be the rector of Trinity Church in Boston. He was rector there for
twenty-two years--until he was made Bishop of Massachusetts. He spoke so
beautifully from the pulpit that strangers traveled from all parts of
the country to hear him. So many flocked to Trinity Church that the pews
would not hold them. Chairs were packed in the aisles, and a few more
people managed to hear him by squeezing on to the pulpit steps.
Phillips Brooks's sermons were wonderful, but his work among the sick
and the poor was more wonderful still. He carried help and good cheer
with him every day. The more good he did, the happier he grew himself.
His laugh rang out like a boy's. By the time he was made Bishop, he was
so merry that he could hardly contain himself. He helped poor men find
work; he held sick children while their mothers rested; he coaxed young
men away from bad habits, and, like his Master, he went about doing
good. He did not look sober or bothered with all this, either. There was
always a smile on his face.
Phillips Brooks had no wife or children but several nieces. At his home,
on Clarendon Street, he kept a doll, a music-box, and many toys for them
to play with. Every little while, when he was all tired out with his
preaching and his cheering-up work, he would take a long trip to some
distant country, and from all these strange places he would write
letters to these nieces which made them nearly explode with laughter
when their mothers read them aloud. All the funny sights in Venice were
described, and the stories about the children in India made the eyes of
Susie and Gertrude Brooks open their widest. At the end of almost every
letter he would charge the little girls "not to forget their Uncle
Phillips." As if any one who had ever known Bishop Brooks _could_ forget
him! But Christmas time was the best of all for these little girls.
Their uncle Phillips took them right along with him to buy the presents
for the whole family. This would be weeks and weeks before it was time
for Santa Claus, so he would make them promise not to lisp a word of
what was in the packages that arrived at the rectory. They loved sharing
secrets with him and would not have told one for any money. That was a
strange thing about Phillips Brooks--he made people trust-worthy. He
always believed the best of every one, and no one wanted to disappoint
him.
Sometimes when the girls and their uncle started on one of these
entrancing shopping tours, it did seem as if they would never reach the
shops. So many passers-by wanted a word with the great preacher they
had to halt every other minute. I have no doubt his smile was as sunny
for the Irish scrub-woman who hurried after him to ask a favor as it had
been for good Queen Victoria when she thanked him for preaching her a
sermon in the Royal Chapel at Windsor Castle.
Because his heart was filled with love and sympathy, Phillips Brooks
left the world better and happier than he found it. Now, if every one
who passes his statue at Trinity Church should say: "I really must do
some kind, generous thing myself, each day in the week," there would be
sort of a Christmassy feeling all the year round, and we should keep a
little of the sunshine which the Bishop of Massachusetts shed, still
shining.
SAMUEL CLEMENS Better Known as MARK TWAIN
John Clemens, Samuel's father, was a farmer, merchant, and postmaster in
a Missouri town, called Florida. His wife, Jane Clemens, was a stirring,
busy woman, who liked to get her work out of the way and then have a
real frolic. Her husband did not know what it meant to frolic. He was
not very well to begin with, and when he had any spare time, he sat by
himself figuring away on an invention, year after year. He spent a good
deal of time, too, thinking what fine things he would do for his family
when he sold a great tract of land in Tennessee. He had bought
seventy-five thousand acres of land when he was much younger, for just a
few cents an acre, and when that land went up in price, he expected to
be pointed out as a millionaire, at least. John Clemens was a good man
and something of a scholar, but he was not the least bit merry. His
children never saw him laugh once in his whole life! Think of it!
Mrs. Clemens did not like to have any one around when she was bustling
through the housework, so the six children spent the days roaming
through the country, picking nuts and berries. When it came night and
they had had their supper, they would crowd around the open fire and
coax Jennie, a slave girl, or Uncle Ned, a colored farm-hand, to tell
them stories.
Uncle Ned was a famous story-teller. When he described witches and
goblins, the children would look over their shoulders as if they half
expected to see the queer creatures in the room. All these stories began
"Once 'pon a time," but each one ended differently. One of the children,
Sam Clemens, admired Uncle Ned's stories so that he could hardly wait
for evening to come.
Sam was a delicate child. The neighbors used to shake their heads and
declare he would never live to be a man, and every one always spoke of
him as "little Sam."
When Mr. Clemens moved to another town some distance away, the mother
said instantly: "Well, Hannibal may be all right for your business, but
Florida agrees so well with little Sam, that I shall spend every summer
here with the children, on the Quarles farm."
The children were glad she held to this plan, for Mr. Quarles laughed
and joked with them, built them high swings, let them ride in ox-teams
and go on horseback, and tumble in the hayfields all they wished. They
had so much fun and exercise that they were even willing to go to bed
without any stories. Sam grew plump.
A funny thing happened the first summer they went to nice Mr. Quarles's.
Mrs. Clemens, with the older children, the new baby, and Jennie, went on
ahead in a large wagon. Sam was asleep. Mr. Clemens was to wait until he
woke up and then was to carry him on horseback, to join the rest. Well,
as Mr. Clemens was waiting for Sam to finish his nap, he got to thinking
of his invention, or his Tennessee land, and presently he saddled and
bridled the horse and rode away without him. He never thought of Sam
again until his wife said, as he reached the Quarles's dooryard: "Where
is little Sam?"
"Why--why--" he stammered, "I must have forgotten him." Of course he was
ashamed of himself and hurried a man off to Hannibal, on a swift horse,
where Sam was found hungry and frightened, wandering through the locked
house.
Sam was sent to school when he was five. He certainly did not like to
study very well but did learn to be a fine reader and speller.
At the age of nine, Sam was a good swimmer (although he came very near
being drowned three different times, while he was learning) and loved
the river so that he was to be found on its shore almost any hour of the
day. He longed to travel by steamer. Once he ran away and hid on board
one until it was well down the river. As soon as he showed himself to
the captain, he was put ashore, his father was sent for, and he received
a whipping that he remembered a long time.
At nine he had a head rather too large for his body, and it looked even
bigger because he had such a lot of waving, sandy hair. He had fine
gray eyes, a slow, drawling voice, and said such droll things that the
boys listened to everything he said. His two best chums were Will Bowen
and John Briggs. These three friends could run like deer, and what time
they were not fishing or swimming they usually spent in a cave which
they had found.
At twelve he was just a careless, happy, barefoot boy, often in
mischief, and only excelling in two things at school. He won the weekly
medal for spelling, and his compositions were so funny that the teachers
and pupils used to laugh till the tears came, when they were read aloud.
His teachers said he ought to train himself for a writer, but it did not
seem to him that there was anything so noble or desirable in this world
as being a pilot. And he loved the great Mississippi River better than
any place he had known or could imagine.
Sam's father died, whispering: "Don't sell the Tennessee land! Hold on
to it, and you will all be rich!"
After his death Sam learned the printer's trade. He was very quick in
setting type and accurate, so that he soon helped his older brother
start a newspaper. He worked with his brother until he was eighteen, and
then he told his mother that he wanted to start out for himself in the
world. Jane Clemens loved him dearly and hated to part with him, but
when she saw his heart was set on going, she took up a testament and
said: "Well, Sam, you may try it, but I want you to take hold of this
book and make me a promise. I want you to repeat after me these
words--'I do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card or drink a drop
of liquor while I am gone!'"
He repeated these words after her, bade her good-by, and went to St.
Louis. He meant to travel, and as he earned enough by newspaper work, he
visited New York, Philadelphia, and was on his way to South America when
he got a chance to be a pilot on the Mississippi River. While he was
learning this trade, he was happier than he had ever been in his life.
If you want to know what happened to him at this time you must read a
book he wrote, _Life on the Mississippi River_. He wrote a great many
books and signed whatever he wrote with a queer name--MARK TWAIN. This
was an old term used by pilots to show how deep the water is where they
throw the lead. His writings, like his boyish compositions, made people
laugh. So that now, although he has been dead several years, whenever
the name of Mark Twain is mentioned, a smile goes around. If you want to
know more about the actual doings of Sam and his chums, Will Bowen and
John Briggs, read _Tom Sawyer_ and _Huckleberry Finn_, for in those
books Sam has set down a pretty fair account of their escapades.
Mr. Clemens had a wife and children of whom he was very fond. As he made
much money from his books and lectures, they were all able to travel in
foreign countries, and his best book of travel is _Innocents Abroad_. It
seems to me that even his father would have laughed over that book.
Speaking of his father again reminds me to tell you that the Tennessee
land never brought any luxuries to the Clemens family. It was sold for
less than the taxes had amounted to.
JOE JEFFERSON
Joseph, or as he was always called, Joe Jefferson was a great actor. And
there is never much talk of theaters, actors, and plays but some one is
apt to say: "Ah, but you should have seen Joe Jefferson in Rip Van
Winkle!" All Americans are very proud of the fact that this man was born
in the United States; that he lived and died here. There have been four
actors in the Jefferson family by the name of Joseph, but it was Joe
Jefferson Number Three who played the part of the queer old Dutchman,
Rip Van Winkle, for thirty years, whose life is told of now.
Joe was born in Philadelphia, but his parents went to Washington soon
after. They lived in a house whose back hall led right into the side
entrance of a theater. As soon as he could walk about by himself, little
Joe used to run through this hall and play all day long in the empty
theater, behind the scenes. Out in that part of the old building there
were all kinds of stage settings piled up behind the wings. There were
large pieces of canvas painted to look like an Italian lake, or an
English garden, or a Roman palace. There was a tiny cottage, with a real
door just big enough for Joe to squeeze through and slam behind him. He
used to pretend that he owned this cottage. There were throne chairs for
the make-believe kings and queens to sit in, a robber's cave, and a
lovely board and canvas bank, covered with moss and flowers. Two or
three children often joined Joe here, and they gave plays which they
made up themselves. Oh, it was such an odd, exciting place to play in!
In the dressing-room of this old theater was a large mirror, and Joe
loved to stand before this and act little bits of certain plays which he
had heard his parents recite. His mother was a singer, and his father
both an actor and manager, so Joe, being just across the hall, was often
carried on to the stage when some play called for a baby or small
child. Then, too, some evenings he would escape from his nurse, and, in
his night-dress, peep in through the door of the dressing-room and watch
the actors making up for their parts.
When Joe was four, a friend of the family was making a great success of
a negro part called "Jim Crow." A good deal of dancing and singing went
with it, and it was no time at all before little Joe could copy the man
perfectly. This made Rice, the friend, pleased enough, and he insisted
that Joe should go through the part in public. Rice was more than six
feet tall, and Joe was a tiny four-year-old child. You don't wonder, I
am sure, when the two stood on the stage, side by side, dressed exactly
alike, that the audience shouted with laughter. First the big Jim Crow
would sing a verse and dance, and then the tiny Jim would do the same.
The people in the audience kept clapping their hands for more and threw
silver coins on to the stage for the child, until stage hands, after the
curtain went down, picked up twenty-four dollars and gave them to Joe.
In spite of Joe's being most carefully trained by his parents to tell
the truth and say his prayers, he did, when he was small, let his fancy
run away with him sometimes, and to a dear old lady, always dressed in
stiffly starched frills, black gown and mitts, who kept a book and
notion store, he told stories of horrors that never really happened. No
doubt he liked to see her hold up her hands in dismay as he described
some imaginary runaway accident, and no doubt he liked to have her run
to bring him a nice, cool drink to "steady his nerves after such a
shocking sight!"
Belonging to an actor's family means, of course, living in many
different cities. Joe had known Philadelphia, Washington, and New York
well when the Jefferson family went to Illinois. As Springfield was the
capital of that State, and the men attending the legislature would swell
the audiences, Joe's father decided to build a theater there. Just as it
was finished, the ministers of the place began to preach against
allowing a theater there at all. They preached to such good effect that
the city council put a tremendous tax on the building, so big a tax that
poor Mr. Jefferson could not begin to pay it, for he had used every
dollar he had in building the theater. While he was wondering what he
would do, a young lawyer of Springfield came to him and said that, as he
thought the tax was out of all reason, he would agree to bring the
matter before the council, free of charge. Well--this lawyer made such a
strong plea, and got the members of the council into such gales of
laughter with his funny stories, that the tax was removed, and Mr.
Jefferson opened his playhouse and made a good deal of money.
The young lawyer's name was Abraham Lincoln!
Tennessee proved an unlucky State for the Jeffersons. At Memphis there
had been a money panic, and people had no heart for theaters. Joe's
father had always known how to paint scenery, and now he advertised to
paint signs, but did not get many orders. Joe heard that a law was
passed that all carts, drays, and carriages in the city of Memphis must
bear numbers. He went to the mayor's house and rang the bell. "Please,
Mr. Mayor," he said, "I'm Joe Jefferson's son."
"Oh, yes, my boy; I've seen both you and your father on the stage."
"Well, Sir, my father can paint signs as well as act, and now that the
theaters are closed he is glad of outside work. Couldn't you please give
him the contract to paint the numbers on your city carriages?"
The mayor's eyes twinkled. He was pleased with the business-like way of
the boy and granted his request. The money from this work was a help,
and right after that a rich man hired Joe's father to paint Scottish
scenes on the walls of his reception hall, so they were getting on quite
comfortably when poor Mr. Jefferson was taken ill and died. This meant
that Joe and his sister must leave school and go to work. Mrs. Jefferson
opened a boarding-house, and the two children joined a traveling
theatrical company. They did fancy dancing and sang comic duets, and
ever so many times when they pretended to laugh, they were so tired and
homesick that they wanted to cry. Sometimes Joe would be given a few
lines to speak in some play. It seemed as if he would never get a chance
to show what talent he really had. But he studied all his spare time and
watched great actors carefully, because he intended to win a high place
on the stage some day.
By and by Laura Keene, an actress who had a theater of her own in New
York, let him try a leading character in a play that ran one hundred and
fifty nights. There was not one of these performances at which the
audience did not applaud young Joe Jefferson and say they wanted to see
him in something else. And when they did see him in Dickens's _Cricket
on the Hearth_, as dear old Caleb Plummer, and as Bob Acres in _The
Rivals_, they exclaimed: "This young man is a wonder! Why, he knows the
whole art of acting!" But Joe Jefferson did not think he knew half
enough. He kept on studying for he meant to improve still more.
Finally, after he had become quite famous in half a dozen different
parts, in this country, in England, and Australia, he began giving the
most wonderful play of all--the one always called his masterpiece--"Rip
Van Winkle." In a few years he had all the fame, wealth, and praise that
a man could ask for. The little fellow who, at four years of age, was
blacked up to dance "Jim Crow" and gathered twenty-four dollars for his
queer antics, forty years later could easily count on a thousand dollars
for one night's appearance in Rip Van Winkle. But we must not forget how
hard and patiently he had worked for this. We must not forget what he
had actually done. He had educated himself so that he had friends among
the most cultivated people in the world; he was quoted as one of the
most polished and finished actors in America; and he had earned enough
money to bring up his own children in luxury.
Joe Jefferson had a lovely old age. He bought a large southern estate,
where he spent the winter months, and he owned a summer home at
Buzzard's Bay, Massachusetts, where he fished and painted pictures to
his heart's content, and where he entertained many distinguished
people. After he stopped playing, except once in a while, and intended
to retire from the stage, every now and then there would be such a call
for him that he would consent to give "Rip Van Winkle" just once more.
He must have been about perfect in this play, else how is it that old
theater-goers look so happy and satisfied when they say: "Ah, you should
have seen the great Joe Jefferson in Rip Van Winkle!"
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
When Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, the poet, was a boy, he lived in
Portland, Maine. In those days Portland did much trading with the West
Indies, and Henry and his boy friends liked to stay down at the wharves
when the Portland vessels came in. It was sport to watch the burly
negroes unload the hogsheads of molasses, the barrels of sugar, and the
spices. The boys used to wish they were sailors or captains, so that
they could sail across the water and perhaps have great adventures.
Henry also thought it would suit him to be a soldier, and when he was
five years old, and there was much talk about the great war which is
called the War of 1812, he sent a letter to his father, who happened to
be away at the time, that he had a toy gun already, and if his father
would please buy him a drum, he would start right off for the
battle-field. Probably he was not as warlike as he fancied he was, for
one Fourth of July just after that, he jumped every time a cannon went
off and begged his mother to stuff his ears with cotton, so that he
would not hear the banging.
Henry liked music and books far better than fighting. He read a great
deal with his mother, and they took long walks together, for they both
loved flowers and birds. Twice every Sunday Henry went to church with
his mother. In the cold weather he carried her foot-stove for her (a
funny little box which held coals) and in the summer her nosegay,
because she never went to service, after the flowers began to bloom,
without a bunch of sweet smelling blossoms. This odd foot-warmer can be
seen any time in the old Wadsworth-Longfellow house in Portland.
Visitors from all over the world, even from India and Turkey, have
wandered through this home of the poet to look at the desk at which he
wrote, the rich mahogany chairs, and the old-fashioned mirrors.
Henry was willing to do errands or any tasks that his mother wished him
to do. He did not mind even driving the cow to pasture, for as he
walked along, he was usually making up rhymes. And although he had very
good lessons in school, he often scribbled little jingles in his copy
book. When he was thirteen, he told his sister that he was going to send
a poem to the Portland newspaper. He did not tell any one but her, and
he only signed "Henry" at the end of the poem, so although the editor
printed it, the other school children did not find out for a long time
that it was his. Henry and his sister read the printed verses until they
wore the newspaper to shreds and felt they had a lovely secret.
After Henry graduated from college, his father wanted him to be a
lawyer, like himself, but Henry was sure he wanted to be an author. He
said: "Don't ask me to study law, father; I think I can write books.
Anyway, if you will let me have my way, I will promise to be famous at
something." So his parents let him travel through Europe, and when he
sent long, happy letters home, telling about the different things he
saw, they were so charming that all the neighbors wanted to borrow the
letters, and Mr. and Mrs. Longfellow agreed that Henry would probably be
famous with his pen.
When Henry came home again, he was chosen for a college professor. He
was only twenty-two, and it began to look as if the Portland boy would
be a success even if he did not study law.
The students at Harvard College loved young Professor Longfellow. He was
so handsome, so lively, so exquisitely neat in dress, that they were
very proud to introduce him to their parents, and best of all, he made
their lessons so interesting that they were actually sorry when the
class was dismissed. He proved a fine teacher. But, besides teaching in
the college, Henry wrote poem after poem. It was not long before his
verses were liked in other countries as well as in America. French
people began to say: "Why, we want our children to know Henry Wadsworth
Longfellow's poems!" And Spanish ladies and Italian noblemen declared
they were beautiful. Finally so many countries were asking for these
poems they were translated into fifteen languages.
Longfellow was soon called "The Poet of Every Land."
You will think that was the right name for him, when you hear what
happened on a big ocean steamer. Once a large party of travelers were
sailing from Greece to France. As they sat talking one evening, somebody
praised the great French poet, Victor Hugo. A lovely Russian lady spoke
up: "Victor Hugo is fine, but no poet is so well known as the American
Longfellow. I want to go to Boston to see the Bridge about which he
wrote." Then she repeated every word of "I stood on the Bridge at
Midnight." Upon that, an English captain just back from the Zulu war,
recited a Longfellow poem. A gray-haired Scotchman said another, an
American remembered one, a Greek sang some verses of Longfellow's that
had been set to music, and when the French captain of the steamer
declaimed "Excelsior", there was great handclapping, and it showed that
Henry Longfellow was indeed a favorite poet.