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HISTORIC BOYHOODS
by
RUPERT S. HOLLAND
Author of "The Count at Harvard," "Builders of United Italy," etc.
[Illustration: THE FLEET OF COLUMBUS NEARING AMERICA]
Philadelphia George W. Jacobs & Company Publishers
Copyright, 1909, by George W. Jacobs and Company
Published October, 1909
All rights reserved
Printed in U.S.A.
_To the dear memory of L.B.R._
The thanks of the author are due the Century Company for permission to
reprint certain of these stories which appeared in _Saint Nicholas_ in
shorter form.
CONTENTS
I. CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS
The Boy of Genoa
II. MICHAEL ANGELO
The Boy of the Medici Gardens
III. WALTER RALEIGH
The Boy of Devon
IV. PETER THE GREAT
The Boy of the Kremlin
V. FREDERICK THE GREAT
The Boy of Potsdam
VI. GEORGE WASHINGTON
The Boy of the Old Dominion
VII. DANIEL BOONE
The Boy of the Frontier
VIII. JOHN PAUL JONES
The Boy of the Atlantic
IX. MOZART
The Boy of Salzburg
X. LAFAYETTE
The Boy of Versailles
XI. HORATIO NELSON
The Boy of the Channel Fleet
XII. ROBERT FULTON
The Boy of the Conestoga
XIII. ANDREW JACKSON
The Boy of the Carolinas
XIV. NAPOLEON BONAPARTE
The Boy of Brienne
XV. WALTER SCOTT
The Boy of the Canongate
XVI. JAMES FENIMORE COOPER
The Boy of Otsego Hall
XVII. JOHN ERICSSON
The Boy of the Göta Canal
XVIII. GARIBALDI
The Boy of the Mediterranean
XIX. ABRAHAM LINCOLN
The Boy of the American Wilderness
XX. CHARLES DICKENS
The Boy of the London Streets
XXI. OTTO VON BISMARCK
The Boy of Göttingen
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Fleet of Columbus Nearing America
Walter Raleigh and the Fisherman of Devon
Peter the Great
Mrs. Washington Urges George Not to Enter the Navy
Daniel Boone's First View of Kentucky
Paul Jones Capturing the "Serapis"
Mozart and His Sister Before Maria Theresa
Lafayette Tells of His Wish to Aid America
Nelson Boarding the "San Josef"
Robert Fulton's First Experiment with Paddle Wheels
Andrew Jackson at the Battle of New Orleans
The Snow Fort at Brienne
Napoleon as a Cadet in Paris
Street in Edinburgh Where Scott Played as a Boy
Birthplace of Abraham Lincoln
Charles Dickens at Eighteen
I
Christopher Columbus The Boy of Genoa: 1446(?)-1506
A privateer was leaving Genoa on a certain June morning in 1461, and
crowds of people had gathered on the quays to see the ship sail.
Dark-hued men from the distant shores of Africa, clad in brilliant red
and yellow and blue blouses or tunics and hose, with dozens of
glittering gilded chains about their necks, and rings in their ears,
jostled sun-browned sailors and merchants from the east, and the
fairer-skinned men and women of the north.
Genoa was a great seaport in those days, one of the greatest ports of
the known world, and her fleets sailed forth to trade with Spain and
Portugal, France and England, and even with the countries to the north
of Europe. The sea had made Genoa rich, had given fortunes to the nobles
who lived in the great white marble palaces that shone in the sun, had
placed her on an equal footing with that other great Italian sea city,
Venice, with whom she was continually at war.
But all the ships that left her harbor were not trading vessels. Genoa
the Superb had many enemies always on the alert to swoop down upon her
trade. So she had to maintain a great war-fleet. In addition to this
danger, the Mediterranean was then the home of roving pirates, ready to
seize any vessel, without regard to its flag, which promised to yield
them booty.
The life of a Genoese boy in those days was packed full of adventures.
Most of the boys went to sea as soon as they were old enough to hold an
oar or to pull a rope, and they had to be ready at any moment to drop
the oar or rope and seize a sword or a pike to repel pirates or other
enemies. There was always the chance of a sudden chase or a secret
attack on a Christian boat by savage Mussulmen, and so bitter was the
endless war of the two religions that in such cases the victors rarely
spared the lives of the vanquished, or, if they did, sold them in port
as slaves. Moreover the ships were frail, and the Mediterranean storms
severe, and many barks that contrived to escape the pirates fell victims
to the fury of head winds. The life of a Genoese sailor was about as
dangerous a life as could well be imagined.
On this June morning a large privateer was to set sail from the port,
and the families of the men and boys who were outward bound had come
down to say good-bye. The centre of one little group was a boy about
fifteen, strong and broad for his years, though not very tall, with warm
olive skin, bright black eyes, and fair hair that fell to his ears. His
name was Christopher Colombo, and he was going to sail with a relative
called Colombo the Younger who commanded a ship in the service of Genoa.
The young Christopher had always loved to be upon the sea. Among the
first sights that he remembered were glimpses of the Mediterranean in
fair and stormy weather, the first tales he had heard were stories of
strange adventures that had befallen sailors. His home had sprung from
the waves, its glory had been drawn from the inland sea, the great chain
of high mountains at its back cut it off from the land and the pursuits
of other cities. Christopher thought of the sea by day, and dreamed of
it by night, and was already planning when he grew up to go in search of
some of those strange adventures the old bronzed mariners were so fond
of describing.
The boy's mother and father kissed him good-bye, and his younger
brothers and sister looked at him enviously as he left them with a wave
of his hand and went on board the ship. The latter was very clumsy,
according to our ideas. She rode high in the water, with a great deck at
the stern set like a small house up in the air, and with a great bow
that bore the figurehead of the patron saint of the sea, Saint
Christopher. Her sails were hung flat against the masts and were painted
in broad stripes of red and yellow. She was very magnificent to look
upon, but not very seaworthy.
The marble of Genoa's palaces dropped astern. The ship was sailing
south, and under favoring breezes soon lost sight of land. Constant
watch was kept for other vessels; any that might appear was more apt to
be an enemy than a friend, because Genoa was at war then with many
rivals, chief among them Naples and Aragon. Ships had been sailing
constantly of late from Genoa to prey upon the commerce of Naples, in
revenge for what the Neapolitans had once done to Genoa.
Colombo the captain was fond of his young kinsman Christopher, and at
the start of the voyage had him in his cabin and told him some of his
plans. The captain said he had orders to sail to Tunis to capture the
Spanish galley _Fernandina_. The galley was richly laden, and each
sailor would have a large share of booty. The boy listened with
sparkling eyes; this would be his first chance to have a hand in a fight
at sea.
The winds of June were favoring, and Colombo's ship soon reached the
island of San Pietro off Sardinia. Here the captain went ashore to try
and learn news of the _Fernandina_. He found friendly merchants who had
word from all the Mediterranean ports, and they told him that the galley
was not alone, but accompanied by two other Spanish ships. Colombo was a
born fighter, and this news did not frighten him. The more ships he
might capture the greater would be his own share of glory and of prize
money.
When the captain told his news to the sailors on his return from shore,
there was great consternation. The men had no liking to attack two
fighting ships besides the galley. At first they simply murmured among
themselves, but the longer they discussed the desperate nature of the
plan the more alarmed they grew. By the time that the ship was ready to
sail southward from Sardinia they had determined to go no farther, and
sent three of their leaders to speak to Colombo.
The captain was with Christopher studying a map of the Mediterranean
when the men came before him. They told him that they positively
refused to sail south and insisted that he put in at Marseilles for more
ships and men. Colombo saw that he could not force them to sail farther,
so, with what grace he could, he gave his consent to alter the course.
The men left the cabin, and after a few minutes' thought the captain
spoke to the boy. "Christopher," said he, "bring me the great compass
from its box near the helmsman's stand. Bring it secretly. The men
should all be on the lower deck making ready to sail. Let no one see
thee with it."
The boy left the cabin and climbed the ladder to the great poop-deck at
the stern where the helmsman had a view far over the sea. He waited
until no one was about, and then quickly took the compass from its box,
and hiding it under the loose folds of his cloak, brought it to the
captain. He placed it on the table. Then he fastened the door so that
none might enter.
Colombo opened the compass-case, and drew a pot of paint and a brush
toward him. The boy watched breathlessly while the captain painted over
the marks of the compass with thick white paint, and then on top of that
drew in new lines and figures in black. He was changing the compass
completely.
When the work was done Christopher bore the case back to its box as
secretly as he had taken it. Then Colombo went out to the sailors and
gave them orders to spread sail. It was rapidly growing dark as they
left the coast of Sardinia.
At sunrise, when Christopher came on deck to stand his watch, he knew
that their ship must be off the city of Carthagena, although all the
crew supposed they well on their way to Marseilles. Not long after, as
they were drawing nearer to the shore, the lookout signaled a vessel.
She was soon seen to be flying the flag of Naples. Fortunately this ship
was alone at the time, and the sailors were not afraid to attack her.
Orders were quickly given to sail as close to her as possible, and
preparations were made to board her. The other ship seemed no less eager
to engage in battle, and in a very short time grappling-irons were
thrown out and the ships were fastened close together. Then a fierce
combat followed between the two crews as each in turn tried to scale the
sides of the other vessel.
A sea-fight in the fifteenth century was fought hand to hand, each ship
being like a fort from which small attacking parties rushed out to climb
the other's battlements. When men met on the decks they used sword and
pike and dagger just as they would have on shore. Fire was thrown from
one ship into the rigging and sails of the other, and flames soon caught
and greedily devoured the woodwork of the boats. It was wild work; the
blazing sails, the broken cheers of the men, the fierce struggle over
the two decks.
Christopher fought bravely whenever chance offered, but the captain kept
him close to his hand to carry messages. It soon appeared that the enemy
were the stronger, and they bore the Genoese back and back farther from
their bulwarks and across their decks. As the enemy gained a foothold
they held torches to everything that would burn, and soon Colombo's ship
was wrapped in fire and the only choice seemed to be between surrender
and jumping into the sea.
A burning rope fell from a mast and set fire to Christopher's cloak. He
tore the cloak from him. He saw that the Neapolitans must win and he had
no desire to be carried off to Naples as a prisoner. The flames were
gaining fast as he leaped to the rail on the free side of the ship, and
dove overboard. He came up free from the wreckage and found a long
sweep-oar floating near him. With that support he struck out for the
shore of Africa, only a short distance away. His first sea-fight had
nearly proved his last.
Self-reliance was the corner-stone of this young mariner's character. He
could take care of himself on whatever shore he was thrown. He landed on
the beach of Carthagena and told the story of his adventures to the
group of sailors who crowded about him on the sands. There is a strong
sense of comradeship among seamen, and so, although none of the men who
heard the boy's tale were from Genoa, they fitted him out with dry
clothes and found enough money to keep him in food and shelter.
There he stayed for some time, waiting until some Genoese bark should
put into port. Meanwhile he was very much interested in the stories the
seafarers of all lands told to people who would listen to them. Again
and again he heard mariners wondering whether there might not be a
shorter passage to the rich Indies of the East than the long overland
route through China. The question interested him, and he took to
studying it with care.
One day an old sailor on the beach told him of his voyages in the
western ocean, and how once his ship had come so close to the edge of
the world that but for the miracle of a sudden change in the wind they
must certainly have been carried over the side. The same bearded seaman
told Christopher many other curious things; how he had himself seen
beautiful pieces of carved wood, cut in some strange fashion, floating
on the western sea, and had picked up one day a small boat which seemed
to be made of the bark of a tree, but of a pattern none had ever seen
before.
Then, and here his voice would sink and his eyes grow large with wonder,
he told Christopher how men who were explorers were certain that
somewhere in that unsailed western sea, just before one came to the
edge, was an island rich in gold and gems and rare, delicious fruits,
where men need never work if they chose to stay there, or if they came
home might bring such treasures with them as would put to shame the
richest princes of all Europe. It was said that there one caught fish
already cooked, and that there people of great beauty lived, with dark
red skins and wearing feathers in their hair.
"And is no one certain of this?" asked Christopher, his eyes wide with
excitement. "Not even the men who have found the African coast and the
isle of Flores?"
The old sailor shook his head. "Nay, nay, boy. The wonderful island lies
so close to the world's edge that 'tis a perilous thing to try to find
it."
"Still," said Christopher, "'twould be well worth the finding, and some
time when I'm a man and can win a ship of my own I'm going to make the
venture."
But the sailor shook his head. "Better leave the unknown sea to itself,
lad," said he. "A whole skin is worth more to a man than all the gold of
King Solomon's mines."
"Is it true," asked the boy after a time, "that there are terrible
monsters in the Dark Sea?" That was the name given in those days to the
ocean that stretched indefinitely to the west. "I've seen pictures of
strange creatures on ships' maps, but never saw the like of any of
them."
"No, nor would you be likely to, lad," said the sailor, "for such as see
those monsters don't come back. But true they are. A great captain told
me once that part of the Dark Sea was black as pitch, and that great
birds flew over it looking for ships. You've heard of the giant Roc that
flies through the air there, so strong that it can pick up the biggest
ship that ever sailed in its beak, and carry it to the clouds? There it
crushes ship and men in its talons, and drops men's limbs, armor,
timber, all that's left, down to the Dark Sea monsters who wait to
devour the wreckage in their huge jaws. Ugh, 'tis an ugly thought, and
enough to keep any man safe this side the world."
"In some places fair, in some dark," mused Christopher. "It would be
worth sailing out there to find which was the truth."
"Where would be the good of finding that if you never came back, boy?"
Christopher shrugged his shoulders. "Just for the fun of finding out,
perhaps," he said.
* * * * *
A month later Christopher saw a galley flying the flag of Genoa enter
the harbor. When the captain came on shore the boy went to him, and
telling him who he was, asked for a chance to go as sailor back to
Genoa. The captain knew the boy's father, Domenico Colombo, and gave
Christopher a place on the galley. She was sailing north, homeward
bound, and a few days later, having safely avoided all hostile ships and
storms, the galley came into sight of the beautiful white city in its
nest against the hills.
It was a happy day when the young sailor landed and surprised his father
and mother by walking in upon them. News of Colombo's defeat by the ship
of Naples had come to Genoa, and Christopher's family had given him up
as lost.
But narrow as his escape on that voyage had been, such chances were part
of the sailor's life in that age, and Christopher was quite ready to
take his share of privation and danger with his mates. It was only by
weathering such storms that he could ever hope to be put in charge of
rich merchantmen or to command his own vessel in his city's defense. So
he sailed again soon after, and in a year or two had come to know the
Mediterranean Sea as well as the back of his hand.
Captains found he was good at making maps, and paid him to draw them,
and when he was on shore he spent all his time studying charts and
plans, and soon became so expert that he could support himself by
preparing new charts. Yet, in spite of all his study, he found that the
maps covered only a small part of the sea, and gave him no knowledge of
the waters to the west. There he now began to believe the
long-looked-for sea passage to the East Indies must lie.
Christopher grew to manhood, and then a chance shipwreck threw him in
Lisbon, the capital of Portugal. The Portuguese were the great sailors
of the age, and the young man met many famous captains who were planning
trips to the western coast of Africa and about the Cape of Good Hope.
Some of the captains took an interest in the sailor who made such
splendid maps and was so eager to go on dangerous exploring trips, and
they brought him to the notice of the King of Portugal. One of them,
Toscanelli, wrote of the young Christopher's "great and noble desire to
pass to where the spices grow," and listened with interest to his plans
to reach those rich spice lands by sailing west.
The ideas of Columbus seemed too visionary to most princes, and it was
years before he was able to persuade the Spanish sovereigns, Ferdinand
and Isabella, to grant him three small ships and enough men to start
upon his voyage. But on August 3, 1492, he finally set sail from Palos,
in Spain.
All the world knows the history of that great voyage, of the tremendous
difficulties that beset Columbus, how his men grew fearful and would
have turned back, how he had to change the ship's reckoning as he had
seen his cousin change the compass, how he had sometimes to plead with
his men and sometimes to threaten them.
In time he found boughs with fresh leaves and berries floating on the
sea, and caught the odor of spices from the west. Then he knew he was
nearing that magic land of riches sailors dreamt of, and thought he had
found the shortest passage to the East Indies and Cathay. That would
have been a wonderful discovery, but the one he was actually making was
infinitely greater. Instead of a new sea passage he was reaching a new
continent, and adding a hemisphere to the known world.
Such was the result of the dreams and ambitions of the boy born and bred
in the old seaport of Genoa.
II
Michael Angelo
The Boy of the Medici Gardens: 1475-1564
The Italian city of Florence was entering on the Golden Age of its
history toward the end of the fifteenth century. Lorenzo, called the
Magnificent, was head of the house of Medici, and first citizen of the
proud Republic. He was himself an artist, a poet, and a philosopher; he
loved the beautiful things of life, and had gathered about him a little
court of men of genius.
Florence at that time was also a great business city, and among the
prominent merchant families was that of the Buonarotti. Ludovico
Buonarotti had several sons, and he had named his second child Michael
Angelo, and had planned that he should follow him in trade. Fortunately
for the world, however, the boy had a will of his own.
Even while he was still in charge of a nurse, and was just beginning to
learn to use his hands, he would draw simple pictures and paint them
whenever he had the chance. His father had little use for a painter, and
sent the boy to the grammar school of Francesco d'Urbino, in Florence,
thinking to make a scholar of him. There were, however, many studios in
the neighborhood of the school, and many artists at work in them, and
the boy would neglect his studies to haunt the places where he might
see how grown men drew and painted.
Watching the artists, young Michael Angelo soon formed a lasting
friendship with a boy of great talent a few years older than himself, by
name Francesco Granacci. This boy was a pupil of Domenico Ghirlandajo, a
very great painter. The more Michael Angelo saw Granacci and his work in
the studio the more he longed for a chance to study painting. He could
think of nothing else; he begged his father and uncles to let him be an
artist instead of a merchant or a scholar. But the father and uncles,
coming from a long line of successful merchants, treated the boy's
requests with scorn.
Michael Angelo was determined to be an artist, however, and finally,
though with the greatest reluctance, his father signed a contract with
Ghirlandajo by which the boy was to study drawing and painting in his
studio and do whatever other work the master might desire. The master
was to pay the boy six gold florins for the first year's work, eight for
the second, and ten for the third.
The young Buonarotti found plenty of work to be done in his master's
studio. Besides the regular day's work he was constantly painting
sketches of his own, and trying his hand at a dozen different things.
His eye and hand were most surprisingly true. Time and again the master
or some of the older students, coming across the boy at work, would be
held spellbound by his skill.
One day when the men had left work the boy drew a picture of the
scaffolding on which they had been standing and sketched in portraits of
the men so perfectly that when his master found the drawing he cried to
a friend in amazement, "The boy understands this better than I do
myself!"
There was little in the world about him that this boy failed to see. He
soon painted his first real picture, choosing a subject that was popular
in those days, the temptation of St. Antony. All kinds of queer animals
figured in the picture, and that he might get the colors of their
shining backs and scales just right he spent days in the market eagerly
studying the fish there for sale. Again the master was amazed at his
pupil's work, and now for the first time began to feel a certain envy of
him.
This feeling rapidly increased. The scholars were often given some of
Ghirlandajo's own studies to copy, and one day Michael Angelo brought
the artist one of the studies which he had himself corrected by adding a
few thick lines. Beyond all doubt the picture was improved. It was hard,
however, for the master to be corrected by his own apprentice, and soon
after that the boy's stay in the studio came to an end. Fortunately his
friend Granacci had already interested the great patron, Lorenzo de'
Medici, in the young Buonarotti and he was now invited to join the band
of youths of talent who made the Medici's palace their home.
In Lorenzo's palace young Michael Angelo was very happy. He was fond of
the Medici's sons, boys nearly his own age; like almost all the rest of
Florence he worshiped the citizen-prince whose one desire seemed to be
that Florence should be beautiful; and he was happiest of all in the
chance to study his own beloved art.
In May of each year Lorenzo gave a pageant, and the spring in which
Michael Angelo came to the palace Lorenzo placed the carnival in charge
of the boy's friend, Francesco Granacci. Day by day the boys planned for
the great procession. At noon they were free from their teachers, and
then they would scatter to the gardens.
One such May noon, when the sun was hot, a group of them ran out from
the palace, and threw themselves on the grass in the shade of a row of
poplars. They were all absorbed in the one subject; their tongues could
scarcely keep pace with their nimble fancies.
"What shalt thou go as, Paolo?" said one. "I heard Messer Lorenzo say
that thou shouldst be something marvelously fine; but what can be so
fine as Romulus in a Roman triumph?"
"I am to be the thrice-gifted Apollo, dressed as your Athenians saw him,
with harp and bow, and the crown of laurel on my head. That will be a
sight for thee, Ludovico mio, and for the pretty eyes of thy Bianca
also." Paolo laughed as one who well knew the value of his yellow locks
and blue eyes in a land of brown and black. "What art thou to be in
Messer Lorenzo's coming pageant, Michael?"
The young Michael, a slim, black-haired youth, was lying on his back,
his head resting in his hands, his eyes watching the circling flight of
some pigeons.
"I?" he said dreamily. "Oh, I have given little thought to that, I shall
be whatever Francesco wishes; he knows what is needed better than any
one else."
As he spoke a tall youth came into the garden and sat down in the middle
of the group. He had curious, smiling eyes, and hands that were fine and
pointed like a woman's. He answered all questions easily, telling each
what part he was to play in the triumphal procession of Paulus Æmilius
that was to dazzle the good people of Florence on the morrow. He had
become chief favorite in the little court of young people that the
Medici loved to have about him, and his remarkable talent for detail had
made him the leader in all entertainments.
The boy Michael listened for a time to the flowing words of young
Granacci, then rose and wandered to where some stone-masons had lately
been at work. He stopped in front of a block of marble that was
gradually taking the form of the mask of a faun.
Near the block stood an antique mask, a garden ornament, and this the
boy studied for a few moments before he picked up one of the mason's
deserted tools and began to cut the stone himself.
The gay chatter under the poplars went on, but the boy with the chisel,
lost in thought, his heavy brows bent into a bow, chipped and cut,
forgetful of everything else. A half hour passed, and a long shadow fell
across the marble. Michael looked up to see his patron, Lorenzo,
standing beside him. The boy glanced from the fine, keen face of the
Medici to the marble mask of the old faun in front of him.
"Well, sirrah," said Lorenzo, half seriously, half in jest, "what wilt
thou be up to next?"
"Jacopó, one of the builders, gave me a stone," answered the boy, "and
told me I might do what I would with it. Yonder is my copy, the old
figure there."
"But," said Lorenzo, critically, "your faun is old, and yet you have
given him all his teeth; you should have known in a face as aged as that
some of the teeth are wanting."
"True," said the young sculptor, and taking his chisel, with a few
strokes he made such a gap in the mouth as no master could have
improved.
The Medici watched, and when the change was made, broke into laughter.
"Right, boy!" he cried. "'Tis perfect; Praxiteles himself could not have
bettered that!" Then, with a quizzical smile, he looked the youth over.
"I knew thou wert a painter; and now a sculptor; what will thy clever
hand be doing next?"
"Bearing arms in your worship's cause, an' the saints be good!"
exclaimed the boy, his deep eyes, full of admiration, on his patron's
face.
"Ah," said Lorenzo, "so? Well, perhaps the day will come. Florence is
like a rose-bed, but I cannot cure the city as I would of thorns." He
fell into thought, then roused again. "But thou, young Michael Angelo,
dost know what a time I had to make thy father let thee be a painter,
and now thou addest to thy sins and cuttest in marble. Where will be the
end of thy infamy?"
The boy caught the gleam in his friend's eyes, and his serious face
broke into smiles.
"In Rome, Signor Lorenzo, in the Holy Father's house. There I shall go
some day."
"And why to Rome?"
"Every one goes to Rome; thy marvelous pageants are Roman; art lives
there."
"Yes," mused Lorenzo, "Rome on its hills is still the Eternal City. And
yet in those far days to come I doubt if thou wilt be as happy as in
Lorenzo's gardens. How sayest thou, boy?"
"I know not," was the answer. "Only I know that I shall go."
The laughter of the other boys came to their ears, and Lorenzo turned.
"Thy faun is done; to-morrow will I speak with Poliziano of our new
sculptor. What is Granacci saying over there? Come with me and listen."
So, the prince's arm resting affectionately on the boy's shoulder, they
crossed the garden to the noisy group.
Life was gay then in Florence. Lorenzo de' Medici was ruling the
turbulent city by keeping it occupied with merrymaking, by beautifying
its squares with priceless treasures, by helping its poor but ambitious
children to win their heart's desires, by mingling with the citizens at
all times, and writing them ballads to sing, and giving them masques to
act. His house was open to the great men of Italy; on his entertainments
he lavished his wealth, set no bounds to the means he gave Granacci and
the others to make the pageants gorgeous, and superintended everything
with his own wonderfully keen eye for beauty.
The triumphal procession of Paulus Æmilius on the morrow after the
little scene in the gardens was an all-day revel. The good folk of
Florence left their shops and homes and lined the streets, and for hours
floats drawn by prancing horses and picturing great scenes in Roman
history passed before the delighted people's eyes. Among the warriors,
the heroes, the nymphs and fauns, they recognized their neighbors'
children or their own sons and daughters; they were all parcel of it; it
was their own triumph as well as Rome's. Girls sang and danced and
smiled, boys posed and cheered and played heroic parts, the whole youth
of the city spent the day in fairy-land.
Chief among the boys was the little group of artists who were studying
in Lorenzo's mansion, and chief among these Granacci, who was Master of
the Revels, Paolo Tornabuoni, who made a wonderful Apollo, seated on a
golden globe playing upon a lyre, and the dark-browed Michael Angelo,
clad in a tunic, one of the noble youth of early Rome. His father,
Ludovico Buonarotti, and his mother, Francesca, were in the crowd that
watched him pass.
"Yonder he goes," cried the proud mother; "dost see thy son, Ludovico?"
But her husband scowled; he had little use for a son of his who had
rather be painter than merchant.
A year of happiness passed for the boys in the Medici gardens, and then
the skies of Florence darkened. A monk from San Marco named Savonarola
raised his voice to shame the gay people of their extravagance, and his
bitter tongue sought out Lorenzo the Magnificent as chief offender. The
boy Michael Angelo went to hear Savonarola preach, and came away heavy
of mind and heart. He heard the beautiful things of the world assailed
as sinful, and his beloved master called a servant of the Evil One. A
winter of reproach came upon the city, and when it ended, and Lent was
over, darkness fell, for Lorenzo lay dead at his summer home of Careggi,
in 1492--the year when Columbus discovered America.
For a long time Michael Angelo, stunned by his patron's loss, could do
no work, and when at last he found the heart to take up his brush and
palette it was no longer in the great house of the Medici, but in a
little room he had arranged for himself as a studio under his father's
roof.
He was not long left to work there in peace; the three sons of Lorenzo,
boys of nearly his own age, who had been playmates with him in the
gardens, and had studied with him under the same masters, needed his
help. The great Medici had said, long before, that of his three sons one
was good, one clever, and the third a fool. Giulio, now thirteen years
old, was the good one; Giovanni, seventeen years old, already a Prince
Cardinal of the Church, was the clever one, and Piero, the oldest, now
head of the family in Florence, was the fool.
The storm raised by Savonarola was ready to break about Piero de'
Medici's head, and such friends as were still faithful to him he
gathered about him at his house. Michael Angelo, his old playmate, was
among the number, and so he again moved to the palace. For a brief time
they sought to win back the favor of the people by a return to the
old-time magnificence.
With no wise head to guide, the youths were soon in sore straits. Their
love of art, their study of the poets, their attempt to revive the
history of Greece and Rome were all scorned and mocked at as so much
wanton dissipation. The boys drew closer together; the fate of their
house hung trembling in the balance.
Then one morning a young lute-player named Cardiere came to Michael
Angelo and, drawing him aside from the others, told him that in a dream
the night before, Lorenzo had appeared to him, robed in torn black
garments, and in deep, melancholy tones had ordered him to tell Piero,
his son, that he would soon be driven out from Florence, never to
return. Michael Angelo told the musician to tell Piero, but the latter
was too frightened to obey.
A few days later he came again to Michael Angelo, this time pale and
shaking with fear, and said that Lorenzo had appeared to him a second
time, had repeated what he had said to him before, and had threatened
him with dire punishment if he dared again to disobey his strict
command.
Alarmed at the news Michael Angelo spoke his mind to Cardiere and bade
him set off at once to see Piero, who was at Careggi, and give him his
father's warning. Cardiere, half-way to Careggi, met Piero and some
friends riding in toward Florence. The minstrel stopped their way and
besought Piero to hear his story. The young Medici bade him speak, but
when he had heard the warning he laughed, and his friends laughed with
him.
Bibbiena, one of Piero's closest friends, and later to be the subject
of one of Raphael's masterpieces, cried aloud in scorn to Cardiere:
"Fool! Dost think that Lorenzo gives thee such honor before his own son
that he would thus appear to thee rather than to Piero?" With laughter
at Cardiere's crestfallen face the gay troop rode on, and the poor
messenger of evil tidings returned slowly with his news to Michael
Angelo.
By now the boy sculptor was thoroughly alarmed. Like almost every one
else of that age he believed in portents and visions; he therefore took
Cardiere's story to heart, and in addition he could see for himself that
the foolish, headstrong Piero was taking no steps to turn the growing
discontent. He hated to leave his friends, but knew that they would pay
no heed to his warnings. So, after much hesitation, he decided, with two
comrades of about his own age, to go to Venice and seek work in that
quieter city.
Ordinarily it would have taken the three boys about a week to ride from
Florence to Venice, but at that time French troops were scattered
through the country, and they had to follow a roundabout course to reach
the city by the sea. They had very little money, and had gone only a
short distance when this small amount was exhausted. By that time they
had reached the city of Bologna, and there they turned aside.
Like most of the Italian cities Bologna tried to keep itself
independent, and to this end the ruling family had made a strange law
with regard to foreigners. Every stranger entering the city gates had to
present himself before the governor and receive from him a seal of red
wax on the thumb. If a stranger neglected to do this, he was liable to
be thrown into prison and fined.
The boy Michael Angelo and his two friends knew nothing of this odd law,
and entered the city gaily, without having the necessary wax on their
thumbs. As soon as this was noticed they were seized, taken before a
judge, and sentenced to pay six hundred and fifty lire. They had not
that much money between them, and so for a short time were placed under
lock and key.
Fortunately news of the boys' arrest came to a nobleman of the city who
was much interested in art and who had already heard of Michael Angelo's
ability. He at once had the boys set free, and invited Michael Angelo to
visit him at his home. But Michael did not wish to leave his friends,
and felt that it would be an imposition for the three of them to accept
the invitation.
When he spoke in this fashion to the nobleman the latter was very much
amused. "Ah, well," said he, "if things stand so I must beg of you to
take me also with your two friends to roam about the world at your
expense." The joke showed the boy the absurd side of the matter. He gave
his friends the little money he had left, said good-bye to them, and
accepted the invitation to stay in Bologna.
A very short time after, Piero de' Medici, driven from Florence by an
angry people, came to Bologna and met his old friend of Lorenzo's
gardens. For a short time the boys were together, then the young Medici
set out to seek aid from other cities, in an attempt to rebuild his
family fortunes.
Meanwhile the nobleman who had offered Michael Angelo a home was
delighted with his young friend. He found him keenly interested in Dante
and Petrarch, and equally gifted as a sculptor and painter. He gave him
work to do in the Church of San Petronio, and Michael did so well there
that the artists of Bologna grew jealous of him, and at the end of the
year forced him to leave the city.
Then the boy artist went back to his home, only to find it changed
unspeakably. Florence, that had been a city of delight, was now a city
of dread. Savonarola held the people's ear, and had taught them to
destroy what Lorenzo had led them to love. The monks of San Marco made
bonfires of their paintings, priceless manuscripts had met with the same
fate, and Lorenzo's house had been robbed of all its sculpture. The
gardens were strewn with broken statues that had once been Michael
Angelo's delight. He walked through them sadly, and realized that he
alone was left of that group who had found so much happiness there only
a few years before. The words that he had spoken to Lorenzo on the day
he chiseled the faun came back to him, "To Rome I shall go some day,"
and thither he now set his face.
Thereafter the Eternal City claimed Michael Angelo. Cardinal after
cardinal, pope after pope, employed his marvelous genius to beautify the
capital of the world. As he had said, he found work to do in the Holy
Father's house. Whatever else they might do, the Italians of that age
worshiped art, and there were two stars in their sky, Raphael and
Michael Angelo.
Again Fate's wheel turned, and at last Michael Angelo returned to
Florence, loaded with honors, this time again the guest of a Medici,
Giulio, the playmate of his youth, ruling as autocrat where his father
had ruled as a mere citizen. A little later, and the shrewdest of the
three boys, Giovanni, became Pope Leo X.
As men the friends of boyhood differed, but they were alike in their
devotion to Florence and the things they had learned in her school years
before. At the height of his power Michael Angelo turned his hand to the
Medici Chapel and built there lasting monuments to their glory and his
genius, a wonderful return for the rare days of his boyhood in their
gardens.
III
Walter Raleigh
The Boy of Devon: 1552-1618
Summer was over England, and the county of Devon, running down to
Cornwall between two seas, was painted in bright hues. The downs were
softly carpeted with purple and yellow gorse and heather that made a
wonderful soft mist as one looked across the fields. Low hills,
brilliant green ridges against the sky, ran inland from the sea, and in
the little hollows here and there nestled small straw-thatched cottages
with shining white walls, or the more pretentious Tudor farmhouses with
red or brown roofs, and much half-timbered decoration.
The Devon winters were long, with heavy snow, and men had to build so
that they might have all possible protection from the winds that swept
across the open upland country. So they built down in the valleys and in
the long low inlets from the sea that were called combes, and as a
result one might stand on the high moors looking across country, and
never know there was a house within a mile. It is a country full of
surprises.
On a fine morning when Devon was looking its best, a boy came out of a
dwelling that was half farmhouse, half manor-house, and that lay in a
cup of low hills on the edge of a tract of moorland. The house belonged
to a man named Walter Raleigh, of Fardell, a gentleman of good family
whose fortunes had sunk to a low ebb. It was one-storied, with thatched
roof, gabled wings, and a projecting central porch. Here lived Mr.
Raleigh of Fardell with his wife Katherine, four sons and a daughter. It
was a large family for such a small estate, and already the father was
wondering what would happen to the younger boys when the little property
should have descended, according to the law of the land, to the oldest
son.
It was the boy Walter, youngest of the sons, who had come out of the
house, and stood looking about him. He was a good-looking fellow, with
fair hair, blue eyes, and the ruddy English skin. It did not take him
long to decide which way to go this morning. He made straight for an oak
wood that lay before the house, and followed a little path that led
through it. Two miles and a half through the wood lay Budleigh Salterton
Bay, and Walter liked that best of all the places near his home.
He passed the oaks and came out into open country. Here, where the gorse
made a soft carpet on the ground, the salt of the sea blew freshly in to
him. He gave a great shout, and pulling off his cap, ran as fast as he
could, down to the shore of the bay. A few boats swung at anchor there,
and an old man sat on the beach, mending a fishing net.
The boy swept the sea with his eyes from point to point of the bay,
looked longingly at the boats, then walked over to the old mariner.
"Good-morning, gaffer," said he. "It's a fine sailing breeze out on the
bay."
"And good-morning to ye, Master Walter," said the old man, glancing up
from his nets. "A fine breeze it be, an' more's the pity when there's
work to be done on shore."
"So say I," said the boy, throwing himself down on the sand by the
sailor. "I'd dearly like to sail across to France to-day."
"How comes it you're not to school?" asked the man.
"School's done. Next month I go to Oxford, to Oriel College. Methinks
'tis a great shame to spend one's time studying when there's so much
else to be done in the world. The only books I like are those that tell
of far-away lands and adventures and such things. But to Oxford I must
go, says father, like a gentleman's son, and so I suppose I must."
He lay out on the sand, his head resting in his hands, his eyes gazing
up to the sky. "Tell me, gaffer, if you had your choice of the two,
would you rather be a sailor, or a gentleman of the court, and live at
London, near Queen Elizabeth?"
The man laughed. "I a courtier!" he cried. "I'd die of fright most like.
I've never been to London town, but they say it's a terrible place!"
"Would you rather sail out to the west,--to the Indies, or perhaps to
Guiana?" asked Walter.
The man nodded. "The savages be'nt so terrifyin' to a sailor as the folk
o' London town."
"And in London they might throw you into the Tower," mused Walter.
"You're right, gaffer. 'Tis better to be free, and your own man, even if
'tis only among savages. Think you England will be at war soon?"
The sailor looked up from his net, and glanced out across the bay. "I
figure you'll live long enough to do some fightin', lad. Them Spanish
dons be plannin' for to sweep the seas of Englishmen."
Walter sat up, and followed the man's gaze out to sea. "That they'll
never do," said he, "as long as there are Devon men to build a boat and
man it. But if there is a war I'm going to it, aye, as certain as we two
be sitting here in Budleigh Bay."
"War's a fearsome thing, lad," said the sailor. "I've fought the pirates
in the south, and I've seen sights would turn a man's hair gray in a
night. 'Tis no holiday work to fight across your decks."
"Tell me about it," begged the boy, sitting up and clasping his knees in
his hands. "I love to hear of fights and strange adventures."
So, while the sailor worked over his net he talked of his wanderings, of
his cruises, of his battles, of his flights, and the boy, his eyes wide
with admiration, drank in the yarns. Mariner never found a better
audience than this small boy of the Devon coast.
It was long past noon when the sailor and Walter left the beach. The boy
went back through the wood to the house, and made his lunch in the
pantry off of bread and cheese. The family were used to Walter's
wanderings, and never waited for him. Now, in his holiday time, he was
free to go where he would.
[Illustration: WALTER RALEIGH AND THE FISHERMAN OF DEVON]
Mr. Raleigh of Fardell wanted all his sons brought up as the sons of a
gentleman should be, and so, although he was quite poor, he managed to
send Walter that autumn to the University of Oxford. Walter was only
fifteen, but boys went to college at that age in those days.
Oxford in 1567 was something like the Eton of to-day. There were not
many college buildings, and the students in cap and gown looked quite as
young as schoolboys do now. Oriel College was near the broad Christ
Church meadows that led down to the river, and from there Walter could
look across to the fields where the boys practiced their favorite sport
of archery, to the silver thread of the little river as it wound in and
out among the trees, and across it to the park where a herd of deer
roamed free.
The Oxford country, inland and not far from the centre of England, was
very different from his beloved Devonshire. Here there were many
gentlemen's parks, with well-kept lawns and gardens, lots of small
woods, and meadows broken now and again by little sparkling brooks.
Everything was very neat and beautifully cared for. But in Devon was the
wide sweep of the high moorlands, the herds of grazing ponies, the
glorious carpet of the heather, the salt smell of the sea.
Often the boy was homesick for that more barren country, and that shore
from which he loved to watch the sails, and very often he was tempted to
leave Oriel and go out to seek his fortune by himself. He did not give
in to the desire, however. He stayed on for three years, holding his
own in his studies, and winning the reputation of a good speaker.
Walter's chance for adventure came full soon. His mother's family, the
Champernouns, were related to the French Huguenot house of Montgomerie.
The Catholics and the Huguenots were at war in France, and Walter's
cousin Henry obtained permission of Queen Elizabeth to raise a troop of
a hundred gentlemen in England to fight with him in France. He asked
Raleigh at Oriel to join him, and the boy eagerly accepted. So he left
Oxford, and with a number of others of good family, many scarcely older
than himself, he crossed the Channel and entered France.
The moment was not a good one. The Huguenots had just lost the battle of
Moncontour, and a little time after their great chief, the Prince of
Condé, fell at Jarnac. But the small band of English gentlemen
adventurers was not at all cast down. The Huguenot cause did not mean a
great deal to them, and they speedily consoled themselves for Condé's
loss.
When they actually took the field they found the warfare a very
irregular sort of fighting, a sudden swoop down upon the Catholics in
some ill-defended town, a quick retreat at the approach of regular
troops, an occasional short skirmish in the open. Walter was sent into
Languedoc, and joined in the chase of Catholics through the hills.