The Evolution of "Dodd" / A pedagogical story giving his struggle for the survival of the fittest, tracing his chances, his changes, and how he came out

by William Hawley Smith

I reached the end of my journey, a place which, as you would not know its name then, it is perhaps well that you should never know. I had no money, and I was hungry. Ordinarily, I should have struck some one for a loan, but your words rang in my ears, and I would not do it. I applied for a job of work that I knew I could do. I got it, and did it as well as I knew how to. I hide my face even now, for very shame, as I confess that it was the first time, for years, that I had done as well as I knew how to do. I got my pay, and ate an honestly earned, though frugal supper, that evening. I think you will understand me when I tell you that I went to bed happier that night than I had before for a long time. The "Other Fellow" said, "It is all right, Old Boy! Stand by!" I did "stand by," and I have been standing by ever since.

And first, as I learn you are still teaching, I want to ask you never to give up your boys, nor your way of managing them. You can never know how much you did for me in the Emburg school. Those old days come back to me almost every hour, and their essence is a part of my being. I know that you must have thought, ten thousand times, that all your work was lost, and counted for nothing. You had every reason in the world for thinking so, and doubtless did think so. But I want to beg of you now, in the name of the new life that has eventually come to me through the medium of those old school days, not to be discouraged. I tell you, my dear teacher, that not one of such words and deeds will fail, at last, of reaching the purpose for which it was primarily intended. So please be patient with the boys, and keep on as you were, years ago, and do not be discouraged because it is long till the harvest. It will ripen in due time. The reapers shall come also, bearing their sheaves, and it is at your feet that they will lay them down.

But I wish especially to thank you for your wisdom and faithfulness in our last interview. On that occasion you struck the key note to the whole situation when you virtually kicked me out of your house, and told me that if I ever got up I must climb for myself. That was a new doctrine for me then, but I understand it thoroughly now. It is sound doctrine too, though it takes long to see it so.

You were wise, too, to watch me till I got out of town on that September afternoon. If you had given me ten dollars at your home and told me to buy a ticket, I doubt if I should have done it, even if I had promised to, and meant to do so when I promised. The chances are I should have spent the money for drink, and then have gone to jail. That is the way of a man such as I was then. An habitual drunkard is not to be trusted, not even by himself.

I shudder as I write these things, and I only reveal them to you, hoping that they may, perchance, be the means of your helping some one else. I never refer to these scenes to others; in fact, no one here knows of these painful pages in my history.

You will care to know what I am doing. I have a studio here on Broadway, and am painting portraits. The old gift, that you were the first to discover in me, when you said a kind word for my burlesque sketch of you on the board, at Emburg (how often I do get back to that old school-room), at last proved my salvation. Gradually I found that I had talent in this direction, and I am making the most of it. Carefully and honestly I took up the work, and with perseverance I have attained my present success. I have studied with the best artists here, and my work is well received. At the latest exhibition at the Academy I was the winner of the first prize, and this fact has already brought me more business than I can well attend to. I am delighted with my work, but shall never rest satisfied till a picture of yourself hangs in my room where it can watch me as I pursue my daily task. Because, it is you who inspired me even to try to be a man and to do something in the world. The credit is yours.

My father and mother are still in Illinois. I have communicated with them several times recently. The children are grown, and several of them have left home. I hope to see the family all together on the day you receive this letter. I may also see you before I return to New York.

I cannot close this letter without telling you further of the change that has come to me in my religious and spiritual life. You know how blasphemously unbelieving I was ten years ago. I thought then that I had full cause for being so, but I was wrong there, as in all else. I wandered far and long, but as I began to do what I believe was God's will, I began to know the doctrine, as the book says we shall. I am happy now in a religious life which I once believed it impossible for any one to experience. These are the main features in my life.

So now I wish you adieu, and pray the good Father in heaven to bless you all the days of your life. Your calling is the most noble in all the world, and I do you but justice when I say that you are wholly worthy of your profession. Remember me to your family, which I trust I may now have your permission to mingle with again (ah! that day); and believe me, ever sincerely yours, "Dodd."

Mr. Bright read the letter through to the end, then fell on his knees and in silence rejoiced and gave thanks.