Now, it don't matter a bit what sort of clay a pot's made of, if when
it's been tried in the fire it turns out sound and rings well when it's
struck. If I'm only common red ware, without even a bit of glaze on me,
and yet answer the purpose well for which I'm made, why I'm a good pot,
ain't I, even if I only hold water? But what I hate is this--to see the
pots that we come against every day of our lives all on the grumble and
murmur system, and never satisfied. The pot of common clay wishes he
was glazed, and the glazed pot wishes he was blue crockery, and the blue
crock pot wishes he was gilt, and the gilt pot ain't satisfied because
he ain't china; and one and all are regularly blind to the good they
have themselves, and think their neighbours have all the pleasures of
this world. They're so blind that they can't see the flaws in some of
the china. "Oh! if I had only been that beautiful vase!" says the
common yellow basin that the missus washes the tea-things up in--"Oh! if
I had only been that beautiful vase!" says the basin, alluding to a
piece of china as stands on our mantel-piece--a vase that I picked up
cheap at a sale. Why, the jolly old useful basin can't see the cracks,
and flaws, and chips in our aristocratic friend; he can't see the
vein-like marks, where he has been put together with diamond cement, nor
that half-dozen brass rivets let into him with plaster of Paris. There,
go to, brother yellow basin; and look alive, and learn that old saying
about all not being gold that glitters. Aristocratic china is very
pretty to look at--very ornamental; but if we put some hot water into
the mended vase, and tried to wash up in it, where would it be, eh?
Tell me that; while you, brother yellow basin, can bear any amount of
hard or hot usage; and then, after a wipe out, stand on your side, dry,
and with the consciousness of being of some use in this world; while the
bit of china--well, it is werry pretty to look at, certainly. It's
werry nice to look at your heavy swell--the idle man of large means, who
gives the whole of his mind to his tie or his looking-glass; the man
with such beautiful whiskers, and such nice white hands; and when you've
done looking at him you can say he's werry ornamental, werry chinaish,
but he ain't much good after all. But there; instead of grumbling about
having to work for your living, just thank God for it. Look at your
dirty, black, horny fists: stretch 'em out and feel proud of them, and
then moisten 'em, and lay hold of whatever tool you work with, and go at
it with the thought strong on you that man had mind, hands, and power
given him to work with; and though toil be hard sometimes, why, the rest
after 's all the sweeter; while over even such poor fare as bread and
cheese and an onion there's greater relish and enjoyment than the china
vase gets over his _entrees_, which often want spice and
_sauce-piquante_ to help them down. Man wasn't meant to be only
ornamental; so don't grumble any more about being a yellow basin.
But don't mistake me in what I mean; don't think I turn up my nose at
china: it's right enough in it's way, and at times vastly superior to
your common crockery. I honour and feel proud of the china pots which,
having no occasion to work, throw aside idleness, and with the
advantages of power and position, work, and work hard--work with their
heads, and do great things--men who live not to eat, but eat to live and
benefit their fellows in some way. Don't mistake my meaning, for I
don't want to make a man look with contempt on those above him; but
learn to see how that, whatever his position in life, he can do some
good, and that he is of service; and above all things, learn to see that
your yellow basin--your working man--is of quite as much value in this
world of ours as the china ornaments of society, whose aim and end is
often to--there I'm almost ashamed to say it--to kill time.
"Thou saidst they was good crows, Tommy; and they was nobbut booblins,"
says the old Lincolnshire man who wanted a rook pie, and bought his
rooks without seeing them, when they proved poor half-fledged birds; and
what lots of us believes what others say,--takes things for granted; and
after all only gets "booblins" for our dinner. If men would only judge
for themselves--look before they leap--turn the china ornament up and
look at the cracks and rivets, or, even if it is sound, consider how
frail, fragile, and useless it is--they would be a little more satisfied
with their own lot in life, and not be so given to grumbling. Things
are precious hard sometimes, but that's no reason why we should make
them harder by our own folly. We see and know enough of the misery of
our great towns, and I mean to say that we have ourselves to thank for a
good--no, I mean a bad--half of it. Now, just take away--I wish we
could--just take away out of London all the dirt, all the drunkenness,
and all the other vice, and how do you think it would look then, eh?
You can't tell me; but I can tell you something: it would ruin half the
doctors, half the undertakers, and three parts of the brewers, and
gin-spinners, and publicans; and that being rather a strong dose for any
man to digest at one sitting, I'll let you think it over without putting
any more on that subject. I won't go on preaching about the everlasting
pipe that men make a common tunnel or chimney to carry off all the sense
in their heads through the abuse of tobacco; nor yet say anything about
drowning the good feelings of his heart by the abuse of beer; for I want
to get to the way in which yellow basins get jarring together, as if
they were never happy till the fresh one that comes amongst them is
cracked, and on the way to join the rest of the potsherds over whose
dust we walk during our journey of life.
I want to talk about "paying your footing;" for there was a paragraph in
a paper only a few days ago that brought up a good many old thoughts on
old subjects. Now, this paragraph gave an account of a poor chap--at
Sheffield, I think--being ill-used by his fellow-workmen for not paying
his footing.
Now, I'll just ask any decent, honest, hard-working man, whether he can
imagine anything that comes nearer to dead robbery than making a poor
fellow, just took on at any trade, pull out perhaps his last coin to
find beer for a pack of thoughtless fellows who don't want it, and who
would be better without it. I've opened my mouth on this subject
before, but it will bear touching again; for I think it a disgrace to
the British workman to keep up such dirty, mean old practices. I'm not
preaching total abstinence or anything of the kind; let every man take
his own road. I for one love a good glass of ale at proper time and
place; but sooner than drink at the expense of a poor, hard-up
fellow-worker, I'd drink water to the death.
I've seen it all again and again--in busy London, and in the sweet
country, where you can draw a hearty breath laden with vigour between
every stroke of hammer, or trowel, or brush--and I say that the sooner
the custom is kicked out of the workshop the better. If it must be kept
up, and men won't turn it out, why, then, let them put the boot on the
other foot, and treat the new comer.
Nice young fellow comes into our shop once, fresh out of the country.
Times had been very flat, and he looked terribly seedy. He'd come out
of one of your little offices where a man's printer, and bookbinder, and
all; and he was one of your fellows as would take a book, paste end
leaves on, and then leather away with a twelve-pound hammer at the
beating stone till the impression was all gone, and it was solid as a
board, take and nip it in the press, then sew the back, fit up his bands
in the sewing frame, and stitch the whole book; end leaves again, and a
bit o' paste in your first section; then glue your back, round him,
ravel out your bands, lace on your boards, and then sharpen up the
plough-knife, and cut all the edges smooth as glass; sprinkle or marble,
red edge or gilt and burnish--what you will; and then, how's it to be,
cloth? Well, then, cut out, and glue on. Half-calf? Cut up your
leather, pare and trim your corners and back bit; and then, when the
open cartridge paper back is dry, and the head bands firm, pop on your
leather, then again your marble paper; paste down the end leaves; nip
the book in the plough press, and there you are, ready for gilding the
back and lettering to taste; or you may paste down your end leaves when
you've done.
But that ain't our way in town; ours is mostly cheap publication work,
done in fancy cloth; and a country hand might well feel strange to see
gals doing all the folding and stitching; one set of men at the
glue-pot, another set trimming edges with a great carving-knife, another
set rounding backs, another set cutting millboards, others making the
fancy cloth covers, others lettering and gilding with a machine, and so
on--division of labour, you know--when there the books are, stacks of
them--big stacks too; while if it wasn't for this scheming and working
the oracle the binding would never be done.
Well, this young fellow was working aside me; and he was put on at the
trimming--which is the cutting the edges of new books to be bound in
cloth; for if they were pressed too hard the ink would set off on to the
opposite sides; while this being considered as only the first binding
till they get thoroughly dry, only the front and bottom of the book is
cut. You do the rest with your paper-knives. Well, we're paid
piecework--fair money, you know--so much a dozen or score, so that a man
has what he earns; and with my hands all corny and hard, I was letting
go at a good rate, while my poor mate aside me was fresh at that work,
and doing precious little good beyond blistering his hands and making
his fingers sore; and I could see with half an eye as his bill would
only be a small one o' Saturday.
Now, the rule in most shops in London is, take care of yourself, and let
others look out o' their own side; but I never found myself any the
worse off for helping a lame dog over a stile: so I kept on giving my
mate a lift in the shape of a word here or there, so that he got on a
little better, but very slowly; for a man can't fall into the knack of
it all at once. But he'd a good heart, and that "will do it" sorter
stuff that makes men get on in the world and rise above their fellows;
and he stuck at it till I saw him tear a strip off his handkerchief and
bind it round his chafed finger, so that the blood shouldn't soil the
books; and though he didn't say much, I could see by his looks as he
thanked me.
Towards afternoon, while the foreman was out of the way, one of the men
comes up for this new chap's footing; and being a big shop, where good
wages were made, it was five shillings. I didn't take much notice, for
it warn't my business; but I saw the young fellow colour up and
hesitate, and stammer, as he says,--
"You must let me off till wages are paid;" but my gentleman begins to
bluster, and he says,--
"That comes o' working aside Tom Hodson, a scaly humbug as never paid
his own footings; but we ain't a-going to stand any more o' that sort o'
thing; and if you can't come the reg'lar, you'll soon find the place too
hot to hold you."
I felt as if I should have liked to give my man one for his nob, but
went on with my work; and after a bit more rowing, they left the young
chap alone; for I could see how the wind lay--he hadn't got the money,
and no wonder; but all that afternoon and next morning the chaps were
pitching sneers and jeers about from one to another; about the workus,
and a lot more of it, till, being quite a young chap, I could see more
than once the tears in his eyes. Everybody cut him, and when he asked a
civil question no one would answer; and after tea the second night, when
I got back, there was a regular chorus of laughter, for the young chap
was standing red and angry by his lot of books, where some one had been
shying a lot o' dirty water over them, so as would spoil perhaps four
shillings' worth of sheets, and get the poor chap into a row as well as
having to pay for them.
Now, when we went to tea that night, I'd on the quiet asked him how he
stood, and lent him the money, thinking it would be better paid, for
they'd always have had a spite against him else; and now seeing this I
felt quite mad and spoke up:--
"Looks like one of that cowardly hound Bill Smith's tricks," I says; and
Bill, being a great hairy, six-foot-two fellow, puts on the bully, and
comes across the shop to me as if he was going to punch my head.
"If you can't pay _your_ footing," he says to me, "don't think as we're
a-goin' to take it in mouth; so just shut up," he says, "and mind your
own business;" and then, afore I knew what was up, that slight little
fellow with cheeks flaming, and eyes flashing, had got hold of Bill, big
as he was, and with his fingers inside his handkerchief, shook away at
him like a terrier does a rat--shook him till his teeth chattered; and
the great cowardly bounceable chap roared for mercy, and at last went
down upon his knees, while, with his teeth set, that young fellow shook
him till the whole shop roared again with laughter.
"Give it him, little 'un," says one; "Stick to him, young 'un," says
another; while big Bill Smith looked as if he was being murdered, till
the young chap sent him over against a plough-tub, where he knocked
against a glue-kettle, and the half-warm stuff came trickling over his
doughy white face, and he lay afraid to move.
"There's your beggarly footing," says the young chap, shying down two
half-crowns on the big bench; and then, without another word, he walked
to his place and tried to go on with his work.
I never did see a set of men look more foolish in my life than ours did
that night; and first one and then another slipped into his work, till
all were busy; while them two half-crowns lay on the table winking and
shining in the gaslight, and not a man had the face to come forward to
pick them up and send for the beer.
Last of all, it was getting towards seven, when, now quite cool, the
young chap beckons one of the boys and sends him out for two gallons and
a half of sixpenny; and when it came, goes himself and pours for the
whole shop, even offering the pot to Bill Smith; but he wouldn't take
it, but growled out something, when the whole shop laughed at him again,
and the rest of that evening he got chaffed awfully.
Next morning I'd been thinking how to get some fresh sheets stitched in
the young chap's books, so as to be as little expense as possible, and
when I got to the shop he was there looking at his heap, when I found
that though working men do wrong sometimes, there's the real English
grit in them; and here, before we came, if the chaps hadn't walked off
the damaged copies, shared them amongst 'em, and put fresh ones from
their own heaps, so as it never cost my young mate a shilling.
But it's a bad system, men. Have your beer if you like, but don't ask a
poor hard-up fellow to rob self, wife, and child to pay his footing.