_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Tutor._ Well—have you forgotten what I told you about metals the other
day?
_George._ O no!
_Harry._ I am sure I have not.
_Tut._ What metals were they that we talked about?
_Geo._ Gold, silver, and quicksilver.
_Tut._ Suppose, then, we go on to the rest?
_Geo._ Pray, do.
_Har._ Yes, by all means.
_Tut._ Very well. You know _copper_, I don’t doubt?
_Geo._ O yes!
_Tut._ What colour do you call it?
_Geo._ I think it is a sort of reddish brown.
_Tut._ True. Sometimes, however, it is of a bright red, like
sealing-wax. It is not a very heavy metal, being not quite nine times
the weight of water. It is very ductile, bearing to be rolled or
hammered out to a very thin plate, and also to be drawn out to a fine
wire.
_Har._ I remember seeing a penny that had been rolled out to a long
riband.
_Geo._ Yes, and I have seen half a dozen men at a time with great
hammers beating out a piece of copper at the brazier’s.
_Tut._ Copper requires a very considerable heat to melt it: and by long
exposure to the fire, it may be burnt or calcined; for, like all we are
now to speak of, it is an _imperfect_ metal.
_Har._ And it rusts very easily, does it not?
_Tut._ It does; for all acids dissolve or corrode it, so do salts of
every kind: whence even air and common water in a short time act upon
it, for they are never free from somewhat of a saline nature.
_Geo._ Is not verdigris the rust of copper?
_Tut._ It is; a rust produced by the acid of grapes. But every rust of
copper is of a blue or green colour, as well as verdigris.
_Har._ And are they all poison, too?
_Tut._ They are all so in some degree, producing violent sickness and
pain in the bowels. They are all, too, extremely nauseous to the taste,
and the metal itself when heated, tastes and smells very disagreeably.
_Har._ Why is it used, then, so much in cooking, brewing, and the like?
_Tut._ Because it is a very convenient metal for making vessels,
especially large ones, as it is easily worked, and is sufficiently
strong, though hammered thin, and bears the fire well. And if vessels of
it are kept quite clean, and the liquor not suffered to stand long in
them when cold there is no danger in their use. But copper vessels for
cooking are generally lined on the inside with tin.
_Geo._ What else is copper used for?
_Tut._ A variety of things. Sheets of copper are sometimes used to cover
buildings; and of late a great quantity is consumed in sheathing ships,
that is, in covering all the part under water; the purpose of which is,
to protect the timber from the worms, and also to make the ship sail
faster, by means of the smoothness and therefore less obstruction which
the copper offers to the water, as the ship is forced through it by the
action of the wind on the sails.
_Har._ Money is made of copper, too.
_Tut._ It is; for it takes an impression in coining very well, and its
value is a proper proportion below silver, for a price for the cheapest
commodities. In some poor countries they have little other than copper
coin. Another great use of copper is as an ingredient in mixed metals,
such as bell-metal, cannon-metal, and particularly brass.
_Har._ But brass is yellow.
_Tut._ True; it is converted to that colour by means of another metallic
substance, named _zinc_ or _spelter_, the natural colour of which is
white. A kind of brown stone called _calamine_ is an ore of zinc. By
filling a pot with layers of powdered calamine and charcoal placed
alternately with copper, and applying a pretty strong heat, the zinc is
driven in vapour out of the calamine, and penetrates the copper,
changing it into brass.
_Geo._ What is the use of turning copper into brass?
_Tut._ It gains a fine gold-like colour, and becomes harder, more easy
to melt, and less liable to rust. Hence it is preferred for a variety of
utensils, ornamental and useful. Brass does not bear hammering well, but
is generally cast into the shape wanted, and then turned in a lathe and
polished. Well—these are the principal things I have to say about
copper.
_Har._ But where does it come from?
_Tut._ Copper is found in many countries. The Isle of Great Britain
yields abundance, especially in Wales and Cornwall. In Anglesey is a
whole hill called Paris Mountain, consisting of copper-ore, from which
immense quantities are dug every year. Now for _iron_.
_Har._ Ay! that is the most useful of all the metals.
_Tut._ I think it is; and it is likewise the most common, for there are
few countries in the world possessing hills and rocks, where it is not
met with, more or less. Iron is the hardest of metals, the most elastic
or springy, very tenacious or difficult to break, the most difficultly
fusible, and one of the lightest, being only seven or eight times as
heavy as water.
_Geo._ You say it is difficult to break; but I snapped the blade of a
penknife the other day by only bending it a little; and my mother is
continually breaking her needles.
_Tut._ Properly objected; but the qualities of iron differ extremely
according to the method of preparing it. There are forged iron, cast
iron, and steel, which are very different from each other. Iron, when
first melted from its ore, has little malleability, and the vessels and
other implements that are made of it in that state, by casting into
moulds, are easily broken. It acquires toughness and malleability by
_forging_, which is done by beating it when red-hot with heavy hammers,
till it becomes ductile and flexible. Steel, again, is made by heating
small bars of iron with charcoal, bone, and horn shavings, or other
inflammable matters, by which it acquires a finer grain and more compact
texture, and becomes harder, and more elastic. Steel may be rendered
either very flexible or brittle, by different manners of _tempering_,
which is performed by heating and then quenching it in water.
_Geo._ All cutting instruments are made of steel, are they not?
_Tut._ Yes; and the very fine-edged ones are generally tempered brittle,
as razors, penknives, and surgeons’ instruments; but sword-blades are
made flexible, and the best of them will bend double without breaking or
becoming crooked. The steel of which springs are made has the highest
possible degree of elasticity given it. A watch-spring is one of the
most perfect examples of this kind. Steel for ornaments is made
extremely hard and close-grained, so as to bear an exquisite polish.
Common hammered iron is chiefly used for works of strength, as
horseshoes, bars, bolts, and the like. It will bend but not straighten
itself again, as you may see in the kitchen poker. Cast iron is used for
pots and caldrons, cannons, cannon-balls, grates, pillars, and many
other purposes in which hardness without flexibility is wanted.
_Geo._ What a vast variety of uses this metal is put to!
_Tut._ Yes; I know not when I should have done, if I were tell you of
all.
_Har._ Then I think it is really more valuable than gold, though it is
so much cheaper.
_Tut._ That was the opinion of the wise Solon, when he observed to the
rich king Crœsus, who was showing him his treasures, “He who possesses
more iron will soon be master of all this gold.”
_Har._ I suppose he meant weapons and armour?
_Tut._ He did; but there are many nobler uses for these metals; and few
circumstances denote the progress of the arts in a country more than
having attained the full use of iron, without which scarcely any
manufacture or machinery can be brought to perfection. From the
difficulty of melting it out of the ore, many nations have been longer
in discovering it than some of the other metals. The Greeks, in Homer’s
time, seem to have employed copper or brass for their weapons much more
than iron; and the Mexicans and Peruvians, who possessed gold and
silver, were unacquainted with iron, when the Spaniards invaded them.
_Geo._ Iron is very subject to rust, however.
_Tut._ It is so, and that is one of its worst properties. Every liquor,
and even a moist air corrode it. But the rust of iron is not pernicious:
on the contrary, it is a very useful medicine.
_Geo._ I have heard of steel drops and steel filings given for medicine.
_Tut._ Yes; iron is given in a variety of forms, and the property of
them all is to strengthen the constitution. Many springs are made
medicinal by the iron that they dissolve in the bowels of the earth.
These are called _chalybeate_ waters, and they may be known by their
inky taste, and the rust-coloured sediment they leave in their course.
_Har._ May we drink such water if we meet with it?
_Tut._ Yes; it will do you no harm, at least. There is one other
property of iron, well worth knowing, and that is, that it is the only
thing attracted by the magnet or loadstone.
_Geo._ I had a magnet once that would take up needles and keys; but it
seemed a bar of iron itself.
_Tut._ True. The real loadstone, which is a particular ore of iron, can
communicate its virtue to a piece of iron by rubbing it; nay, a bar of
iron itself, in length of time, by being placed in a particular
position, will acquire the same property.
_Geo._ Is all the iron used in England produced there?
_Tut._ By no means. Their extensive manufactures require a great
importation of iron. Much is brought from Norway, Russia, and Sweden;
and the Swedish is reckoned particularly excellent. Well, now to another
metal. I dare say you can tell me a good deal about _lead_?
_Har._ I know several things about it. It is very heavy and soft, and
easily melted.
_Tut._ True; these are some of its distinguishing properties. Its weight
is between eleven and twelve times that of water. Its colour is a dull
bluish white; and from this livid hue, as well as its being totally void
of spring or elasticity, it has acquired a sort of character, of dulness
and sluggishness. Thus we say of a stupid man, that he has a _leaden_
disposition.
_Geo._ Lead is very malleable, I think?
_Tut._ Yes; it may be beaten out into a pretty thin leaf, but it will
not bear drawing into fine wire. It is not only very fusible, but very
readily oxidized by heat, changing into a powder, or a scaly matter,
which may be made to take all colours by the fire, from yellow to deep
red. You have seen red lead?
_Geo._ Yes.
_Tut._ That is oxide of lead exposed for a considerable time to a strong
flame. Lead may even be changed into glass by a moderate heat; and there
is a good deal of it in our finest glass.
_Geo._ What is white lead?
_Tut._ It is lead corroded by the steam of vinegar. Lead in various
forms is much used by painters. Its oxides dissolve in oil, and are
employed for the purpose of thickening paint and making it dry. All lead
paints, however, are unwholesome as long as they continue to smell, and
the fumes of lead, when melted, are likewise pernicious. This is the
cause why painters and plumbers are so subject to various diseases,
particularly violent colics and palsies. The white-lead manufacture is
so hurtful to the health, that the workmen, in a very short time, are
apt to lose the use of their limbs, and be otherwise severely
indisposed.
_Geo._ I wonder, then, that anybody will work in it.
_Tut._ Ignorance and high wages are sufficient to induce them. But it is
to be lamented that in a great many manufactures the health and lives of
individuals are sacrificed to the convenience and profit of the
community. Lead, too, when dissolved, as it may be in all sour liquors,
is a slow poison, and the more dangerous, as it gives no disagreeable
taste. A salt of lead made with vinegar, is so sweet, as to be called
the sugar of lead. It has been too common to put this or some other
preparation of lead into sour wines, in order to cure them; and much
mischief has been done by this practice.
_Geo._ If lead is poisonous, is it not wrong to make water-pipes and
cisterns of it?
_Tut._ This has been objected to; but it does not appear that water can
dissolve any of the lead. Nor does it readily rust in the air, and hence
it is much used to cover buildings with, as well as to line spouts and
water-courses. For these purposes the lead is cast into sheets, which
are easily cut and hammered into any shape.
_Har._ Bullets and shot, too, are made of lead.
_Tut._ They are; and in this way they are ten times more destructive
than as a poison.
_Geo._ I think lead seems to be more used than any metal except iron.
_Tut._ It is; and the plenty of it in our country is a great benefit to
us, both for domestic use, and as an article that brings in much profit
by exportation.
_Geo._ Where are our principal lead mines?
_Tut._ They are much scattered about. The west of England produces some,
in Cornwall, Devonshire, and Somersetshire. Wales affords a large
quantity. Derbyshire has long been noted for its lead mines, and so have
Northumberland and Durham. And there are considerable ones in the
southern part of Scotland. Now do you recollect another metal to be
spoken about?
_Geo._ Tin.
_Tut._ True. Tin resembles lead in colour, but has a more silvery
whiteness. It is soft and flexible, like lead, but is distinguished by
the crackling noise it makes on being bent. It melts as easily as lead,
and also is readily oxidized by keeping it in the fire. It is the
lightest of the metals, being only seven times as heavy as water. It may
be beaten into a thin leaf, but not drawn out to wire.
_Geo._ Is tin of much use?
_Tut._ It is not often used by itself, but very frequently in
conjunction with other metals. As tin is little liable to rust, or to be
corroded by common liquors, it is employed for a lining or coating of
vessels made of copper or iron. The saucepans and kettles in the
kitchen, you know, are all tinned.
_Geo._ Yes; how is it done?
_Tut._ By melting the tin, and spreading it upon the surface of the
copper, which is first heated, in order to make the tin adhere.
_Geo._ But what are the vessels made at the tinman’s? Are they not all
tin?
_Tut._ No. _Tinned_ ware, as it is properly called, is made of thin iron
plates, coated over with tin by dipping them into a vessel full of
melted tin. These plates are afterward cut and bent to proper shapes,
and the joinings are soldered together with a mixture of tin and other
metals. Another similar use of tin is in what is called the silvering of
pins.
_Geo._ What—is not that real silvering?
_Tut._ No. The pins which are made of brass wire, after being pointed
and headed, are boiled in hot water, in which grain-tin is put along
with tartar, which is a crust that collects on the inside of wine casks.
The tartar dissolves some of the tin, and makes it adhere to the surface
of the pins, and thus thousands are covered in an instant.
_Har._ That is as clever as what you told us of the gilding of buttons!
_Tut._ It is. Another purpose for which great quantities of tin used to
be employed was the making of pewter. The best pewter consists chiefly
of tin, with a small mixture of other metals to harden it; and the
London pewter was brought to such perfection as to look almost as well
as silver.
_Geo._ I can just remember a long row of pewter plates at my
grandmother’s.
_Tut._ You may. In her time all the plates and dishes for the table were
made of pewter, and a handsome range of pewter shelves was thought a
capital ornament for a kitchen. At present, this trade is almost come to
nothing, through the use of earthenware and china; and pewter is
employed for little but the worms of stills, and barbers’ basins, and
porter-pots. But a good deal is still exported. Tin is likewise an
ingredient in other mixed metals for various purposes, but, on the
whole, less of it is used than of the other common metals.
_Geo._ Is not England more famous for tin than any other country? I have
read of the Phoenicians trading here for it in very early times.
_Tut._ They did; and tin is still a very valuable article of export from
England. Much of it is sent as far as China. The tin mines are chiefly
in Cornwall, England, and I believe they are the most productive of any
in Europe. Very fine tin is also got in the peninsula of Malacca in the
East Indies. Well—we have now gone through the metals.
_Geo._ But you said nothing about a kind of metal called zinc.
_Tut._ That is one of another class of mineral substances called
_semi-metals_. These resemble metals in every quality but ductility, of
which they are almost wholly destitute, and for want of it they can
seldom be used in the arts, except when joined with metals.
_Geo._ Are there many of them?
_Tut._ Yes, several; but we will not talk of them till I have taken some
opportunity of showing them to you, for probably you may never have seen
any of them. Now try to repeat the names of all the metals to me in the
order of their weight.
_Har._ There is first _gold_.
_Geo._ Then _quicksilver_, _lead_, _silver_.
_Har._ _Copper_, _iron_, _tin_.
_Tut._ Very right. Now I must tell you of an old fancy that chymists
have had of christening these metals by the names of the heavenly
bodies. They have called gold _Sol_, or the sun.
_Geo._ That is suitable enough to its colour and brightness.
_Har._ Then silver should be the moon, for I have heard moonlight called
of a silvery hue.
_Tut._ True; and they have named it so. It is _Luna_. Quicksilver is
_Mercury_, so named probably from its great propensity to dance and jump
about, for _Mercury_, you know, was very nimble.
_Geo._ Yes—he had wings to his heels.
_Tut._ Copper is _Venus_.
_Geo._ _Venus!_ surely it is scarcely beautiful enough for that.
_Tut._ But they had disposed of the most beautiful ones before. Iron is
Mars.
_Har._ That is right enough, because swords are made of iron.
_Tut._ True. Then tin is _Jupiter_, and lead _Saturn_. I suppose only to
make out the number. Yet the dulness of lead might be thought to agree
with that planet which is most remote from the sun. These names,
childish as they may seem, are worth remembering, since chymists and
physicians still apply them to many preparations of the various metals.
You will, probably, often hear of _martial_, _lunar_, _mercurial_, and
_saturnine_; and you may now know what they mean.
_Geo._ I think the knowledge of metals seems more useful than all you
have told us about plants.
_Tut._ I don’t know that. Many nations make no use at all of metals, but
there are none which do not owe a great part of their subsistence to
vegetables. However, without inquiring what parts of natural knowledge
are _most_ useful, you may be assured of this, that all are useful in
some degree or other; and there are few things that give one man greater
superiority over another, than the extent and accuracy of his knowledge
in these particulars. One person passes all his life upon the earth, a
stranger to it; while another finds himself at home everywhere.
EYES AND NO EYES; OR, THE ART OF SEEING.
“Well, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon?” said Mr.
Andrews to one of his pupils, at the close of a holyday.
_Robert._ I have been, sir, to Broom-heath, and so round by the windmill
upon Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river-side.
_Mr. Andrews._ Well, that’s a pleasant round.
_Rob._ I thought it very dull, sir; I scarcely met with a single person.
I had rather by half have gone along the turnpike-road.
_Mr. An._ Why, if seeing men and horses is your object, you would,
indeed, be better entertained on the high-road. But did you see William?
_Rob._ We set out together, but he lagged behind in the lane, so I
walked on and left him.
_Mr. An._ That was a pity. He would have been company for you.
_Rob._ O, he is so tedious, always stopping to look at this thing and
that! I had rather walk alone. I dare say he is not got home yet.
_Mr. An._ Here he comes. Well, William, where have you been?
_William._ O, sir, the pleasantest walk! I went all over Broom-heath,
and so up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the
green meadows by the side of the river.
_Mr. An._ Why, that is just the round Robert has been taking, and he
complains of its dulness, and prefers the high-road!
_Will._ I wonder at that. I am sure I hardly took a step that did not
delight me, and I have brought my handkerchief full of curiosities home.
_Mr. An._ Suppose, then, you give us some account of what amused you so
much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.
_Will._ I will, sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is close
and sandy, so I did not mind it much, but made the best of my way.
However, I spied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an old
crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of something green, quite
different from the tree itself. Here is a branch of it.
_Mr. An._ Ah! this is mistletoe, a plant of great fame for the use made
of it by the Druids of old, in their religious rites and incantations.
It bears a very slimy white berry, of which bird-lime may be made,
whence its Latin name of _Viscus_. It is one of those plants which do
not grow in the ground by a root of their own, but fix themselves upon
other plants; whence they have been humorously styled _parasitical_, as
being hangers-on, or dependants. It was the mistletoe of the oak that
the Druids particularly honoured.
_Will._ A little farther on I saw a green woodpecker fly to a tree, and
run up the trunk like a cat.
_Mr. An._ That was to seek for insects in the bark, on which they live.
They bore holes with their strong bills for that purpose, and do much
damage to the trees by it.
_Will._ What beautiful birds they are!
_Mr. An._ Yes; they have been called, from their colour and size, the
English parrot.
_Will._ When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The air
seemed so fresh, and the prospect on every side so free and unbounded!
Then it was all covered with gay flowers, many of which I had never
observed before. There were, at least, three kinds of heath, (I have got
them in my handkerchief here,) and gorse, and broom, and bellflower, and
many others of all colours, that I will beg you presently to tell me the
names of.
_Mr. An._ That I will readily.
_Will._ I saw, too, several birds that were new to me. There was a
pretty grayish one, of the size of a lark, that was hopping about some
great stones; and when he flew he showed a great deal of white above his
tail.
_Mr. An._ That was a wheat-ear. They are reckoned very delicious birds
to eat, and frequent the open downs in Sussex, and some other counties,
in great numbers.
_Will._ There was a flock of lapwings, upon a marshy part of the heath,
that amused me much. As I came near them, some of them kept flying round
and round just over my head, and crying _pewit_ so distinctly, one might
almost fancy they spoke. I thought I should have caught one of them, for
he flew as if one of his wings was broken, and often tumbled close to
the ground; but as I came near, he always made a shift to get away.
_Mr. An._ Ha, ha! you were finely taken in then! This was all an
artifice of the bird to entice you away from its nest; for they build
upon the bare ground, and their nests would easily be observed, did they
not draw off the attention of intruders by their loud cries and
counterfeit lameness.
_Will._ I wish I had known that, for he led me a long chase often over
shoes in water. However, it was the cause of my falling in with an old
man and a boy who were cutting and piling up turf for fuel, and I had a
good deal of talk with them about the manner of preparing the turf, and
the price it sells at. They gave me, too, a creature I never saw
before—a young viper, which they had just killed, together with its dam.
I have seen several common snakes, but this is thicker in proportion,
and of a darker colour than they are.
_Mr. An._ True. Vipers frequent those turfy, boggy grounds pretty much,
and I have known several turf-cutters bitten by them.
_Will._ They are very venomous, are they not?
_Mr. An._ Enough so to make their wounds painful and dangerous, though
they seldom prove fatal.
_Will._ Well—I then took my course up to the windmill on the mount. I
climbed up the steps of the mill, in order to get a better view of the
country round. What an extensive prospect! I counted fifteen
church-steeples; and I saw several gentlemen’s houses peeping out from
the midst of green woods and plantations; and I could trace the windings
of the river all along the low grounds, till it was lost behind a ridge
of hills. But I’ll tell you what I mean to do, sir, if you will give me
leave.
_Mr. An._ What is that?
_Will._ I will go again, and take with me Cary’s county-map, by which I
shall probably be able to make out most of the places.
_Mr. An._ You shall have it, and I will go with you and take my pocket
spying-glass.
_Will._ I shall be very glad of that. Well, a thought struck me, that as
the hill is called Camp-mount, there might probably be some remains of
ditches and mounds with which I have read that camps were surrounded.
And I really believe I discovered something of that sort running round
one side of the mount.
_Mr. An._ Very likely you might. I know antiquaries have described such
remains as existing there, which some suppose to be Roman, others
Danish; we will examine them farther, when we go.
_Will._ From the hill I went straight down to the meadows below, and
walked on the side of a brook that runs into the river. It was all
bordered with reeds and flags and tall towering plants, quite different
from those I had seen on the heath. As I was getting down the bank to
reach one of them, I heard something plunge into the water near me. It
was a large water-rat, and I saw it swim over to the other side, and go
into its hole. There were a great many large dragon-flies all about the
stream; I caught one of the finest, and have got him here in a leaf. But
how I longed to catch a bird that I saw hovering over the water, and
every now and then darting down into it! It was all over a mixture of
the most beautiful green and blue with some orange colour. It was
somewhat less than a thrush, and had a large head and bill, and a short
tail.
_Mr. An._ I can tell you what that bird was—a kingfisher; the celebrated
halcyon of the ancients, about which so many tales are told. It lives on
fish, which it catches in the manner you saw. It builds in holes in the
banks, and is a shy retired bird, never to be seen far from the stream
where it inhabits.
_Will._ I must try to get another sight of him, for I never saw a bird
that pleased me so much. Well—I followed this little brook till it
entered the river, and then took the path that runs along the bank. On
the opposite side I observed several little birds running along the
shore, and making a piping noise. They were brown and white, and about
as big as a snipe.
_Mr. An._ I suppose they were sand-pipers, one of the numerous family of
birds that get their living by wading among the shallows, and picking up
worms and insects.
_Will._ There were a great many swallows, too, sporting upon the surface
of the water, that entertained me with their motions. Sometimes they
dashed into the stream; sometimes they pursued one another so quick,
that the eye could scarcely follow them. In one place, where a high,
steep sandbank rose directly above the river, I observed many of them go
in and out of holes with which the bank was bored full.
_Mr. An._ Those were sand-martens, the smallest of our species of
swallows. They are of a mouse-colour above, and white beneath. They make
their nests and bring up their young in these holes, which run a great
depth, and, by their situation, are secure from all plunderers.
_Will._ A little farther I saw a man in a boat who was catching eels in
an odd way. He had a long pole with broad iron prongs at the end, just
like Neptune’s trident, only there were five instead of three. This he
pushed straight down among the mud in the deepest parts of the river,
and fetched up the eels sticking between the prongs.
_Mr. An._ I have seen this method. It is called spearing of eels.
_Will._ While I was looking at him, a heron came flying over my head,
with his large flagging wings. He lit at the next turn of the river, and
I crept softly behind the bank to watch his motions. He had waded into
the water as far as his long legs would carry him, and was standing with
his neck drawn in, looking intently on the stream. Presently, he darted
his long bill as quick as lightning into the water, and drew out a fish,
which he swallowed. I saw him catch another in the same manner. He then
took alarm at some noise I made, and flew away slowly to a wood at some
distance, where he settled.
_Mr. An._ Probably his nest was there, for herons build upon the
loftiest trees they can find, and sometimes in society together, like
rooks. Formerly, when these birds were valued for the amusement of
hawking, many gentlemen had their _heronries_, and a few are still
remaining.
_Will._ I think they are the largest wild birds we have.
_Mr. An._ They are of a great length and spread of wing, but their
bodies are comparatively small.
_Will._ I then turned homeward across the meadows, where I stopped a
while to look at a large flock of starlings which kept flying about at
no great distance. I could not tell at first what to make of them; for
they rose all together from the ground as thick as a swarm of bees, and
formed themselves into a kind of black cloud, hovering over the field.
After having a short round they settled again, and presently rose again
in the same manner. I dare say there were hundreds of them.
_Mr. An._ Perhaps so, for in the fenny countries their flocks are so
numerous as to break down whole acres of reeds by settling on them. This
disposition of starlings to fly in close swarms was remarked even by
Homer, who compares the foe flying from one of his heroes, to a _cloud_
of stares retiring dismayed at the approach of the hawk.
_Will._ After I had left the meadows, I crossed the cornfields in the
way to our house, and passed by a deep marl-pit. Looking into it, I saw
in one of the sides a cluster of what I took to be shells; and upon
going down, I picked up a clod of marl, which was quite full of them;
but how sea-shells could get there I cannot imagine.
_Mr. An._ I do not wonder at your surprise, since many philosophers have
been much perplexed to account for the same appearance. It is not
uncommon to find great quantities of shells and relics of marine animals
even in the bowels of high mountains, very remote from the sea. They are
certainly proofs that the earth was once in a very different state from
what it is at present; but in what manner, and how long ago these
changes took place, can only be guessed at.
_Will._ I got to the high field next our house just as the sun was
setting, and I stood looking at it till it was quite lost. What a
glorious sight! The clouds were tinged purple, and crimson, and yellow,
of all shades and hues, and the clear sky varied from blue to a fine
green at the horizon. But how large the sun appears just as it sets! I
think it seems twice as big as when it is overhead.
_Mr. An._ It does so; and you may probably have observed the same
apparent enlargement of the moon at its rising.
_Will._ I have; but pray, what is the reason of this?
_Mr. An._ It is an optical deception, depending upon principles which I
cannot well explain to you till you know more of that branch of science.
But what a number of new ideas this afternoon’s walk has afforded you! I
do not wonder that you found it amusing: it has been very instructive,
too. Did _you_ see nothing of all these sights, Robert?
_Rob._ I saw some of them, but I did not take particular notice of them.
_Mr. An._ Why not?
_Rob._ I don’t know. I did not care about them, and I made the best of
my way home.
_Mr. An._ That would have been right if you had been sent with a
message; but as you only walked for amusement, it would have been wiser
to have sought out as many sources of it as possible. But so it is—one
man walks through the world with his eyes open, and another with them
shut; and upon this difference depends all the superiority of knowledge
the one acquires above the other. I have known sailors who had been in
all the quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing but the signs
of the tippling-houses they frequented in different ports, and the price
and quality of the liquor. On the other hand, a Franklin could not cross
the channel without making some observations useful to mankind. While
many a vacant, thoughtless youth is whirled throughout Europe without
gaining a single idea worth crossing a street for, the observing eye and
inquiring mind find matter of improvement and delight in every ramble in
town or country. Do _you_, then, William, continue to make use of your
eyes: and _you_, Robert, learn that eyes were given you to use.
[Illustration:
Umbelliferous Plants, p. 252.
EVENING XXI.
]
WHY THE EARTH MOVES ROUND THE SUN.
_Papa_—_Lucy_.
_Papa._ You remember, Lucy, that I explained to you some time ago what
was the cause that things fell to the ground.
_Lucy._ O yes; it was because the ground drew them to it.
_Pa._ True. That is a consequence of the universal law in nature, that
bodies attract each other in proportion to their bulk. So a very small
thing in the neighbourhood of a very large one, always tends to go to
it, if not prevented by some or other power. Well—you know I told you
that the sun was a ball a vast many times bigger than the ball we
inhabit, called the earth; upon which you properly asked, how then it
happened that the earth did not fall into the sun.
_Lu._ And why does it not?
_Pa._ That I am going to explain to you. You have seen your brother
whirl round an ivory ball tied to the end of a string, which he held in
his hand.
_Lu._ Yes; and I have done it myself, too.
_Pa._ Well, then—you felt that the ball was continually pulling, as if
it tried to make its escape?
_Lu._ Yes; and one my brother was swinging _did_ make its escape, and
flew through the sash.
_Pa._ It did so. That was a lesson, in the _centrifugal_ motion, or that
power by which a body thus whirled, continually endeavours to fly off
from the centre round which it moves. This is owing to the force or
impulse you give it at setting out, as if you were going to throw it
away from you. The string by which you hold it, on the contrary, is the
power which keeps the ball toward the centre, called the _centripetal_
power. Thus you see there are two powers acting upon the ball at the
same time, one to make it fly off, the other to hold it in; and the
consequence is, that it moves directly according to neither, but between
both; that is, round and round. This it continues to do while you swing
it properly; but if the string breaks or slips off, away flies the ball;
on the other hand, if you cease to give it the whirling force, it falls
toward your hand.
_Lu._ I understand all this.
_Pa._ I will give you another instance of this double force acting at
the same time. Do not you remember seeing some curious feats of
horsemanship?
_Lu._ Yes.
_Pa._ One of them was, that a man standing with one leg upon the saddle,
and riding full speed, threw up balls into the air, and catched them as
they fell.
_Lu._ I remember it very well.
_Pa._ Perhaps you would have expected these balls to have fallen behind
him, as he was going at such a rate?
_Lu._ So I did.
_Pa._ But you saw that they fell into his hand as directly as if he had
been standing quite still. That was because at the instant he threw them
up, they received the motion of the horse straight forward as well as
the upright motion that he gave them, so that they made a slanting line
through the air, and came down in the same place they would have reached
if he had held them in his hand all the while.
_Lu._ That is very curious, indeed!
_Pa._ In the same manner you may have observed, in riding in a carriage,
that if you throw anything out of the window, it falls directly
opposite, just as if the carriage was standing still, and is not left
behind you.
_Lu._ I will try that the next time I ride in one.
_Pa._ You are then to imagine the sun to be a mighty mass of matter,
many thousand times bigger than our earth, placed in the centre, quiet
and unmoved. You are to conceive our earth, as soon as created, launched
with vast force in a straight line, as if it were a bowl on a green. It
would have flown off in this line for ever, through the boundless
regions of space, had it not at the same instant received a pull from
the sun by its attraction. By the wonderful skill of the Creator, these
two forces were made exactly to counterbalance each other; so that just
as much as the earth, from the original motion given to it, tends to fly
forward, just so much the sun draws it to the centre; and the
consequence is, that it takes a course between the two, which is a
circle round and round the sun.
_Lu._ But if the earth was set a rolling like a bowl upon a green, I
should think it would stop of itself, as the bowl does.
_Pa._ The bowl stops because it is continually rubbing against the
ground, which checks its motion, but the ball of the earth moves in
empty space, where there is nothing to stop it.
_Lu._ But if I throw a ball through the air, it will not go on for ever,
but it will come down to the ground.
_Pa._ That is because the force with which you can throw it is much less
than the force by which it is drawn to the earth. But there is another
reason, too, which is the resistance of the air. This space all round us
and over us is not empty space; it is quite full of a thin transparent
fluid called air.
_Lu._ Is it?
_Pa._ Yes. If you move your hand quickly through it, you will find
something resisting you, though in a slight degree. And the wind, you
well know, is capable of pressing against anything with almost
irresistible force; and yet wind is nothing but a quantity of air put
into violent motion. Everything, then, that moves through the air is
continually obliged to push some of this fluid out of the way, by which
means it is constantly losing part of its motion.
_Lu._ Then the earth would do the same?
_Pa._ No; for it moves in _empty space_.
_Lu._ What, does it not move through the air?
_Pa._ The earth does not move _through_ the air, but carries the air
along with it. All the air is contained in what is called the
_atmosphere_, which you may compare to a kind of mist or fog clinging
all round to the ball of the earth, and reaching a certain distance
above it, which has been calculated at above forty-five miles.
_Lu._ That is above the clouds, then.
_Pa._ Yes: all the clouds are within the atmosphere, for they are
supported by the air. Well—this atmosphere rolls about along with the
earth, as if it were a part of it, and moves with it through the sky,
which is a vast field of empty space. In this immense space are all the
stars and planets, which have also their several motions. There is
nothing to stop them, and therefore they continually go on, by means of
the force that the Creator has originally impressed upon them.
_Lu._ Do not some of the stars move round the sun, as well as our earth?
_Pa._ Yes; those that are called _planets_. These are all subject to the
same laws of motion with our earth. They are attracted by the sun as
their centre, and form, along with the earth, that assemblage of worlds,
which is called the _solar system_.
_Lu._ Is the moon one of them?
_Pa._ The moon is called a _secondary_ planet, because its immediate
connexion is with our earth, round which it rolls, as we do round the
sun. It, however, accompanies our earth on its journey round the sun.
But I will tell you more about its motion, and about the other planets
and stars another time. It is enough at present, if you thoroughly
understand what I have been describing.
_Lu._ I think I do.
THE UMBELLIFEROUS PLANTS.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Harry._ What plant is that man gathering under the hedge?
_George._ I don’t know; but the boys call the stalks _hexes_, and blow
through them.
_Har._ I have seen them; but I want to know the plant.
_Geo._ Will you please to tell us, sir, what it is?
_Tutor._ It is hemlock.
_Geo._ Hemlock is poison is it not?
_Tut._ Yes, in some degree; and it is also a medicine; that man is
gathering it for the apothecaries.
_Har._ I should like to know it.
_Tut._ Well then—go and bring one.
[Harry _fetches it_.
_Geo._ I think I have seen a great many of this sort.
_Tut._ Perhaps you may; but there are many other kinds of plants
extremely like it. It is one of a large family called the
_umbelliferous_, which contains both food, physic, and poison. It will
be worth while for you to know something about them, so let us examine
this hemlock closely. You see this tall hollow stalk, which divides into
several branches, from each of which spring spokes or _rundles_, as they
are called, of flower-stalks. You see they are like rays from a circle,
or the spokes of a wheel.
_Har._ Or like the sticks of an umbrella.
_Tut._ True; and they are called _umbels_, which has the same
derivation. If you pursue one of these rundles or umbels, you will find
that each stick or spoke terminates in another set of smaller stalks,
each of which bears a single small flower.
_Geo._ They are small ones, indeed!
_Tut._ But if you look sharply, I dare say your eyes are good enough to
distinguish that they are divided into five leaves, and furnished with
five chives and two pistils in the middle.
_Har._ I can see them.
_Geo._ And so can I.
_Tut._ The pistils are succeeded by a sort of fruit, which is a
twin-seed joined in the middle, as you may see in this rundle that is
past flowering. Here I divide one of them into two.
_Geo._ Would each of these grow?
_Tut._ Yes. Well, this is the structure of the flowering part of the
umbelliferous tribe. Now for the leaf. Pluck one.
_Har._ Is this one leaf, or many?
_Tut._ It is properly one, but it is cut and divided into many portions.
From this mid-rib spring smaller leaves set opposite each other; and
from the rib of each of these proceed others, which themselves are also
divided. These are called doubly or trebly pinnated leaves; and most of
the umbelliferous plants, but not all, have leaves of this kind.
_Har._ It is like a parsley-leaf.
_Tut._ True—and parsley is one of the same tribe, and hemlock and others
are sometimes mistaken for it.
_Geo._ How curiously the stalk of this hemlock is spotted!
_Tut._ Yes. That is one of the marks by which it is known. It is also
distinguished by its peculiar smell, and by other circumstances which
you can only understand when you have compared a number of the tribe. I
will now tell you about some others, the names of which you are probably
acquainted with. In the first place, there are carrots and parsnips.
_Har._ Carrots and parsnips!—they are not poisons, I am sure.
_Geo._ I remember, now, that carrots have such a leaf as this.
_Tut._ They have. It is the _roots_ of these, you know, that are eaten.
But we eat the _leaves_ of parsley and fennel, which are of the same
class. Celery is another, the _stalks_ of which are chiefly used, made
white by trenching up the earth about them. The stalks of angelica are
used differently.
_Har._ I know how—candied.
_Tut._ Yes. Then there are many of which the _seeds_ are used. There is
caraway.
_Har._ What, the seeds that are put into cakes and comfits?
_Tut._ Yes. They are warm and pungent to the taste; and so are the seeds
of many others of the umbelliferous plants, as coriander, fennel, wild
carrot, angelica, anise, cummin, and dill. All these are employed in
food or medicine, and are good in warming or strengthening the stomach.
_Har._ Those are pleasant medicines enough.
_Tut._ They are; but you will not say the same of some others of the
class, which are noted medicines too; such as the plant yielding
asafœtida, and several more, from which what are called the fetid gums
are produced.
_Geo._ Asafœtida!—that’s nasty stuff, I know; does it grow here?
_Tut._ No; and most of the sweet seeds I before mentioned come from
abroad too. Now I will tell you of some of the poisons.
_Har._ Hemlock is one that we know already.
_Tut._ Yes. Then there is another kind that grows in the water, and is
more poisonous, called water-hemlock. Another is a large plant growing
in ditches, with leaves extremely like celery, called hemlock-dropwort.
Another, common in drier situations, and distinguished by leaves less
divided than most of the class, is cow-parsnip, or madnep. Of some of
these the leaves, of others the root, is most poisonous. Their effects
are to make the head giddy, bring on stupidity or delirium, and cause
violent sickness. The Athenians used to put criminals to death by making
them drink the juice of a kind of hemlock growing in that country, as
you may read in the life of that excellent philosopher, Socrates, who
was killed in that manner.
_Har._ What was he killed for?
_Tut._ Because he was wiser and better than his fellow-citizens. Among
us it is only by accident that mischief is done by these plants. I
remember a melancholy instance of a poor boy, who, in rambling about the
fields with his little brothers and sisters, chanced to meet with a root
of hemlock-dropwort. It looked so white and nice, that he was tempted to
eat a good deal of it. The other children also ate some, but not so
much. When they got home they were all taken very ill. The eldest boy,
who had eaten most, died in great agony. The others recovered, after
suffering a great deal.
_Geo._ Is there any way of preventing their bad effects?
_Tut._ The best way is to clear the stomach as soon as possible by a
strong vomit and large draughts of warm water. After that, vinegar is
useful in removing the disorder of the head.
_Har._ But are the roots sweet and pleasant, that people should be
tempted to eat them?
_Tut._ Several of them are. There is a small plant of the tribe, the
root of which is much sought after by boys, who dig for it with their
knives It is round, and called earth-nut, or pig-nut.
_Geo._ But that’s not poison, I suppose?
_Tut._ No; but it is not very wholesome. I believe, however, that the
roots of the most poisonous become innocent by boiling. I have heard
that boiled hemlock roots are as good as carrots.
_Geo._ I think I should not like to eat them, however. But pray, why
should there be any poisons at all?
_Tut._ What we call poisons, are only hurtful to particular animals.
They are the proper food of others, and no doubt do more good than hurt
in the creation. Most of the things that are poisonous to us in large
quantities, are useful medicines in small ones; and we have reason
bestowed upon _us_, to guard us against mischief. Other animals, in
general, refuse by instinct what would prove hurtful to them. You see
beneath yonder hedge a great crop of tall flourishing plants with white
flowers. They are of the umbelliferous family, and are called wild
cicely, or cow-weed. The latter name is given them, because the cows
will not touch them, though the pasture be ever so bare.
_Har._ Would they poison them?
_Tut._ Perhaps they would: at least they are not proper food for them.
We will go and examine them, and I will show you how they differ from
hemlock, for which they are sometimes mistaken.
_Geo._ I should like to get some of these plants, and dry them.
_Tut._ You shall, and write down the names of them all, and learn to
know the innocent from the hurtful.
_Geo._ That will be very useful.
_Tut._ It will. Remember now the general character of the umbelliferous
plants. The flower-stalks are divided into spokes or umbels, which are
again divided into others, each of them terminated by a small,
five-leaved flower, having five chives and two pistils, succeeded by a
twin-seed. Their leaves are generally finely divided. You will soon know
them, after having examined two or three of the tribe. Remember, too,
that they are a _suspicious race_, and not to be made free with till you
are well acquainted with them.
HUMBLE LIFE; OR, THE COTTAGERS.
(_Mr. Everard and Charles, walking in the fields._)
_Mr. Everard._ Well, Charles, you seem to be in deep meditation. Pray,
what are you thinking about?
_Charles._ I was thinking, sir, how happy it is for us that we are not
in the place of that poor weaver whose cottage we just passed by.
_Mr. Ev._ It is very right to be sensible of all the advantages that
Providence has bestowed upon us in this world, and I commend you for
reflecting on them with gratitude. But what particular circumstance of
comparison between our condition and his struck you most just now?
_Ch._ O, almost everything! I could not bear to live in such a poor
house, with a cold clay floor, and half the windows stopped with paper.
Then how poorly he and his children are dressed! and I dare say they
must live as poorly too.
_Mr. Ev._ These things would be grievous enough to you, I do not doubt,
because you have been accustomed to a very different way of living. But
if they are healthy and contented, I don’t know that we have much more
to boast of. I believe the man is able to procure wholesome food for his
family, and clothes and firing enough to keep them from suffering from
the cold; and nature wants little more.
_Ch._ But, what a ragged, barefooted fellow the boy at the door was!
_Mr. Ev._ He was—but did you observe his ruddy cheeks, and his stout
legs, and the smiling grin upon his countenance? It is my opinion he
would beat you in running, though he is half the head less; and I dare
say he never cried because he did not know what to do with himself, in
his life.
_Ch._ But, sir, you have often told me that the mind is the noblest part
of man; and these poor creatures, I am sure, can have no opportunity to
improve their minds. They must be as ignorant as the brutes, almost.
_Mr. Ev._ Why so? Do you think there is no knowledge to be got but from
books; or that a weaver cannot teach his children right from wrong?
_Ch._ Not if he has never learned himself.
_Mr. Ev._ True—but I hope the country we live in is not so unfriendly to
a poor man, as to afford him no opportunity of learning his duty to God
and his neighbour. And as to other points of knowledge, necessity and
common observation will teach him a good deal. But come—let us go and
pay him a visit, for I doubt you hardly think them human creatures.
[_They enter the cottage_—Jacob, _the weaver, at his loom. His wife
spinning. Children of different ages._]
_Mr. Ev._ Good morning to you, friend! Don’t let us disturb you all,
pray. We have just stepped in to look at your work.
_Jacob._ I have very little to show you, gentlemen; but you are welcome
to look on. Perhaps the young gentleman never saw weaving before.
_Ch._ I never did, near.
_Jac._ Look here, then, master. These long threads are the warp. They
are divided, you see, into two sets, and I pass my shuttle between them,
which carries with it the cross threads, and that makes the weft.
(_Explains the whole to him._)
_Ch._ Dear! how curious! And is all cloth made this way, papa?
_Mr. Ev._ Yes; only there are somewhat different contrivances for
different kinds of work. Well, how soon do you think you could learn to
weave like this honest man?
_Ch._ O—not for a great while?
_Mr. Ev._ But I suppose you could easily turn the wheel, and draw out
threads like that good woman?
_Ch._ Not without some practice, I fancy. But what is that boy doing?
_Jac._ He is cutting pegs for the shoemakers, master.
_Ch._ How quick he does them!
_Jac._ It is but poor employment, but better than being idle. The first
lesson I teach my children is, that their hands were made to get their
bread with.
_Mr. Ev._ And a very good lesson, too.
_Ch._ What is this heap of twigs for?
_Jac._ Why, master, my biggest boy and girl have learned a little how to
make basket-work, so I have got them a few osiers to employ them at
leisure hours. That bird-cage is their making: and the back of that
chair in which their grandmother sits.
_Ch._ Is not that cleverly done, papa?
_Mr. Ev._ It is, indeed. Here are several arts, you see, in this house,
which both you and I should be much puzzled to set about. But there are
some books, too, I perceive.
_Ch._ Here is a bible, and a testament, and a prayer-book, and a
spelling book, and a volume of the Gardener’s Dictionary.
_Mr. Ev._ And how many of your family can read, my friend?
_Jac._ All the children but the two youngest can read a little, sir; but
Meg, there, is the best scholar among us. She reads us a chapter in the
Testament every morning, and very well, too, though I say it.
_Mr. Ev._ Do you hear that, Charles?
_Ch._ I do, sir. Here’s an almanac, too, against the wall; and here are
my favourite ballads of the Children in the Wood, and Chevy-chase.
_Jac._ I let the children paste them up, sir, and a few more that have
no harm in them. There’s Hearts of Oak, and Rule Britannia, and Robin
Gray.
_Mr. Ev._ A very good choice, indeed. I see you have a pretty garden
there behind the house.
_Jac._ It is only a little spot, sir; but it serves for some amusement,
and use too.
_Ch._ What beautiful stocks and wall-flowers! We have none so fine in
our garden.
_Jac._ Why, master, to say the truth, we are rather proud of them. I
have got a way of cultivating them, that I believe few besides myself
are acquainted with; and on Sundays I have plenty of visiters to come
and admire them.
_Ch._ Pray, what is this bush with narrow whitish leaves and blue
flowers?
_Jac._ Don’t you know? It is rosemary.
_Ch._ Is it good for anything?
_Jac._ We like the smell of it; and then the leaves, mixed with a little
balm, make pleasant tea, which we sometimes drink in the afternoon.
_Ch._ Here are several more plants that I never saw before.
_Jac._ Some of them are pot-herbs, that we put into our broth or
porridge; and others are physic herbs, for we cannot afford to go to a
doctor for every trifling ailment.
_Ch._ But how do you learn the use of these things?
_Jac._ Why, partly, master, from an old herbal that I have got; and
partly from my good mother and some old neighbours; for we poor people
are obliged to help one another as well as we can. If you were curious
about plants, I could go into the fields, and show you a great many that
we reckon very fine for several uses, though I suppose we don’t call
them by the proper names.
_Mr. Ev._ You keep your garden very neat, friend, and seem to make the
most of every inch of ground.
_Jac._ Why, sir, we have hands enough, and all of us like to be doing a
little in it when our in-doors work is over. I am in hopes soon to be
allowed a bit of land from the waste for a potato-ground, which will be
a great help to us. I shall then be able to keep a pig.
_Mr. Ev._ I suppose, notwithstanding your industry, you live rather
hardly sometimes?
_Jac._ To be sure, sir, we are somewhat pinched in dear times and hard
weather; but, thank God, I have constant work, and my children begin to
be some help to us, so that we fare better than some of our neighbours.
If I do but keep my health, I don’t fear but we shall make a shift to
live.
_Mr. Ev._ Keep such a contented mind, my friend, and you will have few
to envy. Good morning to you, and if any sickness or accident should
befall you, remember you have a friend in your neighbour at the hall.
_Jac._ I will, sir, and thank you.
_Ch._ Good morning to you.
_Jac._ The same to you, master.
[_They leave the cottage._
_Mr. Ev._ Well, Charles, what do you think of our visit?
_Ch._ I am highly pleased with it, sir. I shall have a better opinion of
a poor cottager as long as I live.
_Mr. Ev._ I am glad of it. You see when we compare ourselves with this
weaver, all the advantage is not on our side. He is possessed of an art,
the utility of which secures him a livelihood, whatever may be the
changes of the times. All his family are brought up to industry, and
show no small ingenuity in their several occupations. They are not
without instruction, and especially seem to be in no want of that best
of all, the knowledge of their duty. They understand something of the
cultivation and uses of plants, and are capable of receiving enjoyment
from the beauties of nature. They partake of the pleasures of home and
neighbourhood. Above all they seem content with their lot, and free from
anxious cares and repinings. I view them as truly respectable members of
society, acting well the part allotted to them, and that, a part most of
all necessary to the well-being of the whole. They may, from untoward
accidents, be rendered objects of our compassion, but they never can of
our contempt.
_Ch._ Indeed, sir, I am very far from despising them now. But would it
not be possible to make them more comfortable than they are at present?
_Mr. Ev._ I think it would; and when giving a little from the
superfluity of persons in our situation would add so much to the
happiness of persons in theirs, I am of opinion that it is unpardonable
not to do it. I intend to use my interest to get this poor man the piece
of waste land he wants, and he shall have some from my share rather than
go without.
_Ch._ And suppose, sir, we were to give him some good potatoes to plant
it?
_Mr. Ev._ We will. Then, you know, we have a fine sow, that never fails
to produce a numerous litter twice a year. Suppose we rear one of the
next brood to be ready for him as soon as he has got his potato-ground
into bearing?
_Ch._ O yes! that will be just the thing. But how is he to build a
pigsty?
_Mr. Ev._ You may leave that to his own ingenuity! I warrant he can
manage such a job as that with the help of a neighbour, at least. Well—I
hope both the weaver, and you, will be the better for the acquaintance
we have made to-day; and always remember, that _man, when fulfilling the
duties of his station, be that station what it may, is a worthy object
of respect to his fellow-men_.
[Illustration:
EVENING XXII.
]
THE BIRTHDAY GIFT.
The populous kingdom of Ava, in India beyond the Ganges, was once
inherited by a minor prince, who was brought up in the luxurious
indolence of an eastern palace. When he had reached the age of
seventeen, which by the laws of that country, was the period of majority
for the crown, all the great men of his court, and the governors of the
provinces, according to established custom, laid at his feet presents
consisting of the most costly products of nature and art that they had
been able to procure. One offered a casket of the most precious jewels
of Golconda; another a curious piece of clockwork made by a European
artist; another, a piece of the richest silk from the looms of China;
another, a bezoar stone said to be a sovereign antidote against all
poisons and infectious diseases; another, a choice piece of the most
fragrant rose-wood, in a box of ebony inlaid with pearls; another, a
golden cruse full of genuine balsam of Mecca; another, a courser of the
purest breed of Arabia; and another, a female slave of exquisite beauty.
The whole court of the palace was overspread with rarities; and long
rows of slaves were continually passing loaded with vessels and utensils
of gold and silver, and other articles of high price.
At length, an aged magistrate from a distant province made his
appearance. He was simply clad in a long cotton robe, and his hoary
beard waved on his breast. He made his obeisance before the young
monarch, and holding forth an embroidered silken bag, he thus addressed
him:—
“Deign, great king, to accept the faithful homage and fervent good
wishes of thy servant on this important day, and with them the small
present I hold in my hand. Small, indeed, it is in show, but not so, I
trust, in value. Others have offered what may decorate thy person—here
is what will impart perpetual grace and lustre to thy features. Others
have presented thee with rich perfumes—here is what will make thy name
sweet and fragrant to the latest ages. Others have given what may afford
pleasure to thine eyes—here is what will nourish a source of
never-failing pleasure within thy breast. Others have furnished thee
with preservatives against bodily contagion—here is what will preserve
thy better parts uncontaminated. Others have heaped round thee the
riches of a temporal kingdom—this will secure thee the treasures of an
eternal one.”
He said, and drew from the purse a book, containing _the moral precepts
of the sage Zendar_, the wisest and most virtuous man the East had ever
beheld. “If,” he proceeded, “my gracious sovereign will condescend to
make this his constant companion, not an hour can pass in which its
perusal may not be a comfort and a blessing. In the arduous duties of
thy station it will prove a faithful guide and counsellor. Amid the
allurements of pleasure and the incitements of passion, it will be an
incorruptible monitor, that will never suffer thee to err without
warning thee of thy error. It will render thee a blessing to thy people,
and blessed in thyself: for what sovereign can be the one without the
other?”
He then returned the book to its place, and kneeling, gave it into the
hands of the king. He received it with respect and benignity, and
history affirms that the use he made of it corresponded with the wishes
of the donor.
ON EARTHS AND STONES
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.
_Harry._ I wonder what all this heap of stones is for?
_George._ I can tell you—it is for the lime-kiln; do n’t you see it just
by?
_Har._ O yes, I do. But what is to be done to them there?
_Geo._ Why, they are to be burnt into lime; do n’t you know that?
_Har._ But what is lime, and what are its uses?
_Geo._ I can tell you one; they lay it on the fields for manure. Do n’t
you remember we saw a number of little heaps of it, that we took for
sheep at a distance, and wondered they did not move? However, I believe
we had better ask our tutor about it. Will you please, sir, to tell us
something about lime?
_Tutor._ Willingly. But suppose, as we talked about all sorts of metals
some time ago, I should now give you a lecture about stones and earths
of all kinds, which are equally valuable, and much more common than
metals.
_Geo._ Pray, do, sir.
_Har._ I shall be very glad to hear it.
_Tut._ Well, then. In the first place, the ground we tread upon, to as
great a depth as it has been dug, consists for the most part of matter
of various appearance and hardness, called by the general name of
_earths_. In common language, indeed, only the soft and powdery
substances are so named, while the hard and solid are called _stone_ or
_rock_; but chymists use the same term for all; as, in fact, earth is
only crumbled stone, and stone only consolidated earth.
_Har._ What!—has the mould of my garden ever been stone?
_Tut._ The black earth or mould which covers the surface wherever plants
grow, consists mostly of parts of rotted vegetables, such as stalks,
leaves, and roots, mixed with sand or loose clay; but this only reaches
a little way; and beneath it you always come to a bed of gravel, or
clay, or stone of some kind. Now these earths and stones are
distinguished into several species, but principally into three, the
properties of which make them useful to man for very different purposes,
and are, therefore, very well worth knowing. As you began with asking me
about lime, I shall first mention that class of earths from which it is
obtained. These have derived their name of _calcareous_ from this very
circumstance, _calx_ being lime, in Latin; and lime is got from them all
in the same way, by burning them in a strong fire. There are many kinds
of calcareous earths. One of them is _marble_; you know what that is?
_Geo._ O yes! Our parlour chimney-piece and hearth are marble.
_Har._ And so are the monuments in the church.
_Tut._ True. There are various kinds of it: white, black, yellow, gray,
mottled and veined with different colours; but all of them are hard and
heavy stones, admitting a fine polish, on which account they are much
used in ornamental works.
_Geo._ I think statues are made of it?
_Tut._ Yes; and where it is plentiful, columns, and porticoes, and
sometimes whole buildings. Marble is the luxury of architecture.
_Har._ Where does marble come from?
_Tut._ From a great many countries. Great Britain produces some, but
mostly of inferior kinds. What we use chiefly comes from Italy. The
Greek islands yield some fine sorts. That of Paros is of ancient fame
for whiteness and purity, and the finest antique statues have been made
of Parian marble.
_Har._ I suppose black marble will not burn into white lime?
_Tut._ Yes, it will. A violent heat will expel most of the colouring
matter of marbles, and make them white. _Chalk_ is another kind of
calcareous earth. This is of a much softer consistence than marble;
being easily cut with a knife, and marking things on which it is rubbed.
It is found in great beds in the earth; and in some parts of England
whole hills are composed of it.
_Geo._ Are chalk and whiting the same?
_Tut._ Whiting is made of the finer and purer particles of chalk washed
out from the rest, and then dried in lumps. This you know is quite soft
and crumbly. There are, besides, a great variety of stones in the earth
harder than chalk, but softer than marble, which will burn to lime, and
are therefore called _lime-stones_. These differ much in colour and
other properties, and accordingly furnish lime of different qualities.
Whole ridges of mountains in various parts are composed of lime-stone,
and it is found plentifully in most of the hilly counties of England, to
the great advantage of the inhabitants.
_Geo._ Will not oyster-shells burn into lime? I think I have heard of
oyster-shell lime.
_Tut._ They will, and this is another source of calcareous earth. The
shells of all animals, both land and sea, as oysters, mussels, cockles,
crabs, lobsters, snails, and the like, and also egg-shells of all kinds,
consist of this earth; and so does coral, which is formed by insects
under the sea, and is very abundant in some countries. Vast quantities
of shells are often found deep in the earth, in the midst of chalk and
lime-stone beds; whence some have supposed that all calcareous earth is
originally an animal production.
_Har._ But where could animals enough ever have lived to make mountains
of their shells?
_Tut._ That, indeed, I cannot answer. But there are sufficient proofs
that our world must long have existed in a very different state from the
present. Well—but besides these purer calcareous earths, it is very
frequently found mingled in different proportions with other earths.
Thus _marl_, which is so much used in manuring land, and of which there
are a great many kinds, consists of calcareous earth, united with clay
and sand; and the more of this earth it contains, the richer manure it
generally makes.
_Geo._ Is there any way of discovering it when it is mixed in this
manner with other things?
_Tut._ Yes—there is an easy and sure method of discovering the smallest
portion of it. All the varieties of calcareous earth that I have
mentioned have the property of dissolving in acids, and effervescing
with them; that is, they bubble and hiss when acids are poured upon
them. You may readily try this at any time with a piece of chalk or an
oyster-shell.
_Geo._ I will pour some vinegar upon an oyster-shell as soon as I get
home. But now I think of it, I have often done so in eating oysters, and
I never observed it to hiss or bubble.
_Tut._ Vinegar is not an acid strong enough to act upon a thing so solid
as a shell. But sulphuric and muriatic acids will do it at once; and
persons who examine the nature of fossils always travel with a bottle of
one of these acids, by way of a test of calcareous earth. Your vinegar
will answer with chalk or whiting. This property of dissolving in acids,
and what is called neutralizing them, or taking away their sourness, has
caused many of the calcareous earths to be used in medicine. You know
that sometimes our food turns very sour upon the stomach, and occasions
the pain called heart-burn, and other uneasy symptoms. In these cases it
is common to give chalk or powdered shells, or other things of this
kind, which afford relief, by neutralizing the acid.
_Geo._ I suppose, then, _magnesia_ is something of this sort, for I have
often seen it given to my little sister, when they said her stomach was
out of order?
_Tut._ It is; but though magnesia has some properties in common with
calcareous earths, it possesses others that are peculiar to itself.
_Geo._ Pray, what are the other uses of these earths?
_Tut._ Such of them as are hard stone, as the marbles and many of the
lime-stones, are used for the same purposes as other stones. But their
great use is in the form of lime, which is a substance of many curious
properties that I will now explain to you. When fresh burnt it is called
_quicklime_, on account of the heat and life, as it were, which it
possesses. Have you ever seen a lump put into water?
_Geo._ Yes, I have.
_Tut._ Were you not much surprised to see it swell and crack to pieces,
with a hissing noise and a great smoke and heat?
_Geo._ I was, indeed. But what is the cause of this—how can cold water
occasion so much heat?
_Tut._ I will tell you. The strong heat to which calcareous earth is
exposed in making it lime expels all the water it contained, (for all
earths, as well as almost everything else, naturally contain water,) and
also a quantity of a peculiar kind of air which was united with it. If
water be now added to this quicklime, it is drunk in again with such
rapidity, as to crack and break the lime to pieces. At the same time a
great heat is occasioned by the water combining with the lime, and this
makes itself sensible by its effects, burning all the things that it
touches, and turning part of the water to steam. This operation is
called slacking of lime. The water in which lime is slacked dissolves a
part of it, and acquires a very pungent harsh taste: this is used in
medicine under the name of lime-water. If instead of soaking quicklime
in water, it is exposed for sometime to the air, it attracts moisture
slowly, and by degrees fails to powder, without much heat or
disturbance. But whether lime be slacked in water or air, it does not at
first return to the state in which it was before, since it still remains
deprived of its air, and on that account is still pungent and caustic.
At length, however, it recovers this also from the atmosphere, and is
then mild calcareous earth as at first. Now it is upon some of these
circumstances that the utility of lime depends. In the first place, its
burning and corroding quality makes it useful to the tanner, in
loosening all the hair from the hides, and destroying the flesh and fat
that adhered to them. And so in various other trades it is used as a
great cleanser and purifier.
_Har._ I have a thought come into my head. When it is laid upon the
ground, I suppose its use must be to burn up the weeds?
_Tut._ True—that is part of its use.
_Geo._ But it must burn up the good grass and corn too?
_Tut._ Properly objected. But the case is, that the farmer does not sow
his seeds till the lime is rendered mild by exposure to the air and
weather, and is well mixed with the soil. And even then it is reckoned a
hot and forcing manure, chiefly fit for cold and wet lands. The
principal use of lime, however, is as an ingredient in _mortar_. This,
you know, is the cement by which bricks and stones are held together in
building. It is made of fresh slacked lime and a proportion of sand well
mixed together; and, when used for plastering walls, some chopped hair
is put into it. The lime binds with the other ingredients; and in length
of time, the mortar, if well made, becomes as hard, or harder, than
stone itself.
_Geo._ I have heard of the mortar in very old buildings being harder and
stronger than any made at present.
_Tut._ That is only on account of its age. Burning lime and making
mortar are as well understood now as ever: but in order to have it
excellent, the lime should be of a good quality, and thoroughly burnt.
Some sorts of lime have the property of making mortar which will harden
under water, whence it is much valued for bridges, locks, wharfs, and
the like.
_Geo._ Pray, is not plaster of Paris a kind of lime? I know it will
become hard by only mixing water with it, for I have used it to make
casts of.
_Tut._ The powder you call plaster of Paris is made of an earth named
_gypsum_, of which there are several kinds. _Alabaster_ is a stone of
this sort, and hard enough to be used like marble. The gypseous earths
are of the calcareous kind, but they have naturally a portion of acid
united with them, whence they will not effervesce on having acid poured
on them. But they are distinguished by the property, that after being
calcined or burnt in the fire, and reduced to powder, they will set into
a solid body by the addition of water alone. This makes them very useful
for ornamental plasters, that are to receive a form or impression, such
as the stucco for the ceiling of rooms.
Well—we have said enough about calcareous earths; now to another class,
the _argillaceous_.
_Geo._ I think I know what those are. _Argilla_ is _Latin_ for _clay_.
_Tut._ True; and they are also called _clayey_ earths. In general, these
earths are of a soft texture and a sort of greasy feel; but they are
peculiarly distinguished by the property of becoming sticky on being
tempered with water, so that they may be drawn out and worked into form
like a paste. Have you ever, when you were a little boy, made a
clay-house?
_Geo._ Yes, I have.
_Tut._ Then you well know the manner in which clay is tempered, and
worked for this purpose?
_Har._ Yes—and I remember helping to make little pots and mugs of clay.
_Tut._ Then you imitated the potter’s trade; for all utensils of
earthenware are made of clays either pure or mixed. This is one of the
oldest arts among mankind, and one of the most useful. They furnish
materials for building, too; for bricks and tiles are made of these
earths. But in order to be fit for these purposes, it is necessary that
clay should not only be soft and ductile while it is forming, but
capable of being hardened afterward; and this it is, by the assistance
of fire. Pottery-ware and bricks are burnt with a strong heat in kilns,
by which they acquire a hardness equal to that of the hardest stone.
_Geo._ I think I have heard of bricks being baked by the sun’s heat
alone in very hot countries.
_Tut._ True; and they may serve for building in climates where rain
scarcely ever falls; but heavy showers would wash them away. Fire seems
to change the nature of clays; for after they have undergone its
operation, they become incapable of returning of themselves to a soft
and ductile state. You might steep brick-dust or pounded pots in water
ever so long without making it hold together in the least.
_Geo._ I suppose there are many kinds of clays?
_Tut._ There are. Argillaceous earths differ greatly from each other in
colour, purity, and other qualities. Some are perfectly white, as that
of which tobacco-pipes are made. Others are blue, brown, yellow, and in
short of all hues, which they owe to mixtures of decaying vegetable
substances or metals. Those which burn red contain a portion of iron. No
clays are found perfectly pure; but they are mixed with more or less of
other earths. The common brick-clays contain a large proportion of sand,
which often makes them crumbly and perishable. In general, the finest
earthenware is made of the purest and whitest clays; but other matters
are mixed in order to harden and strengthen them. Thus _porcelain_ or
_china_ is made with a clayey earth mixed with a stone of vitrifiable
nature, that is, which may be melted into glass; and the fine pottery
called _queen’s ware_ is a mixture of tobacco-pipe clay, and flints
burnt and powdered. Common stone _ware_ is a coarse mixture of this
sort. Some species of pottery are made with mixtures of burnt and
unburnt clay; the former I told you before, being incapable of becoming
soft again with water like a natural clay.
_Har._ Are clays of no other use than to make pottery of?
_Tut._ Yes, the richest soils are those which have a proportion of clay;
and marl, which I have already mentioned as a manure, generally contains
a good deal of it. Then clay has the property of absorbing oil or
grease, whence some kinds of it are used like soap for cleaning clothes.
The substance called _fullers’ earth_ is a mixed earth of the
argillaceous kind; and its use in taking out the oil which naturally
adheres to wool is so great, that it has been one cause of the
superiority of our woollen cloths.
_Har._ Then I suppose it is found in England?
_Tut._ Yes. There are pits of the best kind of it near Woburn in
Bedfordshire, and Nutfield in Surrey, England. The different kinds of
slate, too, are stones of the argillaceous class; and very useful ones,
for covering houses, and other purposes.
_Har._ Are writing slates like the slates used for covering houses?
_Tut._ Yes; but their superior blackness and smoothness make them show
better the marks of the pencil.
_Geo._ You have mentioned something of sand and flints, but you have not
told us what sort of earths they are.
_Tut._ I reserved that till I spoke of the third great class of earths.
This is the _siliceous_ class, so named from _silex_, which is Latin for
a flint-stone. They have also been called _vitrifiable_ earths, because
they are the principal ingredient in glass, named in Latin _vitrum_.
_Geo._ I have heard of flint-glass.
_Tut._ Yes—but neither flint, nor any other of the kind, will make
glass, even by the strongest heat, without some addition; but this we
will speak of by-and-by. I shall now tell you the principal properties
of these earths. They are all very hard, and will strike fire with
steel, when in a mass large enough for the stroke. They mostly run into
particular shapes, with sharp angles and points, and have a certain
degree of transparency, which has made them also be called _crystalline_
earths. They do not in the least soften with water, like clays; nor are
they affected by acids, nor do they burn to lime, like the calcareous
earths. As to the different kinds of them, _flint_ has already been
mentioned. It is a very common production in some parts, and is
generally met with in pebbles, or round lumps forming pebbles, in
gravel-beds, and often almost entirely covering the surface of ploughed
fields.
_Har._ But do they not hinder the corn from growing?
_Tut._ The corn, to be sure, cannot take root upon them, but I believe
it has been found that the protection they afford to the young plants
which grow under them is more than equal to the harm they do by taking
up room. Flints are also frequently found imbedded in chalk under the
ground. Those used in the Staffordshire potteries chiefly come from the
chalk-pits near Gravesend. So much for flints. You have seen white
pebbles, which are semi-transparent, and when broken resemble white
sugar-candy. They are common on the seashore, and beds of rivers.
_Har._ O, yes. We call them fire-stones. When they are rubbed together
in the dark they send out great flashes of light, and have a particular
smell.
_Tut._ True. The proper name of these is _quartz_. It is found in large
quantities in the earth, and the ores of metals are often imbedded in
it. Sometimes it is perfectly transparent, and then it is called
_crystal_. Some of these crystals shoot into exact mathematical figures;
and because many salts do the same, and are also transparent, they are
called the _crystals_ of such or such a salt.
_Geo._ Is not fine glass called crystal, too?
_Tut._ It is called so by way of simile; thus we say of a thing, “It is
as clear as a crystal.” But the only true crystal is an earth of the
kind I have been describing. Well, now we come to _sand_; for this is
properly only quartz in a powdery state. If you examine the grains of
sand singly, or look at them with a magnifying glass, you will find them
all either entirely or partly transparent; and in some of the white
shining sands the grains are all little bright crystals.
_Har._ But most sand is broken or yellowish.
_Tut._ That is owing to some mixture generally of the metallic kind. I
believe I once told you that all sands were supposed to contain a small
portion of gold. It is more certain that many of them contain iron.
_Geo._ But what could have brought this quartz and crystal into powder,
so as to have produced all the sand in the world?
_Tut._ That is not very easy to determine. On the seashore, however, the
incessant rolling of the pebbles by the waves is enough in time to grind
them to powder; and there is reason to believe that the greatest part of
what is now dry land was once sea, which may account for the vast beds
of sand met with inland.
_Geo._ I have seen some stone so soft that one might crumble it between
one’s fingers, and then it seemed to turn to sand.
_Tut._ There are several of this kind, more or less solid, which are
chiefly composed of sand conglutinated by some natural cement. Such are
called _sandstone_, or _freestone_, and are used for various purposes,
in building, making grindstones, and the like, according to their
hardness.
_Har._ Pray, what are the common pebbles that the streets are paved
with? I am sure they strike fire enough with horses’ shoes.
_Tut._ They are stones of the siliceous kind, either pure or mixed with
other earths. One of the hardest and best for this purpose is called
_granite_, which is of various kinds and colours, but always consists of
grains of different siliceous stones cemented together. The streets of
London are paved with granite brought from Scotland. In some other
stones these bits of different earths dispersed through the cement are
so large as to look like plums in a pudding; whence they have obtained
the name of _pudding-stones_.
_Geo._ I think there is a kind of stones that you have not yet
mentioned—precious stones.
_Tut._ These, too, are mostly siliceous; but some even of the hardest
and most valuable are argillaceous in their nature, though possessing
none of the external properties of clay. The opaque and half-transparent
precious stones, such as jasper, agate, cornelian, and lapis lazuli, are
engraved upon for seal-stones; the more beautiful and transparent ones,
as ruby, emerald, sapphire, topaz, which go by the name of gems, are
generally only cut and polished, and worn in rings, ear-rings,
necklaces, and the like.
_Geo._ Diamond, no doubt, is one of them.
_Har._ So it has commonly been reckoned, and the purest of all; but late
experiments have shown, that though it is the hardest body in nature it
may be totally dispersed into vapour by a strong fire, so that
mineralogists will now hardly allow it to be a stone at all, but class
it among inflammable substances. The precious stones abovementioned owe
their colours chiefly to some metallic mixture. They are in general
extremely hard, so as to cut glass, and one another; but diamonds will
cut all the rest.
_Geo._ But are they not exceedingly rare?
_Tut._ Yes; and in this rarity consists the greatest part of their
value. They are, indeed, beautiful objects; but the figure they make in
proportion to their expense is so very small, that their high price may
be reckoned one of the principal follies among mankind. What proportion
can there possibly be between the real worth of a glittering stone as
big as a hazelnut, and a magnificent house and gardens, or a large tract
of country covered with noble woods and rich meadows and cornfields? And
as to the mere glitter, a large lustre of cut glass has an infinitely
greater effect on the eye than all the jewels of a foreign prince.
_Geo._ Will you please to tell us how glass is made?
_Tut._ Willingly. The base of it is, as I said before, some earth of the
siliceous class. Those commonly used are flint and sand. Flint is first
burnt or calcined, which makes it quite white, like enamel; and it is
then powdered. This is the material sometimes used for some very white
glasses; but sand is that commonly preferred, as being already in a
powdery form. The white crystalline sands are used for fine glass; the
brown or yellow for the common sort. As these earths will not melt of
themselves, the addition in making glass is somewhat that promotes their
fusion. Various things will do this; but what is generally used is an
alkaline salt, obtained from the ashes of burnt vegetables. Of this
there are several kinds, as potash, pearlash, barilla, and kelp. The
salt is mixed with the sand in a certain proportion, and the mixture
then exposed in earthen pots to a violent heat, till it is thoroughly
melted. The mass is then cooled till it is nearly of the consistence of
dough, and in this state it is fashioned by blowing and the use of
shears and other instruments. You must see this done some time, for it
is one of the most curious and pleasing of all manufactures; and it is
not possible to form an idea of the ease and dexterity with which glass
is wrought, without an actual view.
_Har._ I should like very much to see it, indeed.
_Geo._ Where is glass made in this country?
_Tut._ In many places. Some of the finest in London, but the coarser
kinds generally where coals are cheap; as at Newcastle and its
neighbourhood, in Lancashire, at Stourbridge, Bristol, and in South
Wales. I should have told you, however, that in our finest and most
brilliant glass, a quantity of the oxide of lead is put, which vitrifies
with the other ingredients, and gives the glass more firmness and
density. The blue, yellow, and red glasses are coloured with the oxides
of other metals. As to the common green glass, it is made with an alkali
that has a good deal of calcareous earth remaining with the ashes of the
plant. But to understand all the different circumstances of glassmaking,
one must have a thorough knowledge of chymistry.
_Geo._ I think making of glass is one of the finest inventions of human
skill.
_Tut._ It is perhaps not of that capital importance that some other arts
possess; but it has been a great addition to the comfort and pleasure of
life in many ways. Nothing makes such clean and agreeable vessels as
glass, which has the quality of not being corroded by any kind of
liquor, as well as that of showing its contents by its transparency.
Hence it is greatly preferable to the most precious metals for drinking
out of; and for the same reasons it is preferred to every other material
for chymical utensils, where the heat to be employed is not strong
enough to melt it.
_Har._ Then glass windows.
_Tut._ Ay; that is a very material comfort in a climate like ours, where
we so often wish to let in the light, and keep out the cold wind and
rain. What could be more gloomy than to sit in the dark, or with no
other light than came in through small holes covered with oiled paper or
bladder unable to see anything passing without doors! Yet this must have
been the case with the most sumptuous palaces before the invention of
window-glass, which was a good deal later than that of bottles and
drinking-glasses.
_Har._ I think looking-glasses are very beautiful.
_Tut._ They are, indeed, very elegant pieces of furniture, and very
costly too. The art of casting glass into large plates, big enough to
reach almost from the bottom to the top of a room, is but lately
introduced into this country from France. But the most splendid and
brilliant manner of employing glass is in lustres and chandeliers, hung
around with drops cut so as to reflect the light with all the colours of
the rainbow. Some of the shops in London, filled with these articles,
appear to realize all the wonders of an enchanted palace in the Arabian
Nights’ Entertainments
_Geo._ But are not spectacles and spying-glasses more useful than all
these?
_Tut._ I did not mean to pass them over, I assure you. By the curious
invention of optical glasses of various kinds, not only the natural
defects of the sight have been remedied, and old age has been in some
measure lightened of one of its calamities, but the sense of seeing has
been wonderfully extended. The telescope has brought distant objects
within our view, while the microscope has given us a clear survey of
near objects too minute for our unassisted eyes. By means of both, some
of the brightest discoveries of the modern times have been made; so that
glass has proved not less admirable in promoting science than in
contributing to splendour and convenience. Well—I don’t know that I have
anything more at present to say relative to the class of earths. We have
gone through the principal circumstances belonging to their three great
divisions, the _calcareous_, _argillaceous_, and _siliceous_. You will
remember, however, that most of the earths and stones offered by nature
are not in any one of these kinds perfectly pure, but contain a mixture
of one or both the others. There is not a pebble that you can pick up,
which would not exercise the skill of a mineralogist fully to ascertain
its properties, and the materials of its composition. So inexhaustible
is nature!
[Illustration:
The Native Village, p. 281.
EVENING XXIII.
]
SHOW AND USE; OR, THE TWO PRESENTS.
One morning, Lord Richmore, coming down to breakfast, was welcomed with
the tidings that his favourite mare, Miss Slim, had brought a foal, and
also, that a she-ass, kept for his lady’s use as a milker, had dropped a
young one. His lordship smiled at the inequality of the presents nature
had made him. “As for the foal,” said he to the groom, “that, you know,
has been long promised to my neighbour, Mr. Scamper. For young Balaam,
you may dispose of him as you please.” The groom thanked his lordship,
and said he would then give him to Isaac the woodman.
In due time, Miss Slim’s foal, which was the son of a noted racer, was
taken to Squire Scamper’s, who received him with great delight, and out
of compliment to the donor, named him _Young Peer_. He was brought up
with at least as much care and tenderness as the Squire’s own
children—kept in a warm stable, fed with the best of corn and hay, duly
dressed and regularly exercised. As he grew up, he gave tokens of great
beauty. His colour was bright bay, with a white star on his forehead;
his coat was fine, and shone like silk; and every point about him seemed
to promise perfection of shape and make. Everybody admired him as the
completest colt that could be seen.
So fine a creature could not be destined to any useful employment. After
he had passed his third year, he was sent to Newmarket to be trained for
the turf, and a groom was appointed to the care of him alone. His
master, who could not well afford the expense, saved part of it by
turning off a domestic tutor whom he kept for the education of his sons,
and was content with sending them to the curate of the parish.
At four years old, Young Peer started for a subscription purse, and came
in second out of a number of competitors. Soon after, he won a country
plate, and filled his master with joy and triumph. The Squire now turned
all his attention to the turf, made matches, betted high, and was at
first tolerably successful. At length, having ventured all the money he
could raise upon one grand match, Young Peer ran on the wrong side of
the post, was distanced, and the Squire ruined.
Meantime, young Balaam went into Isaac’s possession, where he had a very
different training. He was left to pick up his living as he could in the
lanes and commons; and on the coldest days in winter he had no other
shelter than the lee-side of the cottage, out of which he was often glad
to pluck the thatch for a subsistence. As soon as ever he was able to
bear a rider, Isaac’s children got upon him, sometimes two or three at
once; and if he did not go to their mind, a broomstick or bunch of furze
was freely applied to his hide. Nevertheless, he grew up, as the
children themselves did, strong and healthy; and though he was rather
bare on the ribs, his shape was good, and his limbs vigorous.
It was not long before his master thought of putting him to some use; so
taking him to the wood, he fastened a load of fagots on his back, and
sent him with his son Tom to the next town. Tom sold the fagots, and
mounting upon Balaam, rode him home. As Isaac could get plenty of fagots
and chips, he found it a profitable trade to send them for daily sale
upon Balaam’s back. Having a little garden, which, from the barrenness
of the soil, yielded him nothing of value, he bethought him of loading
Balaam back from town with dung for manure. Though all he could bring at
once was contained in two small panniers, yet this in time amounted to
enough to mend the soil of his whole garden, so that he grew very good
cabbages and potatoes, to the great relief of his family. Isaac being
now sensible of the value of his ass, began to treat him with more
attention. He got a small stack of rushy hay for his winter fodder, and
with his own hands built him a little shed of boughs and mud, in order
to shelter him from the bad weather. He would not suffer any of his
family to use Balaam ill, and after his daily journeys he was allowed to
ramble at pleasure. He was now and then cleaned and dressed, and upon
the whole made a reputable figure. Isaac took in more land from the
waste, so that by degrees he became a little farmer, and kept a horse
and cart, a cow, and two or three pigs. This made him quite a rich man,
but he had always the gratitude to impute his prosperity to the good
services of Balaam, the groom’s present; while the Squire cursed Young
Peer as the cause of his ruin, and many a time wished that his lordship
had kept his dainty gift to himself.
THE CRUCIFORM-FLOWERED PLANTS.
_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._
_George._ How rich yon field looks with its yellow flowers! I wonder
what they can be?
_Tutor._ Suppose you go and see if you can find it out; and bring a
stalk of the flowers with you.
_Geo._ (_Returning_). I know now—they are turnips.
_Tut._ I thought you could make it out when you came near them. These
turnips are left to seed, which is the reason why you see them run to
flower. Commonly they are pulled up sooner.
_Harry._ I should not have thought a turnip had so sweet a flower.
_Geo._ I think I have smelt others like them. Pray, sir, what class of
plants do they belong to?
_Tut._ To a very numerous one, with which it is worth your while to get
acquainted. Let us sit down and examine them. The petal, you observe,
consists of four flat leaves set opposite to each other, or crosswise.
From this circumstance the flowers have been called _cruciform_. As most
plants with flowers of this kind bear their seeds in pods, they have
likewise been called the _siliquose_ plants, _siliqua_ being the Latin
for a pod.
_Geo._ But the papilionaceous flowers bear pods, too.
_Tut._ True; and therefore the name is not a good one. Now pull off the
petals one by one. You see they are fastened by long claws within the
flower cup. Now count the chives.
_Har._ There are six.
_Geo._ But they are not all of the same length—two are much shorter than
the rest.
_Tut._ Well observed. It is from this that Linnæus has formed a
particular class for the whole tribe, which he calls _tetradynamia_, a
word implying _four powers_, or the _power of four_, as if the four
longer chives were more perfect and efficacious than the two shorter;
which, however, we do not know to be the case. This superior length of
four chives is conspicuous in most plants of this tribe, but not in all.
They have, however, other resemblances which are sufficient to
constitute them a natural family; and accordingly all botanists have
made them such.
The flowers, as I have said, have in all of them four petals placed
crosswise. The calyx also consists of four oblong and hollow leaves.
There is a single pistil, standing upon a seed-bud, which, turns either
into a long pod, or a short round one called a pouch; and hence are
formed the two great branches of the family, the podded and the pouched.
The seed-vessel has two valves, or external openings, with a partition
between. The seeds are small and roundish, attached alternately to both
sutures or joinings of the valves. Do you observe all these
circumstances?
_Geo. and Har._ We do.
_Tut._ You shall examine them more minutely in a larger plant of the
kind. Further, almost all these plants have somewhat of a biting taste,
and also a disagreeable smell in their leaves, especially when decayed.
A turnip-field, you know, smells but indifferently; and cabbage, which
is one of this class, is apt to be remarkably offensive.
_Har._ Yes, there is nothing worse than rotten cabbage-leaves.
_Geo._ And the very water in which they are boiled is enough to scent a
whole house.
_Tut._ The flowers, however, of almost all the family are fragrant, and
some remarkably so. What do you think of wall-flowers, and stocks?
_Har._ What, are they of this kind?
_Tut._ Yes—and so is candy-tuft, and rocket.
_Har._ Then they are not to be despised.
_Tut._ No—and especially as not one of the whole class, I believe, is
poisonous; but, on the contrary, many of them afford good food for man
and beast. Shall I tell you about the principal of them?
_Geo._ Pray do, sir.
_Tut._ The pungency of taste which so many of them possess has caused
them to be used for salad herbs. Thus we have cress, water-cress, and
mustard; to which might be added many more which grow wild, as
lady-smock, wild-rocket, hedge-mustard, and jack-by-the-hedge, or
sauce-alone. Mustard, you know, is also greatly used for its seeds, the
powder or flower of which, made into a sort of paste with salt and
water, is eaten with many kinds of meat. Rape-seeds are very similar to
them, and from both an oil is pressed out, of the mild or tasteless
kind, as it is likewise from cole-seed, another product of this class.
Scurvy-grass, which is a pungent plant of this family, growing by the
seaside, has obtained its name from being a remedy for the scurvy. Then
there is horseradish, with the root of which I am sure you are well
acquainted, as a companion to roast beef. Common radish, too, is a plant
of this kind, which has a good deal of pungency. One sort of it has a
root like a turnip, which brings it near in quality to the turnip
itself. This last plant, though affording a sweet and mild nutriment,
has naturally a degree of pungency and rankness.
_Geo._ That, I suppose, is the reason why turnipy milk and butter have
such a strong taste?
_Tut._ It is.
_Har._ Then why do they feed cows with it?
_Tut._ In this case as in many others, quality is sacrificed to
quantity. But the better use of the turnip to the farmer is to fatten
sheep and cattle. By its assistance he is enabled to keep many more of
these animals than he could find grass or hay for; and the culture of
turnips prepares his land for grain as well, or better, than could be
done by letting it lie quite fallow. Turnip husbandry, as it is called,
is one of the capital modern improvements of agriculture.
_Geo._ I think I have heard that Norfolk is famous for it.
_Tut._ It is so. That county abounds in light sandy lands, which are
peculiarly suitable to turnips. But they are now grown in many parts of
England besides. Well—but we must say something more about cabbage, an
article of food of very long standing. The original species of this is a
seaside plant, but cultivation has produced a great number of varieties
well known in our gardens, as white and red cabbage, kale, colewort,
brocoli, borecole, and cauliflower.
_Har._ But the flower of cauliflower does not seem at all like that of
cabbage or turnip.
_Tut._ The white head, called its flower, is not properly so, but
consists of a cluster of imperfect buds. If they are left to grow for
seed, they throw out some spikes of yellow flowers like common cabbage.
Brocoli heads are of the same kind. As to the head of white or red
cabbage, it consists of a vast number of leaves closing round each
other, by which the innermost are prevented from expanding, and remain
white on account of the exclusion of the light and air. This part, you
know, is most valued for food. In some countries they cut cabbage-heads
into quarters, and make them undergo a kind of acid fermentation; after
which they are salted and preserved for winter food, under the name of
sour-krout.
_Geo._ Cattle, too, are sometimes fed with cabbage, I believe.
_Tut._ Yes, and large fields of them are cultivated for that purpose.
They succeed best in stiff clayey soils, where they sometimes grow to an
enormous bigness. They are given to milch kine as well as to fattening
cattle.
_Geo._ Do not they give a bad taste to the milk?
_Tut._ They are apt to do so unless great care is taken to pick off all
the decayed leaves.
Coleworts, which are a smaller sort of cabbage, are sometimes grown for
feeding sheep and cattle. I think I have now mentioned most of the
useful plants of this family, which you see are numerous and important.
They both yield beef and mutton, and the sauce to them. But many of the
species are troublesome weeds. You see how yonder corn is overrun with
yellow flowers.
_Geo._ Yes: they are as thick as if they had been sown.
_Tut._ They are of this family, and called charlock, or wild mustard, or
corn kale, which, indeed, are not all exactly the same things, though
nearly resembling. These produce such plenty of seeds, that it is very
difficult to clear a field of them, if once they are suffered to grow
till the seeds ripen. An extremely common weed in gardens and by
roadsides is shepherd’s-purse, which is a very good specimen of the
pouch-bearing plants of this tribe, its seed-vessels being exactly the
figure of a heart. Lady-smock is often so abundant a weed in wet meadows
as to make them all over white with their flowers. Some call this plant
cuckoo-flower, because its flowering is about the same time with the
first appearance of that bird in spring.
_Geo._ I remember some pretty lines in a song about spring, in which
lady-smock is mentioned:—
“When daisies pied, and violets blue,
And lady-smocks all silver white,
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue,
Do paint the meadows with delight.”
_Tut._ They are Shakspeare’s. You see he gives the name of cuckoo-bud to
some other flower, a yellow one, which appears at the same season. But
still earlier than this time, walls and hedge-banks are enlivened by a
very small white flower, called whitlow-grass, which is one of the
tribe.
_Har._ Is it easy to distinguish the plants of this family from one
another?
_Tut._ Not very easy; for the general similarity of the flowers is so
great, that little distinction can be drawn from them. The marks of the
species are chiefly taken from the form and manner of growth of the
seed-vessel, and we will examine some of them by the descriptions in a
book of botany. There is one very remarkable seed-vessel, which probably
you have observed in the garden. It is a perfectly round large flat
pouch, which after it has shed its seed, remains on the stalk and looks
likes a thin white bladder. The plant bearing it is commonly called
honesty.
_Har._ O, I know it very well! It is put into winter flower-pots.
_Tut._ True. So much, then, for the tetradynamous or cruciform-flowered
plants. You cannot well mistake them for any other class, if you remark
the six chives, four of them, generally, but not always, longer than the
two others; the single pistil changing either into a long pod or a round
pouch containing the seeds; the four opposite petals of the flower, and
four leaves of the calyx. You may safely make a salad of the young
leaves wherever you find them: the worst they can do to you is to bite
your tongue.
THE NATIVE VILLAGE.—A DRAMA.
Scene—_A scattered Village almost hidden with trees_.
_Enter_ HARFORD _and_ BEAUMONT.
_Harford._ There is the place! This is the green on which I played many
a day with my companions; there are the tall trees that I have so often
climbed for birds’-nests; and that is the pond where I used to sail my
walnut-shell boats. What a crowd of mixed sensations rush on my mind!
What pleasures, and what regret! Yes, there is somewhat in our native
soil that affects the mind in a manner different from every other scene
in nature.
_Beaumont._ With you it must be merely the _place_; for I think you can
have no attachments of friendship or affection in it, considering your
long absence, and the removal of all your family.
_Harf._ No, I have no family connexions, and indeed can scarcely be said
ever to have had any; for, as you know, I was almost utterly neglected
after the death of my father and mother, and while all my elder brothers
and sisters were dispersed to one part or another, and the little
remaining property was disposed of, I was left with the poor people who
nursed me, to be brought up just as they thought proper; and the little
pension that was paid for me entirely ceased after a few years.
_Beau._ Then how were you afterward supported?
_Harf._ The honest couple who had the care of me continued to treat me
with the greatest kindness; and poor as they were, not only maintained
me as a child of their own, but did all in their power to procure me
advantages more suited to my birth than my deserted situation. With the
assistance of the worthy clergyman of the parish, they put me to a
day-school in the village, clothed me decently, and being themselves
sober, religious persons, took care to keep me from vice. The
obligations I am under to them, will, I hope, never be effaced from my
memory, and it is on their account alone that I have undertaken this
journey.
_Beau._ How long did you continue with them?
_Harf._ Till I was thirteen. I then felt an irresistible desire to fight
for my country; and learning by accident that a distant relation of our
family was a captain of a man-of-war, I took leave of my worthy
benefactors, and set off to the seaport where he lay, the good people
furnishing me in the best manner they were able with necessaries for the
journey. I shall never forget the tenderness with which they parted with
me. It was, if possible, beyond that of the kindest parents. You know my
subsequent adventures, from the time of my becoming a midshipman, to my
present state of first-lieutenant of the Britannia. Though it is now
fifteen years since my departure, I feel my affection for these good
folks stronger than ever, and could not be easy without taking the first
opportunity of seeing them.
_Beau._ It is a great chance if they are both living.
_Harf._ I happened to hear by a young man of the village, not long
since, that they were; but I believe much reduced in their
circumstances.
_Beau._ Whereabouts did they live?
_Harf._ Just at the turning of this corner. But what’s this?—I can’t
find the house—yet I am sure I have not forgot the situation. Surely it
must be pulled down! Oh! my dear old friends, what can have become of
you?
_Beau._ You had best ask that little girl.
_Harf._ Hark ye, my dear! do you know one John Beech, of this place?
_Girl._ What, old John Beech? O yes, very well, and Mary Beech, too.
_Harf._ Where do they live?
_Girl._ A little farther on in the lane.
_Harf._ Did they not once live hereabouts?
_Girl._ Yes, till Farmer Tything pulled the house down to make his
hop-garden.
_Harf._ Come with me to show me the place, and I’ll give you a penny.
_Girl._ Yes, that I will. (_They walk on._) There—that low thatched
house—and there’s Mary spinning at the door.
_Harf._ There, my dear (_gives money, and the girl goes away_). How my
heart beats! Surely that cannot be my nurse! Yes, I recollect her now;
but how very old and sickly she looks!
_Beau._ Fifteen years in her life, with care and hardship, must go a
great way in breaking her down.
_Harf._ (_going to the cottage-door_). Good morning, good woman; can you
give my companion and me something to drink? We are very thirsty with
walking this hot day.
_Mary Beech._ I have nothing better than water, sir; but if you please
to accept of that, I will bring you some.
_Beau._ Thank you—we will trouble you for some.
_Mary._ Will you please to walk in out of the sun, gentlemen; ours is a
very poor house, indeed; but I will find you a seat to sit down on,
while I draw the water.
_Harf._ (_to Beau._). The same good creature as ever! Let us go in.