THE PEDDLER’S SON.
I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can I ever be, but just what I am? ignorant, uneducated, insignificant? Stop, no creature of God is insignificant; that is impossible, because you are to live forever. Fettered and cramped in this life you may be; but this life is not all, nor is it impossible even here for you to take your place with the wise and the honorable of this world. You look about you, and shake your head doubtfully. Your father and mother are good and kind to you, as far as they can be. But they never read; they know nothing, care for nothing, save that they are to work day by day till they die, merely to get bread enough to keep them alive. But your mind is hungry; you want something for that. Bread and meat for your body don’t suffice you; you know there is something better. How shall you find it? who will help you to it? And you look about and around you, and reach out your arms, as if to implore some invisible power to come to your aid. Do you know how many whose names are loved, honored, and cherished by thousands, began life just so? Do you know what might there is in the little words “I will”?
Let me tell you a story.
In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This hut had only one room, with a fireplace in it, and no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, there was the usual supply of a poor man’s children.
The principal support of the family was a cow, and the principal employment of Komer, the name of my hero, was to collect, in the spring, the sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, to make litter for the cow. After the meadows had become green, he passed the long summer days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other boys. He also brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook the trees roughly, he gathered acorns, and sold them to those who kept geese. When he grew larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to carry his bundles from hut to hut. There was a small school, too, where Komer learned to read and write, but that was all he learned there.
One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) he was sitting at a table with his parents. A small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, who had just come home with his peddler’s pack, was talking to his mother about his business. The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought home with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper of which lay upon the table. On it was the picture of a horse.
Little Komer idly took up the picture. This is very good, thought he; I wonder if I could draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows but I might? Little Komer looked at his father; he was very busy talking; so he took pen, ink, and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he had finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him very perfect, and his little heart swelled with a new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to his parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they praised and admired it, more because Komer did it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to bed; it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he couldn’t sleep for thinking of it; he tossed and turned, and longed for daylight, that he might really see it with his bodily eyes again; for he was not quite sure, after all, but that he was dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there was the horse; but Komer was never again the same Komer. All that day he was excited, restless, and the next, and the next; how was he to become a real painter? Near his father’s hut lived a potter, who had some outlines, as models for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines for a little while. Then he made a blank book, and very carefully copied them into it with pen and ink. The people in the huts round thought it quite wonderful, and they were handed about, till, at last, they came to a man who was a sort of “mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He was so pleased and astonished, that he sent for the boy, made him presents, praised his drawings, and asked him if he would like to be a painter.
Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out of his skin for joy. Like to go to a great city to a master painter, and learn how to be one himself? Of course, he could not find his tongue to tell all the joy that filled his heart. There was no need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman said he would talk of it to his parents. Now, his parents never heard of any kind of painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when the gentleman asked them, they answered that it was a very dangerous trade; for houses in cities were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer might break his legs or neck. And so Komer did not go to the city, but kept on watching the old cow.
But for all that, this gentleman, and others to whom he showed Komer’s drawing, did not forget him or them, but kept on talking about the wonderful child; and, what was more to their credit, tried to help him. They sent for him to take lessons with their children in French, Latin, and music. That he need not be ashamed to come among them, they gave him better clothing, and the gentleman who first saw him brought him to eat with his family, at his own table.
Little Komer did not think—as you do—that it was a hardship to study; not he. He flew at his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, never spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After this, he did some copying for a gentleman, besides other writing, in order to earn money. Then, for the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed on splendid paintings, till he was nearly beside himself with rapture. Now, indeed, nothing could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a young artist, and commenced immediately; weeping, that he was not permitted to do so, when he first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed was he with this one idea—that he grew sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a pencil. Now, indeed, he must rest, if he would not die; but he was too active to lie upon the shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he would read. He took up a volume of poems. Why could not he write? He, Komer? Why not? He seized his pen; he wrote poem after poem; they were copied, praised, and set to music!