One evening, as the two sisters were hastening along the road through
the woods on their way homeward, a young farmer drove up in his
spring-cart, cast a look at them, stopped, and said, "Young women, if
you are going my way. I shall be glad of your company. You are quite
welcome to ride."
The sisters looked at each other. "Dunna be afreed," said the young
farmer; "my name's James Cheshire. I'm well known in these parts; you
may trust yersens wi' me, if it's agreeable."
To Jane's surprise, Nancy said, "No, sir, we are not afraid; we are much
obliged to you."
The young farmer helped them up into the cart, and away they drove.
"I'm afraid we shall crowd you," said Jane.
"Not a bit of it," replied the young farmer. "There's room for three
bigger nor us on this seat, and I'm no ways tedious."
The sisters saw nothing odd in his use of the word "tedious," as
strangers would have done they knew it merely meant "not at all
particular." They were soon in active talk. As he had told them who he
was, he asked them in their turn if they worked at the mills there. They
replied in the affirmative, and the young man said,
"I thought so. I've seen you sometimes going along together. I noticed
you because you seemed so sisterly like, and you are sisters, I reckon."
They said "Yes."
"I've a good spanking horse, you seen," said James Cheshire. "I shall
get over th' ground rayther faster nor you done a-foot, eh? My word,
though, it must be nation cold on these bleak hills i' winter."
The sisters assented, and thanked the young farmer for taking them up.
"We are rather late," said they, "for we looked in on a friend, and the
rest of the mill-hands were gone on."
"Well," said the young farmer, "never mind that. I fancy Bess, my mare
here, can go a little faster nor they can. We shall very likely be at
Tidser as soon as they are."
"But you are not going to Tidser," said Jane, "your farm is just before
us there."
"Yay, I'm going to Tidser though. I've a bit of business to do there
before I go hom."
On drove the farmer at what he called a spanking rate; presently they
saw the young mill-people on the road before them.
"There are your companions," said James Cheshire; "we shall cut past
them like a flash of lightning."
"Oh," exclaimed Jane Dunster, "what will they say at seeing us riding
here?" and she blushed brightly.
"Say?" said the young farmer, smiling, "never mind what they'll say;
depend upon it, they'd like to be here theirsens."
James Cheshire cracked his whip. The horse flew along. The party of the
young mill-hands turned round, and on seeing Jane and Nancy in the cart,
uttered exclamations of surprise.
"My word, though!" said Mary Smedley, a fresh buxom lass, somewhat
inclined to stoutness.
"Well, if ever!" cried smart little Hannah Bowyer.
"Nay, then, what next?" said Tetty Wilton, a tall, thin girl of very
good looks.
The two sisters nodded and smiled to their companions; Jane still
blushing rosily, but Nancy sitting as pale and as gravely as if they
were going on some solemn business.
The only notice the farmer took was to turn with a broad, smiling face,
and shout to them, "Wouldn't you like to be here too?"
"Ay, take us up," shouted a number of voices together; but the farmer
cracked his whip, and giving them a nod and a dozen smiles in one, said,
"I can't stay. Ask the next farmer that comes up."
With this they drove on; the young farmer very merry and full of talk.
They were soon by the side of his farm. "There's a flock of sheep on
the turnips there," he said, proudly, "they're not to be beaten on this
side Ashbourne. And there are some black oxen, going for the night to
the straw-yard. Jolly fellows, those, eh? But I reckon you don't
understand much of farming stock?"
"No," said Jane, and was again surprised at Nancy adding, "I wish we
did. I think a farmer's life must be the very happiest of any."
"You think so?" said the farmer, turning and looking at her earnestly,
and evidently with some wonder. "You are right," said he. "You little
ones are knowing ones. You are right: it's the life for a king."
They were at the village. "Pray stop," said Jane, "and let us get down.
I would not for the world go up the village thus. It would make such a
talk!"
"Talk! who cares for talk?" said the farmer; "won't the youngsters we
left on the road talk?"
"Quite enough," said Jane.
"And are _you_ afraid of talk?" said the farmer to Nancy.
"I'm not afraid of it when I don't provoke it willfully," said Nancy;
"but we are poor girls, and can't afford to lose even the good word of
our acquaintance. You've been very kind in taking us up on the road; but
to drive us to our door would cause such wonder as would perhaps make us
wish we had not been obliged to you."
"Blame me, if you arn't right again!" said the young farmer,
thoughtfully. "These are scandal-loving times, and th' neebors might
plague you. That's a deep head of yourn, though--Nancy, I think your
sister caw'd you. Well, here I stop then."
He jumped down, and helped them out.
"If you will drive on first," said Jane, "we will walk on after, and we
are greatly obliged to you."
"Nay," said the young man, "I shall turn again here."
"But you've business."
"Oh! my business was to drive you here--that's all."
James Cheshire was mounting his cart, when Nancy stepped up, and said,
"Excuse me, sir, but you'll meet the mill-people on your return, and it
will make them talk all the more, as you have driven us past your farm.
Have you no business that you can do in Tidser, sir?"
"Gad! but thou'rt right again! Ay, I'll go on!" and with a crack of his
whip, and a "Good night!" he whirled into the village before them.
No sooner was he gone than Nancy, pressing her sister's arm to her side,
said, "There's the right man at last, dear Jane."
"What!" said Jane, yet blushing deeply at the same time, and her heart
beating quicker against her side. "Whatever are you talking of, Nancy?
That young farmer fall in love with a mill-girl?"
"He's done it," said Nancy; "I see it in him--I feel it in him. And I
feel, too, that he is true and stanch as steel."
Jane was silent. They walked on in silence. Jane's own heart responded
to what Nancy had said; she thought again and again on what he said. "I
have seen you sometimes;" "I noticed you because you seemed so
sisterly." "He must have a good heart," thought Jane; "but then he can
never think of a poor mill-girl like me."
The next morning they had to undergo plenty of raillery from their
companions. We will pass that over. For several days, as they passed to
and fro, they saw nothing of the young farmer. But one evening, as they
were again alone, having staid at the same acquaintance's as before, the
young farmer popped his head over a stone wall, and said, "Good evening
to you, young women." He was soon over the wall, and walked on with them
to the end of the town. On the Sunday at the chapel Jane saw Nancy's
grave face fixed on some object steadily, and, looking in the same
direction, was startled to see James Cheshire. Again her heart beat
pit-a-pat, and she thought, "Can he really be thinking of me?"
The moment chapel was over, James Cheshire was gone, stopping to speak
to no one. Nancy again pressed the arm of Jane to her side, as they
walked home, and said, "I was not wrong." Jane only replied by returning
her affectionate pressure.
Some days after, as Nancy Dunster was coming out of a shop in the
evening, after their return home from the mill, James Cheshire suddenly
put his hand on her shoulder, and, on her turning, shook her hand
cordially, and said, "Come along with me a bit. I must have a little
talk with you."
Nancy consented without remark or hesitation. James Cheshire walked on
quickly till they came near the fine old church which strikes travelers
as so superior to the place in which it is located, when he slackened
his pace, and taking Nancy's hand, began in a most friendly manner to
tell her how much he liked her and her sister. That, to make a short
matter of it, as was his way, he had made up his mind that the woman of
all others in the world that would suit him for a wife was her sister.
"But before I said so to her, I thought I would say so to you, Nancy,
for you are so sensible, I'm sure you will say what is best for us all."
Nancy manifested no surprise, but said calmly, "You are a well-to-do
farmer, Mr. Cheshire. You have friends of property; my sister, and--"
"Ay, and a mill-girl; I know all that. I've thought it all over, and so
far you are right again, my little one. But just hear what I've got to
say. I'm no fool, though I say it. I've an eye in my head and a head on
my shoulders, eh?"
Nancy smiled
"Well now, it s not _any_ mill-girl--mind you, it's not _any_
mill-girl; no, nor perhaps another in the kingdom, that would do for me.
I don't think mill-girls are in the main cut out for farmers' wives, any
more than farmers' wives are fit for mill-girls; but, you see, I've got
a notion that your sister is not only a very farrantly lass, but that
she's one that has particular good sense, though not so deep as you,
Nancy, neither. Well, I've a notion she can turn her hand to any thing,
and that she's a heart to do it when it's a duty. Isn't that so, eh? And
if it is so, then Jane Dunster's the lass for me; that is, if it's quite
agreeable."
Nancy pressed James Cheshire's hand, and said. "You are very kind."
"Not a bit of it," said James.
"Well," continued Nancy; "but I would have you to consider what your
friends will say, and whether you will not be made unhappy by them."
"Why, as to that," said James Cheshire, interrupting her, "mark me, Miss
Dunster. I don't ask my friends for any thing. I can farm my own farm;
buy my own cattle; drive my spring-cart, without any advice or
assistance of theirs; and therefore I don't think I shall ask their
advice in the matter of a wife, eh? No, no, on that score I'm made up.
My name's Independent, and, at a word, the only living thing I mean to
ask advice of is yourself. If you, Miss Dunster, approve of the match,
it's settled, as far as I'm concerned."
"Then so far," said Nancy, "as you and my sister are concerned, without
reference to worldly circumstances, I approve it with all my heart. I
believe you to be as good and honest as I know my sister to be. Oh, Mr.
Cheshire! she is one of ten thousand."
"Well, I was sure of it," said the young farmer; "and so now you must
tell your sister all about it; and if all's right, chalk me a white
chalk inside of my gate as you go past i' th' morning, and to-morrow
evening I'll come up and see you."
Here the two parted with a cordial shake of the hand. The novel signal
of an accepted love was duly discovered by James Cheshire on his
gate-post, when he issued forth at day-break, and that evening he was
sitting at tea with Jane and Nancy in the little cottage, having brought
in his cart a basket of eggs, apples, fresh butter, and a pile of the
richest pikelets (crumpets), country pikelets, very different to
town-made ones, for tea.
We need not follow out the courtship of James Cheshire and Jane Dunster.
It was cordial and happy. James insisted that both the sisters should
give immediate notice to quit the mill-work, to spare themselves the
cold and severe walks which the winter now occasioned them. The sisters
had improved their education in their evenings. They were far better
read and informed than most farmers' daughters. They had been, since
they came to Tideswell, teachers in the Sunday-school. There was
comparatively little to be learned in a farm-house for the wife in
winter, and James Cheshire therefore proposed to the sisters to go for
three months to Manchester into a wholesale house, to learn as much as
they could of the plain sewing and cutting out of household linen. The
person in question made up all sorts of household linen, sheets,
pillow-cases, shirts, and other things; in fact, a great variety of
articles. Through an old acquaintance he got them introduced there,
avowedly to prepare them for housekeeping. It was a sensible step, and
answered well. At spring, to cut short opposition from his own
relatives, which began to show itself, for these things did not fail to
be talked of, James Cheshire got a license, and proceeding to
Manchester, was then and there married, and came home with his wife and
sister.
The talk and gossip which this wedding made all round the country, was
no little; but the parties themselves were well satisfied with their
mutual choice, and were happy. As the spring advanced, the duties of the
household grew upon Mrs. Cheshire. She had to learn the art of
cheese-making, butter-making, of all that relates to poultry, calves,
and household management. But in these matters she had the aid of an old
servant, who had done all this for Mr. Cheshire, since he began farming.
She took a great liking to her mistress, and showed her with hearty
good-will how every thing was done; and as Jane took a deep interest in
it, she rapidly made herself mistress of the management of the house, as
well as of the house itself. She did not disdain, herself, to take a
hand at the churn, that she might be familiar with the whole process of
butter-making, and all the signs by which the process is conducted to a
successful issue. It was soon seen that no farmer's wife could produce a
firmer, fresher, sweeter pound of butter. It was neither _swelted_ by
too hasty churning, nor spoiled, as is too often the case, by the
buttermilk or by water being left in it, for want of well kneading and
pressing. It was deliciously sweet, because the cream was carefully put
in the cleanest vessels and well attended to. Mrs. Cheshire, too, might
daily be seen kneeling by the side of the cheese-pan, separating the
curd, taking off the whey, filling the cheese-vat with the curd, and
putting the cheese herself into press. Her cheese-chamber displayed as
fine a set of well-salted, well-colored, well-turned and regular cheeses
as ever issued from that or any other farm-house.
James Cheshire was proud of his wife: and Jane herself found a most
excellent helper in Nancy. Nancy took particularly to housekeeping; saw
that all the rooms were exquisitely clean; that every thing was in nice
repair; that not only the master and mistress, but the servants had
their food prepared in a wholesome and attractive manner. The eggs she
stored up; and as fruit came into season, had it collected for market,
and for a judicious household use. She made the tea and coffee morning
and evening, and did every thing but preside at the table. There was not
a farm-house for twenty miles round that wore an air of so much
brightness and evident good management as that Of James Cheshire. For
Nancy, from the first moment of their acquaintance, he had conceived a
most profound respect. In all cases that required counsel, though he
consulted freely with his wife, he would never decide till they had had
Nancy's opinion and sanction.
And James Cheshire prospered. But, spite of this, he did not escape the
persecution from his relations that Nancy had foreseen. On all hands he
found coldness. None of them called on him. They felt scandalized at his
_evening_ himself, as they called it, to a mill-girl. He was taunted,
when they met at market, with having been caught with a pretty face; and
told that they thought he had had more sense than to marry a dressed
doll with a witch by her side.
At first James Cheshire replied with a careless waggery, "The pretty
face makes capital butter though, eh? The dressed doll turns out a
tolerable dairy, eh? Better," added James, "than a good many can, that I
know, who have neither pretty faces, nor have much taste in dressing to
crack of."
The allusion to Nancy's dwarfish plainness was what peculiarly provoked
James Cheshire. He might have laughed at the criticisms on his wife,
though the envious neighbors' wives did say that it was the old servant
and not Mrs. Cheshire who produced such fine butter and cheese; for
wherever she appeared, spite of envy and detraction, her lovely person
and quiet good sense, and the growing rumor of her good management, did
not fail to produce a due impression. And James had prepared to laugh it
off; but it would not do. He found himself getting every now and then
angry and unsettled by it. A coarse jest on Nancy at any time threw him
into a desperate fit of indignation. The more the superior merit of his
wife was known, the more seemed to increase the envy and venom of some
of his relatives. He saw, too, that it had an effect on his wife. She
was often sad, and sometimes in tears.
One day when this occurred, James Cheshire said, as they sat at tea,
"I've made up my mind. Peace in this life is a jewel. Better is a dinner
of herbs with peace, than a stalled ox with strife. Well now, I'm
determined to have peace. Peace and luv," said he, looking
affectionately at his wife and Nancy, "peace and luv, by God's blessing,
have settled down on this house; but there are stings here and stings
there, when we go out of doors. We must not only have peace and luv in
the house, but peace all round it. So I've made up my mind. I'm for
America!"
"For America!" exclaimed Jane. "Surely you can not be in earnest."
"I never was more in earnest in my life," said James Cheshire. "It is
true I do very well on this farm here, though it's a cowdish situation;
but from all I can learn I can do much better in America. I can there
farm a much better farm of my own. We can have a much finer climate
than this Peak country, and our countrymen still about us. Now, I want
to know what makes a man's native land pleasant to him?--the kindness of
his relations and friends. But then, if a man's relation are not
kind?--if they get a conceit into them, that because they are relations,
they are to choose a man's wife for him, and sting him and snort at him
because he has a will of his own?--why, then, I say, God send a good big
herring-pool between me and such relations! My relations, by way of
showing their natural affection, spit spite and bitterness. You, dear
wife and sister, have none of yourn to spite you. In the house we have
peace and luv. Let us take the peace and luv, and leave the bitterness
behind."
There was a deep silence.
"It is a serious proposal," at length said Jane, with tears in her eyes.
"What says Nancy?" asked James.
"It is a serious proposal," said Nancy, "but it is good. I feel it so."
There was another deep silence; and James Cheshire said, "Then it is
decided."
"Think of it," said Jane, earnestly--"think well of it."
"I have thought of it long and well, my dear. There are some of these
chaps that call me relation that I shall not keep my hands off, if I
stay among them--and I fain would. But for the present I will say no
more; but," added he, rising and bringing a book from his desk, "here is
a book by one Morris Birkbeck--read it, both of you, and then let me
know your minds."
The sisters read. On the following Lady-day James Cheshire had turned
over his farm advantageously to another, and he, his wife, Nancy, and
the old servant, Mary Spendlove, all embarked at Liverpool, and
transferred themselves to the United States, and then to the State of
Illinois. Five-and-twenty years have rolled over since that day. We
could tell a long and curious story of the fortunes of James Cheshire
and his family--from the days when, half repenting of his emigration and
his purchase, he found himself in a rough country, amid rough and
spiteful squatters, and lay for months with a brace of pistols under his
pillow, and a great sword by his bedside for fear of robbery and murder.
But enough, that at this moment, James Cheshire, in a fine cultivated
country, sees his ample estate cultivated by his sons, while as colonel
and magistrate he dispenses the law and receives the respectful homage
of the neighborhood. Nancy Dunster, now styled Mrs. Dunster, the Mother
in Israel--the promoter of schools and the counselor of old and
young--still lives. Years have improved rather than deteriorated her
short and stout exterior. The long exercise of wise thoughts and the
play of benevolent feelings, have given even a sacred beauty to her
homely features. The dwarf has disappeared, and there remains instead, a
grave but venerable matron--honored like a queen.
MOORISH DOMESTIC LIFE.
At the threshold of the door, leading from the court-yard to the house,
the daughters of Sidi Mahmoud received us with cordial welcome. They are
two very beautiful girls. The eldest, who is about fourteen years of
age, particularly interested me. There is an expression in her soft,
intelligent, eyes which shows that she feels the oppression of
captivity. Her features are not those of a regular beauty; but the grace
which marks all her movements, the soul breathing animation which lights
up her countenance, and the alternate blush and pallor which overspread
her delicate cheek, seem to mark the fair Zuleica for a heroine of
romance.
While I gazed on her, I thought she looked like a personification of her
lovely namesake, the glorious creation of Byron's muse. Her beautiful
chestnut hair was unfortunately (in compliance with the custom of the
country) tinged with a reddish dye. It was combed to the nape of the
neck, and a red woolen band was closely twisted round it, so that the
most beautiful adornment of a female head was converted into a long,
stiff rouleau, which either dangled down her back, or was hidden in the
folds of her dress. On her head she wore a small, closely-fitting fez.
Her sister, a pretty, smiling girl of ten years of age, had her hair
arranged in the same manner, and she wore the same sort of fez. She was
wrapped in a shawl of a clear sea-green hue, which was draped round her
figure very gracefully, but entirely concealed her arms. Her full
trowsers of rose-colored calico descended nearly to her ankles. The
costume of the elder sister was marked by greater elegance. Her shawl
was dark red, but of less size and thinner texture than that worn by her
sister. After we had been a few minutes together, we became quite
familiar friends, and the young ladies permitted me to have a minute
inspection of their dresses. They conducted us to their drawing-room,
or, as they called it, their _salon_. This apartment, like all the rooms
in the house, is exceedingly small; and on my expressing some surprise
at its limited dimensions, the elder sister replied in her broken
French, "Mauresques pas tener salons pas jolies comme toi Francais;" by
which she meant to say that their houses or saloons are not so fine as
those of the Europeans; for they call all Europeans, indiscriminately,
French. There was but little furniture in the drawing-room.
Over the middle part of the floor was spread a very handsome Turkey
carpet; and along the sides of the apartment were laid several carpets
of various kinds and patterns. In one corner of the room there was a
looking-lass in a miserable-looking frame, and beside it a loaded
musket. Whether this weapon be destined for the defense of the elegant
mirror or of the lovely Zuleica, I pretend not to say.
Having observed a telescope fixed at the window, I expressed some
surprise. Zuleica, who converses very intelligibly in what she calls
_lingua franca_ (a jargon principally composed of French words),
informed me that this telescope constitutes her principal source of
amusement, and that she is almost continually occupied in looking
through it, to watch the arrival of her friends, and the movements of
the steamers in the harbor. The walls of the apartment were simply
whitewashed, and the window and doors were arched as a precaution
against accidents in the earthquakes so frequent in this country. The
only decorations on the walls were two little frames, containing
passages from the Koran.
Among the other articles of furniture contained in this apartment, I
must not omit to mention a small table, on which lay some sheets of
paper (having Arabic characters inscribed on them) a book, and an
inkstand.
When I entered the room, the young ladies brought a straw stool, and
requested me to sit down on it, while they themselves squatted on the
floor. A white muslin curtain hung over a doorway, which led to the
sleeping apartment of the father and mother. Nothing could be more plain
than the furniture of this apartment. Two small French iron bedsteads
indicated, it is true, great advancement in civilization; and between
these bedsteads a piece of carpet covered the rough red tiles with which
the floor was paved. There was neither washing-stand nor toilet-table;
but, indeed, the apartment was so small that there was no room for them.
I was next conducted to the boudoir, where coffee, pomegranates, melons,
and sweetmeats were served. To decline taking any thing that is offered
is regarded as an affront by the Mohammedans, so I was compelled to
receive in my bare hand an immensely large slice of some kind of sweet
cake, spread over with a thick jelly.
The collation being ended, the young ladies conducted me to their own
sleeping-room. Here we found a slave at work. She was a negress, for
whom I was told Sidi Mahmoud had paid 600 francs. I suppose this negress
saw something irresistibly droll in my appearance, for as soon as I
appeared she burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, and it was some
time ere she recovered her composure.
Little Zuleica very good-naturedly opened several trunks to gratify me
with the sight of some of her best dresses. She drew forth a number of
garments of various descriptions, all composed of rich and beautiful
materials. When I say that she had at least twenty elegant tunics of
silk or gauze, and several others richly embroidered with gold, I do not
overrate the number. I expressed my astonishment at the number and
variety of the garments, of which I imagined I had seen the last; but
Zuleica turned to me with an arch smile, which seemed to say she had a
still greater surprise in store for me. Then diving into the lowest
depths of one of the trunks, she drew forth a complete bridal costume.
It consisted of a robe or tunic of rich red damask silk, embroidered
with gold, a gold girdle, a splendid caftan, loose trowsers of silk,
and a vail of white gauze, several yards in length, and sprigged with
gold. I was also shown several valuable jeweled ornaments, destined to
be worn with this splendid costume.
Seeing the bridal dress thus ready prepared I conjectured that Zuleica
was betrothed, and I ventured to ask her when she was to be married. At
this question she blushed and looked confused; then, after a little
hesitation, she replied, "Quand trouver mari."...
Among Zuleica's ornaments were several set with splendid diamonds and
pearls. My hostess, after having examined and admired them, asked
whether the jewels were all real. Zuleica looked a little offended at
this question, and answered proudly, "Mauresques jamais tenir ce que
n'est pas vrai." We were greatly amused by the interest and curiosity
with which these Moorish girls examined every thing we wore, and even
asked the price of any article which particularly pleased them. No part
of my dress escaped the scrutinizing eyes of Zuleica. She was
particularly charmed with a small handkerchief I wore round my throat. I
took it off and, requested her to accept it as a token of my
remembrance.
The eldest sister had so engaged my attention that the younger one
appeared to think I had neglected her, and she timidly requested that,
as I had seen all Zuleica's beautiful things, I would look at some of
hers also. Accordingly, she began showing me her dolls, meanwhile
relating to me in her _lingua franca_ the history of each. These dolls
were attired in the costumes of Moorish ladies, and little Gumara
assured me that the dresses were all her own making. After I had admired
them, and complimented Gumara on her taste, she told me with an air of
mystery that she had yet one thing more to show. So saying, she produced
a doll with a huge black beard and fierce countenance, and dressed
completely in imitation of the Sultan. While I was engaged in admiring
it, Sidi Mahmoud entered. He had heard that I could speak Italian, and
he came to have a little conversation with me about Italy, a country
with which he is acquainted, and in which he has himself traveled much.
The father's unexpected appearance dismayed the young ladies, who
colored deeply while they endeavored to hide the miniature effigy of the
Sultan. I afterward learned that Zuleica and her sister are brought up
under such rigorous restraint, that even the possession of a doll in
male attire is a thing prohibited.--_Leaves from a Lady's Diary._
* * * * *
The works of men of genius alone, where great faults are united with
great beauties, afford proper matter for criticism. Genius is always
executive, bold, and daring; which at the same time that it commands
attention, is sure to provoke criticism. It is the regular, cold, and
timid composer who escapes censure and deserves praise.--_Sir Joshua
Reynolds._
[From Household Words.]
THE RAILWAY STATION.
They judge not well, who deem that once among us
A Spirit moved that now from earth has fled;
Who say that at the busy sounds which throng us,
Its shining wings forevermore have sped.
Not all the turmoil of the Age of Iron
Can scare that Spirit hence; like some sweet bird
That loud harsh voices in its cage environ,
It sings above them all, and will be heard!
Not, for the noise of axes or of hammers,
Will that sweet bird forsake her chosen nest;
Her warblings pierce through all those deafening clamors
But surer to their echoes in the breast.
And not the Past alone, with all its guerdon
Of twilight sounds and shadows, bids them rise;
But soft, above the noontide heat and burden
Of the stern present, float those melodies.
Not with the baron bold, the minstrel tender,
Not with the ringing sound of shield and lance,
Not with the Field of Gold in all its splendor,
Died out the generous flame of old Romance.
Still, on a nobler strife than tilt or tourney,
Rides forth the errant knight, with brow elate;
Still patient pilgrims take, in hope, their journey;
Still meek and cloistered spirits "stand and wait."
Still hath the living, moving world around us,
Its legends, fair with honor, bright with truth;
Still, as in tales that in our childhood bound us,
Love holds the fond traditions of its youth.
We need not linger o'er the fading traces
Of lost divinities; or seek to hold
Their serious converse 'mid Earth's green waste-places,
Or by her lonely fountains, as of old:
For, far remote from Nature's fair creations,
Within the busy mart, the crowded street,
With sudden, sweet, unlooked-for revelations
Of a bright presence we may chance to meet;
E'en _now_, beside a restless tide's commotion,
I stand and hear, in broken music, swell
Above the ebb and flow of Life's great ocean,
An under-song of greeting and farewell.
For here are meetings: moments that inherit
The hopes and wishes, that through months and years
Have held such anxious converse with the spirit,
That now its joy can only speak in tears;
And here are partings: hands that soon must sever,
Yet clasp the firmer; heart, that unto heart,
Was ne'er so closely bound before, nor ever
So near the other as when now they part;
And here Time holds his steady pace unbroken,
For all that crowds within his narrow scope;
For all the language, uttered and unspoken,
That will return when Memory comforts Hope!
One short and hurried moment, and forever
Flies, like a dream, its sweetness and its pain,
And, for the hearts that love, the hands that sever,
Who knows what meetings are in store again?
They who are left, unto their homes returning,
With musing step, trace o'er each by-gone scene;
And they upon their journey--doth no yearning,
No backward glance, revert to what hath been?
Yes! for awhile, perchance, a tear-drop starting,
Dims the bright scenes that greet the eye and mind;
But here--as ever in life's cup of parting--
Theirs is the bitterness who stay behind!
So in life's sternest, last farewell, may waken
A yearning thought, a backward glance be thrown
By them who leave: but oh! how blest the token,
To those who stay behind when THEY are gone!
THE SICK MAN'S PRAYER
Come, soft sleep!
Bid thy balm my hot eyes meet--
Of the long night's heavy stillness,
Of the loud clock's ceaseless beat,
Of the weary thought of illness,
Of the room's oppressive heat--
Steep me in oblivion deep,
That my weary, weary brain,
May have rest from all its pain;
Come, oh blessedness again,--
Come, soft sleep!
Come, soft sleep!
Let this weary tossing end,
Let my anguished watch be ceasing,
Yet no dreams thy steps attend,
When thou bring'st from pain releasing.
Fancies wild to rest may lend
Sense of waking misery deep,
Calm as death, oh, on me sink,
That my brain may quiet drink,
And neither feel, nor know, nor think.
Come, soft sleep!
W. C. BENNETT.
[From the Autobiography of Leigh Hunt, unpublished.]
SOPHISTRY OF ANGLERS.--IZAAK WALTON.
Many brave and good men have been anglers, as well as many men of a
different description; but their goodness would have been complete, and
their bravery of a more generous sort, had they possessed self-denial
enough to look the argument in the face, and abstained from procuring
themselves pleasure at the expense of a needless infliction. The charge
is not answered by the favorite retorts about effeminacy, God's
providence, neighbors' faults, and doing "no worse." They are simple
beggings of the question. I am not aware that anglers, or sportsmen in
general, are braver than the ordinary run of mankind. Sure I am that a
great fuss is made if they hurt their fingers; much more if they lie
gasping, like fish, on the ground. I am equally sure that many a man who
would not hurt a fly is as brave as they are; and as to the reference to
God's providence, it is an edge-tool that might have been turned against
themselves by any body who chose to pitch them into the river, or knock
out their brains. They may lament, if they please, that they should be
forced to think of pain and evil at all; but the lamentation would not
be very magnanimous under any circumstances; and it is idle, considering
that the manifest ordination and progress of things demand that such
thoughts be encountered. The question still returns: Why do they seek
amusement in sufferings which are unnecessary and avoidable? and till
they honestly and thoroughly answer this question, they must be content
to be looked upon as disingenuous reasoners, who are determined to
retain a selfish pleasure.
As to old Izaak Walton, who is put forward as a substitute for argument
on this question, and whose sole merits consisted in his having a taste
for nature and his being a respectable citizen, the trumping him up into
an authority and a kind of saint is a burlesque. He was a writer of
conventionalities; who, having comfortably feathered his nest, as he
thought, both in this world and in the world to come, concluded he had
nothing more to do than to amuse himself by putting worms on a hook, and
fish into his stomach, and so go to heaven, chuckling and singing
psalms. There would be something in such a man and in his book,
offensive to a real piety, if that piety did not regard whatever has
happened in the world, great and small, with an eye that makes the best
of what is perplexing, and trusts to eventual good out of the worst.
Walton was not the hearty and thorough advocate of nature he is supposed
to have been. There would have been something to say for him on that
score, had he looked upon the sum of evil as a thing not to be
diminished. But he shared the opinions of the most commonplace
believers in sin and trouble, and only congratulated himself on being
exempt from their consequences. The overweening old man found himself
comfortably off somehow; and it is good that he did. It is a comfort to
all of us, wise or foolish. But to reverence him is a jest. You might as
well make a god of an otter. Mr. Wordsworth, because of the servitor
manners of Walton and his biographies of divines (all _anglers_), wrote
an idle line about his "meekness" and his "heavenly memory." When this
is quoted by the gentle brethren, it will be as well if they add to it
another passage from the same poet, which returns to the only point at
issue, and upsets the old gentleman altogether Mr. Wordsworth's
admonition to us is,
"Never to link our pastime, or our pride,
With suffering to the meanest thing that lives."
It was formerly thought effeminate not to hunt Jews; then not to roast
heretics; then not to bait bears and bulls; then not to fight cocks, and
to throw sticks at them. All these evidences of manhood became gradually
looked upon as no such evidences at all, but things fit only for manhood
to renounce; yet the battles of Waterloo and of Sobraon have been won,
and Englishmen are not a jot the less brave all over the world. Probably
they are braver, that is to say, more deliberately brave, more serenely
valiant; also more merciful to the helpless, and that is the crown of
valor.
It was during my infancy, if I am not mistaken, that there lived at
Hampstead (a very unfit place for such a resident), a man whose name I
suppress lest there should be possessors of it surviving, and who was a
famous cock-fighter. He was rich and idle, and therefore had no bounds
to set to the unhappy passions that raged within him. It is related of
this man, that, having lost a bet on a favorite bird, he tied the noble
animal to a spit in his kitchen before the fire, and notwithstanding the
screams of the sufferer and the indignant cries of the beholders, whose
interference he wildly resisted with the poker, actually persisted in
keeping it there burning, till he fell down in his fury and died.
Let us hope he was mad. What, indeed, is more probable? It is always a
great good, when the crimes of a fellow-creature can be traced to
madness; to some fault of the temperament or organization; some "jangle
of the sweet bells;" some overbalance in the desired equipoise of the
faculties, originating, perhaps in accident or misfortune. It does not
subject us the more to their results. On the contrary, it sets us on our
guard against them. And, meantime, it diminishes one of the saddest,
most injurious, and most preposterous notions of human ignorance--the
belief in the wickedness of our kind.
But I have said enough of these barbarous customs.
[From Household Words.]
GLOBES, AND HOW THEY ARE MADE.
One of the most remarkable of self-educated men, James Ferguson, when a
poor agricultural laborer, constructed a globe. A friend had made him a
present of "Gordon's Geographical Grammar," which, he says, "at that
time was to me a great treasure. There is no figure of a globe in it,
although it contains a tolerable description of the globes and their
use. From this description I made a globe in three weeks, at my
father's, having turned the ball thereof out of a piece of wood; which
ball I covered with paper, and delineated a map of the world upon it,
made the meridian ring and horizon of wood, covered them with paper, and
graduated them; and was happy to find that by my globe (which was the
first I ever saw) I could solve the problems."
"But," he adds, "this was not likely to afford me bread."
In a few years this ingenious man discovered the conditions upon which
he could earn his bread, by a skill which did not suffer under the
competition of united labor. He had made also a wooden clock. He carried
about his globe and his clock, and "began to pick up some money about
the country" by cleaning clocks. He became a skilled clock-cleaner. For
six-and-twenty years afterward he earned his bread as an artist. He then
became a scientific lecturer, and in connection with his pursuits, was
also a globe maker. His name may be seen upon old globes, associated
with that of Senex. The demand for globes must have been then very
small, but Ferguson had learned that cheapness is produced by
labor-saving contrivances. A pretty instrument for graduating lines upon
the meridian ring, once belonging to Ferguson, is in use at this hour in
the manufactory of Messrs. Malby and Son. The poor lad "who made a globe
in three weeks" finally won the honors and riches that were due to his
genius and industry. But he would never have earned a living in the
continuance of his first attempt to turn a ball out of a piece of wood,
cover it with paper, and draw a map of the world upon it. The nicest
application of his individual skill, and the most careful employment of
his scientific knowledge, would have been wasted upon those portions of
the work in which the continued application of common routine labor is
the most efficient instrument of production.
Let us contrast the successive steps of Ferguson's first experiment in
globe-making with the processes of a globe manufactory.
A globe is not made of "a ball turned out of a piece of wood." If a
solid ball of large dimensions were so turned, it would be too heavy for
ordinary use. Erasmus said of one of the books of Thomas Aquinas, "No
man can carry it about, much less get it into his head;" and so would it
be said of a solid globe. If it were made of hollow wood, it would warp
and split at the junction of its parts. A globe is made of paper and
plaster. It is a beautiful combination of solidity and lightness. It is
perfectly balanced upon its axis. It retains its form under every
variety of temperature. Time affects it less than most other works of
art. It is as durable as a Scagliola column.
A globe may not, at first sight, appear a cheap production. It is not,
of necessity, a low-priced production, and yet it is essentially cheap;
for nearly all the principles of manufacture that are conditions of
cheapness are exhibited in the various stages of its construction. There
are only four globe-makers in England, and one in Scotland. The annual
sale of globes is only about a thousand pair. The price of a pair of
globes varies from six shillings to fifty pounds. But from the smallest
2-inch, to the largest 36-inch globe, a systematic process is carried on
at every step of its formation. We select this illustration of cheapness
as a contrast, in relation to price and extent of demand, to the lucifer
match. But it is, at the same time, a parallel in principle. If a globe
were not made upon a principle involving the scientific combination of
skilled labor, it would be a mere article of luxury from its excessive
costliness. It is now a most useful instrument in education. For
educational purposes the most inexpensive globe is as valuable as that
of the highest price. All that properly belongs to the excellence of the
instrument is found in combination with the commonest stained wood
frame, as perfectly as with the most highly-finished frame of rose-wood
or mahogany.
The mould, if we may so express it, of a globe is turned out of a piece
of wood. This sphere need not be mathematically accurate. It is for
rough work, and flaws and cracks are of little consequence. This wooden
ball has an axis, a piece of iron wire at each pole. And here we may
remark, that, at every stage of the process, the revolution of a sphere
upon its axis, under the hands of the workman, is the one great
principle which renders every operation one of comparative ease and
simplicity. The labor would be enormously multiplied if the same class
of operations had to be performed upon a cube. The solid mould, then, of
the embryo globe is placed on its axis in a wooden frame. In a very
short time a boy will form a pasteboard globe upon its surface. He first
covers it entirely with strips of strong paper, thoroughly wet, which
are in a tub of water at his side. The slight inequalities produced by
the overlapping of the strips are immaterial. The saturated paper is not
suffered to dry; but is immediately covered over with a layer of pasted
paper, also cut in long narrow slips. A third layer of similarly pasted
paper--brown paper and white being used alternately--is applied, and
then, a fourth, a fifth, and a sixth. Here the pasting process ends for
globes of moderate size. For the large ones it is carried farther. This
wet pasteboard ball has now to be dried--placed upon its axis in a rack.
If we were determined to follow the progress of this individual ball
through all its stages, we should have to wait a fortnight before it
advanced another step. But as the large factory of Messrs. Malby and Son
has many scores of globes all rolling onward to perfection, we shall be
quite satisfied to witness the next operation performed upon a
pasteboard sphere that began to exist some weeks earlier, and is now
hard to the core.
The wooden ball, with its solid paper covering, is placed on its axis. A
sharp cutting instrument, fixed on a bench, is brought into contact with
the surface of the sphere, which is made to revolve. In less time than
we write, the pasteboard ball is cut in half. There is no adhesion to
the wooden mould, for the first coating of paper was simply _wetted_.
Two bowls of thick card now lie before us, with a small hole in each,
made by the axis of the wooden ball. But a junction is very soon
effected. Within every globe there is a piece of wood--we may liken it
to a round ruler--of the exact length of the inner surface of the sphere
from pole to pole. A thick wire runs through this wood, and originally
projected some two or three inches at each end. This stick is placed
upright in a vice. The semi-globe is nailed to one end of the stick,
upon which it rests, when the wire is passed through its center. It is
now reversed, and the edges of the card rapidly covered with glue. The
edges of the other semi-globe are instantly brought into contact, the
other end of the wire passing through its center in the same way, and a
similar nailing to the stick taking place. We have now a paper globe,
with its own axis, which will be its companion for the whole term of its
existence.
The paper globe is next placed on its axis in a frame, of which one side
is a semi-circular piece of metal; the horizon of a globe cut in half
would show its form. A tub of white composition--a compound of whiting,
glue, and oil is on the bench. The workman dips his hand into this
"gruel thick and slab," and rapidly applies it to the paper sphere with
tolerable evenness: but, as it revolves, the semi-circle of metal clears
off the superfluous portions. The ball of paper is now a ball of plaster
externally. Time again enters largely into the manufacture. The first
coating must thoroughly dry before the next is applied; and so again
till the process has been repeated four or five times. Thus, when we
visit a globe workshop, we are at first surprised at the number of white
balls, from three inches' diameter to three feet, which occupy a large
space. They are all steadily advancing toward completion. They can not
be hurriedly dried. The duration of their quiescent state must depend
upon the degrees of the thermometer in the ordinary atmosphere. They
cost little. They consume nothing beyond a small amount of rent. As they
advance to the dignity of perfect spheres, increased pains are taken in
the application of the plaster. At last they are polished. Their surface
is as hard and as fine as ivory. But, beautiful as they are, they may,
like many other beautiful things, want a due equipoise. They must be
perfectly balanced. They must move upon their poles with the utmost
exactness. A few shot, let in here and there, correct all
irregularities. And now the paper and plaster sphere is to be endued
with intelligence.
What may be called the artistical portion of globe-making here
commences. In the manufactory we are describing there are two skilled
workers, who may take their rank as artists, but whose skill is limited,
and at the same time perfected, by the uniformity of their operations.
One of these artists, a young woman, who has been familiar with the
business from her earliest years, takes the polished globe in her lap,
for the purpose of marking it with lines of direction for covering it
with engraved strips, which will ultimately form a perfect map. The
inspection of a finished globe will show that the larger divisions of
longitude are expressed by lines drawn from pole to pole, and those of
latitude by a series of concentric rings. The polished plaster has to be
covered with similar lines. These lines are struck with great rapidity,
and with mathematical truth, by an instrument called a "beam compass,"
in the use of which this workwoman is most expert. The sphere is now
ready for receiving the map, which is engraved in fourteen distinct
pieces. The arctic and antarctic poles form two circular pieces, from
which the lines of longitude radiate. These having been fitted and
pasted, one of the remaining twelve pieces, containing 30 degrees, is
also pasted on the sphere, in the precise space where the lines of
longitude have been previously marked its lines of latitude
corresponding in a similar manner. The paper upon which these portions
of the earth's surface are engraved is thin and extremely tough. It is
rubbed down with the greatest care, through all the stages of this
pasting process. We have at length a globe covered with a plain map, so
perfectly joined that every line and every letter fit together as if
they had been engraved in one piece--which, of course, would be
absolutely impossible for the purpose of covering a ball.
The artist who thus covers the globe, called a paster, is also a
colorer. This is, of necessity, a work which can not be carried on with
any division of labor. It is not so with the coloring of an atlas. A map
passes under many hands in the coloring. A series of children, each
using one color, produce in combination a map colored in all its parts,
with the rapidity and precision of a machine. But a globe must be
colored by one hand. It is curious to observe the colorer working
without a pattern. By long experience the artist knows how the various
boundaries are to be defined, with pink continents, and blue islands,
and the green oceans, connecting the most distant regions. To a
contemplative mind, how many thoughts must go along with the work, as he
covers Europe with indications of populous cities, and has little to do
with Africa and Australia but to mark the coast lines; as year after
year he has to make some variation in the features of the great
American continent, which indicates the march of the human family over
once trackless deserts, while the memorable places of the ancient world
undergo few changes but those of name. And then, as he is finishing a
globe for the cabin of some "great ammirall," may he not think that, in
some frozen nook of the Arctic Sea, the friendly Esquimaux may come to
gaze upon his work, and seeing how petty a spot England is upon the
ball, wonder what illimitable riches nature spontaneously produces in
that favored region, some of which is periodically scattered by her
ships through those dreary climes in the search for some unknown road
amidst everlasting icebergs, while he would gladly find a short track to
the sunny south. And then, perhaps, higher thoughts may come into his
mind; and as this toy of a world grows under his fingers, and as he
twists it around upon its material axis, he may think of the great
artificer of the universe, having the feeling, if not knowing the words
of the poet:
"In ambient air this ponderous ball HE hung."
Contemplative, or not, the colorer steadily pursues his uniform labor,
and the sphere is at length fully colored.
The globe has now to be varnished with a preparation technically known
as "white hard," to which some softening matter is added to prevent the
varnish cracking. This is a secret which globe-makers preserve. Four
coats of varnish complete the work.
And next the ball has to be mounted. We have already mentioned an
instrument by which the brass meridian ring is accurately graduated;
that is, marked with lines representing 360 degrees, with corresponding
numerals. Of whatever size the ring is, an index-hand, connected with
the graduating instrument, shows the exact spot where the degree is to
be marked with a graver. The operation is comparatively rapid; but for
the largest globes it involves considerable expense. After great
trouble, the ingenious men whose manufactory we are describing, have
succeeded in producing cast-iron rings, with the degrees and figures
perfectly distinct; and these applied to 36-inch globes, instead of the
engraved meridians, make a difference of ten guineas in their price. For
furniture they are not so beautiful; for use they are quite as valuable.
There is only one other process which requires great nicety. The axis of
the globe revolves on the meridian ring, and of course it is absolutely
necessary that the poles should be exactly parallel. This is effected by
a little machine which drills each extremity at one and the same
instant; and the operation is termed poleing the meridian.
The mounting of the globe--the completion of a pair of globes--is now
handed over to the cabinet-maker. The cost of the material and the
elaboration of its workmanship determine the price.
Before we conclude, we would say a few words as to the limited nature
of the demand for globes. Our imperfect description of this manufacture
will have shown that experience, and constant application of ingenuity,
have succeeded in reducing to the lowest amount the labor employed in
the production of globes. The whole population of English globe-makers
does not exceed thirty or forty men, women, and boys. Globes are thus
produced at the lowest rate of cheapness, as regards the number of
laborers, and with very moderate profits to the manufacturer, on account
of the smallness of his returns. The _durability_ of globes is one great
cause of the limitation of the demand. Changes of fashion, or caprices
of taste, as to the mounting, new geographical discoveries, and modern
information as to the position and nomenclature of the stars, may
displace a few old globes annually, which then find their way from
brokers' shops into a class somewhat below that of their original
purchasers. But the pair of globes generally maintain for years their
original position in the school-room or the library. They are rarely
injured, and suffer very slight decay. The new purchasers represent that
portion of society which is seeking after knowledge, or desires to
manifest some pretension to intellectual tastes. The number of globes
annually sold represents to a certain extent the advance of education.
But if the labor-saving expedients did not exist in the manufacture the
cost would be much higher, and the purchasers greatly reduced in number.
The contrivances by which comparative cheapness is produced arise out of
the necessity of contending against the durability of the article by
encouraging a new demand. If these did not exist, the supply would
outrun the demand; the price of the article would less and less repay
the labor expended in its production; the manufacture of globes would
cease till the old globes were worn out, and the few rich and scientific
purchasers had again raised up a market.
* * * * *
THE BODY.--Among the strange compliments which superstition pays to the
Creator, is a scorn and contempt for the fleshy investiture which he has
bestowed on us, at least among Christians; for the Pagans were far more
pious in this respect; and Mohammed agreed with them in doing justice to
the beauty and dignity of the human frame. It is quite edifying, in the
Arabian Nights, to read the thanks that are so often and so rapturously
given to the Supreme Being for his bestowal of such charms on his
creatures. Nor was a greater than Mahomet of a nature to undervalue the
earthly temples of gentle and loving spirits. Ascetic mistakes have ever
originated in want of heartiness or of heart; in consciousness of
defect, or vulgarity of nature, or in spiritual pride. A well-balanced
body and soul never, we may be sure, gave way to it. What an
extraordinary flattery of the Deity to say, "Lord! I thank thee for this
jewel of a soul which I possess; but what a miserable casket thou hast
given me to put it in!"--_Leigh Hunt._
[From The Ladies' Companion]
LETTICE ARNOLD.
By the Author of "TWO OLD MEN'S TALES," "EMILIA WYNDHAM," &c.
[_Continued from page 35._]