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 Brachmans 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 [2] 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 benevo⯑lence towards animals in diſtreſs, he never failed to make uſe of it; and ma⯑ny times reſcued the ſmall birds from the pityleſs 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 his hold, and fell from a great height to the ground. As he lay there unable to move, Indur eſpied a large venomous ſerpent ad⯑vancing to make the poor defenceleſs creature his prey. He immediately de⯑ſcended [3] from his poſt, and taking the lit⯑tle monkey in his arms, ran with it to the tree, and gently placed it upon a bough. In the mean time, 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 be⯑came viſible over Indur's whole frame. He grew faint, ſick, and pale; and ſink⯑ing 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 look⯑ing up, he beheld, on the bough 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 Perezinda to whom thou gaveſt ſuccour. Obliged to paſs a cer⯑tain number of days every year under [4] the ſhape of an animal, I had 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 Perezinda!"’ replied Indur, ‘"ſince you deign ſo boun⯑teouſly to return my ſervice, this is the requeſt that I make: In all my tranſmi⯑grations 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 ani⯑mate another in the prime of its powers and faculties, without paſſing through the helpleſs ſtate of infancy."’ ‘—"It is granted,"’ anſwered the Fairy; and im⯑mediately breaking a ſmall branch from [5] 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 pre⯑ſently 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, cropt 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 ſwiſneſs of the wind to the neighbouring immenſe plains, where they were ſoon out of the reach of injury. Indur was highly de⯑lighted with the eaſe and rapidity of his motions; and ſnuffing the keen air of the deſart, bounded away, ſcarcely deign⯑ing 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 [6] 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 ſurround⯑ing crowd, which now appeared to be a whole army of hunters, with the king of the country and all his nobles, aſſembled on a ſolemn chace, after the manner of the eaſtern people. And now the cir⯑cle began to cloſe, and numbers of af⯑frighted animals of various kinds throng⯑ed together in the centre, keeping as far as poſſible from the dangers that ap⯑proached 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 towards that part of the ring which was the moſt weakly guarded; and though many periſhed in the at⯑tempt, [7] yet a few, leaping over the heads of the people, got clear away; and In⯑dur was among the number. But whilſt he was ſcouring over the plain, rejoic⯑ing 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 alight⯑ing 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 forwards, turned round and came again towards the hunters. One of theſe, riding full ſpeed with a javelin in his hand, came up to him, and ran the weapon in his ſide. He fell down, and with repeated wounds was ſoon diſ⯑patched.

When the ſtruggle of death was over, Indur was equally ſurpriſed and pleaſed on finding himſelf ſoaring high in the [8] 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, moun⯑tains, 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 day-break they were again on wing, arranged in a regular wedge-like body, with an experienced leader at their head. Thus for many days they continued their journey, paſſ⯑ing 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 numer⯑ous 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 [9] their young, living plentifully upon the inſects and aquatic reptiles that abound⯑ed in this ſheltered ſpot. Indur with great pleaſure exerciſed his various pow⯑ers, 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, in⯑ſtead 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 re⯑ſounded 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 [10] ſurface of the waters. One day, Indur's curioſity having led him at a diſtance from his companions to the woody bor⯑der 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 began to break up; and large bodies of them daily took their way ſouthwards, to paſs the winter in climates where the waters are never ſo frozen as to become unin⯑habitable by the feathered race. The wild-geeſe to whom Indur belonged, proceeded with their young ones by long daily journies 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 ſpe⯑cies [11] ever ſince the age of Homer, who in ſome very beautiful verſes has deſcrib⯑ed the manners and actions of the various tribes of aquatic birds in that favourite ſpot^*. Here they ſoon recruited from the fatigue of their march, and enjoyed themſelves in the delicious climate till winter. This ſeaſon, though here ex⯑tremely mild, yet making the means of ſuſtenance ſomewhat ſcarce, they were obliged to make foraging excurſions to the cultivated lands in the neighbour⯑hood. Having committed great de⯑predations upon a fine field of young wheat, the owner ſpread a net on the ground, in which Indur, with ſeveral of [12] 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.

Indur was not immediately ſenſible of the next change he underwent, which was into a Dormouſe, faſt aſleep in his hole at the foot of a buſh. As it was in a country where the winters are pretty ſevere, he did not wake 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 [13] the mouth of their hole, where, pulling away ſome withered graſs and leaves, they peeped out into the open air. Af⯑ter taking a turn or two in the ſun, they grew chill, and went down again, ſtop⯑ping up the entrance after them. The cold weather returning, they took an⯑other long nap, till at length, ſpring be⯑ing fairly ſet in, they rouſed in earneſt, and began to make daily excurſions abroad. Their winter ſtock of provi⯑ſion 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 ad⯑vanced, and they made a neſt near the bottom of a tree, where they brought up a young family. They never rang⯑ed 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 em⯑ployed in collecting the nuts, acorns, [14] and other dry fruits that fell from the trees, and laying them up in their ſtore⯑houſe under ground. One day, as In⯑dur was cloſely engaged in this occu⯑pation, at ſome diſtance from his dwell⯑ing, he was ſeized by a wild cat, 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 him⯑ſelf inſtantly changed into a majeſtic Elephant in a lofty foreſt of 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 deſiring to do any, the gigantic herd roamed at [15] large, feeding on the green branches which they tore down with their trunks, 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 ſe⯑curity. But one day, having penetrat⯑ed into a cloſe entangled thicket, he eſpied, lurking under the thick covert, a grim tyger, whoſe eyes flaſhed rage and fury. Though the tyger was one of the largeſt of his ſpecies, yet his bulk was trifling compared to that of an ele⯑phant, a ſingle foot of which ſeemed ſufficient to cruſh him; yet the fierce⯑neſs 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 tyger ſetting up a roar, ſprung to meet him, attempting to ſeize his lifted trunk. In⯑dur [16] was dexterous enough to receive him upon one of his tuſks, and exerting all his ſtrength, threw the tyger 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 tyger turning about, bounded away into the midſt of the thicket. Indur drew back, and rejoin⯑ed his companions, with ſome abate⯑ment in the confidence he had placed in his ſize and ſtrength, which had not prevented him from undergoing ſo dan⯑gerous 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 havock, devouring part, but tear⯑ing up and trampling down much more; when the inhabitants taking the alarm, aſſembled in great numbers, and with fierce ſhouts and flaming brands drove [17] them back to the woods. Not con⯑tented 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 admit⯑ing one elephant at a time. This was divided by ſtrong croſs-bars which would lift up and down, into ſeveral apart⯑ments. 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 to⯑wards the incloſures. Indur was among the firſt who was decoyed by their arti⯑fices; and with ſome others following heedleſsly, he got into the narroweſt part of the incloſure, oppoſite to the paſſage. Here they ſtood awhile, doubt⯑ing whether they ſhould go further. But the females leading the way, and utter⯑ing [18] the 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 the purpoſe, and the elephants were fairly caught in a trap. As ſoon as they were ſenſible of their ſituation, they ſell into a fit of rage, and with all their efforts en⯑deavoured to break through. But the hunters, throwing nooſes over them, bound them faſt with ſtrong ropes and chains to the poſts 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 reſiſt⯑ance were led away cloſe priſoners. They were then put into ſeparate ſta⯑bles, and by proper diſcipline were pre⯑ſently rendered quite tame and gentle.

Not long after, Indur, with five more, [19] was ſent over from Ceylon to the con⯑tinent 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 car⯑ry perſons on his back in a kind of ſe⯑dan 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 liv⯑ed 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 em⯑ployed in a different ſcene. After pro⯑per 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 ſol⯑diers with a ſmall field-piece. They ſoon came in ſight of the enemy, and both ſides were drawn up for battle. [20] Indur and the reſt were urged forwards 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 ad⯑vancing, ſoon put to flight thoſe who were drawn up before them; but their career was ſtopped by a battery of can⯑non, 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 fill⯑ing them with terror and confuſion. His leader having now loſt all command over him, and finding him hurtful only to his own party, applied the ſharp in⯑ſtrument [21] 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 prodigi⯑ouſly 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 foun⯑tain 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, al⯑moſt without knowing it, whole ſhoals of the ſmaller kinds; and the larger ſwiftly turned aſide at his approach. ‘"Now,"’ he cried to himſelf, ‘"what⯑ever other evils may await me, I am [22] certainly ſecure from the moleſtations of other animals; for what is the creature that can dare to cope with me, or mea⯑ſure 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 lit⯑tle mortified with the adventure. This was however forgotten, and Indur re⯑ceived pleaſure from his new ſituation, as he roamed through the boundleſs fields of ocean, now diving to its very bottom, now ſhooting ſwiftly to the ſur⯑face, and ſporting with his companions [23] in unwieldy gambols. Having choſen a mate, he took his courſe with her ſouthwards, 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 ſun-beams, floated unmoved with a large part of his huge body above the waves. As he was thus one day enjoy⯑ing 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 ſtaid 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 [24] as he paſſed. Another wound was in⯑flicted, which ſoon brought him almoſt lifeleſs to the ſurface; and the line faſ⯑tened 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 quite diſ⯑patched, and then cut to pieces.

The ſoul of this huge carcaſe had next a much narrower lodging, for In⯑dur was changed into a Bee, which, with a great multitude of its young compa⯑nions, 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 imme⯑diately cluſtered round her, and ſoon formed a large black bunch, depending from the bough. A man preſently planting a ladder aſcended with a bee⯑hive, and ſwept them in. After they [25] were quietly ſettled in their new habita⯑tion, 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 col⯑lected 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 ga⯑thered 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 [26] 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 pur⯑poſe of ſpouting it out into the cells of the honey-comb. 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 ſtaid at home, and employed themſelves in fi⯑niſhing 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 de⯑ſign and execution, guided by inſtinct alone.

The end of autumn now approach⯑ing, the bees had filled their combs with [27] honey; and nothing more being to be got abroad, they ſtaid within doors, paſſing moſt of their time in ſleep. They eat 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 hands, 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 re⯑ſolved 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 ſuf⯑focated great part of the bees, and ſtu⯑pified the reſt, ſo that they all fell from the combs. Indur was amongſt the dead.

He ſoon revived in the form of a [28] young Rabbit in a ſpacious warren. This was like a populous town; being every where hollowed by burrows run⯑ning deep under ground, and each in⯑habited 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 wan⯑ton 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 numer⯑ous offspring. Several of the little ones, however, not being ſufficiently careful, fell a prey either to hawks and crows continually hovering over the warren, [29] or to cats, foxes, and other wild qua⯑drupeds, 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 rab⯑bits, till having got near, he all at once darted into the midſt of them. An⯑other time he received ſome ſhot from a ſportſman who lay on the watch be⯑hind 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, [30] 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 the holes. Indur with the reſt was diſpatched 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 farm yard. Having nearly acquired his full ſize, he was ſent as a preſent to a gentleman in the neighbourhood, who wanted a faith⯑ful 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 na⯑ture. Though fierce as a lion when⯑ever he thought the perſons or pro⯑perties of his friends invaded, he was as gentle as a lamb at other times, and would patiently ſuffer any kind of free⯑doms from thoſe he loved. He per⯑mitted [31] 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, ſhewing his diſpleaſure further than by a low growl. He was extremely in⯑dulgent 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 bear⯑ing, 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 devoured, 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 con⯑flicts frequently to ſuſtain. He was ac⯑cuſtomed to attend the ſervant on mar⯑ket days to the neighbouring town; [32] when it was his office to guard the pro⯑viſion 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 mount⯑ing the cart, and pulling down the meat baſkets. Indur had much ado to de⯑fend himſelf and the baggage too; how⯑ever, he never failed to make ſome of the aſſailants pay dearly for their impu⯑dence; 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, return⯑ing home late one evening, was attack⯑ed 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 [33] throat, brought him to the ground, and preſently diſabled him. The maſter, in the mean time, 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 piſ⯑tol, and was juſt on the point of firing. At this moment Indur, leaving his van⯑quiſhed foe on the ground, ruſhed for⯑ward, 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 from 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 pri⯑ſoners of the two wounded robbers. The maſter threw himſelf by the ſide of In⯑dur, and expreſſed the warmeſt concern at the accident which had made him the [34] cauſe of the 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 recom⯑menced the innocent life of a Brach⯑man. He cheriſhed the memory of his tranſmigrations, and handed them down to poſterity, in a relation, from whence the preceding account has been extract⯑ed for the amuſement of my young readers.

THE NATIVE VILLAGE.
A DRAMA.

THERE is the place. This is the green on which I played many a day with my companions; there are the tall trees that I have ſo often climbed for birds' neſts; and that is the pond where I uſed to ſail my walnut-ſhell boats. What a crowd of mixed ſenſa⯑tions ruſh on my mind! What pleaſure, and what regret! Yes, there is ſome⯑what in our native ſoil that affects the mind in a manner different from every other ſcene in nature.

With you it muſt be mere⯑ly the place; for I think you can have no attachments of friendſhip or affection in it, conſidering your long abſence, and the removal of all your family.

No, I have no family connex⯑ions, and indeed can ſcarcely be ſaid ever to have had any: for, as you know, I was almoſt utterly neglected after the death of my father and mother, and while all my elder brothers and ſiſters were diſperſed to one part or another, and the little remaining property was diſpoſed of, I was left with the poor people who nurſed me, to be brought up juſt as they thought proper; and the little penſion that was paid for me en⯑tirely ceaſed after a few years.

Then how were you after⯑wards ſupported?

The honeſt couple who had the care of me continued to treat me with the greateſt kindneſs; and poor as they were, not only maintained me as a [37] child of their own, but did all in their power to procure me advantages more ſuited to my birth, than my deſerted ſituation. With the aſſiſtance of the worthy clergyman of the pariſh, they put me to a day-ſchool in the village, clothed me decently, and being them⯑ſelves ſober religious perſons, took care to keep me from vice. The obliga⯑tions I am under to them will, I hope, never be effaced from my memory, and it is on their account alone that I have undertaken this journey.

How long did you continue with them?

Till I was thirteen. I then felt an irreſiſtible deſire to fight for my country; and learning by accident, that a diſtant relation of our family was a cap⯑tain of a man of war, I took leave of my worthy benefactors, and ſet off to the ſea-port where he lay, the good people furniſhing me in the beſt man⯑ner [38] they were able with neceſſaries for the journey. I ſhall never forget the tenderneſs with which they parted with me. It was, if poſſible, beyond that of the kindeſt parents. You know my ſubſequent adventures, from the time of my becoming a midſhipman, to my pre⯑ſent ſtate of firſt lieutenant in the Bri⯑tannia. Though it is now fifteen years ſince my departure, I feel my affection for theſe good folks ſtronger than ever, and could not be eaſy without taking the firſt opportunity of ſeeing them.

It is a great chance if they are both living.

I happened to hear by a young man of the village, not long ſince, that they were; but I believe much reduced in their circumſtances.

Whereabouts did they live?

Juſt at the turning of this cor⯑ner. But what's this?—I can't find the houſe—Yet I am ſure I have not forgot [39] the ſituation. Surely it muſt be pulled down! Oh! my dear old friends, what can have become of you?

You had beſt aſk that little girl.

Hark ye, my dear!—do you know one John Beech of this place?

What old John Beech? Oh yes, very well, and Mary Beech too.

Where do they live?

A little further on, in the lane.

Did not they once live here⯑abouts?

Yes, till farmer Tything pulled the houſe down to make his hop-garden.

Come with me to ſhow me the place, and I'll give you a penny.

Yes, that I will.

There—that low thatched houſe—and there's Mary ſpinning at the door.

There, my dear

How my heart beats!—Surely that cannot be my [40] nurſe! Yes, I recollect her now; but how very old and ſickly ſhe looks.

Fifteen years in her life, with care and hardſhip, muſt go a great way in breaking her down.

Good morning, good woman; can you give my companion and me ſomething to drink? We are very thirſty with walk⯑ing this hot day.

I have nothing better than water, Sir; but if you pleaſe to ac⯑cept of that, I will bring you ſome.

Thank you—we will trouble you for ſome.

Will you pleaſe to walk in out of the ſun, gentlemen; ours is a very poor houſe indeed; but I will find you a ſeat to ſit down on, while I draw the water.

The ſame good creature as ever! let us go in.

We have made bold, friend, to trouble your wife for a little water.

Sit down—ſit down—gentlemen. I would get up to give you my chair, but I have the misfortune to be lame, and am almoſt blind too.

Lame and blind! Oh Beau⯑mont

Ay, Sir, old age will come on; and, God knows, we have very little means to fence againſt it.

What, have you nothing but your labour to ſubſiſt on?

We made that do, Sir, as long as we could; but now I am hardly ca⯑pable of doing any thing, and my poor wife can earn very little by ſpinning, ſo we have been forced at laſt to apply to the pariſh.

To the pariſh! well, I hope they conſider the ſervices of your better [42] days, and provide for you comfort⯑ably.

Alas, Sir! I am not much given to complain; but what can a ſhilling a week do in theſe hard times?

Little enough, indeed! And is that all they allow you?

It is, Sir; and we are not to have that much longer, for they ſay we muſt come into the workhouſe.

Here, gentlemen. The jug is clean, if you can drink out of it.

The workhouſe, do you ſay?

Yes, gentlemen—that makes my poor huſband ſo uneaſy—that we ſhould come in our old days to die in a workhouſe. We have lived better, I aſſure you—but we were turned out of our little farm by the great farmer near the church; and ſince that time we have been growing poorer and poorer, and weaker and weaker, ſo that we have no⯑thing to help ourſelves with.

To die in a pariſh workhouſe—I can hardly bear the thoughts of it.—But God knows beſt, and we muſt ſubmit.

But, my good people, have you no children or friends to aſſiſt you?

Our children, Sir, are all dead, except one that is ſettled a long way off, and as poor as we are.

But ſurely, my friends, ſuch decent people as you ſeem to be muſt have ſomebody to protect you.

No, Sir—we know nobody but our neighbours, and they think the workhouſe good enough for the poor.

Pray, was there not a family of Harfords once in this village?

Yes, Sir, a long while ago—but they are all dead and gone, or elſe far enough from this place.

Ay, Sir, the youngeſt of them, and the fineſt child among them, that I'll ſay for him, was nurſed in our houſe, when we lived in the old ſpot near the [44] green. He was with us till he was thirteen, and a ſweet behaved boy he was—I loved him as well as ever I did any of my own children.

What became of him?

Why, Sir, he was a fine bold ſpirited boy, though the beſt tempered creature in the world—ſo laſt war he would be a ſailor, and fight the French and Spaniards, and away he went, no⯑thing could ſtop him, and we have ne⯑ver heard a word of him ſince.

Ay, he is dead or killed, I warrant—for if he was alive and in England, I am ſure nothing would keep him from coming to ſee his poor daddy and mammy, as he uſed to call us. Ma⯑ny a night have I lain awake thinking of him!

I can hold no longer!

Reſtrain yourſelf awhile—Well, my friends, in return for your kindneſs I will tell you ſome news [45] that will pleaſe you. This ſame Har⯑ford, Edward Harford....

Ay, that was his name—my dear Ned!—What of him, Sir? Is he living?

Let the gentleman ſpeak, my dear.

Ned Harford is now alive and well, and a lieutenant in his majeſ⯑ty's navy, and as brave an officer as any in the ſervice.

I hope you don't jeſt with us, Sir.

I do not, upon my honour.

O thank God—thank God—If I could but ſee him!

Ay, I wiſh for nothing more before I die.

Here he is—here he is—My deareſt beſt benefactors! Here I am, to pay ſome of the great debt of kind⯑neſs I owe you.

What—this gentleman my [46] Ned! Ay, it is, it is—I ſee it, I ſee it.

O my old eyes!—but I know his voice now.

My good old man! O that you could ſee me, as clearly as I do you!

Enough—enough—it is you, and I am contented.

O happy day!—O happy day!

Did you think I could ever for⯑get you?

O no—I knew you better—but what a long while it is ſince we parted!

Fifteen years come Whitſun⯑tide.

The firſt time I ſet foot in England all this long interval was three weeks ago.

How good you were to come to us ſo ſoon.

What a tall ſtrong man you [47] are grown!—but you have the ſame ſweet ſmile as ever.

I wiſh I could ſee him plain—but what ſignifies!—he's here, and I hold him by the hand. Where's the other good gentleman?

Here—very happy to ſee ſuch worthy people made ſo!

He has been my deareſt friend for a great many years, and I am be⯑holden to him almoſt as much as to you two.

Has he? God bleſs him and reward him!

I am grieved to think what you muſt have ſuffered from hardſhip and poverty—But that is all at an end—no workhouſe now!

God bleſs you! then I ſhall be happy ſtill. But we muſt not be bur⯑thenſome to you.

Don't talk of that—as long as I have a ſhilling, it is my duty to give you ſixpence of it. Did not you take [48] care of me when all the world forſook me—and treated me as your own child when I had no other parent—and ſhall I ever forſake you in your old age! Oh never—never!

Ah, you had always a kind heart of your own. I always uſed to think our dear Ned would ſome time or other prove a bleſſing to us.

You muſt leave this poor hut, that is not fit to keep out the weather, and we muſt get you a ſnug cottage, either in this village or ſome other.

Pray, my dear Sir, let us die in this town, as we have always lived in it. And as to a houſe, I believe that where old Richard Carpenter uſed to live is empty, if it would not be too good for us.

What, the white cottage on the green? I remember it—it is juſt the thing. You ſhall remove there this very week.

This is beyond all my hopes and wiſhes!

There you ſhall have a little cloſe to keep a cow—and a girl to milk her, and take care of you both—and a garden well ſtocked with herbs and roots—and a little yard for pigs and poultry—and ſome good new furniture for your houſe....

O too much—too much!

What makes me cry ſo, when ſo many good things are coming to us?

Who is the landlord of that houſe?

Our next neighbour, Mr. Wheatfield.

I'll go and ſpeak about it di⯑rectly, and then come to you again. Come, Beaumont. God bleſs you both!

God in heaven bleſs you!

O happy day—O happy day!

THE SWALLOW AND TORTOISE.

THE PRICE OF PLEASURE.

‘"I THINK I will take a ride"’—ſaid the little Lord Linger, after breakfaſt—‘"bring me my boots, and let my horſe be brought to the door."’

The horſe was ſaddled, and his lord⯑ſhip's ſpurs were putting on.

‘"No"’—ſaid he—‘"I'll have my low chair and the ponies, and take a drive round the park."’

The horſe was led back, and the po⯑nies were almoſt harneſſed, when his [53] lordſhip ſent his valet to countermand them. He would walk into the corn field, and ſee how the new pointer hunted.

‘"After all"’—ſays he—‘"I think I will ſtay at home, and play a game or two at billiards."’

He played half a game, but could not make a ſtroke to pleaſe himſelf. His tutor, who was preſent, now thought it a good opportunity to aſk his lord⯑ſhip if he would read a little.

‘"Why—I think—I will—for I am tired of doing nothing. What ſhall we have?"’

‘"Your lordſhip left off laſt time in one of the fineſt paſſages in the Aeneid. Suppoſe we finiſh it."’

‘"Well—ay! But—no—I had ra⯑ther go on with Hume's hiſtory. Or—ſuppoſe we do ſome geography?"’

‘With all my heart. The globes are upon the ſtudy table."’

They went to the ſtudy; and the lit⯑tle [54] lord, leaning upon his elbows, look⯑ed at the globe—then twirled it round two or three times—and then liſtened patiently while the tutor explained ſome of its parts and uſes. But whilſt he was in the midſt of a problem, ‘"Come"’—ſaid his lordſhip—‘"now for a little Virgil."’

The book was brought; and the pu⯑pil, with a good deal of help, got through twenty lines.

‘"Well"’—ſaid he, ringing the bell—‘I think we have done a good deal. Tom! bring my bow and arrows."’

The fine London-made bow in its green caſe, and the quiver with all its appurtenances, were brought, and his lordſhip went down to the place where the ſhooting butts were erected. He aimed a few ſhafts at the target, but not coming near it, he ſhot all the re⯑mainder at random, and then ordered out his horſe.

He ſauntered, with a ſervant at his [55] heels, for a mile or two through the lanes, and came, juſt as the clock ſtruck twelve, to a village-green, cloſe by which a ſchool was kept. A door flew open, and out burſt a ſhoal of boys, who, ſpreading over the green, with immo⯑derate vociferation, inſtantly began a variety of ſports. Some fell to marbles—ſome to trap-ball—ſome to leap-frog. In ſhort, not one of the whole crew but was eagerly employed. Every thing was noiſe, motion, and pleaſure. Lord Linger, riding ſlowly up, eſpied one of his tenants ſons, who had been formerly admitted as a playfellow of his, and called him from the throng.

‘"Jack"’—ſaid he—‘"how do you like ſchool?’

‘"O—pretty well, my lord!"’

‘"What—have you a good deal of play?"’

‘"O no! We have only from twelve to two for playing and eating our din⯑ners; and then an hour before ſupper.’

[56] ‘"That is very little, indeed!"’

‘"But we play heartily when we do play, and work when we work. Good by, my lord! It is my turn to go in at trap."’

So ſaying, Jack ran off.

‘"I wiſh I was a ſchoolboy!"’—cried the little lord to himſelf.

THE GOOSE AND HORSE.
A FABLE.

A Gooſe, who was plucking graſs up⯑on a common, thought herſelf affronted by a Horſe who fed near her, and in hiſſing accents thus addreſſed him. ‘"I am certainly a more noble and perfect animal than you, for the whole range and extent of your faculties is confined to one element. I can walk upon the ground as well as you; I have beſides wings, with which I can raiſe myſelf in [57] the air; and when I pleaſe, I can ſport in ponds and lakes, and refreſh myſelf in the cool waters: I enjoy the differ⯑ent powers of a bird, a fiſh, and a qua⯑druped."’

The Horſe, ſnorting ſomewhat diſ⯑dainfully, replied, ‘"It is true you inha⯑bit three elements, but you make no very diſtinguiſhed figure in any one of them. You fly, indeed; but your flight is ſo heavy and clumſy, that you have no right to put yourſelf on a level with the lark or the ſwallow. You can ſwim on the ſurface of the waters, but you cannot live in them as fiſhes do; you cannot find your food in that element, nor glide ſmoothly along the bottom of the waves. And when you walk, or rather waddle, upon the ground, with your broad feet and your long neck ſtretched out, hiſſing at every one who paſſes by, you bring upon yourſelf the deriſion of all beholders. I confeſs that I am only formed to move upon the [58] ground; but how graceful is my make! how well turned my limbs! how highly finiſhed my whole body! how great my ſtrength! how aſtoniſhing my ſpeed! I had far rather be confined to one ele⯑ment, and be admired in that, than be a Gooſe in all."’

THE GRASS TRIBE.

PRAY what is that growing on the other ſide of the hedge?

Why it is corn—don't you ſee it is in ear?

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

Then I don't know what it is. Pray, Sir, will you tell us?

I don't wonder you were puz⯑zled about it. It is a ſort of graſs ſown for hay, and is called rye-graſs.

But how happens it that it is ſo very like corn?

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

Then there is no difference be⯑tween corn and graſs but the ſize?

None at all.

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

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.

But is wheat and barley really graſs?

Yes—they are 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 [61] that rye-graſs. Harry and I will ſit down on this ſtile till you come to us.

Here is graſs enough all round us.

Well then—pull up a few roots that you ſee in ear.

Here is the graſs.

And here is mine.

Well—ſpread them all in a hand⯑kerchief before us. Now look at the roots of them all. What do you call them?

I think they are what you have told us are fibrous roots.

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.

So they are.

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

Yes—they are ſo like graſs at [62] firſt, that I can never tell the differ⯑ence.

Next obſerve the ears, or heads. Some of theſe, you ſee, are thick and cloſe, exactly like thoſe of wheat or bar⯑ley; others are more looſe and open, like oats. The firſt are generally called ſpikes; the ſecond, panicles. If you ex⯑amine 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.

Oh yes—I am very fond of them.

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 [63] 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 flow⯑ering heads of every one of the graſs tribe.

But what are the beards of corn?

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 ap⯑pearance, eſpecially when waved by the wind.

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

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 north⯑ern parts of the temperate zone, oats [64] and rye are chiefly grown. In the mid⯑dle and ſouthern, barley and wheat. Wheat is univerſally the ſpecies pre⯑ferred for bread-corn; but there are va⯑rious kinds of it, differing from each other in ſize of grain, firmneſs, colour, and other qualities.

Does not the beſt wheat of all grow in England?

By no means. Wheat is better ſuit⯑ed 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.

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

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 [65] other plants of this family, which per⯑haps you have not thought of.

What are they?

Canes and reeds—from the ſugar-cane 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.

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

They have ſo. And the ſtalks are compoſed of many joints; as are alſo thoſe of the ſugar-cane, and the bamboo, of which fiſhing rods and walk⯑ing ſticks are often made. Some of theſe are very tall plants, but the ſeeds of them are ſmall in proportion, and not uſe⯑ful for food. But there is yet another kind of graſs-like plants common among us.

What is that?

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 [66] ſedge, in Latin carex, and there are many ſorts of it.

What is that good for?

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

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

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 ſweeter than others. In general, however, different graſſes are ſuited to different ſoils; and by improv⯑ing ſoils, the quality of the graſs is im⯑proved.

Does graſs grow in all countries?

Yes—the green turf which na⯑turally covers fertile ſoil in all countries, is chiefly compoſed of graſſes of various kinds. They form, therefore, the ver⯑dant [67] carpet extended over the earth; and humble as they are, they contribute more to beauty and utility, than any other part of the vegetable creation.

What—more than trees?

Yes, certainly. A land entirely covered with trees would be gloomy, unwholeſome, and ſcarcely inhabitable; whereas the meadow, the down, and the corn field, 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?

Let me ſee—what ſhould we have? There's bread, and flour for pud⯑dings.

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.

And are there not all kinds of meat too, and poultry? And then for drink, there is beer and ale, which are [68] made from barley. For all theſe we are chiefly indebted to the graſſes.

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

Well—let us now walk home⯑wards. 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.

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 ne⯑ver conſidered what kind of an opera⯑tion it was.

On operation of cookery—is it not?

You may call it ſo; but it is properly an operation of chemiſtry.

Of chemiſtry? I thought that had been a very deep ſort of a buſineſs.

O—there are many things in common life that belong to the deep⯑eſt of ſciences. Making tea is the che⯑mical 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.

Would not cold water do the ſame?

It would, but more ſlowly. Heat aſſiſts almoſt all liquors in their power of extracting the virtues of herbs and other ſubſtances. Thus good houſe⯑wives were formerly uſed to boil their tea, in order to get all the goodneſs from it as completely as poſſible. The greater heat and agitation of boiling makes it act more powerfully. The [70] liquor in which a ſubſtance has been boiled is called a decoction of that ſub⯑ſtance.

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

We had—broth is a decoction, and ſo are gruel and barley-water. But when any thing is put to ſteep in a cold liquor, it is called maceration. The in⯑gredients of which ink is made are ma⯑cerated. In all theſe caſes, you ſee, the whole ſubſtance does not mix with the liquor, but only part of it. The rea⯑ſon is, that part of it is ſoluble in the li⯑quor, and part not.

What is the meaning of that?

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 clear as before.

Salt would do the ſame.

It would. But if I were to throw in a lump of chalk, it would lie undiſ⯑ſolved at the bottom.

But it would make the water white.

True, while it was ſtirred; and then it would be a diffuſion. But while the chalk was thus mixed with the li⯑quor, 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.

How is the cream mixed with the tea?

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 ſe⯑parate too, and riſe to the top, leaving the tea clear. Now, ſuppoſe you had a mixture of ſugar, ſalt, chalk, and tea [72] leaves, and were to throw it into water, either hot or cold;—what would be the effect?

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

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.

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

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 undiſ⯑ſolved.

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

Undoubtedly. If taken out and dried they would be found to have loſt [73] part of their weight, and the water would have gained it. Sometimes, however, it is an extremely ſmall portion of a ſub⯑ſtance which is ſoluble, but it is that in which its moſt remarkable qualities re⯑ſide. Thus a ſmall piece of ſpice will communicate a ſtrong flavour to a large quantity of liquid, with very little loſs of weight.

Will all liquors diſſolve the ſame things?

By no means. Many diſſolve in water, that will not in ſpirit of wine; and the contrary. And upon this dif⯑ference 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 [74] varniſh leſt by gum-water could not be waſhed off by ſpirits.

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?

Yes—upon expoſing the ſolu⯑tion to warmth, it would dry away, and you would get back your ſalt or ſugar in a ſolid ſtate as before.

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

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, [75] in general, are eaſily evaporable; but not equally ſo. Spirits of wine fly 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 all the ſpirits, and leave the water pure. Water, again, is more evaporable than oil. Some ſolid ſub⯑ſtances are much diſpoſed to evaporate. Thus, ſmelling ſalts by a little heat may be entirely driven away in the air. But in general, ſolids are more fixed than fluids; and therefore when a ſolid is diſ⯑ſolved in a fluid, it may commonly be recovered again by evaporation. By this operation common ſalt is got from ſea-water and ſalt ſprings, both artifi⯑cially, and in hot countries by the na⯑tural heat of the ſun. When the water is no more than is juſt ſufficient to diſ⯑ſolve the ſalt, it is called a ſaturated ſo⯑lution, and on evaporating the water fur⯑ther, the ſalt begins to ſeparate, form⯑ing little regular maſſes called cryſtals. [76] Sugar may be made in like manner to form cryſtals, and then it is ſugar⯑candy.

But what is a ſyrup?

That is, when ſo much ſugar is diſſolved as ſenſibly to thicken the li⯑quor, 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 con⯑ſiſts, being as volatile or evaporable as the water, would fly off along with it; and when the liquor came to dryneſs, there would only be left thoſe particles in which its roughneſs and colour con⯑ſiſt. This would make what is called an extract of a plant.

What becomes of the water that evaporates?

It aſcends into the air, and unites with it. But if in its way it be ſtopped by any cold body, it is condenſed, that is, it returns to the ſtate of water again. Lift up the lid of the tea-pot, and you [77] will ſee water collected on the inſide of it, which is condenſed ſteam from the hot tea beneath. Hold a ſpoon or knife in the way of the ſteam which burſts out from the ſpout of the tea-kettle, and you will find it immediately covered with drops. This operation of turning a fluid into vapour, and then condenſ⯑ing it, is called diſtillation. For this purpoſe, the veſſel in which the liquor is heated is cloſely covered with another called the head, into which the ſteam riſes, and is condenſed. It is then drawn off by means of a pipe into another veſ⯑ſel called the receiver. In this way all ſweet ſcented and aromatic liquors are drawn from fragrant vegetables, by means of water or ſpirits. The fra⯑grant part, being very volatile, riſes along with the ſteam of the water or ſpi⯑rit, and remains united with it after it is condenſed. Roſe-water and ſpirit of lavender are liquors of this kind.

Then the water collected on the [78] inſide of the tea-pot lid ſhould have the fragrance of the tea?

It ſhould—But unleſs the tea were fine, you would ſcarcely perceive it.

I think I have heard of making ſalt-water freſh by diſtilling.

Yes. That is an old diſcovery lately revived. The ſalt in ſea-water, being of a fixed nature, does not riſe with the ſteam; and therefore, on con⯑denſing the ſteam, the water is found to be freſh. And this indeed is the method nature employs in raiſing water by exhalation from the ocean, which collecting into clouds, is condenſed in the cold regions of the air, and falls down in rain.

But our tea is done; ſo we will now put an end to our chemical lecture.

But is this real chemiſtry?

Yes, it is.

Why, I underſtand it all with⯑out any difficulty.

I intended you ſhould.

THE KIDNAPPERS.

MR. B. was accuſtomed to read in the evening to his young folks ſome ſe⯑lect ſtory, and then aſk them in turn what they thought of it. From the re⯑flections they made on theſe occaſions, he was enabled to form a judgment of their diſpoſitions, and was led to throw in remarks of his own, by which their hearts and underſtandings might be im⯑proved. One night he read the follow⯑ing narrative from Churchill's Voyages.

‘"In ſome voyages of diſcovery made from Denmark to Greenland, the ſail⯑ors were inſtructed to ſeize ſome of the natives by force or ſtratagem, and bring them away. In conſequence of theſe orders, ſeveral Greenlanders were kid⯑napped and brought to Denmark. Though they were treated there with kindneſs, the poor wretches were always melancholy, and were obſerved fre⯑quently [80] to turn their faces towards the north, and ſigh bitterly. They made ſeveral attempts to eſcape, by putting out to ſea in their little canoes which had been brought with them. One of them had got as far as thirty leagues from land before he was overtaken. It was remarked, that this poor man, whenever he met a woman with a child in her arms, uſed to utter a deep ſigh; whence it was conjectured that he had left a wife and child behind him. They all pined away one after another, and died miſerably."’

Now, Edward (ſaid he), what is your opinion of this ſtory?

Poor creatures! I think it was very barbarous to take them from home.

It was, indeed!

Have civilized nations any right to behave ſo to ſavages?

I think you may readily an⯑ſwer that queſtion yourſelf. Suppoſe [81] you were a ſavage—what would be your opinion?

I dare ſay I ſhould think it very wrong. But can ſavages think about right and wrong as we do?

Why not! are they not men?

Yes—but not like civilized men, ſure!

I know no important differ⯑ence between ourſelves and thoſe peo⯑ple we are pleaſed to call ſavage, but in the degree of knowledge and virtue poſſeſſed by each. And I believe many individuals among the Greenlanders, as well as other unpoliſhed people, exceed in theſe reſpects many among us. In the preſent caſe, I am ſure the Daniſh ſailors ſhowed themſelves the greater ſa⯑vages.

But what did they take away the Greenlanders for?

The pretence was, that they might be brought to be inſtructed in a [82] Chriſtian country, and then ſent back to civilize their countrymen.

And was not that a good thing?

Certainly—if it were done by proper means; but to attempt it by an act of violence and injuſtice could not be right; for they could teach them no⯑thing ſo good, as their example was bad; and the poor people were not likely to learn willingly from thoſe who had be⯑gun with injuring them ſo cruelly.

I remember Capt. Cook brought over ſomebody from Otaheite; and poor Lee Boo was brought here from the Pe⯑lew Iſlands. But I believe they both came of their own accord.

They did. And it is a great proof of the better way of thinking of modern voyagers than of former ones, that they do not conſider it as juſtifiable to uſe violence even for the ſuppoſed benefit of the people they viſit.

I have read of taking poſſeſſion of a newly diſcovered country by ſetting [83] up the king's ſtandard, or ſome ſuch ceremony, though it was full of inha⯑bitants.

Such was formerly the cuſ⯑tom; and a more impudent mockery of all right and juſtice cannot be con⯑ceived. Yet this, I am ſorry to ſay, is the title by which European nations claim the greateſt part of their foreign ſettlements.

And might not the natives drive them out again, if they were able?

I am ſure I do not know why they might not; for force can never give right.

Now, Harry, tell me what you think of the ſtory.

I think it very ſtrange that people ſhould want to go back to ſuch a cold diſmal place as Greenland.

Why, what country do you love beſt in all the world?

England, to be ſure!

But England is by no means the warmeſt and fineſt country. Here are no grapes growing in the fields, nor oranges in the woods and hedges, as there are in more ſouthern climates.

I ſhould like them very well, to be ſure—but then England is my own native country, where you and mamma and all my friends live. Beſides, it is a very pleaſant country, too.

As to your firſt reaſon, you muſt be ſenſible that the Greenlander can ſay juſt the ſame; and the poor fel⯑low who left a wife and children behind muſt have had the ſtrongeſt of all ties to make him wiſh to return. Do you think I ſhould be eaſy to be ſeparated from all of you?

No—and I am ſure we ſhould not be eaſy, neither.

Home, my dear, wherever it be, is the ſpot towards which a good heart is the moſt ſtrongly drawn. Then, [85] as for the pleaſantneſs of a place, that all depends upon habit. The Green⯑lander, being accuſtomed to the way of living, and all the objects, of his own country, could not reliſh any other ſo well. He loved whale-fat and ſeal as well as you can do pudding and beef. He thought rowing his little boat amid the boiſterous waves, finer diverſion than driving a plough or a cart. He fenced againſt the winter's cold by warm cloth⯑ing; and the long night of many weeks, which you would think ſo gloomy, was to him a ſeaſon of eaſe and feſtivity in his habitation under ground. It is a very kind and wiſe diſpenſation of Pro⯑vidence, that every part of the world is rendered the moſt agreeable to thoſe who live in it.

Now, little Mary, what have you to ſay?

I have only to ſay, that if they were to offer to carry me away [86] from home, I would ſcratch their eyes out!

Well ſaid, my girl! ſtand up for yourſelf. Let nobody run away with you—againſt your will.

That I won't.

ON MANUFACTURES.

MY dear father, you obſerved the other day that we had a great many manufactures in England. Pray what is a Manufacture?

A Manufacture is ſomething made by the hand of man. It is derived from two Latin words, manus, the hand, and facere, to make. Manufactures are therefore oppoſed to productions, which latter are what the bounty of nature ſpontaneouſly affords us; as fruits, corn, marble.

But there is a great deal of trouble with corn: you have often made me take notice how much pains it coſts the farmer [98] to plough his ground, and put the ſeed in the earth, and keep it clear from weeds.

Very true; but the farmer does not make the corn; he only prepares for it a proper ſoil and ſituation, and re⯑moves every hindrance ariſing from the hardneſs of the ground, or the neigh⯑bourhood of other plants, which might obſtruct the ſecret and wonderful pro⯑ceſs of vegetation; but with the vege⯑tation itſelf he has nothing to do. It is not his hand that draws out the ſlender fibres of the root, puſhes up the green ſtalk, and by degrees the ſpiky ear; ſwells the grain, and embrowns it with that rich tinge of tawny ruſſet, which informs the huſbandman it is time to put in his ſickle: all this operation is performed without his care or even knowledge.

Now then I underſtand; corn is a Production, and bread a Manufac⯑ture.

Bread is certainly, in ſtrictneſs of ſpeech, a Manufacture; but we do not in general apply the term to any thing in which the original material is ſo little changed. If we wanted to ſpeak of bread philoſophically, we ſhould ſay, it is a preparation of corn.

Is ſugar a Manufacture?

No, for the ſame reaſon. Be⯑ſides which, I do not recollect the term being applied to any article of food; I ſuppoſe from an idea that food is of too periſhable a nature, and generally ob⯑tained by a proceſs too ſimple to deſerve the name. We ſay, therefore, ſugar⯑works, oil-mills, chocolate-works; we do not ſay a beer-manufactory, but a brewery; but this is only a nicety of lan⯑guage, for properly all thoſe are manu⯑factories, if there is much of art and cu⯑rioſity in the proceſs.

Do we ſay a manufactory of pic⯑tures?

No; but for a different reaſon. [100] A picture, eſpecially if it belong to any of the higher kinds of painting, is an ef⯑fort of genius. A picture cannot be produced by any given combinations of canvas and colour. It is the hand in⯑deed, that executes, but the head that works. Sir Joſhua Reynolds could not have gone, when he was engaged to paint a picture, and hired workmen, the one to draw the eyes, another the noſe, a third the mouth; the whole muſt be the painter's own, that particular painter's, and no other; and no one who has not his ideas can do his work. His work is therefore nobler, of a higher ſpecies.

Pray give me an inſtance of a manufacture?

The making of watches is a ma⯑nufacture: the ſilver, iron, gold, or whatever elſe is uſed in it, are produc⯑tions, the material of the work; but it is by the wonderful art of man that they are wrought into the numberleſs wheels [101] and ſprings of which this complicated machine is compoſed.

Then is there not as much art in making a watch as a picture? Does not the head work?

Certainly, in the original inven⯑tion of watches, as much, or more, than in painting; but when once invented, the art of watch-making is capable of being reduced to a mere mechanical la⯑bour, which may be exerciſed by any man of common capacity, according to certain preciſe rules, when made fami⯑liar to him by practice. This, painting is not.

But, my dear father, making of books ſurely requires a great deal of thinking and ſtudy; and yet I remem⯑ber the other day at dinner a gentleman ſaid that Mr. Pica had manufactured a large volume in leſs than a fortnight.

It was meant to convey a ſatirical remark on his book, becauſe it was compiled from other authors, from whom [102] he had taken a page in one place, and a page in another; ſo that it was not produced by the labour of his brain, but of his hands. Thus you heard your mother complain that the London cream was manufactured; which was a pointed and conciſe way of ſaying that the cream was not what it ought to be, nor what it pretended to be; for cream, when genuine, is a pure production; but when mixed up and adulterated with flour and iſinglaſs, and I know not what, it be⯑comes a Manufacture. It was as much as to ſay, art has been here, where it has no buſineſs; where it is not beneficial, but hurtful. A great deal of the deli⯑cacy of language depends upon an ac⯑curate knowledge of the ſpecific mean⯑ing of ſingle terms, and a nice attention to their relative propriety.

Have all nations Manufactures?

All that are in any degree cul⯑tivated; but it very often happens that countries naturally the pooreſt have ma⯑nufactures [103] of the greateſt extent and va⯑riety.

Why ſo?

For the ſame reaſon, I appre⯑hend, that individuals, who are rich without any labour of their own, are ſeldom ſo induſtrious and active as thoſe who depend upon their own exertions: thus the Spaniards, who poſſeſs the rich⯑eſt gold and ſilver mines in the world, are in want of many conveniences of life which are enjoyed in London and Amſterdam.

I can comprehend that; I be⯑lieve if my uncle Ledger were to find a gold mine under his warehouſe, he would ſoon ſhut up ſhop.

I believe ſo. It is not, however, eaſy to eſtabliſh Manufactures in a very poor nation; they require ſcience and genius for their invention, art and con⯑trivance for their execution; order, peace, and union, for their flouriſhing; they require a number of men to com⯑bine [104] together in an undertaking, and to proſecute it with the moſt patient in⯑duſtry; they require, therefore, laws and government for their protection. If you ſee extenſive Manufactures in any nation, you may be ſure it is a civilized nation; you may be ſure property is accurately aſcertained and protected. They re⯑quire great expences for their firſt eſta⯑bliſhment, coſtly machines for ſhorten⯑ing manual labour, and money and cre⯑dit for purchaſing materials from diſtant countries. There is not a ſingle Manu⯑facture of Great Britain which does not require, in ſome part or other of its pro⯑ceſs, productions from the different parts of the globe; oils, drugs, varniſh, quick⯑ſilver, and the like; it requires, there⯑fore, ſhips and a friendly intercourſe with foreign nations to tranſport commodi⯑ties, and exchange productions. We could not be a manufacturing, unleſs we were alſo a commercial nation. They require time to take root in any place, [105] and their excellence often depends upon ſome nice and delicate circumſtance; a peculiar quality, for inſtance, in the air, or water, or ſome other local circum⯑ſtance not eaſily aſcertained. Thus, I have heard, that the Iriſh women ſpin better than the Engliſh, becauſe the moiſter temperature of their climate makes their ſkin more ſoft and their fingers more flexible: thus again we cannot dye ſo beautiful a ſcarlet as the French can, though with the ſame drugs, perhaps on account of the ſuperior pu⯑rity of their air. But though ſo much is neceſſary for the perfection of the more curious and complicated Manufactures, all nations poſſeſs thoſe which are ſub⯑ſervient to the common conveniences of life—the loom and the forge, particu⯑larly, are of the higheſt antiquity.

Yes; I remember Hector bids Andromache return to her apartment, and employ herſelf in weaving with her [106] maids; and I remember the ſhield of Achilles.

True; and you likewiſe remem⯑ber, in an earlier period, the fine linen of Egypt; and, to go ſtill higher, the working in braſs and iron is recorded of Tubal Cain before the flood.

Which is the moſt important, Manufactures or Agriculture?

Agriculture is the moſt neceſſary, becauſe it is firſt of all neceſſary that man ſhould live; but almoſt all the en⯑joyments and comforts of life are pro⯑duced by Manufactures.

Why are we obliged to take ſo much pains to make ourſelves com⯑fortable?

To exerciſe our induſtry. Na⯑ture provides the materials for man. She pours out at his feet a profuſion of gems, metals, dyes, plants, ores, barks, ſtones, gums, wax, marbles, woods, roots, ſkins, earths, and minerals of all kinds. She has likewiſe given him tools.

I did not know that Nature gave us tool.

No! what are thoſe two inſtru⯑ments you carry always about with you, ſo ſtrong and yet ſo flexible, ſo nicely jointed, and branched out into five long taper, unequal diviſions, any of which may be contracted or ſtretched out at plea⯑ſure; the extremities of which have a feel⯑ing ſo wonderfully delicate, and which are ſtrengthened and defended by horn?

The hands.

Yes. Man is as much ſuperior to the brutes in his outward form, by means of the hand, as he is in his mind by the gifts of reaſon. The trunk of the elephant comes perhaps the neareſt to it in its exquiſite feeling and flexibility (it is, indeed, called his hand in Latin), and accordingly that animal has always been reckoned the wiſeſt of brutes. When Nature gave man the hand, ſhe ſaid to him, ‘"Exerciſe your ingenuity, and work."’ As ſoon as ever man riſes [108] above the ſtate of a ſavage, he begins to contrive and to make things, in or⯑der to improve his forlorn condition; thus you may remember Thomſon re⯑preſents Induſtry coming to the poor ſhivering wretch, and teaching him the arts of life:

It muſt require a great deal of knowledge, I ſuppoſe, for ſo many cu⯑rious works; what kind of knowledge is moſt neceſſary?

There is not any which may not be occaſionally employed; but the two ſciences which moſt aſſiſt the manufac⯑turer are mechanics and chemiſtry. The one for building mills, working of mines, and in general for conſtructing wheels, wedges, pullies, &c. either to ſhorten [109] the labour of man, by performing it in leſs time, or to perform what the ſtrength of man alone could not ac⯑compliſh:—the other in fuſing and working ores, in dying and bleaching, and extracting the virtues of various ſubſtances for particular uſes: making of ſoap, for inſtance, is a chemical operation; and by chemiſtry an inge⯑nious gentleman has lately found out a way of bleaching a piece of cloth in eight and forty hours, which by the common proceſs would have taken up a great many weeks.—You have heard of Sir Richard Arkwright who died lately—

Yes, I have heard he was at firſt only a barber, and ſhaved people for a penny a-piece.

He did ſo; but having a ſtrong turn for mechanics, he invented, or at leaſt perfected, a machine, by which one pair of hands may do the work of twen⯑ty or thirty; and, as in this country [110] every one is free to riſe by merit, he acquired the largeſt fortune in the coun⯑ty, had a great many hundreds of work⯑men under his orders, and had leave given him by the King to put Sir be⯑fore his name.

Did that do him any good?

It pleaſed him, I ſuppoſe, or he would not have accepted of it; and you will allow, I imagine, that if titles are uſed, it does honour to thoſe who be⯑ſtow them, that they are given to ſuch as have made themſelves noticed for ſomething uſeful.—Arkwright uſed to ſay, that if he had time to perfect his inventions, he would put a fleece of wool into a box, and it ſhould come out broad cloth.

What did he mean by that; was there any fairy in the box to turn it into broad cloth with her wand?

He was aſſiſted by the only fai⯑ries that ever had the power of tranſ⯑formation, Art and Induſtry: he meant [111] that he would contrive ſo many ma⯑chines, wheel within wheel, that the combing, carding, and other various operations ſhould be performed by me⯑chaniſm, almoſt without the hand of man.

I think, if I had not been told, I ſhould never have been able to gueſs that my coat came off the back of the ſheep.

You hardly would; but there are Manufactures in which the material is much more changed than in woollen cloth. What can be meaner in appear⯑ance than ſand and aſhes? Would you imagine any thing beautiful could be made out of ſuch a mixture? Yet the furnace transforms this into that tranſ⯑parent cryſtal we call glaſs, than which nothing is more ſparkling, more bril⯑liant, more full of luſtre. It throws about the rays of light as if it had life and motion.

There is a glaſs-ſhop in Lon⯑don, [112] which always puts me in mind of Aladdin's palace.

It is certain that if a perſon ig⯑norant of the Manufacture were to ſee one of our capital ſhops, he would think all the treaſures of Golconda were cen⯑tered there, and that every drop of cut glaſs was worth a prince's ranſom.—Again, who would ſuppoſe, on ſeeing the green ſtalks of a plant, that it could be formed into a texture ſo ſmooth, ſo ſnowy-white, ſo firm, and yet ſo flex⯑ible as to wrap round the limbs and adapt itſelf to every movement of the body? Who would gueſs this fibrous ſtalk could be made to float in ſuch light undulating folds as in our lawns and cambrics; not leſs fine, we pre⯑ſume, than that tranſparent drapery which the Romans called ventus textilis, woven wind.

I wonder how any body can ſpin ſuch fine thread.

Their fingers muſt have the touch of a ſpider, that, as Pope ſays,‘"Feels at each thread, and lives along the line;"’ and indeed you recollect that Arachne was a ſpinſter. Lace is a ſtill finer pro⯑duction from flax, and is one of thoſe in which the original material is moſt im⯑proved. How many times the price of a pound of flax do you think that flax will be worth when made into lace?

A great many times, I ſuppoſe.

Flax at the beſt hand is bought at fourteen-pence a pound. They make lace at Valenciennes, in French Flanders, of ten guineas a yard, I believe indeed higher, but we will ſay ten guineas; this yard of lace will weigh probably not more than half an ounce: what is the value of half an ounce of flax? reckon it.

It comes to one farthing and three quarters of a farthing.

Right; now tell me how many [114] times the original value the lace is worth.

Prodigious! it is worth 5760 times as much as the flax it is made of.

Yet there is another material that is ſtill more improveable than flax.

What can that be?

Iron. The price of pig-iron is ten ſhillings a hundred weight; this is not quite one farthing for two ounces: now you have ſeen ſome of the beautiful cut ſteel that looks like diamonds.

Yes, I have ſeen buckles, and pins, and watch-chains.

Then you can form an idea of it; but you have ſeen only the moſt common ſorts. There was a chain made at Woodſtock, in Oxfordſhire, and ſent to France, which weighed only two ounces, and coſt 170l. Calculate how many times that had increaſed its value.

Amazing! It was worth 163, 600 times the value of the iron it was made of.

This is what Manufactures can do; here man is a kind of a creator, and, like the great Creator, he may pleaſe himſelf with his work, and ſay it is good. In the laſt-mentioned Manufacture, too, that of ſteel, the Engliſh have the ho⯑nour of excelling all the world.

What are the chief Manufac⯑tures of England?

We have at preſent a greater va⯑riety than I can pretend to enumerate, but our ſtaple Manufacture is woollen cloth. England abounds in fine paſ⯑tures and extenſive downs, which feed great numbers of ſheep; hence our wool has always been a valuable arti⯑cle of trade; but we did not always know how to work it. We uſed to ſell it to the Flemiſh or Lombards, who wrought it into cloth; till in the year 1326, Edward the Third invited ſome Flemiſh weavers over to teach us the art; but there was not much made in England till the reign of Henry the Se⯑venth. [116] Mancheſter and Birmingham are towns which have ariſen to great conſequence from ſmall beginnings, al⯑moſt within the memory of old men now living; the firſt for cotton and muſlin goods, the ſecond for cutlery and hard⯑ware, in which we at this moment ex⯑cel all Europe. Of late years, too, carpets, beautiful as fine tapeſtry, have been fabricated in this country. Our clocks and watches are greatly eſteemed. The earthen-ware plates and diſhes, which we all uſe in common, and the elegant ſet for the tea-table, ornament⯑ed with muſical inſtruments, which we admired in our viſit yeſterday, belong to a very extenſive manufactory, the ſeat of which is at Burſlem in Staf⯑fordſhire. The principal potteries there belong to one perſon, an excellent chy⯑miſt, and a man of great taſte; he, in conjunction with another man of taſte who is ſince dead, has made our clay more valuable than the fineſt porcelain [117] of China. He has moulded it into all the forms of grace and beauty that are to be met with in the precious remains of the Greek and Etruſcan artiſts. In the more common articles he has pen⯑ciled it with the moſt elegant deſigns, ſhaped it into ſhells and leaves, twiſted it into wicker-work, and trailed the ductile foliage round the light baſket. He has filled our cabinets and chimney⯑pieces with urns, lamps, and vaſes, on which are lightly traced, with the pureſt ſimplicity, the fine forms and floating draperies of Herculaneum. In ſhort, he has given to our houſes a claſſic air, and has made every ſaloon and every din⯑ing-room ſchools of taſte. I ſhould add that there is a great demand abroad for this elegant Manufacture. The Em⯑preſs of Ruſſia has had ſome magnifi⯑cent ſervices of it; and the other day one was ſent to the King of Spain, in⯑tended as a preſent from him to the Archbiſhop of Toledo, which coſt a [118] thouſand pounds. Some morning you ſhall go through the rooms in the Lon⯑don Warehouſe.

I ſhould like very much to ſee Manufactures, now you have told me ſuch curious things about them.

You will do well; there is much more entertainment to a cultivated mind in ſeeing a pin made, than in many a faſhionable diverſion which young peo⯑ple half ruin themſelves to attend. In the mean time I will give you ſome ac⯑count of one of the moſt elegant of them, which is paper.

Pray do, my dear father.

It ſhall be left for another even⯑ing, however, for it is now late. Good night.

THE FLYING FISH.

THE Flying Fiſh, ſays the fable, had originally no wings; but being of an ambitious and diſcontented temper, ſhe repined at being always confined to the waters, and wiſhed to ſoar in the air. ‘"If I could fly like the birds,"’ ſaid ſhe, ‘"I ſhould not only ſee more of the beauties of nature, but I ſhould be able to eſcape from thoſe fiſh which are continually purſuing me, and which render my life miſerable."’ She therefore petitioned Jupiter for a pair of wings: and immediately ſhe per⯑ceived her fins to expand. They ſud⯑denly grew to the length of her whole body, and became at the ſame time ſo ſtrong as to do the office of a pinion. She was at firſt much pleaſed with her [120] new powers, and looked with an air of diſdain on all her former companions; but ſhe ſoon perceived herſelf expoſed to new dangers. When flying in the air, ſhe was inceſſantly purſued by the tropic bird, and the Albatroſs; and when for ſafety ſhe dropped into the water, ſhe was ſo fatigued with her flight, that ſhe was leſs able than ever to eſcape from her old enemies the fiſh. Finding herſelf more unhappy than be⯑fore, ſhe now begged of Jupiter to recal his preſent; but Jupiter ſaid to her, ‘"When I gave you your wings, I well knew they would prove a curſe; but your proud and reſtleſs diſpoſition de⯑ſerved this diſappointment. Now, there⯑fore, what you begged as a favour, keep as a puniſhment!"’

A LESSON IN THE ART OF DISTINGUISHING.

COME hither, Charles; what is that you ſee grazing in the meadow be⯑fore you?

It is a horſe.

Whoſe horſe is it?

I do not know; I never ſaw it before.

How do you know it is a horſe, if you never ſaw it before?

Becauſe it is like other horſes.

Are all horſes alike, then?

Yes.

If they are all alike, how do you know one horſe from another?

They are not quite alike.

But they are ſo much alike, that you can eaſily diſtinguiſh a horſe from a cow?

Yes, indeed.

Or from a cabbage?

A horſe from a cabbage! yes, ſurely I can.

Very well; then let us ſee if you can tell how a horſe differs from a cab⯑bage?

Very eaſily; a horſe is alive.

True; and how is every thing called, which is alive?

I believe all things that are alive are called animals.

Right; but can you tell me what a horſe and a cabbage are alike in?

Nothing, I believe.

Yes, there is one thing in which the ſlendereſt moſs that grows upon the wall is like the greateſt man or the high⯑eſt angel.

Becauſe God made them.

Yes; and how do you call every thing that is made?

A creature.

A horſe then is a creature, but a living creature; that is to ſay, an animal.

And a cabbage is a dead creature; that is the difference.

Not ſo, neither; nothing is dead that has never been alive.

What muſt I call it then, if it is neither dead nor alive?

An inanimate creature; there is the animate and the inanimate creation. Plants, ſtones, metals, are of the latter claſs, horſes belong to the former.

But the gardener told me ſome of my cabbages were dead, and ſome were alive.

Very true. Plants have a vegeta⯑tive life, a principle of growth and de⯑cay; this is common to them with all organized bodies; but they have not ſenſation, at leaſt we do not know they have—they have not life, therefore, in the ſenſe in which animals enjoy it.

A horſe is called an animal, then.

Yes; but a ſalmon is an animal, and ſo is a ſparrow; how will you diſ⯑tinguiſh a horſe from theſe?

A ſalmon lives in the water and ſwims; a ſparrow flies, and lives in the air.

I think a ſalmon could not walk upon the ground, even if it could live out of the water.

No, indeed; it has no legs.

And a bird would not gallop like a horſe.

No; it would hop away upon its two ſlender legs.

How many legs has a horſe?

Four.

And an ox?

Four likewiſe.

And a camel?

Four ſtill.

Do you know any animals which live upon the earth that have not four legs?

I think not; they have all four legs; except worms, and inſects, and ſuch things.

You remember, I ſuppoſe, what [125] an animal is called that has four legs; you have it in your little books.

A quadruped.

A horſe then is a quadruped: by this we diſtinguiſh him from birds, fiſhes, and inſects.

And from men.

True; but if you had been talk⯑ing about birds, you would not have found it ſo eaſy to diſtinguiſh them.

How ſo! a man is not at all like a bird.

Yet an ancient philoſopher could find no way to diſtinguiſh them, but by calling man a two-legged animal without feathers.

I think he was very ſilly; they are not at all alike, though they have both two legs.

Another ancient philoſopher, call⯑ed Diogenes, was of your opinion. He ſtript a cock of his feathers, and turned him into the ſchool where Plato, that [126] was his name, was teaching, and ſaid, Here is Plato's man for you.

I wiſh I had been there, I ſhould have laughed very much.

Probably. Before we laugh at others, however, let us ſee what we can do ourſelves. We have not yet found any thing which will diſtinguiſh a horſe from an elephant, or from a Norway rat.

O, that is eaſy enough. An ele⯑phant is very large, and a rat is very ſmall; a horſe is neither large nor ſmall.

Before we go any further, look what is ſettled on the ſkirt of your coat.

It is a butterfly; what a prodi⯑gious large one! I never ſaw ſuch a one before.

Is it larger than a rat, think you?

No, that it is not.

Yet you called the butterfly large, and you called the rat ſmall.

It is very large for a butterfly.

It is ſo. You ſee, therefore, that large and ſmall are relative terms.

I do not well underſtand that phraſe.

It means that they have no pre⯑ciſe and determinate ſignification in themſelves, but are applied differently according to the other ideas which you join with them, and the different poſi⯑tions in which you view them. This butterfly, therefore, is large, compared with thoſe of its own ſpecies, and ſmall compared with many other ſpecies of animals. Beſides, there is no circum⯑ſtance which varies more than the ſize of individuals. If you were to give an idea of a horſe from its ſize, you would certainly ſay it was much bigger than a dog; yet if you take the ſmalleſt Shetland horſe, and the largeſt Iriſh greyhound, you will find them very much upon a par: ſize, therefore, is not a circum⯑ſtance by which you can accurately diſ⯑tinguiſh [128] one animal from another; nor yet is colour.

No; there are black horſes, and bay, and white, and pied.

But you have not ſeen that va⯑riety of colours, in a hare, for inſtance.

No, a hare is always brown.

Yet if you were to depend upon that circumſtance, you would not con⯑vey the idea of a hare to a mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia; for he ſees them white as ſnow. We muſt, there⯑fore, find out ſome circumſtances that do not change like ſize and colour, and I may add ſhape, though they are not ſo obvious, nor perhaps ſo ſtriking. Look at the feet of quadrupeds; are they all alike?

No; ſome have long taper claws, and ſome have thick clumſy feet with⯑out claws.

The thick ſeet are horny; are they not?

Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs.

And the feet that are not covered with horn, and are divided into claws, are called digitated, from digitus, a fin⯑ger; becauſe they are parted like fin⯑gers. Here, then, we have one grand diviſion of quadrupeds into hoofed and digitated. Of which diviſion is the horſe?

He is hoofed.

There are a great many different kinds of horſes; did you ever know one that was not hoofed?

No, never.

Do you think we run any hazard of a ſtranger telling us, Sir, horſes are hoofed indeed in your country, but in mine, which is in a different climate, and where we feed them differently, they have claws?

No, I dare ſay not.

Then we have got ſomething to our purpoſe; a circumſtance eaſily marked, which always belongs to the [130] animal, under every variation of ſitua⯑tion or treatment. But an ox is hoofed, and ſo is a ſheep; we muſt diſtinguiſh ſtill farther. You have often ſtood by, I ſuppoſe, while the ſmith was ſhoeing a horſe. What kind of a hoof has he?

It is round, and all in one piece.

And is that of an ox ſo?

No, it is divided.

A horſe, then, is not only hoof⯑ed, but whole-hoofed. Now how many quadrupeds do you think there are in the world that are whole-hoofed?

Indeed I do not know.

There are, among all animals that we are acquainted with, either in this country or in any other, only the horſe, the aſs, and the zebra, which is a ſpe⯑cies of wild aſs. Now, therefore, you ſee we have nearly accompliſhed our purpoſe; we have only to diſtinguiſh him from the aſs.

That is eaſily done, I believe; I [131] ſhould be ſorry if any body could miſ⯑take my little horſe for an aſs.

It is not ſo eaſy, however, as you ima⯑gine; the eye readily diſtinguiſhes them by the air and general appearance, but naturaliſts have been rather puzzled to fix upon any ſpecific difference, which may ſerve the purpoſe of a definition. Some have, therefore, fixed upon the ears, others on the mane and tail. What kind of ears has an aſs?

O, very long clumſy ears. Aſſes' ears are always laughed at.

And the horſe?

The horſe has ſmall ears, nicely turned, and upright.

And the mane, is there no differ⯑ence there?

The horſe has a fine long flowing mane; the aſs has hardly any.

And the tail; is it not fuller of hair in the horſe than in the aſs?

Yes; the aſs has only a few long hairs at the end of his tail; but the horſe [132] has a long buſhy tail, when it is not cut.

Which, by the way, it is pity it ever ſhould. Now, then, obſerve what particulars we have got. A horſe is an animal of the quadruped kind, whole⯑hoofed, with ſhort erect ears, a flowing mane, and a tail covered in every part with long ears. Now is there any other animal, think you, in the world that anſwers theſe particulars?

I do not know; this does not tell us a great deal about him.

And yet it tells us enough to diſ⯑tinguiſh him from all the different tribes of the creation which we are acquainted with in any part of the earth. Do you know now what we have been making?

What?

A DEFINITION. It is the buſi⯑neſs of a definition to diſtinguiſh pre⯑ciſely the thing defined from every other thing, and to do it in as few terms as poſſible. Its object is to ſeparate the [133] ſubject of definition, firſt, from thoſe with which it has only a general reſem⯑blance; then, from thoſe which agree with it in a greater variety of particu⯑lars; and ſo on, till by conſtantly throw⯑ing out all which have not the qualities we have taken notice of, we come at length to the individual or the ſpecies we wiſh to aſcertain. It is a kind of chaſe, and reſembles the manner of hunting in ſome countries, where they firſt encloſe a very large circle with their dogs, nets, and horſes; and then, by degrees, draw their toils cloſer and cloſer, driving their game before them till it is at length brought into ſo narrow a compaſs, that the ſportſmen have nothing to do but to knock down their prey.

Juſt as we have been hunting this horſe, till at laſt we held him faſt by his ears and his tail.

I ſhould obſerve to you, that in the definition naturaliſts give of a horſe, it is generally mentioned that he has [134] ſix cutting teeth in each jaw; becauſe this circumſtance of the teeth has been found a very convenient one for cha⯑racteriſing large claſſes: but as it is not abſolutely neceſſary here, I have omitted it; a definition being the more perfect the fewer particulars you make uſe of, provided you can ſay with certainty from thoſe particulars, The object ſo characteriſed muſt be this, and no other whatever.

But, papa, if I had never ſeen a horſe, I ſhould not know what kind of animal it was by this definition.

Let us hear, then, how you would give me an idea of a horſe.

I would ſay it was a fine large prancing creature, with ſlender legs and an arched neck, and a ſleek ſmooth ſkin, and a tail that ſweeps the ground, and that he ſnorts and neighs very loud, and toſſes his head, and runs as ſwift as the wind.

I think you learned ſome verſes [135] upon the horſe in your laſt leſſon: re⯑peat them.

You have ſaid very well; but this is not a Definition, it is a Deſcription.

What is the difference?

A deſcription is intended to give you a lively picture of an object, as if you ſaw it; it ought to be very full. A definition gives no picture to thoſe who have not ſeen it; it rather tells you what its ſubject is not, than what it is, by giving you ſuch clear ſpecific marks, that it ſhall not be poſſible to confound [136] it with any thing elſe; and hence it is of the greateſt uſe in throwing things into claſſes. We have a great many beautiful deſcriptions from antient au⯑thors ſo looſely worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are meant by them, whereas if they had given us de⯑finitions, three lines would have aſcer⯑tained their meaning.

I like a deſcription beſt, papa.

Perhaps ſo; I believe I ſhould have done the ſame at your age. Re⯑member, however, that nothing is more uſeful than to learn to form ideas with preciſion, and to expreſs them with ac⯑curacy: I have not given you a defini⯑tion to teach you what a horſe is, but to teach you to think.

THE PHENIX AND DOVE.

A Phenix, who had long inhabited the ſolitary deſerts of Arabia, once flew ſo near the habitations of men as to meet with a tame Dove, who was ſitting on her neſt, with wings expanded, and fondly brooding over her young ones, while ſhe expected her mate, who was foraging abroad to procure them food. The Phenix, with a kind of inſulting compaſſion, ſaid to her, ‘"Poor bird, how much I pity thee! confined to a ſingle ſpot, and ſunk in domeſtic cares, thou art continually employed either in laying eggs or in providing for thy brood; and thou exhauſteſt thy life and ſtrength in perpetuating a feeble and de⯑fenceleſs race. As to myſelf, I live ex⯑empt from toil, care, and misfortune. I feed upon nothing leſs precious than rich gums and ſpices; I fly through the trackleſs regions of the air, and when I [138] am ſeen by men, am gazed at with cu⯑rioſity and aſtoniſhment; I have no one to controul my range, no one to pro⯑vide for; and when I have fulfilled my five centuries of life, and ſeen the revo⯑lutions of ages, I rather vaniſh than die, and a ſucceſſor without my care, ſprings up from my aſhes. I am an image of the great ſun whom I adore; and glory in being, like him, ſingle and alone, and having no likeneſs."’

The Dove replied, ‘"O Phenix, I pity thee much more than thou affecteſt to pity me! What pleaſure canſt thou enjoy, who liveſt forlorn and ſolitary in a trackleſs and unpeopled deſert; who haſt no mate to careſs thee, no young ones to excite thy tenderneſs and reward thy cares, no kindred, no ſociety amongſt thy fellows. Not long life only, but immortality itſelf would be a curſe, if it were to be beſtowed on ſuch uncom⯑fortable terms. For my part, I know that my life will be ſhort, and therefore [139] I employ it in raiſing a numerous poſ⯑terity, and in opening my heart to all the ſweets of domeſtic happineſs. I am beloved by my partner; I am dear to man; and ſhall leave marks behind me that I have lived. As to the ſun, to whom thou haſt preſumed to compare thyſelf, that glorious being is ſo totally different from, and ſo infinitely ſuperior to, all the creatures upon earth, that it does not become us to liken ourſelves to him, or to determine upon the manner of his exiſtence. One obvious differ⯑ence, however, thou mayeſt remark; that the ſun, though alone, by his prolific heat, produces all things, and though he ſhines ſo high above our heads, gives us reaſon every moment to bleſs his beams; whereas thou, ſwelling with thy imaginary greatneſs, dreameſt away a long period of exiſtence, equally void of comfort and uſefulneſs."’

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

I WILL now, as I promiſed, give you an account of the elegant and uſe⯑ful manufacture of Paper, the baſis of which is itſelf a manufacture. This de⯑licate and beautiful ſubſtance is made from the meaneſt and moſt diſguſting materials, from old rags, which have paſſed from one poor perſon to another, and at length have perhaps dropped in tatters from the child of the beggar. Theſe are carefully picked up from dunghills, or bought from ſervants by Jews, who make it their buſineſs to go about and collect them. They ſell them to the rag-merchant, who gives from two-pence to four-pence a pound, according to their quality; and he, when he has got a ſufficient quantity, diſpoſes of them to the owner of the paper-mill. He gives them firſt to women to ſort and [141] pick, agreeably to their different de⯑grees of fineneſs: they alſo with a knife cut out carefully all the ſeams, which they throw into a baſket for other pur⯑poſes: they then put them into the duſting-engine, a large circular wire ſieve, from whence they receive ſome degree of cleanſing. The rags are then conveyed to the mill. Here they were formerly beat to pieces with vaſt ham⯑mers, which roſe and fell continually with a moſt tremendous noiſe that was heard from a great diſtance. But now they put the rags into a large trough or ciſtern, into which a pipe of clear ſpring water is conſtantly flowing. In this ciſtern is placed a cylinder, about two feet long, ſet thick round with rows of iron ſpikes, ſtanding as near as they can to one another without touching. At the bottom of the trough there are cor⯑reſponding rows of ſpikes. The cy⯑linder is made to whirl round with in⯑conceivable rapidity, and with theſe iron [142] teeth rends and tears the cloth in every poſſible direction; till, by the aſſiſtance of the water, which continually flows through the ciſtern, it is thoroughly maſticated, and reduced to a fine pulp; and by the ſame proceſs all its impuri⯑ties are cleanſed away, and it is reſtored to its original whiteneſs. This proceſs takes about ſix hours. To improve the colour they then put in a little ſmalt, which gives it that bluiſh caſt which all Paper has more or leſs: the French Paper has leſs of it than ours. This fine pulp is next put into a copper of warm water. It is the ſubſtance of paper, but the form muſt now be given it: for this purpoſe they uſe a mould. It is made of wire, ſtrong one way, and croſſed with finer. This mould they juſt dip horizontally into the copper, and take it out again. It has a little wooden frame on the edge, by means of which it retains as much of the pulp as is want⯑ed for the thickneſs of the ſheet, and the [143] ſuperfluity runs off through the inter⯑ſtices of the wires. Another man in⯑ſtantly receives it, opens the frame, and turns out the thin ſheet, which has now ſhape, but not conſiſtence, upon ſoft felt, which is placed on the ground to receive it. On that is placed another piece of felt, and then another ſheet of Paper, and ſo on till they have made a pile of forty or fifty. They are then preſſed with a large ſcrew-preſs, moved by a long lever, which forcibly ſqueezes the water out of them, and gives them immediate conſiſtence. There is ſtill however, a great deal to be done. The felts are taken off and thrown on one ſide, and the Paper on the other, from whence it is dexterouſly taken up with an inſtrument in the form of a T, three ſheets at a time, and hung on lines to dry. There it hangs for a week or ten days, which likewiſe further whitens it; and any knots and roughneſſes it may have are picked off carefully by the wo⯑men. [144] It is then ſized. Size is a kind of glue; and without this preparation the Paper would not bear ink; it would run and blot as you ſee it does on grey Paper. The ſheets are juſt dipped into the ſize, and taken out again. The exact degree of ſizing is a matter of nicety, which can only be known by ex⯑perience. They are then hung up again to dry, and when dry taken to the fi⯑niſhing-room, where they are examined a new, preſſed in the dry preſſes, which gives them their laſt gloſs and ſmooth⯑neſs; counted out into quires, made up in reams, and ſent to the ſtationer's, from whom we have it, after he has folded it again and cut the edges; ſome too he makes to ſhine like ſatin, by gloſſing it with hot plates. The whole proceſs of Paper-making takes about three weeks.

It is a very curious proceſs in⯑deed. I ſhall almoſt ſcruple for the fu⯑ture to blacken a ſheet of Paper with a [145] careleſs ſcrawl, now I know how much pains it coſts to make it ſo white and beautiful.

It is true that there is hardly any thing we uſe with ſo much waſte and profuſion as this manufacture; we ſhould think ourſelves confined in the uſe of it, if we might not tear, diſperſe, and de⯑ſtroy it in a thouſand ways; ſo that it is really aſtoniſhing from whence linen enough can be procured to anſwer ſo vaſt a demand. As to the coarſe brown papers, of which an aſtoniſhing quantity is uſed by every ſhopkeeper in pack⯑ages, &c. theſe are made chiefly of oakum, that is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made in China of ſilk.

I have heard lately of woven Pa⯑per; pray what is that? they cannot weave Paper, ſurely!

Your queſtion is very natural. In order to anſwer it, I muſt deſire you to take a ſheet of common Paper, and [146] hold it up againſt the light. Do not you ſee marks in it?

I ſee a great many white lines running along lengthways, like ribs, and ſmaller that croſs them. I ſee, too, letters and the figure of a crown.

Theſe are all the marks of the wires; the thickneſs of the wire pre⯑vents ſo much of the pulp lying upon the ſheet in thoſe places, conſequently wherever the wires are, the Paper is thinner, and you ſee the light through more readily, which gives that appear⯑ance of white lines. The letters too are worked in the wire, and are the maker's name. Now to prevent theſe lines, which take off from the beauty of the Paper, particularly of drawing Paper, there have been lately uſed moulds of braſs wire exceeding fine, of equal thick⯑neſs, and woven or latticed one within another; the marks, therefore, of theſe are eaſily preſſed out, ſo as to be hardly [147] viſible; if you look at this ſheet you will ſee it is quite ſmooth.

It is ſo.

I ſhould mention to you, that there is a diſcovery very lately made, by which they can make Paper equal to any in whiteneſs, of the coarſeſt brown rags, and even of dyed cottons; which they have till now been obliged to throw by for inferior purpoſes. This is by means of manganeſe, a ſort of mineral, and oil of vitriol; a mixture of which they juſt paſs through the pulp, while it is in water, for otherwiſe it would burn it, and in an inſtant it diſ⯑charges the colours of the dyed cloths, and bleaches the brown to a beautiful whiteneſs.

That is like what you told me before of bleaching cloth in a few hours.

It is indeed founded upon the ſame diſcovery. The Paper made of [148] theſe brown rags is likewiſe more va⯑luable, from being very tough and ſtrong, almoſt like parchment.

When was the making of Paper found out?

It is a diſputed point, but proba⯑bly in the fourteenth century. The in⯑vention has been of almoſt equal con⯑ſequence to literature, as that of print⯑ing itſelf; and ſhows how the arts and ſciences, like children of the ſame fa⯑mily, mutually aſſiſt and bring forward each other.

THE TWO ROBBERS.

WHAT, art thou the Thracian Robber, of whoſe exploits I have heard ſo much?

I am a Thracian, and a ſoldier.

A ſoldier!—a thief, a plunderer, an aſſaſſin! the peſt of the country! I could honour thy courage, but I muſt deteſt and puniſh thy crimes.

What have I done, of which you can complain?

Haſt thou not ſet at defiance my authority, violated the public peace, and paſſed thy life in injuring the per⯑ſons and properties of thy fellow ſub⯑jects?

Alexander! I am your captive—I muſt hear what you pleaſe to ſay, and endure what you pleaſe to inflict. But my ſoul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, I will reply like a free man.

Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power to ſilence thoſe with whom I deign to con⯑verſe!

I muſt then anſwer your queſtion [150] by another. How have you paſſed your life?

Like a hero. Aſk Fame, and ſhe will tell you. Among the brave, I have been the braveſt: among ſove⯑reigns, the nobleſt: among conquerors, the mightieſt.

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.

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

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, ra⯑viſhing, 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 fol⯑lowers, [151] you have done to whole nations with a hundred thouſand. If I have ſtripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes. If I have burned a few hamlets, you have deſolated the moſt flouriſhing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is then the differ⯑ence, but that as you were born a king, and I a private man, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?

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, com⯑merce, and philoſophy.

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, in⯑deed, little of the philoſophy you talk [152] of; but I believed neither you nor I ſhall ever repay to the world the miſ⯑chiefs we have done it.

Leave me—Take off his chains, and uſe him well.

—Are we then ſo much alike?—Alex⯑ander to a robber?—Let me reflect.