Chapter L: M. C (2)

Bernard Palissy was born in one of the southwestern districts of France, in 1509; more than three hundred and fifty years ago, and more than a century before our forefathers landed on Plymouth Rock. The art of making colored glass, and of painting on glass, had been for centuries in great requisition, for the windows of castles and cathedrals. It was considered an occupation so honorable, that poor nobles sometimes resorted to it without losing caste; though the prejudices concerning rank were at that time very strong. The manufacture was generally carried on in the depths of forests, partly for the convenience of gathering fuel for the furnaces, and partly to avoid the danger of fire in towns. Around these manufactories the workmen erected their cabins, and night and day the red flames of the furnaces lighted up trees and shrubbery with a lurid glow. It is supposed that Bernard was born and reared in one of these hamlets, secluded from the world. The immense forests furnished a vast amount of chestnuts, which constituted the principal food of the peasantry. Constant labor in the open air, combined with this extreme simplicity of diet, formed healthy, vigorous men, free-hearted, simple, and brave. Whether Bernard’s father, who is supposed to have been a modeller of glass, was a decayed gentleman, or simply a peasant, is not known. Bernard, by some means, learned to read and write, which was not an ordinary accomplishment at that period. He also had a great talent for drawing, which he improved, either by practice or instruction. In other respects his education was simply that of the peasantry around him. In his own account of his early days he says, “I had no other books than heaven and earth, which are open to all.” These volumes, however, he studied with lively interest and the closest observation. He took notice of the growth of plants and the habits of animals. He soon began to paint on paper the likenesses of birds, lizards, and trees. As his skill increased, he made portraits of his mother and the neighbors, and landscapes containing the houses they lived in. The preparation of colors for glass early awakened an interest in chemical combinations; but there were then no books on the subject, and he could only increase his stock of knowledge by repeated experiments. His skill in drawing enabled him to produce a variety of new patterns for glass-work, and this, combined with his knowledge of colors, rendered his services much more important than those of a common workman. But the once profitable business was now in its decline. People began to find out that the exclusion of sunshine was unwholesome, and that the obstruction of light rendered their dwellings gloomy. Moreover, windows in those days, being opened on hinges, were much more exposed to be shattered by storms. To repair stained or painted glass was an expensive process; and in order to avoid the frequent necessity of it, people fastened their windows into the wall, so that they could not be opened. This excluded air, as well as light and sun-warmth; and gradually colored windows fell into disuse.

Bernard’s father was poor, and the profits of his business were too scanty to yield a comfortable support for his family. Therefore, the young man, when he was eighteen years old, strapped a scantily filled wallet upon his shoulders, and marched forth into the world to seek his fortune. Francis I. and Charles V. were then devastating half Europe by their wars, and the highways were filled with military adventurers and crippled soldiers. From these the young traveller obtained his first glimpses of the violence and intrigues going on in the world beyond his native forests.

He was also overtaken by a travelling cloth-merchant, who told him of many new things. In order to dignify his own calling, he enumerated many great men who had been employed in trade. Among others, he mentioned a renowned Athenian, called “the divine Plato,” by reason of the excellence of his wisdom, who had sold olive-oil in Egypt, to defray the expenses of travelling there. “I never heard of Plato,” said Bernard. “O, you are a wild bird from the forest,” replied the trader; “you can only pipe as you have been taught by nature. But I advise you to make acquaintance with books. Our King Francis is now doing so much to encourage the arts and sciences, that every artisan can become wise, if he makes good use of his leisure. Our shops may now be our schools.” “Then I should wish the whole world to be my shop,” rejoined Bernard. “I feel that earth and air are full of mysteries and wonders; full of the sublime wisdom of God.”

So he wandered on, reading, as he had done from childhood, in “the book of earth and heaven, which is open to all.”

“For Nature, the old nurse, took
The child upon her knee,
Saying, ‘Here is a story-book
Thy Father has written for thee.’

“‘Come, wander with me,’ she said,
‘Into regions yet untrod;
And read what is still unread
In the manuscripts of God.’

“And he wandered away and away,
With Nature, the dear old nurse,
Who sang to him night and day
The rhymes of the universe.”

If lizards were basking in the sunshine, he stopped to admire their gliding motions, and prismatic changes of color. If he found a half-covered snail among the wet mosses, he lingered till he ascertained that it was gradually making a new shell from its own saliva. If a stone was curious in form or shape, he picked it up and put it in his wallet; and oftentimes he would crack them, to discover their interior structure. Every new flower and seed attracted his attention, and excited wonder at the marvellous varieties of Nature. These things are hinted at all through his writings. He says: “In walking under the fruit-trees, I received a great contentment and many joyous pleasures; for I saw the squirrels gathering the fruits, and leaping from branch to branch, with many pretty looks and gestures. I saw nuts gathered by the rooks, who rejoiced in taking their repast, dining on the said nuts. Under the apple-trees, I found hedgehogs, that rolled themselves into a round form, and, thrusting out their sharp quills, they rolled over the apples, which stuck on the points, and so they went burdened. These things have made me such a lover of the fields, that it seems to me there are no treasures in the world so precious as the little branches of trees and plants. I hold them in more esteem than mines of gold and silver.” This loving communion with Nature was not mere idle dreaming. Always he was drawing inferences from what he saw, and curiously inquiring into the causes of things.

He supported himself by painting glass, and sketching portraits. He says, in his modest way, “They thought me a better painter than I was.” If he arrived in a town where a cathedral or an abbey was being built, he sometimes tarried long to make a variety of rich patterns for the windows. In other places, he would find only a few repairs required in the windows of castles or churches, and so would quickly pass on. To arrange mosaic patterns of different-colored glass required constant use of rule and compass, and this suggested the study of geometry, which he pursued with characteristic eagerness. The knowledge thus acquired made him a skilful surveyor, and he was much employed in mapping out boundaries, and making plans for houses and gardens, a business which he found more profitable than glass-work or portraits. These various occupations brought him occasionally into contact with men who were learned in the arts and sciences, according to the standard of learning at that time, and his active mind never failed to glean something from such interviews. A French translation of the Scriptures had been published in 1498. He seems to have had a copy with him during his travels, and to have studied it with reverential attention. Thus constantly observing and acquiring, the young man traversed France, from Spain to the Netherlands, and roamed through a portion of Germany. Ten years were spent in this way, during which he obtained the best portion of that education which he afterward turned to good account.

He is supposed to have been about twenty-nine years old, when he married, and settled in the town of Saintes, in the western part of France. He supported his family by glass-work, portraits, and surveying. A few years after his marriage, some one showed him an enamelled cup, brought from Italy. It seemed a slight incident; but it woke the artistic spirit slumbering in his soul, and was destined to effect a complete revolution in his life. He says: “It was an earthen cup, turned and enamelled with so much beauty, that from that time I entered into controversy with my own thoughts. I began to think that if I should discover how to make enamels, I could make earthen vessels very prettily; because God had gifted me with some knowledge of drawing. So, regardless of the fact that I had no knowledge of clays, I began to seek for the enamel, as a man gropes in the dark.”

In order to begin to comprehend the difficulties he had to encounter, we must know that only the rudest kind of common pottery had then been made in France, and even with the manufacture of that he was entirely unacquainted. If he had been unmarried, he might have travelled among the potters of Europe, as he had among the glass-makers, and have obtained useful hints from them; but his family increased fast, and needed his protection and support. Tea was not introduced into Europe till a hundred years later; and there were no specimens of porcelain from China, except here and there a costly article imported by the rich. He was obliged to test the qualities of various kinds of clays; what chemical agents would produce enamel; what other agents would produce colors; and the action of heat on all of them. He bought quantities of earthen jars, broke them into fragments, applied to each piece some particular chemical substance, and tried them all in a furnace. He says: “I pounded all the substances I could suppose likely to make anything. Having blundered several times, at great expense, and through much labor, I was every day pounding and grinding new materials, and constructing new furnaces, which cost much money and consumed my wood and my time.” While these expenses were going on, his former occupations were necessarily suspended; thus “the candle was burning out at both ends.” His wife began to complain. Still he went on, trying new compounds, as he says, “always with great cost, loss of time, confusion and sorrow.” The privations of his family and the anxiety of his wife gave him so much pain, that he relinquished his experiments for a while. He says: “Seeing I could not in this way come at my intention, I occupied myself in my art of painting and glass-working, and comported myself as if I were not zealous to dive any more into the secret of enamels.” The king ordered extensive surveys, and he found that employment so profitable, that his family were soon at ease again. But that Italian cup was always in his mind. He says: “When I found myself with a little money, I resumed my affection for pursuing in the track of the enamels.” For two years he kept up a series of experiments, under all manner of difficulties, and always without success. His wife scolded, and even his own courage began to fail. At last he applied more than three hundred kinds of mixtures to more than three hundred fragments, and put them all in the furnace; resolved that if this experiment proved a failure, he would try no more. He tells us: “_One_ of the pieces came out white and polished, in a way that caused me such joy, as made me think I was become a new creature.” He was then thirty-seven years old.

He was merely at the beginning of what he aimed to accomplish. He had discovered how to make the enamel, but he still knew nothing of pottery, or of the effect which various degrees of heat would produce on colors. A new furnace was necessary, and he proceeded to build it, with prodigious labor. Being too poor to hire help, he brought bricks on his own back from a distant kiln; he made his own mortar, and drew the water with which it was tempered. He fashioned vessels of clay, to which his enamel could be applied. For more than a month he kept up an incessant fire night and day, and was continually grinding materials in a hand-mill, which it usually required two men to turn. He believed himself to be very near complete success, and everything depended upon not letting the heat of the furnaces go down. In the desperation of his poverty and the excitement of his sanguine hopes, he burned the garden-fence, and even some of the tables, doors, and floors of his house. His wife became frantic, and gave him no peace. She was to be pitied, poor woman! Not being acquainted with chemical experiments, she did not know, as _he_ did, that he was really on the point of making a great and lucrative discovery. She had heard it so long that she didn’t believe it. They had a large family of children, and while their father was trying expensive experiments, several of them were dying of a disease prevalent at that time. It was a gloomy and trying period for all of them. He says: “I suffered an anguish that I cannot speak. I was quite exhausted and dried up by the heat of the furnace. It was more than a month since my shirt had been dry upon me. I was the object of mockery. Even those from whom solace was due ran crying through the town that I was burning my floors. In this way I came to be regarded as a madman. I was in debt in several places. I had two children at nurse, and was unable to pay the nurses. Men jested at me as I passed through the streets, and said it was right for me to die of hunger, since I had left following my trade. Some hope still remained to sustain me, for my last experiments had turned out tolerably well, and I thought I knew enough to get my living; but I found I was far enough from that yet.”

The want of means to build sheds to cover his clay vessels was another great difficulty. After working all day, and late into the night, sometimes a heavy rain would spoil all his work, just as he had it ready to bake. He describes himself, on such occasions, as utterly weak and exhausted, so that walking home he “reeled like a man drunk with wine.” He says: “Filled with a great sorrow, inasmuch as having labored long I saw my labor wasted, I would retire soiled and drenched, to find in my chamber a second persecution worse than the first; which now causes me to marvel that I was not consumed by suffering.”

In the midst of all this tribulation, the struggling artist had one source of consolation. Jean Cauvin, better known to us as John Calvin, had been preaching Protestant doctrines in France, and had given rise to the sect called Huguenots. The extravagance and licentiousness of society at that period, and the abuses practised by a powerful and wealthy priesthood, naturally inclined this pure and simple-minded man to the doctrines of the Reformers. He became acquainted with an artisan of the same turn of mind, whom he describes as “simple, unlearned, and marvellously poor.” His delight was to hear Palissy read the Scriptures. Gradually his listeners increased to ten, and they formed a little society, which took turns in exhortation and prayer. One of them is supposed to have been an innkeeper, who, from religious sympathy, allowed poor Palissy to take meals at his house on credit.

He still continued his experiments, and met with successive disappointments of one kind or another. At last, he thought he had learned how to adjust everything just right; and confident of success, he one day put into the oven a batch of vessels, beautifully formed and painted. But a new misfortune awaited him. The materials of his furnace contained flints. These expanded and burst with the great heat, and struck into the vessels while they were soft, injuring the enamel, and covering the surface with irregular sharp points. This blow almost prostrated him; for he had expected this beautiful batch would bring a considerable sum of money for the support of his family, and put to silence those that jeered at him. But he was a man of wonderful endurance. He says: “Having remained some time upon the bed, I reflected that if a man should fall into a pit, it would be his duty to try to get out again.” So the brave soul roused himself, and set to work diligently to earn money, by his old trades of painting and surveying.

Having supplied the necessities of his family, he again returned to his pottery; fully believing that his losses and hazards were over, and that he could now make articles that would bring good prices. But new disappointments awaited him. The green with which he painted his lizards burnt before the brown of the serpents melted; a strong current of air in the furnace blew ashes all over his beautiful vessels and spoiled the enamel. He says: “Before I could render my different enamels fusible at the same degree of heat, I thought I should be at the door of my sepulchre. I was so wasted in my person that there was no form nor prominence in the muscles of my arms or legs; also the said legs were throughout of one size; so that when I walked, garters and stockings were at once down upon my heels. I often roamed about the fields, considering my miseries and weariness, and above all things, that in my own house I could have no peace, nor do anything that was considered good. I was despised and mocked by all. Nevertheless, I had a hope, which caused me to work so like a man, that I often did my best to laugh and amuse people who came to see me, though within me all was very sad.”

At the end of ten years from the commencement of his experiments, he succeeded in making a kind of ware, of mixed enamels, resembling jasper. It was not what he had been aiming to accomplish, but it was considered pretty, and sold well enough to support his family comfortably. While he was making continual improvements in his pottery, the Huguenots were increasing to a degree that provoked persecution. A schoolmaster in a neighboring town, who “preached on Sundays, and was much beloved by the people,” was brought to Saintes and publicly burnt. But Palissy and his little band were not intimidated. They continued to meet for exhortation and prayer. At first it was done mostly at midnight; but the pure and pious lives of these men and women formed such a contrast to the licentiousness and blasphemy prevailing round them, that they gradually gained respect; insomuch that they influenced the magistrates of the town to pass laws restraining gambling and dissipation. So great a change was produced, that, when Palissy was fifty-one years old, he says: “On Sundays you might see tradesmen rambling through the fields, groves, and other places, in bands, singing psalms, canticles, and spiritual songs, or reading and instructing each other. You might see young women seated in gardens and other places, who in like way delighted themselves with singing all holy things. The very children were so well instructed that they had no longer a puerility of manner, but a look of manly fortitude. These things had so well prospered that people had changed their old manners, even to their very countenances.”

After six years more of successive improvements, making sixteen years in the whole, this persevering man at last accomplished the object for which he had toiled and suffered so much. He produced a very beautiful kind of china, which became celebrated under the name of Palissy Ware. These articles were elaborately adorned with vines, flowers, butterflies, lizards, serpents, and other animals. He had always been such a loving observer of nature that we cannot wonder at being told “he copied these, in form and color, with the minute exactness of a naturalist, so that the species of each could be determined accurately.” These beautiful articles sold at high prices. Orders flowed in from kings and nobles. The Constable Montmorenci, a nobleman of immense wealth, employed Palissy to decorate his magnificent Chateau d’Ecouen, about twelve miles from Paris. There he made richly painted windows, covered with Scripture scenes, some of his own designing, others copied from Raphael and Albert Durer. Vases and statuettes of his beautiful china were deposited in various places; and the floors of chapel and galleries were inlaid with china tiles of his painting. Among the groves he formed a very curious grotto of china. He modelled rugged rocks, “sloping, tortuous, and lumpy,” which he painted with imitations of such herbs and mosses as grow in moist places. Brilliant lizards appeared to glide over its surface, “in many pleasant gestures and agreeable contortions.” In the trenches of water were some living frogs and fishes, and other china ones, which so closely resembled them as not to be easily distinguished. At the foot of the rocks, branches of coral, of his manufacture, appeared to grow in the water. A poet of that period, praising this work, says: “The real lizard on the moss has not more lustre than the lizards in that house made famous by your new work. The plants look not sweeter in the fields, and green meadows are not more preciously enamelled, than those which grow under your hand.” The Constable Montmorenci built a convenient shop for him, where he worked with two of his sons. A large china dog at the door was so natural, that the dogs often barked at it and challenged it to fight.

Meanwhile, a terrible storm was gathering over the heads of the Huguenots. Civil war broke out between the Catholics and Protestants. Old men were burnt for quoting Scripture, and young girls stabbed for singing psalms. But worldly prosperity and the flattery of the great could not tempt Palissy to renounce or conceal his faith. He pursued his artistic labors, though he says, “For two months I was greatly terrified, hearing nothing every day but reports of horrible murders.” He would have fallen among the first victims, had it not been for written protections from powerful nobles, who wanted ornamental work done which no other man could do. The horrible massacre of St. Bartholomew occurred when he was sixty-three years old, but he escaped by aid of his powerful patrons. The officers appointed to hunt out Huguenots longed to arrest him, but did not dare to do it in the daytime. At last they came tramping about his house at midnight, and carried him off to a prison in Bordeaux. The judges would gladly have put him to death, but their proceedings were stopped by orders from the Queen Mother, Catherine de Medicis. Montmorenci, Montpensier, and other influential Catholic nobles, who had works uncompleted, and who doubtless felt kindly toward the old artist, interceded with her, and she protected him; not because he was a good man, but because the art he practised was unique and valuable. The enamelled Italian cup, which had troubled so many years of his life, proved the cause of its being saved.

The last ten years of Palissy’s mortal existence were spent in Paris. He had an establishment in the grounds of the Tuileries, where he manufactured vases, cups, plates, and curious garden-basins and baskets, ornamented with figures in relief. His high reputation drew toward him many men of taste and learning, who, knowing his interest in all the productions of Nature, presented him with many curious specimens of shells, minerals, fossils, &c. He formed these into a Museum, where scholars met to discuss the laws and operations of Nature. This is said to have been the first society established in Paris for the pure advancement of science. When he was sixty-six years old, he began a course of public lectures, which he continued to deliver annually for ten years. These were the first lectures on Natural History ever delivered in Paris. The best men of the Capital went there to discuss with him, and to hear him state, in his simple, earnest fashion, the variety of curious things he had observed in travels by mountain and seashore, through field and forest, and in his experiments on glass and china. Some pedants were disposed to undervalue his teachings, because he had never learned Greek or Latin. Undisturbed by this, he cordially invited them to come and disprove his statements if they could, saying: “I want to ascertain whether the Latins know more upon these subjects than I do. I am indeed a simple artisan, poorly enough trained in letters; but the things themselves have not less value than if they were uttered by a man more eloquent. I had rather speak truth in my rustic tongue, than lie in rhetoric.”

He published several books on Agriculture, Volcanoes, the Formation of Rocks, the Laws of Water, &c. His last book was written when he was seventy-one years old. Scientific knowledge was then in its infancy, but adequate judges consider his ideas far in advance of his time. A modern French scholar calls him, “So great a naturalist as only Nature could produce.” There is a refreshing simplicity about his style of writing, and his communications with the world were obviously not the result of vanity, but of general benevolence and religious reverence. He felt that all he had was from God, and that it was a duty to impart it freely. He says: “I had employed much time in the study of earths, stones, waters, and metals; and old age pressed me to multiply the talents God had given me. For that reason, I thought it would be good to bring to the light those excellent secrets, in order to bequeath them to posterity.”

He continued vigorous in mind and body, and was remarked for acuteness and ready wit. He abstained from theological discussions in his teachings, but made no secret of the fact that his opinions remained unchanged. Amid the frivolity, dissipation, and horrid scenes of violence that were going on in Paris, he quietly busied himself making artistic designs, and imparting his knowledge of natural history; recreating himself frequently with the old pleasure of rambling in field and forest, taking loving observation of all God’s little creatures.

He was seventy-six years old, when the king, Henry III., issued a decree forbidding Protestants to exercise their worship, on pain of death, and banishing all who had previously practised it. Angry bigots clamored for the death of the brave old potter. The powerful patrons of his art again prevented his execution; but the tide was so strong against the Reformers, that he was sent to the Bastile. Two Huguenot girls were in prison with him, and they mutually sustained each other with prayer and psalms. The king, in his fashionable frills and curls, occasionally visited the prisons, and he naturally felt a great desire that the distinguished old Bernard Palissy should make a recantation of his faith. One day he said to him: “My good man, you have been forty-five years in the service of the queen, my mother, or in mine; and in the midst of all the executions and massacres, we have allowed you to live in your religion. But now I am so hardly pressed by the Guise party, and by my people, that I am compelled, in spite of myself, to order the execution of these two poor young women, and of yourself also, unless you recant.” “Sire,” replied the old man, “that is not spoken like a king. You have often said you pitied _me_; but now I pity _you_; because you have said, ‘I am _compelled_.’ These girls and I, who have our part in the kingdom of Heaven, will teach you to talk more royally. Neither the Guises, nor all your people, nor yourself, can compel the old potter to bow down to your images of clay. I can die.”

The two girls were burnt a few months afterward. Palissy remained
in prison four years, and there he died at eighty years of age. The
secrets of the Bastile were well kept, and we have no record of
those years. We only know that, like John Bunyan, he wrote a good
deal in prison. The thick, dark walls must have been dismal to
one who so loved the free air, and who valued
trees and shrubs “beyond silver
and gold.” But the martyr was
not alone. He had with him
the God whom he trusted,
and the memories of
an honest, useful,
and religious
life.

OLD AGE COMING.

By Elizabeth Hamilton, a Scotch writer, author of “The
Cottagers of Glenburnie,” and several other sensible and
interesting works. She died, unmarried, about fifty years ago,
nearly sixty years old. These lines were written in such very
broad Scotch, that I have taken the liberty to render them in
English, making no changes, except a few slight variations,
which the necessities of rhyme required.

Is that Old Age, who’s knocking at the gate?
I trow it is. He sha’n’t be asked to wait.
You’re kindly welcome, friend! Nay, do not fear
To show yourself! You’ll cause no trouble here.
I know there’re some who tremble at your name,
As though you brought with you reproach or shame;
And who of thousand lies would bear the sin,
Rather than own you for their kith and kin.
But far from shirking you as a disgrace,
Thankful I am to live to see your face.
Nor will I e’er disown you, or take pride
To think how long I might your visit hide.
I’ll do my best to make you well respected,
And fear not for your sake to be neglected.
Now you have come, and, through all kinds of weather
We’re doomed from this time forth to jog together,
I’d fain make compact with you, firm and strong,
On terms of give and take, to hold out long.
If you’ll be civil, I will liberal be;
Witness the list of what I’ll give to thee.
First then, I here make o’er, for good and aye,
All youthful fancies, whether bright or gay.
Beauties and graces, too, might be resigned,
But much I fear they would be hard to find;
For ’gainst your daddy Time they could not stand,
Nor bear the grip of his relentless hand.
But there’s my skin, which you may further crinkle,
And write your name, at length, on ev’ry wrinkle.
On my brown locks your powder you may throw,
And bleach them to your fancy, white as snow.
But look not, Age, so wistful at my mouth,
As if you longed to pull out ev’ry tooth!
Let them, I do beseech you, keep their places!
Though, if you like, you’re free to paint their faces.
My limbs I yield you; and if you see meet
To clap your icy shackles on my feet,
I’ll not refuse; but if you drive out gout,
Will bless you for’t, and offer thanks devout.
So much I give to you with free good-will;
But, O, I fear that more you look for still.
I know, by your stern look and meaning leers,
You want to clap your fingers on my ears.
Right willing, too, you are, as I surmise,
To cast your misty powder in my eyes.
But, O, in mercy spare my little twinklers!
And I will always wear your crystal blinkers.
Then ’bout my ears I’d fain a bargain strike,
And give my hand upon it, if you like.
Well then--would you consent their use to _share_?
’Twould serve us both, and be a bargain rare.
I’d have it thus,--When babbling fools intrude,
Gabbling their noisy nonsense for no good;
Or when ill-nature, well brushed up with wit,
With sneer sarcastic, takes its aim to hit;
Or when detraction, meanest sort of pride,
Spies out small faults, and seeks great worth to hide;
Then make me deaf as ever deaf can be!
At all _such_ times, my ears I lend to thee.
But when, in social hours, you see combined
Genius and wisdom, fruits of heart and mind,
Good sense, good nature, wit in playful mood,
And candor, e’en from ill extracting good;
O, then, old friend, I _must_ have back my hearing!
To want it then would be an ill past bearing.
I’d rather sit alone, in wakeful dreaming,
Than catch the sound of words without their meaning.
You will not promise? O, you’re very glum!
Right hard to manage, you’re so cold and dumb!
No matter.--Whole and sound I’ll keep my _heart_.
Not from one crumb on’t will I ever part.
Its kindly warmth shall ne’er be chilled by all
The coldest breath that from your lips can fall.
You needn’t vex yourself, old churl, nor fret!
My kindly feelings you shall never get.
And though to take my hearing you rejoice,
In spite of you, I’ll still hear friendship’s voice.
And though you take the rest, it shall not grieve me;
For gleams of cheerful spirits you _must_ leave me.
But let me whisper in your ear, Old Age,
I’m bound to travel with you but one stage.
Be’t long or short, you cannot keep me back;
And when we reach the _end_ on’t, you must pack!
Be’t soon or late, we part forever there!
Other companionship I then shall share.
This blessed change to me you’re bound to bring.
You need not think I shall be loath to spring
From your poor feeble side, you churl uncouth!
Into the arms of Everlasting Youth.
All that your thieving hands have stolen away
He will, with interest, to me repay.
Fresh gifts and graces freely he’ll bestow,
More than the heart has wished, or mind can know.
You need not wonder then, nor swell with pride.
That I so kindly welcomed you as guide
To one who’s far your better. Now all’s told.
Let us set out upon our journey cold.
With no vain boasts, no vain regrets tormented.
We’ll quietly jog on our way, contented.

* * * * *

“On he moves to meet his latter end,
Angels around befriending virtue’s friend;
Sinks to the grave with unperceived decay,
While resignation gently slopes the way;
And, all his prospects brightening to the last,
His heaven commences ere the world is past.”

GOLDSMITH

UNMARRIED WOMEN.

BY L. MARIA CHILD.

Society moves slowly toward civilization, but when we compare epochs half a century, or even a quarter of a century apart, we perceive many signs that progress _is_ made. Among these pleasant indications is the fact that the phrase “old maid” has gone wellnigh out of fashion; that jests on the subject are no longer considered witty, and are never uttered by gentlemen. In my youth, I not unfrequently heard women of thirty addressed something in this style: “What, not married yet? If you don’t take care, you will outstand your market.” Such words could never be otherwise than disagreeable, nay, positively offensive, to any woman of sensibility and natural refinement; and that not merely on account of wounded vanity, or disappointed affection, or youthful visions receding in the distance, but because the idea of being in the _market_, of being a _commodity_, rather than an individual, is odious to every human being.

I believe a large proportion of unmarried women are so simply because they have too much conscience and delicacy of feeling to form marriages of interest or convenience, without the concurrence of their affections and their taste. A woman who is determined to be married, and who “plays her cards well,” as the phrase is, usually succeeds. But how much more estimable and honorable is she who regards a life-union as too important and sacred to be entered into from motives of vanity or selfishness.

To rear families is the ordination of Nature, and where it is done conscientiously it is doubtless the best education that men or women can receive. But I doubt the truth of the common remark that the discharge of these duties makes married people less selfish than unmarried ones. The selfishness of single women doubtless shows itself in more petty forms; such as being disturbed by crumbs on the carpet, and a litter of toys about the house. But fathers and mothers are often selfish on a large scale, for the sake of advancing the worldly prosperity or social condition of their children. Not only is spiritual growth frequently sacrificed in pursuit of these objects, but principles are trampled on, which involve the welfare of the whole human race. Within the sphere of my own observation, I must confess that there is a larger proportion of unmarried than of married women whose sympathies are active and extensive.

I have before my mind two learned sisters, familiar with Greek, Latin, and French, and who, late in life, acquired a knowledge of German also. They spent more than sixty years together, quietly digging out gold, silver, or iron from the rich mines of ancient and modern literature, and freely imparting their treasures wherever they were called for. No married couple could have been more careful of each other in illness, or more accommodating toward each other’s peculiarities; yet they were decided individuals; and their talk never wanted

“An animated No,
To brush its surface, and to make it flow.”

Cultivated people enjoyed their conversation, which was both wise and racy; a steady light of good sense and large information, with an occasional flashing rocket of not ill-natured satire. Yet their intellectual acquisitions produced no contempt for the customary occupations of women. All their friends received tasteful keepsakes of their knitting, netting, or crocheting, and all the poor of the town had garments of their handiwork. Neither their sympathies nor their views were narrowed by celibacy. Early education had taught them to reverence everything that was established; but with this reverence they mingled a lively interest in all the great progressive questions of the day. Their ears were open to the recital of everybody’s troubles and everybody’s joys. On New Year’s day, children thronged round them for books and toys, and every poor person’s face lighted up as they approached; for they were sure of kindly inquiries and sympathizing words from them, and their cloaks usually opened to distribute comfortable slippers, or warm stockings of their own manufacture. When this sisterly bond, rendered so beautiful by usefulness and culture, was dissolved by death, the survivor said of her who had departed: “During all her illness she leaned upon me as a child upon its mother; and O, how blessed is now the consciousness that I never disappointed her!” This great bereavement was borne with calmness, for loneliness was cheered by hope of reunion. On the anniversary of her loss the survivor wrote to me: “I find a growing sense of familiarity with the unseen world. It is as if the door were invitingly left ajar, and the distance were hourly diminishing. I never think of _her_ as alone. The unusual number of departed friends for whom we had recently mourned seem now but an increase to her happiness.”

I had two other unmarried friends, as devoted to each other, and as tender of each other’s peculiarities as any wedded couple I ever knew. Without being learned, they had a love of general reading, which, with active charities, made their days pass profitably and pleasantly. They had the orderly, systematic habits common to single ladies, but their sympathies and their views were larger and more liberal than those of their married sisters. Their fingers were busy for the poor, whom they were always ready to aid and comfort, irrespective of nation or color. Their family affections were remarkably strong, yet they had the moral courage to espouse the unpopular cause of the slave, in quiet opposition to the prejudices of beloved relatives. Death sundered this tie when both were advanced in years. The departed one, though not distinguished for beauty during her mortal life, had, after her decease, a wonderful loveliness, like that of an angelic child. It was the outward impress of her interior life.

Few marriages are more beautiful or more happy than these sisterly unions; and the same may be said of a brother and sister, whose lives are bound together. All lovers of English literature know how charmingly united in mind and heart were Charles Lamb and his gifted sister; and our own poet, Whittier, so dear to the people’s heart, has a home made lovely by the same fraternal relation of mutual love and dependence.

A dear friend of mine, whom it was some good man’s loss not to have for a life-mate, adopted the orphan sons of her brother, and reared them with more than parental wisdom and tenderness, caring for all their physical wants, guiding them in precept and example by the most elevated moral standard, bestowing on them the highest intellectual culture, and studying all branches with them, that she might in all things be their companion.

Nor is it merely in such connections, which somewhat resemble wedded life, that single women make themselves useful and respected. Many remember the store kept for so long a time in Boston by Miss Ann Bent.

Her parents being poor, she early began to support herself by teaching. A relative subsequently furnished her with goods to sell on commission; and in this new employment she manifested such good judgment, integrity, and general business capacity, that merchants were willing to trust her to any extent. She acquired a handsome property, which she used liberally to assist a large family of sisters and nieces, some of whom she established in business similar to her own. No mother or grandmother was ever more useful or beloved. One of her nieces said: “I know the beauty and purity of my aunt’s character, for I lived with her forty years, and I never knew her to say or do anything which might not have been said or done before the whole world.”

I am ignorant of the particulars of Miss Bent’s private history; but doubtless a woman of her comely looks, agreeable manners, and excellent character, might have found opportunities to marry, if that had been a paramount object with her. She lived to be more than eighty-eight years old, universally respected and beloved; and the numerous relatives, toward whom she had performed a mother’s part, cheered her old age with grateful affection.

There have also been many instances of single women who have enlivened and illustrated their lives by devotion to the beautiful arts. Of these none are perhaps more celebrated than the Italian Sofonisba Angusciola and her two accomplished sisters. These three “virtuous gentlewomen,” as Vasari calls them, spent their lives together in most charming union. All of them had uncommon talent for painting, but Sofonisba was the most gifted. One of her most beautiful pictures represents her two sisters playing at chess, attended by the faithful old duenna, who accompanied them everywhere. This admirable artist lived to be old and blind; and the celebrated Vandyke said of her, in her later years: “I have learned more from one blind old woman in Italy, than from all the masters of the art.”

Many single women have also employed their lives usefully and agreeably as authors. There is the charming Miss Mitford, whose writings cheer the soul like a meadow of cowslips in the springtime. There is Frederica Bremer, whose writings have blessed so many souls. There is Joanna Baillie, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Hamilton, and our own honored Catherine M. Sedgwick, whose books have made the world wiser and better than they found it.

I am glad to be sustained in my opinions on this subject by a friend whose own character invests single life with peculiar dignity. In a letter to me, she says: “I object to having single women called a _class_. They are _individuals_, differing in the qualities of their characters, like other human beings. Their isolation, as a general thing, is the result of unavoidable circumstances. The Author of Nature doubtless intended that men and women should live together. But, in the present state of the world’s progress, society has, in many respects, become artificial in proportion to its civilization; and consequently the number of single women must constantly increase. If humanity were in a state of natural, healthy development, this would not be so; for young people would then be willing to begin married life with simplicity and frugality, and real happiness would increase in proportion to the diminution of artificial wants. This prospect, however, lies in the future, and many generations of single women must come and go before it will be realized.

“But the achievement of _character_ is the highest end that can be proposed to any human being, and there is nothing in single life to prevent a woman from attaining this great object; on the contrary, it is in many respects peculiarly favorable to it. The measure of strength in character is the power to conquer circumstances when they refuse to cooperate with us. The temptations peculiarly incident to single life are petty selfishness, despondency under the suspicion of neglect, and _ennui_ from the want of interesting occupation. If an ordinary, feeble-minded woman is exposed to these temptations, she will be very likely to yield to them. But she would not be greatly different in character, if protected by a husband and flanked with children; her feebleness would remain the same, and would only manifest itself under new forms.

“Marriage, under favorable circumstances, is unquestionably a promoter of human happiness. But mistakes are so frequently made by entering thoughtlessly into this indissoluble connection, and so much wretchedness ensues from want of sufficient mental discipline to make the best of what cannot be remedied, that most people can discover among their acquaintance as large a proportion of happy single women as they can of happy wives. Moreover, the happiness of unmarried women is as independent of mere gifts of fortune, as that of other individuals. Indeed, all solid happiness must spring from inward sources. Some of the most truly contented and respectable women I have ever known have been domestics, who grew old in one family, and were carefully looked after, in their declining days, by the children of those whom they faithfully served in youth.

“Most single women might have married, had they seized upon the first opportunity that offered; but some unrevealed attachment, too high an ideal, or an innate fastidiousness, have left them solitary; therefore, it is fair to assume that many of them have more sensibility and true tenderness than some of their married sisters. Those who remain single in consequence of too much worldly ambition, or from the gratification of coquettish vanity, naturally swell the ranks of those peevish, discontented ones, who bring discredit on single life in the abstract. But when a delicate gentlewoman deliberately prefers passing through life alone, to linking her fate with that of a man toward whom she feels no attraction, why should she ever repent of so high an exercise of her reason? This class of women are often the brightest ornaments of society. Men find in them calm, thoughtful friends, and safe confidants, on whose sympathy they can rely without danger. In the nursery, their labors, being voluntary, are less exhausting than a parent’s. When the weary, fretted mother turns a deaf ear to the twenty-times-repeated question, the baffled urchins retreat to the indulgent aunt, or dear old familiar friend, sure of obtaining a patient hearing and a kind response. Almost everybody can remember some samples of such _Penates_, whose hearts seem to be too large to be confined to any one set of children.

“Some of my fairest patterns of feminine excellence have been of the single sisterhood. Of those unfortunate ones who are beacons, rather than models, I cannot recall an individual whose character I think would have been materially improved by marriage. The faults which make a single woman disagreeable would probably exist to the same degree if she were a wife; and the virtues which adorn her in a state of celibacy would make her equally beloved and honored if she were married. The human soul is placed here for development and progress; and it is capable of converting all circumstances into means of growth and advancement.

“Among my early recollections is that of a lady of stately presence, who died while I was still young, but not till she had done much to remove from my mind the idea that the name of ‘old maid’ was a term of reproach. She was the daughter of Judge Russell, and aunt to the late Reverend and beloved Dr. Lowell. She had been one of a numerous family of brothers and sisters, but in my childhood was sole possessor of the old family mansion, where she received her friends and practised those virtues which gained for her the respect of the whole community. Sixty years ago, it was customary to speak of single women with far less deference than it now is; and I remember being puzzled by the extremely respectful manner in which she was always mentioned. If there were difficulties in the parish, or if any doubtful matters were under discussion, the usual question was ‘What is Miss Russell’s opinion?’ I used to think to myself, ‘She is an old maid, after all, yet people always speak of her as if she were some great person.’

“Miss Burleigh was another person of whom I used to hear much through the medium of mutual friends. She resided with a married sister in Salem, and was the ‘dear Aunt Susan,’ not only of the large circle of her own nephews and nieces, but of all their friends and favorites. Having ample means, she surrounded herself with choice books and pictures, and such objects of Art or Nature as would entertain and instruct young minds. Her stores of knowledge were prodigious, and she had such a happy way of imparting it, that lively boys were glad to leave their play, to spend an hour with Aunt Susan. She read to her young friends at stated times, and made herself perfectly familiar with them; and as they grew older she became their chosen confidant. She was, in fact, such a centre of light and warmth, that no one could approach her sphere without being conscious of its vivifying influence.