Part 9

Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and turned away to the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it would be, if _my_ little, curly-headed Nanny were as friendless as this poor little girl. And then she and the policeman whispered together at the window a long while, and Katy heard the policeman say, “But it will be so much trouble for you, Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn enough now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” but his wife only cried the more, and said, “Poor little thing! suppose it were our own little Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together again; and then the policeman patted his wife on the shoulder, and took up his hat and his big club, and went out; and then his wife got some warm water, and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, and hands, and neck, and combed her bright, brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of Nanny’s little dresses, and told her, while she was doing it, that she was going to be Nanny’s little sister now, and always live there with them, and have plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in the streets, to beg cold victuals any more; but still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then, “I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she forgot that her mother was very unkind to her sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat her when she came home, if she did not beg cold victuals enough, or bring some pennies; she forgot all this; and every time she thought of her, it was only as lying on the floor, cold and _dead_; and the great big lump came up again in her throat, and she wanted to go back to the old, dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother once more. But Katy’s mother was not there, though she did not know it; they had carried her away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t tell Katy that, till she became used to living with them, for fear it would make her little heart ache so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and when she began to run about the house and play “Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told her. And, do you know, after a while, it seemed to little Katy that she had _always_ lived with the good policeman and his wife, and that the dreadful, desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the ragged clothes, were only a bad dream, and not real at all. It just seemed to her as though Nanny were _really_ her little _own_ sister, when they slept in the same bed at night, and laid their rosy cheeks on the same pillow. By and by the policeman’s wife was taken very sick, and then she found out what a good heart the little beggar girl had; for Katy ran up stairs and down for her, and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by her bed, and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid her for all her care; and, after many years, when the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, and had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless Nanny there, and gave her a nice little room all by herself, and a table to put her dear mother’s workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; and when Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good you are to me, Katy!” she said, “Ah! I haven’t forgotten who took me in when _I_ had no mother, and fed and clothed me!”

LITTLE ADRIAN.

I wonder if you like pictures as well as I do? I dare say your father may have hung some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, and perhaps you have often sat alone in those rooms, looking at them and thinking. They were pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely trees and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, and the grass that you could almost see waving, as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought, perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, and with what a loving eye, thus successfully to create it; and you imagined, perhaps, that his heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his work, as the clear lake you saw in his picture. I remember thinking so, when I was a child, and wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the storm raged without, and the chill rain came slanting down, I could still create sunny skies, and blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, what I know now, how painfully many artists struggle up to notice from poverty and obscurity; what a sad history those pictures, could they only speak, might tell of sleepless nights and hungry days, and fireless hearths (for it is adversity that brings out the strength of our natures). I did not think of the wealth and fame which come so often only to the filming eye and palsied hand of age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I did not know, what I know now, that they who have genius in any department of art, stand upon a dizzy pinnacle, what with those who, unable to reach the same elevation themselves, and who would fain throw or pull them down, and what with the danger that they themselves should lose sight of the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied with human applause, never think that upon every gift, every talent, should be written “Holiness to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so much as talent increases influence, by so much it places in the hands of its possessor the means of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing and delighting, those for whom this short life is but the porch to the temple whose splendors they whose garments are washed white, alone shall surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it is, that at His feet who bestowed the gift of genius, its fruit should be laid.

No; these thoughts came with after years, when I went out into the world; but now, I never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read an interesting book, that I do not think of these things; and when I read of an artist who, with great powers, paints pictures which harm the looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, though tongueless, have eloquent voices; when I read of a great artist, who can command any price, how large soever, for anything he may choose to paint, yet often wanting a meal of victuals, not because he gave it to the poor, but because he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and only rouses himself to work when he wants more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you; for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is short enough to learn our lessons for eternity, without pulling the minute hands of time forward.

It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent honored by kings and princes. I once heard a story of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. Durer was painting on a wall of the palace one day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. He was a small man, and being unable to reach sufficiently high to complete the upper part of one of the figures he was painting, he looked around for something to raise him higher. The emperor, noticing this, ordered one of the gentlemen present to hand him a stool. The courtier was very angry at this; he considered the artist beneath him, and so he handed it to him in a very ungracious manner, muttering as he did so.

The emperor heard him, and turning sharply round, made him this proper and noble answer: “Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any day, but I cannot form an ignoramus into a man of genius like Durer.” I think the pompous courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he did not, so much the worse for him.

There was once a little boy, named Adrian. His mother was a poor peasant, and little Adrian used to sit on the floor with a pencil and paper in his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and by his mother, seeing him very busy with his drawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo! there, upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, and all sorts of pretty things, which the little rogue had drawn; for he did not know, any more than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his mother thought them very pretty—what mother wouldn’t, had they been ever so ugly?—and it occurred to her that she could copy in needlework those pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs she was in the habit of embroidering, to sell to the peasant women who came to market. One day, while little Adrian sat in the shop where his mother sold her needlework, an artist happened to pass, and, stopping at the window, watched through the glass the little Adrian as he drew the patterns. After a while he went in, and asked the boy if he would not like to become an artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; “better than anything in this world, if my mother is only willing!” The poor woman was glad enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home with his master as happy—not “as a king,” for that’s a lying phrase—but as happy as a little robin of a bright spring morning.

Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fast he learned what was taught him! His master had no need to rap him over the knuckles with “Come, come, what are you thinking about?” not at all; he scarcely lifted his eyes from his work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, but he took Adrian away from them, and shut him up in a little attic in the top of the house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like this, for Adrian was very good company, and they all liked him; besides, they did not see the reason why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious to find it out. So one day, when the master was out, they stole softly up to the attic, and peeping through a window, saw the poor little prisoner painting very beautiful pictures for his jailer, who used to sell them, and pocket the money for himself.

It was very lucky that they found him, for he had become very thin and emaciated, what with hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian that he was a great artist, though he did not know it, and that he might earn a great deal of money; and they offered, if he could draw some pictures slily, to sell them for him when his master did not know it, and get him some pocket money, for his own use. The hungry little boy artist was delighted at this, and soon found means to do it; but his cruel master and his wife soon found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching him so closely that it was quite impossible. Then the poor child grew thinner and thinner, until one of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape; in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, and at night he curled himself up in the organ loft of one of the churches, and all the time he was turning over plans in his bewildered head for the future. One day, while he was thus situated, he met a person who had once seen him at his master’s house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking pityingly at his thin figure, “have you left your master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for he was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by the kind manner of his questioner, so different from that of his old master. So he very honestly told him the truth, and why he had run away. His pale face, his sobs, and his wretched clothes were so many proofs of the truth of his story, and the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return to your master, I will talk to him, and see that he treats you better in future.” While all this was going on, his old master Hals had hunted everywhere for him, for he could ill afford to part with so valuable a pupil. One would suppose that this thought, if no better one, would have made Hals treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen.

Well, of course, he was overjoyed to get Adrian back, caressed him, and gave him a new suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent, trusting child really believed all that he said was gospel truth, and commenced painting again, with so much industry and so well, that his master got larger prices than ever for his little drawings. Still, the miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of it, and so Adrian made up his mind that, as fair promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he would run away again. This time he planned better, for he ran so far his master couldn’t find him—way off into another city, and took refuge with an innkeeper, who liked artists, because his own son was one, though, like many other children, nobody thought him famous but his own father. He soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, under kind treatment; it is a blessed thing, is it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is always ready, after a disappointment, to begin again with fresh courage. For a while, Adrian kept steadily at his work, and to his delight and astonishment, they brought him higher prices than ever, though no one knew who the artist was. One day he came panting home to his friend the innkeeper in a great state of excitement. His pockets were full of gold—he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. He emptied it all out on the bed, and then jumped into the middle of it, that he might, as he said, know how it felt for once “to roll in wealth.” Well, we can pardon him that. None but they who have been kicked and cuffed round the world, and had a crust of bread thrown grudgingly at them, can understand the full deliciousness of independence, especially when that independence is the result of their own honest labor. Adrian had a right to wave his hat in the air; and, had I been there, I would have helped him hurra! and when we had finished, I would have said, “Now you have felt how uncomfortable a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put it away safely, where it may do you and others good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry to tell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up all his money, left the house, and did not return for more than a week. On his return, his friend the innkeeper asked him what he had done with his money. “All gone!” said the foolish fellow; “I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the way he went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful dissipation. He earned a great deal, and spent more than he earned; so that he who might have been so free and independent, was constantly obliged to be running away from those to whom he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one of these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with what is called a passport, _i. e._, permission from the government to pass from one city to another; and because he had not this permission, they supposed him to be a spy, and threw him into prison. Confined in the same prison was a certain duke, to whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that he was no spy, but only an artist who had come to that city to follow his profession. Of course, the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. Adrian saw this, so he said, “Bring me painting materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what I say is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city who was a great artist, had a mind to try him. So he got his friend to procure Adrian, the suspected spy, the materials he desired. Just below the windows of his cell, a group of soldiers were assembled, playing cards. This scene Adrian painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was a complete portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, and sent for his friend the artist, to see what his opinion might be. The moment he saw it, he exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; no other artist could paint with such force and beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for it. But the duke would not part with it. It was painted under singular circumstances, and was, besides, a very beautiful picture. He immediately interested himself with the governor to get Adrian out of prison, which he succeeded in doing, and then, being liberated himself, he took Adrian home to his own house, gave him new suits of clothes, and tried to keep him from wasting his talents and time, and throwing himself away on bad companions. You will be sorry to know that it was quite useless; sorry to know that his bad passions had become, from indulgence, his tyrants, so that he was no longer his own master, but theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from the house of his benefactor, sold the very clothes he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, he was carried to one of the public hospitals, where, unknown by any who had admired his talents, and pitied his follies, he died miserably, at the early age of thirty-two, and was buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When the duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed tears at the melancholy end of a life which might have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable. He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its pauper grave, gave it a funeral in a church, and designed a monument for the erring man, which last, however, was never accomplished, as he died himself soon after.

It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to that of other artists, who labored on, though steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving wives and children, who, in turn, did all in their power to lighten the artists’ toil. Living lives full of love, and without reproach, creating beauty when everything around them was miserably shabby and forlorn—everything but the love and patient endurance which can make out of the dreariest earthly home a heaven.

THE PEDDLER’S SON.

I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can I ever be, but just what I am? ignorant, uneducated, insignificant? Stop, no creature of God is insignificant; that is impossible, because you are to live forever. Fettered and cramped in this life you may be; but this life is not all, nor is it impossible even here for you to take your place with the wise and the honorable of this world. You look about you, and shake your head doubtfully. Your father and mother are good and kind to you, as far as they can be. But they never read; they know nothing, care for nothing, save that they are to work day by day till they die, merely to get bread enough to keep them alive. But your _mind_ is hungry; you want something for _that_. Bread and meat for your body don’t suffice you; you know there is something better. How shall you find it? who will help you to it? And you look about and around you, and reach out your arms, as if to implore some invisible power to come to your aid. Do you know how many whose names are loved, honored, and cherished by thousands, began life just so? Do you know what might there is in the little words “I will”?

Let me tell you a story.

In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This hut had only one room, with a fireplace in it, and no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, there was the usual supply of a poor man’s children.

The principal support of the family was a cow, and the principal employment of Komer, the name of my hero, was to collect, in the spring, the sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, to make litter for the cow. After the meadows had become green, he passed the long summer days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other boys. He also brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook the trees roughly, he gathered acorns, and sold them to those who kept geese. When he grew larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to carry his bundles from hut to hut. There was a small school, too, where Komer learned to read and write, but that was all he learned there.

One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) he was sitting at a table with his parents. A small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, who had just come home with his peddler’s pack, was talking to his mother about his business. The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought home with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper of which lay upon the table. On it was the picture of a horse.

Little Komer idly took up the picture. This is very good, thought he; I wonder if I could draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows but I might? Little Komer looked at his father; he was very busy talking; so he took pen, ink, and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he had finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him very perfect, and his little heart swelled with a new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to his parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they praised and admired it, more because Komer did it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to bed; it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he couldn’t sleep for thinking of it; he tossed and turned, and longed for daylight, that he might _really_ see it with his bodily eyes again; for he was not quite sure, after all, but that he was dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there was the horse; but Komer was never again the same Komer. All that day he was excited, restless, and the next, and the next; how was he to become a _real_ painter? Near his father’s hut lived a potter, who had some outlines, as models for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines for a little while. Then he made a blank book, and very carefully copied them into it with pen and ink. The people in the huts round thought it quite wonderful, and they were handed about, till, at last, they came to a man who was a sort of “mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He was so pleased and astonished, that he sent for the boy, made him presents, praised his drawings, and asked him if he would like to be a painter.

Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out of his skin for joy. Like to go to a great city to a master painter, and learn how to be one himself? Of course, he could not find his tongue to tell all the joy that filled his heart. There was no need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman said he would talk of it to his parents. Now, his parents never heard of any kind of painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when the gentleman asked them, they answered that it was a very dangerous trade; for houses in cities were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer might break his legs or neck. And so Komer did not go to the city, but kept on watching the old cow.

But for all that, this gentleman, and others to whom he showed Komer’s drawing, did not forget him or them, but kept on talking about the wonderful child; and, what was more to their credit, tried to help him. They sent for him to take lessons with _their_ children in French, Latin, and music. That he need not be ashamed to come among them, they gave him better clothing, and the gentleman who first saw him brought him to eat with his family, at his own table.

Little Komer did not think—as you do—that it was a hardship to study; not he. He flew at his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, never spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After this, he did some copying for a gentleman, besides other writing, in order to earn money. Then, for the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed on splendid paintings, till he was nearly beside himself with rapture. Now, indeed, nothing could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a young artist, and commenced immediately; weeping, that he was not permitted to do so, when he first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed was he with this one idea—that he grew sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a pencil. Now, indeed, he must rest, if he would not die; but he was too active to lie upon the shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he would read. He took up a volume of poems. Why could not _he_ write? He, _Komer_? Why not? He seized his pen; he wrote poem after poem; they were copied, praised, and set to music!