He produced as he spoke a number of prints from his saddle-bag, which he had carried into the coffee-room, and with honest pride, began to point out their qualities.
“There is nothing like putting a thing before the people in a way they’ll understand,” said he. “And that is the intention of all my work.”
“You are an artist then, Mr. Revere?” said Nat, inquiringly.
The man smiled and waved his hand.
“Not much of a one, as the pictures themselves will tell you,” answered he. “I’m merely an engraver of copper plates. This one,” indicating a particular print, “shows the bloody massacre which took place in King Street, Boston, four years ago. You’ve heard how a party of the Twenty-ninth Regiment shot down a number of honest people, I feel sure. This one,” showing still another print, “of the Dragon, met with quite a little success at Boston and other cities.”
One by one he displayed the quaint pictures and proudly read the pompous verses which were printed on the margin of each.
“The poems I wrote myself,” stated he, “and while they may not be of the best, still I take credit for them because I am no great scholar. I had to give up school over soon to go into my father’s shop to learn the trade of gold and silversmith.”
“Then you were not brought up an engraver,” said Ben.
“No. But, though I do say it myself, I soon showed some art in fashioning ewers, tankards, brasiers and mugs; and it is no great step from that to the copper plate. However,” and Revere smiled, “I have not kept myself altogether to such work. When trade was dull I took up other matters that would be of service to the public, and incidentally, to myself.”
“I’ve heard tell that you once were a dentist,” spoke Ezra.