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F. And the tail; is it not fuller of hair in the horse than in the ass?

C. 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.

F. Which, by the way, it is 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?

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

F. 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 you̟ know now what we have been making?

C. What?

F. 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 sort 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.

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

F. 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 more 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.

C. But, papa, if I had never seen a horse, I should not know what kind of animal it was by this definition. F. Let us hear, then, how you would give me an idea of a horse.

C. I should 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.

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F. I think you learned some verses upon the horse your last lesson repeat them—

C. "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.

F. You have said very well; but this is not a Definition, it is a Description.

C. What is the difference?

F. A description is intended to give you a lively picture of an object, as though 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. C. I like a description best, papa.

F. 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 PHOENIX AND THE 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 Phoenix, with a sort 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 exhaustest 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 Phoenix, I pity thee much more than thou affectest to pity me! What pleasure

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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 amongst 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 usefulness."

THE MANUFACTURE OF PAPER.

F. 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 from twopence to fourpence a pound, according to their quality;

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and he, when he has got a sufficient quantity, disposes of them to the owner of the paper-mill. 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 beaten to pieces with vast hammers, which rose and fell continually with a 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. 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 superfluity 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,

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