Comienzo · continuación 7

_Fa._ Very true. Plants have a _vegetative_ life, a principle of growth and decay; 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.

_Ch._ A horse is called an animal, then?

_Fa._ Yes; but a salmon is an animal; and so is a sparrow; how will you distinguish a horse from these?

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

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

_Ch._ No, indeed, it has no legs.

_Fa._ And a bird cannot gallop like a horse.

_Ch._ No; It hops upon its two slender legs.

_Fa._ How many legs has a horse?

_Ch._ Four.

_Fa._ And an ox?

_Ch._ Four likewise.

_Fa._ And a camel?

_Ch._ Four still.

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

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

_Fa._ You remember, I suppose, what an animal is called that has four legs; you have it in your little books?

_Ch._ A quadruped.

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

_Ch._ And from men.

_Fa._ True; but if you had been talking about birds, you would not have found it so easy to distinguish them.

_Ch._ How so? a man is not at all like a bird.

_Fa._ Yet an ancient philosopher could find no way to distinguish them, but by calling man a _two-legged animal without feathers_.

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

_Fa._ Another ancient philosopher, called Diogenes, was of your opinion. He stripped a cock of his feathers, and turned him into the school where Plato, that was his name, was teaching, and said, “Here is Plato’s man for you!”

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

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

_Ch._ Oh, that is easy enough! An elephant is very large, and a rat is very small; a horse is neither large nor small.

_Fa._ Before we go any farther look what is settled on the skirt of your coat.

_Ch._ It is a butterfly: what a prodigiously large one! I never saw such a one before.

_Fa._ Is it larger than a rat, think you?

_Ch._ No, that it is not.

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

_Ch._ It is very large for a butterfly.

_Fa._ It is so. You see, therefore, that large and small are _relative terms_.

_Ch._ I do not well understand that phrase.

_Fa._ It means that they have no precise and determinate signification in themselves, but are applied differently according to the other ideas which you join with them, and the different positions 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 circumstance 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 circumstance by which you can accurately distinguish one animal from another; nor yet is colour.

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

_Fa._ But you have not seen that variety of colours in a hare for instance.

_Ch._ No, a hare is always brown.

_Fa._ Yet if you were to depend upon that circumstance, you would not convey the idea of a hare to a mountaineer, or an inhabitant of Siberia; for he sees them white as snow. We must, therefore 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?

_Ch._ No: some have long taper claws, and some have thick clumsy feet without claws.

_Fa._ The thick feet are horny: are they not?

_Ch._ Yes, I recollect they are called hoofs.

_Fa._ And the feet that are not covered with horn and are divided into claws, are called _digitated_, from _digitus_, a finger; because they are parted like fingers. Here, then, we have one grand division of quadrupeds into _hoofed_ and _digitated_. Of which division is the horse?

_Ch._ He is hoofed.

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

_Ch._ No, never.

_Fa._ 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?”

_Ch._ No, I dare say not.

_Fa._ Then we have got something to our purpose; a circumstance easily marked, which always belongs to the animal, under every variation of situation 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?

_Ch._ It is round and all in one piece.

_Fa._ And is that of an ox so?

_Ch._ No, it is divided.

_Fa._ A horse, then, is not only hoofed but _whole-hoofed_. Now how many quadrupeds do you think there are in the world that are whole-hoofed?

_Ch._ Indeed I do not know.

_Fa._ 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 species of the wild ass. Now, therefore, you see we have nearly accomplished our purpose; we have only to distinguish him from the ass.

_Ch._ That is easily done, I believe; I should be sorry if any body could mistake my little horse for an ass.

_Fa._ It is not so easy, however, as you imagine; 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?

_Ch._ Oh, very long clumsy ears! Asses’ ears are always laughed at.

_Fa._ And the horse?

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

_Fa._ And the mane, is there no difference there?

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

_Fa._ And the tail: is it not fuller of hair in the horse than in the ass?

_Ch._ Yes; the ass has only a few long hairs at the end of the tail; but the horse has a long bushy tail when it is not cut.

_Fa._ Which, by the way, it is a 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 hairs._ Now is there any other animal, think you, in the world, that answers these particulars?

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

_Fa._ And yet it tells us enough to distinguish 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?

_Ch._ What?

_Fa._ A DEFINITION. It is the business of a definition to distinguish precisely the thing defined from any other thing, and to do it in as few terms as possible. Its object is to separate the subject of definition, first from those with which it has only a general resemblance, then, from those which agree with it in a greater variety of particulars; and so on till by constantly throwing 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 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.

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

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

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

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

_Ch._ 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.

_Fa._ I think you learned some verses upon the horse in your last lesson? Repeat them.

_Ch._

The wanton courser thus with reins unbound Breaks from his stall, and beats the trembling ground; Pamper’d and proud, he seeks the wonted tides, And laves, in height of blood, his shining sides His head, now freed, he tosses to the skies; His mane dishevell’d o’er his shoulders flies; He snuffs the females in the distant plain, And springs, exulting, to his fields again.—POPE’S _Homer_.

_Fa._ You have said very well; but this is not a _definition_, it is a _description_.

_Ch._ What is the difference?

_Fa._ 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 it with anything else; and hence it is of the greatest use in throwing things into classes. We have a great many beautiful descriptions from ancient authors so loosely worded that we cannot certainly tell what animals are meant by them: whereas, if they had given us definitions, three lines would have ascertained their meaning.

_Ch._ I like a description best, papa.

_Fa._ Perhaps so; I believe I should have done the same at your age. Remember, however, that nothing is more useful than to learn to form ideas with precision, and to express them with accuracy; I have not given you a definition 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 providing for thy brood; and thou exhausteth thy life and strength in perpetuating a feeble and defenceless race. As to myself, I live exempt 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 am seen by men, am gazed at with curiosity and astonishment! I have no one to control my range, no one to provide for; and when I have fulfilled my five centuries of life, and seen the revolution 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 among thy fellows? Not long life only, but immortality itself would be a curse, if it were to be bestowed on such uncomfortable terms. For my part, I know that my life will be short, and therefore I employ it in raising a numerous posterity, 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 difference, 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 imaginary greatness, dreamest away a long period of existence, equally void of comfort and of usefulness.”

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

_Father._ I will now, as I promised, give you an account of the elegant and useful manufacture of _paper_, the basis of which is itself a manufacture. This delicate 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 have perhaps at length 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 them 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 papermill. He gives them first to women to sort and pick, agreeably to their different degrees of fineness; they also with a knife cut out carefully all the seams, which they throw into a basket for other purposes; they then put them into the dusting-engine, a large circular wire sieve, where they receive some degree of cleansing. The rags are then conveyed to the mill. Here they were formerly beat to pieces with vast hammers, which rose and fell continually with a most tremendous noise, that was heard at 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 corresponding rows of spikes. The cylinder is made to whirl round with inconceivable rapidity, and with these iron 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 impurities 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 a 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 wanted for the thickness of the sheet, and the water runs off through the interstices of the wires. Another man instantly 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, 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 roughness it may have are picked off carefully by the women. 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 gray 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 experience. They are then hung up again to dry, and when dry, taken to the finishing-room, where they are examined anew, pressed in the dry-presses, which give them their last gloss and smoothness; counted up into quires, made up into 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 hot-pressing it, or glossing it with hot plates. The whole process of papermaking takes about three weeks.

_Har._ It is a very curious process indeed. I shall almost scruple for the future to blacken a sheet of paper with a careless scrawl, now I know how much pains it costs to make it so white and beautiful.

_Fa._ It is true that there is hardly anything 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 destroy it in a thousand ways; so that it is really astonishing 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 packages, &c., these are made chiefly of oakum, that is, old hempen ropes. A fine paper is made in China of silk.

_Har._ I have heard lately of woven paper; pray, what is that? they cannot weave paper, surely!

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

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

_Fa._ These are all the marks of the wires; the thickness of the wire prevents 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 appearance 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 thickness, and woven or latticed one within another: the marks therefore of these are easily pressed out, so as to be hardly visible; if you look at this sheet you will see it is quite smooth.

_Har._ It is so.

_Fa._ 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 died cotton; which they have till now been obliged to throw by for inferior purposes.

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

_Fa._ It is indeed founded upon the same discovery. The paper made of these brown rags is likewise more valuable, from being very tough and strong, almost like parchment.

_Har._ When was the making of paper found out?

_Fa._ It is a disputed point, but probably in the fourteenth century. The invention has been of almost equal consequence to literature with that of printing itself; and shows how the arts and sciences, like children of the same family, mutually assist and bring forward each other.

THE TWO ROBBERS.

Scene—_Alexander the Great in his tent. Guards. A man with a fierce countenance, chained and fettered, brought before him._

_Alex._ What, art thou the Thracian robber of whose exploits I have heard so much?

_Rob._ I am a Thracian and a soldier.

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

_R._ What have I done, of which _you_ can complain?

_A._ Hast thou not set at defiance my authority, violated the public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons and properties of thy fellow-subjects?

_R._ 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.

_A._ Speak freely. Far be it from me to take the advantage of my power to silence those with whom I deign to converse!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Illustration:

EVENING XIII. ]