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[Illustration: THE PEDDLER AND HIS GRANDCHILDREN.]
UNCLE FRANK'S
BOY'S & GIRL'S LIBRARY,
BY
FRANCIS C. WOODWORTH,
EDITOR OF WOODWORTH'S YOUTH'S CABINET.
[Illustration]
THE
PEDDLER'S BOY;
OR,
"I'LL BE SOMEBODY."
With Tinted Illustrations.
BY UNCLE FRANK,
AUTHOR OF "A PEEP AT OUR NEIGHBORS," "WILLOW LANE STORIES,"
"THE DIVING BELL," ETC., ETC.
BOSTON:
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.,
PUBLISHERS.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the District of
Massachusetts.
C.W. BENEDICT,
STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER,
201 William st., N.Y.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A BIRD'S-EYE GLANCE, 7
PEDDLERS AND PEDDLING, 14
THE OTHER SIDE, 32
DEACON BISSELL, 36
THE YOUNGEST BOY, 48
A NOBLE RESOLUTION, 60
A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE, 75
THANKSGIVING AND TEMPTATION, 80
PATRIOTISM AND POWDER, 89
THE GLASS OF GIN, 100
LIFE IN A FACTORY, 111
A GLANCE AT FREDERICK, 120
SAMUEL IN BOSTON, 132
THE FLOUR STORE, 140
THE WINDING UP, 152
ILLUSTRATIONS.
THE PEDDLER AND HIS GRANDCHILDREN, (Frontispiece)
VIGNETTE TITLE-PAGE, 1
SAMUEL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER, 52
LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE, 65
A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE, 74
THE YOUNG DRUMMER, 93
THE DRUNKARD, WITH HIS FATHER, 128
MR. BISSELL AND HIS CHILDREN, 147
THE PEDDLER'S BOY.
CHAP. I.
A BIRD'S-EYE GLANCE.
Among the many beautiful villages near Boston, there is one quite as
beautiful as any, situated but a few miles from that busy metropolis,
called--but I must not mention its name; that is of very little
consequence. A few rods from the Common, the pride of the Bostonians,
is the depot of the railroad which passes through this place; and one
has only to jump into the cars, and in less than fifteen minutes he is
there. Uncle Frank has some dear friends in this village, and choice
spirits they are, in his estimation. How much this fact has to do with
his opinion of the beauty of the place, he does not pretend to say. He
has scarcely settled it in his own mind. Nor is it much matter, as the
story about to be related will neither lose nor gain much in its
interest, by the good or ill opinion which the reader may happen to
have of the village itself; though I may be pardoned for adding that
I should put rather a low value upon the taste of that man, or woman,
or child, who could visit this part of the country, when Nature has
her best dress on, and not pronounce it one of the most delightful
spots, in his or her opinion, that the sun or moon ever shone upon.
Among my friends in this charming village, is one whom, at present, I
will call Mr. Bissell--Mr. _Samuel Bissell_. I will call him so for
the present, I say. His real name is no more like Bissell than yours
is--no more like Samuel Bissell than it is like John Smith or George
Jones; but I think he will forgive us, though, for taking such a
liberty with his "good name," should he ever happen to come across
this story, and should it prove to him a sort of looking-glass, in
which he can see his own features.
When he was a lad, about twelve years old, his father, who had been
possessed of a handsome property, failed in business, and as Samuel
says, "became as poor as a church mouse." What would have taken place
if Samuel's father had been successful in his business affairs, so
that it would not have been absolutely necessary for the lad to work
for a living, is more than I can say. Probably it is more than anybody
can say. Very likely it would not have been as well for Samuel. It is
a good thing for boys and girls to work. Idleness is the cause of a
great deal of mischief. I really pity the boy whose father brings him
up without giving him a chance to learn some trade or profession. I am
always afraid that, in such cases, the lad will learn a trade "on his
own hook," and one which will give him trouble, if his father or
guardian does not himself see that he gets something better to do.
As I was saying, it is impossible to tell what would have been the
history of Samuel Bissell, if, by his father's failure in business, he
had not been driven to get a living by his own labor. It is enough for
us to know what his history actually was in the circumstances in which
he was placed when his father, by a sudden change of fortune, became a
poor man.
But I must go back a little in my history. I want you to see and mark
well two or three things, which, though little in themselves, are very
important. Little things, let me tell you, are not to be despised,
because they are little. A very small stream of water, which you might
easily wade across, can set the machinery of a whole factory in
motion. Half a dozen marks made with a pen in as many seconds, are
sufficient to send weeping and death into every family in an empire.
So I must go back a few years in the history of our young friend, and
see where he was, what he was, and what sort of a bringing up he had,
before the time of his father's unfortunate failure.
CHAP. II.
PEDDLERS AND PEDDLING.
I have more than half a mind to give you a rough sketch of the _Yankee
Peddler_.
"But I know all about this race of men already," perhaps you will say.
Do you? Well, then, consider my sketch as having been made for another
reader, and not for you. The fact is--for I want to let you into one
of my little secrets, just here, to start with--the story I am
telling is one about a peddler's boy; and I have got a notion that it
would be a good plan to devote one chapter, before I have any more to
do with the boy himself, to that famous class of men who get their
living principally by peddling small wares about the country.
The peddler--the genuine Massachusetts or Connecticut peddler--usually
has a wagon built on purpose for his business, so fitted up that it
will conveniently hold all the articles he has for sale. One who has
ever taken a peep into a peddler's wagon, will not need to be told
that his assortment comprises a great many different articles. Tin
ware occupies a large space. In this department may be found tin
ovens, sauce pans, milk pans, graters, skimmers, and things of that
sort. Then the genuine peddler is always provided with two tin trunks,
I believe--trunks which are large enough to hold about half a bushel
each. These trunks are stored full of little knick-knacks, "too
numerous to mention," as the dealer in dry goods has it in his
advertisement.
The peddler does not often drive his trade in the city. He finds the
country the best place for him. So you generally come across him where
there are not many stores, and where the houses are not very close
together. He stops before the door of a house. I say _he_ stops; but I
ought rather to have said _his horse_; for the old nag, who, perhaps,
has been in his service for a quarter of a century, stops of her own
accord at the door of every respectable looking house on the route.
She needs no hint from her master in relation to this matter.
Indeed, I once heard of a peddler's mare, who was so well persuaded
that it would be for the interest of her master to stop at the gate of
a certain large and neat-looking farm-house, which gate the peddler
seemed, for once, disposed to pass by, that she actually stopped in
the road, and looked round at the man who had the helm, as if she
would say, "My dear sir, there must be some mistake about this matter.
Are you crazy? Upon my word, this is one of the strangest things that
has ever turned up since we've been driving this peddling business."
We will suppose, now, that the faithful horse, guided by something
which, for want of a better name, people generally call _instinct_,
but which seems to me a good deal like _reason_, has stopped at the
door of a house. The peddler, taking good care to carry along with him
the tin trunks before mentioned, leaves the wagon, and goes into the
house, the faithful mare, in the meantime, leisurely grazing, if it is
summer, and stamping and kicking, just for exercise, in order to keep
warm, if it is winter.
"Any tin ware to-day, madam?" the peddler asks. Perhaps madam does
want some tin ware, and perhaps she does not. We will suppose, now,
that as far as the department of tin ware is concerned, her wants have
been entirely supplied. Then follows a partial enumeration of the
contents of the two trunks. Did you ever hear a peddler rattle over
the names of these small wares? He does it as rapidly, almost, as a
bobolink goes through the different notes of his song: "Any pins,
needles, sewing silk, twist, buttons, tape, jew's harps, hooks and
eyes, scissors, penknives, pocket books, handkerchiefs, breast pins,
ear rings"--and so he runs on, hardly waiting for the good lady, who
is looking over the articles by this time, to put in a word edgewise.
Peddlers, as a class, are set down as pretty wide awake in driving a
bargain. They have been slandered, I doubt not. A great deal of
unfairness and dishonesty have been charged to them, of which they
never were guilty. Still, I think they are apt to be pretty shrewd and
keen, when they are trading. Sometimes, no doubt, though not always,
they are _too_ shrewd and keen to be strictly honest; for there is a
point where shrewdness and keenness ought to stop.
When I was a little boy, I lived in Connecticut. My home was in the
very bosom of the country. It was not often that anybody from the busy
world came there; and when one did come, he was sure to make something
of a stir, especially among us little folks. The advent of a tin
peddler's wagon, I recollect, I hailed as a most remarkable event. It
always seemed to me that a peddler's head was as full of knowledge as
it could well hold. Such a budget of news as he always opened! Such
smart things as those which came from his mouth! Such wonderful good
nature as he showed towards the children. Why I don't remember that I
ever heard a peddler speak cross to a boy, though we used always to
tumble over the nameless "notions" in his trunks to our hearts'
content, all the time he stayed in the house. I hardly know which
interested me more, the driving up to our door of a peddler's wagon,
or the entrance into our kitchen of half a dozen Mohegan Indians, with
their squaws and pappooses.
The age of clock peddlers had not come then. Wooden clocks are plenty
as blackberries now; and you can buy one for a song, almost. But
Connecticut clocks were quite unknown in my childhood. Now, I suppose,
the peddlers sell more clocks than tin ovens and sauce pans. But the
peddler of clocks and the peddler of tin ware is, in all important
particulars, one and the same.
Did you ever hear of the peddler who sold a load of clocks that would
only keep in order twenty-four hours, and hardly that? It seems that
his clocks were, like Peter Pindar's razors, _made to sell_, and not
to run. Well, he went a good way off from home, before he offered any
of his wares for sale. He found no trouble in selling the clocks, for
they were wonderfully cheap; and besides, as he took good care to
inform all his customers, each clock was warranted, and on his way
homeward he would call at every house where he sold a clock, when he
should take pleasure in exchanging all the clocks that did not perform
well. Now it turned out that his clocks were not worth a farthing. He
sold out the whole load, though--every clock but one. Then he turned
about, and commenced his journey homeward, calling upon all his
customers, as he had agreed to do.
"Well, how did that _are_ clock run neighbor?"
"Run! it didn't run at all. It stopped as still as a gate post before
you had got up Pudding Hill!"
"Did it though, _raly_?"
"To be sure it did. What on earth did you sell me such a clock for?"
"Well, now, you needn't take on in that style. I'll give you another
clock. I told you I would, when I sold it to you."
So the cunning peddler gives his customer the only clock he has left,
and takes the one he sold him at first, in place of it. And that is
the way the fellow managed all the way home.
There are a great many stories told about peddlers, which, I presume,
are not true, and it is sometimes rather difficult to sift the genuine
stuff from the chaff. I really don't know how much to believe of the
anecdotes of Connecticut peddlers of former times. It is a matter of
history, that they sold wooden nutmegs, and horn gun flints, and
white-wood cucumber seeds, and white oak hams. But I should not wonder
if these stories were made out of whole cloth. The truth is, there
have been, first and last, a great many false charges made against
"the land of steady habits."
It is a common notion that peddlers are very apt to make dupes of the
ladies. Perhaps they are. But I know of one instance in which a
peddler got nicely come up with by a lady. I don't believe any man
could have done it better. The story is this. A peddler, with a wagon
load of tin ware, drove up to the door of a house around which quite a
number of children were playing. The mistress of the house made her
appearance, and was urged to trade. She had no money, she said. That
was no matter, the peddler replied. He would take anything in
pay--rags, old clothes, worn out tin, anything. But she hadn't got
_anything_.
"Well," the peddler continued, "I'll take one of your children."
The lady thought a moment. "Very good," said she, "you may have that
ragged boy yonder for ten dollars, and I'll take the value of him in
tin."
The bargain was struck.
The lady selected the tin ware, and it was carried into the house. The
peddler mounted his seat, with the ragged urchin by his side, and
threatened to drive off. "Of course," he thought, "she will not let
me go away with the boy. She will pay me the money, when she sees that
I am _raly_ going." He was mistaken, though. He had reckoned without
his host, this time.
Crack went the whip. "I'm going now," said he. "I'm off in less than
no time."
"Very well," said the good woman; "so I supposed."
He actually started, and went a few rods, slowly, when he stopped,
turned around, and said, "There, now I'm off for _sartain_."
"So I heard you say some time ago," said the lady.
"But are you willing I should take off this _'ere_ boy?"
"Certainly," said the lady. "We keep the _town's poor_ here, and this
is the worst fellow in the lot."
The story is that the peddler, when he found how completely he was
outwitted, gave, in money, about as much as the tin he had parted with
was worth, to get out of the scrape, or in other words, to get clear
of his young pauper.
CHAP. III.
THE OTHER SIDE.
If I should stop here, in my sketch of the New England peddler, I am
not sure but I should give a false view of that class of people, and I
should be sorry to do that. I must throw some _lights_ into the
picture, in order to make it more perfect and truthful.
I have said before, that the peddler has been charged with a great
many sins which probably he never dreamed of, and certainly never
committed. But a great deal more than this is true of that large class
who make their living by selling merchandise from house to house.
There are hosts of men engaged in this business, who are strictly
honest and fair in all their dealings. They never cheat any one. They
have no disposition to cheat, any more than the merchant who sells his
goods in his own store. Besides, the business, though a great deal has
been done to make it _seem_ anything but respectable, is well enough,
in itself. There is nothing disgraceful about it. It is, or may be,
an honest calling; and it is one of Uncle Frank's doctrines that any
business that is lawful, and honest, and does nobody any harm, ought
to be considered respectable. Why not? Why ought not the boy, even,
who brushes my boots, if he knows as much, and his character is as
good, why ought he not to be respected as much as the one who sets the
types for my daily newspaper? I can't see why, and it would puzzle
anybody to see why, I guess.
I know of peddlers, good men and true, who would as soon part with
one of their fingers as to cheat any of their customers. They want to
make good bargains, when they sell anything. Of course they do. But
they want only that. They would not take advantage of a person's
ignorance of the price of an article, and sell him or her that article
for ten times as much as it is worth, just because they _can_ do it.
CHAP. IV.
DEACON BISSELL.
DEACON BISSELL--Deacon Abijah Bissell, was a peddler of this sort. I
should not wonder if some of my readers had heard of the deacon. He is
in heaven now, I doubt not. But his fame, which, while he was living,
had spread over quite a large section of country in the commonwealth
of Massachusetts, is not dead yet. I dare say scores and scores of
housewives are now on the stage, within a good deal less than a
hundred miles of Boston, who could show you milk pans still on duty in
their cheese room, which came from Deacon Bissell's wagon.
Deacon Abijah Bissell--_Buysell_ a great many people had it--occupied
a snug little house, with ever so many flowers in the door yard, and
ever so many tufts of moss on its old shingles. He did not spend more
than half his time at home. The rest was devoted to peddling. No
wandering Arab ever moved oftener from place to place than Deacon
Bissell. Still he had his orbit, and he traveled in it as regularly as
the moon, and Jupiter, and our own planet, travel in their orbits.
Every family he visited knew almost the exact day of his arrival. The
deacon had a great deal of method in everything he did. He was one of
the most punctual and precise men you ever met. An anecdote at this
moment occurs to me, which goes to show what a value he placed upon
punctuality.
Patty Bissell, his eldest daughter, was to ride over to Boston with
the old gentleman. She had been wanting to go to the city for a long
time, and she was delighted when her father invited her to go.
"Patty, how long will it take you to get ready?" asked the deacon.
"Half an hour," the girl replied.
"Well, say an hour," said the deacon. "But don't fail to be ready at
the moment. I want you to learn to be punctual, my dear."
"Oh, I shall be ready in an hour, father, and in less time, too."
"Very well."
The hour passed. The deacon was in his wagon, ready to start. "Well,
Patty," he shouted, so that his daughter could hear him in the room
where she was busy putting herself in a trim for the city. She was not
quite ready. I think she had forgotten where her gloves were, and was
ransacking every drawer in her bureau for them. The deacon spoke
again.
"In one minute," said Patty.
The deacon waited one minute more, a very long minute, according to
his watch--and off he started for Boston.
Poor Patty! The disappointment was a sore one for her. But it taught
her a lesson in punctuality which was worth more to her than a
quarter's schooling at the Roundhill Academy.
Mr. Bissell, you will please to take notice, was a _real_ deacon. In
the country, it is a very common thing, I presume you are aware, for
almost all the folks to have some handle or another fixed to their
names; and very often the handle is put on, nobody knows how, or why,
or when, or where. One man is known as a military officer, a
_captain_, perhaps, or a _general_. But when you come to inquire into
his history, you find that he never rose to a higher rank than that of
a corporal in the militia, and possibly not quite so high as that.
Another man is a _squire_. But how he came to be one, and, indeed,
what is meant by the title in his case, are questions which would
puzzle the wisest heads in the neighborhood. There are, also, in
almost every part of the country, sundry men whom everybody calls
_uncle_. Each one of them is _everybody's_ uncle in general, and
nobody's uncle in particular. _Deacons_, too, scores of them, may be
found, who have no other claim to the title than this--that they are
_called_ so, by nearly all the men, women and children in the parish.
But Mr. Bissell, as I said before, was a _real_ deacon. The title had
been given to him by the little church in his native parish. And he
was a good man, too. Some people make up their religion into a sort of
a cloak, which they regard as too nice for every day use. They put it
on and wear it every Sunday, and take it off every Monday morning, and
keep it off until Saturday night. You never get a sight of their
religion, when they are about their business. They wear long faces, to
be sure. But a face as long as a broom handle is not worth much to
Uncle Frank, as a sign of a man's piety. People may say what they
will about religion--and in this country, especially, where everybody
can think for himself, and very few get other folks to think for them,
there must be a great many different notions as to what religion
is--but people may say what they will about it, I think more of
_actions_ than I do of _words_. I don't care if a man's creed reaches
as far as from the Battery to Grace Church. If he is not fair in his
dealings, and a good neighbor, in every respect, I don't think much of
his religion.
The piety of Deacon Bissell did not all fly off in words, as a glass
of soda water flies off in foam. He was a good man on Saturdays and
Mondays, as well as on Sundays, at home as well as at church, in his
worldly business as well as out of it.
Deacon Bissell had a brother, who did a large business in Boston, and
was supposed to be very rich. Rich people, however, sometimes get a
little cramped in their business, and find it hard to get along.
Deacon Bissell's brother happened, at one time, to need some thousands
of dollars more than he had at command. He knew that the deacon had
saved quite a snug sum from the profits of his small trading, and so
he went to him, and asked him if he would put his name to a note of
some ten or twelve thousand dollars. The deacon had never done
anything of the kind before. But supposing his brother would be able
to pay the note when it was due, and always being anxious to oblige
everybody, when he could, he put his name to the note.
That note ruined Deacon Bissell. His brother could not pay it. He
failed, and his failure swept away nearly every dollar which the
deacon had been laying up for thirty years. This loss tried him very
much. He wept over it--not because he needed or wanted the lost money
for himself, but because, as he used to remark, it was one of his
darling schemes to give all his children "a good setting out" in the
world. It seemed a terrible loss to him. "If I were a young man," said
he, "I might hope to get up again. But I am old. I am almost worn out.
A few more years, I am afraid, will finish what there is left of me."
CHAP. V.
THE YOUNGEST BOY.
The deacon had several children. At the time of his failure two or
three were married, and of those that still remained at home, Samuel
was the youngest. It is natural enough for you to suppose that this
Samuel, as I am giving you such a long story about him, was a
remarkable child, a sort of prodigy. But such is not the fact, I
believe. As to his cradle life, I profess not to know much. I have
not much doubt, however, that he was very like other infants--that he
had his share of little troubles, and cried lustily over them; that he
laughed, and frolicked, and clapped his hands, like most babies; that
he went into raptures over a tin whistle and a rattle box; and that,
in short, he was as wise as most people are, at that interesting age
when the nursery seems to them to comprise the greater portion of the
habitable globe.
One of the first anecdotes I ever heard about Samuel--one which,
though it does not make him out a prodigy, shows pretty clearly what
sort of stuff he was made of, as straws show which way the wind
blows--is something like this: When Samuel was quite a small boy, and
before he had made much progress in his studies at school, there came
to board at his father's, for a few weeks, the teacher of the district
school. This man was fond of children, and took quite a fancy to
little Samuel. "Samuel," said he, one night, when the boy was playing
with a new ball, "did you know the world was round, like your ball?"
No, he had never dreamed of such a thing, he said. He had thought it
was as flat as a pancake. "Well, it is round," the teacher said,
"almost as round as a ball or a marble." The little fellow was so much
interested in what the good man told him, that he left his play, and
said he wanted to hear all about the world. So the teacher had to get
his globe, and talk to him about it, until he was hoarse.
[Illustration: SAMUEL AND THE SCHOOLMASTER.]
I have heard another anecdote about the lad. There was a company of
some half a dozen boys and girls at the deacon's one day, and they
were all as busy as they could be. Shall I tell you what they were
busy about? They were at play. They were playing with all their
might. Among their plays were "blind man's buff," "tag," "puss, puss
in the corner," "hide and seek," "who's got the button?" and I don't
know how many other plays, which almost every child is familiar with.
While they were busy chasing each other round the yard, all of them as
merry as the birds that were having a concert on the branches, over
their heads, a wagon drove up, and Captain Lovechild got out of it,
and went into the house. This gentleman lived in Boston. He was quite
a rich man, having made a great deal of money by going to sea. The
captain was a relative of Deacon Bissell, and often came to see him
and his family, taking good care, generally, in his visits, to bring
something with him to please the little folks.
It was almost sunset when the children were called into the house.
Supper was nearly ready, and a very nice supper it was to be, for Mrs.
Bissell always took great pains to make the children happy when they
visited at her house.
Captain Lovechild, as usual, was glad to see the children, and the
children were quite as glad to see him. They all liked him. Why they
liked him, I suppose, not having thought on that subject much, they
would hardly have been able to tell. But I mistrust--I give it as a
sort of a _guess_--that the nice things he was so sure to have ready
for them, when he met them, had a little to do with their affection. I
remember--if you will allow Uncle Frank to travel out of his road a
few paces--I remember a lesson which was once beaten into my head by
my little niece. I was going away from home--to Boston, perhaps--when
I called the little girl to me, and said,
"Well, Mary, I'm going away, to be gone, a long, long time."
"O, don't go, uncle," she said; "I don't want you to go away."
"But I must go, dear."
"I shall cry if you do."
"Not a great deal, I guess."
"O, yes, I shall; I shall feel very bad."
"Well, Mary, I can't stay at home; I shall have to go to Boston; and I
presume you will feel sorry to have me go; but suppose I should bring
you something nice when I come back--a little rabbit, or something of
the kind?"
"O, then you may go, uncle," said Mary, clapping her hands, as a
certain lord of the barn yard does his wings, just before crowing, and
dancing up and down, as if she saw the little white rabbit, with his
long ears and red eyes, actually munching his clover and bean pods on
the carpet.
Ha! ha! ha! The lesson Uncle Frank learned then was, that the love of
children sometimes lies on the surface of the heart, and does not
reach quite to the bottom of it. However, I suppose the same is true
of grown people, too, sometimes, though they are usually more careful
as to what they say, so that they do not let the cat out of the bag.
But I shall be taken up as a _vagrant_, if I go wandering about in
this style.
CHAP. VI.
A NOBLE RESOLUTION.
As I said, the children all liked the good old gentleman, for some
reason or other. Now I think of it, I guess the reason of their liking
him might have been hid away in some sly place, as was the reason of
Mr. Somebody for _not_ liking Doctor Fell. This Mr. Somebody used to
say, as you probably have heard,
"I do not like you, Doctor Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell."
If the children had put their thoughts into rhyme, as Mr. Somebody
did, when he gave vent to his feelings in the Doctor Fell affair, no
doubt they would have said this, or something like it:
"I love you, sir, I love you well;
The reason why I cannot tell."
When supper was over that evening at Deacon Bissell's, the sun had
been down some time. The stars were beginning to peep out of their
hiding places, and the moon, who had shown her face a little before
the sun took his leave, had now grown bolder, and shone out brightly
and clearly, as if she were not afraid of anybody, and as if she had
some sort of a notion that she had got to be mistress.
"Well, children," said Captain Lovechild, "what are you going to drive
at next?"
Mrs. Bissell remarked that she thought it was almost time for them to
drive towards home, but said that she guessed the captain had
something to show them, and that they might stay just half an hour
longer.
Of course all the boys and girls flocked around the captain; and, sure
enough, he went into another room, and showed them one of the most
curious looking instruments, they all thought, that they had ever seen
in their lives.
"Oh, what is that, Captain Lovechild, and what is it for?" So the
children all asked, in nearly the same breath.
I suppose, indeed, I hope, that you are so much interested in my
story, that you have already had the same questions pass through your
mind; and I will answer your questions as the captain answered those
of his little friends. The instrument which the kind old gentleman had
brought with him all the way from Boston, on purpose to please and
instruct these children, was called a _telescope_. A telescope is a
long, hollow cylinder, with glasses in it. It is so made that when you
look through it, at anything a great way off, like the moon and the
stars, they appear a great deal larger. It seems to bring them near to
you. You can see them much more distinctly, and as you look at them,
you can find out many wonderful things about them.
As soon as the captain had got the instrument in order, he took it out
into the yard, and pointed one end of the long tube towards the moon.
[Illustration: LOOKING THROUGH THE TELESCOPE.]
"Now, then," said he, "just take a peep at the moon. You'll see
something up there, which will make you wonder, or I'm very much
mistaken. One at a time."
And the children, who did not need to be urged much, gathered around
the lower end of the telescope, first one, and then another, until
they had all got a peep at the wonderful things in the moon. I can't
tell you how much they were delighted. It would fill a small volume,
if I should set down all their "ohs," and their "ahs," and everything
else which came rattling out of their mouths, while they were looking
through the telescope. But I will tell you what Samuel Bissell said,
though. I will tell you one thing he said, at all events. After he had
looked through the instrument, and had listened to what the old
gentleman said about the moon, and the planets, and the fixed stars,
"I declare," said he, "I don't know anything. _I'll be somebody_, I'll
know something and do something, if I live."
Samuel, as you will perceive, had his little head so full of the
wonders of the heavens, and had such a strong desire to add to his
stock of knowledge, that he used pretty bold language. He did not
say, "I'll _try_ to be somebody," as he might have said, if he had
studied his speech a little. His head was full, so that his words
burst out from his mouth as the water would burst out of a hole in the
dam. Yes, and his _heart_ spoke, too, as well as his _head_. More
sincere and honest words never dropped from his lips.
A new light dawned on that youth's mind, that evening. From the moment
that he uttered the resolution that he would "be somebody," he labored
to gather a large harvest of knowledge; to be something more than a
mere cipher in the world; to act his part well.
"And did he succeed?" you are ready to ask. I should have to get ahead
of my story to answer the question. But one thing I will say here:
that if a boy makes up his mind, deliberately and firmly, that he will
climb up to some high point on the hill of science, and that he will
be respected and honored among his fellows--if he brings his hands,
and his head, and his heart to the task, and goes ahead, through thick
and thin, not turning out of his path, however he may be tempted to do
so, he is almost sure to succeed in reaching what he aims at; that
is, if his life is spared and his health does not give out. I have
great faith in a strong will, a clear head, right principles, a good
stock of patience, and a steady disposition to go ahead. Some boys,
when you talk to them about doing something and being something,
always throw a bucket of cold water over you by saying, "There are so
many difficulties," or, "If I were only in such a boy's place!" Well,
you may always be sure that such cowards will never do anything or be
anything worth mentioning; for it is not very common for people to
accomplish much by _accident_, and these little chaps, should they
ever succeed at all, would have to blunder into their success.
After hearing this anecdote of Samuel, you will not wonder that, some
years after this resolution was made, when he heard of his father's
loss, he played the part of a hero. I will tell you about that in
another chapter.
[Illustration: "WHAT WILL BECOME OF YOU?"]
CHAP. VII.
A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE.
"Samuel," said his father, a few days after he learned that he was a
bankrupt, "I don't know what is to become of you. I've lost all the
property I had. I'm not worth a red cent."
"I guess I can take care of myself, father," said the lad. "Don't
worry about that."
"Why, what can you do, Samuel?"
"Not much of anything now, I suppose--anything which will put dollars
and cents into my pocket--but I can learn, if I can get a chance."
"And what would you like to do for a living?"
"There are a good many things which I would like to do," said Samuel,
"and may be I shall do them some day; but I've been thinking that just
now, I had better go to work in the factory."
"What! in the cotton factory?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Mason's."
"But would you like that kind of work?"
"I don't know, sir, I'm sure; I should like to try, at any rate. I
should like to do something."
He did try. That very week, Samuel got a place in Mr. Mason's factory.
His wages were not great, at first. But he earned more than enough to
pay for his board at once, and in a month or two he did much better
than that. Samuel had to work hard, though. The factory bell rang at
day-break, and he was obliged to get up and work an hour or more
before breakfast. All day long, from early morning till evening, and
in the winter season, till nine o'clock at night, he was required to
be at work, with the exception of the time--and that was rather
brief--allotted to meals. It was a very rare thing that the boys in
the factory had a holiday. Sunday, to be sure--they had that to
themselves. But most of the boys, it is to be hoped, were too well
brought up and too conscientious to devote any part of that day to
play and amusement.
Once in a great while, however, "like angels' visits, few and far
between," came a holiday. They have a great time, you know, in every
part of the good old commonwealth of Massachusetts, when the day of
the annual thanksgiving comes. Very few people, old or young, think of
doing much business on that day.
[Illustration]
CHAP. VIII.
THANKSGIVING AND TEMPTATION.
Well, in process of time, that long looked for festival arrived. No
boy in Meadville had to sleep with an eye open that morning, for fear
he would not hear the first accent of the tongue of the factory bell.
The bell slept; and the boys slept, too, until they were called to
breakfast.
Samuel had not become very intimate with many of the factory boys.
Indeed, among them all, there was only one that he cared a great deal
about associating with; and this one he loved as a brother. The name
of this boy--or rather, the name by which I prefer to call him in this
narrative--was Frederick Noble. Frederick and Samuel, when they were
not in the factory, were half their time together. I hardly know what
made them so much attached to each other; though probably one reason
was that the circumstances of the two were somewhat similar.
Frederick's father, as well as Samuel's, had once been a man of
property, but, like Mr. Bissell, had become comparatively poor.
There's no accounting for likes and dislikes, though. Samuel and
Frederick were fond of each other, and I presume it would have puzzled
either of them to tell the reason for this fondness.
These two boys, according to an arrangement which had been made a long
time beforehand, were companions on thanksgiving day. If I remember
aright, the governor's proclamation for thanksgiving, at the time when
Frederick and Samuel were boys together, used to have these words
tacked to the last end of it: "All servile labor and vain recreation
on said day are by law forbidden." Still, parents and guardians
allowed considerable latitude to the children in their amusements, if
the governor did not. It was pretty generally understood that the
young folks were to have a good time of it, on thanksgiving day.
It very often happens, that when we enjoy ourselves most--when we come
nearest to being perfectly happy--we encounter the strongest
temptations, or, what amounts to the same thing, we are induced to
yield to temptation.
Several times during the day, these two boys came very near doing
something which they would have been ashamed of and heartily sorry for
afterwards. They met some boys playing cards for small sums of money,
and were urged to "try their luck." At first, they thought they would,
"just for fun." But they finally concluded that fun of that sort was
rather too dangerous--that it would cost more than it would come
to--and so they passed on.
About a hundred rods from the village, in an orchard, our two friends
came across a company of larger boys, who were playing ball. Here
they encountered another temptation. The ball-players were treating
themselves to a kind of liquor, which, in those parts, bore the name
of _egg-nog_. Some of the boys and girls who read this story, or hear
it read, will no doubt laugh at this unmusical and out-of-the-way
name; and I confess the word looked to me so strange and barbarous,
after I had written it down, that I had a great mind to dash my pen
across it, and hunt up some other name for it. However, I concluded I
would go straight to Webster's large dictionary, and see whether he
had taken notice of the word. I made up my mind that, if I found it
in the dictionary, I would hold on to it, and that if it were missing
there, I would let it stay in the society where it was born,
christened and brought up. I went to the dictionary, and there I found
the word, looking, for all the world, as if it were vastly at home.
"Egg-nog," says Doctor Webster, "a drink used in America, consisting
of the yelks of eggs beaten up with sugar, and the whites of eggs
whipped, with the addition of wine or spirits." The addition which
Webster speaks of, and which consisted of _spirits_ when I was a boy,
and not of _wine_, you will please to take notice, was considered a
very important addition, without which the liquor would be worthless.
Well, Samuel and Frederick, though they were strongly urged to "taste
of the nice egg-nog," and though they almost wished that they might so
far gratify their curiosity as to taste of it, succeeded in resisting
the temptation, and letting the stuff alone. Neither of them drank a
drop of it; though I should not wonder if they found it rather hard
work to refuse.
My young friend, perhaps you think these facts are hardly worth
noticing. But I look upon them in a very different light. These boys,
in my opinion, gained great victories that day--victories quite as
worthy of praise and honor as those of Alexander and Caesar. They had
the courage to _do right_, when they were tempted to _do wrong_. They
did right. And they had their reward, no doubt, when they heard the
voice of conscience in their own bosoms, whispering, "Well done."
CHAP. IX.
PATRIOTISM AND POWDER.
It was more than six months after the thanksgiving festival, before
the factory boys had another holiday. Time, who never stands still a
moment, went on, and by and by, the Fourth of July came round. Samuel
and Frederick were companions on that day, as well as on the preceding
thanksgiving festival. The first thing they did, after they got up in
the morning--for they were wakened very early by the ringing of all
the bells in Meadville, not excepting the one on the factory, which
was keyed on a very high note, and was cracked in the bargain, though
it made up in zeal and earnestness what it lacked in depth and
sweetness--the first thing they did was to climb the hill that
overlooked the village, where the men were firing a salute in honor of
the day. There seems to be something in the smell of gunpowder, and
the sound of a huge-mouthed cannon, which wakes up a good deal of
patriot feeling in the breast of a child.
How my little heart, when it was not much bigger than a chipping
squirrel's, used to throb with patriotism--or something else, for I am
not so sure that it was patriotism, after all--while I heard the rusty
old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments
about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American
independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the
sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a
quantity of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it
sometimes happened, I got a chance to beat on that drum myself--to
beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the
proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe--that performance
on the drum--the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers"
used.
It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost
wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the
racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the
thunder of senior ones, have not _such_ a moving effect on me as they
used to have. They _move me out of the way_ now. That is about all.
I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislike _war_ more than I did
when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think
of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each
other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of,
in trying to kill each other.
[Illustration: THE YOUNG DRUMMER.]
But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise
of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills
them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire
very particularly as to the nature of the blaze. Our two friends felt
as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they
listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite
beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed
to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or
other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to
shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his
country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of
war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groans from dying men,
no whizzing of cannon balls past his ears. He saw no river of blood
flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in
danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical
confessions of a young hero just returned from the wars. Did you ever
read them, my friend? They are worth reading, and I will quote them
for you:
"My father was a farmer good,
With corn and beef in plenty.
I mowed, and hoed, and held the plow
And longed for one and twenty;
For I had quite a martial turn,
And scorned the lowing cattle;
I burned to wear a uniform,
Hear drums, and see a battle.
"My birth-day came; my father urged,
But stoutly I resisted;
My sister wept, my mother prayed,
But off I went, and 'listed.
They marched me on through wet and dry,
To tunes more loud than charming,
But lugging knapsack, box and gun,
Was harder work than farming.
"We met the foe--the cannons roared--
The crimson tide was flowing--
The frightful death-groans filled my ears--
I wished that I was mowing.
I lost my leg--the foe came on--
They had me in their clutches--
I starved in prison till the peace,
Then hobbled home on crutches."
This young hero gives the other and darker side of war, you see. There
is reality in what the poor fellow says, if he does tell his story in
rather a humorous vein. I tell you what it is, little friend, there is
nothing good in war. It is a terrible thing; and though I don't
pretend to say that it is never necessary, I consider it one of the
worst curses with which a nation is ever visited--worse than
pestilence, worse than famine. That is the reason why I do not quite
like to see boys so fond of war, and so full of the war spirit.
But we must proceed with the story.
CHAP. X.
THE GLASS OF GIN.
Soon after breakfast was over that morning, Samuel and his companion
strolled out into the village. None but those who are kept constantly
at work in a close room, almost every day in the year, except Sunday,
can imagine with what light hearts these two boys walked the streets
of that factory village, on the morning of that memorable holiday. I
say memorable. It proved to be a day which neither of these boys could
well forget.
As they passed along through the village in the course of the
forenoon, they saw a great many sights, which to their young eyes,
were worth going a great way to see. There were tents erected on the
square in front of the meeting house--tents in which there were scores
of eatable and drinkable things to sell. In one of these tents, there
was a boy, who seemed very much at home, dealing out candies, and
filberts, and raisins, and gingerbread, and liquors of different
kinds. There were a dozen different bottles and decanters in his tent,
each with some sort of liquor in it.
"Hurrah!" said he, as soon as the two friends came up to the tent;
"why, Fred, is that you?" And he wrung Frederick's hand much as a
farmer is accustomed to wring the necks of fat chickens, a day or two
before Christmas or Thanksgiving.
It turned out that the youth who was so glad to see Frederick, was
Peter Pippin, a son of the butcher in the place where Frederick's
father lived. Peter was a rude, untutored boy, rough as a nutmeg
grater, or a chestnut bur. He and Frederick had been to school
together; and though they had never been very intimate, because their
tastes were so different, they had been sufficiently acquainted to be
really glad to see each other again, after a separation of more than a
year.
"Bless me!" said Peter--_Pete_ he was always called at school, but we
will give him all that belongs to him, for that is nothing to boast
of--"bless me! how you have grown, Fred. 'Pon my soul, I'm glad to see
you. Come, take something to drink. What'll you have? and that chap
there with you, what'll you have, my beauty?"
This coarse language grated a good deal on Samuel's ears, and it was
by no means pleasant to Frederick; but it did not affect both boys in
exactly the same way. The former was so much disgusted, that, after
thanking the butcher's boy for his invitation, he was hurrying away as
fast as possible. The latter, while he did not care a straw for the
liquor, felt kindly towards his former schoolfellow, and was rather
disposed to gratify him by at least going through the ceremony of
drinking.
Frederick is on dangerous ground now. But he had been on dangerous
ground before, you recollect. He got off the rocks then. Let us hope
he will now. But Freddy, you must look out. As the sailor says, when
he is looking out at the mast head, and when he sees the vessel is
driving rapidly towards the surf, "breakers ahead!" There is
temptation here. To be sure, it is not so strong, but he can overcome
it. How easily he resisted a similar temptation on Thanksgiving day.
The result of that day's adventures shows that he can get along safely
enough, if he will only look out for himself. But _will_ he look out
for himself? We shall see.
"Hadn't we better walk along, Fred?" asked Samuel, in a kind and
pleasant tone of voice.
"Not quite yet, if you please," said Frederick.