Chapter XI: Introduction (9)

_Mrs. F._ It is one of the canals or pipes through which the blood from the heart runs like water in a pipe brought from a reservoir. When one of these is cut it bleeds very violently, and the only way to stop it is to make a pressure between the wounded place and the heart, in order to intercept the course of the blood toward it. Well—this poor man bled profusely; and the people about him, both men and women, were so stupified with fright, that some ran one way, some another, and some stood stock still. In short, he would have soon bled to death, had not a brisk stout-hearted wench, who came up, slipped off her garter, and bound it tight above the wound, by which means the bleeding was stopped till proper help could be procured.

_Eliz._ What a clever wench! But how did she know what to do?

_Mrs. F._ She had perhaps heard it, as you have done now; and so probably had some of the others, but they had not presence of mind enough to put it into practice. It is a much greater trial of courage, however, when the danger presses upon ourselves as well as others. Suppose a furious bull was to come upon you in the midst of a field. You could not possibly escape him by running, and attempting it would destroy your only chance of safety.

_Eliz._ What would that be?

_Mrs. F._ I have a story for that, too. The mother of that Mr. Day, who wrote _Sandford and Merton_, was distinguished, as he also was, for courage and presence of mind. When a young woman, she was one day walking in the fields with a companion, when they perceived a bull coming to them, roaring and tossing about his head in the most tremendous manner.

_Eliz._ O, how I should have screamed!

_Mrs. F._ I dare say you would; and so did her companion. But she bid her walk away behind her as gently as she could, while she herself stopped short, and faced the bull, eying him with a determined countenance. The bull, when he had come near, stopped also, pawing the ground and roaring. Few animals will attack a man who steadily waits for him. In a while, she drew back some steps, still facing the bull. The bull followed. She stopped, and then he stopped. In this manner, she made good her retreat to the stile over which her companion had before got. She then turned and sprung over it; and got clear out of danger.

_Eliz._ That was bravely done, indeed! But I think very few women could have done as much.

_Mrs. F._ Such a degree of cool resolution, to be sure, is not common. But I have read of a lady in the East Indies who showed at least as much. She was sitting out of doors with a party of pleasure, when they were aware of a huge tiger that had crept through a hedge near them, and was just ready to make his fatal spring. They were struck with the utmost consternation; but she, with an umbrella in her hand, turned to the tiger, and suddenly spread it full in his face. This unusual assault so terrified the beast, that, taking a prodigious leap, he sprung over the fence, and plunged out of sight into the neighbouring thicket.

_Eliz._ Well—that was the boldest thing I ever heard of! But is it possible, mamma, to make one’s self courageous?

_Mrs. F._ Courage, my dear, is of two kinds; one the gift of nature, the other of reason and habit. Men have naturally more courage than women; that is, they are less affected by danger; it makes a less impression upon them, and does not flutter their spirits so much. This is owing to the difference of their bodily constitution; and from the same cause some men and some women are more courageous than others. But the other kind of courage may in some measure be acquired by every one. Reason teaches us to face smaller dangers in order to avoid greater, and even to undergo the greatest when our duty requires it. Habit makes us less affected by particular dangers which have often come in our way. A sailor does not feel the danger of a storm so much as a landsman, but if he was mounted upon a spirited horse in a fox-chase, he would probably be the most timorous man in company. The courage of women is chiefly tried in domestic dangers. They are attendants on the sick and dying; and they must qualify themselves to go through many scenes of terror in these situations, which would alarm the stoutest-hearted man who was not accustomed to them.

_Eliz._ I have heard that women generally bear pain and illness better than men.

_Mrs. F._ They do so, because they are more used to them, both in themselves and others.

_Eliz._ I think I should not be afraid again to see anybody blooded.

_Mrs. F._ I hope not. It was for that purpose I made you stand by me. And I would have you always force yourself to look on and give assistance in cases of this kind, however painful it may at first be to you, that you may as soon as possible gain that presence of mind which arises from habit.

_Eliz._ But would that make me like to be blooded myself?

_Mrs. F._ Not to _like_ it, but to lose all foolish fears about it, and submit calmly to it when good for you. But I hope you have sense enough to do that already.

Why an Apple falls, p. 203.

EVENING XVII.
]

PHAETON JUNIOR: OR, THE GIG DEMOLISHED.

Ye heroes of the upper form,
Who long for whip and reins,
Come listen to a dismal tale,
Set forth in dismal strains.

Young Jehu was a lad of fame
As all the school could tell;
At cricket, taw, and prison-bars,
He bore away the bell.

Now welcome Whitsuntide was come,
And boys with merry hearts
Were gone to visit dear mamma,
And eat her pies and tarts.

As soon as Jehu saw his sire,
“A boon! a boon!” he cried;
“O, if I am your darling boy,
Let me not be denied.”

“My darling boy indeed thou art,”
The father wise replied;
“So name the boon; I promise thee
It shall not be denied.”

“Then give me, sir, your long-lashed whip,
And give your gig and pair,
To drive alone to yonder town,
And flourish through the fair.”

The father shook his head; “My son,
You know not what you ask;
To drive a gig in crowded streets
Is no such easy task.

“The horses, full of rest and corn,
Scarce I myself can guide;
And much I fear, if you attempt,
Some mischief will betide.

“Then think, dear boy, of something else,
That’s better worth your wishing;
A bow and quiver, bats and balls,
A rod and lines for fishing.”

But nothing could young Jehu please
Except a touch at driving;
‘Twas all in vain, his father found,
To spend his breath in striving.

“At least, attend, rash boy!” he cried,
“And follow good advice,
Or in a ditch both gig and you
Will tumble in a trice.

“Spare, spare the whip, hold hard the reins.
The steeds go fast enough;
Keep in the middle beaten track,
Nor cross the ruts so rough:

“And when within the town you come,
Be sure, with special care,
Drive clear of signposts, booths, and stalls
And monsters of the fair.”

The youth scarce heard his father out,
But roared—“Bring out the whiskey!”
With joy he viewed the rolling wheels,
And prancing ponies frisky.

He seized the reins, and up he sprung,
And waved the whistling lash;
“Take care; take care!” his father cried:
But off he went slap-dash.

“Who’s this light spark?” the horses thought,
“We’ll try your strength, young master;”
So o’er the ragged turnpike-road
Still faster ran and faster.

Young Jehu, tottering in his seat,
Now wished to pull them in;
But pulling from so young a hand
They valued not a pin.

A drove of grunting pigs before
Now filled up half the way;
Dash through the midst the horses drove
And made a rueful day:

For some were trampled under foot,
Some crushed beneath the wheel;
Lord! how the drivers cursed and swore
And how the pigs did squeal!

A farmer’s wife, on old blind Ball,
Went slowly on the road,
With butter, eggs, and cheese, and cream.
In two large panniers stowed.

Ere Ball could stride the rut, amain
The gig came thundering on,
Crash went the panniers, and the dame
And Ball lay overthrown.

Now through the town the mettled pair
Ran rattling o’er the stones;
They drove the crowd from side to side
And shook poor Jehu’s bones.

When, lo! directly in their course,
A monstrous form appeared—
A shaggy bear that stalked and roared
On hinder legs upreared.

Sidewise they started at the sight,
And whisked the gig half round,
Then ‘cross the crowded marketplace
They flew with furious bound.

First o’er a heap of crockery-ware
The rapid car they whirled;
And jugs, and mugs, and pots, and pans,
In fragments wide they hurled.

A booth stood near with tempting cakes
And grocery richly fraught;
All Birmingham on t’ other side
The dazzling optics caught

With active spring the nimble steeds
Rushed through the pass between,
And scarcely touched; the car behind
Got through not quite so clean:

For while one wheel one stall engaged,
Its fellow took the other;
Dire was the clash; down fell the booths,
And made a dreadful pother.

Nuts, oranges, and gingerbread,
And figs here rolled around;
And scissors, knives, and thimbles there
Bestrewed the glittering ground.

The fall of boards, the shouts and cries,
Urged on the horses faster;
And as they flew, at every step,
They caused some new disaster.

Here lay o’erturned, in woful plight,
A pedlar and his pack;
There, in a showman’s broken box,
All London went to wrack.

But now the fates decreed to stop
The ruin of the day,
And make the gig and driver too
A heavy reckoning pay.

A ditch there lay both broad and deep,
Where streams as black as Styx
From every quarter of the town
Their muddy currents mix.

Down to its brink in heedless haste
The frantic horses flew,
And in the midst, with sudden jerk,
Their burden overthrew.

The prostrate gig with desperate force
They soon pulled out again,
And at their heels in ruin dire
Dragged lumbering o’er the plain.

Here lay a wheel, the axle there,
The body there remained,
Till severed limb from limb, the car
Nor name nor shape retained.

But Jehu must not be forgot,
Left floundering in the flood,
With clothes all drenched, and mouth and eyes
Beplastered o’er with mud.

In piteous case he waded through
And gained the slippery side,
Where grinning crowds were gathered round
To mock his fallen pride.

They led him to a neighbouring pump
To clear his dismal face,
Whence cold and heartless home he slunk,
Involved in sore disgrace.

And many a bill for damage done
His father had to pay.
Take warning, youthful drivers, all!
From Jehu’s first essay.

WHY AN APPLE FALLS.

“Papa,” said Lucy, “I have been reading to-day, that Sir Isaac Newton was led to make some of his great discoveries by seeing an apple fall from a tree. What was there extraordinary in that?”

_Papa._ There was nothing extraordinary; but it happened to catch his attention, and set him to thinking.

_Lucy._ And what did he think about?

_Pa._ He thought by what means the apple was brought to the ground.

_Lu._ Why, I could have told him that—because the stalk gave way, and there was nothing to support it.

_Pa._ And what then?

_Lu._ Why, then it must fall, you know.

_Pa._ But why _must_ it fall?—that is the point.

_Lu._ Because it could not help it.

_Pa._ But why could it not help it?

_Lu._ I don’t know—that is an odd question. Because there was nothing to keep it up.

_Pa._ Suppose there was not—does it follow that it must come to the ground?

_Lu._ Yes, surely!

_Pa._ Is an apple animate or inanimate?

_Lu._ Inanimate, to be sure!

_Pa._ And can inanimate things move of themselves?

_Lu._ No—I think not—but the apple falls because it is forced to fall.

_Pa._ Right! Some force out of itself acts upon it, otherwise it would remain for ever where it was, notwithstanding it were loosened from the tree.

_Lu._ Would it?

_Pa._ Undoubtedly! for there only two ways in which it could be moved; by its own power of motion, or the power of something else moving it. Now the first you acknowledge it has not; the cause of its motion must therefore be the second. And what that is was the subject of the philosopher’s inquiry.

_Lu._ But everything falls to the ground as well as an apple, when there is nothing to keep it up.

_Pa._ True—there must therefore be a universal cause of this tendency to fall.

_Lu._ And what is it?

_Pa._ Why, if things out of the earth cannot move themselves to it, there can be no other cause of their coming together than that the earth pulls them.

_Lu._ But the earth is no more animate than they are: so how can it pull?

_Pa._ Well objected! This will bring us to the point. Sir Isaac Newton, after deep meditation, discovered, that there was a law in nature called _attraction_, by virtue of which every particle of matter, that is, everything of which the world is composed, draws toward it every other particle of matter, with a force proportioned to its size and distance. Lay two marbles on the table. They have a tendency to come together, and if there were nothing else in the world they would come together, but they are also attracted by the table, by the ground, and by everything besides in the room; and these different attractions pull against each other. Now, the globe of the earth is a prodigious mass of matter, to which nothing near it can bear any comparison. It draws, therefore, with mighty force, everything within its reach, which is the cause of their falling: and this is called the _gravitation_ of bodies, or what gives them _weight_. When I lift anything, I act contrary to this force, for which reason it seems _heavy_ to me, and the heavier the more matter it contains, since that increases the attraction of the earth for it. Do you understand this?

_Lu._ I think I do. It is like a loadstone drawing a needle.

_Pa._ Yes; that is an attraction, but of a particular kind, only taking place between the magnet and iron. But gravitation, or the attraction of the earth, acts upon everything alike.

_Lu._ Then it is pulling you and me at this moment.

_Pa._ It is.

_Lu._ But why do not we stick to the ground, then?

_Pa._ Because, as we are alive, we have a power of self-motion, which can, to a certain degree, overcome the attraction of the earth. But the reason you cannot jump a mile high as well as a foot, is this attraction, which limits the force of your jump, and brings you down again after that force is spent.

_Lu._ I think, then, I begin to understand what I have heard of people living on the other side of the world. I believe they are called _antipodes_, who have their feet turned toward ours, and their heads in the air. I used to wonder how it could be that they did not fall off; but I suppose the earth pulls them to it.

_Pa._ Very true. And whither should they fall? What have they over their heads?

_Lu._ I don’t know; sky, I suppose.

_Pa._ They have. This earth is a vast ball, hung in the air, and continually spinning round, and that is the cause why the sun and stars seem to rise and set. At noon we have the sun over our heads, when the antipodes have the stars over theirs; and at midnight the stars are over our heads, and the sun over theirs. So whither should they fall to more than we?—to the stars or the sun?

_Lu._ But we are up, and they are down.

_Pa._ What is up, but _from_ the earth and _toward_ the sky? Their feet touch the earth, and their heads point to the sky, as well as ours; and we are under their feet, as much as they are under ours. If a hole were dug quite through the earth, what would you see through it?

_Lu._ Sky, with the sun or the stars; and now I see the whole matter plainly. But pray what supports the earth in the air?

_Pa._ Why, whither should it go?

_Lu._ I don’t know—I suppose where there was most to draw it. I have heard that the sun is a great many times bigger than the earth. Would it not go to that?

_Pa._ You have thought very justly on the matter, I perceive. But I shall take another opportunity of showing you how this is, and why the earth does not fall into the sun, of which, I confess, there seems to be some danger. Meanwhile, think how far the falling of an apple has carried us?

_Lu._ To the antipodes, and I know not where.

_Pa._ You may see thence what use may be made of the commonest fact by a thinking mind.

NATURE AND EDUCATION.—A FABLE.

Nature and Education were one day walking together through a nursery of trees. “See,” says Nature, “how straight and fine those firs grow—that is my doing! but as to those oaks, they are all crooked and stunted: that, my good sister, is your fault. You have planted them too close, and not pruned them properly.”—“Nay, sister,” said Education, “I am sure I have taken all possible pains about them; but you gave me bad acorns, so how should they ever make fine trees?”

The dispute grew warm; and, at length, instead of blaming one another for negligence, they began to boast of their own powers, and to challenge each other to a contest for the superiority. It was agreed that each should adopt a favourite, and rear it up in spite of the ill offices of her opponent. Nature fixed upon a vigorous young Weymouth pine, the parent of which had grown to be the mainmast of a man-of-war. “Do what you will to this plant,” said she to her sister, “I am resolved to push it up as straight as an arrow.” Education took under her care a crab-tree. “This,” said she, “I will rear to be at least as valuable as your pine.”

Both went to work. While Nature was feeding her pine with plenty of wholesome juices, Education passed a strong rope round its top, and pulling it downward with all its force, fastened it to the trunk of a neighbouring oak. The pine laboured to ascend, but not being able to surmount the obstacle, it pushed out to one side, and presently became bent like a bow. Still, such was its vigour, that its top, after descending as low as its branches, made a new shoot upward: but its beauty and usefulness were quite destroyed.

The crab-tree cost Education a world of pains. She pruned and pruned, and endeavoured to bring it into shape, but in vain. Nature thrust out a bough this way, and a knot that way, and would not push a single leading shoot upward. The trunk was, indeed, kept tolerably straight by constant efforts; but the head grew awry and ill-fashioned, and made a scrubby figure. At length, Education, despairing of making a sightly plant of it, ingrafted the stock with an apple, and brought it to bear tolerable fruit.

At the end of the experiment, the sisters met to compare their respective success. “Ah, sister!” said Nature, “I see it is in your power to spoil the best of my works.”—“Ah, sister!” said Education, “it is a hard matter to contend against you—however, something may be done by taking pains enough.”

AVERSION SUBDUED.—A DRAMA.

SCENE—_A Road in the Country_.

_Arbury_—_Belford_, walking.

_Belford._ Pray, who is the present possessor of the Brookby estate?

_Arbury._ A man of the name of Goodwin.

_Bel._ Is he a good neighbour to you?

_Arb._ Far from it! and I wish he had settled a hundred miles off, rather than come here to spoil our neighbourhood.

_Bel._ I am sorry to hear that; but what is your objection to him?

_Arb._ O, there is nothing in which we agree. In the first place he is quite of the other side in politics; and that, you know, is enough to prevent all intimacy.

_Bel._ I am not entirely of that opinion; but what else?

_Arb._ He is no sportsman, and refuses to join in our association for protecting the game. Neither does he choose to be a member of any of our clubs.

_Bel._ Has he been asked?

_Arb._ I don’t know that he has directly; but he might easily propose himself, if he liked it. But he is of a close, unsociable temper, and I believe very niggardly.

_Bel._ How has he shown it?

_Arb._ His style of living is not equal to his fortune; and I have heard of several instances of his attention to petty economy.

_Bel._ Perhaps he spends money in charity?

_Arb._ Not he, I dare say. It was but last week that a poor fellow who had lost his all by a fire went to him with a subscription paper, in which were the names of all the gentlemen in the neighbourhood; and all the answer he got was that he would consider of it.

_Bel._ And did he consider?

_Arb._ I don’t know, but I suppose it was only an excuse. Then his predecessor had a park well stocked with deer, and used to make liberal presents of venison to all his neighbours. But this frugal gentleman has sold them all off, and got a flock of sheep instead.

_Bel._ I don’t see much harm in that, now mutton is so dear.

_Arb._ To be sure he has a right to do as he pleases with his park, but that is not the way to be beloved, you know. As to myself, I have reason to believe he bears me particular ill-will.

_Bel._ Then he is much in the wrong, for I believe you are as free from ill-will to others as any man living. But how has he shown it, pray?

_Arb._ In twenty instances. He had a horse upon sale the other day to which I took a liking, and bid money for it. As soon as he found I was about it, he sent it off to a fair on the other side of the county. My wife, you know, is passionately fond of cultivating flowers. Riding lately by his grounds, she observed something new, and took a great longing for a root or cutting of it. My gardener mentioned her wish to his, (contrary, I own, to my inclination,) and he told his master; but instead of obliging her, he charged the gardener on no account to touch the plant. A little while ago I turned off a man for saucy behaviour; but as he had lived many years with me, and was a very useful servant, I meant to take him again upon his submission, which I did not doubt would soon happen. Instead of that, he goes and offers himself to my civil neighbour, who, without deigning to apply to me even for a character, entertains him immediately. In short, he has not the least of a gentleman about him, and I would give anything to be well rid of him.

_Bel._ Nothing, to be sure, can be more unpleasant, in the country, than a bad neighbour, and I am concerned it is your lot to have one. But there is a man who seems as if he wanted to speak with you.

[_A Countryman approaches._

_Arb._ Ah! it is the poor fellow that was burnt out. Well, Richard, how go you on?—what has the subscription produced you?

_Richard._ Thank your honour, my losses are nearly all made up.

_Arb._ I am very glad of that; but when I saw the paper last, it did not reach half way.

_Rich._ It did not, sir; but you may remember asking me what Mr. Goodwin had done for me, and I told you he took time to consider of it. Well, sir, I found that the very next day he had been at our town, and had made very particular inquiry about me and my losses, among my neighbours. When I called upon him in a few days after, he told me he was very glad to find that I bore such a good character, and that the gentlemen round had so kindly taken up my case; and he would prevent the necessity of my going any farther for relief. Upon which, he gave me, God bless him! a draft upon his banker for fifty pounds.

_Arb._ Fifty pounds!

_Rich._ Yes, sir—it has made me quite my own man again; and I am now going to purchase a new cart and team of horses.

_Arb._ A noble gift, indeed; I could never have thought it! Well, Richard, I rejoice at your good fortune. I am sure you are much obliged to Mr. Goodwin.

_Rich._ Indeed, I am, sir, and to all my good friends. God bless you!

[_Goes on._

_Bel._ Niggardliness, at least, is not this man’s foible.

_Arb._ No—I was mistaken in that point. I wronged him, and I am sorry for it. But what a pity it is that men of real generosity should not be amiable in their manners, and as ready to oblige in trifles as in matters of consequence.

_Bel._ True—‘tis a pity when that is really the case.

_Arb._ How much less an exertion it would have been to have shown some civility about a horse or a flower-root!

_Bel._ Apropos of flowers!—there’s your gardener carrying a large one in a pot.

_Enter Gardener._

_Arb._ Now, James, what have you got there?

_Gardener._ A flower, sir, for madam, from Mr. Goodwin’s.

_Arb._ How did you come by it?

_Gard._ His gardener, sir, sent me word to come for it. We should have had it before, but Mr. Goodwin thought it would not move safely.

_Arb._ I hope he has got more of them?

_Gard._ He has only a seedling plant or two, sir; but hearing that madam took a liking to it, he resolved to send it her, and a choice thing it is! I have a note for madam in my pocket.

_Arb._ Well, go on.

[_Exit Gardener._

_Bel._ Methinks this does not look like deficiency in civility?

_Arb._ No—it is a very polite action—I ca’n’t deny it, and I am obliged to him for it. Perhaps, indeed, he may feel he owes me a little amends.

_Bel._ Possibly—it shows he _can_ feel, however.

_Arb._ It does. Ha! there’s Yorkshire Tom coming with a string of horses from the fair. I’ll step up and speak to him. Now, Tom! how have horses gone at Market-hill?

_Tom._ Dear enough, your honour!

_Arb._ How much more did you get for Mr. Goodwin’s mare than I offered him?

_Tom._ Ah! sir, that was not a thing for your riding, and that Mr Goodwin well knew. You never saw such a vicious toad. She had liked to have killed the groom two or three times. So I was ordered to offer her to the mail-coach people, and get what I could from them. I might have sold her better if Mr. Goodwin would have let me, for she was a fine creature to look at as need be, and quite sound.

_Arb._ And was that the true reason why the mare was not sold to me?

_Tom._ It was, indeed, sir.

_Arb._ Then I am highly obliged to Mr. Goodwin. (_Tom rides on._) This was handsome behaviour, indeed!

_Bel._ Yes, I think it was somewhat more than politeness—it was real goodness of heart.

_Arb._ It was. I find I must alter my opinion of him, and I do it with pleasure. But, after all, his conduct with respect to my servant is somewhat unaccountable.

_Bel._ I see reason to think so well of him in the main, that I am inclined to hope he will be acquitted in this matter, too.

_Arb._ There the fellow is. I wonder he has my old livery on yet!

[_Ned approaches, pulling off his hat._

_Ned._ Sir, I was coming to your honour.

_Arb._ What can you have to say to me now, Ned?

_Ned._ To ask pardon for my misbehaviour, and to beg you to take me again.

_Arb._ What—have you so soon parted with your new master?

_Ned._ Mr. Goodwin never was my master, sir. He only kept me in his house till I could make it up with you again; for he said he was sure you were too honourable a gentleman to turn off an old servant without good reason, and he hoped you would admit my excuses after your anger was over.

_Arb._ Did he say all that?

_Ned._ Yes, sir; and he advised me not to delay any longer to ask your pardon.

_Arb._ Well—go to my house, and I will talk with you on my return.

_Bel._ Now, my friend, what think you of this?

_Arb._ I think more than I can well express. It will be a lesson to me never to make hasty judgments again.

_Bel._ Why, indeed, to have concluded that such a man had nothing of the gentleman about him must have been rather hasty.

_Arb._ I acknowledge it. But it is the misfortune of these reserved characters that they are so long in making themselves known; though, when they are known, they often prove the most truly estimable. I am afraid, even now, that I must be content with esteeming him at a distance.

_Bel._ Why so?

_Arb._ You know I am of an open sociable disposition.

_Bel._ Perhaps he is so, too.

_Arb._ If he was, surely we should have been better acquainted before this time.

_Bel._ It may have been prejudice rather than temper that has kept you apart.

_Arb._ Possibly so. The vile spirit of party has such a sway in the country, that men of the most liberal dispositions can hardly free themselves from its influence. It poisons all the kindness of society; and yonder comes an instance of its pernicious effects.

_Bel._ Who is he?

_Arb._ A poor schoolmaster with a large family in the next market-town, who has lost all his scholars by his activity on our side in the last election. I heartily wish it was in my power to do something for him; for he is a very honest man, though, perhaps, rather too warm. [_The schoolmaster comes up._] Now, Mr. Penman, how do things go with you?

_Pen._ I thank you, sir, they have gone poorly enough, but I hope they are in a way to mend.

_Arb._ I am glad to hear it—but how?

_Pen._ Why, sir, the free-school of Stoke is vacant, and I believe I am likely to get it.

_Arb._ Ay!—I wonder at that. I thought it was in the hands of the other party?

_Pen._ It is, sir; but Mr. Goodwin has been so kind as to give me a recommendation, and his interest is sufficient to carry it.

_Arb._ Mr. Goodwin! you surprise me!

_Pen._ I was much surprised, too, sir. He sent for me of his own accord, (for I should never have thought of asking _him_ a favour,) and told me he was sorry a man should be injured in his profession on account of party, and as I could not live comfortably where I was, he would try to settle me in a better place. So he mentioned the vacancy of Stoke, and offered me letters for the trustees. I was never so affected in my life, sir; I could hardly speak to return him thanks. He kept me to dinner, and treated me with the greatest respect. Indeed, I believe there is not a kinder man breathing than Mr. Goodwin.

_Arb._ You have the best reason in the world to say so, Mr. Penman. What—did he converse familiarly with you?

_Pen._ Quite so, sir. We talked a great deal about party affairs in this neighbourhood, and he lamented much that differences of this kind should keep worthy men at a distance from each other. I took the liberty, sir, of mentioning your name. He said he had not the honour of being acquainted with you, but he had a sincere esteem for your character, and should be glad of any occasion to cultivate a friendship with you. For my part, I confess, to my shame I did not think there could have been such a man on that side.

_Arb._ Well—good morning!

_Pen._ Your most obedient, sir.

[_He goes._

_Arb._ (_After some silence._) Come, my friend, let us go.

_Bel._ Whither?

_Arb._ Can you doubt it?—to Mr. Goodwin’s, to be sure! After all I have heard, can I exist a moment without acknowledging the injustice I have done him, and begging his friendship?

_Bel._ I shall be happy, I am sure, to accompany you on that errand. But who is to introduce us?

_Arb._ O, what are form and ceremony in a case like this! Come—come.

_Bel._ Most willingly.

[_Exeunt._

EVENING XVIII.
]

THE LITTLE PHILOSOPHER.

Mr. L. was one morning riding by himself, when dismounting to gather a plant in the hedge, his horse got loose and galloped away before him. He followed, calling the horse by his name, which stopped, but on his approach set off again. At length, a little boy in a neighbouring field, seeing the affair, ran across where the road made a turn, and getting before the horse, took him by the bridle, and held him till his owner came up. Mr. L. looked at the boy, and admired his ruddy, cheerful countenance.

“Thank you, my good lad!” said he; “you have caught my horse very cleverly. What shall I give you for your trouble?” putting his hand in his pocket.

_Boy._ I want nothing, sir.

_Mr. L._ Don’t you? so much the better for you. Few men can say as much. But pray, what are you doing in the field?

_Boy._ I was rooting up weeds and tending the sheep that are feeding on the turnips.

_Mr. L._ And do you like this employment?

_Boy._ Yes, very well, this fine weather.

_Mr. L._ But had you not rather play?

_Boy._ This is not hard work; it is almost as good as play.

_Mr. L._ Who set you to work?

_Boy._ My daddy, sir.

_Mr. L._ Where does he live?

_Boy._ Just by, among the trees there.

_Mr. L._ What is his name?

_Boy._ Thomas Hurdle.

_Mr. L._ And what is yours?

_Boy._ Peter, sir.

_Mr. L._ How old are you?

_Boy._ I shall be eight at Michaelmas.

_Mr. L._ How long have you been out in this field?

_Boy._ Ever since six in the morning.

_Mr. L._ And are not you hungry?

_Boy._ Yes—I shall go to dinner soon.

_Mr. L._ If you had sixpence now, what would you do with it?

_Boy._ I don’t know. I never had so much in my life.

_Mr. L._ Have you no playthings?

_Boy._ Playthings! what are those?

_Mr. L._ Such as balls, nine-pins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses.

_Boy._ No, sir; but our Tom makes footballs to kick in the cold weather, and we set traps for birds; and then I have a jumping-pole and a pair of stilts to walk through the dirt with; and I had a hoop, but it is broke.

_Mr. L._ And do you want nothing else?

_Boy._ No. I have hardly time for those: for I always ride the horses to field, and bring up the cows, and run to the town of errands, and that is as good as play, you know.

_Mr. L._ Well, but you could buy apples or gingerbread at the town, I suppose, if you had money?

_Boy._ Oh—I can get apples at home; and as for gingerbread I don’t mind it much, for my mammy gives me a pie now and then, and that is as good.

_Mr. L._ Would you not like a knife to cut sticks?

_Boy._ I have one—here it is—brother Tom gave it me.

_Mr. L._ Your shoes are full of holes—don’t you want a better pair?

_Boy._ I have a better pair for Sundays.

_Mr. L._ But these let in water.

_Boy._ Oh, I don’t care for that.

_Mr. L._ Your hat is all torn, too.

_Boy._ I have a better at home, but I had as leave have none at all, for it hurts my head.

_Mr. L._ What do you do when it rains?

_Boy._ If it rains very hard, I get under the hedges till it is over.

_Mr. L._ What do you do when you are hungry before it is time to go home?

_Boy._ I sometimes eat a raw turnip.

_Mr. L._ But if there are none?

_Boy._ Then I do as well as I can; I work on, and never think of it.

_Mr. L._ Are you not dry sometimes this hot weather?

_Boy._ Yes, but there is water enough.

_Mr. L._ Why, my little fellow, you are quite a philosopher!

_Boy._ Sir?

_Mr. L._ I say you are a philosopher, but I am sure you do not know what that means.

_Boy._ No, sir, no harm, I hope.

_Mr. L._ No, no! (_Laughing._) Well, my boy, you seem to want nothing at all, so I shall not give you money to make you want anything. But were you ever at school?

_Boy._ No, sir, but daddy says I shall go after harvest.

_Mr. L._ You will want books then.

_Boy._ Yes, the boys have all a spelling-book and a testament.

_Mr. L._ Well, then, I will give you them—tell your daddy so, and that it is because I think you a very good contented little boy. So now go to your sheep again.

_Boy._ I will, sir. Thank you.

_Mr. L._ Good-by, Peter.

_Boy._ Good-by, sir.

WHAT ANIMALS ARE MADE FOR.

“Pray, papa,” said Sophia after she had been a long time 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.

_Sop._ 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.

_Pa._ Flies eat up many things that would otherwise corrupt and become loathsome; and they serve for food to birds, spiders, and many other animals.

_Sop._ But we could clean away everything 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 anything.

_Pa._ Well, then. Suppose a fly capable 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 helping 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 animals 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.” Now what would you answer to such a reasoning fly?

_Sop._ I would tell him he was very impertinent 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.

_Pa._ 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.

_Sop._ It is that which puzzles me.

_Pa._ 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 tracks of the earth where few or no men inhabit, which are yet full of beasts, birds, insects, and all living things. These certainly do not exist there for his use alone. On the contrary, they often keep man away.

_Sop._ Then what are they made for?

_Pa._ 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 faculties. 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 sporting around us, as upon ourselves.

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

_Pa._ 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 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 carefully in his hand, and opening the window, “Go,” said he,—“get thee gone, poor creature, I won’t hurt a hair of thy head; surely the world is wide enough for thee and me.”

_Sop._ I should have loved that man.

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

“Busy, curious, thirsty fly,
Drink with me, and drink as I;
Welcome freely to my cup,
Couldst thou sip and sip it up.”

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

_Pa._ 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.

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

_Pa._ They are destroyed no faster than others are produced; and if they enjoyed 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 existence. You see these swarms of flies. During all the hot weather they are continually 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 sustenance 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 multitudes live on till the cold weather comes and puts an end to them. Were nothing to touch them, they would probably become so numerous as to starve 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.

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

_Pa._ 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?

_Sop._ O yes—pray do!

_Pa._ As a venerable Bramin, who had never in his days eaten anything but rice, fruits, and milk, and held it the greatest of crimes to shed the blood of anything that had life, was one day meditating on the banks of the Ganges, he saw a little bird on the ground picking up ants as fast as he could swallow. “Murderous wretch,” cried he, “what scores 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 Bramin was at first 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 a tyrant!” A stronger tyrant, however, took up the matter; for a falcon in mid air darting on the sparrow-hawk, struck him to the ground, with the bird lifeless in his talons. Tyrant against tyrant, thought the Bramin, is well enough. The falcon had not finished tearing his prey, when a lynx stealing from behind a rock on which he was perched, sprung upon him, and having strangled him, bore him to the edge of a neighbouring thicket, and began to suck his blood. The Bramin was attentively viewing this new display of retributive justice, when a sudden roar shook the air, and a huge tiger rushing from the thicket, came like thunder on the lynx. The Bramin was near enough to hear the crushing 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 tiger was making his bloody repast. The soldier levelled his gun, and laid the tiger dead. “Brave fellow!” exclaimed the Bramin. “I am very hungry,” said the soldier, “can you give me a beefsteak? I see you have plenty of cows here.”—“Horrible!” cried the Bramin; “what! I kill the sacred cows of Brama!”—“Then kill the next tiger yourself,” said the soldier.

TRUE HEROISM.

You have read, my Edmund, the stories of Achilles, and Alexander, and Charles of Sweden, and have, I doubt not, admired the high courage which seemed to set them above all sensations of fear, and rendered them capable of the most extraordinary actions. The world called these men _heroes_; but before we give them that noble appellation, let us consider what were the motives which animated them to act and suffer as they did.

The first was a ferocious savage, governed by the passions of anger and revenge, in gratifying which he disregarded all impulses of duty and humanity. The second was intoxicated with the love of glory—swollen with absurd pride—and enslaved by dissolute pleasures; and in pursuit of these objects he reckoned the blood of millions as of no account. The third was unfeeling, obstinate, and tyrannical, and preferred ruining his country, and sacrificing all his faithful followers, to the humiliation of giving up any of his mad projects. _Self_, you see, was the spring of all their conduct; and a selfish man can never be a hero. I will give you two examples of genuine heroism, one shown in acting, the other in suffering; and these shall be _true stories_, which is perhaps more than can be said of half that is recorded of Achilles and Alexander.

You have probably heard something of Mr. Howard, the reformer of prisons, to whom a monument is erected in St. Paul’s church. His whole life almost was heroism; for he confronted all sorts of dangers with the sole view of relieving the miseries of his fellow-creatures. When he began to examine the state of prisons, scarcely any in the country were free from a very fatal and infectious distemper called the jail fever. Wherever he heard of it, he made a point of seeing the poor sufferers, and often went down into their dungeons, when the keepers themselves would not accompany him. He travelled several times over almost the whole of Europe, and even into Asia, in order to gain knowledge of the state of prisons and hospitals, and point out means for lessening the calamities that prevail in them. He even went into countries where the plague was, that he might learn the best methods of treating that terrible contagious disease; and he voluntarily exposed himself to perform a strict quarantine, as one suspected of having the infection of the plague, only that he might be thoroughly acquainted with the methods used for prevention. He at length died of a fever caught in attending on the sick on the borders of Crim Tartary, honoured and admired by all Europe, after having greatly contributed to enlighten his own and many other countries with respect to some of the most important objects of humanity. Such was _Howard the good_; as great a hero in preserving mankind, as some of the false heroes above mentioned were in destroying them.

My second hero is a much humbler, but not less genuine one.

There was a journeyman bricklayer in this town—an able workman, but a very drunken idle fellow, who spent at the alehouse almost all he earned, and left his wife and children to shift for themselves as they could. This is, unfortunately, a common case; and of all the tyranny and cruelty exercised in the world, I believe that of bad husbands and fathers is by much the most frequent and the worst.

The family might have starved, but for his eldest son, whom from a child the father brought up to help him in his work; and who was so industrious and attentive, that being now at the age of thirteen or fourteen, he was able to earn pretty good wages, every farthing of which, that he could keep out of his father’s hands, he brought to his mother. And when his brute of a father came home drunk, cursing and swearing, and in such an ill humour, that his mother and the rest of the children durst not come near him for fear of a beating, this good lad (Tom was his name) kept near him, to pacify him, and get him quietly to bed. His mother, therefore, justly looked upon Tom as the support of the family, and loved him dearly.

It chanced that one day Tom, in climbing up a high ladder with a load of mortar on his head, missed his hold, and fell down to the bottom on a heap of bricks and rubbish. The bystanders ran up to him, and found him all bloody, and with his thigh broken and bent quite under him. They raised him up, and sprinkled water on his face to recover him from a swoon into which he had fallen. As soon as he could speak, looking round, with a lamentable tone he cried, “O, what will become of my poor mother!”

He was carried home, I was present while the surgeon set his thigh. His mother was hanging over him half distracted: “Don’t cry, mother!” said he, “I shall get well again in time.” Not a word more or a groan escaped him while the operation lasted.

Tom was a ragged boy that could not read or write—yet Tom has always stood on my list of heroes.

The Female Choice, p. 232.

EVENING XIX.
]

ON METALS.