Chapter IX: Introduction (7)

_R._ I must then answer your question by another. How have _you_ passed your life?

_A._ Like a hero. Ask Fame and she will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns, the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest.

_R._ And does not fame speak of me, too? Was there ever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever—but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not been easily subdued.

_A._ Still, what are you but a robber—a base dishonest robber?

_R._ And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too, gone about the earth like an evil genius, blasting the fair fruits of peace and industry;—plundering, ravaging, killing without law, without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion? All that I have done to a single district with a hundred followers, you have done to whole nations with a hundred thousand. If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burnt a few hamlets, you have desolated the most flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then the difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?

_A._ But if I have taken like a king, I have given like a king. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. I have cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy.

_R._ I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took from the rich. I have established order and discipline among the most ferocious of mankind; and have stretched out my protecting arm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosophy you talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall ever repay to the world the mischiefs we have done it.

_A._ Leave me—take off his chains, and use him well. (_Exit robber._) Are we then so much alike?—Alexander to a robber?—Let me reflect.

EVENING XIII.
]

THE COUNCIL OF QUADRUPEDS.

Among the large branches of an aged oak, which grew in the midst of a thick wood, lived once upon a time a wildcat. In that tree she was born and brought up, and had nursed many litters of kittens; her mother and her grandmother, had lived there before her; indeed, I believe that, as long as the oak had been an oak, this family of wildcats had made it their home.

One day, as she was couching among some bushes near the foot of her tree, watching her opportunity to spring upon any poor little bird who might happen to alight within her reach, she heard a great rustling in the thicket, and presently two men pushed their way through, and stood before her. This part of the forest was so tangled and wild, and so far from any human habitation, that it was a rare thing to see men there, and the cat wondered very much why they came; so she lay quite still in her hiding-place, watching them and listening to hear what they should say. She soon discovered that they were woodcutters, for each was armed with an axe, which he carried upon his shoulder.

Presently one said to his fellow, “Is it all to be cut down?”—“All the whole forest,” answered the other, “and the ground is to be ploughed up and sown with corn, but the largest trees are to be felled first.”—“If that be the case,” said the first, “we cannot begin better than with this noble oak before us, and I will put a mark on it that we may know it again.” So saying, he pulled out a piece of chalk, and made a large white cross on the bark of the poor cat’s own tree. “Next week,” added he, “we will lay the axe to the root.” And he walked on, whistling with great unconcern.

The unfortunate cat lay a long time on the ground, half dead with grief and terror, and unable to move a limb. At length, after uttering several cries so loud and shrill that the whole forest seemed to ring again, she started up, and ran like one distracted to spread the dismal news among her neighbours of the wood. The first creature that she met was the stag: he had just started up from his lair, amid the thickest cover, and stood listening, ready to bound away on the first appearance of danger. “Was it you, neighbour puss,” cried he, “who set up that frightful yell which I heard? I almost thought the hounds and hunters were upon me;—but what is the matter?”—“Matter enough,” answered the cat; “worse than either hounds or hunters; the forest is to be cut down.” And she told him her sad story. “The forest cut down!” brayed out the poor stag, while the tears ran in large drops down his hairy face; “and what is to become of me and you, and all our neighbours? Man has always been my enemy, but this is a stroke of cruelty which I did not expect even from him. Is there no help, no remedy?”—“I will fight for my tree,” cried the cat, “as long as teeth and claws hold good: and you with your great horns may surely defend your own thicket; but this _man_ is a terrible creature, and he has so many crafty tricks, that I know nobody, except the fox, who is at all a match for him; suppose we run and ask his advice.” “With all my heart,” said the stag; and they marched away together in search of him.

The fox had his abode near the skirts of the forest, in the middle of a dry bank, thickly covered with bushes and brambles. His hole was burrowed deep into the earth, and cunningly contrived with several openings on different sides, by which he might make his escape in case of danger. The cat put her head in at one of the entrances, and called to him to come out; but it was not till he had carefully peeped about, and thoroughly satisfied himself that all was safe, that cunning Reynard ventured to trust himself abroad.

In great distress the stag related the cause of their coming. “I have heard something of this matter before,” replied the fox; “but you are too condescending to come and ask the advice of a simple creature like myself, who never yet knew what policy or artifice meant, and—.” Here the cat and the stag eagerly interrupted him, and with one voice began to compliment him on the sagacity and wisdom for which all the world gave him credit, declaring that their whole hope and consolation rested on his counsels. “Well,” returned the fox, “since you will have it so, though I blush to utter my poor thoughts before beasts so much my superiors, I will venture with all humility to suggest, that a general meeting be immediately summoned of all the animals of the forest, in order that we may take our measures in concert, and after hearing the opinions of all.”

“An excellent proposal!” cried the stag. “An excellent proposal!” echoed the cat; “but who shall we send to call them all together?”—“I would go to them myself,” replied the fox, “but it is possible that some of the smaller animals might doubt the innocence of my intentions, and refuse to come; for I have been a much calumniated creature. The same thing might happen with you, neighbour Puss; the squirrel and the mouse especially....” “True,” cried the cat, “they would, perhaps, be taking some idle notions into their heads....” “And as to my lord the stag,” rejoined Reynard, “he is a beast of far too exalted a rank for such an office. Stay, there is my worthy friend the hedgehog, suppose we send him; a little slow of foot, to be sure, and not wonderfully bright; but a plain honest creature as any that lives, well spoken of throughout the forest, and the enemy of no one, except indeed of the flies and the beetles; but we do not call the insects to council, of course.”—“Of course,” rejoined the cat; “but what shall we say to the reptiles?”—“Why, as to my neighbour the viper,” returned the fox, “I own I am inclined to think favourably of him, whatever some may whisper to his disadvantage; his temper indeed may be none of the mildest, but he knows how to make himself respected, and I think we must by no means leave him out; and if he is admitted, in common civility his cousin the snake must be invited also.”—“And what say you to the toad, the frog, and the newt?” asked the stag. “Poor creatures,” said the fox with a sneer, “your lordship is certainly very condescending to remember the existence of beings so inferior. They sit in our council, truly! However, I would by no means give offence, at a time like this, even to the meanest—they may be permitted to hear the debate, provided they do not presume to speak among their betters.”

The fox now called in a somewhat imperious tone to the hedgehog to come forth. At the sound of his voice, the little creature roused himself with some difficulty from his morning’s nap, and hastily unrolling himself and clearing his prickly coat from the grass and dead leaves that stuck in it, and added not a little to his rude, slovenly appearance, he crept out from his hole under the roots of a tree, and inquired with much humility what Mr. Reynard wanted with him. The fox explained in few words the alarming occurrence of the morning, and thus proceeded to give the hedgehog his orders:—

“You are to summon all our good neighbours to meet this evening, an hour before sunset, under the great yew-tree that stands by itself near the centre of the wood. Please to attend, and I will name them to you in their order, that you may make no mistakes. First, you turn down into yonder dingle, and there, just beyond the old poplar which is blown up by the roots and lies across the way, look very sharp, and in a snug sheltered nook you will spy a hole running down into the steep bank; at the bottom of it you will find the badger. Beg him to come without fail; excepting the present company there is no animal in the forest of greater size and consequence, nor whom I respect more. A little lower down, on the very brink of the stream, lives my cousin the polecat;—a damp situation, I should think, but they say he sometimes amuses himself with fishing. He is a sharp fellow; we must by all means have him at our council.

“The weasel comes next, and you will find him in a hollow tree not far off. If the squirrel be not frolicking as usual among the boughs of the large beech in which he has his nest, nuts are now ripe, and you must look for him in the hazel-copse on the left. If I do not mistake, you will also find the dormouse lodged under the roots of that large oak hard by which is so full of acorns; and the woodmouse is his next-door neighbour.

“You must then turn off toward the edge of the forest, and search among the fern-brakes till you find the hare; she sits close in her form all day. Assure her that we are extremely desirous of her company; and if she, or any other of our good neighbours, should make the smallest scruple of meeting puss or myself, be sure to mention that my lord the stag passes his word for their safety, both coming and returning. The snake will probably be sunning himself on the grass a little lower down; and in the dry part of the wood above, if you look narrowly, you will spy the viper lurking among the dead leaves. And now you may be gone.”

The hedgehog trudged off with his commission.

In the evening every one of the animals made his appearance under the yew-tree, except the little lazy dormouse, who had just opened his eyes when the hedgehog delivered his message, then turned himself round, fallen asleep again, and forgotten the whole matter.

As undoubted lord of the forest, the stag took the upper place; puss seated herself on his right, and Reynard on his left; the others placed themselves in due order below. The stag opened the business of the day by calling upon the cat to relate what she had that morning seen and heard. Immediately, the afflicted creature yelled out her dismal tale, ending with a long and melancholy mew which was echoed by every animal present in his own note; the stag brayed, the fox howled, the polecat and weasel cried, the badger and squirrel growled, the snake and viper hissed, the hare screamed, and the mouse squeaked. When the din of these discordant noises had a little subsided, “My friends,” said the stag, “lamentations are in vain, let us now consider what is to be done; shall we look on in tame submission to see our native wood levelled with the earth, and ourselves turned out upon the wide world to seek for food and shelter wherever we may find them, or shall we not rather all join to defend it with such weapons as nature has given us? Let the cat speak first.”

“I am for open war,” cried puss; “these teeth and these talons were not bestowed upon me for nothing;” (and as she spoke she unsheathed a set of claws at sight of which the mouse and the squirrel trembled all over.) “The first man who attacks my tree shall feel them in his eyes; I will defend my native home as long as I have breath in my body. Who is of the same mind?”

“Reynard, let us hear your opinion,” said the stag. “I beg to speak last,” said the crafty fox; “perhaps I have not yet made up my opinion.”

“For my part,” growled out the badger, thrusting forward his clumsy person as he spoke, “I am not so cunning as some folks; I speak my mind and care for nobody; and I have only this to say—that I never attack first, but I have strong teeth and a tough hide; and if anybody attempts to turn me out of my den, whether man, dog, or any other beast, I shall try to make him repent it.”

It was observed that the badger, as he spoke, threw a sullen look at the fox, which plainly showed that he had not forgotten the knavish trick by which Reynard had once contrived to turn him out of a hole which he had dug with the labours of his own claws, and to keep possession of it for himself.

The viper now glided forward in easy curves, and coiling himself up, and darting out his forked tongue in a threatening attitude, “Man,” said he, “is my enemy, and I am his; let him set foot in my dominions if he dares; I have a venom in my fangs which will soon teach him that my anger is not to be despised.”

“I,” murmured out the snake, “have no venom to boast; I am an innocent and defenceless creature, and I own that so far from attempting to resist the invader, I shall quickly retreat from his approach. Nature, in her bounty, has endued me with the power of swimming; and when I can no longer find a shelter beneath these quiet shades, I shall plunge into the stream which bounds our domain, and seek a safer retreat among the tall weeds which flourish on its farther shore.”

“As for me,” feebly screamed out the hare, as she limped forth, staring around her with a look of affright, “all the world must be aware how weak and timid a creature I am. It has been said that I have many friends, but I have never yet found a protector, and cruel and powerful enemies lie in wait for my harmless life on every side. What will become of me I know not, probably some evil end awaits me; but I shall use these nimble legs, my only hope of safety, to bear me far away from the dreadful sight of man.”

The sprightly squirrel came forward with a bound. “I have teeth,” cried he, “very able to crack a nut, and claws by which I can cling fast enough to a bough, but how am I to contend against the mighty power of man? He would twist off my poor little head before I could draw one drop of blood from his finger. It is true that I can live only in trees, and one might as well die fighting as pine away with misery and hunger; but I have better things in view than either. From the summit of my beech, I have often observed, at some distance on the farther side of the river, a group of noble chestnuts growing in a park, which would supply me both with food and lodging. I have also discovered a spot where two trees on opposite sides of the stream stretch forth their arms, and nearly meet above:—I have made up my mind to the adventure; one bold leap will bear me safely, I hope, to the farther shore, and the new and beautiful country that lies beyond it.”

“I believe,” squeaked a small shrill voice which was found to proceed from the mouse, “that my services would be of small importance in a war against mankind; and I do not offer them. To say the truth, I find myself, on second thoughts, not greatly concerned in this affair. If I lose my nuts and acorns by the fall of the trees, I shall get wheat, barley, and oats, in exchange, which are not worse eating, and I can lodge full as well in the middle of a corn-rick as under the roots of a tree.—Every one for himself in this world.”

“Our little friend is much in the right,” cried the weasel; “I really believe that we shall find vastly comfortable lodging about barns and farmhouses, and the very thought of a poultry-yard makes my mouth water: for such an exchange I should not object to giving up my quarters in the wood to-morrow.”—“Nor I, I protest,” exclaimed the polecat. “Hens’ eggs are not bad things, and how delicious to fatten on the blood of turkeys, geese, and chickens! A forest is not absolutely necessary to me; I can hide myself well enough in a hedge, or under a ditch-bank.”

“Reynard,” said the stag, “all have spoken now but you, and we are impatient for your opinion.”

The fox arose, cast his eyes on the ground with an air of great modesty, and after pausing a few moments, as if to gain courage to speak, he thus began, gracefully waving his long bushy tail as he spoke:—“While I listened to the warlike eloquence of the cat, to the indignant harangue of the viper, and to the resolute speech of my worthy friend, the badger, I. like them, felt myself inspired with the valiant resolution to die in defence of our native wood, and in open war with man. But when I afterward began to consider the weakness of our lesser brethren, the smallness of our numbers, and the wonderful power and resources of man, I was induced to change my opinion. We cannot hope for victory, why should we throw away our lives? The viper, in spite of his courage and his venom, would be caught by the neck in a cleft stick, and put ingloriously to death very likely before he had been able to inflict a single bite. The badger is a favourite object of the cruelty of man; he would set upon him his whole troop of dogs, hateful brutes, who are always joined in league with him against their fellow beasts!—and though my worthy friend would fight like a hero, and kill or maim several of them, he would at length be torn in pieces. Of what avail would be the teeth and claws of the cat against that thunder and lightning by which man has the art of killing from afar? She would be brought down from her highest bough pierced through the head or the heart, before she could even see that enemy whose eyes she threatens to tear out with her talons. Even you yourself, my lord stag, would assuredly fall by the teeth of those detestable hounds after you had gored three or four of the pack. I therefore propose more cautious measures. Not far off is a wide unfrequented common, where the badger may dig himself a den and remain at peace, and where the viper may glide undisturbed among the heath and gorse. I have scarcely given a thought to the humble concerns of my insignificant self; but perhaps I too may find some cover in that neglected tract, which abounds also in wild rabbits. For you, my lord stag, you have only to swim the stream to find yourself, like the squirrel, in a noble park where man himself would be proud to become your protector, and own you for the noblest ornament of his domain. And why should not puss offer her services to hunt the mice and rats at some snug farmhouse in the neighbourhood?”

“I!” interrupted puss, setting up her back and swelling in sudden anger, “I become a fawning menial in the dwellings of man, like those miserable little foreigners who have sometimes appeared in my sight, and whom I am ashamed to own for cats! No, I am a beast of prey, a free native of the English woods, and such I will live and die. Man may hunt me down, he may destroy my whole race, as he has already hunted down and destroyed the bear and the wolf, animals much my superiors in size and in strength; but I disdain to become his household servant, or to skulk, like some of vermin breed, about his outhouses, and poultry-yards, picking up a base living by theft and rapine. And you, Reynard, crafty knave as you are, do you think I do not see through your tricks and your pretences? You too, like the weasel and polecat, have an eye on the poultry-yard and the sheepfold; you live by man though he hates you, and endeavours to destroy you, and you care not what becomes of the lives or liberty of nobler animals: but I will reach _your_ eyes at least, and teach you what it is to provoke me.” So saying, she flew at him in a fury: her first attack brought him to the ground, and he was almost blinded before he could strike a blow in his own defence. The polecat and weasel, thinking their turns would come next, slunk away; the hare and the smaller animals followed their example; even the stag himself was seized with a panic and fled. The badger alone stood and looked on with great composure at the distress of Reynard. At length, the fox, seeing puss almost out of breath, made a desperate effort and broke loose from her clutches. With his usual cunning he ran toward the river, well knowing that the cat would not wet her feet. He plunged into the water before she could overtake him, and swimming with some difficulty to the opposite side, threw himself on the bank half dead with pain and fright. Puss returned to her tree disappointed and sullen; and thus unprofitably ended the Council of Quadrupeds.

TIT FOR TAT.—A TALE.

A law there is of ancient fame,
By Nature’s self in every land implanted,
_Lex Talionis_ is its Latin name;
But if an English term we wanted,
Give your next neighbour but a pat,
He’ll give you back as good, and tell you—_tit for tat_.

This _tit for tat_, it seems, not men alone,
But elephants, for legal justice own;
In proof of this a story I shall tell ye,
Imported from the famous town of Delhi.

A mighty elephant that swell’d the state
Of Aurengzebe the Great,
One day was taken by his driver,
To drink and cool him in the river;
The driver on his neck was seated,
And, as he rode along,
By some acquaintance in the throng
With a ripe cocoa-nut was treated.

A cocoa-nut’s a pretty fruit enough,
But guarded by a shell, both hard and tough.
The fellow tried, and tried, and tried,
Working and sweating,
Pishing and fretting,
To find out its inside,
And pick the kernel for his eating.

At length quite out of patience grown,
“Who’ll reach me up,” he cries, “a stone
To break this plaguy shell?
But stay, I’ve here a solid bone
May do perhaps as well.”
So half in earnest, half in jest,
He bang’d it on the forehead of his beast.

An elephant, they say has human feeling,
And full as well as we he knows
The difference between words and blows,
Between horse-play and civil dealing.
Use him but well, he’ll do his best,
And serve you faithfully and truly;
But insults unprovoked he can’t digest,
He studies o’er them, and repays them duly.

“To make my head an anvil, (thought the creature,)
Was never, certainly, the will of Nature;
So, master mine! you may repent;”
Then, shaking his broad ears, away he went.
The driver took him to the water,
And thought no more about the matter:
But elephant within his memory hid it;
He _felt_ the wrong,—the other only _did_ it.

A week or two elapsed, one market-day
Again the beast and driver took their way;
Through rows of shops and booths they pass’d
With eatables and trinkets stored,
Till to a gard’ner’s stall they came at last,
Where cocoa-nuts lay piled upon the board,—
“Ha!” thought the elephant, “’tis now my turn
To show this method of nut-breaking:
My friend above will like to learn,
Though at the cost of a head-aching.”

Then in his curling trunk he took a heap,
And waved it o’er his neck a sudden sweep,
And on the hapless driver’s sconce
He laid a blow so hard and full,
That crack’d the nuts at once,
But with them crack’d his scull.

Young folks whene’er you feel inclined
To rompish sports and freedoms roughs,
Bear _tit for tat_ in mind,
Nor give an elephant a cuff,
To be repaid in kind.

ON WINE AND SPIRITS.

George and Harry, accompanied by their tutor, went one day to pay a visit to a neighbouring gentleman, their father’s friend. They were very kindly received, and shown all about the gardens and pleasure-grounds; but nothing took their fancy so much as an extensive grapery, hung round with bunches of various kinds fully ripe, and almost too big for the vines to support. They were liberally treated with the fruit, and carried away some bunches to eat as they walked. During their return, as they were picking their grapes, George said to the tutor, “A thought is just come into my head, sir. Wine, you know is called the juice of the grape; but wine is hot, and intoxicates people that drink much of it. Now we have had a good deal of grape-juice this morning, and yet I do not feel heated, nor does it seem at all to have got into our heads. What is the reason of this?”

_Tut._ The reason is, that grape-juice is not wine, though wine is made from it.

_Geo._ Pray how is it made, then?

_Tut._ I will tell you; for it is a matter worth knowing. The juice pressed from the grapes, called _must_, is at first a sweet watery liquor, with a little tartness, but with no strength or spirit. After it has stood awhile, it begins to grow thick and muddy, it moves up and down, and throws scum and bubbles of air to the surface. This is called _working_ or _fermenting_. It continues in this state for some time, more or less, according to the quantity of the juice and the temperature of the weather, and then gradually settles again, becoming clearer than at first. It has now lost its sweet flat taste, and acquired a briskness and pungency, with a heating and intoxicating property; that is, it has become _wine_. This natural process is called the _vinous fermentation_, and many liquors besides grape-juice are capable of undergoing it.

_Geo._ I have heard of the working of beer and ale. Is that of the same kind?

_Tut._ It is: and beer and ale may properly be called barley-wine; for you know they are clear, brisk, and intoxicating. In the same manner, cider is apple-wine, and mead is honey-wine; and you have heard of raisin-wine and currant-wine, and a great many others.

_Har._ Yes, there is elder-wine, and cowslip-wine and orange-wine.

_Geo._ Will everything of that sort make wine?

_Tut._ All vegetable juices that are sweet are capable of fermenting, and of producing a liquor of a vinous nature; but if they have little sweetness, the liquor is proportionally weak and poor, and is apt to become sour or vapid.

_Har._ But barley is not sweet.

_Tut._ Barley as it comes from the ear is not; but before it is used for brewing, it is made into _malt_, and then it is sensibly sweet. You know what malt is?

_Har._ I have seen heaps of it in the malt-house, but I do not know how it is made.

_Tut._ Barley is made malt by putting it in heaps and wetting it, when it becomes hot, and swells, and would sprout out just as if it were sown, unless it were then dried in a kiln. By this operation it acquires a sweet taste. You have drunk sweet-wort?

_Har._ Yes.

_Tut._ Well, this is made by steeping malt in hot water. The water extracts and dissolves all the sweet or sugary part of the malt. It then becomes like a naturally sweet juice.

_Geo._ Would not sugar and water then make wine?

_Tut._ It would; and the wines made in England of our common fruits and flowers have all a good deal of sugar in them. Cowslip flowers, for example, give little more than the flavour to the wine named from them, and it is the sugar added to them which properly makes the wine.

_Geo._ But none of these wines are so good as grape-wine?

_Tut._ No. The grape, from the richness and abundance of its juice, is the fruit universally preferred for making wine, where it comes to perfection, which it seldom does in our climate, except by means of artificial heat.

_Geo._ I suppose, then, grapes are finest in the hottest countries?

_Tut._ Not so, neither; they are properly a fruit of the temperate zone, and do not grow well between the tropics. And in very hot countries it is scarcely possible to make wines of any kind to keep, for they ferment so strongly as to turn sour almost immediately.

_Geo._ I think I have read of palm-wine on the coast of Guinea.

_Tut._ Yes. A sweet juice flows abundantly from incisions in certain species of the palm; which ferments immediately, and makes a very pleasant sort of weak wine. But it must be drunk the same day it is made, for on the next it is as sour as vinegar.

_Geo._ What is vinegar—is it not sour wine?

_Tut._ Everything that makes wine will make vinegar also; and the stronger the wine the stronger the vinegar. The vinous fermentation must be first brought on, but it need not produce perfect wine, for when the intention is to make vinegar, the liquor is kept still warm, and it goes on without stopping to another kind of fermentation, called the _acetous_, the product of which is vinegar.

_Geo._ I have heard of alegar. I suppose that is vinegar made of ale.

_Tut._ It is—but as ale is not so strong as wine, the vinegar made from it is not so sharp or perfect. But housewives make good vinegar with sugar and water.

_Har._ Will vinegar make people drunk if they take too much of it?

_Tut._ No: the wine loses its intoxicating quality as well as its taste on turning to vinegar.

_Geo._ What are spirituous liquors—have they not something to do with wine?

_Tut._ Yes: they consist of the spirituous or intoxicating part of wine separated from the rest. You may remember that, on talking of distillation, I told you that it was the raising of a liquor in steam or vapour, and condensing it again; and that some liquors were more easily turned to vapour than others, and were therefore called more volatile or evaporable. Now, wine is a mixed or compound liquor, of which the greater part is water; but what heats and intoxicates is _vinous spirit_. This spirit being much more volatile than water, on the application of a gentle heat, flies off in vapour, and may be collected by itself in distilling vessels;—and thus are made spirituous liquors.

_Geo._ Will everything that you called wine yield spirits?

_Tut._ Yes: everything that has undergone the vinous fermentation. Thus, in England a great deal of malt spirit is made from a kind of wort brought into fermentation, and then set directly to distil, without first making ale or beer of it. Gin is a spirituous liquor also got from corn, and flavoured with juniper berries. Even potatoes, carrots, and turnips, may be made to afford spirits, by first fermenting their juices. In the West Indies, rum is distilled from the dregs of the sugarcanes, washed out by water and fermented. But brandy is distilled from the fermented juice of the grape, and is made in the wine countries.

_Geo._ Is spirit of wine different from spirituous liquors?

_Tut._ It is the strongest part of them got by distilling over again; for all these still contain a good deal of water, along with a pure spirit, which may be separated by a gentler heat than was used at first. But in order to procure this as strong and pure as possible, it must be distilled several times over, always leaving some of the watery part behind. When perfectly pure, it is the same, whatever spirituous liquor it is got from.

_Har._ My mamma has little bottles of lavender water. What is that?

_Tut._ It is a spirit of wine flavoured with lavender flowers; and it may in like manner be flavoured with many other fragrant things, since their odoriferous part is volatile, and will rise in vapour along with the spirit.

_Har._ Will not spirit of wine burn violently?

_Geo._ That it will, I can tell you: and so will rum and brandy; for you know it was set on fire when we made snap-dragon.

_Tut._ All spirituous liquors are highly inflammable, and the more so the purer they are. One way of trying the purity of spirit is to see if it will burn all away without leaving any moisture behind. Then it is much lighter than water, and that affords another way of judging of its strength. A hollow ivory ball is set to swim in it; and the deeper it sinks down, the lighter, and therefore the more spirituous, is the liquor.

_Geo._ I have heard much of the mischief done by spirituous liquors—pray what good do they do?

_Tut._ The use and abuse of wine and spirits is a very copious subject; and there is scarcely any gift of human art, the general effects of which are more dubious. You know what wine is said to be given for in the Bible?

_Geo._ To make glad the heart of man.

_Tut._ Right. And nothing has such an immediate effect in inspiring vigour of body and mind as wine. It banishes sorrow and care, recruits from fatigue, enlivens the fancy, inflames the courage, and performs a hundred fine things, of which I could bring you abundant proof from the poets. The physicians, too, speak almost as much in its favour, both in diet and medicine. But its really good effects are only when used in moderation; and it unfortunately is one of those things which man can hardly be brought to use moderately. Excess in wine brings on effects the very contrary to its benefits. It stupifies and enfeebles the mind, and fills the body with incurable diseases. And this it does even when used without intoxication. But a drunken man loses for the time every distinction of a reasonable creature, and becomes worse than a brute beast. On this account Mahomet entirely forbade its use to his followers, and to this day it is not publicly drunk in any of the countries that receive the Mohammedan religion.

_Har._ Was not that right?

_Tut._ I think not. If we were entirely to renounce every thing that may be misused, we should have scarce any enjoyments left; and it is a proper exercise of our strength of mind to use good things with moderation, when we have it in our power to do otherwise.

_Geo._ But spirituous liquors are not good at all, are they?

_Tut._ They have so little good and so much bad in them, that I confess I wish their common use could be abolished altogether. They are generally taken by the lowest class of people for the express purpose of intoxication; and they are much sooner prejudicial to the health than wine, and, indeed, when drunk unmixed, are no better than slow poison.

_Geo._ Spirit of wine is useful, though, for several things—is it not?

_Tut._ Yes; and I would have all spirits kept in the hands of chymists and artists who know how to employ them usefully. Spirits of wine will dissolve many things that water will not. Apothecaries use them in drawing tinctures, and artists in preparing colours and making varnishes. They are likewise very powerful preservatives from corruption. You may have seen serpents and insects brought from abroad in vials full of spirits.

_Geo._ I have.

_Har._ And I know of another use of spirits.

_Tut._ What, is that?

_Har._ To burn in lamps. My grandmamma has a teakettle with a lamp under it to keep the water hot, and she burns spirits in it.

_Tut._ So she does. Well—so much for the use of these liquors.

_Geo._ But you have said nothing about ale and beer. Are they wholesome?

_Tut._ Yes, in moderation. But they are sadly abused too, and rob many men of their health as well as their money and senses.

_Geo._ Small beer does no harm, however.

_Tut._ No—and we will indulge in a good draught of it when we get home.

_Har._ I like water better.

_Tut._ Then drink it by all means. He that is satisfied with water has one want the less, and may defy thirst, in this country, at least.

The Trial, p. 172.

EVENING XIV.
]

THE BOY WITHOUT A GENIUS.

Mr. Wiseman, the schoolmaster, at the end of the summer-vacation, received a new scholar with the following letter:—

“SIR:—This will be delivered to you by my son Samuel, whom I beg leave to commit to your care, hoping that, by your well-known skill and attention, you will be able to make something of him, which, I am sorry to say, none of his masters have hitherto done. He is now eleven, and yet can do nothing but read his mother-tongue, and that but indifferently. We sent him, at seven, to a grammar-school in our neighbourhood; but his master soon found that his genius was not turned to learning languages. He was then put to writing, but he set about it so awkwardly that he made nothing of it. He was tried at accounts, but it appeared that he had no genius for that either. He could do nothing in geography for want of memory. In short, if he has any genius at all, it does not yet show itself. But I trust to your experience in cases of this nature, to discover what he is fit for, and to instruct him accordingly. I beg to be favoured shortly with your opinion about him, and remain, sir,

“Your most obedient servant,
“HUMPHREY ACRES.”

When Mr. Wiseman had read this letter, he shook his head, and said to his assistant:—“A pretty subject they have sent us here! a lad that has a great genius for nothing at all. But perhaps my friend Mr. Acres expects that a boy should show a genius for a thing before he knows anything about it—no uncommon error! Let us see, however, what the youth looks like. I suppose he is a human creature, at least.”

Master Samuel Acres was now called in. He came hanging down his head, and looking as if he was going to be flogged.

“Come hither, my dear!” said Mr. Wiseman, “stand by me, and do not be afraid. Nobody will hurt you. How old are you?”

“Eleven, last May, sir.”

“A well-grown boy of your age, indeed. You love play, I dare say?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What, are you a good hand at marbles?”

“Pretty good, sir.”

“And can spin a top, and drive a hoop, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you have the full use of your hands and fingers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can you write, Samuel?”

“I learned a little, sir, but I left it off again.”

“And why so?”

“Because I could not make the letters.”

“No! Why, how do you think other boys do—have they more fingers than you?”

“No, sir.”

“Are you not able to hold a pen as well as a marble?”

Samuel was silent.

“Let me look at your hand.”

Samuel held out both his paws like a dancing bear.

“I see nothing to hinder you from writing as well as any boy in the school. You can read, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Tell me, then, what is written over the school-room door.”

Samuel, with some hesitation, read:—

“WHATEVER MAN HAS DONE, MAN MAY DO.”

“Pray, how did you learn to read?—Was it not by taking pains?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well—taking more pains will enable you to read better. Do you know anything of the Latin grammar?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you never learned it?”

“I tried, sir, but I could not get it by heart.”

“Why, you can say some things by heart. I dare say you can tell me the names of the days of the week, in their order.”

“Yes, sir, I know them.”

“And the months in the year, perhaps.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And you could probably repeat the names of your brothers and sisters, and all your father’s servants, and half the people in the village besides.”

“I believe I could, sir.”

“Well—and is _hic_, _hæc_, _hoc_, more difficult to remember than these?”

Samuel was silent.

“Have you learned anything of accounts?”

“I went into addition, sir, but I did not go on with it.”

“Why so?”

“I could not do it, sir.”

“How many marbles can you buy for a penny?”

“Twelve new ones, sir.”

“And how many for two pence?”

“Twenty-four.”

“And how many for a half-penny?”

“Six.”

“If you were to have a penny a day, what would that make in a week?”

“Seven pence.”

“But if you paid two pence out of that, what would you have left?”

Samuel studied a while, and then said, “Five pence.”

“Right. Why, here you have been practising the four great rules of arithmetic—addition, subtraction, multiplication, and division! Learning accounts is no more than this. Well, Samuel, I shall see what you are fit for. I shall set you about nothing but what you are able to do; but, observe, you must do it. We have no _I can’t_ here. Now go among your schoolfellows.”

Samuel went away, glad that his examination was over, and with more confidence in his powers than he had felt before.

The next day he began business. A boy less than himself was called out to set him a copy of letters, and another was appointed to hear him in grammar. He read a few sentences in English that he could perfectly understand to the master himself. Thus, by going on steadily and slowly, he made a sensible progress. He had already joined his letters, got all the declensions perfectly, and half the multiplication table, when Mr. Wiseman thought it time to answer his father’s letter; which he did as follows:—

“SIR, I now think it right to give you some information concerning
your son. You perhaps expected it sooner, but I always wish to
avoid hasty judgments. You mentioned in your letter that it had
not yet been discovered which way his genius pointed. If by
_genius_ you meant such a decided bent of mind to any one pursuit
as will lead to excel with little or no labour or instruction, I
must say that I have not met with such a quality in more than
three or four boys in my life, and your son is certainly not among
the number. But if you mean only the _ability_ to do some of those
things which the greater part of mankind can do when properly
taught, I can affirm that I find in him no peculiar deficiency.
And whether you choose to bring him up to trade, or to some
practical profession, I see no reason to doubt that he may in time
become sufficiently qualified for it. It is my favourite maxim,
sir, that everything most valuable in this life may generally be
acquired by taking pains for it. Your son has already lost much
time in the fruitless expectation of finding out what he would
take up of his own accord. Believe me, sir, few boys will take up
anything of their own accord but a top or a marble. I will take
care, while he is with me, that he loses no more time this way,
but is employed about things that are fit for him, not doubting
that we shall find him fit for them.

“I am, sir, yours, &c.
“SOLON WISEMAN.”

Though the doctrine of this letter did not perfectly agree with Mr. Acres’s notions, yet being convinced that Mr. Wiseman was more likely to make something of his son than any of his former preceptors, he continued him at his school for some years, and had the satisfaction to find him going on in a steady course of gradual improvement. In due time a profession was chosen for him, which seemed to suit his temper and talents, but for which he had no _particular turn_, having never thought at all about it. He made a respectable figure in it, and went through the world with credit and usefulness, though _without a genius_.

HALF A CROWN’S WORTH.

Valentine was in his thirteenth year, and a scholar in one of our great schools. He was a well-disposed boy, but could not help envying a little, some of his companions, who had a larger allowance of money than himself. He ventured in a letter to sound his father on the subject, not directly asking for a particular sum, but mentioning that many of the boys in his class had half a crown a week for pocket-money.

His father, who did not choose to comply with his wishes for various reasons, nor yet to refuse him in a mortifying manner, wrote an answer, the chief purpose of which was to make him sensible what sort of a sum half a crown a week was, and to how many more important uses it might be put, than to provide a school-boy with things absolutely superfluous to him.

“It is calculated,” said he, “that a grown man may be kept in health and fit for labour upon a pound and a half of good bread a day. Suppose the value of this to be two pence half-penny, and add a penny for a quart of milk, which will greatly improve his diet, half a crown will keep him eight or nine days in this manner.

“A common labourer’s wages in our country are seven shillings per week, and if you add somewhat extraordinary for harvest work, this will not make it amount to three half-crowns on an average the year round. Suppose his wife and children to earn another half-crown. For this ten shillings per week he will maintain himself, his wife, and half a dozen children, in food, lodging, clothes, and fuel. A half-crown then may be reckoned the full weekly maintenance of two human creatures in every thing necessary.

“Where potatoes are much cultivated, two bushels, weighing eighty pounds a piece, may be purchased for half a crown. Here are one hundred and sixty pounds of solid food, of which allowing for the waste in dressing, you may reckon two pounds and a half sufficient for the sole daily nourishment of one person. At this rate, nine people might be fed a week for half a crown; poorly, indeed, but so as many thousands are fed, with the addition of a little salt or buttermilk.

“If the father of a numerous family were out of work, or the mother lying-in, a parish would think half a crown a week a very ample assistance to them.

“Many of the cottagers round us would receive with great thankfulness a sixpenny loaf per week, and reckon it a very material addition to their children’s bread. For half a crown, therefore, you might purchase—the weekly blessings of five poor families.

“Porter is a sort of luxury to a poor man, but not a useless one, since it will stand in the place of some solid food, and enable him to work with better heart. You could treat a hard-working man with a pint a day of this liquor for twelve days, with half a crown.

“Many a cottage in the country inhabited by a large family is let for forty shillings a year. Half a crown a week would pay the full rent of three such cottages, and allow somewhat over for repairs.

“The usual price for schooling at a dame-school in a village is two pence a week. You might, therefore, get fifteen children instructed in reading, and the girls in sewing, for half a crown weekly. But even in a town you might get them taught reading, writing, and accounts, and so fitted for any common trade, for five shillings a quarter; and therefore half a crown a week would keep six children at such a school, and provide them with books besides.

“All these are ways in which half a crown a week might be made to do a great deal of good to _others_. I shall now just mention one or two ways of laying it out with advantage to yourself.

“I know you are very fond of coloured plates of plants, and other objects of natural history. There are now several works of this sort publishing in monthly numbers, as the Botanical Magazine, the English Botany, the Flora Rustica, and the Naturalist’s Magazine. Now half a crown a week would reach the purchase of the best of these.

“The same sum laid out in the old book-shops in London would buy you more classics, and pretty editions too, in one year, than you could read in five.

“Now I do not grudge laying out half a crown a week upon you; but when so many good things for yourself and others may be done with it, I am unwilling you should squander it away like your schoolfellows, in tarts and trinkets.”

TRIAL[2]

_Of a Complaint made against Sundry Persons for breaking the Windows of_
DOROTHY CAREFUL, _Widow and Dealer in Gingerbread._

The court being seated, there appeared in person the widow _Dorothy Careful_, to make a complaint against _Henry Luckless_, and other person or persons unknown, for breaking three panes of glass, value ninepence, in the house of the said widow. Being directed to tell her case to the court, she made a courtesy, and began as follows:—

“Please your lordship, I was sitting at work by my fireside, between the hours of six and seven in the evening, just as it was growing dusk, and little Jack was spinning beside me, when all at once crack went the window, and down fell a little basket of cakes that was set up against it. I started up, and cried to Jack, ‘Bless me, what’s the matter?’ So, says Jack, ‘Somebody has thrown a stone and broke the window, and I dare say it is some of the schoolboys.’ With that I ran out of the house, and saw some boys making off as fast as they could go. So I ran after them as quick as my old legs would carry me; but I should never have come near them, if one had not happened to fall down. Him I caught and brought back to my house, when Jack knew him at once to be Master Harry Luckless. So I told him I would complain of him the next day; and I hope your worship will make him pay the damage, and I think he deserves a good whipping into the bargain, for injuring a poor widow woman.”

Footnote 2:

This was meant as a sequel of that very pleasing and ingenious little
work, entitled _Juvenile Trials_, in which a Court of Justice is
supposed to be instituted in a boarding-school, composed of the
scholars themselves, for the purpose of trying offences committed at
school.