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Title: Overcoming handicaps
Author: Archer Wallace
Release date: November 9, 2025 [eBook #77199]
Language: English
Original publication: New York: Doubleday, Doran & Company, Inc, 1927
Credits: Carol Brown, Tim Miller and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK OVERCOMING HANDICAPS ***
OVERCOMING HANDICAPS
OVERCOMING HANDICAPS
BY
ARCHER WALLACE
_Author of_
“STORIES OF GRIT,” “CANADIAN HEROES OF MISSION
FIELDS OVERSEAS”
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
REV. FRANK LANGFORD, B. A.
Secretary of the Board of Religious Education of the United
Church of Canada
[Illustration]
GARDEN CITY NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
1929
COPYRIGHT, 1927,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
OVERCOMING HANDICAPS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
INTRODUCTION
Did you ever feel utterly discouraged over your failure to master
some subject at school? Or have you lost nearly all of your interest
in school studies because some of your fellow-students could outstrip
you in spite of your best efforts? Well, those circumstances may be
discouraging, all right, but would it not be still worse if you had
no chance to go to school at all, or if you had to work hard all day
with your hands, and then snatch such education as you could get by
attending classes for a couple of hours each evening? That is the way
some boys had to do, and yet they got an education, and a good one, so
that they became great and successful men. Read the stories of some of
them in this book, and see how great were the handicaps they overcame.
What do you suppose it would be like to leave home, and find yourself
all alone in a great city where you had never been before? Worse still,
suppose you were surrounded by a gang of lads about your own age or
older, who seemed bent on making your life as miserable as possible.
To complete the story of difficulties, imagine yourself entirely
ignorant of the language spoken in that city. What would you do? If you
had the right kind of stuff in you, you might get along as well as did
some of the young fellows in the stories in this book. Remember, these
stories tell of real people, who actually did face difficulties, so you
may rest assured that what they did, you could do too.
You will be surprised to find out how much like yourselves these men
were. Some of them were poor, some were without friends, some had no
education, some were weak lads physically, some had hot tempers--in
short, they were very much like most of us. How did such ordinary boys
become great men? Why, it is to answer that question that this book
was written. The author has given us a living picture of each of them
in such interesting fashion that we become acquainted with the boy, we
watch him grow up, and we see how he won his success.
And now you don’t want to wait another minute. Let’s read the book.
FRANK LANGFORD.
The biographical sketches which make up this book were originally used
in _The King’s Own_, a Canadian paper for boys. The author thanks the
publishers for permission to use the stories in book form.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Little Cripple with the Giant Mind 13
II. The Amazing Story of Arthur Kavanagh 22
III. The Delicate Boy Who Became England’s Greatest
Sculptor 29
IV. Brave Tusitala, the Teller of Stories 36
V. The Composer Who Could Not Hear His Own Music 47
VI. The Thrilling Story of An Immigrant Boy 56
VII. A Great Artist and a Great Hero 69
VIII. From Bookbinder’s Errand Boy to Great Scientist 76
IX. The Newsboy Who Became a Great Inventor 85
X. The Unlettered Boy Who Became a Tree Doctor 94
XI. The Peasant Boy Who Made His Dreams Come True 103
XII. The Boy Whose Difficulties Made Him Determined to
Succeed 111
XIII. Kindergarten Pupil at Twenty-five: College
Professor at Fifty 119
XIV. A Poor Negro Boy Who Thrilled a King 127
XV. A Quaker Boy Who Astonished the World 133
OVERCOMING HANDICAPS
OVERCOMING HANDICAPS
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE CRIPPLE WITH THE GIANT MIND
On April 9, 1865, Charles Steinmetz was born at Breslau in Germany.
He was a cripple from his birth. Both his father and grandfather had
suffered from spinal trouble, but in Charles the affliction was more
noticeable and all his life, though he had a very wise head, he had an
undersized, misshapen body. He was so short in stature that he looked
much like a dwarf and while his shoulders were thrown up, the head was
set so as to give him the appearance of a hunchback.
His mother died when Charles was just one year old and his grandmother
came to take care of him. She would have loved her grandchild in any
case, but his affliction made him especially dear to her, and she
cared for him so that all through life he loved her dearly and after
her death he cherished her memory. Breslau is a large railway centre
and Charles’ father worked in the government railway service there.
He was a comparatively poor man but keenly interested in science. He
was determined that, as far as was possible, Charles should have a
thorough education. Charles himself was a studious boy, and eager to
take advantage of every opportunity to learn. He was not able to play
games and enjoy an active life as other boys did but he did enjoy
life and the subjects he studied greatly interested him, and severely
crippled though he was he made up his mind that he would devote himself
to science. He said that he hoped to make discoveries that would help
other people.
As soon as he was old enough, Charles began to study at the university.
He was most interested in mathematics, chemistry and electricity and
he made considerable progress in these subjects. He was just about to
receive his degree when his political views made it necessary for him
to leave Germany and go to Switzerland, where several of his friends,
holding similar views, had gone before him. The proud, overbearing,
arrogant views of many German leaders of that time were not to his
liking and he had shown decided radical tendencies which brought him
under suspicion of the German government.
He arrived in Switzerland in June, 1888, with very little money. It
took exactly half of all he had to pay the first month’s rent for
his room, but he possessed great courage and immediately resumed his
studies in chemistry and physics, while he wrote articles for local
papers and magazines and so earned enough to pay his way. By dint of
hard work he managed to earn fourteen dollars a month and although this
was not very much, his wants were few, and he did not suffer hardship
nor get into debt.
While he was in Switzerland he met a young Dane named Oscar Asmussen.
This man had once lived in San Francisco and intended returning. He
urged Charles Steinmetz to go with him but Charles was almost penniless
and the thing seemed impossible. Oscar Asmussen had just enough money
to pay for two steerage passages and a few dollars over and in June,
1889, the two set out for America.
Charles Steinmetz, at that time, could not speak a word of English
and the days on board ship were chiefly devoted to learning English,
although one can easily understand that the crowded, uncomfortable
quarters of the steerage would make such a task difficult. When
at last the ship reached New York something happened which nearly
resulted in Charles Steinmetz’ being deported back to Switzerland.
The ship arrived on a Saturday night and passengers had to wait till
Monday before being examined. Charles slept near an open porthole and
caught a severe cold which caused his face to swell. When he appeared
before the authorities for examination on Monday morning he was indeed
a sorry-looking spectacle. He was dwarfed and misshapen in body;
his eyesight was very defective, his face terribly swollen, and his
clothes decidedly shabby. Furthermore he could scarcely speak a word of
English. Had it not been for the earnest entreaties of Oscar Asmussen
he would most surely have been refused admission to America. He was
admitted, however, for in those days the government authorities were
not as strict as they are now.
Charles Steinmetz certainly did not look a very promising immigrant and
during his first few weeks he met with much that would have discouraged
a less determined man. He had letters of introduction to two electrical
engineers in America. The first man read his letter and turned him down
flat. “There is a perfect epidemic of foreign electrical engineers;
we cannot do a thing for you,” he said. The other man to whom Charles
Steinmetz went, read the letter and promised to send for him in a few
days. He did not send, and Charles who was penniless, went to see him
at the end of a week and found that the man had forgotten all about
him. However, when reminded of his promise, he gave Charles a position
at twelve dollars a week. It was not the kind of work that he wanted
but he was glad to get a footing of any kind and he worked hard at it.
One day his employer stained his hands with dye; his chemists were not
able to remove the stains, and he was agitated and annoyed. Charles
Steinmetz suggested an acid solution which was tried, and instantly
removed the stains. As a reward for this he was set to work in the
laboratory of the factory, at tasks more suited to his liking and which
gave him a chance to show his skill.
He soon showed amazing ability and in two papers he read before the
American Institute of Electrical Engineers he established a position
as a leading authority on the subject. Soon after this the American
General Electric Company was formed and Charles Steinmetz was offered
the position of chief consulting engineer at a large salary. He
accepted the position under somewhat peculiar conditions. He did not
want a large salary, but he did wish to be quite free to carry out
whatever experiments he desired and requested that the company should
permit him to draw on them for whatever money he needed. This they were
quite willing to do. At Schenectady, a very fine laboratory was fitted
up for him and there he began his experiments in electrical engineering
in which he was so keenly interested. For many years he toiled on
without attracting a great deal of attention. He was a hard worker and
forgot himself in his work. The General Electric Company knew that in
him they had one of the greatest experts living, but for a long time he
was not widely known. Then, from time to time, authoritative articles
on electricity and chemistry began to appear in the leading magazines
signed “Charles Steinmetz,” and they were recognised as being of a very
high order. Then it gradually became known that a really great mind
was at work in the laboratory at Schenectady, and his position as an
authority was established.
All this time he worked hard, ever seeking to perfect electrical
appliances already in use and to make discoveries that would benefit
humanity. His laboratory was one of the best equipped in the world
and when Thomas A. Edison visited it, he expressed his admiration and
astonishment at what he saw there. A warm friendship had sprung up
between Steinmetz and Edison and they recognised each other, not as
rivals, but as co-workers in the same field.
When spoken to about his hard work, Charles Steinmetz refused to take
any credit. He insisted that he loved his work so intensely that he
never became fatigued. “There is no more credit due me for sticking to
my work,” he said, “than there is to a child who plays. I love my work.
It is my chief joy and I could not easily take a holiday from it if I
had to.” He never had any faith in the lasting value of work done for
the sake of the wages. He believed that work should be done for work’s
sake. Only men and women who love their work, he believed, would ever
make a success of it, and benefit others. In this connection it is
interesting to note that when he died in November, 1923, he left behind
him practically nothing except an insurance policy for $1,500 and an
old automobile. He had no one depending upon him and to heap up money
was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.
For some time before his death he was working hard to invent devices
which would offset the destructive effects of lightning. In order
to do this he studied closely how lightning is formed. He succeeded
in producing artificial lightning with the energy of one million
horse-power--an achievement which created a sensation among experts in
the electrical world.
He had unbounded faith in the future of electricity. He was one of the
first to predict that electricity would eventually do away with steam
locomotives and thus enormously cut down the consumption of coal.
He made many other predictions which at the time seemed impossible,
but which appear much more reasonable now. He was quick to see that
electricity was destined to become more and more useful and a greater
boon to the human race.
Many great distinctions came to Charles Steinmetz. He was made
a Professor of Electrical Engineering at Union University. Both
Harvard University and Union University conferred degrees upon him in
recognition of his valuable work. No doubt he was glad to receive such
honours but he remained very unassuming. His chief delight was in his
work and often he appeared at important functions wearing a soft collar
and a shabby tweed suit. Charles Steinmetz lived a few months less than
sixty years but into those years he put his very best work. When he
was buried many of the most notable people on the American continent
hastened to pay their tribute to his worth. One writer said: “This
deformed hunchback had the mind of an angel and the soul of a seer.”
When one thinks of these things there arises before the mind a picture
of that penniless, deformed youth, humbly seeking admission to America
in 1889. He was a sorry-looking object then--and indeed as far as his
body was concerned--remained so throughout life. But though he was
dwarfed in body, Charles Steinmetz was a giant in mind and in spirit.
CHAPTER II
THE AMAZING STORY OF ARTHUR KAVANAGH
Early in 1831 a little lad was born in County Carlow, Ireland, under
most unfortunate circumstances. He had only the rudiments of arms and
legs; mere stumps instead of proper limbs. It would be safe to say that
few boys have ever had to face life at any time or in any country with
such terrible handicaps as had Arthur McMurrough Kavanagh. Fortunately,
his parents were in comfortable circumstances and they did all they
could to help him, but nothing came of it. Great surgeons and doctors
tried to help, but each operation only resulted in causing the boy
great pain and bitter disappointment.
In spite of predictions that he could not live, Arthur Kavanagh thrived
and the muscles of what arms and legs he had grew so strong with
constant use that he learned to ride a horse, holding it with a strong
rein and even using a whip. He became a first-class rider, and although
he was strapped into a saddle-chair, he learned to ride at a fast
pace and to take fences as well as the best riders in the countryside.
Furthermore, he became an expert angler; learned to write letters more
legibly than most people who have fingers, and even painted pictures.
Of course he was not able to attend an ordinary school, and a
clergyman, Rev. David Wood, became his tutor. Under this tuition Arthur
Kavanagh made such progress that when he went abroad he was generally
the member of the party who acted as interpreter for others of the
party who found themselves unable to speak the language of the country
through which they were passing.
His skill in shooting amazed everyone. Seated in the saddle-chair on
his horse, he would rest his gun on the stump which served as a left
arm and pull the trigger with an attachment made to his right arm. So
expert did he become that generally he could shoot birds on the wing
while his horse trotted along at a good pace.
While still in his teens he travelled in the East with his tutor and
his brother. He visited Egypt and Palestine, and rode hundreds of miles
strapped in his saddle-chair on the back of an Arab steed. Wherever
he went a good deal of curiosity was excited. The sight of this
young man, without arms or legs, but who could ride so well and whose
intelligence was of such a high order, excited wonder and admiration.
On several occasions the party was attacked by robbers and Arthur
Kavanagh’s coolness and courage was responsible for getting them out
of more than one tight corner. On one occasion the girth of his saddle
gave way and he and his saddle-chair were dashed to the ground. He
was picked up unconscious, but fortunately was not injured, and the
following day was riding again.
With his brother he travelled to India by way of Russia and Persia. In
1849, while on this journey, he fell dangerously ill and for some time
lodged in the home of a Persian prince, who showed him great kindness.
After his recovery the party crossed Lake Urumiah and rode through an
extremely difficult country and in the face of blinding sleet and snow
to Mosul. He visited Nineveh, voyaged by raft down the River Tigris to
Bagdad, and then rode by a perilous pass to Shiraz. The dangers and
hardships of this journey almost broke his strong nerve, but he kept
on. He became dizzy with fever, and one day as he rode he saw the mule
in front of him stumble and fall headlong over a precipice. Only his
strong nerve saved him from a like fate, but he managed to pull up his
mule on the edge of the chasm.
Arthur Kavanagh was extremely fond of animals and especially of horses.
He depended so much upon them for getting around that he talked to
them as to friends. Once, while in the East, he had a fine Arab steed
to which he became deeply attached. Often while travelling in the
desert beneath the hot sun he would find shelter between his horse’s
legs while he ate or rested, and the animal would never move for fear
of injuring his crippled master. When the time came for him to say
good-bye to this faithful horse at Cairo, Kavanagh shed many bitter
tears.
While in India in 1851 he had the experience of tiger hunting and
astonished even old hunters by his cool nerve. One day, while separated
from other members of the hunting party, he came face to face with a
tiger which got within ten paces of him, but his years of practice
stood him in good stead and, carefully placing the gun on the stump of
his left arm, he brought the animal down.
While he was in India his brother left for Australia and died while
on the voyage. For a time Arthur Kavanagh found himself in financial
difficulties and maintained himself by carrying despatches in the
Aurangabad District of India. In 1853 his brother, Charles, died, and
he succeeded to the family estates in Ireland, to which country he
returned at once.
Several years before this Arthur Kavanagh had made a vow that if ever
he became a landlord he would conduct his affairs in such a way that
his tenants would honour and love him. At that time it seemed most
unlikely that he ever would succeed to the family estates, but the
unexpected death of his brothers gave him the chance to fulfil his vow,
and he did so nobly.
He practically rebuilt the two villages of Borris and Ballygragget,
which were on his estate. The plans--which won the Royal Dublin
Society’s medal--were all drawn by himself. He arranged that even the
poorest people should have comforts such as they had never dreamed
of before. He gave instructions that there was to be no harshness or
severity in cases where people were unable to pay rents. He loved the
people and he wished them to love and trust him.
Considering the terrible physical handicaps he had to face, his
unfailing cheerfulness was one of the most amazing things about him.
He might easily have become sour and disgruntled. But he was never
heard to complain. Wherever he went he wrote letters of great interest
describing the places he saw and the people he met. These letters
always bubbled over with fun and good nature. When he had completed his
thirtieth year he wrote a long letter in which he reviewed his life.
The letter was remarkable for the constant references to the goodness
of God and for the evidence of his great gratitude to God for all His
blessings. This letter is considered by many to be one of the most
remarkable letters in all literature.
He greatly enjoyed company and looked eagerly forward to the visits of
friends. He had to be carried around the house on the back of a strong
servant, but sometimes, if he wished to cross a room and the servant
were not present, he would cross the room by a series of springs and
jumps, meanwhile keeping an upright position.
He was appointed justice of the peace and sheriff of Kilkenny County,
and, some time later, chairman of the Board of Guardians. For many
years he sat under an oak tree in the courtyard of Borris House and
acted as advisor and general counsellor to the people. The simple folk
of the countryside had great faith in his sound judgement and everyone
knew how anxious to help he was. He made up quarrels and even arranged
marriages. In the winter time he distributed help and blankets to the
poor and made sure that no unfortunate people were overlooked.
In 1866 he was elected to the British Parliament and represented the
people there until 1880. Naturally, a man without arms and legs was
a most unusual sight among such an assembly, and he received great
consideration. He was a man of strong opinions and he was not afraid to
express them. He took a very active interest in everything which went
on and made several important speeches. The great William E. Gladstone
said that he always listened to Mr. Kavanagh with the utmost respect
and appreciation.
Arthur Kavanagh died at Chelsea, London, in 1889, worn out by overwork
and anxiety. His passing was mourned by all who had known him
personally and by a vast number who knew of him by repute. It is no
wonder that a leading magazine of that time referred to him as, “One of
the most extraordinary men that ever lived.”
CHAPTER III
THE DELICATE BOY WHO BECAME ENGLAND’S GREATEST SCULPTOR
In the middle of the eighteenth century there was a little shop in the
heart of London, England, where the owner sold antique plaster casts
of famous people. Most of these casts were of persons written of in
classic history such as Niobe, Venus, Hercules, Ajax and Achilles, but
others were of more recent times as Lord Howe, Admiral Hawke and George
II who was reigning at that time.
Visitors to this place saw at the back of the shop a delicate little
lad, with a pale face, generally seated in a chair stuffed with
cushions and propped by pillows. Never far from him was his mother, the
shopkeeper’s wife, whose greatest care in life seemed to be her sick
boy who looked as though he would never grow up to become a man.
Little John Flaxman--for that was the boy’s name--came into the world
with so frail a body that few people thought he could live very long.
For the first ten years of his life only the constant care of his
father and mother kept him alive. He attended school for a very short
time. His health made it impossible for him to take his place alongside
other boys, and as to romping around and playing with them, of course
it was out of the question. He hobbled around on crutches and often as
he lay at home supported by pillows he could hear the shouts of other
boys at play.
The plaster casts around his father’s shop never failed to interest
John Flaxman. He asked a great many questions about each one, and
questions which his parents could not always answer. He was anxious
to get an education and as he was unable to attend school he depended
largely upon the help his parents could give him.
One day a clergyman named Matthews visited the shop in order to get a
little model repaired which his servant had broken. While Mr. Flaxman,
senior, was repairing the figure, the clergyman noticed little John
reading and when he saw that the book was a Latin grammar he became
interested at once. The pale, delicate face of the boy greatly
attracted Mr. Matthews and he promised to return the following day with
a book of Homer so that the boy could learn about the classic heroes,
concerning whom the lad asked so many times. The clergyman was as good
as his word, and next day put into John’s hands a volume of Homer,
which so fascinated John Flaxman, that soon he covered whole sheets of
paper with sketches of scenes from Homer’s works. He spent a great many
hours trying to mould figures, using plaster of paris, soft clay or
wax. As he was only eight or nine years of age, his models were quite
crude, but he laboured away and as he seemed so supremely happy in
doing it, his parents gently praised his work.
After he passed his tenth birthday he began to grow stronger. He became
well enough to go out without his crutches, and while he was far from
being as robust as other lads of his age, he was able to take walks in
the park and soon some colour of health stole into his cheeks.
One day Rev. Mr. Matthews invited John over to his home so that Mrs.
Matthews might tell him more about the heroes of Greece about whom
he was so fond of reading. That was the beginning of a new day in
John’s life. He listened spell-bound as Mrs. Matthews told of the
romantic careers of Hercules, Achilles and many others. He visited the
Matthews’ home a great many times, and tried hard to make plaster casts
of these heroes of ancient times. There came to him a great ambition.
He resolved to become a sculptor. At first it seemed ridiculous and
almost impossible. He had scarcely been to school a day in his life.
His parents were too poor to send him to any art school, but what
seemed to be even a greater obstacle than either, was his own health
which still prevented him from getting around as other boys did. But
the more he thought about it the more determined he became to realise
his ambition.
About this time a gentleman asked him to make six drawings and when
they were finished he praised John’s work and paid him for it. This
was the first money that John had ever earned and there was no happier
or prouder boy in all England. He began to attend an art academy and
when he was fifteen he won a silver medal in the academy contest for a
model he had cast. Two years later he tried for the gold medal award,
and although it was expected by all that he would win, the prize was
awarded to another boy. This was a bitter disappointment to John
Flaxman, but in reality it was a good thing for him. He became more
determined than ever to put his best into everything he attempted and
to take nothing for granted.
About this time the great potter Josiah Wedgwood heard about John
Flaxman’s skill and visited him. He asked him to make some designs in
pottery: tea-cups, saucers, jugs and tea-pots. Wedgwood did not know
whether or not John Flaxman would think himself above doing such things
but the young sculptor never hesitated a moment. He was glad to do the
work, both for the experience he would get, and because of the money he
could earn, which he badly needed. Josiah Wedgwood was delighted with
Flaxman’s work and the two worked together for several years.
One day John Flaxman heard the great artist Sir Joshua Reynolds say, in
a lecture, that no man could hope to become a great artist, either as
a painter or a sculptor, who did not visit Italy and so study at first
hand the great masterpieces that are to be found there. Flaxman left
that lecture very much depressed. Just a short time before that he had
married and he told his young wife what Sir Joshua Reynolds had said.
She was not discouraged in the least. She said: “You earn what you can,
and leave the saving to me, and perhaps before many years are over,
we shall have enough to take us both to Italy.” So, for five years
John Flaxman worked as hard as his health would permit. Even for fine
designs he received at first only fifteen shillings each and, later on,
one guinea. But his careful wife kept putting away a little whenever
she could, and at the end of five years, they had sufficient to take
them to Italy.
It was in 1787 that John Flaxman went to Italy and he stayed there
seven years, studying, and at the same time working to earn money. What
he saw in Italy greatly astonished and delighted him. The marvellous
workmanship of Michael Angelo and other great masters thrilled him so
that he longed to greatly improve upon his own work. When he returned
from Rome in 1794 he soon had more work than he could do. He executed
a monument to Lord Mansfield which was placed in Westminster Abbey and
when a noted sculptor of that time saw it, he said: “This little man,
Flaxman, cuts us all out.”
From that time until he died in 1826, John Flaxman easily took the
leading place among English sculptors. He had studied carefully the
works of other men, but he was constantly carrying out some new ideas
of his own. When he went out for a walk he often saw scenes which
gave him ideas and he would return to his study and commence the work
of making models of what he had seen. He found his subjects in the
parks, the streets, and often even in the nursery, for he dearly loved
children. As he walked along the streets he did not look as though
he were a great man. He seemed very feeble, and his head appeared to
be too large for his body. He hurried along with a peculiar sidelong
gait and he gave passers-by the impression that he was more or less
deformed. Still, in spite of all this John Flaxman became one of the
greatest men of his day. His works may be seen at a great many places
in Great Britain and even in India. He helped in the decorations for
Buckingham Palace and many of the noblest monuments in St. Paul’s
Cathedral and Westminster Abbey are the works of his hands. Others are
to be found in such places as the British Museum, South Kensington
Museum and the Flaxman Hall at University College. He was made
Professor of Sculpture at the Royal Academy and when he died in 1826 no
one disputed what was said of him: “He was the most gifted genius in
sculpture that England ever produced.”
CHAPTER IV
BRAVE TUSITALA, THE TELLER OF STORIES
If any number of boys were asked to name their favourite book,
“Treasure Island,” by Robert Louis Stevenson, would be sure to be
mentioned. Could any one who has read the book ever forget Black Dog,
Billy Bones, John Silver, Ben Gunn, or any of the characters which
figure in that remarkable story? The author of “Treasure Island” was
born in Edinburgh on November 13, 1850. His father and his grandfather
had both been lighthouse builders. The stern, rugged coast of Scotland
with its many dangerous reefs, make it necessary to have well-built
lighthouses to warn the mariners of danger, and so, on many rocks that
run out to the sea, the friendly beacons are placed by daring builders,
who often erected them at the risk of their lives.
No doubt Robert’s father would have been glad had the boy been strong
enough to follow the same calling, but Robert was a delicate little
fellow who never could have worked hard like his father. He was an
only child and his poor health caused his parents a good deal of
anxiety. He was so delicate that he was not able for many years to
join other children in their play, although there never was a lad who
had a merrier heart. At school he did not do very well, because he was
absent so much on account of sickness. He spent a good deal of his time
in bed, and developed a great love for stories. First his mother, then
the nurse, would read stories to him until their throats were sore,
and young Robert would listen to every word and ask for “Just one more
story.” Out in the street he could hear the voices of his chums as they
gleefully shouted in their play, but Robert had to sit in bed, propped
up by pillows, a shawl pinned around him, while he listened to stories
or played with his toy soldiers.
He was often lonely, for he dearly loved to have other children around,
but the best he could do was to press his face against the window-pane
and watch them play in the street. Thus it was that he lived in a
little world of his own. He thought about fairies and goblins, or he
imagined he was a sailor in some far-off seas where pirates abounded
and then, in order to pass away the time, he began to write little
stories himself, and read them to his mother, who no doubt laughed
heartily at his romantic tales.
One day he was passing a large, empty house and for the sake of
adventure he thought he would enter it and imagine himself a daring
burglar. He found an open window and crawled through. Then he roamed
around the empty house feeling as bold as a lion. Suddenly he heard a
noise and all at once his courage fled. Most likely it was a mouse,
but all kinds of terrible pictures arose in Robert’s mind. He imagined
himself arrested, handcuffed and brought before the magistrate. No one
came, however, and he plucked up enough courage to get to the window by
which he had entered and race home.
From being a delicate child Robert grew up to be a man with very poor
health. He suffered a great deal, in fact there was scarcely a day when
he was free from pain. He once wrote a letter to a friend in which
he made one of his few references to his sufferings. He said: “For
fourteen years I have not had a day’s real health; I have wakened sick
and gone to bed weary; and I have done my day unflinchingly. I have
written in bed and written out of it; written in hæmorrhages, written
in sickness, written torn by coughing, written when my head swam
from weakness and for so long it seems to me I have won my wager. The
battle goes on, ill or well is a trifle, so as it goes. I was made for
a contest and the Powers have so willed that my battlefield should be
this dingy, inglorious one of the bed and the physic bottle.”
This certainly was not the kind of life that Robert Louis Stevenson’s
great love of fun and action made it easy to accept. He longed for
health and did everything he could to get it. He loved the woods and
the fields, but generally when he would like to be there, he had to
remain in bed. Yet, throughout it all, he showed a cheerfulness and a
courage which have seldom been equalled. He had an unquenchable love
of fun, and although he was often so ill that he could only carry on
a conversation in whispers, or by writing with pencil, no one ever
visited him who did not realise how wonderfully brave he was. When
one learns of his physical condition it seems hardly possible that
Stevenson could write these words:
“If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness,
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face,
If beams from happy human eyes,
Have moved me not, if morning skies,
Books, and my food and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:
Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake.”
All during these years of suffering Stevenson wrote books which were,
and still are, read by thousands of appreciative people. And these are
not the kind of books that people read and forget at once. They are the
books that can be read and enjoyed over and over again, and never seem
to lose their charm. Besides “Treasure Island,” he wrote “Kidnapped,”
“Travels with a Donkey,” “Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” “A Child’s Garden
of Verse,” “The Master of Ballantrae,” and a number of others of very
high standard. At that time very little was known about Stevenson
himself; how surprised his readers would have been had they known
that the writer of such fascinating and cheerful books was a chronic
invalid. One man who wrote a review of a book by Stevenson, said that
the chief defect in the book was that the writer was too optimistic and
far too cheerful. “This writer,” he said, “has evidently never truly
known what suffering is, or he would not speak so complacently about
its endurance.” When Stevenson read this criticism he laughed heartily
and said it was one of the finest compliments that he had ever received.
Of course he longed for health and occasionally he wrote a few lines
which show how great that longing was. Once he wrote: “I have so many
things to make life sweet to me, it seems a pity I cannot have that
other thing, health. But I believe, for myself at least, whatever is,
is best.” Often he made great fun of his sickness as though he was
determined to laugh at it and not allow it to get the better of him. He
wrote to a friend: “I am about knocked out of time now; a miserable,
snuffling, shivering, fever-stricken, nightmare-ridden, knee-jottering
shadow and remains of a man.” Then he lapsed into the Scotch dialect
he had known as a boy: “But we’ll no gie ower gist yet a bittie. We’ve
seen waur, and Dod mem! it’s my belief that we’ll see better. I dinna
ken ’at I’ve muckle mair to say to ye, or, indeed, onything; but gist
here’s a guid fallowship, guid health, and the wale o’ guid fortune to
yer bonnie sel’.”
Still seeking health, Stevenson went to live on the island of Samoa.
There he lived for several years and it is there that he is buried.
It was a strange life for him and his wife at first, but the climate
was good for him and no doubt prolonged his life. At first the Samoans
did not know what to make of this stranger who came to live among them.
They were puzzled and suspicious, but gradually as they came to know
him better, they began to love him, until they looked upon him as their
friend, whose wisdom they could always trust.
The Samoans were lazy, ignorant, and inclined to steal, but they
had also many good qualities and so Stevenson sought to win their
confidence and then teach them better ways of doing things. He worked
industriously not only at his literary work, but at manual labour as
far as his strength permitted. With some help he built three houses,
a big barn and a road two miles long. Besides this he cleared a good
deal of land and planted quantities of food. In time he had his own
banana-patch, lemon trees, pineapples and cocoanuts; and he greatly
enjoyed the work. He insisted upon being called a farmer and if things
went wrong--as they often did--he laughed merrily and refused to be
discouraged.
Stevenson was never so happy as when telling stories and the Samoans
were just as keen listeners as other folks. He quickly mastered the
Samoan language and nightly the natives gathered around him as he told
tales of adventure and described vividly places he had seen. It was
the Samoans who named him “Tusitala,” which means, in their language
“Teller of Tales.” His wife they called “Aolele,” or “Beautiful as a
flying cloud.”
He lived very much as the natives. Most of the time he went barefoot,
with scanty clothing because of the heat, so that he became almost as
brown as a Samoan. He bathed a great deal, sometimes wading in the
water for hours and gathering shells. At other times he wandered over
the island through the dense forests of fruit trees, while the tall
palm trees waved overhead. In his home he followed a rigid programme.
He rose early in the morning, generally early enough to see the sun
rise. He did as much work during the day as his feeble health allowed.
In the evening he had prayers with his family and the Samoan members of
his household at eight o’clock, following which he retired and slept on
a chest covered with native mats and blankets.
On one occasion war broke out between two chiefs. Stevenson was unable
to prevent the feud, but he did his utmost to help the sufferers. The
Samoans showed their confidence in him at this time by bringing a bag
full of coins, which they had saved to buy roofing for their church,
and asking him to keep them until the war was over. While the war was
on Stevenson visited the prisoners, did his utmost to secure for them
medical aid, and helped them over the dull monotony of convalescence by
telling them fascinating stories. The gratitude of the Samoans was very
great. They were not naturally an industrious people, which was due no
doubt in part to the warm climate; however, they decided to build a
private road to Stevenson’s home, and to keep it in constant repair.
They called it, “The road of Loving Hearts,” and the inscription which
the chiefs drew up read as follows: “Considering the great love of
Tusitala in his loving care of us in our distress in the prison, we
have therefore prepared a splendid gift. It shall never be muddy, it
shall endure for ever, this road that we have dug.”
During these years at Samoa, while he was fighting so bravely for
health, Stevenson worked hard at his writing. He was careful to an
extraordinary degree. He weighed and considered, not only every idea he
wrote out, but every word he used. He would go over his writing again
and again, making slight corrections which to some authors would not
have seemed very important, but which to him mattered a great deal. The
result of all this care is seen in his books. There is not a faulty
sentence or a word out of place. There are few books in the English
language more carefully written than those of Robert Louis Stevenson.
The amazing courage and cheerfulness of Stevenson will never be
forgotten. He seemed to laugh at difficulties. There was a time when
he was living in San Francisco when he was so reduced in circumstances
that he lived in a cheap boarding-house, paying one dollar and fifty
cents a week for his room, and so hard-up that his main meal each
day consisted of a bowl of soup, yet notwithstanding all this, he
kept on writing brave and cheerful essays and stories. We may be sure
that those who read and so greatly enjoyed them had little idea what
troubles the man had who wrote them.
One day, early in December, 1894, Stevenson was taken ill very suddenly
in his Samoan home. Doctors were summoned, but in spite of all they
could do he passed away. A number of his devoted Samoans were in the
room when he died. As soon as the sad news of his death was known on
the island the natives brought gifts and soon the house was more than
filled with beautiful flowers. He had asked to be buried on the summit
of Vaea Mountain, and as there was no path, the natives got busy with
their knives and axes and cut a path up the steep mountain-side. There
he was buried, and on his tomb was inscribed the beautiful “Requiem”
which he had written:
“Under the wide and starry sky,
Dig the grave and let me lie.
Glad did I live, and gladly die,
And I laid me down with a will.
This be the verse you grave for me:
‘Here he lies where he longed to be;
Home is the sailor, home from the sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.’”
CHAPTER V
THE COMPOSER WHO COULD NOT HEAR HIS OWN MUSIC
Ludwig van Beethoven, who became one of the greatest--if not the
greatest--of all musical composers, was born at Bonn, Prussia, in 1770.
His childhood was not by any means a happy one. His father, who was
a musician, earned only a very small salary wherewith to support his
family of seven children, and besides he was a man whose drunken habits
reduced the family income still further. Often the three boys, Carl,
Ludwig, and Johann Beethoven, had to stop their play and assist their
staggering father into the house. The Beethovens had to sell their
linen and much of their furniture and tableware. Frau van Beethoven
grew paler and paler and then it was that Ludwig’s musical ability was
discovered.
He was only four when he began to study music and by the time he was
nine he had mastered all that his father could teach him. At the age
of seven he gave a series of concerts in Cologne. Very soon he began
to compose music. When only ten he went on a tour to Holland with
his mother, and a year later he was appointed deputy organist in the
Elector’s Chapel. While he was still very young he went to play before
the great Mozart. Mozart was very busy and did not want to be bothered.
He took very little notice of young Beethoven, which disappointed the
lad; but the boy sat down at the piano and began to play in such a
manner that the great musician said to his friends, “This youth will
some day make a noise in the world.”
While he was still in his teens the boy’s mother died, and as his
father was a worthless character, the lad felt very lonely. Some
years later he went to Vienna to continue his musical education, and
at once his great genius was recognised. With his wonderful playing,
and still more with his compositions, he astonished and delighted the
music-loving people there.
Then it was that a very serious thing happened to Beethoven--he
began to lose his hearing. For awhile he would not admit it, even to
himself. That he, who was so passionately fond of music; to whom it
seemed the sweetest thing in life, should cease to hear, seemed too
cruel to be true. It was just the same as if some great artist were
suddenly to lose his eyesight and never again see the beauty of colors.
He consulted one doctor after another, in frantic efforts to find a
remedy. It was of no avail. His deafness increased so quickly that
while still a comparatively young man he was nearly totally deaf.
As he realised what was happening Beethoven became unutterably
miserable. He realised that resignation to his fate was the only
thing left for him. In utter misery he exclaimed, “Resignation! what
a miserable refuge, and yet it is the only one left for me.” He even
thought of taking his own life. “If I had not read,” he exclaimed,
“that man must not of his own free-will end his life, I should
have done so long ago.” A mechanician named Maelzel made a pair of
ear-trumpets for him and at first the composer thought that they would
be a great help, but he was bitterly disappointed and he discarded them.
Then it was that Beethoven faced his terrible calamity with an amount
of courage that seems amazing. He applied himself with increased
enthusiasm to his musical studies and at times seemed almost to forget
his deafness. There is no doubt that his affliction touched his spirit
so that there is in nearly all his compositions, a peculiar melancholy
strain. He lived much to himself. He had already written, “Poor
Beethoven, there is no external happiness for you! You must create your
own happiness.” When he was only a little over thirty he wrote a letter
which shows how extremely crushed he was for a time. He wrote, “My
heart and my mind were from childhood prone to the tender feelings of
affection. Nay, I was always disposed to perform great actions. I have
been attacked by an incurable complaint, made worse by the unskilful
treatment of medical men, disappointed from year to year in the hope
of relief, and at last obliged to submit to the endurance of an evil
the cure of which may last for years, if it is practicable at all. Born
with a lively disposition, susceptible to the diversions of society,
I was forced at an early age to renounce them, and to pass my life in
seclusion.”
It was not to be wondered at that Beethoven developed some peculiar
habits. He loved the out-of-doors, but if for any reason he could not
get out he had ways of creating inspiration. “He would go to the
wash-bowl and pour several jugs of water over his hands and wrists and
dabble there until his clothing was drenched. Often in his rapture he
would pour a great deal more water out than the bowl could hold, and
the water would soon be dripping through the ceiling down into the
room below.” Sometimes when he was composing he would scarcely eat for
days at a time, and it was utterly useless for friends to remonstrate
with him, because he was like a man living in another world. Once when
he was engaged on a great composition a friend called upon him and
thus described his visit: “The house was deserted by servants, every
comfort was absent. Shut up in a room alone the great man resorted to
singing, shouting, stamping, as if in the throes of mental torture. In
appearance he was wild, dishevelled, exhausted with long periods of
work and abstinence from food of any kind.”
He got his greatest inspiration out-of-doors. He would go out in the
wettest of weather, then come in dripping with rain, shake the water
from his hat and clothes, quite unaware that he was spoiling the
carpets, coverings and furniture. He seemed as if he must get alone
with Nature and with God, in order to do his best work. His mind was
strangely awakened by the sight of a storm. He seemed supremely happy
when the wind bent the pine trees around him and the lightning flashed.
He could not hear the sweet singing of the birds, but he loved to
watch their flight and he remembered how they sang. He would stay in
the solitary woods until his whole being seemed full of strange music,
then he would hurry back to his room to put down what he had conceived,
while the inspiration was still upon him. As he raced through the
streets with his hat gone and his bushy head bowed, not looking at any
one, the people who knew his strange moods would laugh and say, “It is
just Ludwig Beethoven. Only his body is in this world.” At other times
he would sit down at the piano and, bending very low over the keys in
a frantic effort to catch the sound, he would play on rapturously,
not seeming to know who or where he was; meanwhile a crowd would be
gathered around the window and at the open doors.
There is no doubt that at times Beethoven was subject to fits of
irritability and even to fits of rage. But it must not be forgotten
that he was a great sufferer. In addition to being totally deaf, he
suffered much from rheumatism, indigestion and finally from dropsy.
Sometimes when out walking with a friend he could not help noticing how
much his friend could hear and he could not. The singing of birds, the
music of the flute, the sound of human voices, and similar joys were
lost to him and as he noticed how much they meant to others he would
often be overwhelmed with grief. Frequently when in the company of
friends he would talk brilliantly for a while, then suddenly lapse into
silence, from which none could arouse him.
For a considerable time after he became deaf Beethoven continued
to lead the orchestra in his great compositions. He was extremely
sensitive and no doubt he often pretended to hear when in reality he
could not. He was just as eccentric in leading an orchestra as in
private. He would put tremendous physical energy into the task, making
himself smaller and smaller to compel softened sounds, then rising and
standing on tip-toe with head thrown back when every instrument of the
orchestra burst forth. He could not endure frivolity when music was
being rendered. Any apparent restlessness or apathy on the part of the
audience drove him frantic. On one occasion when he observed some young
people laughing and talking while he played, he stopped immediately
and said, “I do not play for such swine.”
All during these anxious years, when sickness and poverty dogged his
footsteps, Beethoven continued to compose such music as ranked him
among the greatest composers that ever lived. He was very anxious
about his “Choral Symphony,” and urged on by friends he consented to
conduct the first performance. His friends could not have realised
the full extent of his deafness or they would never have allowed him
to be placed in such an unfortunate position. He stood up before the
orchestra and energetically waved his baton, but evidently he could not
hear the music. At the conclusion of the piece the audience thundered
its applause, which Beethoven could not hear, but some one turned him
around to face the people, who were wild with enthusiasm, and then
it dawned upon the great musician that they were showing tremendous
appreciation and he was deeply moved.
Beethoven died in Vienna on March 26, 1827, in his fifty-seventh year.
He had undertaken a long journey in winter, and the severe cold and
exposure brought on inflammation of the lungs and dropsy.
Beethoven will ever rank, not only as a great musical composer, but as
a very brave man. All through his life he was beset by troubles which
made him at times very unhappy. His deafness, which made companionship
with others almost impossible, was a constant source of mental
reflection and misery. Then his health was never good at any time of
his life, and coupled with these things was the fact that practically
all his life he was in poor financial circumstances. The wonder is,
that with so many things to harass him, he continued to produce such
music--music that will continue to thrill people as long as the world
lasts.
He died during a terrible thunder-storm, and prompted no doubt by the
heavy burden he had borne so long, he said with his last breath, “I
shall hear in heaven.”
CHAPTER VI
THE THRILLING STORY OF AN IMMIGRANT BOY
In October, 1858, a boy was born in a Serbian village to whom was given
the name of Michael Pupin. His parents were poor and could neither read
or write, but they understood the value of education and so when little
Michael, after his first few weeks at school, complained that he did
not like it, and would rather play, his mother told him that she had
always felt as if she were blind, for, although she had eyes, she could
not read, and was afraid to venture beyond her own little village.
The people of Idvor, where Michael was born, were faithful to the
customs of the Serbian race, and during the long winter evenings there
were many gatherings at the home of Michael’s parents. The older men
sat around the warm stove on a bench which was a part of the stove
and made of the same material, usually soft brick, plastered over and
whitewashed. The older women were seated on little stools along the
wall and they would spin wool, flax or hemp, while the men told stories
of Serbian bravery. The young people, and even the middle-aged folk,
did not speak unless they were given permission to do so.
Young Michael was much impressed with these gatherings and by what he
heard. He remained silent as he sat by his mother’s side, for little
fellows like him were expected to be seen and not heard. But his boyish
mind was very busy and he laughed and wept as the stories were told
which deeply stirred his imagination, and he felt that there never
could be such brave people as the Serbs.
One of the great seasons of the Serbian year was the celebration of St.
Sava. St. Sava was a Serbian Archbishop who lived in the thirteenth
century, and the Serbs have ever since honoured his memory. It was
the custom to have some boy selected who recited before the village
people stories of St. Sava which had been written out for him. One year
Michael Pupin was chosen to do this. Although he could not read, his
mother knew the St. Sava stories perfectly and she coached the boy.
Over and over again, for many a long hour, she had Michael recite.
Every word had to be correctly pronounced, every gesture come in at the
right place, and the whole so completely memorised that there would be
no hesitation. At last the day came and Michael stood up before the
entire population of the village and did his part so well that everyone
was impressed. Even the boys and girls, who generally giggled through
the ceremony, paid strict attention and soon after the village teacher
said to his mother: “Your boy will soon outgrow the village school of
Idvor.”
Soon after this Michael was sent to a higher school in the town of
Panchevo, about fifteen miles from Idvor. Here he studied hard to catch
up with the boys and girls whose privileges had been so much greater
than his own. He did so well at Panchevo that at the end of the year
the congregation of the village church at Idvor gave money to his
parents that he might be sent to continue his schooling at Prague. When
the day came for him to take the long journey to Prague, his mother
had everything ready for him. There were two bags made of beautifully
coloured wool, which contained all his belongings; one his clothes and
the other his provisions, which consisted of a large loaf of bread
and a roast goose. He had only the suit that he was wearing, but his
sisters told him it was stylish and that he looked like a city-bred
boy. He had a long yellow overcoat made of sheepskins and a black
sheepskin cap. The journey was by boat to Budapest and thence by rail
to Prague. Michael had never seen either a steamboat or a railway train
before, and he opened his eyes wide with wonder. On the boat he fell
in with a group of young students who professed to take great interest
in him, but after they had gone he discovered that they had taken his
roast goose, and he had to content himself with his loaf of bread.
Once settled in Prague he made good progress at the school, and no
doubt would have remained there for several years had not his father
died, and the boy was stranded. Some time before this he had heard
that America was a land of great opportunity for such lads as he, and
he determined to go there. He sold his watch, his books, his clothes,
even his yellow sheepskin coat and his black sheepskin cap, in order
to raise the passage money. He thought he would not need much clothing
in America, for he had seen pictures of almost naked Indians; so he
concluded that it must be a warm climate, and very little clothing
would be needed. On the 12th of March, 1874, when only a few months
past his fifteenth birthday, he set sail on the _Westphalia_ for New
York.
The journey across the Atlantic was not a very pleasant one for the
young Serbian. The weather was bitterly cold and stormy. He was so
thinly clad that he spent the chilly March nights huddled close to
the smokestack of the vessel in order to keep warm. He did not have
sufficient money to rent a mattress or a blanket for his bunk. It was
a severe test for the lonely lad and many a night, as he hugged the
smokestack of the vessel and shifted his position to avoid the force of
the gale and the sharpness of its icy blasts, his courage almost failed
him. The only headgear he had was a Turkish fez and most of the other
immigrants thought that he was a Turk and left him severely alone.
When, at the end of the fourteen days, land was seen nobody on the ship
was happier than he.
When he landed at New York, Michael Pupin had only five cents in his
pocket and this he spent on a piece of prune pie. He did not know one
word of the English language, nor had he a single friend in America.
When he reached Broadway he rubbed his eyes in amazement and something
akin to fear took possession of him. The crowded streets with telegraph
wires like so many spider’s webs, together with the tremendous noise on
every hand, bewildered him and for some moments he stood stock-still.
His puzzled expression, together with the odd-looking Turkish fez, must
have attracted considerable attention, for suddenly he found himself
surrounded by a crowd of boys, big and little, who were jeering and
laughing at him. They were newsboys and bootblacks who were anxious
to have some fun at his expense. One of the biggest of them knocked
his fez off, and Michael promptly punched his nose. Immediately they
closed and a wrestling-bout began, with scores of lads shouting in
a language not one word of which the young Serbian understood. But
Michael had learned to wrestle in his village home and promptly had
the big bully on his back. At this, all the boys cheered and Michael
thought that this must be the signal for a general attack. A policeman
came along and took hold of him rather roughly. However, the boys who
had witnessed the fight explained matters to the constable and he was
allowed to go and the lads gave him three hearty cheers.
Michael got a job driving mules on a farm in Delaware State. He was
very lonely at first. He did not understand what the other-farm-hands
said, so there was very little he could do, except attend to his
duties and eat his meals in silence. He had to learn the American way
of doing things and sometimes he was roundly abused for being such a
“greenhorn.” A young girl on the farm taught him a good many English
words, and as his memory was excellent and his eagerness to learn
great, he soon was able to carry on simple conversations.
After a few months he left the farm hoping to find work in
Philadelphia. His search for work was fruitless, and he was almost down
to his last dollar when a farmer offered him a job in Maryland, which
he gladly accepted. At the end of a month he drew his wages and went
to New York. Here he found thousands of unemployed, but he secured a
job helping some sailors who were painting a ship. At the end of three
weeks he had thirty dollars in his pocket, and besides he had learned a
considerable amount about painting. He earned five dollars by painting
a baker’s wagon, and he managed to keep himself going by doing odd jobs
with the paint brush. As winter approached jobs became scarce, and
as his room was cold and cheerless, he spent most of his time walking
vigorously in order to keep warm. Then a bright idea struck him.
Instead of walking around aimlessly he followed the coal carts and when
they dropped the coal on the sidewalks--as they did then--he promptly
rang the door-bell and offered to transfer the coal to the cellar.
Often after putting the coal in its place he would suggest to the owner
that the cellar needed painting and would offer to do it. Many a job he
secured in this way, and while his living was somewhat precarious he
did not starve, and his room-rent was always paid on time.
Not far away from Michael’s lodgings was the Cooper Union, with its
fine library and evening classes for those who wished to improve their
education. He gladly took advantage of this and, no matter how hard he
had worked during the day, he was sure to be found eagerly scanning
books in the evenings and asking a hundred questions about things which
were not clear to him. During these days wherever he went he carried
with him a pocket dictionary and turned over its pages dozens of times
each day. He attended the church where the great Henry Ward Beecher
was preaching, and made a note of all the words he did not understand.
It is not to be wondered at that not only did he become well able to
carry on conversations in English, but that soon he had a much better
knowledge of that language than most boys born in America.
A permanent job in a biscuit factory gave him a chance to save some
money. He was only one of a squad of young people whose duties were
to punch the name of a firm upon the biscuits, but his willingness to
learn and his cheerfulness made him a general favourite and he soon had
several good friends. He joined the evening classes at Cooper Union,
and soon became intensely interested in electricity. He spent much of
his spare time in the boiler room of the biscuit factory and learned
from practical experience about many things which had puzzled him. His
progress in knowledge astonished even his best friends, and they began
to suggest to him the possibility of his entering Columbia University
as a student. To the poor Serbian boy this must have seemed almost an
impossibility, but the idea so strongly appealed to him that he worked
at his studies harder than ever and in the fall of 1879--just a little
over five years after he landed at New York, penniless, friendless,
and ignorant--Michael Pupin was enrolled as a student in Columbia
University.
He faced his college course with only three hundred and eleven dollars,
so that he knew he must win a number of prizes if he was to pay his
way and make good. At the close of the first year he won two one
hundred dollar prizes, one in Greek and the other in mathematics. This
achievement excited a great deal of interest among the students, who
were amazed to find themselves outstripped by a poor Serbian immigrant.
There was no jealousy, however; the students were good sports and
before long no one was more popular around the university than “Michael
the Serbian,” as he was generally called.
He made so much progress with his studies that soon he was able to earn
money by coaching students in mathematics and Greek. He also coached
many students who were called “lame ducks,” because they had failed in
their examinations. Many a poor “lame duck” managed to get through his
examinations simply because Michael Pupin took an interest in him. No
better evidence of his popularity is needed than to mention that he was
elected class president for his year. His hard work over his studies
did not prevent him from taking great interest in the college sports,
in many of which he excelled.
Michael Pupin received his diploma of bachelor of arts after a very
fine record at college. He had only been nine years in the United
States. None of his people were present at the ceremony when he
received his degree, but some friends sent him a basket of flowers and
Michael was very happy.
That same year he returned to visit his home in Serbia. When he was on
the train near Gaenserndorf he noticed a conductor who had been rude
to him and had called him a Serbian swine-herd when he was a poor lad
several years previous. The conductor did not recognise him, however,
and this time humbly addressed Michael as “Gracious sir.” There was
great excitement in the village of Idvor when he arrived. The meeting
with his mother was very tender. He went with her to his father’s grave
and as he told her of his experiences in America she greatly rejoiced.
The simple village folk of Idvor thought that Michael’s success would
have made him vain and that he would despise them, but when he observed
all the old Serbian customs, such as kissing the hands of the old
people, his modesty won their hearts and he became a great favourite.
From Idvor he went to Cambridge University in England, where for nearly
two years he continued his studies. There he came into close touch
with some of the world’s greatest mathematicians, and his interest
in electricity and kindred subjects became greater than ever. From
Cambridge he went to the University of Berlin, where he earned the
degree of doctor of philosophy. At that time--1889--the Department of
Electrical Engineering was established in Columbia University, and a
position as teacher was offered Michael Pupin. He accepted the offer
and hurried back to the United States to take up the duties of his
important position.
For many years Professor Michael Pupin has been one of the foremost
authorities in the world in the science of electrical engineering
and kindred subjects. Both by his speeches and by numerous magazine
articles he has become widely known, and, while he is known better in
America than elsewhere, something of his reputation has spread to other
lands. He has made many important discoveries! The vice-president of
the American Telephone and Telegraph Company said that one invention
of Professor Pupin’s had saved for that company at least one hundred
million dollars. He has received, many honours both from great
universities and from important scientific societies. Among such
honours are: the Elliot Cresson gold medal from the Franklin Institute;
the gold medal from the National Institute of Social Sciences; the
Edison medal of the American Institute of Electrical Engineers, the
Hebert prize from the French Academy. And so it happens that the poor,
ignorant Serbian boy, who landed in New York with only five cents in
his pocket, has become a scholar of whom not only is Serbia proud, but
the whole world delights to honour.
CHAPTER VII
A GREAT ARTIST AND A GREAT HERO
Before the days of the Great War, there lived in Breton, France, an
artist whose beautiful pictures had caused people to think of him as
one of the greatest of French painters. His name was Jean Lemoidant,
and he loved to paint pictures of the quaint villages of Brittany where
lived the simpleminded fisher-folk who braved the dangers of the deep.
Jean Lemoidant’s first pictures were of fishermen mending their nets;
of little children romping in the sand; of peasants wending their way
to the churches they so loved; of anxious women waiting for the return
of the fishing boats, and sometimes of angry seas that in their fury
hurled themselves against the rocks. Jean Lemoidant loved the simple
people among whom he lived, and they in turn gazed in wonder at his
paintings and told each other that some day there would be a great
artist in France and his name would be Jean Lemoidant.
Then the artist was given a task which occupied him every day for two
whole years. In an old village hotel there were fine large panels on
the wall, and he was asked to paint a suitable design for the entire
wall, which was sixty feet long, thirty feet wide, and fifteen feet
high. So exquisite was the design that Jean Lemoidant conceived that
when it was completed admiring crowds came great distances to see it
and the fame of the artist spread to Paris. He was given the contract
to paint the interior of the magnificent municipal theatre at Rennes.
He had almost completed this important task when the Great War broke
out, and although he was thirty-seven years of age and could have
remained in the Home Defence Corps, he enlisted in one of the regiments
soon to go to the front, and before the war was many weeks old he was
in the trenches facing the Germans.
Jean Lemoidant proved himself as capable a soldier as he had been a
painter, and led his men in many daring engagements, where his courage
was put to the test. He was badly wounded at Charleroi, and in spite
of advice he refused to go to the hospital at the base. Later he was
wounded at the Marne, and a third time at Artois. At Artois his right
arm was rendered useless; he was wounded in the leg, and his knee was
smashed, and the joint was made stiff so that he walked in a halting
fashion.
In spite of these gruelling experiences he still refused to leave the
firing line and insisted on staying with his men and joining them in
the attack before Arras. In that attack he was struck by a bullet.
Afterwards he said that it seemed at the time as if his head had been
completely smashed. For forty-eight hours he lay unconscious, and when
he came to himself he lay among the dead and the dying, scarcely able
to move. He heard around him the groans of dying men. Even then his
great courage showed itself, for when he saw a Breton lad dying he
crawled to him and comforted him in his last moments.
When, at last, Jean Lemoidant was found, along with others he was taken
to a German hospital and placed among the serious cases. Then the
darkness came--that terrible darkness which put an end to his fondest
hopes. At first he did not know what was the matter with him. Anxiously
he asked the nurses: “Why does the night last so long? It seems as if
the morning will never come.” When the news was told him that he was
blind, he was staggered. “I had thought of death,” he said, “and even
thought I might be maimed for life, but I never thought of having to
live in the dark all my days.”
Then he showed that supreme courage which caused even the brutal
Germans to wonder and admire. He moved among his fellow prisoners and
partly to while away the time and partly in order to help them, he
began to give lectures on painting. Then a great hope came to him. His
eyes were put back into their place and he began to see a little--not
much more than a glimmer at first--but enough to make him radiant with
hope. Each day he told himself that his eyesight was just a little
better than the day before, then one day a terrible thing happened and
his hopes were dashed to the ground.
He was in the midst of a lecture when something seemed to snap, and
instantly every ray of light vanished. Then he knew that he was blind.
It was a terrible disappointment, but he did not stop speaking. He
continued his lecture. Those who were listening were aware that
something had happened although they did not know what it was. At the
close of the lecture they rushed forward, only to make the discovery
that Jean Lemoidant’s hopes were vain--he was totally blind.
Blind, lame, and with all his hopes of ever being a great artist now
completely gone, Jean Lemoidant faced the world again. When at the
conclusion of the war he turned his face towards his beloved France
he began to hope once more. He thought that the instant the train
passed on to French soil there might be a miracle and his sight would
be restored. He became greatly excited and asked the nurses not to
forget to tell him the instant that the border was passed. In one sense
there was no miracle when at last Jean Lemoidant entered France, but
in another way there was a miracle, for the courage and cheerfulness
of this brave man became almost more than human. No sooner did he get
settled down in his beloved France than he began to lecture on the
art he so much loved, that of painting. Soon he had large classes of
appreciative students to whom he lectured daily on the subject, and the
amazing knowledge and cheerfulness of this maimed and blinded soldier
aroused his hearers to reverence and enthusiasm. As they gazed into his
pale face with the sightless eyes, their hearts were strangely moved.
An English traveller tells of a visit he paid to Brittany after the
war, and of a quaint village festival he attended. Hundreds of peasants
moved around the village green clad in their spotless holiday attire.
Among the laughing maidens and jovial men he saw one man who seemed to
radiate sunshine wherever he went. Then he discovered that this prince
of fun-makers was the blinded artist--Jean Lemoidant.
For several years now he has been lecturing on art, and in 1919 he
visited the United States of America in order to have conferred upon
him a very great distinction, the Howland Prize. This prize is only
conferred upon such as have displayed extraordinary skill in some
branch of science. The condition reads that it can only be conferred
on “The citizen of any country in recognition of some achievement
of marked distinction in the field of literature, fine arts, or the
science of government.”
In years to come no doubt the Howland Prize will be conferred upon many
great men; deservedly distinguished for their great gifts as authors,
musicians, statesmen or soldiers, but one would feel safe in saying
that it is improbable that the great honour will ever be conferred upon
any braver man than Jean Lemoidant, who, although maimed and blinded,
just when he seemed to be nearing the goal of his ambition, faced the
world with a smile upon his lips and a song of hope and cheer in his
brave heart.
CHAPTER VIII
FROM BOOKBINDER’S ERRAND BOY TO GREAT SCIENTIST
One day in September, 1791, a boy was born in the heart of London to
whom was given the name, Michael Faraday. The father, James Faraday,
was a blacksmith, but he was in such feeble health that he could seldom
work for a whole day at a time, and sometimes for several weeks was
unable to work at all. This meant that he and his wife and their four
children had to live on very little and poverty often stared them in
the face.
Michael was the third oldest child. In those days education was harder
to get than now and most of what he learned was secured at home, and as
neither of his parents had much education, Michael soon had to face the
world with one of the most serious of handicaps, an almost total lack
of education. Near Michael’s home was a little yard known as Spanish
Place; here the little fellow spent most of his early years playing
marbles and romping around with other children who, like himself, were
growing up, as most children of the poor did, without education. James
Faraday, though poor and delicate, was a kind father and provided
for his family as well as he could, and his wife was industrious and
devoted to her four children.
When he reached the age of twelve Michael was apprenticed to a
stationer and bookbinder named Mr. George Riebau. One of the lad’s
duties was to take around the newspapers which his master loaned to
customers, and then later in the day he called for them. On Sunday
mornings Michael delivered these newspapers very early and then tried
to collect them again before church time, although he did not always
succeed, for some people then, as now, did not like to be hurried when
reading their papers.
During the days of his apprenticeship Michael worked hard and his
hours were long, but he was not unhappy, for Mr. Riebau, his master,
was kinder than most employers seem to have been in those days.
Evidently his parents were pleased with the way in which he was getting
along, for in 1809 his father wrote: “Michael is now learning to be a
bookbinder and stationer, and is doing well. He has been the most part
of four years out of seven. He has a good master and mistress and he
likes his place well. He had it hard for a time at first, but as the
old saying goes, he has got the head above water, and there are two
other boys under him now.”
Whenever Michael had a spare moment at noon or in the evenings, he
read some of the books that he was binding. When he was given the
“Encyclopædia Britannica” to bind he eagerly turned over to the place
where the subject of electricity was treated and read every word. He
was very much interested in this subject and began to make experiments.
He made a small electrical machine and although it cost only a few
pennies, it afforded him endless amusement and gave him a start along
the line where his chief interest lay.
One day he saw an announcement that a Mr. Tatum was to give some
lectures on natural philosophy at his own home. The charge for
admission was one shilling. Michael was exceedingly anxious to go, but
he did not have the money. His brother, Robert, three years older than
Michael, was so pleased to find Michael interested in such a subject
that he gave him the money, and with eager steps Michael sought out
Mr. Tatum’s home at the appointed time. He attended all the lectures
and made careful notes as the speaker went on.
One day a customer at the shop where Michael worked asked him to attend
four lectures by Sir Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution. This was
an unexpected pleasure and Michael sat spell-bound as the scientist
talked and then made experiments. One day, soon afterwards, he wrote a
letter to Sir Humphry Davy, telling of his great interest in science,
and enclosing the notes he had made of Sir Humphry’s lectures. The
scientist replied to Michael’s letter saying that he was leaving the
city, but would remember him when he returned.
Meanwhile, the lad worked away at his experiments, reading all that he
could lay his hands on that dealt with chemistry and what was known
then of electricity. He hoped that it would be possible for him to
get some position that would give him more time to follow his beloved
studies, but nothing offered and very often he spent long hours at the
bookbinder’s bench, when in reality his thoughts were elsewhere. One
night as he was preparing for bed a loud knock startled him. He looked
out of the window and saw a fine carriage with a footman in livery who
brought him a note from Sir Humphry Davy, who wished to see him the
following morning. We may be sure he slept little that night, and early
the next day hastened to see the great chemist. Sir Humphry offered him
a position at six dollars a week. It was to help in the work of the
laboratory generally and especially to keep the instruments clean and
move them to and from the lecture room. He gladly accepted the offer
and said good-bye to bookbinding.
This was the turning point in his life. He had made such good use of
his time that he was now fairly well educated, and no one to meet him
would suspect that he had seen very little of the inside of a school.
He joined the City Philosophical Society, which met each week, and he
took a keen interest in all that went on in the scientific world. Seven
months after his engagement in the laboratory, Sir Humphry Davy decided
to travel upon the continent and asked Michael Faraday to accompany
him. This was a great opportunity for the young assistant; he had never
been more than a few miles away from where he was born and to travel in
France, Switzerland, Italy and Germany was a rare treat and a liberal
education.
He made such progress with his studies in chemistry that when he
returned to England he was promoted to the position of laboratory
assistant at the Royal Institution, with a salary of five hundred
dollars a year. He delivered a series of six lectures before the City
Philosophical Society on chemistry, which aroused much interest. He was
continually making experiments, and in this way he made many important
discoveries. He found out that many beliefs regarding electricity were
quite wrong and he drew attention to them. He wrote to some of the
leading scientific magazines and soon the English people realised that
a great scientific authority had arisen in their midst.
For twenty years he lectured at the Royal Academy at Woolwich and
for all these lectures he made most careful preparation. It was his
way never to undertake anything unless he could do it well, and he
even took lectures in elocution so that he could make the best use of
his voice. He delivered a great many lectures to boys and girls on
scientific subjects and he spared himself no pains in order to make the
subjects clear. Young people were naturally attracted to him and even
if they did not fully understand all he said they certainly enjoyed
seeing him perform his experiments.
He became scientific adviser to the government in regard to the
erection of lighthouses and buoys around the dangerous coast of Great
Britain, and his brilliant lectures on this subject drew great crowds
to hear him, among them, Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria,
and their children. He published a book entitled “Experimental
Researches in Electricity,” which established his reputation as one
of the greatest scientists of the world. Concerning this book the
famous statesman, William E. Gladstone, wrote: “It is one of the
most marvellous monuments of intellectual work; one of the rarest
treasure-houses of newly-discovered knowledge, with which the world has
ever been enriched.”
By this time Michael’s mother was an old woman, but she was supremely
happy to know that Michael was so much thought of and had become so
clever. She used to call him “My Michael,” and she so idolised him that
Michael, who was now married, said to his wife one day, “Please do not
tell my mother of any honours conferred upon me, because it is not
good for her.” However, no doubt, in his heart, Michael was glad that
he had lived to make his hard-working mother comfortable.
Honours followed in quick succession. He was made a Fellow of the Royal
Society, a degree conferred only upon very distinguished men; the
Cambridge Philosophical Society, the Institution of Civil Engineers,
the Institution of British Architects and several leading associations
of Scotland made him an honorary member. In addition to this he
received signal honours from similar associations in St. Petersburg,
Copenhagen, Berlin, Stockholm, Lisbon, Frankfort, Boston, Philadelphia
and many other places. His important discoveries set many other men
thinking, and it is safe to say that scores of inventions by other men
were due in the first place to Michael Faraday’s discoveries.
The British government conferred upon him a pension of three hundred
pounds a year for life, which, while it was not large, relieved him
from anxiety over money matters. To the end of his life he lived
very simply. He was a man of deep religious character and very often
preached on the Sabbath with quite as much enthusiasm as he taught
science during the week. From being a bookbinder’s errand boy with
little or no education, he rose to be one of the greatest and most
honoured men of his time.
CHAPTER IX
THE NEWSBOY WHO BECAME A GREAT INVENTOR
One day a boy sat at his desk in an Ohio schoolhouse, trying hard, but
not very successfully, to master his lessons. The boy was Thomas Alva
Edison and from birth he had been in delicate health. He did not get on
very well at school. He was generally at the foot of the class, and one
day, when the inspector was present, he heard the teacher say that “Al”
as he was generally called, was “addled,” and that it almost seemed a
waste of time for his parents to keep him at school.
This remark hurt the lad’s feelings, and when he went home and told his
mother about it, she was very much annoyed and decided that she would
look after the boy’s education herself. She had once been a teacher in
Ontario and she felt sure that her boy had it in him to make good if he
only got a chance. Many years later Edison wrote of this incident: “My
mother was the most enthusiastic champion that a boy ever had and I
determined right then that I would be worthy of her and show that her
confidence in me was not misplaced. My mother was the making of me. She
was so true, so sure of me; and I felt that I had some one to live for,
some one that I must not disappoint.”
Under his mother’s tuition, Thomas Edison made good progress. He
was constantly asking questions. He wanted to know the why and the
wherefore of everything he saw. Sometimes he exhausted the patience of
those around him but his mother seemed as eager to help him as he was
to seek information, and although he missed some things by not being at
school, he gained in other ways. One thing his mother especially taught
him was to love good books and this passion for reading has remained
with him all his life.
When he was eleven years old Thomas Edison became interested in
chemistry. He read a book on physics and at once began to make
experiments on his own. His chum and chief companion at this time
was a Dutch boy named Michael Oates. He persuaded Michael that if he
took a large enough quantity of Seidlitz powders the gases generated
would enable him to fly. Michael tried the experiment with disastrous
results. For a time he suffered agonies and his cries attracted much
attention, and Thomas Edison’s mother found it necessary to use the
“switch” on her son. But his interest in chemistry was very great.
He used the cellar of the house to try his experiments and collected
no less than two hundred bottles from various places. These bottles
contained the chemicals with which he was constantly experimenting and
he marked them all “poison,” so that no one else would touch them.
Most of his spare time he spent in that cellar and whatever little
pocket-money came his way he spent on purchasing chemicals from the
local drug-store.
He felt keenly the need for money wherewith to buy chemicals and after
much coaxing he succeeded in persuading his parents to allow him to
sell newspapers and magazines on the train that ran between Port Huron
and Detroit. The enterprise was his own and besides selling papers he
sold bread, candy and fruit. Although only twelve years of age, he had
an amazing amount of energy and enterprise and soon he made sufficient
money to have all the cash needed for chemical experiments.
One day in 1862, the train on which young Edison was selling
newspapers was doing some shunting at Mount Clemens station. On a
track near he saw the little son of Mr. J. MacKenzie, the station
agent, playing, and a car, without a brakeman, was rapidly approaching.
Edison instantly dropped his papers and made a dash for the child. A
few seconds later and rescue would have been impossible but as it was
he saved the child and jumped from the tracks just as the wheel of
the car struck his heel. As a reward for this, Mr. MacKenzie offered
to teach Edison the art of telegraphy, something which the lad had
long wanted to learn. He eagerly accepted the offer and while he still
sold newspapers on the train, he spent every spare moment learning
telegraphy.
At this time a seemingly unfortunate thing happened. His interest
in chemical and electrical experiments was such that he had secured
permission to use part of a car as a laboratory, and as the train
journeys were long he spent many hours in that car. One day, a
sudden jolting caused a stick of phosphorus to fall from the shelf
to the floor where it burst into flames and set fire to the car. The
conductor, who was a quick-tempered man, boxed Edison’s ears so soundly
that the lad became deaf, an infirmity which has remained with him
throughout life. The conductor was so enraged that he put the boy and
his entire laboratory off at Mount Clemens station.
Edison’s delicate health and his slowness at school had seemed a severe
handicap. Added to this now was a deafness which threatened to make his
progress in life harder than ever.
His expulsion from the train was a humiliating experience for
Edison but he was by no means discouraged. Once more he fitted up
his laboratory at home and continued his experiments. There were
many protests from some members of the family who feared chemical
experiments but his mother had great faith in him and met objections
by saying: “Al is all right. Nothing will happen to him. God is taking
care of him.”
In 1863, when he was sixteen, Edison got a position as telegraph
operator at Stratford Junction, Ontario, at a salary of twenty-five
dollars a month. He soon found out that the most expert telegraph
operators knew practically nothing about the science of telegraphy and
how it worked. He followed his usual custom of asking all manner of
questions but seldom got much satisfaction. One day an old man gave
him this explanation of the telegraph. He said: “Suppose you had a dog
like a dachshund, long enough to reach from Edinburgh to London. Well,
then, if you pulled his tail in Edinburgh he would bark in London. The
telegraph is like that.”
One night, while he was working at Port Huron, there was a very
severe storm; the ice-jam broke the telegraph cable and there was no
communication in the usual way for some considerable time. Edison’s
inventive mind got to work and he used the steam whistle of a
locomotive to give the long and short signals of the telegraph code.
The operator on the other side of the river, three-quarters of a mile
away, quickly caught on to the idea and thus messages were sent in
wireless fashion across the ice-floes in the river.
Edison was constantly experimenting and learning new ways of doing
things. Other young men were willing to work along, and as long as they
secured results, did not investigate. Not so with him. He was always
enquiring and making experiments and very soon he had a knowledge of
telegraphy and the underlying principles of electricity, far beyond any
of his workmates.
In 1868, when he was twenty-one years of age, Edison applied for his
first patent for an invention. It was a vote recorder and while it
never became extensively used it marked the beginning of that long list
of inventions which has earned for him the title of “The Wizard of
Invention.”
Soon after this Edison went to New York. When he arrived things did
not look any too bright for him. He knew no one. He was penniless--in
fact, he was in debt. Added to these handicaps was his affliction
of deafness which in itself was sufficient to keep him out of most
jobs. For several weeks he roamed the streets of New York with actual
starvation staring him in the face. One day as he walked along Broadway
he turned into Wall Street and entered the offices of the Law Gold
Reporting Company. He found that the entire plant had just closed down
because of an accident in the machinery which could not be located. The
heads of the firm were annoyed and agitated when the shabbily dressed
youth walked in. Edison was soon acquainted with what had happened and
he mildly remarked that he thought he could put things right. Mr. Law
told him to go ahead and try and young Edison immediately repaired the
trouble, while the little army of repairers looked foolish. Mr. Law
asked him to step into the office and after asking him a few questions
he offered him a salary of three hundred dollars a month.
That was the turning-point in Edison’s career. After that he worked
as hard, if not harder than ever, but he never knew poverty again.
Soon after this he invented an improved stock printer for which he was
handed a $40,000 check. Soon after his name was known all over the
American continent and before long he was almost as well known in other
parts of the world as in America.
Edison believes that his early struggles, severe as they were, did
him a great deal of good and stiffened his backbone. He absolutely
refuses to believe that even his deafness has been a handicap. About
this trouble he once said: “This deafness has been a great advantage
to me in many ways. When in a telegraph office I could hear only the
instrument directly on the table at which I sat, and unlike the other
operators I was not bothered by the other instruments.... Again, my
nerves have been preserved intact. Broadway is as quiet to me as a
country village is to a person with normal hearing.”
No man living has a greater list of inventions to his credit than
Edison. Even to give a list of them would occupy several pages of a
book. While one naturally thinks of such outstanding inventions as the
phonograph yet he has made scores of other important discoveries all of
a useful character.
He believes that his success is chiefly due to his ability to
concentrate. When some one asked him what he considered was the secret
of his success he replied: “The ability to apply physical and mental
energies to one problem incessantly without growing weary.” He has
often worked twenty hours a day for days at a time and has actually
toiled at one problem for sixty consecutive hours.
Concentration may be one of the principal reasons for his success,
but it does not account for everything. Edison, as a boy, faced
difficulties and utterly refused to be discouraged. He made them
stepping-stones to success. Any man who can believe that even deafness
has been a help to him surely has the quality of courage which makes
heroes.
CHAPTER X
THE UNLETTERED BOY WHO BECAME A TREE DOCTOR
One day, more than seventy years ago, in Somersetshire, England, a
four year-old boy was watching his father plant potatoes. The man was
a poor tenant farmer and the little boy, whose name was John Davey,
never lost a chance of seeing his father work. Young though he was, it
seemed to John Davey that the most wonderful things in the world were
the things which grew in gardens and fields. Flowers, vegetables or
grain; how could these things spring out of tiny seeds that were sown
in the ground? That was what puzzled the little fellow. Suddenly he
turned to his father and asked if he might plant a potato. His father
smiled and gave him one, telling him to cut it in two, and explaining
how it should be put into the ground. John was very much excited, but
he was much too little to handle the shovel, so his father got him an
iron spoon. John cut the potato in two, planted it in the ground, and
covered it with earth.
For weeks after, in fact for the whole of that summer, little John
Davey looked after the potato that he had planted. He hoed it, and
watered it, and cared for it as a mother does a child. It is not to
be wondered at that when the time came to dig up the potatoes John’s
little patch had the biggest ones in the whole garden, and there was no
prouder or more excited boy in England.
There were very few schools in those days, and as no one was compelled
to go, and even small children could earn money, most boys, and even
girls of poor families, did not go to school, but were sent straight
to work. When John Davey was eight years old he was sent to work on
neighbouring farms for sixpence a day. The little fellow often spent
twelve hours a day weeding vegetables until his back seemed as if it
would break. There was no time for play and as he could neither read
or write, there was practically nothing to do but work and sleep. When
he was thirteen his mother died and as there was a large family the
children were all sent out to work for different farmers. John had by
this time learned a great deal about farming. There was very little
that he could not do; and he was also anxious to do his best.
On the farm where he was sent to work, there was a rough teamster, much
given to the use of profane language, and John had to share his room
and bed with this man. He had been taught to pray each night, but the
first night he slept in that room he hesitated. He was afraid of the
swearing teamster, but when the man got into bed, John knelt down to
pray. The man was talking in the darkness, but as he got no replies he
put out his hand, and it rested on John’s head. Then it dawned upon
the rough man that John was praying. To the lad’s surprise the man was
deeply moved and asked John to forgive him for his profane language.
John worked on this farm for seven years. There was nothing about
a farm that he did not learn to do. He worked fourteen and even
sixteen hours a day. When night came he was utterly exhausted. Then
something happened which gave him an ambition. He and another young
man were putting slates on a roof when this youth took a small piece
of slate and with it wrote his name upon another slate. John Davey was
astonished and all at once a great longing came to him that he might
learn to read and write. He felt sure that if this young man could do
it, he could.
When he was twenty he went to work at Torquay. Up to this time he had
never even seen the inside of a school. He could neither read nor
write, in fact he did not know all the letters of the alphabet. One
of the small churches in Torquay had an evening class for those who,
never having been to school, were anxious to learn. John Davey joined
this class and at once began to master the alphabet and to learn to
form letters. While he was almost a man in years, and a first-class
worker on the farm, he did not know any more about reading or writing
than many children of five to-day. The farm where he worked was two
miles from Torquay, so early each morning he walked the two miles,
worked hard for twelve hours, trudged the two miles home again, and
then tackled his studies. Soon he made progress and he bought a New
Testament and a dictionary. These two books became his companions. He
carried them everywhere he went, and whenever he had a few minutes to
spare he began reading one of them. When working in the fields, at
lunch hour, he would often crawl under a hawthorn hedge and hold a
slice of bread in one hand and the New Testament in the other.
The heavy strain soon told on him. He had been a healthy boy. At
fifteen he had often carried two hundred and forty-eight pounds of
wheat up a flight of stairs. But he broke down in health and had to go
home. Before long, however, he was back at his work again and some one
gave him a small hymn-book. This gave him great delight. He had now
three books, and he read the hymn-book so much that he could recite
many hymns from memory.
All this time his love for flowers and bees increased. It became the
greatest passion of his life. He studied them until he knew more about
them than any man in the countryside. He was given a situation in some
conservatories and such was his knowledge and willingness to work that
by the end of the year he was in charge of the work.
One day, a clergyman, who had noticed his eager ambition to get on,
suggested that in the United States there were many opportunities for
young people. John Davey had never thought of emigrating, but from that
day he determined to go to the United States. He had practically no
money, but he sold rose trees to get his passage money and at the age
of twenty-six he arrived in America and found work as a labourer at
Warren, Ohio. There was a good deal of unemployment at the time, but
his eagerness to work, and his thorough way of doing things, stood him
in good stead, and he was never out of a job.
There was a private school in Warren and John found out that the
position of janitor was vacant. He was still working as a labourer, but
he secured the position and mornings and evenings he looked after the
buildings, for which he was given tuition. At this time he used to rise
at three o’clock in the mornings, take a brisk walk, then study for
three hours. After that he attended to his duties as a janitor before
going to his day’s work. In spite of having so much to do, he made
rapid progress with his studies and in the Latin examination he secured
ninety-eight as a mark.
His reputation as a gardener soon spread and he was given a position
as caretaker of flowers in a cemetery. He made the grounds so gorgeous
that soon people began to come for many miles to see it. When people
asked how he secured such wonderful results he said it was the result
of hard work and close study. He said that there was no such thing as
luck in the garden. Everything must be carefully studied, even a minute
knowledge of the various insects which destroy plants was necessary.
About this time there was a man who had a magnificent tree, sixty feet
high and four feet in diameter, but it was dying, and everybody whom
he consulted said that nothing could arrest the decay. At last the
man sent for John Davey, although it did seem as if the tree were too
far gone to recover. Davey most carefully examined the tree, then he
stripped away every semblance of decay; every dead twig and branch was
cut off and the cavities carefully filled. He applied all the knowledge
he had gained from many years of experience. Soon the tree responded to
the treatment and to the delight of its owner it took on a new lease of
life.
This incident added greatly to his reputation and requests for his
services began to pour in. Another man had a very fine elm tree,
over five feet in diameter, which was dying. All who saw it said it
was doomed and that Davey would be unable to do anything. He himself
recognized that to revive it would be very difficult. Many people
openly scoffed at his attempts and said that he was “crack-brained.”
He treated the tree by pruning the roots. He dug trenches, sixty feet
from the centre of the tree, cut off the extremities and revived the
roots. At first his attempts seemed an utter failure. When spring came
and other trees sent forth their green buds, not a thing appeared on
the branches of the huge elm. People laughed, but John Davey waited
patiently. He knew that the tree would be long in awaking from its
winter sleep. Soon there were signs of life, and within a few weeks
such was the profusion of buds that people came from long distances to
see its beauty. It was a complete triumph for Davey and his reputation
as a tree specialist was firmly established.
He published a book called “The Tree Doctor,” in which he made public
the many wonderful things he had learned about trees. The information
was invaluable and it is safe to say that millions of trees have been
saved by those who have followed his instructions. His views have been
accepted everywhere as authoritative, and it is said by many that John
Davey has more practical knowledge about trees than any one else in the
world.
He established an institute for young men who wished to take up the
study of trees and flowers. His two sons have been associated with
him in that work for many years. And so it has come to pass that the
lad who began to work hard at eight years of age, and who at twenty
could not write his own name, and did not even know all the letters
of the alphabet, has become a world figure by his sheer pluck and
determination.
CHAPTER XI
THE PEASANT BOY WHO MADE HIS DREAMS COME TRUE
Less than forty years ago a little Serbian boy--Ivan Mestrovic--was
watching the sheep on the hillsides near his home in the village of
Otavice in Serbia, about thirty-five miles from the Dalmatian coast.
Ivan’s parents were peasants and, like all the humble folk of the
countryside, lived very simply. There were few luxuries in that little
thatched cottage, and while still a mere lad of eight or nine years of
age, Ivan, like the other boys he knew, spent long hours at the foot of
the soaring Dinaric Alps, tending the flocks and at night returning,
often footsore and weary, to listen to the stirring tales of Serbia’s
national heroes, as they were told to the assembled children around the
fireside.
The history of the Serbian people in many ways has been a sad one.
Centuries ago they lost much of their independence when the Turks
crushed them with a cruel onslaught which left them in an enfeebled
condition. But no people in the world are prouder of their history
than the Serbs, and Ivan listened eagerly as his father told of the
mighty deeds of Kraljevic Marko, the national hero of Serbia, and other
renowned men of the nation.
Perhaps after Ivan went to bed each night he dreamed of the thrilling
tales he had heard. One thing he certainly did: he dreamed of these
things by day when out on the lonely mountain sides with no companions
but the sheep. He had lots of time to think, for often he would be off
almost at daybreak and only when night was falling did the lad turn his
steps homeward. He knew little or nothing of the great world outside.
Most of the old people of the district had lived all their lives
without moving away more than a few miles. Many of them had never been
as far as the Dalmatian coast although it was little more than thirty
miles away. Ivan thought that perhaps he too, like the old men of the
village, would live and die near his father’s thatched cottage.
From his earliest years Ivan loved to carve wood, using the curved
peasant knife which he took with him to the hills each day. Sometimes
he made spoons, or knives, or forks, which he proudly brought home to
his parents, who commended him for his cleverness. The days were never
dull for him; for during the long sunny days on the upland pastures he
meditated over the strange stirring tales he had heard at his father’s
fireside, and occupied himself with carving all manner of household
utensils with his curious old knife.
Then, one day, as Ivan gazed at the silent mountains, towering higher
and higher until they seemed to reach the sky, he wondered if he could
not make other things with his knife such as models of men and women,
cattle, and then perhaps of the brave heroes of whom he was so proud.
One day he was taken to the town of Sibenik and for the first time saw
a cathedral, with its carved saints, gleaming altar and scenes depicted
from sacred history.
When next he tended the flocks Ivan’s mind was busier than ever. He
resolved that he--poor peasant boy though he was--would be a sculptor,
with stone as well as with wood, and he would make models of great and
good people such as he had seen in Sibenik Cathedral. After that Ivan
was busy every hour of his solitary watches, carving some figure either
in wood or in stone. He showed the result of his efforts to the village
priest who greatly encouraged him, and at his request Ivan made a
crucifix for the village church.
The boy’s workmanship began to attract attention. A visitor to
the district was so impressed that he tried to raise money in the
neighbourhood to send Ivan away to pursue his studies under some
competent teacher but, although the peasants were all proud of Ivan,
they were very poor and the little money they could raise would not
be sufficient, so the plan had to be abandoned. By this time Ivan’s
father was eager to have him get experience so he apprenticed him to a
marble cutter at Split named Bilinic. This was a great adventure for
Ivan. He left his humble home among the hills, clad in native dress and
wearing his red Croatian cap, and soon he was at work helping to carve
crucifixes, angels and various altar ornaments for the local churches.
In the evenings he had to do much drudgery and he suffered privation of
every kind, but there was no foolish pride in the boy’s heart. He knew
that his parents were too poor to pay for his tuition, so he was glad
to do even the meanest duties, to pay for his education as a sculptor.
About this time a man named Konig became greatly interested in him and
through him Ivan was able to pursue his studies in Vienna. He must
have seemed a strange figure when, clad in his Serbian peasant’s dress,
he reached that great city; soon he discarded these for the corduroys
and soft hat so typical of the art students of the Austrian capital.
Things were certainly opening up for Ivan Mestrovic but his troubles
were by no means over. He received a small grant from his native
village but this was not nearly enough to provide him even with the
necessities of life, so that during his four years of study at the
Academy in Vienna he constantly felt the pinch of poverty. Then the
attitude of the proud Austrian people towards the Serbians, together
with the fact that his early education had been sadly neglected,
often embarrassed him. But Ivan was not easily discouraged and his
determination to become a great sculptor became stronger every day.
From Vienna he went to Rome and then on to Paris where he studied for
two years, coming into contact with the great sculptor Auguste Rodin,
who was quick to recognise the true genius of the Serbian youth. Soon
the excellent quality of Ivan’s work began to attract attention and he
was recognised as a student of much more than ordinary ability.
In 1911 there was a great exhibition of art in Rome and in the Serbian
pavilion the work of Ivan Mastrovic was displayed on a much greater
scale than on any previous occasion. He had a magnificent model of
Serbia’s national hero, Kraljevic Marko, which almost seemed to
breathe, it was so lifelike. There were scenes depicted from Serbian
history with marvellous grace, and besides these there were models of
his father, his mother and some of the shepherds whom as a boy he had
seen around his native hills. This exhibition of Ivan’s work created a
very favourable impression; it might almost be said a sensation, for
everyone who saw it realised that it was the work of a true genius.
During the days of the Great War Ivan Mestrovic lived in Rome. They
were sad days for him, for with the retreat of the Serbian army it
seemed as though the brave little nation would be crushed again, as in
the days of the Turkish oppression. His mind turned much to the sorrows
of Christ and out of walnut wood he depicted many incidents from sacred
history such as Christ on the Cross and other scenes which set forth
the sorrows of the Saviour.
In 1915 Ivan Mestrovic astounded even his admirers by conducting a
one-man exhibition in the Victoria and Albert Museum, Kensington,
London, England. The exhibition was a great revelation to the British
public. It was even a greater triumph than that he had achieved at
Rome and his wonderful statues in wood and plaster and stone were the
subject of favourable comment from all quarters. Of course much of his
work could not be seen at exhibitions such as at Rome and London, for
it was done in churches. It is said that one of the finest pieces of
artistry in stone to be seen anywhere is his work in the Chapel of the
Madonna of the Angels at Cavtat. Critics say that no finer work has
been done in modern times than that which Mestrovic has done in this
chapel.
A few years ago Ivan Mestrovic crossed the Atlantic with his wonderful
people of wood and stone, and in America thousands have gazed on his
work and admired and wondered how one man, scarcely yet in middle life,
could have done so much work and all of such high quality. In 1924 a
Mestrovic exhibition was held at the Brooklyn Museum. The triumphs
the sculptor scored at Rome were repeated at Brooklyn. It is safe to
say that no sculptor of modern times has won greater laurels than
Mestrovic and no one can foretell what wonderful things this Serbian
genius may yet accomplish.
Away in the far-off hills of Serbia, the peasants still tend their
flocks of sheep on the rugged hillsides, and at night, when the day’s
work is over, they still gather around the fireside and tell thrilling
tales of Serbian heroes, but of one thing we may be sure: they have
added a new hero to their list. They tell of a peasant boy who, not so
many years ago, watched his father’s sheep and dreamed of what he would
like to do and of how he has made his dreams come true.
CHAPTER XII
THE BOY WHOSE DIFFICULTIES MADE HIM DETERMINED TO SUCCEED
Among the flood of European immigrants that came to America in the
early seventies of last century, was a family from Alsace-Lorraine,
named Kindleberger. There were several small children in the family and
they were all well used to hardship for they had never known anything
but poverty. After three or four years of changing around the family
finally settled in West Carrollton, Ohio, where the father obtained
work in the paper-mills.
The third in the group of seven children was named Jacob and as soon as
he was ten he was sent to work in the mills where he earned twenty-five
cents a day. One week he would be on the day shift, and a day’s work
meant thirteen long hours. The following week he worked on the night
shift which lasted twelve hours. The mills were poorly ventilated, dark
and cheerless, and if young Jacob ever lagged behind in his work his
ears were soundly boxed or he was given a kick. Enormous quantities of
rags were brought to the mills to go through the process which would
make them into paper. At first Jacob’s work was to cut the buttons from
the rags. This work had to be done very carefully. Not one button must
be allowed to go through the machine, or paper would be ruined. Jacob
was severely handicapped for doing this work because of his defective
eyesight. His eyes were so poor that he could not easily distinguish
buttons from rags, so he trained himself to work by touch. As swiftly
as he could the half-blind boy toiled away, terrified lest he should
allow buttons to get into the machine, but taking his punishment when
it came, without whimpering. For a long time his wages remained at
twenty-five cents per day, but even that small amount was sorely needed
in the Kindleberger home, where there was a constant struggle against
actual want.
Jacob was far from happy in those days. His father had not got on
as well as he had hoped and was a discouraged man. His mother was
overworked and weary with having to look after the needs of so many
children, with very little money. At fifteen Jacob was earning only
thirty cents a day. He could neither read nor write. The hours of
labour at the mill were such that he had seldom even played. There was
little for him to do but work, eat and sleep. He had no ambition, for
there had been nothing in his life so far but poverty and hardship and
it seemed as though he were destined to become, like his father, a
discouraged man. Then something happened which completely changed Jacob
Kindleberger’s life.
One Sunday evening he was standing with a number of other lads of his
own age, near the Carrollton Methodist Church. One lad said, “Let us go
into the church and have a good laugh.” They agreed and went in, Jacob
among them. But instead of having a good laugh Jacob sat spell-bound as
the minister preached. The man spoke about life, its possibilities and
responsibilities. He asked his hearers what they intended doing during
the next ten, twenty or thirty years. Would they be bigger, better,
happier, more useful? As he listened Jacob became suddenly dissatisfied
with his life. He felt it was all so meaningless and empty. He seemed
to be going from nowhere to nowhere; but what help could he get? He who
could neither read nor write. The minister invited those who earnestly
wanted God to help them, to come forward, and Jacob got up in his seat
and accepted the invitation.
For the first time in his life Jacob went to a school. It was Sunday
School and he found that boys half his age could both read and
write. They treated him kindly and he felt at home among them but he
determined there and then, that he would not be pitied. He would learn
to read and write and meet these boys on an equal footing. One thing
which greatly helped him was that he made a new set of companions. He
had never known such lads before and he did not know that there could
be so much kindness and sympathy in the world. Nobody around that
church or Sunday School ever said an unkind word, or did a mean thing
to Jacob, but when he saw them reading the Bible or singing out of
hymn-books, it almost seemed as if they lived in another world.
One boy gave Jacob his old primary books. He taught him his letters
and the meaning of words. Jacob’s defective eyesight prevented his
making as much progress as he would otherwise have done because he read
so slowly and had to hold the book within a few inches of his face.
Then his home was crowded and no matter how eager to learn he might
be, it was not easy to study. The only heated room in the house was
the kitchen and there the whole family gathered. The younger children
played and shouted and the only light came from a miserable little oil
lamp. Jacob stuck to his lessons night after night. He did his best
work after ten o’clock, when the others had gone to bed. He would sit
up until his mother thumped on the floor and insisted that he “put
those books away and get to bed.”
Jacob got his first pair of glasses when he was nineteen. He was simply
amazed at the great difference they made. He said: “I had no idea what
I had been missing until I got those glasses. They literally changed
earth into heaven. For days I went about in a daze of wonder, just
looking and discovering new beauties.” From then on he made better
progress with his studies and was soon able to read and write with
comparative ease.
When he was twenty-one he entered school, taking his place in the
fourth grade. Most of his class-mates were about eleven or twelve
years of age. He felt terribly awkward when he first took his place in
the class. He was earning his living by acting as janitor and truant
officer for the school, but for six hours each day he sat in the class.
He did so well with his lessons that in four years he was able to enter
Ohio Wesleyan University where he began to study for the Christian
ministry.
He had to pay his own way, of course, but this he did by working
after classes and on Saturdays and vacations. He began by acting as
a salesman for paper and did so well that before long he was earning
more than he had ever done in his life. He had a hard time, however,
at the university. His eyes gave him a great deal of trouble and he
could never read for long at one time. His eyes were not equal to any
prolonged strain. One day when he was in college the printed page
before him suddenly became blank. After the lecture he went straight to
a doctor who told him that if he did not leave college at once he would
go blind.
It was a severe disappointment, but Jacob had become used to hard
knocks, and he did not lose heart. He left college and secured a
position as a travelling salesman at fifteen dollars a week. It was
not much, but he determined to succeed--and he did. He travelled all
over the United States, Canada and Mexico, and he made friends and
did business, wherever he went. So hard did he work at this that he
became the most successful salesman his firm had on the road. Then
one day a friend told him that there was room for a new paper-mill
near Kalamazoo, Michigan. After investigating the situation he decided
to try the venture and so he began the mills--just two miles from
Kalamazoo--where now stands the town of Parchment.
Success in the new venture did not come quickly. There were many
discouragements and setbacks, but all his life Jacob Kindleberger
had faced difficulties and they had always served to increase his
determination. He worked at those new mills as hard--or harder--than
any man on the job. He even shovelled coal in the boiler-room to cut
down expenses. He was the first on the job in the morning, and the last
to quit at night.
One day on a railway train, he overheard a lady say that she had tried
everywhere to get a certain kind of shelf-paper but without success.
That gave him an idea. Immediately he began to manufacture that kind of
paper and sold it in great quantities. Soon the tide turned and success
came. The machinery of the mills was improved and the output of paper
increased daily. Homes were built for the employees, and before long
Parchment was a good-sized town. A fine school was built, a church, a
community house, large playgrounds, and everything has been done with a
view to have the people of that town comfortable, contented and happy.
Some time ago in the _American Magazine_, Mr. W. S. Dutton told of a
visit he paid to Parchment and of his impressions. The mills, he said,
are among the largest and most scientifically equipped in the world.
They represent, at present, an investment of more than seven million
dollars. From the large machines, beautiful white writing paper rolls
out at the rate of seven hundred feet a minute, and Mr. Kindleberger
hopes to have this output increased to one thousand feet a minute.
Jacob Kindleberger has never forgotten the debt he owes to church and
Sunday School. As soon as the first house was built in Parchment a
Sunday School was started and there is a fine church in the town. For
fourteen years Mr. Kindleberger has been the teacher of the Adult Bible
Class and no man could be more loved and respected. The half-blind
immigrant boy who began life almost without any education, has become
one of the most successful business men, and one of the noblest
Christian gentlemen, on this continent.
CHAPTER XIII
KINDERGARTEN PUPIL AT TWENTY-FIVE: COLLEGE PROFESSOR AT FIFTY
Fifty years ago Aaron Drucker was born in a small Russian village far
inland. His parents were so poor that they were often on the verge of
starvation, and when Aaron, at the age of ten, started out from home to
make his own way in the world there were apparently no objections from
his people. The little lad wandered from one place to another, often
finding it extremely difficult to supply his few wants. At the end of
two years he returned to his home.
One of the few exciting experiences which came his way was the sight
of a soldier in a smart uniform. To Aaron Drucker, without education
and often without the necessary things of life, it seemed that to be a
soldier must be a very fine thing. Then one day some man--no doubt some
one who had friends in the United States--told him that America was a
wonderful place; a land of great opportunities. “Can a common man get
on there?” Aaron asked. “Why, a common man can soon become a general
in America,” said his informer; “wild Indians are being put down, and
young men are needed. No education is required.”
From that day the greatest ambition of Aaron Drucker was to get to
America; how, he did not know; but get there he must. He was at that
time just twelve years of age but he started out to walk to America.
He wandered here and there; doing odd jobs, and living on as little
as he could. After much hardship he arrived at Odessa. From there he
sailed to Constantinople only to be discovered by government officials,
deported to Odessa, and then ordered to return home.
This would have been enough to discourage most boys, but not Aaron
Drucker. Some one told him that he could best reach America by going
through Germany and he promptly started to tramp in that direction.
After some weeks of exciting and very often discouraging experiences he
arrived at Memel in Germany with very little money in his pocket and
with hardly the faintest idea of where he was and in what direction
America lay. He obtained employment at a hostelry that catered to
Russian emigrants. One day he assisted a woman to the steamship office.
She needed small coin and giving him a thousand-ruble note asked him
to change it for her. He was gone longer than the woman expected and
she became excited and called the police, but there was no need of
their help, for Aaron Drucker just then appeared. He had become hungry
and had stopped to eat. The officials of the steamship company were
surprised and pleased at his honesty and offered him a position which
he eagerly accepted.
He was now earning a regular salary for the first time in his life
and he began to save his money. He was as determined as ever to get
to America, and help to put down the wild Indians about whom he
had heard, and no doubt he still had visions of himself parading
about in a general’s uniform. At last he saved enough to cross the
Atlantic and he arrived in New York harbour one Saturday morning in
October, 1891. The first thing he did on Monday morning was to seek
out a recruiting office and try to join the army. There he met with
a bitter disappointment. He was told that a knowledge of the English
language was necessary for military service, and so his hopes were
shattered. He knew only a few words of English and could not carry on
a conversation. A severe illness followed and all his savings vanished.
He found himself alone, in a strange land, without friends and without
even a knowledge of the language. His plight at that time was a serious
one. He searched everywhere for employment but without success. Often
he walked the streets of New York, penniless, hungry and discouraged.
At one place where he tried to get work he was told that he looked too
seedy and unkempt. The man led him to a mirror and he had to admit that
he was a sorry-looking specimen. His clothes were torn and dusty and
he looked as though he hadn’t had a good wash for months. He was given
soap, a towel and a brush, and soon he looked like another person. That
same night he got a job.
He worked as a shirt-packer in a sweatshop. The hours were long and
conditions far from pleasant, but Aaron worked with all his might and
found that he could earn eighty cents a day. It seemed a good deal to
him at that time and he was just beginning to congratulate himself
when a strike was called and he went out with the others. Soon after
he secured employment in a shirt factory. In that factory was a young
man named Steve who had organised a workers’ education movement. One
day this man asked Aaron Drucker to join the class studying English.
Perhaps it was because he felt ashamed of his ignorance, but he
hesitated and did not seem eager to attend. “Can you read or write
English?” asked Steve. Aaron admitted that he could not do either.
“Have you a mother?” persisted Steve. Upon being told that she lived
in Russia, he said: “If you could read and write you could hear from
her. Then you would know what is going on in the village where you were
born, and you could let your mother know where you are and how you are
getting along.” That decided Aaron. He admitted that he had not heard
from his mother for five years and that day he began to attend the noon
class.
He was twenty-five years of age and did not know the alphabet. He began
then as a kindergarten scholar. Soon after he attended the evening
classes and made remarkable progress. He attended the classes for four
years and then Steve entered his name for entrance examinations in the
College of the City of New York. To his own amazement Aaron Drucker
passed the examinations, but soon after the Spanish-American War broke
out and his boyhood dream of being a soldier revived and once again he
offered America his services and this time he was not refused.
Upon his discharge from the Army he entered Columbia University and was
graduated in 1901. Shortly afterwards he received a summons to return
to Russia because of a crisis in his home. While he was there he was
seized for military service. His experience in the Spanish-American
War made his services valuable but the Russian officers resented his
education and independent manner. All manner of insults were heaped
upon him. Finally it became unbearable and one day he took his own part
and struck back at an officer. He was tried and sentenced to Siberia
for life but when the American Ambassador, who also was a graduate of
Columbia University, learned of the circumstances he intervened, and
made it possible for Drucker to return to America.
As soon as he returned to America he went to Chicago and took
post-graduate work at the university. He spent one year in social
service work in Denver, Colorado, and later took further studies at
Columbia University. Then came his appointment as a teacher in the
Commercial Department of Colorado College. Soon after he was appointed
to the important position of Dean of this Department, which he has held
ever since.
Although a busy man, with heavy responsibilities, Professor Drucker has
for several years devoted nearly all his spare time to helping men,
who, like himself, are immigrants in America. He has never forgotten
the days when, sick and friendless, and with no knowledge of the
English language, he walked the streets of New York looking for a job.
Many a new-comer to America has had reason to be thankful that he ever
met Professor Drucker.
A group of working men in Colorado Springs decided to form a night
school. They believed that there could be a class of one hundred if
they could only secure some educator who would lead them. When they
asked where such a man could be found all agreed that the one man
most desired and best fitted, was Doctor Aaron Drucker. He was asked
and responded readily, and with the help of some of his colleagues
at Colorado College the evening classes began with the result that,
in less than one year, over two hundred and fifty students were in
attendance. Dr. Drucker has given of his time and strength to this work
most unselfishly because he remembers with gratitude the men who gave
him assistance when he stood so badly in need of it.
Aaron Drucker, now Professor Drucker, with important degrees from both
Columbia and Chicago universities, has become a highly-respected and
most valuable citizen of America. Because of his keen interest and
practical knowledge of the much-discussed subject of immigration his
views have considerable weight. He is anxious that the great host of
immigrants to America should receive a friendly welcome and should
receive such information as will make it possible for them to get a
good start in the land of their adoption. The college professor of
fifty has not forgotten that at twenty-five he was a pupil in the
kindergarten.
CHAPTER XIV
A POOR NEGRO BOY WHO THRILLED A KING
One night, in the town of Erie, Pennsylvania, a poor negro boy stood,
knee-deep in snow, outside the windows of a large house listening to a
famous singer within. The name of the negro boy was Harry Burleigh. His
mother was sometimes employed as extra help when a party was given in
the big house, and she had told Harry that a great artist was to sing
that evening, and although it was nearly zero and he shivered in the
winter cold, the little fellow was so thrilled with the music that he
forgot the biting wind and the frost.
Harry’s grandfather had been a slave and partly as a result of the
hardships he endured became blind, yet he laboured hard to support his
family. Harry’s father died while he was a little fellow so he and his
mother had to depend upon the old blind man for much of their support.
For several years the grandfather was town-crier and the old blind
negro often roamed the streets ringing his bell and announcing some
news of general interest such as the hour of a funeral, or a meeting
to be held. Newspapers only came once a week so the old negro filled a
useful place in the town.
The boy’s widowed mother was glad to earn a few cents whenever she
could. She acted as janitress at a public school and often in the
evenings helped servants in the big houses. Harry sold papers, ran
errands, and did any odd chores he could find to do. Later he got work
as a lamplighter. There was no gas or electricity in those days in the
smaller towns and cities, and Harry got a job helping to keep the oil
lamps clean and attending to them each evening.
The negro boy attended school and while it was not like a modern
school he learned to read and write and--what interested him more
than anything else--he learned to sing. Poor, shabbily dressed,
and often hungry though he was, Harry forgot all these things when
the singing-lesson came around. He had a wonderful voice and soon
the attention of his teacher was attracted. He gave the lad every
encouragement and told him that some day he would be a great singer.
It was then that Harry’s mother told him of the music in homes where
she sometimes was employed and one evening, when a boy was needed at a
party to open the door for guests, she secured the place for Harry, and
there was no happier boy in all America that night than Harry Burleigh.
He continued to attend school through the day and he worked at nights.
There was scarcely anything he did not do during those years when he
and his mother battled against poverty. When he was sixteen he sang in
church choirs on Sundays, and in a Jewish synagogue on Saturdays, and
soon his fine voice made him known to musical people. But all the money
he could earn was needed at home and he so much wanted to get a musical
education.
He heard that the National Conservatory of Music in New York City
offered scholarships for young people whose voices gave promise and he
determined to try for one. He had to sing before several distinguished
musicians and he was a very nervous and worried lad that day, but
he did his best, and after some hesitation the judges granted him
a scholarship, and at last he began to study music in earnest.
Dvořák, the great Bohemian composer, was one of the directors of the
Conservatory and he was at once attracted to the negro boy. Harry sang
for him many old negro melodies and Dvořák was greatly pleased.
For four years Harry Burleigh studied hard every day. He knew that he
had a great privilege in being at the Conservatory and he made the
most of it. But always there was the struggle for daily bread. His
scholarship simply meant that he obtained free tuition. He still had to
provide for himself and his mother, and so there was a never ceasing
search for jobs that the home might be kept going. His mother was firm
in her belief that Harry would be a great singer and she helped in
every possible way.
For several years in the summer time he worked on the big lake
steamers, and then one year he secured a position in a Saratoga hotel.
While he was there he sang in an Episcopal church and he was told that
the position of baritone soloist at St. George’s Episcopal Church in
New York City was vacant and he determined to apply for the position.
This is one of the largest churches in New York and Harry found that
there were no less than sixty applicants, all eager to secure the
place, and he was the only coloured person applying. In spite of the
severe handicaps he had to face his wonderful full, rich voice overcame
all prejudice. He was selected for the place and for more than thirty
years he has filled the position and always given great satisfaction.
While his struggles were not at an end, Harry Burleigh had turned the
corner and he never had to face again the terrible hardships he had
known in his boyhood and young manhood. In addition to his work at St.
George’s he undertook to train other choirs in New York churches and he
was soon in great demand as a concert singer. He made several European
tours and everywhere he went his fine voice and modest behaviour won
for him a host of friends. He received a great welcome in England and
sang before the late King Edward VII who was greatly moved by his
singing. He also sang before other members of European royalty and
everywhere he won golden opinions.
In addition to being a singer of extraordinary power, Harry Burleigh
became a composer. He has composed the music for more than one hundred
songs in addition to several festival anthems for choruses. He has
also written the music for a large number of negro “spirituals” and
made these quaint old negro melodies known and loved the world over.
He has composed music for some of the greatest musicians, and made
possible much of their success. He composed the music for the song
“Little Mother of Mine” which John McCormack sang before one of the
largest audiences ever gathered in a concert hall. He was present when
the singer received a tremendous ovation and although McCormack wanted
him to acknowledge the applause, he modestly kept himself in the
background.
For several years he has held the position of musical editor of the
Ricordi Music Publishing House. No piece of music is submitted to them
which does not pass through his hands. With all his success as a singer
and composer and judge of music, Harry Burleigh remains as unspoiled
and modest as ever. When he has time in his busy life to think about
the past, no doubt there are several scenes which rise up in his
memory. No doubt he remembers the day when he proudly sang before King
Edward VII and other great occasions, but we are sure that sometimes
he thinks of that cold winter night when he stood knee-deep in snow
outside the big house where his mother worked, so that he might catch
the strains of the music from within.
CHAPTER XV
A QUAKER BOY WHO ASTONISHED THE WORLD
One summer afternoon in 1745 a seven-year-old boy, living near
Springfield, Pennsylvania, was given the task of looking after a
little baby. His mother put a fan in his hand and told him to keep the
flies away from the infant’s face. When at last she fell asleep, the
boy, whose name was Benjamin West, was struck with the beauty of the
sleeping child. Up till that time he had never even seen a picture,
for his people were Quakers and regarded pictures as worldly and
unnecessary. On a table near, were two bottles of ink, one red, the
other black. Benjamin took a piece of paper and with the ink began to
make a drawing of the little one asleep. Just as he finished the sketch
his mother appeared. He tried to conceal the drawing but she saw it,
and then, opened her eyes wide with astonishment: “Why, bless me!” she
exclaimed, “it is a picture of little Sally.” She threw her arms around
Benjamin’s neck and tenderly kissed him. After that he was never
afraid to show his mother anything he had drawn.
From that time on young Benjamin scarcely allowed a day to pass without
attempting some kind of drawing. Everything he saw around him came
in for attention; the wild flowers and trees, the birds and cattle,
the men, women and children, even the lovely sunsets, he attempted.
Sometimes he used ink on sheets of paper, at other times he used chalk
until nearly every board and door around the farmhouse was chalked up.
At that time there were a great many Mohawk Indians living in
Pennsylvania. They made occasional visits to Springfield and they were
greatly interested in Benjamin’s sketches. They used much red and
yellow paint with which to decorate themselves, and some of this they
gave to Benjamin. His mother gave him some indigo so he had red, yellow
and blue colours, and he found out that by mixing the yellow and blue
he could make green, so that enabled him to paint in four colours. The
Indians also taught him how to shoot with bow and arrow, and in this
way he captured many beautiful birds and used them as models for his
pictures. The neighbouring white people, who visited the West family,
were greatly interested and amused at the sketches which the little
fellow had made on every available space but they expressed regret
that he had not any brushes. Up till that time Benjamin did not even
know what a brush looked like, nor had he ever seen a picture of any
description. He was at a loss to know how to obtain a paint-brush, such
as the neighbours talked of, until one day, as he watched the cat, he
got the idea of making a brush from her fur. The brush was a success,
but before long he needed another, then another. Soon the cat had big
patches of its body without fur and Benjamin’s father said: “I don’t
know what is the matter with that cat. All its fur is coming out.”
When he learned what the real trouble was he did not know whether to
chastise the boy or not, but he was so much amused that he forgave him.
When Benjamin was eight years old, a relative from Philadelphia, named
Mr. Pennington, visited the family. He was greatly astonished at the
drawings and paintings which his young relative had done without any
assistance whatever. When he returned to Philadelphia he sent Benjamin
a box of paints, several pieces of canvas, and six engravings by a
famous artist of that time. Benjamin went nearly wild with joy. They
were the first real drawings he had ever seen and they certainly seemed
wonderful. That night, when he went to bed, he laid his presents on a
chair, and several times during the night he put out his hand to make
sure that they were still there. He almost thought that it must be a
dream out of which he would awake.
The next day he carried his presents up to a garret in the house and
began at once to make copies of the engravings. He became so interested
that he forgot all about school and then evidently decided that he
must finish his paintings for he did not go near the school for
several days. The schoolmaster at last sent to enquire the reason of
his absence. Benjamin’s mother did not know how he had been spending
his time and, feeling very much annoyed, she went up to the garret to
search for him. When she opened the door and saw the pictures which
her eight-year-old boy had painted she was amazed and delighted, and
interceded with his father so Benjamin was not punished.
Some time after this Mr. Pennington took Benjamin for a few days to
Philadelphia. It was the boy’s first journey away from home and what
he saw made him open his eyes wide with wonder. The houses, the people,
and the ships on the river: how different they were to anything he had
ever seen before. But that which interested him more than anything
else was the pictures. Noticing his interest in these, an artist named
Williams loaned him some books on the art of painting. These Benjamin
took with him when he returned to his home and carefully studied them.
He had now definitely made up his mind to become an artist. He painted
a picture of a lady and her children who lived in a nearby town and
this aroused such favourable comment that soon he had far more orders
for pictures than he could possibly fill. He was overwhelmed with
requests from people who, of course, offered to pay him for his work.
Benjamin was now sixteen, and his father decided to put him out as an
apprentice to some trade. But he had shown such remarkable artistic
ability, and he was so much in love with his art, that he and his
parents hoped that he could follow his bent. The Quakers did not
believe in decorative art of any kind. They regarded pictures as
indications of vanity. A meeting was called to discuss Benjamin’s
future. For several hours the matter was carefully considered. The
Quaker attitude towards pictures seemed to make an artist’s career
for one of them, impossible, yet no one denied that Benjamin had
remarkable gifts. At last one of the leading men arose and in a long
speech declared that God undoubtedly had conferred upon Benjamin West
a remarkable gift and he could see no reason why this gift should not
be used for the glory of God. Others agreed with him and the members
solemnly placed their hands upon his head and wished him God’s blessing
in his career as a painter.
Benjamin went to Philadelphia to study. He received much kindness from
Provost Smith, head of the college there, and soon he was hard at work
trying to improve himself. Chiefly through the influence of Dr. Smith,
it was made possible for him to go to Rome where so many of the great
masterpieces of art are to be seen. After a voyage which filled him
with a strange wonder he arrived at Rome in July, 1760, when he was
twenty-two years of age. At that time America was little known and the
news that a native-born American was in Rome excited a great deal of
interest. Scores of people came to see him, fully expecting to find
a redskin. When they did see him they were much surprised for he was
fairer than themselves.
What Benjamin saw in the art galleries of Rome opened up a new world
to him. He had never realised that such painting was possible. For
days he gazed in admiration and awe, but these paintings made him more
determined than ever to become a great artist. After three years of
study in Rome he went to Florence and many other centres of culture in
Italy. Later he visited Paris and then he arrived in London which he
made his home.
He was not long in London before his pictures began to attract
attention and he came under the notice of King George III. The King was
greatly pleased with his work and gave him much work to do. In 1792
he succeeded Sir Joshua Reynolds as president of the Royal Academy of
Arts, a position he held until his death in 1820.
Benjamin West painted a great many pictures, some of which are known to
all lovers of art. One of his most famous paintings is “The Death of
Wolfe.” This picture was presented to Canada by the Duke of Westminster
in 1918 in recognition of Canada’s services to the Empire during the
War. Another famous West picture is “Christ Healing the Sick.” When
this great picture was hung in the Royal Academy in London, there was
hung, alongside of it, the tiny picture that Benjamin had made in his
father’s garret with the first box of paints he ever had. The small
painting was a landscape scene and as the people gazed upon it they
found it very hard to realise that it was the work of an eight-year-old
boy, who, until he received the presents from Mr. Pennington, had never
even seen a picture. But no one begrudged him his fame. All seemed
eager to hail this boy from the wilds of America as one of the most
distinguished painters of his time.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_.
The following were changed:
‘kept’ to ‘keep’ ... to keep it in constant repair.
‘oration’ to ‘ovation’ ... received a tremendous ovation ...
‘Provest’ to ‘Provost’ ... Provost Smith, head of the college ...
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