I was a very unprepossessing child, neither good looking nor pleasant tempered; not that I was really ill-tempered, but that ill usage had stupified me. I never entered into play with the children of my own age, nor did I seek the amusements that were even within my reach. I loved to be alone, to lie under a tree near a brook, listening to the babbling and murmuring of the waters, and fancying that I heard my mother talking to me. Little as I was, I used to frame long conversations with her, and they had the effect of soothing me. Her gentle spirit was for ever present, and constantly encouraging me to bear all, and suffer in silence, and that when I was a man I should be rewarded. I bless the good Irishman’s memory for having so early and so constantly spoken of my parents; particularly of my mother.
A man finds he cannot make his way in the world without honesty and industry, so that, although his father’s example may do much, he has to depend upon his own exertions; he must work, he must be honest, or he cannot attain to any enviable rank. But the tender soothings of a mother, her sympathy, her devotedness, her forgiving temper—all this sinks deep in a child’s heart; and let him wander ever so wide, let him err or let him lead a life of virtue, the remembrance of all this comes like a holy calm over his heart, and he weeps that he has offended her, or he rejoices that he has listened to her disinterested, gentle admonition.
When I reached the age of eight years I was taught to read, and the eagerness with which I proceeded, mastering every difficulty, and overcoming every impediment from cold, hunger and chilblain, might have shown to an observer how suitable this occupation was to my character. Poor Patrick used to boast of my acquirements to every one who would listen; and every fresh book that I read through, gave him visions of my future glory.
No one can tell how the poor fellow pinched himself to give me this scanty education, but hard necessity had taught me to think; I was compelled to make use of my judgment, young as I was; and, knowing that he had the sum of five hundred dollars in his possession, for my use, I tried to prevail on him to draw out a fifth part of it for the purpose of paying a better board, and getting me a better teacher. If any one could have seen this poor man as I saw him at that time, thin, bowed down by poverty and neglect, ragged and with scarcely a home, they would have wondered that his honesty could have held out as it did when he had what might be considered as so large a sum within his power. He not only did not touch a penny himself, but he would not take a cent of it from the principal. He distrusted his own judgment, and he distrusted mine, for I was such a mere child; yet his anxiety to give me an education was still uppermost, and he wavered for a long time about adopting the only means of accomplishing it.
He had been digging post holes, one day, for a gentleman, and when his task was finished, he began to speak of the books which he saw lying about—it was a printing office—and, as was most natural to him, he spoke of me. He told the printer of his anxieties and his desire that I should have a good education, and finally he spoke of my proposal respecting the money. The printer told Patrick, that it was very good advice, and he had better take it; for if his object was to educate me, there was no other way but this of effecting it, unless he sent me to a charity school. The blood mounted in the poor fellow’s cheeks at this suggestion, and he told me that he had great difficulty in commanding his temper, but his love for me conquered.
As soon as he could swallow the affront—an affront, he said, to my father, and to my angel of a mother; for he, too, never separated my feelings from their’s—he begged the printer to let him bring me there and see how far I had advanced in my learning; but the man did not seem disposed to grant this favour. Bring the boy to me one year from this, and then I shall be better able to judge, said he; mean time, do you see that he is placed with a good teacher; one that will keep him to his studies.
With a heavy heart, Patrick obeyed him, and I thus obtained a knowledge of reading, writing and arithmetic; but he seemed to be failing fast; every time he came to see me he appeared weaker, and was still more wretchedly clad, and I could devise no plan for his comfort. He never complained of his poverty, but of his laziness; and his constant exhortations were, “Patrick, my boy, be industrious; never allow of an idle moment; give over lying under the trees, and do not saunter about when your lessons are over—look at me; I am in rags and despised by every body because I have been an idler.”
At the end of the year, in as good a suit of clothes as my poor godfather could manage to procure for me, I was taken to the printer. He cast a look at me as he stood at his desk writing, and then told us to take a seat. His cold manner struck a chill through my heart, and I crowded myself on Patrick’s chair that I might feel the warmth of his kindness. There we sat, speechless, for half an hour, until the letters were finished and despatched, and then the man turned his head again and gave another look.
“Will you be for speaking to the boy touching his learning, your honour?” said honest Patrick, his feelings hurt by this coldness of manner; “or shall we come some other time?”
“I have no time to question him now,” said the printer, “but if he can read and write—here, my boy, write your name on this leaf—Patrick Pan! hem—Pan, is it?”