one source of consolation. Jean Cauvin, better known to us as John
Calvin, had been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and
had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The extravagance and
licentiousness of society at that period, and the abuses practised
by a powerful and wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this
pure and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the Reformers. He
became acquainted with an artisan of the same turn of mind, whom
he describes as “simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor.” His
delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures. Gradually his
listeners increased to ten, and they formed a little society, which
took turns in exhortation and prayer. One of them is supposed to
have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sympathy, allowed poor
Palissy to take meals at his house on credit.
He still continued his experiments, and met with successive
disappointments of one kind or another. At last, he thought he
had learned how to adjust everything just right; and confident
of success, he one day put into the oven a batch of vessels,
beautifully formed and painted. But a new misfortune awaited him.
The materials of his furnace contained flints. These expanded
and burst with the great heat, and struck into the vessels while
they were soft, injuring the enamel, and covering the surface with
irregular sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him; for he
had expected this beautiful batch would bring a considerable sum
of money for the support of his family, and put to silence those
that jeered at him. But he was a man of wonderful endurance. He
says: “Having remained some time upon the bed, I reflected that
if a man should fall into a pit, it would be his duty to try to
get out again.” So the brave soul roused himself, and set to
work diligently to earn money, by his old trades of painting and
surveying.
Having supplied the necessities of his family, he again returned to
his pottery; fully believing that his losses and hazards were over,
and that he could now make articles that would bring good prices.
But new disappointments awaited him. The green with which he
painted his lizards burnt before the brown of the serpents melted;
a strong current of air in the furnace blew ashes all over his
beautiful vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says: “Before I could
render my different enamels fusible at the same degree of heat, I
thought I should be at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in
my person that there was no form nor prominence in the muscles of
my arms or legs; also the said legs were throughout of one size;
so that when I walked, garters and stockings were at once down
upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields, considering my
miseries and weariness, and above all things, that in my own house
I could have no peace, nor do anything that was considered good. I
was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless, I had a hope, which
caused me to work so like a man, that I often did my best to laugh
and amuse people who came to see me, though within me all was very
sad.”
At the end of ten years from the commencement of his experiments,
he succeeded in making a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling
jasper. It was not what he had been aiming to accomplish, but it
was considered pretty, and sold well enough to support his family
comfortably. While he was making continual improvements in his
pottery, the Huguenots were increasing to a degree that provoked
persecution. A schoolmaster in a neighboring town, who “preached
on Sundays, and was much beloved by the people,” was brought
to Saintes and publicly burnt. But Palissy and his little band
were not intimidated. They continued to meet for exhortation and
prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight; but the pure
and pious lives of these men and women formed such a contrast
to the licentiousness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that
they gradually gained respect; insomuch that they influenced the
magistrates of the town to pass laws restraining gambling and
dissipation. So great a change was produced, that, when Palissy
was fifty-one years old, he says: “On Sundays you might see
tradesmen rambling through the fields, groves, and other places, in
bands, singing psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading
and instructing each other. You might see young women seated in
gardens and other places, who in like way delighted themselves with
singing all holy things. The very children were so well instructed
that they had no longer a puerility of manner, but a look of manly
fortitude. These things had so well prospered that people had
changed their old manners, even to their very countenances.”
After six years more of successive improvements, making sixteen
years in the whole, this persevering man at last accomplished the
object for which he had toiled and suffered so much. He produced
a very beautiful kind of china, which became celebrated under the
name of Palissy Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned with
vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents, and other animals.
He had always been such a loving observer of nature that we cannot
wonder at being told “he copied these, in form and color, with
the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that the species of each
could be determined accurately.” These beautiful articles sold at
high prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles. The Constable
Montmorenci, a nobleman of immense wealth, employed Palissy to
decorate his magnificent Chateau d’Ecouen, about twelve miles from
Paris. There he made richly painted windows, covered with Scripture
scenes, some of his own designing, others copied from Raphael and
Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beautiful china were
deposited in various places; and the floors of chapel and galleries
were inlaid with china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he
formed a very curious grotto of china. He modelled rugged rocks,
“sloping, tortuous, and lumpy,” which he painted with imitations of
such herbs and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant lizards
appeared to glide over its surface, “in many pleasant gestures and
agreeable contortions.” In the trenches of water were some living
frogs and fishes, and other china ones, which so closely resembled
them as not to be easily distinguished. At the foot of the rocks,
branches of coral, of his manufacture, appeared to grow in the
water. A poet of that period, praising this work, says: “The real
lizard on the moss has not more lustre than the lizards in that
house made famous by your new work. The plants look not sweeter in
the fields, and green meadows are not more preciously enamelled,
than those which grow under your hand.” The Constable Montmorenci
built a convenient shop for him, where he worked with two of his
sons. A large china dog at the door was so natural, that the dogs
often barked at it and challenged it to fight.
Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over the heads of
the Huguenots. Civil war broke out between the Catholics and
Protestants. Old men were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young
girls stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosperity and the
flattery of the great could not tempt Palissy to renounce or
conceal his faith. He pursued his artistic labors, though he says,
“For two months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing every
day but reports of horrible murders.” He would have fallen among
the first victims, had it not been for written protections from
powerful nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which no other man
could do. The horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew occurred when he
was sixty-three years old, but he escaped by aid of his powerful
patrons. The officers appointed to hunt out Huguenots longed to
arrest him, but did not dare to do it in the daytime. At last they
came tramping about his house at midnight, and carried him off
to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges would gladly have put him to
death, but their proceedings were stopped by orders from the Queen
Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmorenci, Montpensier, and other
influential Catholic nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who
doubtless felt kindly toward the old artist, interceded with her,
and she protected him; not because he was a good man, but because
the art he practised was unique and valuable. The enamelled
Italian cup, which had troubled so many years of his life, proved
the cause of its being saved.
The last ten years of Palissy’s mortal existence were spent in
Paris. He had an establishment in the grounds of the Tuileries,
where he manufactured vases, cups, plates, and curious
garden-basins and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief. His
high reputation drew toward him many men of taste and learning,
who, knowing his interest in all the productions of Nature,
presented him with many curious specimens of shells, minerals,
fossils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where scholars met
to discuss the laws and operations of Nature. This is said to
have been the first society established in Paris for the pure
advancement of science. When he was sixty-six years old, he
began a course of public lectures, which he continued to deliver
annually for ten years. These were the first lectures on Natural
History ever delivered in Paris. The best men of the Capital went
there to discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his simple,
earnest fashion, the variety of curious things he had observed in
travels by mountain and seashore, through field and forest, and
in his experiments on glass and china. Some pedants were disposed
to undervalue his teachings, because he had never learned Greek
or Latin. Undisturbed by this, he cordially invited them to come
and disprove his statements if they could, saying: “I want to
ascertain whether the Latins know more upon these subjects than I
do. I am indeed a simple artisan, poorly enough trained in letters;
but the things themselves have not less value than if they were
uttered by a man more eloquent. I had rather speak truth in my
rustic tongue, than lie in rhetoric.”
He published several books on Agriculture, Volcanoes, the Formation
of Rocks, the Laws of Water, &c. His last book was written when he
was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge was then in its
infancy, but adequate judges consider his ideas far in advance of
his time. A modern French scholar calls him, “So great a naturalist
as only Nature could produce.” There is a refreshing simplicity
about his style of writing, and his communications with the world
were obviously not the result of vanity, but of general benevolence
and religious reverence. He felt that all he had was from God, and
that it was a duty to impart it freely. He says: “I had employed
much time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and metals; and
old age pressed me to multiply the talents God had given me. For
that reason, I thought it would be good to bring to the light those
excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them to posterity.”
He continued vigorous in mind and body, and was remarked for
acuteness and ready wit. He abstained from theological discussions
in his teachings, but made no secret of the fact that his opinions
remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity, dissipation, and horrid
scenes of violence that were going on in Paris, he quietly busied
himself making artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge
of natural history; recreating himself frequently with the old
pleasure of rambling in field and forest, taking loving observation
of all God’s little creatures.
He was seventy-six years old, when the king, Henry III., issued
a decree forbidding Protestants to exercise their worship, on
pain of death, and banishing all who had previously practised it.
Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave old potter. The
powerful patrons of his art again prevented his execution; but
the tide was so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent to
the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison with him, and they
mutually sustained each other with prayer and psalms. The king, in
his fashionable frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons,
and he naturally felt a great desire that the distinguished old
Bernard Palissy should make a recantation of his faith. One day he
said to him: “My good man, you have been forty-five years in the
service of the queen, my mother, or in mine; and in the midst of
all the executions and massacres, we have allowed you to live in
your religion. But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party,
and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of myself, to
order the execution of these two poor young women, and of yourself
also, unless you recant.” “Sire,” replied the old man, “that is not
spoken like a king. You have often said you pitied _me_; but now I
pity _you_; because you have said, ‘I am _compelled_.’ These girls
and I, who have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach you
to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor all your people, nor
yourself, can compel the old potter to bow down to your images of
clay. I can die.”
The two girls were burnt a few months afterward. Palissy remained
in prison four years, and there he died at eighty years of age. The
secrets of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no record of
those years. We only know that, like John Bunyan, he wrote a good
deal in prison. The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to
one who so loved the free air, and who valued
trees and shrubs “beyond silver
and gold.” But the martyr was
not alone. He had with him
the God whom he trusted,
and the memories of
an honest, useful,
and religious
life.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
OLD AGE COMING.
By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of “The
Cottagers of Glenburnie,” and several other sensible and
interesting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago,
nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very
broad Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in
English, making no changes, except a few slight variations,
which the necessities of rhyme required.
Is that Old Age, who’s knocking at the gate?
I trow it is. He sha’n’t be asked to wait.
You’re kindly welcome, friend! Nay, do not fear
To show yourself! You’ll cause no trouble here.
I know there’re some who tremble at your name,
As though you brought with you reproach or shame;
And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
Rather than own you for their kith and kin.
But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
Thankful I am to live to see your face.
Nor will I e’er disown you, or take pride
To think how long I might your visit hide.
I’ll do my best to make you well respected,
And fear not for your sake to be neglected.
Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather
We’re doomed from this time forth to jog together,
I’d fain make compact with you, firm and strong,
On terms of give and take, to hold out long.
If you’ll be civil, I will liberal be;
Witness the list of what I’ll give to thee.
First then, I here make o’er, for good and aye,
All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay.
Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned,
But much I fear they would be hard to find;
For ’gainst your daddy Time they could not stand,
Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand.
But there’s my skin, which you may further crinkle,
And write your name, at length, on ev’ry wrinkle.
On my brown locks your powder you may throw,
And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow.
But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth,
As if you longed to pull out ev’ry tooth!
Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places!
Though, if you like, you’re free to paint their faces.
My limbs I yield you; and if you see meet
To clap your icy shackles on my feet,
I’ll not refuse; but if you drive out gout,
Will bless you for’t, and offer thanks devout.
So much I give to you with free good-will;
But, O, I fear that more you look for still.
I know, by your stern look and meaning leers,
You want to clap your fingers on my ears.
Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise,
To cast your misty powder in my eyes.
But, O, in mercy spare my little twinklers!
And I will always wear your crystal blinkers.
Then ’bout my ears I’d fain a bargain strike,
And give my hand upon it, if you like.
Well then--would you consent their use to _share_?
’Twould serve us both, and be a bargain rare.
I’d have it thus,--When babbling fools intrude,
Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good;
Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit,
With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit;
Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride,
Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide;
Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be!
At all _such_ times, my ears I lend to thee.
But when, in social hours, you see combined
Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind,
Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood,
And candor, e’en from ill extracting good;
O, then, old friend, I _must_ have back my hearing!
To want it then would be an ill past bearing.
I’d rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming,
Than catch the sound of words without their meaning.
You will not promise? O, you’re very glum!
Right hard to manage, you’re so cold and dumb!
No matter.--Whole and sound I’ll keep my _heart_.
Not from one crumb on’t will I ever part.
Its kindly warmth shall ne’er be chilled by all
The coldest breath that from your lips can fall.
You needn’t vex yourself, old churl, nor fret!
My kindly feelings you shall never get.
And though to take my hearing you rejoice,
In spite of you, I’ll still hear friendship’s voice.
And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me;
For gleams of cheerful spirits you _must_ leave me.
But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age,
I’m bound to travel with you but one stage.
Be’t long or short, you cannot keep me back;
And when we reach the _end_ on’t, you must pack!
Be’t soon or late, we part forever there!
Other companionship I then shall share.
This blessed change to me you’re bound to bring.
You need not think I shall be loath to spring
From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth!
Into the arms of Everlasting Youth.
All that your thieving hands have stolen away
He will, with interest, to me repay.
Fresh gifts and graces freely he’ll bestow,
More than the heart has wished, or mind can know.
You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride.
That I so kindly welcomed you as guide
To one who’s far your better. Now all’s told.
Let us set out upon our journey cold.
With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented.
We’ll quietly jog on our way, contented.
* * * * *
“On he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue’s friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world is past.”
GOLDSMITH
[Illustration]
UNMARRIED WOMEN.
BY L. MARIA CHILD.
Society moves slowly toward civilization, but when we compare
epochs half a century, or even a quarter of a century apart, we
perceive many signs that progress _is_ made. Among these pleasant
indications is the fact that the phrase “old maid” has gone
wellnigh out of fashion; that jests on the subject are no longer
considered witty, and are never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth,
I not unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed something in
this style: “What, not married yet? If you don’t take care, you
will outstand your market.” Such words could never be otherwise
than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any woman of
sensibility and natural refinement; and that not merely on account
of wounded vanity, or disappointed affection, or youthful visions
receding in the distance, but because the idea of being in the
_market_, of being a _commodity_, rather than an individual, is
odious to every human being.
I believe a large proportion of unmarried women are so simply
because they have too much conscience and delicacy of feeling to
form marriages of interest or convenience, without the concurrence
of their affections and their taste. A woman who is determined
to be married, and who “plays her cards well,” as the phrase is,
usually succeeds. But how much more estimable and honorable is she
who regards a life-union as too important and sacred to be entered
into from motives of vanity or selfishness.
To rear families is the ordination of Nature, and where it is done
conscientiously it is doubtless the best education that men or
women can receive. But I doubt the truth of the common remark that
the discharge of these duties makes married people less selfish
than unmarried ones. The selfishness of single women doubtless
shows itself in more petty forms; such as being disturbed by crumbs
on the carpet, and a litter of toys about the house. But fathers
and mothers are often selfish on a large scale, for the sake of
advancing the worldly prosperity or social condition of their
children. Not only is spiritual growth frequently sacrificed in
pursuit of these objects, but principles are trampled on, which
involve the welfare of the whole human race. Within the sphere
of my own observation, I must confess that there is a larger
proportion of unmarried than of married women whose sympathies are
active and extensive.
I have before my mind two learned sisters, familiar with Greek,
Latin, and French, and who, late in life, acquired a knowledge of
German also. They spent more than sixty years together, quietly
digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich mines of ancient
and modern literature, and freely imparting their treasures
wherever they were called for. No married couple could have been
more careful of each other in illness, or more accommodating toward
each other’s peculiarities; yet they were decided individuals; and
their talk never wanted
“An animated No,
To brush its surface, and to make it flow.”
Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation, which was both wise
and racy; a steady light of good sense and large information, with
an occasional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire. Yet their
intellectual acquisitions produced no contempt for the customary
occupations of women. All their friends received tasteful keepsakes
of their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the poor of the
town had garments of their handiwork. Neither their sympathies
nor their views were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had
taught them to reverence everything that was established; but
with this reverence they mingled a lively interest in all the
great progressive questions of the day. Their ears were open to
the recital of everybody’s troubles and everybody’s joys. On New
Year’s day, children thronged round them for books and toys, and
every poor person’s face lighted up as they approached; for they
were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathizing words from them, and
their cloaks usually opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or
warm stockings of their own manufacture. When this sisterly bond,
rendered so beautiful by usefulness and culture, was dissolved by
death, the survivor said of her who had departed: “During all her
illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its mother; and O, how
blessed is now the consciousness that I never disappointed her!”
This great bereavement was borne with calmness, for loneliness was
cheered by hope of reunion. On the anniversary of her loss the
survivor wrote to me: “I find a growing sense of familiarity with
the unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly left ajar,
and the distance were hourly diminishing. I never think of _her_
as alone. The unusual number of departed friends for whom we had
recently mourned seem now but an increase to her happiness.”