Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  ‘Just let me first show father this one large bubble,’ said Lucy, ‘and then you may go to the barometer.’

  Lucy blew a large bubble from the end of her tobacco pipe; but it burst before it had risen far. Then Lucy put by the tobacco pipe and said —

  ‘Now I will not interrupt you any more with my bubbles.’

  ‘But perhaps, my dear Lucy,’ said her father, ‘the bubbles may lead us to the knowledge of some things necessary to be known, before I can explain a barometer. Do you know what a bubble is?’

  ‘O yes, father,’ said she; ‘I remember you told me, a great while ago, — a bubble is—’

  She was forced to pause, to think, however, before she could describe it.

  ‘I believe, it is air, blown into a round case, or globe, of something — a soap bubble is air in a round case of soap and water — but, father, I have often seen bubbles on the top of water; they are only air and water. But how can the case be made of water? I can conceive, that a globe of soap and water might stick together, because I know, that soap is sticky; but I wonder at water’s sticking together, so as to make a hollow globe.’

  ‘When you look at water,’ said her father, ‘or at quicksilver, you perceive that they are very different, not only in colour, but in their other properties.’

  ‘Properties, father,’ said Lucy—’ that is a word of which you taught me the meaning — properties are what belong to things.”

  ‘One of the properties of water is fluidity said her father—’ sand, on the contrary, is not fluid. Sand may be poured out, like water or quicksilver; but the grains, of which it is composed, are separate, and have no visible attraction for each other. The parts of water cohere, or stick together, but slightly; a small force divides them; but still they have an obvious tenacity.’

  ‘Father! what is obvious tenacity? — tenacity, I know, is stickiness — but what does obvious mean?’

  ‘Easily seen — plain — easy to be perceived. By obvious tenacity I mean tenacity which you can easily perceive; though nothing viscid, or sticky, is added to the water, you see that water can be spread by air, so as to form the outer case of a bubble.’

  ‘But when soap is added to ‘water,’ said Lucy, ‘larger bubbles can be made.’

  ‘Yes — Why?’

  ‘Because the soap makes the parts of the water stick together more strongly; but, father,’ continued Lucy, ‘what is the reason that a bubble bursts? for, if the outside case is strong enough to hold it at first, why should not that hold it as well always? yet at last it bursts — what is the reason of this?’

  Her father said, that he believed there were several causes, which might make a bubble burst; and that he was not sure, either that he knew all of them, or that he could explain them all, so as to make Lucy understand them. He mentioned some of the causes; for instance, the wind blowing against the bubble might break it; or the heat might expand the air with inside of it, and burst it; or, at other times, some of the water, of which the outer skin of the bubble is made, may run down from the top to the bottom, till it makes the bottom so heavy, and the top so thin, that it bursts.’ Here Harry was heard to utter a deep sigh. His father smiled, and said —

  ‘Poor Harry thinks we shall never get to the barometer: but have patience, my boy, we have not gone so far out of the way, as you think we have. Now, Harry, run to my work-shop, and bring me a bladder, which you will find hanging up near the door. And, Lucy, run for the little pair of bellows which is in your mother’s dressing room.’

  Harry brought the bladder, and Lucy brought the bellows. They were curious to see what their father was going to show them; but, just then, the breakfast bell rang. Their father could not show or tell them any thing more, that morning, for he was forced to finish dressing himself as fast as he could, and the children helped him eagerly. One reason, why they liked to come to their father every morning, and to be taught by him, was, that he never tired them by forcing them to attend for a long time together.

  Ten minutes at a time he thought quite sufficient, at their age; but then he required complete attention. Whenever he found, that they were not thinking of what he was teaching them, he would not say any more to them — he sent them away. For this they were always sorry: and this punishment, or rather this privation, was sufficient to make them attend better next day. It seldom happened, that they were sent out of their father’s room. Though he never taught them in play, as it is called, yet he made what they learned as interesting to them as he could; and he made work and play come one after the other, so as to refresh them. He and their mother took care, that Harry and Lucy should neither be made to dislike knowledge, by having tiresome, long tasks, nor rendered idle, and unable to command their attention, by having too much amusement.

  Spoiled children are never happy. Between breakfast and dinner, they ask a hundred times, ‘What o’clock is it!’ and wish for the time when dinner will be ready, or when pudding or apple-pie will come. And, when dinner is over, they long for tea time, and so on. Or they must have somebody to amuse them, or some new toys. From morning till night they never know what to do with themselves; but, the whole long day they are lounging about, and troublesome to every body, continually wishing, or asking, or crying, for something, that they have not — Poor miserable creatures! — Children, who are not spoiled, will smile when they read this; and will be glad, that they are not like these, but that they are like Harry and Lucy.

  Harry and Lucy loved pudding and apple-pie, as well as most people do; but eating was not their only, or their greatest pleasure. Having acquired a love for reading, and for knowledge of many sorts, they found continually a number of employments, and of objects, which entertained and interested them. So that they were never in want of new toys, or of somebody to amuse them. If any extraordinary amusement was given to them, such, for instance, as their seeing an elephant, they enjoyed it, as much as possible; but, in general, Harry and Lucy felt, that they wanted nothing beyond their common, every-day occupations. Beside their own occupations and amusements, there was something always going on in the house, which entertained them. They were now able to understand their father’s and mother’s conversation; living constantly with them (and not with servants) they sympathized, that is, felt along with their parents, and made, to a certain degree, a part of their society. Frequently, their mother read aloud in the evenings — Harry and Lucy were never desired to listen; but sometimes they could understand what was read, and sometimes they found it entertaining.

  It happened, one winter evening, that their mother began to read a French book, which they could not understand, yet it seemed to amuse their father so much, that they wished to know what it was about. All that they heard their father and mother saying to one another about it made them sure, that it must be entertaining; they left their map of Europe, which they had been putting together, and Lucy went and looked over her mother’s shoulder at the book, and Harry leaned on his elbows opposite to his mother, listening eagerly, to try if he could make out any meaning; but he could understand only a word, or a short sentence, now and then.

  Their mother observed their eagerness to know what she was reading, and she was so good as to translate for them, and to read to them in English, the passages, which she thought most entertaining. She told them, first, what it was about.

  It was the account, given by a traveller, of a high mountain, in Switzerland, and of the manner of living of the people by whom it is inhabited. Harry and Lucy turned to the map of Europe, which they had been putting together, and pointed to Switzerland, as their motherspoke. The name of the mountain, of which she was reading an account, was Mount Pilate. The name was taken, as their father told them, from the Latin word Pileus, a hat, the top of this mountain being almost always covered with what looks like a hat or cap of clouds. Different points, or heights, of this mountain, are called by different names. The most curious, difficult, and dangerous part of the ascent, lies between the point called the Ass, and another called the Sh
aking Stone.

  ‘O, mother! read about the shaking stone,’ cried Harry.

  ‘No, Harry, let mother begin here, where there is something about des tres belles fraises. I know the English of that, very fine strawberries.’

  Her mother began to read just where Lucy’s finger pointed.

  ‘At the bottom of this road, up to the shaking stone, is a bank, which is covered with very fine strawberries, from the middle of summer till the 21st of December, if the snow does not cover them before that time. And they may be found, even under the snow, if people will take the trouble to look for them.

  ‘All the fir-trees, near this spot, are called storm-shelterers; because they seem to have been placed there on purpose to shelter people from the storms. Some of them afford a shelter of fifty feet in circumference. The rain cannot penetrate through the thick branches of these trees. The cattle are often seen gathered together under them, even in the finest weather; but it generally happens that a storm comes on, within a quarter of an hour after the cattle have taken shelter in this manner.’

  ‘How do the cows, or horses, foresee the storm, mother?’ said Lucy.

  ‘I do not know, my dear.’

  ‘Let my mother go on reading, and ask all your questions afterwards, Lucy,’ said Harry. ‘If I can but remember them,’ said Lucy.

  ‘From the foot of the mountain, to the point where there is the village called Brundlen, the road is tolerably safe. The people can even drive their cows up here: but with this precaution: two men go with the cow, one at the head, and the other at the tail, and they hold in their hands a long pole, which they keep always between the cow and the precipice, so as to make a sort of banister, or rail, to prevent her from falling.

  ‘People are forced to walk very slowly on this road. Half way up, you come to a curious fir tree. From its trunk, which is eight feet in circumference, spread nine branches, each about three feet in circumference, and six feet long. From the end of each of these branches, which are about fifteen feet from the ground, there rises perpendicularly, a fir tree. This tree looks, in shape, something like a great chandelier, with all its candles.

  ‘The village of Brundlen is the highest and last village on the mountain. It stands at the foot of a rock, from which enormous stones and fragments of rock frequently roll down: but the houses are so situated, under the projecting part of the rock, that all which falls from it, bounds over without touching them. The inhabitants of this village possess about forty cows. The peasants mow only those parts of the mountain, where the cattle cannot venture to go to feed. The mowers are let down, or drawn up, to these places, by ropes, from the top of the rock; they put the grass, when they have mowed it, into nets, which are drawn up, or let down, by the same ropes, wherever it is wanted. It is remarkable, that the kinds of grass and herbs which are found in these mountainous places, are quite different from those which grow in the low countries.’

  ‘My dear children, is it possible, that you are interested about these grasses,’ said their mother.

  ‘No, mother,’ said Lucy, ‘not much about the grasses; but I like that part about the mowers, let down by ropes; and I like to hear it, just as you read it to father.’

  ‘Round some of these stones, which have partly fallen, or mouldered away, grows a flower, which is a very dangerous poison. At four or five feet distance from this plant the cattle perceive its smell, and they leave the grass around it untouched. The flowers of the different kinds of this plant are of a fine deep blue, yellow, or white. The white are the most uncommon; and the poison of these it is said, is the most dangerous. Some years ago a young man gathered some of these flowers, and held them in his hand, while he descended the mountain, to go to a ball. When he was near the place where he was to dance, he felt, that his hand was numb, and he threw away the flowers. He danced, afterwards, for an hour or two, with a young woman, holding her hand all the time; he grew warm; and the poison, from the poisonous flowers, it is supposed, was communicated from his hand to hers; for they both died that night.’

  Harry and Lucy were shocked at this story.

  ‘But, mother,’ said Harry, ‘do you think it is true?’

  ‘That was the very thing I was considering,’ said his mother.

  Then his father and mother began to talk about the probability of its being true or false.

  They looked back for the description of the flower and for the Latin name, which their mother, knowing that the children would not understand, had passed over. By comparing the name and description of this flower with those in botanical books, where the description and accounts of the properties of plants are given, they found that the plant, of which they had been reading, was a species of aconite, called in English, wolfs-bane, or monk’s-hood, and, as several instances were mentioned of its poisonous and fatal effects, they were inclined to believe, that the story of the young man’s and woman’s death might be true.

  Lucy, seeing, in some of the botanical books in which her mother had been looking, pretty-colored drawings, or prints of flowers, asked whether she might look at them. Her mother said, that she might, at some other time, but not this evening; because Lucy could not attend both to looking at these prints and to what she heard read aloud. So Lucy shut the books, and she and Harry put them into their places again, in the bookcase, resolving that they would look at them, together, the next day.

  ‘Now, mother,’ said Harry, as they drew their seats close to her, and settled themselves again to listen; ‘now for the shaking stone, mother.’

  Their kind mother began immediately, and read on, as follows: —

  ‘This stone is at the summit of the mountain called the Ober Alp: it overhangs the rock a little, and appears as if it would fall: but this is really impossible, unless it were thrown down by a violent earthquake. The stone is as large as a moderate-sized house. When any one has the boldness to get upon it to lie down, and let their head overhang the stone, they will feel the stone shake, so that it seems as if it were going to fall that moment. In 1744, the stone ceased to shake. About six years afterwards, somebody discovered, that this arose from a little pebble which had fallen through a crack, and had remained under the stone. A man fastened a great hammer to a pole, and, after frequently striking the pebble with the hammer, he succeeded in dislodging it. Immediately, the stone began to shake again, and has continued ever since to vibrate.’

  ‘How glad the man, who struck the pebble from under the stone, must have been, when he saw it begin to shake again!’ said Harry. ‘I should like to have been that man.’

  ‘Now I,’ said Lucy, ‘could not have managed the great pole and hammer; and I would rather have been the person, who first discovered, that the pebble had got under the stone, and that it was the cause, which prevented the stone from shaking.’

  ‘O, but any body, who had eyes, could have seen that,’ said Harry.

  ‘And yet all those people, who lived in that country, had eyes, I suppose,’ said Lucy; ‘but they were six years before they saw it.’

  ‘They had eyes and no eyes,’ said her mother, smiling.

  ‘That is true; I understand what you mean, mother,’ said Lucy. ‘I have read ‘Eyes and no Eyes,’ in Evenings at Home; and I like it very much. But will you go on, mother, if there is any thing more that is entertaining?’

  ‘There is something more, that, perhaps, would entertain you,’ said her mother; ‘but will not read any more to you to-night, because it is time for you to go to bed.’

  ‘To-morrow night, mother, will you read some more to us?’

  ‘I will not promise, my dear — perhaps, I may have something else to do — or, perhaps, you may not deserve it so well to-morrow.

  When to-morrow night comes, it will be time enough to give you an answer.’

  The next morning, when Harry and Lucy went into their father’s room, they took care to have the bladder and the bellows ready by the time that he was up, as he had promised to show them some experiments.

  ‘Now,�
�� said he, ‘we will fill this bladder with air, by blowing air into it with the bellows.’ He put the end of the bellows into the neck of the bladder, and bid Harry hold the bladder, and Lucy blow the bellows.

  ‘It is now quite full, father,’ said Lucy: ‘I will tie the air in, with a waxed string round the neck of the bladder. I know how to do that — Look, how full, and round and tight it is.’

  ‘So it is,’ said her father; ‘but now I want to let out some of the air, that is in this bladder, without letting out all of it: how shall I do that?’

  ‘I do not know,’ said Lucy; ‘for, if I untie this string, I am afraid all the air, that is in the bladder now, would come out.’

  ‘That it certainly would,’ said her father.

  ‘How shall we manage it?’ repeated Harry and Lucy: after considering for some time, Harry observed, that, beyond the place where the bladder was tied, there was enough of the neck of the bladder left to admit the nose of the bellows: he proposed, that they should put in the end of the bellows, and tie the blad-

  der round it, and then untie that string with which they had at first tied the neck of the bladder.’ His father said, that this would do, but he could show him what would do better He gave him a little piece of wood, about two inches long, that had a wooden stopper at one end, that could be easily put into the pipe, and easily taken out. He told Harry, that this kind of pipe and stopper are called a spigot and faucet: he fastened the faucet into the neck of the bladder, so that he could stop the air from coming out of the bladder when it was full, and he could at any time let out the air, by taking away the peg, or spigot. Then he let out a great part of the air that was in the bladder, till it was nearly empty, stopped the faucet again with the spigot, and then carried the bladder to the fire.