Mr. St. No doubt. The societies of animals greatly resemble those of men; and that of rooks is like those of men in a savage state, such as the communities of the North American Indians. It is a sort of league for mutual aid and defence, but in which every one is left to do as he pleases, without any obligation to employ himself for the whole body. Others unite in a manner resembling more civilized societies of men. This is the case with the beavers. They perform great public works by the united efforts of the whole community, such as damming up streams, and constructing mounds for their habitations. As these are works of great art and labour, some of them must probably act under the direction of others, and be compelled to work whether they will or not. Many curious stories are told to this purpose by those who have observed them in their remotest haunts, where they exercise their full sagacity.
Fr. But are they all true?
Mr. St. That is more than I can answer for; yet what we certainly know of the economy of bees may justify us in believing extraordinary things of the sagacity of animals. The society of bees goes farther than that of beavers, and, in some respects, beyond most among men themselves. They not only inhabit a common dwelling, and perform great works in common, but they lay up a store of provision, which is the property of the whole community, and is not used except at certain seasons, and under certain regulations. A beehive is a true image of a commonwealth, where no member acts for himself alone, but for the whole body.
Fr. But there are drones among them who do not work at all.
Mr. St. Yes; and at the approach of winter they are driven out of the hive, and left to perish with cold and hunger. But I have not leisure at present to tell you more about bees. You shall one day see them at work in a glass hive. In the meantime, remember one thing, which applies to all the societies of animals; and I wish it did as well to all those of men likewise.
Fr. What is that?
Mr. St. The principle upon which they all associate, is to obtain some benefit for the whole body, not to give particular advantages to a few.
THE SHIP.
Charles Osborn, when at home in the holydays, had a visit from a schoolfellow who was just entered as a midshipman on board of a man-of-war. Tom Hardy (that was his name) was a free-hearted, spirited lad, and a favourite among his companions; but he never liked his book, and had left school ignorant of almost everything he came there to learn. What was worse, he had got a contempt for learning of all kinds, and was fond of showing it. “What does your father mean,” says he, to Charles, “to keep you moping and studying over things of no use in the world but to plague folks?—Why can’t you go into his majesty’s service like me, and be made a gentleman of? You are old enough, and I know you are a lad of spirit.” This kind of talk made some impression upon young Osborn. He became less attentive to the lessons his father set him, and less willing to enter into instructive conversation. This change gave his father much concern; but as he knew the cause, he thought it best, instead of employing direct authority, to attempt to give a new impression to his son’s mind, which might counteract the effect of his companion’s suggestions.
Being acquainted with an East India captain, who was on the point of sailing, he went with his son to pay him a farewell visit on board his ship. They were shown all about the vessel, and viewed all the preparations for so long a voyage. They saw her weigh anchor and unfurl her sails; and they took leave of their friend amid the shouts of the seamen and all the bustle of departure.