True Stories From History and Biography (24 page)

When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward considerably revived in
spirits, and disposed to be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure
of the boy, as it was dimly seen by the fire-light, reclining in a well
stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable that many people might have
envied him. When a man's eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of
the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune to have them
bandaged.

Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward's side, with the air of an
accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would permit,
she watched all his motions, and each varying expression of his face, and
tried to anticipate her patient's wishes, before his tongue could utter
them. Yet it was noticeable, that the child manifested an indescribable
awe and disquietude, whenever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for to
her simple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend Edward
was separated from her, because she could not see his eyes. A friend's
eyes tell us many things, which could never be spoken by the tongue.

George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys
are accustomed to do, in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never
having felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to
sympathize with the sufferings of others.

"Well, my dear Edward," inquired Mrs. Temple, "is your chair quite
comfortable? and has your little nurse provided for all your wants? If so,
your father is ready to begin his stories."

"Oh, I am very well now," answered Edward, with a faint smile. "And my
ears have not forsaken me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So, pray,
dear father, begin!"

It was Mr. Temple's design to tell the children a series of true stories,
the incidents of which should be taken from the childhood and early life
of eminent people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, and Emily,
into closer acquaintance with the famous persons who have lived in other
times, by showing that they also had been children once. Although Mr.
Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was founded on fact, yet
he felt himself at liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a
new coloring, so that his auditors might understand them the better.

"My first story," said he, "shall be about a painter of pictures."

"Dear me!" cried Edward, with a sigh. "I am afraid I shall never look at
pictures any more."

"We will hope for the best," answered his father. "In the mean time, you
must try to see things within your own mind."

Mr. Temple then began the following story:

In the year 1738, there came into the world, in the town of Springfield,
Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, from whom his parents and neighbors looked
for wonderful things. A famous preacher of the Society of Friends had
prophesied about little Ben, and foretold that he would be one of the most
remarkable characters that had appeared on earth since the days of William
Penn. On this account, the eyes of many people were fixed upon the boy.
Some of his ancestors had won great renown in the old wars of England and
France; but it was probably expected that Ben would become a preacher, and
would convert multitudes to the peaceful doctrines of the Quakers. Friend
West and his wife were thought to be very fortunate in having such a son.

Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without doing any thing
that was worthy to be told in history. But, one summer afternoon, in his
seventh year, his mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the
flies away from the face of a little babe, who lay fast asleep in the
cradle. She then left the room.

The boy waved the fan to-and-fro, and drove away the buzzing flies
whenever they had the impertinence to come near the baby's face. When they
had all flown out of the window, or into distant parts of the room, he
bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing at the sleeping
infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty sight. The little personage in the
cradle slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, looking
as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing lullabies in its ear.
Indeed, it must have been dreaming about Heaven; for, while Ben stooped
over the cradle, the little baby smiled.

"How beautiful she looks!" said Ben to himself. "What a pity it is, that
such a pretty smile should not last forever!"

Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard of that wonderful
art, by which a look, that appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made
to last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him of such an
art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On a table, near at
hand, there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors, black and red. The
boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and kneeling down beside the cradle,
began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was busied in this
manner, he heard his mother's step approaching, and hastily tried to
conceal the paper.

"Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?" inquired his mother,
observing marks of confusion in his face.

At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if there might be
something wrong in stealing the baby's face, and putting it upon a sheet
of paper. However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into
her hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well scolded. But when
the good lady saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black ink,
she uttered a scream of surprise and joy.

"Bless me!" cried she. "It is a picture of little Sally!"

And then she threw her arms round our friend Benjamin, and kissed him so
tenderly, that he never afterwards was afraid to show his performances to
his mother.

As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast delight in looking at the
hues and forms of nature. For instance, he was greatly pleased with the
blue violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet
cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of the year, when the
woods were variegated with all the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to
desire nothing better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The
purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. And he was
continually endeavoring to draw the figures of trees, men, mountains,
houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on
barn-doors, or on the floor.

In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were still numerous in
Pennsylvania. Every year a party of them used to pay a visit to
Springfield, because the wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood
there. These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him very happy by
giving him some of the red and yellow paint with which they were
accustomed to adorn their faces. His mother, too, presented him with a
piece of indigo. Thus he now had three colors,—red, blue, and yellow—and
could manufacture green, by mixing the yellow with the blue. Our friend
Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless showed his gratitude to the Indians by
taking their likenesses, in the strange dresses which they wore, with
feathers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows.

But, all this time, the young artist had no paint-brushes, nor were there
any to be bought, unless he had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However,
he was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture paint-brushes for
himself. With this design, he laid hold upon—what do you think? why, upon
a respectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by the fireside.

"Puss," said little Ben to the cat, "pray give me some of the fur from the
tip of thy tail!"

Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to
have the fur, whether she were willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal
for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was armed
with his mother's scissors, and very dexterously clipped off fur enough to
make a paint-brush. This was of so much use to him, that he applied to
Madam Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so thin
and ragged, that she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter.
Poor thing! she was forced to creep close into the chimney-corner, and
eyed Ben with a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben considered it more
necessary that he should have paint-brushes, than that Puss should be
warm.

About this period, Friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a
merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of
Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it
ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful
plumage, and of the wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was
ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.

"Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia merchant, "what has
possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on earth
didst thou get them?"

Then Friend West explained, that all these pictures were painted by little
Ben, with no better materials than red and yellow ochre and a piece of
indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat's fur.

"Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath a wonderful faculty. Some of
our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin
appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser than we are."

The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered
him a wonderful boy. When his parents saw how much their son's
performances were admired, they no doubt remembered the prophecy of the
old Quaker preacher, respecting Ben's future eminence. Yet they could not
understand how he was ever to become a very great and useful man, merely
by making pictures.

One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington's return to Philadelphia, a
package arrived at Springfield, directed to our little friend Ben.

"What can it possibly be?" thought Ben, when it was put into his hands.
"Who can have sent me such a great square package as this!"

On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped it, behold! there was
a paint-box, with a great many cakes of paint, and brushes of various
sizes. It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were likewise several
squares of canvas, such as artists use for painting pictures upon, and, in
addition to all these treasures, some beautiful engravings of landscapes.
These were the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those of his
own drawing.

What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! At bedtime, he put
the paint-box under his pillow, and got hardly a wink of sleep; for, all
night long, his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In the
morning, he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the
dinner-hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more than a mouthful or
two of food, before he hurried back to the garret again. The next day, and
the next, he was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother thought it
time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly followed him to the
garret.

On opening the door, the first object that presented itself to her eyes
was our friend Benjamin, giving the last touches to a beautiful picture.
He had copied portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture out
of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful than the
originals. The grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the houses, were
all painted in their proper colors. There, too, was the sunshine and the
shadow, looking as natural as life.

"My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried his mother.

The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And well might she be proud of
her boy; for there were touches in this picture, which old artists, who
had spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed of. Many
a year afterwards, this wonderful production was exhibited at the Royal
Academy in London.

When Benjamin was quite a large lad, he was sent to school at
Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival, he had a slight attack of fever,
which confined him to his bed. The light, which would otherwise have
disturbed him, was excluded from his chamber by means of closed wooden
shutters. At first, it appeared so totally dark, that Ben could not
distinguish any object in the room. By degrees, however, his eyes became
accustomed to the scanty light.

He was lying on his back, looking up towards the ceiling, when suddenly he
beheld the dim apparition of a white cow, moving slowly over his head! Ben
started, and rubbed his eyes, in the greatest amazement.

"What can this mean?" thought he.

The white cow disappeared; and next came several pigs, who trotted along
the ceiling, and vanished into the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike
did these grunters look, that Ben almost seemed to hear them squeak.

"Well, this is very strange!" said Ben to himself.

When the people of the house came to see him, Benjamin told them of the
marvellous circumstance which had occurred. But they would not believe
him.

"Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses!" cried they. "How is it
possible that a white cow and a litter of pigs should be visible on the
ceiling of a dark chamber?"

Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eyesight, and was determined
to search the mystery to the bottom. For this purpose, when he was again
left alone, he got out of bed, and examined the window-shutters. He soon
perceived a small chink in one of them, through which a ray of light found
its passage, and rested upon the ceiling. Now the science of optics will
inform us, that the pictures of the white cow and the pigs, and of other
objects out of doors, came into the dark chamber, through this narrow
chink, and were painted over Benjamin's head. It is greatly to his credit,
that he discovered the scientific principle of this phenomenon, and, by
means of it, constructed a Camera Obscura, or Magic Lantern, out of a
hollow box. This was of great advantage to him in drawing landscapes.