those derived from rural occupations, of which I am a warm admirer.
Pleasures of this class are perfectly consistent with every degree
of advanced years, as they approach more nearly than any others
to those of a purely philosophical kind. They are derived from
observing the nature and properties of our earth, which yields
ready obedience to the cultivator’s industry, and returns, with
interest, whatever he places in her charge. But the profit
arising from this fertility is by no means the most desirable
circumstance of the farmer’s labors. I am principally delighted
with observing the powers of Nature, and tracing her processes in
vegetable productions. How wonderful it is that each species is
endowed with power to continue itself; and that minute seeds should
develop so amazingly into large trunks and branches! The orchard,
the vegetable garden, and the parterre diversify the pleasures of
farming; not to mention the feeding of cattle and the rearing of
bees. Among my friends and neighbors in the country are several men
far advanced in life, who employ themselves with so much activity
and industry in agricultural business, that nothing important is
carried on without their supervision. And these rural veterans
do not confine their energies to those sorts of crops which are
sown and reaped in one year. They occupy themselves in branches
of husbandry from which they know they cannot live to derive any
advantage. If asked why they thus expend their labor, they might
well reply, “We do it in obedience to the immortal gods. By their
bountiful providence we received these fields from our ancestors,
and it is their will that we should transmit them to posterity with
improvements.” In my opinion there is no happier occupation than
agriculture; not only on account of its great utility to mankind,
but also as the source of peculiar pleasures. I might expatiate
on the beauties of verdant groves and meadows, on the charming
landscape of olive-trees and vineyards; but to say all in one word,
there cannot be a more pleasing, or a more profitable scene than
that of a well-cultivated farm. And where else can a man in the
last stages of life more easily find warm sunshine, or a good fire
in winter, or the pleasure of cooling shades and refreshing streams
in summer?
It is often argued that old age must necessarily be a state of much
anxiety and disquietude, on account of the near approach of death.
That the hour of dissolution cannot be far distant from an aged
man is undoubtedly true. But every event that is agreeable to the
course of nature ought to be regarded as a real good; and surely
nothing can be more natural than for the old to die. It is true
that youth also is exposed to dissolution; but it is a dissolution
obviously contrary to Nature’s intentions, and in opposition to her
strongest efforts. Fruit, before it is ripe, cannot be separated
from the stalk without some degree of force; but when it is
perfectly mature, it drops of itself: so the disunion of the soul
and body is effected in the young by violence, but in the old it
takes place by mere fulness and completion of years. This ripeness
for death I perceive in myself with much satisfaction; and I look
forward to my dissolution as to a secure haven, where I shall at
length find a happy repose from the fatigues of a long voyage.
With regard to the consequences of our final dissolution, I will
venture to say that the nearer death approaches the more clearly do
I seem to discern its real nature. When I consider the faculties
with which the human mind is endowed, its amazing celerity, its
wonderful power in recollecting past events, and its sagacity in
discerning the future, together with its numberless discoveries in
arts and sciences, I feel a conscious conviction that this active,
comprehensive principle cannot possibly be of a mortal nature.
And as this unceasing activity of the soul derives its energy
from its own intrinsic and essential powers, without receiving it
from any foreign or external impulse, it necessarily follows that
its activity must continue forever. I am induced to embrace this
opinion, not only as agreeable to the best deductions of reason,
but also in deference to the authority of the noblest and most
distinguished philosophers.
I am well convinced that my dear departed friends are so far from
having ceased to live, that the state they now enjoy can alone with
propriety be called life. I feel myself transported with impatience
to rejoin those whose characters I have greatly respected and
whose persons I have loved. Nor is this earnest desire confined
alone to those excellent persons with whom I have been connected.
I ardently wish also to visit those celebrated worthies of whom I
have heard or read much. To this glorious assembly I am speedily
advancing; and I would not be turned back on my journey, even on
the assured condition that my youth should be again restored. The
sincere truth is, if some divinity would confer on me a new grant
of life, I would reject the offer without the least hesitation. I
have wellnigh finished the race, and have no disposition to return
to the starting-point. I do not mean to imitate those philosophers
who represent the condition of human nature as a subject of
just lamentation. The satisfactions of this life are many; but
there comes a time when we have had a sufficient measure of its
enjoyments, and may well depart contented with our share of the
feast. I am far from regretting that this life was bestowed on me;
and I have the satisfaction of thinking that
I have employed it in such a manner as not to have
lived in vain. In short, I consider this world
as a place which Nature never intended for
my permanent abode; and I look on my
departure from it, not as being
driven from my habitation, but
simply as leaving an inn.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE FOUNTAIN.
BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.
We talked with open heart, and tongue
Affectionate and true,
A pair of friends, though I was young,
And Matthew seventy-two.
A village schoolmaster was he,
With hair of glittering gray;
As blithe a man as you could see
On a spring holiday.
And on that morning, through the grass
And by the steaming rills,
We travelled merrily, to pass
A day among the hills.
We lay beneath a spreading oak,
Beside a mossy seat;
And from the turf a fountain broke,
And gurgled at our feet.
“Now, Matthew,” said I, “let us match
This water’s pleasant tune
With some old Border-Song, or Catch,
That suits a summer’s noon.
“Or of the church-clock and the chimes
Sing here beneath the shade,
That half-mad thing of witty rhymes
Which you last April made.”
In silence Matthew lay, and eyed
The spring beneath the tree;
And thus the dear old man replied,
The gray-haired man of glee:
“Down to the vale this water steers;
How merrily it goes!
’Twill murmur on a thousand years,
And flow as now it flows.
“And here, on this delightful day,
I cannot choose but think
How oft, a vigorous man, I lay
Beside this fountain’s brink.
“My eyes are dim with childish tears,
My heart is idly stirred,
For the same sound is in my ears
Which in those days I heard.
“Thus fares it still in our decay;
And yet the wiser mind
Mourns less for what age takes away,
Than what it leaves behind.
“The blackbird in the summer trees,
The lark upon the hill,
Let loose their carols when they please,
Are quiet when they will.
“With Nature never do _they_ wage
A foolish strife; they see
A happy youth, and their old age
Is beautiful and free.
“But _we_ are pressed by heavy laws;
And often, glad no more,
We wear a face of joy, because
We have been glad of yore.
“If there is one who need bemoan
His kindred laid in earth,
The household hearts that were his own,
It is the man of mirth.
“My days, my friend, are almost gone;
My life has been approved,
And many love me; but by none
Am I _enough_ beloved.”
“Now both himself and me he wrongs,
The man who thus complains!
I live and sing my idle songs
Upon these happy plains;
“And, Matthew, for thy children dead,
I’ll be a son to thee!”
At this, he grasped my hand, and said,
“Alas! that cannot be!”
We rose up from the fountain-side;
And down the smooth descent
Of the green sheep-track did we glide,
And through the wood we went.
And ere we came to Leonard’s Rock,
He sang those witty rhymes
About the crazy old church-clock,
And the bewildered chimes.
A POET’S BLESSING.
FROM THE GERMAN OF UHLAND.
As I wandered the fields along,
Listening to the lark’s sweet song,
I saw an old man working there,
A laborer with hoary hair.
“Blessings upon this field!” I said;
“Fruitful by faithful labor made.
And blessings on thy wrinkled hand,
Thus scattering seed along the land!”
He answered me, with earnest face,
“A poet’s blessing’s out of place;
Likely enough that Heaven, in scorn,
Will send us flowers instead of corn.”
“Nay, friend,” said I, “my tuneful powers
Wake not to life too many flowers;
Only enough to grace the land,
And fill thy little grandson’s hand.”
[Illustration]
BERNARD PALISSY[E]
[E] These facts are gleaned from Morley’s Life of Palissy the
Potter.
“Call him not old, whose visionary brain
Holds o’er the past its undivided reign.
For him in vain the envious seasons roll,
Who bears eternal summer in his _soul_.
If yet the minstrel’s song, the poet’s lay,
Spring with her birds, or children with their play,
Or maiden’s smile, or heavenly dream of Art,
Stir the few life-drops creeping round his heart,--
Turn to the record where his years are told,--
Count his gray hairs,--_they_ cannot make him old!”
Bernard Palissy was born in one of the southwestern districts of
France, in 1509; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and
more than a century before our forefathers landed on Plymouth
Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass,
had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows
of castles and cathedrals. It was considered an occupation so
honorable, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it without
losing caste; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that
time very strong. The manufacture was generally carried on in the
depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel
for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns.
Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and
night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees
and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was
born and reared in one of these hamlets, secluded from the world.
The immense forests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which
constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor
in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet,
formed healthy, vigorous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave.
Whether Bernard’s father, who is supposed to have been a modeller
of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not
known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which
was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a
great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or
instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of
the peasantry around him. In his own account of his early days he
says, “I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open
to all.” These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest
and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants
and the habits of animals. He soon began to paint on paper the
likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased,
he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes
containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors
for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations;
but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only
increase his stock of knowledge by repeated experiments. His
skill in drawing enabled him to produce a variety of new patterns
for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowledge of colors,
rendered his services much more important than those of a common
workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline.
People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was
unwholesome, and that the obstruction of light rendered their
dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on
hinges, were much more exposed to be shattered by storms. To repair
stained or painted glass was an expensive process; and in order to
avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows
into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air,
as well as light and sun-warmth; and gradually colored windows fell
into disuse.
Bernard’s father was poor, and the profits of his business were too
scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore,
the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped a scantily
filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the
world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then
devastating half Europe by their wars, and the highways were filled
with military adventurers and crippled soldiers. From these the
young traveller obtained his first glimpses of the violence and
intrigues going on in the world beyond his native forests.
He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-merchant, who told
him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he
enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among
others, he mentioned a renowned Athenian, called “the divine
Plato,” by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold
olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there.
“I never heard of Plato,” said Bernard. “O, you are a wild bird
from the forest,” replied the trader; “you can only pipe as you
have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance
with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the
arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes
good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools.” “Then
I should wish the whole world to be my shop,” rejoined Bernard. “I
feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders; full of
the sublime wisdom of God.”
So he wandered on, reading, as he had done from childhood, in “the
book of earth and heaven, which is open to all.”
“For Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, ‘Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee.’
“‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,
‘Into regions yet untrod;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.’
“And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.”
If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped to admire
their gliding motions, and prismatic changes of color. If he found
a half-covered snail among the wet mosses, he lingered till he
ascertained that it was gradually making a new shell from its own
saliva. If a stone was curious in form or shape, he picked it up
and put it in his wallet; and oftentimes he would crack them,
to discover their interior structure. Every new flower and seed
attracted his attention, and excited wonder at the marvellous
varieties of Nature. These things are hinted at all through his
writings. He says: “In walking under the fruit-trees, I received
a great contentment and many joyous pleasures; for I saw the
squirrels gathering the fruits, and leaping from branch to branch,
with many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gathered by
the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their repast, dining on the
said nuts. Under the apple-trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled
themselves into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp
quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on the points, and
so they went burdened. These things have made me such a lover of
the fields, that it seems to me there are no treasures in the world
so precious as the little branches of trees and plants. I hold
them in more esteem than mines of gold and silver.” This loving
communion with Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he was
drawing inferences from what he saw, and curiously inquiring into
the causes of things.
He supported himself by painting glass, and sketching portraits.
He says, in his modest way, “They thought me a better painter than
I was.” If he arrived in a town where a cathedral or an abbey was
being built, he sometimes tarried long to make a variety of rich
patterns for the windows. In other places, he would find only
a few repairs required in the windows of castles or churches,
and so would quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic patterns of
different-colored glass required constant use of rule and compass,
and this suggested the study of geometry, which he pursued with
characteristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired made him
a skilful surveyor, and he was much employed in mapping out
boundaries, and making plans for houses and gardens, a business
which he found more profitable than glass-work or portraits. These
various occupations brought him occasionally into contact with
men who were learned in the arts and sciences, according to the
standard of learning at that time, and his active mind never failed
to glean something from such interviews. A French translation of
the Scriptures had been published in 1498. He seems to have had
a copy with him during his travels, and to have studied it with
reverential attention. Thus constantly observing and acquiring,
the young man traversed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and
roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years were spent in this
way, during which he obtained the best portion of that education
which he afterward turned to good account.
He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine years old, when he
married, and settled in the town of Saintes, in the western part
of France. He supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and
surveying. A few years after his marriage, some one showed him an
enamelled cup, brought from Italy. It seemed a slight incident;
but it woke the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was
destined to effect a complete revolution in his life. He says: “It
was an earthen cup, turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that
from that time I entered into controversy with my own thoughts. I
began to think that if I should discover how to make enamels, I
could make earthen vessels very prettily; because God had gifted me
with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless of the fact that I
had no knowledge of clays, I began to seek for the enamel, as a man
gropes in the dark.”
In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties he had to
encounter, we must know that only the rudest kind of common pottery
had then been made in France, and even with the manufacture of
that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had been unmarried, he
might have travelled among the potters of Europe, as he had among
the glass-makers, and have obtained useful hints from them; but
his family increased fast, and needed his protection and support.
Tea was not introduced into Europe till a hundred years later; and
there were no specimens of porcelain from China, except here and
there a costly article imported by the rich. He was obliged to
test the qualities of various kinds of clays; what chemical agents
would produce enamel; what other agents would produce colors;
and the action of heat on all of them. He bought quantities of
earthen jars, broke them into fragments, applied to each piece some
particular chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace.
He says: “I pounded all the substances I could suppose likely to
make anything. Having blundered several times, at great expense,
and through much labor, I was every day pounding and grinding new
materials, and constructing new furnaces, which cost much money
and consumed my wood and my time.” While these expenses were going
on, his former occupations were necessarily suspended; thus “the
candle was burning out at both ends.” His wife began to complain.
Still he went on, trying new compounds, as he says, “always with
great cost, loss of time, confusion and sorrow.” The privations of
his family and the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain, that
he relinquished his experiments for a while. He says: “Seeing I
could not in this way come at my intention, I occupied myself in
my art of painting and glass-working, and comported myself as if
I were not zealous to dive any more into the secret of enamels.”
The king ordered extensive surveys, and he found that employment
so profitable, that his family were soon at ease again. But that
Italian cup was always in his mind. He says: “When I found myself
with a little money, I resumed my affection for pursuing in the
track of the enamels.” For two years he kept up a series of
experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and always without
success. His wife scolded, and even his own courage began to fail.
At last he applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures to
more than three hundred fragments, and put them all in the furnace;
resolved that if this experiment proved a failure, he would try
no more. He tells us: “_One_ of the pieces came out white and
polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as made me think I was
become a new creature.” He was then thirty-seven years old.
He was merely at the beginning of what he aimed to accomplish. He
had discovered how to make the enamel, but he still knew nothing
of pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of heat would
produce on colors. A new furnace was necessary, and he proceeded
to build it, with prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help,
he brought bricks on his own back from a distant kiln; he made
his own mortar, and drew the water with which it was tempered. He
fashioned vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be applied.
For more than a month he kept up an incessant fire night and day,
and was continually grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it
usually required two men to turn. He believed himself to be very
near complete success, and everything depended upon not letting the
heat of the furnaces go down. In the desperation of his poverty and
the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned the garden-fence,
and even some of the tables, doors, and floors of his house. His
wife became frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be pitied,
poor woman! Not being acquainted with chemical experiments, she did
not know, as _he_ did, that he was really on the point of making a
great and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long that she
didn’t believe it. They had a large family of children, and while
their father was trying expensive experiments, several of them were
dying of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a gloomy and
trying period for all of them. He says: “I suffered an anguish that
I cannot speak. I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of
the furnace. It was more than a month since my shirt had been dry
upon me. I was the object of mockery. Even those from whom solace
was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors.
In this way I came to be regarded as a madman. I was in debt in
several places. I had two children at nurse, and was unable to
pay the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through the streets,
and said it was right for me to die of hunger, since I had left
following my trade. Some hope still remained to sustain me, for
my last experiments had turned out tolerably well, and I thought
I knew enough to get my living; but I found I was far enough from
that yet.”
The want of means to build sheds to cover his clay vessels was
another great difficulty. After working all day, and late into
the night, sometimes a heavy rain would spoil all his work,
just as he had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on such
occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so that walking home he
“reeled like a man drunk with wine.” He says: “Filled with a great
sorrow, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my labor wasted, I
would retire soiled and drenched, to find in my chamber a second
persecution worse than the first; which now causes me to marvel
that I was not consumed by suffering.”