In travelling over a country, my young friends will frequently meet with similar buildings to those I have attempted to describe—and I would only observe, that antiquities are a most interesting study. The spirit of times gone by live in the midst of monastic ruins—and from such we may trace the deeds of our forefathers, and enter into familiar conversation with them. Nor must we deem our progenitors entirely unworthy our regard and veneration; for, notwithstanding the barbarous ages in which they lived—notwithstanding the ignorance that surrounded them—and notwithstanding their superstition and bigotry—they have left us a rich inheritance; and our own times teem with the glories, the virtues, and sterling worth of the past.
Oranges and Lemons, or the Bells of St. Clement’s.
What a beautiful thing is Memory! It is like the softened sounds of receding music; it is like the long track of silvery spray which a ship leaves on the divided waters. Twilight is the air’s remembrance of the sun. In the olden time, there were some who thought that in childhood we had recollections of Heaven; and, probably, this little world of ours will be a memory to us when we have left it for ever. It is a happy thing that we can drink again some of the sweetness of a by-gone joy; and very useful, though not so pleasant, that we can recall our past errors and follies, and, by steeping them in regret and shame, turn them into lessons of duty.
Pietro Limoncelo was a poor foreigner from the sunny shores of the Mediteranean. While yet a youth, the political troubles of his country had obliged him to leave his home among the fruits and sunbeams, and to find a refuge in London, where he earned a poor living as a journeyman-tailor. He lodged in a garret, in a court branching off from the Strand, near the church of St. Clement Danes. What a change for him! He who had lived near an orange grove, who had basked in the sunshine of the South, or under the shade of purple vines, or beneath the trees where “orange lamps in a green light,” glimmered with a golden beauty—he to become the tenant of a poor room in a dingy thoroughfare, amidst gloom and discomfort, and the hard life of English poverty—it was a sad change, indeed. If such changes happen to any of us, we must keep up our hearts, by remembering that no gloom or darkness can obscure the vision of the Supreme, and that the beams of his blessedness may penetrate even into the dreariest places.
Pietro had not been regularly apprenticed to a tailor: it could not be said of him that he had learned the trade; but he had picked up a little knowledge of it from time to time, and practice improved him. What he did was done pretty well, but he was not ranked as a first-class workman; consequently, the only department in which he could get employment was that in which is called the “Slop”—a department in which goods are got up, common in quality and low in price, for the accommodation of humble customers. There was not much opportunity here of earning handsome wages; it was a bare living, and nothing more.
One evening he was sitting cross-legged on his board, bending wearily over some work that had just come in from his employers, the great Tailoring firm of Push, Puff, Poetry, Placard, and Company. He had lately felt very unwell, and unable to work with his usual energy; he had been obliged more than once to cut off three or four from his wonted number of labour hours. Less work brought, as a consequence, less pay; and so the cupboard got bare, and matters became very desperate indeed with the poor Tailor. He had just put the last stitch to a couple of waistcoats which were lying on the board beside him, when a mixed feeling of hunger, pain and weakness, brought this sad thought into his mind:—“Might I not, without crime, raise a little money on one of these waistcoats, to give my sinking body its needful nourishment? I would make restitution as soon as my health returned.” Conscience grew very uneasy at this thought, and interrupted it several times with “No! no! no!” but want and pain were so loud in their clamours that these “noes” were overwhelmed. Pietro determined to go out and see if half-a-crown could not be borrowed, for a day or two, on one of the waistcoats; he was rising from his board for the purpose, when a giddy faintness came over him, and he was obliged to sit down again. “Ah! I see how it is,” said he; “I am too weak to move to night; I must lie down and rest; I must put it off till to-morrow. Meanwhile, I’ll sleep upon it.”
At the counter of that Pawnbroker’s shop, where three gilt balls hang over the door, and where brushed-up clothes of all kinds for men, women, and children dangle, from pegs in back rooms and gloomy passages, there stands a wretched man, with sallow cheeks, wild-looking eyes, and long streaming hair. He has just pledged a waistcoat, and with the money in his hand is leaving the shop, when he hears a rustling sound from above. Looking up, he sees a pale, serious face looking down upon him. It has an airy, spiritual look, and seems to be floating in the air on misty wings; and then, with a low, solemn, whispering voice it sings these words:—