A Philosophical Tea-pot.
Anne. Mother, why do you not use that pretty tea-pot that grandmother gave you?
Mother. Why, my dear, do you not remember that the nose is half burnt off?
A. Well, mamma, suppose it is—it does not look very badly, and you have always told me that as long as things were useful, we must not put them aside.
M. But it is not useful, Anne; that is the only reason why I have set it up on the high shelf.
A. I do not see why it is not useful, I am sure. I think, mamma, you might as well put away my little spade because the handle is broken off at the top, or John’s kite because the wind has taken off a piece of the tail!
M. Well, my dear, this sounds very well; but let us consider the matter a little. Of what use is a tea-pot?
A. Why, to hold tea, I suppose!
M. Well, what is tea—a solid body?
A. Oh no; it is what my book of natural philosophy would call a liquid. Oh, that book is very interesting; wait a minute while I get it, mamma—here it is!
M. What is one of the properties of liquids?
A. Let me see—oh, here I have it. Liquids always tend to an equilibrium.
M. Do you understand what that means, my dear?
A. Yes; my mistress explained it to me the other morning. Water or any other liquid always seeks a level; that is, if water is put into a bowl, it will be equally as high on one side as on the other. If the bowl stands uneven, the liquid will still be perfectly level.
M. A very good explanation, Anne. But now to the proof. Can you tell me why, on this principle, my tea-pot is of no use now the spout is broken?
A. Let me see—no, I cannot understand why it is so. The tea-pot itself is good, and you can fill it just the same as ever!
M. Ah! but can you fill it? that is the question.
A. Why, mamma, how absurd it would be to suppose I could not fill it! But let me try; there is nothing like trying, after all. (She brings the tea-pot.) Here it is, poor neglected thing. Indeed, I do not see why I cannot fill it, unless there are holes in the bottom or sides.
M. No, I believe it is sound in those respects. But come, here is some water; try it. But first get the waiter—I do not want my table wet.
A. Oh! never fear, mamma; I will not spill it. (Pouring the water into the tea-pot.) There, there, mamma, you see I have got it half full already. But dear me, how’s this? I declare, the water is running out of the nose as fast as I pour it in! Why, what does it mean?
M. Just think, my dear, of what your philosophy says about liquids, and you will immediately see why the water runs out of the nose. How high does the water remain in the tea-pot?
A. Just as high as the top of the nose. Ah! I see now; that is the level of the water, and it can go no higher in the body of the tea-pot than it does in the nose. Wonderful! Then, mamma, it must be that it is necessary to have the nose as high as the top of the tea-pot. Oh! now I understand perfectly why this is of no use. Thank you, mamma; I like these practical lessons in philosophy. But I am ashamed that I did not understand it at once.
M. This shows you, my dear Anne, that it is not only necessary to have knowledge, but that it is nearly useless when it is not applied properly. Hereafter, I hope you will think a little when you study.
A. Ah, mamma, I think I shall come to you when I am puzzled; you explain things so charmingly—better than all the philosophy books in the world!
M. Well, my dear, come to me after you have tried hard yourself to understand the subject you are studying, and I shall think my time well spent in simplifying the matter to you. I used to be very fond of philosophy when I was of your age, because my aunt kindly illustrated some of the most difficult principles in such a manner as to make me perfectly understand them. The lesson I have just given you is one she taught me thirty years ago.
