS.
Among the large branches of an aged oak, which grew in the midst of a
thick wood, lived once upon a time a wildcat. In that tree she was born
and brought up, and had nursed many litters of kittens; her mother and
her grandmother, had lived there before her; indeed, I believe that, as
long as the oak had been an oak, this family of wildcats had made it
their home.
One day, as she was couching among some bushes near the foot of her
tree, watching her opportunity to spring upon any poor little bird who
might happen to alight within her reach, she heard a great rustling in
the thicket, and presently two men pushed their way through, and stood
before her. This part of the forest was so tangled and wild, and so far
from any human habitation, that it was a rare thing to see men there,
and the cat wondered very much why they came; so she lay quite still in
her hiding-place, watching them and listening to hear what they should
say. She soon discovered that they were woodcutters, for each was armed
with an axe, which he carried upon his shoulder.
Presently one said to his fellow, “Is it all to be cut down?”—“All the
whole forest,” answered the other, “and the ground is to be ploughed up
and sown with corn, but the largest trees are to be felled first.”—“If
that be the case,” said the first, “we cannot begin better than with
this noble oak before us, and I will put a mark on it that we may know
it again.” So saying, he pulled out a piece of chalk, and made a large
white cross on the bark of the poor cat’s own tree. “Next week,” added
he, “we will lay the axe to the root.” And he walked on, whistling with
great unconcern.
The unfortunate cat lay a long time on the ground, half dead with grief
and terror, and unable to move a limb. At length, after uttering several
cries so loud and shrill that the whole forest seemed to ring again, she
started up, and ran like one distracted to spread the dismal news among
her neighbours of the wood. The first creature that she met was the
stag: he had just started up from his lair, amid the thickest cover, and
stood listening, ready to bound away on the first appearance of danger.
“Was it you, neighbour puss,” cried he, “who set up that frightful yell
which I heard? I almost thought the hounds and hunters were upon me;—but
what is the matter?”—“Matter enough,” answered the cat; “worse than
either hounds or hunters; the forest is to be cut down.” And she told
him her sad story. “The forest cut down!” brayed out the poor stag,
while the tears ran in large drops down his hairy face; “and what is to
become of me and you, and all our neighbours? Man has always been my
enemy, but this is a stroke of cruelty which I did not expect even from
him. Is there no help, no remedy?”—“I will fight for my tree,” cried the
cat, “as long as teeth and claws hold good: and you with your great
horns may surely defend your own thicket; but this _man_ is a terrible
creature, and he has so many crafty tricks, that I know nobody, except
the fox, who is at all a match for him; suppose we run and ask his
advice.” “With all my heart,” said the stag; and they marched away
together in search of him.
The fox had his abode near the skirts of the forest, in the middle of a
dry bank, thickly covered with bushes and brambles. His hole was
burrowed deep into the earth, and cunningly contrived with several
openings on different sides, by which he might make his escape in case
of danger. The cat put her head in at one of the entrances, and called
to him to come out; but it was not till he had carefully peeped about,
and thoroughly satisfied himself that all was safe, that cunning Reynard
ventured to trust himself abroad.
In great distress the stag related the cause of their coming. “I have
heard something of this matter before,” replied the fox; “but you are
too condescending to come and ask the advice of a simple creature like
myself, who never yet knew what policy or artifice meant, and—.” Here
the cat and the stag eagerly interrupted him, and with one voice began
to compliment him on the sagacity and wisdom for which all the world
gave him credit, declaring that their whole hope and consolation rested
on his counsels. “Well,” returned the fox, “since you will have it so,
though I blush to utter my poor thoughts before beasts so much my
superiors, I will venture with all humility to suggest, that a general
meeting be immediately summoned of all the animals of the forest, in
order that we may take our measures in concert, and after hearing the
opinions of all.”
“An excellent proposal!” cried the stag. “An excellent proposal!” echoed
the cat; “but who shall we send to call them all together?”—“I would go
to them myself,” replied the fox, “but it is possible that some of the
smaller animals might doubt the innocence of my intentions, and refuse
to come; for I have been a much calumniated creature. The same thing
might happen with you, neighbour Puss; the squirrel and the mouse
especially....” “True,” cried the cat, “they would, perhaps, be taking
some idle notions into their heads....” “And as to my lord the stag,”
rejoined Reynard, “he is a beast of far too exalted a rank for such an
office. Stay, there is my worthy friend the hedgehog, suppose we send
him; a little slow of foot, to be sure, and not wonderfully bright; but
a plain honest creature as any that lives, well spoken of throughout the
forest, and the enemy of no one, except indeed of the flies and the
beetles; but we do not call the insects to council, of course.”—“Of
course,” rejoined the cat; “but what shall we say to the
reptiles?”—“Why, as to my neighbour the viper,” returned the fox, “I own
I am inclined to think favourably of him, whatever some may whisper to
his disadvantage; his temper indeed may be none of the mildest, but he
knows how to make himself respected, and I think we must by no means
leave him out; and if he is admitted, in common civility his cousin the
snake must be invited also.”—“And what say you to the toad, the frog,
and the newt?” asked the stag. “Poor creatures,” said the fox with a
sneer, “your lordship is certainly very condescending to remember the
existence of beings so inferior. They sit in our council, truly!
However, I would by no means give offence, at a time like this, even to
the meanest—they may be permitted to hear the debate, provided they do
not presume to speak among their betters.”
The fox now called in a somewhat imperious tone to the hedgehog to come
forth. At the sound of his voice, the little creature roused himself
with some difficulty from his morning’s nap, and hastily unrolling
himself and clearing his prickly coat from the grass and dead leaves
that stuck in it, and added not a little to his rude, slovenly
appearance, he crept out from his hole under the roots of a tree, and
inquired with much humility what Mr. Reynard wanted with him. The fox
explained in few words the alarming occurrence of the morning, and thus
proceeded to give the hedgehog his orders:—
“You are to summon all our good neighbours to meet this evening, an hour
before sunset, under the great yew-tree that stands by itself near the
centre of the wood. Please to attend, and I will name them to you in
their order, that you may make no mistakes. First, you turn down into
yonder dingle, and there, just beyond the old poplar which is blown up
by the roots and lies across the way, look very sharp, and in a snug
sheltered nook you will spy a hole running down into the steep bank; at
the bottom of it you will find the badger. Beg him to come without fail;
excepting the present company there is no animal in the forest of
greater size and consequence, nor whom I respect more. A little lower
down, on the very brink of the stream, lives my cousin the polecat;—a
damp situation, I should think, but they say he sometimes amuses himself
with fishing. He is a sharp fellow; we must by all means have him at our
council.
“The weasel comes next, and you will find him in a hollow tree not far
off. If the squirrel be not frolicking as usual among the boughs of the
large beech in which he has his nest, nuts are now ripe, and you must
look for him in the hazel-copse on the left. If I do not mistake, you
will also find the dormouse lodged under the roots of that large oak
hard by which is so full of acorns; and the woodmouse is his next-door
neighbour.
“You must then turn off toward the edge of the forest, and search among
the fern-brakes till you find the hare; she sits close in her form all
day. Assure her that we are extremely desirous of her company; and if
she, or any other of our good neighbours, should make the smallest
scruple of meeting puss or myself, be sure to mention that my lord the
stag passes his word for their safety, both coming and returning. The
snake will probably be sunning himself on the grass a little lower down;
and in the dry part of the wood above, if you look narrowly, you will
spy the viper lurking among the dead leaves. And now you may be gone.”
The hedgehog trudged off with his commission.
In the evening every one of the animals made his appearance under the
yew-tree, except the little lazy dormouse, who had just opened his eyes
when the hedgehog delivered his message, then turned himself round,
fallen asleep again, and forgotten the whole matter.
As undoubted lord of the forest, the stag took the upper place; puss
seated herself on his right, and Reynard on his left; the others placed
themselves in due order below. The stag opened the business of the day
by calling upon the cat to relate what she had that morning seen and
heard. Immediately, the afflicted creature yelled out her dismal tale,
ending with a long and melancholy mew which was echoed by every animal
present in his own note; the stag brayed, the fox howled, the polecat
and weasel cried, the badger and squirrel growled, the snake and viper
hissed, the hare screamed, and the mouse squeaked. When the din of these
discordant noises had a little subsided, “My friends,” said the stag,
“lamentations are in vain, let us now consider what is to be done; shall
we look on in tame submission to see our native wood levelled with the
earth, and ourselves turned out upon the wide world to seek for food and
shelter wherever we may find them, or shall we not rather all join to
defend it with such weapons as nature has given us? Let the cat speak
first.”
“I am for open war,” cried puss; “these teeth and these talons were not
bestowed upon me for nothing;” (and as she spoke she unsheathed a set of
claws at sight of which the mouse and the squirrel trembled all over.)
“The first man who attacks my tree shall feel them in his eyes; I will
defend my native home as long as I have breath in my body. Who is of the
same mind?”
“Reynard, let us hear your opinion,” said the stag. “I beg to speak
last,” said the crafty fox; “perhaps I have not yet made up my opinion.”
“For my part,” growled out the badger, thrusting forward his clumsy
person as he spoke, “I am not so cunning as some folks; I speak my mind
and care for nobody; and I have only this to say—that I never attack
first, but I have strong teeth and a tough hide; and if anybody attempts
to turn me out of my den, whether man, dog, or any other beast, I shall
try to make him repent it.”
It was observed that the badger, as he spoke, threw a sullen look at the
fox, which plainly showed that he had not forgotten the knavish trick by
which Reynard had once contrived to turn him out of a hole which he had
dug with the labours of his own claws, and to keep possession of it for
himself.
The viper now glided forward in easy curves, and coiling himself up, and
darting out his forked tongue in a threatening attitude, “Man,” said he,
“is my enemy, and I am his; let him set foot in my dominions if he
dares; I have a venom in my fangs which will soon teach him that my
anger is not to be despised.”
“I,” murmured out the snake, “have no venom to boast; I am an innocent
and defenceless creature, and I own that so far from attempting to
resist the invader, I shall quickly retreat from his approach. Nature,
in her bounty, has endued me with the power of swimming; and when I can
no longer find a shelter beneath these quiet shades, I shall plunge into
the stream which bounds our domain, and seek a safer retreat among the
tall weeds which flourish on its farther shore.”
“As for me,” feebly screamed out the hare, as she limped forth, staring
around her with a look of affright, “all the world must be aware how
weak and timid a creature I am. It has been said that I have many
friends, but I have never yet found a protector, and cruel and powerful
enemies lie in wait for my harmless life on every side. What will become
of me I know not, probably some evil end awaits me; but I shall use
these nimble legs, my only hope of safety, to bear me far away from the
dreadful sight of man.”
The sprightly squirrel came forward with a bound. “I have teeth,” cried
he, “very able to crack a nut, and claws by which I can cling fast
enough to a bough, but how am I to contend against the mighty power of
man? He would twist off my poor little head before I could draw one drop
of blood from his finger. It is true that I can live only in trees, and
one might as well die fighting as pine away with misery and hunger; but
I have better things in view than either. From the summit of my beech, I
have often observed, at some distance on the farther side of the river,
a group of noble chestnuts growing in a park, which would supply me both
with food and lodging. I have also discovered a spot where two trees on
opposite sides of the stream stretch forth their arms, and nearly meet
above:—I have made up my mind to the adventure; one bold leap will bear
me safely, I hope, to the farther shore, and the new and beautiful
country that lies beyond it.”
“I believe,” squeaked a small shrill voice which was found to proceed
from the mouse, “that my services would be of small importance in a war
against mankind; and I do not offer them. To say the truth, I find
myself, on second thoughts, not greatly concerned in this affair. If I
lose my nuts and acorns by the fall of the trees, I shall get wheat,
barley, and oats, in exchange, which are not worse eating, and I can
lodge full as well in the middle of a corn-rick as under the roots of a
tree.—Every one for himself in this world.”
“Our little friend is much in the right,” cried the weasel; “I really
believe that we shall find vastly comfortable lodging about barns and
farmhouses, and the very thought of a poultry-yard makes my mouth water:
for such an exchange I should not object to giving up my quarters in the
wood to-morrow.”—“Nor I, I protest,” exclaimed the polecat. “Hens’ eggs
are not bad things, and how delicious to fatten on the blood of turkeys,
geese, and chickens! A forest is not absolutely necessary to me; I can
hide myself well enough in a hedge, or under a ditch-bank.”
“Reynard,” said the stag, “all have spoken now but you, and we are
impatient for your opinion.”
The fox arose, cast his eyes on the ground with an air of great modesty,
and after pausing a few moments, as if to gain courage to speak, he thus
began, gracefully waving his long bushy tail as he spoke:—“While I
listened to the warlike eloquence of the cat, to the indignant harangue
of the viper, and to the resolute speech of my worthy friend, the
badger, I. like them, felt myself inspired with the valiant resolution
to die in defence of our native wood, and in open war with man. But when
I afterward began to consider the weakness of our lesser brethren, the
smallness of our numbers, and the wonderful power and resources of man,
I was induced to change my opinion. We cannot hope for victory, why
should we throw away our lives? The viper, in spite of his courage and
his venom, would be caught by the neck in a cleft stick, and put
ingloriously to death very likely before he had been able to inflict a
single bite. The badger is a favourite object of the cruelty of man; he
would set upon him his whole troop of dogs, hateful brutes, who are
always joined in league with him against their fellow beasts!—and though
my worthy friend would fight like a hero, and kill or maim several of
them, he would at length be torn in pieces. Of what avail would be the
teeth and claws of the cat against that thunder and lightning by which
man has the art of killing from afar? She would be brought down from her
highest bough pierced through the head or the heart, before she could
even see that enemy whose eyes she threatens to tear out with her
talons. Even you yourself, my lord stag, would assuredly fall by the
teeth of those detestable hounds after you had gored three or four of
the pack. I therefore propose more cautious measures. Not far off is a
wide unfrequented common, where the badger may dig himself a den and
remain at peace, and where the viper may glide undisturbed among the
heath and gorse. I have scarcely given a thought to the humble concerns
of my insignificant self; but perhaps I too may find some cover in that
neglected tract, which abounds also in wild rabbits. For you, my lord
stag, you have only to swim the stream to find yourself, like the
squirrel, in a noble park where man himself would be proud to become
your protector, and own you for the noblest ornament of his domain. And
why should not puss offer her services to hunt the mice and rats at some
snug farmhouse in the neighbourhood?”
“I!” interrupted puss, setting up her back and swelling in sudden anger,
“I become a fawning menial in the dwellings of man, like those miserable
little foreigners who have sometimes appeared in my sight, and whom I am
ashamed to own for cats! No, I am a beast of prey, a free native of the
English woods, and such I will live and die. Man may hunt me down, he
may destroy my whole race, as he has already hunted down and destroyed
the bear and the wolf, animals much my superiors in size and in
strength; but I disdain to become his household servant, or to skulk,
like some of vermin breed, about his outhouses, and poultry-yards,
picking up a base living by theft and rapine. And you, Reynard, crafty
knave as you are, do you think I do not see through your tricks and your
pretences? You too, like the weasel and polecat, have an eye on the
poultry-yard and the sheepfold; you live by man though he hates you, and
endeavours to destroy you, and you care not what becomes of the lives or
liberty of nobler animals: but I will reach _your_ eyes at least, and
teach you what it is to provoke me.” So saying, she flew at him in a
fury: her first attack brought him to the ground, and he was almost
blinded before he could strike a blow in his own defence. The polecat
and weasel, thinking their turns would come next, slunk away; the hare
and the smaller animals followed their example; even the stag himself
was seized with a panic and fled. The badger alone stood and looked on
with great composure at the distress of Reynard. At length, the fox,
seeing puss almost out of breath, made a desperate effort and broke
loose from her clutches. With his usual cunning he ran toward the river,
well knowing that the cat would not wet her feet. He plunged into the
water before she could overtake him, and swimming with some difficulty
to the opposite side, threw himself on the bank half dead with pain and
fright. Puss returned to her tree disappointed and sullen; and thus
unprofitably ended the Council of Quadrupeds.
TIT FOR TAT.—A TALE.
A law there is of ancient fame,
By Nature’s self in every land implanted,
_Lex Talionis_ is its Latin name;
But if an English term we wanted,
Give your next neighbour but a pat,
He’ll give you back as good, and tell you—_tit for tat_.
This _tit for tat_, it seems, not men alone,
But elephants, for legal justice own;
In proof of this a story I shall tell ye,
Imported from the famous town of Delhi.
A mighty elephant that swell’d the state
Of Aurengzebe the Great,
One day was taken by his driver,
To drink and cool him in the river;
The driver on his neck was seated,
And, as he rode along,
By some acquaintance in the throng
With a ripe cocoa-nut was treated.
A cocoa-nut’s a pretty fruit enough,
But guarded by a shell, both hard and tough.
The fellow tried, and tried, and tried,
Working and sweating,
Pishing and fretting,
To find out its inside,
And pick the kernel for his eating.
At length quite out of patience grown,
“Who’ll reach me up,” he cries, “a stone
To break this plaguy shell?
But stay, I’ve here a solid bone
May do perhaps as well.”
So half in earnest, half in jest,
He bang’d it on the forehead of his beast.
An elephant, they say has human feeling,
And full as well as we he knows
The difference between words and blows,
Between horse-play and civil dealing.
Use him but well, he’ll do his best,
And serve you faithfully and truly;
But insults unprovoked he can’t digest,
He studies o’er them, and repays them duly.
“To make my head an anvil, (thought the creature,)
Was never, certainly, the will of Nature;
So, master mine! you may repent;”
Then, shaking his broad ears, away he went.
The driver took him to the water,
And thought no more about the matter:
But elephant within his memory hid it;
He _felt_ the wrong,—the other only _did_ it.
A week or two elapsed, one market-day
Again the beast and driver took their way;
Through rows of shops and booths they pass’d
With eatables and trinkets stored,
Till to a gard’ner’s stall they came at last,
Where cocoa-nuts lay piled upon the board,—
“Ha!” thought the elephant, “’tis now my turn
To show this method of nut-breaking:
My friend above will like to learn,
Though at the cost of a head-aching.”
Then in his curling trunk he took a heap,
And waved it o’er his neck a sudden sweep,
And on the hapless driver’s sconce
He laid a blow so hard and full,
That crack’d the nuts at once,
But with them crack’d his scull.
Young folks whene’er you feel inclined
To rompish sports and freedoms roughs,
Bear _tit for tat_ in mind,
Nor give an elephant a cuff,
To be repaid in kind.
ON WINE AND SPIRITS.
George and Harry, accompanied by their tutor, went one day to pay a
visit to a neighbouring gentleman, their father’s friend. They were very
kindly received, and shown all about the gardens and pleasure-grounds;
but nothing took their fancy so much as an extensive grapery, hung round
with bunches of various kinds fully ripe, and almost too big for the
vines to support. They were liberally treated with the fruit, and
carried away some bunches to eat as they walked. During their return, as
they were picking their grapes, George said to the tutor, “A thought is
just come into my head, sir. Wine, you know is called the juice of the
grape; but wine is hot, and intoxicates people that drink much of it.
Now we have had a good deal of grape-juice this morning, and yet I do
not feel heated, nor does it seem at all to have got into our heads.
What is the reason of this?”
_Tut._ The reason is, that grape-juice is not wine, though wine is made
from it.
_Geo._ Pray how is it made, then?
_Tut._ I will tell you; for it is a matter worth knowing. The juice
pressed from the grapes, called _must_, is at first a sweet watery
liquor, with a little tartness, but with no strength or spirit. After it
has stood awhile, it begins to grow thick and muddy, it moves up and
down, and throws scum and bubbles of air to the surface. This is called
_working_ or _fermenting_. It continues in this state for some time,
more or less, according to the quantity of the juice and the temperature
of the weather, and then gradually settles again, becoming clearer than
at first. It has now lost its sweet flat taste, and acquired a briskness
and pungency, with a heating and intoxicating property; that is, it has
become _wine_. This natural process is called the _vinous fermentation_,
and many liquors besides grape-juice are capable of undergoing it.
_Geo._ I have heard of the working of beer and ale. Is that of the same
kind?
_Tut._ It is: and beer and ale may properly be called barley-wine; for
you know they are clear, brisk, and intoxicating. In the same manner,
cider is apple-wine, and mead is honey-wine; and you have heard of
raisin-wine and currant-wine, and a great many others.
_Har._ Yes, there is elder-wine, and cowslip-wine and orange-wine.
_Geo._ Will everything of that sort make wine?
_Tut._ All vegetable juices that are sweet are capable of fermenting,
and of producing a liquor of a vinous nature; but if they have little
sweetness, the liquor is proportionally weak and poor, and is apt to
become sour or vapid.
_Har._ But barley is not sweet.
_Tut._ Barley as it comes from the ear is not; but before it is used for
brewing, it is made into _malt_, and then it is sensibly sweet. You know
what malt is?
_Har._ I have seen heaps of it in the malt-house, but I do not know how
it is made.
_Tut._ Barley is made malt by putting it in heaps and wetting it, when
it becomes hot, and swells, and would sprout out just as if it were
sown, unless it were then dried in a kiln. By this operation it acquires
a sweet taste. You have drunk sweet-wort?
_Har._ Yes.
_Tut._ Well, this is made by steeping malt in hot water. The water
extracts and dissolves all the sweet or sugary part of the malt. It then
becomes like a naturally sweet juice.
_Geo._ Would not sugar and water then make wine?
_Tut._ It would; and the wines made in England of our common fruits and
flowers have all a good deal of sugar in them. Cowslip flowers, for
example, give little more than the flavour to the wine named from them,
and it is the sugar added to them which properly makes the wine.
_Geo._ But none of these wines are so good as grape-wine?
_Tut._ No. The grape, from the richness and abundance of its juice, is
the fruit universally preferred for making wine, where it comes to
perfection, which it seldom does in our climate, except by means of
artificial heat.
_Geo._ I suppose, then, grapes are finest in the hottest countries?
_Tut._ Not so, neither; they are properly a fruit of the temperate zone,
and do not grow well between the tropics. And in very hot countries it
is scarcely possible to make wines of any kind to keep, for they ferment
so strongly as to turn sour almost immediately.
_Geo._ I think I have read of palm-wine on the coast of Guinea.
_Tut._ Yes. A sweet juice flows abundantly from incisions in certain
species of the palm; which ferments immediately, and makes a very
pleasant sort of weak wine. But it must be drunk the same day it is
made, for on the next it is as sour as vinegar.
_Geo._ What is vinegar—is it not sour wine?
_Tut._ Everything that makes wine will make vinegar also; and the
stronger the wine the stronger the vinegar. The vinous fermentation must
be first brought on, but it need not produce perfect wine, for when the
intention is to make vinegar, the liquor is kept still warm, and it goes
on without stopping to another kind of fermentation, called the
_acetous_, the product of which is vinegar.
_Geo._ I have heard of alegar. I suppose that is vinegar made of ale.
_Tut._ It is—but as ale is not so strong as wine, the vinegar made from
it is not so sharp or perfect. But housewives make good vinegar with
sugar and water.
_Har._ Will vinegar make people drunk if they take too much of it?
_Tut._ No: the wine loses its intoxicating quality as well as its taste
on turning to vinegar.
_Geo._ What are spirituous liquors—have they not something to do with
wine?
_Tut._ Yes: they consist of the spirituous or intoxicating part of wine
separated from the rest. You may remember that, on talking of
distillation, I told you that it was the raising of a liquor in steam or
vapour, and condensing it again; and that some liquors were more easily
turned to vapour than others, and were therefore called more volatile or
evaporable. Now, wine is a mixed or compound liquor, of which the
greater part is water; but what heats and intoxicates is _vinous
spirit_. This spirit being much more volatile than water, on the
application of a gentle heat, flies off in vapour, and may be collected
by itself in distilling vessels;—and thus are made spirituous liquors.
_Geo._ Will everything that you called wine yield spirits?
_Tut._ Yes: everything that has undergone the vinous fermentation. Thus,
in England a great deal of malt spirit is made from a kind of wort
brought into fermentation, and then set directly to distil, without
first making ale or beer of it. Gin is a spirituous liquor also got from
corn, and flavoured with juniper berries. Even potatoes, carrots, and
turnips, may be made to afford spirits, by first fermenting their
juices. In the West Indies, rum is distilled from the dregs of the
sugarcanes, washed out by water and fermented. But brandy is distilled
from the fermented juice of the grape, and is made in the wine
countries.
_Geo._ Is spirit of wine different from spirituous liquors?
_Tut._ It is the strongest part of them got by distilling over again;
for all these still contain a good deal of water, along with a pure
spirit, which may be separated by a gentler heat than was used at first.
But in order to procure this as strong and pure as possible, it must be
distilled several times over, always leaving some of the watery part
behind. When perfectly pure, it is the same, whatever spirituous liquor
it is got from.
_Har._ My mamma has little bottles of lavender water. What is that?
_Tut._ It is a spirit of wine flavoured with lavender flowers; and it
may in like manner be flavoured with many other fragrant things, since
their odoriferous part is volatile, and will rise in vapour along with
the spirit.
_Har._ Will not spirit of wine burn violently?
_Geo._ That it will, I can tell you: and so will rum and brandy; for you
know it was set on fire when we made snap-dragon.
_Tut._ All spirituous liquors are highly inflammable, and the more so
the purer they are. One way of trying the purity of spirit is to see if
it will burn all away without leaving any moisture behind. Then it is
much lighter than water, and that affords another way of judging of its
strength. A hollow ivory ball is set to swim in it; and the deeper it
sinks down, the lighter, and therefore the more spirituous, is the
liquor.
_Geo._ I have heard much of the mischief done by spirituous liquors—pray
what good do they do?
_Tut._ The use and abuse of wine and spirits is a very copious subject;
and there is scarcely any gift of human art, the general effects of
which are more dubious. You know what wine is said to be given for in
the Bible?
_Geo._ To make glad the heart of man.
_Tut._ Right. And nothing has such an immediate effect in inspiring
vigour of body and mind as wine. It banishes sorrow and care, recruits
from fatigue, enlivens the fancy, inflames the courage, and performs a
hundred fine things, of which I could bring you abundant proof from the
poets. The physicians, too, speak almost as much in its favour, both in
diet and medicine. But its really good effects are only when used in
moderation; and it unfortunately is one of those things which man can
hardly be brought to use moderately. Excess in wine brings on effects
the very contrary to its benefits. It stupifies and enfeebles the mind,
and fills the body with incurable diseases. And this it does even when
used without intoxication. But a drunken man loses for the time every
distinction of a reasonable creature, and becomes worse than a brute
beast. On this account Mahomet entirely forbade its use to his
followers, and to this day it is not publicly drunk in any of the
countries that receive the Mohammedan religion.
_Har._ Was not that right?
_Tut._ I think not. If we were entirely to renounce every thing that may
be misused, we should have scarce any enjoyments left; and it is a
proper exercise of our strength of mind to use good things with
moderation, when we have it in our power to do otherwise.
_Geo._ But spirituous liquors are not good at all, are they?
_Tut._ They have so little good and so much bad in them, that I confess
I wish their common use could be abolished altogether. They are
generally taken by the lowest class of people for the express purpose of
intoxication; and they are much sooner prejudicial to the health than
wine, and, indeed, when drunk unmixed, are no better than slow poison.
_Geo._ Spirit of wine is useful, though, for several things—is it not?
_Tut._ Yes; and I would have all spirits kept in the hands of chymists
and artists who know how to employ them usefully. Spirits of wine will
dissolve many things that water will not. Apothecaries use them in
drawing tinctures, and artists in preparing colours and making
varnishes. They are likewise very powerful preservatives from
corruption. You may have seen serpents and insects brought from abroad
in vials full of spirits.
_Geo._ I have.
_Har._ And I know of another use of spirits.
_Tut._ What, is that?
_Har._ To burn in lamps. My grandmamma has a teakettle with a lamp under
it to keep the water hot, and she burns spirits in it.
_Tut._ So she does. Well—so much for the use of these liquors.
_Geo._ But you have said nothing about ale and beer. Are they wholesome?
_Tut._ Yes, in moderation. But they are sadly abused too, and rob many
men of their health as well as their money and senses.
_Geo._ Small beer does no harm, however.
_Tut._ No—and we will indulge in a good draught of it when we get home.
_Har._ I like water better.
_Tut._ Then drink it by all means. He that is satisfied with water has
one want the less, and may defy thirst, in this country, at least.
[Illustration:
The Trial, p. 172.
EVENING XIV.
]
THE BOY WITHOUT A GENIUS.
Mr. Wiseman, the schoolmaster, at the end of the summer-vacation,
received a new scholar with the following letter:—
“SIR:—This will be delivered to you by my son Samuel, whom I beg leave
to commit to your care, hoping that, by your well-known skill and
attention, you will be able to make something of him, which, I am sorry
to say, none of his masters have hitherto done. He is now eleven, and
yet can do nothing but read his mother-tongue, and that but
indifferently. We sent him, at seven, to a grammar-school in our
neighbourhood; but his master soon found that his genius was not turned
to learning languages. He was then put to writing, but he set about it
so awkwardly that he made nothing of it. He was tried at accounts, but
it appeared that he had no genius for that either. He could do nothing
in geography for want of memory. In short, if he has any genius at all,
it does not yet show itself. But I trust to your experience in cases of
this nature, to discover what he is fit for, and to instruct him
accordingly. I beg to be favoured shortly with your opinion about him,
and remain, sir,
“Your most obedient servant,
“HUMPHREY ACRES.”
When Mr. Wiseman had read this letter, he shook his head, and said to
his assistant:—“A pretty subject they have sent us here! a lad that has
a great genius for nothing at all. But perhaps my friend Mr. Acres
expects that a boy should show a genius for a thing before he knows
anything about it—no uncommon error! Let us see, however, what the youth
looks like. I suppose he is a human creature, at least.”
Master Samuel Acres was now called in. He came hanging down his head,
and looking as if he was going to be flogged.
“Come hither, my dear!” said Mr. Wiseman, “stand by me, and do not be
afraid. Nobody will hurt you. How old are you?”
“Eleven, last May, sir.”
“A well-grown boy of your age, indeed. You love play, I dare say?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What, are you a good hand at marbles?”
“Pretty good, sir.”
“And can spin a top, and drive a hoop, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then you have the full use of your hands and fingers?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you write, Samuel?”
“I learned a little, sir, but I left it off again.”
“And why so?”
“Because I could not make the letters.”
“No! Why, how do you think other boys do—have they more fingers than
you?”
“No, sir.”
“Are you not able to hold a pen as well as a marble?”
Samuel was silent.
“Let me look at your hand.”
Samuel held out both his paws like a dancing bear.
“I see nothing to hinder you from writing as well as any boy in the
school. You can read, I suppose?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell me, then, what is written over the school-room door.”
Samuel, with some hesitation, read:—
“WHATEVER MAN HAS DONE, MAN MAY DO.”
“Pray, how did you learn to read?—Was it not by taking pains?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well—taking more pains will enable you to read better. Do you know
anything of the Latin grammar?”
“No, sir.”
“Have you never learned it?”
“I tried, sir, but I could not get it by heart.”
“Why, you can say some things by heart. I dare say you can tell me the
names of the days of the week, in their order.”
“Yes, sir, I know them.”
“And the months in the year, perhaps.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you could probably repeat the names of your brothers and sisters,
and all your father’s servants, and half the people in the village
besides.”
“I believe I could, sir.”
“Well—and is _hic_, _hæc_, _hoc_, more difficult to remember than
these?”
Samuel was silent.
“Have you learned anything of accounts?”
“I went into addition, sir, but I did not go on with it.”
“Why so?”
“I could not do it, sir.”
“How many marbles can you buy for a penny?”
“Twelve new ones, sir.”
“And how many for two pence?”
“Twenty-four.”
“And how many for a half-penny?”
“Six.”
“If you were to have a penny a day, what would that make in a week?”
“Seven pence.”
“But if you paid two pence out of that, what would you have left?”
Samuel studied a while, and then said, “Five pence.”
“Right. Why, here you have been practising the four great rules of
arithmetic—addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division! Learning
accounts is no more than this. Well, Samuel, I shall see what you are
fit for. I shall set you about nothing but what you are able to do; but,
observe, you must do it. We have no _I can’t_ here. Now go among your
schoolfellows.”
Samuel went away, glad that his examination was over, and with more
confidence in his powers than he had felt before.
The next day he began business. A boy less than himself was called out
to set him a copy of letters, and another was appointed to hear him in
grammar. He read a few sentences in English that he could perfectly
understand to the master himself. Thus, by going on steadily and slowly,
he made a sensible progress. He had already joined his letters, got all
the declensions perfectly, and half the multiplication table, when Mr.
Wiseman thought it time to answer his father’s letter; which he did as
follows:—
“SIR, I now think it right to give you some information concerning
your son. You perhaps expected it sooner, but I always wish to
avoid hasty judgments. You mentioned in your letter that it had
not yet been discovered which way his genius pointed. If by
_genius_ you meant such a decided bent of mind to any one pursuit
as will lead to excel with little or no labour or instruction, I
must say that I have not met with such a quality in more than
three or four boys in my life, and your son is certainly not among
the number. But if you mean only the _ability_ to do some of those
things which the greater part of mankind can do when properly
taught, I can affirm that I find in him no peculiar deficiency.
And whether you choose to bring him up to trade, or to some
practical profession, I see no reason to doubt that he may in time
become sufficiently qualified for it. It is my favourite maxim,
sir, that everything most valuable in this life may generally be
acquired by taking pains for it. Your son has already lost much
time in the fruitless expectation of finding out what he would
take up of his own accord. Believe me, sir, few boys will take up
anything of their own accord but a top or a marble. I will take
care, while he is with me, that he loses no more time this way,
but is employed about things that are fit for him, not doubting
that we shall find him fit for them.
“I am, sir, yours, &c.
“SOLON WISEMAN.”
Though the doctrine of this letter did not perfectly agree with Mr.
Acres’s notions, yet being convinced that Mr. Wiseman was more likely to
make something of his son than any of his former preceptors, he
continued him at his school for some years, and had the satisfaction to
find him going on in a steady course of gradual improvement. In due time
a profession was chosen for him, which seemed to suit his temper and
talents, but for which he had no _particular turn_, having never thought
at all about it. He made a respectable figure in it, and went through
the world with credit and usefulness, though _without a genius_.
HALF A CROWN’S WORTH.
Valentine was in his thirteenth year, and a scholar in one of our great
schools. He was a well-disposed boy, but could not help envying a
little, some of his companions, who had a larger allowance of money than
himself. He ventured in a letter to sound his father on the subject, not
directly asking for a particular sum, but mentioning that many of the
boys in his class had half a crown a week for pocket-money.
His father, who did not choose to comply with his wishes for various
reasons, nor yet to refuse him in a mortifying manner, wrote an answer,
the chief purpose of which was to make him sensible what sort of a sum
half a crown a week was, and to how many more important uses it might be
put, than to provide a school-boy with things absolutely superfluous to
him.
“It is calculated,” said he, “that a grown man may be kept in health and
fit for labour upon a pound and a half of good bread a day. Suppose the
value of this to be two pence half-penny, and add a penny for a quart of
milk, which will greatly improve his diet, half a crown will keep him
eight or nine days in this manner.
“A common labourer’s wages in our country are seven shillings per week,
and if you add somewhat extraordinary for harvest work, this will not
make it amount to three half-crowns on an average the year round.
Suppose his wife and children to earn another half-crown. For this ten
shillings per week he will maintain himself, his wife, and half a dozen
children, in food, lodging, clothes, and fuel. A half-crown then may be
reckoned the full weekly maintenance of two human creatures in every
thing necessary.
“Where potatoes are much cultivated, two bushels, weighing eighty pounds
a piece, may be purchased for half a crown. Here are one hundred and
sixty pounds of solid food, of which allowing for the waste in dressing,
you may reckon two pounds and a half sufficient for the sole daily
nourishment of one person. At this rate, nine people might be fed a week
for half a crown; poorly, indeed, but so as many thousands are fed, with
the addition of a little salt or buttermilk.
“If the father of a numerous family were out of work, or the mother
lying-in, a parish would think half a crown a week a very ample
assistance to them.
“Many of the cottagers round us would receive with great thankfulness a
sixpenny loaf per week, and reckon it a very material addition to their
children’s bread. For half a crown, therefore, you might purchase—the
weekly blessings of five poor families.
“Porter is a sort of luxury to a poor man, but not a useless one, since
it will stand in the place of some solid food, and enable him to work
with better heart. You could treat a hard-working man with a pint a day
of this liquor for twelve days, with half a crown.
“Many a cottage in the country inhabited by a large family is let for
forty shillings a year. Half a crown a week would pay the full rent of
three such cottages, and allow somewhat over for repairs.
“The usual price for schooling at a dame-school in a village is two
pence a week. You might, therefore, get fifteen children instructed in
reading, and the girls in sewing, for half a crown weekly. But even in a
town you might get them taught reading, writing, and accounts, and so
fitted for any common trade, for five shillings a quarter; and therefore
half a crown a week would keep six children at such a school, and
provide them with books besides.
“All these are ways in which half a crown a week might be made to do a
great deal of good to _others_. I shall now just mention one or two ways
of laying it out with advantage to yourself.
“I know you are very fond of coloured plates of plants, and other
objects of natural history. There are now several works of this sort
publishing in monthly numbers, as the Botanical Magazine, the English
Botany, the Flora Rustica, and the Naturalist’s Magazine. Now half a
crown a week would reach the purchase of the best of these.
“The same sum laid out in the old book-shops in London would buy you
more classics, and pretty editions too, in one year, than you could read
in five.
“Now I do not grudge laying out half a crown a week upon you; but when
so many good things for yourself and others may be done with it, I am
unwilling you should squander it away like your schoolfellows, in tarts
and trinkets.”
TRIAL[2]
_Of a Complaint made against Sundry Persons for breaking the Windows of_
DOROTHY CAREFUL, _Widow and Dealer in Gingerbread._
The court being seated, there appeared in person the widow _Dorothy
Careful_, to make a complaint against _Henry Luckless_, and other person
or persons unknown, for breaking three panes of glass, value ninepence,
in the house of the said widow. Being directed to tell her case to the
court, she made a courtesy, and began as follows:—
“Please your lordship, I was sitting at work by my fireside, between the
hours of six and seven in the evening, just as it was growing dusk, and
little Jack was spinning beside me, when all at once crack went the
window, and down fell a little basket of cakes that was set up against
it. I started up, and cried to Jack, ‘Bless me, what’s the matter?’ So,
says Jack, ‘Somebody has thrown a stone and broke the window, and I dare
say it is some of the schoolboys.’ With that I ran out of the house, and
saw some boys making off as fast as they could go. So I ran after them
as quick as my old legs would carry me; but I should never have come
near them, if one had not happened to fall down. Him I caught and
brought back to my house, when Jack knew him at once to be Master Harry
Luckless. So I told him I would complain of him the next day; and I hope
your worship will make him pay the damage, and I think he deserves a
good whipping into the bargain, for injuring a poor widow woman.”
Footnote 2:
This was meant as a sequel of that very pleasing and ingenious little
work, entitled _Juvenile Trials_, in which a Court of Justice is
supposed to be instituted in a boarding-school, composed of the
scholars themselves, for the purpose of trying offences committed at
school.
The judge having heard Mrs. Careful’s story, desired her to sit down;
and then calling up Master Luckless, asked him what he had to say for
himself. Luckless appeared with his face a good deal scratched, and
looking very ruefully. After making his bow, and sobbing two or three
times, he said:—
“My lord, I am as innocent of this matter as any boy in the school, and
I am sure I have suffered enough about it already. My lord, Billy
Thompson and I were playing in the lane near Mrs. Careful’s house, when
we heard the window crash; and directly after she came running out
toward us. Upon this, Billy ran away, and I ran too, thinking I might
bear the blame. But after running a little way, I stumbled over
something that lay in the road, and before I could get up again she
overtook me, and caught me by the hair, and began lugging and cuffing
me. I told her it was not I that broke her window, but it did not
signify; so she dragged me to the light, lugging and scratching me all
the while, and then said she would inform against me; and that is all I
know of the matter.”
_Judge._ I find, good woman, you were willing to revenge yourself,
without waiting for the justice of this court.
_Widow Careful._ My lord, I confess I was put into a passion, and did
not properly consider what I was doing.
_Jud._ Well, where is Billy Thompson?
_Billy._ Here, my lord.
_Jud._ You have heard what Harry Luckless says. Declare upon your honour
whether he has spoken the truth.
_Bil._ My lord, I am sure neither he nor I had any concern in breaking
the window. We were standing together at the time, and I ran on hearing
the door open, for fear of being charged with it, and he followed. But
what became of him I did not stay to see.
_Jud._ So you let your friend shift for himself, and only thought of
saving yourself. But did you see any other person about the house or in
the lane?
_Bil._ My lord, I thought I heard somebody on the other side of the
hedge, creeping along, a little before the window was broken, but I saw
nobody.
_Jud._ You hear, good woman, what is alleged in behalf of the person you
have accused. Have you any other evidence against him?
_Wid._ One might be sure that they would deny it, and tell lies for one
another; but I hope I am not to be put off in that manner.
_Jud._ I must tell you, mistress, that you give too much liberty to your
tongue, and are guilty of as much injustice as that of which you
complain, I should be sorry, indeed, if the young gentlemen of this
school deserved the general character of liars. You will find among us,
I hope, as just a sense of what is right and honourable, as among those
who are older; and our worthy master certainly would not permit us to
try offences in this manner, if he thought us capable of bearing false
witness in each other’s favour.
_Wid._ I ask your lordship’s pardon, I did not mean to offend: but it is
a heavy loss for a poor woman, and though I did not catch the boy in the
fact, he was the nearest when it was done.
_Jud._ As this is no more than a suspicion, and he has the positive
evidence of his schoolfellow in his favour, it will be impossible to
convict him, consistently with the rules of justice. Have you discovered
any other circumstance that may point out the offender?
_Wid._ My lord, next morning Jack found on the floor this top, which I
suppose the window was broken with.
_Jud._ Hand it up—here, gentlemen of the jury, please to examine it, and
see if you can discover anything of its owner.
_Juryman._ Here is P. R. cut upon it.
_Another._ Yes, and I am sure I remember Peter Riot’s having just such a
one.
_Another._ So do I.
_Jud._ Master Riot, is this your top?
_Riot._ I don’t know, my lord, perhaps it may be mine; I have had a
great many tops, and when I have done with them, I throw them away, and
anybody may pick them up that pleases. You see it has lost its peg.
_Jud._ Very well, sir. Mrs. Careful, you may retire.
_Wid._ And must I have no amends, my lord?
_Jud._ Have patience. Leave everything to the court. We shall do you all
the justice in our power.
As soon as the widow was gone, the judge rose from his seat, and with
much solemnity thus addressed the assembly:—
“Gentlemen,—this business, I confess, gives me much dissatisfaction. A
poor woman has been insulted and injured in her property, apparently
without provocation; and though she has not been able to convict the
offender, it cannot be doubted that she, as well as the world in
general, will impute the crime to some of our society. Though I am in my
own mind convinced that in her passion she charged an innocent person,
yet the circumstance of the top is a strong suspicion, indeed almost a
proof, that the perpetrator of this unmanly mischief was one of our
body. The owner of the top has justly observed, that its having been his
property is no certain proof against him. Since, therefore, in the
present defect of evidence, the whole school must remain burdened with
the discredit of this action, and share in the guilt of it, I think fit,
in the first place, to decree, that restitution shall be made to the
sufferer out of the public chest; and next that a court of inquiry be
instituted for the express purpose of searching thoroughly into this
affair, with power to examine all persons upon honour who are thought
likely to be able to throw light upon it. I hope, gentlemen, these
measures meet with your concurrence?”
The whole court bowed to the judge, and expressed their entire
satisfaction with his determination.
It was then ordered that the public treasurer should go to the Widow
Careful’s house, any pay her the sum of one shilling, making at the same
time a handsome apology in the name of the school. And six persons were
taken by lot out of the jury to compose the court of inquiry, which was
to sit in the evening.
The court then adjourned.
On the meeting of the court of inquiry, the first thing proposed by the
president, was, that the persons who usually played with Master Riot
should be sent for. Accordingly Tom Frisk and Bob Loiter were summoned,
when the president asked them upon their honour if they knew the top to
have been Riot’s. They said they did. They were then asked whether they
remembered when Riot had it in his possession?
_Frisk._ He had it the day before yesterday, and split a top of mine
with it.
_Loiter._ Yes, and then, as he was making a stroke at mine, the peg flew
out.
_President._ What did he then do with it?
_Fr._ He put it into his pocket, and said, as it was a strong top, he
would have it mended.
_Pres._ Then he did not throw it away, or give it to any body?
_Loit._ No; he pocketed it up, and we saw no more of it.
_Pres._ Do you know of any quarrel he had with Widow Careful?
_Fr._ Yes; a day or two before, he went to her shop for some ginger
bread; but, as he already owed her sixpence, she would not let him have
any till he had paid his debts.
_Pres._ How did he take the disappointment?
_Fr._ He said he would be revenged on her.
_Pres._ Are you sure he used such words?
_Fr._ Yes; Loiter heard him as well as myself.
_Loit._ I did, sir.
_Pres._ Do either of you know any more of this affair?
_Both._ No, sir.
_Pres._ You may go.
The President now observed that these witnesses had done a great deal in
establishing proofs against Riot; for it was now pretty certain that no
one but himself could have been in possession of the top at the time the
crime was committed; and also it appeared that he had declared a
malicious intention against the woman, which it was highly probable he
would put into execution.—As the court were debating about the next step
to be taken, they were acquainted that Jack, the widow’s son, was
waiting at the school-door for admission; and a person being sent out
for him, Riot was found threatening the boy, and bidding him go home
about his business. The boy, however, was conveyed safely into the room,
when he thus addressed himself to the president:—
_Jack._ Sir, and please your worship, as I was looking about this
morning for sticks in the hedge over against our house, I found this
buckle. So I thought to myself, sure this must belong to the rascal that
broke our windows. So I have brought it to see if anybody in the school
would own it.
_Pres._ On which side of the hedge did you find it?
_Jack._ On the other side from our house, in the close.
_Pres._ Let us see it. Gentlemen, this is so smart a buckle, that I am
sure I remember it at once, and so I dare say you all do.
_Al_l. It is Riot’s.
_Pres._ Has anybody observed Riot’s shoes to-day?
_One Boy._ Yes, he has got them tied with strings.
_Pres._ Very well, gentlemen; we have nothing more to do than to draw up
an account of all the evidence we have heard, and lay it before his
lordship. Jack, you may go home.
_Jack._ Pray, sir, let somebody go with me, for I am afraid of Riot, who
has just been threatening me at the door.
_Pres._ Master Bold will please to go along with the boy.
The minutes of the court were then drawn up, and the President took them
to the judge’s chamber. After the judge had perused them, he ordered an
endictment to be drawn up against Peter Riot, “for that he meanly,
clandestinely, and with malice aforethought, had broken three panes in
the window of Widow Careful, with a certain instrument called a top,
whereby he had committed an atrocious injury on an innocent person, and
had brought a disgrace upon the society to which he belonged.” At the
same time, he sent an officer to inform Master Riot that his trial would
come on next morning.
Riot, who was with some of his gay companions, affected to treat the
matter with great indifference, and even to make a jest of it. However,
in the morning he thought it best to endeavour to make it up; and
accordingly, when the court was assembled, he sent one of his friends
with a shilling, saying that he would not trouble them with any further
inquiries, but would pay the sum that had been issued out of the public
stock. On the receipt of this message the Judge rose with much severity
in his countenance; and observing, that by such a contemptuous behaviour
towards the court the criminal had greatly added to his offence, he
ordered two officers with their staves immediately to go and bring in
Riot, and to use force if he should resist them. The culprit, thinking
it best to submit, was presently led in between the two officers; when,
being placed at the bar, the judge thus addressed him:—
“I am sorry, sir, that any member of this society can be so little
sensible of the nature of a crime, and so little acquainted with the
principles of a court of justice, as you have shown yourself to be, by
the proposal you took the improper liberty of sending to us. If you
meant it as a confession of your guilt, you certainly ought to have
waited to receive from us the penalty we thought proper to inflict, and
not to have imagined that an offer of the mere payment of damages would
satisfy the claims of justice against you. If you had only broken the
window by accident, and of your own accord offered restitution, nothing
less than the full damages could have been accepted. But you now stand
charged with having done this mischief, meanly, secretly, and
maliciously, and thereby have added a great deal of criminal intention
to the act. Can you then think that a court like this, designed to watch
over the morals, as well as protect the properties of our community, can
so slightly pass over such aggravated offences? You can claim no merit
from confessing the crime, now that you know so much evidence will
appear against you. And if you choose still to plead not guilty, you are
at liberty to do it, and we will proceed immediately to the trial,
without taking any advantage of the confession implied by your offer of
payment.”
Riot stood silent for some time, and then begged to be allowed to
consult with his friends what was best for him to do. This was agreed
to, and he was permitted to retire, though under guard of an officer.
After a short absence, he returned with more humility in his looks, and
said that he pleaded guilty, and threw himself on the mercy of the
court. The judge then made a speech of some length, for the purpose of
convincing the prisoner as well as the bystanders of the enormity of the
crime. He then pronounced the following sentence:—
“You, Peter Riot, are hereby sentenced to pay the sum of half a crown to
the public treasury, as a satisfaction for the mischief you have done,
and your attempt to conceal it. You are to repair to the house of Widow
Careful, accompanied by such witnesses as we shall appoint, and there
having first paid her the sum you owe her, you shall ask her pardon for
the insult you offered her. You shall likewise, to-morrow, after school,
stand up in your place, and before all the scholars ask pardon for the
disgrace you have been the means of bringing upon the society; and in
particular you shall apologise to Master Luckless, for the disagreeable
circumstance you were the means of bringing him into. Till all this is
complied with, you shall not presume to come into the play-ground, or
join in any of the diversions of the school; and all persons are hereby
admonished not to keep your company till this is done.”
Riot was then dismissed to his room; and in the afternoon he was taken
to the widow’s, who was pleased to receive his submission graciously,
and at the same time to apologise for her own improper treatment of
Master Luckless, to whom she sent a present of a nice ball by way of
amends.
Thus ended this important business.
[Illustration:
On Man, p. 184.
EVENING XV.
]
THE LEGUMINOUS PLANTS.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._
_George._ What a delightful smell!
_Harry._ Charming! It is sweeter than Mr. Essence’s shop.
_Tutor._ Do you know whence it comes?
_Geo._ Oh—it is from the bean-field on the other side of the hedge, I
suppose.
_Tut._ It is. This is the month in which beans are in blossom. See the
stalks are full of their black and white flowers.
_Har._ I see peas in blossom, too, on the other side of the field.
_Geo._ You told us some time ago of grass and corn flowers, but they
make a poor figure compared to these.
_Tut._ They do. The glory of a cornfield is when it is ripe; but peas
and beans look very shabbily at that time. But suppose we take a closer
view of these blossoms. Go you, George, and bring me a bean-plant; and
you, Harry, a pea.
[_They go and bring them._
_Tut._ Now let us sit down and compare them. Do you think these flowers
much alike?
_Har._ Oh no—very little.
_Geo._ Yes—a good deal!
_Tut._ A little and a good deal! How can that be? Come let us see. In
the first place, they do not much resemble each other in size or colour.
_Geo._ No—but I think they do in shape.
_Tut._ True. They are both irregular flowers, and have the same
distribution of parts. They are of the kind called _papilionaceous_,
from _papilio_, the Latin word for a butterfly, which insect they are
thought to resemble.
_Geo._ The pea does a little, but not much.
_Tut._ Some do much more than these. Well—you see first a broad leaf
standing upright, but somewhat bent back; this is named the _standard_.
On each side are two narrower, called the _wings_. The under side of the
flower is formed of a hollow part resembling a boat: this is called a
_keel_.
_Geo._ It is very like a boat indeed!
_Tut._ In some kinds, however, it is divided in the middle, and so is
like a boat split in two. All these parts have claws which unite to form
a tube, set in a _calyx_, or flower-cup. This tube, you observe, is
longer in the bean than in the pea, and the proportions of the other
parts are somewhat different; but the parts themselves are found in
both.
_Har._ So they are. I think them alike now.
_Tut._ That is the consequence of examining closely. Now let us strip
off all the leaves of this bean-flower but the keel. What do you think
this boat contains?
_Geo._ It must be those little things you told us are in all flowers.
_Har._ The chives and pistil.
_Tut._ Right. I will draw down the keel gently, and you shall see them.
_Har._ How curious!
_Tut._ Here are a number of chives joining in their bodies, so as to
make a round tube, or cylinder, through which comes out a crooked
thread, which is the pistil. I will now with a pin slit this cylinder.
What do you see within it?
_Geo._ Somewhat like a little pod.
_Tut._ True—and to show you that it is a pod, I will open it, and you
shall see the seeds within it.
_Har._ What tiny things! Is this, then, what makes the bean-pod
afterward?
_Tut._ It is. When the blossom drops, this seed-vessel grows bigger and
bigger, and at length hardens as the seeds grow ripe, becomes black and
shrivelled, and would burst and shed the seeds, if they were not
gathered.
_Geo._ I have seen several burst pods of our sweet-peas under the wall,
with nothing left in them.
_Tut._ And it is common for the field peas and beans to lose a great
part of the seeds while they are getting in.
_Har._ At the bottom of this pea-stalk there are some pods set already.
_Tut._ Open one. You see that the pod is composed of two shells, and
that all the seeds are fastened to one side of the pod, but alternately
to each shell.
_Geo._ Is it the same in beans?
_Tut._ Yes, and in all other pods of the papilionaceous flowers.
Well—this is the general structure of a very numerous and useful class
of plants, called the _leguminous_ or _podded_. Of these, in this
country, the greater part are herbaceous, with some shrubs. In the warm
climates there are also tall trees. Many of the leguminous plants afford
excellent nourishment for man and beast; and their pods have the name of
_pulse_.
_Geo._ I have read of persons living on pulse, but I did not know what
it meant before.
_Tut._ It is frequently mentioned as part of the diet of abstemious
persons. Of this kind, we eat peas, beans, and kidney or French beans,
of all which there are a variety of sorts cultivated. Other nations eat
lentils and lupines, which are of this class; with several others.
_Har._ I remember our lupines in the garden have flowers of this kind,
with pods growing in clusters. We only cultivate them for the colour and
smell.
_Tut._ But other nations eat them. Then, all the kinds of clover, or
trefoil, which are so useful in feeding cattle, belong to this tribe; as
do likewise vetches, sanfoin, and lucerne, which are used for the same
purpose. These principally compose what are usually, though improperly,
called, in agriculture, _artificial grasses_.
_Geo._ Clover flowers are as sweet as beans; but do they bear pods?
_Tut._ Yes; very short ones, with one or two seeds in each. But there is
a kind called nonsuch, with a very small yellow flower, that has a
curious twisted pod like a snail-shell. Many of the leguminous plants
are weak, and cannot support themselves; hence they are furnished with
tendrils, by means of which they clasp neighbouring plants, and run up
them. You know the garden-peas do so on the sticks which are set in the
rows with them. Some kind of vetches run in this manner up the hedges,
which they decorate with their long bunches of blue or purple flowers.
Tares, which are some of the slenderest of the family, do much mischief
among corn by twining round it and choking it.
_Har._ What are they good for, then?
_Tut._ They are weeds or noxious plants with respect to us; but
doubtless they have their uses in the creation. Some of our
papilionaceous plants, however, are able enough to shift for themselves;
for gorse or furze is of the number.
_Geo._ What, that prickly bush all covered over with yellow flowers,
that overruns our common?
_Tut._ Then there is broom, a plant as big, but without thorns, and with
larger flowers. This is as frequent as furze in some places.
_Har._ I know it grows in abundance in the broom-field.
_Tut._ It does; but the naming of fields and places from it is a proof
that it is not so common as the other.
_Geo._ We have some bushes of white broom in the shrubbery, and some
trees of Spanish broom.
_Tut._ True. You have also a small tree which flowers early, and bears a
great many pendent branches of yellow blossoms, that look peculiarly
beautiful when intermixed with the purple lilacs.
_Har._ I know it—laburnum.
_Tut._ Right. This is one of our class of plants too. Then there is a
large tree, with delicate little leaves, protected by long thorns, and
bearing bunches of white papilionaceous flowers.
_Geo._ I know which you mean, but I cannot tell the name.
_Tut._ It is the bastard-acacia, or locust-tree, a native of America.
Thus, you see, we have traced this class of plants through all sizes,
from the trefoil that covers the turf, to a large tree. I should not,
however, forget two others, the licorice, and the tamarind. The
licorice, with the sweet root of which you are well acquainted, grows in
the warmer countries, especially Spain, but is cultivated in some parts
of England, especially at Pomfret, in Yorkshire. The tamarind is a large
spreading tree growing in the West Indies, and valued for its shade, as
well as for the cooling acid pulp of its pods, which are preserved with
sugar and sent over to us.
_Har._ I know them very well.
_Tut._ Well—do you think now you shall both be able to discover a
papilionaceous flower when you meet with it again?
_Geo._ I believe I shall, if they are all like these we have been
examining.
_Tut._ They have all the same parts, though variously proportioned. What
are these?
_Geo._ There is the standard and two wings.
_Har._ And the keel.
_Tut._ Right—the keel sometimes cleft into two, and then it is an
irregular five-leaved flower. The chives are generally ten, of which one
stands apart from the rest. The pistil single, and ending in a pod.
Another circumstance common to most of this tribe, is, that their leaves
are _winged_, or _pinnated_, that is, having leaflets set opposite each
other, upon a middle rib. You see this structure in these bean-leaves.
But in the clovers there are only two opposite leaflets, and one
terminating; whence their name of trefoil, or three-leaf. What we call a
club on cards is properly a clover-leaf, and the French call it
_trefle_, which means the same.
_Geo._ I think this tribe of plants almost as useful as the grasses.
_Tut._ They perhaps come the next in utility: but their seeds, such as
beans and peas, are not quite such good nourishment as corn, and bread
cannot be made of them.
_Geo._ But clover is better than grass for cattle.
_Tut._ It is more fattening, and makes cows yield plenty of fine milk.
Well—let us march.
ON MAN.
_Charles._ You gave me the definition of a horse some time ago—Pray,
sir, how is a man defined?
_Father._ That is worth inquiring. Let us consider then. He must either
stand by himself, or be ranked among the quadrupeds; for there are no
other two-legged animals but birds, which he certainly does not
resemble.
_Ch._ But how can he be made a quadruped?
_Fa._ By setting him to crawl on the ground, in which case he will as
much resemble a baboon as a baboon set on his hind-legs does a man. In
reality, there is little difference between the arms of a man and the
fore-legs of a quadruped; and in all other circumstances of internal and
external structure, they are evidently formed upon the same model.
_Ch._ I suppose then we must call him a digitated quadruped, that
generally goes upon its hind legs.
_Fa._ A naturalist could not reckon him otherwise; and, accordingly,
Linnæus has placed him in the same division with apes, macocos, and
bats.
_Ch._ Apes, macocos, and bats!
_Fa._ Yes—they have all four cutting teeth in the upper jaw, and teats
on the breast. How do your like your relations?
_Ch._ Not at all!
_Fa._ Then we will get rid of them by applying to the other part of
human nature—the _mind_. Man is an animal possessed of _reason_, and the
only one. This, therefore, is enough to define him.
_Ch._ I have often heard that man is a rational creature, and I have a
notion what that means; but I should like to have an exact definition of
reason.
_Fa._ Reason is the faculty by which we compare ideas, and draw
conclusions. A man walking in the woods of an unknown country finds a
bow. He compares it in his mind with other bows, and forms the
conclusion that it must have been made by man, and that therefore the
country is probably inhabited. He discovers a hut; sees in it half-burnt
wood, and finds that the ashes are not quite cold. He concludes,
therefore, with certainty, not only that there are inhabitants, but that
they cannot be far distant. No other animal could do this.
_Ch._ But would not a dog who had been used to live with men run into
such a hut and expect to find people in it?
_Fa._ He probably would—and this, I acknowledge, is very like reason;
for he may be supposed to compare in his mind the hut he has lived in
with that he sees, and to conclude that as there were men in the first
there are in the last. But how little a way does this carry him? He
finds no men there, and he is unable by any marks to form any judgment
how long they have been absent, or what sort of people they were; still
less does he form any plan of conduct in consequence of his discovery.
_Ch._ Then is not the difference only that man has much reason, and
brutes little?
_Fa._ If we adhere to the mere words of the definition of reason, I
believe this must be admitted; but in the exercise of it, the
superiority of the human faculties is so great, that man is in many
points absolutely distinguished from brutes. In the first place he has
the _use of speech_, which no other animal has attained.
_Ch._ Cannot many animals make themselves understood by one another by
their cries?
_Fa._ They can make known a few of their common wants and desires, but
they cannot _discourse_, or communicate ideas stored up in the memory.
It is this faculty which makes man an _improvable_ being, the wisdom and
experience acquired by one individual being thus transmitted to others,
and so on in an endless series of progression.
There is no reason to suppose that the dogs of the present day are more
knowing than those which lived a thousand years ago; but the men of this
age are much better acquainted with numberless arts and sciences than
their remote ancestors; since, by the use of speech and of writing
(which is speech addressed to the eye), every age adds its own
discoveries to all former ones. This knowledge of the past likewise
gives man a great insight into the future. Shakspeare excellently
defines man by saying that he is a creature “made with large discourse,
looking before and after.”
_Ch._ Animals must surely know something of the future, when they lay up
a store of provisions for the winter.
_Fa._ No—it is pretty certain that this is not the case, for they will
do it as much the first year of their lives as any other. Young bees
turned out of their hive, as soon as they have swarmed and got a
habitation, begin laying up honey, though they cannot possibly foresee
the use they shall have for it. There are a vast number of actions of
this kind in animals which are directed to a useful end, but an end
which the animal knows nothing of. And this is what we call _instinct_,
and properly distinguish from reason. Man has less of it than almost any
other animal, because he wants it less. Another point of essential
difference is, that man is the only animal that makes use of
_instruments_ in any of his actions. He is a _tool-making_ and
_machine-making_ animal. By means of this faculty alone he is every
where lord of the creation, and has equally triumphed over the subtlety
of the cunning, the swiftness of the fleet, and the force of the strong.
He is the only animal that has found out the use of _fire_, a most
important acquisition!
_Ch._ I have read of some large apes that will come and sit round a fire
in the woods when men have left it, but have not the sense to keep it
in, by throwing on sticks.
_Fa._ Still less then could they light a fire. In consequence of this
discovery man cooks his food, which no other animal does. He alone
fences against the cold by clothing as well as by fire. He alone
cultivates the earth, and keeps living animals for future uses.
_Ch._ But have not there been wild men bred in the woods that could do
none of these things?
_Fa._ Some instances of this kind are recorded, and they are not to be
wondered at; for man was meant to be a _gregarious_ animal, or one
living in society, in which alone his faculties have full scope, and
especially his power of improving by the use of speech. These poor
solitary creatures, brought up with the brutes, were in a state entirely
unnatural to them. A solitary bee, ant, or beaver, would have none of
the skill and sagacity of those animals in their proper social
condition. Society sharpens all the faculties, and gives ideas and views
which never could have been entertained by an individual.
_Ch._ But some men that live in society seem to be little above the
brutes, at least when compared with other men. What is a Hottentot in
comparison with one of us?
_Fa._ The difference, indeed, is great; but we agree in the most
essential characters of _man_, and perhaps the advantage is not all on
our side. The Hottentot cultivates the earth and rears cattle. He not
only herds with his fellows, but he has instituted some sort of
government for the protection of the weak against the strong; he has a
notion of right and wrong, and is sensible of the necessity of
controlling present appetites and passions for the sake of a future
good. He has therefore _morals_. He is possessed of weapons, tools,
clothing, and furniture of his own making. In agility of body, and the
knowledge of various circumstances relative to the nature of animals, he
surpasses us. His inferiority lies in those things in which many of the
lowest class among us are equally inferior to the instructed.
_Ch._ But Hottentots have no notion of a God or a future state.
_Fa._ I am not certain how far that is fact: but alas! how many among us
have no knowledge at all on these subjects, or only some vague notions
full of absurdity and superstition! People far advanced in civilization
have held the grossest errors on these subjects, which are only to be
corrected by the serious application of reason, or by a direct
revelation from Heaven.
_Ch._ You said man was an _improveable_ creature—but have not many
nations been a long time in a savage state without improvement?
_Fa._ Man is always _capable of improvement_; but he may exist a long
time, in society, without _actually improving_ beyond a certain point.
There is little improvement among nations who have not the art of
_writing_, for tradition is not capable of preserving very accurate or
extensive knowledge; and many arts and sciences, after flourishing
greatly, have been entirely lost, in countries which have been overrun
by barbarous and illiterate nations. Then there is a principle which I
might have mentioned as one of those that distinguish man from brutes,
but it as much distinguishes some men from others. This is _curiosity_,
or the love of knowledge for its own sake. Most savages have little or
nothing of this; but without it we should want one of the chief
inducements to exert our faculties. It is curiosity that impels us to
search into the properties of every part of nature, to try all sorts of
experiments, to visit distant regions, and even to examine the
appearances and motions of the heavenly bodies. Every fact thus
discovered leads to other facts; and there is no limit to be set to this
progress. The time may come, when what we now know may seem as much
ignorance to future ages as the knowledge of early times does to us.
_Ch._ What nations know the most at present?
_Fa._ The Europeans have long been distinguished for superior ardour
after knowledge, and they possess beyond comparison the greatest share
of it, whereby they have been enabled to command the rest of the world.
The countries in which the arts and sciences most flourish at present
are the northern and middle parts of Europe, and also North America,
which, is inhabited by descendants of Europeans. In these countries man
may be said to be _most man_; and they may apply to themselves the
poet’s boast:—
“Man is the nobler growth these realms supply,
And souls are ripened in our northern sky.”
WALKING THE STREETS.—A PARABLE.
Have you ever walked through the crowded streets of a great city?
What shoals of people pouring in from opposite quarters, like torrents
meeting in a narrow valley! You would imagine it impossible for them to
get through; yet all pass on their way without stop or molestation.
Were each man to proceed exactly in the line in which he set out, he
could not move many paces without encountering another full in his
track. They would strike against each other, fall back, push forward
again, block up the way for themselves and those after them, and throw
the whole street into confusion. All this is avoided by every man’s
_yielding a little_.
Instead of advancing square, stiff, with arms stuck out, every one who
knows how to walk the streets glides along, his arms close, his body
oblique and flexible, his track gently winding, leaving now a few inches
on this side, now on that, so as to pass and be passed without touching,
in the smallest possible space.
He pushes no one into the kennel, nor goes into it himself. By _mutual
accommodation_, the path, though narrow, holds them all.
He goes neither much faster nor much slower than those who go in the
same direction. In the first case he would elbow, in the second he would
be elbowed.
If any accidental stop arises, from a carriage crossing, a cask rolled,
a pickpocket detected, or the like, he does not increase the bustle by
rushing into the midst of it, but checks his pace, and patiently waits
for its removal.
Like this is the _march of life_.
In our progress through the world a thousand things stand continually in
our way. Some people meet us full in the face with opposite opinions and
inclinations. Some stand before us in our pursuit of pleasure or
interest, and others follow close upon our heels. Now, we ought in the
first place to consider, that the _road is as free for one as another_;
and therefore we have no right to expect that persons should go out of
their way to let us pass, any more than we out of ours. Then, if we do
not mutually yield and accommodate a little, it is clear that we must
all stand still, or be thrown into a perpetual confusion of squeezing
and jostling. If we are all in a hurry to get on as fast as possible to
some point of pleasure or interest in our view, and do not occasionally
hold back, when the crowd gathers, and angry contentions arise, we shall
only augment the tumult, without advancing our own progress. On the
whole, it is our business to move onward, steadily, but quietly,
obstructing others as little as possible, yielding a little to this
man’s prejudices, and that man’s desires, and doing everything in our
power to make the _journey of life_ easy to all our fellow-travellers as
well as to ourselves.
[Illustration:
Presence of Mind, p. 192.
EVENING XVI.
]
THE COMPOUND-FLOWERED PLANTS.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._
_George._ Harry, can you blow off all of these dandelion feathers at a
puff?
_Harry._ I will try.
_Geo._ See—you have left almost half of them.
_Har._ Can you do better?
_Geo._ Yes—look here.
_Har._ There are still several left.
_Tut._ A pretty child’s play you have got there. Bring me one of the
dandelion heads, and let us see if we can make no other use of it.
_Har._ Here is a very full one.
_Tut._ Do you know what these feathers, as you call them, are?
_Geo._ I believe they belong to the seed.
_Tut._ They do, and they are worth examining. Look at this single one
through my magnifying glass; you observe the seed at the bottom, like
the point of a dart. From it springs a slender hairy shaft crowned by a
very elegant spreading plume. You see it is a complete arrow of Nature’s
manufacture.
_Geo._ How exact!
_Har._ What a beautiful thing!
_Tut._ I am sure you see the use of it at once.
_Geo._ It is to set the seeds a flying with the wind.
_Har._ And I suppose they sow themselves where they light?
_Tut._ They do. This is one of Nature’s contrivances for
_dissemination_, or that scattering of the seeds of plants which makes
them reach all the places proper for their growth. I dare say you have
observed other plants furnished with the same winged or feathered seeds.
_Har._ O yes—there are groundsel, and ragwort, and thistles.
_Geo._ In a windy day I have seen the air all full of thistle-down.
_Tut._ Very likely: and for that reason you never saw a new-made bank of
earth, or a heap of dung in the fields, but it was presently covered
with thistles. These, and the other plants that have been named, belong
to a very extensive class, which it is worth while being acquainted
with. They are called the _compound-flowered plants_.
_Geo._ Will you be so good as to give us a lecture about them?
_Tut._ With all my heart. Get me a dandelion in flower, a thistle-head,
and a daisy—if you cannot find a common daisy, one of the great ox-eye
daisies in the corn will do as well.
_Geo. and Har._ Here they are.
_Tut._ Very well. All these are _compound flowers_; for if you will
examine them narrowly, you will perceive that they consist of a number
of little flowers, or _florets_, enclosed in a common cup, which cup is
made of a number of scales, lying on each other like the tiles of a
house.
_Geo._ I see it.
_Tut._ The florets are not all alike in shape. In the dandelion you will
observe that they consist of a tube, from which, at its upper end,
proceeds a sort of strap-shaped tongue or fillet; in the thistle they
are tubular or funnel-shaped throughout; in the daisy the centre ones,
which form the _disk_, as it is called, are tubular, while those in the
circumference have a broad strap on one side, which altogether compose
the _rays_ of the flowers; whence this sort are called _radiated_. Now
take the glass and examine the florets singly. Can you discern their
chives and pointals?
_Geo._ I can.
_Tut._ You may remark that there are five chives to each, the tips of
which unite into a tube, through which the pointal passes, having its
summit doubled, and curled back.
_Har._ I can just make it out with the glass, but hardly with the naked
eye.
_Tut._ It is from this circumstance of the tips of the chives growing
together that Linnæus has taken his distinction of the whole class; and
he has named it _Syngenesia_, from two Greek words having that
signification. You will further observe that all these florets stand
upon a stool or receptacle at the bottom of the flower, which is the
cushion left on the dandelion-stalk after the seeds are blown away. Into
this the seeds are slightly stuck, which are one apiece to every perfect
or fertile floret. This is the general structure of the compound
flowers.
_Har._ Are all their seeds feathered?
_Tut._ Not all. These of the daisy are not. But in a great many species
they are.
_Har._ I should have thought these were a very useful class of plants by
the pains nature has taken to spread them, if you had not told us that
thistles, and ragwort, and groundsel, were some of them.
_Tut._ And if you do not confine your idea of usefulness to what is
serviceable to man, but extend it to the whole creation, you may safely
conclude, from their abundance, that they must be highly useful in the
general economy of nature. In fact, no plants feed a greater number of
insects, and none are more important to the small birds, to whom they
furnish food by their seeds, and a fine warm down for lining their
nests. On the approach of winter you may see whole flocks of linnets and
goldfinches pecking among the thistles; and you know that groundsel is a
favourite treat to birds in a cage. To man, however, they are for the
most part troublesome and unsightly weeds. Burdock, thistles, and
yarrow, overrun his hedge-banks; dandelion, and hawkweed, which much
resembles it, fill his meadows; the tall and branching ragwort, and blue
succory, cumber his pastures; and wild camomile, ox-eye, and
corn-marygold, choke up his cornfields. These plants in general have a
bitter nauseous taste, so that no cattle will touch them. Daisies, I
believe, are the chief exception.
_Geo._ But some of them, I suppose, are useful to man?
_Tut._ Yes, several, and in various ways. Some that have milky bitter
juices are employed in medicine for purifying the blood and removing
obstructions. Of these are dandelion, succory, and sow-thistle. Many
others are bitter, and strongly aromatic; as camomile, wormwood,
southernwood, feverfew, and tansy; these are good for strengthening the
stomach and expelling worms. That capital ingredient in salad, lettuce,
is of this class, and so is endive. Artichoke forms a very singular
article of diet, for the part chiefly eaten, called the bottom, is the
receptacle of the flower, upon which the choke, or seeds with their
feathers, is placed. It is said that some of the larger species of
thistles may be dressed and eaten the same way. Then there is Jerusalem
artichoke, which is the root of a species of sunflower, and, when
boiled, much resembles in taste an artichoke bottom. On the whole,
however, a very small proportion of this class of plants is used in
food.
_Geo._ Are there no garden-flowers belonging to them?
_Tut._ Several, especially of the autumnal ones. There are sunflowers of
various kinds, which are the largest flowers the garden produces, though
not the most sightly; marygolds, both the common, and the French and
African, asters, china-asters, golden-rod, and chrysanthemums. Very few
flowers of this class have an agreeable scent, and their shape is not
the most pleasing; but they have often gay colours, and make a figure in
the garden when other things are over. Well—this is most that I
recollect worth noticing of the compound-flowered plants. They are a
difficult class to make out botanically, though pretty easily known from
each other by sight. I will take care to point out to you the principal
of them that we meet with in our walks, and you must get acquainted with
them.
ON PRESENCE OF MIND.
Mrs. F. one day having occasion to be blooded, sent for a surgeon. As
soon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, started up, and
was hastily going away, when her mother called her back.
_Mrs. F._ Eliza, do not go, I want you to stay by me.
_Eliz._ Dear mamma! I can never bear to see you blooded.
_Mrs. F._ Why not? what harm will it do you?
_Eliz._ O dear! I cannot look at blood. Besides, I cannot bear to see
you hurt, mamma!
_Mrs. F._ Oh, if I can bear to feel it, surely you may to see it. But,
come—you _must_ stay, and we will talk about it afterward.
Eliza, then, pale and trembling, stood by her mother and saw the whole
operation. She could not help, however, turning her head away when the
incision was made, and the first flow of blood made her start and
shudder. When all was over, and the surgeon gone, Mrs. F. began.
_Mrs. F._ Well, Eliza, what do you think of the mighty matter now? Would
it not have been very foolish to have run away from it?
_Eliz._ O mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet. Did
it not hurt you a great deal?
_Mrs. F._ No, very little. And if it had, it was to do me good, you
know.
_Eliz._ But why should I stay to see it? I could do you no good.
_Mrs. F._ Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accustomed to such
sights.
_Eliz._ Why, mamma?
_Mrs. F._ Because instances are every day happening in which it is our
duty to assist fellow-creatures in circumstances of pain and distress;
and if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near to them on those
occasions, we should never acquire either the knowledge or the presence
of mind necessary for the purpose.
_Eliz._ But if I had been told how to help people in such cases, could
not I do it without being used to see them?
_Mrs. F._ No. We have all naturally a horror at everything which is the
cause of pain and danger to ourselves or others; and nothing but habit
can give most of us the presence of mind necessary to enable us in such
occurrences to employ our knowledge to the best advantage.
_Eliz._ What is _presence of mind_, mamma?
_Mrs. F._ It is that steady possession of ourselves in cases of alarm,
that prevents us from being flurried and frightened. You have heard the
expression of _having all our wits about us_. That is the effect of
presence of mind, and a most inestimable quality it is, for without it
we are full as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not
remember hearing of your cousin Mary’s cap taking fire from a candle?
_Eliz._ O yes—very well.
_Mrs. F._ Well—the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream,
and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any
assistance she could give her.
_Eliz._ How foolish that was!
_Mrs. F._ Yes—the girl had not the least presence of mind, and the
consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her
entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right
method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be
pulled off; so she whipped a quilt from the bed and flung it round
Mary’s head, and thus stifled the flame.
_Eliz._ Mary was a good deal scorched, though.
_Mrs. F._ Yes—but it was very well that it was no worse. If the maid,
however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm would have been
done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of
the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by
flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the
staircase; and in her confusion, instead of going upstairs to call her
children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might all
have escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and with much danger
made way through the fire, into the street. When she had got thither,
the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too
late. The stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them,
and they were burnt in their beds.
_Eliz._ What a sad thing!
_Mrs. F._ Sad, indeed! Now, I will tell you of a different conduct. A
lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her
chamber-door. Her husband would have immediately opened the door, but
she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in
upon them.
The children with a maid slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went
and awakened them; and tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent
down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children one
by one to her. Last of all she descended herself. A few minutes after,
the floor fell in, and all the house was in flames.
_Eliz._ What a happy escape!
_Mrs. F._ Yes—and with what cool recollection of mind it was managed!
For mothers to love their children, and be willing to run any hazards
for them, is common; but in weak minds that very love is apt to prevent
exertions in the time of danger. I knew a lady who had a fine little boy
sitting in her lap. He put a whole plum into his mouth, which slipped
into his throat and choked him. The poor fellow turned black, and
struggled violently; and the mother was so frightened, that instead of
putting her finger in his throat, and pulling out the plum, which might
easily have been done, she laid him on the floor, and ran to call for
assistance. But the maids who came up were as much flurried as she; and
the child died before anything effectual was done to relieve him.
_Eliz._ How unhappy she must have been about it!
_Mrs. F._ Yes. It threw her into an illness which had liked to have cost
her her life.
Another lady, seeing her little boy climb up a high ladder, set up a
violent scream that frightened the child, so that he fell down and was
much hurt; whereas, if she had possessed command enough over herself to
speak to him gently, he might have got down safely.
_Eliz._ Dear mamma! what is that running down your arm?—O, it is blood!
_Mrs. F._ Yes—my arm bleeds again. I have stirred it too soon.
_Eliz._ Dear! What shall I do?
_Mrs. F._ Don’t frighten yourself. I shall stop the blood by pressing on
the orifice with my finger. In the meantime, do you ring the bell.
[_Eliza rings—a servant comes._
_Mrs. F._ Betty, my arm bleeds. Can you tie it up again?
_Betty._ I believe I can, madam.
[_She takes off the bandage and puts on another._
_Eliz._ I hope it is stopped now?
_Mrs. F._ It is. Betty has done it very well. You see she went about it
with composure. This accident puts me in mind of another story which is
very well worth hearing. A man once reaping in the field, cut his arm
dreadfully with his sickle, and divided an artery.
_Eliz._ What is that, mamma?
_Mrs. F._ It is one of the canals or pipes through which the blood from
the heart runs like water in a pipe brought from a reservoir. When one
of these is cut it bleeds very violently, and the only way to stop it is
to make a pressure between the wounded place and the heart, in order to
intercept the course of the blood toward it. Well—this poor man bled
profusely; and the people about him, both men and women, were so
stupified with fright, that some ran one way, some another, and some
stood stock still. In short, he would have soon bled to death, had not a
brisk stout-hearted wench, who came up, slipped off her garter, and
bound it tight above the wound, by which means the bleeding was stopped
till proper help could be procured.
_Eliz._ What a clever wench! But how did she know what to do?
_Mrs. F._ She had perhaps heard it, as you have done now; and so
probably had some of the others, but they had not presence of mind
enough to put it into practice. It is a much greater trial of courage,
however, when the danger presses upon ourselves as well as others.
Suppose a furious bull was to come upon you in the midst of a field. You
could not possibly escape him by running, and attempting it would
destroy your only chance of safety.
_Eliz._ What would that be?
_Mrs. F._ I have a story for that, too. The mother of that Mr. Day, who
wrote _Sandford and Merton_, was distinguished, as he also was, for
courage and presence of mind. When a young woman, she was one day
walking in the fields with a companion, when they perceived a bull
coming to them, roaring and tossing about his head in the most
tremendous manner.
_Eliz._ O, how I should have screamed!
_Mrs. F._ I dare say you would; and so did her companion. But she bid
her walk away behind her as gently as she could, while she herself
stopped short, and faced the bull, eying him with a determined
countenance. The bull, when he had come near, stopped also, pawing the
ground and roaring. Few animals will attack a man who steadily waits for
him. In a while, she drew back some steps, still facing the bull. The
bull followed. She stopped, and then he stopped. In this manner, she
made good her retreat to the stile over which her companion had before
got. She then turned and sprung over it; and got clear out of danger.
_Eliz._ That was bravely done, indeed! But I think very few women could
have done as much.
_Mrs. F._ Such a degree of cool resolution, to be sure, is not common.
But I have read of a lady in the East Indies who showed at least as
much. She was sitting out of doors with a party of pleasure, when they
were aware of a huge tiger that had crept through a hedge near them, and
was just ready to make his fatal spring. They were struck with the
utmost consternation; but she, with an umbrella in her hand, turned to
the tiger, and suddenly spread it full in his face. This unusual assault
so terrified the beast, that, taking a prodigious leap, he sprung over
the fence, and plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thicket.
_Eliz._ Well—that was the boldest thing I ever heard of! But is it
possible, mamma, to make one’s self courageous?
_Mrs. F._ Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature, the
other of reason and habit. Men have naturally more courage than women;
that is, they are less affected by danger; it makes a less impression
upon them, and does not flutter their spirits so much. This is owing to
the difference of their bodily constitution; and from the same cause
some men and some women are more courageous than others. But the other
kind of courage may in some measure be acquired by every one. Reason
teaches us to face smaller dangers in order to avoid greater, and even
to undergo the greatest when our duty requires it. Habit makes us less
affected by particular dangers which have often come in our way. A
sailor does not feel the danger of a storm so much as a landsman, but if
he was mounted upon a spirited horse in a fox-chase, he would probably
be the most timorous man in company. The courage of women is chiefly
tried in domestic dangers. They are attendants on the sick and dying;
and they must qualify themselves to go through many scenes of terror in
these situations, which would alarm the stoutest-hearted man who was not
accustomed to them.
_Eliz._ I have heard that women generally bear pain and illness better
than men.
_Mrs. F._ They do so, because they are more used to them, both in
themselves and others.
_Eliz._ I think I should not be afraid again to see anybody blooded.
_Mrs. F._ I hope not. It was for that purpose I made you stand by me.
And I would have you always force yourself to look on and give
assistance in cases of this kind, however painful it may at first be to
you, that you may as soon as possible gain that presence of mind which
arises from habit.
_Eliz._ But would that make me like to be blooded myself?
_Mrs. F._ Not to _like_ it, but to lose all foolish fears about it, and
submit calmly to it when good for you. But I hope you have sense enough
to do that already.
[Illustration:
Why an Apple falls, p. 203.
EVENING XVII.
]
PHAETON JUNIOR: OR, THE GIG DEMOLISHED.
Ye heroes of the upper form,
Who long for whip and reins,
Come listen to a dismal tale,
Set forth in dismal strains.
Young Jehu was a lad of fame
As all the school could tell;
At cricket, taw, and prison-bars,
He bore away the bell.
Now welcome Whitsuntide was come,
And boys with merry hearts
Were gone to visit dear mamma,
And eat her pies and tarts.
As soon as Jehu saw his sire,
“A boon! a boon!” he cried;
“O, if I am your darling boy,
Let me not be denied.”
“My darling boy indeed thou art,”
The father wise replied;
“So name the boon; I promise thee
It shall not be denied.”
“Then give me, sir, your long-lashed whip,
And give your gig and pair,
To drive alone to yonder town,
And flourish through the fair.”
The father shook his head; “My son,
You know not what you ask;
To drive a gig in crowded streets
Is no such easy task.
“The horses, full of rest and corn,
Scarce I myself can guide;
And much I fear, if you attempt,
Some mischief will betide.
“Then think, dear boy, of something else,
That’s better worth your wishing;
A bow and quiver, bats and balls,
A rod and lines for fishing.”
But nothing could young Jehu please
Except a touch at driving;
‘Twas all in vain, his father found,
To spend his breath in striving.
“At least, attend, rash boy!” he cried,
“And follow good advice,
Or in a ditch both gig and you
Will tumble in a trice.
“Spare, spare the whip, hold hard the reins.
The steeds go fast enough;
Keep in the middle beaten track,
Nor cross the ruts so rough:
“And when within the town you come,
Be sure, with special care,
Drive clear of signposts, booths, and stalls
And monsters of the fair.”
The youth scarce heard his father out,
But roared—“Bring out the whiskey!”
With joy he viewed the rolling wheels,
And prancing ponies frisky.
He seized the reins, and up he sprung,
And waved the whistling lash;
“Take care; take care!” his father cried:
But off he went slap-dash.
“Who’s this light spark?” the horses thought,
“We’ll try your strength, young master;”
So o’er the ragged turnpike-road
Still faster ran and faster.
Young Jehu, tottering in his seat,
Now wished to pull them in;
But pulling from so young a hand
They valued not a pin.
A drove of grunting pigs before
Now filled up half the way;
Dash through the midst the horses drove
And made a rueful day:
For some were trampled under foot,
Some crushed beneath the wheel;
Lord! how the drivers cursed and swore
And how the pigs did squeal!
A farmer’s wife, on old blind Ball,
Went slowly on the road,
With butter, eggs, and cheese, and cream.
In two large panniers stowed.
Ere Ball could stride the rut, amain
The gig came thundering on,
Crash went the panniers, and the dame
And Ball lay overthrown.
Now through the town the mettled pair
Ran rattling o’er the stones;
They drove the crowd from side to side
And shook poor Jehu’s bones.
When, lo! directly in their course,
A monstrous form appeared—
A shaggy bear that stalked and roared
On hinder legs upreared.
Sidewise they started at the sight,
And whisked the gig half round,
Then ‘cross the crowded marketplace
They flew with furious bound.
First o’er a heap of crockery-ware
The rapid car they whirled;
And jugs, and mugs, and pots, and pans,
In fragments wide they hurled.
A booth stood near with tempting cakes
And grocery richly fraught;
All Birmingham on t’ other side
The dazzling optics caught
With active spring the nimble steeds
Rushed through the pass between,
And scarcely touched; the car behind
Got through not quite so clean:
For while one wheel one stall engaged,
Its fellow took the other;
Dire was the clash; down fell the booths,
And made a dreadful pother.
Nuts, oranges, and gingerbread,
And figs here rolled around;
And scissors, knives, and thimbles there
Bestrewed the glittering ground.
The fall of boards, the shouts and cries,
Urged on the horses faster;
And as they flew, at every step,
They caused some new disaster.
Here lay o’erturned, in woful plight,
A pedlar and his pack;
There, in a showman’s broken box,
All London went to wrack.
But now the fates decreed to stop
The ruin of the day,
And make the gig and driver too
A heavy reckoning pay.
A ditch there lay both broad and deep,
Where streams as black as Styx
From every quarter of the town
Their muddy currents mix.
Down to its brink in heedless haste
The frantic horses flew,
And in the midst, with sudden jerk,
Their burden overthrew.
The prostrate gig with desperate force
They soon pulled out again,
And at their heels in ruin dire
Dragged lumbering o’er the plain.
Here lay a wheel, the axle there,
The body there remained,
Till severed limb from limb, the car
Nor name nor shape retained.
But Jehu must not be forgot,
Left floundering in the flood,
With clothes all drenched, and mouth and eyes
Beplastered o’er with mud.
In piteous case he waded through
And gained the slippery side,
Where grinning crowds were gathered round
To mock his fallen pride.
They led him to a neighbouring pump
To clear his dismal face,
Whence cold and heartless home he slunk,
Involved in sore disgrace.
And many a bill for damage done
His father had to pay.
Take warning, youthful drivers, all!
From Jehu’s first essay.
WHY AN APPLE FALLS.
“Papa,” said Lucy, “I have been reading to-day, that Sir Isaac Newton
was led to make some of his great discoveries by seeing an apple fall
from a tree. What was there extraordinary in that?”
_Papa._ There was nothing extraordinary; but it happened to catch his
attention, and set him to thinking.
_Lucy._ And what did he think about?
_Pa._ He thought by what means the apple was brought to the ground.
_Lu._ Why, I could have told him that—because the stalk gave way, and
there was nothing to support it.
_Pa._ And what then?
_Lu._ Why, then it must fall, you know.
_Pa._ But why _must_ it fall?—that is the point.
_Lu._ Because it could not help it.
_Pa._ But why could it not help it?
_Lu._ I don’t know—that is an odd question. Because there was nothing to
keep it up.
_Pa._ Suppose there was not—does it follow that it must come to the
ground?
_Lu._ Yes, surely!
_Pa._ Is an apple animate or inanimate?
_Lu._ Inanimate, to be sure!
_Pa._ And can inanimate things move of themselves?
_Lu._ No—I think not—but the apple falls because it is forced to fall.
_Pa._ Right! Some force out of itself acts upon it, otherwise it would
remain for ever where it was, notwithstanding it were loosened from the
tree.
_Lu._ Would it?
_Pa._ Undoubtedly! for there only two ways in which it could be moved;
by its own power of motion, or the power of something else moving it.
Now the first you acknowledge it has not; the cause of its motion must
therefore be the second. And what that is was the subject of the
philosopher’s inquiry.
_Lu._ But everything falls to the ground as well as an apple, when there
is nothing to keep it up.
_Pa._ True—there must therefore be a universal cause of this tendency to
fall.
_Lu._ And what is it?
_Pa._ Why, if things out of the earth cannot move themselves to it,
there can be no other cause of their coming together than that the earth
pulls them.
_Lu._ But the earth is no more animate than they are: so how can it
pull?
_Pa._ Well objected! This will bring us to the point. Sir Isaac Newton,
after deep meditation, discovered, that there was a law in nature called
_attraction_, by virtue of which every particle of matter, that is,
everything of which the world is composed, draws toward it every other
particle of matter, with a force proportioned to its size and distance.
Lay two marbles on the table. They have a tendency to come together, and
if there were nothing else in the world they would come together, but
they are also attracted by the table, by the ground, and by everything
besides in the room; and these different attractions pull against each
other. Now, the globe of the earth is a prodigious mass of matter, to
which nothing near it can bear any comparison. It draws, therefore, with
mighty force, everything within its reach, which is the cause of their
falling: and this is called the _gravitation_ of bodies, or what gives
them _weight_. When I lift anything, I act contrary to this force, for
which reason it seems _heavy_ to me, and the heavier the more matter it
contains, since that increases the attraction of the earth for it. Do
you understand this?
_Lu._ I think I do. It is like a loadstone drawing a needle.
_Pa._ Yes; that is an attraction, but of a particular kind, only taking
place between the magnet and iron. But gravitation, or the attraction of
the earth, acts upon everything alike.
_Lu._ Then it is pulling you and me at this moment.
_Pa._ It is.
_Lu._ But why do not we stick to the ground, then?
_Pa._ Because, as we are alive, we have a power of self-motion, which
can, to a certain degree, overcome the attraction of the earth. But the
reason you cannot jump a mile high as well as a foot, is this
attraction, which limits the force of your jump, and brings you down
again after that force is spent.
_Lu._ I think, then, I begin to understand what I have heard of people
living on the other side of the world. I believe they are called
_antipodes_, who have their feet turned toward ours, and their heads in
the air. I used to wonder how it could be that they did not fall off;
but I suppose the earth pulls them to it.
_Pa._ Very true. And whither should they fall? What have they over their
heads?
_Lu._ I don’t know; sky, I suppose.
_Pa._ They have. This earth is a vast ball, hung in the air, and
continually spinning round, and that is the cause why the sun and stars
seem to rise and set. At noon we have the sun over our heads, when the
antipodes have the stars over theirs; and at midnight the stars are over
our heads, and the sun over theirs. So whither should they fall to more
than we?—to the stars or the sun?
_Lu._ But we are up, and they are down.
_Pa._ What is up, but _from_ the earth and _toward_ the sky? Their feet
touch the earth, and their heads point to the sky, as well as ours; and
we are under their feet, as much as they are under ours. If a hole were
dug quite through the earth, what would you see through it?
_Lu._ Sky, with the sun or the stars; and now I see the whole matter
plainly. But pray what supports the earth in the air?
_Pa._ Why, whither should it go?
_Lu._ I don’t know—I suppose where there was most to draw it. I have
heard that the sun is a great many times bigger than the earth. Would it
not go to that?
_Pa._ You have thought very justly on the matter, I perceive. But I
shall take another opportunity of showing you how this is, and why the
earth does not fall into the sun, of which, I confess, there seems to be
some danger. Meanwhile, think how far the falling of an apple has
carried us?
_Lu._ To the antipodes, and I know not where.
_Pa._ You may see thence what use may be made of the commonest fact by a
thinking mind.
NATURE AND EDUCATION.—A FABLE.
Nature and Education were one day walking together through a nursery of
trees. “See,” says Nature, “how straight and fine those firs grow—that
is my doing! but as to those oaks, they are all crooked and stunted:
that, my good sister, is your fault. You have planted them too close,
and not pruned them properly.”—“Nay, sister,” said Education, “I am sure
I have taken all possible pains about them; but you gave me bad acorns,
so how should they ever make fine trees?”
The dispute grew warm; and, at length, instead of blaming one another
for negligence, they began to boast of their own powers, and to
challenge each other to a contest for the superiority. It was agreed
that each should adopt a favourite, and rear it up in spite of the ill
offices of her opponent. Nature fixed upon a vigorous young Weymouth
pine, the parent of which had grown to be the mainmast of a man-of-war.
“Do what you will to this plant,” said she to her sister, “I am resolved
to push it up as straight as an arrow.” Education took under her care a
crab-tree. “This,” said she, “I will rear to be at least as valuable as
your pine.”
Both went to work. While Nature was feeding her pine with plenty of
wholesome juices, Education passed a strong rope round its top, and
pulling it downward with all its force, fastened it to the trunk of a
neighbouring oak. The pine laboured to ascend, but not being able to
surmount the obstacle, it pushed out to one side, and presently became
bent like a bow. Still, such was its vigour, that its top, after
descending as low as its branches, made a new shoot upward: but its
beauty and usefulness were quite destroyed.
The crab-tree cost Education a world of pains. She pruned and pruned,
and endeavoured to bring it into shape, but in vain. Nature thrust out a
bough this way, and a knot that way, and would not push a single leading
shoot upward. The trunk was, indeed, kept tolerably straight by constant
efforts; but the head grew awry and ill-fashioned, and made a scrubby
figure. At length, Education, despairing of making a sightly plant of
it, ingrafted the stock with an apple, and brought it to bear tolerable
fruit.
At the end of the experiment, the sisters met to compare their
respective success. “Ah, sister!” said Nature, “I see it is in your
power to spoil the best of my works.”—“Ah, sister!” said Education, “it
is a hard matter to contend against you—however, something may be done
by taking pains enough.”
AVERSION SUBDUED.—A DRAMA.
SCENE—_A Road in the Country_.
_Arbury_—_Belford_, walking.
_Belford._ Pray, who is the present possessor of the Brookby estate?
_Arbury._ A man of the name of Goodwin.
_Bel._ Is he a good neighbour to you?
_Arb._ Far from it! and I wish he had settled a hundred miles off,
rather than come here to spoil our neighbourhood.
_Bel._ I am sorry to hear that; but what is your objection to him?
_Arb._ O, there is nothing in which we agree. In the first place he is
quite of the other side in politics; and that, you know, is enough to
prevent all intimacy.
_Bel._ I am not entirely of that opinion; but what else?
_Arb._ He is no sportsman, and refuses to join in our association for
protecting the game. Neither does he choose to be a member of any of our
clubs.
_Bel._ Has he been asked?
_Arb._ I don’t know that he has directly; but he might easily propose
himself, if he liked it. But he is of a close, unsociable temper, and I
believe very niggardly.
_Bel._ How has he shown it?
_Arb._ His style of living is not equal to his fortune; and I have heard
of several instances of his attention to petty economy.
_Bel._ Perhaps he spends money in charity?
_Arb._ Not he, I dare say. It was but last week that a poor fellow who
had lost his all by a fire went to him with a subscription paper, in
which were the names of all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood; and all
the answer he got was that he would consider of it.
_Bel._ And did he consider?
_Arb._ I don’t know, but I suppose it was only an excuse. Then his
predecessor had a park well stocked with deer, and used to make liberal
presents of venison to all his neighbours. But this frugal gentleman has
sold them all off, and got a flock of sheep instead.
_Bel._ I don’t see much harm in that, now mutton is so dear.
_Arb._ To be sure he has a right to do as he pleases with his park, but
that is not the way to be beloved, you know. As to myself, I have reason
to believe he bears me particular ill-will.
_Bel._ Then he is much in the wrong, for I believe you are as free from
ill-will to others as any man living. But how has he shown it, pray?
_Arb._ In twenty instances. He had a horse upon sale the other day to
which I took a liking, and bid money for it. As soon as he found I was
about it, he sent it off to a fair on the other side of the county. My
wife, you know, is passionately fond of cultivating flowers. Riding
lately by his grounds, she observed something new, and took a great
longing for a root or cutting of it. My gardener mentioned her wish to
his, (contrary, I own, to my inclination,) and he told his master; but
instead of obliging her, he charged the gardener on no account to touch
the plant. A little while ago I turned off a man for saucy behaviour;
but as he had lived many years with me, and was a very useful servant, I
meant to take him again upon his submission, which I did not doubt would
soon happen. Instead of that, he goes and offers himself to my civil
neighbour, who, without deigning to apply to me even for a character,
entertains him immediately. In short, he has not the least of a
gentleman about him, and I would give anything to be well rid of him.
_Bel._ Nothing, to be sure, can be more unpleasant, in the country, than
a bad neighbour, and I am concerned it is your lot to have one. But
there is a man who seems as if he wanted to speak with you.
[_A Countryman approaches._
_Arb._ Ah! it is the poor fellow that was burnt out. Well, Richard, how
go you on?—what has the subscription produced you?
_Richard._ Thank your honour, my losses are nearly all made up.
_Arb._ I am very glad of that; but when I saw the paper last, it did not
reach half way.
_Rich._ It did not, sir; but you may remember asking me what Mr. Goodwin
had done for me, and I told you he took time to consider of it. Well,
sir, I found that the very next day he had been at our town, and had
made very particular inquiry about me and my losses, among my
neighbours. When I called upon him in a few days after, he told me he
was very glad to find that I bore such a good character, and that the
gentlemen round had so kindly taken up my case; and he would prevent the
necessity of my going any farther for relief. Upon which, he gave me,
God bless him! a draft upon his banker for fifty pounds.
_Arb._ Fifty pounds!
_Rich._ Yes, sir—it has made me quite my own man again; and I am now
going to purchase a new cart and team of horses.
_Arb._ A noble gift, indeed; I could never have thought it! Well,
Richard, I rejoice at your good fortune. I am sure you are much obliged
to Mr. Goodwin.
_Rich._ Indeed, I am, sir, and to all my good friends. God bless you!
[_Goes on._
_Bel._ Niggardliness, at least, is not this man’s foible.
_Arb._ No—I was mistaken in that point. I wronged him, and I am sorry
for it. But what a pity it is that men of real generosity should not be
amiable in their manners, and as ready to oblige in trifles as in
matters of consequence.
_Bel._ True—‘tis a pity when that is really the case.
_Arb._ How much less an exertion it would have been to have shown some
civility about a horse or a flower-root!
_Bel._ Apropos of flowers!—there’s your gardener carrying a large one in
a pot.
_Enter Gardener._
_Arb._ Now, James, what have you got there?
_Gardener._ A flower, sir, for madam, from Mr. Goodwin’s.
_Arb._ How did you come by it?
_Gard._ His gardener, sir, sent me word to come for it. We should have
had it before, but Mr. Goodwin thought it would not move safely.
_Arb._ I hope he has got more of them?
_Gard._ He has only a seedling plant or two, sir; but hearing that madam
took a liking to it, he resolved to send it her, and a choice thing it
is! I have a note for madam in my pocket.
_Arb._ Well, go on.
[_Exit Gardener._
_Bel._ Methinks this does not look like deficiency in civility?
_Arb._ No—it is a very polite action—I ca’n’t deny it, and I am obliged
to him for it. Perhaps, indeed, he may feel he owes me a little amends.
_Bel._ Possibly—it shows he _can_ feel, however.
_Arb._ It does. Ha! there’s Yorkshire Tom coming with a string of horses
from the fair. I’ll step up and speak to him. Now, Tom! how have horses
gone at Market-hill?
_Tom._ Dear enough, your honour!
_Arb._ How much more did you get for Mr. Goodwin’s mare than I offered
him?
_Tom._ Ah! sir, that was not a thing for your riding, and that Mr
Goodwin well knew. You never saw such a vicious toad. She had liked to
have killed the groom two or three times. So I was ordered to offer her
to the mail-coach people, and get what I could from them. I might have
sold her better if Mr. Goodwin would have let me, for she was a fine
creature to look at as need be, and quite sound.
_Arb._ And was that the true reason why the mare was not sold to me?
_Tom._ It was, indeed, sir.
_Arb._ Then I am highly obliged to Mr. Goodwin. (_Tom rides on._) This
was handsome behaviour, indeed!
_Bel._ Yes, I think it was somewhat more than politeness—it was real
goodness of heart.
_Arb._ It was. I find I must alter my opinion of him, and I do it with
pleasure. But, after all, his conduct with respect to my servant is
somewhat unaccountable.
_Bel._ I see reason to think so well of him in the main, that I am
inclined to hope he will be acquitted in this matter, too.
_Arb._ There the fellow is. I wonder he has my old livery on yet!
[_Ned approaches, pulling off his hat._
_Ned._ Sir, I was coming to your honour.
_Arb._ What can you have to say to me now, Ned?
_Ned._ To ask pardon for my misbehaviour, and to beg you to take me
again.
_Arb._ What—have you so soon parted with your new master?
_Ned._ Mr. Goodwin never was my master, sir. He only kept me in his
house till I could make it up with you again; for he said he was sure
you were too honourable a gentleman to turn off an old servant without
good reason, and he hoped you would admit my excuses after your anger
was over.
_Arb._ Did he say all that?
_Ned._ Yes, sir; and he advised me not to delay any longer to ask your
pardon.
_Arb._ Well—go to my house, and I will talk with you on my return.
_Bel._ Now, my friend, what think you of this?
_Arb._ I think more than I can well express. It will be a lesson to me
never to make hasty judgments again.
_Bel._ Why, indeed, to have concluded that such a man had nothing of the
gentleman about him must have been rather hasty.
_Arb._ I acknowledge it. But it is the misfortune of these reserved
characters that they are so long in making themselves known; though,
when they are known, they often prove the most truly estimable. I am
afraid, even now, that I must be content with esteeming him at a
distance.
_Bel._ Why so?
_Arb._ You know I am of an open sociable disposition.
_Bel._ Perhaps he is so, too.
_Arb._ If he was, surely we should have been better acquainted before
this time.
_Bel._ It may have been prejudice rather than temper that has kept you
apart.
_Arb._ Possibly so. The vile spirit of party has such a sway in the
country, that men of the most liberal dispositions can hardly free
themselves from its influence. It poisons all the kindness of society;
and yonder comes an instance of its pernicious effects.
_Bel._ Who is he?
_Arb._ A poor schoolmaster with a large family in the next market-town,
who has lost all his scholars by his activity on our side in the last
election. I heartily wish it was in my power to do something for him;
for he is a very honest man, though, perhaps, rather too warm. [_The
schoolmaster comes up._] Now, Mr. Penman, how do things go with you?
_Pen._ I thank you, sir, they have gone poorly enough, but I hope they
are in a way to mend.
_Arb._ I am glad to hear it—but how?
_Pen._ Why, sir, the free-school of Stoke is vacant, and I believe I am
likely to get it.
_Arb._ Ay!—I wonder at that. I thought it was in the hands of the other
party?
_Pen._ It is, sir; but Mr. Goodwin has been so kind as to give me a
recommendation, and his interest is sufficient to carry it.
_Arb._ Mr. Goodwin! you surprise me!
_Pen._ I was much surprised, too, sir. He sent for me of his own accord,
(for I should never have thought of asking _him_ a favour,) and told me
he was sorry a man should be injured in his profession on account of
party, and as I could not live comfortably where I was, he would try to
settle me in a better place. So he mentioned the vacancy of Stoke, and
offered me letters for the trustees. I was never so affected in my life,
sir; I could hardly speak to return him thanks. He kept me to dinner,
and treated me with the greatest respect. Indeed, I believe there is not
a kinder man breathing than Mr. Goodwin.
_Arb._ You have the best reason in the world to say so, Mr. Penman.
What—did he converse familiarly with you?
_Pen._ Quite so, sir. We talked a great deal about party affairs in this
neighbourhood, and he lamented much that differences of this kind should
keep worthy men at a distance from each other. I took the liberty, sir,
of mentioning your name. He said he had not the honour of being
acquainted with you, but he had a sincere esteem for your character, and
should be glad of any occasion to cultivate a friendship with you. For
my part, I confess, to my shame I did not think there could have been
such a man on that side.
_Arb._ Well—good morning!
_Pen._ Your most obedient, sir.
[_He goes._
_Arb._ (_After some silence._) Come, my friend, let us go.
_Bel._ Whither?
_Arb._ Can you doubt it?—to Mr. Goodwin’s, to be sure! After all I have
heard, can I exist a moment without acknowledging the injustice I have
done him, and begging his friendship?
_Bel._ I shall be happy, I am sure, to accompany you on that errand. But
who is to introduce us?
_Arb._ O, what are form and ceremony in a case like this! Come—come.
_Bel._ Most willingly.
[_Exeunt._
[Illustration:
EVENING XVIII.
]
THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.
Mr. L. was one morning riding by himself, when dismounting to gather a
plant in the hedge, his horse got loose and galloped away before him. He
followed, calling the horse by his name, which stopped, but on his
approach set off again. At length, a little boy in a neighbouring field,
seeing the affair, ran across where the road made a turn, and getting
before the horse, took him by the bridle, and held him till his owner
came up. Mr. L. looked at the boy, and admired his ruddy, cheerful
countenance.
“Thank you, my good lad!” said he; “you have caught my horse very
cleverly. What shall I give you for your trouble?” putting his hand in
his pocket.
_Boy._ I want nothing, sir.
_Mr. L._ Don’t you? so much the better for you. Few men can say as much.
But pray, what are you doing in the field?
_Boy._ I was rooting up weeds and tending the sheep that are feeding on
the turnips.
_Mr. L._ And do you like this employment?
_Boy._ Yes, very well, this fine weather.
_Mr. L._ But had you not rather play?
_Boy._ This is not hard work; it is almost as good as play.
_Mr. L._ Who set you to work?
_Boy._ My daddy, sir.
_Mr. L._ Where does he live?
_Boy._ Just by, among the trees there.
_Mr. L._ What is his name?
_Boy._ Thomas Hurdle.
_Mr. L._ And what is yours?
_Boy._ Peter, sir.
_Mr. L._ How old are you?
_Boy._ I shall be eight at Michaelmas.
_Mr. L._ How long have you been out in this field?
_Boy._ Ever since six in the morning.
_Mr. L._ And are not you hungry?
_Boy._ Yes—I shall go to dinner soon.
_Mr. L._ If you had sixpence now, what would you do with it?
_Boy._ I don’t know. I never had so much in my life.
_Mr. L._ Have you no playthings?
_Boy._ Playthings! what are those?
_Mr. L._ Such as balls, nine-pins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses.
_Boy._ No, sir; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in the cold weather,
and we set traps for birds; and then I have a jumping-pole and a pair of
stilts to walk through the dirt with; and I had a hoop, but it is broke.
_Mr. L._ And do you want nothing else?
_Boy._ No. I have hardly time for those: for I always ride the horses to
field, and bring up the cows, and run to the town of errands, and that
is as good as play, you know.
_Mr. L._ Well, but you could buy apples or gingerbread at the town, I
suppose, if you had money?
_Boy._ Oh—I can get apples at home; and as for gingerbread I don’t mind
it much, for my mammy gives me a pie now and then, and that is as good.
_Mr. L._ Would you not like a knife to cut sticks?
_Boy._ I have one—here it is—brother Tom gave it me.
_Mr. L._ Your shoes are full of holes—don’t you want a better pair?
_Boy._ I have a better pair for Sundays.
_Mr. L._ But these let in water.
_Boy._ Oh, I don’t care for that.
_Mr. L._ Your hat is all torn, too.
_Boy._ I have a better at home, but I had as leave have none at all, for
it hurts my head.
_Mr. L._ What do you do when it rains?
_Boy._ If it rains very hard, I get under the hedges till it is over.
_Mr. L._ What do you do when you are hungry before it is time to go
home?
_Boy._ I sometimes eat a raw turnip.
_Mr. L._ But if there are none?
_Boy._ Then I do as well as I can; I work on, and never think of it.
_Mr. L._ Are you not dry sometimes this hot weather?
_Boy._ Yes, but there is water enough.
_Mr. L._ Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philosopher!
_Boy._ Sir?
_Mr. L._ I say you are a philosopher, but I am sure you do not know what
that means.
_Boy._ No, sir, no harm, I hope.
_Mr. L._ No, no! (_Laughing._) Well, my boy, you seem to want nothing at
all, so I shall not give you money to make you want anything. But were
you ever at school?
_Boy._ No, sir, but daddy says I shall go after harvest.
_Mr. L._ You will want books then.
_Boy._ Yes, the boys have all a spelling-book and a testament.
_Mr. L._ Well, then, I will give you them—tell your daddy so, and that
it is because I think you a very good contented little boy. So now go to
your sheep again.
_Boy._ I will, sir. Thank you.
_Mr. L._ Good-by, Peter.
_Boy._ Good-by, sir.
WHAT ANIMALS ARE MADE FOR.
“Pray, papa,” said Sophia after she had been a long time teased with the
flies that buzzed about her ears, and settled on her nose and forehead
as she sat at work—“Pray, what were flies made for?”
“For some good, I dare say,” replied her papa.
_Sop._ But I think they do a great deal more harm than good, for I am
sure they plague me sadly: and in the kitchen they are so troublesome,
that the maids can hardly do their work for them.
_Pa._ Flies eat up many things that would otherwise corrupt and become
loathsome; and they serve for food to birds, spiders, and many other
animals.
_Sop._ But we could clean away everything that was offensive without
their help; and as to their serving for food, I have seen whole heaps of
them lying dead in a window, without seeming to have done good to
anything.
_Pa._ Well, then. Suppose a fly capable of thinking; would he not be
equally puzzled to find out what men were good for? “This great
two-legged monster,” he might say, “instead of helping us to live,
devours more food at a meal than would serve a whole legion of flies.
Then he kills us by hundreds when we come within his reach, and I see
him destroy and torment all other animals too. And when he dies he is
nailed up in a box, and put a great way under ground, as if he grudged
doing any more good after his death than when alive.” Now what would you
answer to such a reasoning fly?
_Sop._ I would tell him he was very impertinent for talking so of his
betters; for that he and all other creatures were made for the use of
man, and not man for theirs.
_Pa._ But would you tell him true? You have just been saying that you
could not find out of what use flies were to us: whereas, when they suck
our blood, there is no doubt that we are of use to them.
_Sop._ It is that which puzzles me.
_Pa._ There are many other animals which we call _noxious_, and which
are so far from being useful to us, that we take all possible pains to
get rid of them. More than that, there are vast tracks of the earth
where few or no men inhabit, which are yet full of beasts, birds,
insects, and all living things. These certainly do not exist there for
his use alone. On the contrary, they often keep man away.
_Sop._ Then what are they made for?
_Pa._ They are made to be happy. It is a manifest purpose of the Creator
to give being to as much life as possible, for life is enjoyment to all
creatures in health and in possession of their faculties. Man surpasses
other animals in his powers of enjoyment, and he has prospects in a
future state which they do not share with him. But the Creator equally
desires the happiness of all his creatures, and looks down with as much
benignity upon these flies that are sporting around us, as upon
ourselves.
_Sop._ Then we ought not to kill them, if they are ever so troublesome.
_Pa._ I do not say that. We have a right to make a reasonable use of all
animals for our advantage, and also to free ourselves from such as are
hurtful to us. So far our superiority over them may fairly extend. But
we should never abuse them for our mere amusement, nor take away their
lives wantonly. Nay, a good natured-man will rather undergo a _little_
inconvenience, than take away from a creature all that it possesses. An
infant may destroy life, but all the kings upon earth cannot restore it.
I remember reading of a good-tempered old gentleman that having been a
long time plagued with a great fly that buzzed about his face all
dinner-time, at length, after many efforts, caught it. Instead of
crushing it to death, he held it carefully in his hand, and opening the
window, “Go,” said he,—“get thee gone, poor creature, I won’t hurt a
hair of thy head; surely the world is wide enough for thee and me.”
_Sop._ I should have loved that man.
_Pa._ One of our poets has written some very pretty lines to a fly that
came to partake with him of his wine. They begin:—
“Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Welcome freely to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.”
_Sop._ How pretty! I think they will almost make me love flies. But
pray, papa, do not animals destroy one another?
_Pa._ They do, indeed. The greatest part of them only live by the
destruction of life. There is a perpetual warfare going on, in which the
stronger prey upon the weaker, and, in their turns, are the prey of
those which are a degree stronger than themselves. Even the innocent
sheep, with every mouthful of grass, destroys hundreds of small insects.
In the air we breathe, and the water we drink, we give death to
thousands of invisible creatures.
_Sop._ But is not that very strange? If they were created to live and be
happy, why should they be destroyed so fast?
_Pa._ They are destroyed no faster than others are produced; and if they
enjoyed life while it lasted, they have had a good bargain. By making
animals the food of animals, Providence has filled up every chink, as it
were, of existence. You see these swarms of flies. During all the hot
weather they are continually coming forth from the state of eggs and
maggots, and as soon as they get the use of wings, they roam about and
fill every place in search of food. Meantime, they are giving sustenance
to the whole race of spiders; they maintain all the swallow tribe, and
contribute greatly to the support of many other small birds, and even
afford many a delicate morsel to the fishes. Their own numbers, however,
seem scarcely diminished, and vast multitudes live on till the cold
weather comes and puts an end to them. Were nothing to touch them, they
would probably become so numerous as to starve each other. As it is,
they are full of enjoyment themselves, and afford life and enjoyment to
other creatures, which in their turn supply the wants of others.
_Sop._ It is no charity, then, to tear a spider’s web in pieces in order
to set the fly at liberty.
_Pa._ None at all—no more than it would be to demolish the traps of a
poor Indian hunter who depended upon them for his dinner. They both act
as nature directs them. Shall I tell you a story?
_Sop._ O yes—pray do!
_Pa._ As a venerable Bramin, who had never in his days eaten anything
but rice, fruits, and milk, and held it the greatest of crimes to shed
the blood of anything that had life, was one day meditating on the banks
of the Ganges, he saw a little bird on the ground picking up ants as
fast as he could swallow. “Murderous wretch,” cried he, “what scores of
lives are sacrificed to one gluttonous meal of thine!” Presently, a
sparrow-hawk, pouncing down, seized him in his claws and flew off with
him. The Bramin was at first inclined to triumph over the little bird;
but on hearing his cries, he could not help pitying him. “Poor thing,”
said he, “thou art fallen into the clutches of a tyrant!” A stronger
tyrant, however, took up the matter; for a falcon in mid air darting on
the sparrow-hawk, struck him to the ground, with the bird lifeless in
his talons. Tyrant against tyrant, thought the Bramin, is well enough.
The falcon had not finished tearing his prey, when a lynx stealing from
behind a rock on which he was perched, sprung upon him, and having
strangled him, bore him to the edge of a neighbouring thicket, and began
to suck his blood. The Bramin was attentively viewing this new display
of retributive justice, when a sudden roar shook the air, and a huge
tiger rushing from the thicket, came like thunder on the lynx. The
Bramin was near enough to hear the crushing bones, and was making off in
great terror, when he met an English soldier armed with his musket. He
pointed eagerly to the place where the tiger was making his bloody
repast. The soldier levelled his gun, and laid the tiger dead. “Brave
fellow!” exclaimed the Bramin. “I am very hungry,” said the soldier,
“can you give me a beefsteak? I see you have plenty of cows
here.”—“Horrible!” cried the Bramin; “what! I kill the sacred cows of
Brama!”—“Then kill the next tiger yourself,” said the soldier.
TRUE HEROISM.
You have read, my Edmund, the stories of Achilles, and Alexander, and
Charles of Sweden, and have, I doubt not, admired the high courage which
seemed to set them above all sensations of fear, and rendered them
capable of the most extraordinary actions. The world called these men
_heroes_; but before we give them that noble appellation, let us
consider what were the motives which animated them to act and suffer as
they did.
The first was a ferocious savage, governed by the passions of anger and
revenge, in gratifying which he disregarded all impulses of duty and
humanity. The second was intoxicated with the love of glory—swollen with
absurd pride—and enslaved by dissolute pleasures; and in pursuit of
these objects he reckoned the blood of millions as of no account. The
third was unfeeling, obstinate, and tyrannical, and preferred ruining
his country, and sacrificing all his faithful followers, to the
humiliation of giving up any of his mad projects. _Self_, you see, was
the spring of all their conduct; and a selfish man can never be a hero.
I will give you two examples of genuine heroism, one shown in acting,
the other in suffering; and these shall be _true stories_, which is
perhaps more than can be said of half that is recorded of Achilles and
Alexander.
You have probably heard something of Mr. Howard, the reformer of
prisons, to whom a monument is erected in St. Paul’s church. His whole
life almost was heroism; for he confronted all sorts of dangers with the
sole view of relieving the miseries of his fellow-creatures. When he
began to examine the state of prisons, scarcely any in the country were
free from a very fatal and infectious distemper called the jail fever.
Wherever he heard of it, he made a point of seeing the poor sufferers,
and often went down into their dungeons, when the keepers themselves
would not accompany him. He travelled several times over almost the
whole of Europe, and even into Asia, in order to gain knowledge of the
state of prisons and hospitals, and point out means for lessening the
calamities that prevail in them. He even went into countries where the
plague was, that he might learn the best methods of treating that
terrible contagious disease; and he voluntarily exposed himself to
perform a strict quarantine, as one suspected of having the infection of
the plague, only that he might be thoroughly acquainted with the methods
used for prevention. He at length died of a fever caught in attending on
the sick on the borders of Crim Tartary, honoured and admired by all
Europe, after having greatly contributed to enlighten his own and many
other countries with respect to some of the most important objects of
humanity. Such was _Howard the good_; as great a hero in preserving
mankind, as some of the false heroes above mentioned were in destroying
them.
My second hero is a much humbler, but not less genuine one.
There was a journeyman bricklayer in this town—an able workman, but a
very drunken idle fellow, who spent at the alehouse almost all he
earned, and left his wife and children to shift for themselves as they
could. This is, unfortunately, a common case; and of all the tyranny and
cruelty exercised in the world, I believe that of bad husbands and
fathers is by much the most frequent and the worst.
The family might have starved, but for his eldest son, whom from a child
the father brought up to help him in his work; and who was so
industrious and attentive, that being now at the age of thirteen or
fourteen, he was able to earn pretty good wages, every farthing of
which, that he could keep out of his father’s hands, he brought to his
mother. And when his brute of a father came home drunk, cursing and
swearing, and in such an ill humour, that his mother and the rest of the
children durst not come near him for fear of a beating, this good lad
(Tom was his name) kept near him, to pacify him, and get him quietly to
bed. His mother, therefore, justly looked upon Tom as the support of the
family, and loved him dearly.
It chanced that one day Tom, in climbing up a high ladder with a load of
mortar on his head, missed his hold, and fell down to the bottom on a
heap of bricks and rubbish. The bystanders ran up to him, and found him
all bloody, and with his thigh broken and bent quite under him. They
raised him up, and sprinkled water on his face to recover him from a
swoon into which he had fallen. As soon as he could speak, looking
round, with a lamentable tone he cried, “O, what will become of my poor
mother!”
He was carried home, I was present while the surgeon set his thigh. His
mother was hanging over him half distracted: “Don’t cry, mother!” said
he, “I shall get well again in time.” Not a word more or a groan escaped
him while the operation lasted.
Tom was a ragged boy that could not read or write—yet Tom has always
stood on my list of heroes.
[Illustration:
The Female Choice, p. 232.
EVENING XIX.
]
ON METALS.
PART 1.
George and Harry, with their tutor, one day in their walk, were driven
by the rain to take shelter in a blacksmith’s shop; and the shower
lasting some time, the boys, in order to amuse themselves, began to
examine the things around them. The great bellows first attracted their
notice, and they admired the roaring it made, and the expedition with
which it raised the fire to a heat too intense for them to look at. They
were surprised at the dexterity with which the smith fashioned a bar of
iron into a horseshoe; first heating it, then hammering it well on the
anvil, cutting off a proper length, bending it round, turning up the
ends, and lastly, punching the nail-holes. They watched the whole
process of fitting it to the horse’s foot, and fastening it on; and it
had become fair some minutes before they showed a desire to leave the
shop and proceed on their walk.
“I should never have thought,” says George, beginning the conversation,
“that such a hard thing as iron could have been so easily managed.”
“Nor I neither,” said Harry.
_Tut._ It was managed, you saw, by the help of fire. The fire made it
soft and flexible, so that the smith could easily hammer it, and cut it,
and bend it to the shape he wanted; and then dipping it in the water
made it hard again.
_Geo._ Are all other metals managed in the same manner?
_Tut._ They are all worked by the help of fire in some way or other,
either in melting them, or making them soft.
_Geo._ There are a good many sorts of metals, are there not?
_Tut._ Yes, several; and if you have a mind I will tell you about them,
and their uses.
_Geo._ Pray do, sir.
_Har._ Yes; I should like to hear it of all things.
_Tut._ Well, then. First, let us consider what a metal is. Do you think
you should know one from a stone?
_Geo._ A stone!—Yes, I could not mistake a piece of lead or iron for a
stone.
_Tut._ How would you distinguish it?
_Geo._ A metal is bright and shining.
_Tut._ True—brilliance is one of their qualities. But glass and crystal
are very bright, too.
_Har._ But one may see through glass, and not through a piece of metal.
_Tut._ Right. Metals are brilliant, but opaque, or not transparent. The
thinnest plate of metal that can be made will keep out the light as
effectually as a stone-wall.
_Geo._ Metals are very heavy, too.
_Tut._ True. They are the heaviest bodies in nature; for the lightest
metal is nearly twice as heavy as the heaviest stone. Well, what else?
_Geo._ Why, they will bear beating with a hammer, which a stone would
not, without flying in pieces.
_Tut._ Yes: that property of extending or spreading under the hammer, is
called _malleability_; and another, like it, is that of bearing to be
drawn out into a wire, which is called _ductility_. Metals have both
these, and much of their use depends upon them.
_Geo._ Metals will melt, too.
_Har._ What! will iron melt?
_Tut._ Yes; all metals will melt, though some require greater heat than
others. The property of melting is called _fusibility_. Do you know
anything more about them?
_Geo._ No; except that they come out of the ground, I believe.
_Tut._ That is properly added, for it is this circumstance which makes
them rank among _fossils_, or minerals. To sum up their character, then,
a metal is a brilliant, opaque, heavy, malleable, ductile, and fusible
mineral.
_Geo._ I think I can hardly remember all that.
_Tut._ The _names_ may slip your memory, but you cannot see metals at
all used, without being sensible of the _things_.
_Geo._ But what are _ores_? I remember seeing a heap of iron ore which
men were breaking with hammers, and it looked only like stones.
_Tut._ The _ore_ of a metal is the state in which it is generally met
with in the earth, when it is so mixed with stony and other matters, as
not to show its proper qualities as a metal.
_Har._ How do people know it, then?
_Tut._ By experience. It was probably accident that in the early ages
discovered that certain fossils by the force of fire might be made to
yield a metal. The experiment was repeated on other fossils; so that in
length of time all the different metals were found out, and all the
different forms in which they lie concealed in the ground. The knowledge
of this is called _mineralogy_, and a very important science it is.
_Geo._ Yes, I suppose so: for metals are very valuable things. Our next
neighbour, Mr. Stirling, I have heard, gets a great deal of money every
year, from his mines in Wales.
_Tut._ He does. The mineral riches of some countries are much superior
to that of their products above ground, and the revenues of many kings
are in great part derived from their mines.
_Har._ I suppose they must be gold and silver mines?
_Tat._ Those, to be sure, are the most valuable, if the metals are found
in tolerable abundance. But do you know why they are so?
_Har._ Because money is made of gold and silver.
_Tut._ That is a principal reason, no doubt. But these metals have
intrinsic properties that make them highly valuable, else probably they
would not have been chosen in so many countries to make money of. In the
first place, gold and silver are both _perfect metals_, that is,
indestructible in the fire. Other metals, if kept a considerable time in
the fire, change by degrees into an earthy, scaly matter, called an
oxide. You have melted lead, I dare say?
_Geo._ Yes, often.
_Tut._ Have you not, then, perceived a drossy film collect upon its
surface, after it had kept melting a while?
_Geo._ Yes.
_Tut._ That is an oxide; and in time the whole lead would change to such
a substance. You may see, too, when you have heated the poker red-hot,
some scales separate from it, which are brittle.
_Har._ Yes, the kitchen poker is almost burnt away by putting into the
fire.
_Tut._ Well—all metals undergo these changes, except gold and silver;
but these, if kept ever so long in the hottest fire, sustain no loss or
change. They are therefore called _perfect metals_. Gold has several
other remarkable properties. It is the heaviest of all metals.
_Har._ What, is it heavier than lead?
_Tut._ Yes—about half as heavy again. It is between nineteen and twenty
times as heavy as an equal bulk of water. This great weight is a ready
means of discovering counterfeit gold coin from genuine; for as gold
must be adulterated with something much lighter than itself, a false
coin, if of the same weight with the true, will be sensibly bigger.
Gold, too, is the most ductile of all metals. You have seen gold-leaf?
_Geo._ Yes; I bought a book of it once.
_Tut._ Gold-leaf is made by beating a plate of gold placed between
pieces of skin, with heavy hammers, till it is spread out to the utmost
degree of thinness. And so great is its capacity for being extended,
that a single grain of the metal, which would be scarce bigger than a
large pin’s head, is beaten out to a surface of fifty square inches.
_Geo._ That is wonderful, indeed! But I know gold-leaf must be very
thin, for it will almost float upon the air.
_Tut._ By drawing gold out to a wire, it may be still farther extended.
Gold wire, as it is called, is made with silver overlaid with a small
proportion of gold, and they are drawn out together. In the wire
commonly used for laces, and embroidery, and the like, a grain of gold
is made completely to cover a length of three hundred and fifty-two
feet; and when it is stretched still farther by flatting, it will reach
four hundred and one feet.
_Geo._ Prodigious! What a vast way a guinea might be drawn out, then!
_Tut._ Yes, the gold of a guinea at that rate would reach above nine
miles and a half. This property in gold of being capable of extension to
so extraordinary a degree, is owing to its great tenacity or cohesion of
particles, which is such, that you can scarcely break a piece of gold
wire by twisting it.
_Har._ Then it would make very good wire for hanging bells.
_Tut._ It would; but such bell-hanging would come rather too dear.
Another valuable quality of gold, is its fine colour. You know scarce
anything makes a more splendid appearance than gilding. And a peculiar
advantage of it is, that gold is not liable to rust or tarnish, as other
metals are. It will keep its colour fresh for a great many years, in a
pure and clear air.
_Har._ I remember the vane of the church-steeple was new-gilt two years
ago, and it looks as well as at first.
_Tut._ This property of not rusting would render gold very useful for a
variety of purposes, if it were more common. It would make excellent
cooking utensils, water-pipes, mathematical instruments, clockwork, and
the like.
_Geo._ But is not gold soft? I have seen pieces of gold bent double.
_Tut._ Yes; it is next in softness to lead, and, therefore, when it is
made into coin, or used for any common purposes, it is mixed with a
small proportion of some other metal, in order to harden it. This is
called its _alloy_. Our gold coin has one twelfth of alloy, which is
copper.
_Geo._ How beautiful new gold coin is!
_Tut._ Yes—scarce any metal takes a stamp or impression better; and it
is capable of a very fine polish.
_Geo._ What countries yield the most gold?
_Tut._ South America, the East Indies, and the coast of Africa. Europe
affords but little; yet a moderate quantity is got every year from
Hungary.
_Geo._ I have heard of rivers rolling sands of gold. Is there any truth
in that?
_Tut._ The poets, as usual, have exaggerated the matter: however, there
are various streams in different parts of the world, the sands of which
contain particles of gold, and some of them in such quantity as to be
worth the search.
_Har._ How does the gold come there?
_Tut._ It is washed down along with the soil from mountains by the
torrents which are the sources of rivers. Some persons say that all
sands contain gold; but I would not advise you to take the pains to
search for it in our common sand: for, in more senses than one, _gold
may be bought too dear_.
_Har._ But what a fine thing it would be to find a gold mine on one’s
estate!
_Tut._ Perhaps not so fine as you may imagine, for many a one does not
pay the cost of working. A coal-pit would probably be a better thing.
Who do you think are the greatest gold-finders in Europe?
_Har._ I don’t know.
_Tut._ The gipsies in Hungary. A number of half-starved, half-naked
wretches of that community employ themselves in washing and picking the
sands of some mountain-streams in that country which contain gold, from
which they obtain just profit enough to keep body and soul together:
whereas, did they employ themselves in agriculture or manufactures, they
might have got a comfortable subsistence. Gold, almost all the world
over, is first got by slaves, and it makes slaves of those who possess
much of it.
_Geo._ For my part, I will be content with a silver mine.
_Har._ But we have none of those in England, have we?
_Tut._ We have no silver mines, properly so called, but silver is
procured in some of our lead mines. There are, however, valuable silver
mines in various parts of Europe; but the richest of all are in Peru, in
South America.
_Geo._ Are not the famous mines of Potosi there?
_Tut._ They are. Shall I now tell you some of the properties of silver?
_Geo._ By all means.
_Tut._ It is another _perfect_ metal. It is also as little liable to
rust as gold, though indeed it readily gets tarnished.
_Har._ Yes; I know our footman is often obliged to clean our plate
before it is used.
_Tut._ Plate, however, is not made of pure silver, any more than silver
coin, and silver utensils of all kinds. Copper is mixed with it, as with
gold, to harden it; and that makes it more liable to tarnish.
_Geo._ Bright silver, I think, is almost as beautiful as gold.
_Tut._ It is the most beautiful of the white metals, and is capable of a
very fine polish; and this, together with its rarity, makes it used for
a great variety of ornamental purposes. Then it is nearly as ductile and
malleable as gold.
_Geo._ I have had silver-leaf, and it seemed as thin as gold-leaf.
_Tut._ It is nearly so. That is used for silvering, as gold-leaf is for
gilding. It is common, too, to cover metals with a thin coating of
silver which is called plating.
_Har._ The child’s saucepan is silvered over on the inside. What is that
for?
_Tut._ To prevent the victuals from getting any taint from the metal of
the saucepan; for silver is not capable of being corroded or dissolved
by any of the liquids used for food, as iron and copper are.
_Har._ And that is the reason I suppose that fruit-knives are made of
silver.
_Tut._ It is; but the softness of the metal makes them bear a very poor
edge.
_Geo._ Does silver melt easily?
_Tut._ Silver and gold both melt more difficultly than lead; not till
they are above a common red heat. As to the weight of silver, it is
nearly one half less than that of gold, being only eleven times as heavy
as water.
_Har._ Is quicksilver a kind of silver?
_Tut._ It takes its name from silver, being very like it in colour; but
in reality it is a very different thing, and one of the most singular of
the metal kind.
_Geo._ It is not _malleable_, I am sure.
_Tut._ No; not when it is quick or fluid, as it always is in our
climate. But a very great degree of cold makes it solid, and then it is
malleable like other metals.
_Geo._ I have heard of _killing_ quicksilver; pray, what does that mean?
_Tut._ It means destroying its property of running about, by mixing it
with something else. Thus if quicksilver be well rubbed with fat, or
oil, or gum, it unites with them, losing all its metallic appearance or
fluidity. It also unites readily with gold and silver, and several other
metals, into a kind of shining paste, which is called an _amalgam_. This
is one of the ways of gilding or silvering a thing. Your buttons are
gilt by means of an amalgam.
_Geo._ How is that done?
_Tut._ The shells of the buttons, which are made of copper, are shaken
in a hat with a lump of amalgam of gold and quicksilver, till they are
all covered over with it. They are then put into a sort of frying-pan,
and held over the fire. The quicksilver, being very volatile in its
nature, flies off in the form of a smoke or vapour when it is heated,
leaving the gold behind it spread over the surface of the button. Thus
many dozens are gilt at once with the greatest ease.
_Geo._ What a clever way! I should like vastly to see it done.
_Tut._ You may see it any day at Birmingham, if you happen to be there;
as well as a great many other curious operations on metals.
_Geo._ What a weight quicksilver is! I remember taking up a bottleful of
it, and I had liked to have dropped it again, it was so much heavier
than I expected.
_Tut._ Yes, it is one of the heaviest of the metals—about fifteen times
as heavy as water.
_Geo._ Is not _mercury_ a name for quicksilver? I have heard them talk
of the mercury rising and falling in the weather-glass.
_Tut._ It is. You, perhaps, may have heard too of _mercurial medicines_,
which are those made of quicksilver prepared in one manner or another.
_Geo._ What are they good for?
_Tut._ For a great variety of complaints. Your brother took some lately
for the worms; and they are often given for breakings-out on the skin,
and for sores and swellings. But they have one remarkable effect, when
taken in a considerable quantity, which is to loosen the teeth, and
cause a great spitting. This is called salivation.
_Har._ I used to think quicksilver was poison.
_Tut._ When it is in its common state of running quicksilver it
generally does neither good nor harm; but it may be prepared, so as to
be a very violent medicine, or even a poison.
_Geo._ Is it useful for anything else?
_Tut._ Yes—For a variety of purposes in the arts, which I cannot now
very well explain to you. But you will perhaps be surprised to hear that
one of the finest red paints is made from quicksilver.
_Geo._ A red paint!—which is that?
_Tut._ Vermilion, or cinnabar, which is a particular mixture of sulphur
with quicksilver.
_Har._ Is quicksilver found in this country?
_Tut._ No. The greatest quantity comes from Spain, Istria, and South
America. It is a considerable object of commerce, and bears a high
value, though much inferior to silver. Well, so much for metals at
present. We will talk of the rest on some future opportunity.
FLYING AND SWIMMING.
“How I wish I could fly!” cried Robert, as he was gazing after his
pigeons that were exercising themselves in a morning’s flight. “How fine
it must be to soar to such a height, and to dash through the air with so
swift a motion!”
“I doubt not,” said his father, “that the pigeons have great pleasure in
it; but we have our pleasures, too; and it is idle to indulge longings
for things quite out of our power.”
_Robert._ But do you think it impossible for men to learn to fly?
_Father._ I do—for I see they are not furnished by Nature with organs
requisite for the purpose.
_Rob._ Might not artificial wings be contrived, such as Dædalus is said
to have used?
_Fa._ Possibly they might; but the difficulty would be to put them in
motion.
_Rob._ Why could not a man move them, if they were fastened to his
shoulders, as well as a bird?
_Fa._ Because he has got arms to move which the bird has not. The same
organs which in quadrupeds are employed to move the fore-legs, and in
man the arms, are used by birds in the motion of the wings. Nay, muscles
or bundles of flesh, that move the wings, are proportionally much larger
and stronger than those bestowed upon our arms; so that it is
impossible, formed as we are, that we should use wings, were they made
and fastened on with ever so much art.
_Rob._ But angels, and cupids, and such things are painted with wings;
and I think they look very natural.
_Fa._ To you they may appear so; but an anatomist sees them at once to
be monsters, which could not really exist.
_Rob._ God might have created winged men, however, if he had pleased.
_Fa._ No doubt; but they could not have had the same shape that men have
now. They would have been different creatures, such as it was not in his
plan to make. But you that long to fly—consider if you have made use of
all the faculties already given you! You want to subdue the element of
air—what can you do with that of water? Can you swim?
_Rob._ No, not yet.
_Fa._ Your companion, Johnson, I think, can swim very well?
_Rob._ Yes.
_Fa._ Reflect, then, on the difference betwixt him and you. A boat
oversets with you both in a deep stream. You plump at once to the
bottom, and infallibly lose your life. He rises like a cork, darts away
with the greatest ease, and reaches the side in perfect safety. Both of
you, pursued by a bull, come to the side of a river. He jumps in and
crosses it. You are drowned if you attempt it, and tossed by the bull if
you do not. What an advantage he has over you! Yet you are furnished
with exactly the same bodily powers that he is. How is this?
_Bob._ Because he has been taught, and I have not.
_Fa._ True, but it is an easy thing to learn, and requires no other
instruction than boys can give one another when they bathe together: so
that I wonder anybody should neglect to acquire an art at once agreeable
and useful. The Romans used to say, by way of proverb, of a blockhead,
“He can neither read nor swim.” You may remember how Cesar was saved at
Alexandria by throwing himself into the sea, and swimming with one hand,
while he held up his commentaries with the other.
_Rob._ I should like very well to swim, and I have often tried, but I
always pop under water, and that daunts me.
_Fa._ And it is that fear which prevents you from succeeding.
_Rob._ But is it as natural for man to swim as for other creatures? I
have heard that the young of all other animals swim the first time they
are thrown into the water.
_Fa._ They do—they are without fear. In our climate the water is
generally cold, and is early made an object of terror. But in the hot
countries, where bathing is one of the greatest pleasures, young
children swim so early and well, that I should suppose they take to it
almost naturally.
_Rob._ I am resolved to learn, and will ask Johnson to take me with him
to the river.
_Fa._ Do; but let him find you a safe place to begin at. I don’t want
you, however, to proceed so cautiously as Sir Nicholas Gimcrack did.
_Rob._ How was that?
_Fa._ He spread himself out on a large table, and placing before him a
basin of water with a frog in it, he struck with his arms and legs as he
observed the animal do.
_Rob._ And did that teach him?
_Fa._ Yes—to swim on dry land; but he never ventured himself in the
water.
_Rob._ Shall I get corks or bladders?
_Fa._ No; learn to depend on your own powers. It is a good lesson in
other things, as well as in swimming. Learning to swim with corks, is
like learning to construe Latin with a translation on the other side. It
saves some pains at first, but the business is not done half so
effectually.
THE FEMALE CHOICE.—A TALE.
A young girl, having fatigued herself one hot day with running about the
garden, sat herself down in a pleasant arbour, where she presently fell
asleep. During her slumbers, two female figures presented themselves
before her. One was loosely habited in a thin robe of pink with light
green trimmings. Her sash of silver gauze flowed to the ground. Her fair
hair fell in ringlets down her neck; and her head-dress consisted of
artificial flowers interwoven with feathers. She held in one hand a
ball-ticket, and in the other a fancy-dress all covered with spangles
and knots of gay riband. She advanced smiling to the girl, and with a
familiar air thus addressed her:—
“My dearest Melissa, I am a kind genius, who have watched you from your
birth, and have joyfully beheld all your beauties expand, till at length
they have rendered you a companion worthy of me. See what I have brought
you. This dress and this ticket will give you free access to all the
ravishing delights of my palace. With me you will pass your days in a
perpetual round of ever-varying amusements. Like the gay butterfly, you
will have no other business than to flutter from flower to flower, and
spread your charms before admiring spectators. No restraints, no toils,
no dull tasks are to be found within my happy domains. All is pleasure,
life, and good humour. Come, then, my dear! Let me put this dress on
you, which will make you quite enchanting; and away, away, with me!”
Melissa felt a strong inclination to comply with the call of this
inviting nymph; but first she thought it would be prudent at least to
ask her name.
“My name,” said she, “is DISSIPATION.”
The other female then advanced. She was clothed in a close habit of
brown stuff, simply relieved with white. She wore her smooth hair under
a plain cap. Her whole person was perfectly neat and clean. Her look was
serious, but satisfied; and her air was staid and composed. She held in
one hand a distaff; on the opposite arm hung a workbasket; and the
girdle round her waist was garnished with scissors, knitting needles,
reels, and other implements of female labour. A bunch of keys hung at
her side. She thus accosted the sleeping girl:—
“Melissa, I am the genius who have ever been the friend and companion of
your mother; and I now offer my protection to you. I have no allurements
to tempt you with, like those of my gay rival. Instead of spending all
your time in amusements, if you enter yourself of my train, you must
rise early, and pass the long day in a variety of employments, some of
them difficult, some laborious, and all requiring some exertion of body
or mind. You must dress plainly, live mostly at home, and aim at being
useful rather than shining. But in return I will ensure you content,
even spirits, self-approbation, and the esteem of all who thoroughly
know you. If these offers appear to your young mind less inviting than
those of my rival, be assured, however, that they are more real. She has
promised much more than she can ever make good. Perpetual pleasures are
no more in the power of Dissipation, than of Vice or Folly to bestow.
Her delights quickly pall, and are inevitably succeeded by languor and
disgust. She appears to you under disguise, and what you see is not her
real face. For myself, I shall never seem to you less amiable than I now
do, but, on the contrary, you will like me better and better. If I look
grave to you now, you will hear me sing at my work; and when work is
over, I can dance too. But I have said enough. It is time for you to
choose whom you will follow, and upon that choice all your happiness
depends. If you would know my name, it is HOUSEWIFERY.”
Melissa heard her with more attention than delight; and though overawed
by her manner, she could not help turning again to take another look at
the first speaker. She beheld her still offering her presents with so
bewitching an air that she felt it scarcely possible to resist: when, by
a lucky accident, the mask with which Dissipation’s face was so artfully
covered, fell off. As soon as Melissa beheld, instead of the smiling
features of youth and cheerfulness, a countenance wan and ghastly with
sickness, and soured by fretfulness, she turned away with horror, and
gave her hand unreluctantly to her sober and sincere companion.
[Illustration:
Eyes and No Eyes, p. 242.
EVENING XX.
]
ON METALS.