Chapter X: Introduction (8)

The judge having heard Mrs. Careful’s story, desired her to sit down; and then calling up Master Luckless, asked him what he had to say for himself. Luckless appeared with his face a good deal scratched, and looking very ruefully. After making his bow, and sobbing two or three times, he said:—

“My lord, I am as innocent of this matter as any boy in the school, and I am sure I have suffered enough about it already. My lord, Billy Thompson and I were playing in the lane near Mrs. Careful’s house, when we heard the window crash; and directly after she came running out toward us. Upon this, Billy ran away, and I ran too, thinking I might bear the blame. But after running a little way, I stumbled over something that lay in the road, and before I could get up again she overtook me, and caught me by the hair, and began lugging and cuffing me. I told her it was not I that broke her window, but it did not signify; so she dragged me to the light, lugging and scratching me all the while, and then said she would inform against me; and that is all I know of the matter.”

_Judge._ I find, good woman, you were willing to revenge yourself, without waiting for the justice of this court.

_Widow Careful._ My lord, I confess I was put into a passion, and did not properly consider what I was doing.

_Jud._ Well, where is Billy Thompson?

_Billy._ Here, my lord.

_Jud._ You have heard what Harry Luckless says. Declare upon your honour whether he has spoken the truth.

_Bil._ My lord, I am sure neither he nor I had any concern in breaking the window. We were standing together at the time, and I ran on hearing the door open, for fear of being charged with it, and he followed. But what became of him I did not stay to see.

_Jud._ So you let your friend shift for himself, and only thought of saving yourself. But did you see any other person about the house or in the lane?

_Bil._ My lord, I thought I heard somebody on the other side of the hedge, creeping along, a little before the window was broken, but I saw nobody.

_Jud._ You hear, good woman, what is alleged in behalf of the person you have accused. Have you any other evidence against him?

_Wid._ One might be sure that they would deny it, and tell lies for one another; but I hope I am not to be put off in that manner.

_Jud._ I must tell you, mistress, that you give too much liberty to your tongue, and are guilty of as much injustice as that of which you complain, I should be sorry, indeed, if the young gentlemen of this school deserved the general character of liars. You will find among us, I hope, as just a sense of what is right and honourable, as among those who are older; and our worthy master certainly would not permit us to try offences in this manner, if he thought us capable of bearing false witness in each other’s favour.

_Wid._ I ask your lordship’s pardon, I did not mean to offend: but it is a heavy loss for a poor woman, and though I did not catch the boy in the fact, he was the nearest when it was done.

_Jud._ As this is no more than a suspicion, and he has the positive evidence of his schoolfellow in his favour, it will be impossible to convict him, consistently with the rules of justice. Have you discovered any other circumstance that may point out the offender?

_Wid._ My lord, next morning Jack found on the floor this top, which I suppose the window was broken with.

_Jud._ Hand it up—here, gentlemen of the jury, please to examine it, and see if you can discover anything of its owner.

_Juryman._ Here is P. R. cut upon it.

_Another._ Yes, and I am sure I remember Peter Riot’s having just such a one.

_Another._ So do I.

_Jud._ Master Riot, is this your top?

_Riot._ I don’t know, my lord, perhaps it may be mine; I have had a great many tops, and when I have done with them, I throw them away, and anybody may pick them up that pleases. You see it has lost its peg.

_Jud._ Very well, sir. Mrs. Careful, you may retire.

_Wid._ And must I have no amends, my lord?

_Jud._ Have patience. Leave everything to the court. We shall do you all the justice in our power.

As soon as the widow was gone, the judge rose from his seat, and with much solemnity thus addressed the assembly:—

“Gentlemen,—this business, I confess, gives me much dissatisfaction. A poor woman has been insulted and injured in her property, apparently without provocation; and though she has not been able to convict the offender, it cannot be doubted that she, as well as the world in general, will impute the crime to some of our society. Though I am in my own mind convinced that in her passion she charged an innocent person, yet the circumstance of the top is a strong suspicion, indeed almost a proof, that the perpetrator of this unmanly mischief was one of our body. The owner of the top has justly observed, that its having been his property is no certain proof against him. Since, therefore, in the present defect of evidence, the whole school must remain burdened with the discredit of this action, and share in the guilt of it, I think fit, in the first place, to decree, that restitution shall be made to the sufferer out of the public chest; and next that a court of inquiry be instituted for the express purpose of searching thoroughly into this affair, with power to examine all persons upon honour who are thought likely to be able to throw light upon it. I hope, gentlemen, these measures meet with your concurrence?”

The whole court bowed to the judge, and expressed their entire satisfaction with his determination.

It was then ordered that the public treasurer should go to the Widow Careful’s house, any pay her the sum of one shilling, making at the same time a handsome apology in the name of the school. And six persons were taken by lot out of the jury to compose the court of inquiry, which was to sit in the evening.

The court then adjourned.

On the meeting of the court of inquiry, the first thing proposed by the president, was, that the persons who usually played with Master Riot should be sent for. Accordingly Tom Frisk and Bob Loiter were summoned, when the president asked them upon their honour if they knew the top to have been Riot’s. They said they did. They were then asked whether they remembered when Riot had it in his possession?

_Frisk._ He had it the day before yesterday, and split a top of mine with it.

_Loiter._ Yes, and then, as he was making a stroke at mine, the peg flew out.

_President._ What did he then do with it?

_Fr._ He put it into his pocket, and said, as it was a strong top, he would have it mended.

_Pres._ Then he did not throw it away, or give it to any body?

_Loit._ No; he pocketed it up, and we saw no more of it.

_Pres._ Do you know of any quarrel he had with Widow Careful?

_Fr._ Yes; a day or two before, he went to her shop for some ginger bread; but, as he already owed her sixpence, she would not let him have any till he had paid his debts.

_Pres._ How did he take the disappointment?

_Fr._ He said he would be revenged on her.

_Pres._ Are you sure he used such words?

_Fr._ Yes; Loiter heard him as well as myself.

_Loit._ I did, sir.

_Pres._ Do either of you know any more of this affair?

_Both._ No, sir.

_Pres._ You may go.

The President now observed that these witnesses had done a great deal in establishing proofs against Riot; for it was now pretty certain that no one but himself could have been in possession of the top at the time the crime was committed; and also it appeared that he had declared a malicious intention against the woman, which it was highly probable he would put into execution.—As the court were debating about the next step to be taken, they were acquainted that Jack, the widow’s son, was waiting at the school-door for admission; and a person being sent out for him, Riot was found threatening the boy, and bidding him go home about his business. The boy, however, was conveyed safely into the room, when he thus addressed himself to the president:—

_Jack._ Sir, and please your worship, as I was looking about this morning for sticks in the hedge over against our house, I found this buckle. So I thought to myself, sure this must belong to the rascal that broke our windows. So I have brought it to see if anybody in the school would own it.

_Pres._ On which side of the hedge did you find it?

_Jack._ On the other side from our house, in the close.

_Pres._ Let us see it. Gentlemen, this is so smart a buckle, that I am sure I remember it at once, and so I dare say you all do.

_Al_l. It is Riot’s.

_Pres._ Has anybody observed Riot’s shoes to-day?

_One Boy._ Yes, he has got them tied with strings.

_Pres._ Very well, gentlemen; we have nothing more to do than to draw up an account of all the evidence we have heard, and lay it before his lordship. Jack, you may go home.

_Jack._ Pray, sir, let somebody go with me, for I am afraid of Riot, who has just been threatening me at the door.

_Pres._ Master Bold will please to go along with the boy.

The minutes of the court were then drawn up, and the President took them to the judge’s chamber. After the judge had perused them, he ordered an endictment to be drawn up against Peter Riot, “for that he meanly, clandestinely, and with malice aforethought, had broken three panes in the window of Widow Careful, with a certain instrument called a top, whereby he had committed an atrocious injury on an innocent person, and had brought a disgrace upon the society to which he belonged.” At the same time, he sent an officer to inform Master Riot that his trial would come on next morning.

Riot, who was with some of his gay companions, affected to treat the matter with great indifference, and even to make a jest of it. However, in the morning he thought it best to endeavour to make it up; and accordingly, when the court was assembled, he sent one of his friends with a shilling, saying that he would not trouble them with any further inquiries, but would pay the sum that had been issued out of the public stock. On the receipt of this message the Judge rose with much severity in his countenance; and observing, that by such a contemptuous behaviour towards the court the criminal had greatly added to his offence, he ordered two officers with their staves immediately to go and bring in Riot, and to use force if he should resist them. The culprit, thinking it best to submit, was presently led in between the two officers; when, being placed at the bar, the judge thus addressed him:—

“I am sorry, sir, that any member of this society can be so little sensible of the nature of a crime, and so little acquainted with the principles of a court of justice, as you have shown yourself to be, by the proposal you took the improper liberty of sending to us. If you meant it as a confession of your guilt, you certainly ought to have waited to receive from us the penalty we thought proper to inflict, and not to have imagined that an offer of the mere payment of damages would satisfy the claims of justice against you. If you had only broken the window by accident, and of your own accord offered restitution, nothing less than the full damages could have been accepted. But you now stand charged with having done this mischief, meanly, secretly, and maliciously, and thereby have added a great deal of criminal intention to the act. Can you then think that a court like this, designed to watch over the morals, as well as protect the properties of our community, can so slightly pass over such aggravated offences? You can claim no merit from confessing the crime, now that you know so much evidence will appear against you. And if you choose still to plead not guilty, you are at liberty to do it, and we will proceed immediately to the trial, without taking any advantage of the confession implied by your offer of payment.”

Riot stood silent for some time, and then begged to be allowed to consult with his friends what was best for him to do. This was agreed to, and he was permitted to retire, though under guard of an officer. After a short absence, he returned with more humility in his looks, and said that he pleaded guilty, and threw himself on the mercy of the court. The judge then made a speech of some length, for the purpose of convincing the prisoner as well as the bystanders of the enormity of the crime. He then pronounced the following sentence:—

“You, Peter Riot, are hereby sentenced to pay the sum of half a crown to the public treasury, as a satisfaction for the mischief you have done, and your attempt to conceal it. You are to repair to the house of Widow Careful, accompanied by such witnesses as we shall appoint, and there having first paid her the sum you owe her, you shall ask her pardon for the insult you offered her. You shall likewise, to-morrow, after school, stand up in your place, and before all the scholars ask pardon for the disgrace you have been the means of bringing upon the society; and in particular you shall apologise to Master Luckless, for the disagreeable circumstance you were the means of bringing him into. Till all this is complied with, you shall not presume to come into the play-ground, or join in any of the diversions of the school; and all persons are hereby admonished not to keep your company till this is done.”

Riot was then dismissed to his room; and in the afternoon he was taken to the widow’s, who was pleased to receive his submission graciously, and at the same time to apologise for her own improper treatment of Master Luckless, to whom she sent a present of a nice ball by way of amends.

Thus ended this important business.

On Man, p. 184.

EVENING XV.
]

THE LEGUMINOUS PLANTS.

_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._

_George._ What a delightful smell!

_Harry._ Charming! It is sweeter than Mr. Essence’s shop.

_Tutor._ Do you know whence it comes?

_Geo._ Oh—it is from the bean-field on the other side of the hedge, I suppose.

_Tut._ It is. This is the month in which beans are in blossom. See the stalks are full of their black and white flowers.

_Har._ I see peas in blossom, too, on the other side of the field.

_Geo._ You told us some time ago of grass and corn flowers, but they make a poor figure compared to these.

_Tut._ They do. The glory of a cornfield is when it is ripe; but peas and beans look very shabbily at that time. But suppose we take a closer view of these blossoms. Go you, George, and bring me a bean-plant; and you, Harry, a pea.

[_They go and bring them._

_Tut._ Now let us sit down and compare them. Do you think these flowers much alike?

_Har._ Oh no—very little.

_Geo._ Yes—a good deal!

_Tut._ A little and a good deal! How can that be? Come let us see. In the first place, they do not much resemble each other in size or colour.

_Geo._ No—but I think they do in shape.

_Tut._ True. They are both irregular flowers, and have the same distribution of parts. They are of the kind called _papilionaceous_, from _papilio_, the Latin word for a butterfly, which insect they are thought to resemble.

_Geo._ The pea does a little, but not much.

_Tut._ Some do much more than these. Well—you see first a broad leaf standing upright, but somewhat bent back; this is named the _standard_. On each side are two narrower, called the _wings_. The under side of the flower is formed of a hollow part resembling a boat: this is called a _keel_.

_Geo._ It is very like a boat indeed!

_Tut._ In some kinds, however, it is divided in the middle, and so is like a boat split in two. All these parts have claws which unite to form a tube, set in a _calyx_, or flower-cup. This tube, you observe, is longer in the bean than in the pea, and the proportions of the other parts are somewhat different; but the parts themselves are found in both.

_Har._ So they are. I think them alike now.

_Tut._ That is the consequence of examining closely. Now let us strip off all the leaves of this bean-flower but the keel. What do you think this boat contains?

_Geo._ It must be those little things you told us are in all flowers.

_Har._ The chives and pistil.

_Tut._ Right. I will draw down the keel gently, and you shall see them.

_Har._ How curious!

_Tut._ Here are a number of chives joining in their bodies, so as to make a round tube, or cylinder, through which comes out a crooked thread, which is the pistil. I will now with a pin slit this cylinder. What do you see within it?

_Geo._ Somewhat like a little pod.

_Tut._ True—and to show you that it is a pod, I will open it, and you shall see the seeds within it.

_Har._ What tiny things! Is this, then, what makes the bean-pod afterward?

_Tut._ It is. When the blossom drops, this seed-vessel grows bigger and bigger, and at length hardens as the seeds grow ripe, becomes black and shrivelled, and would burst and shed the seeds, if they were not gathered.

_Geo._ I have seen several burst pods of our sweet-peas under the wall, with nothing left in them.

_Tut._ And it is common for the field peas and beans to lose a great part of the seeds while they are getting in.

_Har._ At the bottom of this pea-stalk there are some pods set already.

_Tut._ Open one. You see that the pod is composed of two shells, and that all the seeds are fastened to one side of the pod, but alternately to each shell.

_Geo._ Is it the same in beans?

_Tut._ Yes, and in all other pods of the papilionaceous flowers. Well—this is the general structure of a very numerous and useful class of plants, called the _leguminous_ or _podded_. Of these, in this country, the greater part are herbaceous, with some shrubs. In the warm climates there are also tall trees. Many of the leguminous plants afford excellent nourishment for man and beast; and their pods have the name of _pulse_.

_Geo._ I have read of persons living on pulse, but I did not know what it meant before.

_Tut._ It is frequently mentioned as part of the diet of abstemious persons. Of this kind, we eat peas, beans, and kidney or French beans, of all which there are a variety of sorts cultivated. Other nations eat lentils and lupines, which are of this class; with several others.

_Har._ I remember our lupines in the garden have flowers of this kind, with pods growing in clusters. We only cultivate them for the colour and smell.

_Tut._ But other nations eat them. Then, all the kinds of clover, or trefoil, which are so useful in feeding cattle, belong to this tribe; as do likewise vetches, sanfoin, and lucerne, which are used for the same purpose. These principally compose what are usually, though improperly, called, in agriculture, _artificial grasses_.

_Geo._ Clover flowers are as sweet as beans; but do they bear pods?

_Tut._ Yes; very short ones, with one or two seeds in each. But there is a kind called nonsuch, with a very small yellow flower, that has a curious twisted pod like a snail-shell. Many of the leguminous plants are weak, and cannot support themselves; hence they are furnished with tendrils, by means of which they clasp neighbouring plants, and run up them. You know the garden-peas do so on the sticks which are set in the rows with them. Some kind of vetches run in this manner up the hedges, which they decorate with their long bunches of blue or purple flowers. Tares, which are some of the slenderest of the family, do much mischief among corn by twining round it and choking it.

_Har._ What are they good for, then?

_Tut._ They are weeds or noxious plants with respect to us; but doubtless they have their uses in the creation. Some of our papilionaceous plants, however, are able enough to shift for themselves; for gorse or furze is of the number.

_Geo._ What, that prickly bush all covered over with yellow flowers, that overruns our common?

_Tut._ Then there is broom, a plant as big, but without thorns, and with larger flowers. This is as frequent as furze in some places.

_Har._ I know it grows in abundance in the broom-field.

_Tut._ It does; but the naming of fields and places from it is a proof that it is not so common as the other.

_Geo._ We have some bushes of white broom in the shrubbery, and some trees of Spanish broom.

_Tut._ True. You have also a small tree which flowers early, and bears a great many pendent branches of yellow blossoms, that look peculiarly beautiful when intermixed with the purple lilacs.

_Har._ I know it—laburnum.

_Tut._ Right. This is one of our class of plants too. Then there is a large tree, with delicate little leaves, protected by long thorns, and bearing bunches of white papilionaceous flowers.

_Geo._ I know which you mean, but I cannot tell the name.

_Tut._ It is the bastard-acacia, or locust-tree, a native of America. Thus, you see, we have traced this class of plants through all sizes, from the trefoil that covers the turf, to a large tree. I should not, however, forget two others, the licorice, and the tamarind. The licorice, with the sweet root of which you are well acquainted, grows in the warmer countries, especially Spain, but is cultivated in some parts of England, especially at Pomfret, in Yorkshire. The tamarind is a large spreading tree growing in the West Indies, and valued for its shade, as well as for the cooling acid pulp of its pods, which are preserved with sugar and sent over to us.

_Har._ I know them very well.

_Tut._ Well—do you think now you shall both be able to discover a papilionaceous flower when you meet with it again?

_Geo._ I believe I shall, if they are all like these we have been examining.

_Tut._ They have all the same parts, though variously proportioned. What are these?

_Geo._ There is the standard and two wings.

_Har._ And the keel.

_Tut._ Right—the keel sometimes cleft into two, and then it is an irregular five-leaved flower. The chives are generally ten, of which one stands apart from the rest. The pistil single, and ending in a pod. Another circumstance common to most of this tribe, is, that their leaves are _winged_, or _pinnated_, that is, having leaflets set opposite each other, upon a middle rib. You see this structure in these bean-leaves. But in the clovers there are only two opposite leaflets, and one terminating; whence their name of trefoil, or three-leaf. What we call a club on cards is properly a clover-leaf, and the French call it _trefle_, which means the same.

_Geo._ I think this tribe of plants almost as useful as the grasses.

_Tut._ They perhaps come the next in utility: but their seeds, such as beans and peas, are not quite such good nourishment as corn, and bread cannot be made of them.

_Geo._ But clover is better than grass for cattle.

_Tut._ It is more fattening, and makes cows yield plenty of fine milk. Well—let us march.

ON MAN.

_Charles._ You gave me the definition of a horse some time ago—Pray, sir, how is a man defined?

_Father._ That is worth inquiring. Let us consider then. He must either stand by himself, or be ranked among the quadrupeds; for there are no other two-legged animals but birds, which he certainly does not resemble.

_Ch._ But how can he be made a quadruped?

_Fa._ By setting him to crawl on the ground, in which case he will as much resemble a baboon as a baboon set on his hind-legs does a man. In reality, there is little difference between the arms of a man and the fore-legs of a quadruped; and in all other circumstances of internal and external structure, they are evidently formed upon the same model.

_Ch._ I suppose then we must call him a digitated quadruped, that generally goes upon its hind legs.

_Fa._ A naturalist could not reckon him otherwise; and, accordingly, Linnæus has placed him in the same division with apes, macocos, and bats.

_Ch._ Apes, macocos, and bats!

_Fa._ Yes—they have all four cutting teeth in the upper jaw, and teats on the breast. How do your like your relations?

_Ch._ Not at all!

_Fa._ Then we will get rid of them by applying to the other part of human nature—the _mind_. Man is an animal possessed of _reason_, and the only one. This, therefore, is enough to define him.

_Ch._ I have often heard that man is a rational creature, and I have a notion what that means; but I should like to have an exact definition of reason.

_Fa._ Reason is the faculty by which we compare ideas, and draw conclusions. A man walking in the woods of an unknown country finds a bow. He compares it in his mind with other bows, and forms the conclusion that it must have been made by man, and that therefore the country is probably inhabited. He discovers a hut; sees in it half-burnt wood, and finds that the ashes are not quite cold. He concludes, therefore, with certainty, not only that there are inhabitants, but that they cannot be far distant. No other animal could do this.

_Ch._ But would not a dog who had been used to live with men run into such a hut and expect to find people in it?

_Fa._ He probably would—and this, I acknowledge, is very like reason; for he may be supposed to compare in his mind the hut he has lived in with that he sees, and to conclude that as there were men in the first there are in the last. But how little a way does this carry him? He finds no men there, and he is unable by any marks to form any judgment how long they have been absent, or what sort of people they were; still less does he form any plan of conduct in consequence of his discovery.

_Ch._ Then is not the difference only that man has much reason, and brutes little?

_Fa._ If we adhere to the mere words of the definition of reason, I believe this must be admitted; but in the exercise of it, the superiority of the human faculties is so great, that man is in many points absolutely distinguished from brutes. In the first place he has the _use of speech_, which no other animal has attained.

_Ch._ Cannot many animals make themselves understood by one another by their cries?

_Fa._ They can make known a few of their common wants and desires, but they cannot _discourse_, or communicate ideas stored up in the memory. It is this faculty which makes man an _improvable_ being, the wisdom and experience acquired by one individual being thus transmitted to others, and so on in an endless series of progression.

There is no reason to suppose that the dogs of the present day are more knowing than those which lived a thousand years ago; but the men of this age are much better acquainted with numberless arts and sciences than their remote ancestors; since, by the use of speech and of writing (which is speech addressed to the eye), every age adds its own discoveries to all former ones. This knowledge of the past likewise gives man a great insight into the future. Shakspeare excellently defines man by saying that he is a creature “made with large discourse, looking before and after.”

_Ch._ Animals must surely know something of the future, when they lay up a store of provisions for the winter.

_Fa._ No—it is pretty certain that this is not the case, for they will do it as much the first year of their lives as any other. Young bees turned out of their hive, as soon as they have swarmed and got a habitation, begin laying up honey, though they cannot possibly foresee the use they shall have for it. There are a vast number of actions of this kind in animals which are directed to a useful end, but an end which the animal knows nothing of. And this is what we call _instinct_, and properly distinguish from reason. Man has less of it than almost any other animal, because he wants it less. Another point of essential difference is, that man is the only animal that makes use of _instruments_ in any of his actions. He is a _tool-making_ and _machine-making_ animal. By means of this faculty alone he is every where lord of the creation, and has equally triumphed over the subtlety of the cunning, the swiftness of the fleet, and the force of the strong. He is the only animal that has found out the use of _fire_, a most important acquisition!

_Ch._ I have read of some large apes that will come and sit round a fire in the woods when men have left it, but have not the sense to keep it in, by throwing on sticks.

_Fa._ Still less then could they light a fire. In consequence of this discovery man cooks his food, which no other animal does. He alone fences against the cold by clothing as well as by fire. He alone cultivates the earth, and keeps living animals for future uses.

_Ch._ But have not there been wild men bred in the woods that could do none of these things?

_Fa._ Some instances of this kind are recorded, and they are not to be wondered at; for man was meant to be a _gregarious_ animal, or one living in society, in which alone his faculties have full scope, and especially his power of improving by the use of speech. These poor solitary creatures, brought up with the brutes, were in a state entirely unnatural to them. A solitary bee, ant, or beaver, would have none of the skill and sagacity of those animals in their proper social condition. Society sharpens all the faculties, and gives ideas and views which never could have been entertained by an individual.

_Ch._ But some men that live in society seem to be little above the brutes, at least when compared with other men. What is a Hottentot in comparison with one of us?

_Fa._ The difference, indeed, is great; but we agree in the most essential characters of _man_, and perhaps the advantage is not all on our side. The Hottentot cultivates the earth and rears cattle. He not only herds with his fellows, but he has instituted some sort of government for the protection of the weak against the strong; he has a notion of right and wrong, and is sensible of the necessity of controlling present appetites and passions for the sake of a future good. He has therefore _morals_. He is possessed of weapons, tools, clothing, and furniture of his own making. In agility of body, and the knowledge of various circumstances relative to the nature of animals, he surpasses us. His inferiority lies in those things in which many of the lowest class among us are equally inferior to the instructed.

_Ch._ But Hottentots have no notion of a God or a future state.

_Fa._ I am not certain how far that is fact: but alas! how many among us have no knowledge at all on these subjects, or only some vague notions full of absurdity and superstition! People far advanced in civilization have held the grossest errors on these subjects, which are only to be corrected by the serious application of reason, or by a direct revelation from Heaven.

_Ch._ You said man was an _improveable_ creature—but have not many nations been a long time in a savage state without improvement?

_Fa._ Man is always _capable of improvement_; but he may exist a long time, in society, without _actually improving_ beyond a certain point. There is little improvement among nations who have not the art of _writing_, for tradition is not capable of preserving very accurate or extensive knowledge; and many arts and sciences, after flourishing greatly, have been entirely lost, in countries which have been overrun by barbarous and illiterate nations. Then there is a principle which I might have mentioned as one of those that distinguish man from brutes, but it as much distinguishes some men from others. This is _curiosity_, or the love of knowledge for its own sake. Most savages have little or nothing of this; but without it we should want one of the chief inducements to exert our faculties. It is curiosity that impels us to search into the properties of every part of nature, to try all sorts of experiments, to visit distant regions, and even to examine the appearances and motions of the heavenly bodies. Every fact thus discovered leads to other facts; and there is no limit to be set to this progress. The time may come, when what we now know may seem as much ignorance to future ages as the knowledge of early times does to us.

_Ch._ What nations know the most at present?

_Fa._ The Europeans have long been distinguished for superior ardour after knowledge, and they possess beyond comparison the greatest share of it, whereby they have been enabled to command the rest of the world. The countries in which the arts and sciences most flourish at present are the northern and middle parts of Europe, and also North America, which, is inhabited by descendants of Europeans. In these countries man may be said to be _most man_; and they may apply to themselves the poet’s boast:—

“Man is the nobler growth these realms supply,
And souls are ripened in our northern sky.”

WALKING THE STREETS.—A PARABLE.

Have you ever walked through the crowded streets of a great city?

What shoals of people pouring in from opposite quarters, like torrents meeting in a narrow valley! You would imagine it impossible for them to get through; yet all pass on their way without stop or molestation.

Were each man to proceed exactly in the line in which he set out, he could not move many paces without encountering another full in his track. They would strike against each other, fall back, push forward again, block up the way for themselves and those after them, and throw the whole street into confusion. All this is avoided by every man’s _yielding a little_.

Instead of advancing square, stiff, with arms stuck out, every one who knows how to walk the streets glides along, his arms close, his body oblique and flexible, his track gently winding, leaving now a few inches on this side, now on that, so as to pass and be passed without touching, in the smallest possible space.

He pushes no one into the kennel, nor goes into it himself. By _mutual accommodation_, the path, though narrow, holds them all.

He goes neither much faster nor much slower than those who go in the same direction. In the first case he would elbow, in the second he would be elbowed.

If any accidental stop arises, from a carriage crossing, a cask rolled, a pickpocket detected, or the like, he does not increase the bustle by rushing into the midst of it, but checks his pace, and patiently waits for its removal.

Like this is the _march of life_.

In our progress through the world a thousand things stand continually in our way. Some people meet us full in the face with opposite opinions and inclinations. Some stand before us in our pursuit of pleasure or interest, and others follow close upon our heels. Now, we ought in the first place to consider, that the _road is as free for one as another_; and therefore we have no right to expect that persons should go out of their way to let us pass, any more than we out of ours. Then, if we do not mutually yield and accommodate a little, it is clear that we must all stand still, or be thrown into a perpetual confusion of squeezing and jostling. If we are all in a hurry to get on as fast as possible to some point of pleasure or interest in our view, and do not occasionally hold back, when the crowd gathers, and angry contentions arise, we shall only augment the tumult, without advancing our own progress. On the whole, it is our business to move onward, steadily, but quietly, obstructing others as little as possible, yielding a little to this man’s prejudices, and that man’s desires, and doing everything in our power to make the _journey of life_ easy to all our fellow-travellers as well as to ourselves.

Presence of Mind, p. 192.

EVENING XVI.
]

THE COMPOUND-FLOWERED PLANTS.

_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._

_George._ Harry, can you blow off all of these dandelion feathers at a puff?

_Harry._ I will try.

_Geo._ See—you have left almost half of them.

_Har._ Can you do better?

_Geo._ Yes—look here.

_Har._ There are still several left.

_Tut._ A pretty child’s play you have got there. Bring me one of the dandelion heads, and let us see if we can make no other use of it.

_Har._ Here is a very full one.

_Tut._ Do you know what these feathers, as you call them, are?

_Geo._ I believe they belong to the seed.

_Tut._ They do, and they are worth examining. Look at this single one through my magnifying glass; you observe the seed at the bottom, like the point of a dart. From it springs a slender hairy shaft crowned by a very elegant spreading plume. You see it is a complete arrow of Nature’s manufacture.

_Geo._ How exact!

_Har._ What a beautiful thing!

_Tut._ I am sure you see the use of it at once.

_Geo._ It is to set the seeds a flying with the wind.

_Har._ And I suppose they sow themselves where they light?

_Tut._ They do. This is one of Nature’s contrivances for _dissemination_, or that scattering of the seeds of plants which makes them reach all the places proper for their growth. I dare say you have observed other plants furnished with the same winged or feathered seeds.

_Har._ O yes—there are groundsel, and ragwort, and thistles.

_Geo._ In a windy day I have seen the air all full of thistle-down.

_Tut._ Very likely: and for that reason you never saw a new-made bank of earth, or a heap of dung in the fields, but it was presently covered with thistles. These, and the other plants that have been named, belong to a very extensive class, which it is worth while being acquainted with. They are called the _compound-flowered plants_.

_Geo._ Will you be so good as to give us a lecture about them?

_Tut._ With all my heart. Get me a dandelion in flower, a thistle-head, and a daisy—if you cannot find a common daisy, one of the great ox-eye daisies in the corn will do as well.

_Geo. and Har._ Here they are.

_Tut._ Very well. All these are _compound flowers_; for if you will examine them narrowly, you will perceive that they consist of a number of little flowers, or _florets_, enclosed in a common cup, which cup is made of a number of scales, lying on each other like the tiles of a house.

_Geo._ I see it.

_Tut._ The florets are not all alike in shape. In the dandelion you will observe that they consist of a tube, from which, at its upper end, proceeds a sort of strap-shaped tongue or fillet; in the thistle they are tubular or funnel-shaped throughout; in the daisy the centre ones, which form the _disk_, as it is called, are tubular, while those in the circumference have a broad strap on one side, which altogether compose the _rays_ of the flowers; whence this sort are called _radiated_. Now take the glass and examine the florets singly. Can you discern their chives and pointals?

_Geo._ I can.

_Tut._ You may remark that there are five chives to each, the tips of which unite into a tube, through which the pointal passes, having its summit doubled, and curled back.

_Har._ I can just make it out with the glass, but hardly with the naked eye.

_Tut._ It is from this circumstance of the tips of the chives growing together that Linnæus has taken his distinction of the whole class; and he has named it _Syngenesia_, from two Greek words having that signification. You will further observe that all these florets stand upon a stool or receptacle at the bottom of the flower, which is the cushion left on the dandelion-stalk after the seeds are blown away. Into this the seeds are slightly stuck, which are one apiece to every perfect or fertile floret. This is the general structure of the compound flowers.

_Har._ Are all their seeds feathered?

_Tut._ Not all. These of the daisy are not. But in a great many species they are.

_Har._ I should have thought these were a very useful class of plants by the pains nature has taken to spread them, if you had not told us that thistles, and ragwort, and groundsel, were some of them.

_Tut._ And if you do not confine your idea of usefulness to what is serviceable to man, but extend it to the whole creation, you may safely conclude, from their abundance, that they must be highly useful in the general economy of nature. In fact, no plants feed a greater number of insects, and none are more important to the small birds, to whom they furnish food by their seeds, and a fine warm down for lining their nests. On the approach of winter you may see whole flocks of linnets and goldfinches pecking among the thistles; and you know that groundsel is a favourite treat to birds in a cage. To man, however, they are for the most part troublesome and unsightly weeds. Burdock, thistles, and yarrow, overrun his hedge-banks; dandelion, and hawkweed, which much resembles it, fill his meadows; the tall and branching ragwort, and blue succory, cumber his pastures; and wild camomile, ox-eye, and corn-marygold, choke up his cornfields. These plants in general have a bitter nauseous taste, so that no cattle will touch them. Daisies, I believe, are the chief exception.

_Geo._ But some of them, I suppose, are useful to man?

_Tut._ Yes, several, and in various ways. Some that have milky bitter juices are employed in medicine for purifying the blood and removing obstructions. Of these are dandelion, succory, and sow-thistle. Many others are bitter, and strongly aromatic; as camomile, wormwood, southernwood, feverfew, and tansy; these are good for strengthening the stomach and expelling worms. That capital ingredient in salad, lettuce, is of this class, and so is endive. Artichoke forms a very singular article of diet, for the part chiefly eaten, called the bottom, is the receptacle of the flower, upon which the choke, or seeds with their feathers, is placed. It is said that some of the larger species of thistles may be dressed and eaten the same way. Then there is Jerusalem artichoke, which is the root of a species of sunflower, and, when boiled, much resembles in taste an artichoke bottom. On the whole, however, a very small proportion of this class of plants is used in food.

_Geo._ Are there no garden-flowers belonging to them?

_Tut._ Several, especially of the autumnal ones. There are sunflowers of various kinds, which are the largest flowers the garden produces, though not the most sightly; marygolds, both the common, and the French and African, asters, china-asters, golden-rod, and chrysanthemums. Very few flowers of this class have an agreeable scent, and their shape is not the most pleasing; but they have often gay colours, and make a figure in the garden when other things are over. Well—this is most that I recollect worth noticing of the compound-flowered plants. They are a difficult class to make out botanically, though pretty easily known from each other by sight. I will take care to point out to you the principal of them that we meet with in our walks, and you must get acquainted with them.

ON PRESENCE OF MIND.

Mrs. F. one day having occasion to be blooded, sent for a surgeon. As soon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, started up, and was hastily going away, when her mother called her back.

_Mrs. F._ Eliza, do not go, I want you to stay by me.

_Eliz._ Dear mamma! I can never bear to see you blooded.

_Mrs. F._ Why not? what harm will it do you?

_Eliz._ O dear! I cannot look at blood. Besides, I cannot bear to see you hurt, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ Oh, if I can bear to feel it, surely you may to see it. But, come—you _must_ stay, and we will talk about it afterward.

Eliza, then, pale and trembling, stood by her mother and saw the whole operation. She could not help, however, turning her head away when the incision was made, and the first flow of blood made her start and shudder. When all was over, and the surgeon gone, Mrs. F. began.

_Mrs. F._ Well, Eliza, what do you think of the mighty matter now? Would it not have been very foolish to have run away from it?

_Eliz._ O mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet. Did it not hurt you a great deal?

_Mrs. F._ No, very little. And if it had, it was to do me good, you know.

_Eliz._ But why should I stay to see it? I could do you no good.

_Mrs. F._ Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accustomed to such sights.

_Eliz._ Why, mamma?

_Mrs. F._ Because instances are every day happening in which it is our duty to assist fellow-creatures in circumstances of pain and distress; and if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near to them on those occasions, we should never acquire either the knowledge or the presence of mind necessary for the purpose.

_Eliz._ But if I had been told how to help people in such cases, could not I do it without being used to see them?

_Mrs. F._ No. We have all naturally a horror at everything which is the cause of pain and danger to ourselves or others; and nothing but habit can give most of us the presence of mind necessary to enable us in such occurrences to employ our knowledge to the best advantage.

_Eliz._ What is _presence of mind_, mamma?

_Mrs. F._ It is that steady possession of ourselves in cases of alarm, that prevents us from being flurried and frightened. You have heard the expression of _having all our wits about us_. That is the effect of presence of mind, and a most inestimable quality it is, for without it we are full as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not remember hearing of your cousin Mary’s cap taking fire from a candle?

_Eliz._ O yes—very well.

_Mrs. F._ Well—the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream, and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any assistance she could give her.

_Eliz._ How foolish that was!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—the girl had not the least presence of mind, and the consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be pulled off; so she whipped a quilt from the bed and flung it round Mary’s head, and thus stifled the flame.

_Eliz._ Mary was a good deal scorched, though.

_Mrs. F._ Yes—but it was very well that it was no worse. If the maid, however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm would have been done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the staircase; and in her confusion, instead of going upstairs to call her children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might all have escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and with much danger made way through the fire, into the street. When she had got thither, the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too late. The stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them, and they were burnt in their beds.

_Eliz._ What a sad thing!

_Mrs. F._ Sad, indeed! Now, I will tell you of a different conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her chamber-door. Her husband would have immediately opened the door, but she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in upon them.

The children with a maid slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children one by one to her. Last of all she descended herself. A few minutes after, the floor fell in, and all the house was in flames.

_Eliz._ What a happy escape!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—and with what cool recollection of mind it was managed! For mothers to love their children, and be willing to run any hazards for them, is common; but in weak minds that very love is apt to prevent exertions in the time of danger. I knew a lady who had a fine little boy sitting in her lap. He put a whole plum into his mouth, which slipped into his throat and choked him. The poor fellow turned black, and struggled violently; and the mother was so frightened, that instead of putting her finger in his throat, and pulling out the plum, which might easily have been done, she laid him on the floor, and ran to call for assistance. But the maids who came up were as much flurried as she; and the child died before anything effectual was done to relieve him.

_Eliz._ How unhappy she must have been about it!

_Mrs. F._ Yes. It threw her into an illness which had liked to have cost her her life.

Another lady, seeing her little boy climb up a high ladder, set up a violent scream that frightened the child, so that he fell down and was much hurt; whereas, if she had possessed command enough over herself to speak to him gently, he might have got down safely.

_Eliz._ Dear mamma! what is that running down your arm?—O, it is blood!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—my arm bleeds again. I have stirred it too soon.

_Eliz._ Dear! What shall I do?

_Mrs. F._ Don’t frighten yourself. I shall stop the blood by pressing on the orifice with my finger. In the meantime, do you ring the bell.

[_Eliza rings—a servant comes._

_Mrs. F._ Betty, my arm bleeds. Can you tie it up again?

_Betty._ I believe I can, madam.

[_She takes off the bandage and puts on another._

_Eliz._ I hope it is stopped now?

_Mrs. F._ It is. Betty has done it very well. You see she went about it with composure. This accident puts me in mind of another story which is very well worth hearing. A man once reaping in the field, cut his arm dreadfully with his sickle, and divided an artery.

_Eliz._ What is that, mamma?