On Friday, the 31st of August, 1809--that being the day of the
drawing of the lottery for finishing and furnishing the new Episcopal
church--at about ten o'clock in the morning, there might have been
seen hobbling slowly along the streets, in the direction of the public
square, a little lad by the name of David. He was idle and lonesome,
not wholly through his fault. If there had been white bootblacks in
those days, he might now have been busy around a tavern door polishing
the noble toes of some old Revolutionary soldier; or if there had
been newsboys, he might have been selling the _Gazette_ or the
_Reporter_--the two papers which the town afforded at that time. But
there were enough negro slaves to polish all the boots in the town for
nothing when the boots got polished at all, as was often not the case;
and if people wanted to buy a newspaper, they went to the office of the
editor and publisher, laid the silver down on the counter, and received
a copy from the hands of that great man himself.
The lad was not even out on a joyous summer vacation, for as yet there
was not a public school in the town, and his mother was too poor to
send him to a private one, teaching him as best she could at home. This
home was one of the rudest of the log-cabins of the town, built by his
father, who had been killed a few years before in a tavern brawl. His
mother earned a scant livelihood, sometimes by taking in coarse sewing
for the hands of the hemp factory, sometimes by her loom, on which with
rare skill she wove the finest fabrics of the time.
As he hobbled on towards the public square, he came to an elm-tree
which cast a thick cooling shade on the sidewalk, and sitting down, he
laid his rickety crutch beside him, and drew out of the pocket of his
home-made tow breeches a tangled mass of articles--pieces of violin
strings, all of which had plainly seen service under the bow at many a
dance; three old screws, belonging in their times to different violin
heads; two lumps of resin, one a rather large lump of dark color and
common quality, the other a small lump of transparent amber wrapped
sacredly to itself in a little brown paper bag labelled "Cucumber
Seed;" a pair of epaulets, the brass fringes of which were tarnished
and torn; and further miscellany.
These treasures he laid out one by one, first brushing the dirt off
the sidewalk with the palm of one dirty hand, and then putting his
mouth close down to blow away any loose particles that might remain to
soil them; and when they were all displayed, he propped himself on one
elbow, and stretched his figure caressingly beside them.
A pretty picture the lad made as he lay there dreaming over his earthly
possessions--a pretty picture in the shade of the great elm, that
sultry morning of August, three-quarters of a century ago! The presence
of the crutch showed there was something sad about it; and so there
was; for if you had glanced at the little bare brown foot, set toes
upward on the curb-stone, you would have discovered that the fellow to
it was missing--cut off about two inches above the ankle. And if this
had caused you to throw a look of sympathy at his face, something yet
sadder must long have held your attention. Set jauntily on the back of
his head was a weather-beaten dark blue cloth cap, the patent-leather
frontlet of which was gone; and beneath the ragged edge of this there
fell down over his forehead and temples and ears a tangled mass of soft
yellow hair, slightly curling. His eyes were large, and of a blue to
match the depths of the calm sky above the tree-tops; the long lashes
which curtained them were brown; his lips were red, his nose delicate
and fine, and his cheeks tanned to the color of ripe peaches. It was
a singularly winning face, intelligent, frank, not describable. On it
now rested a smile, half joyous, half sad, as though his mind was full
of bright hopes, the realization of which was far away. From his neck
fell the wide collar of a white cotton shirt, clean but frayed at the
elbows, and open and buttonless down his bosom. Over this he wore an
old-fashioned satin waistcoat of a man, also frayed and buttonless.
His dress was completed by a pair of baggy tow breeches, held up by a
single tow suspender fastened to big brown horn buttons.
After a while he sat up, letting his foot hang down over the
curb-stone, and uncoiling the longest of the treble strings, he put one
end between his shining teeth, and stretched it tight by holding the
other end off between his thumb and forefinger. Then, waving in the air
in his other hand an imaginary bow, with his head resting a little on
one side, his eyelids drooping, his mind in a state of dreamy delight,
the little musician began to play--began to play the violin that he had
long been working for, and hoped would some day become his own.
It was nothing to him now that his whole performance consisted of one
broken string. It was nothing to him, as his body rocked gently to
and fro, that he could not hear the music which ravished his soul. So
real was that music to him that at intervals, with a little frown of
vexation as though things were not going perfectly, he would stop, take
up the small lump of costly resin, and pretend to rub it vigorously on
the hair of the fancied bow. Then he would awake that delicious music
again, playing more ecstatically, more passionately than before.
At that moment there appeared in the street, about a hundred yards off,
the Reverend James Moore, who was also moving in the direction of the
public square, his face more cool and white than usual, although the
morning was never more sultry.
He had arisen with an all but overwhelming sense of the importance
of that day. Fifteen years are an immense period in a brief human
life, especially fifteen years of spiritual toil, hardships, and
discouragements, rebuffs, weaknesses, and burdens, and for fifteen such
years he had spent himself for his Episcopalians, some of whom read too
freely Tom Paine and Rousseau, some loved too well the taverns of the
town, some wrangled too fiercely over their land suits. What wonder if
this day, which, despite all drawbacks, was to witness the raising of
money for equipping the first brick church, was a proud and happy one
to his meek but victorious spirit! What wonder if, as he had gotten
out of bed that morning, he had prayed with unusual fervor that for
this day in especial his faculties, from the least to the greatest,
and from the weakest to the strongest, might discharge their functions
perfectly, and that the drawing of the lottery might come off decently
and in good order; and that--yes, this too was in the parson's
prayer--that if it were the will of Heaven and just to the other
holders of tickets, the right one of the vestry-men might draw the
thousand-dollar prize; for he felt very sure that otherwise there would
be little peace in the church for many a day to come, and that for him
personally the path-way of life would be more slippery and thorny.
So that now as he hurried down the street he was happy; but he was
anxious; and being excited for both reasons, the way was already
prepared for him to lose that many-handed self-control which he had
prayed so hard to retain.
He passed within the shade of the great elm, and then suddenly came to
a full stop. A few yards in front of him the boy was performing his
imaginary violin solo on a broken string, and the sight went straight
to the heart of that musical faculty whose shy divinity was the flute.
For a few moments he stood looking on in silence, with all the sympathy
of a musician for a comrade in poverty and distress.
Other ties also bound him to the boy. If the divine voice had said to
the Reverend James Moore: "Among all the people of this town, it will
be allowed you to save but one soul. Choose you which that shall be,"
he would have replied: "Lord, this is a hard saying, for I wish to save
them all. But if I must choose, let it be the soul of this lad."
The boy's father and he had been boyhood friends in Virginia,
room-mates and classmates in college, and together they had come to
Kentucky. Summoned to the tavern on the night of the fatal brawl, he
had reached the scene only in time to lay his old playfellow's head on
his bosom, and hear his last words:
"Be kind to my boy!... Be a better father to him than I have been!...
Watch over him and help him!... Guard him from temptation!... Be kind
to him in his little weaknesses!... Win his heart, and you can do
everything with him!... Promise me this!"
"So help me Heaven, all that I can do for him I will do!"
[Illustration: Man kneeling at bedside]
From that moment he had taken upon his conscience, already toiling
beneath its load of cares, the burden of this sacred responsibility.
During the three years of his guardianship that had elapsed, this
burden had not grown lighter; for apparently he had failed to acquire
any influence over the lad, or to establish the least friendship
with him. It was a difficult nature that had been bequeathed him to
master--sensitive, emotional, delicate, wayward, gay, rebellious of
restraint, loving freedom like the poet and the artist. The Reverend
James Moore, sitting in the chair of logic, moral philosophy,
metaphysics, and belles-lettres; lecturing daily to young men on all
the powers and operations of the human mind, taking it to pieces and
putting it together and understanding it so perfectly, knowing by name
every possible form of fallacy and root of evil--the Reverend James
Moore, when he came to study the living mind of this boy, confessed to
himself that he was as great a dunce as the greatest in his classes.
But he loved the boy, nevertheless, with the lonely resources of his
nature, and he never lost hope that he would turn to him in the end.
How long he might have stood now looking on and absorbed with the
scene, it is impossible to say; for the lad, happening to look up and
see him, instantly, with a sidelong scoop of his hand, the treasures on
the sidewalk disappeared in a cavernous pocket, and the next moment he
had seized his crutch, and was busy fumbling at a loosened nail.
"Why, good-morning, David," cried the parson, cheerily, but with some
embarrassment, stepping briskly forward, and looking down upon the
little figure now hanging its head with guilt. "You've got the coolest
seat in town," he continued, "and I wish I had time to sit down and
enjoy it with you; but the drawing comes off at the lottery this
morning, and I must hurry down to see who gets the capital prize." A
shade of anxiety settled on his face as he said this. "But here's the
morning paper," he added, drawing out of his coat-pocket the coveted
sheet of the weekly _Reporter_, which he was in the habit of sending to
the lad's mother, knowing that her silver was picked up with the point
of her needle. "Take it to your mother, and tell her she must be sure
to go to see the wax figures." What a persuasive smile overspread his
face as he said this! "And _you_ must be certain to go too! They'll be
fine. Good-bye."
He let one hand rest gently on the lad's blue cloth cap, and looked
down into the upturned face with an expression that could scarcely have
been more tender.
"He looks feverish," he said to himself as he walked away, and then his
thoughts turned to the lottery.
"Good-bye," replied the boy, in a low voice, lifting his dark blue eyes
slowly to the patient gray ones. "I'm glad he's gone!" he added to
himself; but he nevertheless gazed after the disappearing figure with
shy fondness. Then he also began to think of the lottery.
If Mr. Leuba should draw the prize, he might give Tom Leuba a new
violin; and if he gave Tom a new violin, then he had promised to give
him Tom's old one. It had been nearly a year since Mr. Leuba had said
to him, laughing, in his dry, hard little fashion:
"Now, David, you must be smart and run my errands while Tom's at school
of mornings; and some of these days, when I get rich enough, I'll give
Tom a new violin and I'll give you his old one."
"Oh, Mr. Leuba!" David had cried, his voice quivering with excitement,
and his whole countenance beaming with delight, "I'll wait on you
forever, if you'll give me Tom's old violin."
Yes, nearly a whole year had passed since then--a lifetime of waiting
and disappointment. Many an errand he had run for Mr. Leuba. Many a
bit of a thing Mr. Leuba had given him: pieces of violin strings, odd
worn-out screws, bits of resin, old epaulets, and a few fourpences; but
the day had never come when he had given him Tom's violin.
Now if Mr. Leuba would only draw the prize! As he lay on his back on
the sidewalk, with the footless stump of a leg crossed over the other,
he held the newspaper between his eyes and the green limbs of the elm
overhead, and eagerly read for the last time the advertisement of
the lottery. Then, as he finished reading it, his eyes were suddenly
riveted upon a remarkable notice printed just beneath.
This notice stated that Messrs. Ollendorf and Mason respectfully
acquainted the ladies and gentlemen of Lexington that they had opened
at the Kentucky Hotel a new and elegant collection of wax figures,
judged by connoisseurs to be equal, if not superior, to any exhibited
in America. Among which are the following characters: An excellent
representation of General George Washington giving orders to the
Marquis de la Fayette, his aid. In another scene the General is
represented as a fallen victim to death, and the tears of America,
represented by a beautiful female weeping over him--which makes it
a most interesting scene. His Excellency Thomas Jefferson. General
Buonaparte in marshal action. General Hamilton and Colonel Burr. In
this interesting scene the Colonel is represented in the attitude of
firing, while the General stands at his distance waiting the result
of the first fire: both accurate likenesses. The death of General
Braddock, who fell in Braddock's Defeat. An Indian is represented as
scalping the General, while one of his men, in an attempt to rescue
him out of the hands of the Indians, was overtaken by another Indian,
who is ready to split him with his tomahawk. Mrs. Jerome Buonaparte,
formerly Miss Patterson. The Sleeping Beauty. Eliza Wharton, or the
American coquette, with her favorite gallant and her intimate friend
Miss Julia Granby. The Museum will be open from ten o'clock in the
morning 'til nine in the evening. Admittance fifty cents for grown
persons; children half price. Profiles taken with accuracy at the
Museum.
The greatest attraction of the whole Museum will be a large magnificent
painting of Christ in the Garden of Gethsemane.
All this for a quarter! The newspaper suddenly dropped from his hands
into the dirt of the street--he had no quarter! For a moment he sat as
immovable as if the thought had turned him into stone; but the next
moment he had sprung from the sidewalk and was speeding home to his
mother. Never before had the stub of the little crutch been plied so
nimbly among the stones of the rough sidewalk. Never before had he
made a prettier picture, with the blue cap pushed far back from his
forehead, his yellow hair blowing about his face, the old black satin
waistcoat flopping like a pair of disjointed wings against his sides,
the open newspaper streaming backward from his hand, and his face alive
with hope.