No. 46.]

ELIZA

JOURNAL

WORKING-CLASS BENEFIT SOCIETIES.

AMONG the many excellent institutions which have, of recent years, been extending among the working classes, are their Benefit or Friendly Societies. These exist to a much greater extent than is generally imagined, and under various names.

[PRICE 1d.

industrious classes. The moral example which the members of these various orders give to society at large is admirable, illustrating the virtue of economy, prudent forethought, mutual and brotherly aid, and provision for the bereaved and the helpless in their time of need. By contributing to these societies, they form, as it were, a little fund of savings, on which they are enabled to recline when overtaken by disease, instead of doing a violence to their sense of self-respect, by soliciting aid from the Union or the Workhouse.

Under various names, the objects of all these societies are the same, namely, the relief of the members in time of sickness, and the payment of a fixed sum at their death, the requisite funds being provided by means of a small weekly contribution from each member. Probably not less than two millions of the working population of Great Britain and Ireland are, during times of sickness and distress, dependent in a great measure on these societies for support; and, of this number, nearly one-half (including women and children) are dependent on the Manchester Unity. In 1846, this last-named society expended no less than £107,440 in the relief of its members during sickness; £62,742 for funeral-money; and £32,421 for surgeons' salaries and attendance. In 1847, its income was about £340,000, and its reserved fund about £200,000. These figures will serve to give the reader an idea of the gigantic stature to which these working-men's societies have reached.

It would not be easy to over-estimate the value of such institutions to the working classes. They are schools in which they learn and practice the great lesson of selfhelp. One of their most excellent features is, their thoroughly popular origin. They are not the offspring of a sickly patronage, but have had an entirely spontaneous growth, and are rooted deep in that manly feeling of self-reliance and self-dependence which, we trust, will ever continue to be a prominent characteristic of our

ber, and of from £5 to £7 on the death of a member's wife. The societies are mostly what are called "Secret Societies;" that is, they have signs, pass-words, and forms, known only to the initiated; and many of them clothe their officers in a peculiar garb, with badges, &c. ; but the signs and pass-words, as well as the dresses, form no proper part of the business of the societies, which is mainly that of affording help to their members in time of sickness, or to their families at their death; and probably before long the pass-words, signs, and dresses will be dispensed with altogether.

The societies do not merely confine themselves to these special objects. In many of the large towns they are centres of educational activity. Various schemes of benevolence are set on foot by them: for instance in 1847, the members of the Manchester Unity contributed £1000 to the distressed Irish. They have also, in many towns, formed Literary Institutes, Mutual Instruction Classes, and established libraries and reading-rooms for the benefit of their members. The business of the society trains the members for other active social work besides that in which they are more immediately engaged; and the issue is observed in an increasing mental activity among the working classes generally.

It ought also to be added, that the members of these societies are a highly moral class; in fact, they are the élite of the working men. Out of the 260,000 members of the Manchester Unity in the year 1846, only 32 were expelled during the first quarter of that year-namely,

for violation of the general laws 19, for felony 2, for defrauding their respective lodges 7, for general bad conduct 3, and for imposing on the lodge 1,-exhibiting indications of a morality and good conduct, such as, perhaps, no other body of men of equal numbers in this country can excel.

Now, admirable though the objects of these societies confessedly are, and great and beneficial though these results assuredly have been, we are far from saying that they are all that they ought to be, or all that we firmly believe they will yet become. They have their faultsas what human institutious have not? They were first called into existence by an extensive want, felt by the working classes to be unprovided for; they arose out of the necessities of the moment, at a time when the principles of life and sickness assurance were much less studied and understood than they now are; when observations as to the expectancy of life and health were few and imperfect; and accordingly, in many respects, the constitution of the working-class benefit societies has been, and still continues to be, in many respects imperfect. We believe, however, that they are in a position to remedy all such defects in their organization, and that the Odd Fellows' Societies, and such like, are yet destined to become, what the Committee of the House of Lords lately pronounced them capable of being-" the greatest economical institution of modern times." Their chief glory will ever be, in their having first taught the working men of England the most precious and invaluable lesson of self-respect and self-help.

Probably the most important defect in the workingclass benefit societies now under consideration, is the insufficient rates of subscriptions of the members. Strong doubts are abroad as to the solvency of the Orders; and Mr. Neison, the eminent actuary, some time ago, published the result of very extensive inquiry and observation on this subject, the summary of which may be thus stated:

That, whereas the annual contribution of each member of a benefit society-to secure 10s. a week sick allowance, £10 on the death of a member, and £5 on the death of a member's wife, ought to be £1 19s. 5d., it in reality is, in most of the societies of the Odd Fellows' Order only £1 2s. 9d. per annum, or about 42 per cent less than it ought to be, in order to enable such societies to fulfil their engagements to their members: and he consequently predicts the bankruptcy of the societies within a few years.

Now, this point must at once be admitted to be one of very great importance. Benefit societies of all kinds ought to be able to keep the promises they hold out to the public, as inducements to join them. It is clearly the interest of the members themselves that this should be so. For, in what position is the working man who, after contributing, for say ten years, to the funds of his lodge, or above £10 sterling, finds that the funds are insufficient to meet his fair claims, when sickness at length falls upon him, and on the faith of receiving which he had for so many years punctually paid his instalments? Will he not be ready to say, that something like a deception has been practised on him, especially after it had been proved that the weekly contribution required of him was altogether insufficient to keep his lodge in a state of solvency? And, we regret to say, that the instances in which the lodge-box has been closed for want of funds, are by far too numerous. Surely it is the unquestionable interest of all the members of benefit societies that such instances of bankruptcy should never occur!

The extensive series of observations which have been made of late years by able actuaries, and the accurate calculations based upon them, have removed all difficulty in the way of determining what the proper rates of contribution of members at different ages ought to be. Odd Fellows' societies have within themselves, indeed, the

means of furnishing a large mass of observations as to the probabilities of sickness and death among their members. Their extensive organization, and the large and increasing amount of support which they have recently received, enable them to provide nearly all the necessary data for correct calculations, as to the rates of contributions requisite to place them in a thoroughly solvent and secure position, under all circumstances.

Although the actual duration of life, and the average amount of sickness of each individual, cannot be known, yet the average duration, or, as it is called, the probability of life, and the average amount of sickness at all ages for a succession of years, have been ascertained, with a degree of precision sufficient for all practical purposes. Take, for example, a large number of persons, say 10,000, at any age, a certain determinable proportion will die next year, others will survive twenty or forty years, or more; then some will be ill, and frequently for weeks together, others will not in the course of twenty years require to be under a doctor's care; but if the probable numbers who will die in each year, and the probable amount of sickness, can be ascertained, which is really the case, it is obvious that there are data on which the value of Assurances can be calculated. The proportion of persons in any given mass who die yearly, and the proportion who are laid up by sickness yearly, has been ascertained by observations conducted on a large scale, and from the data so collected, and by a process strictly inductive, the value of Insurances at all ages has been determined. What reason is there, that the benefit societies of the working classes should not take advantage of such observations, and so modify their rates, as to render future failure or insolvency on their part impossible.

It is clear that the rates of contribution ought to bear a due proportion to the ages of the respective members of benefit societies, which at present is but imperfectly arranged. It is only fair, that the man who enters at an early age should have the benefit of the contributions which he pays for a longer average period than the member who enters later in life, as well as from the circumstance of his paying his contributions during the age at which his proportion of sickness is likely to be the least; and this is arranged in the best kind of assurance societies by establishing for the younger members, in proportion to their age, a lower rate of weekly contribution, as well as of entry-money, when entry-money is required.

The security and reliability of benefit societies would also be increased by a combination of their now separate and distinct lodge-funds into a united fund. At present, lodges with a preponderance of old members, are avoided by the young, and the consequence very often is, that the old lodge, from the heavy sickness of its more aged members, becomes unable to meet the claims upon it, and the box is closed, or it breaks up. Were the members of the various societies combined together in one Grand Union, and the rates made sufficient, any such calamity as this could not occur.

The practice of holding the meetings of the lodges in public-houses is also open to many objections. Intemperate habits are apt to be formed there, altogether at variance with the provident and economical objects of benefit societies. It is true, the present practice has originated in necessity, because there were no other places of meeting accessible. In many towns, however, this objection is being removed; and Odd Fellows are building Halls, and providing places of meeting of their own, where temperate men may resort, without any risk of contamination or injury to their sense of self-respect.

We confidently look to the speedy improvement of the Working-Class Benefit Societies in all these respects. There is an anxious desire evinced by the active and leading minds in the various orders, to render their

societies all that they ought to be, and to keep them up with the improved character of the age. We understand that the Manchester Unity have ordered statistical returns from all the lodges in connection with that influential body, with the avowed purpose of making the experience of the order itself the basis of an efficient table of contributions and entry-money, for the guidance of that order; and, therefore, we expect shortly to see this great point of difficulty satisfactorily solved.

WHAT IS FAME?

OR THE PASTORALE IN D MINOR.

I.

"MUCH as I admire your pastoral, my dear Robesart," said the youngest of two friends, seated together at a table upon which lay the slender fragments of a very frugal supper, "you cannot persuade me that music can express every shade of feeling, still less that it can describe or present to us natural objects. By association it can awaken within us every feeling, but directly it can only excite two feelings, joy and sorrow. If you want music to express heroism, fortitude, virtuous resolve, any feelings, in short, in which joy and sorrow do not enter, why you might just as well require of it to paint a lake or a mountain."

"And do you mean to say, my dear Simon, that I have not expressed the song of the linnet, the balmy breeze of morning, the awaking of all nature, the coming forth of the flock, the meeting of the shepherd with his shepherdess? Do you mean to say that you could not count the very pulsations of her heart when the storm came on, that you did not see the lightning flash, nor hear the thunder roll? But surely I have expressed the returning calm, the thankfulness of the innocent maiden ?"

"Indeed you have not again and again I tell you that you have not. "Your pastorale is a master-piece, nevertheless it cannot do what musicnever did-it cannot express every circumstance of physical nature, every shade of moral feeling. Music is music-and how much is it in being so! but if you will have it to be also poetry, painting, architecture, agriculture, metaphysics, theology, you will only make it ridiculous or make it nothing."

"It is you that would make it nothing, for you say it expresses nothing."

"I say that it is its property, its characteristic, not to take any precise form of feeling, to embody any definite idea, but rather lend itself to be the medium of any idea, to take any shade of feeling according to the imagination, the fancy, the present mood, the kind of mind, or character of the hearer."

"But in this case, who would care for music?" "You ought rather to say, that were it otherwise, music would be intolerable. Why is it that you can have ten times over, an opera, a symphony, or a pastorale, such as yours, while you could not listen ten times over in succession to the finest tragedy, even were Garrick or Talma the performer? Simply, because poetry, once for all, fixes definitely what it means to express; it rivets the mind to one precise idea, feeling, or emotion; whereas music, on the contrary, free as the atmospheric air, takes every form, from having itself none. You breathe it, you make it your own, and all its magic power is in the very vagueness that you will not admit."

"Ah, my dear friend, had I been allowed but an opportunity of singing my pastorale before the public, you would do more justice to my divine art; I will not say to me, for your praise has been such that, had the directors of the opera but deemed me worth one-tenth of it, I might now have had my path strewed with the laurelcrowns, might be now drinking from public fountains, graced by my statue in white marble."

"Crowns and statues! All men are alike," added the young democrat, as he flung out of the window his twentieth cigar, "they must all have stilts of some kind or other that, like mountebanks, they may be seen at a distance. You are a happy man, Robesart, I would rather be in your place than in that of Napoleon-the mighty conqueror of Egypt and Italy-the glory of the arts. . . .

"But I am deprived of this glory-my dear pastorale cannot be brought out-it will never be brought outnever-the thought is too dreadful!"

"You must banish such thoughts, Robesart, remember you are young."

"You are younger by half."

"And therefore it is, my dear artist, that I have good hope of living to see your musical fame fill the old world in which we are now, and the new to which I am hastening. But before I leave you, my good, kind Robesart, let me conjure you not to suffer ambition to take possession of your mind. It is but a waste of life. Fame comes of itself, in its own time; every effort made to hasten it does but waste and consume our energies, without bringing it one moment sooner. It would be better if you could despise it altogether; but, at least, let me entreat of you to wait for it patiently. I am but young, yet I speak in the fullest confidence that the advice I am giving you is sound."

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Though I cannot disclaim the love of fame, for why else should I have composed my pastorale in D minor? yet you need not have any apprehensions as to its influence upon me. Fame will always be at too great a distance from me to affect me. There was but one avenue to it, and that is closed against me for ever. How much, think you, would it cost to get it up at my own expense? Twenty thousand francs."

"I only wish I could lend you that sum." "You are not rich, I know. May I ask is your father a musician?"

"I am not poor, dear Robesart, but all my property is in South America. I have gold mines, which accounts for my not having twenty thousand francs to command. I hold these mines in dependence upon the Spanish Government, for which I work them. It is in my debt, has no money to pay, is on bad terms with France, with the colonies, with . . .'

"And so I am to lose you," said the kind-hearted artist, feeling, amid more pressing cares, regret for a departure which would deprive him of the society of the young, and cultivated, and studious American, who, full of enthusiasm for the fine arts, was determined upon every effort for their diffusion throughout the wide fields of America, "I am to lose you at the very moment that I lose the only hope of my life. In one week to part from a friend, and have my pastorale rejected. I must then again resume giving lessons, running my weary rounds through the mud for two francs a day. I might have had statues to my honour, and I shall soon have no shoes. But what is your immediate destination?" "Rome, thence to America."

"Rome! the country of Palestrina, the cradle of the heavenly maid, Music."

"Rather say the country of noble hearts, of brave liberators, my worthy Robesart."

"Let it be your first care to repair to the Sistine Chapel, and while drinking in for me and for yourself the entrancing strains of the great masters, you will remember my pastorale in D minor.”

"I will go first to the ruins of the capitol, and there swear upon my sword to set my country free;" and Simon turned upon his friend, from beneath thick bushy eyebrows, an eye which, though somewhat sunken, was full of fire and expression.

"So then it seems that you too have ambition, notwithstanding all your sage warnings to me?"

"Yes: if it be ambition, which has no low selfish motive, I have a never-dying ambition to throw off the chains of the mother-country."

"This is another kind of music, my dear Simon, another sort of pastorale."

"We shall see," said the grave, but ardent American, 66 we shall see. Meanwhile, have you sufficient confidence in me to entrust me with a copy of your pastorale ?"

"Can you ask me such a question? But what can you do with it?"

Give it to me, and hope for the best."

Borrow, indeed! if you must borrow, borrow for bread."

"You may take it, I will not release it ;" and Robesart resignedly let the postman carry it off.

"You have a year to determine," said the man, as he went away with the letter.

"There is but one way left," thought the artist, "and I will try it. It is hard, it is degrading: no matter." He flew to the Pont des Arts. At the period, of which we write, 1813, this bridge used to he the rendezvous of all the fashionables of Paris in the summer evenings. It was now crowded; and night was almost falling when suddenly the notes of a violin were heard. A few moments sufficed to show they were drawn forth by the hand of none of the itinerant performers, so often the torment of the frequenters of the promenade; and a circle soon formed around a man who stood with a handkerchief thrown over his face. "It is Hubert," was now the cry.

II.

Six years after, the musician was still giving lessons in the Marais and the Faubourg St. Jacques-lessons on the piano, because he only knew how to play on the violin lessons in singing, because he had the hoarsest possible voice. As to his pastorale in D minor, he could now venture to name it only to some of the parents of his pupils, who, having out of compassion stayed to listen to a few bars, used to get up with "Excuse me, I must go to the shop;" or, "I wish you had chosen a good trade." It was only at night, when everybody was asleep, that he snatched up his violin and charmed his own ears with his magnificent composition. From time to time he stopped to snuff his candle, one of twelve to the pound, or to cry, as he beat time with his feet,-"The sun rises, the shepherdess appears on the threshold of her cottage-oh! if my worthy friend could but hear, what praises would be lavished upon me by a taste now matured by experience. But he has forgotten me." And the artist sadly restored his violin to its case, and set about polishing his shoes for his next day's visit.

A few more years passed on, marked not only by a few additional furrows on the already wrinkled forehead of our great unknown, but by two unfortunate changes in his circumstances. A new style of singing was introduced; from that moment he began to lose his pupils; and he married, and from that moment was never allowed to play his pastorale, even in his own house for his private gratification. His wife, who would have been enthusiastically fond of music, had it brought her velvet bonnets, fine shawls, and pretty caps, could not endure the violin when she found that amid all the sounds drawn forth by it, the chink of money was not heard. The pastorale in D minor was her horror. "It was your ruin," she cried, "you made yourself ridiculous with your shepherds, your stars, your locks! What matter, indeed, if your sheep could be eaten."

Pressed on all sides, and utterly dejected, he abjured fame and the pastorale which he now carefully sealed up after writing upon it-"I commend this to my son. It has been the misfortune of his father; it shall be the pride and boast of our family." He never again mentioned it. I will not say he never thought of it, never dreamed of it.

One day a letter was brought, the postage on it twelve francs. "Twelve francs!" exclaimed Robesart's wife, 66 you must not release it. If I were sure that it contained the announcement of a legacy of one hundred thousand crowns, well and good. But to give twelve francs on a mere chance, you may put it out of your

the most celebrated violin-player of the day. Every voice was hushed, not a sound was heard but the water as it flowed under the arches, and the delightful notes of the supposed Hubert. It was the pastorale in D minor. When the piece was finished, plaudits arose long and loud, bursting forth from the Louvre to the Institute. But not a single franc found its way into the hat that lay at the feet of the artist. They had found him out; it was Hubert, and who would give money to Hubert. What was money to him? Garlands are showered upon him, a wreath is put upon his head. What were wreaths to Robesart? He wanted twelve francs-twelve francs to release his letter.

The letter remained two months in the post. It was not until the close of two months of extreme privation, that he amassed penny by penny a sum of twelve francs to redeem his letter.

He was nearly choked with joy when he had it in his hand: wherefore he knew not. But misfortune seems endowed with second sight. He seized the letter, and in the street under a gate-way, he tremblingly tears it open, and reads-but at first he cannot take in a single word.

"Dear Friend,

"From Rome I went to Germany, and afterwards to Spain, the country of my ancestors, and thence to the United States. Having got a Colonel's commission, I took a very active part in the war of independence, and was fortunate enough to rise from rank to rank to that of Commander-in-Chief of the Venezuelan army. Yes, dear Robesart, my wishes are accomplished. This day, the 4th of August, 1813, I have entered the city of Caracas, subdued by me. The cannons are still firingthe bells still ringing. Twelve young girls, dressed in white, drew my chariot, and can you guess to what music I made my triumphant march? Yours, my friend; a part of your pastorale in D minor-of your divine pastorale, made a march of the finest effect. And, therefore, the city of Caracas (for I made no secret of your name), begs your acceptance of two thousand piastres, that is, ten thousand francs, which are forwarded to you to Havre by a ship. Caracas does not deem this sufficient to express its sense of your genius; your name has been engraved upon the triumphal chariot in which I made my entry into the conquered city. Farewell, my dear Robesart; you now must see that music says all that it is made to say. It was the part in which you so well expressed the song of the linnet, that, with a very slight change, made the triumphal march of Curacas. I have better news still in store for you, but we must wait. I would again recommend you, my dear friend, not to