to do it,--how to lift the stones with pullies, and ropes, and levers;
and what shape to make the walls, and the pillars, and so forth. I
remember when the new stables were built, Mr. Bond, the architect,
made a drawing of the whole, before the men began, and then the master
told his men how to do every part, to make it like the drawing. So I
suppose some architect, who had a great deal of knowledge, and was very
ingenious and clever, made a drawing of all the walls, and windows,
and pillars, and contrived the best way to lift the stones up so high;
and then, I dare say, any common bricklayer’s men would be able to do
it.
_Father._ You are right, Henry; a great and beautiful building like
St. Paul’s Cathedral is wonderful and admirable, chiefly on account
of the knowledge and genius which we know those men must have had who
could lay the plan, and direct others how to execute it. While we are
in London we shall have many opportunities of observing the different
effects produced by strength, industry, skill, knowledge, and genius.
But now you have forgotten one chief thing requisite in raising such a
building as this.
_John._ Oh, a great deal of mortar, Papa.
_Father._ That is not what I mean. When I wanted the new stables
built, what did I do?
_Sam._ You sent for Mr. Bond, Papa, and told him to do it.
_Father._ But what should make Mr. Bond willing to take the trouble of
building stables for me?
_Sam._ You told him you would pay him for doing it.
_Father._ Very well: then you see, money is the first thing requisite
when any great work is to be performed. If a man wants nothing but
what he can procure for himself, he has no need of money: but then he
must be content to live upon wild fruits, and to shelter himself in a
cavern: this is what is called savage life. The use of money is to make
men help each other: and when men help each other, they are able to do
a hundred times more than when every one only prepares what he wants
for his own use.
The next day the three boys were taken by their Father to Guildhall. As
soon as John perceived the two gigantic figures which stand at the end
of the hall, he exclaimed,--“There now, Papa, I dare say the men who
built St. Paul’s were just such men as those figures; if they were real
men, they would be able to handle the great stones as easily as the
bricklayers handle the bricks.”
_Father._ We shall presently see if men cannot contrive ways of doing
every thing they want to be done, without waiting till they can find
giants to help them.
They afterwards walked down to the river side. A vessel was lying at
one of the wharfs, laden with very large blocks of Portland Stone. The
conversation was resumed.
_Father._ John, do you see what is in that vessel?
_John._ Yes, Papa; very large square stones: I wonder they don’t make
the vessel sink to the bottom.
_Father._ Do you suppose that men, twenty feet high, will come and lift
these stones out of the vessel, and carry them where they are wanted to
be used?
_John._ I don’t think there are any such men _now_.
_Father._ What must be done, then?
_John._ I cannot tell.
_Henry._ I guess, Papa, what will be done:--I think this great thing
with all these chains, and wheels, and winders, is on purpose to lift
the stones out of the vessel.
_Father._ Yes: this is called a crane: perhaps, on some of the wharfs
we shall find them using a crane.
Walking a little further, they came to the front of a warehouse, where
men were raising hogsheads of tallow by a crane, from a waggon, to an
upper story of the building.
_Father._ There, John, you see is the _Giant_ that can lift blocks of
marble or heavy hogsheads: two or three men, who are not six feet high,
keep him at work; and he does exactly what they wish to be done. Now,
Henry, do you think that twenty of the savages of New Holland, whom you
have read of, could raise one of these hogsheads into the warehouse?
_Henry._ No, Papa: they might roll it along the ground, or carry it
a mile, on two long poles; but they could not raise it into the air
without some machine or contrivance.
_Father._ But they could not make a machine without knowledge and
ingenuity.
_Sam._ Then, Papa, if men can do what they wish by contrivances and
machines, I do not see that patience is of much use.
_Father._ What you mean, is properly called industry: patience means,
bearing pain quietly. But industry is of great use to execute what
has been thought of and contrived by those who have knowledge and
ingenuity: and, besides, there are many things that require very little
skill, but are performed chiefly by industry. Let us return to the
wharf where we saw the blocks of stone.
When they returned to the place, they observed a man who was sawing
a thin slice from a block of stone: the saw was fastened to a large
wooden frame, which he moved continually backwards and forwards. A tub
was set on the top of the stone, from which water ran gently into the
gap, and kept the saw from getting hot.
_John._ How tiresome it must be, Papa, to have to move that great frame
backwards and forwards all day long: and you can hardly see that it
cuts the stone at all. I think I would chop it,--or something.--
_Father._ No; it would be impossible to chop the block into the flat
pieces that are wanted. This block, you see, is lifted about, not by
strength but by skill: it is cut into slices, not by skill but by
industry.
_Sam._ But does the man like to sit sawing this stone all day?
_Father._ Perhaps not: but if he did not do this he could not procure
food and clothing for himself, and his wife and children.
While this conversation was passing, the watermen, who were waiting
for a fare, had attracted the attention of the boys, by holding up
their hands, saying, perpetually, “Want a boat, Sir,--want a boat?”
The moment that the Father looked towards the stairs, leading down to
the water, one of them darted forward, and offered to hand the young
gentlemen into his boat. In one minute they were all seated; and the
waterman, having pushed his boat out into clear water, took his seat,
and with long steady pulls, soon brought them out of sight of the
stairs.
After they had expressed their admiration of the fine appearance of the
broad river, and the vessels upon it; the bridges, and the buildings
on both sides; the conversation, which had been interrupted, was thus
resumed.
_Father._ You have seen that the stone-cutter procures his living,
rather by his industry than his strength: now, can you name one who
lives rather by his strength than his industry?
_Henry._ Yes, Papa; this waterman: we pay him for moving us along upon
the water by the strength of his arms: I do not suppose that much skill
is required to be a waterman.
_Father._ No; what is most needful to the waterman, in addition to his
strength, is dexterity.
_Sam._ What is dexterity, Papa?
_Father._ Dexterity is the habit a man acquires, by use, of performing
any particular action in the best way, with the least trouble or
effort. Think now, if you can, of a man whose business it is to
exercise strength, without even having need of dexterity.
Henry considered for some time, and then replied,--“The man who turned
the winder of the crane, to raise the hogshead into the warehouse: he
had nothing to do but to move his arms round and round.”
_Sam._ Or a porter, who carries parcels.
_Father._ Yes: and you may observe, even in their looks, the difference
between those who have need of some dexterity in employing their
strength, and those who have no need of it. The man who employs
his strength with dexterity, looks briskly about him; often closes
his lips firmly; holds his head erect; and appears as if he felt
some satisfaction in his employment. But the man who merely exerts
strength, looks on the ground; breaths chiefly through his mouth; moves
stifly; and appears either ferocious, sullen, or stupid; unless he
follows also some other occupation which exercises his mind.
By this time the boat had reached the foot of Blackfriar’s Bridge,
where they left it. In Bridge Street they took a coach: when they were
well seated, the conversation was continued.
_Father._ Now let us compare the coachman’s occupation with that of the
waterman: What has he need of?
_John._ The horses draw the coach; so he does not want strength; he
only sits still on the box.
_Father._ What has he to do?
_Sam._ To guide the horses with the reins.
_Father._ This requires some dexterity; and it would require more, if
the horses were spirited. He does not appear so active as the waterman,
who exercises strength as well as dexterity.
_Henry._ I think, Papa, when we return home, and are out of all the
bustle, it will be entertaining to talk of all the different trades and
occupations in this way. Since we have been conversing, I have thought
of a great many questions to ask. And we have not yet said any thing
about the occupations that require skill, and knowledge, and genius,
but----
Here the conversation was interrupted; as the coach was stopped in a
narrow street by a crowd of people: on looking out it appeared that a
workman had fallen from the scaffolding of a building, and had been
much hurt. Several persons were carefully placing him on a shutter, in
order to carry him to the hospital. A lady, who was passing, enquired
of the poor man his name and place of abode, apparently with the design
of affording relief to his family.
In the evening, after the three boys had talked over the occurrences
of the day; their father said, “Now tell me how it is that men in
civilized countries are able to execute great works, and to provide all
those things that make life comfortable and agreeable?”
_Henry._ It is by joining together to help each other, in executing the
things they contrive.
_Father._ In what way do they help each other? Do all do the same sort
of thing?
_Henry._ No: one man does one sort of thing: and another man another
sort of thing: every one does the particular thing he has been used to
do, and what he understands best.
_Father._ Hence it follows, that the same degree of knowledge, and
the same sort of ability are not necessary for all men alike. Great
strength is necessary only for those who,----?
_Henry._ Those who have to bear burdens, or to move machines.
_Father._ Dexterity and skill are necessary,----?
_Henry._ For those who have to execute things that are difficult to do;
and that cannot be done by machines.
_Father._ Industry is necessary,----?
_Henry._ For those who have to do the same sort of thing, on and on,
all day long; like a clock that must never stand still.
_Father._ Knowledge and genius are necessary,----?
_Henry._ For those who have to contrive how things are to be done.
_Father._ And for those who have to instruct other men, or to persuade
them to do what is right; or to govern them. But what was it that
interrupted our conversation in the morning?
_Sam._ We saw the poor bricklayer, who had fallen from the scaffolding
where a house was building.
_John._ Yes, Papa; and they took him up very gently, and carried him----
_Sam._ To the hospital.
_John._ What is that, Papa?
_Father._ An hospital is a house where there are surgeons and nurses,
to take care of poor people that are ill; or, who have been hurt by
accident.
_John._ And do you remember, Papa, how very sorry the lady looked, who
asked the poor man where he lived?
_Father._ Yes: the lady was compassionate; and so, I think, were the
men who carried the man away. They appeared to take great care not to
hurt him more than they could help. What would you have said, if the
people who were standing about had taken no notice of him; but left him
to lie where he fell, or help himself if he could?
_John._ Oh, Papa, that would have been very cruel.
_Father._ It would, indeed: such persons, we should have said, had no
kindness or humanity.
_Sam._ They would have been very wicked people.
_Father._ Yes.
_Henry._ Because, Papa, we ought always to be willing to help those who
are in distress; even though it should cost us a great deal of trouble
and money.
_Father._ Then you see, that though it is not necessary for all men to
exercise strength, or industry, or to have knowledge, or genius, it is
necessary for _all_ men to be,----?
_Henry._ Ready to help each other in distress.
_Father._ If I want a house to be built, I must find out a man that is
used to build houses:--If I want clothes, I must go to the draper:--If
I want to be taught any thing, I must apply to those who have acquired
knowledge; but if I am in distress, I may expect _any one_ to help me,
who is able to do so, because it is _every body’s_ business to be
humane and compassionate.
_Henry._ Yes, Papa: every body is not obliged to be clever; but every
body ought to be good.
_Father._ What is the best reason you can think of, why we should be
compassionate?
_Henry._ Because, perhaps, some day, we ourselves may be in need of
help in distress.
_Father._ Cannot you think of a better reason than that?
_Henry._ Because God is compassionate.
_Father._ Yes.
VII.
THE BELFRY.
One day Harold came running home, quite out of breath; and reported
that his brother Archibald, having mounted the poney in the home-mead,
it had run away with him, and at last thrown him; and that he was
lying in the field unable to move. His Father, accompanied by one of
the servants, immediately went to the spot; they found poor Archibald,
perhaps rather more frightened than hurt; though he had sprained his
ankle so as to prevent his walking: fortunately, he had fallen in a
soft dirty place: this had saved him from receiving more serious
injury: but he was completely covered with mud. The servant carried him
home; his wet clothes were taken off; his sprained ankle was properly
attended to; and he was put to bed.
The next morning his Father reproved him for his folly in mounting the
poney; and also for his disobedience, as he had been strictly forbidden
to go into the home-mead, where the horses were at grass.
Archibald’s punishment, on this occasion, seemed sufficient: for,
besides the pain he suffered, he was obliged to lie on the sofa several
days; which he very much disliked; as he was an active boy, and happy
only when he was running about the fields. Archibald’s thoughtlessness
had frequently nearly cost him broken bones, or even his life: several
times he had fallen from trees: once he went to slide upon a pond after
a slight frost; the ice broke under him, he fell in; and, if a man had
not happened to see him at the moment, he would most likely have been
drowned.
But what was worse, Archibald was too fond of playing foolish and
mischievous tricks, by which other people were injured, or put in
danger. And, if we must tell the whole truth, he had gained a bad name
in the neighbourhood, as a troublesome and ill-disposed boy; though, in
fact, he was more idle than ill-tempered.
When the poor women in the village saw him coming along, they were
used to call quickly to the little children that were playing in the
road,--“Betsey, Betsey; Willy, Willy; Jem; come in, come in: here’s
Master Archibald a coming.”
The widow Webb would often totter across the road, as fast as if she
had been running out of a heavy shower of rain, in order to take her
favourite cat out of Master Archibald’s way. Even the donkies had
learned to flinch and prick their ears while he passed by them. Some
people thought Archibald a much more spirited boy than his brother
Harold: but I am of opinion that Harold was really the most courageous.
One morning, Harold and Archibald, in returning from a walk, passed
through a meadow in which cattle were grazing: there was a bull among
them. Archibald pulled off his hat, and waved it at the bull; at the
same time making a bellowing noise. The animal looked up and breathed
heavily. Archibald then repeated his threatening gestures. The bull
then began to strike the ground with his fore foot; and he advanced
several steps towards the two boys.
Seeing this, Archibald instantly ran towards the gate as fast as he
could. Harold continued to walk along steadily, because he had heard
that bulls often pursue persons who run away from them; but seldom
attack those who do not appear to be frightened.
When they had got out of the meadow into the adjoining lane, Harold
would have proceeded home; but Archibald, who had recovered from his
fright, said he was determined to have a little fun with the old
churl. So he filled his pockets with pebbles, and clambered into a
tree in the hedge, where he knew that he should be perfectly safe, and
then began hallooing and throwing stones at the bull. Harold tried to
dissuade him from his sport; but Archibald never heeded what he called
his brother’s _preaching_; he only replied by saying, “Ah now, if the
bull begins to roar, you’ll be frightened out of your wits, I know.”
For some time the unoffending animal continued to graze; only now and
then looking round, and moving a few steps further from the tree in
which Archibald was seated. But at length, after the stones had hit him
two or three times rather smartly, he began to toss his head, bellow,
and scrape the ground with his foot; throwing up the earth several
yards behind him. By this time, however, Archibald had spent all the
pebbles which he had collected; and perceiving that Harold, who had
been gathering flowers from the hedge, was now proceeding homeward, he
descended from the tree, and ran after his brother.
The two boys had proceeded a very little way, when they heard loud
screams in the meadow which they had just left.
“There now, Archibald!” said Harold; “I guess what is the matter; you
have made the bull so angry, that he is running at somebody.”
He immediately ran back towards the gate: Archibald stood still a
moment; and then walked, not very quickly, after his brother.
When Harold came to the gate, he saw a little girl running towards
it, and the bull trotting after her at an ambling pace: he jumped over
the gate, and snatching up a bush of furze that had been cut from the
hedge, ran towards the bull; as soon as the creature saw him, and
perceived that he did not appear at all frightened, he stood still,
and bellowed. Harold had come up with the little girl,--it was Betsey
Webb,--widow Webb’s grand-daughter.
“Run along to the gate, Betsey;” said he. As soon as he saw that the
little girl was safely over the gate, he retreated some steps; still
holding up the furze bush, and looking hard at the bull, which stopped
when Harold stopped; and advanced as he retreated; in this way he got
to the gate; and jumping over, was not sorry to find himself safely
out of the meadow.
Betsey Webb was crying from the fright she had suffered; and partly,
perhaps, with the feeling of gratitude to her courageous defender. As
soon as she was a little more composed, Harold asked her how it had
happened that the bull had run at her.
“I don’t know, Master Harold,” said she, “because I go through the
meadow almost every day; and it never did me no harm before; and Farmer
Holt tells grandmother that it is always a gentle beast: else he would
not let it be there. But I think some of the bad boys must have been
teasing of it, and making it angry: and now I shall be afraid to go
through the mead any more; I must go all round by the road.”
“You must tell Farmer Holt,” replied Harold; “that the bull run at you;
and perhaps he will put it into another field.”
Here Betsey courtesied, saying, “Thank ye, Master Harold, I’m sure;
thank’ee:” and then turned across the common, towards her grandmother’s
cottage.
Archibald had been loitering a little way behind; and whistled, as
though he felt quite unconcerned. But when Betsey Webb was gone, he
begged his brother not to tell at home, what had happened. “_Tell_,”
said Harold, “no to be sure, I don’t know what there is particular to
tell.”
Archibald was not really a malicious boy; but his love of mischief
often occasioned quarrels between him and the boys of the village: more
than once he received a very severe beating from some who would not
take his pranks in good part. On such occasions he had to suffer twice;
because, whenever his father discovered that he had been fighting, he
punished him severely.
One morning, not long after the occurrence that has just been
mentioned, Harold and his Father were walking in the garden, on a
raised path which overlooked the surrounding country: they had been
conversing some time, when the Father, pointing towards the common
which adjoined the garden, said, “What is the matter there, Harold?
there is a great number of boys together; and they are moving about
from side to side, as though some of them were fighting.”
_Harold._ I think they are, Papa; and hark, don’t you hear them
quarrelling?
_Father._ Yes, I think I do.--Where is your brother?
_Harold._ He went out upon the common, about an hour ago.
_Father._ Perhaps then it is he who is fighting. Go and see. If
Archibald is there, bring him away: tell him I have sent you to fetch
him home: and if he is fighting, let the boy he has been fighting with
come also. If you are not able to put an end to the fray, wave your
hat; and I will come; I shall stand here and watch. I do not mean
that you should call me, only to prevent your receiving a few blows;
remember,--a man must have courage as well as good temper, to be a
peace maker. Do not run; that would put you out of breath, and you
would not be able to behave properly.
Harold walked steadily across the common: before he came up to the
boys, he heard one, who was on the outside of the circle, call out,
“Dick, Dick; here’s his brother coming.” This seemed to put a stop to
the fight for a moment. As he approached he distinguished his brother’s
voice, in a half crying tone, repeating some expressions of contempt
and defiance, and adding--“and I’ll say so again,--so I will.”
Harold made his way through the crowd without violence or blustering:
he found Archibald standing in a cringing posture, with his back
against the stump of a tree; and holding his left arm over his
forehead: his face and shirt were bloody. Harold placed himself close
before his brother, without clenching his fists. At the same instant,
a boy who was standing on one side, aimed a blow at Archibald, saying,
“and that’s for ye, Master Archey.” Harold caught the blow on his arm;
and, darting towards him, thrust him away: he struck his head pretty
smartly against the tree; and then sneaked away to the outside of the
circle.
“Jem Mason,” said Harold, speaking to one of the biggest boys,--“tell
me what’s the matter; and let us have no more fighting. Here are all of
you against one: that’s not fair: you shall not use my brother so, I
assure you.”
“No, Master Harold,” said James Mason; “It’s only Dick Hobb has been
fighting with him: but you know, your brother should let we alone; and
then we would let he alone: we di’nt meddle with he.”
“How was it then, Jem?” said Harold. Half a dozen of the boys began
vociferating at once; and all charging Archibald with being the author
of the quarrel.
“Let us hear what Jem Mason says,” cried Harold.
“Why, Master Harold,” said James, “ye see, we was all playing at nine
pins, out yonder, by the three elms; and so up comes your brother,
and begins laughing at us, and calling us a parcel of blockheads,
and sitch: and at last Dick Hobb here, says to him, we be’nt no more
blockheads than you, Master Archey: and then he comes in a fury and
kicks down all the pins, what we had just set up; and as quick as we
sets ’em up again, he kicks ’em down again: and then, Dick gives him a
sort of a hit, I fancy, ’o th’ head; and then he flies, ye see, in a
passion, and calls us names; and begins hitting about: and so it comes
to a fight with he and Dick; and he gets one or two bloody noses: and
that’s all, Master Harold.”
“Archibald,” said Harold, turning round towards his brother, “Papa sent
me to bid you go home directly: he is waiting to speak to you in the
garden.”
Archibald knew very well that he dare not disobey this summons: and
though he had great reason to dread his Father’s displeasure, yet
perhaps, if the whole truth were known, he was not sorry to be thus
dismissed, without more fighting; as it is probable that, if his
brother had not come up, he would have been still more severely beaten.
When Archibald had got to some distance, Harold said, “Have any of
you any thing to say to me?” There were some murmurs; but James Mason
replied, “Master Harold, you know we don’t want to have any words with
you; because you are always good-tempered and never meddles with us.”
“I am very sorry,” said Harold, “that my brother has spoiled your play:
but it is a wicked thing to fight.--Richard Hobb, come with me.”