NOBODY'S SON.
Not blest? not saved? Who dares to doubt all well
With holy innocence? We scorn the creed
And tell thee truer than the bigots tell,--
That infants all are Jesu's lambs indeed.
--_Martin F. Tupper_.
But thou wilt burst this transient sleep,
And thou wilt wake my babe to weep;
The tenant of a frail abode,
Thy tears must flow as mine have flowed:
And thou may'st live perchance to prove
The pang of unrequited love.
--_Byron_.
Ishmael lived. Poor, thin, pale, sick; sent too soon into the world;
deprived of all that could nurture healthy infant life; fed on
uncongenial food; exposed in that bleak hut to the piercing cold of that
severe winter; tended only by a poor old maid who honestly wished his
death as the best good that could happen to him--Ishmael lived.
One day it occurred to Hannah that he was created to live. This being
so, and Hannah being a good churchwoman, she thought she would have him
baptized. He had no legal name; but that was no reason why he should not
receive a Christian one. The cruel human law discarded him as nobody's
child; the merciful Christian law claimed him as one "of the kingdom of
Heaven." The human law denied him a name; the Christian law offered him
one.
The next time the pastor in going his charitable rounds among his poor
parishioners, called at the hut, the weaver mentioned the subject and
begged him to baptize the boy then and there.
But the reverend gentleman, who was a high churchman, replied:
"I will cheerfully administer the rites of baptism to the child; but you
must bring him to the altar to receive them. Nothing but imminent danger
of death can justify the performance of those sacred rites at any other
place. Bring the boy to church next Sabbath afternoon."
"What! bring this child to church!--before all the congregation! I
should die of mortification!" said Hannah.
"Why? Are you to blame for what has happened? Or is he? Even if the boy
were what he is supposed to be,--the child of sin,--it would not be his
fault. Do you think in all the congregation there is a soul whiter than
that of this child? Has not the Saviour said, 'Suffer little children to
come unto me and forbid them not, for of such is the kingdom of Heaven?'
Bring the boy to church, Hannah! bring the boy to church," said the
pastor, as he took up his hat and departed.
Accordingly the next Sabbath afternoon Hannah Worth took Ishmael to the
church, which was, as usual, well filled.
Poor Hannah! Poor, gentle-hearted, pure-spirited old maid! She sat there
in a remote corner pew, hiding her child under her shawl and hushing him
with gentle caresses during the whole of the afternoon service. And when
after the last lesson had been read the minister came down to the font
and said: "Any persons present having children to offer for baptism will
now bring them forward," Hannah felt as if she would faint. But
summoning all her resolution, she arose and came out of her pew,
carrying the child. Every eye in the church turned full upon her. There
was no harm meant in this; people will gaze at every such a little
spectacle; a baby going to be baptized, if nothing else is to be had.
But to Hannah's humbled spirit and sinking heart, to carry that child up
that aisle under the fire of those eyes seemed like running a blockade
of righteous indignation that appeared to surround the altar. But she
did it. With downcast looks and hesitating steps she approached and
stood at the font--alone--the target of every pair of eyes in the
congregation. Only a moment she stood thus, when a countryman, with a
start, left one of the side benches and came and stood by her side.
It was Reuben Gray, who, standing by her, whispered:
"Hannah, woman, why didn't you let me know? I would have come and sat in
the pew with you and carried the child."
"Oh, Reuben, why will you mix yourself up with me and my miseries?"
sighed Hannah.
"'Cause we are one, my dear woman, and so I can't help it," murmured the
man.
There was no time for more words. The minister began the services.
Reuben Gray offered himself as sponsor with Hannah, who had no right to
refuse this sort of copartnership.
The child was christened Ishmael Worth, thus receiving both given and
surname at the altar.
When the afternoon worship was concluded and they left the church,
Reuben Gray walked beside Hannah, begging for the privilege of carrying
the child--a privilege Hannah grimly refused.
Reuben, undismayed, walked by her side all the way from Baymouth church
to the hut on the hill, a distance of three miles. And taking advantage
of that long walk, he pleaded with Hannah to reconsider her refusal and
to become his wife.
"After a bit, we can go away and take the boy with us and bring him up
as our'n. And nobody need to know any better," he pleaded.
But this also Hannah grimly refused.
When they reached the hut she turned upon him and said:
"Reuben Gray, I will bear my miseries and reproaches myself! I will bear
them alone! Your duty is to your sisters. Go to them and forget me." And
so saying she actually shut the door in his face!
Reuben went away crestfallen.
But Hannah! poor Hannah! she never anticipated the full amount of misery
and reproach she would have to bear alone!
A few weeks passed and the money she had saved was all spent. No more
work was brought to her to do. A miserable consciousness of lost caste
prevented her from going to seek it. She did not dream of the extent of
her misfortune; she did not know that even if she had sought work from
her old employers, it would have been refused her.
One day when the Professor of Odd Jobs happened to be making a
professional tour in her way, and called at the hut to see if his
services might be required there, she gave him a commission to seek work
for her among the neighboring farmers and planters--a duty that the
professor cheerfully undertook.
But when she saw him again, about ten days after, and inquired about his
success in procuring employment for her, he shook his head, saying:
"There's a plenty of weaving waiting to be done everywhere, Miss
Hannah--which it stands to reason there would be at this season of the
year. There's all the cotton cloth for the negroes' summer clothes to be
wove; but, Miss Hannah, to tell you the truth, the ladies as I've
mentioned it to refuses to give the work to you."
"But why?" inquired the poor woman, in alarm.
"Well, Miss Hannah, because of what has happened, you know. The world is
very unjust, Miss Hannah! And women are more unjust than men. If 'man's
inhumanity to man makes countless thousands mourn,' I'm sure women's
cruelty to women makes angels weep!" And here the professor, having
lighted upon a high-toned subject and a helpless hearer, launched into a
long oration I have not space to report. He ended by saying:
"And now, Miss Hannah, if I were you I would not expose myself to
affronts by going to seek work."
"But what can I do, Morris? Must I starve, and let the child starve?"
asked the weaver, in despair.
"Well, no, Miss Hannah; me and my ole 'oman must see what we can do for
you. She aint as young as she used to be, and she mustn't work so hard.
She must part with some of her own spinning and weaving to you. And I
must work a little harder to pay for it. Which I am very willing to do;
for I say, Hannah, when an able-bodied man is not willing to shift the
burden off his wife's shoulders on to his own, he is unworthy to be--"
Here the professor launched into a second oration, longer than the
first. In conclusion, he said:
"And so, Miss Hannah, we will give you what work we have to put out. And
you must try and knock along and do as well as you can this season. And
before the next the poor child will die, and the people will forget all
about it, and employ you again."
"But the child is not a-going to die!" burst forth Hannah, in
exasperation. "If he was the son of rich parents, whose hearts lay in
him, and who piled comforts and luxuries and elegances upon him, and
fell down and worshiped him, and had a big fortune and a great name to
leave him, and so did everything they possibly could to keep him alive,
he'd die! But being what he is, a misery and shame to himself and all
connected with him, he'll live! Yes, half-perished as he is with cold
and famine, he'll live! Look at him now!"
The professor did turn and look at the little, thin, wizen-faced boy who
lay upon the bed, contentedly sucking his skinny thumb, and regarding
the speaker with big, bright, knowing eyes, that seemed to say:
"Yes, I mean to suck my thumb and live!"
"To tell you the truth, I think so, too," said the professor, scarcely
certain whether he was replying to the words of Hannah or to the looks
of the child.
It is certain that the dread of death and the desire of life is the very
earliest instinct of every animate creature. Perhaps this child was
endowed with excessive vitality. Certainly, the babe's persistence in
living on "under difficulties" might have been the germ of that enormous
strength and power of will for which the man was afterwards so noted.
The professor kept his word with Hannah, and brought her some work. But
the little that he could afford to pay for it was not sufficient to
supply one-fourth of Hannah's necessities.
At last came a day when her provisions were all gone. And Hannah locked
the child up alone in the hut and set off to walk to Baymouth, to try to
get some meal and bacon on credit from the country shop where she had
dealt all her life.
Baymouth was a small port, at the mouth of a small bay making up from
the Chesapeake. It had one church, in charge of the Episcopal minister
who had baptized Nora's child. And it had one large, country store, kept
by a general dealer named Nutt, who had for sale everything to eat,
drink, wear, or wield, from sugar and tea to meat and fish; from linen
cambric to linsey-woolsey; from bonnets and hats to boots and shoes;
from new milk to old whisky; from fresh eggs to stale cheese; and from
needles and thimbles to plows and harrows.
Hannah, as I said, had been in the habit of dealing at this shop all her
life, and paying cash for everything she got. So now, indeed, she might
reasonably ask for a little credit, a little indulgence until she could
procure work. Yet, for all that, she blushed and hesitated at having to
ask the unusual favor. She entered the store and found the dealer alone.
She was glad of that, as she rather shrank from preferring her humble
request before witnesses. Mr. Nutt hurried forward to wait on her.
Hannah explained her wants, and then added:
"If you will please credit me for the things, Mr. Nutt, I will be sure
to pay you the first of the month."
The dealer looked at the customer and then looked down at the counter,
but made no reply.
Hannah, seeing his hesitation, hastened to say that she had been out of
work all the winter and spring, but that she hoped soon to get some
more, when she would be sure to pay her creditor.
"Yes, I know you have lost your employment, poor girl, and I fear that
you will not get it again," said the dealer, with a look of compassion.
"But why, oh! why should I not be allowed to work, when I do my work so
willingly and so well?" exclaimed Hannah, in, despair.
"Well, my dear girl, if you do not know the reason, I cannot be the man
to tell you."
"But if I cannot get work, what shall I do? Oh! what shall I do? I
cannot starve! And I cannot see the child starve!" exclaimed Hannah,
clasping her hands and raising her eyes in earnest appeal to the
judgment of the man who had known her from infancy: who was old enough
to be her father, and who had a wife and grown daughter of his own:
"What shall I do? Oh! what shall I do?" she repeated.
Mr. Nutt still seemed to hesitate and reflect, stealing furtive glances
at the anxious face of the woman. At last he bent across the counter,
took her hand, and, bending his head close to her face, whispered:
"I'll tell you what, Hannah. I will let you have the articles you have
asked for, and anything else in my store that you want, and I will never
charge you anything for them--"
"Oh, sir, I couldn't think of imposing on your goodness so: The Lord
reward you, sir! but I only want a little credit for a short time,"
broke out Hannah, in the warmth of her gratitude.
"But stop, hear me out, my dear girl! I was about to say you might come
to my store and get whatever you want, at any time, without payment, if
you will let me drop in and see you sometimes of evenings," whispered
the dealer.
"Sir!" said Hannah, looking up in innocent perplexity.
The man repeated his proposal with a look that taught even Hannah's
simplicity that she had received the deepest insult a woman could
suffer. Hannah was a rude, honest, high-spirited old maid. And she
immediately obeyed her natural impulses, which were to raise her strong
hands and soundly box the villain's ears right and left, until he saw
more stars in the firmament than had ever been created. And before he
could recover from the shock of the assault she picked up her basket and
strode from the shop. Indignation lent her strength and speed, and she
walked home in double-quick time. But once in the shelter of her own hut
she sat down, threw her apron over her head, and burst into passionate
tears and sobs, crying:
"It's all along of poor Nora and that child, as I'm thought ill on by
the women and insulted by the men! Yes, it is, you miserable little
wretch!" she added, speaking to the baby, who had opened his big eyes to
see the cause of the uproar. "It's all on her account and yourn, as I'm
treated so! Why do you keep on living, you poor little shrimp? Why don't
you die? Why can't both of us die? Many people die who want to live! Why
should we live who want to die? Tell me that, little miserable!" But the
baby defiantly sucked his thumb, as if it held the elixir of life, and
looked indestructible vitality from his great, bright eyes.
Hannah never ventured to ask another favor from mortal man, except the
very few in whom she could place entire confidence, such as the pastor
of the parish, the Professor of Odd Jobs, and old Jovial. Especially she
shunned Nutt's shop as she would have shunned a pesthouse; although this
course obliged her to go two miles farther to another village to procure
necessaries whenever she had money to pay for them.
Nutt, on his part, did not think it prudent to prosecute Hannah for
assault. But he did a base thing more fatal to her reputation. He told
his wife how that worthless creature, whose sister turned out so badly,
had come running after him, wanting to get goods from his shop, and
teasing him to come to see her; but that he had promptly ordered her out
of the shop and threatened her with a constable if ever she dared to
show her face there again.
False, absurd, and cruel as this story was, Mrs. Nutt believed it, and
told all her acquaintances what an abandoned wretch that woman was. And
thus poor Hannah Worth lost all that she possessed in the world--her
good name. She had been very poor. But it would be too dreadful now to
tell in detail of the depths of destitution and misery into which she
and the child fell, and in which they suffered and struggled to keep
soul and body together for years and years.
It is wonderful how long life may be sustained under the severest
privations. Ishmael suffered the extremes of hunger and cold; yet he did
not starve or freeze to death; he lived and grew in that mountain hut as
pertinaciously as if he had been the pampered pet of some royal nursery.
At first Hannah did not love him. Ah, you know, such unwelcome children
are seldom loved, even by their parents. But this child was so patient
and affectionate, that it must have been an unnatural heart that would
not have been won by his artless efforts to please. He bore hunger and
cold and weariness with baby heroism. And if you doubt whether there is
any such a thing in the world as "baby heroism", just visit the nursery
hospitals of New York, and look at the cheerfulness of infant sufferers
from disease.
Ishmael was content to sit upon the floor all day long, with his big
eyes watching Hannah knit, sew, spin, or weave, as the case might be.
And if she happened to drop her thimble, scissors, spool of cotton, or
ball of yarn, Ishmael would crawl after it as fast as his feeble little
limbs would take him, and bring it back and hold it up to her with a
smile of pleasure, or, if the feat had been a fine one, a little laugh
of triumph. Thus, even before he could walk, he tried to make himself
useful. It was his occupation to love Hannah, and watch her, and crawl
after anything she dropped and restore it to her. Was this such a small
service? No; for it saved the poor woman the trouble of getting up and
deranging her work to chase rolling balls of yarn around the room. Or
was it a small pleasure to the lonely old maid to see the child smile
lovingly up in her face as he tendered her these baby services? I think
not. Hannah grew to love little Ishmael. Who, indeed, could have
received all his innocent overtures of affection and not loved him a
little in return? Not honest Hannah Worth. It was thus, you see, by his
own artless efforts that he won his grim aunt's heart. This was our
boy's first success. And the truth may as well be told of him now, that
in the whole course of his eventful life he gained no earthly good which
he did not earn by his own merits. But I must hurry over this part of my
story.
When Ishmael was about four years old he began to take pleasure in the
quaint pictures of the old family Bible, that I have mentioned as the
only book and sole literary possession of Hannah Worth. A rare old copy
it was, bearing the date of London, 1720, and containing the strangest
of all old old-fashioned engravings. But to the keenly appreciating mind
of the child these pictures were a gallery of art. And on Sunday
afternoons, when Hannah had leisure to exhibit them, Ishmael never
wearied of standing by her side, and gazing at the illustrations of
"Cain and Abel," "Joseph Sold by his Brethren," "Moses in the
Bulrushes," "Samuel Called by the Lord," "John the Baptist and the
Infant Jesus," "Christ and the Doctors in the Temple," and so forth.
"Read me about it," he would say of each picture.
And Hannah would have to read these beautiful Bible stories. One day,
when he was about five years old, he astonished his aunt by saying:
"And now I want to read about them for myself!"
But Hannah found no leisure to teach him. And besides she thought it
would be time enough some years to come for Ishmael to learn to read. So
thought not our boy, however, as a few days proved.
One night Hannah had taken home a dress to one of the plantation
negroes, who were now her only customers, and it was late when she
returned to the hut. When she opened the door a strange sight met her
eyes. The Professor of Odd Jobs occupied the seat of honor in the arm
chair in the chimney corner. On his knees lay the open Bible; while by
his side stood little Ishmael, holding an end of candle in his hand, and
diligently conning the large letters on the title page. The little
fellow looked up with his face full of triumph, exclaiming:
"Oh, aunty, I know all the letters on this page now! And the professor
is going to teach me to read! And I am going to help him gather his
herbs and roots every day to pay him for his trouble!"
The professor looked up and smiled apologetically, saying:
"I just happened in, Miss Hannah, to see if there was anything wanting
to be done, and I found this boy lying on the floor with the Bible open
before him trying to puzzle out the letters for himself. And as soon as
he saw me he up and struck a bargain with me to teach him to read. And
I'll tell you what, Miss Hannah, he's going to make a man one of these
days! You know I've been a colored schoolmaster, among my other
professions, and I tell you I never came across such a quick little
fellow as he is, bless his big head! There now, my little man, that's
learning enough for one sitting. And besides the candle is going out,"
concluded the professor, as he arose and closed the book and departed.
But again Ishmael held a different opinion from his elders; and lying
down before the fire-lit hearth, with the book open before him, he went
over and over his lesson, grafting it firmly in his memory lest it
should escape him. In this way our boy took his first step in knowledge.
Two or three times in the course of the week the professor would come to
give him another lesson. And Ishmael paid for his tuition by doing the
least of the little odd jobs for the professor of that useful art.
"You see I can feel for the boy like a father, Miss Hannah," said the
professor, after giving his lesson one evening; "because, you know, I am
in a manner self-educated myself. I had to pick up reading, writing, and
'rithmetick any way I could from the white children. So I can feel for
this boy as I once felt for myself. All my children are girls; but if I
had a son I couldn't feel more pride in him than I do in this boy. And I
tell you again, he is going to make a man one of these days."
Ishmael thought so too. He had previsions of future success, as every
very intelligent lad must have; but at present his ambition took no very
lofty flights. The greatest man of his acquaintance was the Professor of
Odd Jobs. And to attain the glorious eminence occupied by the learned
and eloquent dignitary was the highest aspiration of our boy's early
genius.
"Aunty," he said one day, after remaining in deep thought for a long
time, "do you think if I was to study very hard indeed, night and day,
for years and years, I should ever be able to get as much knowledge and
make as fine speeches as the professor?"
"How do I know, Ishmael? You ask such stupid questions. All I can say
is, if it aint in you it will never come out of you," answered the
unappreciating aunt.
"Oh, if that's all, it is in me; there's a deal more in me than I can
talk about; and so I believe I shall be able to make fine speeches like
the professor some day."
Morris certainly took great pains with his pupil; and Ishmael repaid his
teacher's zeal by the utmost devotion to his service.
By the time our boy had attained his seventh year he could read
fluently, write legibly, and work the first four rules in arithmetic.
Besides this, he had glided into a sort of apprenticeship to the odd-job
line of business, and was very useful to his principal. The manner in
which he helped his master was something like this: If the odd job on
hand happened to be in the tinkering line, Ishmael could heat the irons
and prepare the solder; if it were in the carpentering and joining
branch, he could melt the glue; if in the brick-laying, he could mix the
mortar; if in the painting and glazing, he could roll the putty.
When he was eight years old he commenced the study of grammar,
geography, and history, from old books lent him by his patron; and he
also took a higher degree in his art, and began to assist his master by
doing the duties of clerk and making the responses, whenever the
professor assumed the office of parson and conducted the church services
to a barn full of colored brethren; by performing the part of mourner
whenever the professor undertook to superintend a funeral; and by
playing the tambourine in accompaniment to the professor's violin
whenever the latter became master of ceremonies for a colored ball!
In this manner he not only paid for his own tuition, but earned a very
small stipend, which it was his pride to carry to Hannah, promising her
that some day soon he should be able to earn enough to support her in
comfort.
Thus our boy was rapidly progressing in the art of odd jobs and bidding
fair to emulate the fame and usefulness of the eminent professor
himself, when an event occurred in the neighborhood that was destined to
change the direction of his genius.