“WHAT was that extraordinary metal,” cried I, “which I took for a ball of silver, till I saw the drops running about on the carpet?”
“Ha! ha!” laughed the spiteful old Scissors, which, speck of rust and all, had been replaced in the box, “you never saw the solemn philosopher, Mrs. Thimble, ever cutting a dance like that!”
“The lady called it quicksilver,” I observed. “Was it, then, no relation of my friend?”
“Relation!” again exclaimed the Scissors; “a relation that would eat her, rim, top, and all; make holes for her knowledge to run out of! Quicksilver is a dangerous neighbour.”
“Dangerous both to metal and to man,” quietly rejoined my learned companion. “Its power can dissolve both silver and gold; and to the human species it acts as a powerful poison.”
“I wonder that they do not leave it alone, if it does such mischief,” said I.
“Do you not know,” replied my friend, “that reason and knowledge can find valuable uses even in those things which at first sight appear only hurtful? From quicksilver, also called mercury, a medicine is prepared, which, under the name of calomel, has helped to preserve many a life.”
“How strange!” I exclaimed; “medicine and poison, safety and danger, both from the same curious metal! But is it always a liquid like that?”
“Oh no!” replied the Thimble; “mixed with other metals, it becomes staid and quiet enough. Look at that beautiful mirror in the gilded frame, which reflects every object in the room. To what, think you, does it owe its beauty? To an amalgam (that is the title given to the mixture)—an amalgam of mercury and tin, which lines the glass at the back.”
“And makes it a pretty aid to vanity and folly,” said the broken-pointed Scissors, with bitterness. “If there is one thing which silly mortals like better than another, it is to look at their own faces in a glass.”