Chapter VI: Bianca’s Festa (2)

“You go forth from an institution long honored for its
learning, its high moral character, its noble charities,
which have been bestowed in the best possible way――mental
enlightenment, and its watchful sympathy for its learned
children spread all over the land. The fathers of that
institution expect much from you, and they will be ever
ready to accord to you every possible encouragement. Your
immediate instructors in your profession cannot fail to feel
for you the deepest interest.”

Surely the gist of the above is that the graduates who “stand upon the threshold of their profession, holding passes to enter the great arena”――as Mr. Daly has so happily expressed it in his valedictory on the same occasion――must bear imprinted on their brows the parting kiss of their Alma Mater.

Now, if _bonum ex integrâ causâ, malum ex quocumque defectu_, everything in a collegiate course must tend to give the graduate a Catholic individuality in the world of science and of letters.

And here it is that we cannot fail to admire the great wisdom of the Holy Father, who, when the question of classics in the Catholic schools began to be mooted, _ex professo_ and in earnest, would not sanction a total and blind exclusion of the pagan classics――for that would be _obscurantism_――but advised the use of the classics, with a _proviso_ that the rich wells of Christian classicism should not be passed by.

Then it cannot be gainsaid that the use of pagan classics is necessary in the curriculum of belles-lettres, just as, if we may be allowed the comparison, the study of the sacred books is indispensable to the student of divinity; although even in Holy Writ there are passages which should not be wantonly read, and much less commented upon.

And here we must differ from the admirable letter of Dr. Engbers, who certainly is at home on the subject and makes some excellent points. He avers that it is neither possible nor necessary “to prepare Catholic books for the whole extent of a college education.”

For brevity’s sake we shall not give his reasons, but shall limit ourselves to our own views on the subject.

In the first place, it _is_ necessary to prepare text-books of the classics for our schools. For, surely, we cannot trust to the scholar’s hand Horace, or Ovid, or even Virgil, as they came from their authors; and this on the score of morality. Secondly, we have no hesitation in saying that we do not possess as yet a single Latin classic (to speak of Latin alone) so prepared to meet all the requirements of the youthful student. We may almost challenge contradiction when we assert that, in all such editions as are prepared for American schools, the passages really difficult are skipped over. True, it is many years since we had an opportunity of examining such works thoroughly; but from what we knew then, and have looked into lately, we find no reason for a change of opinion. The work of such editions is perfunctorily done. The commentators, annotators, or whatsoever other name they may go by, seem to have only aimed at doing a certain amount of work somewhat _à la_ penny-a-liner; but nothing seems to be done _con amore_, and much less according to thorough knowledge. Let our readers point to one annotator or editor of any poet adopted in American schools who is truly æsthetic in his labors.

Classics must, then, be prepared. Dr. Engbers avers that we can safely use what we have, no matter by whom they have been prepared; and in this we must willingly yield to his judgment, because it would be temerity in us, who are not a professor and have so far led a life of quite the reverse of classical application, to make an issue with him. But we must be allowed to differ from him in that “we have not the means to provide for all, and our educators are unable to satisfy the wants for the whole college course.”

Let us bear in mind that we limit our disquisition to the Latin classics for the present. What we say about them will be equally applicable to the Greek, as well as to the authors of all nations.

It seems to us abundantly easy to prepare books for this department. Let a certain number of colleges, schools, and seminaries join together, and through their faculties make choice of a competent scholar. Set him apart for one year for the purpose of preparing a neat, cheap _school_ edition of the Latin classics _for our Catholic schools_. He must limit himself to the _Ætas aurea_, giving some of those authors in their entirety, such as Nepos; some with a little pruning, such as the _Æneid_; others, again, _summo libandi calamo_; while of Cicero and Livy we would advise only selections for a beginning. Of Cicero, _e.g._, give us a few letters _Ad Familiares_, his _De Oratore_, six Orations, _Somnium Scipionis_, _De Officiis_, and _De Senectute_. From what we are going to say it will be evident that no more will be necessary at first. Teach the above well, _et satis superque satis_!

Exclude from your classes the cramming system. Prof. Cram is the bane, the evil genius of our classical halls. Supporters of the “forty lines a day” rule, listen! It was our good fortune to learn the classics in a Jesuit college. We were in rhetoric. Our professor gave Monday and Wednesday afternoons to Virgil, Tuesday to Homer, and Friday to Horace. Of Virgil we read book vi., and of Horace the third book of Odes――that is, what we _did_ read of them. The professor was a perfect scholar, an orator, a poet, as inflammable as petroleum, and as sensitive as the “touch-me-not” plant, with a mind the quickest we ever knew, and a heart most affectionate, besides being truly a man of God. Well, the session had entered its fourth month, and we had gone through about three hundred verses of Virgil, while from Horace we were just learning not _magna modis tenuare parvis_. One afternoon the rector suddenly put in an appearance with some of the _patrassi_. As they had taken their seats, the former asked what portions of the Latin classics we had been reading. “Cicero and Livy of the prose, Horace and Virgil of the poets.” “But what part?” quoth he. “Any part,” replied the master. The rector looked puzzled; the boys――well, we do not know, for we had no looking-glass, nor did we look at one another――but perfectly astounded at the coolness of the teacher. One thing, however, all who have survived will remember: the strange feeling that seized us; for “Was he going to make a fool of every one of his boys?” We were eleven in the class. It was a small college, in a provincial town, that has given some very great men to the world, but of which Lord Byron did not sing enthusiastically. There we were: on the pillory, in the stocks, billeted for better for worse, for “what not?” The rector, with ill-disguised impatience, called for one of the boys, and, opening Virgil at random, chanced on the very death of Turnus. The poor boy, pale and trembling, began to read, and on he went, while the relentless questioner seemed carried away by the beauty of the passage, unconscious of the torture to which he had doomed the unlucky pupil. But, no; we take the word back: because as he was advancing he seemed to become more self-possessed, and so much so that at the end he described the last victim of the Lavinian struggle with uncommon pathos, until, with a hoarse sound of his voice, he launched the soul of the upstart _sub umbras_, just as the teacher would himself have read to us a parallel passage. It was evident that, although he had never before read those lines, he had caught their spirit, and the recitation ended perfectly. Then, as he was requested to render the whole passage into vernacular, with a fluent diction, choice words, and not once faltering, he acquitted himself with universal applause. One or two more boys were called up, and the visitors took their leave much pleased.

Then it was our turn to ask the master why he had done that. “Well, boys,” said he, “I expected it all along. You see it now. How many times you have wondered at my keeping you so long on perhaps only three or four lines a whole afternoon! Now you understand. We have not read Virgil, but we have studied Latin poetry, and you have learned it. In future we shall skim the poets here and there, as I may choose, and at the final exhibition you shall be ready to read to the auditorium any part of the Greek and Latin authors the audience may think fit to call for.” And so we did, and did it well.

Once, being on a school committee, we asked the master of the high-school――and a learned man he was――why he hurried through so many lines. “I cannot help it,” said he; “they must have read so many lines [_sic_] when they present themselves for examination at Harvard”! Nor shall we omit here to note that young men have failed in their examinations to enter Harvard because, in sooth, they could not get through _the recitation_. Prof. Agassiz himself told us that one of his favorite students (whom we knew well) failed because he could not repeat _verbatim_ a certain portion of a treatise on some point of natural philosophy. However, the good professor insisted on the youth being examined as to the sense, and not, parrot-like, repeating sentence after sentence, and the candidate carried the palm.

This “recitation” system, the “forty lines” routine, is a curse. We are sure professors will bear us out in our assertion. Dr. Becker, in his excellent article in the _American Catholic Quarterly_, deals with this matter in a very luminous style. What use, then, of so many authors, or of the whole of any one of them, for a text-book? _Non multa sed multum, and multum in parvo._ The bee does not draw all that is garnered in the chalice, but just that much which is necessary to make the honey. No wonder that so few are endowed with the _nescio quo sapore vernaculo_, as Cicero would call it. We have treasured for the last three-and-forty years the paper on which we copied the description of the war-horse, as rendered by our professor of rhetoric, who gave two lectures on it, bringing in and commenting on parallel descriptions in prose and verse. Nearly half a century has passed away, and those two charming afternoons in that old class-room are yet fresh in our remembrance.

If some prelates have gone so far as to exclude profane classics from the schools in their seminaries altogether, the Holy Father, on the other hand, does not approve of such indiscriminate ostracism; nay, he recommends that a judicious adoption be made of the pagan classics, at the same time bringing before the Catholic student the great patterns of sacred writings which have been preserved for us from the Greek and Latin fathers. Surely only a senseless man would withhold from the “golden-mouthed John” that meed of praise which is allowed to the Athenian Demosthenes. Are they not both noble patterns on which the youthful aspirant to forensic or ecclesiastical eloquence should form himself?

And here it is that the necessity of preparing _Catholic text-books_ becomes self-evident. Outsiders cannot furnish us with the materials we need for a thorough and wholesome Catholic training――even more important, in our estimation, when we take into consideration that such works _in extenso_ are too costly and far beyond the means of the average of scholars. Hence if we are really in earnest in our desire of having perfect Catholic schools, such books must needs be prepared.

After we have carefully prepared proper editions of the pagan classics, _Ætatis aureæ_, for our schools, what else have we to do to furnish our arsenal with a well-appointed complement? We must look about for a choice of the best Christian Latin classics. As for Christian Latin poets of antiquity, the choice will be less difficult, because there is not an embarrassing wealth of them, yet enough to learn how to convey the holiest ideas in the phraseology of Parnassus, how to sing the praises of Our Lady with the rhythm of the Muses.

It is well known that a new departure is about to take place, nay, has taken place, in the Catholic schools of Europe. The great patristic patterns of oratory and poetry will in future be held before the Catholic student for his imitation and improvement.

The movement inside the Catholic world has become known, because there is no mystery about it, and the Catholic Church, faithful to her Founder’s example, does and says everything “openly.” The debate on the classics is over, and every one is satisfied of the necessity of the new arrangement. Outside the church some one stood on tiptoe, _arrectis auribus_; all at once a clapping of hands――_presto!_ The chance is caught, the opportunity improved. We have used pagan classics in our schools as they came from a non-Catholic press, and _we felt safe in adopting them_! Moreover, it has been, so far, next to impossible to detail any one, chosen from our bands, to prepare new sets. Now a plan seems to be maturing, and a line drawn, following which one will know how to work; and it is on this line that the writer is adding his feeble efforts to aid a great cause.

But what of the Christian classics? _Obstupescite, cœli!_ Harper & Brothers have come to the rescue. To them, then, we must suppliantly look for help to open this avenue of Christian civilization――the blended instruction, in our schools, of pagan and Christian training in belles-lettres!

“_Latin Hymns, with English Notes._ For use in schools and colleges. New York: Harper & Bros., Publishers, Franklin Square. 1875. Pp. 333. 12mo, tinted paper, $1 75.”

The book is to be the first of a series of what may be called sacred classics. The second of the series, already printed, is _The Ecclesiastical History of Eusebius_; it will be followed by Tertullian and Athanagoras (surely a worse choice as regards style could not be made), both in press. Then, “_should the series be welcomed_, it will be continued with volumes of Augustine, and Cyprian, and Lactantius, and Justin Martyr, and Chrysostom, and others; in number sufficient for a complete college course.”

From a notice intended to usher the whole series before the public we learn that “for many centuries, down to what is called the pagan Renaissance, they [the writings of early Christians] were the common linguistic study of educated Christians.” A startling disclosure to us. For the future, pagan classics are to be eliminated. Is it not evident that the industrious editors have taken the clue from us?――at least for a part of their programme; for they push matters too far.

But here is the mishap. If we have to judge by the first book, their works will be unavailable, their labor bootless. Dr. Parsons closes his admirable translation of Dante’s _Inferno_ (albeit with a little profanity, which we are willing to forgive, considering the subject and its worth) with those imploring words, _Tantus labor non sit cassus!_ Mr. March will find them at page 155 of his book. He may as well appropriate them to himself, with a little suppression, however; nor should he scruple to alter the text, seeing that he has taken other unwarrantable liberties with the ancient fathers. What right has he to mutilate Prudentius’ beautiful hymn _De Miraculis Christi_, and of thirty-eight stanzas give us only eight, therewith composing, as it were, a hymn of his own, and entitling it _De Nativitate Christi_? Without entering into other damaging details, we assure the projectors of this new enterprise that they have undertaken a faithless job. Catholic teachers cannot adopt their books. For, surely, we are not going to make our youth buy publications which tell us, _e.g._, that the hymn _Stabat Mater_ is “simple Mariolatry,” to say nothing of other notes equally insulting, especially when we come to the historical department. Nor can it be said that they give proof either of knowledge or of taste when they choose Eusebius for the very first sample of patristic classicism. Ah! _sutor, sutor!_

But enough. We have dwelt on this new departure of Protestant zeal for the study of the fathers, to give an additional proof in favor of our opinion as to how far we can trust non-Catholic text-books. Even the most superficial reader will at once discover that we only take up side questions, and our remarks and arguments do not in the least clash with the argument and judgment of Dr. Engbers, with whom we agree in the main. We only assert that it would be better were we to strain every nerve in preparing text-books of our own, whilst we also believe it would not be so very difficult to attain the long-wished-for result. It will take some time, it will require sacrifices, yet the object can be accomplished. A beginning has been made already in two American Catholic colleges. Nor should we forget that none but Catholics can be competent to perform such a work. The fathers are _our_ property; and the same divine Spirit that illumined their minds will not fail to guide the pens of those who, in obedience to authority, undertake this work.

As for the Christian authors, the difficulty is in the choice, as Dr. Engbers points out. For the sake of brevity we limit ourselves to the Latin fathers.

From the works of St. Augustine (a mine of great wealth) might be compiled a series of selections which, put together with some from the Ciceronian Jerome and a few others, would furnish an anthology of specimens of eloquence, whether sacred, historical, or descriptive, that could not be surpassed. A judicious _spicilegium_ from the _Acta Martyrum_ and the liturgies of the first ages should form the introductory portion. This first volume would be characteristic. We would suggest that it were so prepared as at once to rivet the attention of the scholar and enamor him with the beauties of apostolic literature.

Dr. Engbers is very anxious――and justly so, when we consider our needs――that something were done to supply our schools with works of “history, natural science, and geography.” Indeed, it is high time that we had a supply of such works. But here many will ask: “Have we resources in our own Catholic community on which to depend for such works?” Most assuredly we have. For, to quote only a few, is not Professor James Hall, of Albany, a Catholic? Indeed he is, and one of the first men in the department of natural history, acknowledged as such by all the eminent societies of the European continent.

And who is superior to S. S. Haldeman, of Pennsylvania? And is he not “one of ours”? The fact is, we do not know our own resources. Here we have two men, inferior to none in their own departments of learning, and they are totally ignored by the Catholic body, to which they nevertheless belong! Indeed, John Gilmary Shea, another of our best men, has touched a sad chord in his article in the first number of the new _Catholic Quarterly_. We have allowed our best opportunities to slip by unnoticed, and may God grant it is not too late to begin the seemingly herculean task before us!

We have written under the inspiration and after the guidance of the well-known wishes, nay, commands, of our Holy Father. He insists upon education being made more Christian. His Holiness does not exclude the pagan authors; he wishes them to be so presented to our youth that no harm may result therefrom to the morals of the student; and we have no doubt that the programme we have only sketched will meet with the approval of all who are interested in the matter, and who will give us the credit of having most faithfully adhered to our Holy Father’s admonition.

Nor will the reader charge us with presumption if we dare to quote the words of our great Pope, with the pardonable assurance that no more fitting close could be given to our paper.

Monseigneur Bishop of Calvi and Teano, in the kingdom of Naples, now a cardinal, is a most determined advocate of the needed reform, and justly claims the merit of having been the first to inaugurate it in Italy. In a letter to him Pius IX. sets down the importance of the movement, and distinctly places the limits within which it should be confined in order to attain complete success.

“R. P. D. D’AVANZO, Episcopo Calven, Theanen.[45]

“PIUS P.P. IX., _Venerabilis Frater, Salutem et Apostolicam
Benedictionem_.

“Quo libentius ab orbe Catholico indicti a Nobis Jubilæi
beneficium fuit exceptum, Venerabilis Frater, eo uberiorem
inde fructum expectandum esse confidimus, divina favente
clementia. Grati propterea sensus animi, quos hac de causa
prodis, iucunde excipimus, Deoque exhibemus, ut emolumentum
lætitiæ a te conceptæ respondens diœcesibus tuis concedere
velit. Acceptissimam autem habemus eruditam epistolam a te
concinnatam de mixta latinæ linguæ institutione. Scitissime
namque ab ipsa vindicatur decus christianæ latinitatis, quam
multi corruptionis insimularunt veteris sermonis; dum patet,
linguam, utpote mentis, morum, usuum publicorum
enunciationem, necessario novam induere debuisse formam post
invectam a Christo legem, quæ sicuti consortium humanum
extulerat et retinxerat ad spiritualia, sic indigebat nova
eloquii indole ab eo discreta, quod societatis carnalis,
fluxis tantum addictæ rebus, ingenium diu retulerat. Cui
quidem observationi sponte suffragata sunt recensita a te
solerter monumenta singulorum Ecclesiæ sæculorum; quæ dum
exordia novæ formæ subjecerunt oculis, ejusque progressum et
præstantiam, simul docuerunt constanter in more fuisse
positum Ecclesiæ, juventutem latina erudire lingua per
mixtam sacrorum et classicorum auctorum lectionem. Quæ sane
lucubratio tua cum diremptam iam disceptationem clariore
luce perfuderit, efficacius etiam suadebit institutoribus
adolescentiæ, utrorumque scriptorum opera in eius usum esse
adhibenda. Hunc Nos labori tuo successum ominamur; et
interim divini favoris auspicem et præcipuæ nostræ
benevolentiæ testem tibi, Venerabilis Frater, universoque
Clero et populo tuo Benedictionem Apostolicam peramanter
impertimus.

“Datum Romæ apud S. Petrum die 1 Aprilis anno 1875,
Pontificatus Nostri anno Vigesimonono.

“PIUS PP. IX.”

This very letter is an instance of the results to which a thorough and judicious mixed Latin classical education will lead the student of Latinity――the resources of the pagan Latin made classically available even to him who is secretary to the Pope _ab epistolis Latinis_, to which post are appointed those who, with other proper qualifications, are good Latin scholars. Some of these letters, especially those issued under the pontificates of Benedict XIV. and Pius VI. and VII., are truly Ciceronian in style and language.

We call the closest attention of such of our readers as are not acquainted with Latin to the following translation of the above most important document:

“To the REV. FATHER BARTHOLOMEW D’AVANZO, Bishop of Calvi
and Teano.

“PIUS IX., Pope.

“Venerable Brother, health and Apostolic Benediction: In
proportion, Venerable Brother, to the eager good-will with
which our proclamation of the Jubilee has been received by
the Catholic world, is the harvest of good results we expect
therefrom under favor of divine mercy. Heartily, therefore,
do we welcome the sentiments of gratitude which you express,
and offer them to God, that he may vouchsafe to your
dioceses a share in your joy. Most seasonable, moreover, do
we account the learned letter you have written on the mixed
teaching of the Latin language. For with great erudition
have you therein vindicated the honor of Christian Latinity,
which many have charged with being a corruption of the
ancient tongue; whereas it is clear that speech, as the
expression of ideas, manners, and public usages, must
necessarily have assumed a new garb after the law introduced
by Christ――a law which, while it elevated human intercourse,
and refashioned it to spiritual requirements, needed a new
form of conversation, distinct from that which had so long
reflected the bent of a carnal society swayed only by
transitory things. And truly the monuments you have
skilfully gathered from the several ages of the church
afford a self-evident proof of our assertion; for, while
they lay before the eyes of the reader the beginnings of the
new form, its progress and importance, they also aver it to
have been an established practice in the church to train
youth in the Latin tongue by a mixed reading of sacred with
classic authors. And assuredly this your dissertation, in
throwing greater light on a question already well
ventilated, will the more effectually urge upon the
instructors of youth the advisability of calling to their
aid the works of authors of both kinds. Such is the result
we predict for your labors; and in the meanwhile, as a
pledge of divine favor and a token of our own good-will, we
most affectionately bestow upon yourself, Venerable Brother,
and upon all your clergy and people, the Apostolic
Benediction.

“Given at Rome, at St. Peter’s, on the 1st of April, in the
year 1875, the twenty-ninth of our pontificate.”

“PIUS PP. IX.”

And thus _Roma locuta est_!

[45] _Acta Sanctæ Sedis_, vol. viii. p. 560.

FLYWHEEL BOB.

BY THE AUTHOR OF “ROMANCE OF CHARTER OAK,” “PRIDE OF LEXINGTON,” ETC., ETC.

Down in a dismal cellar, so poorly lighted, indeed, that you could scarce distinguish his tiny figure when it came into the world, Bob was born. Our little hero began life where we all must end it――underground; and certainly many a burial-vault might have seemed a less grimy, gloomy home than his. But Bob’s wretchedness being coeval with his birth, he never knew what it was to be otherwise than wretched. He cried and crowed pretty much like other infants, and his mother declared he was the finest child ever born in this cellar. “And, O darling!” she sighed more than once, while he snugged to her bosom――“O darling! if you could stay always what you are.” It was easy to feed him, easy to care for him, now. How would he fare along the rugged road winding through the misty future?

Nothing looked so beautiful to his baby eyes as the golden streak across the floor which appeared once a day for a few minutes; and as soon as he was able to creep he moved towards it and tried to catch it, and wondered very much when the streak faded away.

Bob’s only playmate was a poodle dog, who loved the sunshine too, and was able at first to get more of it than he; and the child always whimpered when Pin left him to go bask on the sidewalk. But by and by, when he grew older, he followed his dumb friend up the steps, and would sit for hours beside him; and the dog was very fond of his little master, if we may judge by the constant wagging of his bushy tail.

When Bob was four years old his mother died. This was too young an age for him to comprehend what had happened. It surprised him a little when they carried the body away; and when she breathed her last words: “I am going, dear one; I wish I could take you with me,” he answered: “Going where, mammy?” “When is mammy coming home?” he asked of several persons who lodged in the cellar with him, and stayed awake the first night a whole hour waiting for her to return. But ere long Bob ceased to think about his mother, and in the course of a month ’twas as if she had never been; there was rather more space in the underground chamber than before, and now he had all the blanket to himself.

Thus we see that the boy began early the battle of life. When he felt hungry, he would enter a baker’s shop near by, and stretch forth his puny hand; and sometimes he was given a morsel of bread, and sometimes he was not. But Bob was too spirited to lie down and starve. So, when the baker shook his head, saying, “You come here too often,” he watched a chance and stole peanuts from the stand on the corner. The Ten Commandments did not trouble him in the least; for he had never heard of them. Bob only knew that there was a day in the week when the baker looked more solemn than on other days, and when the streets were less crowded.

The one thing in the world Bob cherished was Pin. And the feeling was mutual; for not seldom, when the dog discovered a bone or crust of bread among the rubbish-heaps, he would let himself be deprived of the treasure without even a growl. Then, when Christmas came round, Bob and the poodle would stand by the shop-windows and admire the toys together; and the child would talk to his pet, and tell him that this was a doll and that a Noe’s ark. Once he managed to possess himself of a toy which a lady let drop on the side-walk. But he did not keep it long; for another urchin offered him a dime for it, which Bob accepted, then forthwith turned the money into gingerbread, which he shared with Pin.

Such was the orphan’s childhood. He was only one vagrant amid thousands of others. In the great beehive of humanity his faint buzz was unheard, and he was crowded out of sight by the swarm of other bees. Still, there he was, a member of the hive; moving about and struggling for existence; using his sting when he needed it, and getting what honey he could. When the boy was in his seventh year, a misfortune befell him which really smote his heart――the poodle disappeared. And now, for the first time in his life, Bob shed tears. He inquired of everybody in the tenement-house if they had seen him; he put the same query to nearly every inhabitant of Mott Street. But all smiled as they answered: “In a big city like New York a lost dog is like a needle in a haystack.” Many a day did Bob pass seeking his friend. He wandered to alleys and squares where he had never been before, calling out, “Pin! Pin!” but no Pin came. Then, when night arrived and he lay down alone in his blanket, he felt lonely indeed. Poor child! It was hard to lose the only creature on earth that he loved――the only creature on earth, too, that loved him. “I’ll never forget you,” he sighed――“never forget you.” And sometimes, when another dog would wag his tail and try to make friends, Bob would shake his head and say: “No, no, you’re not my lost Pin.”

It took a twelvemonth to become reconciled to this misfortune. But Time has broad wings, and on them Time bore away Bob’s grief, as it bears away all our griefs; otherwise, one sorrow would not be able to make room for another sorrow, and we should sink down and die beneath our accumulated burdens.

We have styled Bob a vagrant. Here we take the name back, if aught of bad be implied in it. It was not his fault that he was born in a cellar; and if he stole peanuts and other things, ’twas only when hunger drove him to it. Doubtless, had he first seen the light in Fifth Avenue, he would have known ere this how to spell and say his prayers; might have gone, perhaps, to many a children’s party, with kid gloves on his delicate hands and a perfumed handkerchief for his sensitive little nose. But Bob was not born in Fifth Avenue. He wore barely clothes enough to cover his nakedness. His feet, like his hands, had never known covering of any sort; they were used to the mud and the snow, and once a string of red drops along the icy pavement helped to track him to his den after he had been committing a theft. In this case, however, the blood which flowed from his poor foot proved a blessing in disguise, for Bob spent the coldest of the winter months in the lock-up: clean straw, a dry floor, regular meals――what a happy month!

As for not being able to read――why, if a boy in such ragged raiment as his were to show himself at a public school, other boys would jeer at him, and the pedagogue eye him askance.

But Bob proved the metal that was in him by taking, when he was just eight years of age, a place in a factory. “Yes,” he said to the man who brought him there, “I’d rather work than be idle.”

It were difficult to describe his look of wonder when he first entered the vast building. There seemed to be no end of people――old men, young men, and children like himself, all silent and busy. Around them, above them, on every side of them, huge belts of leather, and rods of iron, and wheels and cog-wheels were whirring, darting in and out of holes, clearing this fellow’s head by a few inches, grazing that one’s back so close that, if he chanced to faint or drop asleep, off in an eye’s twinkle the machinery would whirl him, rags, bones, and flesh making one ghastly pulp together. And the air was full of a loud, mournful hum, like ten thousand sighs and groans. Presently Bob sat down on a bench; then, like a good boy, tried to perform the task set for him. But he could only stare at the big flywheel right in front of him and close by; and so fixed and prolonged was his gaze that, by common consent, the operatives christened him Flywheel Bob. Next day, however, he began work in earnest, and it was not long ere he became the best worker of them all.

When Bob was an infant, we remember, he used to creep toward the sun-streak on the cellar floor, and cry when it faded away.

Now, although the building where he toiled twelve hours a day was gloomy and depressing, and the sunshine a godsend to the spirits, the boy never lifted his eyes for a single moment when it shimmered through the sooty windows. At his age one grows apace; one is likewise tender and easily moulded into well-nigh any shape.

So, like as the insect, emerging from the chrysalis, takes the color of the leaf or bark to which it clings, Bob grew more and more like unto the soulless machinery humming round him. If whispered to, he made no response. When toward evening his poor back would feel weary, no look of impatience revealed itself on his countenance. If ever he heaved a sigh, no ears heard it, not even his own; and the foreman declared that he was a model boy for all the other boys to imitate――so silent, so industrious, so heartily co-operating with the wheels and cog-wheels, boiler, valves, and steam; in fact, he was the most valuable piece in the whole complicated machinery.

Bob was really a study. There are children who look forward to happy days to come; who often, too, throw their mind’s eye backward on the Christmas last gone by. This Bob never did. His past had no Santa Claus, his present had none, his future had none. It were difficult to say what life did appear to him, as day after day he bent over his task. Mayhap he never indulged in thoughts about himself――what he had been, what he was, what he might become. Certainly, if we may judge by the vacant, leaden look into which his features ere long crystallized, Bob was indeed what the foreman said――a bit of the machinery. And more and more akin to it he grew as time rolled by. Bob had never beheld it except in motion; and on Sundays, when he was forced to remain idle, his arm would ever and anon start off on a wild, crazy whirl; round and round and round it would go; whereupon the other children would laugh and shout: “Hi! ho! Look at Flywheel Bob!”

The child’s fame spread. In the course of time Richard Goodman, the owner of the factory, heard of him. This gentleman, be it known, was subject to the gout; at least, he gave it that name, which sounded better than rheumatism, for it smacked of family, of gentle birth; though, verily, if such an ailment might be communicated through a proboscis, there was not enough old Madeira in his veins to have given a mosquito the gout.

When thus laid up, Mr. Goodman was wont to send for his superintendent to inquire how business was getting on; and it was upon one of these occasions that he first heard of Bob. Although not a person given to enthusiasm, not even when expressing himself on the subject of money――money, which lay like a little gold worm in the core of his heart――he became so excited when he was told about the model child, who never smiled, who never sulked, who never asked for higher wages, that the foreman felt a little alarm; for he had never seen his employer’s eyes glisten as they did now, and even the pain in his left knee did not prevent Mr. Goodman from rising up out of the easy-chair to give vent to his emotion. “Believe me,” he exclaimed, “this child is the beginning of a new race of children. Believe me, when our factories are filled by workers like him, then we’ll have no more strikes; strikes will be extinguished for ever!” Here Mr. Goodman sank down again in the chair, then, pulling out a silk handkerchief, wiped his forehead. But presently his brow contracted. “There is some talk,” he continued, “of introducing a bill in the legislature to exclude all children from factories under ten years of age. Would such a bill exclude my model boy?”

“I can’t say whether it would,” replied the manager. “Bob may be ten, or a little under, or a little over. I don’t think he’ll change much from what he is, not if he lives fifty years. His face looks just like something that has been hammered into a certain shape that it can’t get out of.”

“And they talk, too, of limiting the hours of work to ten per day for children between ten and sixteen years,” went on Mr. Goodman, still frowning; “and, what’s more, the bill requires three months’ day-schooling or six months’ night-schooling. I declare, if this bill becomes a law, I’ll retire from business. The public has no right to interfere with my employment of labor. It is sheer tyranny.”

“Well, it would throw labor considerably out of gear,” remarked the superintendent; “for there are a hundred thousand children employed in the shops and factories of this city and suburbs.”

“But, no; the bill sha’n’t pass!” exclaimed Mr. Goodman, thumping his fist on the table. “Why, what’s the use of a lobby, if such a bill can go through?”

Here the foreman smiled, whereupon his employer gave a responsive smile; then pulling the bell, “Now,” said the latter, “let us drink the model boy’s health.” In a few minutes there appeared a decanter of sherry. “Here’s to Flywheel Bob!” cried Mr. Goodman, holding up his glass.

“To Flywheel Bob!” repeated the other; and they both tossed off the wine.

“Flywheel Bob! Why, what a funny name!” spoke a low, silvery voice close by. Mr. Goodman turned hastily round, and there, at the threshold of the study, stood a little girl, with a decidedly pert air, and a pair of lustrous black eyes fixed full upon him; they seemed to say: “I know you told me not to enter here, yet here I am.” A profusion of ringlets rippled down her shoulders, and on one of her slender fingers glittered a gold ring.

“Daisy, you have disobeyed me,” said her father, trying to appear stern; “and, what is more, you glide about like a cat.”

“Do I?” said Daisy, smiling. “Well, pa, tell me who Flywheel Bob is; then I’ll go away.”

“Something down at my factory――a little toy making pennies for you. There, now, retire, darling, retire.”

“A little toy? Then give me Flywheel Bob; I want a new plaything,” pursued the child, quite heedless of the command to withdraw.

“Well, I’d like to know how many toys you want?” said Mr. Goodman impatiently. “You’ve had dear knows how many dolls since Christmas.”

“Nine, pa.”

“And pray, what has become of them all, miss?”

“Given away to girls who didn’t get any from Santa Claus.”

“I declare! she’s her poor dear mother over again,” sighed the widower. “Margaret would give away her very shoes and stockings to the poor.”

The sigh had barely escaped his lips when the foreman burst into a laugh, and presently Mr. Goodman laughed too; for, lo! peeping from behind the girl’s silk frock was the woolly head of a poodle. In his mouth was a doll with one arm broken off, hair done up in curls like Daisy’s, and a bit of yellow worsted twined around one of the fingers to take the place of a ring. “Humph! I don’t wonder you’ve had nine dolls in five months,” ejaculated Mr. Goodman after he had done laughing. “Rover, it seems, plays with them too; then tears them up.”

“Well, pa, he is tired of dolls now, and wants Flywheel Bob; and so do I.”

“I wish I hadn’t mentioned the boy’s name,” murmured Mr. Goodman. Then aloud: “Daisy dear, I am going out for a drive by and by; which way shall we go? To the Park?”

“No; to Tiffany’s to have my ears pierced.” At this he burst into another laugh.

“Why, pa, I’m almost ten, and old enough for earrings,” added Daisy, tossing her head and making the pretty ringlets fly about in all directions.

“Well, well, darling; then we will go to Tiffany’s.”

“And afterwards, pa, we’ll get Flywheel Bob.”

“Oh! hush, my love. You cannot have him.”

“_Him!_ Is he a little boy, pa?” Mr. Goodman did not answer. “Well, whatever Flywheel Bob is,” she continued, “I want a new plaything. This doll Rover broke all by accident. And I scolded you hard; didn’t I, Rover?” Here she patted the dog’s head. “But, pa, he sha’n’t hurt Flywheel Bob.”

“Well, well, we’ll drive out in half an hour,” said her parent, who would fain have got the notion of Flywheel Bob out of his child’s head, yet feared it might stick there.

“In half an hour,” repeated Daisy, feeling the tips of her ears, while her eyes sparkled like the jewels which were shortly to adorn them. Then, going to the bell, she gave a ring. Mr. Goodman, of course, imagined that it was to order the carriage. But when the domestic appeared, Daisy quietly said: “Jane, I wish the boned turkey brought here.” No use to protest――to tell the child that this room was his own private business room, and not the place for luncheon.

In the boned turkey was brought, despite Mr. Goodman’s sighs. But it was well-nigh more than he could endure when presently, after carving off three slices, she bade Rover sit up and beg.

In an instant the poodle let the doll drop, then, balancing himself on his haunches, gravely opened his mouth. “He never eats anything except boned turkey,” observed Daisy in answer to her father’s look of displeasure. “Bones are bad for his teeth.” Then, while her pet was devouring the dainty morsels: “Pa,” she went on, “you haven’t yet admired Rover’s blue ribbon.”

“Umph! he certainly doesn’t look at all like the creature he was when you bought him three years ago,” answered Mr. Goodman.

“Well, pa, this summer I will not go to the White Mountains. Remember!”

“Why not?” inquired Mr. Goodman, who failed to discern any possible connection between the poodle and this charming summer resort.

“Because I want surf-bathing for Rover. I love to throw your cane into the big waves, then see him rush after it and jump up and down in the foam. This season we must go to Long Branch.” Her father made no response, but turned to address a parting word to the superintendent, who presently took leave, highly amused by the child’s bold, pert speeches.

“Now, Daisy, for our drive,” said Mr. Goodman, rising stiffly out of the arm-chair.

But he had only got as far as the door when another visitor was announced. It proved to be a member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals――a society which has already done much good, and whose greatest enemy is the ill-judged zeal of some of its own members.

“What on earth can he want?” thought Mr. Goodman, motioning to the gentleman to take a seat.

“I am come, sir,” began the latter, “to inquire whether you would accept the position of president of our society? We have much to contend with, and gentlemen like yourself――gentlemen of wealth and influence in the community――are needed to assist us.”

Mr. Goodman, who in reality cared not a rush how animals were treated, yet was ambitious to be known as a citizen of influence, bowed and replied: “I feel highly honored, sir, and am willing to become your president.” Then, filling anew the wine-glasses, he called out:

“Here is success and prosperity to――”

“Flywheel Bob,” interrupted Daisy. “For, pa, he is a little boy, isn’t he? A little boy making pennies?”

Mr. Goodman frowned, while the child laughed and Rover barked. But presently the toast to the society was duly honored, after which the visitor proceeded to speak of several cruel sports which he hoped would soon be put a stop to. “Turkey-matches on Thanksgiving day must be legislated against, Mr. President.” Mr. President bowed and waved his hand. “And there is talk, sir, of introducing fox-chases, as in England. This sport must likewise be prevented by law.” Another bow and wave of the hand.

“Well, pa, you sha’n’t stop me killing flies; for flies plague Rover,” put in Daisy, with a malicious twinkle in her eye.

Again the poodle barked. Then, clapping her hands, off she flew to get her hat and gloves, leaving the gentlemen smiling at this childish remark.

“My darling,” said Mr. Goodman a quarter of an hour later, as they were driving down Fifth Avenue together――“my darling, I have been placed at the head of another society――a society to prevent cruelty to animals.”

“I am glad,” replied Daisy, looking up in his face. “Everybody likes you, pa; don’t they?”

Daisy, let us here observe, was the rich man’s only child. His wife was dead; but whenever he gazed upon the little fairy at this moment seated beside him, he seemed to behold his dear Margaret anew: the same black eyes, the same wilful, imperious, yet withal tenderly affectionate ways. No wonder that Richard Goodman idolized his daughter. To no other living being did he unbend, did his heart ever quicken.

But to Daisy he did unbend. He loved to caress her, to talk to her, too, about matters and things which she could hardly understand. And she would always listen and appear very pleased and interested. Search the whole city of New York, and you would not have found another of her age with so much tact when she chose to play the little lady, nor a better child, either, considering how thoroughly she had been spoilt. If Daisy was a tyrant, she was a very loving one indeed, and none knew this better than her father and the poodle, who is now perched on the front cushion of the barouche, looking scornfully down at the curs whom he passes, and saying to himself: “What a lucky dog I am!”

“I am sure the Society to prevent Cruelty to Animals will do good,” observed Daisy, after holding up her finger a moment and telling Rover to sit straight. “But, pa, is Flywheel Bob an animal or a toy? Or is he really a little boy, as I guessed awhile ago?”

“There it comes again,” murmured Mr. Goodman. Then, with a slight gesture of impatience, he answered: “A boy, my love, a boy.”

“Well, what a funny name, pa! Oh! I’m glad we’re going to see him.”

“No, dear, we are going to Tiffany’s――to Tiffany’s, in order to have your darling ears pierced and elegant earrings put in them.”

“I know it, pa, but I ordered James to drive first to the factory.”

No use to protest. The coachman drove whither he was bidden. But not a little surprised was he, when they arrived, to see his young mistress alight instead of his master.

“I am too lame with gout to accompany her,” whispered Mr. Goodman to the foreman, who presently made his appearance. “It is an odd whim of hers. Don’t keep her long, and take great care about the machinery.”

“I’ll be back soon, pa,” said Daisy――“very soon.” With this she and Rover entered the big, cheerless edifice, which towered like a giant high above all the surrounding houses.

“Now, Miss Goodman, keep close to me and walk carefully,” said her guide.

“Let me hold your hand,” said the child, who already began to feel excited as the first piece of machinery came in view. Then, pausing at the threshold of floor number one, “Oh! what a noise,” she cried, “and what a host of people! Which one is Flywheel Bob?”

“Yonder he sits, miss,” replied the superintendent, pointing to the curved figure of a boy――we might better say child; for, in the two and a half years since we last met him, Bob has hardly grown a quarter of an inch. “Why doesn’t he sit straight?” asked Daisy, approaching him.

“Because, miss, Bob minds his task.”

“Well, he does indeed; for he hasn’t looked at me once, while all the rest are staring.”

“You are the first young lady that has ever honored us by a visit,” answered the foreman.

“Am I?” exclaimed Daisy, not a little gratified to have so many eyes fastened upon her. At children’s parties, pretty as she was, she had rivals; here there were none. And now, as she moved daintily along, with her glossy curls swaying to and fro, and her sleeves not quite hiding the gold bracelets on her snowy wrists, she formed indeed a bewitching picture. Presently they arrived beside Flywheel Bob; then Daisy stopped and surveyed him attentively, wondering why he still refused to notice her. “How queerly he behaves!” she said inwardly, “and how pale he is! I wonder what he gets to eat? His fingers are like spiders’ claws. I’d rather be Rover than Bob.” While she thus soliloquized the poodle kept snuffing at the boy’s legs, and his tail, which at first had evinced no sign of emotion, was now wagging slowly from side to side, like as one who moves with doubt and deliberation. Mayhap strange thoughts were flitting through Rover’s head at this moment. Perchance dim memories were being awakened of a damp abode underground; of a baby twisting knots in his shaggy coat; of hard times, when a half-picked bone was a feast. Who knows? But while the dog poked his nose against the boy’s ragged trowsers, while his tail wagged faster and faster, while his mistress said to herself: “I’ll tell pa about poor Bob, and he shall come to Long Branch with us,” the object of her pity continued as unmoved by the attention bestowed on him as if he had been that metal rod flashing back and forth in yon cylinder.

“How many hours does Bob work?” inquired Daisy, moving away and drawing Rover along by the ear; for Rover seemed unwilling to depart.

“Twelve, miss,” replied the foreman.

“Twelve!” repeated Daisy, lifting her eyebrows. “Does he really? Why, I don’t work two. My governess likes to drive in the Park, and so do I; and we think two hours long enough.”

“Well, I have seen him, pa,” said Daisy a few minutes later, as she and her father were driving away.

“Have you? Humph! then I suppose we may now go to Tiffany’s,” rejoined Mr. Goodman somewhat petulantly.

“And, pa, Flywheel Bob isn’t a bit like any other boy I have ever seen. Why, he is all doubled up; his bony fingers move quick, quick, ever so quick; his eyes keep always staring at his fingers, and”――here an expression of awe shadowed the child’s bright face a moment――“and really, pa, I thought he said ‘hiss-s-s’ when the steam-pipe hissed.”

“Humph!” ejaculated the manufacturer. Then, after a pause: “Well, now, my dear, let us talk about something else――about your earrings; which shall they be, pearls or diamonds?”

“Diamonds, pa, for they shine prettier.” Then clapping her hands: “Oh! wouldn’t it surprise Bob if I gave him a holiday? He is making pennies for me, isn’t he? You said so this morning. Well, pa, I have pennies enough, so Bob shall play awhile; he shall come to Long Branch.”

“My daughter, do not be silly,” said Mr. Goodman.

“Silly! Why, pa, if Rover likes surf-bathing, I’m sure Flywheel Bob’ll like it too.”

“He is too good a boy to idle away his time, my love.”

“Well, but, pa, I heard you say that bathing was so healthy; and Bob doesn’t look healthy.”

“Thank heavens! here we are at Tiffany’s,” muttered Mr. Goodman when presently the carriage came to a stop. But before his daughter descended he took her hand and said: “Daisy, you love me, do you not?”