A gentleman who lived in the country had three sons,—Henry, Samuel, and John. When Henry was about ten years old, he took them with him to London, which they had never seen before. They arrived late in the evening; and slept at an inn in Fleet Street. They felt very much bewildered by the rattling of the carriages in the street, and by the bustle at the inn; and, perhaps, if they had not been very much tired by their journey, they would not have been able to sleep. They rose, however, the next morning, in high spirits; and were very happy in expectation of all the wonderful things which they supposed they should see during the day.
As soon as breakfast was over, their Father took them out to walk: he was obliged to take great care of them, or they would have been pushed down, while they were looking eagerly at every shop window: indeed, they were so much engaged by the variety of objects about them, that they had proceeded half way up Ludgate Street before they perceived St. Paul’s: all at once Henry stopped, and staring up at the vast building before him, exclaimed, quite loud,—“Dear Papa! Papa! what a grand church!” This attracted the attention of his brothers, who immediately turned away from the shop window at which they were gazing.
The three boys seemed for some time fixt in astonishment at the first sight of an object so different from any thing they had ever seen before. After they had made many exclamations, their Father led them on, and they walked within the enclosed space, where they might converse more freely: at length, John began a more regular conversation, by saying,—“I suppose, Papa, the men who built this great church, or cathedral as you call it, were very—very tall, strong men.”
Father. Why do you think so, John?
John. Because it is so very high; and because the stones it is built with are so large. I don’t think the men that built our new stables last summer could build such a tall church as this. Besides, what would be the use of building it so high, if the men who built it were not taller than you are, Papa?
Father. Before I answer you, John, let us hear what Samuel thinks.
Sam. Why, Papa, I think the men who built this cathedral must have had a great deal of patience and perseverance. I dare say, that if twenty or thirty men all tried together, they might lift the stones: but perhaps it would take them a whole day to put one stone in its proper place. So that it would take a very long time to build these great walls and pillars. I think that if the men were very industrious, and were determined not to leave off till they had done it, they might finish it perhaps in twenty years.
Father. And now, Henry, what do you think?
Henry. I have been thinking, Papa, of a reason to prove that the men that built St. Paul’s Cathedral were not so tall as John thinks they must have been.
Father. What is that reason, Henry?
Henry. Because these stone steps up to the door, are just the proper size for us to walk up: but if the men who lived when this church was built had been as tall as those houses, they would have made every step as high as your head, Papa.
Father. That is a good reason to prove that the people for whom the cathedral was built, were not taller than we are: but perhaps John may imagine that the workmen employed to build it were giants; but do you think, Henry, that men not taller or stronger than the bricklayers who built the stables at home, could ever erect such a building as this?
Henry. Yes, Papa, if there was some very clever man to tell them how to do it,—how to lift the stones with pullies, and ropes, and levers; and what shape to make the walls, and the pillars, and so forth. I remember when the new stables were built, Mr. Bond, the architect, made a drawing of the whole, before the men began, and then the master told his men how to do every part, to make it like the drawing. So I suppose some architect, who had a great deal of knowledge, and was very ingenious and clever, made a drawing of all the walls, and windows, and pillars, and contrived the best way to lift the stones up so high; and then, I dare say, any common bricklayer’s men would be able to do it.
Father. You are right, Henry; a great and beautiful building like St. Paul’s Cathedral is wonderful and admirable, chiefly on account of the knowledge and genius which we know those men must have had who could lay the plan, and direct others how to execute it. While we are in London we shall have many opportunities of observing the different effects produced by strength, industry, skill, knowledge, and genius. But now you have forgotten one chief thing requisite in raising such a building as this.
John. Oh, a great deal of mortar, Papa.
Father. That is not what I mean. When I wanted the new stables built, what did I do?
Sam. You sent for Mr. Bond, Papa, and told him to do it.
Father. But what should make Mr. Bond willing to take the trouble of building stables for me?
Sam. You told him you would pay him for doing it.
Father. Very well: then you see, money is the first thing requisite when any great work is to be performed. If a man wants nothing but what he can procure for himself, he has no need of money: but then he must be content to live upon wild fruits, and to shelter himself in a cavern: this is what is called savage life. The use of money is to make men help each other: and when men help each other, they are able to do a hundred times more than when every one only prepares what he wants for his own use.
The next day the three boys were taken by their Father to Guildhall. As soon as John perceived the two gigantic figures which stand at the end of the hall, he exclaimed,—“There now, Papa, I dare say the men who built St. Paul’s were just such men as those figures; if they were real men, they would be able to handle the great stones as easily as the bricklayers handle the bricks.”
Father. We shall presently see if men cannot contrive ways of doing every thing they want to be done, without waiting till they can find giants to help them.
They afterwards walked down to the river side. A vessel was lying at one of the wharfs, laden with very large blocks of Portland Stone. The conversation was resumed.
Father. John, do you see what is in that vessel?
John. Yes, Papa; very large square stones: I wonder they don’t make the vessel sink to the bottom.
Father. Do you suppose that men, twenty feet high, will come and lift these stones out of the vessel, and carry them where they are wanted to be used?
John. I don’t think there are any such men now.
Father. What must be done, then?
John. I cannot tell.
Henry. I guess, Papa, what will be done:—I think this great thing with all these chains, and wheels, and winders, is on purpose to lift the stones out of the vessel.
Father. Yes: this is called a crane: perhaps, on some of the wharfs we shall find them using a crane.
Walking a little further, they came to the front of a warehouse, where men were raising hogsheads of tallow by a crane, from a waggon, to an upper story of the building.
Father. There, John, you see is the Giant that can lift blocks of marble or heavy hogsheads: two or three men, who are not six feet high, keep him at work; and he does exactly what they wish to be done. Now, Henry, do you think that twenty of the savages of New Holland, whom you have read of, could raise one of these hogsheads into the warehouse?
Henry. No, Papa: they might roll it along the ground, or carry it a mile, on two long poles; but they could not raise it into the air without some machine or contrivance.
Father. But they could not make a machine without knowledge and ingenuity.
Sam. Then, Papa, if men can do what they wish by contrivances and machines, I do not see that patience is of much use.
Father. What you mean, is properly called industry: patience means, bearing pain quietly. But industry is of great use to execute what has been thought of and contrived by those who have knowledge and ingenuity: and, besides, there are many things that require very little skill, but are performed chiefly by industry. Let us return to the wharf where we saw the blocks of stone.
When they returned to the place, they observed a man who was sawing a thin slice from a block of stone: the saw was fastened to a large wooden frame, which he moved continually backwards and forwards. A tub was set on the top of the stone, from which water ran gently into the gap, and kept the saw from getting hot.
John. How tiresome it must be, Papa, to have to move that great frame backwards and forwards all day long: and you can hardly see that it cuts the stone at all. I think I would chop it,—or something.—
Father. No; it would be impossible to chop the block into the flat pieces that are wanted. This block, you see, is lifted about, not by strength but by skill: it is cut into slices, not by skill but by industry.
Sam. But does the man like to sit sawing this stone all day?
Father. Perhaps not: but if he did not do this he could not procure food and clothing for himself, and his wife and children.
While this conversation was passing, the watermen, who were waiting for a fare, had attracted the attention of the boys, by holding up their hands, saying, perpetually, “Want a boat, Sir,—want a boat?” The moment that the Father looked towards the stairs, leading down to the water, one of them darted forward, and offered to hand the young gentlemen into his boat. In one minute they were all seated; and the waterman, having pushed his boat out into clear water, took his seat, and with long steady pulls, soon brought them out of sight of the stairs.
After they had expressed their admiration of the fine appearance of the broad river, and the vessels upon it; the bridges, and the buildings on both sides; the conversation, which had been interrupted, was thus resumed.
Father. You have seen that the stone-cutter procures his living, rather by his industry than his strength: now, can you name one who lives rather by his strength than his industry?
Henry. Yes, Papa; this waterman: we pay him for moving us along upon the water by the strength of his arms: I do not suppose that much skill is required to be a waterman.
Father. No; what is most needful to the waterman, in addition to his strength, is dexterity.
Sam. What is dexterity, Papa?
Father. Dexterity is the habit a man acquires, by use, of performing any particular action in the best way, with the least trouble or effort. Think now, if you can, of a man whose business it is to exercise strength, without even having need of dexterity.
Henry considered for some time, and then replied,—“The man who turned the winder of the crane, to raise the hogshead into the warehouse: he had nothing to do but to move his arms round and round.”
Sam. Or a porter, who carries parcels.
Father. Yes: and you may observe, even in their looks, the difference between those who have need of some dexterity in employing their strength, and those who have no need of it. The man who employs his strength with dexterity, looks briskly about him; often closes his lips firmly; holds his head erect; and appears as if he felt some satisfaction in his employment. But the man who merely exerts strength, looks on the ground; breaths chiefly through his mouth; moves stifly; and appears either ferocious, sullen, or stupid; unless he follows also some other occupation which exercises his mind.
By this time the boat had reached the foot of Blackfriar’s Bridge, where they left it. In Bridge Street they took a coach: when they were well seated, the conversation was continued.
Father. Now let us compare the coachman’s occupation with that of the waterman: What has he need of?
John. The horses draw the coach; so he does not want strength; he only sits still on the box.
Sam. To guide the horses with the reins.
Father. This requires some dexterity; and it would require more, if the horses were spirited. He does not appear so active as the waterman, who exercises strength as well as dexterity.
Henry. I think, Papa, when we return home, and are out of all the bustle, it will be entertaining to talk of all the different trades and occupations in this way. Since we have been conversing, I have thought of a great many questions to ask. And we have not yet said any thing about the occupations that require skill, and knowledge, and genius, but——
Here the conversation was interrupted; as the coach was stopped in a narrow street by a crowd of people: on looking out it appeared that a workman had fallen from the scaffolding of a building, and had been much hurt. Several persons were carefully placing him on a shutter, in order to carry him to the hospital. A lady, who was passing, enquired of the poor man his name and place of abode, apparently with the design of affording relief to his family.
In the evening, after the three boys had talked over the occurrences of the day; their father said, “Now tell me how it is that men in civilized countries are able to execute great works, and to provide all those things that make life comfortable and agreeable?”
Henry. It is by joining together to help each other, in executing the things they contrive.
Father. In what way do they help each other? Do all do the same sort of thing?
Henry. No: one man does one sort of thing: and another man another sort of thing: every one does the particular thing he has been used to do, and what he understands best.
Father. Hence it follows, that the same degree of knowledge, and the same sort of ability are not necessary for all men alike. Great strength is necessary only for those who,——?
Henry. Those who have to bear burdens, or to move machines.
Father. Dexterity and skill are necessary,——?
Henry. For those who have to execute things that are difficult to do; and that cannot be done by machines.
Father. Industry is necessary,——?
Henry. For those who have to do the same sort of thing, on and on, all day long; like a clock that must never stand still.
Father. Knowledge and genius are necessary,——?
Henry. For those who have to contrive how things are to be done.
Father. And for those who have to instruct other men, or to persuade them to do what is right; or to govern them. But what was it that interrupted our conversation in the morning?
Sam. We saw the poor bricklayer, who had fallen from the scaffolding where a house was building.
John. Yes, Papa; and they took him up very gently, and carried him——
Sam. To the hospital.
John. What is that, Papa?
Father. An hospital is a house where there are surgeons and nurses, to take care of poor people that are ill; or, who have been hurt by accident.
John. And do you remember, Papa, how very sorry the lady looked, who asked the poor man where he lived?
Father. Yes: the lady was compassionate; and so, I think, were the men who carried the man away. They appeared to take great care not to hurt him more than they could help. What would you have said, if the people who were standing about had taken no notice of him; but left him to lie where he fell, or help himself if he could?
John. Oh, Papa, that would have been very cruel.
Father. It would, indeed: such persons, we should have said, had no kindness or humanity.
Sam. They would have been very wicked people.
Father. Yes.
Henry. Because, Papa, we ought always to be willing to help those who are in distress; even though it should cost us a great deal of trouble and money.
Father. Then you see, that though it is not necessary for all men to exercise strength, or industry, or to have knowledge, or genius, it is necessary for all men to be,——?
Henry. Ready to help each other in distress.
Father. If I want a house to be built, I must find out a man that is used to build houses:—If I want clothes, I must go to the draper:—If I want to be taught any thing, I must apply to those who have acquired knowledge; but if I am in distress, I may expect any one to help me, who is able to do so, because it is every body’s business to be humane and compassionate.
Henry. Yes, Papa: every body is not obliged to be clever; but every body ought to be good.
Father. What is the best reason you can think of, why we should be compassionate?
Henry. Because, perhaps, some day, we ourselves may be in need of help in distress.
Father. Cannot you think of a better reason than that?
Henry. Because God is compassionate.
Father. Yes.