Part 7

This appetite for reading commenced at an early age. When a lad about twelve he got access to a small library belonging to one of his neighbors, and was allowed freely to peruse its contents. He says, casting a glance back to these times:—“I read incessantly; and, as the appetite for reading becomes stronger the more it is indulged, I felt, when I had consumed the whole, a still keener craving than before.”

By these steps he rose to eminence. He thus became a distinguished man. His mind was enriched by much reading. It received a training which qualified him in future years to become a geologist of the first rank, to write on scientific subjects in a style of rare beauty, so picturesque and expressive that men of distinguished parts have said they would give their “left hand” if they could only imitate it, and, in a word, to handle skilfully any subject to which he turned his attention, not excepting just and delicate criticism on some of our less known poets.

Among men of science there are few, if any, whose writings have made a greater impression on the present generation than those of Charles Darwin. How were his works produced? Not by fits and starts. Not by flights of fancy. He is penetrated by the true scientific spirit, and steadily pursues his object for years, patiently accumulating facts, and by their light drawing conclusions in which, though men may differ on some points, there will always be found large portions of solid truth. Let us see, for example, how his remarkable book on the “Origin of Species” was produced. It was not struck out at a blow, but was the labor of years and of much patient thought. He himself says of it:—“On my return home it occurred to me, in 1837, that something might perhaps be made out on this question by patiently accumulating and reflecting on all sorts of facts which could possibly have any bearing upon it.” He steadily pursued his object from that time, for more than twenty years, and then his work was published to the world.

This is the way in which great works on science are produced. The author takes great pains. He steadily pursues his object for years, with patient thought and unremitting attention, leaving no stone unturned. It is this that accomplishes great things, and not mere flight of untutored genius.

It is needless to say that his latest work, on the modest subject of earth-worms, exhibits the same painstaking care, the same laborious study, and the same patient accumulation of facts.

Hitherto the examples adduced have been more of a scientific than literary character. If, leaving science, we take a glance at general literature, it will be found that those also who come to the front as writers in this branch of learning are, without exception, distinguished by their habit of taking pains with the subject in hand.

Were the writings of the brilliant Macaulay the outpourings of pure genius, unaided by painstaking labor and diligent study? Far from it. When he wrote on any subject he was unwearied in his researches. No amount of labor appalled him. Even when husbanding his resources, and engaged in no particular literary task, he read continually, laying in a store for future use. To read was his passion and delight. It was his solace under all circumstances. It cheered him in his Indian exile. In turning over the pages of his life we are absolutely struck with awe at his insatiable appetite for books. It would be difficult to find an example of anyone in these modern times whose reading, especially in the Greek and Roman classics, took so wide a range. He read, not only in his study, but in his long walks he had always a book with him, which he read incessantly.

Nothing is said in his life of his habits of composition, but there can be little doubt that his clear and vigorous style was not formed without much study and practice. In addition to his admirable prose style, he had great facility in writing verses. How did he acquire it? By long continued practice. He says, in a letter to one of his sisters:—“As you like my verses, I will some day or other write you a whole rhyming letter. I wonder whether any other man ever wrote doggerel so easily. I run it off just as fast as my pen can move. This comes of a schoolboy habit of writing verses all day long.”

Of our modern prose writers, there are few whose writings are more easy to read than those of Charles Dickens. They look like the spontaneous outpourings of genius, flowing freely from his pen without effort. And yet, in point of fact, he took great pains with what he wrote. When engaged on “Little Dorrit” he jots down these words in his journal:—“Now to work again. The story lies before me strong and clear. Not to be easily told; for nothing of that kind is to be easily done that I know of.”

Then, in another direction, look at the pains he took in preparing his “Readings” for the public. He learned them all by heart, so as to have no mechanical drawback in looking after the words. He was also at great pains to correct his pronunciation, and cultivate the habit of self-possession. As the reputation of these “Readings” widened, he was ambitious that they should grow better and better. When engaged in giving a series of readings, he used to repeat them to himself, often twice a day, and with exactly the same pains as at night when before his audience. He felt that nothing could be done well, that no great perfection could be reached, without taking pains. We are here reminded of Mrs. Siddons, who played the character of Lady Macbeth for thirty years. Such was her solicitude to act the part well, that she invariably read over the play, once more, on the morning of the performance, and with such care as always to discover something new in the character which she had not observed before.

* * * * *

Whoso acts a hundred times with high moral principle before he speaks once of it, that is a man whom one could bless and clasp to one’s heart. I am far from saying that he is on that account free from faults, but the _plus et minus_, the degree of striving after perfection and virtue, determines the value of the man.—_George Forster._

A CHAPLET OF PEARLS.

By WILLIAM JONES, F.S.A.

There is a magic charm in the pearl that seems to have fascinated the world in various countries. The modest splendor and purity of the jewel made it the favorite of all others among the Orientals.[J] Chares, of Mitylene, alludes to the Margaritæ necklaces as far more highly valued by the Asiatics than those made of gold. The Romans went wild over them, and of all the articles of luxury and ostentation known to them, pearls appear to have been most esteemed. Pompey, as the richest spoils of his victories in Asia, displayed in his procession into Rome, after his triumph over the third continent, among his treasures, thirty-three crowns made of pearls, a temple of the Muses with a dial on the top, and a figure of himself, formed of the same materials. This roused the ire of the stoic Pliny, but contributed to the popular passion for obtaining these jewels. He remarks of Lollia Paulina (wife of the Emperor Caligula) that she was covered with emeralds and pearls, strung alternately, glittering all over her head, hair, bandeau, necklaces, and fingers, valued at forty millions of sesterces (£400,000).

Servilia, the mother of the famous Brutus, received from Julius Cæsar a pearl as a present which cost the donor £50,000. The celebrated pearls of Cleopatra, worn as earrings, were valued at £161,457.

Some consider bdellium, which is mentioned in the Scriptures (Genesis and Numbers), as a precious stone, and the Jewish rabbins, together with some modern commentators, translate it by _pearl_, but it is more than probable that the pearl was unknown in the time of Moses. Most probably, the Hebrew _bedolach_ is the aromatic gum bdellium, which issues from a tree growing in Arabia, Media, and the Indies.

According to the poetic Orientals, every year, on the sixteenth day of the month of Nisan, the pearl-oysters rise to the sea and open their shells, in order to receive the rain which falls at that time, and the drops thus caught become pearls. On this belief the poet Sadi, in his “Bostau,” has the following fable: “A drop of water fell one day from a cloud into the sea. Ashamed and confused at finding itself in such an immensity of water, it exclaimed, ‘What am I in comparison of this vast ocean? My existence is less than nothing in this boundless abyss!’ While it thus discoursed of itself, a pearl-shell received it in its bosom, and fortune so favored it that it became a magnificent and precious pearl, worthy of adorning the diadem of kings. Thus was its humility the cause of its elevation, and by annihilating itself, it merited exaltation.”

Moore alludes to this pretty fiction in one of his sweetest melodies:

“And precious the tear as that rain from the sky Which turns into pearls as it falls in the sea.”

Sir Walter Scott, in the “Bridal of Triermain,” says:

“See these pearls that long have slept; These were tears by Naiads wept.”

Lilly, in “Gallathea:”

“Is any cozen’d of a teare Which (as a pearle) disdaine does weare?”

Shakspere (“Richard III.”):

“The liquid drops of tears that you have shed Shall come again, transform’d to orient pearl, Advantaging their loan with interest Of ten-times-double gain of happiness.”

In Lee’s “Mithridates” we have:

“’Twould raise your pity, but to see the tears Force through her snowy lids their melting course, To lodge themselves on her red murmuring lips That talk such mournful things; when straight a gale Of startling sighs carry those pearls away, As dews by winds are wafted from the flowers.”

Elena Piscopia (1684), of the Corraro family of Venice, had a medal struck in her honor, on the reverse of which is an open shell, receiving the drops of dew from heaven, which form into pearls: the motto was _Rore divino_—by the divine dew.

Pearls have for ages been significant for tears. It is related that Queen Margaret Tudor, consort of James IV. of Scotland, previous to the battle of Flodden Field, had strong presentiments of the disastrous issue of that conflict. One night she had fearful dreams, in which she thought she saw her husband hurled down a great precipice and crushed and mangled at the bottom. In another vision she thought, as she was looking at her jewels, chains, and sparkling coronets of diamonds, they suddenly turned into pearls, “which are the emblems of widowhood and tears.”

A few nights before the assassination of Henry IV. of France, his queen dreamed that all the jewels in her crown were changed into pearls, and she was told that they were significant of tears.

Milton, in his “Epitaph on the Marchioness of Winchester,” says:

“And those pearls of dew she wears Prove to be presaging tears.”

Similes of pearls and tears are frequent in our old writers. Thus Shakspere in “Midsummer Night’s Dream:”

“And that same dew which sometimes on the buds Was wont to swell like round and orient pearls, Stood now within the pretty floweret’s eyes, Like tears that did their own disgrace bewail.”

In “King John:”

“Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee; Ay, with those crystal beads heaven shall be bribed To do him justice and revenge on you.”

The metaphor is a favorite one with Lovelace:

“Lucasta wept, and still the bright Enamor’d god of day, With his soft handkerchief of light, Kiss’d the wet pearls away.”

And—

“If tears could wash the ill away, A pearl for each wet bead I’d pay.”

In Chalkhill’s “Thealma and Clearchus,” we find of the former:

“Anon she drops a tear, That stole along her cheeks, and falling down, Into a pearl it freezeth with her frown.”

Robert Southwell, in “St. Mary Magdalen’s Tears,” says: “The angels must bathe themselves in the pure stream of thine eyes, and thy face shall be set with this pearly liquid, that, as out of thy tears were stroken the first sparks of thy Lord’s love, so thy tears may be the oil to feed his flames.”

THE WORTH OF FRESH AIR.

Your neighbor, John Stedman, is set fast with aches and pains, and is very ill. You have just been to see him, you say, and you can not think why it is that people are every now and then attacked in this way with sickness. You have been told that God sends disease; but for your own part you can not understand why it is that some of your neighbors, who, like John Stedman, seem to be the most honest and deserving, get the largest share of it. I think, my industrious friend, I can perhaps help you to the explanation of the riddle. At any rate, there are many things touching upon this very subject, which as an old acquaintance, and one who has learned through long intimacy to take great interest in all that concerns you, I have for some time desired to say. I shall now seize this opportunity to make a beginning, and shall seat myself comfortably that I may chat with you more at my ease. Pray do not trouble yourself to move anything. This empty chair near the door will do excellently well for me. I know you will listen to me with attention and patience, first for old friendship’s sake, and then because you will very soon feel that what I do say is intended frankly and solely for your good.

You have a fine, smart-looking clock, I see, ticking away there opposite. But the old fellow can hardly be so correct as he seems; his hands point to eight, although the day wants but a couple of hours of noon. I fear there must be something wrong about him, notwithstanding his looking so vastly well in the face.

You say you can not make the clock keep time. You wind it up carefully every Saturday, and set it correctly, and yet before the next Saturday comes round, it has either lagged hours behind, or it has galloped on hours too fast. It goes as if it were moved by the uncertain wind, instead of being driven by regular machinery, and it was a shame for the man to sell you such a bad-going thing. If the clock never did behave itself any better, you are right in this: but perhaps you are too hasty in finding fault with the maker; he may not altogether deserve the blame. Let us just open the door of the case, and peep at the inner workmanship, and see whether we can not discover some cause for the irregular performance.

What is this? As soon as I open this little door I stumble upon something that looks rather suspicious; it is a quantity of light flue, and hair, and dust, mingled together. The clockmaker never put that into the case. Then, observe how every wheel and pinion is soiled with dirt, and every crevice and corner is choked up with filth. It really would be a very wonderful thing if the wheels did move regularly. The secret of the bad working of your clock is, simply, that you have not known how to take care of it, and use it fairly. I dare say it went very well when it was turned out of its maker’s hands, but he never meant it to be in the state in which it now is. You must send it back to him, and get him to clean the works and oil the wheels, and then you must try whether you can not prevent it from getting into such sad disorder again.

Now, your neighbor yonder with his aches and pains and his sickness, are you sure that he is not in very much the same predicament as this clock? If we could look into the works of his body, are you confident that we should not find them choked up and uncared for, instead of being in the condition in which they were intended to be? His aches and pains, are they not the grating and complaining of deranged and clogged machinery? I am quite aware that sick people generally are not sensible of having allowed anything to come near to their bodies which they ought to have kept away. But neither did you know that dirt was getting to the works of your clock, although we discovered it there in such plenty. The dust and dirt which collected there, first flew about in the air, scattered so thinly and lightly that you could not see them. So, too, other things which you can not see may have been floating in great abundance around you, some of them being to the living frame what dirt and dust are to clockwork. That there are such invisible things floating around living creatures, and that some of these clog and derange the working of their frames, I think I shall have no difficulty in showing you. I hope I shall also be able to point out to you, that many of them may be discovered, although they can not be seen, and may be driven away or avoided.

That wonderful object which you call your _body_, is actually a machine like the clock, contrived and put together for a certain service. It has for its works, muscles and bones, and blood vessels and nerves. These works have been most beautifully fitted and adjusted: indeed, they are the workmanship of a skill which can not fail. The maker of your body is the great and unerring Power, who has also made all the rest of creation. It is God.

God made your body with supple joints and free limbs; with strong muscles and ready nerves. The machine was perfect when it came from his hands. It was then capable of going better than the best clock that was ever constructed by human ingenuity. It was able even to cleanse, and oil, and repair itself, and it was prepared to continue its orderly movements, without suffering the slightest derangement, for sixty or seventy long years. But when God placed this perfected piece of delicate workmanship at your disposal, he, like the clockmaker with his clock, required that you should at least take care of it, and use it fairly. If, however, you do not do this, then as with the clock, so will it be with your body. If you keep it amid dust and dirt, no other result can come but the clogging of its works, and the derangement of their movements. Out of that dusty old clock-case it is my purpose to draw this very surprising and important lesson in your behoof. Whenever men get out of happiness and ease into wretchedness and disease, it is almost sure to be their own fault, and the consequence of their own doings. Either they perversely and wilfully do something which they know very well they ought not to do, or they do something which they ought not to do, in ignorance.

Comfort and ease are to body and mind, what steady and even movements are to clock-work—signs that the machinery is in perfect order. Discomfort and _dis-ease_ (_absence of ease_) are to body and mind what fitful and irregular movements are to clock-work;—signs that the machinery is clogged and in disorder. You are always inclined to rebel against discomfort and pain. Never give way to this inclination. Discomfort and pain are friendly monitors, that come to you to perform a kind service. They come to warn you that there is something wrong in and around your own body, which requires to be set right.

You will observe that I have said men _nearly_ always have themselves to blame when they get out of health and into disease. I have said nearly always, because it occasionally does happen that the suffering is not immediately caused by the sufferer’s own wrong doing. This, for instance, is the case when a child has a constitutional disease, which has been communicated to it by a parent. It is, however, even in these instances none the less true, that _human blindness or wilfulness_ leads to the mischief, and this is really the practical point that I am desirous you should see. These are the cases in which, in accordance with God’s law, “the sins of the fathers are visited upon the children.” The parents have done wrong, and the offspring have to pay the penalty. The line of obvious duty, however, is in no way altered here. If a man suffers because his parents did what was wrong, this really is an additional reason why he ought never to do that which may cause his own children to suffer, in like manner, with himself.

There is this further proof, that even in these cases it really is _man’s wrong doing which leads to human suffering_. When the children of parents who have done what was wrong, go on doing only what is right through several generations, their offspring at last cease to suffer, and become altogether healthy and sound. The burden of the fathers’ sins is then, at length, mercifully taken off from their shoulders.

Having listened patiently to this little sermon, you would now like me to come to the point, and show you some of the dust and dirt which are scattered around the living body, and which at times get into the machinery to the damage of its working. First of all, in my endeavor to do this, I should like to make you quite comprehend the possibility of there being very weighty matters pressing close round you, which you nevertheless are entirely unable to see, even in bright daylight. Just come out with me, here, upon the road. How pleasant and fresh the day is! Do you not feel the gentle breeze fanning your cheek as you turn up the lane? Yet you can not see the breeze! What is it, then? Certainly it is _something_, for it touches and even presses against your skin. But it is something, too, which has weight and power of its own. Observe how it shakes the leaves of the trees as it sweeps past them. It is, as you know, the same unseen breeze which also drives round those great mill-sails yonder with such violence, and which grinds as much corn in that mill, as could be ground by the efforts of a dozen horses, kept up to their work by the whip. We have not had to move far, then, before we have come upon something which we cannot see;—before we have proved to ourselves that we must not altogether depend upon our eye-sight for information, even concerning the existence of surrounding things.

But what is this? The breeze is not so fresh here as it was just now at the end of the lane. There is some very disagreeable smell now floating upon it. Here again we can see nothing, any more than we could when we had only the fresh breeze blowing around us. But there must be some cause for the unpleasant odor. The smell gets stronger and stronger as we approach this bank. We climb over the bank, and we find on the other side, in the corner of a field, a manure-heap, from which the smell is evidently poured out. Now that smell is really a vapor, bred of decay in the manure, and then steaming up from it into the air. If our eyes were as sharp as our noses, we should be able to see a host of little bodies rushing up from the manure, and scattering themselves through the air. It is because some of those little bodies strike upon the lining of our noses, as they are drawn in by our breathing, that we smell the unpleasant odor. The nose feels the touch of those bodies as a smell.

Wherever substances which have been alive, are dead and undergoing decay, vapors of this kind are bred and steamed forth. This is the way in which dead things are got rid of; they turn to vapor and crumble to dust. If we could see all the vapors that are being bred of decay, we should be sensible of a thick mist covering the entire face of the land and sea, and rising up from it continually. Some of these vapors have strong smells, like those which issue from the manure-heap; but some of them can not even be smelt, any more than they can be seen.