Read Ebook: Chambers's Journal of Popular Literature Science and Art Fifth Series No. 23 Vol. I June 7 1884 by Various Editor

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 195 lines and 20430 words, and 4 pages

Work was scamped: he detected it, and dismissed the scampers. They went to join the clamorous crowd of incompetent or lazy workmen who cry that they only want work, but do not add to the cry that they want it on their own terms.

The few real workers who remained became disheartened because they were so few, and some of them were frightened by vicious crowds outside. They had wives and families dependent on them; but they must obey the inexorable majority, although in doing so they would have to accept charity or starvation. They accepted the charity, and clamoured more loudly than ever against the tyranny of capital which left them no other alternative. They loafed about public-houses, drank beer, discussed their grievances, whilst their wives went out charing or washing. And they called themselves over their pewter pots the ill-used, down-trodden people of England!

'I wish you could get rid of all that sham,' Philip said, irritated at last with himself as much as with the men. 'So long as you are mean enough to live upon the earnings of your wives, and what you can borrow or obtain from charity, and thus supported, refuse to work unless the terms and the nature of your work be exactly what you choose to accept, you will never have the right to call yourselves honest sellers of labour. I want you to understand me. I say that if a man wants work, he should be ready to take up any job that is offered him, whether it is in his line or not. The nature of the work is of no consequence so long as a man can do it, for all work is honourable. What is of consequence is that a man should be independent of the parish and the earnings of his wife. I say, here is work; come and do it: you shall not only have payment for what you do, but a share in whatever extra profit it may produce.'

That speech settled the whole affair so far as the men were concerned. All, except some half-dozen, left him, and filled their haunts with outcries against the new monopolist who wanted them actually to produce so much work for so much pay. Meanwhile, they got on comfortably enough with the earnings of their wives and the parish loaves.

'God forbid that we should call such creatures workmen!' cried Philip in his desperation; 'but the country is crowded with them--a disgrace as much to legislation as to human nature. Let us see how we can do without them.'

He could have done without them if he had been allowed a fair chance. But in the first place, there was Wrentham's frankly declared objection that the scheme was all nonsense, and could never succeed until all men ceased to be greedy or lazy. And then there was the hardest blow of all to Philip in the sudden change which came over Caleb Kersey.

Caleb had entered upon the work with an enthusiasm as strong as that of Philip himself, although not so openly expressed. There was a glow of hopefulness and happiness on his honest brown face when Philip first laid the plans before him. Here was the Utopia of which he had vaguely dreamed: here was the chance for poor men to take their place in the social sphere according to their capacities and without regard to the conditions under which they started. Here was the chance for every man to have his fair share of the world's wealth.

'I hadn't the means to work it out as you have, sir, but my notion has always been something of the kind that you have got into ship-shape form. I'll try to help you.'

And he kept his word. There was no more earnest worker on Shield's Land than Caleb. Example, advice, and suggestions of the practical advantage each man would secure if he faithfully followed out the rules Philip had laid down, were given by him to all his fellow-workmen.

Suddenly the enthusiasm disappeared. The light seemed to fade from his eyes; and Caleb, who had been the sustaining force of the workers, became dull and listless.

About Wrentham's opposition there was a degree of lightness; as if one should say, 'Just as you please, sir; I don't believe in it, but I am entirely at your command,' which did not affect personal intercourse. With Caleb it was the reverse, because he felt more deeply. Wrentham could be at his ease because he regarded the whole affair as a matter of business out of which he was to make some money. Caleb thought only of the possibilities the scheme suggested of the future of the workman.

Philip had given up all hope of persuading Wrentham to believe in his theories; but he could not give up Caleb. So he resolved to speak to him.

'What is wrong, Kersey? You have not lost heart because those fellows have left us?'

'No, not because of that' ; 'but they were not so much to blame in leaving us as you may think, sir.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, they did not understand you; and when they saw things coming in in the raw state at higher prices than could be got for them when made up, they didn't see where the profit you spoke of was to come from.'

'It weren't my place, sir; Mr Wrentham has charge of these things.'

A pause, during which Philip tried a paper-knife on the desk as if it were a rapier. Then: 'All right; I'll see about that. But you have not answered me as to yourself. You are sulking for some reason. You say it is not the loss of the men which has put you out of sorts; I know it is nothing connected with me, or you would tell me. Then what is it?'

There was no answer; but Caleb bowed his head and moved as if he wished to go.

'You have not heard anything about Pansy?' said Philip suddenly, moved by a good-natured desire to discover the cause of the man's depression, in the hope that he might be able to relieve it.

There was a lurch of the broad shoulders, and Caleb's dark eyes flashed like two bull's-eye lanterns on his master. 'No--have you?'

The rest was a mumble, and Caleb again moved towards the door. Philip called him back. 'I won't pretend not to know what you mean, Kersey,' he said kindly; 'but if you listen to what is said by envious wenches or spiteful lads, you are a confounded fool. Trust her, man; trust her. That is the way to be worthy of a worthy woman.'

'And the way to be fooled by an unworthy one,' said Wrentham, who came in as the last sentence was being uttered. Then seeing Philip's frown and Caleb's scowl, he added apologetically: 'I beg your pardon. I thought and hope you were speaking generally, not of any one in particular.'

'Come to my chambers this afternoon, Kersey; I want to speak to you.'

Caleb gave one of his awkward nods and left the office.

STAINED GLASS AS AN ACCESSORY TO DOMESTIC ARCHITECTURE.

In a former paper we briefly reviewed the growth and progress of the art of glass-staining and painting, and described the various processes necessary to its prosecution, and practised at the present day; and, after tracing its career in its application to the purposes of ecclesiastical decoration, hinted at its capability of adaptation to ornamental requirements beyond those pertaining to the embellishment of the sacred edifice. We propose in the present paper to deal more exhaustively with this branch of an art, and to endeavour to point out, as succinctly as possible, the more prominent and obvious cases where its introduction would be desirable in secular ornamentation.

Public buildings of course demand the first attention; and in a country like our own, owing its prosperity to its commercial enterprise, its political organisation, and its unequalled system of municipal government, we have witnessed in the course of the last few years the commencement, progress, and completion of costly and magnificently adorned buildings. Upon these noble buildings have been lavished the utmost resources of decorative art; and latterly, stained glass has formed an important element in the general scheme of decoration, and it is to its adaptation to this class of domestic architecture that we would first draw attention.

One of the first, as it is one of the most natural, motives prompting the enrichment of the ornamental accessories of a building, is discovered in a desire to see perpetuated the memory of its founder or founders. The most natural expression of this feeling is, of course, the desire to permanently retain a record of their features and personal characteristics in the shape of a pictorial representation. This desire at first sight seems to be susceptible of immediate gratification by a portrait, either on canvas or in marble; but further consideration will tend towards the conviction that the use of these media is not altogether free from objection. Little, perhaps, can be said against the statue in itself; but the elaborate and gorgeous decoration of our more sumptuous buildings is likely to be unpleasantly marred by the marble pallor of sculpture; and after all, dignified and stately as are many of our statuesque memorials, they convey little more than an idealised impression of the features of the person commemorated.

The employment of oil portraiture is also open to certain objections. It must be remembered that modern decoration means a great deal more than a mere picking out in gold and colour of the salient lines of a cornice, or the stencilled powdering of a conventional pattern over the area of a wall or a ceiling; it has advanced far beyond the province of the builder and house-painter, and demands no inconsiderable proportion of the genius of the artist. If the decoration of a room or hall is designed to constitute in itself a complete work of art, its effect may be grievously injured by the injudicious introduction of a heavy gold frame, and colours, which while admirably accomplishing the purpose of the artist, may in a great measure interfere with the surrounding harmony of colour. We have, then, no other place left but the window, and the problem seems to be in a fair way towards solution. The perfection to which the painting of glass has attained leaves no room for doubt as to the fidelity of the likeness; but apart from this fact, a far more extensive recognition of the virtues or services of the subject of the memorial is to be obtained by various devices and emblems, appropriate to the character and life of the person honoured, which could hardly with propriety be introduced into an oil picture. One example, recently erected, may serve to more clearly demonstrate our meaning. The lately erected town-hall of Lerwick has been enriched by two windows illustrative of persons and scenes connected with some of the primitive traditions of Orkney. In one window, divided by a central mullion into twin-lights, is represented the figure of Archbishop Eystein, one of the earliest of Orcadian prelates, clad in his archiepiscopal vestments; while a panel beneath the figure illustrates his consecration of King Magnus. Side by side with the figure of the archbishop stands Bishop William, the founder of the venerable cathedral of Kirkwall, the formal ceremony itself being depicted in the panel below. The corresponding window displays the gigantic form of the Norse warrior Harald Haarfager, with his landing in Zetland shown in the lower panel; and Jarl Rognvald, whose investiture as Earl of Orkney, 870 A.D., is represented in the panel beneath. In the 'tracery' above the two windows are shown respectively the Orcadian and Norwegian coats-of-arms. Now, a combination of such historical and traditional interest could hardly be otherwise so successfully treated, while the glowing colours and fine design materially add to the effect of the neighbouring beauties of the structure.

There is another consideration not without importance in connection with the establishment of a complete scheme of internal decoration. Light is one of the most important essentials in a building where exact and extensive business is transacted, and the presence of large and frequent windows is a necessity. But how painfully is the harmony and continuity of the ornament interrupted by the constant recurrence of these patches of white light. The eye, in following the progress of the decorative design, grows weary of the constant loss and recapture of its thread; and that which would otherwise have pleased and charmed by its beauty as a whole, only perplexes and tires by its division into parts. Here, then, is called into requisition the art of the glass-stainer; without any vital diminution of light, the scheme of colour is no longer disturbed, a perfect chromatic harmony is established, and the window serves a double purpose, by admitting the necessary illumination from without, and enhancing the beauty of the building within.

The foregoing remarks naturally have reference to all public buildings of more or less importance, though we have instanced the town-hall as a representative building, associated with the more imposing class of secular edifices.

Passing from the consideration of public requirements to those of the private home, the increasing cultivation and appreciation of the fine arts, and their application to domestic necessities, are sufficient encouragement for the advancing of the claims of stained glass to hold a place in the general scheme of internal decoration. Of course, with such diversity as necessarily exists in the comparative size and extent of family abodes, from the lordliest mansion, standing in the midst of its own far-stretching grounds, to the more humble dwelling, forming a unit among the many that go to constitute a street, or terrace, or 'gardens,' it would be impossible to lay down any precise suggestions for their ornamentation; but it may be possible to offer a few general and broadly elastic ideas, capable of being expanded or contracted according to the means and wants of all.

Nor is a large and finely proportioned window an absolute necessity. At Rydal Hall, Westmoreland, the seat of the family of Le Fleming, a window, the heraldic blazoning of which was designed by the present writer, consisted merely of nine upright oblong square panels, each about two feet high by eighteen inches wide, arranged three, three, and three; and separated by mullions and transoms. But this unpromising rigidity of construction was not only overcome, but made subservient to the general design, in the following manner: the arms of the Le Fleming family, in a shield of nine quarterings, occupied the centre panel; the quarterings being those respectively of Le Fleming, of course in the place of honour, the dexter chief; and of eight ancestral and collateral branches of the family; and each of these quarterings, thus brought together in one shield to form the perfect 'achievement of arms' of the present representative, was displayed separately on single shields occupying the eight surrounding panels.

One of the principal documents in the muniment rooms of the great is the genealogical tree, duly set forth on musty parchment, in itself a guarantee of its own antiquity. How admirably could this be executed in glass! The tree, very conventionally designed, trained over the whole surface of the window; the quaintly hung shields depending from its branches at intervals; the whole forming an interesting study for antiquary and genealogist.

But in less ambitious dwellings, stained glass under various forms may be introduced with picturesque advantage. It will be acknowledged that very often, while the front of a house may look on a well-kept garden, or form part of the side of a spacious and beautiful square or public garden, the back may very likely look out on equally spacious but not equally beautiful or savoury mews. We know it may be contended that most back-rooms are bedrooms, and only used at night. This is true enough. But in nine cases out of ten, in houses of this class, there is a staircase window on the first landing, which, as a rule, looks out on the back, and is continually calling the attention of those passing up or down the stairs to the interesting spectacle of an equine toilet, or some similarly delectable operation. In this case, a window, though consisting of only two or three tints of rolled cathedral glass, and leaded in geometric or ornamentally flowing lines, would completely shut out the offensive prospect, while in no way interfering with the necessary lighting of the stair, nor the opening or shutting of the window-frame; and the expense would be scarcely if any more than glazing the sashes with plate-glass, which, moreover, to look commonly decent, requires infinitely more frequent cleaning than the other. This, of course, is almost the simplest form of treatment; but, according to the length of purse of the householder, the window may be more or less ornate in its design. The owner's arms, or monogram; floral painted devices, heads, or figures representing the four seasons, field-sports, fables, nursery rhymes, and numberless kindred subjects, are all most appropriate for delineation, and can be obtained at far less cost than a doubtful 'old master,' or piece of Brummagem bric-?-brac. A very pretty effect is obtained at night by filling the sides of a hall-lamp, or any large conspicuous lamp, with painted glass of design according to the owner's fancy; the old-fashioned clumsy window-blinds are now frequently superseded by leaded glass screens, more or less ornamental in their details; and a great objection to the use of stationary firescreens hitherto--that while they screen, they also hide the fire, is removed by the use of screens of glass, leaded and painted according to the taste and purse of the buyer.

A great and most important consideration in the adoption of stained glass is the great variety of design of which it is susceptible, its range of artistic production being so extensive and pecuniarily elastic as to bring it, in one form or another, within the reach of almost any one occupying a house; while for cleanliness, durability, and pleasing effect, whether in the comfortable dwelling of the thriving tradesman, or adorning the noblest monuments of private munificence or national philanthropy, it cannot fail to charm the eye by its intrinsic beauty; while from the artist's practised hand, the jewels of design shed their lustre on the illuminated walls.

SILAS MONK.

A TALE OF LONDON OLD CITY.

One evening--a pitch-dark evening in autumn--a girl stood at one of the doors in a row of old houses in the neighbourhood of Crutched Friars, watching. It was difficult to see many yards up or down the street, for it was only lighted by three widely-separated gas-lamps. Under one of these lamps, at a corner of the street, there presently appeared a little old man. He came along slowly, but with a jerky step like a trot; his head was bent and his shoulders raised; and he seemed to be rubbing his hands together cheerfully and hugging himself from time to time, as though his thoughts were of a congratulatory nature.

'Why, grandfather,' said the girl, descending into the street as soon as she caught sight of this figure--'why, grandfather, how late you are!'

The old man came jogging on, still in his jerky manner, though faster, at the sound of her voice. 'Ay, ay!' said he, shaking out his words, 'ay, Rachel, my dear. Always late. Don't you take any notice of that. It has been so for years--fifty years; ay, more than fifty.'

'Fifty years, grandfather, is a long time,' remarked the girl as they passed in at the doorway together, her arms placed protectingly around him--'a very long time.'

'Ay, Rachel; so it is, my dear,' continued the old man--'so it is.'

They entered a small front-room on the ground-floor. An oil-lamp was burning on the mantel-shelf; it threw a dim light upon bare and dingy walls, upon an old deal table, two wooden seats without backs, and a well-worn leathern armchair near the fire. Towards this chair the girl now led the old man as one might lead a child. Then she began to lay the cloth for the evening meal. She was a pretty, homely-looking girl of about eighteen; perhaps a little too pale; and with eyes, though large and lustrous, somewhat sad and weary for one so young. But as she busied herself about the room preparing the supper, her eyes gradually brightened; and her face, growing more animated, gained colour, as though to match the better with her red lips.

The old man, crouching in his armchair before the fire, took no notice of the girl. His look had become deeply thoughtful, and he seemed to be gaining a year in age with every minute that was passing. The wrinkles increased, and covered his face like the intersecting lines in cobwebs; the white eyebrows drooped thick as a fringe, and meeting over the brow, seemed to be helping to hide some secret, vaguely expressed in the small gray eyes. His head was bald, except at the sides, where scanty locks of snowy white hair hung about his neck. His long lean fingers were occasionally spread out upon his knees, though sometimes the hands grew restless when an incoherent word escaped his lips. The workings of the mind indeed were expressed in the nervously shaped figure as much as in the face. There were moments when the fingers clawed and clutched perplexedly; then there came into the eyes a look of avarice, and the whole form would seem busily engaged in solving mysterious problems. There was something almost repellent in the workings of the mind and body of this strange old man.

'Come, grandfather!' cried the girl, when the meal was presently spread. 'The supper is ready now; and I hope,' she added, assisting him to a place at the table--'I hope you have a better appetite than usual.' She spoke in a cheerful tone, though looking doubtfully the while at what she had spread on the board. There was a small piece of cheese, part of a loaf, and a stone pitcher filled with water--nothing more.

The old man eyed the food keenly. 'No, Rachel, no,' said he; 'not much appetite, my dear.'

'Eh?'

'But we cannot afford it. Can we?'

'No, my dear, no,' said the old man, very shaky in voice; 'we can hardly afford what we have.'

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet