The sea-watches or chronometers of Breguet are famous throughout the world.  It is well known that these watches are every moment subject to change of position, from the rolling and pitching of the vessel.  Breguet conceived the bold thought of enclosing the whole mechanism of the escapement and the spring in a circular envelope, making a complete revolution every two minutes.  The inequality of position is thus, as it were, equalised on that short lapse of time; the mechanism itself producing compensation, whether the chronometer is subjected to any continuous movement, or kept steady in an inclined or upright position.  Breguet did still more:  he found means to preserve the regularity of his chronometers even in case of their getting any sudden shock or fall, and this he did by the parachute.  Sir Thomas Brisbane put one of them to the proof, carrying it about with him on horseback, and on long journeys and voyages; in sixteen months, the greatest daily loss was only a second and a half—­that is, the 57,600th part of a daily revolution.

Such is the encouraging example of Breguet, 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 Breguet’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.