George Manville Fenn
"Original Penny Readings"
"A Series of Short Sketches"
Chapter One.
Paying the Footing.
Now, it don’t matter a bit what sort of clay a pot’s made of, if when it’s been tried in the fire it turns out sound and rings well when it’s struck. If I’m only common red ware, without even a bit of glaze on me, and yet answer the purpose well for which I’m made, why I’m a good pot, ain’t I, even if I only hold water? But what I hate is this—to see the pots that we come against every day of our lives all on the grumble and murmur system, and never satisfied. The pot of common clay wishes he was glazed, and the glazed pot wishes he was blue crockery, and the blue crock pot wishes he was gilt, and the gilt pot ain’t satisfied because he ain’t china; and one and all are regularly blind to the good they have themselves, and think their neighbours have all the pleasures of this world. They’re so blind that they can’t see the flaws in some of the china. “Oh! if I had only been that beautiful vase!” says the common yellow basin that the missus washes the tea-things up in—“Oh! if I had only been that beautiful vase!” says the basin, alluding to a piece of china as stands on our mantel-piece—a vase that I picked up cheap at a sale. Why, the jolly old useful basin can’t see the cracks, and flaws, and chips in our aristocratic friend; he can’t see the vein-like marks, where he has been put together with diamond cement, nor that half-dozen brass rivets let into him with plaster of Paris. There, go to, brother yellow basin; and look alive, and learn that old saying about all not being gold that glitters. Aristocratic china is very pretty to look at—very ornamental; but if we put some hot water into the mended vase, and tried to wash up in it, where would it be, eh? Tell me that; while you, brother yellow basin, can bear any amount of hard or hot usage; and then, after a wipe out, stand on your side, dry, and with the consciousness of being of some use in this world; while the bit of china—well, it is werry pretty to look at, certainly. It’s werry nice to look at your heavy swell—the idle man of large means, who gives the whole of his mind to his tie or his looking-glass; the man with such beautiful whiskers, and such nice white hands; and when you’ve done looking at him you can say he’s werry ornamental, werry chinaish, but he ain’t much good after all. But there; instead of grumbling about having to work for your living, just thank God for it. Look at your dirty, black, horny fists: stretch ’em out and feel proud of them, and then moisten ’em, and lay hold of whatever tool you work with, and go at it with the thought strong on you that man had mind, hands, and power given him to work with; and though toil be hard sometimes, why, the rest after ’s all the sweeter; while over even such poor fare as bread and cheese and an onion there’s greater relish and enjoyment than the china vase gets over his entrées, which often want spice and sauce-piquante to help them down. Man wasn’t meant to be only ornamental; so don’t grumble any more about being a yellow basin.
But don’t mistake me in what I mean; don’t think I turn up my nose at china: it’s right enough in it’s way, and at times vastly superior to your common crockery. I honour and feel proud of the china pots which, having no occasion to work, throw aside idleness, and with the advantages of power and position, work, and work hard—work with their heads, and do great things—men who live not to eat, but eat to live and benefit their fellows in some way. Don’t mistake my meaning, for I don’t want to make a man look with contempt on those above him; but learn to see how that, whatever his position in life, he can do some good, and that he is of service; and above all things, learn to see that your yellow basin—your working man—is of quite as much value in this world of ours as the china ornaments of society, whose aim and end is often to—there I’m almost ashamed to say it—to kill time.
“Thou saidst they was good crows, Tommy; and they was nobbut booblins,” says the old Lincolnshire man who wanted a rook pie, and bought his rooks without seeing them, when they proved poor half-fledged birds; and what lots of us believes what others say,—takes things for granted; and after all only gets “booblins” for our dinner. If men would only judge for themselves—look before they leap—turn the china ornament up and look at the cracks and rivets, or, even if it is sound, consider how frail, fragile, and useless it is—they would be a little more satisfied with their own lot in life, and not be so given to grumbling. Things are precious hard sometimes, but that’s no reason why we should make them harder by our own folly. We see and know enough of the misery of our great towns, and I mean to say that we have ourselves to thank for a good—no, I mean a bad—half of it. Now, just take away—I wish we could—just take away out of London all the dirt, all the drunkenness, and all the other vice, and how do you think it would look then, eh? You can’t tell me; but I can tell you something: it would ruin half the doctors, half the undertakers, and three parts of the brewers, and gin-spinners, and publicans; and that being rather a strong dose for any man to digest at one sitting, I’ll let you think it over without putting any more on that subject. I won’t go on preaching about the everlasting pipe that men make a common tunnel or chimney to carry off all the sense in their heads through the abuse of tobacco; nor yet say anything about drowning the good feelings of his heart by the abuse of beer; for I want to get to the way in which yellow basins get jarring together, as if they were never happy till the fresh one that comes amongst them is cracked, and on the way to join the rest of the potsherds over whose dust we walk during our journey of life.