Here, then, is a problem which has long obsessed me; but I see no means of solving it finally. The aged grandams are gone, and the collectors of folklore began their work in England too late to save most of the actual stories which the grandams told. Yet such things do not easily die quite out, and imagination, working on scattered hints, may be able to devise a picture of an evening’s entertainment, such an one as Mrs Marcet’s _Evening Conversations_, Mr Joyce’s _Dialogues on Chemistry_, and somebody else’s _Philosophy in Sport made Science in Earnest_, aimed at extinguishing by substituting for Error and Superstition the light of Utility and Truth; in some such terms as these: _Charles_: I think, papa, that I now understand the properties of the lever, which you so kindly explained to me on Saturday; but I have been very much puzzled since then in thinking about the pendulum, and have wondered why it is that, when you stop it, the clock does not go on any more. _Papa_: (You young sinner, have you been meddling with the clock in the hall? Come here to me! _No, this must be a gloss that has somehow crept into the text_). Well, my boy, though I do not wholly approve of your conducting without my supervision experiments which may possibly impair the usefulness of a valuable scientific instrument, I will do my best to explain the principles of the pendulum to you. Fetch me a piece of stout whipcord from the drawer in my study, and ask cook to be so good as to lend you one of the weights which she uses in her kitchen. And so we are off. How different the scene in a household to which the beams of Science have not yet penetrated! The Squire, exhausted by a long day after the partridges, and replete with food and drink, is snoring on one side of the fireplace. His old mother sits opposite to him knitting, and the children (Charles and Lucy, not Harry and Lucy: they would never have stood it) are gathered about her knee. _Grandmother_: Now, my dears, you must be very good and quiet, or you’ll wake your father, and you know what’ll happen then. _Charles_: Yes, I know: he’ll be woundy cross-tempered and send us off to bed. _Grandmother_ (_stops knitting and speaks with severity_): What’s that? Fie upon you, Charles! that’s not a way to speak. Now I _was_ going to have told you a story, but if you use such-like words, I shan’t. (_Suppressed outcry_: “Oh, granny!”) Hush! hush! Now I believe you _have_ woke your father! _Squire_ (_thickly_): Look here, mother, if you can’t keep them brats quiet---- _Grandmother_: Yes, John, yes! it’s too bad. I’ve been telling them if it happens again, off to bed they shall go. _Squire_ relapses. _Grandmother_: There, now, you see, children, what did I tell you? you _must_ be good and sit still. And I’ll tell you what: to-morrow you shall go a-blackberrying, and if you bring home a nice basketful, I’ll make you some jam.