Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/360

350 earth so agreeable or so necessary to the comfort of man as a dog. It is certain that if man were deprived of the companionship and services of the dog, he would be rendered in many respects a helpless being. The dog has died in defence of his master, saved him from drowning, warned him of approaching danger, and has faithfully and gently led him about when deprived of sight. If his master wants amusement in the fields or the woods the dog is delighted to have an opportunity of procuring it for him. If man finds himself in solitude, his dog will be a faithful companion; and may be, when death comes, the faithful creature will be,be [sic] the last to forsake the grave of his beloved master.

It was, of course, predicted by that numerous class who delight to throw cold water on every project, that the time and trouble of the author of these lectures would be thrown away. Facts, however, prove that the reverse has been the case. There is not now a more sober or better conducted class than the Brighton fishermen. Hundreds of them have altogether abandoned the ale-house; many have placed sums in savings’ banks; their families that were previously but badly cared for, are now for the most part well fed, and cleanly and neatly clothed; and the winter finds the men in the possession of funds sufficient to tide them over the fisherman’s idle time, without their having recourse, as they formerly did, to the parish. Such are the blessings which a handful of philanthropists have unostentatiously showered upon the Brighton fishermen. We learn with much satisfaction that the influential inhabitants of Brighton are alive to the benefits which have accrued through the institution of this home, and which accrue not only to the fishermen, but indirectly, through the stoppage of misconduct on the beach, to visitors and to the residents themselves. The inhabitants are about to mark their sense of the good work thus quietly carried out, by placing a marble bust of Mr. Jesse in their Pavillion. This compliment to the naturalist by whose intellectual efforts the Fishermen’s Home has been mainly supported, is as well deserved by him as it is creditable to the good taste and good feeling of the authorities of the town.

It is not too much to hope that some practical good may result from drawing public attention to the financial and moral success of the Fishermen’s Home. It may stimulate the formation of similar institutions in other parts of the country. Enough has been said to show that large funds are not necessary for this purpose. All that is required is a dry room, a little plain furniture, and a few books. Together with this some means should be planned for interesting and amusing the members. Above all, the philanthropists who devote their time and energies to the arrangement of the requisite details should have the tact to let the working man see that their sole object is the amelioration of his condition. In this way, and at a trifling outlay, vast benefits may be conferred on the labouring man. It is the opinion of those who have had opportunities of judging, that “Homes” are even more needed by the agricultural labourer than by the fisherman.

“ heart! that twinest with the twisted band Thoughts bound to sorrow, in a smiling land, What dost thou here with tears upon thy hand?”

So spoke a reaper, standing ’mid the leaves, Between the time of suns and golden eves, To a lost maiden binding up the sheaves.

“In vain to heaven’s face I lift mine eye; On me no comfort droppeth from on high: So shall I reap in sorrow till I die.”

So cried the maiden, weeping as she bound; Cheating glad echo with a thankless sound; Her hot tears dropping—dropping on the ground.

“Leave the full sheaf: go, glean the scattered ears: Stain not the precious bread of life with tears!— Bruise not the blossom, tender as thy years!”

So spoke the reaper, on a balm-breathed morn, To that wronged maiden, chided and forlorn, Plucking the virgin bindweed from the corn.

“O Man—so seeming tender of the bud— See! on the drooping poppy hast thou trod, Crushing sweet sleep out,—even in tears of blood!”

So cried the maiden, goaded into pain, On whose dead heart there fell no harvest rain; A blossom bruised before the time of grain.

“Go forth!—thou comest to the field too late: On thee, and on thy woe, I bar the gate.— Away! I will not have thee for my mate.”

So spoke the reaper, as the night fell black, To that poor gleaner on life’s stony track; To that crushed soul—that soul upon the rack!

She buried her wan face;—as well she may To whom no night is darker than her day.— When lo! a strange light lighted all the way.

Through her closed eyelids did the radiance shine Which lit the pale flower of a virgin bine, Twined round the cross-head of a road-way sign.

It was but a rude cross to point the path To those who stray,—as many a wanderer hath; Set up in tenderness, and not in wrath.

The beauty of it fixed her to the spot.— If her poor way she had awhile forgot, Yet One took care that she should miss it not!

A clear hand, imaged on the carven wood, Pointed to where the climbing wild-flower stood,— (Like a white maiden beautiful and good,)

White, save for one seared leaf the night-wind blew A moment o’er its pure and spotless hue;— A skeleton leaf, that all the white shone through!

She looked, to see whence glanced the living light, And marked where high a feeble lamp shone bright; A guide to those to whom the way was night.

The lamp’s glad rays streamed point-wise to the sky; Or so it seemed unto her dazzled eye: But her soul saw it, too,—and could not lie!

So, from a chance-borne vision of delight, She drew sweet comfort,—till her pain grew slight; And traced God’s hand, graved in that hand of light.