Part 8

As studying law was out of the question for him, he thought he would write histories. He had already learned a good deal about the different countries but knew most about Spain. So he set about learning all he could of that country as far back as the days of Christopher Columbus. Of course, this brought in King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella (you remember she offered to sell her jewels to help Columbus) and stories of Peru and Mexico, so that William Prescott spent most of his life gathering facts together about the Spanish people. And the histories of them he wrote (eight large books) sound almost like story books; when you read them you seem to see the banquet halls, the queens followed by their pages and ladies-in-waiting, the priests chanting hymns in their monasteries, and the Mexican generals in their showy uniforms.

Think how hard it was for William Prescott to make these histories. He dared use his eye but a few hours a week. So he hired people to read to him, to go to libraries to look at old papers and letters, and to copy the notes he made on a queer machine. You can see this instrument that he contrived at the Massachusetts Historical Society. Some pieces of wood held sheets of paper in place; other strips of wood kept the pencil going in fairly straight lines. But sometimes when he used this at night, or when his eye was bandaged, he would forget to put in a fresh sheet of paper and would scribble ahead for a long time, writing the same lines over and across until his secretaries would have a hard time to find out what he meant. He did not want to waste time by asking to have the same thing read twice to him, so he trained his memory until he could carry the exact words on a page in his mind, and after a while he could repeat whole chapters without a mistake. But it was slow work making books this way. He was ten years getting his first one, the history of Ferdinand and Isabella, ready for the publisher.

Prescott did not talk about this work. No one but his parents and the secretaries knew that he was busy at all, because in his resting hours he was often seen at balls and parties, laughing and chatting in his own lively way. And one day one of his relatives drew him aside (this was when he had been grinding away in his library for eight years) and said: "William, it seems to me you are wasting your time sadly. Why don't you stop being so idle and try some kind of work?"

This same relation and all Prescott's friends were astonished and proud enough when, two years later, three big volumes of Spanish history were for sale in the book-stores, with William Hickling Prescott's name given as the author. That season every one who could afford it gave their friends a Christmas present of the Prescott books. He had compliments enough to turn his head, but he was too sensible to be vain. He wrote several other books and soon became famous. When he was in London, he had many honors shown him.

Prescott was fond of children and always kept a stock of candy and sweets on hand for small people. His servants adored him and so did his secretaries. They used to tell how he would frolic, even at his work. Sometimes when he had got to a place in one of the books where he must describe a battle scene, he would dash about the room, singing at the top of his lungs some stirring ballad like: "Oh, give me but my Arab steed!" And then when he felt he really "had his steam up" he would begin to write. He was kind and generous and showed so much courtesy to rich and poor alike that he has been called the finest gentleman of his time. No doubt he was, but it is true, too, that he was Prescott, the Brave!

PHILLIPS BROOKS

One of the greatest preachers in America was a Boston boy. His name was Phillips Brooks, and there is a fine statue of him near Trinity Church, where he was rector for twenty-two years.

When Phillips was a little boy, he and his five brothers made quite a long row, or circle, when they sat at the big library table learning their lessons for the next day's school, while their happy-faced mother sat near with her sewing, and their father read.

The Brooks boys had all the newest story-books, games, music, and parties, so they were a very jolly lot, but it is Phillips I want to tell you the most about.

Phillips liked books better than play and was such a bright pupil that his teachers were always praising him. In fact, he was a favorite everywhere. It did not make much difference whether he was spending his vacation in Andover with his Grandma Phillips, walking across Boston Common with his mother, or hurrying in the morning sunshine to the Boston Latin School, people who looked at his handsome face and his big brown eyes said to themselves: "There goes a boy to be proud of!"

It was just the same when he went to Harvard College. He was such a likeable chap that he was asked to join all the clubs and invited to the merry-makings of the students. But he was rather shy. Perhaps he had grown too fast, for he was only fifteen years old and six feet, three inches tall--think of it! He stayed in his own room a good deal, writing and trying for prizes. He won several. He did not like arithmetic or figures of any kind, but anything about the different countries or the lives of men and women would keep him bending over a book half the night.

Things had gone pretty easily for Phillips up to the time he graduated from Harvard. He had always found faces and voices pleasant. So you can see how hurt he must have been when the very first time he tried to teach school the pupils were ugly and rude to him. It almost broke his heart that they did not _want_ to mind him. The smaller boys loved him and took pride in learning their lessons, but the older ones hardly opened their books. Instead of that they spent their time making the young teacher's life miserable. He was only nineteen! Poor fellow, he must have wished many a day that he was at the North Pole or the South Seas instead of in Boston. These rowdies threw heads of matches on the floor and grinned when they exploded; they piled wood in the stoves until every one gasped for breath; they fired wads of paper at each other; and once they threw shot in Phillips's face.

The principal of the school beat his boys when they did not behave, and he had no patience with Phillips for not doing the same. But Phillips could not do that. He finally said he would resign. Some principals would have said to the young teacher: "Now, don't mind it if you have not done very well at teaching; there are, no doubt, other things that you will find you can do better than this. Good luck to you--my lad. Remember you have always a friend in me!" But Phillips's principal glared at him and declared: "Well, if you have failed to make a good teacher, you will fail in everything else."

Just then Phillips did not think of much else but his own disappointment. His father and his five brothers were very successful at their work and it shamed him to think he was not.

Phillips's brown eyes were very serious in those days. The same ones who had once sighed: "There's a boy to be proud of," now showed no pity in their looks, and often hurried down a side street to avoid bowing to him. Dear me--and it was the very same boy they had praised when he was taking prizes!

Phillips began to feel that he would like to help the people in the world who had the heartache. There seemed to be plenty to help the happy, rich folks, but there were many others who he was sure needed a friendly word and hand-clasp to give them new courage. His pastor advised him to become a preacher.

This meant more study. So he went to a seminary down in Virginia, where men fit themselves for the ministry. He got there after school had begun, so he had to take a room in an attic. There was no fire in it, poor light, and he, with his six feet and three inches, could not stand up straight in it without bumping his head against the rafters. And his bed was not nearly long enough for him. It _is_ a nuisance, sometimes, to be as tall as Phillips was. But he never minded all these things. He only felt in a hurry to finish his studies so that he could preach and work among the poor.

After he had preached at two churches in Philadelphia, he was asked to be the rector of Trinity Church in Boston. He was rector there for twenty-two years--until he was made Bishop of Massachusetts. He spoke so beautifully from the pulpit that strangers traveled from all parts of the country to hear him. So many flocked to Trinity Church that the pews would not hold them. Chairs were packed in the aisles, and a few more people managed to hear him by squeezing on to the pulpit steps.

Phillips Brooks's sermons were wonderful, but his work among the sick and the poor was more wonderful still. He carried help and good cheer with him every day. The more good he did, the happier he grew himself. His laugh rang out like a boy's. By the time he was made Bishop, he was so merry that he could hardly contain himself. He helped poor men find work; he held sick children while their mothers rested; he coaxed young men away from bad habits, and, like his Master, he went about doing good. He did not look sober or bothered with all this, either. There was always a smile on his face.

Phillips Brooks had no wife or children but several nieces. At his home, on Clarendon Street, he kept a doll, a music-box, and many toys for them to play with. Every little while, when he was all tired out with his preaching and his cheering-up work, he would take a long trip to some distant country, and from all these strange places he would write letters to these nieces which made them nearly explode with laughter when their mothers read them aloud. All the funny sights in Venice were described, and the stories about the children in India made the eyes of Susie and Gertrude Brooks open their widest. At the end of almost every letter he would charge the little girls "not to forget their Uncle Phillips." As if any one who had ever known Bishop Brooks _could_ forget him! But Christmas time was the best of all for these little girls. Their uncle Phillips took them right along with him to buy the presents for the whole family. This would be weeks and weeks before it was time for Santa Claus, so he would make them promise not to lisp a word of what was in the packages that arrived at the rectory. They loved sharing secrets with him and would not have told one for any money. That was a strange thing about Phillips Brooks--he made people trust-worthy. He always believed the best of every one, and no one wanted to disappoint him.

Sometimes when the girls and their uncle started on one of these entrancing shopping tours, it did seem as if they would never reach the shops. So many passers-by wanted a word with the great preacher they had to halt every other minute. I have no doubt his smile was as sunny for the Irish scrub-woman who hurried after him to ask a favor as it had been for good Queen Victoria when she thanked him for preaching her a sermon in the Royal Chapel at Windsor Castle.

Because his heart was filled with love and sympathy, Phillips Brooks left the world better and happier than he found it. Now, if every one who passes his statue at Trinity Church should say: "I really must do some kind, generous thing myself, each day in the week," there would be sort of a Christmassy feeling all the year round, and we should keep a little of the sunshine which the Bishop of Massachusetts shed, still shining.

SAMUEL CLEMENS Better Known as MARK TWAIN

John Clemens, Samuel's father, was a farmer, merchant, and postmaster in a Missouri town, called Florida. His wife, Jane Clemens, was a stirring, busy woman, who liked to get her work out of the way and then have a real frolic. Her husband did not know what it meant to frolic. He was not very well to begin with, and when he had any spare time, he sat by himself figuring away on an invention, year after year. He spent a good deal of time, too, thinking what fine things he would do for his family when he sold a great tract of land in Tennessee. He had bought seventy-five thousand acres of land when he was much younger, for just a few cents an acre, and when that land went up in price, he expected to be pointed out as a millionaire, at least. John Clemens was a good man and something of a scholar, but he was not the least bit merry. His children never saw him laugh once in his whole life! Think of it!

Mrs. Clemens did not like to have any one around when she was bustling through the housework, so the six children spent the days roaming through the country, picking nuts and berries. When it came night and they had had their supper, they would crowd around the open fire and coax Jennie, a slave girl, or Uncle Ned, a colored farm-hand, to tell them stories.

Uncle Ned was a famous story-teller. When he described witches and goblins, the children would look over their shoulders as if they half expected to see the queer creatures in the room. All these stories began "Once 'pon a time," but each one ended differently. One of the children, Sam Clemens, admired Uncle Ned's stories so that he could hardly wait for evening to come.

Sam was a delicate child. The neighbors used to shake their heads and declare he would never live to be a man, and every one always spoke of him as "little Sam."

When Mr. Clemens moved to another town some distance away, the mother said instantly: "Well, Hannibal may be all right for your business, but Florida agrees so well with little Sam, that I shall spend every summer here with the children, on the Quarles farm."

The children were glad she held to this plan, for Mr. Quarles laughed and joked with them, built them high swings, let them ride in ox-teams and go on horseback, and tumble in the hayfields all they wished. They had so much fun and exercise that they were even willing to go to bed without any stories. Sam grew plump.

A funny thing happened the first summer they went to nice Mr. Quarles's. Mrs. Clemens, with the older children, the new baby, and Jennie, went on ahead in a large wagon. Sam was asleep. Mr. Clemens was to wait until he woke up and then was to carry him on horseback, to join the rest. Well, as Mr. Clemens was waiting for Sam to finish his nap, he got to thinking of his invention, or his Tennessee land, and presently he saddled and bridled the horse and rode away without him. He never thought of Sam again until his wife said, as he reached the Quarles's dooryard: "Where is little Sam?"

"Why--why--" he stammered, "I must have forgotten him." Of course he was ashamed of himself and hurried a man off to Hannibal, on a swift horse, where Sam was found hungry and frightened, wandering through the locked house.

Sam was sent to school when he was five. He certainly did not like to study very well but did learn to be a fine reader and speller.

At the age of nine, Sam was a good swimmer (although he came very near being drowned three different times, while he was learning) and loved the river so that he was to be found on its shore almost any hour of the day. He longed to travel by steamer. Once he ran away and hid on board one until it was well down the river. As soon as he showed himself to the captain, he was put ashore, his father was sent for, and he received a whipping that he remembered a long time.

At nine he had a head rather too large for his body, and it looked even bigger because he had such a lot of waving, sandy hair. He had fine gray eyes, a slow, drawling voice, and said such droll things that the boys listened to everything he said. His two best chums were Will Bowen and John Briggs. These three friends could run like deer, and what time they were not fishing or swimming they usually spent in a cave which they had found.

At twelve he was just a careless, happy, barefoot boy, often in mischief, and only excelling in two things at school. He won the weekly medal for spelling, and his compositions were so funny that the teachers and pupils used to laugh till the tears came, when they were read aloud. His teachers said he ought to train himself for a writer, but it did not seem to him that there was anything so noble or desirable in this world as being a pilot. And he loved the great Mississippi River better than any place he had known or could imagine.

Sam's father died, whispering: "Don't sell the Tennessee land! Hold on to it, and you will all be rich!"

After his death Sam learned the printer's trade. He was very quick in setting type and accurate, so that he soon helped his older brother start a newspaper. He worked with his brother until he was eighteen, and then he told his mother that he wanted to start out for himself in the world. Jane Clemens loved him dearly and hated to part with him, but when she saw his heart was set on going, she took up a testament and said: "Well, Sam, you may try it, but I want you to take hold of this book and make me a promise. I want you to repeat after me these words--'I do solemnly swear that I will not throw a card or drink a drop of liquor while I am gone!'"

He repeated these words after her, bade her good-by, and went to St. Louis. He meant to travel, and as he earned enough by newspaper work, he visited New York, Philadelphia, and was on his way to South America when he got a chance to be a pilot on the Mississippi River. While he was learning this trade, he was happier than he had ever been in his life. If you want to know what happened to him at this time you must read a book he wrote, _Life on the Mississippi River_. He wrote a great many books and signed whatever he wrote with a queer name--MARK TWAIN. This was an old term used by pilots to show how deep the water is where they throw the lead. His writings, like his boyish compositions, made people laugh. So that now, although he has been dead several years, whenever the name of Mark Twain is mentioned, a smile goes around. If you want to know more about the actual doings of Sam and his chums, Will Bowen and John Briggs, read _Tom Sawyer_ and _Huckleberry Finn_, for in those books Sam has set down a pretty fair account of their escapades.

Mr. Clemens had a wife and children of whom he was very fond. As he made much money from his books and lectures, they were all able to travel in foreign countries, and his best book of travel is _Innocents Abroad_. It seems to me that even his father would have laughed over that book. Speaking of his father again reminds me to tell you that the Tennessee land never brought any luxuries to the Clemens family. It was sold for less than the taxes had amounted to.

JOE JEFFERSON

Joseph, or as he was always called, Joe Jefferson was a great actor. And there is never much talk of theaters, actors, and plays but some one is apt to say: "Ah, but you should have seen Joe Jefferson in Rip Van Winkle!" All Americans are very proud of the fact that this man was born in the United States; that he lived and died here. There have been four actors in the Jefferson family by the name of Joseph, but it was Joe Jefferson Number Three who played the part of the queer old Dutchman, Rip Van Winkle, for thirty years, whose life is told of now.

Joe was born in Philadelphia, but his parents went to Washington soon after. They lived in a house whose back hall led right into the side entrance of a theater. As soon as he could walk about by himself, little Joe used to run through this hall and play all day long in the empty theater, behind the scenes. Out in that part of the old building there were all kinds of stage settings piled up behind the wings. There were large pieces of canvas painted to look like an Italian lake, or an English garden, or a Roman palace. There was a tiny cottage, with a real door just big enough for Joe to squeeze through and slam behind him. He used to pretend that he owned this cottage. There were throne chairs for the make-believe kings and queens to sit in, a robber's cave, and a lovely board and canvas bank, covered with moss and flowers. Two or three children often joined Joe here, and they gave plays which they made up themselves. Oh, it was such an odd, exciting place to play in!

In the dressing-room of this old theater was a large mirror, and Joe loved to stand before this and act little bits of certain plays which he had heard his parents recite. His mother was a singer, and his father both an actor and manager, so Joe, being just across the hall, was often carried on to the stage when some play called for a baby or small child. Then, too, some evenings he would escape from his nurse, and, in his night-dress, peep in through the door of the dressing-room and watch the actors making up for their parts.

When Joe was four, a friend of the family was making a great success of a negro part called "Jim Crow." A good deal of dancing and singing went with it, and it was no time at all before little Joe could copy the man perfectly. This made Rice, the friend, pleased enough, and he insisted that Joe should go through the part in public. Rice was more than six feet tall, and Joe was a tiny four-year-old child. You don't wonder, I am sure, when the two stood on the stage, side by side, dressed exactly alike, that the audience shouted with laughter. First the big Jim Crow would sing a verse and dance, and then the tiny Jim would do the same. The people in the audience kept clapping their hands for more and threw silver coins on to the stage for the child, until stage hands, after the curtain went down, picked up twenty-four dollars and gave them to Joe.

In spite of Joe's being most carefully trained by his parents to tell the truth and say his prayers, he did, when he was small, let his fancy run away with him sometimes, and to a dear old lady, always dressed in stiffly starched frills, black gown and mitts, who kept a book and notion store, he told stories of horrors that never really happened. No doubt he liked to see her hold up her hands in dismay as he described some imaginary runaway accident, and no doubt he liked to have her run to bring him a nice, cool drink to "steady his nerves after such a shocking sight!"

Belonging to an actor's family means, of course, living in many different cities. Joe had known Philadelphia, Washington, and New York well when the Jefferson family went to Illinois. As Springfield was the capital of that State, and the men attending the legislature would swell the audiences, Joe's father decided to build a theater there. Just as it was finished, the ministers of the place began to preach against allowing a theater there at all. They preached to such good effect that the city council put a tremendous tax on the building, so big a tax that poor Mr. Jefferson could not begin to pay it, for he had used every dollar he had in building the theater. While he was wondering what he would do, a young lawyer of Springfield came to him and said that, as he thought the tax was out of all reason, he would agree to bring the matter before the council, free of charge. Well--this lawyer made such a strong plea, and got the members of the council into such gales of laughter with his funny stories, that the tax was removed, and Mr. Jefferson opened his playhouse and made a good deal of money.

The young lawyer's name was Abraham Lincoln!

Tennessee proved an unlucky State for the Jeffersons. At Memphis there had been a money panic, and people had no heart for theaters. Joe's father had always known how to paint scenery, and now he advertised to paint signs, but did not get many orders. Joe heard that a law was passed that all carts, drays, and carriages in the city of Memphis must bear numbers. He went to the mayor's house and rang the bell. "Please, Mr. Mayor," he said, "I'm Joe Jefferson's son."

"Oh, yes, my boy; I've seen both you and your father on the stage."