Chapter VI: Introduction (4)

_Tut._ Many of them, especially of late years, have made great plantations of these trees. But all soils do not suit them; and then there is another circumstance which prevents many from being at this trouble and expense, which is the long time an oak takes in growing, so that no person can reasonably expect to profit by those of his own planting. An oak of fifty years is greatly short of its full growth, and they are scarcely arrived at perfection under a century. However, it is our duty to think of posterity as well as ourselves; and they who receive oaks from their ancestors, ought certainly to furnish others to their successors.

_Har._ Then I think that every one who cuts down an oak should be obliged to plant another.

_Tut._ Very right—but he should plant two or three for one, for fear of accidents in their growing.

I will now repeat to you some verses describing the oak in its state of full growth, or rather of beginning to decay, with the various animals living upon it—and then we will walk.

“See where yon _Oak_ its awful structure rears,
The massy growth of twice a hundred years;
Survey his rugged trunk with moss o’ergrown,
His lusty arms in rude disorder thrown,
His forking branches wide at distance spread,
And dark’ning half the sky, his lofty head.
A mighty castle, built by Nature’s hands,
Peopled by various living tribes, he stands.
His airy top the clamorous rooks invest,
And crowd the waving boughs with many a nest.
Midway the nimble squirrel builds his bower;
And sharp-billed pies the insect tribes devour
That gnaw beneath the bark their secret ways,
While unperceived the stately pile decays.”

ALFRED.—A DRAMA.

PERSONS OF THE DRAMA.

ALFRED King of England.
GUBBA a Farmer.
GANDELIN his Wife.
ELLA an Officer of Alfred.

Scene—_The Isle of Athelney_.

_Alfred._ How retired and quiet is everything in this little spot! The river winds its silent waters round this retreat; and the tangled bushes of the thicket fence it from the attack of an enemy. The bloody Danes have not yet pierced into this wild solitude. I believe I am safe from their pursuit. But I hope I shall find some inhabitants here, otherwise I shall die of hunger. Ha! here is a narrow path through the wood, and I think I see the smoke of a cottage rising between the trees. I will bend my steps thither.

Scene—_Before the Cottage_.

GUBBA _coming forward_. GANDELIN, _within_.

_Alfred._ Good even to you, good man. Are you disposed to show hospitality to a poor traveller?

_Gubba._ Why truly there are so many poor travellers now-a-days, that if we entertain them all, we shall have nothing left for ourselves. However, come along to my wife, and we will see what can be done for you. Wife, I am very weary: I have been chopping wood all day.

_Gandelin._ You are always ready for your supper, but it is not ready for you, I assure you: the cakes will take an hour to bake, and the sun is yet high; it has not yet dipped behind the old barn. But who have you with you, I trow?

_Alfred._ Good mother, I am a stranger; and entreat you to afford me food and shelter.

_Gandelin._ Good mother, quotha! Good wife, if you please, and welcome. But I do not love strangers; and the land has no reason to love them. It has never been a merry day for Old England since strangers came into it.

_Alfred._ I am not a stranger in England, though I am a stranger here. I am a trueborn Englishman.

_Gubba._ And do you hate those wicked Danes, that eat us up, and burn our houses, and drive away our cattle?

_Alfred._ I do hate them.

_Gandelin._ Heartily! he does not speak heartily, husband.

_Alfred._ Heartily I hate them; most heartily.

_Gubba._ Give me thy hand, then; thou art an honest fellow.

_Alfred._ I was with King Alfred in the last battle he fought.

_Gandelin._ With King Alfred? Heaven bless him!

_Gubba._ What is become of our good king?

_Alfred._ Did you love him, then?

_Gubba._ Yes, as much as a poor man may love a king; and kneeled down and prayed for him every night, that he might conquer those Danish wolves; but it was not to be so.

_Alfred._ You could not love Alfred better than I did.

_Gubba._ But what is become of him?

_Alfred._ He is thought to be dead.

_Gubba._ Well, these are sad times; Heaven help us! Come, you shall be welcome to share the brown loaf with us; I suppose you are too sharp set to be nice.

_Gandelin._ Ay, come with us; you shall be as welcome as a prince! But hark ye, husband; though I am very willing to be charitable to this stranger, (it would be a sin to be otherwise,) yet there is no reason he should not do something to maintain himself: he looks strong and capable.

_Gubba._ Why, that’s true. What can you do, friend?

_Alfred._ I am very willing to help you in anything you choose to set me about. It will please me best to earn my bread before I eat it.

_Gubba._ Let me see. Can you tie up fagots neatly?

_Alfred._ I have not been used to it. I am afraid I should be awkward.

_Gubba._ Can you thatch? There is a piece blown off the cowhouse.

_Alfred._ Alas! I cannot thatch.

_Gandelin._ Ask him if he can weave rushes: we want some new baskets.

_Alfred._ I have never learned.

_Gubba._ Can you stack hay?

_Alfred._ No.

_Gubba._ Why, here’s a fellow! and yet he hath as many pair of hands as his neighbours. Dame, can you employ him in the house? He might lay wood on the fire, and rub the tables.

_Gandelin._ Let him watch these cakes, then: I must go and milk the kine.

_Gubba._ And I’ll go and stack the wood, since supper is not ready.

_Gandelin._ But pray, observe, friend; do not let the cakes burn; turn them often on the hearth.

_Alfred._ I shall observe your directions.

ALFRED _alone_.

_Alfred._ For myself, I could bear it: but England, my bleeding country, for thee my heart is wrung with bitter anguish!—From the Humber to the Thames the rivers are stained with blood. My brave soldiers cut to pieces! My poor people—some massacred, others driven from their warm homes, stripped, abused, insulted; and I, whom Heaven appointed their shepherd, unable to rescue my defenceless flock from the ravenous jaws of these devourers! Gracious Heaven! if I am not worthy to save this land from the Danish sword, raise up some other hero to fight with more success than I have done, and let me spend my life in this obscure cottage, in these servile offices: I shall be content if England is happy. O! here come my blunt host and hostess.

_Enter_ GUBBA _and_ GANDELIN.

_Gandelin._ Help me down with the pail, husband. This new milk, with the cakes, will make an excellent supper: but, mercy on us, how they are burnt! black as my shoe; they have not once been turned: you oaf, you lubber, you lazy loon—

_Alfred._ Indeed, dame, I am sorry for it: but my mind was full of sad thoughts.

_Gubba._ Come, wife, you must forgive him; perhaps he is in love. I remember when I was in love with thee——

_Gandelin._ You remember!

_Gubba._ Yes, dame, I do remember it, though it is many a long year since; my mother was making a kettle of furmety—

_Gandelin._ Pr’y thee, hold thy tongue, and let us eat our suppers.

_Alfred._ How refreshing is this sweet new milk, and this wholesome bread!

_Gubba._ Eat heartily, friend. Where shall we lodge him, Gandelin?

_Gandelin._ We have but one bed you know; but there is fresh straw in the barn.

_Alfred_ (_aside_). If I shall not lodge like a king, at least I shall lodge like a soldier. Alas! how many of my poor soldiers are stretched on the bare ground!

_Gandelin._ What noise do I hear! It is the tramping of horses. Good husband, go and see what is the matter!

_Alfred._ Heaven forbid my misfortunes should bring destruction on this simple family! I had rather have perished in the wood.

GUBBA _returns, followed by_ ELLA, _with his sword drawn_.

_Gandelin._ Mercy defend us, a sword!

_Gubba._ The Danes! the Danes! O, do not kill us!

_Ella_ (_kneeling_). My liege, my lord, my sovereign! have I found you?

_Alfred_ (_embracing him_). My brave Ella!

_Ella._ I bring you good news, my sovereign! Your troops that were shut up in Kinwith Castle made a desperate sally—the Danes were slaughtered. The fierce Hubba lies gasping on the plain.

_Alfred._ Is it possible! Am I yet a king!

_Ella._ Their famous standard, the Danish raven, is taken; their troops are panic-struck; the English soldiers call aloud for _Alfred_. Here is a letter which will inform you of more particulars. (_Gives a letter._)

_Gubba_ (_aside_). What will become of us? Ah! dame, that tongue of thine has undone us!

_Gandelin._ O, my poor dear husband! we shall all be hanged, that’s certain. But who could have thought it was the king?

_Gubba._ Why, Gandelin, do you see we might have guessed he was born to be a king, or some such great man, because, you know, he was fit for nothing else.

_Alfred_ (_coming forward_). God be praised for these tidings! Hope is sprung up out of the depth of despair. O, my friend! shall I again shine in arms—again fight at the head of my brave Englishmen—lead them on to victory! Our friends shall now lift their heads again.

_Ella._ Yes, you have many friends, who have long been obliged, like their master, to skulk in deserts and caves, and wander from cottage to cottage. When they hear you are alive and in arms again, they will leave their fastnesses, and flock to your standard.

_Alfred._ I am impatient to meet them: my people shall be revenged.

_Gubba and Gandelin_ (_throwing themselves at the feet of_ ALFRED). O, my lord——

_Gandelin._ We hope your majesty will put us to a merciful death. Indeed, we did not know your majesty’s grace.

_Gubba._ If your majesty could but pardon my wife’s tongue; she means no harm, poor woman!

_Alfred._ Pardon you, good people! I not only pardon you, but thank you. You have afforded me protection in my distress; and if ever I am seated again on the throne of England, my first care shall be to reward your hospitality. I am now going to protect _you_. Come, my faithful Ella, to arms! to arms! My bosom burns to face once more the haughty Dane; and here I vow to Heaven, that I will never sheath the sword against these robbers, till either I lose my life in this just cause, or

“Till dove-like peace return to England’s shore,
And war and slaughter vex the land no more.”

EVENING VII.
]

ON THE PINE AND FIR TRIBE.—A DIALOGUE.

_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.

_Tutor._ Let us sit down awhile on this bench, and look about us. What a charming prospect!

_Harry._ I admire those pleasure-grounds. What beautiful clumps of trees there are in that lawn!

_George._ But what a dark gloomy wood that is at the back of the house!

_Tut._ It is a fir plantation; and those trees always look dismal in the summer, when there are so many finer greens to compare them with. But the winter is their time for show, when other trees are stripped of their verdure.

_Geo._ Then they are evergreens.

_Tut._ Yes; most of the fir tribe are evergreens; and as they are generally natives of cold mountainous countries, they contribute greatly to cheer the wintry landscape.

_Geo._ You were so good when we walked out last, to tell us a great deal about oaks. I thought it one of the prettiest lessons I ever heard. I should be glad if you would give us such another about firs.

_Har._ So should I, too, I’m sure.

_Tut._ With all my heart, and I am pleased that you ask me. Nothing is so great an encouragement to a tutor as to find his pupils of their own accord seeking after useful knowledge.

_Geo._ And I think it is very useful to know such things as these.

_Tut._ Certainly it is. Well, then—you may know the pine or fir tribe in general at first sight, as most of them are of a bluish-green colour, and all have leaves consisting of a strong narrow pointed blade, which gives them somewhat of a stiff appearance. Then all of them bear a hard scaly fruit, of a longish or conical form.

_Har._ Are they what we call fir-apples?

_Tut._ Yes; that is one of the names boys give them.

_Har._ We often pick them up under trees, and throw them at each other.

_Geo._ I have sometimes brought home my pocket full to burn. They make a fine clear flame.

_Tut._ Well—do you know where the seeds lie in them.

_Geo._ No—have they any?

_Tut._ Yes—at the bottom of every scale lie two winged seeds; but when the scales open, the seeds fall out: so that you can seldom find any in those you pick up.

_Har._ Are the seeds good for anything?

_Tut._ There is a kind of pine in the south of Europe called the _stone-pine_, the kernels of which are eaten, and said to be as sweet as an almond. And birds pick out the seeds of other sorts, though they are so well defended by the woody scales.

_Har._ They must have good strong bills then.

_Tut._ Of this tribe of trees a variety of species are found in different countries, and are cultivated in this. But the only kind native here is the _wild-pine_ or _Scotch-fir_. Of this, there are large natural forests in the Highlands of Scotland; and the principal plantations consist of it. It is a hardy sort, fit for barren and mountainous soils, but grows slowly.

_Geo._ Pray, what are those very tall trees that grow in two rows before the old hall in our village?

_Tut._ They are the _common_ or _spruce fir_, a native of Norway, and other northern countries, and one of the loftiest of the tribe. But observe those trees that grow singly in the grounds opposite to us with widespread branches spreading downward, and trailing on the ground, thence gradually lessening till the top of the tree ends almost in a point.

_Har._ What beautiful trees!

_Tut._ They are the Pines called _Larches_, natives of the Alps and Apennines, introduced into this country about the middle of the last century, for the purpose, at first, of decorating our gardens, and of which extensive plantations for timber have since been made, both in England and Scotland. These are not properly evergreens, as they shed their leaves in winter, but quickly recover them again. Then we have besides the _Weymouth pine_, which is the tallest species in America—the _silver fir_, so called from the silvery hue of its foliage—the _pinaster_—and a tree of ancient fame, the _cedar of Lebanon_.

_Geo._ I suppose that is a very great tree?

_Tut._ It grows to a large size, but is slow in coming to its full growth.

_Geo._ Are pines and firs very useful trees?

_Tut._ Perhaps the most so of any. By much the greatest part of the wood at present used among us comes from them.

_Har._ What—more than from the oak?

_Tut._ Yes, much more. Almost all the timber used in building houses, for floors, beams, rafters, and roofs, is fir.

_Geo._ Does it all grow in this country?

_Tut._ Scarcely any of it. Norway, Sweden, and Russia, are the countries from which we draw our timber, and a vast trade there is in it. You have seen timber-yards?

_Geo._ O yes—several.

_Tut._ In them you would observe some very long thick beams, called balks. These are whole trees, only stripped of the bark and squared. You would also see great piles of planks and boards, of different lengths and thickness. Those are called _deal_, and are brought over ready sawn from the countries where they grow. They are of different colours. The white are chiefly from the fir-tree; the yellow and red from the pine.

_Har._ I suppose there must be great forests of them in those countries, or else they could not send us so much.

_Tut._ Yes: the mountains of Norway are overrun with them, enough for the supply of all Europe; but on account of their ruggedness, and the want of roads, it is found impossible to get the trees, when felled, down to the seacoast, unless they grow near some river.

_Geo._ How do they manage then?

_Tut._ They take the opportunity when the rivers are swelled with rains or melted snow, and tumble the trees into them, when they are carried down to the mouth of the rivers, where they are stopped by a kind of pens.

_Har._ I should like to see them swimming down the stream.

_Tut._ Yes—it would be curious enough; for in some places these torrents roll over rocks, making steep waterfalls, down which the trees are carried headlong, and do not rise again till they are got to a great distance; and many of them are broken, and torn to pieces in the passage.

_Geo._ Are these woods used for anything besides building?

_Tut._ For a variety of purposes; such as boxes, trunks, packing-cases, pales, wainscots, and the like. Deal is a very soft wood, easily worked, light, and cheap, which makes it preferred for so many uses, though it is not very durable, and is very liable to split.

_Har._ Yes—I know my box is made of deal, and the lid is split all to pieces with driving nails into it.

_Geo._ Are ships ever built with fir?

_Tut._ It was one of the first woods made use of for naval purposes; and in the poets you will find the words _pine_ and _fir_ frequently employed to signify _ship_. But as navigation has improved, the stronger and more durable woods have generally taken its place. However, in the countries where fir is very plentiful, large ships are still built with it; for though they last but a short time, they cost so little in proportion, that the profit of a few voyages is sufficient to repay the expense. Then, from the great lightness of the wood, they swim higher in the water, and consequently will bear more loading. Most of the large ships that bring timber from Archangel, in Russia, are built of fir. As for the masts of ships, those I have already told you are all made of fir or pine, on account of their straightness and lightness.

_Geo._ Are there not some lines in Milton’s _Paradise Lost_ about that?

_Tut._ Yes: the spear of Satan is magnified by a comparison with a lofty pine.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine,
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great admiral, were but a wand.

_Har._ I remember, too, that the walking-staff of the giant Polypheme was a pine.

_Tut._ Ay—so Homer and Ovid tell us, and he must have been a giant indeed, to use such a stick. Well, so much for the wood of these trees. But I have more to say about their uses.

_Har._ I am glad of it.

_Tut._ All of the tribe contain a juice of a bitterish taste and strong fragrant smell. This, in some, is so abundant as to flow out from incisions; when it is called _turpentine_. The larch, in particular, yields a large quantity. Turpentine is one of the substances called resinous; it is sticky, transparent, very inflammable, and will not mix _with_ water, but will dissolve in spirits of wine.

_Geo._ What is it used for?

_Tut._ It is used medicinally, particularly in the composition of plasters and ointments. It also is an ingredient in varnishes, cements, and the like. An oil distilled from turpentine is employed in medicine, and is much used by painters for mixing up their colours. What remains after getting this oil is common _resin_. All these substances take fire very easily, and burn with a great flame; and the wood of the pine has so much of this quality, when dry, that it is often used for torches.

_Har._ I know deal shavings burn very briskly.

_Geo._ Yes; and matches are made of bits of deal dipped in brimstone.

_Tut._ True,—and when it was the custom to burn the bodies of the dead, as you read in Homer and other old authors, the pines and pitch-trees composed great part of the funeral pile.

_Har._ But what are pitch-trees? Does pitch grow upon trees?

_Tut._ I was going on to tell you about that. _Tar_ is a product of the trees of this kind, especially of one species, called the pitch-pine. The wood is burnt in a sort of oven made in the earth, and the resinous juice sweats out, and acquires a peculiar taste and a black colour from the fire. This is tar. Tar when boiled down to dryness becomes _pitch_.

_Geo._ Tar and pitch are chiefly used about ships; are they not?

_Tut._ They resist moisture, and therefore are of great service in preventing things from decaying that are exposed to wet. For this reason, the cables and other ropes of ships are well soaked with tar; and the sides of ships are covered with pitch mixed with other ingredients. Their seams, too, or the places where the planks join, are filled with tow dipped in a composition of resin, tallow, and pitch, to keep out the water. Wood for paling, for piles, for coverings of roofs and other purposes of the like nature, is often tarred over. Cisterns and casks are pitched to prevent leaking.

_Har._ But what are sheep tarred for after they are sheared?

_Tut._ To cure wounds and sores in their skin. For the like purposes an ointment made with tar is often rubbed upon children’s heads. Several parts of the pine are medicinal. The tops and green cones of the spruce-fir are fermented with treacle, and the liquor, called _spruce-beer_, is much drunk in America, particularly for the scurvy.

_Geo._ Is it pleasant?

_Tut._ Not to those who are unaccustomed to it. Well—I have now finished my lesson, so let us walk.

_Har._ Shall we go through the grounds?

_Tut._ Yes; and then we will view some of the different kinds of fir and pine more closely, and I will show you the difference of their leaves and cones, by which they are distinguished.

ON DIFFERENT STATIONS IN LIFE.—A DIALOGUE.

Little Sally Meanwell had one day been to pay an afternoon’s visit to Miss Harriet, the daughter of Sir Thomas Pemberton. The evening proving rainy, she was sent home in Sir Thomas’s coach; and on her return, the following conversation passed between her and her mother:—

_Mrs. Meanwell._ Well, my dear, I hope you have had a pleasant visit?

_Sally._ O yes, mamma, very pleasant; you cannot think how many fine things I have seen. And then it is so charming to ride in a coach!

_Mrs. M._ I suppose Miss Harriet showed you all her playthings?

_Sally._ O yes, such fine large dolls, so smartly dressed as I never saw in my life before. Then she has a baby-house, and all sorts of furniture in it; and a grotto all made of shells, and shining stones. And then she showed me all her fine clothes for the next ball; there’s a white slip all full of spangles, and pink ribands; you can’t think how beautiful it looks!

_Mrs. M._ And what did you admire most of all these fine things?

_Sally._ I don’t know—I admired them all; and I think I liked riding in the coach better than all the rest. Why don’t we keep a coach; and why have I not such fine clothes and playthings as Miss Harriet?

_Mrs. M._ Because we cannot afford it, my dear. Your papa is not so rich by a great deal, as Sir Thomas; and if we were to lay out our money upon such things, we should not be able to procure food and raiment and other necessaries for you all.

_Sally._ But why is not papa as rich as Sir Thomas?

_Mrs. M._ Sir Thomas had a large estate left him by his father; but your papa has little but what he gains by his own industry.

_Sally._ But why should not papa be as rich as anybody else? I am sure he deserves it as well.

_Mrs. M._ Do you not think that there are a great many people poorer than he, that are also very deserving?

_Sally._ Are there?

_Mrs. M._ Yes, to be sure. Don’t you know what a number of poor people there are all around us, who have few of the comforts we enjoy? What do you think of Ploughman the labourer? I believe you never saw him idle in your life.

_Sally._ No; he is gone to work long before I am up, and he does not return till almost bedtime, unless it be for his dinner.

_Mrs. M._ Well! how do you think his wife and children live? should you like that we should change places with them?

_Sally._ O, no! they are so dirty and ragged.

_Mrs. M._ They are, indeed, poor creatures; but I am afraid they suffer worse evils than that.

_Sally._ What mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why I am afraid they often do not get as much victuals as they could eat. And then in winter they must be half frozen for want of fire and warm clothing. How do you think you could bear all this?

_Sally._ Indeed, I don’t know. But I have seen Ploughman’s wife carry great brown loaves into the house; and I remember once eating some brown bread and milk, and I thought it very good.

_Mrs. M._ I believe you would not much like it constantly; besides, they can hardly get enough of that. But you seem to know almost as little of the poor as the young French princess did.

_Sally._ What was that, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why, there had been one year so bad a harvest in France that numbers of the poor were famished to death. This calamity was so much talked of, that it reached the court, and was mentioned before the young princesses. “Dear me!” said one of them, “how _silly_ that was! Why, rather than be famished, I would eat bread and cheese.” Her governess was then obliged to acquaint her that the greatest part of her father’s subjects scarcely ever eat anything better than black bread all their lives; and that vast numbers would now think themselves very happy to get only half their usual pittance of that. Such wretchedness as this was what the princess had not the least idea of; and the account shocked her so much, that she was glad to sacrifice all her finery to afford some relief to the sufferings of the poor.

_Sally._ But I hope there is nobody famished in our country.

_Mrs. M._ I hope not, for we have laws by which every person is entitled to relief from the parish, if he is unable to gain a subsistence; and were there no laws about it, I am sure it would be our duty to part with every superfluity, rather than let a fellow-creature perish for want of necessaries.

_Sally._ Then do you think it was wrong for Miss Pemberton to have all those fine things?

_Mrs. M._ No, my dear, if they are suitable to her fortune, and do not consume the money which ought to be employed in more useful things to herself and others.

_Sally._ But why might she not be contented with such things as I have; and give the money that the rest cost to the poor?

_Mrs. M._ Because she can afford both to be charitable to the poor, and also to indulge herself in these pleasures. But do you recollect that the children of Mr. White the baker, and Mr. Shape the tailor, might just ask the same questions about you?

_Sally._ How so?

_Mrs. M._ Are not you as much better dressed, and as much more plentifully supplied with playthings than they are, as Miss Harriet is than you?

_Sally._ Why, I believe I may, for I remember Polly White was very glad of one of my old dolls; and Nancy Shape cried for such a sash as mine, but her mother would not let her have one.

_Mrs. M._ Then you see, my dear, that there are many who have fewer things to be thankful for than _you_ have; and you may also learn what ought to be the true measure of the expectations of children, and the indulgences of parents.

_Sally._ I don’t quite understand you, mamma.

_Mrs. M._ Everything ought to be suited to the station in which we live or are likely to live, and the wants and duties of it. Your papa and I do not grudge laying out part of our money to promote the innocent pleasure of our children: but it would be very wrong in us to lay out so much on this account as would oblige us to spare in more necessary articles; as in their education, and the common household expenses required in our way of living. Besides, it would be so far from making you happier, that it would be doing you the greatest injury.

_Sally._ How could that be, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ If you were now to be dressed like Miss Pemberton, don’t you think you would be greatly mortified at being worse dressed when you came to be a young woman?

_Sally._ I believe I should, mamma; for then perhaps I might go to assemblies; and to be sure I should like to be as smart then as at any time.

_Mrs. M._ Well, but it would be still more improper for us to dress you then beyond our circumstances, because your necessary clothes will then cost more, you know. Then, if we were now to hire a coach or chair for you to go visiting in, should you like to leave it off ever afterward? But you have no reason to expect that you will be able to have those indulgences when you are a woman. And so it is in everything else. The more fine things, and the more gratifications you have now, the more you will require hereafter: for custom makes things so familiar to us, that while we enjoy them less we want them more.

_Sally._ How is that, mamma?

_Mrs. M._ Why, don’t you think you have enjoyed your ride in the coach this evening more than Miss Harriet should have done?

_Sally._ I suppose I have; because if Miss Harriet liked it so well, she would be always riding, for I know she might have the coach whenever she pleased.

_Mrs. M._ But if you were both told that you were never to ride in a coach again, which would think it the greater hardship? You could walk, you know, as you have always done before; but she would rather stay at home, I believe, than expose herself to the cold wind, and trudge through the wet and dirt in pattens.

_Sally._ I believe so, too; and now, mamma, I see that all you have told me is very right.

_Mrs. M._ Well, my dear, let it dwell upon your mind, so as to make you cheerful and contented in your station, which you see is so much happier than that of many and many other children. So now we will talk no more on the subject.

EVENING VIII.
]

THE ROOKERY.

“There the hoarse-voiced hungry rook,
Near her stick-built nest doth croak,
Waving on the topmost bough.”

These lines Mr. Stangrove repeated pointing up to a rookery, as he was walking in an avenue of tall trees, with his son Francis.

_Francis._ Is that a rookery, papa?

_Mr. Stangrove._ It is. Do you hear what a cawing the birds make?

_Fr._ Yes; and I see them hopping about among the boughs. Pray, are not rooks the same with crows?

_Mr. St._ They are a species of crow; but they differ from the carrion crow and raven in not living upon dead flesh, but upon corn and other seeds, and grass. They indeed pick up beetles and other insects and worms. See what a number of them have lighted on yonder ploughed field, almost blackening it over.

_Fr._ What are they doing?

_Mr. St._ Searching for grubs and worms. You see the men in the field do not molest them, for they do a great deal of service by destroying grubs, which, if they were suffered to grow to winged insects, would do much mischief to the trees and plants.

_Fr._ But do they hurt the corn?

_Mr. St._ Yes, they tear up a good deal of green corn, if they are not driven away. But upon the whole, rooks are reckoned the farmers’ friends; and they do not choose to have them destroyed.

_Fr._ Do all rooks live in rookeries?

_Mr. St._ It is the general nature of them to associate together, and build in numbers on the same or adjoining trees. But this is often in the midst of woods or natural groves. However, they have no objections to the neighbourhood of man, but readily take to a plantation of tall trees, though it be close to a house; and this is commonly called a rookery. They will even fix their habitations on trees in the midst of towns; and I have seen a rookery in a churchyard in one of the closest parts of London.

_Fr._ I think a rookery is a sort of town itself.

_Mr. St._ It is: a village in the air, peopled with numerous inhabitants; and nothing can be more amusing than to view them all in motion, flying to and fro, and busied in their several occupations. The spring is their busiest time. Early in the year they begin to repair their nests or build new ones.

_Fr._ Do they all work together or every one for itself?

_Mr. St._ Each pair, after they have coupled, build their own nest; and instead of helping, they are very apt to steal the materials from one another. If both birds go out at once in search of sticks, they often find at their return, the work all destroyed, and the materials carried off; so that one of them generally stays at home to keep watch. However, I have met with a story which shows that they are not without some sense of the criminality of thieving. There was in a rookery a lazy pair of rooks, who never went out to get sticks for themselves, but made a practice of watching when their neighbours were abroad, and helped themselves from their nests. They had served most of the community in this manner and by these means had just finished their own nest; when all the other rooks in a rage, fell upon them at once, pulled their nest in pieces, beat them soundly, and drove them from their society.

_Fr._ That was very right—I should have liked to have seen it. But why do they live together if they do not help one another?

_Mr. St._ They probably receive pleasure from the company of their own kind, as men and various other creatures do. Then, though they do not assist one another in building, they are mutually serviceable in many ways. If a large bird of prey hovers about a rookery for the purpose of carrying off any of the young ones, they all unite to drive him away. When they are feeding in a flock, several are placed as sentinels upon the trees all round, who give the alarm if any danger approaches. They often go a long way from home to feed; but every evening the whole flock returns, making a loud cawing as they fly, as if to direct and call in the stragglers. The older rooks take the lead: you may distinguish them by the whiteness of their bills, occasioned by their frequent digging in the ground, by which the black feathers at the root of the bill are worn off.

_Fr._ Do rooks always keep to the same trees?

_Mr. St._ Yes; they are much attached to them, and when the trees happen to be cut down, they seem greatly distressed, and keep hovering about them as they are falling, and will scarcely desert them when they lie on the ground.

_Fr._ Poor things! I suppose they feel as we should if our town was burnt down or overthrown by an earthquake.

_Mr. St._ No doubt. The societies of animals greatly resemble those of men; and that of rooks is like those of men in a savage state, such as the communities of the North American Indians. It is a sort of league for mutual aid and defence, but in which every one is left to do as he pleases, without any obligation to employ himself for the whole body. Others unite in a manner resembling more civilized societies of men. This is the case with the beavers. They perform great public works by the united efforts of the whole community, such as damming up streams, and constructing mounds for their habitations. As these are works of great art and labour, some of them must probably act under the direction of others, and be compelled to work whether they will or not. Many curious stories are told to this purpose by those who have observed them in their remotest haunts, where they exercise their full sagacity.

_Fr._ But are they all true?

_Mr. St._ That is more than I can answer for; yet what we certainly know of the economy of bees may justify us in believing extraordinary things of the sagacity of animals. The society of bees goes farther than that of beavers, and, in some respects, beyond most among men themselves. They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in common, but they lay up a store of provision, which is the property of the whole community, and is not used except at certain seasons, and under certain regulations. A beehive is a true image of a commonwealth, where no member acts for himself alone, but for the whole body.

_Fr._ But there are drones among them who do not work at all.

_Mr. St._ Yes; and at the approach of winter they are driven out of the hive, and left to perish with cold and hunger. But I have not leisure at present to tell you more about bees. You shall one day see them at work in a glass hive. In the meantime, remember one thing, which applies to all the societies of animals; and I wish it did as well to all those of men likewise.

_Fr._ What is that?

_Mr. St._ The principle upon which they all associate, is to obtain some benefit for the _whole body_, not to give particular advantages to a few.

THE SHIP.

Charles Osborn, when at home in the holydays, had a visit from a schoolfellow who was just entered as a midshipman on board of a man-of-war. _Tom Hardy_ (that was his name) was a free-hearted, spirited lad, and a favourite among his companions; but he never liked his book, and had left school ignorant of almost everything he came there to learn. What was worse, he had got a contempt for learning of all kinds, and was fond of showing it. “What does your father mean,” says he, to Charles, “to keep you moping and studying over things of no use in the world but to plague folks?—Why can’t you go into his majesty’s service like me, and be made a gentleman of? You are old enough, and I know you are a lad of spirit.” This kind of talk made some impression upon young _Osborn_. He became less attentive to the lessons his father set him, and less willing to enter into instructive conversation. This change gave his father much concern; but as he knew the cause, he thought it best, instead of employing direct authority, to attempt to give a new impression to his son’s mind, which might counteract the effect of his companion’s suggestions.

Being acquainted with an East India captain, who was on the point of sailing, he went with his son to pay him a farewell visit on board his ship. They were shown all about the vessel, and viewed all the preparations for so long a voyage. They saw her weigh anchor and unfurl her sails; and they took leave of their friend amid the shouts of the seamen and all the bustle of departure.

Charles was highly delighted with this scene, and as they were returning could think and talk of nothing else. It was easy, therefore, for his father to lead him into the following train of discourse:—

After Charles had been warmly expressing his admiration of the grand sight of a large ship completely fitted out and getting under sail, “I do not wonder,” said his father, “that you are so much struck with it; it is, in reality, one of the finest spectacles created by human skill, and the noblest triumph of art over untaught nature. Near two thousand years ago, when Julius Cesar came over to this island, he found the natives in possession of no other kind of vessel than a sort of canoe, formed of wickerwork covered with hides, no bigger than a man or two could carry. But the largest ship in Cesar’s fleet was not more superior to these, than the Indiaman you have been seeing is to what that was. Our savage ancestors ventured only to paddle along the rivers and coasts, or cross small arms of the sea in calm weather; and Cesar himself would have been alarmed to be a few days out of sight of land. But the ship we have just left is going by itself to the opposite side of the globe, prepared to encounter the tempestuous winds and mountainous waves of the vast Southern ocean, and to find its way to its destined port, though many weeks must pass with nothing in view but sea and sky. Now what do you think can be the cause of this prodigious difference in the powers of man at one period and another?”

Charles was silent.

_Fa._ Is it not that there is a great deal more knowledge in one than in the other?

_Ch._ To be sure it is.

_Fa._ Would it not, think you, be as impossible for any number of men untaught, by their utmost efforts, to build and navigate such a ship as we have seen, as to fly through the air?

_Ch._ I suppose it would.

_Fa._ That we may be the more sensible of this, let us consider how many arts and professions are necessary for this purpose. Come—you shall begin to name them, and if you forget any, I will put you in mind. What is the first?

_Ch._ The ship-carpenter, I think.

_Fa._ True—what does he do?

_Ch._ He builds the ship.

_Fa._ How is that done?

_Ch._ By fastening the planks and beams together.

_Fa._ But do you suppose he can do this as a common carpenter makes a box or set of shelves?

_Ch._ I do not know.

_Fa._ Do you not think that such a vast bulk requires a good deal of contrivance to bring it into shape, and fit it for all its purposes?

_Ch._ Yes.

_Fa._ Some ships, you have heard, sail quicker than others—some bear storms better—some carry more lading—some draw less water—and so on. You do not suppose all these things are left to chance?

_Ch._ No.

_Fa._ In order to produce these effects with certainty, it is necessary to study proportions very exactly, and to lay down an accurate scale by mathematical lines and figures after which to build the ship. Much has been written upon this subject, and nice calculations have been made of the resistance a ship meets with in making way through the water, and the best means of overcoming it; also of the action of the wind on the sails, and their action in pushing on the ship by means of the masts. All these must be understood by a perfect master of ship-building.

_Ch._ But I think I know ship-builders who have never had an education to fit them for understanding these things.

_Fa._ Very likely; but they have followed by rote the rules laid down by others; and as they work merely by imitation, they cannot alter or improve as occasion may require. Then, though common merchant-ships are trusted to such builders, yet, in constructing men-of-war and Indiamen persons of science are always employed. The French, however, attend to this matter more than we do, and, in consequence, their ships generally sail better than ours.

_Ch._ But need a captain of a ship know all these things?

_Fa._ It may not be absolutely necessary; yet occasions may frequently arise in which it would be of great advantage for him to be able to judge and give direction in these matters. But suppose the ship built—what comes next?

_Ch._ I think she must be rigged.

_Fa._ Well—who are employed for this purpose?

_Ch._ Mast-makers, ropemakers, sailmakers, and I know not how many other people.

_Fa._ These are all mechanical trades; and though in carrying them on much ingenuity has been applied in the invention of machines and tools, yet we will not stop to consider them. Suppose her, then, rigged—what next?

_Ch._ She must take in her guns and powder.

_Fa._ Stop there and reflect how many arts you have now set to work. Gunpowder is one of the greatest inventions of modern times, and what has given such a superiority to civilized nations over the barbarous? An English frigate, surrounded by the canoes of all the savages in the world, would easily beat them off by means of her guns; and if Cesar were to come again to England with his fleet, a battery of cannon would sink all his ships, and set his legions a swimming in the sea. But the making of gunpowder, and the casting of cannon, are arts that require an exact knowledge of the science of _Chymistry_.

_Ch._ What is that?

_Fa._ It comprehends the knowledge of all the properties of metals and minerals, salts, sulphur, oils, and gums, and of the action of fire, and water, and air upon all substances, and the effects of mixing different things together. Gunpowder is a mixture of three things only; saltpetre or nitre, sulphur or brimstone, and charcoal. But who could have thought such a wonderful effect would have been produced by it?

_Ch._ Was it not first discovered by accident?

_Fa._ Yes; but it was by one who was making chymical experiments, and many more experiments have been employed to bring it to perfection.

_Ch._ But need a captain know how to make gunpowder and cannon?

_Fa._ It is not necessary, though it may often be useful to him. However, it is quite necessary that he should know how to employ them. Now the sciences of gunnery and fortification depend entirely upon mathematical principles; for by these are calculated the direction of a ball through the air, the distance it would reach to, and the force with which it will strike any thing. All engineers, therefore, must be good mathematicians.

_Ch._ But I think have heard of gunners being little better than common men.

_Fa._ True—there is a way of doing that business, as well as many others, by mere practice: and an uneducated man may acquire skill in pointing a cannon, as well as in shooting with a common gun. But this is only in ordinary cases, and an abler head is required to direct. Well—now suppose your ship completely fitted out for sea, and the wind blowing fair; how will you navigate her?

_Ch._ I would spread the sails, and steer by the rudder.

_Fa._ Very well—but how would you find your way to the port you are bound for?

_Ch._ That I cannot tell.

_Fa._ Nor, perhaps, can I make you exactly comprehend it; but I can show you enough to convince you that it is an affair that requires much knowledge and early study. In former times, when a vessel left the sight of land, it was steered by observation of the sun by day, and the moon and stars by night. The sun, you know, rises in the east, and sets in the west; and at noon, in these parts of the world, it is exactly south of us. These points, therefore, may be found out when the sun shines. The moon and stars vary: however, their place in the sky may be known by exact observation. Then, there is one star that always points to the north pole, and is therefore called the pole-star. This was of great use in navigation, and the word pole-star is often used by the poets to signify a sure guide. Do you recollect the description in Homer’s Odyssey, when Ulysses sails away by himself from the island of Calypso—how he steers by the stars?

_Ch._ I think I remember the lines in Pope’s translation.

_Fa._ Repeat them, then.

_Ch._

“Placed at the helm he sat, and mark’d the skies,
Nor closed in sleep his ever-watchful eyes;
There view’d the Pleiades, and the Northern Team,
And great Orion’s more effulgent beam,
To which, around the axle of the sky,
The Bear revolving points his golden eye:
Who shines exalted on th’ ethereal plain,
Nor bathes his blazing forehead in the main.”

_Fa._ Very well; they are fine lines, indeed! You see, then, how long ago sailors thought it necessary to study astronomy. But as it frequently happens, especially in stormy weather, that the stars are not to be seen, this method was subject to great uncertainty, which rendered it dangerous to undertake distant voyages. At length, near 500 years since, a property was discovered in a mineral, called the magnet or loadstone, which removed the difficulty. This was, its _polarity_, or quality of always pointing to the poles of the earth, that is, due north and south. This it can communicate to any piece of iron; so that a needle well rubbed in a particular manner by a loadstone, and then balanced upon its centre so as to turn round freely, will always point to the north. With an instrument called a mariner’s compass, made of one of these needles, and a card marked with all the points—north, south, east, west, and the divisions between these, a ship may be steered to any part of the globe.

_Ch._ It is a very easy matter, then.

_Fa._ Not quite so easy, neither. In a long voyage, cross or contrary winds blow a ship out of her direct course, so that without nice calculations both of the straight track she has gone, and all the deviations from it, the sailors would not know where they were, nor to what point to steer. It is also frequently necessary to take observations, as they call it; that is, to observe with an instrument where the sun’s place in the sky is at noon, by which they can determine the _latitude_ they are in. Other observations are necessary to determine their _longitude_. What these mean, I can show you upon the globe. It is enough now to say that, by means of both together, they can tell the exact spot they are on at any time; and then, by consulting their map, and setting their compass, they can steer right to the place they want. But all this requires a very exact knowledge of astronomy, the use of the globes, mathematics, and arithmetic, which you may suppose is not to be acquired without much study. A great number of curious instruments have been invented to assist in these operations; so that there is scarcely any matter in which so much art and science have been employed as in navigation; and none but a very learned and civilized nation can excel in it.

_Ch._ But how is Tom Hardy to do? for I am pretty sure he does not understand any of these things.

_Fa._ He must learn them, if he means to come to anything in his profession. He may, indeed, head a pressgang, or command a boat’s crew without them; but he will never be fit to take charge of a man-of-war, or even a merchant-ship.

_Ch._ However, he need not learn Latin and Greek.

_Fa._ I cannot say, indeed, that a sailor has occasion for those languages; but a knowledge of Latin makes it much easier to acquire all modern languages; and I hope you do not think them unnecessary to him.

_Ch._ I did not know they were of much importance.

_Fa._ No! Do you think that one who may probably visit most countries in Europe, and their foreign settlements, should be able to converse in no other language than his own? If the knowledge of languages is not useful to _him_, I know not to whom it is so. He can hardly do at all without knowing some; and the more the better.

_Ch._ Poor Tom! then I doubt he has not chosen so well as he thinks.