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WALKING THE STREETS.—A PARABLE.

Have you ever walked through the crowded streets of a great city?

What shoals of people pouring in from opposite quarters, like torrents meeting in a narrow valley! You would imagine it impossible for them to get through; yet all pass on their way without stop or molestation.

Were each man to proceed exactly in the line in which he set out, he could not move many paces without encountering another full in his track. They would strike against each other, fall back, push forward again, block up the way for themselves and those after them, and throw the whole street into confusion. All this is avoided by every man’s _yielding a little_.

Instead of advancing square, stiff, with arms stuck out, every one who knows how to walk the streets glides along, his arms close, his body oblique and flexible, his track gently winding, leaving now a few inches on this side, now on that, so as to pass and be passed without touching, in the smallest possible space.

He pushes no one into the kennel, nor goes into it himself. By _mutual accommodation_, the path, though narrow, holds them all.

He goes neither much faster nor much slower than those who go in the same direction. In the first case he would elbow, in the second he would be elbowed.

If any accidental stop arises, from a carriage crossing, a cask rolled, a pickpocket detected, or the like, he does not increase the bustle by rushing into the midst of it, but checks his pace, and patiently waits for its removal.

Like this is the _march of life_.

In our progress through the world a thousand things stand continually in our way. Some people meet us full in the face with opposite opinions and inclinations. Some stand before us in our pursuit of pleasure or interest, and others follow close upon our heels. Now, we ought in the first place to consider, that the _road is as free for one as another_; and therefore we have no right to expect that persons should go out of their way to let us pass, any more than we out of ours. Then, if we do not mutually yield and accommodate a little, it is clear that we must all stand still, or be thrown into a perpetual confusion of squeezing and jostling. If we are all in a hurry to get on as fast as possible to some point of pleasure or interest in our view, and do not occasionally hold back, when the crowd gathers, and angry contentions arise, we shall only augment the tumult, without advancing our own progress. On the whole, it is our business to move onward, steadily, but quietly, obstructing others as little as possible, yielding a little to this man’s prejudices, and that man’s desires, and doing everything in our power to make the _journey of life_ easy to all our fellow-travellers as well as to ourselves.

[Illustration:

Presence of Mind, p. 192.

EVENING XVI. ]

THE COMPOUND-FLOWERED PLANTS.

_Tutor_—_George_—_Harry._

_George._ Harry, can you blow off all of these dandelion feathers at a puff?

_Harry._ I will try.

_Geo._ See—you have left almost half of them.

_Har._ Can you do better?

_Geo._ Yes—look here.

_Har._ There are still several left.

_Tut._ A pretty child’s play you have got there. Bring me one of the dandelion heads, and let us see if we can make no other use of it.

_Har._ Here is a very full one.

_Tut._ Do you know what these feathers, as you call them, are?

_Geo._ I believe they belong to the seed.

_Tut._ They do, and they are worth examining. Look at this single one through my magnifying glass; you observe the seed at the bottom, like the point of a dart. From it springs a slender hairy shaft crowned by a very elegant spreading plume. You see it is a complete arrow of Nature’s manufacture.

_Geo._ How exact!

_Har._ What a beautiful thing!

_Tut._ I am sure you see the use of it at once.

_Geo._ It is to set the seeds a flying with the wind.

_Har._ And I suppose they sow themselves where they light?

_Tut._ They do. This is one of Nature’s contrivances for _dissemination_, or that scattering of the seeds of plants which makes them reach all the places proper for their growth. I dare say you have observed other plants furnished with the same winged or feathered seeds.

_Har._ O yes—there are groundsel, and ragwort, and thistles.

_Geo._ In a windy day I have seen the air all full of thistle-down.

_Tut._ Very likely: and for that reason you never saw a new-made bank of earth, or a heap of dung in the fields, but it was presently covered with thistles. These, and the other plants that have been named, belong to a very extensive class, which it is worth while being acquainted with. They are called the _compound-flowered plants_.

_Geo._ Will you be so good as to give us a lecture about them?

_Tut._ With all my heart. Get me a dandelion in flower, a thistle-head, and a daisy—if you cannot find a common daisy, one of the great ox-eye daisies in the corn will do as well.

_Geo. and Har._ Here they are.

_Tut._ Very well. All these are _compound flowers_; for if you will examine them narrowly, you will perceive that they consist of a number of little flowers, or _florets_, enclosed in a common cup, which cup is made of a number of scales, lying on each other like the tiles of a house.

_Geo._ I see it.

_Tut._ The florets are not all alike in shape. In the dandelion you will observe that they consist of a tube, from which, at its upper end, proceeds a sort of strap-shaped tongue or fillet; in the thistle they are tubular or funnel-shaped throughout; in the daisy the centre ones, which form the _disk_, as it is called, are tubular, while those in the circumference have a broad strap on one side, which altogether compose the _rays_ of the flowers; whence this sort are called _radiated_. Now take the glass and examine the florets singly. Can you discern their chives and pointals?

_Geo._ I can.

_Tut._ You may remark that there are five chives to each, the tips of which unite into a tube, through which the pointal passes, having its summit doubled, and curled back.

_Har._ I can just make it out with the glass, but hardly with the naked eye.

_Tut._ It is from this circumstance of the tips of the chives growing together that Linnæus has taken his distinction of the whole class; and he has named it _Syngenesia_, from two Greek words having that signification. You will further observe that all these florets stand upon a stool or receptacle at the bottom of the flower, which is the cushion left on the dandelion-stalk after the seeds are blown away. Into this the seeds are slightly stuck, which are one apiece to every perfect or fertile floret. This is the general structure of the compound flowers.

_Har._ Are all their seeds feathered?

_Tut._ Not all. These of the daisy are not. But in a great many species they are.

_Har._ I should have thought these were a very useful class of plants by the pains nature has taken to spread them, if you had not told us that thistles, and ragwort, and groundsel, were some of them.

_Tut._ And if you do not confine your idea of usefulness to what is serviceable to man, but extend it to the whole creation, you may safely conclude, from their abundance, that they must be highly useful in the general economy of nature. In fact, no plants feed a greater number of insects, and none are more important to the small birds, to whom they furnish food by their seeds, and a fine warm down for lining their nests. On the approach of winter you may see whole flocks of linnets and goldfinches pecking among the thistles; and you know that groundsel is a favourite treat to birds in a cage. To man, however, they are for the most part troublesome and unsightly weeds. Burdock, thistles, and yarrow, overrun his hedge-banks; dandelion, and hawkweed, which much resembles it, fill his meadows; the tall and branching ragwort, and blue succory, cumber his pastures; and wild camomile, ox-eye, and corn-marygold, choke up his cornfields. These plants in general have a bitter nauseous taste, so that no cattle will touch them. Daisies, I believe, are the chief exception.

_Geo._ But some of them, I suppose, are useful to man?

_Tut._ Yes, several, and in various ways. Some that have milky bitter juices are employed in medicine for purifying the blood and removing obstructions. Of these are dandelion, succory, and sow-thistle. Many others are bitter, and strongly aromatic; as camomile, wormwood, southernwood, feverfew, and tansy; these are good for strengthening the stomach and expelling worms. That capital ingredient in salad, lettuce, is of this class, and so is endive. Artichoke forms a very singular article of diet, for the part chiefly eaten, called the bottom, is the receptacle of the flower, upon which the choke, or seeds with their feathers, is placed. It is said that some of the larger species of thistles may be dressed and eaten the same way. Then there is Jerusalem artichoke, which is the root of a species of sunflower, and, when boiled, much resembles in taste an artichoke bottom. On the whole, however, a very small proportion of this class of plants is used in food.

_Geo._ Are there no garden-flowers belonging to them?

_Tut._ Several, especially of the autumnal ones. There are sunflowers of various kinds, which are the largest flowers the garden produces, though not the most sightly; marygolds, both the common, and the French and African, asters, china-asters, golden-rod, and chrysanthemums. Very few flowers of this class have an agreeable scent, and their shape is not the most pleasing; but they have often gay colours, and make a figure in the garden when other things are over. Well—this is most that I recollect worth noticing of the compound-flowered plants. They are a difficult class to make out botanically, though pretty easily known from each other by sight. I will take care to point out to you the principal of them that we meet with in our walks, and you must get acquainted with them.

ON PRESENCE OF MIND.

Mrs. F. one day having occasion to be blooded, sent for a surgeon. As soon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, started up, and was hastily going away, when her mother called her back.

_Mrs. F._ Eliza, do not go, I want you to stay by me.

_Eliz._ Dear mamma! I can never bear to see you blooded.

_Mrs. F._ Why not? what harm will it do you?

_Eliz._ O dear! I cannot look at blood. Besides, I cannot bear to see you hurt, mamma!

_Mrs. F._ Oh, if I can bear to feel it, surely you may to see it. But, come—you _must_ stay, and we will talk about it afterward.

Eliza, then, pale and trembling, stood by her mother and saw the whole operation. She could not help, however, turning her head away when the incision was made, and the first flow of blood made her start and shudder. When all was over, and the surgeon gone, Mrs. F. began.

_Mrs. F._ Well, Eliza, what do you think of the mighty matter now? Would it not have been very foolish to have run away from it?

_Eliz._ O mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet. Did it not hurt you a great deal?

_Mrs. F._ No, very little. And if it had, it was to do me good, you know.

_Eliz._ But why should I stay to see it? I could do you no good.

_Mrs. F._ Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accustomed to such sights.

_Eliz._ Why, mamma?

_Mrs. F._ Because instances are every day happening in which it is our duty to assist fellow-creatures in circumstances of pain and distress; and if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near to them on those occasions, we should never acquire either the knowledge or the presence of mind necessary for the purpose.

_Eliz._ But if I had been told how to help people in such cases, could not I do it without being used to see them?

_Mrs. F._ No. We have all naturally a horror at everything which is the cause of pain and danger to ourselves or others; and nothing but habit can give most of us the presence of mind necessary to enable us in such occurrences to employ our knowledge to the best advantage.

_Eliz._ What is _presence of mind_, mamma?

_Mrs. F._ It is that steady possession of ourselves in cases of alarm, that prevents us from being flurried and frightened. You have heard the expression of _having all our wits about us_. That is the effect of presence of mind, and a most inestimable quality it is, for without it we are full as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not remember hearing of your cousin Mary’s cap taking fire from a candle?

_Eliz._ O yes—very well.

_Mrs. F._ Well—the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream, and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any assistance she could give her.

_Eliz._ How foolish that was!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—the girl had not the least presence of mind, and the consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be pulled off; so she whipped a quilt from the bed and flung it round Mary’s head, and thus stifled the flame.

_Eliz._ Mary was a good deal scorched, though.

_Mrs. F._ Yes—but it was very well that it was no worse. If the maid, however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm would have been done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the staircase; and in her confusion, instead of going upstairs to call her children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might all have escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and with much danger made way through the fire, into the street. When she had got thither, the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too late. The stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them, and they were burnt in their beds.

_Eliz._ What a sad thing!

_Mrs. F._ Sad, indeed! Now, I will tell you of a different conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her chamber-door. Her husband would have immediately opened the door, but she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in upon them.

The children with a maid slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children one by one to her. Last of all she descended herself. A few minutes after, the floor fell in, and all the house was in flames.

_Eliz._ What a happy escape!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—and with what cool recollection of mind it was managed! For mothers to love their children, and be willing to run any hazards for them, is common; but in weak minds that very love is apt to prevent exertions in the time of danger. I knew a lady who had a fine little boy sitting in her lap. He put a whole plum into his mouth, which slipped into his throat and choked him. The poor fellow turned black, and struggled violently; and the mother was so frightened, that instead of putting her finger in his throat, and pulling out the plum, which might easily have been done, she laid him on the floor, and ran to call for assistance. But the maids who came up were as much flurried as she; and the child died before anything effectual was done to relieve him.

_Eliz._ How unhappy she must have been about it!

_Mrs. F._ Yes. It threw her into an illness which had liked to have cost her her life.

Another lady, seeing her little boy climb up a high ladder, set up a violent scream that frightened the child, so that he fell down and was much hurt; whereas, if she had possessed command enough over herself to speak to him gently, he might have got down safely.

_Eliz._ Dear mamma! what is that running down your arm?—O, it is blood!

_Mrs. F._ Yes—my arm bleeds again. I have stirred it too soon.

_Eliz._ Dear! What shall I do?

_Mrs. F._ Don’t frighten yourself. I shall stop the blood by pressing on the orifice with my finger. In the meantime, do you ring the bell.

[_Eliza rings—a servant comes._

_Mrs. F._ Betty, my arm bleeds. Can you tie it up again?

_Betty._ I believe I can, madam.

[_She takes off the bandage and puts on another._

_Eliz._ I hope it is stopped now?

_Mrs. F._ It is. Betty has done it very well. You see she went about it with composure. This accident puts me in mind of another story which is very well worth hearing. A man once reaping in the field, cut his arm dreadfully with his sickle, and divided an artery.

_Eliz._ What is that, mamma?

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

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

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

_Eliz._ What would that be?

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

_Eliz._ O, how I should have screamed!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:

Why an Apple falls, p. 203.

EVENING XVII. ]

PHAETON JUNIOR: OR, THE GIG DEMOLISHED.

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

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