It would be easy to multiply anecdotes, shewing the enthusiasm with which Mezzofanti entered on the study of language after language. He sought out new tongues with an insatiable passion, and may be said to have never been happy but when engaged in the mastering of words and grammars. No degree of bad health interrupted his pursuit. Till the day of his death, he was engaged in his darling task: life closed on him while so occupied. He died just as he had acquired a thorough proficiency in Californian—a singular instance of the power of mind exercised on a favourite subject, and shewing what may be accomplished when men set their heart on it. The career of this remarkable linguist, however, cannot be considered exemplary. We would recommend no person to plunge headlong into an absorbing passion for any accomplishment. Mezzofanti was a curiosity—a marvel—the wonder of the world of letters; and it is chiefly as such that a notice of him here will be considered interesting.
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The curious observer, in his rambles about town, is occasionally struck with some singular demonstrations for which he is at a loss to account. Sometimes they assume a benevolent form, and sometimes they have a holiday-making aspect, yet with a touch of the lugubrious. In London, or in some one of the thriving towns lying within a score of miles of it, he strolls into a church, where he sees a number of loaves of bread piled up at the back of the communion-table, or ranged, as they are in a baker's shop, upon shelves against the wall. It is a pleasant sight, but apt to be somewhat puzzling. Perhaps he saunters into a country church-yard, and there finds amongst the rank grass and moss-grown and neglected memorials of the silent multitude, one trim and well-tended monument, uninvaded by cryptogamia, free from all stain of the weather, and the surrounding grassy sward neatly mown and fenced in, it may be, with budding willow branches or a circle of clipped box. Orhe finds his way through a suburban village, blocked up some fine morning by a crowd of poor women and girls, clustered round the door of a retired tradesman or the curate of the place, from which three or four at a time emerge with gratified looks, and go about their business, while others enter in their turn. Such demonstrations as these, and we might mention many others, have their origin in certain charitable dispositions and bequests, many of which are of considerable antiquity. There is one in operation to this day, near Winchester, which dates from the time of William of Wykeham; by virtue of which every traveller passing that way, if he choose to make the demand, is regaled with a pint of beer and a meal of bread and cheese. There is another similar antique charity in operation in Wiltshire, near Devizes, where, on one occasion, the dispenser of the benevolence, in the exercise of his privilege to feed the hungry, threw a loaf of bread into the carriage of George III. as the royalcortègepassed the spot. The name of these post-mortem charities is legion. They abound in every city, burgh, town, and hamlet in England, to an extent absolutely startling to a person who looks into the subject for the first time. The number of them belonging to the city of London alone—that is, originating among her citizens, and mostly dispensed under the direction of the several worshipful companies—can hardly be fewer than 1500, if so few. The parochial charities only of London city yield an income of nearly L.40,000 a year. The history of all these charities would fill many bulky volumes. We propose merely to take a passing glance at a few, which are interesting from their singularity, or from the light which they reflect upon the benevolent aspect of a certain section of society in times long past; and which, perhaps, may be found in some degree instructive and suggestive, as illustrating the operation of post-mortem benevolence.
At St —— Church, not a hundred miles from St Martin's Le Grand, there prevails an amusing instance of the perversion of the funds of a charity to purposes which could not possibly have been intended by the founder. Many centuries ago, a Roman Catholic gentleman, dying, bequeathed to that church a small estate, the proceeds of which he directed should be devoted to the purpose of supplying the officiating priests with refreshment on the Sabbath-day. The Roman Catholic service has long since given place to a Protestant one, and the band of officiating priests has dwindled down to one clergyman—while the value of the estate has increased perhaps fiftyfold. At the present moment, the sum which the estate originally produced is paid over to the church-wardens, who are at times a little puzzled as to what to do with it. They get rid of a good portion in this way: at every service which is held in the church, they place a bottle of the best sherry which can be procured for money upon the vestry-table; from this the 'officiating priest' strengthens his inner man with a glass or two before commencing his ministrations, and then the church-wardens sit down and finish the remainder comfortably by themselves, while the reverend gentleman is in the reading-desk or the pulpit. The cost of the wine, however, does not amount to half the sum in their hands, and the remainder goes to form a fund from which the church is painted, repaired, decorated, and kept in apple-pie order—the whole fabric undergoing a thorough revision and polish both outside and in as often as a pretext can be found. What becomes of the bulk of the property—the large surplus arising from the increased value of the devised estate—this deponent sayeth not: the reader may be in a condition to guess by the time he has read to the end of this paper.
In the year 1565, a Mr Edward Taylor willed to the Leathersellers' Company a messuage, tenement, and melting-house, in the parish of St Olave, and other messuages in the same parish, upon condition that they should, quarterly and for ever, distribute among the poorest and neediest people in the Poultry Compter one kilderkin of beer and twelve pennyworths of bread, and the same to the poor of Wood Street Compter, Newgate, and the Fleet, the King's Bench, and the Marshalsea prisons. Under this bequest, the Company are at present in possession of considerable property, vastly increased in value since the date of the will; in respect of which property, 1s. worth of penny-loaves, and 2s. in money, in lieu of beer, are sent by them every quarter to the poor prisoners in each of the prisons mentioned in the original testament!
Robert Rogers devised in 1601 the sum of L.400 to the Leathersellers' Company, 'to be employed in lands, the best pennyworth they could get;' and that the house should have 40s. of it a year for ever. The remainder was to be bestowed upon poor scholars, students of divinity—two of Oxford, and two of Cambridge, for four years; and after them to two others of each university; and after them, to others; and so on for ever. He also, by the same will, devised L.200 to be lent to four young men, merchant adventurers, at L.6, 13s. 4d., for the L.200, interest. The whole of the interest was to be spent in bread—to be distributed among poor prisoners—and coal for poor persons, with the exception of some small fees and gratuities to the parish clerk and beadle, for their trouble in carrying out his intentions.
Lewisham, once a town in Kent, but now nothing more than a suburb of London, enjoys the benefactions of the Rev. Abraham Colfe, who, in 1656, bequeathed property for the maintenance of numerous charities. Some of them are singularly characteristic. Having provided for the erection of three strong alms-houses, he directed that certain alms-bodies should be periodically chosen, who were to be 'godly poor inhabitants of Lewisham, and being single persons, and threescore years old, past their hard bodily labour, and able to say the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and the Ten Commandments,' &c. &c. All these alms-bodies were to have '3d. each allowed them every day for their comfortable sustenance—that is, 21d. a week—to be paid them every month during theirsinglelife, and as long as they should behave themselves honestly and godly, and duly frequent the parish church.' They were to be summarily removed if guilty of profane or wicked conduct. The alms-bodies were not to exceed five in number at any one time. He directed a buttery to be built for their convenience, and also a little brick room, with a window in it, for the five alms-bodies to assemble in daily for prayer, and that the schoolmaster of the reading-school should pray with them there. He further directed the enclosure of gardens, of sixteen feet broad at the least, for their recreation. Mr Colfe also left money for lectures at Lewisham Church, as well as a sum for the purchase of Bibles, until they should amount to the number of thirty or forty, which were to be chained to the pews, or otherwise preserved; and he left 12d. a quarter to the clerk for writing down the names of those that should use them; also 2s. 8d. to him for taking care of the clock and dial; also, 10s. for a sermon on the 5th of November, and 12d. in bread for the poor who should come and hear it, and 6d. to the parish clerk; also 20s., to be distributed a penny at a time, to the children and servants who could best say their catechism, and 6d. to the minister for catechising them; also, a yearlysum of money for distributing on every Lord's-day after the morning service, seven penny wheaten loaves, to seven of the most honest, peaceable, and godly poor householders of Lewisham, who could say the Lord's Prayer, the Belief, and the Ten Commandments; also, 5s. a year to poor maid-servants, who at the time of their marriage had continued seven years with their master or mistress in Lewisham; with numerous other bequests. He further left moneys for the preservation of his father's, grandfather's, his wife's, and his own monument—his own being an oaken plank oiled, and a stone 'a foot square every way, and three feet long.' The stone and plank were removed many years ago, and an inscribed tablet has been set into the outer wall of the church.
The practice of leaving money for the sustentation of tomb-stones and monuments, appears to have prevailed for many generations; and may be very naturally accounted for, by the repugnance which most men would feel, to the idea of having their bones knocked about by the sexton's spade, and then wheeled off to the bone-house, if there happens to be a bone-house, or shot into the neighbouring river, or on a farmer's dung-heap, if there is no such convenience as a bone-house at hand. It was this feeling that induced the celebrated sculptor, Chantrey, to make sure of a quiet resting-place for his remains.[2]In so doing, he was, though perhaps unconsciously, but following the example of many who have gone before him. We have more than once encountered a sober party upon their annual visit to some country church-yard tomb, of which, by virtue of some bequest—which provides them with a good dinner upon the occasion—they are the appointed guardians. The worshipful members of the London companies sometimes choose to rest from their labours in a rural grave; and when they do, survivors are always to be found not unwilling to enjoy once a year a pensive holiday, coupled with the creature comforts, which the quiet comrade whose behest they execute has taken care to provide for them. It would be perhaps difficult to find a single church in all the little towns and hamlets within a dozen miles of London, which does not contain one tenant at least who has thus secured permanent possession of his last resting-place. So strong is this feeling in some individuals, that they shrink from confiding even in the stone-vaults in the interior of a city church. Thus, Sir William Rawlins, not so very long ago, bequeathed a certain sum of money for the preservation of his tomb and monument in Bishopsgate Church. The bequest provides for the remuneration of the visitors, who are specified parish functionaries, and entertains them with a good dinner on the day of the annual visitation, which they are bound to make—to inspect the monument and tomb, and to guarantee their good condition. In many instances, the sum originally devised for the sustentation of a grave or monument is not sufficient, in the present day, to remunerate residents in London for looking after it, and the money has been transferred to the parish in which the testator lies, and has become the perquisite of the sexton.
In the year 1635, one John Fletcher bequeathed to the Fishmongers' Company the sum of L.120, to supply 10s. every month to the poor of St Peter's Hospital, to provide them with a dinner on Sunday.
In the year 1653, Mr James Glassbrook bequeathed, after his wife's death, the sum of L.500 in the following words: 'and L.500 more to such uses as follow—to the poor of the parish of St Bololph Without, in which I dwell, L.5 in bread yearly; L.5 to the poor of St Giles's yearly in bread; to the poor of St Sepulchre's yearly in bread, L.5, to be given every Sabbath-day in the churches.' The amount of bread at the present time given away in London under this disposition, supplemented by some smaller bequests, is sixty-eight half-quartern loaves a week. The same poor persons, when they once get on the list, continue to receive the bread during their whole lives, unless they cease to reside in the parish, or are struck off the list of pensioners for misconduct.
One Daniel Midwinter, in 1750, left L.1000 to the Stationers' Company, to pay L.14 a year to the parish of St Faith's; and a like sum to Hornsey parish, to be applied in apprenticing two boys or girls of the several parishes, and to fit them out in clothes. At the present time, the money is paid over to the parties receiving the apprentices, with a recommendation to lay it out in clothes for the children.
By the will of John Stock, the parish of Christchurch received, among other legacies, the sum of L.100, the interest of which was directed to be applied in the following manner: one guinea to be paid to the vicar for a sermon to be preached by him on Good-Friday; 10s. to the curate for reading the prayers on that day;and the remainder to be equally distributed among such poor women as chose to remain and receive the sacrament after the service!
A Mr James Wood, amongst other curious provisions, devised to the church-wardens of the parish of St Nicholas Cole Abbey, the sum of 15s. annually, to be given away in twopences to such poor people as they should meet in the streets when going and returning from church on a specified day.
The inhabitants of Watling Street, and other districts in the vicinity of St Antholin's Church, are familiar with the sound of what is known in the neighbourhood as the 'Fish-bell.' This is a bell which rings out every Friday night from St Antholin's tower, to summon the inhabitants to evening prayers: very few people attend to the summons, which comes at an inconvenient time for that busy locality. There stands almost against the walls of the church a pump, which is always in good repair, and yields an excellent supply of water, greatly to the convenience of the neighbourhood. Both the pump and the prayers are the legacy of an old fish-woman of the last century. It is said, that for forty years of her life she was in the habit of purchasing fish in the small hours of the morning at Billingsgate Market; these she washed and prepared for her customers at a small spring near St Antholin's Church, and afterwards cried them about the town upon her head. Having prospered in her calling, she bequeathed a sufficient sum to perpetuate a weekly service in the church, and a good and efficient pump erected over the spring of which she had herself enjoyed a life-long privilege.
In St George's in the East, there is a charity, well-known as Raine's Charity, which was founded by Henry Raine, Esq., in the earlier part of the last century. The charity consists of two endowed schools, sufficiently well provided for the maintenance and instruction of fifty boys and as many girls, and the payment and support of a master and mistress. It is one part of the system of management, that six pupils of either sex leave the schools every year, to make room for as many new ones. By a somewhat whimsical provision in the will of the founder, a species of annual lottery comes off at the discharge of the six girls. If they have behaved well, have been attentive and obedient, and punctual and exact in the observance of their religious duties, they are entitled to draw lots for the sum of L.100, which will be paid to the fortunate holder of the prize as a marriage-portion upon her wedding-day. It is further provided, that the wedding is to take place on the 1st day of May; and that, in addition to the portion, L.5 is to be expended upon a marriage-dinner and a merry-making.
Bequests for the portioning of poor girls and virtuous servant-maids are, indeed, not at all uncommon. In the village of Bawburgh, in Norfolk, there is onefounded in the last century by a Quaker gentleman, who left a sum of money, the interest of which is shared among the servant-girls in the place who get married. The amount is not payable until twelve months after the wedding. The village being small, it will sometimes happen that a good sum accumulates before an applicant comes forward who can substantiate a claim upon it. The object of such bequests as these is sufficiently plain: the donors had evidently in view the counteracting of the wretched tendency of the old poor-law, which, by giving the mother of an illegitimate child a claim upon the parish funds, actually placed a premium upon female frailty.
In London, there are charitable dispositions and bequests for the nursery of every virtue that could be named, but more especially of industry, providence, and thrift. A man may be brought into the world by voluntary contributions; he may be maintained and educated at a foundling asylum, if his parents, as thousands do, choose to throw him upon the public compassion; he may ride into a good business upon the back of a borrowed capital, for which he pays but a nominal interest; and if he fail to realise a competence by his own endeavours, he may perchance revel in some corporation sinecure, or, at the worst, luxuriate in an alms-house, and be finally deposited in the church-yard—and all at other people's expense. On the other hand, if he be made of the right metal, he may carve his way to fortune and to civic fame, and may die full of years and honours—in which case, he is pretty sure to add one more to the list of charitable donors whose legacies go to swell the expectancies of the city poor. It would be difficult for any eccentric testator in the present day to hit upon a new method of disposing of the wealth which he can no longer keep. Every device for the exercise of posthumous generosity seems to have been exhausted long ago.
The trust-estates, the source of so many of the city of London charities, are mostly, if not all, under the control of the corporate companies. How they are managed, is a secret altogether unknown to the public, and of which, indeed, the livery and freemen of some of the companies have but a very limited knowledge. The revenue derived from the trust-estates, according to their own shewing, is not much less than L.90,000 a year; but they have large revenues, of which they do not choose to shew any account at all. These are supposed to arise mainly from the increase in value of property originally devised to charitable uses—which increase it is their custom to appropriate as they please. 'Thus, for example,' says a writer on this subject, 'if a testator left to any one of these companies a piece of land then worth L.10 per annum, directing that L.10 should be annually appropriated to the support of a school, and the land subsequently increases in value to L.500, then the master and wardens of the company claim the right of appropriating to their own uses the surplus of L.490. In no equitable view of the case can this be deemed to be private property.' It seems probable that these things will be looked into before long. From a motion lately made in the House of Commons, we learn that a thorough investigation is contemplated into the management and application of all charities throughout the kingdom, the inquiry to be conducted at the cost of the several charities, the largest of which are not to pay more than L.50, and the smaller ones twopence in the pound, upon the amount of their capital. Perhaps this inquiry may lead to the recovery of some of the charities which are stated to be lost, and of which nothing but the titles, under the denomination of So-and-so's gift, remain upon the corporation records.
The secret management of the trust-estates contrasts curiously with the pompous exhibition which some of the worshipful companies make of their deeds of benevolence. Some of the smaller and older churches of London are stuck over in the interior with enormous black boards, as big as the church door almost, upon which are emblazoned, in gilt letters, the donations to the poor, to the school, to the repair of the fabric, &c. from the worshipful company of This and That, from the days of King James—the inscriptions of whose time are illegible through the smoke and damp of centuries—down to the days of Queen Victoria, and the donations of last Christmas, fresh and glittering from the hands of the gilder. Thus, the interesting old church of St Bartholomew the Great is lined with the eleemosynary exploits of the worshipful Ironmongers' Company, whose multitudinous banners of black and gold are in abominable discordance with the severe and simple architecture of the ancient edifice. 'Let not thy left hand know what thy right hand doeth,' is a monition apparently not much in repute among the corporate companies.
The reader may gather from the perusal of the above desultory examples, selected from a mass of similar ones, some idea of the enormous amount of the funds, intended for benevolent purposes, which Christian men have bequeathed to the world; and they may perhaps serve to enlighten the curious observer on the subject of some of the unobtrusive phenomena which occasionally excite his admiration and arouse his conjecture. They are the silent charities of men in the silent land. How much good they do, and how much harm, and on which side the balance is likely to lie—these are questions which for the present we have neither time nor space to discuss.
FOOTNOTES:[2]SeeChambers's Pocket Miscellany, vol. iv.
[2]SeeChambers's Pocket Miscellany, vol. iv.
[2]SeeChambers's Pocket Miscellany, vol. iv.
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The condition of the working-classes in this country is a subject of intense interest to all thinking men; but it is profitable as well as amusing to transfer our attention sometimes to the same portions of society in other countries. In Germany, for instance, the people are as busy as we are with their 'hand-workers,' and the questions of freedom of industry and general instruction are as warmly discussed as at home. We have now before us a little volume by the philosopher and historian, Zschokke, which, in the form of a fictitious narrative, treats very fully of the status of the mechanic in Fatherland; and we are tempted to cull a few extracts which may afford the reader materials for perhaps an interesting comparison.[3]
The real hero of the story is Hand-labour, and his progress is described throughout three generations of men. He is the Thought of the book, illustrated by adventure and vicissitude; living when the human agents die in succession; and leaving a distinct and continuous track in the reader's mind, when the names and persons fade or conglomerate in his memory. And yet some of these names and persons are not feebly individualised. The father, the son, and the grandson stand well out upon the canvas; and while the family likeness is strictly preserved from generation to generation, the men are seen independent and alone, each in his own special development. The patriarch was a travelling tinker, who wheeled his wares about the country in a barrow; and then, rising in the world, attained the dignity of a hawker, with a cart of goods, drawn by a little gray ass. His son Jonas trotted on foot beside him in all his journeys, dining like his father on bread and water, and sleeping in barns or stables. But when the boy was old enough, he wasturned off to pick up his own subsistence like the redbreasts, the sparrows, and the woodpeckers. 'Listen, my lad,' quoth Daddy Thaddaeus; 'this is the spring. Look for sloes and elderberries, rose-leaves and others for ointment; marjoram, spurge, and thyme, wherever thou mayst and canst. These we will sell to the apothecaries. In summer, gather basketfuls of strawberries, bilberries, and raspberries; carry them to the houses: they will yield money. In winter, let us gather and dry locks of wool, for the saddlers and tapestry-makers, and withes for the basket and mat manufacturers. From the table of the bountiful God, a thousand crumbs are falling for us: these we will pick up. They will give thee cheese to thy bread, and a piece of meat to thy potatoes. Only get to work! I will give thee a little barrow, and a belt for thy shoulders.'
This was his first essay in business on his own account, and he worked hard and throve well. His separation from his father taught him how to stand on his own legs—an important piece of knowledge in a world that is as full of leave-takings as of meetings; and when they did come together, and the boy counted out his kreutzers, and the father patted him approvingly on the cheek, that boy would have changed places with no prince that ever sat on a throne. Jonas was at length apprenticed to a girdler, or worker in metals; and the old tinker in due time died, leaving his son the parting advice, to 'work, save, and pray,' and a box containing a thousand guilders.
Jonas's apprenticeship passed on pretty much according to universal rule; that is, he did the drudgery of the house as well as learned the trade, and received kicks and cuffs from the journeymen. But in five years his servitude was out, and he was a journeyman himself. He was now, by the rules of his guild, obliged to travel for improvement; he spent five or six years in going to and fro upon the earth, and then came back to Altenheim an accomplished girdler. To become a master, it was necessary to prepare his 'master-piece,' as a specimen of what he could do; and the task allotted to him was to engrave on copper, without rule or compass, the prince's family-crest, and then to gild the work richly. This accomplished, he was received into the guild of masters with much pomp, strange ceremonies, and old-fashioned feasting—all at the charge of the poor beginner. 'Without reckoning the heavy expenses of his mastership, or of clothing, linen, and furniture, in the hired lodgings and workshops, no small sum was requisite for the purchase of different kinds of tools—a lathe, an anvil, crucibles, dies, graving-implements, steel pins, hammers, chisels, tongs, scissors, &c.; and also for the purchase of brass and pinchbeck ware, copper, silver, lead, quicksilver, varnish, brimstone, borax, and other things indispensable for labour. He had also taken, without premium, an apprentice, the child of very poor people, to help him. He would have been very glad to put the rest of his money out to interest again; but he had to provide the means of subsistence for at least one year in advance, for he had to begin with neither wares nor customers.'
Jonas now appears in the character of a lover, and his wooing is one of the most beautiful pictures in the book. His choice has fallen upon a servant-girl, whom he had known in boyhood.
'One morning, Master Jordan sent his apprentice with a message: "Miss Fenchel was to come to him directly: he had found a good place for her." Martha hastened thither gladly.
'"Hast thou found a place for me, dear Jonas?" asked she, giving him her hand gracefully. "Thank God! I began to fear becoming troublesome to our kind friends. Come, tell me where?"
'He looked anxiously into her joyous blue eyes; then, in confusion, down to the ground; then again upwards to the roof of the room, and round the four sides, as though he were seeking something lost.
'"Come, tell me, then?" repeated she. "Why art thou silent?"
'He collected himself, and began, hesitating: "It is—but Martha—thou must not be angry with me."
'In surprise, she smiled. "Angry with thee, Jonas! If I would be, and should be, could I be?"
'"Listen, Martha; I will shew thee—I must tell thee—I know a man anxious to have thy heart and hand—who—even who"——
'"O Jonas, reproach me rather, but do not make mockery of me, a poor maiden!" exclaimed she, shocked or hurt, while her face lost all its colour, and she turned from him.
'"Martha, look at me. He is assuredly no bad man. I will bring him to thee; I will give him to thee myself."
'"No, Jonas! no! From thee, least of all, can I receive a lover."
'"From me, least of all!" asked he with visible emotion. "From me, least of all! And if—I don't know—if I would give thee myself—Look at me, Martha! Tell me."
'Here silence ensued. She stood before him with downcast eyes and glowing cheeks, and played with her apron-string. Then, as if still doubting, she looked up again, her eyes swimming with tears, and said, with trembling lips: "What must I say, then?"
'Jonas took courage, and whispered, half aloud: "Dost thou love me with all thy heart?"
'Half aloud, Martha whispered back: "Thy heart knows it."
'"Canst thou be satisfied with dry bread and salt?"
'"Rather salt from thee than tears from me!"
'"Martha, I will work for thee; wilt thou save for me?"
'"I will be sparing in everything, except my own pains!"
'"Well then, darling, here is my hand! Take it. Wilt thou be mine?"
'"Was I not thine eight years ago and more? Even as a child? Yet no! It ought not to be, Jonas."
'Alarmed, he looked in her face, and asked: "Not be? and why?"
'"Think well over it, Jonas! Do thyself no injustice. I am a poor creature, without portion or property. Any other burgher's daughter in the town would be glad to give thee her hand and heart, and a good dowry beside. Thou mightst live much better."
'"Say nothing about that," cried Jonas, stretching out both his hands imploringly. "Be still: I shall feel that I am but beginning to live, if thou wilt promise to live with me."
'"Live, then!" said she, in blushing embarrassment, and gave him her hand.
'He took her hand, and at the same time clasped his bride to his bosom, that heaved with unwonted emotion. She wept on his breast in silent joy.'
We would fain, if we had room, add to this the marriage sermon, preached by the bridegroom, and well preached too; for Jonas had knowledge, although, as he said himself, he never found half so much in books as is lying everywhere about the road.
Martha was just the wife for the honest, sensible hand-worker; and as it frequently happens with such characters, his affairs prospered from the date of hismarriage. He took a larger house in a better situation for trade; and having presented the useless 'master-piece'—which nobody would buy—to the prince, he was rewarded by the dignity of 'Master-girdler to the Court.' But still 'uprightly and hardily the court-girdler lived with his wife, just as before; active in the workshop and warehouse, at markets and at fairs. Year after year fled, though, before the last guilder could be paid off, of the debt on the house. Days of joy and of sorrow succeeded each other in turn. They were all received with gratitude to God—these as well as those.'
We now come hastily to the third generation; for Jonas had a son called Veit, who was first apprenticed to his father, and then sent to travel as a journeyman. The patriarch had had no education at all; Jonas had snatched at his just as opportunities permitted; but Veit went regularly through the brief and practical curriculum fitted for a tradesman's son. He was, consequently, better informed and more refined than either his father or grandfather; and spent so much time in gaining a thorough insight into the branches connected with his own business, that honest Jonas was quite puzzled. 'Where did the boy get all these notions?' said he. 'He did not get them from me, I'm sure.' Veit had a bad opinion of the travelling custom, and for these reasons: 'How should these men, most of them badly brought up, attain to any greater perfection in their business, if they have left home and school without any preparation for it? No one can understand, if his understanding has not been developed. From one publican they go to another, and from one workshop to another; everywhere they find the old common track—the mechanical, mindless life of labour, just as in the very first place to which they were sent to learn their trade. At most, they acquire dexterity by practice. Now and then they learn a trick from a master, or get a receipt, which had been cautiously kept secret; when possessed of this, they think something of themselves. Even the character of these ramblers is not seldom destroyed by intercourse with their fellows. They learn drinking and rioting, gambling and licentiousness, caballing and debating. Many are ruined before they return to their native place. Believe me, dearest father, the time of travel is to very few a true school for life; one in which, through frequent change of good and evil days, the head acquires experience, the thoughts strength and clearness, the heart courage, and reliance on God. Very few, even of those who bring a scientific education with them, can gain much of value for their calling in life; extend their views, transfer and apply to their own line of business the inventions and discoveries that have been made in other departments of art and industry.'
Jonas understood little of the refinements of his son, but he opened his eyes when Veit obtained a lucrative appointment in a large metallic manufactory, first in London and then in Paris. In a letter informing his parents of this good-fortune, were enclosed the whole of the savings from his salary. 'Master Jordan shook his head at this passage, and cried out, deeply moved, yet as though vexed, while a tear of motherly tenderness stole down Martha's cheek: "No! no! by no means! What is the fool thinking of? He'll want the money himself—a simpleton. Let him wait till he comes to the master-piece. What pleases me most in the story, is his contentment and his humility. He is not ashamed of his old silver watch yet. It is not everybody that could act so. There must be strong legs to support such extraordinary good-luck. These the bursch has!"'
After years of absence, the young man at last walks suddenly into the paternal home, on his father's birthday, and makes them all scream and weep with joy. '"Hark ye, bursch!" exclaimed Jonas, who regarded him with fatherly delight, "thou seem'st to me almost too learned, too refined, and too elegant for Veit Jordan. What turner has cut so neat a piece of furniture out of so coarse a piece of timber?"' His stay, however, was short. M. and MmeBellarme (his employer at Paris) 'had been loth, almost afraid, to let him go. The feeble state of health of the former began to be so serious, that he durst not engage in the bulk of his affairs. In the space of a year, both felt so complete confidence in Veit's knowledge of business, and in his honour, that they had taken him as a partner in trade, and in the foundry. Henceforth, M. Bellarme contributed his capital only; Veit his knowledge, care, and industry.'
The reform of the guilds, and the establishment of a technological school for the young hand-workers—both through the instrumentality of Jonas—we have no room to touch; for we must say a parting word on the reunion of the family by Veit's return permanently from abroad. Notwithstanding the prosperity of the now old couple, 'everything, ay, everything, was as he had left it years ago—as he had known it from childhood—only Christiane not. There stood yet the two well-scoured old deal-tables, wrinkled, though, from the protruding fibres of the wood; there were the straw-bottomed stools still; and at the window, Mother Martha's arm-chair, before which, as a child, he had repeated his lessons; there still hung the same little glass between the windows; and the wall-clock above the stove sent forth its tic-tac as fastly as ever. Father Jonas, in his enlarged workshop, with more journeymen and apprentices, smelted and hammered, filed and formed still, from morning to night, as before. The noble housewife flew about yet busy as a bee: she had managed the housekeeping without a servant since Christiane had been grown up. And Veit came back with the same cheerful disposition that he had ever shewn. In the simply-furnished rooms which Martha had fitted up for him, in the upper storey of the house, he forgot the splendid halls, the boudoirs, and antechambers of London, Paris, and the Bellarme estate; the Gobelin tapestry, the gold-framed pictures; the convenience of elegant furniture, and the artificial delicacies of the table on silver-plate.' Assisted by the patronage of the prince, he established a great foundry in his native town, of ball and cannon, bronze and brass; and on his marriage with the aforesaid Christiane, the sovereign made him a handsome present, in a handsome manner, 'as a small token of his gratitude to a family that had been so useful to the country.'
In addition to the hand-workers' school, there now arose, under the auspices of this family, a training-school for teachers, a labour-school for females, and other establishments. The town was embellished; the land in the neighbourhood rose in value; uncleanliness and barbarism in food, clothing and houses, disappeared. 'Only old men and women, grown rusty in the habits and the ignorance of many years, complain that the times are worse; at the sight of a higher civilisation, they complain of "the luxury and the pride of the world now-a-days;" as superstition dies out, they complain of "human incredulity, and the downfall of religion." "The day of judgment," say they, "is at hand."
'But Master Jonas, when seventy years had silvered his hair, stood almost equal to a strong man of thirty, happy, indeed, by the side of the pious Martha, in a circle of his children and children's children, honoured by his fellow-citizens, and honoured by his prince. He often told the story of his boyhood, how he used to go about hawking with Father Thaddaeus the tinker; and his face glowed with inward satisfaction, when he compared the former period with present changes, in the production of which he could never have imagined he was to have so considerable a share. Then he used to exclaim: "Have I not always said it? Clearunderstanding only in the head, love to one's neighbour in the heart, frugality in the stomach, and industry in the fingers—then:Hand-work stands on golden feet."'
FOOTNOTES:[3]Labour Stands on Golden Feet; or, the Life of a Foreign Workman, &c. By Heinrich Zschokke. London: Groombridge.
[3]Labour Stands on Golden Feet; or, the Life of a Foreign Workman, &c. By Heinrich Zschokke. London: Groombridge.
[3]Labour Stands on Golden Feet; or, the Life of a Foreign Workman, &c. By Heinrich Zschokke. London: Groombridge.
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As Professor Nichol very truly remarks, 'investigation regarding such aggregations is virtually a branch of atomic and molecular inquiry,' with stars in place of atoms, mighty spheres in place of 'dust,' 'the firmament above' instead of 'the firmament beneath.' In fact, the astronomer, in sweeping with his telescopic eye the 'blue depths of ether,' is, as it were, some Lilliputian inhabitant of an atom prying into the autumnal structure of some Brobdignagian world of saw-dust; organised into spiral and other elementary forms, of life, it may be, something like our own. The infinite height appears, in short, like the infinite depth, and we knowing not precisely where we stand between the two immensities of depth and height! The shapes evolved by the wonderful telescope of Lord Rosse are, many of them, absolutely fantastical; wonder and awe are mingled with almost ridiculous feelings in contemplating the strange apparitions—strange monstrosities we had almost called them—that are pictured on the background of the illustrations. One aggregation looms forth out of the darkness like the skeleton face of some tremendous mammoth, or other monstrous denizen of ancient times, with two small fiery eyes, however, gazing out of its great hollow orbits; another consists of a central nucleus, with arms of stars radiating forth in all directions, like a star-fish, or like the scattering fire-sparks of some pyrotechnic wheel revolving; a third resembles a great wisp of straw, or twist or coil of ropes; a fourth, a cork-screw, or other spiral, seen on end; a fifth, a crab; a sixth, a dumb-bell—many of them scroll or scrolls of some thin texture seen edgewise; and so on. It is even a suggestion of the author's, that some of the spiral and armed wheels may be revolving yet in the vast ocean of space in which they are engulfed. Thus has the telescope traced the 'binding' influences of the Pleiades, loosened the bands of 'Orion'—erst the chiefnebuloushazy wonders, once and for all revealing its separate stars: and thus, in brief, has this wondrous instrument 'unrolled the heavens as a scroll.' Yet even these astonishing results are as nothing to the fact, that those fantastic shapes which it has revealed in the depths of thislamboof creation, are not shapes merely of the present time—that thousands of years have passed since the light that shewed them left the starry firmaments only now revealed—that the telescope, in short, in reflecting these astonishing shapes, deliver to the eye of mind turned inward on the long-stored records of a universal and eternal memory of the past, than to a mere eye of sense looking outward on the things of passing time!—The Builder.
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I was going quietly to bed one evening, wearied by a long day's hunting, when, close to my feet, and by my bedside, some glittering substance caught my eye. I stooped to pick it up; but, ere my hand had quite reached it, the truth flashed across me—it was a snake! Had I followed my first natural impulse, I should have sprung away, but not being able clearly to see in what position the reptile was lying, or which way his head was pointed, I controlled myself, and remained rooted breathless to the spot. Straining my eyes, but moving not an inch, I at length clearly distinguished a huge puff-adder, the most deadly snake in the colony, whose bite would have sent me to the other world in an hour or two. I watched him in silent horror: his head was from me—so much the worse; for this snake, unlike any other, always rises and strikes back. He did not move; he was asleep. Not daring to shuffle my feet, lest he should awake and spring at me, I took a jump backwards, that would have done honour to a gymnastic master, and thus darted outside the door of the room. With a thick stick, I then returned and settled his worship. Some parts of South Africa swarm with snakes; none are free from them. I have known three men killed by them in one harvest on a farm in Oliphant's Hoek. There is an immense variety of them, the deadliest being the puff-adder, a thick and comparatively short snake. Its bite will kill occasionally within an hour. One of my friends lost a favourite and valuable horse by its bite, in less than two hours after the attack. It is a sluggish reptile, and therefore more dangerous; for, instead of rushing away, like its fellows, at the sound of approaching footsteps, it half raises its head and hisses. Often have I come to a sudden pull-up on foot and on horseback, on hearing their dreaded warning! There is also the cobra-capello, nearly as dangerous, several black snakes, and the boem-slang, or tree-snake, less deadly, one of which I once shot seven feet long. The Cape is also infested by scorpions, whose sting is little less virulent than a snake-bite; and by the spider called the tarantula, which is extremely dreaded.—The Cape, by A. W. Cole.
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Ask me not with simple grace,Pearls of thought to string for thee;For upon thy smiling face,Perfect gems I see—In thine eyes of beauty traceLights that fadeless be.Bid me not from Memory's land,Cull fair flowers of rich perfume;Love will shew with trembling hand,Where far fairer bloom—Clustering on thy cheek they stand,Blushing deep—for whom?Bid me not with Fancy's galeWake the music of a sigh;From thy breath a sweeter tale,Silver-winged, floats by;Melodies that never fail,Heard when thou art nigh!Ask me not—yet, oh! for theeDearer thoughts my bosom fill,Dimmed with tears I cannot seeTo do thy gracious will:Take, then, my prayer—In heaven may weBehold thee lovelier still!
Ask me not with simple grace,Pearls of thought to string for thee;For upon thy smiling face,Perfect gems I see—In thine eyes of beauty traceLights that fadeless be.
Bid me not from Memory's land,Cull fair flowers of rich perfume;Love will shew with trembling hand,Where far fairer bloom—Clustering on thy cheek they stand,Blushing deep—for whom?
Bid me not with Fancy's galeWake the music of a sigh;From thy breath a sweeter tale,Silver-winged, floats by;Melodies that never fail,Heard when thou art nigh!
Ask me not—yet, oh! for theeDearer thoughts my bosom fill,Dimmed with tears I cannot seeTo do thy gracious will:Take, then, my prayer—In heaven may weBehold thee lovelier still!
Percie.
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Dr Wollaston obtained platinum-wire so fine, that 30,000 pieces, placed side by side in contact, would not cover more than an inch. It would take 150 pieces of this wire bound together to form a thread as thick as a filament of raw silk. Although platinum is the heaviest of the known bodies, a mile of this wire would not weigh more than a grain. Seven ounces of this wire would extend from London to New York. Fine as is the filament produced by the silkworm, that produced by the spider is still more attenuated. A thread of a spider's web, measuring four miles, will weigh very little more than a single grain. Every one is familiar with the fact, that the spider spins a thread, or cord, by which his own weight hangs suspended. It has been ascertained that this thread is composed of about 6000 filaments.—Lardner's Handbook.
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