Have you ever been inside of a cotton factory, reader? If so, you need not be told what sort of a place it is. I remember very well how I felt the first time I went into a spinning room. What a whirl of little wheels and great wheels, of bobbins and spindles, of drums and cylinders, there was in that room. My brain seemed to go round with the wheels; and I could hardly help holding my head with both hands, to keep it in its place. What a clatter was kept up by some of the machinery. What a dull, droning, hum-drum sound there was, besides. I could not hear the sound of my own voice, there was such a racket; and such a dense fog settled upon my mind, on account of the noise, that I could scarcely tell whether I was in the body or out of the body. Of all the places in the world, that ever I had seen or heard of, or ever expected to see or hear of, I firmly believed that the worst place for a boy to live, day after day, was in the spinning room of a cotton factory. I had heard of dismal dungeons, in which the light of day never shone; and I had thought that they were bad enough. But this factory seemed a great deal worse than any dungeon that was ever invented. The factory would drive me crazy in a week. I was sure of that. In the dungeon, on the other hand, which, though it might be as dark as tar, was still and quiet, I fancied I could at least keep my senses.
A factory is a busy place, too. It is one of the last situations in the world where a lazy person would wish to be employed. You can't be lazy there, if you try. A horse might as well undertake to be lazy in a treadmill. Some people think that factory boys and factory girls have to work too hard; that they are confined too many hours a day, and that they don't get fresh air enough. As to that, I shall not set myself up for a judge. Very likely the children fare better in some factories than they do in others. I will say, though, that the task of a factory boy, were the factory ever so well managed, would not be so pleasant to me as many others. I will say this; and I ought to say, besides, that when a boy gets used to the noise of a factory, he does not mind it much. Though it almost deafens him at first, he almost forgets there is any noise after a while.
Our young friend, the peddler's boy, made up his mind, the first day he went to work in Mr. Mason's factory, that he would like the business, whether or no. Well, he did like it, after a week or two—that is, he was content with it, and he was as cheerful and happy in the factory as he had been out of it. Contentment, my dear young friends, is a gem. It is worth more than gold or diamonds. You can't buy it with gold or diamonds, and if you should ever happen to get hold of it, you would be foolish to part with it, for all the gold in California and all the pearls in the tower of London. I have often thought, that if the apostle Paul were to be envied for anything, it might be for the contented spirit which he had, after he got to be an old man. "I have learned," said he, "in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content." What a precious lesson! I wish you would try to learn it, reader. You can learn it. You ought to learn it. Set yourself about the task, then, at once.
Samuel Bissell was content with his factory life. It was not quite so pleasant as some others were. He could not help seeing that. But he did not spend his time or any part of his time in wishing he was somewhere else, doing some other kind of business. He did not say or sing, "There's a good time coming, boys." The good time had come, according to his notion. Still, he held on to that resolution—the resolution he formed when he got a glimpse of some of the wonders away off in the blue sky. If you had watched him during the few leisure hours he had, you would have seen that he had not forgotten that old text of his, "I'll be somebody." Many and many a time, after he got home from the factory at night, he would go to his little room, and spend an hour or two reading and thinking. There was a small library in the village where he lived, and by paying a small sum every week, he was allowed to read some very valuable books. With what eagerness he picked up every kernel of knowledge he could find about the sun, and the planets, and the stars. When most of the boys were playing in the streets, he was reading and studying in his chamber. While he was a factory boy, he learned from the books which fell into his hands, to dive a great deal deeper into the heart of many studies than he was taught to do in the school to which his father had sent him. He had become quite a master of the art of book-keeping; and as to geography and astronomy, I am not sure but he could have told some things about them which his former teacher never dreamed of.
CHAP. XII.[ToC]
A GLANCE AT FREDERICK.
Before I wind up my story, I have a good mind to go back, and tell you what became of that companion of our friend, the Peddler's Boy, who drank the glass of gin. Poor Frederick! It makes my heart sad, to think what he might have been, and what he was. He was as kind, and amiable, and industrious, and prudent, as Samuel. His habits were as good, too, for aught that I know, up to the time when he was so thoughtless and foolish as to yield to the wishes of that coarse and wicked boy. He had been as well brought up as Samuel. Good principles had been as carefully sown in his mind. There was, then, there could have been no general reason why he did not show himself more of a hero when he met his old schoolmate.