Such is the encouraging example of Bréguet, who was at first only a workman. And to this he owes his being the best judge of good workmen, as he was the best friend to them. He sought out such everywhere, even in other countries; gave them the instruction of a master of the art; and treated them with the kindness of a father. They were indebted to him for their prosperity, and he owed to them the increase of fortune and of fame. He well understood the advantages of a judicious division of labour, according to the several capabilities of artisans. By this means, he was able to meet the demand for pieces of his workmanship, not less remarkable for elegance and beauty than for extreme accuracy. It may indeed be said, that Bréguet's efforts gave a character to French horology that it has never lost. So much may one man do in his day and generation to give an impetus to an important branch of national industry.
SAINT ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA.
'Would that we two were lying
Beneath the church-yard sod,
With our limbs at rest in the green earth's breast,
And our souls at home with God!'[4]
I never lay me down to sleep at night
But in my heart I sing that little song:
The angels hear it, as, a pitying throng,
They touch my burning lids with fingers bright,
Like moonbeams—pale, impalpable, and light.
And when my daily pious tasks are done,
And all my patient prayers said one by one,
God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight
That round my slow burnt-offering of quenched will,
One quivering human sigh creeps windlike still?
That when my orisons in silence fail,
Lingers one tremulous note of human wail?
Dear lord—spouse—hero—martyr—saint! erelong
I think God will forgive my singing that poor song.
A year ago, I bade my little son
Bear on a pilgrimage a sacred load
Of alms; he cried out, fainting on the road,
'Mother, O mother, would that this were done!'
Him I reproved with tears, and said: 'Go on,
Nor feebly sink ere half thy task be o'er.'
Would not God say to me the same, and more?
I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one,
Husband—no, brother—stretch thy steadfast hand
Across the void! Mine grasps it. Now I stand,
My woman-weakness nerved to strength divine.
We'll quaff life's aloe-cup as though 'twere wine,
Each to the other; journeying on apart,
Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart to heart.
FOOTNOTES:
[4] From Kingsley's Saint's Tragedy. Elizabeth, Princess of Bohemia, the most sincere among the mistaken devotee saints of the middle ages, renounced her royal state, her husband and children, and spent her life in the sternest asceticism, and in the most self-denying acts of charity.