THE YOUNG ORATOR.
The boys of Fairport were an amphibious set, who could live on land
truly, but were happiest when in or near the water. To fish and swim,
row, trim the sail, and guide the rudder, were accomplishments they all
could boast. A bold, hardy, merry set they were; and but for the
schoolmaster's rod and the teaching of their pious mothers, might have
been as ignorant as oysters and merciless as the sharks. Master Penrose
had whipped into most of them the elements of a plain English education,
and gentle mothers had power to soften and rule these rough boys, when
perhaps a stronger hand would have failed.
Master Penrose always gave a full holiday on Saturday. Then the wharves
were sure to swarm with the mischievous little chaps, all eager to carry
out some favorite plan for amusement, in which old Ocean was sure to be
engaged as a play-fellow. Poor indeed was the lad who had not a
fish-hook and line with which to try his skill. The very youngest had
his tiny boat to be launched, while his elders were planning
sailing-parties, or jumping and leaping in the water like so many
dolphins.
Boys like to have a leader, some one they look up to as superior to the
rest, and capable of deciding knotty questions, and "going ahead" in all
times of doubt and difficulty. Blair Robertson occupied this position
among the youngsters of Fairport. He had lawfully won this place among
his fellows and "achieved greatness," by being the best scholar at the
academy, as well as the boldest swimmer, most skilful fisherman, and
most experienced sailor among all the boys for miles along the coast. It
was Blair Robertson's boast that he belonged to the nineteenth century,
and grew old with it. It was doubtful whether the bold lad considered
this age of progress as honored by his playing his part in its drama, or
whether he claimed a reflected glory, as having been born at the very
dawn of that century which promised so much for the thronging millions
of our world.
Be that as it may, Joe Robertson the pilot and Margaret his wife
rejoiced, in the year 1800, over their first and only child. Thirteen
years had swept by, and the honest couple were now as proud of that
brave, strong boy as they had been of their baby, and with better
reason.
Troublous times had come upon their native land. War had been declared
with England. All Fairport was ablaze at the idea of American seamen
being forced to serve on English ships, and of decks whose timber grew
in the free forests of Maine or North Carolina, being trodden by the
unscrupulous feet of British officers with insolent search-warrants in
their hands.
Blair Robertson had his own views on these subjects--views which we find
him giving forth to his devoted followers one sunny Saturday afternoon.
Blair was mounted on a sugar hogshead which stood in front of one of the
warehouses on the wharf. From this place of eminence he looked down on a
constantly increasing crowd of youthful listeners. A half hour before, a
row of little legs had been hanging over the side of the wharf, while
their owners were intent upon certain corks and lines that danced or
quivered amid the waves below. Now the lines were made fast to stone and
log, while the small fishermen stood agape to listen to the fluent
orator.
This was but the nucleus of the gathering crowd. Every boy who came near
the eager circle must of course stop to find out what was going on; and
it was with no little pride that Blair beheld the dozens of faces soon
upturned to his.
Blair might have remembered that if there had been but a dead dog in the
centre of the group, there would have been an equal gathering and
pushing to know the cause of the meeting; but he, like many an older
speaker, was willing to attribute to his eloquence what might have had
even a humbler cause.
"Our rights invaded; a man's ship no longer his castle; the free
American forced to forsake his stars and stripes! The foot of the
Briton pollutes our decks. His tyrannical arm takes captive our fathers,
and dooms them to a servitude of which the world knows no equal. Shall
we submit? We will not submit. We have protested. We have declared war
to the death. Has Fairport a voice in this matter? Where are those whom
we love best? Where but upon the wide sea, a prey to our remorseless
enemy. Where is _your_ father, and _yours_, and _yours_, and _mine_?"
said Blair, making his appeal personal as he pointed to the sailors'
sons. "This insolence must be checked. We must rebuke the proud Briton
on the very scene of his abominations. We must triumph over him on the
tossing ocean, and teach him that America, not Britannia, rules the
waves. Would that we all stood on some staunch ship, to do battle with
our young right-arms. Then should Englishmen cringe before us; then
would we doom to sudden destruction their boasted admirals and flimsy
fleets. Down with the English! down with the English!"
Blair stamped emphatically on his hollow throne, until it rang again.
"Down with the English!" echoed the crowd in a burst of enthusiasm.
At this moment a short, stout lad came round a neighboring corner. On
his arm he carried a large basket of clean linen, with which he now
tried to elbow his way through the crowd.
"An English boy! Shame that he should show his face among us," said
Blair in his excitement.
"We'll give him a taste of salt water," said two or three of the oldest
boys as they seized the stranger roughly by the shoulders. "We'll teach
him to mend his manners."
"Stop, stop, boys. Give him fair play," shouted Blair; but Blair was no
longer the object of attention.
The English boy, in spite of his struggles, was hurried to the edge of
the wharf, and pushed relentlessly over the brink.
A thorough ducking to him, and the scattering of his precious basket of
clothes, was all that the young rascals intended. To their horror, the
stranger sank like a heavy load--rose, and then sank again.
"He can't swim; he can't swim. He'll be drowned!" burst from the lips of
the spectators. All were paralyzed with fear.
Blair had forced his way through the crowd, and reached the edge of the
wharf in time to see the pale, agonized face of the English boy, as he
for the second time rose to the surface. In another moment Blair was
diving where, far in the deep water, the pale face had vanished from
sight.
There was a moment of breathless silence, then a deafening cheer, as
Blair reappeared with the drowning boy in his arms.
There were hands enough outstretched to aid him in laying his burden on
the shore. "Help me carry him, boys, straight to our house. Mother will
know what to do for him," said Blair, speaking very quickly.
It was but a few steps down a neighboring street to Joe Robertson's
pleasant home.
Blair did not fear to take in the dripping boy and lay him on his
mother's best bed. He knew that mother's joy was to minister to the
distressed and succor the unfortunate.
The water was soon pouring from the mouth, nose, and ears of the
unconscious lad. Then he was rubbed and wrapped round with hot
flannels, while Mrs. Robertson's own hands forced his lungs to work,
until they again took their natural movement.
Not a word was asked as to how the accident had happened, until, out of
danger, the rescued boy was in a sweet sleep.
The eager crowd who had followed Blair and his charge had vanished, and
the mother sat alone with her son. Blair's dripping garments had been
exchanged for another suit, but in the midst of the late confusion his
mother's eye had silently and gratefully marked upon him the signs that
to him the English boy owed his life.
"You saved him, my son. God be thanked. I may well be proud of my boy,"
said the mother earnestly and fondly.
A sudden flush of shame crimsoned the cheeks of Blair Robertson. "Oh,
mother, it was all my fault," he exclaimed. "If he had died--Oh, if he
had died, that pale struggling face would have haunted me to my grave. I
had been making one of my speeches to the boys, and it pleased me to see
how I could rouse them. I had just shouted 'Down with the English!' and
made them join me, when poor Hal came round the corner. Nobody would
have noticed him if I had gone right on; but I pointed him out, and
angry as they were, I could not stop them before they had thrown him
into the water. They thought he could swim, I dare say; but I knew he
couldn't. Oh, mother, what I suffered, thinking he might drown before I
could reach him. But he's safe now. You think he'll get well, don't you,
mother?"
"Yes, my child," said Mrs. Robertson, trembling with deep feeling.
"God's mercy has been great to you, my boy. May you learn this day a
solemn lesson. You have a powerful influence over your companions. You
know it, and I am afraid it has only fed your pride, not prompted you to
usefulness. Is it real love for your country that leads you to these
speeches; or is it a desire to see how you can rouse the passions of
your listeners, and force them to do your bidding? For every talent we
must give an account, and surely for none more strictly than the power
to prompt men to good or evil. I believe you love your country, my boy.
You love our dear country, or I would blush to own you as my son. But I
fear you have as yet but a poor idea what it is to be a true patriot."
"A true patriot, mother? I think I know what that means. One who loves
his country, and would cheerfully die for her," said Blair with
enthusiasm.
"You might even love your country and die for her, and yet be no _true_
patriot," said the mother. "You might be her disgrace, and the cause of
her afflictions, while you shed for her your heart's blood."
"I don't understand you," said the boy thoughtfully.
"Perhaps Korah and his company thought themselves patriots when they
rebelled against the power of Moses and Aaron. They doubtless moved the
people by cunning speeches about their own short-lived honor; yet they
brought destruction on themselves and a plague upon Israel. There is
nothing more plain in the Bible than God's great regard to the
righteousness or wickedness of _individual_ men. Suppose that there had
been found ten righteous men in Sodom, for whose sake that wicked city
would have been spared its awful doom. Humble and obscure they might
have been; but would not they, who brought such a blessing down on the
neighborhood where they dwelt, be worthy of the name of patriots? My
son, if you were willing to lay down your life for your country, and yet
were guilty of the foul sin of swearing, and taught all around you to
blaspheme, would you not be laying up wrath against your native land,
though you fought with the bravery of an Alexander? These are times to
think on these things, my boy, if we really love our country. No man
liveth unto himself. His home, his state, his country is in a degree
blessed or cursed for his sake. Dear Blair, you cannot be a true patriot
without God's grace to help you rule your heart, guard your lips, and
purify your life. May you this day begin, for your own sake as well as
for that of your country, to serve the God of our fathers. He has
mercifully spared you the bitter self-reproach to which you might have
been doomed. Go in repentance to his footstool, and he will abundantly
pardon. Resolve henceforward to walk humbly before him, trusting in his
grace and striving to do his will, and you shall count this day the most
blessed of your life."
Mrs. Robertson put her arm round the tall, strong boy at her side. He
yielded to her touch, as if he had been a little child. Side by side
they knelt, while the mother poured out such a prayer as can only flow
from the lips of a Christian mother pleading for her only son.
Blair Robertson spent that long Saturday evening alone in his room. That
was indeed to be the beginning of days to him. He was no longer to be a
self-willed seeker of his own pleasure and honor. He was "bought with a
price," and was henceforward to be a servant of the King of kings.