gave him a new suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent,
trusting child really believed all that he said was gospel truth, and
commenced painting again, with so much industry and so well, that his
master got larger prices than ever for his little drawings. Still, the
miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of it, and so Adrian made up his mind
that, as fair promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he would run
away again. This time he planned better, for he ran so far his master
couldn’t find him—way off into another city, and took refuge with an
innkeeper, who liked artists, because his own son was one, though, like
many other children, nobody thought him famous but his own father. He
soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, under kind treatment; it is a
blessed thing, is it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is always
ready, after a disappointment, to begin again with fresh courage. For a
while, Adrian kept steadily at his work, and to his delight and
astonishment, they brought him higher prices than ever, though no one
knew who the artist was. One day he came panting home to his friend the
innkeeper in a great state of excitement. His pockets were full of
gold—he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. He emptied it all
out on the bed, and then jumped into the middle of it, that he might, as
he said, know how it felt for once “to roll in wealth.” Well, we can
pardon him that. None but they who have been kicked and cuffed round the
world, and had a crust of bread thrown grudgingly at them, can
understand the full deliciousness of independence, especially when that
independence is the result of their own honest labor. Adrian had a right
to wave his hat in the air; and, had I been there, I would have helped
him hurra! and when we had finished, I would have said, “Now you have
felt how uncomfortable a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money
foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put it away safely, where it
may do you and others good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry to
tell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up all his money, left the
house, and did not return for more than a week. On his return, his
friend the innkeeper asked him what he had done with his money. “All
gone!” said the foolish fellow; “I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the
way he went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful dissipation.
He earned a great deal, and spent more than he earned; so that he who
might have been so free and independent, was constantly obliged to be
running away from those to whom he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one
of these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with what is called a
passport, _i. e._, permission from the government to pass from one city
to another; and because he had not this permission, they supposed him to
be a spy, and threw him into prison. Confined in the same prison was a
certain duke, to whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that he
was no spy, but only an artist who had come to that city to follow his
profession. Of course, the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or
not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. Adrian saw this, so he
said, “Bring me painting materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what
I say is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city who was a great
artist, had a mind to try him. So he got his friend to procure Adrian,
the suspected spy, the materials he desired. Just below the windows of
his cell, a group of soldiers were assembled, playing cards. This scene
Adrian painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was a complete
portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, and sent for his friend the
artist, to see what his opinion might be. The moment he saw it, he
exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; no other artist could paint
with such force and beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for
it. But the duke would not part with it. It was painted under singular
circumstances, and was, besides, a very beautiful picture. He
immediately interested himself with the governor to get Adrian out of
prison, which he succeeded in doing, and then, being liberated himself,
he took Adrian home to his own house, gave him new suits of clothes, and
tried to keep him from wasting his talents and time, and throwing
himself away on bad companions. You will be sorry to know that it was
quite useless; sorry to know that his bad passions had become, from
indulgence, his tyrants, so that he was no longer his own master, but
theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from the house of his benefactor,
sold the very clothes he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in
loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, he was carried
to one of the public hospitals, where, unknown by any who had admired
his talents, and pitied his follies, he died miserably, at the early age
of thirty-two, and was buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When the
duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed tears at the melancholy end
of a life which might have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable.
He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its pauper grave, gave it a
funeral in a church, and designed a monument for the erring man, which
last, however, was never accomplished, as he died himself soon after.
It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to that of other artists, who
labored on, though steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving wives
and children, who, in turn, did all in their power to lighten the
artists’ toil. Living lives full of love, and without reproach, creating
beauty when everything around them was miserably shabby and
forlorn—everything but the love and patient endurance which can make out
of the dreariest earthly home a heaven.
THE PEDDLER’S SON.
I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can I ever be, but just what I
am? ignorant, uneducated, insignificant? Stop, no creature of God is
insignificant; that is impossible, because you are to live forever.
Fettered and cramped in this life you may be; but this life is not all,
nor is it impossible even here for you to take your place with the wise
and the honorable of this world. You look about you, and shake your head
doubtfully. Your father and mother are good and kind to you, as far as
they can be. But they never read; they know nothing, care for nothing,
save that they are to work day by day till they die, merely to get bread
enough to keep them alive. But your _mind_ is hungry; you want something
for _that_. Bread and meat for your body don’t suffice you; you know
there is something better. How shall you find it? who will help you to
it? And you look about and around you, and reach out your arms, as if to
implore some invisible power to come to your aid. Do you know how many
whose names are loved, honored, and cherished by thousands, began life
just so? Do you know what might there is in the little words “I will”?
Let me tell you a story.
In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This hut had only one room, with a
fireplace in it, and no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the
roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, there was the usual supply
of a poor man’s children.
The principal support of the family was a cow, and the principal
employment of Komer, the name of my hero, was to collect, in the spring,
the sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, to make litter for
the cow. After the meadows had become green, he passed the long summer
days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with
other boys. He also brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in
harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook the trees roughly, he
gathered acorns, and sold them to those who kept geese. When he grew
larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to carry his bundles
from hut to hut. There was a small school, too, where Komer learned to
read and write, but that was all he learned there.
One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) he was sitting at a table
with his parents. A small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, who
had just come home with his peddler’s pack, was talking to his mother
about his business. The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought home
with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper of which lay upon the table.
On it was the picture of a horse.
Little Komer idly took up the picture. This is very good, thought he; I
wonder if I could draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows but I
might? Little Komer looked at his father; he was very busy talking; so
he took pen, ink, and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he had
finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him very perfect, and his little
heart swelled with a new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to his
parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they praised and admired it, more
because Komer did it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to bed;
it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he couldn’t sleep for thinking
of it; he tossed and turned, and longed for daylight, that he might
_really_ see it with his bodily eyes again; for he was not quite sure,
after all, but that he was dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there
was the horse; but Komer was never again the same Komer. All that day he
was excited, restless, and the next, and the next; how was he to become
a _real_ painter? Near his father’s hut lived a potter, who had some
outlines, as models for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer
went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines for a little while.
Then he made a blank book, and very carefully copied them into it with
pen and ink. The people in the huts round thought it quite wonderful,
and they were handed about, till, at last, they came to a man who was a
sort of “mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He was so pleased and
astonished, that he sent for the boy, made him presents, praised his
drawings, and asked him if he would like to be a painter.
Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out of his skin for joy. Like to
go to a great city to a master painter, and learn how to be one himself?
Of course, he could not find his tongue to tell all the joy that filled
his heart. There was no need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman
said he would talk of it to his parents. Now, his parents never heard of
any kind of painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when the
gentleman asked them, they answered that it was a very dangerous trade;
for houses in cities were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer might
break his legs or neck. And so Komer did not go to the city, but kept on
watching the old cow.
But for all that, this gentleman, and others to whom he showed Komer’s
drawing, did not forget him or them, but kept on talking about the
wonderful child; and, what was more to their credit, tried to help him.
They sent for him to take lessons with _their_ children in French,
Latin, and music. That he need not be ashamed to come among them, they
gave him better clothing, and the gentleman who first saw him brought
him to eat with his family, at his own table.
Little Komer did not think—as you do—that it was a hardship to study;
not he. He flew at his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, never
spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After this, he did some copying
for a gentleman, besides other writing, in order to earn money. Then,
for the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed on splendid
paintings, till he was nearly beside himself with rapture. Now, indeed,
nothing could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a young artist, and
commenced immediately; weeping, that he was not permitted to do so, when
he first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed was he with this
one idea—that he grew sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a
palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a pencil. Now, indeed, he
must rest, if he would not die; but he was too active to lie upon the
shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he would read. He took up
a volume of poems. Why could not _he_ write? He, _Komer_? Why not? He
seized his pen; he wrote poem after poem; they were copied, praised, and
set to music!
Now Komer turned his attention to writing books. Gifted men were proud
of his friendship; he could talk with them on any subject. His four and
twentieth year found him famous. The old cow, were she living, which was
doubtful, must take care of herself; he had “browsing” of his own to do.
I hope he kept that horse he copied from the tobacco paper. I hope he
made a drawing of the old hut where he was born; and the peddler, with
his pipe, and his pack, and the green meadows where he used to dream
away the lonely summer days, while old Brindle switched the flies, and
winked lazily at the patches of blue sky, as she lay under the broad
tree shadows. I hope he did not forget his old mother, if she was
ignorant; because she knew enough to love him, and perhaps, had she not
praised that horse, because her little Komer drew it, he might have
tended cows all his life; who knows?
JEMMY LAWTON.
School was out! “Hurra!” screamed all the boys, and up went their caps
in the air, as they all commenced trying the strength of their limbs and
trowsers, some by climbing up trees, some over fences, some by
leap-frog, some by bat and ball; and thus they all separated, and went
their different ways home, and Jemmy Lawton went his, too. It was not
with so light a step as his schoolfellows; and when the last boy was out
of sight, he drew a deep sigh, and crowding his cap down over his eyes,
and looking carefully about him in every direction, as if to reassure
himself that not one boy lingered to keep him company, moved on. He was
an honest boy; he had no thought of stealing anything on the way—it was
not that; he was not afraid of “the master,” for he was always at the
head of his class, and seemed more anxious to understand his lessons
than any boy in school. He was not afraid any big boy would thrash him,
nor was he lying in wait for any smaller boy to thrash. No, Jemmy was no
such coward. On he moved, with leaden feet, past the old, familiar
spots; past the grocer’s, with his peanuts, and oranges, and cocoanuts,
and nicely potted flowers, that he hoped would attract the housewives
who came to buy his sugar and tea; past the baker’s, with his tempting
pies and tarts, and piles of sugared cakes, and heaps of candy; past the
toy shop, and the tinman’s, and the shoe store: he had read all their
signs till they were as familiar to him as his own name, and now he had
turned the last corner of the street in which was his own house. _Now_
it was that the child turned pale, and set his white teeth together, and
drew his breath hard. His house was a very pretty one, with a nice
little garden spot in front, in which were fragrant flowers, for his
mother was very fond of them—almost as fond as she was of Jemmy.
He had a kind mother, then? Yes; but do you see that crowd of boys, like
a little black swarm, round the pretty white gate before his house? You
cannot see what they are looking at so earnestly inside the fence, but
you can hear their shouts and laughter, and so, alas! does Jemmy. His
face is not white now—it is as red as the daisies in his mother’s
garden, and his eyes flash like the raindrops on the daisies’ bosoms,
that the bright sun is now shining upon. Alas! when will there be
sunshine in Jemmy’s house?
“Ah, there’s Jim now,” said a rude boy, loud enough for Jemmy to hear.
“Here’s your drunken father, Jim.”
“Stand away! go home! off with you all!” shouted Jemmy, in a harsh,
fierce voice, that contrasted strangely with his slight figure, and
sweet, infantile face; “off with you!” and he walked into the centre of
the group, where, crouched upon the ground, was a man, vainly trying, on
his hands and knees—for he could not stand—to reach the door to get in;
his nice broadcloth coat was covered with dirt; his hat was crushed in;
bits of straw and grass were sticking in his thick, black hair; his eyes
were red, and he did not even see his own little boy, who was crimson
with shame as he stood over him, and vainly tried to help him to his
feet. “Off with you!” shouted Jemmy again to the boys, who laughed as
his father fell against him, almost knocking him over; “off with you, I
say!” bringing his little foot to the ground with a stamp that made them
all start; then, rushing up to the door, he rang the bell violently, and
turned his head away, to conceal the tears that would no longer be kept
back. A woman came to the door—it was Jemmy’s mother, and together they
helped in the drunken husband and father.
No wonder Jemmy dreaded going home from school! It was not the first
time, nor the second, nor the third, that he had helped his father in at
the area door when he was too drunk to find his way up the front steps
to his own house; and sometimes Jemmy, only that he thought of his
mother, would have wished himself dead. It was so terrible—the brutal
laugh and jests of those cruel boys. Oh! I hope you never do such mean
things. I have known children who taunted their playmates and
schoolfellows with such troubles when they were angry with them, or
sometimes, as in this case, for mere sport. It is a sign of a base,
mean, cruel nature, and the boy or girl who would remind any child of
their acquaintance of a disagreeable thing of this kind, which is hard
enough to hear at best, and twit and taunt them with it, or pain them by
noticing it in any way, is a boy or a girl to be shunned and avoided.
Nero, the tyrant, who roasted people for his amusement, must have been
such a boy. I am sorry to say I have known little girls equally
malicious and wicked—bad women they will surely grow up, if not broken
of such mean cruelty before they are women.
A drunkard is a drunkard all the same, whether he gets drunk on bad rum
or champagne; whether he takes his senses away at the club house, or
low, corner grocery: he comes to the gutter just as surely in the end.
It made no difference to little Jemmy that his father got drunk on rich
old wine, and sipped it from cut glasses in a handsome apartment; his
mother was just as heart-broken, and her children just as miserable as
they could be. Dollar after dollar the man was swallowing; and Jemmy
might well study hard, and be at the head of his class, for he would
need all he could earn to coin into bread and butter, by the time he got
old enough to keep his mother and little brothers and sisters. And
Jemmy’s father _used_ to be so kind—that memory came often to the child,
to make him patient under his trouble, to help him to excuse him for the
wrong he was doing both himself and them. “He was so kind _once_!” Jemmy
would sob out in his little bed at night. “I remember——,” and then he
would beguile himself by remembering the walks and rides he used to take
with him—the Christmas presents—how pleased father was to hear his
lessons well recited—and now! Oh, nobody who has not dropped from such a
height of happiness down to that dreadful “now” can tell how bruised the
poor heart may be by the fall! God help little Jemmy and all like him,
who have sorrows all the greater that they must bear the burden alone;
that they are _unspeakable_ sorrows, save to Him who will never taunt us
with their heavy burden, or turn to us a careless ear.
You may be sure that when Jemmy grew up he never drank. Long before the
beard grew on his soft, white chin, his father’s bloated face was hidden
under a tombstone; and when, in after years, young men of his own age
locked arms, or clapping each other on the shoulder, as they passed some
gilded saloon, said to one another and to him, “Come in and take a
drink,” you may be sure that the smile died away on Jemmy’s face, and he
saw—not the bright lights in the saloon window, nor the gay, laughing
throng inside—but instead, a form crouching like a beast at his feet,
dirt-besmeared, with bloodshot eyes—creeping, crawling, like a loathsome
reptile, who has no soul to save—for whom there is no Heaven, no
glorious future after death—nothing but annihilation. Ah, no; Jemmy
could not “take a drink”—his very soul sickened when they asked him.
HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON.
A CHAPTER FOR BOYS.
Did you ever hear of Lord Chesterfield? I dare say you have; if not, you
very likely will, before you are much older. He wrote some letters to a
son of his, which have become famous, telling how to eat, and drink, and
walk, and talk politely; how to dress, how to carve, how to dance, how
to write letters; how to enter a room, how to go out of it; how to smile
at people whom he disliked; what books to read, what sort of people to
visit, and to choose for his friends. Every now and then I used to hear
of this book, and hear some person say, in speaking of another person,
“He has very fine manners—he is quite Chesterfieldian;” which seemed to
mean very great praise. Now, I have no boys—more’s the pity; but still,
I thought, I will read this Lord Chesterfield’s book, and see how _he_
thinks a boy should be brought up, because I have my own notions on that
subject, as well as his lordship, although I have had no occasion to
practice them; and I think good manners are by no means to be despised,
though they are not at all the most important part of a boy’s education.
Well, there was just the mistake _I_ think this gentleman made about his
son, whom he drilled in these things like a little soldier; it was the
outside only that he was most careful about polishing and adorning. It
was to get a high place in this short-lived world that he was to make
his best bow, wear his hat and coat gracefully, and study Latin, and
talk French and Italian. It was to secure the notice of great, and
powerful, and fashionable people, that he was to cultivate his taste and
talents, and improve his person; not to do good, not to benefit in any
way his fellow creatures by the great influence all this would give him
to do good, but _solely to benefit himself_, and to hear it said that he
was a perfect gentleman, which, by the way, would have been untrue, had
he done all this and done no more, because no man acting from such
selfish motives _can_ be a perfect gentleman, though, to careless eyes,
he may appear so. Then this Lord Chesterfield told his son never to get
angry with anybody, not because anger was wrong, and debased the soul of
him who indulged it, but because it was not good policy to make an enemy
even of the meanest person, who might some day be able either to help or
to injure one. Then he advised him to speak very respectfully of God and
religious things, because it was considered “decorous” to do so, and
because it gave a man influence, not because it is base and ungrateful
to receive all the good things God showers down upon us at every moment,
while we little Lilliputians are, practically, at least, denying His
very existence, and doing all we can to blot and deface and mar His
image in our souls, and helping others to do the same; not because He
who loves and pities us so tenderly waits month after month, year after
year, with patience unspeakable, to see us turn to Him with a loving,
penitent “Our Father;” not for this, but because it was “respectable” to
be religious. It is quite pitiful to read this gentleman’s letters to
his son, and see, while he appeared to love him so fondly, how entirely
he was educating him for this world, with not a thought beyond, for
those ages upon ages which that immortal spirit must travel through in
joy or pain, just as he prepared for it here. It is pitiful that he
never said one word to the boy about using his talents and influence for
lightening the burdens which were so heavily weighing down his less
favored fellow mortals, but everything was to begin and end in himself;
that _he_ was to shine in public and private; that _he_ was to be
admired, not for his goodness of heart, but, like the peacock, for his
fine plumage—like the bird, for his sweet voice.
Well, the boy was to travel and see the world, and everything in it
worth seeing, but by no means to associate with any but “fashionable
people;” as if he _could_ see all that was “worth seeing,” in such an
artificial atmosphere; as if fashionable people were “the world;” as if
God’s purest, and brightest, and best, did not shine out like diamonds
from dirt-heaps; as if _that_ was the way to read human nature, which
the boy was told to study so perfectly that he could play upon the
chords of human feeling and human passion, as does a skillful musician
upon his favorite instrument. No; as well might he judge of a book by
looking at its gilt binding. He was to talk to women, who, his father
told him, “were only grown up children.” I wonder had he a mother? I
wonder had she whispered a prayer over his cradle? I wonder had she
never gone without sleep and rest, that his little head might be
pillowed softly? I always ask these questions when men speak
disrespectfully of women; well, he was to talk to women, and be good
friends with, and flatter them, because, foolish and silly as they were,
they had, after all, influence in the world, and might “make or mar his
fortune;” there you see it is again _the everlasting I_, at the top and
bottom of everything.
Now, you will naturally inquire how this paragon turned out, when he
became a man; whether this boy, educated with so much care, and at so
much expense, repaid it all;—you will naturally suppose, that with such
advantages of education and society, he overtopped all his fellows. His
father’s ambition was to see him in Parliament, which answers in
England, you know, to our American Congress—except that there is no
head-breaking allowed in that honorable body. Our hero had now grown to
man’s stature; he wore a coat any tailor might be proud of; made a bow
equal to a dancing master; and could tell fibs so politely that even his
father was delighted. So far, so good. Now he was to put the crown on it
all, by making his first speech in Parliament; he who had the dictionary
at his tongue’s end, and the rules of etiquette at his finger ends; who
had been drilled in rhetoric, and oratory, and diplomacy, and in all the
steps considered necessary by his father to make a great public man.
Well—he got up—and stuttered—and stammered—and hemmed—and ha-ha-d—and
made a most disgraceful failure. Do you suppose he would have done it,
had his whole soul been on fire with some grand, God-like project for
helping his fellow creatures? _Never!_ But his whole thoughts were
centered in himself; what sort of figure he cut—what impression he
should make; what this—that—and the other great person was thinking of
him. Of course he came down like a collapsed balloon, as all men do who
have no higher standard than the approbation of human beings.
Oh, I tell you what it is; you may cram a man’s _head_ as full as you
please, if you neglect his _heart_, he will be, after all, like a Dead
Sea apple—and yield you only—_ashes_.
[Illustration: THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.—Page 206]
THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.