Chapter VII: Introduction (5)

_Fa._ I doubt so, too.

Here ended the conversation. They soon after reached home, and Charles did not forget to desire his father to show him on the globe what longitude and latitude meant.

THINGS BY THEIR RIGHT NAMES.

_Charles._ Papa, you grow very lazy. Last winter you used to tell us stories, and now you never tell us any; and we are all got round the fire quite ready to hear you. Pray, dear papa, let us have a very pretty one.

_Father._ With all my heart—What shall it be?

_Ch._ A bloody murder, papa!

_Fa._ A bloody murder! Well then—once upon a time some men dressed all alike....

_Ch._ With black crapes over their faces?

_Fa._ No; they had steel caps on.—having crossed a dark heath, wound cautiously along the skirts of a deep forest....

_Ch._ They were ill-looking fellows, I dare say?

_Fa._ I cannot say so; on the contrary, they were as tall, personable men as most one shall see: leaving on their right hand an old ruined tower on the hill....

_Ch._ At midnight, just as the clock struck twelve; was it not, papa?

_Fa._ No, really; it was on a fine balmy summer’s morning;—they moved forward, one behind another....

_Ch._ As still as death, creeping along under the hedges?

_Fa._ On the contrary—they walked remarkably upright; and so far from endeavouring to be hushed and still, they made a loud noise as they came along, with several sorts of instruments.

_Ch._ But, papa, they would be found out immediately.

_Fa._ They did not seem to wish to conceal themselves: on the contrary, they gloried in what they were about. They moved forward, I say, to a large plain, where stood a neat pretty village which they set on fire.

_Ch._ Set a village on fire, wicked wretches!

_Fa._ And while it was burning they murdered—twenty thousand men.

_Ch._ O fie! papa! You don’t intend I should believe this; I thought all along you were making up a tale, as you often do; but you shall not catch me this time. What! they lay still, I suppose, and let these fellows cut their throats?

_Fa._ No, truly, they resisted as long as they could.

_Ch._ How should these men kill twenty thousand people, pray?

_Fa._ Why not? the _murderers_ were thirty thousand.

_Ch._ O, now I have found you out! you mean a BATTLE.

_Fa._ Indeed I do. I do not know any _murders_ half so bloody.

EVENING IX.
]

THE TRANSMIGRATIONS OF INDUR.

At the time when fairies and genii possessed the powers which they have now lost, there lived in the country of the Bramins, a man named Indur, who was distinguished, not only for that gentleness of disposition and humanity towards all living creatures, which are so much cultivated among those people, but for an insatiable curiosity respecting the nature and way of life of all animals. In pursuit of knowledge of this kind he would frequently spend the night among lonely rocks, or in the midst of thick forests; and there under shelter of a hanging cliff, or mounted upon a high tree, he would watch the motions and actions of all the animals that seek their prey in the night; and remaining in the same spot till the break of day, he would observe this tribe of creatures retiring to their dens, and all others coming forth to enjoy the beams of the rising sun. On these occasions, if he saw any opportunity of exercising his benevolence toward animals in distress, he never failed to make use of it; and many times rescued the small bird from the pitiless hawk, and the lamb or kid from the gripe of the wolf and lynx. One day as he was sitting on a tree in the forest, a little frolicsome monkey, in taking a great leap from one bough to another, chanced to miss its hold, and fell from a great height to the ground. As it lay there unable to move, Indur espied a large venomous serpent advancing to make the poor defenceless creature his prey. He immediately descended from his post, and taking the little monkey in his arms, ran with it to the tree, and gently placed it upon a bough. In the meantime, the enraged serpent pursuing him, overtook him before he could mount the tree, and bit him in the leg. Presently, the limb began to swell, and the effects of the venom became visible over Indur’s whole frame. He grew faint, sick, and pale; and sinking on the ground was sensible that his last moments were fast approaching. As thus he lay, he was surprised to hear a human voice from the tree; and looking up, he beheld, on the bow where he had placed the monkey, a beautiful woman, who thus addressed him:—“Indur, I am truly grieved that thy kindness to me should have been the cause of thy destruction. Know that, in the form of the poor monkey, it was the potent fairy Perizinda to whom thou gavest succour. Obliged to pass a certain number of days every year under the shape of an animal, I have chosen this form; and though not mortal, I should have suffered extreme agonies from the bite of the serpent, hadst thou not so humanely assisted me. It is not in my power to prevent the fatal effect of the poison; but I am able to grant thee any wish thou shalt form respecting the future state of existence to which thou art now hastening. Speak then, before it be too late, and let me show my gratitude.”—“Great Perizinda!” replied Indur, “since you deign so bounteously to return my service, this is the request that I make; in all my transmigrations may I retain a rational soul, with the memory of the adventures I have gone through; and when death sets me free from one body, may I instantly animate another in the prime of its powers and faculties, without passing through the helpless state of infancy.”—“It is granted,” answered the fairy; and immediately, breaking a small branch from the tree, and breathing on it, she threw it down to Indur, and bid him hold it fast in his hand. He did so, and presently expired.

Instantly, he found himself in a green valley, by the side of a clear stream, grazing amid a herd of antelopes. He admired his elegant shape, sleek, spotted skin, and polished spiral horns; and drank with delight of the cool rivulet, cropped the juicy herb, and sported with his companions. Soon an alarm was given of the approach of an enemy; and they all set off with the swiftness of the wind, to the neighbouring immense plains, where they were presently out of the reach of injury. Indur was highly delighted with the ease and rapidity of his motions; and snuffing the keen air of the desert, bounded away, scarcely deigning to touch the ground with his feet. This way of life went on very pleasantly for some time, till at length the herd was one morning alarmed with noises of trumpets, drums, and loud shouts on every side. They started, and ran first to the right, then to the left, but were continually driven back by the surrounding crowd, which now appeared to be a whole army of hunters, with the king of the country, and all his nobles, assembled at a solemn chase, after the manner of the Eastern people. And now the circle began to close, and numbers of affrighted animals of various kinds thronged together in the centre, keeping as far as possible from the dangers that approached them from all quarters. The huntsmen were now come near enough to reach their game with their arrows; and the prince and his lords shot at them as they passed and repassed, killing and wounding great numbers. Indur and his surviving companions, seeing no other means of escape, resolved to make a bold push toward that part of the ring which was the most weakly guarded; and though many perished in the attempt, yet a few, leaping over the heads of the people, got clear away: Indur was among the number. But while he was scouring over the plain, rejoicing in his good fortune and conduct, an enemy swifter than himself overtook him. This was a falcon, who, let loose by one of the huntsmen, dashed like lightning after the fugitives; and alighting upon the head of Indur, began to tear his eyes with his beak, and flap his wings over his face. Indur, terrified and blinded, knew not which way he went; and instead of proceeding straight-forward, turned round and came again toward the hunters. One of these, riding full speed with a javelin in his hand, came up to him, and ran the weapon into his side. He fell down, and with repeated wounds was soon despatched.

When the struggle of death was over, Indur was equally surprised and pleased on finding himself soaring high in the air, as one of a flight of wild geese, in their annual migration to breed in the arctic regions. With vast delight he sprung forward on easy wing through the immense fields of air, and surveyed beneath him extensive tracts of earth perpetually varying with plains, mountains, rivers, lakes, and woods. At the approach of night the flock lighted on the ground, and fed on the green corn or grass; and at daybreak they were again on the wing, arranged in regular wedge-like body, with an experienced leader at their head. Thus for many days they continued their journey, passing over countries inhabited by various nations, till at length they arrived in the remotest part of Lapland, and settled in a wide marshy lake, filled with numerous reedy islands, and surrounded on all sides with dark forests of pine and birch. Here, in perfect security from man and hurtful animals, they followed the great business of breeding and providing for their young, living plentifully upon the insects and aquatic reptiles that abounded in this sheltered spot. Indur with great pleasure exercised his various powers of swimming, diving, and flying; sailing round the islands, penetrating into every creek and bay, and visiting the deepest recesses of the woods. He surveyed with astonishment the sun, instead of rising and setting, making a complete circle in the heavens, and cheering the earth with a perpetual day. Here he met with innumerable tribes of kindred birds varying in size, plumage, and voice, but all passing their time in a similar manner, and furnished with the same powers for providing food and a safe retreat for themselves and their young. The whole lake was covered with parties fishing or sporting, and resounded with their loud cries; while the islands were filled with their nests, and new broods of young were continually coming forth and launching upon the surface of the waters. One day, Indur’s curiosity having led him at a distance from his companions to the woody border of the lake, he was near paying dear for his heedlessness; for a fox, that lay in wait among the bushes, sprung upon him, and it was with the utmost difficulty that by a strong exertion he broke from his hold, not without the loss of some feathers.

Summer now drawing to an end, the vast congregation of water-fowl begun to break up; and large bodies of them daily took their way southward, to pass the winter in climates where the waters are never so frozen as to become uninhabitable by the feathered race. The wild geese, to whom Indur belonged, proceeded with their young ones, by long daily journeys across Sweden, the Baltic sea, Poland and Turkey, to Lesser Asia, and finished their journey at the celebrated plains on the banks of the Cayster, a noted resort for their species ever since the age of Homer, who in some very beautiful verses has described the manners and actions of the various tribes of aquatic birds in that favourite spot.[1] Here they soon recruited from the fatigue of their march, and enjoyed themselves in the delicious climate till winter. This season, though here extremely mild, yet making the means of sustenance somewhat scarce, they were obliged to make foraging excursions to the cultivated lands in the neighbourhood. Having committed great depredations upon a fine field of young wheat, the owner spread a net on the ground, in which Indur, with several of his companions, had the misfortune to be caught. No mercy was shown them, but as they were taken out one by one, their necks were all broken.

Footnote 1:

Not less their number than th’ embodied cranes,
Or milk-white swans on Asia’s wat’ry plains,
That o’er the windings of Cayster’s springs
Stretch their long necks, and clap their rustling wings
Now tower aloft, and course in airy rounds;
Now light with noise; with noise the field resounds.—POPE’S _Homer_.

Indur was not immediately sensible of the next change he underwent, which was into a dormouse, fast asleep into a hole at the foot of a bush. As it was in a country where the winter was pretty severe, he did not awake for some weeks; when a thaw having taken place, and the sun beginning to warm the earth, he unrolled himself one day, stretched, opened his eyes, and not being able to make out where he was, he roused a female companion whom he found by his side. When she was sufficiently awakened, and they both began to feel hungry, she led the way to a magazine of nuts and acorns, where they made a comfortable meal, and soon fell asleep again. This nap having lasted a few days, they awaked a second time, and having eaten, they ventured to crawl to the mouth of their hole, where, pulling away some withered grass and leaves, they peeped out into the open air. After taking a turn or two in the sun, they grew chill, and went down again, stopping up the entrance after them. The cold weather returning, they took another long nap, till, at length, spring being fairly set in, they roused in earnest, and began to make daily excursions abroad. Their winter-stock of provisions being now exhausted, they were for some time reduced to great straits, and obliged to dig for roots and pig-nuts. Their fare was mended as the season advanced, and they made a nest near the bottom of a tree, where they brought up a young family. They never ranged far from home, nor ascended the higher branches of the tree, and passed great part of their time in sleep, even during the midst of summer. When autumn came, they were busily employed in collecting the nuts, acorns, and other dry fruits that fell from the trees, and laying them up in their storehouses underground. One day, as Indur was thus closely engaged at some distance from his dwelling, he was seized by a wildcat, who, after tormenting him for a time, gave him a gripe, and put him out of his pain.

From one of the smallest and most defenceless of animals, Indur found himself instantly changed into a majestic elephant, in a lofty forest in the isle of Ceylon. Elated with this wonderful advancement in the scale of creation, he stalked along with conscious dignity, and surveyed with pleasing wonder his own form and that of his companions, together with the rich scenery of the ever-verdant woods, which perfumed the air with their spicy odour, and lifted their tall heads to the clouds. Here, fearing no injury, and not desirous to do any, the gigantic herd roamed at large, feeding on the green branches which they tore down with their trunks, and bathing in deep rivers during the heat of the day; and, reposing in the depths of the forests, reclined against the massy trunks of trees by night. It was long before Indur met with any adventure that could lead him to doubt his security. But, one day, having penetrated into a close entangled thicket, he espied, lurking under the thick covert, a grim tiger, whose eyes flashed rage and fury. Though the tiger was one of the largest of his species, yet his bulk was trifling compared with that of an elephant, a single foot of which seemed sufficient to crush him; yet the fierceness and cruelty of his looks, his angry growl, and grinning teeth, struck some terror into Indur. There was little time, however, for reflection: for when Indur had advanced a single step, the tiger, setting up a roar, sprung to meet him, attempting to seize his lifted trunk. Indur was dexterous enough to receive him upon one of his tusks, and exerting all his strength, threw the tiger to a great distance. He was somewhat stunned by the fall, but recovering, renewed the assault with redoubled fury. Indur again, and a third time, threw him off; after which the tiger, turning about, bounded away into the midst of the thicket. Indur drew back, and rejoined his companions, with some abatement in the confidence he had placed in his size and strength, which had not prevented him from undergoing so dangerous an attack.

Soon after, he joined the rest of the herd, in an expedition beyond the bounds of the forest, to make depredations on some fields of maize. They committed great havoc, devouring part, but tearing up and trampling down much more; when the inhabitants taking the alarm, assembled in great numbers, and with fierce shouts and flaming brands drove them back to the woods. Not contented with this, they were resolved to make them pay for the mischief they had done, by taking some prisoners. For this purpose they enclosed a large space among the trees with strong posts and stakes, bringing it to a narrower and narrower compass, and ending at last in a passage only capable of admitting one elephant at a time. This was divided into several apartments, by strong cross-bars, which would lift up and down. They then sent out some tame female elephants bred to the business, who approaching the herd of wild ones, inveigled the males to follow them toward the enclosures. Indur was among the first who was decoyed by their artifices; and with some others following heedlessly, he got into the narrowest part of the enclosure, opposite to the passage. Here they stood awhile, doubting whether they should go farther. But the females leading the way, and uttering their cry of invitation, they ventured at length to follow. When a sufficient number was in the passage, the bars were let down by men placed for that purpose, and the elephants were fairly caught in a trap. As soon as they were sensible of their situation, they fell into a fit of rage, and with all their efforts endeavoured to break through. But the hunters throwing nooses over them, bound them fast with strong ropes and chains to the post on each side, and thus kept them without food or sleep for three days; when being exhausted with hunger and fatigue, they gave signs of sufficient tameness. They were now let out one by one, and bound each of them to two large tame elephants with riders on their backs, and thus without resistance were led away close prisoners. They were then put into separate stables, and by proper discipline, were presently rendered quite tame and gentle.

Not long after, Indur, with five more, was sent over from Ceylon to the continent of India, and sold to one of the princes of the country. He was now trained to all the services elephants are there employed in; which were, to carry people on his back in a kind of sedan, or litter, to draw cannon, ships, and other great weights, to kneel and rise at command, make obeisance to his lord, and perform all the motions and attitudes he was ordered. Thus he lived a long time well fed and caressed, clothed in costly trappings on days of ceremony, and contributing to the pomp of Eastern royalty. At length, a war broke out, and Indur came to be employed in a different scene. After proper training he was marched with a number of his fellows, into the field, bearing on his back a small wooden tower, in which were placed some soldiers with a small field-piece. They soon came in sight of the enemy, and both sides were drawn up for battle. Indur and the rest were urged forward by their leaders wondering at the same time at the scene in which they were engaged, so contrary to their nature and manners. Presently, all was involved in smoke and fire. The elephants advancing, soon put to flight those who were drawn up before them; but their career was stopped by a battery of cannon, which played furiously against them. Their vast bodies offered a fair mark to the balls, which presently struck down some, and wounded others. Indur received a shot on one of his tusks, which broke it, and put him to such pain and affright, that, turning about, he ran with all speed over the plain; and falling in with a body of their own infantry, he burst through, trampling down whole ranks, and filling them with terror and confusion. His leader having now lost all command over him, and finding him hurtful to his own party, applied the sharp instrument he carried to the nape of his neck, and driving it in with all his force, pierced his spinal marrow, so that he fell lifeless to the ground.

In the next stage of his existence, Indur, to his great surprise, found even the vast bulk of the elephant prodigiously exceeded; for he was now a whale of the largest species, rolling in the midst of the arctic seas. As he darted along, the lash of his tail made whirlpools in the mighty deep. When he opened his immense jaws he drew in a flood of brine, which, on rising to the surface, he spouted out again in a rushing fountain, that rose high in the air with the noise of a mighty cataract. All the other inhabitants of the ocean seemed as nothing to him. He swallowed, almost without knowing it, whole shoals of the smaller kinds; and the larger swiftly turned aside at his approach. “Now,” he cried to himself, “whatever other evils await me, I am certainly secure from the molestation of other animals; for what is the creature that can dare to cope with me, or measure his strength with mine?” Having said this, he saw swimming near him a fish not a quarter of his length, armed with a dreadful row of teeth. This was a grampus, which directly flying upon Indur, fastened on him, and made his great teeth meet in his flesh. Indur roared with pain, and lashed the sea, till it was all in a foam, but could neither reach nor shake off his cruel foe. He rolled over and over, rose and sunk, and exerted all his boasted strength; but to no purpose. At length, the grampus quitted his hold, and left him not a little mortified with the adventure. This was, however, forgotten, and Indur received pleasure from his new situation, as he roamed through the boundless fields of ocean, now diving to its very bottom, now shooting swiftly to its surface, and sporting with his companions in unwieldly gambols. Having chosen a mate, he took his course with her southward, and, in due time, brought up two young ones, of whom he was extremely fond. The summer season being arrived, he more frequently than usual rose to the surface, and basking in the sunbeams, floated unmoved with a large part of his huge body above the waves. As he was thus one day enjoying a profound sleep, he was awakened by a sharp instrument penetrating deep into his back. Instantly, he sprung away with the swiftness of lightning, and feeling the weapon still sticking, he dived into the recesses of the deep, and stayed there till want of air obliged him to ascend to the surface. Here another harpoon was plunged into him, the smart of which again made him fly from his unseen foes; but, after a shorter course, he was again compelled to rise, much weakened by the loss of blood, which, gushing in a torrent, tinged the waters as he passed. Another wound was inflicted, which soon brought him almost lifeless to the surface; and the line fastened to the first harpoon being now pulled in, this enormous creature was brought, an unresisting prey, to the side of a ship, where he was soon quietly despatched, and then cut to pieces.

The soul of this huge carcass had next a much narrower lodging, for Indur was changed into a bee, which, with a great multitude of its young companions, was on flight in search of a new settlement, their parents having driven them out of the hive, which was unable to contain them all. After a rambling excursion, the queen, by whom all their motions were directed, settled on the branch of a lofty tree. They all immediately clustered round her, and soon formed a large black bunch, depending from the bough. A man presently planting a ladder, ascended with a beehive, and swept them in. After they were quietly settled in their new habitation, they were placed on a stand in the garden along with some other colonies, and left to begin their labours. Every fine morning, as soon as the sun was up, the greatest part of them sallied forth, and roamed over the garden and the neighbouring fields in search of fresh and fragrant flowers. They first collected a quantity of gluey matter, with which they lined all the inside of their house. Then they brought wax, and began to make their cells, building them with the utmost regularity, though it was their first attempt, and they had no teacher. As fast as they were built, some were filled with liquid honey, gathered from the nectaries of flowers; and as they filled the cells, they sealed them up with a thin covering of wax. In other cells, the queen-bee deposited her eggs, which were to supply a new progeny for the ensuing year. Nothing could be a more pleasing sight than to behold on a sunshiny day the insects continually going forth to their labour, while others were as constantly arriving at the mouth of the hole, either with yellow balls of wax under their thighs, or full of the honey which they had drawn in with their trunks for the purpose of spouting it out into the cells of the honeycomb. Indur felt much delight in this useful and active way of life, and was always one of the first abroad at the dawn, and latest home in the evening. On rainy and foggy days they stayed at home, and employed themselves in finishing their cells, and all the necessary work within doors; and Indur, though endued with human reason, could not but admire the readiness with which he and the rest formed the most regular plans of work, all corresponding in design and execution, guided by instinct alone.

The end of autumn now approaching, the bees had filled their combs with honey; and nothing more being to be got abroad, they stayed within doors, passing most of their time in sleep. They ate a little of their store, but with great frugality; and all their meals were made in public, none daring to make free with the common stock by himself. The owner of the hives now came and took them one by one into his hand, that he might judge by the weight whether or no they were full of honey. That in which Indur was, proved to be one of the heaviest; and it was therefore resolved to take the contents. For this purpose, one cold night, when the bees were all fast asleep, the hive was placed over a hole in the ground, in which were put brimstone matches set on fire. The fumes rose into the hive, and soon suffocated great part of the bees, and stupified the rest, so that they all fell from the combs. Indur was among the dead.

He soon revived in the form of a young rabbit in a spacious warren. This was like a populous town; being everywhere hollowed by burrows running deep under ground, and each inhabited by one or more families. In the evening the warren was covered with a vast number of rabbits, old and young, some feeding, others frisking about, and pursuing one another in wanton sport. At the least alarm, they all hurried into the holes nearest them, and were in an instant safe from enemies, who either could not follow them at all or, if they did, were foiled in the chase by the numerous ways and turnings in the earth, communicating with each other, so as to afford easy means of escape. Indur delighted much in this secure and social life; and taking a mate, was soon the father of a numerous offspring. Several of the little ones, however, not being sufficiently careful, fell a prey either to hawks and crows, continually hovering over the warren, or to cats, foxes, and other wild quadrupeds, who used every art to catch them at a distance from their holes. Indur himself ran several hazards. He was once very near being caught by a little dog trained for the purpose, who kept playing round for a considerable time, not seeming to attend to the rabbits, till having got near, he all at once darted into the midst of them. Another time he received some shot from a sportsman who lay on the watch behind a hedge adjoining the warren.

The number of rabbits here was so great, that a hard winter coming on, which killed most of the vegetables, or buried them deep under the snow, they were reduced to great straits, and many were famished to death. Some turnips and hay, however, which were laid for them, preserved the greater part. The approach of spring renewed their sport and pleasure; and Indur was made the father of another family. One night, however, was fatal to them all. As they were sleeping, they were alarmed by the attack of a ferret; and running with great speed to the mouth of their burrow to escape it, they were all caught in nets placed over their holes. Indur, with the rest, was despatched by a blow on the back of the neck, and his body was sent to the nearest market-town.

His next change was into a young mastiff, brought up in a farmyard. Having nearly acquired his full size, he was sent as a present to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who wanted a faithful guard for his house and grounds. Indur presently attached himself to his master and all his family, and showed every mark of a noble and generous nature. Though fierce as a lion whenever he thought the persons or property of his friends invaded, he was as gentle as a lamb at other times, and would patiently suffer any kind of freedoms from those he loved. He permitted the children of the house to lug him about, ride on his back, and use him as roughly as their little hands were capable of; never, even when hurt, showing any displeasure further than by a low growl. He was extremely indulgent to all the other animals of his species in the yard; and when abroad would treat the impertinent barking of little dogs with silent contempt. Once, indeed, being provoked beyond bearing, not only by the noise, but by the snaps of a malicious whelp, he suddenly seized him in his open mouth; but when the bystanders thought that the poor cur was going instantly to be destroyed, they were equally diverted and pleased at seeing Indur go to the side of a muddy ditch, and drop his antagonist unhurt into the middle of it.

He had, however, more serious conflicts frequently to sustain. He was accustomed to attend the servant on market-days to the neighbouring town, when it was his office to guard the provision cart, while the man was making his purchases in the shops. On these occasions the boldest dogs in the street would sometimes make an onset in a body; and while some of them were engaging Indur, others would be mounting the cart, and pulling down the meat-baskets. Indur had much ado to defend himself and the baggage, too; however, he never failed to make some of the assailants pay dearly for their impudence; and by his loud barking, he summoned his human fellow-servant to his assistance, in time to prevent their depredations.

At length, his courage was exerted on the most important service to which it could be applied. His master returning home late one evening, was attacked near his own house by three armed ruffians. Indur heard his voice calling for help, and instantly flew to his relief. He seized one of the villains by the throat, brought him to the ground, and presently disabled him. The master, in the meantime, was keeping off the other two with a large stick, but had received several wounds with a cutlass; and one of the men had presented a pistol, and was just on the point of firing. At this moment, Indur, leaving his vanquished foe on the ground, rushed forward, and seizing the man’s arm, made him drop the pistol. The master took it up; on which the other robber fled. He now advanced to him with whom Indur was engaged, and fired the pistol at him. The ball broke the man’s arm, and thence entered the body of Indur, and mortally wounded him. He fell, but had the satisfaction of seeing his master remain lord of the field; and the servants now coming up, made prisoners of the two wounded robbers. The master threw himself by the side of Indur, and expressed the warmest concern at the accident which had made him the cause of death of the faithful animal that had preserved his life. Indur died licking his hand.

So generous a nature was now no longer to be annexed to a brutal form. Indur awaking as it were from a trance, found himself again in the happy region he had formerly inhabited, and recommenced the innocent life of a Bramin. He cherished the memory of his transmigrations, and handed them down to posterity, in a relation from which the preceding account has been extracted for the amusement of our young readers.

EVENING X.
]

THE SWALLOW AND TORTOISE.

A tortoise in a garden’s bound,
An ancient inmate of the place,
Had left his winter-quarters underground,
And, with a sober pace,
Was crawling o’er a sunny bed,
And thrusting from his shell his pretty toad-like head.

Just come from sea, a swallow,
As to and fro he nimbly flew,
Beat our old racer hollow:
At length, he stopped direct in view,
And said, “Acquaintance brisk and gay,
How have you fared this many a day?”
“Thank you,” replied the close housekeeper,
“Since you and I last autumn parted,
I’ve been a precious sleeper,
And never stirred nor started,
But in my hole I lay as snug
As fleas within a rug;
Nor did I put my head abroad
Till all the snow and ice were thawed.”
“But I,” rejoined the bird,
“Who love cold weather just as well as you,
Soon as the warning blasts I heard.
Away I flew,
And mounting in the wind,
Left gloomy winter far behind.
Directed by the mid-day sun,
O’er sea and land my venturous course I steered,
Nor was my distant journey done
Till Afric’s verdant coast appeared.
There, all the season long,
I chased gay butterflies and gnats,
And gave my negro friends a morning song,
And housed at night among the bats.
Then, at the call of spring,
I northward turned my wing,
And here again her joyous message bring.”
“Lord! what a deal of heedless ranging,”
Returned the reptile grave,
“For ever hurrying, bustling, changing,
As if it were your life to save!
Why need you visit foreign nations?
Rather like me, and some of your relations,
Take out a pleasant half-year’s nap,
Secure from trouble and mishap.”
“A pleasant nap, indeed!” replied the swallow
“When I can neither see nor fly,
The bright example I may follow
‘Till then, in truth, not I!
I measure time by its employment,
And only value life for life’s enjoyment
As good be buried all at once,
As doze out half one’s days, like you, you stupid dunce!”

THE GRASS-TRIBE.

_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry_.

_Harry._ Pray, what is that growing on the other side of the hedge?

_George._ Why it is corn—don’t you see it is in ear.

_Har._ Yes—but it seems too short for corn; and the corn we just now passed is not in ear by a great deal.

_Geo._ Then I don’t know what it is. Pray, sir, will you tell us?

_Tut._ I don’t wonder you were puzzled about it. It is a sort of grass sown for hay, and is called rye-grass.

_Har._ But how happens it that it is so very like corn?

_Tut._ There is no great wonder in that, for all corn is really a kind of grass; on the other hand, if you were a Lilliputian, every species of grass would appear to you amazing large corn.

_Geo._ Then there is no difference between corn and grass, but the size?

_Tut._ None at all.

_Har._ But we eat corn; and grass is not good to eat.

_Tut._ It is only the seeds of corn that we eat: we leave the stalks and leaves for cows and horses. Now we might eat the seeds of grass, if they were big enough to be worth gathering; and some particular kinds are in fact eaten in certain countries.

_Har._ But are wheat and barley really grass?

_Tut._ Yes—they are a species of that great family of plants, which botanists call _grasses_; and I will take this opportunity of telling you something about them. Go, George, and pull us up a root of that rye-grass. Harry and I will sit down on this stile till you come to us?

_Har._ Here is grass enough all round us.

_Tut._ Well, then, pull up a few roots that you see in ear.

_Geo._ Here is my grass.

_Har._ And here is mine.

_Tut._ Well—spread them all in a handkerchief before us. Now look at the roots of them all. What do you call them?

_Geo._ I think they are what you have told us—_fibrous_ roots.

_Tut._ Right—they consist of a bundle of strings. Then look at their stalks—you will find them jointed and hollow, like the straw of corn.

_Har._ So they are.

_Tut._ The leaves, you see, of all the kinds are very long and narrow, tapering to a point at their ends. Those of corn, you know, are the same.

_Har._ Yes—they are so like grass at first, that I can never tell the difference.

_Tut._ Next observe the ears, or heads. Some of these, you see, are thick, and close, like those of wheat or barley; others are more loose and open, like oats. The first are generally called _spikes_; the second _panicles_. If you examine them closely, you will find that they all consist of a number of distinct husky bodies, which are properly the flowers; each of which is succeeded by a single seed. I dare say you have picked ears of wheat?

_Har._ O yes—I am very fond of them!

_Tut._ Well then—you found that the grains all lay single, contained in a scaly husk making a part of the ear, or head. Before the seed was formed, there was a flower in its place. I do not mean a gay fine-coloured flower, but a few scales with threads coming out among them, each crowned with a white tip. And soon after the ears of corn appear you will find their flowers open, and these white tips coming out of them. This is the structure of the flowers and flowering heads of every one of the grass tribe.

_Geo._ But what are the _beards_ of corn?

_Tut._ The beards are bristles or points running out from the ends of the husks. They are properly called _awns_. Most of the grass-tribe have something of these, but they are much longer in some kinds than in others. In barley, you know, they are very long, and give the whole field a sort of downy or silky appearance, especially when waved by the wind.

_Har._ Are there the same kinds of corn and grass in all countries?

_Tut._ No. With respect to corn, that is in all countries the product of cultivation; and different sorts are found best to suit different climates. Thus, in the northern parts of the temperate zone, oats and rye are chiefly grown. In the middle and southern, barley and wheat. Wheat is universally the species preferred for bread-corn; but there are various kinds of it, differing from each other in size of grain, colour, and other qualities

_Har._ Does not the best wheat of all grow in England?

_Tut._ By no means. Wheat is better suited to the warmer climates, and it is only by great attention and upon particular soils that it is made to succeed well here. On the other hand, the torrid zone is too hot for wheat and our other grains; and they chiefly cultivate rice there, and Indian corn.

_Geo._ I have seen heads of Indian corn as thick as my wrist, but they do not look at all like our corn.

_Tut._ Yes—the seeds all grow single in a sort of chaffy head; and the stalk and leaves resemble those of the grass-tribe, but of a gigantic size. But there are other plants of this family, which perhaps you have not thought of.

_Geo._ What are they?

_Tut._ Canes and reeds—from the sugarcanes and bamboo of the tropics, to the common reed of our ditches, of which you make arrows. All these have the general character of the grasses.

_Har._ I know that reeds have very fine feathery heads, like the tops of grass.

_Tut._ They have so. And the stalks are composed of many joints; as are also those of the sugarcane, and of the common cane which grows in the southern countries of Europe, and of which fishing-rods are often made, as well as of the bamboo imported hither for walking-sticks, and applied to many more important uses in the countries of which it is a native. Some of these are very tall plants, but the seeds of them are small in proportion, and not useful for food. But there is yet another kind of grasslike plants common among us.

_Geo._ What is that?

_Tut._ Have you not observed in the marshes, and on the sides of ditches, a coarse broader-leaved sort of grass with large dark-coloured spikes? This is _sedge_, in Latin _carex_, and there are many sorts of it.

_Har._ What is that good for?

_Tut._ It is eaten by cattle, both fresh and dry, but is inferior in quality to good grass.

_Geo._ What is it that makes one kind of grass better than another?

_Tut._ There are various properties which give value to grasses. Some spread more than others, resist frost and drought better; yield a greater crop of leaves, and are therefore better for pasturage and hay. The juices of some are more nourishing and sweet than those of others. In general, however, different grasses are suited to different soils; and by improving soils, the quality of the grass is improved.

_Geo._ Does grass grow in all countries?

_Tut._ Yes—the green turf, which naturally covers fertile soils of all countries, is chiefly composed of grasses of various kinds. They form, therefore, the verdant carpet extended over the earth; and humble as they are, contribute more to beauty and utility, than any other part of the vegetable creation.

_Har._ What—more than trees?

_Tut._ Yes, certainly. A land entirely covered with trees would be gloomy, unwholesome, and scarcely inhabitable; whereas, the meadow, the down, and the cornfield, afford the most agreeable prospects to the eye, and furnish every necessary, and many of the luxuries of life. Give us corn and grass, and what shall we want for food?

_Har._ Let me see—what should we have? There’s bread and flour for puddings.

_Geo._ Ay, and milk, for you know cows live on grass and hay—so there’s cheese and butter and all things that are made of milk.

_Tut._ And are there not all kinds of meat too, and poultry? And then for drink, there are beer and ale, which are made from barley. For all these we are chiefly indebted to _the grasses_.

_Geo._ Then I am sure we are very much obliged to the grasses.

_Tut._ Well—let us now walk homeward. Some time hence you shall make a collection of all the kinds of grasses, and learn to know them from each other.

A TEA LECTURE.

_Tutor_—_Pupil_.

_Tutor._ Come—the tea is ready. Lay by your book, and let us talk a little. You have assisted in tea-making a great many times, and yet I dare say you never considered what kind of an operation it was.

_Pupil._ An operation of cookery—is it not?

_Tut._ You may call it so: but it is properly an operation of _chymistry_.

_Pup._ Of chymistry! I thought that had been a very deep sort of a business.

_Tut._ O—there are many things in common life that belong to the deepest of sciences. Making tea is the chymical operation called _infusion_, which is, when a hot liquor is poured upon a substance in order to extract something from it. The water, you see, extracts from the tea-leaves their colour, taste, and flavour.

_Pup._ Would not cold water do the same?

_Tut._ It would, but more slowly. Heat assists almost all liquors in their power of extracting the virtues of herbs and other substances. Thus good housewives were formerly used to boil their tea, in order to get all goodness from it as completely as possible. The greater heat and agitation of boiling make it act more powerfully. The liquor in which a substance has been boiled is called a _decoction_ of that substance.

_Pup._ Then we had a decoction of mutton at dinner to-day.

_Tut._ We had—broth is a decoction, and so are gruel and barley-water. But when anything is put to steep in a cold liquor it is called _maceration_. The ingredients of which ink is made are _macerated_. In all these cases, you see, the whole substance does not mix with the liquor, but only part of it. The reason is, that part of it is _soluble_ in the liquor, and part not.

_Pup._ What is the meaning of that?

_Tut._ Solution is when a solid put into a fluid entirely disappears in it, leaving the liquor clear. Thus when I throw this lump of sugar into my tea, you see it gradually wastes away till it is all gone, and then I can taste it in every single drop of my tea; but the tea is as clear as before.

_Pup._ Salt would do the same.

_Tut._ It would. But if I were to throw in a lump of chalk, it would lie undissolved at the bottom.

_Pup._ But it would make the water white.

_Tut._ True, while it was stirred; and then it would be a _diffusion_. But while the chalk was thus mixed with the liquor, it would lose its transparency, and not recover it again till, by standing, the chalk had all subsided and left the liquor as it was before.

_Pup._ How is the cream mixed with the tea?

_Tut._ Why, that is only _diffused_, for it takes away the transparency of the tea. But the particles of cream being finer and lighter than those of chalk, it remains longer united with the liquor. However, in time the cream would separate too, and rise to the top, leaving the tea clear. Now, suppose you had a mixture of sugar, salt, chalk, and tea-leaves, and were to throw it into water, either hot or cold; what would be the effect?

_Pup._ The sugar and salt would be dissolved and disappear. The tea-leaves would yield their colour and taste. The chalk—I do not know what would become of that.

_Tut._ Why, if the mixture were stirred, the chalk would be diffused through it, and make it _turbid_ or muddy; but on standing, it would leave it unchanged.

_Pup._ Then there would remain at bottom the chalk and tea-leaves?

_Tut._ Yes. The clear liquor would contain in _solution_ salt, sugar, and those particles of the tea in which its colour and taste consisted; the remainder of the tea and the chalk would lie undissolved.

_Pup._ Then I suppose tea-leaves, after the tea is made, are lighter than at first.

_Tut._ Undoubtedly. If taken out and dried they would be found to have lost part of their weight, and the water would have gained it. Sometimes, however, it is an extremely small portion of a substance which is soluble, but it is that in which its most remarkable qualities reside. Thus a small piece of spice will communicate a strong flavour to a large quantity of liquid, with very little loss of weight.

_Pup._ Will all liquors dissolve the same things?

_Tut._ By no means. Many dissolve in water that will not in spirit of wine; and the contrary. And upon this difference many curious matters in the arts are founded. Thus, spirit-varnish is made of a solution of various gums or resins in spirits that will not dissolve in water. Therefore, when it has been laid over any surface with a brush, and is become dry, the rain or moisture of the air will not affect it. This is the case with the beautiful varnish laid upon coaches. On the other hand, the varnish left by gum-water could not be washed off by spirits.

_Pup._ I remember when I made gum-water, upon setting the cup in a warm place, it all dried away, and left the gum just as it was before. Would the same happen if I had sugar or salt dissolved in water?

_Tut._ Yes, upon exposing the solution to warmth, it would dry away, and you would get back your salt and sugar in a solid state as before.

_Pup._ But if I were to do so with a cup of tea, what should I get?

_Tut._ Not tea-leaves, certainly! But your question requires a little previous explanation. It is the property of heat to make most things fly off in vapour, which is called _evaporation_, or _exhalation_. But this it does in very different degrees to different substances. Some are very easily made to _evaporate_; others very difficultly; and others not at all by the most violent fire we can raise. Fluids in general are easily _evaporable_; but not equally so. Spirit of wine flies off in vapour much sooner than water; so that if you had a mixture of the two, by applying a gentle heat you might drive off almost all the spirit, while the greater part of the water would remain. Water, again, is more evaporable than oil. Some solid substances are much disposed to evaporate: thus, smelling salts may by a little heat be entirely driven away in the air. But in general, solids are more _fixed_ than fluids; and, therefore, when a solid is dissolved in a fluid, it may commonly be recovered again by evaporation. By this operation common salt is got from seawater and salt springs, both artificially, and, in hot countries, by the natural heat of the sun. When the water is no more than is just sufficient to dissolve the salt, it is called a _saturated solution_, and on evaporating the water further, the salt begins to separate, forming little regular masses called _crystals_. Sugar may be made in like manner to form crystals, and then it is sugar-candy.

_Pup._ But what is a sirup?

_Tut._ That is when so much sugar is dissolved as sensibly to thicken the liquor, but not to separate from it. Well—now to your question about tea. On exposing it to considerable heat, those fine particles in which its flavour consists, being as _volatile_ or evaporable as the water, would fly off along with it; and when the liquor came to dryness, there would be left only those particles in which its roughness and colour consist. This would make what is called an _extract_ of a plant.

_Pup._ What becomes of the water that evaporates?