Little John, getting on his legs, began buttoning his jacket with great

firmness and vigor, preparatory to action. Master C. J. London, with a

dejected aspect and an occasional sob, went on with his exercise.

WAITING FOR THE POST.--INTERESTING ANECDOTES.

In the village in which we were at one time residing, there dwelt, in a

small cottage commanded by our windows, a lieutenant in the navy on

half-pay. We were a child at the time, and one of our amusements was to

watch from our play-room the bees that worked in that cottage-garden,

and the "old gentleman"--as we styled him, because his hair was

gray--pace, with his quick, quarter-deck step the little path that

divided the flower-beds. It was a neat though very small dwelling,

almost shut from view by lilacs and evergreens; the garden was gay with

sweet flowers, which might almost be called _domestic_ in this age of

new buds and blossoms; and it was carefully tended by a young girl--his

only daughter--and an old female servant. We noticed every morning that

the lieutenant, who was a tall figure, and would have been a handsome

and commanding-looking man but for his very great paleness and his

stooping, walked briskly to the gate, and holding himself a little more

erect than usual, glanced first at the vane, noticing with a sailor's

instinct the quarter in which the wind sat; and then turning, gazed

anxiously up the village in the direction of the postman's approach,

till that functionary appeared in sight. Then he would lay his hand

nervously on the top of the little garden-gate, half open it, close it

again, and finally, as the letter-carrier advanced, hail him with the

inquiry, "Any letter for me to-day, Roger?" If the answer were a "No,"

and such was the ordinary reply, he would turn away with a sigh, and

walk slowly back to the house, bending more than ever, and coughing

painfully--he had a distressing cough at times; but his daughter would

meet him at the door, and pass her arm through his, and lead him in,

with a gentle affection in the action that was quite intelligible; and

though we could not hear her words, we knew she was consoling him. _We_

also were sorry for his disappointment. Sometimes a letter came, and he

would take it eagerly, but look at it with a changed countenance, for

most frequently it was only one of those large wafered epistles we have

since learned to recognize as bills--even then we could be sure it was

not the letter which he looked for.

And thus he watched daily for something that never came, all through the

bright summer and autumn, and even when the snow lay thick upon the

ground, and the cold morning and evening breeze must have been injurious

to one in feeble health. At last we missed him from his usual post, and

the arrival of the village doctor at the cottage confirmed our fears

that he was ill. We never saw him again. A fire glimmered from an upper

room, the chamber in which he slept; and at times his daughter's figure

passed the window as she moved across it, in her gentle and noiseless

task of nursing the dying officer. One morning we did not see the usual

blaze from the casement: but the old woman came out and shut the

shutters close, and drew down the blinds, and we saw as she re-entered

the house that she was weeping. That very morning the postman, Roger,

stopped at the little wicket, and rang the bell. He held in his hand a

very large, long letter, with words printed outside. The woman-servant

answered him, and took the letter, putting her apron to her eyes as he

spoke. It was the long-hoped-for, long-expected letter from the

Admiralty appointing the old officer to a ship. Alas, it came too late!

He who had so long waited in restless anxiety--who had so sickened with

disappointed hope--was gone to a world where the weary rest, and man's

toil and worth are neither neglected nor forgotten. We heard afterward

all his sad history, of which there are so many lamentable counterparts.

He had gone to sea while yet a child, had toiled, suffered, and fought

at the period when the very existence of his country depended on the

valor of the navy; but then came the peace, and with many another brave

man he had found himself on half-pay, alike unrewarded and forgotten.

Mr. St. Quentin--our gentleman who waited for the post--was a widower

with one only child, who was his idol. To educate and provide for her

had been his great anxiety. How could this be done on his half-pay? It

was impossible. True he read hard to become himself her teacher, but

there was much he could not impart to her; and with heroic self-denial

he placed her at an expensive school, and went himself almost without

the common necessaries of life to keep her there. Still the heavy burden

thus laid on his slender means obliged him to contract debts, and it was

agony to his just and upright spirit when he found it impossible to

defray them.

He had used great energy in his endeavors to get employed again, and

just before we made his acquaintance, "waiting for the post," had

received a promise that his services should be remembered. Both promise

and fulfillment came too late! The one awoke hopes which, daily

deferred, had preyed on the very springs of life, and taxed too sorely a

constitution much tried by toil and suffering in youth; the other came

when the heart it would have cheered had eased to feel the joy or sorrow

of mortality. His orphan daughter, a pretty gentle creature of

seventeen, was left totally destitute--almost friendless. If they had

relatives, all communion with them had long ceased; and the utterly

desolate and isolated situation of Mary St. Quentin was nearly

unparalleled. My family, who were of her father's profession, were much

affected by it, and took a warm interest in her fortunes. They procured

for her the small pension accorded to the orphans of naval or military

men, with contributions from several similar funds; and finally received

her into our house, until she could hear of a situation as governess,

for which her dearly-purchased education admirably fitted her.

I remember well the evening she first came among us. How sad and pale

she looked in her solemn black dress, and how low and mournful her voice

sounded! Poor girl! a rough world was before her; a fiercer and more

terrible conflict for her timid nature than contending with the storms

and battles in which her father had borne a part. We pitied her greatly,

and strove to soothe and cheer her with all our little skill; though we

certainly did not adopt the most likely means to achieve our object,

when some days afterward we told her how we had watched her poor father

as he waited for the post. Then for the first time since her coming

among us we saw her weep; and she murmured, "If he could have seen the

letter!"

After a time the exertions of her friends procured her a situation, and

she left us. How anxiously _we_ then watched for the letter that was to

tell us that our dear new friend was safe, and well, and comfortable;

and it did not tarry! Mary wrote gratefully, and even cheerfully. She

had been kindly received; the home in which her lot was cast was a

splendid chateau, in which all the comforts and luxuries of life

abounded. Moreover, the family treated her as a gentlewoman, and her

pupils were clever and well-trained. She was very thankful for the

career of toil and seclusion to which circumstances condemned her--very

willing to do her duty gladly in that state of life in which it had

pleased God to place her. She remained with this family four or five

years, passing her occasional holidays with us; and we learned to love

her as a sister, and to look up to her for advice, which was ever as

wise as it was gentle and affectionate. She was a very sweet

creature--so quietly gay, so unselfish, so contented, and so modestly

intelligent, that I can not remember that I have ever met with so

perfect a woman. The last holiday she spent with us we saw a change in

her, however; and it must have been a _great_ mental change to be

perceptible in one so self-possessed and patient. She had grown less

attentive to our often exacting wishes; she had become absent and

thoughtful--nay, at times a slight irritation was observable in her

manner; but that which struck us most was the habit she really appeared

to have inherited from her father--of watching for the postman. We

remarked how eagerly she listened for his knock--how tremulously she

asked for whom the letters were directed--and the painfully-repressed

sigh and darkened countenance with which she turned away when there was

none for her! As she had finally quitted the family with whom she had so

long resided, and was waiting for a new engagement, we thought at first

that it was an epistle from some of the quarters in which she had

applied for one she was expecting; but that could not be the case, for

when she had made a re-engagement, and it was fixed that she was to

proceed to the south of France with her future pupils' family, her

watching for the post became more evident and more anxious: nay, to us

who observed it, absolutely painful. What letter could she expect so

nervously? Why was she daily so sadly disappointed? The solution came at

last. It was the very morning fixed for her departure for London, where

she was to meet her future charge. Her boxes, corded and directed, were

in the hall; she stood at the window, dressed for her journey, weeping

bitterly--for she loved us all, and still timidly shrank from

strangers--and we were holding each a cold, trembling hand, when the

servant entered with the letters--"One for Miss St. Quentin."

She glanced at it, suppressed a faint exclamation, and taking it, her

hand trembled so violently that she could scarcely break the seal. But

when it _was_ open, and her eye had glanced over the contents, what a

sudden change took place in her countenance! She blushed deeply, her lip

trembled, and then smiled, and breaking from among us, she sought our

mother, and asked to speak to her alone. That letter had changed her

destiny. It was a proposal of marriage from a man of good position and

fortune, who had won her affections by a thousand acts of attention and

tenderness, but had left her uncertain whether he intended to fulfill an

only implied promise or not. True he had said something of writing to

her, and therefore she had waited for the post with such anxiety, and

for so long a time in vain: but there had been good and sufficient

reasons for his prolonged silence, and the lady was only too ready to

forgive it.

She went to town, accompanied by my father, arranged to remain in

England (finding a substitute as governess for her disappointed

employers), and two months afterward was married in our little village

church to one who has made her as happy as it is possible to be in a

world of trial and sorrow.

A very singular and painful _waiting for the post_ occurred at Malta,

some years since: it was related to us by a person concerned in the

affair, and we offer the reader the tale as it was told to us:

It was St. John's day, a festival highly venerated by the Maltese, who

claim the beloved disciple as their patron saint. The English troops

quartered in the island were to be reviewed on it, and as is usual, in

compliment to the faith of the islanders, the artillery was ordered to

fire a salute in honor of the day. It was a yearly custom; but the two

officers whose duty it was at this time to see it fulfilled thought it

savored of idolatry, and in the presence of the general and his staff

refused to order their men to fire. They were of course put under an

arrest for disobedience; but, the circumstances of the case considered,

the general in command hesitated how to proceed with them, and at his

request the governor of the island wrote to the commander-in-chief at

home for instructions in the matter, as it was a case of "tender

conscience." Some delay of course necessarily occurred in getting a

reply, and the anxiety with which the puzzled general and rebellious

officers awaited it may be imagined. Day after day did the eyes of the

former traverse the bright blue sea, across which must come the decision

of England, and day after day he waited for the post in vain. Foul

winds, bad weather, all sorts of causes, stayed the course of the

packet--there was no steam conveyance in those days--and before she

actually entered Valetta harbor he to whom the letter had been written,

the noble governor, was dead. It was judged expedient that the general

should, however, open the commander-in-chief's answer, to prevent

further unpleasant delay. Alas, it had been intended for the eye of Lord

H----only! The commander-in-chief blamed the general, "who ought," he

said, "to have tried and broke the officers on the spot--_nothing_ in a

military man could excuse disobedience to orders;" adding with reference

to the general (of course without intending that any one but Lord H----

should learn his private sentiments), "_but I never had much opinion of

that officer!_"

Poor General P---- loved and reverenced his military chief, as all

soldiers must. Those words so singularly presented to his eyes, wounded

him deeply. He was at the time suffering from low fever; they completed

its work, making an impression on his mind no arguments could remove. He

obeyed the orders given; held a court-martial; tried the offenders;

dismissed them from the service; and then, taking to his bed, sank

rapidly, and died before the next post from England could reach the

island. He never waited for another!

And now I approach another reminiscence of this common human anxiety, of

which I can not think without deep emotion. We had a young cousin, a

fine lad full of spirit and ardor, a midshipman in the royal navy, who

was our especial pride and delight. We had no brother, but he supplied

the want to us, being, as a child, our constant playmate--as a youth,

our merriest and best-loved correspondent. How full of fun, quaint

humor, and droll adventures were his letters, and how we used to long

for them, especially for that which proclaimed his arrival in the

English seas! The period for receiving such an announcement had arrived,

for his ship had entered Plymouth harbor; and I can never forget how

eagerly I used to wait for the postman, how restlessly I watched him at

an opposite door, and how I hated the servant for delaying him by a

tardy attention to his knock! No letter came, however; day after day,

hour after hour passed, and disappointment became uneasiness, and alarm

so terrible, that even the sad certainty was at last a relief.

He never wrote again. He had perished in Tampier Bay, and his death had

been one of many instances of unrecorded but undoubted heroism. The

weather was stormy, but it was necessary to send a boat on shore, and

Charles had good-naturedly offered to take the duty of being its officer

in the stead of a young and delicate messmate who had been ordered on

the service. It upset in the surf: two men and our poor cousin clung to

its keel for some minutes; at length it became apparent that one must

let go his hold, or all would perish. Both the seamen were married men,

and uttered their natural regret at leaving their children fatherless.

The gallant youth (as they afterward reported when picked up) observed,

"Then my life is less precious than yours. My poor mother, God bless

you!" and, quitting his hold, perished in the ocean, which by a strange

fatality has been the grave of nearly all his family.

Waiting for the post upon the mountains of Western India is recalled by

this anecdote to my recollection. I well remember the last time I stood

on the heights of Bella Vista, as our ghaut was called, watching the

fleet approach of the _tapaul_, or postman. It was near sunset--a

glorious hour in all lands, but especially so in the East. A gorgeous

canopy of colored light was above us; beneath the "everlasting hills;"

Their tops--for we looked down on the first ranges of ghauts--tipped

with gold and crimson, and regal purple, or with blended colors, as if

they had caught and detained a portion of the rainbow itself. Here and

there, bits of jungle were perceptible, from one of which issued the

running courier, whose speed was no bad commentary or explanation of

Job's comparison--"My days are swift as a post." He was a tall, light

figure, gayly dressed, and holding a lance with a little glittering flag

at the top. He brought letters from the presidency; and some native

correspondence was also transmitted through his means. These running

posts are occasionally picked off by a tiger in their passage through

the jungle; but the journey to our (then) abode was so frequently made,

that the wild animals seldom appeared in the route, ceding it tacitly to

the lords of creation, and permitting us to receive our letters safely.

What joy it was to open one from England! it is really worth a journey

to the East to feel this pleasure. The native letters destined for the

official personages of the family are singular-looking affairs. They

have for envelope a bag of king-cob cloth--a costly fabric of blended

silk and gold thread; this is tied carefully with a gold cord, to which

is appended a huge seal, as large and thick as a five-shilling piece.

Once during our residence in India the homeward post was delayed by the

loss of the steamer which bore our dispatches to England; they must have

been vainly expected for two months, doubtless to the great alarm and

anxiety of the public. Some of the mail boxes were, however, recovered

from the sunken wreck by means of divers; and our epistles, after

visiting the depths of the Red Sea, were safely conveyed to England.

Once before, we were told, a similar catastrophe had occurred, but the

boxes became so saturated with sea-water, that the addresses of the

letters were illegible. It was judged expedient, therefore, to publish

as much of their contents as was decipherable, in the Indian

papers--under the idea that those to whom they were addressed would

recognize their own missives from the context; and a most

absurdly-mischievous experiment it proved. Never was such a breach of

confidence. All sorts of disagreeable secrets were made out by the

gentle public of the presidency. Intimate friends learned how they

laughed at, or hated one another; matrimonial schemes were betrayed; the

scandal, gossip, and confidential disclosures of the Indian letter-bag

making as strange and unpleasant a confusion as if the peninsula had

suddenly been converted into Madame de Genlis's "Palace of Truth." There

was no little alarm when our steamer was lost, lest a similar disclosure

should be made; but the world had grown wiser; and those epistles which

were illegibly addressed were, we believe, destroyed, unless when

relating to commercial interests, and other business.

We hope we have not wearied our gentle reader with this subject, for we

have yet another little incident for his ear relative to it, which was

told us as a fact by a French lady who knew the person concerned. Some

friends of hers residing in the provinces had an only daughter, an

heiress, and consequently a desirable match. Her hand was eagerly sought

by many suitors, and was at last yielded by her parents to a gentleman

of some property who had recently purchased a chateau in the

neighborhood. His apparent wealth, his high connections, and very

elegant manners, had won their favor; and in great delight at the

excellent match her daughter was about to make, Madame L---- wrote to her

friends and relatives to inform them of the approaching happy event.

Among these was a lady residing at Marseilles, to whom she described,

with all a Frenchwoman's vivacity, the person, manners, &c., of the

bridegroom elect. Answers of congratulation and good wishes poured in of

course; and Madame L----, who had a secret persuasion that she was an

unknown and unhonored Madame de Sevigne, became so pleased with her

increased correspondence, that she made a point of never leaving the

house till after the delivery of the post. The Marseilles correspondent

was the only one of the number with whom she had communicated who had

not replied to her letter. This answer was therefore desired with great

eagerness; and Madame L---- remembered afterward, though at the time it

awoke no suspicion in her mind, that the lover always appeared uneasy

when she expressed her anxiety on the subject, or her desire to hear

from her friend.

The wedding-day arrived; and the bride groom, manifesting a most

flattering impatience for the performance of the ceremony, came early to

the house of his affianced, to accompany the family party to the

magistrates, where the contract was to be drawn up. But even on that

momentous day Madame L---- adhered to her custom of waiting for the

post, to the evident rage and even agonized impatience of her destined

son-in-law, who urged her with passionate eagerness to proceed at once

to the magistrates. The delay proved most serviceable. The post came in

due time, and brought a letter from Marseilles. The writer, struck by

some slight personal peculiarities which her friend had described, had

fancied it possible that the _promesso sposo_ was no other than _an

escaped galley-slave_, with whom, before his condemnation for a heinous

crime, her family had been intimate. She had therefore, in some alarm,

caused her husband to make inquiries into the matter, and a sufficient

mass of evidence had been collected to justify her suspicion, and cause

her to urge inquiry and delay on the part of M. and Madame L----. She

suggested, moreover, that the truth might be easily discovered by a

personal examination of the gentleman, who, if the same individual, had

been branded on the right shoulder. The surprise, horror, and alarm of

Madame L---- may be imagined. The contents of the letter were of course

instantly communicated by her to her husband, and by him privately to

the bridegroom, whom he requested to satisfy his wife's fears by showing

him his right shoulder. The request was indignantly refused as an insult

to his honor; and convinced of the fact by the agitation and dismay of

the culprit, as well as by this refusal, the gentleman gave him at once

into the hands of the police, who had no difficulty in finding the fatal

mark of infamy. He was, indeed, an escaped convict, and the wealth with

which he had dazzled the good provincials was the spoil of a recent

robbery, undertaken by himself and some Parisian accomplices, and so

cleverly managed as to have set at naught hitherto the best efforts of

the police for its discovery.

We may be sure Madame L---- congratulated herself highly on having, as

if by a providential instinct, "waited for the post."

CHEERFUL VIEWS OF HUMAN NATURE.

BY THE KING OF THE HEARTH.

"Do thee go on, Phil," said a miner, one of sixteen who sat about a

tap-room fire, "Do thee go on, Phil Spruce; and, Mrs. Pittis, fetch us

in some beer."

"And pipes," added a boy.

Mr. Spruce contemplated his young friend with a grim smile. "Well," said

he, "it's a story profitable to be heard, and so--"

"Ay, so it be," said a lame man, who made himself a little more than

quits with Nature, by working with his sound leg on the floor

incessantly. "So it be," said Timothy Drum, "Phil's a philosopher."

"It always strucked me," said a dirty little man, "that Phil has had a

sort of nater in him ever since that night we lost old Tony Barker."

"What happened then?" inquired the squire's new gamekeeper.

"Did ever you see down the shaft of a pit?" asked Phil.

"No; and I'd rather not."

"A deep, deep well. Whatever they may do in other parts, we sing hymns,

when we are pulled up, and if so be any of our butties at such times

says a wicked word, he gets cursed finely when we be safe up at the top.

We gon up and down different ways. In some old pits they have ladders,

one under another, which reminds me--"

"Always the way with Phil."

Mr. Spruce gazed sternly in the direction of the whisperer, and drank

some beer. "Which reminds me that once--"

We must here announce the fact concerning Mr. Philip Spruce, that his

method of telling a story ("Which reminds me," always meant a story with

him) is very discursive. He may be said to resemble Jeremy Bentham, who,

according to Hazlitt's criticism, fills his sentence with a row of pegs,

and hangs a garment upon each of them. Let us omit some portion of his

tediousness, and allow him to go on with his tale.

"It was in the year one thousand, eight, four, four; by token it was the

same month, November, in which the block fell upon Tim Drum's leg, I was

invited to a Christmas dinner by old Jabez Wilson. You are aware,

gentlemen, that hereabouts there are a great number of deserted pits.

The entrances to these are mostly covered with a board or two. There

aren't many stiles in our pit-country, so we are drove to using these

for firewood. The old pit mouths being left uncovered, and sometimes

hidden in brushwood, it is a very common thing for sheep to tumble in,

and if gentlemen go shooting thereabouts, they may chance to return home

without a dog--your good health, Timothy. As I was saying, I love to

ponder upon causes and compare effects. I pondered as I walked--"

"And the effect was, that you tumbled into a pit, Phil Spruce."

"The truth has been told, gentlemen, but it has been told too soon. And

now I've forgotten where I was. Ay, pondering," here Phil hung up a long

shred of philosophy on one of his pegs; and after the first ten minutes

of his harangue, which was chiefly occupied in abusing human nature, a

fierce-looking individual said,

"Go on, sir; you've brought things to that pass where they won't bear

aggravation. The company expects you to fall down the pit directly."

"In the middle of my reflections--my natural Christmas thoughts,"

continued Phil, "I felt a severe bump on the back and a singular freedom

about my legs, followed by a crash against the hinder part of my head--"

"To the bottom at once," said the fierce-looking man.

"I was at the bottom of a pit in two seconds. By what means my life was

preserved I can not tell; certain it is that I sustained at that time no

serious injury. Of course I was much stunned, and lay for a long time, I

suppose, insensible. When I opened my eyes there was nothing to be seen

more than a faint glimmer from the daylight far above, and a great many

dancing stars which seemed like a swarm of gnats, ready to settle on my

body. I now pondered how I should obtain rescue from my dangerous

position, when an odd circumstance arrested my attention. I was

evidently, unless my ears deceived me, not alone in my misfortune; for I

heard, as distinctly as I now hear Mr. Drum's leg upon the fender, I

heard a loud voice. It proceeded from a distant gallery. 'Who did you

say?' inquired the voice in a hoarse tone; a softer voice replied, 'Phil

Spruce, I think.' 'Very well,' answered the big sound; 'I'll come to him

directly.'

"Here was a state of things. A gentleman resided here and was aware of

my intrusion. Moreover, I was known. Was the acquaintance mutual? Well,

gentlemen, that question was soon to be decided, for presently I heard a

rustling and a crackling noise, like the approaching of a lady in a very

stiff silk dress. But that gruff voice! I trembled. As the sound

approached, a light gleamed over the dark, dirty walls, and glittered in

the puddle upon which I was reposing. 'He or she has brought a candle,

that is wise.' So I looked round. Mother of Miracles! He, she, or IT.

What do you think approached? A mass of cinder, glowing hot, shaped into

head, body, arms, and legs; black coal on the crown of its head, red

glow on the cheeks, and all the rest white hot, with here and there a

little eruption of black bubbles, spirting out lighted gas. It was the

shape of a huge man, who walked up with a most friendly expression in

his face, evidently intending to give me a warm reception.

"And so he did, as I will tell you presently. It needed not the aid of

his natural qualities to throw me into a great and sudden heat; his

supernatural appearance was enough for that. Then I was seized with a

great fear lest, in his friendliness, he should expect me to shake

hands. That was as if I should have thrust my fingers into this tap-room

grate. Well, ma'am (your good health, Mrs. Pittis), the strange thing

came up to me quite pleasant, with a beaming face, and said, in

something of a voice like a hoarse blast pipe, 'Glad to see you, Mr.

Spruce. How did you come here?' 'O,' said I, 'Sir,' not liking to be

behind-hand in civility, 'I only just dropped in.' 'Cold, up above, Mr.

Spruce? Will you walk in and take a little something warm?' A little

something warm! What's that? thought I. 'O yes,' I said, 'with all my

heart, sir.' 'Come along, then; you seem stiff in the bones, Mr. Spruce,

allow me to help you up.' 'O Lord!' I cried, forgetting my manners. 'No,

thank you, sir. Spruce is my name, and spruce my nature. I can get up

quite nimble.' And so I did, with a leap; although it made my joints

ache, I can tell you. The thing bowed and seemed to be quite glowing

double with delight to see me. Take a little something warm, I thought

again. O, but I won't though! However, I must not seem eager to get away

just yet; the beast seems to think I came down on purpose to see him.

'After you, sir!' said I, bowing and pulling my forelock. 'If you will

be so good as to lead, I'll follow.' 'This way, then, Philip.'

"So we went, along a gallery, and came to a vault which was lighted by

the bodies of a great number of imps, all made of brisk live coal, like

my conductor. 'I dare say you find the room close,' said the king--for I

found afterward he was a real king, though he was so familiar. 'What

will you take to drink?' I calculated there was nothing weaker than

vitriol in his cellar, so I begged to be excused. 'It is not my habit,

sir, to drink early mornings; and indeed I must not let my wife wait

dinner. We will have a little gossip, if you please, and then you will

let one of your servants light me out, perhaps. I merely dropped in, as

you are aware, my dear sir.' 'Quite aware of that, my dear Phil. And

very glad I am to get your company. Of course you are anxious to be up

above in good time; and if you can stop here an hour, I shall be happy

to accompany you.' Indeed, thought I to myself, Polly will stare. 'Most

happy,' I replied. 'I fear you will take harm from that nasty puddle at

my door,' observed the king. 'Wouldn't you wish to lie down and rest a

bit, before we start out together.' I thought that a safe way of getting

through the time. 'You are very good,' said I. 'Get a bed ready, Coffin

and Purse!' Two bright little imps darted away, and the Thing turning

round to me with a sulphurous yawn, said, 'I don't mind, Phil, if I lie

down with you.' Surely he's roasting me, I thought.

"True as sorrow, Mr. Timothy, Coffin and Purse came back in no time to

say the bed was ready; and I followed the king with as good courage as a

Smithfield martyr. But I did not, I did _not_ expect what followed. We

went into a small vault, of which half the floor was covered by a

blazing fire: all the coals had been raked level, and that was Coffin

and Purse's bed-making. 'Well, I'll get in at once,' said the king; 'you

see we've a nice light mattress.' 'Light, sir! why it's in vivid blazes.

You don't suppose I can lie down on that.' 'Why not, Phil? You see I do.

Here I am, snug and comfortable.' 'Yes, my dear sir, but you forget the

difference there is between us?' 'And yes again, Mr. Spruce; but please

to remember this is Christmas Day, a day on which all differences should

be ended.'

"'And now,' said the monster, sitting up suddenly upon a corner of the

bed, 'and now, Phil, I will urge you to nothing. You are a reasoning

man, and count for a philosopher. Let's argue a bit, Mr. Spruce.' 'I'm

favorable to free discussion.' I replied; 'but I decide on principles of

common sense.' 'Let common sense decide,' replied the king, crossing his

knees and looking conversational. 'The point at issue is, whether with

your views it would be better for you to remain a man or to become a

cinder. What were your thoughts this morning, Philip Spruce?' 'This

morning I was thinking about human nature, sir.' 'And how did you decide

upon it, Philip?' 'Humbly asking pardon, sir, and meaning no offense,

may I inquire whether in present company it is permitted to speak

disrespectfully of the Devil?'

"I wouldn't have said that, Phil, to a man of his appearance."

"Lord bless you, Tim Drum, he looked so mild disposed, and 'No offense,'

he says; 'speak out without reserve.' 'Then, sir,' said I, 'this is what

I think of human nature. I believe that it was full of every sort of

goodness, and that men were naturally well disposed to one another, till

the Devil got that great idea of his. Men are born to worship their

Creator, and to supply the wants of their neighbors, but then comes in

the deceiving fiery monster, with a pocketful of money, and says, quite

disinterested, 'Gentlemen and Ladies, it's of no use asking you to

venerate me; you don't do it, and you oughtn't to; but the most

convenient and proper thing is for every individual to worship only just

his self. You see the result of this,' says the old sinner; 'by paying

sacrifice to your own images, you just change things from the right-hand

pocket to the left, or if you go abroad, as you must do, in search of

offerings, all the fish comes to your own net, and all the fat into your

own belly. You smoke your own incense, and if you chance to be remiss in

your devotions, you may make peace and atonement any way you please.

Then,' says the great brimstone beast--I beg your pardon, sir, excuse my

liberty of speech--'if any body remark you are my servants, you can

laugh, and tell them you are no such fools. As for any formulary of

religion, follow in that the fashion of your country--'

"The cinder gentleman, Mrs. Pittis, my dear, rolled about in the fire,

quite at his ease, and said, 'Very good, Phil. And what else have you to

say of human nature?' by which you will see that he had discrimination

enough to perceive the value of my observations. 'The result is, sir,' I

says to him then, 'that the whole human race is a-dancing and

a-trumpeting in corners, every man singing hymns in honor of his self.

And the old enemy capers up and down the country and the town, rejoicing

at the outcry which he hears from every lip in his honor. A friend is

rarer than a phoenix; for no man can serve two images, and each sticks

firmly by his own.'

"'Have you no charity yourself this Christmas, Mr. Spruce?' inquired the

king, after he had called to his two imps that they should put fresh

coals upon the bed, and rake it up. 'When I was a young man, sir,' said

I, 'no one could have started in the world with a stronger faith in

human goodness. But I've seen my error. All the ways of human nature are

humbug, sir; as for my fellow-creatures, I've been very much deceived in

'em. That's all I know in answer to your question.'

"'I understand you, Phil,' the king said, lounging back upon the bed,

and kindling the new coals into a blaze around him by the mere contact

of his body. 'You are a philosopher out at elbows, and therefore a

little out of temper with the world. You would like best to make your

observations upon human nature without being jostled. You'd rather see

the play from a snug little box, than be an actor in it, kicked about

and worried.' 'Ah, sir,' said I, 'and where is such a seat provided?'

'Philip, I can answer that question,' said the king; 'and what is more,

I can give you free admission to a snug private box.' 'How so, sir?'

said I, quite eagerly. 'The coal-box, Phil,' replied the king. 'I'm

puzzled, sir,' said I. 'In what way is my condition to be improved by

the act of sitting in a coal-box?' 'That, my dear Phil, I will make as

clear to you as a fire on a frosty night. Know, then, that I am King

among the Coals.' I bowed, and was upon the point of kissing his

extended hand, but drew back my nose suddenly. 'The cinder which I now

have on I wear--because it is large and easy--in the manner of a

dressing-gown, when here at home. I am, however, a spirit, and ruler

over many other spirits similarly formed. Now, Phil, the business and

amusement of myself and subjects is to transfer ourselves at will into

the tenancy of any coal we please. The scuttles of the whole kingdom are

our meeting-houses. Every coal cast upon the fire, Phil, is, by our

means, animated with a living spirit. It is our amusement, then, to have

a merry sport among ourselves; and it is our privilege to watch the

scenes enacted round the hearths which we enliven. When the cinder

becomes cold, the spirit is again set free, and flies, whither it

pleases, to a new abode.'"

"Isn't that the doctrine of metamicosis?" asked the boy (a national

scholar) tapping the ashes from his pipe-bowl.

"It's a thing I never heard on," said the gamekeeper. Mr. Spruce went

on:

"'Did you never,' continued his majesty, 'when gazing into the fire, see

a grotesque face glow before you? That face, Phil, has been mine. You

have, then, seen the King among the Coals. If you become a cinder, Mr.

Spruce, you may consider yourself made a judge.'

"'Well, sir,' says I, 'your reverence, it's firstly requisite to judge

whether I will or won't sit down upon the fire. It's my opinion I

won't. I'd like a little more discussion.' 'Talk away, Phil,' said the

king. 'Well, sir,' says I, 'since you're always a-looking--leastways in

winter--through the bars of grates, it's possible you've seen a bit

yourself of human nature. Don't it fidget you?' 'Why,' says he, 'Phil,'

a-stretching out his arms for a great yawn so suddenly as very nigh to

set my coat on fire with his red fingers, 'I have been tolerably

patient, haven't I?' 'If it's sarcasm you mean,' says I, a little

nettled, 'I must say, it's a figure of speech I don't approve of.'

"'I beg your pardon, sir,' he says, 'and here's an answer to your

question. It's my opinion, Mr. Spruce, that as a cinder you will be

agreeably surprised. I do see people sitting around me, now and then,

whom I can't altogether get my coals to blaze for cheerfully. They sit

and talk disparagement about all manner of folks their neighbors; they

have a cupboard in their hearts for hoarding up the grievances they

spend their lives in searching for; they hate the world, and could make

scandal out of millstones, but if one hints that they are erring, they

are up in arms, and don't approve of sarcasm.' 'Sir,' says I, 'you are

personal.' 'By no means, Mr. Spruce; you, and a number like you, are

good people in the main, and deeply to be pitied for your foolish

blunder. You're a philosopher, Phil,' he says, 'and did you never hear

that your "I" is the only thing certainly existent, and that the world

without may be a shadow or mere part of you, or, if external, of no

certain form or tint, having the color of the medium through which you

view it--your own nature.' Here I saw occasion for a joke. 'Sir,' I

says, 'if my own "I" is the only thing certainly existing, then the

external world is all my eye, which proves what I propounded.' His

flames went dead all of a sudden, and he looked black from top to toe.

'I am sure I beg your pardon, sir,' says I, 'excuse my liberty.'

"'He took no verbal notice of what I had said, but gave a tremendous

shiver, and his flames began to play again. 'I'm of a warm and cheerful

turn of mind,' says he, 'and I must say, that whenever I look out upon

the men and women in the world, I see them warm and cheerful.' 'That's

nothing wonderful,' said I; 'it's just because you see them sitting

round your blaze.' 'Well,' says he, 'Mr. Spruce, I'm very glad you own

so much; for my opinion is, that if you had shone out cheerfully when

you were in the world, and warmed the folks that came within your

influence--if you had put a little kindly glow into your countenance,

you would have been surrounded always as I generally am.' 'You're young,

says I, 'and you have had no experience; leastways, your experience has

not been human. You get stirred when you're low, and people tend you for

their own sakes--you ain't preyed upon by disappointments.'

"'Young!' said he; 'disappointments!' And, to my horror, he stood bolt

upright, to be impressive. 'Look you, Mr. Spruce, the youngest is the

wisest; the child remembers throughout years a happy day, and can forget

his tears as fast as they evaporate. He grows up, and his budding youth

imagines love. Two or three fancies commonly precede his love. As each

of these decays, he, in his inexperience, is eloquent about his blighted

hopes, his dead first love, and so on. In the first blossom of his

manhood, winds are keen to him--at his first plunge into the stream of

active life, he finds the water cold. Who shall condemn his shiver? But

if he is to be a healthy man, he will strike out right soon, and glow

with cheerful exercise in buffeting the stream. Youth, Mr. Spruce, may

be allowed to call the water of the world too cold, but so long only as

its plunge is recent. It is a libel on maturity and age to say that we

live longer to love less. Preyed upon by disappointments--'

"'Yes,' says I, 'preyed upon.'

"'Say, rather, blessed with trial. Who'd care to swim in a cork jacket!

Trouble is a privilege, believe me, friend, to those who know from whose

hand, for what purpose, it is sent. I do not mean the trouble people cut

out for themselves by curdling all the milk of kindness in their

neighbors. But when a man will be a man, will labor with Truth, Charity,

and Self-Reliance--always frank and open in his dealings--always giving

credit to his neighbors for their good deeds, and humbly abstaining from

a judgment of what looks like evil in their conduct--when he knows,

under God, no helper but his own brave heart, and his own untiring

hand--there is no disappointment in repulse. He learns the lesson Heaven

teaches him, his Faith, and Hope, and Charity, by constant active effort

became strong--gloriously strong--just as the blacksmith's right

arm becomes mighty by the constant wielding of his hammer.

Disappointment--let the coward pluck up courage--disappointment is a

sheet-and-pumpkin phantom to the bold. Let him who has battled side by

side with Trouble, say whether it was not an angel sent to be his help.

Find a true-hearted man whose energies have brought him safe through

years of difficulty; ask him whether he found the crowd to be

base-natured through which he was called upon to force his way? Believe

me, he will tell you "No." Having said this, his majesty broke out into

a blaze, and lay down in his bed again. 'Well,' he said, 'Philip, will

you come to bed with me?'

"'Why, sir,' said I, 'to say the best of it, you're under a

misconception; but if it's in the nature of a coal to take such cheerful

views of things as you appear to do, I'd rather be a coal than what I

am. It's cold work living in the flesh, such as I find it--you seem

jolly as a hot cinder, and for the matter of that, what am I now but

dust and ashes? Coke is preferable.'

"'Coffin and Purse, you're wanted,' cried the king. And, indeed, Mrs.

Pittis, and, indeed, gentlemen, I must turn aside one minute to remark

the singularity of this king's body-guard, Coffin and Purse. 'Cash and

Mortality,' said the king to me, 'make up, according to your theory, the

aim and end of man. So with a couple of cinders you can twit him with

his degradation. Sometimes Coffin, sometimes Purse, leaps out into his

lap when he is cogitating.' 'Yes,' said I 'that will be extremely

humorous. But, so please your majesty, I still have one objection to

joining your honorable body.' 'What is that, Phil?' 'I suppose, if I

sits down in them there flames, they'll burn me.' 'To be sure,' said the

king, kicking up his heels, and scraping a furnace load of live coal

over his body, just as you might pull up the blanket when you're in bed

to-night, Mrs. Pittis. 'Well, your highness,' said I, 'how about the

pain?' 'Pah!' says the king, 'where's your philosophy? Did you never see

a fly jump into a lamp-flame?' 'Yes, sure,' I answered. 'And what

happened then? A moment's crackle, and an end of it. You've no time to

feel pain.' 'Well, then,' said I, 'if your majesty will make a hole for

me as near the middle as is convenient to yourself, I will jump into the

bed straightway.' The king made a great spatter among the coals, and in

I jumped. You know, ma'am, that a great part of our bodies is composed

of water.'

"'I don't know that of any gentleman in this room,' replied the

landlady. 'But I do believe that you are two parts built out of strong

beer.'

"There was a burst--a flash, gentlemen; the liquid part of me went off

in instantaneous steam. I cried out with a sharp burn in my foot. The

pot was boiling over furiously that contained our bit of dinner; and as

I sat close in to the fire, I got considerably scalded. How I got back

in the steam to my own fireside, I never rightly comprehended. Fill the

can now, Mrs. Pittis."

"'Yes,' said the landlady, 'but let me tell you, Mr. Spruce, that king

of the hearth is a gentleman, and if you really had gone with the coals

and got acquainted with fire-sides, it would have done you a great deal

of good. You'd have owned then that there is a mighty deal more love

than hatred in the world. You'd have heard round almost any hearth you

chose to play eavesdropper to, household words, any thing but hard or

bitter. Some people do not pay their scores with me, but, on the whole,

I live. Some of our human natures may run termagant; but, on the whole,

we men and women love. Among the worst are those who won't bear quietly

their share of work, who can't learn self-reliance, but run to and fro,

squealing for help, and talking sentiment against their neighbors, who

won't carry their burdens for them. It's all very well for a musty,

discontented old bachelor to say there's no love in the world, but it's

a falsehood. I know better.'

"'My pipe's out,' said the boy. 'Be smart there with the 'baccy.'"

[From Dickens's Household Words.]

THE MYSTERIES OF A TEA-KETTLE.

At one of Mr. Bagges's small scientific tea-parties, Mr. Harry Wilkinson

delivered to the worthy gentleman a lecture, based principally on

reminiscences of the Royal Institution, and of a series of lectures

delivered there by Professor Faraday, addressed to children and young

people. For it is not the least of the merits of that famous chemist and

great man, Professor Faraday, that he delights to make the mightiest

subject clear to the simplest capacity, and that he shows his mastery of

Nature in nothing more than in being thoroughly imbued with the spirit

of her goodness and simplicity.

This particular lecture was on Natural Philosophy in its bearings on a

kettle. The entertainment of a "Night with Mr. Bagges" was usually

extemporaneous. It was so on this occasion. The footman brought in the

tea-kettle. "Does it boil?" demanded Mr. Bagges.

"It have biled, sir," answered the domestic.

"Have biled, sir!" repeated Mr. Bagges. "_Have_ biled! And what if it

has 'biled,' or _boiled_, as I desire you will say in future? What is

that to the purpose? Water may be frozen, you simpleton, notwithstanding

it _has_ boiled. Was it boiling, sir, eh? when you took it off the fire?

That is the question, sir."

"Yes, sir, that was what I mean to say, sir," replied Thomas.

"Mean to say, sir! Then why didn't you say it, sir? Eh? There--no, don't

put it on, sir; hold it still. Harry, reach me the thermometer," said

Mr. Bagges, putting on his spectacles. "Let me see. The boiling point of

water is two hundred and--what?"

"Two hundred and twelve, Fahrenheit," answered Master Wilkinson, "if

commonly pure, and boiled in a metallic vessel, and under a pressure of

the atmosphere amounting to fifteen pounds on every square inch of

surface, or when the barometer stands at thirty inches."

"Gracious, what a memory that boy has!" exclaimed his uncle. "Well; now

this water in the kettle--eh?--why, this is not above one hundred and

fifty degrees. There, sir, now set it on the fire, and don't bring me up

cold water to make tea with again; or else," added Mr. Bagges, making a

vague attempt at a joke, "or else--eh?--you will get yourself into hot

water."

Mr. Thomas was seized with a convulsion in the chest, which he checked

by suddenly applying his open hand to his mouth, the effort distending

his cheeks, and causing his eyes to protrude in a very ridiculous

manner, while Mr. Bagges disguised his enjoyment of the effects of his

wit in a cough.

"Now let me see," said the old gentleman, musingly contemplating the

vessel simmering on the fire; "how is it, eh, Harry, you said the other

day that a kettle boils?"

"La!" interrupted Mrs. Wilkinson, who was of the party, "why, of course,

by the heat of the coals, and by blowing the fire, if it is not hot

enough."

"Aha!" cried her brother, "that's not the way _we_ account for things,

Harry, my boy, eh? Now, convince your mother; explain the boiling of a

kettle to her: come."

"A kettle boils," said Harry, "by means of the action of currents."

"What are you talking about? Boiling a plum-pudding in a tea-kettle!"

exclaimed the mystified mamma.

"Currents of heated particles--of particles of hot water," Harry

explained. "Suppose you put your fire on your kettle--on the lid of

it--instead of your kettle on your fire--- what then?"

"You would be a goose," said his mother.

"Exactly so--or a gosling"--rejoined her son; "the kettle would not

boil. Water is a bad conductor of heat. Heat passes through the

substance of water with very great difficulty. Therefore, it would have

a hard matter to get from the top of a kettle of water to the bottom.

Then how does it so easily get from the bottom to the top?"

"Ah!" sighed Mr. Bagges. "In my young days we should have said, because

the heat rises, but that won't do now. What is all that about

the--eh--what--law of ex--what?--pansion --eh?"

"The law of expansion of fluids and gases by heat. This makes the

currents that I spoke of just now, mamma; and I should have spelt the

word to explain to you that I didn't mean plums. You know what a draught

is?"

"I am sorry to say I do," Mr. Bagges declared with much seriousness,

instinctively carrying his hand to the region of the human body from the

Latin for which is derived the term, Lumbago.

"Well," pursued Harry, "a draught is a current of air. Such currents are

now passing up the chimney, and simply owing to that trifling

circumstance, we are able to sit here now without being stifled and

poisoned."

"Goodness!" ejaculated Mrs. Wilkinson.

"To be sure. The fire, in burning, turns into gases, which are rank

poison--carbonic acid, for one; sulphurous acid, for another. Hold your

nose over a shovelful of hot cinders if you doubt the fact. The gases

produced by the fire expand; they increase in bulk without getting

heavier, so much so that they become lighter in proportion than the air,

and then they rise, and this rising of hot air is what is meant by heat

going upward. The currents of hot air that go up the chimney in this way

have currents of cold air rushing after them, to supply their place.

When you heat water, currents are formed just as when you heat gas or

air. The heated portion of water rises, and some colder water comes down

in its place; and these movements of the water keep going on till the

whole bulk of it is equally hot throughout."

"Well, now," interrupted Mr. Bagges, "I dare say this is all very true,

but how do you prove it?"

"Prove that water is heated by the rising and falling of hot currents?

Get a long, slender glass jar. Put a little water, colored with indigo,

or any thing you like, into the bottom of it. Pour clear water upon the

colored, gently, so as not to mix the two, and yet nearly to fill the

jar. Float a little spirit of wine on the top of the water, and set fire

to it. Let it blaze away as long as you like; the colored water will

remain steady at the bottom of the jar. But hold the flame of a

spirit-lamp under the jar, and the colored water will rise and mix with

the clear, in very little time longer than it would take you to say

Harry Wilkinson."

"Ah! So the water gets colored throughout for the same reason that it

gets heated throughout," Mr. Bagges observed, "and when it gets

thoroughly hot--what then?"

"Then it boils. And what is boiling?"

"Bubbling," suggested the young philosopher's mamma.

"Yes; but ginger-beer bubbles," said Harry, "but you wouldn't exactly

call that boiling. Boiling is the escaping of steam. That causes the

bubbling; so the bubbling of water over the fire is only the sign that

the water boils. But what occasions the escape of the steam?"

"The heat, of course--the--what is the right word?--the caloric,"

answered Mr. Bagges.

"True; but what heat? Why, the excess of heat over two hundred and

twelve degrees--taking that as the average boiling point of water. You

can heat water up to that point, and it remains water; but every degree

of heat you cause to pass into it above that, turns a quantity of the

water into steam; and flies off in the steam, unless the steam is

hindered from escaping by extraordinary pressure. Blow the fire under

that kettle as much as you will, and you will make the water boil

faster, but you won't make it a bit hotter than two hundred and twelve

degrees."

"Well, to be sure!" Mrs. Wilkinson exclaimed.

"If water," continued Harry, "could keep on getting hotter and hotter

above the boiling point, why, we might have our potatoes charred in the

pot, or our mutton boiled to a cinder. When water is confined in a

strong vessel--and strong it must be to prevent a tremendous

blow-up--confined, I say, so that no steam can escape, it may be heated

almost red-hot; and there is a vessel made for heating water under

pressure, called Papin's Digestor, which will digest almost any thing."

"What an enviable apparatus!" exclaimed Mr. Bagges.

"Well," resumed Harry; "so the boiling point of water depends on the

degree of force which the air, or what-not, is pressing on its surface

with. The higher the spot on which you boil your water, the lower the

point it boils at. Therefore, water boiling at the top of a mountain is

not so hot as water boiling at the mountain's base. The boiling point of

water on the summit of Mont Blanc, is as low as one hundred and

eighty-four degrees. So, if water must be at two hundred and twelve

degrees, to make good tea, don't choose too high a hill to build a

temperance hall on. The heavier, also, the air is, from the quantity of

moisture in it, the hotter water becomes before it boils. If the

atmosphere were carbonic acid gas, water would get much hotter without

boiling than it can under--"

"Present arrangements," interposed Mr. Badges.

"Consisting of a mixture of nitrogen and oxygen," continued Harry.

"Water requires only a very low heat to make it boil in an exhausted

receiver, out of which the air has been pumped, so as to leave none to

press upon its surface. Owing to boiling depending upon pressure, you

can actually make water boil by means of cold."

"What next?" sighed Mrs. Wilkinson.

"You can, indeed. Put a little boiling water in a salad-oil flask; so

that the flask may be a quarter full, say. Cork the flask tightly. The

boiling stops; and the upper three-fourths of the flask are full of

vapor. Squirt a jet of ice-cold water upon the flask, above where the

water is, and the water below will instantly begin to boil. The reason

why, is this. The vapor in the flask presses on the surface of the hot

water. The cold condenses the vapor--turns it back to water. That takes

off the pressure for the time; and then the hot water directly flies

into vapor, and boils, and so on, till it cools down too low to boil any

longer. What reduces the boiling point of water on a hill or a mountain

is, that the pressure of the atmosphere decreases as you ascend. A rise

of five hundred and thirty feet in height above the level of the sea,

makes a difference of one degree; so, give me a kettle of water and a

thermometer, and I'll tell you exactly how near the moon we are."

"I shouldn't think one could make good hot mixed punch up in a balloon,

now," observed Mr. Bagges, reflectively.

"Then," Harry proceeded, "it requires more heat to make water boil in a

glass vessel than it does in a metal one. A metal vessel's inner surface

is made up of very small points and dents. Scratching the inside of the

glass so as to give it a roughness something like what the metal has,

makes the boiling point lower; and a few iron filings thrown into water

boiling in glass at two hundred and fourteen degrees, will bring it down

to two hundred and twelve. The filings, and the roughness of the glass,

are so many more points for the heat to pass into the water from, and

form steam, and the water does not cling to them so hard as it clings to

a smooth surface. Throw a lot of hay into a pan of hot water, and it

makes a quantity of steam rise directly; and I have heard a doctor say

that some poor people are in the habit of giving themselves cheap

steam-baths by this means."

"A very good thing for rheumatic pains, I should think; certainly a much

more rational remedy than patent medicines or Government poison," Mr.

Bagges remarked.

"There are some salts," continued Harry, "which, if dissolved in water,

will prevent it from boiling till it is heated to two hundred and

sixty-four degrees, as if they held the water back from flying into

steam. So, then, the boiling of water may be hindered, more or less, by

pressure from without, and attraction from within. The boiling point of

water depends on another important fact which the kettle always mentions

before it boils, although we don't all of us understand the kettle's

language. The singing of the kettle tells us--"

"That the water is going to boil," interrupted mamma.

"Yes, and that water contains air. The singing of the kettle is the

noise made by the escape of the air, which is driven off by the heat.

The air sticks and hangs in the water, till the heat expands it and

makes it rise. Put a glass of water under the receiver of an air-pump,

and exhaust the receiver. As you pump, the water begins to bubble, as if

it were boiling; but the bubbles are the air contained in the water,

being pumped out. The air-bubbles act like wedges between the little

invisible drops that make up the whole water. If it were not for them,

the water would be a mass which would hold together so hard that it

would not go into steam, or boil, till it was heated to two hundred and

seventy degrees, as may be proved by boiling some water quite deprived

of air. And not only that, but when it did boil, it would boil all at

once, and blow up with a tremendous explosion; which would be a still

greater inconvenience in boiling a kettle."

"A pretty kettle of fish, indeed!" Mr. Bagges observed.

"So," said Harry, "strictly pure water would not be quite so great a

blessing to us as you might think. Of course, you know, uncle, I don't

mean to say that there is any advantage in the impurity of such water as

the Thames, except when used for the purpose of fertilizing the earth. I

am speaking of water so pure as to contain no air. Water of such severe

purity would be very unmanageable stuff. No fishes could live in it, for

one thing. I have already given you one good reason why it would be

unsuitable to our kettle; and another is, that it would not be good to

drink. Then water, as we find it in the world, has a very useful and

accommodating disposition to find its own level. Pump all the air out of

water, however, and it loses this obliging character in a great measure.

Suppose I take a bent glass-tube, and fill one arm of it with airless

water. Then I turn the tube mouth upward, and if the water were common

water, it would instantly run from one arm into the other, and stand at

the same level in both. But if the water has been exhausted of its air,

it remains, most of it, in the one arm, and won't run till I give the

table a smart rap, and shake it. So, but for the air contained in water,

we could not make the water run up and down hill as we do. If water were

deprived of air, London would be almost deprived of water."

"And water," observed Mr. Bagges, "would be robbed of a very valuable

property."

"Good again, uncle. Now, if we could see through the kettle, we should

be able to observe the water boiling in it which is a curious sight when

looked into. To examine water boiling, we must boil the water in a glass

vessel--a long tube is the best--heated with a spirit lamp. Then first

you see the water in motion, and the air-bubbles being driven off by the

heat. As the water gets hotter, other bubbles appear, rising from the

bottom of the tube. They go up for a little way, and then they shrink,

and by the time they get to the top of the water, you can hardly

distinguish them. These are bubbles of steam, and they get smaller as

they rise, because at first the water is colder above than below, in

proportion to the distance from the flame, and the cold gradually

condenses the bubbles. But when the water gets thoroughly hot, the

bubbles grow larger and rise quicker, and go of the same size right up

to the top of the water, and there escape--if you choose to let them.

And steam was allowed to escape so for many, many ages, wasn't it,

uncle, before it was set to work to spin cotton for the world, and take

us to America within a fortnight, and whirl us over the ground as the

crow flies, and almost at a crow's pace?"

"For all which," remarked Mr. Bagges, "we have principally to thank

what's his name."

"Watt _was_ his name, I believe, uncle. Well; heat turns water into

steam, and I dare say I need not tell you that a quantity of water

becoming steam, fills an immense deal more space than it did as mere

water. Cold turns the steam back into water, and the water fills the

same space as it did before. Water, in swelling into steam and shrinking

back into water again, moves, of course, twice, and mighty motions these

are, and mighty uses are made of them, I should rather think."

"I believe you, my boy," said Mr. Bagges.

"And now," asked Harry, "have you any idea of what a deal of heat there

is in steam?"

"It is hot enough to scald you," answered his mamma; "I know that."

"Yes; and hot enough, too, to cook potatoes. But there is much more heat

in it than that comes to. Take a kettle of cold water. See at what

degree the thermometer stands in the water. Put the kettle on the fire,

and observe how long it takes to boil. It will boil at two hundred and

twelve degrees; and therefore, during the time it has taken to boil,

there has gone into it the difference of heat between two hundred and

twelve degrees and the degree it stood at when first put on the fire.

Keep up the same strength of fire, so that the heat may continue to go

into the water at the same rate. Let the water boil quite away, and note

how long it is in doing so. You can then calculate how much heat has

gone into the water while the water has been boiling away. You will find

that quantity of heat great enough to have made the water red-hot, if

all the water, and all the heat, had remained in the kettle. But the

water in your kettle will have continued at two hundred and twelve

degrees to the last drop, and all the steam that it has turned into will

not have been hotter--according to the thermometer--than two hundred and

twelve degrees; whereas a red heat is one thousand degrees. The

difference between two hundred and twelve degrees and one thousand

degrees, is seven hundred and eighty-eight degrees; and what has become

of all this heat? Why, it is entirely contained in the steam, though it

does not make the steam hotter. It lies hid in the steam, and therefore

it is called latent heat. When the steam is condensed, all that latent

heat comes out of it, and can be felt, and the quantity of it can be

measured by a thermometer. The warmth that issues from steam-pipes used

to warm a house, is the latent heat of the steam that escapes as the

steam turns back to water."

"Latent, heat! latent heat!" repeated Mr Bagges, scratching his head.

"Eh? Now, that latent heat always puzzles me. Latent, lying hid. But how

can you hide heat? When the zany in the pantomime hides the red-hot

poker in his pocket, he cauterizes his person. How--eh?--how can heat be

latent?"

"Why, the word heat has two meanings, uncle. In the first place, it

means hotness. Hotness can not be latent, as the clown finds when he

pockets the poker. In the second place, heat means a something the

nature of which we don't know, which is the cause of hotness, and also

the cause of another effect. While it is causing that other effect, it

does not cause hotness. That other effect which heat causes in the

instance of steam, is keeping water in the form of steam. The heat that

there is in steam, over and above two hundred and twelve degrees, is

employed in this way. It is wholly occupied in preserving the water in

an expanded state, and can't cause the mercury in the thermometer to

expand and rise as well. For the same reason, it could give you no

feeling of hotness above what boiling water would--if you had the nerve

to test it. While it is making steam continue to be steam, it is latent.

When the steam becomes water again, it has no longer that work to do,

and is set free. Free heat is what is commonly understood by heat. This

is the heat which cooks our victuals, the heat we feel, the heat that

singes Mr. Merriman. Latent heat is heat that doesn't warm, singe, or

cook, because it is otherwise engaged. If you press gas suddenly into a

fluid, the latent heat of the gas is set free. You seem to squeeze it

out. Indeed, the same thing happens, if you violently force any

substance into a closer form all at once. Every thing appears to have

more or less latent heat in it, between its little particles, keeping

them at certain distances from each other. Compress the particles within

a smaller compass, and a part of the latent heat escapes, as if it were

no longer wanted. When a substance in a compressed state expands on a

sudden, it draws in heat, on the other hand. When a lady bathes her

forehead with eau-de-Cologne to cure a headache, the heat of the head

enters the eau-de-Cologne, and becomes latent in it while it evaporates.

If you make steam under high pressure, you can heat it much above two

hundred and twelve degrees. Suppose you let off steam, so compressed and

heated, by a wide hole, from the boiler, and put your hand into it as it

rushes out--"

"What? Why, you'd scald your hand off!" cried Mr. Bagges.

"No, you wouldn't. The steam rushes out tremendously hot, but it expands

instantly so very much, that the heat in it directly becomes latent in a

great measure; which cools it down sufficiently to allow you to hold

your hand in it without its hurting you. But then you would have to mind

where you held your hand; because where the steam began to condense

again, it would be boiling hot."

"I had rather take your word for the experiment than try it, young

gentleman," Mr. Bagges observed.

"Another very curious thing," proceeded Harry, "in regard to boiling,

has been discovered lately. A kettle might be too hot to boil water in.

Take a little bar of silver, heated very highly; dip it into water. At

first, you have no boiling, and you don't have any at all till the

silver has cooled some degrees. Put a drop of water into a platinum

dish, heated in the same way, and it will run about without boiling till

the heat diminishes; and then it bursts into steam. M. Boutigny, the

French chemist, made this discovery. Vapor forms between the drop of

water and the red-hot metal, and, being a bad conductor of heat, keeps

the heat of the metal for some time from flowing into the water. Owing

to this, water, and mercury even, may be frozen in a red-hot vessel if

the experiment is managed cleverly. A little more than a couple of

centuries ago, this would have been thought witchcraft."

"And the philosopher," added Mr. Bagges, "would have been fried instead

of his water-drop. Let me see--eh? what do they call this singular state

of water?"

"The spheroidal state," answered Harry. "However, that is a state that

water does not get into in a kettle, because kettles are not allowed to

become red hot, except when they are put carelessly on the fire with no

water in them, or suffered to remain there after the water has boiled

quite away!"

"Which is ruination to kettles," Mrs. Wilkinson observed.

"Of course it is, mamma, because at a red heat iron begins to unite with

oxygen, or to rust. Another thing that injures kettles is the fur that

collects in them. All water in common use contains more or less of

earthy and other salts. In boiling, these things separate from the

water, and gradually form a fur or crust inside the kettle or boiler."

"And a nice job it is to get rid of it," said his mamma.

"Well, chemistry has lessened that difficulty," replied Harry. "The fur

is mostly carbonate of lime. In that case, all you have to do is to boil

some sal-ammoniac--otherwise muriate, or more properly hydrochlorate of

ammonia--in the furred vessel. The hydrochloric acid unites with the

lime, and the carbonic acid goes to the ammonia. Both the compounds

formed in this way dissolve and wash away; and so you may clean the

foulest boiler or kettle. This is a rather important discovery; for the

effect of fur in a kettle is to oppose the passage of heat, and

therefore to occasion the more fuel to be required to boil water in it,

which is a serious waste and expense when you have a large steam-boiler

to deal with. Dr. Faraday mentions the case of a Government steamer that

went to Trieste, and during the voyage had so much fur formed in her

boiler as to oblige all her coal to be consumed, and then the engineers

were forced to burn spars, rigging, bulkheads, and even chopped cables,

and to use up every shaving of spare timber in the ship. Soot underneath

the kettle, as well as fur inside it, is a hindrance to boiling, as it

is a bad conductor; and that is the reason why one can bear to hold a

kettle of hot water, which is very sooty on its under surface, on the

flat of the hand. So a black kettle doesn't give out its heat readily to

what touches it, and so far it is good to keep water hot; but it gets

rid of heat in another way; as I dare say you know, uncle."

"Eh?" said Mr. Bagges, "why, what?--no--I did know something about it

the other day--but I've such a memory!--and--eh?--no--I've quite

forgotten it."

"By radiation, you know. All warm bodies are constantly giving off rays

of heat, as shining ones are giving off rays of light, although the

heat-rays are invisible."

"How do we know that?" asked Mr. Bagges.

"Get a couple of concave mirrors--a sort of copper basins, polished

inside. Stand them face to face, some yards apart. Put a hot iron

ball--not red hot--in the focus of one mirror. Put a bit of phosphorus

in the focus of the other. The phosphorus will take fire; though without

the mirrors you might place it much nearer the hot iron, and yet it

would not burn. So we know that there are rays of heat, because we can

reflect them as we can rays of light. Some things radiate better than

others. Those that have bright metal surfaces radiate worst, though such

are what are used for reflectors. If their surfaces are blackened or

roughened, they radiate better. A bright kettle gives off fewer rays of

heat than a black one, and so far, is better to keep water hot in. But

then, on the other hand, it yields more heat to the air, or the hob or

hearth that it stands upon--if colder than itself. The bright kettle

gives off heat in one way and the black in another. I don't know at what

comparative rate exactly."

"Six of one, and half-a-dozen of the other," Mr. Bagges suggested.

"Now look at the wonderful relations of the kettle, uncle!"

"Relations?--Eh?--what the pot and the saucepan?" said Mr. Bagges.

"Oh, oh, uncle! No; its relations to the pressure of the atmosphere and

every cause that affects it--to the conveyance, and conduction, and

radiation of heat--to latent heat or caloric, to the properties of

water, to chemical decomposition--and to steam and its astonishing

marvels, present and to come!"

"Well," said Mr. Bagges, "it is wonderful; and the kettle certainly is

very respectably connected. Eh? And I hope to profit by the subject of

our conversation; and so, I say, pour me out a cup of tea."

MY NOVEL; OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.

_(Continued from page_ 97.)

BOOK II.--CHAPTER VII.

In spite of all his Machiavellian wisdom, Dr. Riccabocca had been foiled

in his attempt to seduce Leonard Fairfield into his service, even though

he succeeded in partially winning over the widow to his views. For to

her he represented the worldly advantages of the thing. Lenny would

learn to be fit for more than a day-laborer: he would learn gardening

in all its branches--rise some day to be a head-gardener. "And," said

Riccabocca, "I will take care of his book-learning, and teach him

whatever he has a head for."

"He has a head for every thing," said the widow.

"Then," said the wise man, "every thing shall go into it."

The widow was certainly dazzled; for, as we have seen, she highly prized

scholarly distinction, and she knew that the parson looked upon

Riccabocca as a wondrous learned man. But still, Riccabocca was said to

be a Papist, and suspected to be a conjurer. Her scruples on both these

points, the Italian, who was an adept in the art of talking over the

fair sex, would no doubt have dissipated, if there had been any use in

it; but Lenny put a dead stop to all negotiations. He had taken a mortal

dislike to Riccabocca; he was very much frightened by him--and the

spectacles, the pipe, the cloak, the long hair, and the red umbrella;

and said so sturdily, in reply to every overture, "Please, sir, I'd

rather not; I'd rather stay along with mother," that Riccabocca was

forced to suspend all further experiments in his Machiavellian

diplomacy. He was not at all cast down, however, by his first failure;

on the contrary, he was one of those men whom opposition stimulates. And

what before had been but a suggestion of prudence, became an object of

desire. Plenty of other lads might no doubt be had on as reasonable

terms as Lenny Fairfield; but the moment Lenny presumed to baffle the

Italian's designs upon him, the special acquisition of Lenny became of

paramount importance in the eyes of Signor Riccabocca.

Jackeymo, however, lost all his interest in the traps, snares, and gins,

which his master proposed to lay for Leonard Fairfield, in the more

immediate surprise that awaited him on learning that Dr. Riccabocca had

accepted an invitation to pass a few days at the Hall.

"There will be no one there but the family," said Riccabocca. "Poor

Giacomo, a little chat in the servants' hall will do you good: and the

squire's beef is more nourishing, after all, than the sticklebacks and

minnows. It will lengthen your life."

"The Padrone jests," said Jackeymo statelily, "as if any one could

starve in his service."

"Um," said Riccabocca. "At least, faithful friend, you have tried that

experiment as far as human nature will permit;" and he extended his hand

to his fellow-exile with that familiarity which exists between servant

and master in the usages of the Continent. Jackeymo bent low, and a tear

fell upon the hand he kissed.

"_Cospetto_." said Dr. Riccabocca, "a thousand mock pearls do not make

up the cost of a single true one. The tears of women, we know their

worth; but the tear of an honest man--Fie, Giacomo! at least I can never

repay you this! Go and see to our wardrobe."

So far as his master's wardrobe was concerned, that order was pleasing

to Jackeymo; for the doctor had in his drawers suits which Jackeymo

pronounced to be as good as new, though many a long year had passed

since they left the tailor's hands. But when Jackeymo came to examine

the state of his own clothing department, his face grew considerably

longer. It was not that he was without other clothes than those on his

back--quantity was there, but, the quality! Mournfully he gazed on two

suits, complete in the three separate members of which man's raiments

are composed: the one suit extended at length upon his bed, like a

veteran stretched by pious hands after death; the other brought

piecemeal to the invidious light--the _torso_ placed upon a chair, the

limbs dangling down from Jackeymo's melancholy arm. No bodies long

exposed at the Morgue could evince less sign of resuscitation than those

respectable defuncts! For, indeed, Jackeymo had been less thrifty of his

apparel--more _profusus sui_--than his master. In the earliest days of

their exile, he preserved the decorous habit of dressing for dinner--it

was a respect due to the Padrone--and that habit had lasted till the two

habits on which it necessarily depended had evinced the first symptoms

of decay; then the evening clothes had been taken into morning wear, in

which hard service they had breathed their last.

The doctor, notwithstanding his general philosophical abstraction from

such household details, had more than once said, rather in pity to

Jackeymo, than with an eye to that respectability which the costume of

the servant reflects on the dignity of the master--"Giacomo, thou

wantest clothes, fit thyself out of mine!"

And Jackeymo had bowed his gratitude, as if the donation had been

accepted; but the fact was that that same fitting-out was easier said

than done. For though, thanks to an existence mainly upon sticklebacks

and minnows--both Jackeymo and Riccabocca had arrived at that state

which the longevity of misers proves to be most healthful to the human

frame, viz., skin and bone--yet, the bones contained in the skin of

Riccabocca all took longitudinal directions; while those in the skin of

Jackeymo spread out latitudinally. And you might as well have made the

bark of a Lombardy poplar serve for the trunk of some dwarfed and

pollarded oak--in whose hollow the Babes of the Wood could have slept at

their ease--as have fitted out Jackeymo from the garb of Riccabocca.

Moreover, if the skill of the tailor could have accomplished that

undertaking, the faithful Jackeymo would never have had the heart to

avail himself of the generosity of his master. He had a sort of

religious sentiment too, about those vestments of the Padrone. The

ancients, we know, when escaping from shipwreck, suspended in the votive

temple the garments in which they had struggled through the wave.

Jackeymo looked on those relics of the past with a kindred superstition.

"This coat the Padrone wore on such an occasion. I remember the very

evening the Padrone last put on those pantaloons!" And coat and

pantaloons were tenderly dusted, and carefully restored to their sacred

rest.

But now, after all, what was to be done? Jackeymo was much too proud to

exhibit his person, to the eyes of the Squire's butler, in habiliments

discreditable to himself and the Padrone. In the midst of his

perplexity, the bell rang, and he went down into the parlor.

Riccabocca was standing on the hearth under his symbolical

representation of the "Patriae Exul."

"Giacomo," quoth he, "I have been thinking that thou hast never done

what I told thee, and fitted thyself out from my superfluities. But we

are going now into the great world: visiting once begun, Heaven knows

where it may stop! Go to the nearest town and get thyself clothes.

Things are dear in England. Will this suffice?" And Riccabocca extended

a L5 note.

Jackeymo, we have seen, was more familiar with his master than we formal

English permit our domestics to be with us. But in his familiarity he

was usually respectful. This time, however, respect deserted him.

"The Padrone is mad!" he exclaimed; "he would fling away his whole

fortune if I would let him. Five pounds English, or a hundred and

twenty-six pounds Milanese![32] Santa Maria! Unnatural Father! And what

is to become of the poor Signorina? Is this the way you are to marry her

in the foreign land?"

"Giacomo," said Riccabocca, bowing his head to the storm; "the Signorina

to-morrow; to-day, the honor of the house. Thy small clothes, Giacomo.

Miserable man, thy small-clothes!"

"It is just," said Jackeymo, recovering himself, and with humility; "and

the Padrone does right to blame me, but not in so cruel a way. It is

just--the Padrone lodges and boards me, and gives me handsome wages, and

he has a right to expect that I should not go in this figure."

"For the board and the lodgment, good," said Riccabocca. "For the

handsome wages, they are the visions of thy fancy!"

"They are no such thing," said Jackeymo, "they are only in arrear. As if

the Padrone could not pay them some day or other--as if I was demeaning

myself by serving a master who did not intend to pay his servants! And

can't I wait? Have I not my savings too? But be cheered, be cheered; you

shall be contented with me. I have two beautiful suits still. I was

arranging them when you rang for me. You shall see, you shall see."

And Jackeymo hurried from the room, hurried back into his own chamber,

unlocked a little trunk which he kept at his bed head, tossed out a

variety of small articles, and from the deepest depth extracted a

leathern purse. He emptied the contents on the bed. They were chiefly

Italian coins, some five-franc pieces, a silver medallion inclosing a

little image of his patron saint--San Giacomo--one solid English guinea,

and two or three pounds' worth in English silver. Jackeymo put back the

foreign coins, saying prudently, "One will lose on them here;" he seized

the English coins and counted them out. "But are you enough, you

rascals?" quoth he angrily, giving them a good shake. His eye caught

sight of the medallion--he paused; and after eying the tiny

representation of the saint with great deliberation, he added, in a

sentence which he must have picked up from the proverbial aphorisms of

his master--"What's the difference between the enemy who does not hurt

me, and the friend who does not serve me? _Monsignore San Giacomo_, my

patron saint, you are of very little use to me in the leathern bag. But

if you help me to get into a new pair of small-clothes on this important

occasion, you will be a friend indeed. _Alla bisogna, Monsignore_." Then

gravely kissing the medallion, he thrust it into one pocket, the coins

into the other, made up a bundle of the two defunct suits, and,

muttering to himself, "Beast, miser that I am to disgrace the Padrone,

with all these savings in his service!" ran down stairs into his pantry,

caught up his hat and stick, and in a few moments more was seen trudging

off to the neighboring town of L----.

Apparently the poor Italian succeeded, for he came back that evening in

time to prepare the thin gruel which made his master's supper, with a

suit of black--a little threadbare, but still highly respectable--two

shirt fronts, and two white cravats. But, out of all this finery,

Jackeymo held the small-clothes in especial veneration; for as they had

cost exactly what the medallion had sold for, so it seemed to him that

San Giacomo had heard his prayer in that quarter to which he had more

exclusively directed the saint's attention. The other habiliments came

to him in the merely human process of sale and barter; the small-clothes

were the personal gratuity of San Giacomo!