One chill morning in the autumn of 1826, in the town of Keene, New
Hampshire, lights might have been seen at an unusually early hour in the
windows of a yellow one-story-and-a-half house, that stood--and still
stands, perhaps--on the corner of the main street and the Swanzey road.
There was living in that house a blind widow, the mother of a large
family of children, now mostly scattered; and the occasion of the
unseasonable lights was the departure from home of a son yet left to
her, upon a long and uncertain adventure.
He was a young man, eighteen years old, just out of college. Graduating
at Dartmouth, he had brought away from that institution something better
than book-learning,--a deep religious experience, which was to be his
support through trials now quickly to come, and through a subsequent
prosperity more dangerous to the soul than trials. He had been bred a
farmer's boy. He was poor, and had his living to get. And he was now
going out into the world, he scarcely knew whither, to see what prizes
were to be won. In person he was tall, slender, slightly bent; shy and
diffident in his manners; in his appearance a little green and awkward.
He had an impediment in his speech also. His name--it is an odd one, but
you may perhaps have heard it--was Salmon.
He had been up long before day, making preparations for the journey. His
mother was up also, busily assisting him, though blind,--her intelligent
hands placing together the linen that was to remind him affectingly of
her, when unpacked in a distant city.
A singular hush was upon the little household, though all were so
active. The sisters moved about noiselessly by candle-light, their pale
cheeks and constrained lips betraying the repressed emotion. The early
breakfast was eaten in silence,--anxious eyes looking up now and then at
the clock. It was only when the hour for the starting of the stage
struck that all seemed suddenly to remember that there were a thousand
things to be said; and so the last moments were crowded with last words.
"Your blessing, mother!" said Salmon, (for we shall call the youth by
the youth's name,) bending before her with his heart chokingly full.
She rose up from her chair. Her right hand held his; the other was laid
lovingly over his neck. Her blind eyes were turned upward prayerfully,
and tears streamed from them as she spoke and blessed him. Then a last
embrace; and he hurried forth from the house, his checks still wet,--not
with his own tears.
The stage took him up. He climbed to the driver's seat. Then again the
dull clank of the lumbering coach-wheels was heard,--a heavy sound to
the mother's ears. In the dim, still light of the frosty morning he
turned and waved back his farewell to her who could not see, took his
last look at the faces at the door, and so departed from that home
forever. The past was left behind him, with all its dear associations;
and before him rose the future, chill, uncertain, yet not without gleams
of rosy brightness, like the dawn then breaking upon Monadnock's misty
head.
Thus went forth the young man into the world, seeking his fortune.
Conscious of power, courageous, shrinking from no hardship, palpitating
with young dreams, he felt that he had his place off yonder somewhere,
beneath that brightening sky, beyond those purple hills,--but where?
In due time he arrived in New York; but something within assured him
that here was not the field of his fortunes. So he went on to
Philadelphia. There he made a longer stop. He had a letter of
introduction to the Rev. Mr. ----, who received him with hospitality,
and used his influence to assist him in gaining a position. But the door
of Providence did not open yet: Philadelphia was not that door: his path
led farther.
So he kept on, still drawn by that magnet which we call Destiny. He went
to Frederick: still the invisible finger pointed on. At last there was
but one more step. He secured a seat in the stage going down the
Frederick road to Washington.
Years after he was to approach the capital of the nation with far
different prospects! But this was his first visit. It was at the close
of a bleak day, late in November, that he came in sight of the city. The
last tint of daylight was fading from a sullen sky. The dreary twilight
was setting in. Cold blew the wind from over the Maryland hills. The
trees were leafless; they shook and whistled in the blast. Gloom was
shutting down upon the capital. The city wore a dismal and forbidding
aspect; and the whole landscape was desolate and discouraging in the
extreme. Here was mud, in which the stage-coach lurched and rolled as it
descended the hills. Yonder was the watery spread of the Potomac, gray,
cold, dimly seen under the shadow of coming night. Between this mud and
that water what was there for him? Yet here was his destination.
Years after there dwelt in Washington a man high in position, wielding a
power that was felt not only throughout this nation, but in Europe
also,--his hand dispensing benefits, his door thronged by troops of
friends. But now it was a city of strangers he was entering, a youth. Of
all the dwellers there he knew not a living soul. There was no one to
dispense favors to _him_,--to receive _him_ with cheerful look and
cordial grasp of the hand. A heavy foreboding settled upon his spirit,
as the darkness settled upon the hills. Here he was, alone and
unknown,--a bashful boy as yet, utterly wanting in that ready audacity
by means of which persons of extreme shallowness often push themselves
into notice. Well might he foresee days of gloom, long days of waiting
and struggle, stretching like the landscape before him!
But he was not disheartened. From the depths of his spirit arose a hope,
like a bubble from a deep spring. That spring was FAITH. There, in that
dull, bleak November twilight, he seemed to feel the hand of Providence
take hold of his. And a prayer rose to his lips,--a prayer of earnest
supplication for guidance and support. Was that prayer answered?
The stage rumbled through the naked suburbs and along the unlighted
streets.
"Where do you stop?" asked the driver.
"Set me down at a boarding-house, if you know of a good one." For Salmon
could not afford to go to a hotel.
"What sort of a boarding-house? I know of a good many. Some 's right
smart,--'ristocratic, and 'ristocratic prices. Then there's some good
enough in every way, only not quite so smart,--and with this advantage,
you don't have the smartness to pay for."
"I prefer to go to a good house, where there are nice people, without
too much smartness to be put into the bill."
"I know jest the kind of place, I reckon!"--and the driver whipped up
his jaded horses.
He drew up before a respectable-looking wooden tenement on Pennsylvania
Avenue, the windows of which, just lighted up, looked warm and inviting
to the chilled and weary traveller.
"Good evening, Mrs. Markham!" said the driver to a kindly-looking lady
who came to the door at his knock. "Got room for a boarder?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. I'm afraid not," said the lady, loud enough for
Salmon to hear and be discouraged. "There's only half a room
unoccupied,--if he would be content with that, and if he's the right
sort of person"--
Here she said something in a whisper to the driver, who apparently
pointed out Salmon to her inspection.
But it was too dark for her to decide whether he would do to put into
the room with Williams; so Salmon had to get down and show himself. She
examined him, and he inquired her terms. They appeared mutually
satisfied. Accordingly the driver received directions to deposit
Salmon's baggage in the entry; and the hungry and benumbed young
traveller had the comfort of feeling that he had reached a home.
Grateful at finding a kind woman's face to welcome him,--glad of the
opportunity to economize his slender means by sharing a room with
another person, strongly-recommended as "very quiet" by Mrs.
Markham,--Salmon washed his face, combed his hair, and ate his first
supper in Washington. He has eaten better suppers there since, no
doubt,--but not many, I fancy, that have been sweetened by a more devout
sense of reliance upon Providence.
"Williams was a companionable person, who had a place in the Treasury
Department, and talked freely about the kind of work he had to do, and
the salary.
"Eight hundred a year!" thought Salmon, deeming that man enviable who
had constant employment, an assured position, and eight hundred a year.
_His_ ambition was to get a living simply,--to place his foot upon some
certainty, however humble, with freedom from this present gnawing
anxiety, and with a prospect of rising, he cared not how slowly, to the
place which he felt belonged to him in the future. Little did he dream
what that place was, when he questioned Williams so curiously as to what
sort of thing the Treasury Department might be.
"If I could be sure of half that salary,--or even of three, or two
hundred, just enough to pay my expenses, the first year,--I should be
perfectly happy!"
"Haven't you any idea what you are going to do?"
"None whatever."
"What _can_ you do?"
"For one thing, I can teach. I think I shall try that."
"You'll find it a mighty hard place to get pupils!" said Williams, with
a dubious smile.
Which rather gloomy prediction Salmon had to think of before going to
bed.
But soon another subject, which he deemed of far greater importance,
occupied his mind. He had of late been seriously considering whether it
was his duty to continue his private devotions openly, or in
secret,--and had concluded, that, when occasion seemed to require it, he
ought to make an open manifestation of his faith. Here now was a test
for his conscience. His room-mate showed no signs of going out again
that night: he had pulled off his boots, put on his slippers, and
lighted his pipe. Salmon had already inferred, from the tone of his
conversation, that he was not a person who could sympathize with him in
his religious sentiments. Yet he must kneel there in his presence, if he
knelt at all. It was not the fear of ridicule, but a certain
sensitiveness of spirit, which caused him to shrink from the act. He did
not hesitate long, however. He turned, and knelt by his chair. Williams
took the pipe out of his mouth, and looked at him over his shoulder with
curious amazement. Not a word was spoken. Salmon, feeling that he had no
right to intrude his devotions upon the ear of another, prayed silently;
and Williams, compelled to respect the courageous, yet quiet manner in
which he performed what he regarded as a solemn duty, kept his
astonishment to himself.
Then Salmon arose, and went to bed for that first time in Washington
under Mrs. Markham's roof.
On the twenty-third of December, 1826, the following advertisement
appeared in the columns of the "National Intelligencer":--
"SELECT CLASSICAL SCHOOL.
"The Subscriber intends opening a Select Classical School, in the
Western part of the City, to commence on the second Monday in
January. His number of pupils will be limited to twenty, which
will enable him to devote a much larger portion of his time and
attention than ordinary to each individual student. Instruction
will be given in all the studies preparatory to entering College,
or, if desired, in any of the higher branches of a classical
education. The subscriber pledges himself that no effort shall be
wanting on his part to promote both the moral and intellectual
improvement of those who may be confided to his care. He may be
found at his room, three doors west of Brown's Hotel. Reference
may be made to the Hon. Henry Clay; Hon. D. Chase and Hon. H.
Seymour, of the Senate; Hon. I. Bartlett and Hon. William C.
Bradley, of the House of Representatives; Rev. Wm. Hawley and Rev.
E. Allen.
"SALMON ----.
"Dec. 23--3td & eotJ8."
The "Hon. Henry Clay" was then Secretary of State. The "Hon. D. Chase"
referred to was Salmon's uncle Dudley, then United States Senator from
Vermont. Congress was now in session, and he had arrived in town. He was
a man of great practical sagacity, and kept a true heart beating under
an exterior which appeared sometimes austere and eccentric. He had the
year before been a second time elected to the Senate; and when he was on
his way to Washington, Salmon had gone over from Hanover to Woodstock to
meet him. They occupied the same room at the tavern, and the uncle had
given the nephew some very good advice. What he said of the human
passions was characteristic of the man; and it made a strong impression
upon the mind of the youth:--
"A man's passions are given him for good, and not evil. They are not to
be destroyed, but controlled. If they get the mastery, they destroy the
man; but kept in their place, they are sources of power and happiness."
And he used this illustration, which, though the same thing has been
said by others, remains, nevertheless, fresh as truth itself:--
"The passions are the winds that fill our sails; but the helmsman must
be faithful, if we would avoid shipwreck, and reach the happy port at
last."
Salmon had remembered well these words of his uncle, and the night spent
with him at the Woodstock inn. Hearing of his arrival in Washington, he
had called on him at his boarding-house. The Senator received him
kindly, listened to his plans, approved them, and helped him to procure
the references named in the advertisement.
Day after day the advertisement appeared; and day after day Salmon
waited for pupils. But his room, "three doors west of Brown's Hotel,"
remained unvisited. Sometimes, at first, when there came a knock at Mrs.
Markham's door, his heart gave a bound of expectation; but it was never
a knock for him.
So went out the old year, drearily enough for Salmon. He had made the
acquaintance of several people; but friends he had none. There was
nobody to whom he could open his heart,--for he was not one of those
persons "of so loose soul" that they hasten to pour out their troubles
and appeal for sympathy to the first chance-comer. In the mean time the
advertisement was to be paid for, barren of benefit though it had been
to him. There was also his board-bill to be settled at the end of each
week; and Salmon saw his slender purse grow lank and lanker than ever,
with no means within his reach of replenishing it.
The new year came; but it brought no brightening skies to him. Lonely
enough those days were! When tired of waiting in his room, he would go
out and walk,--always alone. He strolled up and down the Potomac, and
sometimes crossed over to the Virginia shore, and climbed the brown,
wooded banks there, and listened to the clamor of the crows in the
leafless oak-trees. There was something in their wild cawing, in the
desolateness of the fields, in the rush of the cold river, that suited
his mood. It was winter in his spirit too, just then.
Sometimes he visited the halls of Congress, and saw the great
legislators of those days. There was something here that fed his heart.
Wintry as his prospects were, the sun still shone overhead; his courage
never failed him; he never gave way to weak repining; and when he
entered those halls,--when he saw the deep fire in the eyes of Webster,
and heard the superb thunder of his voice,--when he listened to the
witty and terrible invectives of Randolph, that "meteor of Congress," as
Benton calls him, and watched the electric effect of the "long and
skinny forefinger" pointed and shaken,--when charmed by this speaker, or
convinced by that, or roused to indignation by another,--there was
kindled a sense of power within his own breast, a fire prophetic of his
future.
On returning home, he would look on his table for communications, or he
would ask, "Has anybody called for me to-day?" But there was never any
letter; and Mrs. Markham's gentle response always was, "No one, Sir."
The thirteenth of January passed,--his birthday. He was now nineteen.
When the world is bright before us, birthdays are not so unpleasant. But
to feel that your time is slipping away from you, with nothing
accomplishing,--to see no rainbow of promise in the clouds,--to walk the
streets of a lonely city, and think of home,--these things make a
birthday sad and solitary.
At last his money was all gone. The prospect was more than dismal,--it
was appalling. What was he to do?
Should he borrow of his uncle? "Not unless it be to keep me from
starvation!" was his proud resolve.
Should he apply to his mother? The remembrance of what she had already
done for him was as much as his heart could bear. Her image, venerable,
patient, blind, was before him: he recalled the sacrifices she had made
for his sake, postponing her own comfort, and accepting pain and
privation, in order that her boy might have an education; and he was
filled with remorse at the thought that he had never before fully
appreciated all that love and devotion. For so it is: seldom, until too
late, comes any true recognition of such sacrifices. But when she who
made them is no longer with us,--too often, alas, when she has passed
forever beyond the reach of filial gratitude and affection,--we awake at
once to a realization of her worth and of our loss.
What Salmon did was to make a confidant of Mrs. Markham; for he felt
that she at least ought to know his resources.
"This is all _I_ have for the present," he said to her one day, when
paying his week's bill. "I thought you ought to know. I do not wish to
appear a swindler,"--with a gloomy smile.
"You a swindler!" exclaimed the good woman, with glistening eyes. "I
would trust you as far as I would trust myself. If you haven't any
money, never mind. You shall stay, and pay me when you can. Don't worry
yourself at all. It will turn out right, I am sure. You'll have pupils
yet."
"I trust so," said Salmon, touched by her kindness. "At all events, if
my life is spared, you shall be paid some day. Now you know how I am
situated; and if you choose to keep me longer on an uncertainty, I shall
be greatly obliged to you."
His voice shook a little as he spoke.
"As long as you please," she replied.
Just then there was a knock.
"Maybe that is for you!"
And she hastened away, rather to conceal her emotion, I suspect, than in
the hope of admitting a patron for her boarder.
She returned in a minute with shining countenance.
"A gentleman and his little boy, to see Mr. ----! I have shown them into
the parlor."
Salmon was amazed. Could it be true? A pupil at last! He gave a hurried
glance at himself In the mirror, straightened his shirt-collar, gave his
hair a touch, and descended, with beating heart, to meet his visitor.
He was dignified enough, however, on entering the parlor, and so cool
you would never have suspected that he almost felt his fate depending
upon this gentleman's business.
He was a Frenchman,--polite, affable, and of a manner so gracious, you
would have said he had come to beg a favor, rather than to grant one.
"This is Mr. ----? My name is Bonfils. This is my little boy. We have
come to entreat of you the kindness to take him into your school."
"I will do so most gladly!" said Salmon, shaking the boy's hand.
"You are very good. We shall be greatly indebted to you. When does your
school commence?"
"As soon, Sir, as I shall have engaged a sufficient number of pupils."
"All! you have not a great number, then?"
"I have none," Salmon was obliged to confess.
"None? You surprise me! I have seen your advertisement, I hear good
things said of you,--why, then, no pupils?"
"I am hardly known yet. Allow me to count your son here my first, and I
have no doubt but others will soon come in."
"Assuredly! Make your compliments to Mr. ----, my son. I shall interest
myself. I think I shall send you some pupils. In mean time, my son will
wait."
And with many expressions of good-will the cheerful Monsieur Bonfils
withdrew.
This was a gleam of hope. The door of Providence had opened just a
crack.
It opened no farther, however. No more pupils came. Salmon waited. Day
after day glided by like sand under his feet. He could not afford even
to advertise now. He was getting fearfully in debt; and debt is always a
nightmare to a generous and upright mind.
"Any pupils yet?" asked Monsieur Bonfils, meeting him, one day, in the
street.
"Not one!" said Salmon, with gloomy emphasis.
"Ah, that is unfortunate!"
He expected nothing less than that the Frenchman would add,--"Then I
must place my son elsewhere." But no; he was polite as ever; he was
charming.
"You should have many before now. I have spoken for you to my friends.
But patience, my dear Sir. You will succeed. In mean time we will wait."
And with a cordial hand-shake, and a Parisian flourish, he smilingly
passed on, leaving a gleam of sunshine on the young man's path.
Now Salmon was one who would never, if he could help it, abandon an
undertaking in which he had once embarked. But when convinced that
persistence was hopeless, then, however reluctantly, he would give it
up. On the present occasion, he was not only spending his time and
exhausting his energies in a pursuit which grew each day more and more
dubious, but his conscience was stung with the thought that he was
wronging others. Kind as Mrs. Markham was to him, he did not like to
look her in the face and feel that he owed her a debt which was always
increasing, and which he knew not how he should ever pay.
"Why don't you get a place in the Department?" said Williams, that
enviable fellow, who had light duties, several hours each day to
himself, and eight hundred a year!
"That's more easily said than done!" And Salmon shook his head.
"No, it isn't!" The fortunate Williams sat with his legs upon the table,
one foot on the other, a pipe in his mouth, and a book in his hand,
enjoying himself. "You have an uncle in the Senate. Ask him to use his
influence for you. He can get you a place." And puffing a fragrant cloud
complacently into the air, he returned to his pleasant reading.
Salmon walked the room. He went out and walked the street. A sore
struggle was taking place in his breast. Should he give up the school?
Should he go and ask this thing of his uncle? Oh, for somebody to whom
he could go for counsel and sympathy!
"Williams is perhaps right I may wait a year, and not get another pupil.
Meanwhile I am growing shabby. I need a new pair of boots. My
washerwoman must be paid. Why not get a clerkship as a temporary thing,
if nothing more? My uncle can get it for me, without any trouble to
himself. It is not like asking him for money."
Yet he dreaded to trouble the Senator even thus much. Proud and
sensitive natures do not like to beg favors, any way.
"I'll wait one day longer. Then, if not a pupil applies, I'll go to my
uncle--"
He waited twenty-four hours. Not a pupil. Then, desperate and
discouraged at last, Salmon buttoned his coat, and walked fast through
the streets to his uncle's boarding-house.
It was evening. The Senator was at home.
"Well, Salmon?" inquiringly. "How do you get on?"
"Poorly," said Salmon, sitting down, with his hat on his knee.
"You must have patience, boy!" said the Senator, laying down a pamphlet
open at the page where he was reading when his nephew came in. "Pluck
and patience,--those are the two oars that pull the boat."
"I have patience enough, and I don't think I'm lacking in pluck,"
replied Salmon, coldly. "But one thing I lack, and am likely to
lack,--pupils, I've only one, and I expect every day to lose him."
"Well, what can I do for you?" said the Senator, perceiving that his
nephew had come for something.
"I would like to have you get me a place in the Treasury Department."
It was a minute before Dudley Chase replied. He took up the pamphlet,
rolled it together, then threw it abruptly upon the table.
"Salmon," said he, "listen. I once got an appointment for a nephew of
mine, and it ruined him. If you want half-a-dollar with which to buy a
spade, and go out and dig for your living, I'll give it to you
cheerfully. But I will not get you a place under Government."
Salmon felt a choking sensation in his throat. He knew his uncle did not
mean it for unkindness; but the sentence seemed hard. He arose,
speechless for a moment, mechanically brushing his hat.
"Thank you. I will not trouble you for the half-dollar. I shall try to
get along without the appointment. Good night, uncle."
"Good night, Salmon." Dudley accompanied him to the door. He must have
seen what a blow he had given him. "You think me harsh," he added; "but
the time will come when you will see that this is the best advice I
could give you."
"Perhaps," said Salmon, stiffly; and be walked away, filled with
disappointment and bitterness.
"Well, did he promise it?" asked Williams, who sat up awaiting his
return.
He had been thinking he would like to have Salmon in his own room at the
Department; but now, seeing how serious he looked, his own countenance
fell.
"What! Didn't he give you any encouragement?"
"On the other hand," said Salmon, "he advised me to buy a spade and go
to digging for my living! And I shall do it before I ask again for an
appointment."
Williams was astonished. He thought the Senator from Vermont must be
insane.
But, after the lapse of a few years, perhaps he, too, saw that the uncle
had given his nephew good advice indeed. Williams remained a clerk in
the Department, and was never anything else. Perhaps, if Salmon had got
the appointment he sought, he would have become a clerk like him, and
would never have been anything else.
In a little more than twenty years Salmon was himself a Senator, and had
the making of such clerks. And what happened a dozen years later? This:
he who had once sought in vain a petty appointment was called to
administer the finances of the nation. Instead of a clerk grown gray in
the Department, to whom the irreverent youngsters might be saying
to-day, "----, do this," or, "----, do that," and he doeth it, he is
himself the supreme ruler there. He could never have got _that_ place by
promotion in the Department itself. I mention this, not to speak
slightingly of clerkships,--for he who does his duty faithfully in any
calling, however humble, is worthy of honor,--but to show that the ways
of Providence are not our ways, and that often we are disappointed for
our own good. Had a clerkship been what was in store for Salmon, he
would have obtained it; but since, had he got it, he would probably have
never been ready to give it up, how fortunate that he received instead
the offer of fifty cents wherewith to purchase a spade!
It may be, when the new Secretary entered upon his duties, Williams was
there still; for there were men in the Treasury who had been there a
much longer term than from 1826 to 1861. I should like to know. I can
fancy him, gray now, slightly bald, and rather round-shouldered, but
cheerful as a cricket, introducing himself to the chief.
"My name is Williams. Don't you remember Williams,--boarded at Mrs.
Markham's in '26 and '27, when you did?"
"What! David Williams? Are you here yet?"
"Yes, your Honor." (These old clerks all say, "Your Honor," in
addressing the Secretary. The younger ones are not so respectful.) "I
was never so lucky as to be turned out, and I was never quite prepared
to leave. You have got in at last, I see! But it was necessary for you
to make a wide circuit first, in order to come in at the top!"
Did such an interview ever take place, I wonder?
But we are talking of that evening so long ago, when Williams seemed the
lucky one, and things looked so black to Salmon, after he had asked of
his uncle bread, and received (as he then thought) a stone.
"Well, then I don't know what the deuse you _will_ do!" said Williams,
knocking the ashes out of his pipe.
You would have said that his hopes of Salmon were likewise ashes: he had
entertained himself with them a little while; now they were burnt out;
and he seemed to knock them out of his pipe, too, into the fire. He got
up, yawned, said he pitied ----, and went to bed.
In a little while his breathing denoted that he was fast asleep.
Salmon went to bed, too; but did he sleep?
Do not think, after all this, that he gave way to weak despondency.
Something within him seemed to say, "What you have you must obtain
through earnest struggle and endeavor. It is only commonplace people and
weaklings who find the hinges of life all smoothly oiled. Great doors do
not open so easily. Be brave, be strong, be great." It was the voice of
Faith speaking within him.
The next morning he arose, more a man than he had ever felt before. This
long and severe trial had been necessary to develop what was in him. His
self-reliance, his strength of character, his faith in God's
providence,--these were tried, and not found wanting.
Still the veil of the future remained impenetrable. Not a gleam of light
shone through its sable folds. He could only watch for its uplifting,
and sit still.
"A bad beginning makes a good ending," said Williams, one evening, to
comfort him.
"Yes,--and a good beginning sometimes makes a bad ending. I had a lesson
on that subject once. When I was about eleven years old, I started from
Keene, with one of my sisters, to go and visit another sister, who was
married and living at Hookset Falls, over on the Merrimac. It was in
winter, and we set out in a sleigh with one horse. I was driver. My idea
of sleighing was bells and fast driving; and I put the poor beast up to
all he knew. We intended to reach a friend's house, at Peterborough,
before night; but I found I had used up our horse-power before we had
made much more than half the journey. Then came on a violent
snow-squall, which obliterated the track. It grew dark; we were blinded
by the storm; we got into drifts, and finally quite lost our way. Not a
house was in sight, and the horse was tired out. The prospect of a night
in the storm, and only a winding-sheet of snow to cover us, made me
bitterly regret the foolish ambition with which I had set out. At last
my sister, whose eyes were better than mine, saw a light. We went
wallowing through the drifts towards it, and discovered a house. Here we
got a boy to guide us; and so at last reached our friend's, in as sad a
plight as ever two such mortals were in. Since which time," added
Salmon, "I have rather inclined to the opinion that slow beginnings,
with steady progress, are best."
"That's first-rate philosophy!" said Williams, secretly congratulating
himself, however, on having made what he considered a brisk start in
life.
One day Salmon passed a store where some spades were exposed for sale.
He stopped to look at them. There was a strange smile on his face.
"Perhaps, after all, digging is my vocation! Well, it is an honorable
one. I only wish to know what God would have me to do. If to dig, then I
will undertake it cheerfully."
However, there was one great objection to his lifting a spade. It would
first have been necessary to apply to his uncle for the once-rejected
half-dollar. He was determined never to do that.
He walked home, very thoughtful. He could not see how it was possible
that any good fortune should ever happen to him in Washington. The
sights of the city had become exceedingly distasteful to him, associated
as they were with his hopes deferred and his heart-sickness. He reached
his door. Mrs. Markham met him with beaming countenance.
"There is a gentleman waiting for you! I reckon it's another pupil!"
His face brightened for an instant. But it was clouded again quickly, as
be reflected,--
"_One_ more pupil! Very likely! That makes two! At this rate, I shall
have four in the course of a year!"
He was inclined to be sarcastic with himself. But he checked the
ungrateful thoughts at once.
"What Providence sends me, that let me cheerfully and thankfully
accept!"
He entered the parlor. A gentlemanly person, with an air of culture,
advanced to meet him.
"This is Mr. ----?"
"That is my name, Sir."
"Mrs. Markham said you would be in in a minute; so I have waited."
"You are very kind to do so, Sir. Sit down."
"I have seen your advertisement in the 'Intelligencer.' You still think
of establishing a school?"
"That is my intention."
"May I ask if you have been successful in obtaining pupils?"
"Not very. I have one engaged. I would like a dozen more, to begin
with."
The gentleman took his hat. "Of course he will go, now he knows what my
prospects are!" But Salmon was mistaken. The visitor seemed to have
taken his hat merely for the sake of having something in his hands, to
occupy them.
"Then perhaps you will be pleased to listen to my proposition?
"Certainly, Sir."
"My name is Plumley. I have established a successful classical school,
as you may be aware. It is in G-Street."
"I have heard of you, Sir." And Salmon might have added, "I have envied
you!"
"Well, Mrs. Phimley has recently opened a young ladies' school, which
has succeeded beyond all our expectations."
"I congratulate you sincerely!"
"But it is found that the two schools are more than we can attend to. I
propose to give up one. Now, if you choose to take the boys' school off
my hands, I will make over my entire interest in it to you. Perhaps you
may know the character the school sustains. We have, as pupils, sons of
the Honorable Henry Clay, William Wirt, Southard, and other eminent men.
The income amounts to something like eight hundred a year. You can go in
next Monday, if you like."
Thus suddenly the door, so long mysteriously closed, flew open wide, "on
golden hinges turning." What Salmon saw within was heaven. He was
dazzled. He was almost stunned with happiness. His lips quivered, his
voice failed him as he spoke.
"Mr. Plumley, this is--you are--too kind!"
"You accept?"
"Most gratefully!"
The young man was regaining possession of himself. He grasped the
other's hand.
"You do not know what this is to me, Sir! You cannot know from what you
have saved me! Providence has surely sent you to me! I cannot thank you
now; but some day--perhaps--it may be in my power to do you a service."
He was not the only one happy. Mr. Plumley felt the sweetness of doing a
kind action for one who was truly worthy and grateful. From that moment
they were friends. Salmon engaged to see him again, and make
arrangements for entering the school the next Monday; and they parted.
His benefactor gone, Salmon hastened to tell the good news to Mrs.
Markham. But he could not remain in the house. His joy was too great to
be thus confined. Again he went out,--but how different now the world
looked to his eyes! He had not observed before that it was such a lovely
spring day. The sky overhead was of heaven's deepest hue. The pure,
sweet air was like the elixir of life. The hills were wondrously
beautiful, all about the city; and it seemed, that, whichever way he
turned, there were birds singing in sympathy with his joy. The Potomac,
stretching away with soft and misty glimmer between its hazy banks, was
like the river of some exquisite dream.
It was no selfish happiness he felt. He thought of his mother and
sisters at home,--of all those to whom he was indebted; and in the
lightness of his spirit, after its heavy burden had been taken away, he
lifted up his heart in thanksgiving to the Giver of all blessings.
The school, transferred to his charge, continued successful; and it
opened the way to successes of greater magnitude. Through all his
subsequent career he looked back to this as the beginning; and he ever
retained for Mr. Plumley the feeling we cherish for one whom we regard
as a Heaven-appointed agent of some great benefaction. Were it not for
trenching upon ground too private and personal, we might here complete
the romance, by relating how the young man's vaguely uttered
presentiment, that he might some day render him a service, was, long
afterwards, touchingly realized. But enough. All we promised ourselves
at the start was a glance at the Secretary's first visit to Washington.
* * * * *