Copyright Story. A Wonderful Lad and His Lamp.

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXV, Issue III, 21 July 1900, Page 102

Copyright Story. A Wonderful Lad and His Lamp.

By ‘

“M.E. FRANCIS.”

(Author of “In a North Country Village,” “Dan,” etc.)

Work was over for the day and the operatives of “Brownlow’s,” male and female, poured out into the mill yard. The whirr of the machinery had ceased, but the babel of voices, the rude laughter and the clattering of clogged feet were almost more deafening. Adam Blanchard forced his way through the throng half unconsciously. his great dark eyes looking straight before him, his tall, angular form gliding through the midst of his fellow labourers in an almost ghost* ly fashion. Now and then people spoke to him. or glancing at his pale, abstracted face, would jeeringly point him out to their comrades. Adam's reputation was that of a "softy,” a well-meaning, harmless, but nearly half-witted lad, of whom nobody at "Brownlow’s” made “mich count,” and who would certainly never suceed in the world. Yet at one time Adam had been considered the brightest and most forward pupil at the Board School which he frequented, being singled out by his masters for continual praise, and being hurried so quickly through the standards that he was not quite thirteen when his education ha.d been considered complete. All too soon, it appeared to poor Adam, did these early years of scholarship come to an end. Since then time had lagged very heavily, though it was not for want of hard and constant work. Hissurroundingsto be sure were uncongenial. His home, if it could be called a home, was miserable in the extreme. The hours which were not spent in toiling at the factory were passed under the thraldom of an idle and drunken father, to wham nevertheless the lad was devotedly attached, and a hard and rapacious step-mother. All Adam’s earnings passed intact from his hands to theirs. At night, at the conclusion of the various labours which “mother” exacted from him on his return from the mill, he was so tired that he was glad to throw himself upon his bed, and frequently fell into an exhausted sleep before he had time to undress. Adam was seriously annoyed at the frequency with which this befell him. He liked to have a little time to think, and these were the only hours which he could call his own. He meditated on many things as he lay thus outstretched, sometimes recalling what he had read at school, sometimes cogitating over what, he had observed when threading the grimy street on his way to ami from labour. He pondered much over the great facts of life, and reasoned in an odd, unsophisticated fashion about the causes and results of all that came within his restricted observation. During the day, with whirr and booming of looms and machinery perpetually going on round him, it was impossible to think, although he found it easier to get through the time by giving scope to certain vague fancies. Thus sometimes he imagined to himself that the whirr of the machinery was like the roaring of many waters, and would try and recall fragments of a poem he had learnt long ago as a child, “How the waters come down at Lodore. Here they come sparkling and there they lie darkling.” He would try to picture to himself the deep pools and white feathery foam, the flashing brilliance of the cataract that poured over the stones. Again he would try to think that the confused sounds resembled those of an advancing army, the tramping of many feet, the roar of artillery, the rattle of musketry, and he would repeat "Hohenlinden.”

Time did not pass quite so slowly then.

On this particular murky November night he felt unusually disinclined to return home. He would loiter just a little; he would wander a few paces further afield before returning to his Evening labours. What matter, thought he, a few blows more or less, some harsher words ]>erhaps than usual? He walked straight on. his tall, lanky form looking so overgrown for its 17 years, his bony wrosts’ protruding such a long way from his jacket sleeves, his face so sallow and lined in the lamplight. There was a spot where he often loitered, a secondhand l>ook-stall. where treasures of all kinds, dusty and worm-eaten, piled on

a ramshackle stand at the street corner, were to be obtained for incredibly small sums. Poor Adam! Not even the smallest of these was at his disposal. But he loved to wander round, to press and finger the books, and to read the letters on the back, and to imagine to himself which of these he would buy when he was rich enough. To-night he stood for a long time gazing at the moth-eaten dog-eared volume of Shakespeare which surmounted a pile of this tempting ware. Shakespeare!—he knew something about the man, he even knew by heart a few passages of his works. Oh, if he were rich enough to buy that wonderful book! “The complete works” it said on the title page. Precious, old, fat book, oh! how lucky would be the man who would one day possess it. He stood staring at it, his lank arms hanging by his side, his black eyes fixed intently on the page; suddenly he was startled by a voice at his allow. “What are you studying so intently, my lad?” Adam jumped. “I were nobbut lookin’ at this here, sir.” “Shakespeare, eh? A very good copy too. it seems to be complete, are you thinking of buying it?” Adam shook his head, and the fingers which had lovingly closed on the fat volume, released their grasp. "Nay, sir, I could na manage that. I were nubbut wishin’ and wondering.” The other man looked at him. He was a tall, spare, old gentleman, unmistakably a gentleman, with a refined scholarly face, and eyes, which, oddly enough, bore some resemblance to the eager ones of the lad beside him—the hunger for knowledge was there. In spite of the contrast between them in position, age, and physique, as they exchanged glances the two were brothers. “Lord bless you, sir, this here is nubbut but a factory lad, he never buys naught, he nubbut hangs about of an evenin’ and moiders me with touchin’ and lookin’ at the books.” “Does he, indeed," replied the old gentleman. “Why are you so fond of looking at books, my boy, have you ever read any?” “I have read a few. sir,” replied Adam eagerly, “when I were a little lad at school—when I was a little boy. 1 mean," he said, correcting himself, for Adam could speak ordinary English as well as anybody, though when he was excited he frequently relapsed into the familiar dialect spoken by those around him.

”1 have never read Shakespeare through, only little bits from here and there, and I would give anything in the wide world to have that big book for mv own;”

"You would, would you? Why?” Adam looked at him and his black eyes seemed positively to glow in his head but he said nothing, and the other seemed to understand. “Well, well,” he said casually. "1 think you would find him rather fine on the whole. What did you think of those bits which you read, eh? Do you remember any of them? Under the magie of his gaze and the delight of his sympathy, Adam forgot his shyness, and began enthusiastically to discuss “To be or not to be.” which had long dwelt in his memory. The stranger listened and laughed, and asked a few questions; then he clapped him on the shoulder. “So yon are a factory lad, well, well, I could wish you were something else; you have no time for study, I suppose? Not even at night?” Adam’s face clouded over. “No, sit,” he said humbly, “they keep me too busy at home.” "It is a pity,” said the old gentleman, I might have helped you a little bit. But there, you shall have one thing at least which will help you more than I. If ever you have a spare moment make the most of it.” And thereupon this extraordinary person actually bought and paid for the longed-for volume, and placed it in the boy’s delighted hands. "Take it home, my lad.” he said; “this great genius will introduce you to everything that is wonderful and beautiful.” Adam gazed at him with speechless gratitude, which seemed to please the old man more than fervent expressions

of thanks, and then, tucking the book under his ragged jacket, set off homewards at a brisk run, m haste now to acquit himself of his tasks that he might have leisure to enjoy his new found treasure. He had not proceeds! far, however, when his benefactor refailed him. , , •Sundays now,” he remarked, a though no interval had- elapsed in hi last speech, "your Sundays are free, I SU "l >< have a good few things to do cf a Snndav, sir,” replied Adam, but 1 could ’ mak- Shift to get a few hours to njysel’.” “Well then, suppose you were to look me up on Sundays; there is my card, come and see me any time you are free; you will find me somewhere in the house or in the garden. I will explain to you a little about that book and you can tell me what you think of it.” . The card bore a name which, if Adam had known, was not only famous in Manchester itself, but in all the literary world. To him, however, the stranger remained “his gentleman.”

Henceforth all his life was changed. He lived with his parents in one of a gloomy row of long narrow houses —one of the least savoury slums of the great manufacturing centres, and it so chanced that his miserable room was fairly well lighted by the glow of the lamp on the opposite side of the street. Adam had long looked upon this lamp as a familiar friend. As a child it seemed to him often that its brilliant glowing face had a good-natured look, and that it peered in kindly upon him as he lay alone shivering in the winter evenings. Now to his joy he discovered, that by screwing himself into a corner of his narrow window, he eould manage to read quite well by its friendly light. He longed for the nights now more than ever, for he had better company than his own thoughts. LoI once the light of the lamp fell across the dog-eared volume what wonders came to pass! The mighty Genius was there at his elbow, and what sights he showed him, what tales he told. Adam would forget all about the cold and weariness, and the long hours of toil which awaited him on the morrow. He would read and read, sometimes until the lamplighter’s foot sounded in the street below, and suddenly he would lin.l himself shivering in the grey dawn with only a faint outline opposite where the familiar kindly glow had been. Then he would straighten himself and stretch his stiffened limbs, crooning under his breath “Hark, hark, the lark at heaven’s gate sings.’’ Ghastly indeed did the dawn appear in this murky unsavoury alley, yet he knew by the magic of his new friend, that far away from the smoky city it was creeping with delicate ethereal Jradiance over the face of the sleeping land, that the heavens would presently blush for joy at the approach of the sun, that silvery fields bathed in dew would by and bye sparkle and glitter in his rays, that, the air would be full of flower scents and the songs of birds, and the world would awake refreshed and glad. All day while he worked mechanically, his spirit was at Verona or in the Forest of Arden. Among the flying shuttles he could hear the voice of Juliet calling to her lover, and amid the heat and noxious smells of the crowded rooms, he could fancy himself outstretched with Titania ~in the green wood. There was indeed magic in the wonders wrought for him by that mighty genius whom he nightly evoked by the shade of his lamp. He grew happy, his mind and even his pale over-wrought frame seemed to expand and develop. Life was full enough now. he asked for nothing more unless indeed that the night should be a little longer and the dawn would not come so soon; or perhaps that there should be two Sundays every week. Oh! those Sundays. Not even his kind-hearted friend ever knew quite what they were to the lad. To begin with, Mr *s house lay a, little outside* the town, and he had a garden where he suf fered the boy to wander at his will; he was also the possessor of an organ on which he sometimes played for Adam. The first time the boy heard it he burst into tears.

“And so you like it,” said his friend, when he had grown somewhat calmer, "come, tell me what did you think of that piece?”

“It is like the Bible, sir,” said Adam.

The other laughed. "In what way, my boy? In being solemn and holy, do you think?’’ “1 can hardly tell, sir, it is all that. It sounds as the words of the Bible sound, 1 can’t explain any way different.”

Then what talks they had, and flow many interesting stories did the gentleman tell Adam, and how interesting it was to hear him point out and explain things which had escaped Adam’s observation. and how much did he learn in his company! His friend seemed to take immense pleasure in aiding this curiously active and original mind to develop; the sympathy between them seemed to increase as the days went by. and Adam sometimes caught him looking at him with an expression which perturbed and puzzled him.

"\ou are too good for the loom, Adam,” he said to him one day, “but go on as you are doing for the present. Later on we will see what can be done.”

Adam’s contentment, however, with the existing state of things was, as we have said, complete, but unfortunately an apparently trivial circumstance came to cast a cloud over his life. The sanitary authorities discovered that the alley where he lived was unfit for human habitation; many houses were therefore demolished, anil the street was altered and widened. The lamp, which had so long shed its friendly light on Adam’s room, being moved a little way further down the street, and consequently just outside his range of vision. Summer had come meanwhile, and was now nearly gone, and the evenings were getting so short- that no daylight remained of which he could profit when his work was done, and dawn came too late for him to arise and study before going to the mill in the morning. A further misfortune overtook him at this time. His patron became seriously ill and was confined to his room, and many Sundays passed without his customary visit to him. So Adam was fain to content himself with the remembrance of the blissful days he had spent in his company, and with going over in his mind the beauties and wonders which they had discussed together. One night a curious adventure befell him. He had thrown himself upon his bed, tired indeed but wakeful, and had meditated long on a certain golden afternoon, the memory of which would never be effaced. He had gone with his benefactor into the country, and the city boy had been introduced to a real wood, a shady leafy wilderness of delights, and Mr.

had suffered him to wander to his heaat's content along the nmtsy paths, and to throw himself on the green grass beside a little stream, where he had long lain listening to the prattling of the water ami the song of tile thrush overhead. Adam recalled it all now: i>t must have been just such a wood as that in which Bottom wandered with Titania. Poor Bottom: how did it fare with him afterwards, when he returned to his loom and his humdrum existence, with the memory of these delights recurring to him every now and then ? As he threw his shuttle he must have remembered the leaping of the squirrels from bough to bough, the rapid flight of the finches as they darted overhead calling to each other; when he fingered his thread he must have thought of the tine silky grass on which he had lain so blissfully outstretched, or perchance of Titania’s golden tresses. Adam jiondered over it all. and by and bye he began to grow drowsy; it seemed to him that it was he who was lying on the grassy bank beside the fairy queen, and that he was looking up at the blue sky through the trees, and that he felt the warm summer air upon his face, ami hearkened dreamily to the myriad sounds which made music yonder in the green wood. By and bye he starteel up broad awake again, ami his thoughts began to measure themselves ry thniically, and of a sudden his fancy began to teem with curious beautiful images and musical phrases. By and bye, Adam became aware that something was taking shajie, something that was almost a poem. It could not of course lie poetry, but it was rather like it. Sitting up in bed,

and staring into the darkness, he trieel to tix these fancies in his memory, ami when day light came at last he rose ami hastily dressed and went out into the air.

All day long the fancy remained with him, and when night came the thing had actually taken definite form and was finished in his mind. The next day he begged a sheet of paper from a comrade luekier than himself, and a scrap of candle, and before another morning had dawned his poem was written in his copperplate Board-School hand, and he read it with glee. When Sunday came he made his way to his benefactor's house, and though refused admittance on the score of that gentleman’s illness, he loitered still at the door.

“ Would you ask the gentleman to read this," he said, hesitatingly, as the servant was about to shut him out. “It ’nil happen amuse him. Tell him my lamp is gone, and I cannot read now, and so I thought of this when I were a lyin’ abed tother neet. and I wrote it down and happen it 'nil make him laugh.”

The maid, who was accustomed to the boy’s goings and comings, smiled good-humoredly. "The poor gentleman is very bad,” she said. “ and it would lx* a good job to get him to laugh at anything, so I will take it up to him.” Her master was lying on a couch looking very white and thin. He received Adam’s packet a little irritably, annoyed that the lad had been sent away without a word from him. “1 know what the doctor’s orders arc well enough." he said in reply to the maid's protest, “but I should like to have seen my weaver boy all the same.”

As she withdrew he opened the packet with slim, transparent fingers, and began to read, at first half absently. Then he raised himself upon his elbow and his face suddenly flushed. Finally, laying aside the paper, and throwing himself down on his pillows, he heaved a deep sigh.

“That lad is a genius; this is a marvellous piece of work, and the audacity of it! This factory boy, this urchin from the streets, dares to take up the thread which Shakespere dropped: actually follows out his train of thought, he makes use of the master’s own conceptions! Good heavens!” It was indeed a strange and daring piece of work which lay under his hand. Adam’s poem was called “Bottom’s Dream," and spoke in glowing words of the glamour which the weaver’s adventure had brought into his toilsome life, and of how. amid his daily drudgery, vague, faint, exquisite memories of its transient rapture recurred to him. With a full heart the boy wrote of the toils and struggles of Bottom’s actual existence, contrasting them in curiously expressive language with the golden hours which

now appeared to have existed only in a dream.

Mr —- — read and poudered, and finally scrawled a brief note to Adam, telling him that he had read his work, and would like to have a talk with him about it some day soon, meanwhile he would keep it and show it to a friend. "1 think," he added, "that you have the right stuff in you.” "The right stuff.” Adam was puzzled by the words. What kind of stuff was that? What was the right stuff? It was no doubt very bold of him to attempt to write at all, but still his friend was pleased, that was good—and he did not say that it was foolish. Perhaps some day he, Adam, might learn to write—perhaps many, many years'hence people might care to read what he had to say. Then Adam blushed to the roots of his hair at his own folly; it was true indeed that his essay had been read and commended by Mr ; but no one of

course would ever care to print what he wrote, it was indeed temerity to think of it. That his friend should have read his work and been pleased was surely honour enough. On returning from work a few days later his step-mother thrust a note into his hand.

"Theer. read it," she cried; “whoever can be writing to thee so often, 1 am sure 1 cannot tell, but it eoom this afternoon, and it has been laying there on the dresser since. It is wrote so queer, feyther nor me couldna make head nor tail of it.”

Adam opened the note and read, and after the first line the paper danced before his eyes. Making some inarticulate rejoinder to the woman's impatient query, he rushed out into the stieet. Already the dusk had fallen, and his friend the lamp was winking at him from the gloom. Adam hastened towards it, and. spreading out the paper, supported himself against the post and read. Many wonderful things had that lamp shown him, but never surely anything so wonderful as this, for lo! "his gentleman" told him that he had sent the poem to a friend of his, who had not only read it, but been delighted with it, and who would print it in his magazine. Adam paused and drew a long breath: his brain reeled; then sobbing to himself for pure joy he read on:

“I always knew you were an extraordinary boy, Adam,” pursued his friend, "but 1 did not think you were quite so extraordinary as this. Boy, do you know that you are a poet? Later on we must discuss your future, for the present you must be content with this. Adam, you are a poet. The whole world will hear of you some day, you will touch men's hearts and delight their minds. You are a wonderful lad. Adam. God bless you.” Then, flinging his arms round the. wooden post, Adam gazed upwards, and the light of the lamp fell across his face, and shone upon the tears with which his cheeks were wet.