Part 12

Where, bleating loud, they shook their dripping locks.

My uncle told me that England has been always famous for its sheep and their rich fleeces, the various qualities of which are so well suited to the different branches of our woollen manufactures; but it is the Downs of Dorsetshire, and all the southern and western counties, which supply those sheep whose fleeces are employed in making the finest broad cloth.

We stayed till the men ceased working, and till we had seen the shearers and all their assistants sitting down to a comfortable supper, with abundance of cider; we then left them, and came home by a long winding path. We were quite in the dark for some of the last part of the walk, which gave me an opportunity of seeing the English glow-worm on the dry banks at the edge of the forest.

When evening closes Nature’s eye, The glow-worm lights her little spark To captivate her favourite fly, And tempt the rover through the dark.

Conducted by a sweeter star, Than all that decks the skies above, He fondly hastens from afar, To soothe her solitude with love.

My uncle told me that Dr. Macartney, who has investigated the subject of luminous insects with great ability, has ascertained, that in the glow-worm, part of the light proceeds from a yellow substance lying underneath a transparent part of the skin. Besides this, he observed in the last segment of the body, two minute oval sacks, formed of an elastic fibre, wound spirally, and containing a yellow substance also, but of a closer texture, and giving a more permanent light. This light seemed less under the control of the insect than the other, which it has the power of voluntarily extinguishing, and which ceases to shine when extracted from living glow-worms; but the two sacks, when taken out, continue to give light for some hours.

_11th, Sunday._--“I think, father,” said Mary, “that in reflecting on the three dispensations, it appears, that neither the Jews, nor the religious people of the patriarchal ages had that clear and distinct knowledge of the doctrine of future rewards and punishments which we Christians possess; nor that full conviction of the immortality of the soul which now cheers mankind.”

“True,” said my uncle, “those awful truths had indeed been early opened to them, and they were gradually unfolded with increasing clearness by the later prophets; but at the best they were obscurely understood, or, in the language of St. Paul, they were seen as ‘through a glass, darkly.’ It was reserved for our Saviour to throw such a clear and steady light upon the doctrine of immortality, that ‘we might have a strong consolation, who have fled for refuge to lay hold upon the hope set before us: which hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and stedfast[9].’

“This beautiful simile,” continued my uncle, “which compares hope to an anchor, was first used by St. Paul. The ancient poets described Hope as a nymph, decorated with smiles and flowers, and soothing the labours of man with the idea of distant pleasures; but St. Paul represents hope as the stay and anchor of the soul; and so striking is the figure, that it has been since adopted into every language. He does not allude to the vain wishes arising from a heated imagination, but to the stedfast hope which springs from faith: as the vessel is kept firm at her anchor, in defiance of storms and currents, so the Christian is ‘not moved away from the hope of the Gospel,’ by adversities and temptations.

“You are all acquainted with the ancient fable of Pandora’s box; at the bottom of which it is said that, as the only means of supporting the human race under the multiplied evils that were about to issue from it, Jupiter placed the last and best blessing of Hope. It is not improbable that this fable was founded on a tradition of the original promise of the future seed; the hope of which could alone have sustained the virtuous part of mankind amidst the general corruption that followed the transgression of Adam.

“But an unsettled kind of hope will be of little avail; to be useful it must be grounded on faith; on that entire faith which not only believes in the authenticity of our Saviour’s sacrifice, and in the importance of the doctrines he taught, but which fully and gratefully confides in the sufficiency of his atonement. Then hope indeed helps us to anticipate the glorious future; we view him as risen triumphantly to heaven; and we feel that we shall partake in the happiness of the hereafter, which He has promised.

“That the hopes of a future state are natural to the mind may be inferred from the craving and dissatisfied feeling which accompanies our very enjoyments, and which always more or less clouds them with fresh wishes and indefinite hopes. These hopes, it is true, in the worldly man, are set upon pleasures, business, or ambition; or on some of those bustling objects of life, which, from their vicinity to the human eye, assume a false magnitude. But the true Christian learns that heavenly objects, which from their distance appear comparatively faint, swell upon the sight of those who earnestly study them; while the others fade away, and elude the grasp. Religion assists him in correcting those illusions of vision; faith helps him in assigning the proper direction to his hopes; and he makes it his continual care to preserve the enlightened views, which, through the divine mercy, he has obtained. This awful truth has sunk deeply into his mind, ‘The things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal;’ and a just impression of their relative value enables him to maintain a happy composure in all the vicissitudes of life.”

Before my uncle dismissed us, he said, “This, my dear little friends, is the last quiet home Sunday that we shall have for some time. Before we return, many unforeseen changes may occur; we are going, as it were, to launch into the world; we may be separated; and our regular habits must be unavoidably interrupted. But in every situation we can cultivate and strengthen in our hearts the Christian hope; and though we may perhaps no longer give each other mutual aid, we can, at least, each of us watch over our own hearts. Let me then intreat your attention to a few practical hints.

“Never allow yourselves to consider religion as a painful restraint, but rather as the performance of a grateful duty. Whenever that duty has the least appearance of being irksome, search and you will find that some incompatible but favourite pursuit entices away your thoughts: throw it then aside, however blameless it may otherwise be, or however innocent may be its pleasures. Remember with whom St. Paul classes those who are ‘lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God.’

“Frequently examine the state of your moral and religious feelings, and when you perceive a deficiency in any point, beware of lowering the standard of virtue to meet your practice; instead of endeavouring to rise to the level of your duty.

“Watch vigilantly your _small_ faults. You will find the unhesitating sacrifice of any one of them productive of the purest satisfaction; and each victory will make the next struggle more easy. But, in doing this, be careful to resist that most seductive propensity of all minds, the looking back with too much complacency at the faults we have conquered, or at the virtues we possess, instead of fixing our eyes on the sins we have yet to overcome, and the improvement we have yet to achieve.

“And, lastly, arm yourselves with a determined resolution not to rate human estimation beyond its true value. No one should affect a needless singularity; but to aim at things which in their nature are inconsistent, to seek to please both God and the world, where their commands are really at variance, is the way neither to be respectable, nor good, nor happy.”

_Fernhurst, for the last time._

_12th._--The corn fields are coming into ear, the hay harvest is going on, new flowers are springing up; and all the walks, and gardens, and shrubberies, are in the highest beauty, and yet we are going to leave this dear place! To-morrow we are to quit Fernhurst and all its happiness! But that is a silly feeling, for we all go together, and surely we may make ourselves happy any where, even in Ireland. A year ago I was just leaving my dear mamma, and the happy home to which I had been so long accustomed, to place myself among strangers;--and now I am going among still greater strangers--among the Irish. But my uncle says they are a warm-hearted, hospitable people, and that the country is so full of objects of interest, that I shall not have to regret the employments of Fernhurst, nor even my favourite gardening experiments.

I am happy to tell you, that most of these experiments have succeeded very well as yet: particularly one I have been trying on my dahlias, by budding them on the roots. They have already produced some very flourishing plants, and as the bearing buds were employed, they will blossom this year. I must make you acquainted also with a little bower, which we have all assisted in making in a charming spot; it is canopied with woodbine, and lined with moss; and you might say of it--

Is this Titania’s bower, where fairies play Their antique revels in the glow-worm’s light? Moss and wild thyme are all the weeds which stray To pave her palace with a green delight.

As we were taking our last walk late this evening, we saw the goat-sucker, which is nearly allied to the swallow in its form and habits; though generally larger in size. Frederick, who is my chief preceptor in everything relating to the feathered race, tells me, that, except on very dark, gloomy days, these birds are seldom seen till twilight. That is the time the insects come out which form their principal food; and, he says, it is probable that the extreme sensibility of eyes calculated for that period of the day, could not bear the dazzling light of the sun. Their mode of perching is singular, as they place themselves lengthways on a branch, and not in a cross direction like most other birds. The mouth is uncommonly large, fringed with bristles, and moistened by a glutinous fluid, to which the smaller insects adhere; and you may therefore conceive the destructive powers of this bird, for it flies through their swarms with its voracious jaws wide open, darts in every direction at its larger prey, and swallows all, without ever closing its bill. It is in this last circumstance that it chiefly differs from the martin, the swift, and the rest of the swallow tribes; for they never open their bills, in flying, but to snap at their prey, and they shut them with a sharp peculiar noise, which every one must have observed.

There is no end to the variety of names which this bird has acquired in different parts of England--goat-sucker--goat-owl--fern-owl--churn-owl--wheel-bird--dor-hawk--night-jar, &c. In most of these names there is some allusion to its peculiar habits, its haunts, its motions, or its noises, except in the first, which is the commonest and the most absurd of all, as if a goat would allow itself to be sucked by a bird! And yet, however ridiculous, my uncle shewed Frederick, in Aristotle and Pliny, that the ancients gave it a similar name.

I understand that it is not a very common bird here; but we saw it for a considerable time rapidly wheeling round and round a large oak tree, and hawking among the branches in pursuit of the fern-chafer, its favourite food. The hawking of this bird reminds me of an amusing passage in the Persian Sketches:--

“At Shiraz, the Elchee (envoy) received a present of a royal falcon. Before going out, we had been amused at seeing our head falconer put upon this bird a pair of leathers, which he fitted to its thighs with as much care as if he had been the tailor of a fashionable horseman. I inquired the reason of so unusual a proceeding. ‘You will learn that,’ said the consequential master of hawks, ‘when you see our sport.’

“The first hare seized by the falcon was very strong, and the ground rough. While the bird kept the claws of one foot fastened in the back of its prey, the other was dragged along the ground till it had an opportunity to lay hold of a tuft of grass, by which it was enabled to stop the course of the hare, whose efforts to escape would have torn the hawk asunder, if it had not been provided with the leather defences which I have mentioned.

“The next time the falcon was flown gave us a proof of that extraordinary courage which its whole appearance, particularly the eye, denoted. It had stopped and quite disabled a hare by the first pounce, when two greyhounds, which had been slipped by mistake, came up, and endeavoured to seize its prize. They were, however, quickly repulsed by the falcon, and with a boldness that excited our admiration and astonishment.”

And now, dear mamma, I must go and pack up my pretty writing-box which my uncle has given me; it holds paper, and pens, and ink, and pencils, my journal and account-book, and every thing one can want; even a nice little red leather case for colours, which Caroline made for me; and yet it is not above two inches deep. It is quite flat--but I can make a desk of the lid, and as it is to lie in the bottom of the carriage, under our feet, I have put it in a green cloth cover. I was afraid it might be troublesome; but my uncle and aunt know how to make every one comfortable without inconvenience to others.

This is my last line from dear, happy Fernhurst!

_13th June, Worcester._

This morning, at seven o’clock, we set out on our journey. Everything had been arranged and packed the day before, so there were no delays in the morning; all were punctual, and I assure you, mamma, that I was ready, and my work-box and travelling-book in my hands, before my uncle gave the first summons for assembling. We have several books in the carriage, but no loose parcels; and within-side it does not look as if it was prepared for a long journey.

Poor little Grace has been left with the Maudes, in whom my uncle and aunt have the most perfect confidence.

We have seen the fine old cathedral in this city, and the porcelain manufactory, both of which I had intended to describe to you; but my aunt recommends us to go to bed, as we are to be up very early to-morrow morning, in order that there may be full time for seeing the carpet manufactory at Kidderminster, on our way to Shrewsbury, where we are to sleep. So, good-night, though it is scarcely yet dark. What charming long days there are in this country compared with those of Rio.

_14th June, Shrewsbury._

Sweet is the dubious bound Of night and morn, when spray and plant are drenched In dew.

Everything was in that state when we set out early this morning from Worcester; it reminded me of all my uncle had told me about dew, and I took the opportunity of asking him if dew is formed in the morning--“it continues to form in shaded places, after sun-rise,” said he; “but there is a shorter interval between sun-rise and its ceasing to form, than between its first appearance in the afternoon and sun-set; though Dr. Wells thinks, that if the weather be favourable, more dew forms a little before and a little after sun-rise, in shaded places, than at any other time.”

My aunt remarked, that a few years ago, while in constant attendance on a sick child from July to September, she rose every morning at day-break; and had an opportunity of observing, that about an hour before sun-rise the dew was particularly abundant. The window was frequently kept a little open at night, when the room was close, and the weather still; but the air became so chilly just as this heavy dew came on, that she was always obliged to shut it; yet during the night the chill was never perceived; which corroborates what Dr. Wells says, “that the cold of the atmosphere is greater in the latter than the prior part of the night.”

In the course of Dr. Wells’ observations, he found that dew does not form readily on gravel-walks; and that if the atmosphere be clear, neither the road or pavement are moistened with dew, though the grass on the road side, and painted doors and windows, are frequently wet. He found also, that wool, though highly attractive of dew, was prevented, if placed on a gravel-walk, from acquiring as much dew as an equal parcel of wool, if laid upon grass.

I asked why Dr. Wells used wool in these experiments, and my uncle told me, that at first he had only compared the quantities of dew on bodies having smooth surfaces; but that he found wool much better adapted to collect dew from the atmosphere, as it readily admits the moisture amongst its fibres, and retains what it receives very firmly. Filamentous and downy substances are by far the most productive of cold, such as wool, cotton, and flax, and still more fine raw silk and swan-down; all these were more steadily cold upon clear nights than even the grass; but swan-down showed the greatest cold.

“I have already explained to you,” continued my uncle, “that the surface of the earth, and all substances upon it, radiate back into the sky, at night, the heat which they receive in the day; and that, when this radiation is unobstructed by clouds, the cold it produces is proportionably greater. But the degree of cold is very much augmented when the form or situation of these substances prevents their deriving fresh supplies of heat from warmer bodies in contact with them, or in their neighbourhood. Most of the substances which I have named are not only naturally bad conductors of heat, but their form scarcely permits them to transmit from fibre to fibre any heat they might acquire. This is the reason why dew appears in greater quantity on shavings of wood, than on a thick piece of wood; and why filamentous substances become colder than all others.

“On a dewy evening the Doctor depressed a small tumbler into the soft garden mould, so that the brim was level with the ground; and he placed another standing on the surface of the mould: in the morning the former was dry in the inside, while that which stood on the surface was dewed; and the thermometer being applied to each, the heat of the depressed one was found to be 56°, while the other was only 49°; for not only had the upper glass more readily parted with its heat by radiation, but the other had received a constant supply of heat from the surrounding earth. In the same manner it may be explained, why the prominent parts of bodies are often encrusted with hoar frost, while the more solid and retired parts are free from it.”

I then inquired, why there is less dew of a windy evening; for one would suppose, that wind, instead of preventing the radiation of heat, would rather help to promote it.

He replied, “all bodies exposed in a clear night must undoubtedly radiate as much of their heat during a storm as in the most perfect calm; but, whenever radiation is going on, the air is more or less warmed by it; and consequently wind, which is only air in motion, serves to bring a continual stream of its warm particles into contact with those bodies. This restores almost as much heat as they had lost, and prevents the deposition of dew; for, you know, dew is nothing but the moisture of the atmosphere condensed by meeting with colder substances; and, therefore, whatever tends to equalize the temperature of the air, and of those substances, must obstruct the formation of dew.”

We breakfasted at Kidderminster, and saw every part of the carpet manufactory; but the chief interest of the day has been a magnificent _inclined plane_ on the Shropshire canal, which my uncle was so good as to go out of the direct road to shew us. It is a slope of 350 yards in length, with a fall of 70 yards, connecting the canal on the high ground with the canal on the lower level; and the boats, being placed in a kind of cradle upon wheels, are allowed to roll gently down the inclined plane, or are drawn up by the power of a small steam engine. By this contrivance three great savings are effected, he said. First, the prodigious expense of building twenty-one _locks_, which would be required for that height; secondly, the time occupied in passing through all those locks; and, thirdly, the quantity of water which is wasted every time a lock is opened, and which, in some parts of the country, it is very difficult to replace in a dry summer.

_Wood Lodge._

_16th._--So far our journey has been most agreeable in every way. My uncle and aunt not only stop wherever there is any thing to see, but they tell me what to observe, because they know that, through ignorance, I might overlook the things which deserve the most attention. Only think, mamma, of their having actually come into Cheshire, in order to shew me a salt-mine. My uncle promised it many months ago, and he never forgets a promise to any of us, even about a trifle. Some old friends of theirs, Mr. and Mrs. L., live at this pretty place, where we arrived yesterday evening. We were received with warm affection; and I was considered as one of my aunt’s children, and treated with equal kindness.

As soon as an early breakfast was over, we all drove or rode to Northwich, about five miles from this; and between the fineness of the day, the good nature of both new and old friends, and the complete novelty of going down into a mine, it has been a delightful expedition indeed. By the way, I must tell you, that there was some little hesitation about the ladies going down: there are few mines, my uncle says, that would be very suitable to such visits; but when it can be effected with propriety, he approves of their learning the realities of life. We are such imaginative beings, he says, that truth is necessary to steady our minds.

By my uncle’s directions, I put on an old dress of one of the miner’s wives, over my own, to prevent it from being soiled by the iron chain and the bucket in which we were let down. By the time I was near the bottom, I began to hear the confused sound of the people below, and to see the indistinct flickering of candles; and on looking up, the day light admitted from above by the opening through which we had descended looked smaller than the moon. The walls, and pillars left occasionally to support the roof of the mine, quite disappointed my imagination; for they are of a dirty brown colour, instead of the brilliant white I had expected. In a few places, indeed, they sparkled a little in the gleams of the candles which we carried.

After walking about in various directions, and feeling as if in the crypt of some large church, we came to where the men were working. They were just going to light the train to blast off a rock of salt; and I assure you it was very near the place where we stood; but we were secured behind a projecting point. The roof, there, was not above twenty feet high, and the sound was very grand, continuing to reverberate at intervals for a minute and a half.

The salt lies in strata, from between which water is always trickling; and the white salt used for eating is made from this water, which is pumped up above ground, either by steam or horse power. It is then put into what are called preparing pans, where it is brought to the degree of heat requisite for separating the earthy impurities. These subside to the bottom, and leave the brine clear, and ready to be afterwards evaporated in the salting pans, which are shallow, and I am sure twenty or thirty feet long.