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- Herausgeber: Krill Press
- Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016
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THE BOBBIN BOY: OR, HOW NAT GOT HIS LEARNING
William Makepeace Thayer
DOSSIER PRESS
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Copyright © 2016 by William Makepeace Thayer
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Distribution by Pronoun
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.: A GOOD BEGINNING.
CHAPTER II.: UPWARD AND ONWARD.
CHAPTER III.: SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
CHAPTER IV.: THE WILD CHERRIES
CHAPTER V.: ATHLETIC SPORTS.
CHAPTER VI.: A MISTAKE.
CHAPTER VII.: PROSPECT HILL.
CHAPTER VIII.: THE END OF SCHOOL-DAYS.
CHAPTER IX.: OPENING THE SUBJECT.
CHAPTER X.: THE NEW CALL.
CHAPTER XI.: THE LOFTY STUDY.
CHAPTER XII.: THE DEDICATION.
CHAPTER XIII.: A SCHOOL SCENE.
CHAPTER XIV.: TAKING SIDES.
CHAPTER XV.: THREE IMPORTANT EVENTS.
CHAPTER XVI.: FINDING A LOST OPPORTUNITY.
CHAPTER XVII.: THE PURCHASE.
CHAPTER XVIII.: THE DEBATING SOCIETY.
CHAPTER XIX.: COMING AND GOING.
CHAPTER XX.: GOSSIP.
CHAPTER XXI.: GOING TO THE THEATRE.
CHAPTER XXII.: THE DRAMATIC SOCIETY.
CHAPTER XXIII.: THE SURPRISE.
CHAPTER XXIV.: ANOTHER STEP.
CHAPTER XXV.: EULOGY BY JOHN QUINCY ADAMS.
CHAPTER XXVI.: THE TEMPERANCE SOCIETY.
CHAPTER XXVII.: THE TEMPERANCE LECTURE.
CHAPTER XXVIII.: SPEECH-MAKING.
CHAPTER XXIX.: THE EARLY VICTIM
CHAPTER XXX: THE END.
The Bobbin Boy: or, How Nat Got His learning
By
William Makepeace Thayer
The Bobbin Boy: or, How Nat Got His learning
Published by Dossier Press
New York City, NY
First published circa 1863
Copyright © Dossier Press, 2015
All rights reserved
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CHAPTER I.: A GOOD BEGINNING.
A LITTLE PATCH OF GROUND enclosed by a fence, a few adjacent trees, Nat with his hoe in hand, his father giving directions, on one of the brightest May mornings that was ever greeted by the carol of birds, are the scenes that open to our view.
“There, Nat, if you plant and hoe your squashes with care, you will raise a nice parcel of them on this piece of ground. It is good soil for squashes.”
“How many seeds shall I put into a hill?” inquired Nat.
“Seven or eight. It is well to put in enough, as some of them may not come up, and when they get to growing well, pull up all but four in a hill. You must not have your hills too near together,—they should be five feet apart, and then the vines will cover the ground all over. I should think there would be room for fifty hills on this patch of ground.”
“How many squashes do you think I shall raise, father?”
“Well,” said his father, smiling, “that is hard telling. We won’t count the chickens before they are hatched. But if you are industrious, and take very good care indeed of your vines, stir the ground often and keep out all the weeds, and kill the bugs, I have little doubt that you will get well paid for your labor.”
“If I have fifty hills,” said Nat, “and four vines in each hill, I shall have two hundred vines in all; and if there is one squash on each vine, there will be two hundred squashes.”
“Yes; but there are so many ifs about it that you may be disappointed after all. Perhaps the bugs will destroy half your vines.”
“I can kill the bugs,” said Nat.
“Perhaps dry weather will wither them all up.”
“I can water them every day if they need it.”
“That is certainly having good courage, Nat,” added his father, “but if you conquer the bugs, and get around the dry weather, it may be too wet and blast your vines, or there may be such a hail storm as I have known several times in my life, and cut them to pieces.”
“I don’t think there will be such a hail storm this year; there never was one like it since I can remember.”
“I hope there won’t be,” replied his father. “It is well to look on the bright side, and hope for the best for it keeps the courage up. It is also well to look out for disappointment. I know a gentleman who thought he would raise some ducks. So he obtained a dozen eggs, and put them under a hen, and then he hired a man, to make a small artificial pond in his garden, which he could fill from his well, for the young ducks to swim in. The time came for the ducks to appear, but not one of the eggs hatched, and it caused much merriment among the neighbors, and the man has never heard the last of counting ducks before they are hatched. I have heard people in the streets and stores say, when some one was undertaking a doubtful enterprise, ‘he is counting ducks.’ Now, possibly, your squashes may turn out like the gentleman’s ducks, though I do not really think it will be so. I speak of it that you may think of these things.”
A sly sort of smile played over Nat’s expressive countenance at this mention of the ducks, but it did not shake his confidence in the art of raising squashes. He had become a thorough believer in squashes,—they were now a part of his creed. He could see them on the vines before the seeds were planted. Some of them were very large,—as big as a water-pail, and his glowing imagination set him to work already, rolling them into a wheelbarrow. He cared little for the bugs, though they should come in a great army, he could conquer them, infantry, artillery, and all.
This scene was enacted about thirty-five years ago, not a thousand miles from Boston, when Nat was about ten years old, a bright, active, energetic, efficient, hopeful little fellow. His father gave him the use of a piece of ground for raising squashes, and the boy was to have the proceeds of the crop with which to line his new purse. Nat was wont to look on the bright side of things, and it was generally fair weather with him. For this reason, he expected a good crop of squashes, notwithstanding his father’s adverse hints. It was fortunate for him that he was so hopeful, for it inspired him with zeal and earnestness, and made him more successful than he otherwise would have been. All hopeful persons are not successful, but nearly all the successful ones, in the various callings of life, were hopeful from the beginning. This was true of Nathaniel Bowditch, the great mathematician, who was a poor boy when he commenced his studies. He said that whenever he undertook any thing “it never occurred to him for a moment that he could fail.” This quality thus encouraged him to press on from one success to another. Hence, in later life, his counsel to youth was, “Never undertake any thing but with the feeling that you can and will do it. With that feeling success is certain, and without it failure is unavoidable.” He once said that it had been an invariable rule with him, “to do one thing at a time, and to finish whatever he began.” The same was true of Sir Humphrey Davy. His biographer says that he never made any provision for failures, “that he undertook every experiment as if success were certain.” This put life and soul into his acts; for when a man believes that he shall certainly succeed in a given work, his success is half secured. Grave doubts about it diminish energy, and relax the force of the will. Buxton, the distinguished English philanthropist, is another example of this quality. He was just as confident that his efforts in behalf of the oppressed would succeed, as he was of his own existence. He knew that God and truth were on his side, and therefore he expected to triumph,—and he did. We shall see that Nat was often helped by his hopefulness.
It was a happy day to Nat when he saw his squashes coming forth to seek the genial light. Frank Martin was with him when the discovery was made, and it brightened Nat’s hope considerably, if it be possible to make a bright thing brighter.
“Here, Frank, they are coming. There is one—two—three—”
“Sure enough,” answered Frank, “they will all show themselves soon. You will raise a lot of squashes on this patch of ground. You will have to drive a team to Boston market to carry them, likely as not.”
“I hardly think father expects to see any squashes of my raising,” said Nat.
“Why not?” inquired Frank.
“Oh, he is expecting the bugs will eat them up, or that it will be too wet or too dry, or that a hail storm will cut them to pieces, or something else will destroy them; I hardly know what.”
“You will fare as well as other folks, I guess,” added Frank. “If anybody has squashes this year, you will have them; I am certain of that. But it will take most of your time out of school to hoe them, and keep the weeds out.”
“I don’t care for that, though I think I can take care of them mornings by getting up early, and then I can play after school.”
“Then you mean to play some yet?”
“Of course I do. I shouldn’t be a boy if I didn’t play, though father says I shouldn’t believe in all play and no work.”
“You don’t. If you work in the morning and play at night, that is believing in both, and I think it is about fair.”
“Ben Drake was along here when I was planting my squashes,” said Nat, “and he told me that I was a fool to worry myself over a lot of squash vines, and have no time to play. He said he wouldn’t do it for a cart-load of squashes.”
“And what did you tell him?” asked Frank.
“I told him that father thought it was better for boys to work some, and form the habit of being industrious, and learn how to do things; for then they would be more successful when they became men.”
“What did Ben say to that?”
“‘Just like an old man!’ he said. ‘It is time enough to work when we get to be men. I should like to see myself taking care of a garden when the other boys are playing.’ By this time,” continued Nat, “I thought I would put in a word, so I told him that it would be good for him to work part of the time, and I had heard a number of people say so. He was quite angry at this, and said, ‘it was nobody’s business, he should work when he pleased.’ ‘So shall I,’ I replied, ‘and I please to work on these squashes part of my time, whether Ben Drake thinks well of it or not.’”
We shall see hereafter what kind of a boy this Ben was (everybody called him Ben instead of Benjamin), and what kind of a man he made.
Nat expressed his opinion rather bluntly, although he was not a forward, unmannerly boy. But he usually had an opinion of his own, and was rather distinguished for “thinking (as a person said of him since) on his own hook.” When he was only four years old, and was learning to read little words of two letters, he came across one about which he had quite a dispute with his teacher. It was INN.
“What is that?” asked his teacher.
“I-double n,” he answered.
“What does i-double n spell?”
“Tavern,” was his quick reply.
The teacher smiled, and said, “No; it spells INN. Now read it again.”
“I-double n—tavern,” said he.
“I told you that it did not spell tavern, it spells INN. Now pronounce it correctly.”
“It do spell tavern,” said he.
The teacher was finally obliged to give it up, and let him enjoy his own opinion. She probably called him obstinate, although there was nothing of the kind about him, as we shall see. His mother took up the matter at home, but failed to convince him that i-double n did not spell tavern. It was not until some time after, that he changed his opinion on this important subject.
That this incident was no evidence of obstinacy in Nat, but only of a disposition to think “on his own hook,” is evident from the following circumstances. There was a picture of a public-house in his book against the word INN, with the old-fashioned sign-post in front, on which a sign was swinging. Near his father’s, also, stood a public-house, which everybody called a tavern, with a tall post and sign in front of it, exactly like that in his book; and Nat said within himself, if Mr. Morse’s house (the landlord) is a tavern, then this is a tavern in my book. He cared little how it was spelled; if it did not spell tavern, “it ought to,” he thought. Children believe what they see, more than what they hear. What they lack in reason and judgment, they make up in eyes. So Nat had seen the tavern near his father’s house, again and again, and he had stopped to look at the sign in front of it a great many times, and his eyes told him it was just like that in the book; therefore it was his deliberate opinion that i-double n spelt tavern, and he was not to be beaten out of an opinion that was based on such clear evidence. It was a good sign in Nat. It is a characteristic of nearly every person who lives to make a mark upon the world. It was true of the three men, to whom we have just referred, Bowditch, Davy, and Buxton. From their childhood they thought for themselves, so that when they became men, they defended their opinions against imposing opposition. True, a youth must not be too forward in advancing his ideas, especially if they do not harmonize with those of older persons. Self-esteem and self-confidence should be guarded against. Still, in avoiding these evils, he is not obliged to believe any thing just because he is told so. It is better for him to understand the reason of things, and believe them on that account.
But to return to Ben Drake. To Nat’s last remark he replied, endeavoring to ridicule him for undertaking an enterprise on so small a scale,
“If I was going to work at all, I wouldn’t putter over a few hills of squashes, I can tell you. It is too small business. I’d do something or nothing.”
“What great thing would you do? asked Nat.
“I would go into a store, and sell goods to ladies and gentlemen, and wear nice clothes.”
“And be nothing but a waiter to everybody for awhile. Fred Jarvis is only an errand-boy in Boston.”
“I know that, but I wouldn’t be a waiter for anybody, and do the sweeping, making fires and carrying bundles; I don’t believe in ‘nigger’s’ work, though I think that is better than raising squashes.”
“I don’t think it is small business at all to do what Fred Jarvis is doing, or to raise squashes,” replied Nat. “I didn’t speak of Fred because I thought he was doing something beneath him. I think that ‘niggers’ work is better than laziness;” and the last sentence was uttered in a way that seemed rather personal to Ben.
“Well,” said Ben, as he cut short the conversation and hurried away, “if you wish to be a bug-killer this summer, you may for all me, I shan’t.”
Ben belonged to a class of boys who think it is beneath their dignity to do some necessary and useful work. To carry bundles, work in a factory, be nothing but a farmer’s boy, or draw a hand-cart, is a compromise of dignity, they think. Nat belonged to another class, who despise all such ridiculous notions. He was willing to do any thing that was necessary, though some people might think it was degrading. He did not feel above useful employment, on the farm, or in the workshop and factory. And this quality was a great help to him. For it is cousin to that hopefulness which he possessed, and brother to his self-reliance and independence. No man ever accomplished much who was afraid of doing work beneath his dignity. Dr. Franklin was nothing but a soap-boiler when he commenced; Roger Sherman was only a cobbler, and kept a book by his side on the bench; Ben Jonson was a mason and worked at his trade, with a trowel in one hand and a book in the other; John Hunter, the celebrated physiologist, was once a carpenter, working at day labor; John Foster was a weaver in his early life, and so was Dr. Livingstone, the missionary traveller; an American President was a hewer of wood in his youth, and hence he replied to a person who asked him what was his coat of arms, “A pair of shirt sleeves;” Washington was a farmer’s boy, not ashamed to dirty his hands in cultivating the soil; John Opie, the renowned English portrait painter, sawed wood for a living before he became professor of painting in the Royal Academy; and hundreds of other distinguished men commenced their career in business no more respectable; but not one of them felt that dignity was compromised by their humble vocation. They believed that honor crowned all the various branches of industry, however discreditable they might appear to some, and that disgrace would eventually attach to any one who did not act well his part in the most popular pursuit. Like them, Nat was never troubled with mortification on account of his poverty, or the humble work he was called upon to do. His sympathies were rather inclined in the other direction, and, other things being equal, the sons of the poor and humble were full as likely to share his attentions.
We are obliged to pass over much that belongs to the patch of squashes—the many hours of hard toil that it cost Nat to bring the plants to maturity,—the two-weeks’ battle with the bugs when he showed himself a thorough Napoleon to conquer the enemy,—the spicy compliments he received for his industry and success in gardening,—the patient waiting for the rain-drops to fall in dry weather, and for the sun to shine forth in his glory when it was too wet,—the intimate acquaintance he cultivated with every squash, knowing just their number and size,—and many other things that show the boy.
The harvest day arrived,—the squashes were ripe,—and a fine parcel of them there was. Nat was satisfied with the fruit of his labor, as he gathered them for the market.
“What a pile of them!” exclaimed Frank, as he came over to see the squashes after school. “You are a capital gardener, Nat; I don’t believe there is a finer lot of squashes in town.”
“Father says the bugs and dry weather couldn’t hold out against my perseverance,” added Nat, laughing. “But the next thing is to sell them.”
“Are you going to carry them to Boston?” asked Frank.
“No; I shall sell them in the village. Next Saturday afternoon I shall try my luck.”
“You will turn peddler then?”
“Yes; but I don’t think I shall like it so well as raising the squashes. There is real satisfaction in seeing them grow.”
“If you can peddle as well as you can garden it, you will make a real good hand at it; and such handsome squashes as those ought to go off like hot cakes.”
Saturday afternoon came, and Nat started with his little cart full of squashes. He was obliged to be his own horse, driver, and salesman, in which threefold capacity he served with considerable ability.
“Can I sell you some squashes to-day?” said Nat to the first neighbor on whom he called.
“Squashes! where did you find such fine squashes as those?” asked the neighbor, coming up to the cart, and viewing the contents.
“I raised them,” said Nat; “and I have a good many more at home.”
“What! did you plant and hoe them, and take the whole care of them?”
“Yes, sir; no one else struck a hoe into them, and I am to have all the money they bring.”
“You deserve it, Nat, every cent of it. I declare, you beat me completely; for the bugs eat mine all up, so that I did not raise a decent squash. How did you keep the bugs off?”
“I killed thousands of them,” said Nat. “In the morning before I went to school I looked over the vines; when I came home at noon I spent a few moments in killing them, and again at night I did the same. They troubled me only about two weeks.”
“Well, they troubled me only two weeks,” replied the neighbor, “and by that time there was nothing left for them to trouble. But very few boys like to work well enough to do what you have done, and very few have the patience to do it either. With most of the boys it is all play and no work. But what do you ask for your squashes?”
Nat proceeded to answer: “That one is worth six cents; such a one as that eight; that is ten; and a big one like that (holding up the largest) is fifteen.”
The neighbor expressed his approval of the prices, and bought a number of them, for which he paid him the money. Nat went on with his peddling tour, calling at every house in his way; and he met with very good success. Just as he turned the corner of a street on the north side of the common, Ben Drake discovered him, and shouted, “Hurrah for the squash-peddler! That is tall business, Nat; don’t you feel grand? What will you take for your horse?”
Nat made no reply, but hastened on to the next house where he disposed of all the squashes that he carried but two. He soon sold them, and returned home to tell the story of his first peddling trip. Once or twice afterwards he went on the same errand, and succeeded very well. But he became weary of the business, for some reason, before he sold all the squashes, and he hit upon this expedient to finish the work.
“Sis,” said he to a sister younger than himself, “I will give you one of my pictures for every squash you will sell. You can carry three or four at a time easy enough.”
Sis accepted the proposition with a good deal of pleasure; for she was fond of drawings, and Nat had some very pretty ones. He possessed a natural taste for drawing, and he had quite a collection of birds, beasts, houses, trees, and other objects, drawn and laid away carefully in a box. For a boy of his age, he was really quite an artist. His squashes were not better than his drawings. His patience, perseverance, industry, and self-reliance, made him successful both as a gardener and artist.
In a few days, “Sis” had sold the last squash, and received her pay, according to the agreement. The sequel will show that peddling squashes was the only enterprise which Nat undertook and failed to carry through. His failure there is quite unaccountable, when you connect it with every other part of his life.
Hurrah for the squash-peddler
We are reminded that many men of mark commenced their career by peddling. The great English merchant, Samuel Budgett, when he was about ten years old, went out into the streets to sell a bird, in order that he might get some funds to aid his poor mother. The first money that Dr. Kitto obtained was the proceeds of the sale of labels, which he made and peddled from shop to shop. One of the wealthiest men we know, a Christian man distinguished for his large benevolence, commenced his mercantile career by peddling goods that he carried in a band-box from one milliner’s shop to another. “You must creep before you can walk,” is an old maxim, and the lives of all distinguished men verify the proverb. He who creeps well, will walk so much the better by and by; but he who is ashamed to creep, must never expect to walk. We know a successful merchant who commenced the work of an errand-boy in a large mercantile house, when he was about twelve years old. He was not mortified to be caught with a bundle in hand in the street, nor to be seen sweeping the store. Not feeling above his business, he discharged his duties as well as he could. When he swept he swept,—every nook and corner was thoroughly cleaned out. When he carried a bundle, he carried it,—nimbly, manfully, promptly, and politely he went and delivered it. He performed these little things so well that he was soon promoted to a more important post. Here, too, he was equally faithful and thorough, and his employers saw that he possessed just the qualities to insure success. They promoted him again; and before he was twenty years old he was the head clerk of the establishment. He was not much past his majority when he was admitted as a partner to the firm; and now he stands at the head of the well-known house, a man of affluence, intelligence, and distinction. Had he been ashamed to carry a bundle or sweep a store when he was a boy, by this time his friends would have had abundant reason to be ashamed of him.
This chapter of Nat’s early experience in squash culture, was quite unimportant at the time. It is still only a memorial of boyish days; but it was a good beginning. It shows as clearly as the most distinguished service he afterwards rendered to his fellow men, that hopefulness, industry, perseverance, economy of time, self-reliance, and other valuable traits, were elements of his character.
CHAPTER II.: UPWARD AND ONWARD.
IT WAS WINTER,—ABOUT THREE MONTHS after the sale of the squashes. The district school was in progress, and a male teacher presided over it.
“Scholars,” said the teacher one day, “it is both pleasant and profitable to have an occasional declamation and dialogue spoken in school. It will add interest, also, to our spelling-school exercises in the evening. Now who would like to participate in these exercises?”
Nat was on his feet in a moment; for he was always ready to declaim, or perform his part of a dialogue. The teacher smiled to see such a little fellow respond so readily, and he said to Nat,
“Did you ever speak a piece?”
“Yes, sir, a good many times.”
“Do you like to declaim?”
“Yes, sir, and speak dialogues too.”
“What piece did you ever speak?”
“‘My voice is still for war,’” replied Nat.
“A great many boys have spoken that,” added the teacher, amused at Nat’s hearty approval of the plan.
“Will you select a piece to-night, and show it to me to-morrow morning?” he asked.
“Yes, sir; and learn it too,” answered Nat.
Only four or five scholars responded to the teacher’s proposition, and Frank Martin was one, Nat’s “right hand man” in all studies and games. The teacher arranged with each one for a piece, and the school was dismissed. As soon as school was out.
“Frank,” said Nat, “will you speak ‘Alexander the Great and a Robber’ with me?”
“Yes, if the teacher is willing. Which part will you take?”
“The ‘robber,’ if you are willing to be great Alexander.”
Frank agreed to the proposition, and as the dialogue was in Pierpont’s First Class Book, which was used in school, they turned to it, and showed it to the teacher before he left the school-house. It was arranged that they should speak it on the next day, provided they could commit it in so short a time.
“Going to speak a dialogue to-morrow,” said Nat to his mother, as he went into the house.
“What are you going to speak?”
“Alexander the Great and a Robber,” replied Nat. “And I shall be the robber, and Frank will be Alexander.”
“Why do you choose to be the robber?” inquired his mother. “I hope you have no inclination that way.”
“I like that part,” replied Nat, “because the robber shows that the king is as much of a robber as himself. The king looks down upon him with scorn, and calls him a robber; and then the robber tells the king that he has made war upon people, and robbed them of their property, homes, and wives and children, so that he is a worse robber than himself. The king hardly knows what to say, and the last thing the robber says to him is, ‘I believe neither you nor I shall ever atone to the world for half the mischief we have done it.’ Then the king orders his chains to be taken off, and says, ‘Are we then so much alike? Alexander like a robber?’”
“That is a very good reason, I think, for liking that part,” said his mother. “Many people do not stop to think that the great can be guilty of crimes. They honor a king or president whether he has any principle or not.”
“That is what I like to see exposed in the dialogue,” said Nat. “It is just as bad for a king to rob a person of all he has, in war, as it is for a robber to do it at midnight.”
Nat always felt strongly upon this point. He very early learned that rich men, and those occupying posts of honor, were thought more of by many people, whether they were deserving or not, and it seemed to him wrong. He thought that one good boy ought to stand just as high as another, though his parents were poor and humble, and that every man should bear the guilt of his own deeds whether he be king or servant. Out of this feeling grew his interest in the aforesaid dialogue, and he was willing to take the place of the robber for the sake of the pleasure of “showing up” the king. It was this kind of feeling that caused him to sympathize, even when a boy, with objects of distress and suffering,—to look with pity upon those who experienced misfortune, or suffered reproach unjustly. It was not strange that he became a professed Democrat in his youth, as we shall see; for how could such a democratic little fellow be other than a true Jeffersonian Democrat?
Nat’s part of the dialogue was committed on that evening before eight o’clock. He could commit a piece very quick, for he learned any thing easily. He could repeat many of the lessons of his reading book, word for word. His class had read them over a number of times, so that he could repeat them readily. At the appointed time, on the next afternoon, both Nat and Frank were ready to perform.
“I have the pleasure this afternoon,” said the teacher, “to announce a dialogue by two of the boys who volunteered yesterday. Now if they shall say it without being prompted, you will all concede that they have done nobly to commit it so quickly Let us have it perfectly still. The title of the dialogue is ‘Alexander the Great and a Robber.’ Now boys, we are ready.”
Frank commenced in a loud, pompous, defiant tone, that was really Alexander-like. It was evident from the time he uttered the first sentence that, if he could not be “Alexander the Great,” he could be Alexander the Little.
Nat responded, and performed his part with an earnestness of soul, a power of imitation, and a degree of eloquence that surprised the teacher. The scholars were not so much surprised because they had heard him before, but it was the first time the teacher had seen him perform.
“Very well done,” said the teacher, as they took their seats. “There could not be much improvement upon that. You may repeat the dialogue at the spelling-school on Friday evening; and I hope both of you will have declamations next week.”
“I will, sir,” said Nat.
The teacher found a reluctance among the boys to speak, and one of them said to him,
“If I could speak as well as Nat, I would do it.”
This remark caused him to think that Nat’s superiority in these rhetorical exercises might dishearten some of his pupils; and the next time he introduced the subject to the school, he took occasion to remark,
“Some of our best orators were very poor speakers when they began to declaim in boyhood. It is not certain that a lad who does not acquit himself very well in this exercise at first, will not make a good orator at last. Demosthenes, who was the most gifted orator of antiquity, had an impediment in his speech in early life. But he determined to overcome it, and be an orator in spite of it. He tried various expedients, and finally went to a cave daily, on the sea-shore, where, with pebble-stones in his mouth, he declaimed, until the impediment was removed. By patience and perseverance he became a renowned orator. It was somewhat so, too, with Daniel Webster, whom you all know as the greatest orator of our land and times. The first time he went upon the stage to speak, he was so frightened that he could not recall the first line of his piece. The second time he did not do much better; and it was not until he had made several attempts, that he was able to get through a piece tolerably well. But a strong determination and persevering endeavors, finally gave him success.”
In the course of the winter Nat spoke a number of pieces, among which were “Marco Bozzaris,” “Speech of Catiline before the Roman Senate on Hearing his Sentence of Banishment,” and “Dialogue from Macbeth,” in all of which he gained himself honor. His taste seemed to prefer those pieces in which strength and power unite. At ten and twelve years of age, he selected such declamations and dialogues as boys generally do at the age of sixteen or eighteen years. It was not unusual for the teacher to say, when visitors were in school,
“Come, Master —— [Nat], can you give us a declamation?” and Nat was never known to refuse. He always had one at his tongue’s end, which would roll off, at his bidding, as easily as thread unwinds from a spool.
About this time there was some complaint among the scholars in Nat’s arithmetic class, and Samuel Drake persuaded one of the older boys to write a petition to the teacher for shorter lessons. This Samuel Drake was a brother of Ben, a bad boy, as we shall see hereafter, known in the community as Sam. When the petition was written, Sam signed it, and one or two other boys did the same; but when he presented it to Nat, the latter said,
“What should I sign that for? The lessons are not so long as I should like to have them. Do you study them any in the evening?”
“Study in the evening!” exclaimed Sam. “I am not so big a fool as that. It is bad enough to study in school.”
“I study evenings,” added Nat, “and you are as able to study as I am. The lessons would be too long for me if I didn’t study any.”
“And so you don’t mean to sign this petition?” inquired Sam.
“Of course I don’t,” replied Nat. “If the lessons are not too long, there is no reason why I should petition to have them shorter.”
“You can sign it for our sakes,” pleaded Sam.
“Not if I think you had better study them as they are.”
“Go to grass then,” said Sam, becoming angry, “we can get along without a squash peddler, I’d have you know. You think you are of mighty consequence, and after you have killed a few more bugs perhaps you will be.”
“I won’t sign your petition,” said Frank, touched to the quick by this abuse of Nat.
“Nor I,” exclaimed Charlie Stone, another intimate associate of Nat’s, and a good scholar too.
Nat was sensitive to ridicule when it proceeded from certain persons, but he did not care much for it when its author was Sam Drake, a boy whom every teacher found dull and troublesome. He replied, however, in a pleasant though sarcastic manner, addressing his remark to Frank and Charlie,
“Sam is so brilliant that he expects to get along without study. He will be governor yet.”
Sam did not relish this thrust very much, but before he had a chance to reply, Frank added, “I suppose you will make a speech, Sam, when you present your petition.” All laughed heartily at this point, and turned away, leaving Sam to bite his lips and cogitate.
Sam was certainly in a predicament. He had several signers to his petition, but they were all the lazy, backward scholars, and he knew it. To send a petition to the teacher with these signatures alone, he knew would be little less than an insult. If Nat, Frank, and Charlie, would have signed it, he would not have hesitated. As it was, he did not dare to present it, so the petition movement died because it couldn’t live.
The teacher, however, heard of the movement, and some days thereafter, thinking that his dull scholars might need a word of encouragement, he embraced a favorable opportunity to make the following remarks:—
“It is not always the case that the brightest scholars in boyhood make the most useful or learned men. There are many examples of distinguished men, who were very backward scholars in youth. The great philosopher Newton was one of the dullest scholars in school when he was twelve years old. Doctor Isaac Barrow was such a dull, pugnacious, stupid fellow, that his father was heard to say, if it pleased God to remove any one of his children by death, he hoped it would be Isaac. The father of Doctor Adam Clarke, the commentator, called his boy ‘a grievous dunce.’ Cortina, a renowned painter, was nicknamed, by his associates, ‘Ass’ Head,’ on account of his stupidity, when a boy. When the mother of Sheridan once went with him to the school-room, she told the teacher that he was ‘an incorrigible dunce,’ and the latter was soon compelled to believe her. One teacher sent Chatterton home to his mother as ‘a fool of whom nothing could be made.’ Napoleon and Wellington were both backward scholars. And Sir Walter Scott was named the ‘The Great Blockhead’ at school. But some of these men, at a certain period of youth, changed their course of living, and began to apply themselves with great earnestness and assiduity to the acquisition of knowledge, while others, though naturally dull, improved their opportunities from the beginning, and all became renowned. No one of them advanced without close application. It was by their own persevering efforts that they finally triumphed over all difficulties. So it must be with yourselves. The dullest scholar in this room may distinguish himself by application and dint of perseverance, while the brightest may fail of success, by wasting his time and trusting to his genius. The motto of every youth should be ‘UPWARD AND ONWARD.’”
CHAPTER III.: SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
THE BRIGHT SUMMER-TIME HAD COME
