Evenings at home; or, the juvenile budget opened: Consisting of a variety of miscellaneous pieces, ... [pt.2]

TENTH EVENING.

THE FLYING FISH.

THE Flying Fish, says the fable, had originally no wings; but being of an ambitious and discontented temper, she repined at being always confined to the waters, and wished to soar in the air.

"If I could fly like the birds,"

said she,

"I should not only see more of the beauties of nature, but I should be able to escape from those fish which are continually pursuing me, and which render my life miserable."

She therefore petitioned Jupiter for a pair of wings: and immediately she per|ceived her fins to expand. They sud|denly grew to the length of her whole body, and became at the same time so strong as to do the office of a pinion. She was at first much pleased with her

new powers, and looked with an air of disdain on all her former companions; but she soon perceived herself exposed to new dangers. When flying in the air, she was incessantly pursued by the tropic bird, and the Albatross; and when for safety she dropped into the water, she was so fatigued with her flight, that she was less able than ever to escape from her old enemies the fish. Finding herself more unhappy than be|fore, she now begged of Jupiter to recal his present; but Jupiter said to her,

"When I gave you your wings, I well knew they would prove a curse; but your proud and restless disposition de|served this disappointment. Now, there|fore, what you begged as a favour, keep as a punishment!"

A LESSON IN THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING.

F.

COME hither, Charles; what is that you see grazing in the meadow be|fore you?

C.

It is a horse.

F.

Whose horse is it?

C.

I do not know; I never saw it before.

F.

How do you know it is a horse, if you never saw it before?

C.

Because it is like other horses.

F.

Are all horses alike, then?

C.

Yes.

F.

If they are all alike, how do you know one horse from another?

C.

They are not quite alike.

F.

But they are so much alike, that you can easily distinguish a horse from a cow?

C.

Yes, indeed.

F.

Or from a cabbage?

C.

A horse from a cabbage! yes, surely I can.

F.

Very well; then let us see if you can tell how a horse differs from a cab|bage?

C.

Very easily; a horse is alive.

F.

True; and how is every thing called, which is alive?

C.

I believe all things that are alive are called animals.

F.

Right; but can you tell me what a horse and a cabbage are alike in?

C.

Nothing, I believe.

F.

Yes, there is one thing in which the slenderest moss that grows upon the wall is like the greatest man or the high|est angel.

C.

Because God made them.

F.

Yes; and how do you call every thing that is made?

C.

A creature.

F.

A horse then is a creature, but a living creature; that is to say, an animal.

C.

And a cabbage is a dead creature; that is the difference.

F.

Not so, neither; nothing is dead that has never been alive.

C.

What must I call it then, if it is neither dead nor alive?

F.

An inanimate creature; there is the animate and the inanimate creation. Plants, stones, metals, are of the latter class, horses belong to the former.

C.

But the gardener told me some of my cabbages were dead, and some were alive.

F.

Very true. Plants have a vegeta|tive life, a principle of growth and de|cay; this is common to them with all organized bodies; but they have not sensation, at least we do not know they have—they have not life, therefore, in the sense in which animals enjoy it.

C.

A horse is called an animal, then.

F.

Yes; but a salmon is an animal, and so is a sparrow; how will you dis|tinguish a horse from these?

C.

A salmon lives in the water and swims; a sparrow flies, and lives in the air.

F.

I think a salmon could not walk upon the ground, even if it could live out of the water.

C.

No, indeed; it has no legs.

F.

And a bird would not gallop like a horse.

C.

No; it would hop away upon its two slender legs.

F.

How many legs has a horse?

C.

Four.

F.

And an ox?

C.

Four likewise.

F.

And a camel?

C.

Four still.

F.

Do you know any animals which live upon the earth that have not four legs?

C.

I think not; they have all four legs; except worms, and insects, and such things.

F.

You remember, I suppose, what

an animal is called that has four legs; you have it in your little books.

C.

A quadruped.

F.

A horse then is a quadruped: by this we distinguish him from birds, fishes, and insects.

C.

And from men.

F.

True; but if you had been talk|ing about birds, you would not have found it so easy to distinguish them.

C.

How so! a man is not at all like a bird.

F.

Yet an ancient philosopher could find no way to distinguish them, but by calling man a two-legged animal without feathers.

C.

I think he was very silly; they are not at all alike, though they have both two legs.

F.

Another ancient philosopher, call|ed Diogenes, was of your opinion. He stript a cock of his feathers, and turned him into the school where Plato, that

was his name, was teaching, and said, Here is Plato's man for you.

C.

I wish I had been there, I should have laughed very much.

F.

Probably. Before we laugh at others, however, let us see what we can do ourselves. We have not yet found any thing which will distinguish a horse from an elephant, or from a Norway rat.

C.

O, that is easy enough. An ele|phant is very large, and a rat is very small; a horse is neither large nor small.

F.

Before we go any further, look what is settled on the skirt of your coat.

C.

It is a butterfly; what a prodi|gious large one! I never saw such a one before.

F.

Is it larger than a rat, think you?

C.

No, that it is not.

F.

Yet you called the butterfly large, and you called the rat small.

C.

It is very large for a butterfly.

F.

It is so. You see, therefore, that large and small are relative terms.

C.

I do not well understand that phrase.

F.

It means that they have no pre|cise and determinate signification in themselves, but are applied differently according to the other ideas which you join with them, and the different posi|tions in which you view them. This butterfly, therefore, is large, compared with those of its own species, and small compared with many other species of animals. Besides, there is no circum|stance which varies more than the size of individuals. If you were to give an idea of a horse from its size, you would certainly say it was much bigger than a dog; yet if you take the smallest Shetland horse, and the largest Irish greyhound, you will find them very much upon a par: size, therefore, is not a circum|stance by which you can accurately dis|tinguish

one animal from another; nor yet is colour.

C.

No; there are black horses, and bay, and white, and pied.

F.

But you have not seen that va|riety of colours, in a hare, for instance.

C.

No, a hare is always brown.

F.

Yet if you were to depend upon that circumstance, you would not con|vey the idea of a hare to a mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia; for he sees them white as snow. We must, there|fore, find out some circumstances that do not change like size and colour, and I may add shape, though they are not so obvious, nor perhaps so striking. Look at the feet of quadrupeds; are they all alike?

C.

No; some have long taper claws, and some have thick clumsy feet with|out claws.

F.

The thick seet are horny; are they not?

C.

Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs.

F.

And the feet that are not covered with horn, and are divided into claws, are called digitated, from digitus, a fin|ger; because they are parted like fin|gers. Here, then, we have one grand division of quadrupeds into hoofed and digitated. Of which division is the horse?

C.

He is hoofed.

C.

There are a great many different kinds of horses; did you ever know one that was not hoofed?

C.

No, never.

F.

Do you think we run any hazard of a stranger telling us, Sir, horses are hoofed indeed in your country, but in mine, which is in a different climate, and where we feed them differently, they have claws?

C.

No, I dare say not.

F.

Then we have got something to our purpose; a circumstance easily marked, which always belongs to the

animal, under every variation of situa|tion or treatment. But an ox is hoofed, and so is a sheep; we must distinguish still farther. You have often stood by, I suppose, while the smith was shoeing a horse. What kind of a hoof has he?

C.

It is round, and all in one piece.

F.

And is that of an ox so?

C.

No, it is divided.

F.

A horse, then, is not only hoof|ed, but whole-hoofed. Now how many quadrupeds do you think there are in the world that are whole-hoofed?

C.

Indeed I do not know.

F.

There are, among all animals that we are acquainted with, either in this country or in any other, only the horse, the ass, and the zebra, which is a spe|cies of wild ass. Now, therefore, you see we have nearly accomplished our purpose; we have only to distinguish him from the ass.

C.

That is easily done, I believe; I

should be sorry if any body could mis|take my little horse for an ass.

F.

It is not so easy, however, as you ima|gine; the eye readily distinguishes them by the air and general appearance, but naturalists have been rather puzzled to fix upon any specific difference, which may serve the purpose of a definition. Some have, therefore, fixed upon the ears, others on the mane and tail. What kind of ears has an ass?

C.

O, very long clumsy ears. Asses' ears are always laughed at.

F.

And the horse?

C.

The horse has small ears, nicely turned, and upright.

F.

And the mane, is there no differ|ence there?

C.

The horse has a fine long flowing mane; the ass has hardly any.

F.

And the tail; is it not fuller of hair in the horse than in the ass?

C.

Yes; the ass has only a few long hairs at the end of his tail; but the horse

has a long bushy tail, when it is not cut.

F.

Which, by the way, it is pity it ever should. Now, then, observe what particulars we have got. A horse is an animal of the quadruped kind, whole|hoofed, with short erect ears, a flowing mane, and a tail covered in every part with long ears. Now is there any other animal, think you, in the world that answers these particulars?

C.

I do not know; this does not tell us a great deal about him.

F.

And yet it tells us enough to dis|tinguish him from all the different tribes of the creation which we are acquainted with in any part of the earth. Do you know now what we have been making?

C.

What?

F.

A DEFINITION. It is the busi|ness of a definition to distinguish pre|cisely the thing defined from every other thing, and to do it in as few terms as possible. Its object is to separate the

subject of definition, first, from those with which it has only a general resem|blance; then, from those which agree with it in a greater variety of particu|lars; and so on, till by constantly throw|ing out all which have not the qualities we have taken notice of, we come at length to the individual or the species we wish to ascertain. It is a kind of chase, and resembles the manner of hunting in some countries, where they first enclose a very large circle with their dogs, nets, and horses; and then, by degrees, draw their toils closer and closer, driving their game before them till it is at length brought into so narrow a compass, that the sportsmen have nothing to do but to knock down their prey.

C.

Just as we have been hunting this horse, till at last we held him fast by his ears and his tail.

F.

I should observe to you, that in the definition naturalists give of a horse, it is generally mentioned that he has

six cutting teeth in each jaw; because this circumstance of the teeth has been found a very convenient one for cha|racterising large classes: but as it is not absolutely necessary here, I have omitted it; a definition being the more perfect the fewer particulars you make use of, provided you can say with certainty from those particulars, The object so characterised must be this, and no other whatever.

C.

But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I should not know what kind of animal it was by this definition.

F.

Let us hear, then, how you would give me an idea of a horse.

C.

I would say it was a fine large prancing creature, with slender legs and an arched neck, and a sleek smooth skin, and a tail that sweeps the ground, and that he snorts and neighs very loud, and tosses his head, and runs as swift as the wind.

F.

I think you learned some verses

upon the horse in your last lesson: re|peat them.

C.

The wanton courser thus with reins unbound Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground; Pamper'd and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides; His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevel'd o'er his shoulders flies; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again. POPE's Homer.

F.

You have said very well; but this is not a Definition, it is a Description.

C.

What is the difference?

F.

A description is intended to give you a lively picture of an object, as if you saw it; it ought to be very full. A definition gives no picture to those who have not seen it; it rather tells you what its subject is not, than what it is, by giving you such clear specific marks, that it shall not be possible to confound

it with any thing else; and hence it is of the greatest use in throwing things into classes. We have a great many beautiful descriptions from antient au|thors so loosely worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are meant by them, whereas if they had given us de|finitions, three lines would have ascer|tained their meaning.

C.

I like a description best, papa.

F.

Perhaps so; I believe I should have done the same at your age. Re|member, however, that nothing is more useful than to learn to form ideas with precision, and to express them with ac|curacy: I have not given you a defini|tion to teach you what a horse is, but to teach you to think.

THE PHENIX AND DOVE.

A Phenix, who had long inhabited the solitary deserts of Arabia, once flew so near the habitations of men as to meet with a tame Dove, who was sitting on her nest, with wings expanded, and fondly brooding over her young ones, while she expected her mate, who was foraging abroad to procure them food. The Phenix, with a kind of insulting compassion, said to her,

"Poor bird, how much I pity thee! confined to a single spot, and sunk in domestic cares, thou art continually employed either in laying eggs or in providing for thy brood; and thou exhaustest thy life and strength in perpetuating a feeble and de|fenceless race. As to myself, I live ex|empt from toil, care, and misfortune. I feed upon nothing less precious than rich gums and spices; I fly through the trackless regions of the air, and when I

am seen by men, am gazed at with cu|riosity and astonishment; I have no one to controul my range, no one to pro|vide for; and when I have fulfilled my five centuries of life, and seen the revo|lutions of ages, I rather vanish than die, and a successor without my care, springs up from my ashes. I am an image of the great sun whom I adore; and glory in being, like him, single and alone, and having no likeness."

The Dove replied,

"O Phenix, I pity thee much more than thou affectest to pity me! What pleasure canst thou enjoy, who livest forlorn and solitary in a trackless and unpeopled desert; who hast no mate to caress thee, no young ones to excite thy tenderness and reward thy cares, no kindred, no society amongst thy fellows. Not long life only, but immortality itself would be a curse, if it were to be bestowed on such uncom|fortable terms. For my part, I know that my life will be short, and therefore

I employ it in raising a numerous pos|terity, and in opening my heart to all the sweets of domestic happiness. I am beloved by my partner; I am dear to man; and shall leave marks behind me that I have lived. As to the sun, to whom thou hast presumed to compare thyself, that glorious being is so totally different from, and so infinitely superior to, all the creatures upon earth, that it does not become us to liken ourselves to him, or to determine upon the manner of his existence. One obvious differ|ence, however, thou mayest remark; that the sun, though alone, by his prolific heat, produces all things, and though he shines so high above our heads, gives us reason every moment to bless his beams; whereas thou, swelling with thy imaginary greatness, dreamest away a long period of existence, equally void of comfort and usefulness."

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

F.

I WILL now, as I promised, give you an account of the elegant and use|ful manufacture of Paper, the basis of which is itself a manufacture. This de|licate and beautiful substance is made from the meanest and most disgusting materials, from old rags, which have passed from one poor person to another, and at length have perhaps dropped in tatters from the child of the beggar. These are carefully picked up from dunghills, or bought from servants by Jews, who make it their business to go about and collect them. They sell them to the rag-merchant, who gives from two-pence to four-pence a pound, according to their quality; and he, when he has got a sufficient quantity, disposes of them to the owner of the paper-mill. He gives them first to women to sort and

pick, agreeably to their different de|grees of fineness: they also with a knife cut out carefully all the seams, which they throw into a basket for other pur|poses: they then put them into the dusting-engine, a large circular wire sieve, from whence they receive some degree of cleansing. The rags are then conveyed to the mill. Here they were formerly beat to pieces with vast ham|mers, which rose and fell continually with a most tremendous noise that was heard from a great distance. But now they put the rags into a large trough or cistern, into which a pipe of clear spring water is constantly flowing. In this cistern is placed a cylinder, about two feet long, set thick round with rows of iron spikes, standing as near as they can to one another without touching. At the bottom of the trough there are cor|responding rows of spikes. The cy|linder is made to whirl round with in|conceivable rapidity, and with these iron

teeth rends and tears the cloth in every possible direction; till, by the assistance of the water, which continually flows through the cistern, it is thoroughly masticated, and reduced to a fine pulp; and by the same process all its impuri|ties are cleansed away, and it is restored to its original whiteness. This process takes about six hours. To improve the colour they then put in a little smalt, which gives it that bluish cast which all Paper has more or less: the French Paper has less of it than ours. This fine pulp is next put into a copper of warm water. It is the substance of paper, but the form must now be given it: for this purpose they use a mould. It is made of wire, strong one way, and crossed with finer. This mould they just dip horizontally into the copper, and take it out again. It has a little wooden frame on the edge, by means of which it retains as much of the pulp as is want|ed for the thickness of the sheet, and the

superfluity runs off through the inter|stices of the wires. Another man in|stantly receives it, opens the frame, and turns out the thin sheet, which has now shape, but not consistence, upon soft felt, which is placed on the ground to receive it. On that is placed another piece of felt, and then another sheet of Paper, and so on till they have made a pile of forty or fifty. They are then pressed with a large screw-press, moved by a long lever, which forcibly squeezes the water out of them, and gives them immediate consistence. There is still however, a great deal to be done. The felts are taken off and thrown on one side, and the Paper on the other, from whence it is dexterously taken up with an instrument in the form of a T, three sheets at a time, and hung on lines to dry. There it hangs for a week or ten days, which likewise further whitens it; and any knots and roughnesses it may have are picked off carefully by the wo|men.

It is then sized. Size is a kind of glue; and without this preparation the Paper would not bear ink; it would run and blot as you see it does on grey Paper. The sheets are just dipped into the size, and taken out again. The exact degree of sizing is a matter of nicety, which can only be known by ex|perience. They are then hung up again to dry, and when dry taken to the fi|nishing-room, where they are examined a new, pressed in the dry presses, which gives them their last gloss and smooth|ness; counted out into quires, made up in reams, and sent to the stationer's, from whom we have it, after he has folded it again and cut the edges; some too he makes to shine like satin, by glossing it with hot plates. The whole process of Paper-making takes about three weeks.

H.

It is a very curious process in|deed. I shall almost scruple for the fu|ture to blacken a sheet of Paper with a

careless scrawl, now I know how much pains it costs to make it so white and beautiful.

F.

It is true that there is hardly any thing we use with so much waste and profusion as this manufacture; we should think ourselves confined in the use of it, if we might not tear, disperse, and de|stroy it in a thousand ways; so that it is really astonishing from whence linen enough can be procured to answer so vast a demand. As to the coarse brown papers, of which an astonishing quantity is used by every shopkeeper in pack|ages, &c. these are made chiefly of oakum, that is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made in China of silk.

H.

I have heard lately of woven Pa|per; pray what is that? they cannot weave Paper, surely!

F.

Your question is very natural. In order to answer it, I must desire you to take a sheet of common Paper, and

hold it up against the light. Do not you see marks in it?

H.

I see a great many white lines running along lengthways, like ribs, and smaller that cross them. I see, too, letters and the figure of a crown.

F.

These are all the marks of the wires; the thickness of the wire pre|vents so much of the pulp lying upon the sheet in those places, consequently wherever the wires are, the Paper is thinner, and you see the light through more readily, which gives that appear|ance of white lines. The letters too are worked in the wire, and are the maker's name. Now to prevent these lines, which take off from the beauty of the Paper, particularly of drawing Paper, there have been lately used moulds of brass wire exceeding fine, of equal thick|ness, and woven or latticed one within another; the marks, therefore, of these are easily pressed out, so as to be hardly

visible; if you look at this sheet you will see it is quite smooth.

H.

It is so.

F.

I should mention to you, that there is a discovery very lately made, by which they can make Paper equal to any in whiteness, of the coarsest brown rags, and even of dyed cottons; which they have till now been obliged to throw by for inferior purposes. This is by means of manganese, a sort of mineral, and oil of vitriol; a mixture of which they just pass through the pulp, while it is in water, for otherwise it would burn it, and in an instant it dis|charges the colours of the dyed cloths, and bleaches the brown to a beautiful whiteness.

H.

That is like what you told me before of bleaching cloth in a few hours.

F.

It is indeed founded upon the same discovery. The Paper made of

these brown rags is likewise more va|luable, from being very tough and strong, almost like parchment.

H.

When was the making of Paper found out?

F.

It is a disputed point, but proba|bly in the fourteenth century. The in|vention has been of almost equal con|sequence to literature, as that of print|ing itself; and shows how the arts and sciences, like children of the same fa|mily, mutually assist and bring forward each other.

THE TWO ROBBERS.

Scene—Alexander the Great in his tent. Guards. A Man with a fierce countenance, chained and fettered, brought be|fore him.

Alex.

WHAT, art thou the Thracian Robber, of whose exploits I have heard so much?

Rob.

I am a Thracian, and a soldier.

A.

A soldier!—a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! the pest of the country! I could honour thy courage, but I must detest and punish thy crimes.

R.

What have I done, of which you can complain?

A.

Hast thou not set at defiance my authority, violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the per|sons and properties of thy fellow sub|jects?

R.

Alexander! I am your captive—I must hear what you please to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But my soul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man.

A.

Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power to silence those with whom I deign to con|verse!

R.

I must then answer your question

by another. How have you passed your life?

A.

Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest: among sove|reigns, the noblest: among conquerors, the mightiest.

R.

And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever—But I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been easily subdued.

A.

Still, what are you but a robber—a base dishonest robber?

R.

And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry;—plundering, ra|vishing, killing, without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done to a single district with a hundred fol|lowers,

you have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then the differ|ence, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?

A.

But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts, com|merce, and philosophy.

R.

I, too, have freely given to the poor, what I took from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind; and have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I know, in|deed, little of the philosophy you talk

of; but I believed neither you nor I shall ever repay to the world the mis|chiefs we have done it.

A.

Leave me—Take off his chains, and use him well.

(Exit Robber.)

—Are we then so much alike?—Alex|ander to a robber?—Let me reflect.