Stories from Life
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Marden vice Harden >> Stories from Life
The soul of little Ole Bull had always been attuned to melody,
from the time when, a toddling boy of four, he had kissed with
passionate delight the little yellow violin given him by his
uncle. How happy he was, as he wandered alone through the meadows,
listening with the inner ear of heaven-born genius to the great
song of nature. The bluebells, the buttercups, and the blades of
grass sang to him in low, sweet tones, unheard by duller ears. How
he thrilled with delight when he touched the strings of the little
red violin, purchased for him when he was eight years old. His
father destined him for the church, and, feeling that music should
form part of the education of a clergyman, he consented to the
mother's proposition that the boy should take lessons on the
violin.
Ole could not sleep for joy, that first night of ownership; and,
when the house was wrapped in slumber, he got up and stole on
tiptoe to the room where his treasure lay. The bow seemed to
beckon to him, the pretty pearl screws to smile at him out of
their red setting. "I pinched the strings just a little," he said.
"It smiled at me ever more and more. I took up the bow and looked
at it. It said to me it would be pleasant to try it across the
strings. So I did try it just a very, very little, and it did sing
to me so sweetly. At first I did play very soft. But presently I
did begin a capriccio, which I like very much, and it did go ever
louder and louder; and I forgot that it was midnight and that
everybody was asleep. Presently I hear something crack; and the
next minute I feel my father's whip across my shoulders. My little
red violin dropped on the floor, and was broken. I weep much for
it, but it did no good. They did have a doctor to it next day, but
it never recovered its health."
He was given another violin, however, and, when only ten, he would
wander into the fields and woods, and spend hours playing his own
improvisations, echoing the song of the birds, the murmur of the
brook, the thunder of the waterfall, the soughing of the wind
among the trees, the roar of the storm.
But childhood's days are short. The years fly by. The little Ole
is eighteen, a student in the University of Christiana, preparing
for the ministry. His brother students beg him to play for a
charitable association. He remembers his father's request that he
yield not to his passion for music, but being urged for "sweet
charity's sake," he consents.
The youth's struggle between the soul's imperative demand and the
equally imperative parental dictate was pathetic. Meanwhile the
position of musical director of the Philharmonic and Dramatic
Societies becoming vacant, Ole was appointed to the office; and,
seeing that it was useless to contend longer against the genius of
his son, the disappointed father allowed him to accept the
directorship.
When fairly launched on a musical career, his trials and
disappointments began. Wishing to assure himself whether he had
genius or not, he traveled five hundred miles to see and hear the
celebrated Louis Spohr, who received the tremulous youth coldly,
and gave him no encouragement. No matter, he would go to the city
of art. In Paris he heard Berlioz and other great musicians.
Entranced he listened, in his high seat at the top of the house,
to the exquisite notes of Malibran.
His soul feasted on music, but his money was fast dwindling away,
and the body could not be sustained by sweet sounds. But the poor
unknown violinist, who was only another atom in the surging life
of the great city, could earn nothing. He was on the verge of
starvation, but he would not go back to Christiana. He must still
struggle and study. He became ill of brain fever, and was tenderly
nursed back to life by the granddaughter of his kind landlady,
pretty little Felicie Villeminot, who afterward became his wife.
He had drained the cup of poverty and disappointment to the dregs,
but the tide was about to turn.
He was invited to play at a concert presided over by the Duke of
Montebello, and this led to other profitable engagements. But the
great opportunity of his life came to him in Bologna. The people
had thronged to the opera house to hear Malibran. She had
disappointed them, and they were in no mood to be lenient to the
unknown violinist who had the temerity to try to fill her place.
He came on the stage. He bowed. He grew pale under the cold gaze
of the thousands of unsympathetic eyes turned upon him. But the
touch of his beloved violin gave him confidence. Lovingly,
tenderly, he drew the bow across the strings. The coldly critical
eyes no longer gazed at him. The unsympathetic audience melted
away. He and his violin were one and alone. In the hands of the
great magician the instrument was more than human. It talked; it
laughed; it wept; it controlled the moods of men as the wind
controls the sea.
The audience scarcely breathed. Criticism was disarmed. Malibran
was forgotten. The people were under the spell of the enchanter.
Orpheus had come again. But suddenly the music ceased. The spell
was broken. With a shock the audience returned to earth, and Ole
Bull, restored to consciousness of his whereabouts by the storm of
applause which shook the house, found himself famous forever.
His triumph was complete, but his work was not over, for the price
of fame is ceaseless endeavor. But the turning point had been
passed. He had seized the great opportunity for which his life had
been a preparation, and it had placed him on the roll of the
immortals.
THE LESSON OF THE TEAKETTLE
The teakettle was singing merrily over the fire; the good aunt was
bustling round, on housewifely cares intent, and her little nephew
sat dreamily gazing into the glowing blaze on the kitchen hearth.
Presently the teakettle ceased singing, and a column of steam came
rushing from its pipe. The boy started to his feet, raised the lid
from the kettle, and peered in at the bubbling, boiling water,
with a look of intense interest. Then he rushed off for a teacup,
and, holding it over the steam, eagerly watched the latter as it
condensed and formed into tiny drops of water on the inside of the
cup.
Returning from an upper room, whither her duties had called her,
the thrifty aunt was shocked to find her nephew engaged in so
profitless an occupation, and soundly scolded him for what she
called his trifling. The good lady little dreamed that James Watt
was even then unconsciously studying the germ of the science by
which he "transformed the steam engine from a mere toy into the
most wonderful instrument which human industry has ever had at its
command."
This studious little Scottish lad, who, because too frail to go to
school, had been taught at home, was very different from other
boys. When only six or seven years old, he would lie for hours on
the hearth, in the little cottage at Greenock, near Glasgow, where
he was born in 1736, drawing geometrical figures with pieces of
colored chalk. He loved, too, to gaze at the stars, and longed to
solve their mysteries. But his favorite pastime was to burrow
among the ropes and sails and tackles in his father's store,
trying to find out how they were made and what purposes they
served.
In spite of his limited advantages and frail health, at fifteen he
was the wonder of the public school, which he had attended for two
years. His favorite studies were mathematics and natural
philosophy. He had also made good progress in chemistry,
physiology, mineralogy, and botany, and, at the same time, had
learned carpentry and acquired some skill as a worker in metals.
So studious and ambitious a youth scarcely needed the spur of
poverty to induce him to make the most of his talents. The spur
was there, however, and, at the age of eighteen, though delicate
in health, he was obliged to go out and battle with the world.
Having first spent some time in Glasgow, learning how to make
mathematical instruments, he determined to go to London, there to
perfect himself in his trade.
Working early and late, and suffering frequently from cold and
hunger, he broke down under the unequal strain, and was obliged to
return to his parents for a time until health was regained.
Always struggling against great odds, he returned to Glasgow when
his trade was mastered, and began to make mathematical
instruments, for which, however, he found little sale. Then, to
help eke out a living, he began to make and mend other
instruments,--fiddles, guitars, and flutes,--and finally built an
organ,--a very superior one, too,--with several additions of his
own invention.
A commonplace incident enough it seemed, in the routine of his
daily occupation, when, one morning, a model of Newcomen's engine
was brought to him for repair, yet it marked the turning point in
his career, which ultimately led from poverty and struggle to fame
and affluence.
Watt's practiced eye at once perceived the defects in the Newcomen
engine, which, although the best then in existence could not do
much better or quicker work than horses. Filled with enthusiasm
over the plans which he had conceived for the construction of a
really powerful engine, he immediately set to work, and spent two
months in an old cellar, working on a model. "My whole thoughts
are bent on this machine," he wrote to a friend. "I can think of
nothing else."
So absorbed had he become in his new work that the old business of
making and mending instruments had declined. This was all the more
unfortunate as he was no longer struggling for himself alone. He
had fallen in love with, and married, his cousin, Margaret Miller,
who brought him the greatest happiness of his life. The neglect of
the only practical means of support he had reduced Watt and his
family to the direst poverty. More than once his health failed,
and often the brave spirit was almost broken, as when he exclaimed
in heaviness of heart, "Of all the things in the world, there is
nothing so foolish as inventing."
Five years had passed since the model of the Newcomen engine had
been sent to him for repair before he succeeded in securing a
patent on his own invention. Yet five more long years of bitter
drudgery, clutched in the grip of poverty, debt, and sickness, did
the brave inventor, sustained by the love and help of his noble
wife, toil through. On his thirty-fifth birthday he said, "To-day
I enter the thirty-fifth year of my life, and I think I have
hardly yet done thirty-five pence worth of good in the world; but
I cannot help it."
Poor Watt! He had traveled with bleeding feet along the same
thorny path trod by the great inventors and benefactors of all
ages. But, in spite of all obstacles, he persevered; and, after
ten years of inconceivable labor and hardship, during which his
beautiful wife died, he had a glorious triumph. His perfected
steam engine was the wonder of the age. Sir James Mackintosh
placed him "at the head of all inventors in all ages and nations."
"I look upon him," said the poet Wordsworth, "considering both the
magnitude and the universality of his genius, as, perhaps, the
most extraordinary man that this country ever produced."
Wealthy beyond his desires,--for he cared not for wealth,--crowned
with the laurel wreath of fame, honored by the civilized world as
one of its greatest benefactors, the struggle over, the triumph
achieved, on August 19, 1819, he lay down to rest.
HOW THE ART OF PRINTING WAS DISCOVERED
"Look, Grandfather; see what the letters have done!" exclaimed a
delighted boy, as he picked up the piece of parchment in which
Grandfather Coster had carried the bark letters cut from the trees
in the grove, for the instruction and amusement of his little
grandsons.
"See what the letters have done!" echoed the old man. "Bless me,
what does the child mean?" and his eyes twinkled with pleasure, as
he noted the astonishment and pleasure visible on the little face.
"Let me see what it is that pleases thee so, Laurence," and he
eagerly took the parchment from the boy's hand.
"Bless my soul!" cried the old man, after gazing spellbound upon
it for some seconds. The track of the mysterious footprint in the
sand excited no more surprise in the mind of Robinson Crusoe than
Grandfather Coster felt at the sight which met his eyes. There,
distinctly impressed upon the parchment, was a clear imprint of
the bark letters; though, of course, they were reversed or turned
about.
But you twentieth-century young folks who have your fill of story
books, picture books, and reading matter of all kinds, are
wondering, perhaps, what all this talk about bark letters and
parchment and imprint of letters means.
To understand it, you must carry your imagination away back more
than five centuries--quite a long journey of the mind, even for
"grown-ups"--to a time when there were no printed books, and when
very, very few of the rich and noble, and scarcely any of the so-
called common people, could read. In those far-off days there were
no public libraries, and no books except rare and expensive
volumes, written by hand, mainly by monks in their quiet
monasteries, on parchment or vellum.
In the quaint, drowsy, picturesque town of Haarlem, in Holland,
with its narrow, irregular, grass-grown streets and many-gabled
houses, the projecting upper stories of which almost meet, one
particular house, which seems even older than any of the others,
is pointed out to visitors as one of the most interesting sights
of the ancient place. It was in this house that Laurence Coster,
the father of the art of printing, the man--at least so runs the
legend--who made it possible for the poorest and humblest to enjoy
the inestimable luxury of books and reading, lived and loved and
dreamed more than five hundred years ago.
Coster was warden of the little church which stood near his home,
and his days flowed peacefully on, in a quiet, uneventful way,
occupied with the duties of his office, and reading and study, for
he was one of those who had mastered the art of reading. A
diligent student, he had conned over and over, until he knew them
by heart, the few manuscript volumes owned by the little church of
which he was warden.
A lover of solitude, as well as student and dreamer, the church
warden's favorite resort, when his duties left him at leisure, was
a dense grove not far from the town. Thither he went when he
wished to be free from all distraction, to think and dream over
many things which would appear nonsensical to his sober,
practical-minded neighbors. There he indulged in day dreams and
poetic fancies; and once, when in a sentimental mood, he carved
the initials of the lady of his love on one of the trees.
In time a fair young wife and children came, bringing new
brightness and joy to the serious-minded warden. With ever
increasing interests, he passed on from youth to middle life, and
from middle life to old age. Then his son married, and again the
patter of little feet filled the old home and made music in the
ears of Grandfather Coster, whom the baby grandchildren almost
worshiped.
To amuse the children, and to impart to them whatever knowledge he
himself possessed, became the delight of his old age. Then the
habit acquired in youth of carving letters in the bark of the
trees served a very useful purpose in furthering his object. He
still loved to take solitary walks, and many a quiet summer
afternoon the familiar figure of the venerable churchwarden, in
his seedy black cloak and sugar-loaf hat, might be seen wending
its way along the banks of the River Spaaren to his favorite
resort in the grove.
One day, while reclining on a mossy couch beneath a spreading
beech tree, amusing himself by tearing strips of bark from the
tree that shaded him, and carving letters with his knife, a happy
thought entered his mind. "Why can I not," he mused within
himself, "cut those letters out, carry them home, and, while using
them as playthings, teach the little ones how to read?"
The plan worked admirably. Long practice had made the old man
quite expert in fashioning the letters, and many hours of quiet
happiness were spent in the grove in this pleasing occupation. One
afternoon he succeeded in cutting some unusually fine specimens,
and, chuckling to himself over the delight they would give the
children, he wrapped them carefully, placing them side by side in
an old piece of parchment which he happened to have in his pocket.
The bark from which they had been cut being fresh and full of sap,
and the letters being firmly pressed upon the parchment, the
result was the series of "pictures" which delighted the child and
gave to the world the first suggestion of a printing press.
And then a mighty thought flashed across the brain of the poor,
humble, unknown churchwarden, a thought the realization of which
was destined not only to make him famous for all time, but to
revolutionize the whole world. The first dim suggestion came to
him in this form, "By having a series of letters and impressing
them over and over again on parchment, cannot books be printed
instead of written, and so multiplied and cheapened as to be
brought within the reach of all?"
The remainder of his life was given up to developing this great
idea. He cut more letters from bark, and, covering the smooth
surface with ink, pressed them upon parchment, thus getting a
better impression, though still blurred and imperfect. He then cut
letters from wood instead of bark, and managed to invent himself a
better and thicker ink, which did not blur the page. Next, he cut
letters from lead, and then from pewter. Every hour was absorbed
in the work of making possible the art of printing. His simple-
minded neighbors thought he had lost his mind, and some of the
more superstitious spread the report that he was a sorcerer. But,
like all other great discoverers, he heeded not annoyances or
discouragements. Shutting himself away from the prying curiosity
of the ignorant and superstitious, he plodded on, making steady,
if slow, advance toward the realization of his dream.
"One day, while old Coster was thus busily at work," says George
Makepeace Towle, "a sturdy German youth, with a knapsack slung
across his back, trudged into Haarlem. By some chance this youth
happened to hear how the churchwarden was at work upon a wild
scheme to print books instead of writing them. With beating heart,
the young man repaired to Coster's house and made all haste to
knock at the churchwarden's humble door."
The "sturdy German youth" who knocked at Laurence Coster's door