Jamaky? The real critter, Fred, the real critter--none of your Boston
pisin stuff. Or what do you say to a double and twisted horn of brandy
what's jist come from France?"
Fred hesitated. Strange enough that he should hesitate. Was he
charmed, as a bird is said to be charmed by a black snake, so that he
could not move?
"It is time to be off, Fred. Take my advice, and come along," said
Samuel.
"You little chicken-hearted baby!" Peter broke in, "hold your tongue,
if you don't want it pulled out by the roots."
"Wait half a minute," said Frederick to his companion. "Peter, pray
don't talk so to Samuel. He is one of the best fellows that ever
lived."
"Well, he ain't worth minding, any how. Come, now, are you going to
drink or not? Take some punch? That's the stuff. There ain't no spirit
in it hardly. Or may be you'll have some gin."
And the butcher's boy poured out a glass half full of gin and water,
and passed it to Frederick, while he took good care to prepare another
glass for himself. Peter drank. _So did Frederick_--not because he
loved the liquor, but because he was good-natured. He did it to oblige
his former school-fellow. I said he did it because he was
good-natured. I ought rather to have said, perhaps, that it was
because he had not courage enough to do right. I am not sure but that
is a more correct reason than the other.
Poor Frederick! From the moment he drank that glass of gin, he felt
unhappy. All day long he thought of what he had done, and it robbed
him of all his peace.
"But never mind, Fred," said his companion, "you are sorry you did it,
and you will never drink any more. Let that comfort you."
I will drop the thread of Frederick's history here, for the present.
Perhaps I may take it up again, though, by and by. The reason I have
given any sketch at all of this boy's adventures, I frankly confess
it, is that by comparing him with Samuel, and noticing where he
stumbled, and how he stumbled, you might learn exactly what those
traits of character were by which the latter was able to get over the
difficulties he met with, and to resist the temptations that
surrounded him.
CHAP. XI.
LIFE IN A FACTORY.
Have you ever been inside of a cotton factory, reader? If so, you need
not be told what sort of a place it is. I remember very well how I
felt the first time I went into a spinning room. What a whirl of
little wheels and great wheels, of bobbins and spindles, of drums and
cylinders, there was in that room. My brain seemed to go round with
the wheels; and I could hardly help holding my head with both hands,
to keep it in its place. What a clatter was kept up by some of the
machinery. What a dull, droning, hum-drum sound there was, besides. I
could not hear the sound of my own voice, there was such a racket; and
such a dense fog settled upon my mind, on account of the noise, that I
could scarcely tell whether I was in the body or out of the body. Of
all the places in the world, that ever I had seen or heard of, or ever
expected to see or hear of, I firmly believed that the worst place for
a boy to live, day after day, was in the spinning room of a cotton
factory. I had heard of dismal dungeons, in which the light of day
never shone; and I had thought that they were bad enough. But this
factory seemed a great deal worse than any dungeon that was ever
invented. The factory would drive me crazy in a week. I was sure of
that. In the dungeon, on the other hand, which, though it might be as
dark as tar, was still and quiet, I fancied I could at least keep my
senses.
A factory is a busy place, too. It is one of the last situations in
the world where a lazy person would wish to be employed. You can't be
lazy there, if you try. A horse might as well undertake to be lazy in
a treadmill. Some people think that factory boys and factory girls
have to work _too_ hard; that they are confined too many hours a day,
and that they don't get fresh air enough. As to that, I shall not set
myself up for a judge. Very likely the children fare better in some
factories than they do in others. I will say, though, that the task of
a factory boy, were the factory ever so well managed, would not be so
pleasant to me as many others. I will say this; and I ought to say,
besides, that when a boy gets _used_ to the noise of a factory, he
does not mind it much. Though it almost deafens him at first, he
almost forgets there is any noise after a while.
Our young friend, the peddler's boy, made up his mind, the first day
he went to work in Mr. Mason's factory, that he _would_ like the
business, whether or no. Well, he did like it, after a week or
two--that is, he was content with it, and he was as cheerful and happy
in the factory as he had been out of it. Contentment, my dear young
friends, is a gem. It is worth more than gold or diamonds. You can't
buy it with gold or diamonds, and if you should ever happen to get
hold of it, you would be foolish to part with it, for all the gold in
California and all the pearls in the tower of London. I have often
thought, that if the apostle Paul were to be envied for anything, it
might be for the contented spirit which he had, after he got to be an
old man. "I have learned," said he, "in whatsoever state I am,
therewith to be content." What a precious lesson! I wish you would try
to learn it, reader. You can learn it. You ought to learn it. Set
yourself about the task, then, at once.
Samuel Bissell was content with his factory life. It was not quite so
pleasant as some others were. He could not help seeing that. But he
did not spend his time or any part of his time in wishing he was
somewhere else, doing some other kind of business. He did not say or
sing, "There's a good time coming, boys." The good time _had come_,
according to his notion. Still, he held on to that resolution--the
resolution he formed when he got a glimpse of some of the wonders away
off in the blue sky. If you had watched him during the few leisure
hours he had, you would have seen that he had not forgotten that old
text of his, "I'll be somebody." Many and many a time, after he got
home from the factory at night, he would go to his little room, and
spend an hour or two reading and thinking. There was a small library
in the village where he lived, and by paying a small sum every week,
he was allowed to read some very valuable books. With what eagerness
he picked up every kernel of knowledge he could find about the sun,
and the planets, and the stars. When most of the boys were playing in
the streets, he was reading and studying in his chamber. While he was
a factory boy, he learned from the books which fell into his hands, to
dive a great deal deeper into the heart of many studies than he was
taught to do in the school to which his father had sent him. He had
become quite a master of the art of book-keeping; and as to geography
and astronomy, I am not sure but he could have told some things about
them which his former teacher never dreamed of.
CHAP. XII.
A GLANCE AT FREDERICK.
Before I wind up my story, I have a good mind to go back, and tell you
what became of that companion of our friend, the Peddler's Boy, who
drank the glass of gin. Poor Frederick! It makes my heart sad, to
think what he might have been, and what he was. He was as kind, and
amiable, and industrious, and prudent, as Samuel. His habits were as
good, too, for aught that I know, up to the time when he was so
thoughtless and foolish as to yield to the wishes of that coarse and
wicked boy. He had been as well brought up as Samuel. Good principles
had been as carefully sown in his mind. There was, then, there could
have been no general reason why he did not show himself more of a hero
when he met his old schoolmate.
How foolish it was for Frederick to taste that liquor. He did not love
gin. He disliked the taste of it. Moreover, he knew well enough that
it was wrong to taste it, and I presume he saw clearly enough, at the
time, that he was making a little dunce of himself. Why did he not run
away, if he could not resist temptation while he stayed there? Why,
when Samuel reminded him, so kindly, that it was time for them to go,
did he not go along about his business? How foolish it was for him to
stay and drink that dram, which tasted to him, I dare say, almost as
bad as a dose of salts? Oh, if he had only had more courage, more
principle! But there he failed--and his failure cost him dearly!
Samuel, you will recollect, tried to console him, after he had drank
the glass of gin, to please Peter, by telling him that he was sure he
would never do so again. But Samuel, it appeared afterwards, was too
hopeful, too charitable. Frederick did drink again. How long it was
after that holiday, before he did so, I don't know. Nor is it much
matter. It is sufficient to know, that when a like temptation was
placed before him again, he had less power to resist it than he had
before. He drank again, and it was not many months before he liked
dram-drinking as well as any of the boys in the factory.
However, Frederick had friends in the city; and when he was about
twenty-one years of age, some of these friends got him a good place as
a clerk in a wholesale grocery store. He seemed to "turn over a new
leaf," when he went to Boston to live. If he drank any--and I suppose
he did a little--his habit did not grow much stronger, and he was a
very faithful clerk.
After a year or two, he did so well, that his friends loaned him
money, and he went into business for himself. For a year or two he did
well, and was prosperous. His credit was good. His business increased.
There was no reason why he should not continue to prosper. None, did
I say? There was one. His love for dram-drinking grew stronger, after
a while, and he drank more and more. Not that he ever got absolutely
drunk; but it was not an uncommon thing for him to get _high_, as they
sometimes say of the first stages of drunkenness--so high that he
talked and acted very like a fool.
A habit of this kind is apt to grow upon a person. It grew upon
Frederick. I will not trace his path, through all its windings, from
tasting to moderate drinking, from moderate drinking to drunkenness,
and from drunkenness to ruin. But such was his course. He drank till
he entirely lost the power of controlling his appetite. His business
affairs got out of order, and they became worse and worse. He failed.
Not long after this, he was often seen reeling about the streets of
Boston, a poor, miserable, drunken wretch.
One night, when he was drunk, some one who knew him, ordered a
carriage, and took him to the neat little cottage which was the home
of his childhood. His aged parents were already aware, to some extent,
of Frederick's habits; but when they saw there, before their eyes,
that living wreck of what was once their son, it seemed as if their
hearts would break with anguish. That night they said not a word to
their son. They knew that he was not himself, and that anything he
might say then, would only add to their grief.
[Illustration: THE DRUNKARD AND HIS FATHER.]
The next day, however, after the reason of their miserable son had
been partly restored, they had a long talk with him. He knew to what a
depth he had fallen. But he declared, over and over again, that there
was no hope for him. "I am lost!" said he; "I am lost! Father," he
continued, "I am drinking up my soul, and no power on earth can stop
me. I could no more live without liquor, than a fish can live out of
water. I am on fire, and nothing will help to quench the flames, but
the liquor which feeds them."
Then he told the old man the story of that first glass of gin. "It was
that," said he, "which has done all the mischief. If I had not played
the fool then, I might have been somebody now. But I yielded to
temptation. I formed the taste for liquor. It has grown upon me, until
I am the loathsome beast that you see before you. No, I never can
stop drinking until I die."
Poor, poor man! in less than three weeks after this interview with his
parents, he died--died of that most terrible disease, the delirium
tremens.
My young friends, before I leave this story of Frederick, let me urge
you to beware of the first glass. I don't care whether it is gin, or
rum, or brandy. Don't touch it. If you are tempted to drink, be a
hero. Have courage to say "No, I'll not throw myself away. I think too
much of myself for that."
CHAP. XIII.
SAMUEL IN BOSTON.
Time wore away. The peddler's boy, when he made up his mind to go to
work in the factory, did not expect to spend his days there. He
purposed to enter the factory because he thought that that was the
best thing he could do _then_. You will recollect that he said to his
father, when the old gentleman asked him what he would like to do,
that there were a great many things which he should _like_ to do, and
that may be he would do them some day; but that as he could not do
them _then_, he thought he would go to work in the factory, and wait
until he could do them. Samuel, at length, began to think that it was
time for him to look for some other business a little more to his mind
than what he was doing then. So thought the good old peddler, his
father. His mother--alas! she had gone to her rest--her smiling face
had long been missed in the little cottage where she had dwelt so many
years. It was decided that Samuel should go to Boston. But what was
he to do there? That question gave others more anxiety than it gave
Samuel. "I don't know, to be sure," said he, "exactly what I'll find
to do. But I know I'll do _something_. I'll shovel dirt, if I can't
get anything else to do, and I can make a living at that."
He went to Boston. The first thing he did, after he got there, was to
walk straight to the house of Captain Lovechild. The captain was at
home, and glad to see him.
"Do you remember," the boy asked, "when you came to our house, a
great while ago, and brought your telescope with you?"
"Yes," the old man replied, "and I remember, too, how a certain little
fellow got almost crazy when he looked through the instrument, at the
moon and stars, and when I told him something about them."
"And do you remember _what_ you said?"
"No, I'm sure I don't."
"Well, I do, as plainly as if you had said it but yesterday; and it
was what you said about living to some purpose, and having a high aim,
and being governed by high principles, that put a new soul into me."
"And made you talk so largely?"
Samuel colored. "I was a foolish little creature, I suppose," he said.
"No, not a bit of it," said the captain, grasping the young man's
hand, "not a bit of it. I was glad to hear you say what you did. I've
thought of it a thousand times since, and I have said to myself, 'That
chap will make something, if he lives, see if he don't.'"
"Well, he _hasn't_ made anything yet."
The captain laughed. "I don't quite agree with you," he said. "But,
let that be as it may, you are young yet, and the great pyramid and
St. Peter's church were not built in a minute. Sam, what are you now?"
"A poor, green factory boy."
"Who is trying to do his duty, and sometimes asks God to help him; who
is wide awake and ambitious; who has got a pretty good head and not a
very bad heart; who will push his way in the world and be somebody?"
"I don't know about all that."
"Nor I, but I know some things about you--more than you dream of, I
guess."
Samuel colored again, and tried to stammer out something, but
succeeded only tolerably well.
"You want something to do, don't you?" the old man asked.
"Yes, sir," said the peddler's boy, "that is what I came to Boston
for."
"Well, let me think a moment," said the good old gentleman. He did
think a moment, and then he put on his hat, and got the gold-headed
cane which he cut on the island of Malta, where Paul was cast away,
and off he posted with his young friend. He knew what he was about. He
had not been thinking for nothing. After walking some ten or fifteen
minutes, he went into a store on Commercial wharf, and asked one of
the partners of the house, whom he seemed to know very well, if they
did not want a clerk. The answer was that they did not need another
clerk, but that they were very much in want of a good porter.
"Well, here's the chap," said the captain, pointing to Samuel. "Sam,
what do you say to that?"
Samuel was inclined to try the business, and in less than half an
hour, the terms were arranged, and the young lad was at work.
CHAP. XIV.
THE FLOUR STORE.
The men with whom Samuel had found a place, were large flour dealers.
Their new porter pleased them. He, too, was pleased with his business.
Nothing could be more pleasant for me now, than to relate to you
scores of little incidents connected with Samuel's history, while he
was in that store. But if I do that, I fear I shall spin out my thread
so long that you will get weary. I will tell you a few things,
though.
It was Samuel's daily duty to sweep out the store. This task he
performed early in the morning, before either of the partners or any
of the clerks were at their posts. One morning, the first thing he
saw, after opening the store, was a roll of bank bills, lying on the
floor. He took it up, and unrolled it. There were some ten or twelve
dollars in it. As soon as the book-keeper came to the store, Samuel
handed him the roll of bank bills, and went about his work. That was a
small matter, wasn't it? But small as it was, those flour merchants,
when they heard of it, noted it down in their memory.
Months passed. The book-keeper went into business for himself. A new
book-keeper was needed to take his place. Samuel was talked of. "But
can Samuel be depended upon?" it was asked. "Can we trust him? Is he
faithful, and honest, and capable?" I don't know what decision they
would have come to, if it had not been for the affair of the bank
bills. But his honesty in that particular was brought up. They thought
it would do to trust a young man who could resist such a temptation
as that. There was another thing they had heard about Samuel, which
they thought pretty good evidence that he was honest. It was this:
While Samuel was in the factory, he bought some articles at the
village store. After he had paid for them, and got away a little
distance, he found that the clerk had made a mistake in giving change,
and that he had in his pocket fifty cents more than belonged to him.
So he turned right around, went back to the store, and returned the
money to the clerk.
"He's the man," they all said, as soon as these facts were stated. So
Samuel became the book-keeper in that large house, with a salary four
times as large as he had received while he was the porter.
Some two or three years from the time he went to Boston to live,
Samuel Bissell was one of the partners in that wealthy firm. He is by
no means an old man now. Indeed, he is in the very prime of life. But
he has got to be a rich man, and now owns one of the most beautiful
country seats within a dozen miles of Boston, where he resides with
his family. A great many merchants are so much engaged in making
money, that they seem to care hardly anything about improving the
mind, and so they let that get all full of weeds. But Mr. Bissell did
very differently. He spent a great part of the time which he could
spare from his business, in gathering new sheaves of knowledge, and
cultivating the garden of the heart.
I hardly know of a man for miles around, in that charming district of
country, who is more respected and beloved than Samuel Bissell. When I
saw him last, he had just been elected the second time to a seat in
the legislature of the State. I think he is a member of the Senate
now.
I wish you could visit his place in the country, and see his fine
garden and fine house. If you ever should happen that way, and should
learn where he lives, you must not fail to make him a visit, and to
tell him that Uncle Frank asked you to call. You will see there one of
the happiest families that you ever came across in your life. Mr.
Bissell sometimes amuses his children with stories about his boyhood,
and they are perfectly delighted with these stories.
[Illustration: MR. BISSELL AND HIS CHILDREN.]
Don't forget to inquire for the good old peddler, as soon as you
get into the house. "What! is he living yet?" To be sure he is, and
Samuel has fitted up for him one of the pleasantest rooms in the whole
house. His hair is very white, and he was very feeble when I saw him
last. But his heart was as young as ever; and he laughed, and played,
and frolicked with his grandchildren just as merrily as if he had been
a child himself.
Another thing I must tell you, while I think of it. There is a cupola
on the top of Samuel's house, and I want you should go into that, if
you can get a chance. There you will see quite a number of things
which are worth seeing. One of them, perhaps, when you come to know
what it is, will interest you more than all the rest. It is the very
telescope which used to belong to Captain Lovechild, and which made
Samuel's heart throb so, when he was a child--"put a new soul" into
him, to use his own language. The old gentleman, some time since, left
this world, I trust for a better and a happier one. Just before he
died, he made a will, in which he remembered many of his friends, and
Samuel, among the rest, to whom he gave the old telescope. Mr.
Bissell has more than once been heard to say, that he would not part
with that telescope for a good farm.
[Illustration]
CHAP. XV.
THE WINDING UP.
If I should undertake to tell my readers what lessons this story
teaches, I am not sure but they would laugh at me. I fancy I see their
bright eyes twinkle, as I begin to talk about these lessons, and I
almost hear them say to one another, that Uncle Frank might as well
carry a lantern in broad daylight, as to spend his time in telling us
what this story teaches. Some of them wonder, perhaps, if Uncle Frank
really takes his readers for a set of little dunces.
Well, then, my shrewd little boy, what does the story teach?
"Why it teaches that the Peddler's Boy set out to be somebody, and he
was somebody."
Very well. Anything else, little girl? I must catechise you a little.
What do you learn from it?
"That anybody can do anything he sets out to do, and that he can be
anything he sets out to be."
Bravo! that is pretty well, only a little too strong. And what else?
Why didn't Frederick get along in the world as well as Samuel?
"Because he was a coward."
I'm not sure but you are half right. It seems hard to call that poor,
unfortunate youth a coward. But I do honestly think that he would have
done well enough, if he had only scraped together a few more grains of
courage. Look at that affair of the glass of gin. It was courage that
he wanted there--courage to do right, no matter what his old playmate
might say or think. He was afraid to offend the boy. He had more fear
of the boy, it would appear, than he had of God. What that coarse,
profane boy said, had more weight with him than the words which his
conscience uttered. It was _principle_, after all, that he lacked. And
so he was led away, and lost.
"Uncle Frank, I shall never forget what one glass will do."
I hope you never will; and I hope you will remember, too, as long as
you live, that the success of the Peddler's Boy was owing quite as
much to his honesty, and temperance, and faithfulness, and
religion--for he was a sincere and devoted Christian--as to his
ambition, and industry, and energy, and resolution.
[Illustration: THE END]
_Woodworth's Juvenile Works._
PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.
PUBLISH THE FOLLOWING JUVENILE WORKS,
By Francis C. Woodworth,
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UNCLE FRANK'S BOYS' AND GIRLS' LIBRARY.
A Beautiful Series, comprising six volumes., square 12mo., with eight
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