The Peddler's Boy Part 4

Have you ever been inside of a cotton factory, reader? If so, you need not be told what sort of a place it is. I remember very well how I felt the first time I went into a spinning room. What a whirl of little wheels and great wheels, of bobbins and spindles, of drums and cylinders, there was in that room. My brain seemed to go round with the wheels; and I could hardly help holding my head with both hands, to keep it in its place. What a clatter was kept up by some of the machinery. What a dull, droning, hum-drum sound there was, besides. I could not hear the sound of my own voice, there was such a racket; and such a dense fog settled upon my mind, on account of the noise, that I could scarcely tell whether I was in the body or out of the body. Of all the places in the world, that ever I had seen or heard of, or ever expected to see or hear of, I firmly believed that the worst place for a boy to live, day after day, was in the spinning room of a cotton factory. I had heard of dismal dungeons, in which the light of day never shone; and I had thought that they were bad enough. But this factory seemed a great deal worse than any dungeon that was ever invented. The factory would drive me crazy in a week. I was sure of that. In the dungeon, on the other hand, which, though it might be as dark as tar, was still and quiet, I fancied I could at least keep my senses.

A factory is a busy place, too. It is one of the last situations in the world where a lazy person would wish to be employed. You can't be lazy there, if you try. A horse might as well undertake to be lazy in a treadmill. Some people think that factory boys and factory girls have to work _too_ hard; that they are confined too many hours a day, and that they don't get fresh air enough. As to that, I shall not set myself up for a judge. Very likely the children fare better in some factories than they do in others. I will say, though, that the task of a factory boy, were the factory ever so well managed, would not be so pleasant to me as many others. I will say this; and I ought to say, besides, that when a boy gets _used_ to the noise of a factory, he does not mind it much. Though it almost deafens him at first, he almost forgets there is any noise after a while.

Our young friend, the peddler's boy, made up his mind, the first day he went to work in Mr. Mason's factory, that he _would_ like the business, whether or no. Well, he did like it, after a week or two--that is, he was content with it, and he was as cheerful and happy in the factory as he had been out of it. Contentment, my dear young friends, is a gem. It is worth more than gold or diamonds. You can't buy it with gold or diamonds, and if you should ever happen to get hold of it, you would be foolish to part with it, for all the gold in California and all the pearls in the tower of London. I have often thought, that if the apostle Paul were to be envied for anything, it might be for the contented spirit which he had, after he got to be an old man. "I have learned," said he, "in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." What a precious lesson! I wish you would try to learn it, reader. You can learn it. You ought to learn it. Set yourself about the task, then, at once.

Samuel Bissell was content with his factory life. It was not quite so pleasant as some others were. He could not help seeing that. But he did not spend his time or any part of his time in wishing he was somewhere else, doing some other kind of business. He did not say or sing, "There's a good time coming, boys." The good time _had come_, according to his notion. Still, he held on to that resolution--the resolution he formed when he got a glimpse of some of the wonders away off in the blue sky. If you had watched him during the few leisure hours he had, you would have seen that he had not forgotten that old text of his, "I'll be somebody." Many and many a time, after he got home from the factory at night, he would go to his little room, and spend an hour or two reading and thinking. There was a small library in the village where he lived, and by paying a small sum every week, he was allowed to read some very valuable books. With what eagerness he picked up every kernel of knowledge he could find about the sun, and the planets, and the stars. When most of the boys were playing in the streets, he was reading and studying in his chamber. While he was a factory boy, he learned from the books which fell into his hands, to dive a great deal deeper into the heart of many studies than he was taught to do in the school to which his father had sent him. He had become quite a master of the art of book-keeping; and as to geography and astronomy, I am not sure but he could have told some things about them which his former teacher never dreamed of.

CHAP. XII.

A GLANCE AT FREDERICK.

Before I wind up my story, I have a good mind to go back, and tell you what became of that companion of our friend, the Peddler's Boy, who drank the gla.s.s of gin. Poor Frederick! It makes my heart sad, to think what he might have been, and what he was. He was as kind, and amiable, and industrious, and prudent, as Samuel. His habits were as good, too, for aught that I know, up to the time when he was so thoughtless and foolish as to yield to the wishes of that coa.r.s.e and wicked boy. He had been as well brought up as Samuel. Good principles had been as carefully sown in his mind. There was, then, there could have been no general reason why he did not show himself more of a hero when he met his old schoolmate.

How foolish it was for Frederick to taste that liquor. He did not love gin. He disliked the taste of it. Moreover, he knew well enough that it was wrong to taste it, and I presume he saw clearly enough, at the time, that he was making a little dunce of himself. Why did he not run away, if he could not resist temptation while he stayed there? Why, when Samuel reminded him, so kindly, that it was time for them to go, did he not go along about his business? How foolish it was for him to stay and drink that dram, which tasted to him, I dare say, almost as bad as a dose of salts? Oh, if he had only had more courage, more principle! But there he failed--and his failure cost him dearly!

Samuel, you will recollect, tried to console him, after he had drank the gla.s.s of gin, to please Peter, by telling him that he was sure he would never do so again. But Samuel, it appeared afterwards, was too hopeful, too charitable. Frederick did drink again. How long it was after that holiday, before he did so, I don't know. Nor is it much matter. It is sufficient to know, that when a like temptation was placed before him again, he had less power to resist it than he had before. He drank again, and it was not many months before he liked dram-drinking as well as any of the boys in the factory.

However, Frederick had friends in the city; and when he was about twenty-one years of age, some of these friends got him a good place as a clerk in a wholesale grocery store. He seemed to "turn over a new leaf," when he went to Boston to live. If he drank any--and I suppose he did a little--his habit did not grow much stronger, and he was a very faithful clerk.

After a year or two, he did so well, that his friends loaned him money, and he went into business for himself. For a year or two he did well, and was prosperous. His credit was good. His business increased.

There was no reason why he should not continue to prosper. None, did I say? There was one. His love for dram-drinking grew stronger, after a while, and he drank more and more. Not that he ever got absolutely drunk; but it was not an uncommon thing for him to get _high_, as they sometimes say of the first stages of drunkenness--so high that he talked and acted very like a fool.

A habit of this kind is apt to grow upon a person. It grew upon Frederick. I will not trace his path, through all its windings, from tasting to moderate drinking, from moderate drinking to drunkenness, and from drunkenness to ruin. But such was his course. He drank till he entirely lost the power of controlling his appet.i.te. His business affairs got out of order, and they became worse and worse. He failed.

Not long after this, he was often seen reeling about the streets of Boston, a poor, miserable, drunken wretch.

One night, when he was drunk, some one who knew him, ordered a carriage, and took him to the neat little cottage which was the home of his childhood. His aged parents were already aware, to some extent, of Frederick's habits; but when they saw there, before their eyes, that living wreck of what was once their son, it seemed as if their hearts would break with anguish. That night they said not a word to their son. They knew that he was not himself, and that anything he might say then, would only add to their grief.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE DRUNKARD AND HIS FATHER.]

The next day, however, after the reason of their miserable son had been partly restored, they had a long talk with him. He knew to what a depth he had fallen. But he declared, over and over again, that there was no hope for him. "I am lost!" said he; "I am lost! Father," he continued, "I am drinking up my soul, and no power on earth can stop me. I could no more live without liquor, than a fish can live out of water. I am on fire, and nothing will help to quench the flames, but the liquor which feeds them."

Then he told the old man the story of that first gla.s.s of gin. "It was that," said he, "which has done all the mischief. If I had not played the fool then, I might have been somebody now. But I yielded to temptation. I formed the taste for liquor. It has grown upon me, until I am the loathsome beast that you see before you. No, I never can stop drinking until I die."

Poor, poor man! in less than three weeks after this interview with his parents, he died--died of that most terrible disease, the delirium tremens.

My young friends, before I leave this story of Frederick, let me urge you to beware of the first gla.s.s. I don't care whether it is gin, or rum, or brandy. Don't touch it. If you are tempted to drink, be a hero. Have courage to say "No, I'll not throw myself away. I think too much of myself for that."

CHAP. XIII.

SAMUEL IN BOSTON.

Time wore away. The peddler's boy, when he made up his mind to go to work in the factory, did not expect to spend his days there. He purposed to enter the factory because he thought that that was the best thing he could do _then_. You will recollect that he said to his father, when the old gentleman asked him what he would like to do, that there were a great many things which he should _like_ to do, and that may be he would do them some day; but that as he could not do them _then_, he thought he would go to work in the factory, and wait until he could do them. Samuel, at length, began to think that it was time for him to look for some other business a little more to his mind than what he was doing then. So thought the good old peddler, his father. His mother--alas! she had gone to her rest--her smiling face had long been missed in the little cottage where she had dwelt so many years. It was decided that Samuel should go to Boston. But what was he to do there? That question gave others more anxiety than it gave Samuel. "I don't know, to be sure," said he, "exactly what I'll find to do. But I know I'll do _something_. I'll shovel dirt, if I can't get anything else to do, and I can make a living at that."

He went to Boston. The first thing he did, after he got there, was to walk straight to the house of Captain Lovechild. The captain was at home, and glad to see him.

"Do you remember," the boy asked, "when you came to our house, a great while ago, and brought your telescope with you?"

"Yes," the old man replied, "and I remember, too, how a certain little fellow got almost crazy when he looked through the instrument, at the moon and stars, and when I told him something about them."

"And do you remember _what_ you said?"

"No, I'm sure I don't."

"Well, I do, as plainly as if you had said it but yesterday; and it was what you said about living to some purpose, and having a high aim, and being governed by high principles, that put a new soul into me."

"And made you talk so largely?"

Samuel colored. "I was a foolish little creature, I suppose," he said.

"No, not a bit of it," said the captain, grasping the young man's hand, "not a bit of it. I was glad to hear you say what you did. I've thought of it a thousand times since, and I have said to myself, 'That chap will make something, if he lives, see if he don't.'"

"Well, he _hasn't_ made anything yet."

The captain laughed. "I don't quite agree with you," he said. "But, let that be as it may, you are young yet, and the great pyramid and St. Peter's church were not built in a minute. Sam, what are you now?"

"A poor, green factory boy."

"Who is trying to do his duty, and sometimes asks G.o.d to help him; who is wide awake and ambitious; who has got a pretty good head and not a very bad heart; who will push his way in the world and be somebody?"

"I don't know about all that."

"Nor I, but I know some things about you--more than you dream of, I guess."

Samuel colored again, and tried to stammer out something, but succeeded only tolerably well.

"You want something to do, don't you?" the old man asked.

"Yes, sir," said the peddler's boy, "that is what I came to Boston for."

"Well, let me think a moment," said the good old gentleman. He did think a moment, and then he put on his hat, and got the gold-headed cane which he cut on the island of Malta, where Paul was cast away, and off he posted with his young friend. He knew what he was about. He had not been thinking for nothing. After walking some ten or fifteen minutes, he went into a store on Commercial wharf, and asked one of the partners of the house, whom he seemed to know very well, if they did not want a clerk. The answer was that they did not need another clerk, but that they were very much in want of a good porter.

"Well, here's the chap," said the captain, pointing to Samuel. "Sam, what do you say to that?"

Samuel was inclined to try the business, and in less than half an hour, the terms were arranged, and the young lad was at work.

CHAP. XIV.

THE FLOUR STORE.