| Vol. II.—No. 91. | Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. | PRICE FOUR CENTS. |
| Tuesday, July 26, 1881. | Copyright, 1881, by Harper & Brothers. | $1.50 per Year, in Advance. |
RICHARD WHITTINGTON.—[See next Page.]
[THE LITTLE MILLIONAIRE.]
My little daughter climbed up on my knee,
And said, with an air of great mystery,
"I've a secret to tell you, papa,
But I must whisper it close in your ear,
And don't you speak of it, papa dear,
For there's nobody knows but mamma.
"I am very rich! Very rich indeed!
I have far more money than I shall need;
I counted my money to-day—
Twenty new pennies—all of them mine—
And one little silver piece called a dime
That I got from my grandpapa Gray.
"I have fourteen nickels and one three-cent,
Five silver quarters, though one of them's bent;
And, papa dear, something still better,
Three big white dollars! not one of them old,
And, whisper, one beautiful piece of gold
That came in my uncle Tom's letter."
Then she clapped her small hands, laughed merry and clear,
Put her soft rosy lips down close to my ear,
(Oh, so lovely the fair curly head!)
"Am I not very rich? Now answer me true,
Am I not richer, far richer, than you?
Whisper, papa," she artlessly said.
I looked at her face, so young and so fair,
I thought of her life untouched by care,
And I said, with a happy sigh,
As my lips touched softly her waiting ear,
"You're exceedingly rich, my daughter dear!
Ten thousand times richer than I!"
[THE MODEL MERCHANT OF THE MIDDLE AGES.]
Out into the wide, wide world, where the fancy of high-spirited youth sees fame and fortune awaiting the daring adventurer, trudged the hero of an oft-told romance five hundred years and more ago. But the story of Dick Whittington is not all romance, and for the reason that it is in a great part real history, it is the more interesting.
The son of a gentleman of good birth but of wasted fortune, Richard Whittington was early sent up to London to be apprenticed to a merchant in that city, which even then was among the greatest and wealthiest in Christendom. An apprentice's lot was by no means a happy one. He was bound to his employer by law until he should reach the age of twenty-one years, and his duties were often of the most disagreeable and humble character. He lived in his master's house, and was treated no better than one of the lower kind of servants. It can easily be understood, therefore, how distasteful such a life must have been to a high-spirited boy whose days had been passed in the freedom of the woods and fields. And so, wearied by the tiresome life he led, the North-country boy determined to venture forth into the world to seek his fortune. Doubtless many apprentices had done as Dick Whittington did, but neither history nor legend has preserved their memory.
With a few articles of food and clothing tied up in a bundle, he left his master's house in Cheapside one summer evening, and set his face toward the north. After two or three hours' walking, he sat down to rest before ascending Highgate Hill, which was then far out in the country, though now it is a populous part of the great metropolis. Already he must have been tired and hungry, for he had done a day's work before he started, and had probably saved his supper to swell his little stock of provisions. He had walked several miles, darkness was coming on, and he had met with no adventures. What wonder, then, that, as he rested, the tones of Bow-bells on the soft evening air fitted themselves to words suggested by his lonely situation, and the high hopes that were within him, and bade him return and thrice reign over the city which had hitherto treated him so roughly. The romance of the runaway was over. He obeyed the fancied summons, and returned to fight the dull stern battle of life, and win the victories which destiny had in store for him.
But if young Whittington seems to have shown a faint heart by so soon abandoning the adventure on which he had embarked, he proved that he possessed courage of a more real kind by returning to take his part in that life where, at least as much as elsewhere, fame and fortune were to be won. Restored to his former position in the merchant's household, the strong-willed lad bore his part bravely, and soon gained the confidence of his employer, whose daughter he afterward married. He was taken into partnership, and by a fortunate speculation in cats, if we accept the legend (which, however, though the most picturesque event in his career, is probably the least true), he laid the foundation of the largest fortune of those times gained in commerce.
Bow-bells had promised him that he should be thrice Lord Mayor of London; but fate was even kinder to him than prophecy, for Whittington held that ancient and honorable office no fewer than four times. During one of his terms of office he entertained at a grand banquet King Henry the Fifth, the hero of Agincourt, who, besides being his sovereign, was also his debtor to a very large amount, for kings in those days were not above borrowing from their subjects. After the banquet the Lord Mayor caused a great fire to be made in the hall, and in the presence of the King and Queen and all their noble retinue he threw into the fire the bonds which the King had given him as acknowledgment of the loan, thus releasing his sovereign from the debt. Henry, who was himself a man of generous nature, was greatly moved by this striking act of loyalty, and exclaimed, "Never, surely, had King such a subject!"
"Ah, sire," returned the courtly Lord Mayor, "never had subject such a King!"
It were hard to believe that so noble a prince as Henry the Fifth took advantage of this generous act, and fortunately history does not tell us whether the debt remained unpaid because the evidence of it was destroyed. Let us give the King the benefit of the doubt, and trust that the money was afterward honorably repaid, and went to swell the number of those charities with which the name of Sir Richard Whittington is for all time connected.
No one person of that time has left greater or more varied proofs of benevolence. The sick who lay in the wards of St. Bartholomew's Hospital blessed the memory of its benefactor, the great Lord Mayor; and the felons confined in the cells of Newgate Prison owed their comparative comfort to that kind heart which recognized the fact that even those whom crime has outlawed from society are still our fellow-beings. Scholars owe to the 'prentice lad, whose own schooling was mostly of the sternest practical sort, the foundation of a college and two libraries, which are still in existence; and thanks are due to him in great part for the nave of Westminster Abbey, the cost of building which Whittington bore in common with another London merchant.
But Whittington was above all things a great merchant, and, as such, did much for commerce. Some of our readers may have seen the London Directory, an immense, closely printed book, which contains the names and residences of nearly four millions of people. Five hundred years ago Sir Richard Whittington caused to be prepared a directory of all the trades in London, and thus was the first, so far as we know, to issue what has now become a necessity in our daily business, and as familiar as it is necessary—a City Directory.
Do you not think he is rightly called "the model merchant of the Middle Ages?"
[BITS OF ADVICE.]
BY AUNT MARJORIE PRECEPT.
"I BEG YOUR PARDON."
When little Tom Macaulay was about four years old, he was taken by his father to call upon Lady Waldegrave, at Strawberry Hill, and there an awkward servant spilled some hot coffee over his legs. The hostess was very sorry indeed, and after a while asked him if he felt any better.
"Thank you, madam," said the small gentleman, "the agony is abated."
I do not expect you, my dear children, to use words so quaint as those which were quite natural to young Macaulay, but I should be glad if you would try to have equal politeness. Politeness is simply the highest form of unselfishness, and the finest manners spring from a kind heart. There is a difference between manner and manners, which I think you can understand. Manner is the expression of a person's character, and manners are the person's every-day dress. One may have at the same time an awkward manner, and polished manners, contradictory as it seems to say so. The only way to be sure of having both in perfection is to begin when you are young, and practice self-control in your life at home. There are certain rules to which courteous people conform in society, and these you can easily learn, partly by asking, partly by obedience, and partly by observation. Conventionality is a long word, and some good men and women affect to despise it; but it is, on the whole, very convenient, and life is far more agreeable where people are governed by its good order and system than where they act independently and brusquely.
I beg your pardon for giving you a hint about two or three common usages which you know of, but sometimes forget. Lewis was passing hurriedly through the dining-room yesterday, when his aunt Carrie spoke to him. He did not hear precisely what she said, so he stood in the doorway and said, "What, ma'am?" "I beg pardon," would have been more elegant there. But when he entered mamma's chamber, where she and sister Sue were having a confidential chat, if he wished to interrupt the talk for a moment, the right thing to say would have been, not "I beg pardon," but "Please excuse me."
Bessie came down to breakfast one morning lately, and at once seated herself, and began to drum on the table with her spoon. Nothing could have been ruder, and I was surprised, for I had thought Bessie a well-bred child. She ought to have waited until the family had assembled, and then she should not have taken her place until mamma was ready to sit down.
But when Clara was visiting at the Stanleys' she really tried to be very polite, and she made one mistake—one, indeed, which older people often make. Mrs. Stanley helped her bountifully to pudding, and she passed it along to her next neighbor. She ought to have retained it herself, as it was meant for and apportioned to her.
Bob Hartt has two or three friends staying a few days at his house, and his sister Agnes finds it a great trial to eat with them, and why? Would you believe that Will Fleming appears at the dinner table without his coat, that Arthur Samson eats with his knife, and that Phil Decker gobbles his soup in the greatest haste, and almost swallows the spoon, instead of taking the soup, as polite people do, from the side of the spoon? These boys are honest and faithful at school, but they have not been taught good manners.
The other day I stepped out of a street car, with my hands full of parcels. I was very tired. A boy I know left his playmates, ran up to me, and said, "Aunt Marjorie, I'll help you carry those things." Now was he not kind, and polite too? I think so.
[THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA.]
BY F. E. FRYATT.
That the Popolo family were musical was beyond all question, seeing that every member, from Pietro padre, down to Pepita, the baby, either sung or played on some musical instrument.
Pietro was an aristocrat in his profession, for he had risen from the rank of organ-grinder to the proud eminence of possessor of and performer on six musical instruments; and what is most wonderful, he could play on all six at the same time, to the infinite delight of astonished audiences.
Pietro and his pretty wife Teresa were born in Italy, the land of music. They were poor but ambitious, and having heard that in our country gold was so plenty that one might almost pick it up in the streets, they desired nothing so much as to come here; so they counted their florins, bade their people farewell, and crossed the blue ocean.
Like many other young couples who had come before them, they soon found that the gold was not scattered in the streets, but must be gained only by persistent and patient industry.
Teresa had an old uncle named Luigi Nicolai, who had, by "hook and crook" literally, amassed a snug little fortune. After considerable hunting they found him in lofty but rather dingy rooms in Crosby Street, a quarter Of New York which might well be called New Italy, so many of these people live there.
The meeting between the three was affectionate and lively; and dear me! their tongues travelled so nimbly for the next three hours that I will not attempt to tell you half they said, especially as it was all in Italian; but this I know, they went to ask Luigi's advice, and he gave it.
The result was, the Popolos bought a hand-organ and a tambourine, and commenced business the next morning.
From the very beginning the young people prospered, Teresa's bright eyes and gay bodice, no less than the merry jigs and pathetic wailings of the instrument, serving as so many magnets to attract the coppers from the people's pockets, in spite of the "hard times" of which they were always complaining.
Again it was summer. "Week in and week out" Pietro and his faithful wife had trudged forth in sunshine and storm, and now they had a modest little sum lying by in the savings-bank. And they had something infinitely more precious than silver or gold—little Pepita, a perfect cherub of a babe, with bright black eyes and rings of silken soft hair.
Teresa lost no time in preparing Signorita Pepita for her coming vocation. Was she not prettier and more mischievous than a monkey? hadn't she a voice sweeter than an angel's?
"Carissima mia," she would cry, "will not de monees pour into dese little brown hand as one riv-are?"
And so it proved. Little Pepita, in her mob-cap, was fondled and patted by the women, and run after by the children, who were delighted to leave their pennies in her chubby fist, so that Teresa's tin cup was filled to overflowing; and one day Pietro sold his old barrel-organ, and bought a brand-new one.
To say there was contentment in the Popolo apartments that evening would but faintly express it. Uncle Luigi and some neighbors were invited to participate in the rejoicing. It lessened not the pleasure of the party one whit that the rooms smelled strongly of fried fish and garlic; on the contrary, it increased it by anticipation, for Teresa was famous for her cookery.
Supper, however, was a secondary consideration. The new organ must be looked at first, and Teresa lighted an extra lamp for the occasion, and was made very happy by the praises bestowed upon the new instrument.
Now that Teresa had baby to carry, her tambourine lay idle. This and their prosperity set her to thinking, and the result was a letter to her cousins Andrea and Luisa Felippo, which bade them "come to America, where the people were so fond of music that one might fairly whistle the money out of their pockets."
The Felippos came, Andrea bringing with him his flageolet, and Luisa a small sum of money with which to set up housekeeping in the New World. Nor were they an unwelcome or undesirable addition to the little troupe of musicians. Andrea, with his gold ear-rings, conical hat, and velvet trousers, and Luisa, with her picturesque peasant dress, became paying attractions. They were not announced by flaming handbills, nor were they trumpeted forth in the newspapers like Ole Bull or Wilhelmj, or Patti or Nilsson, but they soon acquired a wide-spread fame of their own on the east side—a fame some day to be increased fourfold by an event, the realization of a secret hope in the breasts of Pietro and Teresa Popolo.
In a certain side street of the city was a curious old shop, in which was stored all sorts of second-hand musical instruments. Now Pietro was of an inventive turn, and possessed considerable mechanical skill.
No one knew but the good wife Teresa where he spent so many evenings, while she sat at home singing and rocking the cradle.
Andrea and Luisa would drop in for a chat. Neighbor Giuseppe frequently inquired for her husband, and to all she would say, smilingly, "Wait; you not know dis night."
Meantime the object of their solicitude was busy with his awl and his knife, and a lot of buckles and straps, preparing the wonderful invention that was to delight the people, and pour in money for the little Pepita's dowry.
Toward the last Teresa was obliged to go with him one or two evenings to help him with the straps and buckles, and to test the working powers of the great— But I must not go ahead of my story. It was still a secret to Andrea and Luisa, but they went to look at It the evening before Pietro decided to exhibit it on the street.
Now, children, guess what It was, if you are able.
THE PEREGRINATING ORCHESTRA AT WORK.
Look at the picture of Pietro, and you will find It on his back and his head, in his hands, and at his feet.
It is the peregrinating orchestra, that is, the travelling or wandering orchestra.
Do you wonder that the women have left their wash-tubs to gaze from the laundry windows, that the tenement-house is emptying its population to look at and listen to this wonderful man and his musical family?
Here you may count six different musical instruments or contrivances, connected with each other by an ingenious set of straps, so that the movement of one sets all the others going in proper time.
Just fancy Pietro is playing the "Star-spangled Banner." He touches D, B, G, the first notes of the air, on the accordion. Up fly the drumsticks; it's time they were busy. "Rub-a-dub," says the snare-drum; "boom, boom, boom," growls the bass-drum; "crash, crash," shriek the cymbals; "chink-a-chink, chink-a-chink," rattles the tambourine; "jingle, jingle," ring the bells from the little tower on his head; while the poor accordion puffs and wails laboriously.
Nor is this all; for Andrea is piping away steadily on his flageolet, Luisa is shaking her tambourine, and Pepita is flourishing her ivory rattle with the silver bells, as pleased with the whole affair as any member of the crowd.
Pietro has indeed reached the top of his profession; for what more could one man be expected to do in the way of music than he is already doing?
Andrea has certainly a good example to follow. He has only to bear in mind, as Pietro did, good old Nicolai's motto, "Poco a poco"—little by little—and he too may prosper.
As for little Pepita, her history is only just begun; but I shouldn't wonder, from the present promising state of affairs, if we should hear of her as the lovely and admired heiress Signorita Pepita Popolo, daughter of the famous Pietro Popolo, the performer, or rather professor, of the peregrinating orchestra.