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LIVES
OF
POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.
BY
SARAH K. BOLTON.
"_There is properly no History, only Biography._"
--EMERSON.
_Human portraits, faithfully drawn, are of all pictures the
welcomest on human walls._
--CARLYLE.
_FORTY-FIRST THOUSAND._
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright,_
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
1885.
Norwood Press:
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
MY ONLY SISTER,
Mrs. Halsey D. Miller,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
MANY HAPPY HOURS.
PREFACE.
These characters have been chosen from various countries and from varied
professions, that the youth who read this book may see that poverty is
no barrier to success. It usually develops ambition, and nerves people
to action. Life at best has much of struggle, and we need to be cheered
and stimulated by the careers of those who have overcome obstacles.
If Lincoln and Garfield, both farmer-boys, could come to the Presidency,
then there is a chance for other farmer-boys. If Ezra Cornell, a
mechanic, could become the president of great telegraph companies, and
leave millions to a university, then other mechanics can come to fame.
If Sir Titus Salt, working and sorting wool in a factory at nineteen,
could build one of the model towns of the world for his thousands of
workingmen, then there is encouragement and inspiration for other
toilers in factories. These lives show that without WORK and WILL no
great things are achieved.
I have selected several characters because they were the centres of
important historical epochs. With Garibaldi is necessarily told the
story of Italian unity; with Garrison and Greeley, the fall of slavery;
and with Lincoln and Sheridan, the battles of our Civil War.
S. K. B.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
GEORGE PEABODY Merchant 1
BAYARD TAYLOR Traveller 13
Captain JAMES B. EADS Civil Engineer 26
JAMES WATT Inventor 33
Sir JOSIAH MASON Manufacturer 46
BERNARD PALISSY Potter 54
BERTEL THORWALDSEN Sculptor 65
WOLFGANG MOZART Composer 72
SAMUEL JOHNSON Author 83
OLIVER GOLDSMITH Poet and Writer 90
MICHAEL FARADAY Scientist 96
Sir HENRY BESSEMER Maker of Steel 112
Sir TITUS SALT Philanthropist 124
JOSEPH MARIE JACQUARD Silk Weaver 130
HORACE GREELEY Editor 138
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON Reformer 156
GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI Patriot 172
JEAN PAUL RICHTER Novelist 187
LEON GAMBETTA Statesman 204
DAVID G. FARRAGUT Sailor 219
EZRA CORNELL Mechanic 238
Lieut.-General SHERIDAN Soldier 251
THOMAS COLE Painter 270
OLE BULL Violinist 284
MEISSONIER Artist 303
GEO. W. CHILDS Journalist 313
DWIGHT L. MOODY Evangelist 323
ABRAHAM LINCOLN President 342
[Illustration: GEORGE PEABODY.]
GEORGE PEABODY.
If America had been asked who were to be her most munificent givers in
the nineteenth century, she would scarcely have pointed to two grocer's
boys, one in a little country store at Danvers, Mass., the other in
Baltimore; both poor, both uneducated; the one leaving seven millions to
Johns Hopkins University and Hospital, the other nearly nine millions to
elevate humanity. George Peabody was born in Danvers, Feb. 18, 1795. His
parents were respectable, hard-working people, whose scanty income
afforded little education for their children. George grew up an
obedient, faithful son, called a "mother-boy" by his companions, from
his devotion to her,--a title of which any boy may well be proud.
At eleven years of age he must go out into the world to earn his living.
Doubtless his mother wished to keep her child in school; but there was
no money. A place was found with a Mr. Proctor in a grocery-store, and
here, for four years, he worked day by day, giving his earnings to his
mother, and winning esteem for his promptness and honesty. But the boy
at fifteen began to grow ambitious. He longed for a larger store and a
broader field. Going with his maternal grandfather to Thetford, Vt., he
remained a year, when he came back to work for his brother in a
dry-goods store in Newburyport. Perhaps now in this larger town his
ambition would be satisfied, when, lo! the store burned, and George was
thrown out of employment.
His father had died, and he was without a dollar in the world. Ambition
seemed of little use now. However, an uncle in Georgetown, D.C., hearing
that the boy needed work, sent for him, and thither he went for two
years. Here he made many friends, and won trade, by his genial manner
and respectful bearing. His tact was unusual. He never wounded the
feelings of a buyer of goods, never tried him with unnecessary talk,
never seemed impatient, and was punctual to the minute. Perhaps no one
trait is more desirable than the latter. A person who breaks his
appointments, or keeps others waiting for him, loses friends, and
business success as well.
A young man's habits are always observed. If he is worthy, and has
energy, the world has a place for him, and sooner or later he will find
it. A wholesale dry-goods dealer, Mr. Riggs, had been watching young
Peabody. He desired a partner of energy, perseverance, and honesty.
Calling on the young clerk, he asked him to put his labor against his,
Mr. Riggs's, capital. "But I am only nineteen years of age," was the
reply.
This was considered no objection, and the partnership was formed. A year
later, the business was moved to Baltimore. The boyish partner travelled
on horseback through the western wilds of New York, Pennsylvania,
Maryland, and Virginia, selling goods, and lodging over night with
farmers or planters. In seven years the business had so increased, that
branch houses were established in Philadelphia and New York. Finally Mr.
Riggs retired from the firm; and George Peabody found himself, at the
age of thirty-five, at the head of a large and wealthy establishment,
which his own energy, industry, and honesty had helped largely to build.
He had bent his life to one purpose, that of making his business a
success. No one person can do many things well.
Having visited London several times in matters of trade, he determined
to make that great city his place of residence. He had studied finance
by experience as well as close observation, and believed that he could
make money in the great metropolis. Having established himself as a
banker at Wanford Court, he took simple lodgings, and lived without
display. When Americans visited London, they called upon the genial,
true-hearted banker, whose integrity they could always depend upon, and
transacted their business with him.
In 1851, the World's Fair was opened at the Crystal Palace, London,
Prince Albert having worked earnestly to make it a great success.
Congress neglected to make the needed appropriations for America; and
her people did not care, apparently, whether Powers' Greek Slave, Hoe's
wonderful printing-press, or the McCormick Reaper were seen or not. But
George Peabody cared for the honor of his nation, and gave fifteen
thousand dollars to the American exhibitors, that they might make their
display worthy of the great country which they were to represent. The
same year, he gave his first Fourth of July dinner to leading Americans
and Englishmen, headed by the Duke of Wellington. While he remembered
and honored the day which freed us from England, no one did more than he
to bind the two nations together by the great kindness of a great heart.
Mr. Peabody was no longer the poor grocery boy, or the dry-goods clerk.
He was fine looking, most intelligent from his wide reading, a total
abstainer from liquors and tobacco, honored at home and abroad, and very
rich. Should he buy an immense estate, and live like a prince? Should he
give parties and grand dinners, and have servants in livery? Oh, no! Mr.
Peabody had acquired his wealth for a different purpose. He loved
humanity. "How could he elevate the people?" was the one question of his
life. He would not wait till his death, and let others spend his money;
he would have the satisfaction of spending it himself.
And now began a life of benevolence which is one of the brightest in our
history. Unmarried and childless, he made other wives and children happy
by his boundless generosity. If the story be true, that he was once
engaged to a beautiful American girl, who gave him up for a former poor
lover, the world has been the gainer by her choice.
In 1852, Mr. Peabody gave ten thousand dollars to help fit out the
second expedition under Dr. Kane, in his search for Sir John Franklin;
and for this gift a portion of the newly-discovered country was justly
called Peabody Land. This same year, the town of Danvers, his
birthplace, decided to celebrate its centennial. Of course the rich
London banker was invited as one of the guests. He was too busy to be
present, but sent a letter, to be opened on the day of the celebration.
The seal was broken at dinner, and this was the toast, or sentiment, it
contained: "EDUCATION--_a debt due from present to future generations._"
A check was enclosed for twenty thousand dollars for the purpose of
building an Institute, with a free library and free course of lectures.
Afterward this gift was increased to two hundred and fifty thousand
dollars. The poor boy had not forgotten the home of his childhood.
Four years later, when Peabody Institute was dedicated, the giver, who
had been absent from America twenty years, was present. New York and
other cities offered public receptions; but he declined all save
Danvers. A great procession was formed, the houses along the streets
being decorated, all eager to do honor to their noble townsman. The
Governor of Massachusetts, Edward Everett, and others made eloquent
addresses, and then the kind-faced, great-hearted man responded:--
"Though Providence has granted me an unvaried and unusual success in the
pursuit of fortune in other lands, I am still in heart the humble boy
who left yonder unpretending dwelling many, _very_ many years ago....
There is not a youth within the sound of my voice whose early
opportunities and advantages are not very much greater than were my own;
and I have since achieved nothing that is impossible to the most humble
boy among you. Bear in mind, that, to be truly great, it is not
necessary that you should gain wealth and importance. Steadfast and
undeviating _truth_, fearless and straightforward _integrity_, and an
_honor_ ever unsullied by an unworthy word or action, make their
possessor greater than worldly success or prosperity. These qualities
constitute greatness."
Soon after this, Mr. Peabody determined to build an Institute, combining
a free library and lectures with an Academy of Music and an Art Gallery,
in the city of Baltimore. For this purpose he gave over one million
dollars--a princely gift indeed! Well might Baltimore be proud of the
day when he sought a home in her midst.
But the merchant-prince had not finished his giving. He saw the poor of
the great city of London, living in wretched, desolate homes. Vice and
poverty were joining hands. He, too, had been poor. He could sympathize
with those who knew not how to make ends meet. What would so stimulate
these people to good citizenship as comfortable and cheerful
abiding-places? March 12, 1862, he called together a few of his trusted
friends in London, and placed in their hands, for the erection of neat,
tasteful dwellings for the poor, the sum of seven hundred and fifty
thousand dollars. Ah, what a friend the poor had found! not the gift of
a few dollars, which would soon be absorbed in rent, but homes which for
a small amount might be enjoyed as long as they lived.
At once some of the worst portions of London were purchased; tumble-down
structures were removed; and plain, high brick blocks erected, around
open squares, where the children could find a playground. Gas and water
were supplied, bathing and laundry rooms furnished. Then the poor came
eagerly, with their scanty furniture, and hired one or two rooms for
twenty-five or fifty cents a week,--cab-men, shoemakers, tailors, and
needle-women. Tenants were required to be temperate and of good moral
character. Soon tiny pots of flowers were seen in the windows, and a
happier look stole into the faces of hard-working fathers and mothers.
Mr. Peabody soon increased his gift to the London poor to three million
dollars, saying, "If judiciously managed for two hundred years, its
accumulation will amount to a sum sufficient to buy the city of London."
No wonder that these gifts of millions began to astonish the world.
London gave him the freedom of the city in a gold box,--an honor rarely
bestowed,--and erected his bronze statue near the Royal Exchange. Queen
Victoria wished to make him a baron; but he declined all titles. What
gift, then, would he accept, was eagerly asked. "A letter from the Queen
of England, which I may carry across the Atlantic, and deposit as a
memorial of one of her most faithful sons," was the response. It is not
strange that so pure and noble a man as George Peabody admired the
purity and nobility of character of her who governs England so wisely.
A beautiful letter was returned by the Queen, assuring him how deeply
she appreciated his noble act of more than princely munificence,--an
act, as the Queen believes, "wholly without parallel," and asking him to
accept a miniature portrait of herself. The portrait, in a massive gold
frame, is fourteen inches long and ten inches wide, representing the
Queen in robes of state,--the largest miniature ever attempted in
England, and for the making of which a furnace was especially built. The
cost is believed to have been over fifty thousand dollars in gold. It is
now preserved, with her letter, in the Peabody Institute near Danvers.
Oct. 25, 1866, the beautiful white marble Institute in Baltimore was to
be dedicated. Mr. Peabody had crossed the ocean to be present. Besides
the famous and the learned, twenty thousand children with Peabody badges
were gathered to meet him. The great man's heart was touched as he said,
"Never have I seen a more beautiful sight than this vast collection of
interesting children. The review of the finest army, attended by the
most delightful strains of martial music, could never give me half the
pleasure." He was now seventy-one years old. He had given nearly five
millions; could the world expect any more? He realized that the freed
slaves at the South needed an education. They were poor, and so were a
large portion of the white race. He would give for their education three
million dollars, the same amount he had bestowed upon the poor of
London. To the trustees having this gift in charge he said, "With my
advancing years, my attachment to my native land has but become more
devoted. My hope and faith in its successful and glorious future have
grown brighter and stronger. But, to make her prosperity more than
superficial, her moral and intellectual development should keep pace
with her material growth. I feel most deeply, therefore, that it is the
duty and privilege of the more favored and wealthy portions of our
nation to assist those who are less fortunate." Noble words! Mr.
Peabody's health was beginning to fail. What he did must now be done
quickly. Yale College received a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for
a Museum of Natural History; Harvard the same, for a Museum of
Archaeology and Ethnology; to found the Peabody Academy of Science at
Salem a hundred and forty thousand dollars; to Newburyport Library,
where the fire threw him out of employment, and thus probably broadened
his path in life, fifteen thousand dollars; twenty-five thousand dollars
each to various institutions of learning throughout the country; ten
thousand dollars to the Sanitary Commission during the war, besides four
million dollars to his relatives; making in all thirteen million
dollars. Just before his return to England, he made one of the most
tender gifts of his life. The dear mother whom he idolized was dead, but
he would build her a fitting monument; not a granite shaft, but a
beautiful Memorial Church at Georgetown, Mass., where for centuries,
perhaps, others will worship the God she worshipped. On a marble tablet
are the words, "Affectionately consecrated by her children, George and
Judith, to the memory of Mrs. Judith Peabody." Whittier wrote the hymn
for its dedication:--
"The heart, and not the hand, has wrought,
From sunken base to tower above,
The image of a tender thought,
The memory of a deathless love."
Nov. 4, 1869, Mr. Peabody lay dying at the house of a friend in London.
The Queen sent a special telegram of inquiry and sympathy, and desired
to call upon him in person; but it was too late. "It is a great
mystery," said the dying man feebly; "but I shall know all soon." At
midnight he passed to his reward.
Westminster Abbey opened her doors for a great funeral, where statesmen
and earls bowed their heads in honor of the departed. Then the Queen
sent her noblest man-of-war, "Monarch," to bear in state, across the
Atlantic, "her friend," the once poor boy of Danvers. Around the coffin,
in a room draped in black, stood immense wax candles, lighted. When the
great ship reached America, Legislatures adjourned, and went with
Governors and famous men to receive the precious freight. The body was
taken by train to Peabody, and then placed on a funeral car, eleven feet
long and ten feet high, covered with black velvet, trimmed with silver
lace and stars. Under the casket were winged cherubs in silver. The car
was drawn by six horses covered with black and silver, while corps of
artillery preceded the long procession. At sunset the Institute was
reached, and there, surrounded by the English and American flags draped
with crape, the guard kept silent watch about the dead. At the funeral,
at the church, Hon. Robert C. Winthrop pronounced the eloquent eulogy,
of the "brave, honest, noble-hearted friend of mankind," and then, amid
a great concourse of people, George Peabody was buried at Harmony Grove,
by the side of the mother whom he so tenderly loved. Doubtless he looked
out upon this greensward from his attic window when a child or when he
labored in the village store. Well might two nations unite in doing
honor to this man, both good and great, who gave nine million dollars to
bless humanity.
[The building fund of L500,000 left by Mr. Peabody for the benefit of
the poor of London has now been increased by rents and interest to
L857,320. The whole of this great sum of money is in active employment,
together with L340,000 which the trustees have borrowed. A total of
L1,170,787 has been expended during the time the fund has been in
existence, of which L80,903 was laid out during 1884. The results of
these operations are seen in blocks of artisans' dwellings built on land
purchased by the trustees and let to working men at rents within their
means, containing conveniences and comforts not ordinarily attainable by
them, thus fulfilling the benevolent intentions of Mr. Peabody. At the
present time 4551 separate dwellings have been erected, containing
10,144 rooms, inhabited by 18,453 persons. Thirteen new blocks of
buildings are now in course of erection and near completion. Indeed,
there is no cessation in the work of fulfilling the intentions of the
noble bequest.--_Boston Journal_, Mar. 7, 1885.]
[Illustration: BAYARD TAYLOR.]
BAYARD TAYLOR.
Since Samuel Johnson toiled in Grub Street, London, literature has
scarcely furnished a more pathetic or inspiring illustration of struggle
to success than that of Bayard Taylor. Born of Quaker parentage in the
little town of Kennett Square, near Philadelphia, Jan. 11, 1825, he grew
to boyhood in the midst of fresh air and the hard work of farm-life. His
mother, a refined and intelligent woman, who taught him to read at four,
and who early discovered her child's love for books, shielded him as far
as possible from picking up stones and weeding corn, and set him to
rocking the baby to sleep. What was her amazement one day, on hearing
loud cries from the infant, to find Bayard absorbed in reading, and
rocking his own chair furiously, supposing it to be the cradle! It was
evident, that, though such a boy might become a fine literary man, he
could not be a successful baby-tender.
He was especially eager to read poetry and travels, and, before he was
twelve years old, had devoured the contents of their small circulating
library, as well as Cooper's novels, and the histories of Gibbon,
Robertson, and Hume. The few books which he owned were bought with money
earned by selling nuts which he had gathered. He read Milton, Scott,
Byron, and Wordsworth; and his mother would often hear him repeating
poetry to his brother after they had gone to bed. He was always planning
journeys in Europe, which seemed very far from being realized. At
fourteen he began to study Latin and French, and at fifteen, Spanish;
and a year later he assisted in teaching at the academy where he was
attending school.
He was ambitious; but there seemed no open door. There is never an open
door to fame or prosperity, except we open it for ourselves. The world
is too busy to help others; and assistance usually weakens rather than
strengthens us. About this time he received, through request, an
autograph from Charles Dickens, then lecturing in this country. The boy
of sixteen wrote in his journal: "It was not without a feeling of
ambition that I looked upon it; that as he, a humble clerk, had risen to
be the guest of a mighty nation, so I, a humble pedagogue, might, by
unremitted and arduous intellectual and moral exertion, become a light,
a star, among the names of my country. May it be!... I believe all poets
are possessed in a greater or less degree of ambition. I think this is
never given without a mind of sufficient power to sustain it, and to
achieve its lofty object."
At seventeen, Bayard's schooling was over. He sketched well, and would
gladly have gone to Philadelphia to study engraving; but he had no
money. One poem had been published in the "Saturday Evening Post." Those
only who have seen their first poem in print can experience his joy. But
writing poetry would not earn him a living. He had no liking for
teaching, but, as that seemed the only thing at hand, he would try to
obtain a school. He did not succeed, however, and apprenticed himself
for four years to a printer. He worked faithfully, using all his spare
hours in reading and writing poetry.
Two years later, he walked to Philadelphia and back--thirty miles each
way--to see if fifteen of his poems could not be printed in a book! His
ambition evidently had not abated. Of course no publisher would take the
book at his own risk. There was no way of securing its publication,
therefore, but to visit his friends, and solicit them to buy copies in
advance. This was a trying matter for a refined nature; but it was a
necessity. He hoped thus to earn a little money for travel, and "to win
a name that the person who shall be chosen to share with me the toils of
life will not be ashamed to own." This "person" was Mary Agnew, whose
love and that of Bayard Taylor form one of the saddest and tenderest
pictures in our literature.
At last the penniless printer boy had determined to see Europe. For two
years he had read every thing he could find upon travels abroad. His
good mother mourned over the matter, and his acquaintances prophesied
dire results from such a roving disposition. He would go again to
Philadelphia, and see if the newspapers did not wish correspondence from
Europe. All the editors politely declined the ardent boy's proposals.
Probably he did not know that "unknown writers" are not wanted.
About to return home, "not in despair," he afterwards wrote, "but in a
state of wonder as to where my funds would come from, for I felt certain
they would come," the editor of the "Saturday Evening Post" offered him
four dollars a letter for twelve letters,--fifty dollars,--with the
promise of taking more if they were satisfactory. The "United States
Gazette" made a similar offer, and, after selling a few manuscript poems
which he had with him, he returned home in triumph, with a hundred and
forty dollars in his pocket! "This," he says, "seemed sufficient to
carry me to the end of the world."
Immediately Bayard and his cousin started on foot for Washington, a
hundred miles, to see the member of Congress from their district, and
obtain passports from him. Reaching a little village on their way
thither, they were refused lodgings at the tavern because of the
lateness of the hour,--nine o'clock!--and walked on till near midnight.
Then seeing a house brilliantly lighted, as for a wedding, they
approached, and asked the proprietor whether a tavern were near by. The
man addressed turned fiercely upon the lads, shouting, "Begone! Leave
the place instantly. Do you hear? Off!" The amazed boys hastened away,
and at three o'clock in the morning, footsore and faint, after a walk of
nearly forty miles, slept in a cart standing beside an old farmhouse.
And now at nineteen, he was in New York, ready for Europe. He called
upon the author, N. P. Willis, who had once written a kind note to him;
and this gentleman, with a ready nature in helping others,--alas! not
always found among writers--gave him several letters of introduction to
newspaper men. Mr. Greeley said bluntly when applied to, "I am sick of
descriptive letters, and will have no more of them. But I should like
some sketches of German life and society, after you have been there, and
know something about it. If the letters are good, you shall be paid for
them; but don't write _until you know something_."
July 1, 1844, Bayard and two young friends, after paying ten dollars
each for steerage passage, started out for this eventful voyage. No
wonder that, as land faded from sight, and he thought of gentle Mary
Agnew and his devoted mother, his heart failed him, and he quite broke
down. After twenty-eight days they landed in Liverpool, strangers, poor,
knowing almost nothing of the world, but full of hope and enthusiasm.
They spent three weeks in Scotland and the north of England, and then
travelled through Belgium to Heidelberg. Bayard passed the first winter
in Frankfort, in the plainest quarters, and then, with his knapsack on
his back, visited Leipzig, Dresden, Prague, Vienna, and Munich. After
this he walked over the Alps, and through Northern Italy, spending four
months in Florence, and then visiting Rome. Often he was so poor that he
lived on twenty cents a day. Sometimes he was without food for nearly
two days, writing his natural and graphic letters when his ragged
clothes were wet through, and his body faint from fasting. But the
manly, enthusiastic youth always made friends by his good cheer and
unselfishness.
At last he was in London, with but thirty cents to buy food and lodging.
But he had a poem of twelve hundred lines in his knapsack, which he
supposed any London publisher would be glad to accept. He offered it;
but it was "declined with thanks." The youth had not learned that Bayard
Taylor unknown, and Bayard Taylor famous in two hemispheres, were two
different names upon the title-page of a book. Publishers cannot usually
afford to do missionary work in their business; they print what will
sell. "Weak from sea-sickness," he says, "hungry, chilled, and without a
single acquaintance in the great city, my situation was about as
hopeless as it is possible to conceive."
Possibly he could obtain work in a printer's shop. This he tried hour
after hour, and failed. Finally he spent his last twopence for bread,
and found a place to sleep in a third-rate chop-house, among sailors,
and actors from the lower theatres. He rose early, so as not to be asked
to pay for his bed, and again sought work. Fortunately he met an
American publisher, who loaned him five dollars, and with a thankful
heart he returned to pay for his lodging. For six weeks he staid in his
humble quarters, wrote letters home to the newspapers, and also sent
various poems to the English journals, which were all returned to him.
For two years he supported himself on two hundred and fifty dollars a
year, earning it all by writing. "I saw," he says, "almost nothing of
intelligent European society; but literature and art were, nevertheless,
open to me, and a new day had dawned in my life."
On his return to America he found that his published letters had been
widely read. He was advised to put them in a book; and "Views Afoot,"
with a preface by N. P. Willis, were soon given to the world. Six
editions were sold the first year; and the boy who had seen Europe in
the midst of so much privation, found himself an author, with the
prospect of fame. Not alone had poverty made these two years hard to
bear. He was allowed to hold no correspondence with Mary Agnew, because
her parents steadily refused to countenance the young lovers. He had
wisely made his mother his confidante, and she had counselled patience
and hope. The rising fame possibly smoothed the course of true love,
for at twenty-one, Bayard became engaged to the idol of his heart. She
was an intelligent and beautiful girl, with dark eyes and soft brown
hair, and to the ardent young traveller seemed more angel than human. He
showed her his every poem, and laid before her every purpose. He wrote
her, "I have often dim, vague forebodings that an eventful destiny is in
store for me"; and then he added in quaint, Quaker dialect, "I have told
thee that existence would not be endurable without thee; I feel further
that thy aid will be necessary to work out the destinies of the
future.... I am really glad that thou art pleased with my poetry. One
word from thee is dearer to me than the cold praise of all the critics
in the land."
For the year following his return home, he edited a country paper, and
thereby became involved in debts which required the labors of the next
three years to cancel. He now decided to go to New York if possible,
where there would naturally be more literary society, and openings for a
writer. He wrote to editors and publishers; but there were no vacancies
to be filled. Finally he was offered enough to pay his board by
translating, and this he gladly accepted. By teaching literature in a
young ladies' school, he increased his income to nine dollars a week.
Not a luxurious amount, surely.
For a year he struggled on, saving every cent possible, and then Mr.
Greeley gave him a place on the "Tribune," at twelve dollars a week. He
worked constantly, often writing poetry at midnight, when his day's
duties were over. He made true friends, such as Stedman and Stoddard,
published a new book of poems; and in the beginning of 1849 life began
to look full of promise. Sent by his paper to write up California, for
six months he lived in the open air, his saddle for his pillow, and on
his return wrote his charming book "El-dorado." He was now twenty-five,
out of debt, and ready to marry Mary Agnew. But a dreadful cloud had
meantime gathered and burst over their heads. The beautiful girl had
been stricken with consumption. The May day bridal had been postponed.
"God help me, if I lose her!" wrote the young author to Mr. Stoddard
from her bedside. Oct. 24 came, and the dying girl was wedded to the man
she loved. Four days later he wrote: "We have had some heart-breaking
hours, talking of what is before us, and are both better and calmer for
it." And, later still: "She is radiantly beautiful; but it is not the
beauty of earth.... We have loved so long, so intimately, and so wholly,
that the footsteps of her life have forever left their traces in mine.
If my name should be remembered among men, hers will not be forgotten."
Dec. 21, 1850, she went beyond; and Bayard Taylor at twenty-six was
alone in the world, benumbed, unfitted for work of any kind. "I am not
my true self more than half the time. I cannot work with any spirit:
another such winter will kill me, I am certain. I shall leave next fall
on a journey somewhere--no matter where," he wrote a friend.
Fortunately he took a trip to the Far East, travelling in Egypt, Asia
Minor, India, and Japan for two years, writing letters which made him
known the country over. On his return, he published three books of
travel, and accepted numerous calls in the lecture-field. His stock in
the "Tribune" had become productive, and he was gaining great success.
His next long journey was to Northern Europe, when he took his brother
and two sisters with him, as he could enjoy nothing selfishly. This time
he saw much of the Brownings and Thackeray, and spent two days as the
guest of Tennyson. He was no longer the penniless youth, vainly looking
for work in London to pay his lodging, but the well-known traveller,
lecturer, and poet. Oct. 27, 1857, seven years after the death of Mary
Agnew, he married the daughter of a distinguished German astronomer,
Marie Hansen, a lady of great culture, whose companionship has ever
proved a blessing.
Tired of travel, Mr. Taylor now longed for a home for his wife and
infant daughter, Lilian. He would erect on the old homestead, where he
played when a boy, such a house as a poet would love to dwell in, and
such as poet friends would delight to visit. So, with minutest care and
thought, "Cedarcroft," a beautiful structure, was built in the midst of
two hundred acres. Every flower, every tree, was planted with as much
love as Scott gave to "Abbotsford." But, when it was completed, the old
story had been told again, of expenses going far beyond expectations,
and, instead of anticipated rest, toil and struggle to pay debts, and
provide for constant outgoes.
But Bayard Taylor was not the man to be disturbed by obstacles. He at
once set to work to earn more than ever by his books and lectures. With
his characteristic generosity he brought his parents and his sisters to
live in his home, and made everybody welcome to his hospitality. The
"Poet's Journal," a poem of exquisite tenderness, was written here, and
"Hannah Thurston," a novel, of which fifteen thousand were soon sold.
Shortly after the beginning of our civil war, Mr. Taylor was made
Secretary of Legation at Russia. He was now forty years of age, loved,
well-to-do, and famous. His novels--"John Godfrey's Fortunes" and the
"Story of Kennett"--were both successful. The "Picture of St. John,"
rich and stronger than his other poems, added to his fame. But the
gifted and versatile man was breaking in health. Again he travelled
abroad, and wrote "Byways in Europe." On his return he translated, with
great care and study, "Faust," which will always be a monument to his
learning and literary skill. He published "Lars, a Norway pastoral," and
gave delightful lectures on German literature at Cornell University,
and Lowell and Peabody Institutes, at Boston and Baltimore.
At last he wearied of the care and constant expense of "Cedarcroft." He
needed to be near the New York libraries. Mr. Greeley had died, his
newspaper stock had declined, and he could not sell his home, as he had
hoped. There was no alternative but to go back in 1871 into the daily
work of journalism in the "Tribune" office. The rest which he had longed
for was never to come. For four years he worked untiringly, delivering
the Centennial Ode at our Exposition, and often speaking before learned
societies.
In 1878, President Hayes bestowed upon him a well-deserved honor, by
appointing him minister to Berlin. Germany rejoiced that a lover of her
life and literature had been sent to her borders. The best of New York
gathered to say good-by to the noted author. Arriving in Berlin, Emperor
William gave him cordial welcome, and Bismark made him a friend. A
pleasant residence was secured, and furniture purchased. At last he was
to find time to complete a long-desired work, the Lives of Goethe and
Schiller. "Prince Deukalion," his last noble poem, had just reached him.
All was ready for the best and strongest work of his life, when, lo! the
overworked brain and body gave way. He did not murmur. Only once, Dec.
19, he groaned, "I want--I want--oh, you know what I mean, that _stuff
of life_!" It was too late. At fifty-three the great heart, the
exquisite brain, the tired body, were still.
"Dead he lay among his books;
The peace of God was in his looks."
Germany as well as America wept over the bier of the once poor Quaker
lad, who travelled over Europe with scarce a shilling in his pocket,
now, by his own energy, brought to one of the highest positions in the
gift of his country. Dec. 22, the great of Germany gathered about his
coffin, Bertold Auerbach speaking beautiful words.
March 13, 1879, the dead poet lay in state in the City Hall at New York,
in the midst of assembled thousands. The following day the body was
borne to "Cedarcroft," and, surrounded by literary associates and tender
friends, laid to rest. Public memorial meetings were held in various
cities, where Holmes, Longfellow, Whittier, and others gave their loving
tributes. A devoted student, a successful diplomat, a true friend, a
noble poet, a gifted traveller, a man whose life will never cease to be
an inspiration.
CAPTAIN JAMES B. EADS.
On the steamship "Germanic" I played chess with the great civil
engineer, Captain Eads, stimulated by the thought that to beat him was
to defeat the man who had twice conquered the Mississippi. But I didn't
defeat him.
The building of a ship-canal across the Isthmus of Suez made famous the
Frenchman, Ferdinand de Lesseps: so the opening-up of the mouth of the
Mississippi River has distinguished Captain Eads. To-day both these men
are struggling for the rare honor of joining, at the Isthmus of Panama,
the waters of the great Atlantic and Pacific; a magnificent scheme,
which, if successful, will save annually thousands of miles of dangerous
sea-voyage around Cape Horn, besides millions of money.
The "Great West" seems to delight in producing self-made men like
Lincoln, Grant, Eads, and others.
James B. Eads was born in Indiana in 1820. He is slender in form, neat
in dress, genial, courteous, and over sixty years of age. In 1833, his
father started down the Ohio River with his family, proposing to settle
in Wisconsin. The boat caught fire, and his scanty furniture and
clothing were burned. Young Eads barely escaped ashore with his
pantaloons, shirt, and cap. Taking passage on another boat, this boy of
thirteen landed at St. Louis with his parents; his little bare feet
first touching the rocky shore of the city on the very spot where he
afterwards located and built the largest steel bridge in the world, over
the Mississippi,--one of the most difficult feats of engineering ever
performed in America.
At the age of nine, young Eads made a short trip on the Ohio, when the
engineer of the steamboat explained to him so clearly the construction
of the steam-engine, that, before he was a year older, he built a little
working model of it, so perfect in its parts and movements, that his
schoolmates would frequently go home with him after school to see it
work. A locomotive engine driven by a concealed rat was one of his next
juvenile feats in mechanical engineering. From eight to thirteen he
attended school; after which, from necessity, he was placed as clerk in
a dry-goods store.
How few young people of the many to whom poverty denies an education,
either understand the value of the saying, "knowledge is power," or
exercise will sufficient to overcome obstacles. Willpower and thirst for
knowledge elevated General Garfield from driving canal horses to the
Presidency of the United States.
Over the store in St. Louis, where he was engaged, his employer lived.
He was an old bachelor, and, having observed the tastes of his clerk,
gave him his first book in engineering. The old gentleman's library
furnished evening companions for him during the five years he was thus
employed. Finally, his health failing, at the age of nineteen he went on
a Mississippi River steamer; from which time to the present day that
great river has been to him an all-absorbing study.
Soon afterwards he formed a partnership with a friend, and built a small
boat to raise cargoes of vessels sunken in the Mississippi. While this
boat was building, he made his first venture in submarine engineering,
on the lower rapids of the river, by the recovery of several hundred
tons of lead. He hired a scow or flat-boat, and anchored it over the
wreck. An experienced diver, clad in armor, who had been hired at
considerable expense in Buffalo, was lowered into the water; but the
rapids were so swift that the diver, though incased in the strong armor,
feared to be sunk to the bottom. Young Eads determined to succeed, and,
finding it impracticable to use the armor, went ashore, purchased a
whiskey-barrel, knocked out the head, attached the air-pump hose to it,
fastened several heavy weights to the open end of the barrel; then,
swinging it on a derrick, he had a practical diving-bell--the best use I
ever heard made of a whiskey-barrel.
Neither the diver, nor any of the crew, would go down in this
contrivance: so the dauntless young engineer, having full confidence in
what he had read in books, was lowered within the barrel down to the
bottom; the lower end of the barrel being open. The water was sixteen
feet deep, and very swift. Finding the wreck, he remained by it a full
hour, hitching ropes to pig-lead till a ton or more was safely hoisted
into his own boat. Then, making a signal by a small line attached to the
barrel, he was lifted on deck, and in command again. The sunken cargo
was soon successfully raised, and was sold, and netted a handsome
profit, which, increased by other successes, enabled energetic Eads to
build larger boats, with powerful pumps, and machinery on them for
lifting entire vessels. He surprised all his friends in floating even
immense sunken steamers--boats which had long been given up as lost.
When the Rebellion came, it was soon evident that a strong fleet must be
put upon Western rivers to assist our armies. Word came from the
government to Captain Eads to report in Washington. His thorough
knowledge of the "Father of Waters" and its tributaries, and his
practical suggestions, secured an order to build seven gunboats, and
soon after an order for the eighth was given.
In forty-eight hours after receiving this authority, his agents and
assistants were at work; and suitable ship-timber was felled in half a
dozen Western States for their hulls. Contracts were awarded to large
engine and iron works in St. Louis, Pittsburgh, and Cincinnati; and
within one hundred days, eight powerful ironclad gunboats, carrying over
one hundred large cannon, and costing a million dollars, were achieving
victories no less important for the Mississippi valley than those which
Ericsson's famous "Cheese-box Monitor" afterwards won on the James
River.
These eight gunboats, Commodore Foote ably employed in his brave attacks
on Forts McHenry and Donaldson. They were the first ironclads the United
States ever owned. Captain Eads covered the boats with iron: Commodore
Foote covered them with glory.
Eads built not less than fourteen of these gunboats. During the war, the
models were exhibited by request to the German and other governments.
His next work was to throw across the mighty Mississippi River, nearly
half a mile wide, at St. Louis, a monstrous steel bridge, supported by
three arches, the spans of two being five hundred and two feet long, and
the central one five hundred and twenty feet. The huge piles were
ingeniously sunk in the treacherous sand, one hundred and thirty-six
feet below the flood-level to the solid rock, through ninety feet of
sand. This bridge and its approaches cost eighty millions of dollars,
and is used by ten or twelve railroad companies. Above the tracks is a
big street with carriage-roads, street-cars, and walks for
foot-passengers.
The honor of building the finest bridge in the world would have
satisfied most men, but not ambitious Captain Eads. He actually loved
the noble river in which De Soto, its discoverer, was buried, and fully
realized the vast, undeveloped resources of its rich valleys. Equally
well he understood what a gigantic work in the past the river and its
fifteen hundred sizable tributaries had accomplished in times of
freshets, by depositing soil and sand north of the original Gulf of
Mexico, forming an alluvial plain five hundred miles long, sixty miles
wide, and of unknown depth, and having a delta extending out into the
Gulf, sixty miles long, and as many miles wide, and probably a mile
deep. And yet this heroic man, although jealously opposed for years by
West Point engineers, having a sublime confidence in the laws of nature,
and actuated by intense desire to benefit mankind, dared to stand on the
immense sand-bars at the mouth of this defiant stream, and, making use
of the jetty system, bid the river itself dig a wide, deep channel into
the seas beyond, for the world's commerce.
Captain Eads, who had studied the improvements on the Danube, Maas, and
other European rivers, observed that all rivers flow faster in their
narrow channels, and carry along in the swift water, sand, gravel, and
even stones. This familiar law he applied at the South Pass of the
Mississippi River, where the waters, though deep above, escaped from the
banks into the Gulf, and spread sediment far and wide.
The water on the sand-bars of the three principal passes varied from
eight to thirteen feet in depth. Many vessels require twice the depth.
Two piers, twelve hundred feet apart, were built from land's end, a mile
into the sea. They were made from willows, timber, gravel, concrete, and
stone. Mattresses, a hundred feet long, from twenty-five to fifty feet
wide, and two feet thick, were constructed from small willows placed at
right angles, and bound securely together. These were floated into
position, and sunk with gravel, one mattress upon another, which the
river soon filled with sand that firmly held them in their place. The
top was finished with heavy concrete blocks, to resist the waves. These
piers are called "jetties," and the swift collected waters have already
carried over five million cubic yards of sand into the deep gulf, and
made a ship-way over thirty feet deep. The five million dollars paid by
the United States was little enough for so priceless a service.
* * * * *
In June, 1884, Captain Eads received the Albert medal of the British
Society of Arts, the first American upon whom this honor has been
conferred. Before his great enterprise of the Tehuantepec ship railroad
had been completed, he died at Nassau, New Providence, Bahama Islands,
March 8, 1887, after a brief illness, of pneumonia, at the age of
sixty-seven.
[Illustration: JAMES WATT.]
JAMES WATT.
The history of inventors is generally the same old struggle with
poverty. Sir Richard Arkwright, the youngest of thirteen children, with
no education, a barber, shaving in a cellar for a penny to each
customer, dies worth two and one-half million dollars, after being
knighted by the King for his inventions in spinning. Elias Howe, Jr., in
want and sorrow, lives on beans in a London attic, and dies at
forty-five, having received over two million dollars from his
sewing-machines in thirteen years. Success comes only through hard work
and determined perseverance. The steps to honor, or wealth, or fame, are
not easy to climb.
The history of James Watt, the inventor of the steam-engine, is no
exception to the rule of struggling to win. He was born in the little
town of Greenock, Scotland, 1736. Too delicate to attend school, he was
taught reading by his mother, and a little writing and arithmetic by his
father. When six years of age, he would draw mechanical lines and
circles on the hearth, with a colored piece of chalk. His favorite play
was to take to pieces his little carpenter tools, and make them into
different ones. He was an obedient boy, especially devoted to his
mother, a cheerful and very intelligent woman, who always encouraged
him. She would say in any childish quarrels, "Let James speak; from him
I always hear the truth." Old George Herbert said, "One good mother is
worth a hundred schoolmasters"; and such a one was Mrs. Watt.