parent. There are such cases; this was one. Byron’s mother sometimes
came to school to see him. On one occasion, being displeased with
something she met there, she burst into a furious passion with the
teacher. When one of Byron’s schoolmates, with more simplicity than
politeness, said to him, “George, your mother is a fool,” “I know it!”
was the boy’s gloomy reply. This seems to me the saddest thing that ever
fell from a child’s lip. Still, it is due to him to say, that with this
knowledge bitterly burned in upon his soul, he never failed in _outward_
attention to her wishes, or in letters during his absence, informing her
carefully of all that most nearly concerned him; although for the sweet,
holy name of “mother,” he substituted “Madam,” or “Dear Madam.” Unhappy
mother! unhappy son! So much that was naturally kind in both, each
loving the other, and yet, in each, the active elements of perpetual
discord. Each yearning for affection with the intensity of strong
natures, and yet perpetually a great gulf between them, over which their
outstretched hands might never meet!
I wish I could tell you that this unhappy child grew up a happy, and,
what is better, a good man. But neither was true. His fine poetical
talent was not used to bless, or soothe, or instruct his fellow beings.
His powers of pleasing were exerted for unworthy purposes, and wasted
upon unworthy objects—and the miseries which his unbridled temper and
extravagance brought upon him in after years, he neither accepted as his
just punishment, nor strove, in a manly way, to atone for, and retrieve.
Lord Byron has been called “a great man.” I do not think him such. The
“greatness” which lacks moral courage to meet the ills of life, which
only makes them an excuse for wallowing in wickedness, must of necessity
be a spurious greatness. It is put to shame by the quiet heroism of
thousands of women, many of whom can neither read, write, nor spell, who
toil on by thousands all over our land, facing misery, poverty,
wretchedness in every form, with trust in God unwavering to the last
moment of life. That’s what I call “greatness.” One would think, that
the more a man knew, the better should he be able to hold the fiery
horses of his passions with a master hand—to keep them subservient by a
strong bit and bridle. Else, of what use is his intellect? He might as
well be a mere animal; better, too, by far, because for the animal there
is no remorseful future. He is but a pitiable specimen of manhood, who
has resolution enough in a land of plenty to endure the keen pangs of
hunger day by day, lest eating should spoil the outline of his handsome
face and form, and yet is powerless to control passions which,
scorpion-like, will sting him, long after his perishable body has
crumbled into dust.
[Illustration: THE POLICEMAN.—Page 165.]
THE POLICEMAN.
I heard a little boy say, the other day, “When I grow up, I mean to be a
policeman!” He liked the bright star on the policeman’s breast, and the
big club in his hand. He thought it would be “fun” to sound his whistle,
when he spied a fellow getting a ride for nothing on the steps of an
omnibus, and to see him running off as fast as he could, for fear of a
crack from the driver’s long whip. He thought it would be nice to walk
up and down, and scare the little beggar girls, who were teasing for
“one penny, please,” from the ladies on the sunshiny side of the street,
as they came out of the shops. But he _didn’t_ think, how many policemen
have kissed their little boys and girls, when they left at night, and
been killed before these little ones woke in the morning, by some
robber, or murderer, whom they had to catch in the night. He didn’t
think how many wretched, drunken men and women they have to drag through
the streets, to the station houses, every day, and how many shocking
fights they have to see and take part in. He didn’t think how forlorn it
must be to pace up and down of a cold, dismal night, that other people
might lie snug and safe in their warm beds, till morning. He didn’t
think how sick a policeman might get of misery, and poverty, and
wretchedness, and how glad he was sometimes to walk into a nice, clean
neighborhood, where people had enough to eat, and drink, and wear, and
live clean and comfortable. You see, Johnny was only nine years old, and
didn’t know about all these things. It was his birthday, that very day
that he said, “I want to be a policeman,” and he had beautiful presents,
and a little sugared plumcake, made on purpose for him by his
grandmother; and he was to have a little party in the evening, and ice
cream and cake to eat; and they were to play blind man’s buff, and all
go to the circus in the evening, to see the horses, who flew round so
fast that you could hardly tell what color they were. Well, that very
day the policeman he was looking at, and envying, had seen a dreadful
sight. As he was going round on his “beat,” through one of the narrow
streets in New York, he heard a little girl, who was just nine years old
that very day like Johnny, crying piteously. He went into the room where
the noise came from, and saw, not a birthday party, of warmly-dressed
little children, and a bright fire, and pretty pictures on the walls,
and such beautiful roses on the pretty carpet, that one almost hated to
step on them. No, indeed! The floor was bare, and so were the walls;
there was no bed in the room, no chairs, no tables; but on the floor lay
a dead woman, and over her stood her own little girl, named Katy, only
nine years old that very day, crying, as I told you, as if her little
heart would break. In her hand was a basket of cold victuals, that her
mother had sent her out alone to beg; and there lay her mother, _dead!_
and now little Katy was all alone in the great city, with no friend to
whom she could tell her troubles, and no money even to buy a coffin for
her dead mother. No wonder she cried. The policeman asked the little
girl how long her mother had been dead; and when she could stop sobbing,
she told him, that her mother told Katy, in the morning, to go beg some
food, and that she had to be gone a long while, before she could get
any; and when she came back, she found her mother lying so still on the
floor; and that she called “Mother!” and she didn’t speak; and that,
when she touched her, she was so cold, she knew she must be dead; and
then poor little Katy trembled, because she didn’t know what was to
become of her, or whether the policeman would take her away from her
mother; for, while her body lay there on the floor with her, the poor
little girl felt as though her mother was still with her. But the
policeman didn’t speak, for he was looking round the room, and presently
he found a bottle; there was nothing in it _now_, but there _had_ been
some rum in it; and now you know why it was the room had no fire and no
furniture, and how a mother could stay at home, and send her poor little
girl out alone in a great city to beg. Katy didn’t say a word. I suppose
she, too, knew that her mother used to get drunk; but she didn’t want to
talk about it. She only knew that her mother was all the friend she had,
bad or good, and that she lay there _dead_, and would never say “Katy”
any more; and so she began to cry again, as if her heart would break.
Well, the policeman had a little girl of his own, and he felt very sorry
for her; so he didn’t take her to the “station house,” where all sorts
of drunken people are carried, but he took her to his own home, and
asked his kind-hearted wife, to whom he told Katy’s story, to give her
some warm breakfast, and keep her till he came back again. At first Katy
didn’t want to stay there, warm and pleasant as it was. She would rather
have sat on the bare floor, beside her dead mother; but the sorrows of
most little children are soon forgotten by them; and when little Katy
looked round again at the clean, bright, warm room, and had eaten a nice
little bit of beefsteak, and some bread, and drank a cup of warm milk,
she began to feel a great deal better. Nanny, the policeman’s little
girl, had a beautiful doll, which she let Katy hold in her own hands.
This pleased Katy very much; she had often seen dolls in the shop
windows, but she never thought to have one in her own hand all her life.
Well, little Nanny gave her leave to take off the dolly’s dress, and put
it to bed; and Katy was so bright and happy, when the policeman came
back, that he hardly knew she was the same little Katy; but at the sight
of him, tears came into her eyes, she gave the dolly back to Nanny, and
sobbed out, “I want to see my mother.”
Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron,
and turned away to the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it
would be, if _my_ little, curly-headed Nanny were as friendless as this
poor little girl. And then she and the policeman whispered together at
the window a long while, and Katy heard the policeman say, “But it will
be so much trouble for you, Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn
enough now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” but his wife
only cried the more, and said, “Poor little thing! suppose it were our
own little Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together again; and
then the policeman patted his wife on the shoulder, and took up his hat
and his big club, and went out; and then his wife got some warm water,
and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, and hands, and neck, and combed
her bright, brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of Nanny’s little
dresses, and told her, while she was doing it, that she was going to be
Nanny’s little sister now, and always live there with them, and have
plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in the streets, to beg cold
victuals any more; but still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then,
“I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she forgot that her mother
was very unkind to her sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat
her when she came home, if she did not beg cold victuals enough, or
bring some pennies; she forgot all this; and every time she thought of
her, it was only as lying on the floor, cold and _dead_; and the great
big lump came up again in her throat, and she wanted to go back to the
old, dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother once more. But
Katy’s mother was not there, though she did not know it; they had
carried her away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t tell Katy
that, till she became used to living with them, for fear it would make
her little heart ache so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks
had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and when she began to run about
the house and play “Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told her.
And, do you know, after a while, it seemed to little Katy that she had
_always_ lived with the good policeman and his wife, and that the
dreadful, desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the ragged clothes,
were only a bad dream, and not real at all. It just seemed to her as
though Nanny were _really_ her little _own_ sister, when they slept in
the same bed at night, and laid their rosy cheeks on the same pillow. By
and by the policeman’s wife was taken very sick, and then she found out
what a good heart the little beggar girl had; for Katy ran up stairs and
down for her, and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by her bed,
and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid her for all her care; and, after
many years, when the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, and
had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless Nanny there, and gave
her a nice little room all by herself, and a table to put her dear
mother’s workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; and when
Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good you are to me, Katy!” she said,
“Ah! I haven’t forgotten who took me in when _I_ had no mother, and fed
and clothed me!”
LITTLE ADRIAN.
I wonder if you like pictures as well as I do? I dare say your father
may have hung some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, and
perhaps you have often sat alone in those rooms, looking at them and
thinking. They were pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely trees
and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, and the grass that you could
almost see waving, as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought,
perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, and with what a
loving eye, thus successfully to create it; and you imagined, perhaps,
that his heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his work, as the
clear lake you saw in his picture. I remember thinking so, when I was a
child, and wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the storm raged
without, and the chill rain came slanting down, I could still create
sunny skies, and blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, what I
know now, how painfully many artists struggle up to notice from poverty
and obscurity; what a sad history those pictures, could they only speak,
might tell of sleepless nights and hungry days, and fireless hearths
(for it is adversity that brings out the strength of our natures). I did
not think of the wealth and fame which come so often only to the filming
eye and palsied hand of age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I
did not know, what I know now, that they who have genius in any
department of art, stand upon a dizzy pinnacle, what with those who,
unable to reach the same elevation themselves, and who would fain throw
or pull them down, and what with the danger that they themselves should
lose sight of the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied
with human applause, never think that upon every gift, every talent,
should be written “Holiness to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so
much as talent increases influence, by so much it places in the hands of
its possessor the means of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing
and delighting, those for whom this short life is but the porch to the
temple whose splendors they whose garments are washed white, alone shall
surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it is, that at His feet who
bestowed the gift of genius, its fruit should be laid.
No; these thoughts came with after years, when I went out into the
world; but now, I never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read
an interesting book, that I do not think of these things; and when I
read of an artist who, with great powers, paints pictures which harm the
looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, though tongueless,
have eloquent voices; when I read of a great artist, who can command any
price, how large soever, for anything he may choose to paint, yet often
wanting a meal of victuals, not because he gave it to the poor, but
because he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and only rouses himself to
work when he wants more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you;
for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is short enough to learn
our lessons for eternity, without pulling the minute hands of time
forward.
It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent honored by kings and
princes. I once heard a story of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter
Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. Durer was painting on a wall
of the palace one day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. He
was a small man, and being unable to reach sufficiently high to complete
the upper part of one of the figures he was painting, he looked around
for something to raise him higher. The emperor, noticing this, ordered
one of the gentlemen present to hand him a stool. The courtier was very
angry at this; he considered the artist beneath him, and so he handed it
to him in a very ungracious manner, muttering as he did so.
The emperor heard him, and turning sharply round, made him this proper
and noble answer: “Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any day, but
I cannot form an ignoramus into a man of genius like Durer.” I think the
pompous courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he did not,
so much the worse for him.
There was once a little boy, named Adrian. His mother was a poor
peasant, and little Adrian used to sit on the floor with a pencil and
paper in his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and by his mother,
seeing him very busy with his drawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo!
there, upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, and all sorts
of pretty things, which the little rogue had drawn; for he did not know,
any more than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his mother
thought them very pretty—what mother wouldn’t, had they been ever so
ugly?—and it occurred to her that she could copy in needlework those
pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs she was in the habit of
embroidering, to sell to the peasant women who came to market. One day,
while little Adrian sat in the shop where his mother sold her
needlework, an artist happened to pass, and, stopping at the window,
watched through the glass the little Adrian as he drew the patterns.
After a while he went in, and asked the boy if he would not like to
become an artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; “better than
anything in this world, if my mother is only willing!” The poor woman
was glad enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home with his
master as happy—not “as a king,” for that’s a lying phrase—but as happy
as a little robin of a bright spring morning.
Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fast he learned what was taught
him! His master had no need to rap him over the knuckles with “Come,
come, what are you thinking about?” not at all; he scarcely lifted his
eyes from his work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, but he
took Adrian away from them, and shut him up in a little attic in the top
of the house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like this, for Adrian
was very good company, and they all liked him; besides, they did not see
the reason why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious to find
it out. So one day, when the master was out, they stole softly up to the
attic, and peeping through a window, saw the poor little prisoner
painting very beautiful pictures for his jailer, who used to sell them,
and pocket the money for himself.
It was very lucky that they found him, for he had become very thin and
emaciated, what with hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian that
he was a great artist, though he did not know it, and that he might earn
a great deal of money; and they offered, if he could draw some pictures
slily, to sell them for him when his master did not know it, and get him
some pocket money, for his own use. The hungry little boy artist was
delighted at this, and soon found means to do it; but his cruel master
and his wife soon found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching him so
closely that it was quite impossible. Then the poor child grew thinner
and thinner, until one of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape;
in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, and at night he curled
himself up in the organ loft of one of the churches, and all the time he
was turning over plans in his bewildered head for the future. One day,
while he was thus situated, he met a person who had once seen him at his
master’s house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking pityingly at his thin
figure, “have you left your master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for
he was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by the kind manner of
his questioner, so different from that of his old master. So he very
honestly told him the truth, and why he had run away. His pale face, his
sobs, and his wretched clothes were so many proofs of the truth of his
story, and the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return to your
master, I will talk to him, and see that he treats you better in
future.” While all this was going on, his old master Hals had hunted
everywhere for him, for he could ill afford to part with so valuable a
pupil. One would suppose that this thought, if no better one, would have
made Hals treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very
short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen.