‘Now you will see,’ said their father, ‘that the heat of the fire will swell the small quantity of air remaining in the bladder, till it will fill as great a space, as that which was filled by all the air, which we forced into it at first with the bellows. Here, Harry, take this to the fire, while I shave myself.’
The children held the bladder near the fire, but it did not swell out immediately; and, after they had held it a few minutes, they began to think, that it would never do, as Harry said. His father told him, that he must not be so impatient, if he intended to try experiments.
‘If you are tired of holding the bladder,’ said he, ‘put it down on the hearth, leave it there, and go and do, or think of something else; and, in about a quarter of an hour, perhaps, it will begin to swell out.’
‘A quarter of an hour! that is a great while indeed!’ said Harry.
However, the quarter of an hour passed, while the children were putting some little drawers of their father in order. When they returned, to look at the bladder, they saw that it was beginning to swell, and they watched it, while it gradually swelled. First one fold of the bag opened, then another, till, at last, it was again swelled out into the shape of a globe.
‘This is very extraordinary!’ said Lucy, ‘that the little, the very little air, which father left in the bladder, should have swelled out to this size, without any thing being added to it.’
‘Without any thing being added to it!’ repeated her father: ‘think again, my dear.’
‘I have thought again, father; but, I assure you, nothing was added to the air; for we never opened the bladder, after you put in the — what do you call it! — which fastens it.’
‘The spigot,’ said Harry. ‘The spigot,’ said Lucy. ‘Well, father, I say, nothing was added to the air.’
‘I say, daughter, you are mistaken.’
‘Why, father, we did nothing in the world but hold the bladder to the fire, and leave it before the fire, and nobody touched it, nor put any thing to it, nor near it!’
Still her father said—’ Think again, Lucy.’ She recollected herself, and exclaimed —
‘I know what you mean now, father — heat — heat was added to it!’
‘Yes,’ said her father, ‘heat mixed with the air of the bladder; and, by separating the parts of the air from each other, made them take up more room. Now take the bladder into a cold place; hang it up near the window, and let us see what will happen.’
‘I know what will happen, father,’ said Lucy. ‘When the air in the bladder grows cold, it will take up less room.’
‘It will contract,’ interrupted Harry.
‘And then,’ continued Lucy, ‘the bladder will shrink, and become less and less, and it will fall in folds, in a kind of loose bag, just as it was before we carried it to the fire. I shall like to see whether this will happen just as I think it will.’
Lucy hung up the bladder in a cold place, and watched it for a few minutes; but she did not perceive any immediate alteration.
‘It will be as long in shrinking as it was in swelling out,’ said she; ‘and breakfast will be ready, I am afraid, before it shrinks.’
‘I know a way of making it shrink quickly,’ cried Harry.
‘What is it?’
‘I will not tell you, but I will show you,’ said Harry. ‘You shall see what — you shall see.’
He ran out of the room, and soon returned with his little watering-pot full of cold water.
‘Now, Lucy,’ said he, ‘hold the basin for me under the bladder, that we may not wet the floor — hold it steady.’
He poured cold water from the nose of the watering-pot, so as to sprinkle the water all over the bladder, and immediately the bladder began to collapse, or shrink; and soon, to Lucy’s delight, it was diminished to the size of which it had been before it was carried to the fire, and it hung like a loose or flaccid bag.
‘Father, look!’ said she, ‘look how much less room the bladder takes up now!’
‘Then,’ said her father, ‘something must have been taken away from what was withinside of it.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy.
‘What was taken away.’
‘Heat,’ replied Lucy.
‘What took away the heat.’
‘Cold water.’
‘How did that happen,’ Lucy answered, she believed that the heat went into the water — that the water must have taken away the heat of the air that was within the bladder.
‘Attracted!’ cried Harry: ‘you should say, that the water attracted the heat from the air.’
‘Well, attracted,’ said Lucy:—’ first, I suppose, the bladder itself became warm, by touching the warm air with inside of it: then the water took, or attracted — as you tell me I must say — some of the heat from the bladder: then the bladder attracted some more heat from the inside air: and so on.’
‘Accurately stated, Lucy,’ said her father; ‘Now you have thought enough of all these things — Stay! — before you go, tell me what you have learned from the experiments you have tried this morning.’
‘Experiments, father!’ said Lucy, smiling, and looking surprised—’ I did not think we had been trying experiments! — I thought, that only grown up people, and philosophers, could try experiments.’
‘There you were mistaken, my dear,’ said her father; ‘an experiment is only a trial of any thing, or something done to find out what will be the consequence. You carried the bladder to the fire, or poured cold water upon it, to find out what would happen to the air with inside of it. Children can try some experiments, as well as grown up people can.’
‘Father,’ cried Harry, ‘I have heard you talk of Dr. Franklin—’
‘And of Newton,’ said Lucy, ‘I heard something—’
‘Very likely, my dear,’ interrupted her father; ‘but do not fly off to Dr. Franklin and Newton, till you have answered the question I asked you just now. What have you learned from the experiments you tried this morning,’ After Lucy had recollected what she had seen and heard, she answered;—’ I have learnt, that heat expanded, or spread out, the air in this bladder; and that cold—’
‘That is, the want of heat,’ interrupted her father.
‘That cold, or the want of heat, made or let the air in the bladder grow smaller.’
‘Contract,’ said Harry.
‘The same effects would be produced by taking away heat, not only from the air in that bladder, but from all air,’ said their father.
‘Now put the bladder in the place where you found it, and let us divert ourselves with something else. Can you cut capers, Harry.’
‘Yes, father; but first I want to say something: — How very little we learn every morning! I looked at your watch, when I came into your room, and it was just half after eight o’clock, and now it is nine. So we have been here half an hour — Half an hour! — I can scarcely believe that we have been here so long, father?’
‘Then you have not been tired, Harry.’
‘No, not at all: — But I am afraid, father, that, if we learn so very little every day, we shall never get on.’
‘You need not be afraid of that, my dear: learning a little, a very little, accurately, every day, is better than learning a great deal inaccurately.’
‘A little and a little, every day regularly, make a great deal in many days,’ said Lucy.
‘I have found this to be true, when I have been at work, and when I have done but very little each day.’
‘But when shall we get to the barometer,’ said Harry.
‘O! is that what you mean?’ said his father.
‘Patience, my boy! — Patience till to-morrow!’
‘Patience till to-morrow I must have, for I cannot help it,’ said Harry, sighing—’I wish to-day was over.’
‘No,’ said Lucy, ‘you need not wish to-day was over. Recollect, brother, that we have a great many pleasant things to do to-day. I am sure, Harry, you cannot wish, that this evening was over, because you know —
though mother did not promise it — if we deserve it — as I am sure we shall — she will read to us some more of that man’s entertaining travels.’
During this day, Harry and Lucy were attentive to every thing, that they had to do. It snowed, so that, after they had finished, their lessons, they could not go out, or take as much exercise as usual; but they warmed themselves by playing at hide and seek, and at battledore and shuttlecock, and at ball, at which they were allowed to play, in an empty gallery, where they could do no mischief.
The evening came, and they were eager to Know whether their mother would read to them this night. She smiled, when Lucy brought the book to her, and said —
‘Yes, my dears, you have both been attentive to every thing you had to do to-day, and I shall be glad to give you this pleasure; but, first, I must write a letter.’
‘While you are writing, mother,’ said Lucy, ‘may we try if we can make out any of this French? here is something, that you missed, about la statue et la caverne — the statue and the cavern — which looks as if it was entertaining: and I wish I could make it out — May I try, mother?’
‘Yes, my dear, provided you do not turn me into a dictionary; because I cannot write my letter, and be your dictionary at the same time.’ Without their mother’s assistance, Harry and Lucy made out, pretty well, the sense of what they wanted to read; and, as soon as their mother had finished her letter, Lucy began to tell her all, that they had translated.
‘We have found out, mother, that it is an account of a man of the name of Huber, who wanted to go into a cavern, in a rock of black, or blackish stone (noirâtre,’) to see a statue called Dominique, which was of white stone, and seemed to be about thirty feet high — above twice as high as this room, mother! But no one had ever been able to get to this statue, the way to it was so dangerous; they could, however, distinguish plainly, that it was the figure of a man — doing something on a table —
‘Accoudé sur une table.’
‘Mother, you must, if you please, be so good, as to tell us what accoudé is; for we could not find it in the dictionary.’
‘It is just what Harry is doing at this moment — leaning his elbows on the table.’
‘O, now I understand it perfectly. The figure of a man leaning with his elbows on the table, his legs crossed, and seeming to guard the entrance of this cavern. Well, ma’am, nobody had ever been able to get to his statue — I told you that.’
‘True, my dear; therefore you need not tell it to me again.’
‘Yery well, ma’am — but this man, of the name of Huber, who was a very courageous person, was determined to get to the statue. So, finding that he could not clamber up from the bottom of this rock, he had himself let down from the top, by a long, a very long rope, which he tied, I suppose, round his body; but it does not say so. When he was let down — What do you think he found? — He found — How provoking! — that the rock overhung the cavern so much, that, as he hung down this way, like a plumb line, as Harry says, he never could reach the entrance of the cavern, which was far in, far under the rock; so he was forced to call to the people to draw him up again. But he had seen enough to be almost sure, the statue was really a statue of a man, and not a white stone that looked like a man, as some people thought it was — So — then there is something about the statue’s not being ‘l’ouvrage fortuit de la nature’ — that we could not understand, so we missed it. So the man, Huber, got a pole, to the end of which he fastened a hook, which he thought he could hook into the rock, and pull himself closer and closer to the entrance of the cavern, and so get in — So—’
‘But, my dear, leave out so — do not sew your story together so.’
‘So, ma’am —— I mean — he was let down a second time — but, O! now, ma’am, the terrible thing! — the rope twisted and twisted continually; his weight was more than the rope could bear, and it broke, and he fell, and was dashed to pieces!’
‘Poor man! Was not he very courageous, father,’ said Harry; ‘I admire him very much.’
‘He was courageous, certainly,’ said Harry’s father; ‘but, before we admire him very much, we should consider what his motive was, or what good he could do by hazarding his life. If it was with the hope of being of any great service to himself, or to any one else; if it was to accomplish any useful or generous purpose, I should admire a man for risking his life; but I cannot admire him for running the chance of breaking his neck, merely to see a statue; or to find out whether it was the statue of a man or a white stone. I remember, that, when I was at Clifton, some years ago, a boy was dashed to pieces by falling from a high rock, to which he had climbed, to look for a bird’s nest. A few days after this accident happened, I saw another boy climb to the same place, in search of the same nest — This was folly, not courage.’
‘It was, indeed,’ said Harry. ‘But, mother, will you be so kind, to read on.’
‘Next comes,’ said their mother, ‘an account of the traveller’s finding, in the wildest part of the mountain, a hut, inhabited by ten or twelve children, who lived there with a dog, who looked more savage than themselves. They took care of a flock of goats, and lived chiefly on the milk of the goats. As soon as a stranger appeared on this part of the mountain, the children ran away, and shut themselves up in their hut, and sent their dog after him — a dog he might be called, because he barked, but he was a peculiar and hideous looking creature—’
‘Is this all, mother,’ said Lucy, as her mother stopped, ‘all that the man tells about the children? — I wish he had told more — I want to know how these children lived together, and whether they quarrelled, like those in ‘The Children’s Friend,’ who asked their father to let them live by themselves, and govern themselves for one day — Only for one day! — and what difficulties they got into!’
‘Yes,’ said Harry, ‘but those children made themselves sick, by eating and drinking too much, and they quarrelled because they had nothing to do, but to play all day long: but there was no danger, that these poor children on the mountain should eat too much, for they had scarcely any thing but goats’ milk; and they must have had enough to do, as there was no one to do any thing for them — But, father,’ continued Harry, after thinking for a minute, ‘I want to know who was king among them, and I want to know what laws they made for themselves, and what punishments they had; for they could not have gone on long without some laws, I am sure.’
‘Pray, what would have been your laws, Harry,’ said his father—’ I give you a week to consider of it — you and Lucy may consult together — Now let us go on with ‘The Traveller’s Wonders’
‘I do not find any thing else worth reading to you, my dears,’ said their mother, ‘except an account of the manner in which these mountaineers are taught to walk in dangerous places; and an account of the honesty of the people, in preserving, for the hunters, the game, which belongs to them.’
‘Ha! I shall like to hear that; we must remember honesty, the first thing in our laws,’ said Harry.
‘There are six hunters, who divide among themselves, and among the inhabitants of the mountain, all the game which they kill and, in return, they are fed for nothing in the cottages. They undergo great labor, and go into dangerous places, in pursuit of the goats and cocks of the wood. When these animals are shot, they often roll down from the highest rocks, to the vallies beneath; and the peasants, who live in these vallies, when they find these dead birds and beasts, take care of them, and faithfully return them to the hunters. If this was not done, the hunters would be obliged to walk many miles, to pick up the game, which they kill. You see, that this honesty is useful to all the people who practise it — so is honesty in all cases: therefore, Harry, I think you will do right to remember it first in your laws.’
‘So I will,’ said Harry. ‘But now, mother, will you go on to the part, which tells how the people learn to walk in dangerous places?’
‘I am afraid it is too late to read any more to-night,’ answered his mother — looking at her wat
ch. ‘Good-night, my dear children — We must put off the account of the walking, till another time.’
PART IV.
‘Now for the barometer!’ said Harry, as he went into his father’s room in the morning.
‘Not yet, my dear boy,’ said his father; ‘you must know something more, before you can understand the barometer.’
Harry looked disappointed for a moment; but, recovering himself, he turned to observe what his father was doing. He was filling the bladder with water, to measure how much it would hold: it held five quarts, that is, ten pints. ‘If you fill it ever so often, you cannot force more water into that bladder, can you,’ said his father.
‘No, certainly not; for, if we try to put in any more water, it will run over,’ said. Lucy.
‘Then you find,’ said her father, ‘that we cannot force the parts of water nearer to each other, as you did those of air — water differs from air, in this respect.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy, ‘for, when you poured water upon the bladder, the air with inside took up less room than before; therefore, the parts of the air must have come nearer together.’
‘But perhaps, father,’ said Harry, ‘if this bladder was strong enough to bear our pressing water into it, we could force more in: if you were to take an iron vessel, and try to force water into it, would it not be possible to squeeze the parts of the water closer together, by pressing down the top of the vessel?’
‘No, my dear,’ continued his father; ‘if a vessel had a top, made to screw into its mouth, to fit it exactly; and if water was poured into the vessel, till it came to the very mouth of it, you could not squeeze the water down by screwing the top on. If you force the cover to screw on, the water will make its way through the screw, till the cover is screwed quite down, or it will burst the vessel.’
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 351