case a voluntary power; it is asserted that animals never yield to
torpidity till driven to it by necessity; and that many of those
lethargic animals, while existing during winter on their accumulated
fat, which is gradually absorbed into the system, retain the use of
their faculties. The cricket is one proof, that animals do not submit to
it from choice. This insect passes the hottest part of summer in
crevices of walls and heaps of rubbish; about the end of August it quits
its summer dwelling, and endeavours to establish itself by the fireside,
where the comforts of a warm hearth secure it from torpidity. He then
mentioned a colony of crickets which had taken up their abode in a
kitchen, where the fire was discontinued from November to June, except
one day every six weeks. On these days they were tempted from their
hiding place, and continued to skip about and chirp till the following
morning, when they again disappeared in consequence of the returning
cold. This fact, which he was told by an ingenious friend, shews that in
crickets at least torpidity depends on circumstances; and perhaps other
sleeping animals, he says, have the same accommodating faculties.
Mrs. P. amused us with some very extraordinary accounts of toads that
have been found in the stems of old trees, so that the wood must have
grown round them; and even in cavities of stones without the smallest
crack or aperture for any communication with the air. My uncle told her
that an experiment had not long ago been tried at Paris on that curious
subject: a living toad was inclosed in plaster, and at the end of six
months it was alive and strong; but some one having suggested that
plaster of Paris when dry is more or less porous, the same experiment
has been repeated with the addition of a coat of varnish to prevent the
admission of air.
Before we separated, my uncle promised to procure for me if possible a
torpid dormouse.
_12th._--You must allow, mamma, that my journal never detains you very
long on any one subject: from polar bears and frozen limbs we must now
skip to tobacco plantations and the West Indies, where you know, Mrs.
P. resided some time.
My uncle was inquiring from her this evening about the different modes
of culture and the proper soil for tobacco. Few plants, she says, are so
much affected by situation; it acquires such different qualities from
the soil, that tobacco plants which have been raised in one district, if
transplanted into another, though not a quarter of a mile distant, will
entirely change their flavour. For instance: the Macabau snuff is made
from the leaves of a tobacco plant which takes its name from the parish
of Macabau in St. Kitt’s, and there only the real snuff of that name can
be prepared. Both plants and seed have been tried in all parts of that
island, and in several of the other islands too, but the peculiar scent
has not in any instance been retained.
The tobacco of St. Thomas has also a particular smell, which the produce
of no other island resembles. It is a curious circumstance that none of
it is manufactured there; it is all sent to Copenhagen, and is returned
from thence to St. Thomas, and made into snuff. In Barbadoes they make
the highly scented rose-snuff, which is sometimes imitated in London by
adding attar of rose to fine rapee; but in the island it is made by
grating into the snuff a fruit called the rose-apple, which is
cultivated for that purpose. It is, however, neither a rose nor an
apple, though, when ripe, it somewhat resembles a crab-apple; but it has
a stone within, and has at all times a delightful fragrance like the
rose. The fruit, when ripe, is gathered, and carefully dried in the
shade.
But what interested me much more than all her snuff and tobacco, was the
account she gave of some dear little green humming-birds, that used
constantly to build amongst the flowers of a convolvolus that grew
against the house near her window. She took the greatest pleasure in
listening to their little feeble notes, and in watching their rapid
motions and all their habits. They were of a smaller species than any of
our little Brazilian beauties; and she says the eggs were actually just
the size of coriander seeds!
_14th._--As I was curious to see the effect of frost on a very wet soil,
Frederick and I went this morning to a spot in the low fields, where we
knew it was always swampy. We observed that, as we walked there, the
ground crackled, and sunk a little beneath our feet; so Frederick went
for a spade, and we gently raised up one of the large lumps between two
of the cracks. We found very near the surface a thin crust of ice, and
under that a forest of minute columns of ice, standing close together
like a fairy palace, with rows in it of clustered pillars; for each
column was in reality composed of several lesser ones, not thicker than
large pins. You cannot think, mamma, how pretty they were.
When we raised one of these cluster columns with its capital of earth,
it separated quite easily from the ground beneath it; but still a thin
film of earth remained sticking to the bottom of the column. Frederick
brought home a lump of these icy pillars on the spade, and my uncle laid
aside his letters, to shew, he said, how much pleasure he felt when he
saw us in pursuit of knowledge. As soon as he looked at our pillars, he
said, “In that sort of spongy soil where you found them, these icy
crystals are formed so immediately under the surface, that only a thin
crust of earth remains over their tops; and the film of clay, which
sticks to the bottom of the column, shews you that the frost has not
penetrated below it, but that the earth beneath continues soft. I see
you are looking at those marks across the pillars: break the column at
one of the marks.”
I did break one, and found exactly such a film of earth between the two
parts of the column, as that which was on the bottom of it. I asked how
could earth get into the middle of the crystal?
“Each division,” said my uncle, “shews a separate crystal--each crystal
was formed in one night,--and the number of joints or interruptions in
the column shew how many nights we have had frost.”
I reckoned four divisions in each column; the uppermost was the
longest, the next shorter, and so on; and I pointed out that
circumstance to my uncle.
“That,” said he, “is easily accounted for; whatever quantity of moisture
there was in the ground at first, there must have been less and less
every succeeding night, and the length of the columns therefore
diminished each night in the same proportion.”
In a short walk that we afterwards took with my uncle, he observed, as
we passed the garden of a small cottage on the border of the forest,
that it was late to see carrots still in the ground; and Frederick
remarked that the earth looked cracked and swelled round them. My uncle
asked leave of the cottager to go into the garden, and there we found
that several carrots were actually pushed upwards by the icy columns,
the tops of which adhered to the crown of the plant, from which the
leaves spring. As the additional joints of the columns had formed, they
had acted with so much force, as, in some cases, to break the small
fibres by which the root is held in the ground; and in others even the
end of the tap root of the carrot was snapped asunder.
I took an opportunity of asking my uncle if there are any spicula in an
icicle, which looks so transparent and smooth.
He explained to me, that an icicle assumes its smooth conical form from
the gradual congealing of the water as it flows down the surface of the
icicle. When broken across, he shewed me that it was somewhat radiated
in the structure, as if the spicula arranged themselves round the axis;
and he added that if I examined a flake of snow, I might see the same
appearance.
I next asked him (indeed he is very patient) if it is the shooting of
these spicula that causes the beautiful appearance of leaves and flowers
on the windows; he said, yes. But why then are the shapes of the leaves
so very various?
“On a calm night,” he replied, “only a close, even net-work is formed;
but the least current of air whirls the moisture into an amusing variety
of forms. That icy foliage is generally withinside the window, because
our breath contains much moist vapour; and as no room that has doors,
windows, and chimnies, can be without partial drafts of air, so the
spicula are urged together in one place, and irregularly checked in
another.”
_15th, Sunday._--Frederick asked my uncle this morning, why the work of
the tabernacle was so minutely described in the Bible.
“It is supposed,” he replied, “that Moses has been thus exact in
relating how the tabernacle was made, in order to shew that all was done
according to God’s directions, detailed in the preceding chapters; and
it is therefore that Moses so frequently repeats the expression ‘as the
Lord commanded.’
“In reading the account of the Jewish tabernacle, as well as of the
various ceremonies of the law, we should always consider for what ends
God was pleased to ordain those things. St. Paul informs us that the
Jewish law was an imperfect dispensation from the first, and added, that
though it was adapted to the weakness of the Jews, its several
institutions were intended to typify the more perfect dispensation of
the Gospel. Thus, the Jewish high priest was a manifest type of our
Saviour; and the ark in the Holy of Holies, with its mercy-seat, from
whence God communicated his will, was an emblem of Him from whose mouth
we afterwards received the perfect law.
“The religious services ordained, were _sacrifices_ of different kinds,
and various _purifications_. All these apparently burdensome rites were,
however, aptly significant of many things tending to preserve an inward,
true religion; such as the constant acknowledgment that all the
blessings we enjoy are the direct gifts of God; 2dly, the feelings of
reverence due to his temple, and to all the things appropriated to his
service; 3dly, the necessity of curbing our passions, and of atoning for
past errors; and further, the impossibility of rooting out our evil
habits without vigorous exertions. These and other moral objects, of
the same nature, were well understood by the Israelites to be
specifically represented in the ceremonial law.
“There were, also, certain solemn _festivals_ ordained as commemorations
of signal national mercies and deliverances. Nothing could have been
better calculated to keep alive the spirit of gratitude to the bountiful
Author of those mercies; and that nothing could be more consistent with
the feelings of the human mind, has been exemplified by the practice of
every age and nation, in the anniversary observances of religious,
national and domestic events.”
_16th._--The frost still continues; and instead of being miserably cold,
as I expected, I almost enjoy it. There is not much wind, and the air
feels dry and clear. We take long quick walks in the bright part of the
day while the sun shines. The rooms are very comfortable, and I find, as
my aunt told me, that I am less chilly when I stay at a moderate
distance, than when I sit quite close to the fire. In the latter part of
the day, if we begin to grow cold after the glow of warmth produced by
walking is gone, we take some good house exercise, and that always
brings it back.
Frederick asked my uncle to-day, whether it is by the loosening of the
earth round the roots of plants as we saw, last Saturday, had happened
to the carrots, that frost kills them?
“Perhaps,” said he, “that may have some injurious effect upon tender
plants; but it is by bursting the sap vessels that frost does the most
mischief.”
“I suppose the sap freezes, and that its expansion bursts the vessels?”
I said.
“Just so,” replied my uncle; “this frequently occurs, even in moderate
frosts, to tender plants, especially if they are succulent. But in very
severe winters even forest trees have suffered. In the great frost of
1739 and 1740, the largest branches were split from end to end, and
numbers of the most hardy trees died in consequence.”
All this made me very anxious about my garden and my nice plants; I had
already put stable litter on them; and I asked my uncle, if that should
be frozen through, what he would recommend me to do.
He advised me to bend some long withies of sallow over them, so as to
leave a small space above the surface of the litter, and over the
sallows to spread either a mat or fir boughs; and he reminded me that he
had explained some days ago the use of this process.
“Besides which,” said Mary, “I believe the stillness of the air under
the covering helps to delay the freezing of the moisture in the ground.
I recollect that the winter before last, which was very severe, Mamma
had fir branches hung on the wall to cover her tender climbing plants,
and long stiff straw or fern was lightly strewed round their roots, and
they all lived through the winter, and looked healthy and beautiful in
summer.”
My uncle told me for my satisfaction, that a long frost, if not very
intense, is less injurious to tender plants, than a milder season in
which soft weather and frost alternate: in open weather there is a
tendency in the sap to rise; and if it is checked by succeeding cold,
the sap vessels are injured, and the plant becomes sickly or decays.
“Is that,” said Frederick, “the reason why spring frosts are more
hurtful than those of winter?”
“That is the principal reason; but you must also consider that the
ground during the previous summer had absorbed a great quantity of heat,
which helps to mitigate the winter’s cold: this has been all expended
before spring, and therefore the whole force of the cold is then felt.”
Frederick said he remembered hearing Mr. Grant mention last autumn that
all the potatoes had been injured by frost in Alney valley near
Gloucester, while those on the side of the hill had quite escaped; and
as he thought valleys must be warmer than hills, he begged of my uncle
to explain the cause.
“Valleys,” he was answered, “are more sheltered from the wind; and the
air in them is undoubtedly hotter in the day time than that on exposed
high grounds. But in autumn, when the nights become cold, and slight
frosts occur on the sides of the hills, the air that is cooled there
being heavier than warm air, sinks down into the lower grounds,
displaces the warm air, which rises, and accumulates in the bottom of
the valley.
“There is another reason why, on clear nights at least, the cold is more
severe in low confined places that are sheltered from the wind. The
radiation of heat into the sky, which I lately explained to you, reduces
their temperature below that of the air, except what is in immediate
contact with them; and there being no wind, there can be no circulation
of the warmer air to replace the heat they have lost.”
_17th._--Hamlet was mentioned yesterday after dinner; a great deal was
said about it, and many different opinions were expressed. At last, to
my great vexation, my uncle observed that I took no part in the
conversation.
“Come, my little Bertha, we must have your opinion, pro or con; are you
one of those who overlook the merits to mark the faults? Tell me what
you think.”
This direct question of my uncle’s was really terrible; every creature
was silent--and I was obliged to acknowledge that I had only read Hamlet
once, not having felt as much interest in it, as in many other tragedies
of Shakspeare. There was something which appeared to me a little
confused in the whole plot--the ghost, too, disappointed me:--and Hamlet
seemed unnecessarily unkind to poor Ophelia--and in short I did not very
much like the play, perhaps because I did not understand it.
My uncle praised me for having courage to express honestly what I
thought; and he said he would read the play to us, that I might enter
into the spirit of it while the conversation was fresh in my
recollection. He had taken but little part in the conversation, his
object being rather to draw out all our opinions, than to influence them
by his own; but as he was going to begin, he said, “It appears to me
that Hamlet is not quite suited to very young people: it scarcely comes
within the range of their views of the human mind. One of the earliest
critics on Shakspeare remarked that Hamlet ‘can only please the wiser
sort;’ and I will therefore endeavour, by a few hints, to direct your
attention to the main object of the play, and to one or two objects
most worth noticing. Unless young people learn how to see and think for
themselves, liking or disliking becomes the mere effects of caprice or
fashion.
“In this play, Bertha, the object of chief interest is not the plot nor
even the events--it is character. The reader easily anticipates the
story, and feels no great suspense as to the fate of the king or queen;
and though our love of justice naturally makes us rejoice in the
punishment of vice, almost all our feelings are absorbed by the
character of Hamlet--the impulses of his noble mind, and the indignation
he feels at unexpected wickedness.
“The passions of the various persons in this drama are displayed with
equal truth and strength. Hamlet’s grief and horror at the death of his
father, and at his mother’s baseness, are beautifully and naturally
expressed. He feels as a virtuous and honourable man, but he feels also
as a son; and in those contending feelings lie the great interest of the
piece. Even in the utmost vehemence of his indignation, his manner of
treating his mother is remarkable; and, as some writer has observed, it
is that which chiefly distinguishes his character from that of Orestes,
and shews indeed, in the difference between those two heroes, the
opposite principles of the Christian, and the heathen, authors.
“As to his madness, you may perceive that it was feigned in order to
prevent all suspicion, on the part of the king, of the enterprise he was
engaged in; and to confirm that idea he affects a severity of conduct
towards Ophelia in direct opposition to his former sentiments. In the
distracted state of his mind, he could not possibly explain to her the
cause of his suspended affection. His ruling passion was to think, not
to act; and all his principles of action were unhinged by the harassing
scene around him. Though he contrived the scene in the play to prove the
truth of the ghost’s suggestions, yet he appears to rest satisfied with
the confirmation of his suspicions, and declines to act upon them. But,
though his character does not shew strength of will, it is every where
marked by quick sensibility, and refinement of thought.
“The other characters have also great merit. Ophelia is beautifully
painted; her love, her madness, and her death, are described with the
truest touches of tenderness and pathos. Polonius is an excellent
representation of a large class of men, who talk wisely and act
foolishly. The advice he gives his son is sensible, while that to the
king and queen respecting Hamlet’s madness is ridiculous; but, the one
is the sincere advice of a father, the other that of a meddling and
officious courtier; and throughout this part Shakspeare keeps up the
nice distinctions between the understanding, the habits, and the motives
of mankind.
“The plot of this play may be, as Bertha says, confused, and the
catastrophe, as Johnson tells us, not very happily produced by the
awkward exchange of weapons; but if you study it as a display of
character, you will discover fresh beauties every time you read it; you
will perceive that it is of a higher order of dramatic painting than
many of Shakspeare’s more popular works, and that it abounds in the most
eloquent and striking reflections on human life.”
_18th._--The Lumleys arrived yesterday; my aunt having invited them to
meet Mrs. P. I feel very glad, indeed, to see them again, and I am not
this time out of humour at interruption from visiters.
We amused ourselves part of yesterday evening with _story play_, which I
had never heard of before. You are to whisper a _word_, which must be a
substantive, to the person who begins the play, and who is to tell a
short story or anecdote, into which that word is to be frequently
introduced. It requires some ingenuity to relate the story in so natural
a manner, that the word shall not be too evident, and yet that it may be
sufficiently marked. When the story is finished, each of the party
endeavours to guess the word, and the person who discovers it tells the
next story. I will give you a sample.
It was decided that my aunt should begin; Frederick whispered the word;
and she began so naturally about a visit from Mr. Arthur Maude, who has
just returned from Italy, that, at first, I thought she was not going to
join in the play.
“Mr. Maude tells me,” continued my aunt, “that he has been greatly
interested by the Vaudois, and well repaid, by seeing those amiable
people, for the fatigue of making that part of his tour on foot.
“In a beautiful valley between Pignerola and La Tour, he observed a
small open arch, under a group of oak trees, that stood on a round green
knoll. He afterwards learned, that this arch had been erected about the
time that the poor Vaudois had been obliged to quit their native hills,
under the brave and pious Arnaud. It was ornamented with figures of
saints, and had such an uncommon appearance among those wild valleys,
that he sat down to make a sketch, not only of the arch, but of the
picturesque scene which surrounded it. Twice he began, and twice he was
interrupted by sounds of distress, which seemed to come from within the
arch. On approaching it, he found a young creature about fifteen, seated
under the shade of the arch, and plying her distaff diligently while
the tears fell from her eyes. In reply to his inquiries as to the cause
of her grief, she timidly told him, that her poor old father had been so
ill that he could earn nothing for many weeks; and having already been
reduced to sell every thing but his house, he was totally unable to pay
one of the heavy taxes which was now demanded from him. She had,
therefore, been spinning--spinning--for ever with her distaff, but all
in vain; her yarn was not ready, they must pay the tax without delay,
and to do so she must part with the only treasure she possessed: that
was the cause of her sorrow; and she had retired to that little arch to
avoid the sun, and to conceal her tears from her father.
“‘For that one thing, I can get money enough,’ said she, ‘but how can I
part with it! It was once the Bible of Henri Arnaud; my grandmother gave
it to me, saying, “Never, never part with this precious book, Janetta.”
But, what can I do?’--and her tears burst out afresh. ‘I _must_ sell
Henri Arnaud’s bible, or my father will have no house to shelter him!’
“Mr. Maude asked her to guide him to her father’s cottage. She took him
by a winding path which led from the arch, to a very poor little chalet,
overhung by chesnut trees. The old man was seated on a bench at his
door; and Mr. Maude, placing himself at his side, and entering into
conversation, observed how much his pale countenance brightened at the
interest with which a stranger listened to his anecdotes of Henri
Arnaud. Mr. Maude indulged himself by giving a small sum, which was
sufficient to pay the tax. And having thus enabled the little Janetta to
keep her valued Bible, he returned, I am sure, with a happy mind, to
finish his sketch of the picturesque _Arch_.”
Mary readily guessed that word, and my aunt therefore whispered one to
her. After considering for a moment, she proceeded--“The Alpine Marmot,
you know, is one of those animals that pass a portion of the year in a
torpid state. It delights in cold mountainous regions, where it burrows
in the ground, and prepares its wintry residence with great art, lining
it with the finest grass. To collect this grass, the whole family, it is
said, act in concert; some are employed as sentinels, to give notice of
approaching danger; others cut it; and when a sufficient quantity is
gathered, one of them acts the part of a waggon, to carry it home. This
marmot lays himself on his back, stretches his legs upward, and suffers
himself to be loaded just like a waggon of hay. One set then take hold
of him by the tail, and drag him along on his back; while another set
act as guides, to prevent accidents, or to remove any roughness in the
path, which might overturn their little living waggon.”
My uncle having rightly guessed the waggon, he was next called before
the house; Mary first giving him his text word.