ISHMAEL'S PROGRESS.
Athwart his face when blushes pass
To be so poor and weak,
He falls into the dewy grass,
To cool his fevered cheek;
And hears a music strangely made,
That you have never heard,
A sprite in every rustling blade,
That sings like any bird!
--_Monckton Milnes_.
Meanwhile on that fresh, dewy, moonlight summer evening, along the
narrow path leading through the wood behind the hut, Ishmael limped--the
happiest little fellow, despite his wounds and bruises, that ever lived.
He was so happy that he half suspected his delight to be all unreal, and
feared to wake up presently and find it was but a dream, and see the
little black-eyed girl, the ride in the carriage, and, above all, the
new "Illustrated History of the United States" vanish into the land of
shades.
In this dazed frame of mind he reached the hut and opened the door.
The room was lighted only by the blazing logs of a wood fire, which the
freshness of the late August evening on the hills made not quite
unwelcome.
The room was in no respect changed in the last twelve years. The
well-cared-for though humble furniture was still in its old position.
Hannah, as of old, was seated at her loom, driving the shuttle back and
forth with a deafening clatter. Hannah's face was a little more sallow
and wrinkled, and her hair a little more freely streaked with gray than
of yore: that was all the change visible in her personal appearance. But
long continued solitude had rendered her as taciturn and unobservant as
if she had been born deaf and blind.
She had not seen Reuben Gray since that Sunday when Ishmael was
christened and Reuben insisted on bringing the child home, and when, in
the bitterness of her woe and her shame, she had slammed the door in his
face. Gray had left the neighborhood, and it was reported that he had
been promoted to the management of a rich farm in the forest of Prince
George's.
"There is your supper on the hearth, child," she said, without ceasing
her work or turning her head as Ishmael entered.
Hannah was a good aunt; but she was not his mother; if she had been, she
would at least have turned around to look at the boy, and then she would
have seen he was hurt, and would have asked an explanation. As it was
she saw nothing.
And Ishmael was very glad of it. He did not wish to be pitied or
praised; he wished to be left to himself and his own devices, for this
evening at least, when he had such a distinguished guest as his grand
new book to entertain!
Ishmael took up his bowl of mush and milk, sat down, and with a large
spoon shoveled his food down his throat with more dispatch than
delicacy--just as he would have shoveled coal into a cellar. The sharp
cries of a hungry stomach must be appeased, he knew; but with as little
loss of time as possible, particularly when there was a hungry brain
waiting to set to work upon a rich feast already prepared for it!
So in three minutes he put away his bowl and spoon, drew his
three-legged stool to the corner of the fireplace, where he could see to
read, seated himself, opened his packet, and displayed his treasure. It
was a large, thick, octavo volume, bound in stout leather, and filled
with portraits and pictured battle scenes. And on the fly-leaf was
written:
"Presented to Ishmael Worth, as a reward of merit, by his friend
James Middleton."
Ishmael read that with a new accession of pleasure. Then he turned the
leaves to peep at the hidden jewels in this intellectual casket. Then he
closed the book and laid it on his knees and shut his eyes and held his
breath for joy.
He had been enamored of this beauty for months and months. He had fallen
in love with it at first sight, when he had seen its pages open, with a
portrait of George Washington on the right and a picture of the Battle
of Yorktown on the left, all displayed in the show window of Hainlin's
book shop. He had loved it and longed for it with a passionate ardor
ever since. He had spent all his half holidays in going to Baymouth and
standing before Hamlin's window and staring at the book, and asking the
price of it, and wondering if he should ever be able to save money
enough to buy it. Now, to be in love with an unattainable woman is bad
enough, the dear knows! But to be in love with an unattainable book--Oh,
my gracious! Lover-like, he had thought of this book all day, and
dreamt of it all night; but never hoped to possess it!
And now he really owned it! He had won it as a reward for courage,
truth, and honesty! It was lying there on his knees. It was all his own!
His intense satisfaction can only be compared to that of a youthful
bridegroom who has got his beloved all to himself at last! It might have
been said of the one, as it is often said of the other, "It was the
happiest day of his life!"
Oh, doubtless in after years the future statesman enjoyed many a
hard-won victory. Sweet is the breath of fame! Sweet the praise of
nations! But I question whether, in all the vicissitudes, successes,
failures, trials, and triumphs of his future life, Ishmael Worth ever
tasted such keen joy as he did this night in the possession of this
book.
He enjoyed it more than wealthy men enjoy their great libraries. To him,
this was the book of books, because it was the history of his own
country.
There were thousands and thousands of young men, sons of gentlemen, in
schools and colleges, reading this glorious history of the young
republic as a task, with indifference or disgust, while this poor boy,
in the hill-top hut, pored over its pages with all the enthusiasm of
reverence and love! And why--what caused this difference? Because they
were of the commonplace, while he was one in a million. This was the
history of the rise and progress of the United States; Ishmael Worth was
an ardent lover and worshiper of his country, as well as of all that was
great and good! He had the brain to comprehend and the heart to
reverence the divine idea embodied in the Federal Union. He possessed
these, not by inheritance, not by education, but by the direct
inspiration of Heaven, who, passing over the wealthy and the prosperous,
ordained this poor outcast boy, this despised, illegitimate son of a
country weaver, to become a great power among the people! a great pillar
of the State.
No one could guess this now. Not even the boy himself. He did not know
that he was any richer in heart or brain than other boys of his age. No,
most probably, by analogy, he thought himself in this respect as well as
in all others, poorer than his neighbors. He covered his book carefully,
and studied it perseveringly; studied it not only while it was a
novelty, but after he had grown familiar with its incidents.
I have dwelt so long upon this subject because the possession of this
book at this time had a signal effect in forming Ishmael Worth's
character and directing the current of the boy's whole future life. It
was one of the first media of his inspiration. Its heroes, its warriors,
and its statesmen were his idols, his models, and his exemplars. By
studying them he became himself high-toned, chivalrous, and devoted.
Through the whole autumn he worked hard all day, upheld with the
prospect of returning home at night to--his poor hut and his silent
aunt?--oh, no, but to the grand stage upon which the Revolutionary
struggle was exhibited and to the company of its heroes--Washington,
Putnam, Marion, Jefferson, Hancock, and Henry! He saw no more for some
time of his friends at Brudenell Hall. He knew that Mr. Middleton had a
first-class school at his house, and he envied the privileged young
gentlemen who had the happiness to attend it: little knowing how
unenviable a privilege the said young gentlemen considered that
attendance and how a small portion of happiness they derived from it.
The winter set in early and severely. Hannah took a violent cold and was
confined to her bed with inflammatory rheumatism. For many weeks she was
unable to do a stroke of work. During this time of trial Ishmael worked
for both--rising very early in the morning to get the frugal breakfast
and set the house in order before going out to his daily occupation of
"jobbing" with the professor--and coming home late at night to get the
supper and to split the wood and to bring the water for the next day's
supply. Thus, as long as his work lasted, he was the provider as well as
the nurse of his poor aunt.
But at last there came one of the heaviest falls of snow ever known in
that region. It lay upon the ground for many weeks, quite blocking up
the roads, interrupting travel, and of course putting a stop to the
professor's jobbing and to Ishmael's income. Provisions were soon
exhausted, and there was no way of getting more. Hannah and Ishmael
suffered hunger. Ishmael bore this with great fortitude. Hannah also
bore it patiently as long as the tea lasted. But when that woman's
consolation failed she broke down and complained bitterly.
The Baymouth turnpike was about the only passable road in the
neighborhood. By it Ishmael walked on to the village, one bitter cold
morning, to try to get credit for a quarter of a pound of tea.
But Nutt would see him hanged first.
Disappointed and sorrowful, Ishmael turned his steps from the town. He
had come about a mile on his homeward road, when something glowing like
a coal of fire on the glistening whiteness of the snow caught his eye.
It was a red morocco pocketbook lying in the middle of the road. There
was not a human creature except Ishmael himself on the road or anywhere
in sight. Neither had he passed anyone on his way from the village.
Therefore it was quite in vain that he looked up and down and all around
for the owner of the pocketbook as he raised it from the ground. No
possible claimant was to be seen. He opened it and examined its
contents. It contained a little gold and silver, not quite ten dollars
in all; but a fortune for Ishmael, in his present needy condition. There
was no name on the pocketbook and not a scrap of paper in it by which
the owner might be discovered. There was nothing in it but the
untraceable silver and gold. It seemed to have dropped from heaven for
Ishmael's own benefit! This was his thought as he turned with the
impulse to fly directly back to the village and invest a portion of the
money in necessaries for Hannah.
What was it that suddenly arrested his steps? The recollection that the
money was not his own! that to use it even for the best purpose in the
world would be an act of dishonesty.
He paused and reflected. The devil took that opportunity to tempt
him--whispering:
"You found the pocketbook and you cannot find the owner; therefore it is
your own, you know."
"You know it isn't," murmured Ishmael's conscience.
"Well, even so, it is no harm to borrow a dollar or two to get your poor
sick aunt a little tea and sugar. You could pay it back again before the
pocketbook is claimed, even if it is ever claimed," mildly insinuated
the devil.
"It would be borrowing without leave," replied conscience.
"But for your poor, sick, suffering aunt! think of her, and make her
happy this evening with a consoling cup of tea! Take only half a dollar
for that good purpose. Nobody could blame you for that," whimpered the
devil, who was losing ground.
"I would like to make dear Aunt Hannah happy to-night. But I am sure
George Washington would not approve of my taking what don't belong to me
for that or any other purpose. And neither would Patrick Henry, nor
John Hancock. And so I won't do it," said Ishmael, resolutely putting
the pocketbook in his vest pocket and buttoning his coat tight over it,
and starting at brisk pace homeward.
You see his heroes had come to his aid and saved him in the first
temptation of his life.
Ah, you may be sure that in after days the rising politician met and
resisted many a temptation to sell his vote, his party, or his soul for
a "consideration"; but none more serious to the man than this one was to
the boy.
When Ishmael had trudged another mile of his homeward road, it suddenly
occurred to him that he might possibly meet or overtake the owner of the
pocketbook, who would know his property in a moment if he should see it.
And with this thought he took it from his pocket and carried it
conspicuously in his hand until he reached home, without having met a
human being.
It was about twelve meridian when he lifted the latch and entered.
Hannah was in bed; but she turned her hungry eyes anxiously on him--as
she eagerly inquired:
"Did you bring the tea, Ishmael?"
"No, Aunt Hannah; Mr. Nutt wouldn't trust me," replied the boy sadly,
sinking down in a chair; for he was very weak from insufficient food,
and the long walk had exhausted him.
Hannah began to complain piteously. Do not blame her, reader. You would
fret, too, if you were sick in bed, and longing for a cup of tea,
without having the means of procuring it.
To divert her thoughts Ishmael went and showed the pocketbook, and told
her the history of his finding it.
Hannah seized it with the greedy grasp with which the starving catch at
money. She opened it, and counted the gold and silver.
"Where did you say you found it, Ishmael?"
"I told you a mile out of the village."
"Only that little way! Why didn't you go back and buy my tea?" she
inquired, with an injured look.
"Oh, aunt! the money wasn't mine, you know!" said Iahmael.
"Well, I don't say it was. But you might have borrowed a dollar from it,
and the owner would have never minded, for I dare say he'd be willing to
give two dollars as a reward for finding the pocketbook. You might have
bought my tea if you had eared for me! But nobody cares for me now! No
one ever did but Reuben--poor fellow!"
"Indeed, Aunt Hannah, I do care for you a great deal! I love you dearly;
and I did want to take some of the money and buy your tea."
"Why didn't you do it, then?"
"Oh, Aunt Hannah, the Lord has commanded, 'Thou shalt not steal.'"
"It wouldn't have been stealing; it would have been borrowing."
"But I know Patrick Henry and John Hancock wouldn't have borrowed what
didn't belong to them!"
"Plague take Patrick Hancock and John Henry, I say! I believe they are
turning your head! What have them dead and buried old people to do with
folks that are alive and starving?"
"Oh, Aunt Hannah! scold me as much as you please, but don't speak so of
the great men!" said Ishmael, to whom all this was sheer blasphemy and
nothing less.
"Great fiddlesticks' ends! No tea yesterday, and no tea for breakfast
this morning, and no tea for supper to-night! And I laying helpless with
the rheumatism, and feeling as faint as if I should sink and die; and my
head aching ready to burst! And I would give anything in the world for a
cup of tea, because I know it would do me so much good, and I can't get
it! And you have money in your pocket and won't buy it for me! No, not
if I die for the want of it! You, that I have been a mother to! That's
the way you pay me, is it, for all my care?"
"Oh, Aunt Hannah, dear, I do love you, and I would do anything in the
world for you; but, indeed, I am sure Patrick Henry--"
"Hang Patrick Henry! If you mention his name to me again I'll box your
ears!"
Ishmael dropped his eyes to the ground and sighed deeply.
"After all I have done for you, ever since you were left a helpless
infant on my hands, for you to let me lie here and die, yes, actually
die, for the want of a cup of tea, before you will spend one quarter of
a dollar to get it for me! Oh! Oh! Oh! Oo-oo-oo!"
And Hannah put her hands to her face, and cried like a baby.
You see Hannah was honest; but she was not heroic; her nerves were very
weak, and her spirits very low. Inflammatory rheumatism is often more or
less complicated with heart disease. And the latter is a great
demoralizer of mind as well as body. And that was Hannah's case. We must
make every excuse for the weakness of the poor, over-tasked, all
enduring, long-suffering woman, broken down at last.
But not a thought of blaming her entered Ishmael's mind. Full of love,
he bent over her, saying:
"Oh, Aunt Hannah, don't, don't cry! You shall have your tea this very
evening; indeed you shall!" And he stooped and kissed her tenderly.
Then he put on his cap and went and took his only treasure, his beloved
"History," from its place of honor on the top of the bureau; and cold,
hungry, and tired as he was, he set off again to walk the four long
miles to the village, to try to sell his book for half price to the
trader.
Reader! I am not fooling you with a fictitious character here. Do you
not love this boy? And will you not forgive me if I have already
lingered too long over the trials and triumphs of his friendless but
heroic boyhood! He who in his feeble childhood resists small
temptations, and makes small sacrifices, is very apt in his strong
manhood to conquer great difficulties and achieve great successes.
Ishmael, with his book under his arm, went as fast as his exhausted
frame would permit him on the road towards Baymouth. But as he was
obliged to walk slowly and pause to rest frequently, he made but little
progress, so that it was three o'clock in the afternoon before he
reached Hamlin's book shop.
There was a customer present, and Ishmael had to wait until the man was
served and had departed, before he could mention his own humble errand.
This short interview Ishmael spent in taking the brown paper cover off
his book, and looking fondly at the cherished volume. It was like taking
a last leave of it. Do not blame this as a weakness. He was so poor, so
very poor; this book was his only treasure and his only joy in life. The
tears arose to his eyes, but he kept them from falling.
When the customer was gone, and the bookseller was at leisure, Ishmael
approached and laid the volume on the counter, saying:
"Have you another copy of this work in the shop, Mr. Hamlin?"
"No; I wish I had half-a-dozen; for I could sell them all; but I intend
to order some from Baltimore to-day."
"Then maybe you would buy this one back from me at half price? I have
taken such care of it, that it is as good as new, you see. Look at it
for yourself."
"Yes, I see it looks perfectly fresh; but here is some writing on the
fly leaf; that would have to be torn out, you know; so that the book
could never be sold as a new one again; I should have to sell it as a
second hand one, at half price; that would be a dollar and a half, so
that you see I would only give you a dollar for it."
"Sir?" questioned Ishmael, in sad amazement.
"Yes; because you know, I must have my own little profit on it."
"Oh, I see; yes, to be sure," assented Ishmael, with a sigh.
But to part with his treasure and get no more than that! It was like
Esau selling his birthright for a mess of pottage.
However, the poor cannot argue with the prosperous. The bargain was soon
struck. The book was sold and the boy received his dollar. And then the
dealer, feeling a twinge of conscience, gave him a dime in addition.
"Thank you, sir; I will take this out in paper and wafers, if you
please. I want some particularly," said Ishmael.
Having received a half dozen sheets of paper and a small box of wafers,
the lad asked the loan of pen and ink; and then, standing at the
counter, he wrote a dozen circulars as follows:
FOUND, A POCKET-BOOK.
On the Baymouth Turnpike Road, on Friday morning, I picked up a
pocketbook, which the owner can have by coming to me at the Hill
Hut and proving his property.
Ishmael Worth.
Having finished these, he thanked the bookseller and left the shop,
saying to himself:
"I won't keep that about me much longer to be a constant temptation and
cross."
He first went and bought a quarter of a pound of tea, a pound of sugar,
and a bag of meal from Nutt's general shop for Hannah; and leaving them
there until he should have got through his work, he went around the
village and wafered up his twelve posters at various conspicuous points
on fences, walls, pumps, trees, etc.
Then he called for his provisions, and set out on his long walk home.