True Stories From History and Biography (25 page)

Well; time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw and paint pictures,
until he had now reached the age when it was proper that he should choose
a business for life. His father and mother were in considerable perplexity
about him. According to the ideas of the Quakers it is not right for
people to spend their lives in occupations that are of no real and
sensible advantage to the world. Now, what advantage could the world
expect from Benjamin's pictures? This was a difficult question; and, in
order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined to consult the
preachers and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all assembled
in the meeting-house, and discussed the matter from beginning to end.

Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It seemed so evident that
Providence had created Benjamin to be a painter, and had given him
abilities which would be thrown away in any other business, that the
Quakers resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even acknowledged
that the sight of a beautiful picture might convey instruction to the
mind, and might benefit the heart, as much as a good book or a wise
discourse. They therefore committed the youth to the direction of God,
being well assured that he best knew what was his proper sphere of
usefulness. The old men laid their hands upon Benjamin's head, and gave
him their blessing, and the women kissed him affectionately. All consented
that he should go forth into the world, and learn to be a painter, by
studying the best pictures of ancient and modern times.

So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, and his native
woods and streams, and the good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians
who had given him his first colors,—he left all the places and persons
whom he had hitherto known,—and returned to them no more. He went first to
Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many great
people, but retained all the sobriety and simplicity which he had learned
among the Quakers. It is related of him, that, when he was presented at
the court of the Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his head, even
while kissing the Prince's hand.

When he was twenty-five years old, he went to London, and established
himself there as an artist. In due course of time, he acquired great fame
by his pictures, and was made chief painter to King George the Third, and
President of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the Quakers of Pennsylvania
heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy of the old preacher, as
to little Ben's future eminence, was now accomplished. It is true, they
shook their heads at his pictures of battle and bloodshed, such as the
Death of Wolfe,—thinking that these terrible scenes should not be held up
to the admiration of the world.

But they approved of the great paintings in which he represented the
miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer of Mankind. King George employed
him to adorn a large and beautiful chapel, at Windsor Castle, with
pictures of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a magnificent
picture of Christ Healing the Sick, which he gave to the Hospital at
Philadelphia. It was exhibited to the public, and produced so much profit
that the Hospital was enlarged, so as to accommodate thirty more patients.
If Benjamin West had done no other good deed than this, yet it would have
been enough to entitle him to an honorable remembrance forever. At this
very day, there are thirty poor people in the Hospital, who owe all their
comforts to that same picture.

We shall mention only a single incident more. The picture of Christ
Healing the Sick was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London, where it
covered a vast space, and displayed a multitude of figures as large as
life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, hung a small and
faded landscape. It was the same that little Ben had painted in his
father's garret, after receiving the paint-box and engravings from good
Mr. Pennington.

He lived many years, in peace and honor, and died in 1820, at the age of
eighty-two. The story of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale;
for there are few stranger transformations than that of a little unknown
Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most distinguished English
painter of his day. Let us each make the best use of our natural
abilities, as Benjamin West did; and with the blessing of Providence, we
shall arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but little matter
whether we acquire it or not.

"Thank you for the story, my dear father," said Edward, when it was
finished. "Do you know, that it seems as if I could see things without the
help of my eyes? While you were speaking, I have seen little Ben, and the
baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and the white cow and the pigs, and
kind Mr. Pennington, and all the good old Quakers, almost as plainly as if
they were in this very room."

"It is because your attention was not disturbed by outward objects,"
replied Mr. Temple. "People, when deprived of sight, often have more vivid
ideas than those who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will venture
to say that George has not attended to the story quite so closely."

"No indeed," said George, "but it was a very pretty story for all that.
How I should have laughed to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the black
cat's tail! I intend to try the experiment with Emily's kitten."

"Oh, no, no, George!" cried Emily, earnestly. "My kitten cannot spare her
tail."

Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him to retire to bed. When
the family bade him good night, he turned his face towards them, looking
very loth to part.

"I shall not know when morning comes," said he sorrowfully. "And besides I
want to hear your voices all the time; for, when nobody is speaking, it
seems as if I were alone in a dark world!"

"You must have faith, my dear child," replied his mother. "Faith is the
soul's eyesight; and when we possess it, the world is never dark nor
lonely."

The next day, Edward began to get accustomed to his new condition of life.
Once, indeed, when his parents were out of the way, and only Emily was
left to take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to thrust
aside the bandage, and peep at the anxious face of his little nurse. But,
in spite of the dimness of the chamber, the experiment caused him so much
pain, that he felt no inclination to take another look. So, with a deep
sigh, he resigned himself to his fate.

"Emily, pray talk to me!" said he, somewhat impatiently.

Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and did not possess that
liveliness of disposition which renders some children such excellent
companions. She seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making many
words about small matters. But the love and earnestness of her heart
taught her how to amuse poor Edward, in his darkness. She put her
knitting-work into his hands.

"You must learn how to knit," said she.

"What! without using my eyes?" cried Edward.

"I can knit with my eyes shut," replied Emily.

Then, with her own little hands, she guided Edward's fingers, while he set
about this new occupation. So awkward were his first attempts, that any
other little girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily preserved her
gravity, and showed the utmost patience in taking up the innumerable
stitches which he let down. In the course of an hour or two, his progress
was quite encouraging.

When evening came, Edward acknowledged that the day had been far less
wearisome than he anticipated. But he was glad, nevertheless, when his
father and mother, and George and Emily, all took their seats around his
chair. He put out his hand to grasp each of their hands, and smiled with a
very bright expression upon his lips.

"Now I can see you all, with my mind's eye," said he; "and now, father,
pray tell us another story."

So Mr. Temple began.

On Christmas-day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton was born, at the small
village of Woolsthorpe, in England. Little did his mother think, when she
beheld her new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many matters
which had been a mystery ever since the creation of the world.

Isaac's father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married again to a clergyman,
and went to reside at North Witham. Her son was left to the care of his
good old grandmother, who was very kind to him, and sent him to school. In
his early years, Isaac did not appear to be a very bright scholar, but was
chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He had
a set of little tools, and saws of various sizes, manufactured by himself.
With the aid of these, Isaac contrived to make many curious articles, at
which he worked with so much skill, that he seemed to have been born with
a saw or chisel in his hand.

The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the things which Isaac
manufactured. And his old grandmother, I suppose, was never weary of
talking about him.

"He'll make a capital workman, one of these days," she would probably say.
"No fear but what Isaac will do well in the world, and be a rich man
before he dies."

It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations of his grandmother
and the neighbors, about Isaac's future life. Some of them, perhaps,
fancied that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, rose-wood, or
polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and magnificently gilded. And
then, doubtless, all the rich people would purchase these fine things, to
adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought that little Isaac was
destined to be an architect, and would build splendid mansions for the
nobility and gentry, and churches too, with the tallest steeples that had
ever been seen in England.

Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac's grandmother to apprentice
him to a clockmaker; for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to
have a taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that
profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up for himself, and
would manufacture curious clocks, like those that contain sets of dancing
figures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is struck; or like
those, where a ship sails across the face of the clock, and is seen
tossing up and down on the waves, as often as the pendulum vibrates.

Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that Isaac would devote
himself to the manufacture of clocks; since he had already made one, of a
kind which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, not by
wheels and weights, like other clocks, but by the dropping of water. This
was an object of great wonderment to all the people roundabout; and it
must be confessed that there are few boys, or men either, who could
contrive to tell what o'clock it is, by means of a bowl of water.

Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial. Thus his grandmother was
never at a loss to know the hour; for the water-clock would tell it in the
shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial is said to be still in
existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house where Isaac dwelt. If
so, it must have marked the passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed,
since Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous moments of his
life; it marked the hour of his death; and still the sunshine creeps
slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set it up.

Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted longer than its maker;
for Isaac Newton will exist, long after the dial—yea, and long after the
sun itself—shall have crumbled to decay.

Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowledge by the simplest
means. For instance, what method do you suppose he took, to find out the
strength of the wind? You will never guess how the boy could compel that
unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wanderer, the wind, to tell him the
measure of its strength. Yet nothing can be more simple. He jumped against
the wind; and by the length of his jump, he could calculate the force of a
gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. Thus, even in his boyish
sports, he was continually searching out the secrets of philosophy.

Not far from his grandmother's residence there was a windmill, which
operated on a new plan. Isaac was in the habit of going thither
frequently, and would spend whole hours in examining its various parts.
While the mill was at rest, he pryed into its internal machinery. When its
broad sails were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process by
which the mill-stones were made to revolve, and crush the grain that was
put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its
construction, he was observed to be unusually busy with his tools.

It was not long before his grandmother, and all the neighborhood, knew
what Isaac had been about. He had constructed a model of the windmill.
Though not so large, I suppose as one of the box-traps which boys set to
catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its machinery was
complete. Its little sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round
very swiftly when the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of
wind from Isaac's mouth, or from a pair of bellows, was sufficient to set
the sails in motion. And—what was most curious—if a handful of grains of
wheat were put into the little hopper, they would soon be converted into
snow-white flour.

Isaac's playmates were enchanted with his new windmill. They thought that
nothing so pretty, and so wonderful, had ever been seen in the whole
world.

"But, Isaac," said one of them, "you have forgotten one thing that belongs
to a mill."

"What is that?" asked Isaac; for he supposed, that, from the roof of the
mill to its foundation, he had forgotten nothing.

"Why, where is the miller?" said his friend.

"That is true!—I must look out for one," said Isaac; and he set himself to
consider how the deficiency should be supplied.