Part 2

That note ruined Deacon Bissell. His brother could not pay it. He failed, and his failure swept away nearly every dollar which the deacon had been laying up for thirty years. This loss tried him very much. He wept over it--not because he needed or wanted the lost money for himself, but because, as he used to remark, it was one of his darling schemes to give all his children "a good setting out" in the world. It seemed a terrible loss to him. "If I were a young man," said he, "I might hope to get up again. But I am old. I am almost worn out. A few more years, I am afraid, will finish what there is left of me."

CHAP. V.

THE YOUNGEST BOY.

The deacon had several children. At the time of his failure two or three were married, and of those that still remained at home, Samuel was the youngest. It is natural enough for you to suppose that this Samuel, as I am giving you such a long story about him, was a remarkable child, a sort of prodigy. But such is not the fact, I believe. As to his cradle life, I profess not to know much. I have not much doubt, however, that he was very like other infants--that he had his share of little troubles, and cried lustily over them; that he laughed, and frolicked, and clapped his hands, like most babies; that he went into raptures over a tin whistle and a rattle box; and that, in short, he was as wise as most people are, at that interesting age when the nursery seems to them to comprise the greater portion of the habitable globe.

One of the first anecdotes I ever heard about Samuel--one which, though it does not make him out a prodigy, shows pretty clearly what sort of stuff he was made of, as straws show which way the wind blows--is something like this: When Samuel was quite a small boy, and before he had made much progress in his studies at school, there came to board at his father's, for a few weeks, the teacher of the district school. This man was fond of children, and took quite a fancy to little Samuel. "Samuel," said he, one night, when the boy was playing with a new ball, "did you know the world was round, like your ball?" No, he had never dreamed of such a thing, he said. He had thought it was as flat as a pancake. "Well, it is round," the teacher said, "almost as round as a ball or a marble." The little fellow was so much interested in what the good man told him, that he left his play, and said he wanted to hear all about the world. So the teacher had to get his globe, and talk to him about it, until he was hoarse.

I have heard another anecdote about the lad. There was a company of some half a dozen boys and girls at the deacon's one day, and they were all as busy as they could be. Shall I tell you what they were busy about? They were at play. They were playing with all their might. Among their plays were "blind man's buff," "tag," "puss, puss in the corner," "hide and seek," "who's got the button?" and I don't know how many other plays, which almost every child is familiar with.

While they were busy chasing each other round the yard, all of them as merry as the birds that were having a concert on the branches, over their heads, a wagon drove up, and Captain Lovechild got out of it, and went into the house. This gentleman lived in Boston. He was quite a rich man, having made a great deal of money by going to sea. The captain was a relative of Deacon Bissell, and often came to see him and his family, taking good care, generally, in his visits, to bring something with him to please the little folks.

It was almost sunset when the children were called into the house. Supper was nearly ready, and a very nice supper it was to be, for Mrs. Bissell always took great pains to make the children happy when they visited at her house.

Captain Lovechild, as usual, was glad to see the children, and the children were quite as glad to see him. They all liked him. Why they liked him, I suppose, not having thought on that subject much, they would hardly have been able to tell. But I mistrust--I give it as a sort of a _guess_--that the nice things he was so sure to have ready for them, when he met them, had a little to do with their affection. I remember--if you will allow Uncle Frank to travel out of his road a few paces--I remember a lesson which was once beaten into my head by my little niece. I was going away from home--to Boston, perhaps--when I called the little girl to me, and said,

"Well, Mary, I'm going away, to be gone, a long, long time."

"O, don't go, uncle," she said; "I don't want you to go away."

"But I must go, dear."

"I shall cry if you do."

"Not a great deal, I guess."

"O, yes, I shall; I shall feel very bad."

"Well, Mary, I can't stay at home; I shall have to go to Boston; and I presume you will feel sorry to have me go; but suppose I should bring you something nice when I come back--a little rabbit, or something of the kind?"

"O, then you may go, uncle," said Mary, clapping her hands, as a certain lord of the barn yard does his wings, just before crowing, and dancing up and down, as if she saw the little white rabbit, with his long ears and red eyes, actually munching his clover and bean pods on the carpet.

Ha! ha! ha! The lesson Uncle Frank learned then was, that the love of children sometimes lies on the surface of the heart, and does not reach quite to the bottom of it. However, I suppose the same is true of grown people, too, sometimes, though they are usually more careful as to what they say, so that they do not let the cat out of the bag.

But I shall be taken up as a _vagrant_, if I go wandering about in this style.

CHAP. VI.

A NOBLE RESOLUTION.

As I said, the children all liked the good old gentleman, for some reason or other. Now I think of it, I guess the reason of their liking him might have been hid away in some sly place, as was the reason of Mr. Somebody for _not_ liking Doctor Fell. This Mr. Somebody used to say, as you probably have heard,

"I do not like you, Doctor Fell, The reason why I cannot tell."

If the children had put their thoughts into rhyme, as Mr. Somebody did, when he gave vent to his feelings in the Doctor Fell affair, no doubt they would have said this, or something like it:

"I love you, sir, I love you well; The reason why I cannot tell."

When supper was over that evening at Deacon Bissell's, the sun had been down some time. The stars were beginning to peep out of their hiding places, and the moon, who had shown her face a little before the sun took his leave, had now grown bolder, and shone out brightly and clearly, as if she were not afraid of anybody, and as if she had some sort of a notion that she had got to be mistress.

"Well, children," said Captain Lovechild, "what are you going to drive at next?"

Mrs. Bissell remarked that she thought it was almost time for them to drive towards home, but said that she guessed the captain had something to show them, and that they might stay just half an hour longer.

Of course all the boys and girls flocked around the captain; and, sure enough, he went into another room, and showed them one of the most curious looking instruments, they all thought, that they had ever seen in their lives.

"Oh, what is that, Captain Lovechild, and what is it for?" So the children all asked, in nearly the same breath.

I suppose, indeed, I hope, that you are so much interested in my story, that you have already had the same questions pass through your mind; and I will answer your questions as the captain answered those of his little friends. The instrument which the kind old gentleman had brought with him all the way from Boston, on purpose to please and instruct these children, was called a _telescope_. A telescope is a long, hollow cylinder, with glasses in it. It is so made that when you look through it, at anything a great way off, like the moon and the stars, they appear a great deal larger. It seems to bring them near to you. You can see them much more distinctly, and as you look at them, you can find out many wonderful things about them.

As soon as the captain had got the instrument in order, he took it out into the yard, and pointed one end of the long tube towards the moon.

"Now, then," said he, "just take a peep at the moon. You'll see something up there, which will make you wonder, or I'm very much mistaken. One at a time."

And the children, who did not need to be urged much, gathered around the lower end of the telescope, first one, and then another, until they had all got a peep at the wonderful things in the moon. I can't tell you how much they were delighted. It would fill a small volume, if I should set down all their "ohs," and their "ahs," and everything else which came rattling out of their mouths, while they were looking through the telescope. But I will tell you what Samuel Bissell said, though. I will tell you one thing he said, at all events. After he had looked through the instrument, and had listened to what the old gentleman said about the moon, and the planets, and the fixed stars, "I declare," said he, "I don't know anything. _I'll be somebody_, I'll know something and do something, if I live."

Samuel, as you will perceive, had his little head so full of the wonders of the heavens, and had such a strong desire to add to his stock of knowledge, that he used pretty bold language. He did not say, "I'll _try_ to be somebody," as he might have said, if he had studied his speech a little. His head was full, so that his words burst out from his mouth as the water would burst out of a hole in the dam. Yes, and his _heart_ spoke, too, as well as his _head_. More sincere and honest words never dropped from his lips.

A new light dawned on that youth's mind, that evening. From the moment that he uttered the resolution that he would "be somebody," he labored to gather a large harvest of knowledge; to be something more than a mere cipher in the world; to act his part well.

"And did he succeed?" you are ready to ask. I should have to get ahead of my story to answer the question. But one thing I will say here: that if a boy makes up his mind, deliberately and firmly, that he will climb up to some high point on the hill of science, and that he will be respected and honored among his fellows--if he brings his hands, and his head, and his heart to the task, and goes ahead, through thick and thin, not turning out of his path, however he may be tempted to do so, he is almost sure to succeed in reaching what he aims at; that is, if his life is spared and his health does not give out. I have great faith in a strong will, a clear head, right principles, a good stock of patience, and a steady disposition to go ahead. Some boys, when you talk to them about doing something and being something, always throw a bucket of cold water over you by saying, "There are so many difficulties," or, "If I were only in such a boy's place!" Well, you may always be sure that such cowards will never do anything or be anything worth mentioning; for it is not very common for people to accomplish much by _accident_, and these little chaps, should they ever succeed at all, would have to blunder into their success.

After hearing this anecdote of Samuel, you will not wonder that, some years after this resolution was made, when he heard of his father's loss, he played the part of a hero. I will tell you about that in another chapter.

CHAP. VII.

A TALK ABOUT THE FUTURE.

"Samuel," said his father, a few days after he learned that he was a bankrupt, "I don't know what is to become of you. I've lost all the property I had. I'm not worth a red cent."

"I guess I can take care of myself, father," said the lad. "Don't worry about that."

"Why, what can you do, Samuel?"

"Not much of anything now, I suppose--anything which will put dollars and cents into my pocket--but I can learn, if I can get a chance."

"And what would you like to do for a living?"

"There are a good many things which I would like to do," said Samuel, "and may be I shall do them some day; but I've been thinking that just now, I had better go to work in the factory."

"What! in the cotton factory?"

"Yes, sir, Mr. Mason's."

"But would you like that kind of work?"

"I don't know, sir, I'm sure; I should like to try, at any rate. I should like to do something."

He did try. That very week, Samuel got a place in Mr. Mason's factory. His wages were not great, at first. But he earned more than enough to pay for his board at once, and in a month or two he did much better than that. Samuel had to work hard, though. The factory bell rang at day-break, and he was obliged to get up and work an hour or more before breakfast. All day long, from early morning till evening, and in the winter season, till nine o'clock at night, he was required to be at work, with the exception of the time--and that was rather brief--allotted to meals. It was a very rare thing that the boys in the factory had a holiday. Sunday, to be sure--they had that to themselves. But most of the boys, it is to be hoped, were too well brought up and too conscientious to devote any part of that day to play and amusement.

Once in a great while, however, "like angels' visits, few and far between," came a holiday. They have a great time, you know, in every part of the good old commonwealth of Massachusetts, when the day of the annual thanksgiving comes. Very few people, old or young, think of doing much business on that day.

CHAP. VIII.

THANKSGIVING AND TEMPTATION.

Well, in process of time, that long looked for festival arrived. No boy in Meadville had to sleep with an eye open that morning, for fear he would not hear the first accent of the tongue of the factory bell. The bell slept; and the boys slept, too, until they were called to breakfast.

Samuel had not become very intimate with many of the factory boys. Indeed, among them all, there was only one that he cared a great deal about associating with; and this one he loved as a brother. The name of this boy--or rather, the name by which I prefer to call him in this narrative--was Frederick Noble. Frederick and Samuel, when they were not in the factory, were half their time together. I hardly know what made them so much attached to each other; though probably one reason was that the circumstances of the two were somewhat similar. Frederick's father, as well as Samuel's, had once been a man of property, but, like Mr. Bissell, had become comparatively poor. There's no accounting for likes and dislikes, though. Samuel and Frederick were fond of each other, and I presume it would have puzzled either of them to tell the reason for this fondness.

These two boys, according to an arrangement which had been made a long time beforehand, were companions on thanksgiving day. If I remember aright, the governor's proclamation for thanksgiving, at the time when Frederick and Samuel were boys together, used to have these words tacked to the last end of it: "All servile labor and vain recreation on said day are by law forbidden." Still, parents and guardians allowed considerable latitude to the children in their amusements, if the governor did not. It was pretty generally understood that the young folks were to have a good time of it, on thanksgiving day.

It very often happens, that when we enjoy ourselves most--when we come nearest to being perfectly happy--we encounter the strongest temptations, or, what amounts to the same thing, we are induced to yield to temptation.

Several times during the day, these two boys came very near doing something which they would have been ashamed of and heartily sorry for afterwards. They met some boys playing cards for small sums of money, and were urged to "try their luck." At first, they thought they would, "just for fun." But they finally concluded that fun of that sort was rather too dangerous--that it would cost more than it would come to--and so they passed on.

About a hundred rods from the village, in an orchard, our two friends came across a company of larger boys, who were playing ball. Here they encountered another temptation. The ball-players were treating themselves to a kind of liquor, which, in those parts, bore the name of _egg-nog_. Some of the boys and girls who read this story, or hear it read, will no doubt laugh at this unmusical and out-of-the-way name; and I confess the word looked to me so strange and barbarous, after I had written it down, that I had a great mind to dash my pen across it, and hunt up some other name for it. However, I concluded I would go straight to Webster's large dictionary, and see whether he had taken notice of the word. I made up my mind that, if I found it in the dictionary, I would hold on to it, and that if it were missing there, I would let it stay in the society where it was born, christened and brought up. I went to the dictionary, and there I found the word, looking, for all the world, as if it were vastly at home.

"Egg-nog," says Doctor Webster, "a drink used in America, consisting of the yelks of eggs beaten up with sugar, and the whites of eggs whipped, with the addition of wine or spirits." The addition which Webster speaks of, and which consisted of _spirits_ when I was a boy, and not of _wine_, you will please to take notice, was considered a very important addition, without which the liquor would be worthless.

Well, Samuel and Frederick, though they were strongly urged to "taste of the nice egg-nog," and though they almost wished that they might so far gratify their curiosity as to taste of it, succeeded in resisting the temptation, and letting the stuff alone. Neither of them drank a drop of it; though I should not wonder if they found it rather hard work to refuse.

My young friend, perhaps you think these facts are hardly worth noticing. But I look upon them in a very different light. These boys, in my opinion, gained great victories that day--victories quite as worthy of praise and honor as those of Alexander and Caesar. They had the courage to _do right_, when they were tempted to _do wrong_. They did right. And they had their reward, no doubt, when they heard the voice of conscience in their own bosoms, whispering, "Well done."

CHAP. IX.

PATRIOTISM AND POWDER.

It was more than six months after the thanksgiving festival, before the factory boys had another holiday. Time, who never stands still a moment, went on, and by and by, the Fourth of July came round. Samuel and Frederick were companions on that day, as well as on the preceding thanksgiving festival. The first thing they did, after they got up in the morning--for they were wakened very early by the ringing of all the bells in Meadville, not excepting the one on the factory, which was keyed on a very high note, and was cracked in the bargain, though it made up in zeal and earnestness what it lacked in depth and sweetness--the first thing they did was to climb the hill that overlooked the village, where the men were firing a salute in honor of the day. There seems to be something in the smell of gunpowder, and the sound of a huge-mouthed cannon, which wakes up a good deal of patriot feeling in the breast of a child.

How my little heart, when it was not much bigger than a chipping squirrel's, used to throb with patriotism--or something else, for I am not so sure that it was patriotism, after all--while I heard the rusty old cannon that did duty at Willow Lane, booming out its sentiments about matters and things in general, and the declaration of American independence in particular. As long ago as I can remember, I know the sound of a drum almost overturned the little sense I had. Oh, what a quantity of martial spirit was set in motion in my brain, when, as it sometimes happened, I got a chance to beat on that drum myself--to beat on it with both hands, "like a trainer." It was one of the proudest achievements of my childhood, I do believe--that performance on the drum--the real drum, the identical one which the "trainers" used.

It is not quite so with me, now-a-days. You may wonder why. I almost wonder why myself. But so it is. The deafening roar of cannon, the racket of a thousand muskets, the clatter of junior drums, and the thunder of senior ones, have not _such_ a moving effect on me as they used to have. They _move me out of the way_ now. That is about all. I suppose, if the truth was known, I dislike _war_ more than I did when I was a child. War seems a terrible thing to me, whenever I think of it. I cannot bear the thought that hostile men should meet each other on the field of battle, and use all the art they are masters of, in trying to kill each other.

But enough of this. Children, as I was saying, love to hear the noise of the cannon. It stirs up the embers of their patriotism, or fills them with some other kind of fire. We will not stop now to inquire very particularly as to the nature of the blaze. Our two friends felt as if there was a young Vesuvius burning in their bosoms, as they listened to the sound of the cannon. Frederick especially, was quite beside himself. War had completely turned his head. Oh, how he longed to be a soldier. I am not sure but he almost wished some nation or other would pick a quarrel with us, so that he might have a chance to shoulder his musket, and start right off, and fight the battles of his country. Like a great many other children, he saw only one side of war, and that was its bright side. He heard no groans from dying men, no whizzing of cannon balls past his ears. He saw no river of blood flowing from human veins. He had lost no limb of his own; he was in danger of losing none. I hardly think he had read the poetical confessions of a young hero just returned from the wars. Did you ever read them, my friend? They are worth reading, and I will quote them for you:

"My father was a farmer good, With corn and beef in plenty. I mowed, and hoed, and held the plow And longed for one and twenty; For I had quite a martial turn, And scorned the lowing cattle; I burned to wear a uniform, Hear drums, and see a battle.

"My birth-day came; my father urged, But stoutly I resisted; My sister wept, my mother prayed, But off I went, and 'listed. They marched me on through wet and dry, To tunes more loud than charming, But lugging knapsack, box and gun, Was harder work than farming.

"We met the foe--the cannons roared-- The crimson tide was flowing-- The frightful death-groans filled my ears-- I wished that I was mowing. I lost my leg--the foe came on-- They had me in their clutches-- I starved in prison till the peace, Then hobbled home on crutches."

This young hero gives the other and darker side of war, you see. There is reality in what the poor fellow says, if he does tell his story in rather a humorous vein. I tell you what it is, little friend, there is nothing good in war. It is a terrible thing; and though I don't pretend to say that it is never necessary, I consider it one of the worst curses with which a nation is ever visited--worse than pestilence, worse than famine. That is the reason why I do not quite like to see boys so fond of war, and so full of the war spirit.

But we must proceed with the story.

CHAP. X.

THE GLASS OF GIN.

Soon after breakfast was over that morning, Samuel and his companion strolled out into the village. None but those who are kept constantly at work in a close room, almost every day in the year, except Sunday, can imagine with what light hearts these two boys walked the streets of that factory village, on the morning of that memorable holiday. I say memorable. It proved to be a day which neither of these boys could well forget.