PERSEVERANCE, AGAINST FORTUNE.
A STORY.

THEODORE was a boy of lively parts and engaging manners; but he had the failing of being extremely impatient in his temper, and inclined to extremes. He was ardent in all his purſuits, but could bear no diſappointment; and if the leaſt thing went wrong, he threw up what he was about in a pet, and could not be prevailed upon to reſume it. His father (Mr. Carleton) had given him a bed in the garden, which he had culti⯑vated with great delight. The borders were ſet with double daiſies of different colours, next to which was a row of auriculas and polyanthuſes. Beyond [2] were ſtocks and other taller flowers and ſhrubs; and a beautiful damaſk roſe graced the centre. This roſe was juſt budding, and Theodore watched its daily progreſs with great intereſt. One un⯑fortunate day, the door of the garden being left open, a drove of pigs entered, and began to riot on the herbs and flowers. An alarm being ſounded, Theodore and the ſervant boy ruſhed upon them, ſmacking their whips. The whole herd in affright, took their courſe acroſs Theodore's flower-bed, on which ſome of them had before been grazing. Stocks, daiſies, and auri⯑culas were all trampled down or torn up; and what was worſt of all, a large old ſow ran directly over the beautiful roſe tree, and broke off its ſtem level with the ground. When Theodore came up, and beheld all the miſchief, and eſ⯑pecially his favourite roſe ſtrewed on the ſoil, rage and grief choaked his utter⯑ance. After ſtanding a while, the pic⯑ture [3] of deſpair, he ſnatched up a ſpade that ſtood near, and with furious haſte dug over the whole bed, and whelmed all the relics of his flowers deep under the ſoil. This exertion being ended, he burſt into tears, and ſilently left the garden.

His father, who had beheld the ſcene at a diſtance, though ſomewhat diverted at the boy's childiſh violence, yet began ſeriouſly to reflect on the future conſe⯑quences of ſuch a temper, if ſuffered to grow up without reſtraint. He ſaid nothing to him at the time, but in the afternoon he took him a walk into a neighbouring pariſh. There was a large wild common, and at the ſkirts of it, a neat farm-houſe, with fields lying round it, all well fenced, and cul⯑tivated in the beſt manner. The air was ſweetened with the bean-flower and clover. An orchard of fine young fruit trees lay behind the houſe; and before it, a little garden, gay with all the flowers [4] of the ſeaſon. A ſtand of bee-hives was on the ſouthern ſide, ſheltered by a thick hedge of honeyſuckle and ſweet-briar. The farm-yard was ſtocked with pigs and poultry. A herd of cows with full udders, was juſt coming home to be milked. Every thing wore the aſpect of plenty and good management. The charms of the ſcene ſtruck Theodore very forcibly, and he expreſſed his pleaſure in the warmeſt terms. This place, ſaid his father, belongs to a man who is the greateſt example I know of patient for⯑titude bearing up againſt misfortune; and all that you ſee is the reward of his own perſeverance. I am a little ac⯑quainted with him; and we will go in and beg a draught of milk, and try if we can prevail upon him to tell us his ſtory. Theodore willingly accompanied his father. They were received by the farmer with cordial frankneſs. After they were ſeated, Mr. Hardman, (ſays Mr. Carleton) I have often heard of part [5] of your adventures, but never had a regular account of the whole. If you will favour me and my little boy with the ſtory of them, we ſhall think our⯑ſelves much obliged to you. Lack a day! ſir, (ſaid he) there's little in them worth telling of, as far as I know. I have had my ups and downs in the world, to be ſure, but ſo have many men beſide. However, if you wiſh to hear about them, they are at your ſervice; and I can't ſay but it gives me pleaſure ſome⯑times to talk over old matters, and think how much better things have turned out than might have been expected. Now I am of opinion (ſaid Mr. C.) that from your ſpirit and perſeverance a good con⯑cluſion might always have been ex⯑pected. You are pleaſed to compli⯑ment, ſir (replied the farmer); but I will begin without more words.

You may perhaps have heard that my father was a man of good eſtate. He thought of nothing, poor man! but [6] how to ſpend it; and he had the un⯑common luck to ſpend it twice over. For when he was obliged to ſell it the firſt time, it was bought in by a relation, who left it him again by his will. But my poor father was not a man to take warning. He fell to living as he had done before, and juſt made his eſtate and his life hold out together. He died at the age of five and forty, and left his family beggars. I believe he would not have taken to drinking as he did, had it not been for his impatient temper, which made him fret and vex himſelf for every trifie, and then he had nothing for it but to drown his care in liquor.

It was my lot to be taken by my mo⯑ther's brother, who was maſter of a mer⯑chant ſhip. I ſerved him as an apprentice ſeveral years, and underwent a good deal of the uſual hardſhip of a ſailor's life. He had juſt made me his mate in a voyage up the Mediterranean, when we had the misfortune to be wrecked on [7] the coaſt of Morocco. The ſhip ſtruck at ſome diſtance from ſhore, and we lay a long ſtormy night with the waves daſhing over us, expecting every mo⯑ment to periſh. My uncle and ſeveral of the crew died of fatigue and want, and by morning but four of us were left alive. My companions were ſo diſ⯑heartened, that they thought of no⯑thing but ſubmitting to their fate. For my part, I thought life ſtill worth ſtrug⯑gling for; and the weather having be⯑come calmer, I perſuaded them to join me in making a kind of raft, by the help of which, with much toil and dan⯑ger, we reached the land, Here we were ſeized by the barbarous inhabitants, and carried up the country for ſlaves to the emperor. We were employed about ſome public buildings, made to work very hard with the whip at our backs, and allowed nothing but water and a kind of pulſe. I have heard perſons talk as if there was little in be⯑ing [8] a ſlave but the name; but they who have been ſlaves themſelves, I am ſure will never make light of ſlavery in others. A ranſom was ſet on our heads, but ſo high, that it ſeemed impoſſible for poor friendleſs creatures like us ever to pay it. The thought of perpetual ſervitude, together with the hard treatment we met with, quite overcame my poor com⯑panions. They drooped and died one after another. I ſtill thought it not impoſſible to mend my condition, and perhaps to recover my freedom. We worked about twelve hours in the day, and had one holiday in the week. I employed my leiſure time in learning to make mats and flag baſkets, in which I ſoon became ſo expert, as to have a good many for ſale, and thereby got a little money to purchaſe better food, and ſeveral ſmall conveniencies. We were afterwards ſet to work in the emperor's gardens; and here I ſhowed ſo much good-will and attention, that I got into [9] favour with the overſeer. He had a large garden of his own; and he made intereſt for me to be ſuffered to work for him alone, on the condition of paying a man to do my duty. I ſoon became ſo uſeful to him, that he treated me more like a hired ſer⯑vant than a ſlave, and gave me regu⯑lar wages. I learned the language of the country, and might have paſſed my time comfortably enough, could I have accommodated myſelf to their manners and religion, and forgot my native land. I ſaved all I could, in order to purchaſe my freedom; but the ranſom was ſo high, that I had little proſpect of being able to do it for ſome years to come. A cir⯑cumſtance, however, happened which brought it about at once. Some vil⯑lains one night laid a plot to murder my maſter and plunder his houſe. I ſlept in a little ſhed in the garden where the tools lay; and being awak⯑ened [10] by a noiſe, I ſaw four men break through the fence, and walk up an alley towards the houſe. I crept out with a ſpade in my hand, and ſilently followed them. They made a hole with inſtruments in the houſe-wall big enough for a man to enter at. Two of them had got in, and the third was be⯑ginning to enter, when I ruſhed for⯑ward, and with a blow of my ſpade clove the ſkull of one of the robbers, and gave the other ſuch a ſtroke on the ſhoulder, as diſabled him. I then made a loud outcry to alarm the fa⯑mily. My maſter and his ſon, who lay in the houſe, got up, and having let me in, we ſecured the two others, after a ſharp conflict, in which I received a ſevere wound with a dagger. My maſ⯑ter, who looked upon me as his pre⯑ſerver, had all poſſible care taken of me; and as ſoon as I was cured, made me a preſent of my liberty. He would fain have kept me with him, but my [11] mind was ſo much bent on returning to my native country, that I imme⯑diately ſet out to the neareſt ſeaport, and took my paſſage in a veſſel going to Gibraltar.

From this place I returned in the firſt ſhip for England. As ſoon as we arrived in the Downs, and I was rejoic⯑ing at the ſight of the white cliffs, a man-of-war's boat came on board, and preſſed into the king's ſervice all of us who were ſeamen. I could not but think it hard that this ſhould be my welcome at home after a long ſlavery; but there was no remedy. I reſolved to do my duty in my ſtation, and leave the reſt to providence. I was abroad during the remainder of the war, and ſaw many a ſtout fellow ſink under diſ⯑eaſe and deſpondence. My knowledge of ſeamanſhip got me promoted to the poſt of a petty officer, and at the peace I was paid off, and received a pretty ſum for wages and prize⯑money. [12] With this I ſet off for Lon⯑don. I had experienced too much diſtreſs from want, to be inclined to ſquander away my money, ſo I put it into a banker's hands, and began to look out for ſome new way of life.

Unfortunately, there were ſome things of which I had no more expe⯑rience than a child, and the tricks of London were among theſe. An ad⯑vertiſement offering extraordinary ad⯑vantages to a partner in a commercial concern, who could bring a ſmall ca⯑pital, tempted me to make enquiry about the matter; and I was ſoon ca⯑joled by a plauſible artful fellow to ven⯑ture my whole ſtock in it. The buſi⯑neſs was a manufacture, about which I knew nothing at all; but as I was not afraid of my labour, I ſet about work⯑ing as they directed me, with great di⯑ligence, and thought all was going on proſperouſly. One morning, on com⯑ing to the office, I found my partners [13] decamped; and the ſame day I was arreſted for a conſiderable ſum due by the partnerſhip. It was in vain for me to think of getting bail, ſo I was obliged to go to priſon. Here I ſhould have been half ſtarved, but for my Mooriſh trade of mat-making, by the help of which I bettered my condition for ſome months; when the creditors, finding that nothing could be got out of me, ſuffered me to be ſet at liberty.

I was now in the wide world with⯑out a farthing or a friend, but I thanked God that I had health and limbs left. I did not chooſe to truſt the ſea again, but preferred my other new trade of gardening; ſo I applied to a nurſery⯑man near town, and was received as a day-labourer. I ſet myſelf cheerfully to work, taking care to be in the grounds the firſt man in the morning and the laſt at night. I acquainted my employer with all the practices I had obſerved in Morocco, and got [14] him, in return, to inſtruct me in his own. In time, I came to be conſi⯑dered as a ſkilful workman, and was advanced to higher wages. My affairs were in a flouriſhing ſtate. I was well fed and comfortably lodged, and ſaved money into the bargain. About this time I fell in company with a young woman at ſervice, very notable and well behaved, who ſeemed well qua⯑lified for a wiſe to a working man. I ventured to make an offer to her, which proved not diſagreeable; and after we had calculated a little how we were to live, we married. I took a cottage with an acre or two of land to it, and my wife's ſavings furniſh⯑ed our houſe and bought a cow. All my leiſure time I ſpent upon my piece of ground, which I made very productive, and the profits of my cow, with my wages, ſupported us very well. No mortal, I think, could be happier than I was after a hard day's [15] work, by my own fireſide, with my wiſe beſide me, and our little infant on my knee.

After this way of life had laſted two or three years, a gentleman who had dealt largely with my maſter for young plants, aſked him if he could re⯑commend an honeſt induſtrious man for a tenant, upon ſome land that he had lately taken in from the ſea. My maſter, willing to do me a kind⯑neſs, mentioned me. I was tempted by the propoſal, and going down to view the premiſes, I took a farm upon a leaſe at a low rent, and re⯑moved my family and goods to it, one hundred and fifty miles from Lon⯑don. There was ground enough for money, but much was left to be done for it in draining, manuring, and fenc⯑ing. Then it required more ſtock than I was able to furniſh; ſo, though unwilling, I was obliged to bor⯑row ſome money of my landlord, who [14] [...] [15] [...] [16] let me have it at moderate intereſt. I began with good heart, and worked late and early to put things in the beſt condition. My firſt misfortune was, that the place proved unhealthy to us. I fell into a lingering ague, which pull⯑ed me down much, and hindered my buſineſs. My wife got a ſlow fever, and ſo did our eldeſt child (we had now two, and another coming). The poor child died; and what with grief and illneſs, my wife had much ado to recover. Then the rot got among my ſheep, and carried off the beſt part of my flock. I bore up againſt diſtreſs as well as I could; and by the kindneſs of my landlord was enabled to bring things tolerably about again. We re⯑gained our health, and began to be ſea⯑ſoned to the climate. As we were cheering ourſelves with the proſpect of better times, a dreadful ſtorm aroſe—it was one night in February—I ſhall never forget it—and drove the ſpring tide [17] with ſuch fury againſt our ſea-banks, that they gave way. The water ruſhed in with ſuch force, that all was pre⯑ſently a ſea. Two hours before day⯑light, I was awaked by the noiſe of the waves daſhing againſt our houſe, and burſting in at the door. My wife had lain in about a month, and ſhe and I, and the two children, ſlept on a ground floor. We had juſt time to carry the children up ſtairs, before all was afloat in the room. When day appeared, we could ſee nothing from the windows but water. All the out⯑houſes, ricks, and utenſils were ſwept away, and all the cattle and ſheep drowned. The ſea kept riſing, and the force of the current bore ſo hard againſt our houſe, that we thought every moment it muſt fall. We claſped our babies to our breaſts, and expected nothing but preſent death. At length we ſpied a boat coming to us. With a good deal [18] of difficulty it got under our window, and took us in with a ſervant maid and boy. A few clothes was all the pro⯑perty we ſaved; and we had not left the houſe half an hour, before it fell, and in a minute nothing was to be ſeen of it. Not only the farm-houſe, but the farm itſelf was gone.

I was now again a ruined man, and what was worſt, I had three partners in my ruin. My wife and I looked at one another, and then at our little ones, and wept. Neither of us had a word of comfort to ſay. At laſt, thought I, this country is not Morocco, however. Here are good ſouls that will pity our caſe, and perhaps relieve us. Then I have a character, and a pair of hands. Things are bad, but they might have been worſe. I took my wife by the hand and knelt down. She did the ſame. I thanked God for his mercy in ſaving our lives, and prayed that he would continue to protect us. We [19] roſe up with lightened hearts, and were able to talk calmly about our condition. It was my deſire to return to my former maſter, the nurſery-man; but how to convey my family ſo far without money was the difficulty. Indeed I was much worſe than nothing, for I owed a good deal to my landlord. He came down upon the news of the misfortune, and though his own loſſes were heavy, he not only forgave my debt and releaſed me from all obligations, but made me a ſmall preſent. Some charitable neigh⯑bours did the like; but I was moſt of all affected by the kindneſs of our late maid-ſervant, who inſiſted upon our accepting of a crown which ſhe had ſaved out of her wages. Poor ſoul! we had always treated her like one of ourſelves, and ſhe felt for us like one.

As ſoon as we had got ſome ne⯑ceſſaries, and the weather was toler⯑able, we ſet out on our long march. [20] My wife carried her infant in her arms. I took the bigger child upon my back, and a bundle of clothes in my hand. We could walk but a few miles a day, but we now and then got a lift in an empty waggon or cart, which was a great help to us. One day we met with a farmer returning with his team from market, who let us ride, and en⯑tered into converſation with me. I told him of my adventures, by which he ſeemed much intereſted; and learn⯑ing that I was ſkilled in managing trees, he acquainted me that a nobleman in his neighbourhood was making great plantations, and would very likely be glad to engage me; and he offered to carry us to the place. As all I was ſeeking was a living by my labour, I thought the ſooner I got it, the better; ſo I thankfully accepted his offer. He took us to the nobleman's ſteward, and made known our caſe. The ſteward wrote to my old maſter for a character; [21] and receiving a favourable one, he hired me as a principal manager of a new plantation, and ſettled me and my family in a ſnug cottage near it. He advanced us ſomewhat for a little furni⯑ture and preſent ſubſiſtence; and we had once more a home. O Sir! how many bleſſings are contained in that word to thoſe who have known the want of it!

I entered upon my new employment with as much ſatisfaction, as if I was taking poſſeſſion of an eſtate. My wife had enough to do in taking care of the houſe and children; ſo it lay with me to provide for all, and I may ſay that I was not idle. Beſides my weekly pay from the ſteward, I con⯑trived to make a little money at leiſure times by pruning and dreſſing gentle⯑men's fruit trees. I was allowed a piece of waſte ground behind the houſe for a garden, and I ſpent a good deal of labour in bringing it [22] into order. My old maſter ſent me down for a preſent ſome choice young trees and flower roots, which I planted, and they throve wonder⯑fully. Things went on almoſt as well as I could deſire. The ſitua⯑tion being dry and healthy, my wife recovered her loſt bloom, and the children ſprung up like my plants. I began to hope that I was almoſt out of the reach of further misfor⯑tune; but it was not ſo ordered.

I had been three years in this ſitu⯑ation, and increaſed my family with another child, when my Lord died. He was ſucceeded by a very diſſi⯑pated young man, deep in debt, who preſently put a ſtop to the planting and improving of the eſtate, and ſent orders to turn off all the workmen. This was a great blow to me; how⯑ever, I ſtill hoped to be allowed to keep my little houſe and garden, and I thought I could then maintain my⯑ſelf [23] as a nurſery-man and gardener. But a new ſteward was ſent down, with directions to rack the tenants to the utmoſt. He aſked me as much rent for the place as if I had found the garden ready made to my hands; and when I told him it was impoſſible for me to pay it, he gave me notice to quit immediately. He would neither ſuffer me to take away my trees and plants, nor allow me any thing for them. His view, I found, was to put in a favourite of his own, and ſet him up at my expence. I remonſtrated againſt this cruel injuſtice, but could obtain nothing but hard words. As I ſaw it would be the ruin of me to be turned out in that manner, I determined, rather haſtily, to go up to London and plead my cauſe with my new Lord. I took a ſorrowful leave of my family, and walking to the next market town, I got a place on the outſide of the ſtage coach. [24] When we were within thirty or forty miles of London, the coachman over⯑turned the carriage, and I pitched directly on my head, and was taken up ſenſeleſs. Nobody knew any thing about me; ſo I was carried to the next village, where the overſeer had me taken to the pariſh workhouſe. Here I lay a fortnight, much neglected, before I came to my ſenſes. As ſoon as I became ſenſible of my condition, I was almoſt diſtracted in thinking of the diſtreſs my poor wife, who was near lying-in, muſt be under on my ac⯑count, not hearing any thing of me. I lay another fortnight before I was fit to travel, for, beſides the hurt on my head, I had a broken collar-bone, and ſeveral bruiſes. My money had ſome⯑how all got out of my pocket, and I had no other means of getting away than by being paſſed to my own pariſh. I returned in ſad plight indeed, and found my wife very ill in bed. My [25] children were crying about her, and almoſt ſtarving. We ſhould now have been quite loſt, had I not raiſed a little money by ſelling our furniture; for I was yet unable to work. As ſoon as my wife was ſomewhat recover⯑ed, we were forced to quit our houſe. I cried like a child on leaving my blooming garden and flouriſhing plan⯑tations, and was almoſt tempted to demoliſh them, rather than another ſhould unjuſtly reap the fruit of my labours. But I checked myſelf, and I am glad I did. We took lodgings in a neighbouring village, and I went round among the gentlemen of the country to ſee if I could get a little employment. In the mean time the former ſteward came down to ſettle accounts with his ſucceſſor, and was much concerned to find me in ſuch a ſituation. He was a very able and honeſt man, and had been en⯑gaged by another nobleman to ſu⯑perintend [26] a large improveable eſtate in a diſtant part of the kingdom. He told me, if I would try my for⯑tune with him once more, he would endeavour to procure me a new ſet⯑tlement. I had nothing to loſe, and therefore was willing enough to run any hazard, but I was deſtitute of means to convey my family to ſuch a diſ⯑tance. My good friend, who was much provoked at the injuſtice of the new ſteward, ſaid ſo much to him, that he brought him to make me an allowance for my garden; and with that I was enabled to make another removal. It was to the place I now inhabit.

When I came here, Sir, all this farm was a naked common, like that you croſſed in coming. My Lord got an encloſure bill for his part of it, and the ſteward divided it into different farms, and let it on improving leaſes to ſeveral tenants. [27] A dreary ſpot, to be ſure, it looked at firſt, enough to ſink a man's heart to ſit down upon it! I had a little unfiniſhed cottage given me to live in, and as I had nothing to ſtock a farm, I was for ſome years employed as head labourer and planter about the new encloſures. By very hard working and ſaving, together with a little help, I was at length enabled to take a ſmall part of the ground I now occupy. I had various diſ⯑couragements, from bad ſeaſons and other accidents. One year the diſ⯑temper carried off four out of ſeven cows that I kept; another year I loſt two of my beſt horſes. A high wind once almoſt entirely deſtroyed an orchard I had juſt planted, and blew down my biggeſt barn. But I was too much uſed to misfortunes to be eaſily diſheartened, and my way always was to ſet about repairing them in the beſt manner I could, and leave [28] the reſt to Heaven. This method ſeems to have anſwered at laſt. I have now gone on many years in a courſe of continued proſperity, add⯑ing field to field, increaſing my ſtock, and bringing up a numerous family with credit. My dear wife, who was my faithful partner through ſo much diſtreſs, continues to ſhare my proſperous ſtate; and few couples in the kingdom, I believe, have more cauſe to be thankful for their lot. This, Sir, is my hiſtory. You ſee it contains nothing very extraordinary; but if it impreſſes on the mind of this young gentleman the maxim, that pa⯑tience and perſeverance will ſcarcely fail of a good iſſue in the end, the time you have ſpent in liſtening to it will not entirely be loſt.

Mr. Carleton thanked the good far⯑mer very heartily for the amuſement and inſtruction he had afforded them, and took leave with many expreſſions [29] of regard. Theodore and he walked home, talking by the way of what they had heard.

Next morning, Mr. C. looking out of window, ſaw Theodore hard at work in his garden. He was carefully diſinterring his buried flowers, trim⯑ming and cleaning them, and planting them anew. He had got the gardener to cut a ſlip of the broken roſe-tree, and ſet it in the middle to give it a chance for growing. By noon every thing was laid ſmooth and neat, and the bed was well filled. All its ſplendour, indeed, was gone for the preſent, but it ſeemed in a hopeful way to revive again. Theodore looked with pleaſure over his work; but his father felt more pleaſure in witneſſing the firſt fruits of farmer Hardman's ſtory.

ON METALS.
PART 1.

George and Harry, with their Tutor, one day in their walk, were driven by the rain to take ſhelter in a blackſmith's ſhed. The ſhower laſting ſome time, the boys, in order to amuſe themſelves, began to examine the things around them. The great bellows firſt attracted their notice, and they admired the roar⯑ing it made, and the expedition with which it raiſed the fire to a heat too intenſe for them to look at. They were ſurpriſed at the dexterity with which the ſmith faſhioned a bar of iron into a horſeſhoe; firſt heating it, then hammering it well on the anvil, cutting off a proper length, bending it [31] round, turning up the ends, and laſtly, punching the nail-holes. They watched the whole proceſs of fitting it to the horſe's foot, and faſtening it on; and it had become fair ſome minutes before they ſhewed a deſire to leave the ſhop and proceed on their walk.

I could never have thought (ſays George, beginning the converſation) that ſuch a hard thing as iron could have been ſo eaſily managed.

Nor I neither, (ſaid Harry).

It was managed, you ſaw, by the help of fire. The fire made it ſoft and flexible, ſo that the ſmith could eaſily hammer it, and cut it, and bend it to the ſhape he wanted; and then dipping it in water, made it hard again.

Are all other metals managed in the ſame manner?

They are all worked by the help of fire in ſome way or other, either in melting them, or making them ſoft.

There are a good many ſorts of metals, are there not?

Yes, ſeveral; and if you have a mind I will tell you about them, and their uſes.

Pray do, Sir.

Yes; I ſhould like to hear it of all things.

Well, then. Firſt let us con⯑ſider what a metal is. Do you think you ſhould know one from a ſtone?

A ſtone!—Yes, I could not miſtake a piece of lead or iron for a ſtone.

How would you diſtinguiſh it?

A metal is bright and ſhining.

True—brilliance is one of their qualities. But glaſs and cryſtal are very bright, too.

But one may ſee through glaſs, and not through a piece of metal.

Right. Metals are brilliant, but opake, or not tranſparent. The thin⯑neſt plate of metal that can be made, [33] will keep out the light as effectually as a ſtone wall.

Metals are very heavy, too.

True. They are the heavieſt bodies in nature; for the lighteſt metal is nearly twice as heavy as the heavieſt ſtone. Well, what elſe?

Why, they will bear beating with a hammer, which a ſtone would not, without flying in pieces.

Yes; that property of extending or ſpreading under the hammer is called malleability; and another, like it, is that of bearing to be drawn out into a wire, which is called ductility. Metals have both theſe, and much of their uſe de⯑pends upon them.

Metals will melt, too.

What! will iron melt?

Yes; all metals will melt, though ſome require greater heat than others. The property of melting is called fuſi⯑bility. Do you know any thing more about them?

No; except that they come out of the ground, I believe.

That is properly added, for it is the circumſtance which makes them rank among foſſils, or minerals. To ſum up their character, then, a metal is a brilliant, opake, heavy, malleable, ductile, and fuſible mineral.

I think I can hardly remember all that.

The names may ſlip your me⯑mory, but you cannot ſee metals at all uſed without being ſenſible of the things.

But what are ores? I remember ſeeing a heap of iron ore which men were breaking with hammers, and it looked only like ſtones.

The ore of a metal is the ſtate in which it is generally met with in the earth, when it is ſo mixed with ſtony and other matters, as not to ſhow its proper qualities as a metal.

How do people know it, then?

By experience. It was probably accident that in the early ages diſ⯑covered that certain foſſils by the force of fire might be made to yield a metal. The experiment was repeated on other foſſils; ſo that in length of time all the different metals were found out, and all the different forms in which they lie concealed in the ground. The know⯑ledge of this is called Mineralogy, and a very important ſcience it is.

Yes, I ſuppoſe ſo; for metals are very valuable things. Our next neigh⯑bour, Mr. Sterling, I have heard, gets a great deal of money every year from his mines in Wales.

He does. The mineral riches of ſome countries are much ſuperior to that of their products above ground, and the revenues of many kings are in great part derived from their mines.

I ſuppoſe they muſt be gold and ſilver mines.

Thoſe, to be ſure, are the moſt valuable, if the metals are found in to⯑lerable abundance. But do you know why they are ſo?

Becauſe money is made of gold and ſilver.

That is a principal reaſon, no doubt. But theſe metals have intrinſic properties that make them highly valu⯑able, elſe probably they would not have been choſen in ſo many countries to make money of. In the firſt place, gold and ſilver are both perfect metals, that is, indeſtructible in the fire. Other metals, if kept a conſiderable time in the fire, change by degrees into a pow⯑dery or ſcaly matter, called a calx. You have melted lead, I dare ſay.

Yes, often.

Have you not, then, perceived a droſſy film collect upon its ſurface after it had been kept melting a while?

Yes.

That is a calx; and in time the whole lead would change to ſuch a ſub⯑ſtance. You may ſee, too, when you have heated the poker red-hot, fome ſcales ſeparate from it, which are brit⯑tle and droſſy.

Yes—the kitchen poker is al⯑moſt burnt away by putting it in the fire.

Well—All metals undergo theſe changes, except gold and ſilver; but theſe, if kept ever ſo long in the hotteſt fire, ſuſtain no loſs or change. They are therefore called perfect metals. Gold has ſeveral other remarkable properties. It is the heavieſt of all metals.

What, is it heavier than lead?

Yes—above half as heavy again. It is between nineteen and twenty times heavier than an equal bulk of water. This great weight is a ready means of diſcovering counterfeit gold coin [38] from genuine; for as gold muſt be adul⯑terated with ſomething much lighter than itſelf, a falſe coin, if of the ſame weight with the true, will be ſenſibly bigger. Gold, too, is the moſt ductile of all metals. You have ſeen leaf⯑gold?

Yes; I bought a book of it once.

Leaf-gold is made by beating a plate of gold placed between pieces of ſkin, with heavy hammers, till it is ſpread out to the moſt degree of thinneſs. And ſo great is its capacity for being extended, that a ſingle grain of the metal, which would be ſcarce bigger than a large pin's head, is beat out to a ſurface of fifty ſquare inches.

That is wonderful indeed! but I know leaf gold muſt be very thin, for it will almoſt float upon the air.

By drawing gold out to a wire, it may be ſtill further extended. Gold⯑wire, as it is called, is made with ſilver, overlaid with a ſmall proportion of gold, and they are drawn out together. In the wire commonly uſed for laces, and embroidery, and the like, a grain of gold is made completely to cover a length of three hundred and fifty-two feet; and when it is ſtretched ſtill farther by ſlatting, it will reach four hundred and one feet.

Prodigious! What a vaſt way a guinea might be drawn out, then!

Yes; the gold of a guinea at that rate, would reach above nine miles and a half. This property in gold of being capable of extenſion to ſo extraordinary a degree, is owing to its great tenacity or coheſion of particles, which is ſuch, that you can ſcarcely break a piece of gold wire by twiſting it; and a wire of gold will ſuſtain a greater weight [40] than one of any other metal, equally thick.

Then it would make very good wire for hanging bells.

It would; but ſuch bell-hanging would come rather too dear. Another valuable quality of gold is its fine co⯑lour. You know, ſcarce any thing makes a more ſplendid appearance than gilding. And a peculiar advan⯑tage of it is; that gold is not liable to ruſt or tarniſh as other metals are. It will keep its colour freſh for a great many years in a pure and clear air.

I remember the vane of the church ſteeple was new gilt two years ago, and it looks as well as at firſt.

This property of not ruſting would render gold very uſeful for a variety of purpoſes, if it were more common. It would make excellent cooking utenſils, water pipes, mathe⯑matical inſtruments, clock-work, and the like.

But is not gold ſoft? I have ſeen pieces of gold bent double.

Yes; it is next in ſoftneſs to lead, and therefore when it is made into coin, or uſed for any common purpoſes, it is mixed with a ſmall proportion of ſome other metal, in order to harden it. This is called its alloy. Our gold coin has one-twelfth part of alloy, which is a mixture of ſilver and copper.

How beautiful new gold coin is!

Yes—ſcarce any metal takes a ſtamp or impreſſion better; and it is capable of a very fine poliſh.

What countries yield the moſt gold?

South America, the Eaſt Indies, and the coaſt of Africa. Europe af⯑fords but little; yet a moderate quan⯑tity is got every year from Hungary.

I have read of rivers rolling ſands of gold. Is there any truth in that?

The poets, as uſual, have greatly exaggerated the matter; however, there are various ſtreams in different parts of the world, the ſands of which con⯑tain particles of gold, and ſome of them in ſuch quantity as to be worth the ſearch.

How does the gold come there?

It is waſhed down along with the ſoil from mountains by the torrents, which are the ſources of rivers. Some perſons ſay that all ſands contain gold; but I would not adviſe you to take the pains to ſearch for it in our common ſand; for in more ſenſes than one, gold may be bought too dear.

But what a fine thing it would be to find a gold mine on one's eſtate!

Perhaps not ſo fine as you ima⯑gine, for many a one does not pay the coſt of working. A coal pit would probably be a better thing. Who do [43] you think are the greateſt gold-finders in Europe?

I don't know.

The gypſies in Hungary. A number of half-ſtarved, half-naked wretches of that community employ themſelves in waſhing and picking the ſands of ſome mountain-ſtreams in that country which contain gold, from which they obtain juſt profit enough to keep body and ſoul together; whereas, had they employed them⯑ſelves in agriculture or manufactures, they might have got a comfortable ſubſiſtence. Gold almoſt all the world over is firſt got by ſlaves, and it makes ſlaves of thoſe who poſſeſs much of it.

For my part, I will be content with a ſilver mine.

But we have none of thoſe in England, have we?

We have no ſilver mines pro⯑perly ſo called, but ſilver is procured [44] in ſome of our lead mines. There are, however, pretty rich ſilver mines in various parts of Europe; but the richeſt of all are in Peru, in South America.

Are not the famous mines of Potoſi there?

They are. Shall I now tell you ſome of the properties of ſilver?

By all means.

It is the other perfect metal. It is alſo as little liable to ruſt as gold, though indeed it readily gets tar⯑niſhed.

Yes; I know our footman is often obliged to clean our plate before it is uſed.

Plate, however, is not made of pure ſilver, any more than ſilver coin, and ſilver utenſils of all kinds. An al⯑loy is mixed with it, as with gold, to harden it; and that makes it more liable to tarniſh.

Bright ſilver, I think, is almoſt as beautiful as gold.

It is the moſt beautiful of the white metals, and is capable of a very fine poliſh; and this, together with its rarity, makes it uſed for a great va⯑riety of ornamental purpoſes. Then it is nearly as ductile and malleable as gold.

I have had ſilver-leaf, and it ſeemed as thin as gold-leaf.

It is nearly ſo. That is uſed for ſilvering, as gold-leaf is for gilding. It is common, too, to cover metals with a thin coating of ſilver, which is called plating.

The child's ſaucepan is ſilvered over on the inſide. What is that for?

To prevent the victuals from getting any taint from the metal of the ſaucepan: for ſilver is not capable of being corroded or diſſolved by any of [46] the liquids uſed for food, as iron or copper are.

And that is the reaſon, I ſup⯑poſe, that fruit-knives are made of ſilver.

It is; but the ſoftneſs of the metal makes them bear a very poor edge.

Does ſilver melt eaſily?

Silver and gold both melt more difficulty than lead; not till they are above a common red heat. As to the weight of ſilver, it is nearly one half leſs than that of gold, being only eleven times heavier than water.

Is quickſilver a kind of ſilver?

It takes its name from ſilver, be⯑ing very like it in colour; but in re⯑ality it is a very different thing, and one of the moſt ſingular of the metal kind.

It is not malleable, I am ſure.

No; when it is quick or fluid, as it always is in our climate. But a very [47] great degree of cold makes it ſolid, and then it is malleable, like other metals.

I have heard of killing quick⯑ſilver; pray what does that mean?

It means deſtroying its property of running about, by mixing it with ſomewhat elſe. Thus, if quickſilver be well rubbed with fat, or oil, or gum, it unites with them, loſing all its metallic appearance and fluidity. It alſo unites readily with gold and ſilver, and ſeveral other metals, into the form of a kind of ſhining paſte, which is called an amalgam. This is one of the ways of gilding or ſilver⯑ing a thing. Your buttons are gilt by means of an amalgam.

How is that done?

The ſhells of the button, which are made of copper, are ſhaken in a hat with a lump of amalgam of gold and quickſilver, till they are all covered over with it. They are then put into a ſort [48] of frying-pan and held over the fire. The quickſilver, being very volatile in its nature, flies off in the form of a ſmoke or vapour when it is heated, leaving the gold behind it, ſpread over the ſurface of the button. Thus many dozen are gilt at once with the greateſt eaſe.

What a clever way! I ſhould like vaſtly to ſee it done.

You may ſee it any day at Bir⯑mingham, if you happen to be there; as well as a great many other curious operations on metals.

What a weight quickſilver is! I remember taking up a bottle full of it, and I had like to have dropt it again, it was ſo much heavier than I expected.

Yes, It is one of the heavieſt of the metals—about fifteen times heavier than water.

Is not mercury a name for quick⯑ſilver? I have heard them talk of [49] the mercury riſing and falling in the weather glaſs.

It is. You, perhaps, may have heard too of mercurial medicines, which are thoſe made of quickſilver prepared in one manner or another.

What are they good for?

For a great variety of complaints. Your brother took ſome lately for the worms; and they are often given for breakings-out on the ſkin, and for ſores and ſwellings. But they have one re⯑markable effect, when taken in a con⯑ſiderable quantity, which is, to looſen the teeth, and cauſe a great ſpitting. This is called ſalivation.

I uſed to think quickſilver was poiſon.

When it is in its common ſtate of running quickſilver, it generally does neither good nor harm; but it may be prepared, ſo as to be a very violent me⯑dicine, or even a poiſon.

Is it uſeful for any thing elſe?

Yes—for a variety of purpoſes in the arts, which I cannot now very well explain to you. But you will per⯑haps be ſurpriſed to hear that one of the fineſt red paints is made from quick⯑ſilver.

A red paint!—which is that?

Vermillion, or cinnabar, which is a particular mixture of ſulphur with quickſilver.

Is quickſilver found in this coun⯑try?

No. The greateſt quantity comes from Spain, Iſtria, and South America. It is a conſiderable object of commerce, and bears a high value, though much inferior to ſilver. Well—ſo much for metals at preſent. We will talk of the reſt on ſome future opportunity.

THE PRICE OF A VICTORY.

GOOD news! great news! glorious news! cried young Oſwald, as he en⯑tered his father's houſe. We have got a complete victory, and have killed I don't know how many thouſands of the enemy; and we are to have bonfires and illuminations!

And ſo, ſaid his father, you think that killing a great many thouſands of hu⯑man creatures is a thing to be very glad about.

No—I do not quite think ſo, neither; but ſurely it is right to be glad that our country has gained a great ad⯑vantage.

No doubt, it is right to wiſh well to our country, as far as its proſperity can be promoted without injuring the reſt of mankind. But wars are very ſeldom to the real advantage of any [52] nation; and when they are ever ſo uſe⯑ful or neceſſary, ſo many dreadful evils attend them, that a humane man will ſcarcely rejoice in them, if he conſiders at all on the ſubject.

But if our enemies would do us a great deal of miſchief, and we prevent it by beating them, have not we a right to be glad of it?

Alas! we are in general little judges which of the parties has the moſt miſchievous intentions. Commonly they are both in the wrong, and ſucceſs will make both of them unjuſt and unreaſon⯑able. But putting that out of the queſ⯑tion, he who rejoices in the event of a battle, rejoices in the miſery of many thouſands of his ſpecies; and the thought of that ſhould make him pauſe a little. Suppoſe a ſurgeon were to come with a ſ [...]ling countenance, and tell us trium⯑phantly that he had cut off half a dozen [...]gs to day—what would you think of [...]?

I ſhould think him very hard⯑hearted.

And yet thoſe operations are done for the benefit of the ſufferers, and by their own deſire. But in a battle, the probability is, that none of thoſe en⯑gaged on either ſide have any intereſt at all in the cauſe they are fighting for, and moſt of them come there becauſe they cannot help it. In this battle that you are ſo rejoiced about, there have been ten thouſand men killed upon the ſpot, and nearly as many wounded.

On both ſides.

Yes—but they are men on both ſides. Conſider now, that the ten thou⯑ſand ſent out of the world in this morn⯑ing's work, though they are paſt feeling themſelves, have left probably two per⯑ſons each, on an average, to lament their loſs, either parents, wives, or chil⯑dren. Here are then twenty thouſand people made unhappy at one ſtroke on their account. This, however, is hardly [54] ſo dreadful to think of as the condition of the wounded. At the moment we are talking, eight or ten thouſand more are lying in agony, torn with ſhot or gaſhed with cuts, their wounds all feſ⯑tering, ſome hourly to die a moſt ex⯑cruciating death, others to linger in torture weeks and months, and many doomed to drag on a miſerable exiſtence for the reſt of their lives, with diſeaſed and mutilated bodies.

This is ſhocking to think of, in⯑deed!

When you light your candles, then, this evening, think what they coſt.

But every body elſe is glad, and ſeem to think nothing of theſe things.

True—they do not think of them. If they did, I cannot ſuppoſe they would be ſo void of feeling as to enjoy them⯑ſelves in merriment when ſo many of their fellow-creatures are made miſer⯑able. Do you not remember when [55] poor Dickens had his leg broken to pieces by a loaded waggon, how all the town pitied him?

Yes, very well. I could not ſleep the night after for thinking of him.

But here are thouſands ſuffering as much as he, and we ſcarce beſtow a ſingle thought on them. If any one of theſe poor creatures were before our eyes, we ſhould probably feel much more than we now do for all together. Shall I tell you a ſtory of a ſoldier's fortune, that came to my own know⯑ledge?

Yes—pray do!

In the village where I went to ſchool, there was an honeſt induſtrious weaver and his wife, who had an only ſon, named Walter, juſt come to man's eſtate. Walter was a good and dutiful lad, and a clever workman, ſo that he was a great help to his parents. One unlucky day, having gone to the next [56] market town with ſome work, he met with a companion, who took him to the alehouſe and treated him. As he was coming away, a recruiting ſerjeant entered the room, who ſeeing Walter to be a likely young fellow, had a great mind to entrap him. He perſuaded him to ſit down again and take a glaſs with him; and kept him in talk with fine ſtories about a ſoldier's life, till Walter got fuddled before he was aware. The ſerjeant then clapt a ſhilling in his hand to drink his majeſty's health, and told him he was enliſted. He was kept there all night, and next morning was taken before a magiſtrate to be ſworn in. Walter had now become ſober, and was very ſorry for what he had done; but he was told that he could not get off without paying a guinea ſmart-money. This he knew not how to raiſe; and being likewiſe afraid and aſhamed to face his friends, he took the oath and bounty money, and marched away with [57] the ſerjeant without ever returning home. His poor father and mother, when they heard of the affair, were al⯑moſt heart-broken; and a young wo⯑man in the village who was his ſweet⯑heart, had like to have gone diſtracted. Walter ſent them a line from the firſt ſtage, to bid them farewell, and comfort them. He joined his regiment, which ſoon embarked for Germany, where it continued till the peace. Walter once or twice ſent word home of his welfare, but for the laſt year nothing was heard of him.

Where was he then?

You ſhall hear. One ſummer's even⯑ing, a man in an old red coat, hobbling on crutches, was ſeen to enter the village. His countenance was pale and ſickly, his cheeks hollow, and his whole appear⯑ance beſpoke extreme wretchedneſs. Se⯑veral people gathered round him, look⯑ing earneſtly in his face. Among theſe, a young woman, having gazed at him a [58] while, cried out, my Walter! and ſaint⯑ed away. Walter fell on the ground beſide her. His father and mother being fetched by ſome of the ſpectators, came and took him in their arms, weep⯑ing bitterly. I ſaw the whole ſcene, and ſhall never forget it. At length the neighbours helped them into the houſe, where Walter told them the following ſtory.

‘"At the laſt great battle that our troops gained in Germany, I was among the firſt engaged, and received a ſhot that broke my thigh. I fell, and pre⯑ſently after, our regiment was forced to retreat. A ſquadron of the enemy's horſe came galloping down upon us. A trooper making a blow at me with his ſabre as I lay, I lifted up my arm to ſave my head, and got a cut which divided all the ſinews at the back of my wriſt. Soon after, the enemy were driven back and came acroſs us again. A horſe ſet his foot on my ſide, and [59] broke three of my ribs. The action was long and bloody, and the wounded on both ſides were left on the field all night. A dreadful night it was to me, you may think! I had fainted through loſs of blood, and when I recovered, I was tormented with thirſt, and the cold air made my wounds ſmart intoler⯑ably. About noon next day, waggons came to carry away thoſe who remained alive; and I, with a number of others, was put into one to be conveyed to the next town. The motion of the car⯑riage was terrible for my broken bones—every jolt went to my heart. We were taken to an hoſpital, which was crammed as full as it could hold; and we ſhould all have been ſuffocated with the heat and ſtench, had not a fever broke out, which ſoon thinned our numbers. I took it, and was twice given over; however, I ſtruggled through. But my wounds proved ſo difficult to heal, that it was almoſt a twelvemonth be⯑fore [60] I could be diſcharged. A great deal of the bone of my thigh came away in ſplinters, and left the limb crooked and uſeleſs as you ſee. I entirely loſt the uſe of three fingers of my right hand; and my broken ribs made me ſpit blood a long time, and have left a cough and difficulty of breathing, which I believe will bring me to my grave. I was ſent home and diſcharged from the army, and I have begged my way hither as well as I could. I am told that the peace has left the affairs of my country juſt as they were before; but who will reſtore me my health and limbs? I am put on the liſt for a Chelſea penſioner, which will ſupport me, if I live to receive it, without be⯑ing a burden to my friends. That is all that remains for Walter now!"’

Poor Walter! What became of him afterwards?

The wound of his thigh broke out afreſh, and diſcharged more ſplinters [61] after a great deal of pain and fever. As winter came on, his cough increaſed. He waſted to a ſkeleton, and died the next ſpring. The young woman, his ſweetheart, ſat up with him every night to the laſt; and ſoon after his death ſhe fell into a conſumption, and followed him. The old people, deprived of the ſtay and comfort of their age, fell into deſpair and poverty, and were taken into the workhouſe, where they ended their days.

This was the hiſtory of Walter the Soldier. It has been that of thouſands more; and will be that of many a poor fellow over whoſe fate you are now re⯑joicing. Such is the price of a Victory.

GOOD COMPANY.

BESURE, Frederick, always keep good company, was the final admonition of Mr. Lofty, on diſmiſſing his ſon to the univerſity.

I intreat you, Henry, always to chooſe good company, ſaid Mr. Manly, on part⯑ing with his ſon to an apprenticeſhip in a neighbouring town.

But it was impoſſible for two people to mean more differently by the ſame words.

In Mr. Lofty's idea, good company was that of perſons ſuperior to ourſelves in rank and fortune. By this alone he eſtimated it; and the degrees of com⯑pariſon, better and beſt, were made [63] exactly to correſpond to ſuch a ſcale. Thus, if an eſquire was good company, a baronet was better, and a lord, beſt of all, provided that he was not a poor lord, for in that caſe, a rich gentleman might be at leaſt as good. For as, accord⯑ing to Mr. Lofty's maxim, the great purpoſe for which companions were to be choſen, was to advance a young man in the world by their credit and intereſt, thoſe were to be preferred, who afford⯑ed the beſt proſpects in this reſpect.

Mr. Manly, on the other hand, un⯑derſtood by good company, that which was improving to the morals and under⯑ſtanding; and by the beſt, that which to a high degree of theſe qualities, added true politeneſs of manners. As ſuperior advantages in education to a certain point accompany ſuperiority of condition, he wiſhed his ſon to prefer as companions thoſe whoſe ſituation in life had afforded them the opportunity of being well educated; but he was far from [64] deſiring him to ſhun connections with worth and talents, wherever he ſhould find them.

Mr. Lofty had an utter averſion to low company, by which he meant inferiors, people of no faſhion and figure, ſhabby fellows, whom nobody knows.

Mr. Manly equally diſliked low com⯑pany, underſtanding by it perſons of mean habits and vulgar converſation.

A great part of Mr. Manly's good company, was Mr. Lofty's low com⯑pany; and not a few of Mr. Lofty's very beſt company, were Mr. Manly's very worſt.

Each of the ſons underſtood his fa⯑ther's meaning, and followed his advice.

Frederick, from the time of his en⯑trance at the Univerſity, commenced what is called a Tuft-hunter, from the tuft in the cap worn by young noble⯑men. He took pains to inſinuate him⯑ſelf into the good graces of all the young men of high faſhion in his col⯑lege, [65] and became a conſtant companion in their ſchemes of frolic and diſſipation. They treated him with an inſolent fami⯑liarity, often bordering upon contempt; but following another maxim of his fa⯑ther's, ‘"one muſt ſtoop to riſe,"’ he took it all in good part. He totally neglected ſtudy, as unneceſſary, and in⯑deed inconſiſtent with his plan. He ſpent a great deal of money, with which his father, finding that it went in good company, at firſt ſupplied him freely. In time, however, his expences amount⯑ed to ſo much, that Mr. Lofty, who kept good company too, found it diffi⯑cult to anſwer his demands. A con⯑ſiderable ſum that he loſt at play with one of his noble friends, increaſed the difficulty. If it were not paid, the diſ⯑grace of not having diſcharged a debt of honour would loſe him all the favour he had acquired; yet the money could not be raiſed without greatly embarraſſing his father's affairs.

[66] In the midſt of this perplexity, Mr. Lofty died, leaving behind him a large family, and very little property. Fre⯑derick came up to town, and ſoon diſſi⯑pated in good company the ſcanty portion that came to his ſhare. Having neither induſtry, knowledge, nor reputation, he was then obliged to become an humble dependent on the great, flattering all their follies, and miniſtring to their vices, treated by them with mortifying neglect, and equally deſpiſed and de⯑teſted by the reſt of the world.

Henry, in the mean time, entered with ſpirit into the buſineſs of his new pro⯑feſſion, and employed his leiſure in cul⯑tivating an acquaintance with a few ſelect friends. Theſe were partly young men in a ſituation ſimilar to his own, partly perſons already ſettled in life, but all diſtinguiſhed by propriety of con⯑duct, and improved underſtandings. From all of them he learned ſomewhat valuable; but he was more particularly [67] indebted to two of them, who were in a ſtation of life inferior to that of the reſt. One was a watchmaker, an excellent mechanic and tolerable mathematician, and well acquainted with the conſtruc⯑tion and uſe of all the inſtruments employed in experimental philoſophy. The other was a young druggiſt, who had a good knowledge of chymiſtry, and frequently employed himſelf in chy⯑mical operations and experiments. Both of them were men of very decent manners, and took a pleaſure in communicating their knowledge to ſuch as ſhewed a taſte for ſimilar ſtudies. Henry fre⯑quently viſited them, and derived much uſeful information from their inſtruc⯑tions, for which he ever expreſſed great thankfulneſs. Theſe various occupa⯑tions and good examples effectually preſerved him from the errors of youth, and he paſſed his time with credit and ſatisfaction. He had the ſame misfor⯑tune with Frederick, juſt as he was ready [68] to come out into the world, of loſing his father, upon whom the ſupport of the family chiefly depended; but in the character he had eſtabliſhed, and the knowledge he had acquired, he found an effectual reſource. One of his young friends propoſed to him a partnerſhip in a manufacture he had juſt ſet up at con⯑ſiderable expence, requiring for his ſhare only the exertion of his talents and induſ⯑try. Henry accepted the offer, and made ſuch good uſe of the ſkill in mechanics and chymiſtry he had acquired, that he introduced many improvements into the manufactory, and rendered it a very profitable concern. He lived proſper⯑ous and independent, and retained in manhood all the friendſhips of his youth.

THE DOG BAULKED OF HIS DINNER.
A TALE.

THE UMBELLIFEROUS PLANTS.

WHAT plant is that man gather⯑ing under the hedge?

I don't know; but boys call the ſtalks kexes, and blow through them.

I have ſeen them; but I want to know the plant.

Will you pleaſe to tell us, Sir, what it is.

It is hemlock.

Hemlock is poiſon, is it not?

Yes, in ſome degree; and it is alſo a medicine. That man is gathering it for the apothecaries.

I ſhould like to know it.

Well then—go and bring one.

I think I have ſeen a great many of this ſort.

Perhaps you may; but there are many other kinds of plants extremely like it. It is one of a large family called the umbelliferous, which contains both food, phyſic, and poiſon. It will be worth while for you to know ſome⯑thing about them, ſo let us examine this hemlock cloſely. You ſee this tall hollow ſtalk, which divides into ſeveral branches, from each of which ſpring ſpokes or rundles as they are called, of flower-ſtalks. You ſee they are like rays from a circle, or the ſpokes of a wheel.

Or like the ſticks of an umbrella.

True; and they are called umbels, which has the ſame derivation.—If you purſue one of theſe rundles or umbels, you will find that each ſtick or ſpoke terminates in another ſet of ſmaller ſtalks, each of which bears a ſingle ſmall flower.

They are ſmall ones indeed.

But if you look ſharply, I dare ſay your eyes are good enough to diſtinguiſh that they are divided into five leaves, and furniſhed with five chives, and two piſtils in the middle.

I can ſee them.

And ſo can I.

The piſtils are ſucceeded by a ſort of fruit, which is a twin ſeed joined in the middle, as you may ſee in this rundle that is paſt flowering. Here I divide one of them into two.

Would each of theſe grow?

Yes. Well—this is the ſtructure of the flowering part of all the umbelli⯑ferous tribe. Now for the leaf. Pluck one.

Is this one leaf, or many?

It is properly one, but it is cut and divided into many portions. From this mid-rib ſpring ſmaller leaves ſet oppoſite each other; and from the rib of each of theſe, proceed others, [75] which themſelves are alſo divided. Theſe are called doubly or trebly pinnated leaves; and moſt of the um⯑belliferous plants, but not all, have leaves of this kind.

It is like a parſley leaf.

True—and parſley is one of the ſame tribe, and hemlock and others are ſometimes miſtaken for it.

How curiouſly the ſtalk of this hemlock is ſpotted!

Yes. That is one of the marks by which it is known. It is alſo diſtin⯑guiſhed by its peculiar ſmell, and by other circumſtances which you can only underſtand when you have compared a number of the tribe. I will now tell you about ſome others, the names of which you are probably acquainted with. In the firſt place, there are carrots and parſnips.

Carrots and parſnips!—they are not poiſons, I am ſure.

I remember, now, that carrots have ſuch a leaf as this.

They have. It is the roots of theſe, you know, that are eaten. But we eat the leaves of parſley and fennel, which are of the ſame claſs. Celery is another, the ſtalks of which are chiefly uſed, made white by trenching up the earth about them. The ſtalks of An⯑gelica are uſed differently.

I know how—candied.

Yes. Then there are many, of which the ſeeds are uſed. There is car⯑raway.

What, the ſeeds that are put in cakes and comfits?

Yes. They are warm and pun⯑gent to the taſte; and ſo are the ſeeds of many others of the umbelliferous plants, as coriander, fennel, wild carrot, angelica, aniſe, cummin, and dill. All theſe are employed in food or medicine, and are good for warming or ſtrengthening the ſtomach.

Thoſe are pleaſant medicines enough.

They are; but you will not ſay the ſame of ſome others of the claſs, which are noted medicines, too; ſuch as the plant yielding aſafetida, and ſe⯑veral more, from which what are called the fetid gums are produced.

Aſafetida!—that's naſty ſtuff, I know; does it grow here?

No; and moſt of the ſweet ſeeds I before mentioned come from abroad, too. Now I will tell you of ſome of the poiſons.

Hemlock is one that we know already.

Yes. Then there is another kind that grows in water, and is more poiſonous, called Water-Hemlock. Another is a large plant growing in ditches, with leaves extremely like celery, called Hemlock-Dropwort. Another, common in drier ſituations, and diſtinguiſhed by leaves leſs di⯑vided [78] than moſt of the claſs, is Cow-Parſnep, or Madnep. Of ſome of theſe the leaves, of others the roots, are moſt poiſonous. Their effects are to make the head giddy, bring on ſtu⯑pidity or delirium, and cauſe violent ſickneſs. The Athenians uſed to put criminals to death by making them drink the juice of a kind of hemlock growing in that country, as you may read in the life of that excellent philoſo⯑pher Socrates, who was killed in that manner.

What was he killed for?

Becauſe he was wiſer and better than his fellow-citizens. Among us it is only by accident that miſchief is done by theſe plants. I remember a me⯑lancholy inſtance of a poor boy, who in rambling about the fields with his little brothers and ſiſters, chanced to meet with a root of Hemlock-Dropwort. It looked ſo white and nice, that he was tempted to eat a good deal of it. [79] The other children alſo eat ſome, but not ſo much. When they got home they were all taken very ill. The eldeſt boy, who had eat moſt, died in great agony. The others recovered, after ſuffering a great deal.

Is there any way of preventing their bad effects?

The beſt way is to clear the ſto⯑mach as ſoon as poſſible by a ſtrong vomit and large draughts of warm wa⯑ter. After that, vinegar is uſeful in removing the diſorder of the head.

But are the roots ſweet or pleaſant, that people ſhould be tempted to eat them.

Several of them are. There is a ſmall plant of the tribe, the root of which is much ſought after by boys, who dig for it with their knives. It is round, and called earth-nut, or pig⯑nut.

But that is not poiſon, I ſup⯑poſe.

No; but it is not very wholeſome. I believe, however, that the roots of the moſt poiſonous become innocent by boiling. I have heard that boiled hemlock roots are as good as carrots.

I think I ſhould not like to eat them, however. But pray why ſhould there be any poiſons at all?

What we call poiſons are only hurtful to particular animals. They are the proper food of others, and no doubt do more good than hurt in the creation. Moſt of the things that are poiſonous to us in large quantities, are uſeful medicines in ſmall ones; and we have reaſon beſtowed upon us, to guard us againſt miſchief. Other animals in general refuſe by inſtinct what would prove hurtful to them. You ſee beneath yonder hedge a great crop of tall flouriſhing plants with white flowers. They are of the umbelliferous family, and are called wild Cicely or Cowweed. The latter name is given [81] them, becauſe the cows will not touch them, though the paſture be ever ſo bare.

Would they poiſon them?

Perhaps they would; at leaſt they are not proper food for them. We will go and examine them, and I will ſhow you how they differ from hem⯑lock, for which they are ſometimes miſtaken.

I ſhould like to get ſome of theſe plants and dry them.

You ſhall, and write down the names of them all, and learn to know the innocent from the hurtful.

That will be very uſeful.

It will. Remember now the gene⯑ral character of the umbelliferous claſs. The flower-ſtalks are divided into ſpokes or umbels, which are again divided into others, each of them ter⯑minated by a ſmall five-leaved flower, having five chives and two piſtils, ſuc⯑ceeded [82] by a twin ſeed. Their leaves are generally finely divided. You will ſoon know them after having examined two or three of the tribe. Remember, too, that they are a ſuſpicious race, and not to be made free with till you are well acquainted with them.

THE KID.

ONE bleak day in March, Sylvia returning from a viſit to the ſheep-fold, met with a young kidling deſerted by its dam on the naked heath. It was bleat⯑ing piteouſly, and was ſo benumbed with the cold, that it could ſcarcely ſtand. Sylvia took it up in her arms and preſſed it cloſe to her boſom. She haſtened home, and ſhowing her little foundling to her parents, begged ſhe might rear it for her own. They con⯑ſented; [83] and Sylvia immediately got a baſket full of clean ſtraw, and made a bed for him on the hearth. She warm⯑ed ſome milk, and held it to him in a platter. The poor creature drank it up eagerly, and then licked her hand for more. Sylvia was delighted. She chafed his ſlender legs with her warm hands, and ſoon ſaw him jump out of his baſket, and friſk acroſs the room. When full, he lay down again and took a comfortable nap.

The next day the kid had a name be⯑ſtowed upon him. As he gave tokens of being an excellent jumper, it was Capriole. He was introduced to all the reſt of the family, and the younger children were allowed to ſtroke and pat him; but Sylvia would let nobody be intimate with him but herſelf. The great maſtiff was charged never to hurt him, and indeed he had no intention to do it.

[84] Within a few days, Capriole fol⯑lowed Sylvia all about the houſe; trotted by her ſide into the yard; ran races with her in the home field; fed out of her hand; and was a declared pet and fa⯑vourite. As the ſpring advanced, Sylvia roamed in the fields and gathered wild flowers, with which ſhe wove garlands, and hung them around her kid's neck. He could not be kept, however, from munching his finery when he could reach it with his mouth. He was like⯑wiſe rather troubleſome in thruſting his noſe into the meal-tub and flour-box, and following people into the dairy, and ſipping the milk that was ſet for cream. He now and then got a blow for his intruſion, but his miſtreſs always took his part, and indulged him in every liberty.

Capriole's horns now began to bud, and a little white beard ſprouted at the end of his chin. He grew bold enough to put himſelf in a fighting poſ⯑ture [85] whenever he was offended. He butted down little Colin into the dirt; quarreled with the geeſe for their allow⯑ance of corn; and held many a ſtout battle with the old turkey-cock. Every body ſaid, Capriole is growing too ſaucy, he muſt be ſent away, or taught better manners. But Sylvia ſtill ſtood his friend, and he repaid her love with many tender careſſes.

The farm-houſe where Sylvia lived was ſituated in a ſweet valley, by the ſide of a clear ſtream, bordered with trees. Above the houſe roſe a ſloping meadow, and beyond that was an open common, covered with purple heath and yellow furze. Further on, at ſome diſtance, roſe a ſteep hill, the ſummit of which was a bare craggy rock, ſcarcely acceſſible to human feet. Capriole, ranging at his pleaſure, often got upon the common, and was pleaſed with browzing the ſhort graſs and wild herbs which grew there. Still, however, [86] when his miſtreſs came to ſeek him, he would run bounding at her call, and ac⯑company her back to the farm.

One fine ſummer's day, Sylvia, after having finiſhed the buſineſs of the morn⯑ing, wanted to play with her kid; and miſſing him, ſhe went to the ſide of the common, and called aloud Capriole! Capriole! expecting to ſee him come running to her as uſual. No Capriole came. She went on and on, ſtill call⯑ing her kid with the moſt endearing ac⯑cents, but nothing was to be ſeen of him. Her heart began to flutter. What can be become of him? Surely ſomebody muſt have ſtolen him,—or perhaps the neighbour's dogs have worried him. Oh my poor Capriole! my dear Capriole! I ſhall never ſee you again!—and Sylvia began to weep.

She ſtill went on, on, looking wiſt⯑fully all around, and making the place echo with Capriole, Capriole! where are you my Capriole? till at length ſhe [87] came to the foot of the ſteep hill. She climbed up its ſides to get a better view. No kid was to be ſeen. She ſat down, and wept, and wrung her hands. After a while, ſhe fancied ſhe heard a bleat⯑ing like the well-known voice of her Capriole. She ſtarted up, and looked towards the ſound, which ſeemed a great way over head. At length ſhe ſpied, juſt on the edge of a ſteep crag, her Capriole peeping over. She ſtretch⯑ed out her hands to him, and began to call, but with a timid voice, leſt in his impatience to return to her, he ſhould leap down and break his neck. But there was no ſuch danger. Capriole was in⯑haling the freſh breeze of the mountains, and enjoying with rapture the ſcenes for which nature deſigned him. His bleating was the expreſſion of joy, and he beſtowed not a thought on his kind miſtreſs, nor paid the leaſt attention to her call. Sylvia aſcended as high as ſhe could towards him, and called louder [88] and louder, but all in vain. Capriole leaped from rock to rock, cropt the fine herbage in the clefts, and was quite loſt in the pleaſure of his new exiſt⯑ence.

Poor Sylvia ſtaid till ſhe was tired, and then returned diſconſolate to the farm to relate her misfortune. She got her brothers to accompany her back to the hill, and took with her a ſlice of white bread and ſome milk to tempt the little wanderer home. But he had mounted ſtill higher, and had joined a herd of companions of the ſame ſpecies, with whom he was friſking and ſport⯑ing. He had neither eyes nor ears for his old friends of the valley. All former habits were broken at once, and he had commenced free commoner of nature. Sylvia came back, crying as much from vexation as ſorrow. The little ungrate⯑ful thing! (ſaid ſhe)—ſo well as I loved him, and ſo kindly as I treated him, to [89] deſert me in this way at laſt!—But he was always a rover!

Take care then, Sylvia, (ſaid her mother) how you ſet your heart upon rovers again!

HOW TO MAKE THE BEST OF IT.

Robinet, a peaſant of Lorrain, after a hard day's work at the next market⯑town, was returning home with a baſket in his hand. What a delicious ſupper ſhall I have! (ſaid he to himſelf.) This piece of kid well ſtewed down, with my onions ſliced, thickened with my meal, and ſeaſoned with my ſalt and pepper, will make a diſh fit for the biſhop of the dioceſe. Then I have a good piece of a barley loaf at home to finiſh with. How I long to be at it!

A noiſe in the hedge now attracted his notice, and he ſpied a ſquirrel nim⯑bly [90] running up a tree, and popping into a hole between the branches. Ha! (thought he) what a nice preſent a neſt of young ſquirrels will be to my little maſter! I'll try if I can get it. Upon this, he ſet down his baſket in the road, and began to climb up the tree. He had half aſcended, when caſting a look at his baſket, he ſaw a dog with his noſe in it, ferreting out the piece of kid's fleſh. He made all poſ⯑ſible ſpeed down, but the dog was too quick for him, and ran off with the meat in his mouth. Robinet looked after him—Well, (ſaid he) then I muſt be content with ſoup-meagre—and no bad thing neither!

He travelled on, and came to a little public houſe by the road ſide, where an acquaintance of his was ſitting on a bench drinking. He invited Ro⯑binet to take a draught. Robinet ſeated himſelf by his friend, and ſet his baſket on the bench cloſe by him. A tame [91] raven, which was kept at the houſe, came ſlily behind him, and perching on the baſket, ſtole away the bag in which the meal was tied up, and hopped off with it to his hole. Robinet did not per⯑ceive the theft till he had got on his way again. He returned to ſearch for his bag, but could hear no tidings of it. Well, (ſays he) my ſoup will be the thinner, but I will boil a ſlice of bread with it, and that will do it ſome good at leaſt.

He went on again, and arrived at a little brook, over which was laid a nar⯑row plank. A young woman coming up to paſs at the ſame time, Robinet gal⯑lantly offered her his hand. As ſoon as ſhe was got to the middle, either through fear or ſport, ſhe ſhrieked out, and cried ſhe was falling. Robinet haſt⯑ening to ſupport her with his other hand, let his baſket drop into the ſtream. As ſoon as ſhe was ſafe over, he jumped in and recovered it, but when he took it [92] out, he perceived that all the ſalt was melted, and the pepper waſhed away. Nothing was now left but the onions. Well! (ſays Robinet) then I muſt ſup to-night upon roaſted onions and barley bread. Laſt night I had the bread alone. To-morrow morning it will not ſignify what I had. So ſaying, he trudged on, ſinging as before.

EYES, AND NO EYES; OR, THE ART OF SEEING.

WELL, Robert, where have you been walking this afternoon? (ſaid Mr. An⯑drews to one of his pupils at the cloſe of a holiday.)

I have been, Sir, to Broom-heath, and ſo round by the windmill upon Camp-mount, and home through the meadows by the river ſide.

Well, that's a pleaſant round.

I thought it very dull, Sir; I ſcarcely met with a ſingle perſon. I had rather by half have gone along the turnpike road.

Why, if ſeeing men and horſes is your object, you would, indeed, be better entertained on the high-road. But did you ſee William?

We ſet out together, but he lag⯑ged behind in the lane, ſo I walked on and left him.

That was a pity. He would have been company for you.

O, he is ſo tedious, always ſtop⯑ping to look at this thing and that! I had rather walk alone. I dare ſay he is not got home yet.

Here he comes. Well, Wil⯑liam, where have you been?

O, Sir, the pleaſanteſt walk! I went all over Broom-heath, and ſo up to the mill at the top of the hill, and then down among the green meadows by the ſide of the river.

Why, that is juſt the round Robert has been taking, and he com⯑plains of its dullneſs, and prefers the high-road.

I wonder at that. I am ſure I hardly took a ſtep that did not delight me, and I have brought my handker⯑chief full of curioſities home.

Suppoſe, then, you give us ſome account of what amuſed you ſo much. I fancy it will be as new to Robert as to me.

I will, Sir. The lane leading to the heath, you know, is cloſe and ſandy, ſo I did not mind it much, but made the beſt of my way. However, I ſpied a curious thing enough in the hedge. It was an old crab-tree, out of which grew a great bunch of ſomething green, quite different from the tree it⯑ſelf. Here is a branch of it.

Ah! this is Miſſeltoe, a plant of great fame for the uſe made of it by the Druids of old in their re⯑ligious rites and incantations. It bears a very ſlimy white berry, of which bird⯑lime may be made, whence its Latin name of Viſcus. It is one of thoſe plants [96] which do not grow in the ground by a root of their own, but fix themſelves upon other plants; whence they have been humorouſly ſtyled paraſitical, as being hangers-on, or dependants. It was the miſſeltoe of the oak that the Druids particularly honoured.

A little further on I ſaw a green woodpecker fly to a tree, and run up the trunk like a cat.

That was to ſeek for inſects in the bark, on which they live. They bore holes with their ſtrong bills for that purpoſe, and do much damage to the trees by it.

What beautiful birds they are!

Yes; they have been called, from their colour and ſize, the Engliſh parrot.

When I got upon the open heath, how charming it was! The air ſeemed ſo freſh, and the proſpect on every ſide ſo free and unbounded! Then it was all covered with gay flowers, [97] many of which I had never obſerved before. There were at leaſt three kinds of heath (I have got them in my hand⯑kerchief here), and gorſe, and broom, and bell-flower, and many others of all colours, that I will beg you preſently to tell me the names of.

That I will, readily.

I ſaw, too, ſeveral birds that were new to me. There was a pretty greyiſh one, of the ſize of a lark, that was hopping about ſome great ſtones; and when he flew, he ſhowed a great deal of white above his tail.

That was a wheat-ear. They are reckoned very delicious birds to eat, and frequent the open downs in Suſſex, and ſome other counties, in great num⯑bers.

There was a flock of lapwings upon a marſhy part of the heath, that amuſed me much. As I came near them, ſome of them kept flying round and round juſt over my head, and crying [98] pewit ſo diſtinctly, one might almoſt fancy they ſpoke. I thought I ſhould have caught one of them, for he flew as if one of his wings was broken, and often tumbled cloſe to the ground; but as I came near, he always made a ſhift to get away.

Ha, ha! you were finely taken in, then! This was all an artifice of the bird's to entice you away from its neſt: for they build upon the bare ground, and their neſts would eaſily be obſerved, did not they draw off the at⯑tention of intruders by their loud cries and counterfeit lameneſs.

I wiſh I had known that, for he led me a long chaſe, often over ſhoes in water. However, it was the cauſe of my falling in with an old man and a boy who were cutting and piling up turf for fewel, and I had a good deal of talk with them about the manner of prepar⯑ing the turf, and the price it ſells at. They gave me, too, a creature I never [99] ſaw before—a young viper, which they had juſt killed, together with its dam. I have ſeen ſeveral common ſnakes, but this is thicker in proportion, and of a darker colour than they are.

True. Vipers frequent thoſe turfy boggy grounds pretty much, and I have known ſeveral turf-cutters bitten by them.

They are very venomous, are they not?

Enough ſo to make their wounds painful and dangerous, though they ſeldom prove fatal.

Well—I then took my courſe up to the windmill on the mount. I climbed up the ſteps of the mill in or⯑der to get a better view of the country round. What an extenſive proſpect! I counted fifteen church ſteeples; and I ſaw ſeveral gentlemen's houſes peep⯑ing out from the midſt of green woods and plantations; and I could trace the windings of the river all along the low [100] grounds, till it was loſt behind a ridge of hills. But I'll tell you what I mean to do, Sir, if you will give me leave.

What is that?

I will go again, and take with me Carey's county map, by which I ſhall probably be able to make out moſt of the places.

You ſhall have it, and I will go with you, and take my pocket ſpy⯑ing glaſs.

I ſhall be very glad of that. Well—a thought ſtruck me, that as the hill is called Camp-mount, there might probably be ſome remains of ditches and mounds with which I have read that camps were ſurrounded. And I really believe I diſcovered ſomething of that ſort running round one ſide of the mount.

Very likely you might. I know antiquaries have deſcribed ſuch remains as exiſting there, which ſome ſuppoſe to be Roman, others Daniſh. [101] We will examine them further when we go.

From the hill I went ſtraight down to the meadows below, and walk⯑ed on the ſide of a brook that runs into the river. It was all bordered with reeds and flags and tall flowering plants, quite different from thoſe I had ſeen on the heath. As I was getting down the bank to reach one of them, I heard ſomething plunge into the water near me. It was a large water-rat, and I ſaw it ſwim over to the other ſide, and go into its hole. There were a great many large dragon-flies all about the ſtream. I caught one of the fineſt, and have got him here in a leaf. But how I longed to catch a bird that I ſaw hovering over the water, and every now and then darting down into it! It was all over a mixture of the moſt beautiful green and blue with ſome orange colour. It was ſomewhat leſs than a thruſh, [102] and had a large head and bill, and a ſhort tail.

I can tell you what that bird was—a kingfiſher, the celebrated hal⯑cyon of the ancients, about which ſo many tales are told. It lives on fiſh, which it catches in the manner you ſaw. It builds in holes in the banks, and is a ſhy retired bird, never to be ſeen far from the ſtream where it inhabits.

I muſt try to get another ſight of him, for I never ſaw a bird that pleaſed me ſo much. Well—I followed this little brook till it entered the river, and then took the path that runs along the bank. On the oppoſite ſide I obſerved ſeveral little birds running along the ſhore, and making a piping noiſe. They were brown and white, and about as big as a ſnipe.

I ſuppoſe they were ſand⯑pipers, one of the numerous family of birds that get their living by wading [103] among the ſhallows, and picking up worms and inſects.

There were a great many ſwal⯑lows, too, ſporting upon the ſurface of the water, that entertained me with their motions. Sometimes they daſhed into the ſtream; ſometimes they purſued one another ſo quick, that the eye could ſcarcely follow them. In one place, where a high ſteep ſand-bank roſe di⯑rectly above the river, I obſerved many of them go in and out of holes with which the bank was bored full.

Thoſe were ſand-martins, the ſmalleſt of our four ſpecies of ſwal⯑lows. They are of a mouſe-colour above, and white beneath. They make their neſts and bring up their young in theſe holes, which run a great depth, and by their ſituation are ſecure from all plunderers.

A little further I ſaw a man in a boat who was catching eels in an odd way. He had a long pole with [104] broad iron prongs at the end, juſt like Neptune's trident, only there were five inſtead of three. This he puſhed ſtraight down among the mud in the deepeſt parts of the river, and fetched up the eels ſticking between the prongs.

I have ſeen this method. It is called ſpearing of eels.

While I was looking at him, a heron came flying over my head, with his large flagging wings. He lit at the next turn of the river, and I crept ſoftly behind the bank to watch his motions. He had waded into the water as far as his long legs would carry him, and was ſtanding with his neck drawn in, look⯑ing intently on the ſtream. Preſently he darted his long bill as quick as lightning into the water, and drew out a fiſh, which he ſwallowed. I ſaw him catch another in the ſame manner. He then took alarm at ſome noiſe I made, and flew away ſlowly to a wood at ſome diſ⯑tance, where he ſettled.

Probably his neſt was there, for herons build upon the loftieſt trees they can find, and ſometimes in ſociety together, like rooks. Formerly, when theſe birds were valued for the amuſe⯑ment of hawking, many gentlemen had their heronries, and a few are ſtill remaining.

I think they are the largeſt wild birds we have.

They are of a great length and ſpread of wing, but their bodies are comparatively ſmall.

I then turned homeward acroſs the meadows, where I ſtopt awhile to look at a large flock of ſtarlings which kept flying about at no great diſtance. I could not tell at firſt what to make of them; for they roſe all together from the ground as thick as a ſwarm of bees, and formed themſelves into a kind of black cloud hovering over the field. After taking a ſhort round, they ſettled again, and preſently roſe again [106] in the ſame manner. I dare ſay there were hundreds of them.

Perhaps ſo; for in the fenny countries their flocks are ſo numerous, as to break down whole acres of reeds by ſettling on them. This diſpoſition of ſtarlings to fly in cloſe ſwarms was remarked even by Homer, who compares the foe flying from one of his heroes, to a cloud of ſtares retiring diſ⯑mayed at the approach of the hawk.

After I had left the meadows, I croſſed the corn fields in the way to our houſe, and paſſed cloſe by a deep marle pit. Looking into it, I ſaw in one of the ſides a cluſter of what I took to be ſhells; and upon going down, I picked up a clod of marle, which was quite full of them; but how ſea ſhells could get there, I cannot imagine.

I do not wonder at your ſurpriſe, ſince many philoſophers have been much perplexed to account for the ſame appearance. It is not uncommon [107] to find great quantities of ſhells and re⯑lics of marine animals even in the bow⯑els of high mountains, very remote from the ſea. They are certainly proofs that the earth was once in a very different ſtate from what it is at preſent; but in what manner and how long ago theſe changes took place, can only be gueſſ⯑ed at.

I got to the high field next our houſe juſt as the ſun was ſetting, and I ſtood looking at it till it was quite loſt. What a glorious ſight! The clouds were tinged purple and crimſon and yellow of all ſhades and hues, and the clear ſky varied from blue to a fine green at the horizon. But how large the ſun ap⯑pears juſt as it ſets! I think it ſeems twice as big as when it is over head.

It does ſo; and you may probably have obſerved the ſame ap⯑parent enlargement of the moon at its riſing.

I have; but pray what is the rea⯑ſon of this?

It is an optical deception, depending upon principles which I can⯑not well explain to you till you know more of that branch of ſcience. But what a number of new ideas this afternoon's walk has afforded you? I do not won⯑der that you found it amuſing; it has been very inſtructive too. Did you ſee nothing of all theſe ſights, Robert?

I ſaw ſome of them, but I did not take particular notice of them.

Why not?

I don't know. I did not care about them, and I made the beſt of my way home.

That would have been right if you had been ſent of a meſſage; but as you only walked for amuſement, it would have been wiſer to have ſought out as many ſources of it as poſſible. But ſo it is—one man walks through the world [109] with his eyes open, and another with them ſhut; and upon this difference de⯑pends all the ſuperiority of knowledge the one acquires above the other. I have known ſailors who had been in all the quarters of the world, and could tell you nothing but the ſigns of the tippling⯑houſes they frequented in different ports, and the price and quality of the liquor. On the other hand, a Franklin could not croſs the channel without making ſome obſervations uſeful to mankind. While many a vacant thoughtleſs youth is whirled throughout Europe without gaining a ſingle idea worth croſſing a ſtreet for, the obſerving eye and inquir⯑ing mind finds matter of improvement and delight in every ramble in town or country. Do you then, William, con⯑tinue to make uſe of your eyes; and you, Robert, learn that eyes were given you to uſe.

WHY THE EARTH MOVES ROUND THE SUN.

YOU remember, Lucy, that I explained to you ſome time ago what was the cauſe that things fell to the ground.

O yes—It was becauſe the ground drew them to it.

True. That is a conſequence of the univerſal law in nature, that bodies attract each other in proportion to their bulk. So, a very ſmall thing in the neighhourhood of a very large one, always tends to go to it, if not pre⯑vented by ſome other power. Well—You know I told you that the ſun was a ball a vaſt many times bigger than the ball we inhabit, called the earth; upon which you properly aſked, how then it [111] happened that the earth did not fall into the ſun.

And why does it not?

That I am going to explain to you. You have ſeen your brother whirl round an ivory ball tied to the end of a ſtring which he held in his hand.

Yes—And I have done it myſelf, too.

Well then—you felt that the ball was continually pulling, as if it tried to make its eſcape.

Yes; and one my brother was ſwinging did make its eſcape, and flew through the ſaſh.

It did ſo. That was a leſſon in the centrifugal motion, or that power by which a body thus whirled continually endeavours to fly off from the centre round which it moves. This is owing to the force or impulſe you give it at ſetting out, as if you were going to throw it away from you. The ſtring [112] by which you hold it, on the contrary, is the power which keeps the ball to⯑wards the centre, called the centripetal power. Thus you ſee there are two powers acting upon the ball at the ſame time; one to make it fly off, the other to hold it in; and the conſequence is, that it moves directly according to neither, but between both; that is, round and round. This it continues to do while you ſwing it properly; but if the ſtring breaks or ſlips off, away flies the ball; on the other hand, if you ceaſe to give it the whirling force, it falls towards your hand.

I underſtand all this.

I will give you another inſtance of this double force acting at the ſame time. Do not you remember ſeeing ſome curious feats of horſemanſhip?

Yes.

One of them was, that a man ſtanding with one leg upon the ſaddle and riding full ſpeed, threw up balls [113] into the air, and catched them as they fell.

I remember it very well.

Perhaps you would have expected theſe balls to have fallen behind him, as he was going at ſuch a rate.

So I did.

But you ſaw that they fell into his hand as directly as if he had been ſtanding quite ſtill. That was becauſe at the inſtant he threw them up, they received the motion of the horſe ſtraight forwards, as well as the upright mo⯑tion that he gave them, ſo that they made a ſlanting line through the air, and came down in the ſame place they would have reached if he had held them in his hand all the while.

That is very curious, indeed!

In the ſame manner, you may have obſerved, in riding in a carriage, that if you throw any thing out of the window, it falls directly oppoſite, juſt [114] as if the carriage was ſtanding ſtill, and is not left behind you.

I will try that, the next time I ride in one.

You are then to imagine the ſun to be a mighty maſs of matter, many thouſand times bigger than our earth, placed in the centre, quiet and unmoved. You are to conceive our earth, as ſoon as created, launched with vaſt force in a ſtraight line, as if it were a bowl on a green. It would have flown off in this line for ever, through the boundleſs regions of ſpace, had it not at the ſame inſtant received a pull from the ſun by its attraction. By the wonder⯑ful ſkill of the Creator, theſe two forces were made exactly to counterbalance each other; ſo that juſt as much as the earth from the original motion given it tends to fly forwards, juſt ſo much the ſun draws it to the centre; and the conſequence is, that it takes a courſe [115] between the two, which is a circle round and round the ſun.

But if the earth was ſet a rolling like a bowl upon a green, I ſhould think it would ſtop of itſelf, as the bowl does.

The bowl ſtops becauſe it is continually rubbing againſt the ground, which checks its motion; but the ball of the earth moves in empty ſpace, where there is nothing to ſtop it.

But if I throw a ball through the air, it will not go on for ever, but it will come down to the ground.

That is becauſe the force with which you can throw it, is much leſs than the force by which it is drawn to the earth. But there is another reaſon too, which is the reſiſtance of the air. This ſpace all around us and over us is not empty ſpace; it is quite full of a thin tranſ⯑parent fluid called air.

Is it?

Yes. If you move your hand quickly through it, you will find ſome⯑thing reſiſting you, though in a ſlight degree. And the wind, you well know, is capable of preſſing againſt any thing with almoſt irreſiſtible force; and yet wind is nothing but a quantity of air put into violent motion. Every thing then that moves through the air, is continually obliged to puſh ſome of this fluid out of the way, by which means it is con⯑ſtantly loſing part of its motion.

Then the earth would do the ſame.

No; for it moves in empty ſpace.

What! does not it move through the air?

The earth does not move through the air, but carries the air along with it. All the air is contained in what is called the atmoſphere, which you may com⯑pare to a kind of miſt or fog clinging all round to the ball of the earth, and [117] reaching to a certain diſtance above it, which has been calculated at about forty⯑five miles.

That is above the clouds, then.

Yes; all the clouds are within the atmoſphere, for they are ſupported by the air. Well—this atmoſphere rolls about along with the earth, as if it were a part of it; and moves with it through the ſky, which is a vaſt field of empty ſpace. In this immenſe ſpace are all the ſtars and planets, which have alſo their ſeveral motions. There is no⯑thing to ſtop them, but they continually go on, by means of the force that the Creator has originally impreſſed upon them.

Do not ſome of the ſtars move round the ſun, as well as our earth.

Yes; thoſe that are called planets. Theſe are all ſubject to the ſame laws of motion with our earth. They are attracted by the ſun as their centre, and form, along with the earth, that aſſem⯑blage [118] of worlds, which is called the ſolar ſyſtem.

Is the moon one of them?

The moon is called a ſecondary planet, becauſe its immediate connexion is with our earth, round which it rolls, as we do round the ſun. It however accompanies our earth in its journey round the ſun. But I will tell you more about its motion, and about the other planets and ſtars, another time. It is enough at preſent, if you thoroughly underſtand what I have been de⯑ſcribing.

I think I do.

DIFFERENCE AND AGREEMENT; OR, SUNDAY MORNING.

IT was Sunday morning. All the bells were ringing for church, and the ſtreets were filled with people moving in all directions.

Here, numbers of well-dreſſed per⯑ſons, and a long train of charity chil⯑dren, were thronging in at the wide doors of a large handſome church. There, a ſmaller number, almoſt equally gay in dreſs, were entering an elegant meeting-houſe. Up one alley, a Roman Catholic congregation was turning into their retired chapel, every one croſſing himſelf with a finger dipt in holy-water as he went in. The oppoſite ſide of the ſtreet was covered with a train of quakers, diſtinguiſhed by their plain and [120] neat attire, and ſedate aſpect, who walk⯑ed without ceremony into a room as plain as themſelves, and took their ſeats, the men on one ſide and the women on the other, in ſilence. A ſpacious building was filled with an overflowing crowd of Methodiſts, moſt of them meanly ha⯑bited, but decent and ſerious in de⯑meanour; while a ſmall ſociety of Bap⯑tiſts in the neighbourhood quietly occu⯑pied their humble place of aſſembly.

Preſently the different ſervices be⯑gan. The churches reſounded with the ſolemn organ, and with the indiſtinct murmurs of a large body of people following the miniſter in reſponſive pray⯑ers. From the meetings were heard the ſlow pſalm, and the ſingle voice of the leader of their devotions. The Roman Catholic chapel was enlivened by ſtrains of muſic, the tinkling of a ſmall bell, and a perpetual change of ſervice and ceremonial. A profound ſilence and unvarying look and poſture [121] announced the ſelf-recollection and mental devotion of the Quakers.

Mr. Ambroſe led his ſon Edwin round all theſe different aſſemblies as a ſpec⯑tator. Edwin viewed every thing with great attention, and was often impa⯑tient to inquire of his father the mean⯑ing of what he ſaw; but Mr. Ambroſe would not ſuffer him to diſturb any of the congregations even by a whiſper. When they had gone through the whole, Edwin found a great number of queſtions to put to his father, who explained every thing to him in the beſt manner he could. At length ſays Edwin,

But why cannot all theſe people agree to go to the ſame place, and worſhip God the ſame way?

And why ſhould they agree? (re⯑plied his father.) Do not you ſee that people differ in a hundred other things? Do they all dreſs alike, and eat and drink alike, and keep the ſame hours, and uſe the ſame diverſions?

[122] Ay—but thoſe are things in which they have a right to do as they pleaſe.

And they have a right, too, to worſhip God as they pleaſe. It is their own buſineſs, and concerns none but them⯑ſelves.

But has not God ordered particular ways of worſhipping him?

He has directed the mind and ſpirit with which he is to be worſhipped, but not the particular form and manner. That is left for every one to chooſe, ac⯑cording as ſuits his temper and opinions. All theſe people like their own way beſt, and why ſhould they leave it for the choice of another? Religion is one of the things in which mankind were made to differ.

The ſeveral congregations now began to be diſmiſſed, and the ſtreet was again overſpread with perſons of all the dif⯑ferent ſects, going promiſcuouſly to their reſpective homes. It chanced that a poor man fell down in the ſtreet [123] in a fit of apoplexy, and lay for dead. His wife and children ſtood round him crying and lamenting in the bittereſt diſtreſs. The beholders immediately flocked round, and, with looks and ex⯑preſſions of the warmeſt compaſſion, gave their help. A Churchman raiſed the man from the ground by lifting him under the arms, while a Diſſenter held his head and wiped his face with his handkerchief. A Roman Catholic lady took out her ſmelling bottle, and aſſi⯑duouſly applied it to his noſe. A Me⯑thodiſt ran for a doctor. A Quaker ſupported and comforted the woman, and a Baptiſt took care of the children.

Edwin and his father were among the ſpectators. Here (ſaid Mr. Ambroſe) is a thing in which mankind were made to agree.

ON METALS.
PART 2.

WELL—have you forgot what I told you about metals the other day?

O no!

I am ſure I have not.

What metals were they that we talked about?

Gold, ſilver, and quickſilver.

Suppoſe, then, we go on to the reſt!

Pray do.

Yes, by all means.

Very well. You know copper, I don't doubt.

O yes!

What colour do you call it?

I think it is a ſort of reddiſh brown.

True. Sometimes, however, it is of a bright red, like ſealing wax. It is not a very heavy metal, being not quite nine times the weight of water. It is pretty ductile, bearing to be rolled or hammered out to a very thin plate, and alſo to be drawn out to a fine wire.

I remember ſeeing a halfpenny that had been rolled out to a long ribbon.

Yes, and I have ſeen half a dozen men at a time with great hammers beat⯑ing out a piece of copper at the bra⯑zier's.

Copper requires a very conſider⯑able heat to melt it; and by long ex⯑poſure to the fire, it may be burned [126] or calcined; for it, like all we are now to ſpeak of, is an imperfect metal.

And it ruſts very eaſily, does it not?

It does; for all acids diſſolve or corrode it, ſo do ſalts of every kind; whence even air and common water in a ſhort time act upon it, for they are never free from ſomewhat of a ſaline nature.

Is not verdegris the ruſt of copper?

It is;—a ruſt produced by the acid of grapes. But every ruſt of cop⯑per is of a blue or green colour, as well as verdegris.

And are they all poiſon, too?

They are all ſo in ſome degree, producing violent ſickneſs and pain in the bowels. They are all, too, ex⯑tremely nauſeous to the taſte; and the metal itſelf, when heated, taſtes and ſmells very diſagreeably.

Why is it uſed, then, ſo much in cooking, and brewing, and the like?

Becauſe it is a very convenient metal for making veſſels, eſpecially large ones, as it is eaſily worked, and is ſufficiently ſtrong though hammered thin, and bears the fire well. And if veſſels of it are kept quite clean, and the liquor not ſuffered to ſtand long in them when cold, there is no danger in their uſe. But copper veſſels for cook⯑ing are generally lined on the inſide with tin.

What elſe is copper uſed for?

A variety of things. Sheets of copper are ſometimes uſed to cover buildings; and of late a great quantity is conſumed in ſheathing ſhips, that is, in covering all the part under water; the purpoſe of which is to protect the timber from the worms, and alſo to make the ſhip ſail faſter, by means of the greater ſmoothneſs and force with [128] which the copper makes way through the water.

Money is made of copper, too.

It is; for it takes an impreſſion in coining very well, and its value is a proper proportion below ſilver for a a price for the cheapeſt ſort of commo⯑dities. In ſome poor countries they have little other than copper coin. Another great uſe of copper is as an ingredient in mixed metals, ſuch as bell⯑metal, cannon-metal, and particularly braſs.

But braſs is yellow.

True; it is converted to that co⯑lour by means of another metallic ſub⯑ſtance named zinc, or ſpelter, the natu⯑ral colour of which is white. A kind of brown ſtone called calamine is an ore of zinc. By filling a pot with layers of powdered calamine and charcoal placed alternately with copper, and ap⯑plying a pretty ſtrong heat, the zinc is driven in vapour out of the calamine, [129] and penetrates the copper, changing it into braſs.

What is the uſe of turning copper into braſs?

It gains a fine gold-like colour, and becomes harder, more eaſy to melt, and leſs liable to ruſt. Hence it is pre⯑ferred for a variety of utenſils, orna⯑mental and uſeful. Braſs does not bear hammering well, but is generally caſt into the ſhape wanted, and then turned in a lathe and poliſhed. Well—theſe are the principal things I have to ſay about copper.

But where does it come from?

Copper is found in many countries. Our iſland yields abundance, eſpecially in Wales and Cornwall. In Angleſey is a whole hill called Paris-moun⯑tain, conſiſting of copper ore, from which immenſe quantities are dug every year. Now for iron.

Ay! that is the moſt uſeful of all the metals.

I think it is; and it is likewiſe the moſt common, for there are few countries in the world poſſeſſing hills and rocks where it is not met with, more or leſs. Iron is the hardeſt of metals, the moſt elaſtic or ſpringy, the moſt tena⯑cious or difficult to break, next to gold, the moſt difficultly fuſible, and one of the lighteſt, being only ſeven or eight times heavier than water.

You ſay it is difficult to break; but I ſnapt the blade of a penknife the other day by only bending it a little; and my mother is continually breaking her needles.

Properly objected! But the qua⯑lities of iron differ extremely according to the method of preparing it. There are forged iron, caſt iron, and ſteel, which are very different from each other. Iron when firſt melted from its ore, has little malleability, and the veſſels and other implements that are made of it in that ſtate by caſting into moulds, are [131] eaſily broken. It acquires toughneſs and malleability by forging, which is done by beating it when red hot with heavy hammers, till it becomes ductile and flexible. Steel, again, is made by heating ſmall bars of iron with wood⯑aſhes, charcoal, bone and horn ſhavings, or other inflammable matters, by which it acquires a finer grain and more com⯑pact texture, and becomes harder and more elaſtic. Steel may be render⯑ed either very flexible, or brittle, by different manners of tempering, which is performed by heating and then quenching it in water. Steel is iron in its more perfect ſtate.

All cutting inſtruments are made of ſteel, are they not?

Yes; and the very fine edged ones are generally tempered brittle, as razors, penknives, and ſurgeon's inſtru⯑ments; but ſword-blades are made flex⯑ible, and the beſt of them will bend double without breaking or becoming [132] crooked. The ſteel of which ſprings are made, have the higheſt poſſible de⯑gree of elaſticity given them. A watch⯑ſpring is one of the moſt perfect ex⯑amples of this kind. Steel for or⯑naments is made extremely hard and cloſe-grained, ſo as to bear an exquiſite poliſh. Common hammered iron is chiefly uſed for works of ſtrength, as horſe-ſhoes, bars, bolts, and the like. It will bend but not ſtraighten itſelf again, as you may ſee in the kitchen poker. Caſt iron is uſed for pots and cauldrons, cannons, cannon-balls, grates, pillars, and many other purpoſes in which hardneſs without flexibility is wanted.

What a vaſt variety of uſes this metal is put to!

Yes; I know not when I ſhould have done, if I were to tell you of all.

Then I think it is really more valuable than gold, though it is ſo much cheaper.

That was the opinion of the wiſe Solon, when he obſerved to the rich king Croeſus, who was ſhowing him his treaſures, ‘"he who poſſeſſes more iron will ſoon be maſter of all this gold."’

I ſuppoſe he meant weapons and armour.

He did; but there are many nobler uſes of this metal; and few cir⯑cumſtances denote the progreſs of the arts in a country more than having at⯑tained the full uſe of iron, without which ſcarcely any manufacture or ma⯑chinery can be brought to perfection. From the difficulty of melting it out of the ore, many nations have been longer in diſcovering it than ſome of the other metals. The Greeks in Homer's time ſeem to have employed copper or braſs for their weapons much more than iron; and the Mexicans and Peruvians, who poſſeſſed gold and ſilver, were unac⯑quainted with iron when the Spaniards invaded them.

Iron is very ſubject to ruſt, however.

It is ſo, and that is one of its worſt properties. Every liquor, and even a moiſt air, corrodes it. But the ruſt of iron is not pernicious; on the contrary it is a very uſeful medicine.

I have heard of ſteel drops and ſteel filings given for medicines.

Yes; iron is given in a variety of forms, and the property of them all is to ſtrengthen the conſtitution. Many ſprings are made medicinal by the iron that they diſſolve in the bowels of the earth. Theſe are called chalybeate wa⯑ters, and they may be known by their inky taſte, and the ruſt-coloured ſedi⯑ment they leave in their courſe.

May we drink ſuch water if we meet with it?

Yes; it will do you no harm, at leaſt. There is one other property of iron well worth knowing, and that is, [135] that it is the only thing attracted by the magnet, or loadſtone.

I had a magnet once that would take up needles and keys: but it ſeem⯑ed a bar of iron itſelf.

True. The real loadſtone, which is a particular ore of iron, can com⯑municate its virtue to a piece of iron by rubbing it; nay, a bar of iron itſelf, in length of time, by being placed in a particular poſition, will acquire the ſame property.

Is all the iron uſed in England, produced here?

By no means. Our extenſive manufactures require a great importa⯑tion of iron. Much is brought from Norway, Ruſſia, and Sweden; and the Swediſh is reckoned particularly ex⯑cellent. Well—now to another metal. I dare ſay you can tell me a good deal about lead.

I know ſeveral things about it. It is very heavy and ſoft, and eaſily melted.

True; thoſe are ſome of its diſ⯑tinguiſhing properties. Its weight is between eleven and twelve times that of water. Its colour is a dull bluiſh white; and from this livid hue, as well as its being totally void of ſpring or elaſticity, it has acquired a ſort of cha⯑racter of dulneſs and ſluggiſhneſs. Thus we ſay of a ſtupid man, that he has a leaden diſpoſition.

Lead is very malleable, I think.

Yes; it may be beat out into a pretty thin leaf, but it will not bear drawing into fine wire. It is not only very fuſible, but very readily calcined by heat, changing into a powder, or a ſealy matter, which may be made to take all colours by the fire, from yellow to deep red. You have ſeen red lead?

Yes.

That is calcined lead expoſed for a conſiderable time to a ſtrong flame. Lead may even be changed into glaſs by a moderate heat; and there is a good deal of it in our fineſt glaſs.

What is white lead?

It is lead corroded by the ſteam of vinegar. Lead in various forms is much uſed by painters. Its calces diſſolve in oil, and are employed for the purpoſe of thickening paint and making it dry. All lead paints, however, are unwholeſome as long as they continue to ſmell, and the fumes of lead when melted are like⯑wiſe pernicious. This is the cauſe why painters and plumbers are ſo ſubject to various diſeaſes, particularly violent co⯑lics, and palſies. The white-lead ma⯑nufacture is ſo hurtful to the health, that the workmen in a very ſhort time are apt to loſe the uſe of their limbs, and be otherwiſe ſeverely indiſpoſed.

I wonder, then, that anybody will work in them.

Ignorance and high wages are ſufficient to induce them. But it is to be lamented that in a great many manu⯑factures, the health and lives of indivi⯑duals are ſacrificed to the convenience and profit of the community. Lead, too, when diſſolved, as it may be, in all four liquors, is a ſlow poiſon, and the more dangerous, as it gives no diſagree⯑able taſte. A ſalt of lead made with vinegar is ſo ſweet as to be called the ſugar of lead. It has been too common to put this or ſome other preparation of lead into four wines, in order to cure them; and much miſchief has been done by this practice.

If lead is poiſonous, is it not wrong to make water-pipes and ciſterns of it?

This has been objected to; but it does not appear that water can diſ⯑ſolve any of the lead. Nor does it rea⯑dily ruſt in the air, and hence it is much uſed to cover buildings with, as well as [139] to line ſpouts and water-courſes. For theſe purpoſes, the lead is caſt into ſheets, which are eaſily cut and ham⯑mered into any ſhape.

Bullets and ſhot, too, are made of lead.

They are; and in this way it is ten times more deſtructive than as a poiſon.

I think more lead ſeems to be uſed than any metal except iron.

It is; and the plenty of it in our country is a great benefit to us, both for domeſtic uſe, and as an article that brings in much profit by exportation.

Where are our principal lead-mines?

They are much ſcattered about our iſland. The weſt of England pro⯑duces a good deal, in Cornwall, Devon⯑ſhire, and Somerſetſhire. Wales af⯑fords a large quantity. Derbyſhire has long been noted for its lead-mines, and ſo have Northumberland and Durham. [140] And there are conſiderable ones in the ſouthern part of Scotland. Now do you recollect another metal to be ſpoken about?

Tin.

True. Tin reſembles lead in colour, but has a more ſilvery whiteneſs. It is ſoft and flexible, like lead, but is diſtinguiſhed by the crackling noiſe it makes on being bent. It melts as eaſily as lead, and alſo is readily calcined by keeping it in the fire. It is the light⯑eſt of the metals, being only ſeven times heavier than water. Tin may be beat into a thin leaf, but not drawn out to wire.

Is tin of much uſe?

It is not often uſed by itſelf, but very frequently in conjunction with other metals. As tin is little liable to ruſt, or to be corroded by common liquors, it is employed for a lining or coating of veſſels made of copper or [141] iron. The ſaucepans and kettles in the kitchen, you know, are all tinned.

Yes. How is it done?

By melting the tin and ſpreading it upon the ſurface of the copper, which is firſt lightly pitched over, in order to make the tin adhere.

But what are the veſſels made at the tinman's? Are not they all tin?

No. Tinned-ware (as it is pro⯑perly called) is made of thin iron plates coated over with tin by dipping them into a veſſel full of melted tin. Theſe plates are afterwards cut and bent to proper ſhapes, and the joinings are ſol⯑dered together with a mixture of tin and other metals. Another ſimilar uſe of tin is in what is called the ſilvering of pins.

What—is not that real ſilver⯑ing?

No. The pins, which are made of braſs wire, after being pointed and head⯑ed, are boiled in water in which grain⯑tin [142] is put, along with tartar, which is a cruſt that collects on the inſide of wine caſks. The tartar diſſolves ſome of the tin, and makes it adhere to the ſur⯑face of the pins; and thus thouſands are covered in an inſtant.

That is as clever as what you told us of the gilding of buttons.

It is. Another purpoſe for which great quantities of tin uſed to be employed, was the making of pewter. The beſt pewter conſiſts chiefly of tin, with a ſmall mixture of other metals to harden it; and the London pewter was brought to ſuch perfection as to look almoſt as well as ſilver.

I can juſt remember a long row of pewter plates at my grandmother's.

You may. In her time all the plates and diſhes for the table were made of pewter; and a handſome range of pew⯑ter ſhelves was thought a capital orna⯑ment for a kitchen. At preſent this trade is almoſt come to nothing through [143] the uſe of earthen ware and china; and pewter is employed for little, but ſtills and barber's baſons, and porter pots. But a good deal is ſtill exported. Tin is likewiſe an ingredient in other mixed metals for various purpoſes, but on the whole, leſs of it is uſed than of the other common metals.

Is not England more famous for tin than any other country? I have read of the Phoenicians trading here for it in very early times.

They did; and tin is ſtill a very valuable article of export from England. Much of it is ſent as far as China. The tin-mines here are chiefly in Corn⯑wall, and I believe they are the moſt productive of any in Europe. Very fine tin is alſo got in the peninſula of Malacca in the Eaſt Indies. Well—we have now gone through the metals.

But you ſaid ſomething about a kind of metal called zinc.

That is one of another claſs of mineral ſubſtances, called ſemi-metals. Theſe reſemble metals in every qua⯑lity but ductility, of which they are almoſt wholly deſtitute, and for want of it they can ſeldom be uſed in the arts, except when joined with metals.

Are there many of them?

Yes, ſeveral; but we will not talk of them till I have taken ſome oppor⯑tunity of ſhowing them to you, for probably you may never have ſeen any of them. Now try to repeat the names of all the metals to me in the order of their weight.

There is firſt gold.

Then quickſilver, lead, ſilver.

Copper, iron, tin.

Very right. Now I muſt tell you of an odd fancy that chymiſts have had of chriſtening theſe metals by the names of the heavenly bodies. They have called gold, Sol or the Sun.

That is ſuitable enough to its colour and brightneſs.

Then ſilver ſhould be the moon, for I have heard moonlight called of a ſilvery hue.

True—and they have named it ſo. It is Luna. Quickſilver is Mercury, ſo named probably from its great pro⯑penſity to dance and jump about, for Mercury, you know, was very nimble.

Yes—he had wings to his heels.

Copper is Venus.

Venus! ſurely it is ſcarcely beautiful enough for that.

But they had diſpoſed of the moſt beautiful ones before. Iron is Mars.

That is right enough, becauſe ſwords are made of iron.

True. Then tin is Jupiter, and lead, Saturn; I ſuppoſe only to make out the number. Yet the dulneſs of lead might be thought to agree with that planet which is moſt remote from [146] the ſun. Theſe names, childiſh as they may ſeem, are worth remembering, ſince chymiſts and phyſicians ſtill apply them to many preparations of the various metals. You will probably often hear of martial, lunar, mercurial, and ſaturnine; and you may now know what they mean.

I think the knowledge of metals ſeems more uſeful than all you have told us about plants.

I don't know that. Many nations make no uſe at all of metals, but there are none which do not owe a great part of their ſubſiſtence to vegetables. How⯑ever, without enquiring what parts of natural knowledge are moſt uſeful, you may be aſſured of this, that all are uſeful in ſome degree or other; and there are few things that give one man greater ſuperiority over another, than the extent and accuracy of his know⯑ledge in theſe particulars. One perſon paſſes all his life upon the earth, a [147] ſtranger to it; while another finds him⯑ſelf at home every where.

WHAT ANIMALS ARE MADE FOR.

PRAY, Papa, (ſaid Sophia after ſhe had been a long while teaſed with the flies that buzzed about her ears, and ſettled on her noſe and forehead as ſhe ſat at work)—Pray what were flies made for?

For ſome good, I dare ſay, (replied her Papa.)

But I think they do a great deal more harm than good, for I am ſure they plague me ſadly; and in the kitchen they are ſo troubleſome, that the maids can hardly do their work for them.

Flies eat up many things that would otherwiſe corrupt and become [148] loathſome; and they ſerve ſor food to birds, ſpiders, and many other ani⯑mals.

But we could clean away every thing that was offenſive without their help; and as to their ſerving for food, I have ſeen whole heaps of them lying dead in a window, without ſeeming to have done good to any thing.

Well then. Suppoſe a fly ca⯑pable of thinking; would he not be equally puzzled to find out what men were good for? This great two-legged monſter, he might ſay, inſtead of help⯑ing us to live, devours more food at a meal than would ſerve a whole legion of flies. Then he kills us by hundreds when we come within his reach; and I ſee him deſtroy and torment all other ani⯑mals too. And when he dies, he is nailed up in a box and put a great way under ground, as if he grudged doing any more good after his death, than when alive. [149] Now what would you anſwer to ſuch a reaſoning fly?

I would tell him he was very im⯑pertinent for talking ſo of his betters; for that he and all other creatures were made for the uſe of man, and not man for theirs.

But would you tell him true? You have juſt been ſaying that you could not find out of what uſe flies were to us; whereas, when they ſuck our blood, there is no doubt that we are of uſe to them.

It is that which puzzles me.

There are many other animals which we call noxious, and which are ſo far from being uſeful to us, that we take all poſſible pains to get rid of them. More than that, there are vaſt tracts of the earth where few or no men inhabit, which are yet full of beaſts, birds, in⯑ſects, and all living things. Theſe cer⯑tainly do not exiſt there for his uſe alone. [150] On the contrary, they often keep man away.

Then what are they made for?

They are made to be happy. It is a manifeſt purpoſe of the Creator to give being to as much life as poſſible, for life is enjoyment to all creatures in health and in poſſeſſion of their facul⯑ties. Man ſurpaſſes other animals in his powers of enjoyment, and he has proſpects in a future ſtate which they do not ſhare with him. But the Creator equally deſires the happineſs of all his creatures, and looks down with as much benignity upon theſe flies that are ſport⯑ing around us, as upon ourſelves.

Then we ought not to kill them if they are ever ſo troubleſome.

I do not ſay that. We have a right to make a reaſonable uſe of all animals for our advantage, and alſo to free ourſelves from ſuch as are hurtful to us. So far our ſuperiority over them may fairly extend. But we ſhould never [151] abuſe them for our mere amuſement, nor take away their lives wantonly. Nay, a good-natured man will rather undergo a little inconvenience, than take away from a creature all that it poſſeſſes. An infant may deſtroy life, but all the kings upon earth cannot reſtore it. I remember reading of a good-tempered old gentleman, that having been a long time plagued with a great fly that buzzed about his face all dinner-time, at length, after many efforts, caught it. Inſtead of cruſhing it to death, he held it care⯑fully in his hand, and opening the win⯑dow, ‘"Go, (ſaid he)—get thee gone, poor creature; I wo'nt hurt a hair of thy head; ſurely the world is wide enough for thee and me."’

I ſhould have loved that man.

One of our poets has written ſome very pretty lines to a fly that came to partake with him of his wine. They begin,

How pretty! I think they will almoſt make me love flies. But pray, Papa, do not animals deſtroy one another?

They do indeed. The greateſt part of them only live by the deſtruction of life. There is a perpetual warfare going on, in which the ſtronger prey upon the weaker, and, in their turns, are the prey of thoſe which are a degree ſtronger than themſelves. Even the innocent ſheep, with every mouthful of graſs, deſtroys hundreds of ſmall inſects. In the air we breathe, and the water we drink, we give death to thouſands of inviſible creatures.

But is not that very ſtrange? If they were created to live and be happy, why ſhould they be deſtroyed ſo faſt?

They are deſtroyed no faſter than others are produced; and if they en⯑joyed life while it laſted, they have had a good bargain. By making animals the food of animals, providence has filled up every chink, as it were, of ex⯑iſtence. You ſee theſe ſwarms of flies. During all the hot weather they are con⯑tinually coming forth from the ſtate of eggs and maggots, and as ſoon as they get the uſe of wings, they roam about, and fill every place in ſearch of food. Meantime they are giving ſuſ⯑tenance to the whole race of ſpiders; they maintain all the ſwallow tribe, and contribute greatly to the ſupport of many other ſmall birds; and even afford many a delicate morſel to the fiſhes. Their own numbers, however, ſeem ſcarcely diminiſhed, and vaſt multi⯑tudes live on till the cold weather comes and puts an end to them. Were no⯑thing to touch them, they would pro⯑bably become ſo numerous as to ſtarve [154] each other. As it is, they are full of enjoyment themſelves, and afford life and enjoyment to other creatures, which in their turn ſupply the wants of others.

It is no charity, then, to tear a ſpider's web in pieces in order to ſet a fly at liberty.

None at all—no more than it would be to demoliſh the traps of a poor Indian hunter, who depended upon them for his dinner. They both act as nature directs them. Shall I tell you a ſtory?

O yes—pray do!

A venerable Bramin, who had never in his days eaten any thing but rice and milk, and held it the great⯑eſt of crimes to ſhed the blood of any thing that had life, was one day medi⯑tating on the banks of the Ganges. He ſaw a little bird on the ground pick⯑ing up ants as faſt as he could ſwallow. Murderous wretch, cried he, what ſcores [155] of lives are ſacrificed to one gluttonous meal of thine! Preſently a ſparrow⯑hawk pouncing down, ſeized him in his claws, and flew off with him. The Bra⯑min at firſt was inclined to triumph over the little bird; but on hearing his cries, he could not help pitying him. Poor thing, ſaid he, thou art fallen into the clutches of thy tyrant! A ſtronger ty⯑rant, however, took up the matter; for a falcon in mid-air darting on the ſpar⯑row-hawk, ſtruck him to the ground, with the bird lifeleſs in his talon. Ty⯑rant againſt tyrant, thought the Bramin, is well enough. The falcon had not finiſhed tearing his prey, when a lynx, ſtealing from behind the rock on which he was perched, ſprung on him, and hav⯑ing ſtrangled him, bore him to the edge of a neighbouring thicket, and began to ſuck his blood. The Bramin was at⯑tentively viewing this new diſplay of re⯑tributive juſtice, when a ſudden roar ſhook the air, and a huge tyger, ruſh⯑ing [156] from the thicket, came like thunder on the lynx. The Bramin was near enough to hear the craſhing bones, and was making off in great terror, when he met an Engliſh ſoldier, armed with his muſket. He pointed eagerly to the place where the tyger was making his bloody repaſt. The ſoldier levelled his gun, and laid the tyger dead. Brave fellow! exclaimed the Bramin. I am very hungry, ſaid the ſoldier, can you give me a beef-ſteak? I ſee you have plenty of cows here. Horrible! cried the Bramin; what! I kill the ſacred cows of Brama! Then kill the next tyger yourſelf, ſaid the ſoldier.