Pushing to the Front — Chapter III: Boys with No Chance

BOYS WITH NO CHANCE

In the blackest soils grow the fairest flowers, and the loftiest and strongest trees spring heavenward among the rocks.

--J.

G.

HOLLAND.

Poverty is very terrible, and sometimes kills the very soul within us, but it is the north wind that lashes men into Vikings; it is the soft, luscious south wind which lulls them to lotus dreams.

--OUIDA.

Poverty is the sixth sense.

--GERMAN PROVERB.

It is not every calamity that is a curse, and early adversity is often a blessing.

Surmounted difficulties not only teach, but hearten us in our future struggles.

--SHARPE.

There can be no doubt that the captains of industry to-day, using that term in its broadest sense, are men who began life as poor boys.

--SETH

LOW.

'Tis a common proof, That lowliness is young ambition's ladder!

SHAKESPEARE.

"I am a child of the court," said a pretty little girl at a children's party in Denmark; "_my_ father is Groom of the Chambers, which is a very high office.

And those whose names end with 'sen,'" she added, "can never be anything at all.

We must put our arms akimbo, and make the elbows quite pointed, so as to keep these 'sen' people at a great distance."

"But my papa can buy a hundred dollars' worth of bonbons, and give them away to children," angrily exclaimed the daughter of the rich merchant Peter_sen_.

"Can your papa do that?"

"Yes," chimed in the daughter of an editor, "my papa can put your papa and everybody's papa into the newspaper.

All sorts of people are afraid of him, my papa says, for he can do as he likes with the paper."

"Oh, if I could be one of them!"

thought a little boy peeping through the crack of the door, by permission of the cook for whom he had been turning the spit.

But no, _his_ parents had not even a penny to spare, and his name ended in "sen." Years afterwards when the children of the party had become men and women, some of them went to see a splendid house, filled with all kinds of beautiful and valuable objects.

There they met the owner, once the very boy who thought it so great a privilege to peep at them through a crack in the door as they played.

He had become the great sculptor Thorwald_sen_.

This sketch is adapted from a story by a poor Danish cobbler's son, another whose name did not keep him from becoming famous,--Hans Christian Ander_sen_.

"There is no fear of my starving, father," said the deaf boy, Kitto, begging to be taken from the poorhouse and allowed to struggle for an education; "we are in the midst of plenty, and I know how to prevent hunger.

The Hottentots subsist a long time on nothing but a little gum; they also, when hungry, tie a ligature around their bodies.

Cannot I do so, too?

The hedges furnish blackberries and nuts, and the fields, turnips; a hayrick will make an excellent bed."

The poor deaf boy with a drunken father, who was thought capable of nothing better than making shoes as a pauper, became one of the greatest Biblical scholars in the world.

His first book was written in the workhouse.

Creon was a Greek slave, as a writer tells the story in Kate Field's "Washington," but he was also a slave of the Genius of Art.

Beauty was his god, and he worshiped it with rapt adoration.

It was after the repulse of the great Persian invader, and a law was in force that under penalty of death no one should espouse art except freemen.

When the law was enacted he was engaged upon a group for which he hoped some day to receive the commendation of Phidias, the greatest sculptor living, and even the praise of Pericles.

What was to be done?

Into the marble block before him Creon had put his head, his heart, his soul, his life.

On his knees, from day to day, he had prayed for fresh inspiration, new skill.

He believed, gratefully and proudly, that Apollo, answering his prayers, had directed his hand and had breathed into the figures the life that seemed to animate them; but now,--now, all the gods seemed to have deserted him.

Cleone, his devoted sister, felt the blow as deeply as her brother.

"O Aphrodite!"

she prayed, "immortal Aphrodite, high enthroned child of Zeus, my queen, my goddess, my patron, at whose shrine I have daily laid my offerings, to be now my friend, the friend of my brother!"

Then to her brother she said: "O Creon, go to the cellar beneath our house.

It is dark, but I will furnish light and food.

Continue your work; the gods will befriend us."

To the cellar Creon went, and guarded and attended by his sister, day and night, he proceeded with his glorious but dangerous task.

About this time all Greece was invited to Athens to behold an exhibit of works of art.

The display took place in the Agora.

Pericles presided.

At his side was Aspasia.

Phidias, Socrates, Sophocles, and other renowned men stood near him.

The works of the great masters were there.

But one group, far more beautiful than the rest,--a group that Apollo himself must have chiseled,--challenged universal attention, exciting at the same time no little envy among rival artists.

"Who is the sculptor of this group?"

None could tell.

Heralds repeated the question, but there was no answer.

"A mystery, then!

Can it be the work of a slave?"

Amid great commotion a beautiful maiden with disarranged dress, disheveled hair, a determined expression in her eyes, and with closed lips, was dragged into the Agora.

"This woman," cried the officers, "this woman knows the sculptor; we are sure of it;

but she will not tell his name."

Cleone was questioned, but was silent.

She was informed of the penalty of her conduct, but her lips remained closed.

"Then," said Pericles, "the law is imperative, and I am the minister of the law.

Take the maid to the dungeon."

As he spoke a youth with flowing hair, emaciated, but with black eyes that beamed with the flashing light of genius, rushed forward, and flinging himself before him exclaimed: "O Pericles, forgive and save the maid!

She is my sister.

I am the culprit.

The group is the work of my hands, the hands of a slave."

The indignant crowd interrupted him and cried, "To the dungeon, to the dungeon with the slave."

"As I live, no!"

said Pericles, rising.

"Behold that group!

Apollo decides by it that there is something higher in Greece than an unjust law.

The highest purpose of law should be the development of the beautiful.

If Athens lives in the memory and affections of men, it is her devotion to art that will immortalize her.

Not to the dungeon, but to my side bring the youth."

And there, in the presence of the assembled multitude, Aspasia placed the crown of olives, which she held in her hands, on the brow of Creon;

and at the same time, amid universal plaudits, she tenderly kissed Creon's affectionate and devoted sister.

The Athenians erected a statue to Aesop, who was born a slave, that men might know that the way to honor is open to all.

In Greece, wealth and immortality were the sure reward of the man who could distinguish himself in art, literature, or war.

No other country ever did so much to encourage and inspire struggling merit.

"I was born in poverty," said Vice-President Henry Wilson.

"Want sat by my cradle.

I know what it is to ask a mother for bread when she has none to give.

I left my home at ten years of age, and served an apprenticeship of eleven years, receiving a month's schooling each year, and, at the end of eleven years of hard work, a yoke of oxen and six sheep, which brought me eighty-four dollars.

I never spent the sum of one dollar for pleasure, counting every penny from the time I was born till I was twenty-one years of age.

I know what it is to travel weary miles and ask my fellow men to give me leave to toil.

.

.

.

In the first month after I was twenty-one years of age, I went into the woods, drove a team, and cut mill-logs.

I rose in the morning before daylight and worked hard till after dark, and received the magnificent sum of six dollars for the month's work!

Each of these dollars looked as large to me as the moon looks to-night."

Mr. Wilson determined never to lose an opportunity for self-culture or self-advancement.

Few men knew so well the value of spare moments.

_He seized them as though they were gold_ and would not let one pass until he had wrung from it every possibility.

He managed to read a thousand good books before he was twenty-one--what a lesson for boys on a farm!

When he left the farm he started on foot for Natick, Mass.

, over one hundred miles distant, to learn the cobbler's trade.

He went through Boston that he might see Bunker Hill monument and other historical landmarks.

The whole trip cost him but one dollar and six cents.

In a year he was the head of a debating club at Natick.

Before eight years had passed, he made his great speech against slavery, in the Massachusetts Legislature.

Twelve years later he stood shoulder to shoulder with the polished Sumner in Congress.

With him, _every occasion was a great occasion_.

He ground every circumstance of his life into material for success.

"Don't go about the town any longer in that outlandish rig.

Let me give you an order on the store.

Dress up a little, Horace."

Horace Greeley looked down on his clothes as if he had never before noticed how seedy they were, and replied: "You see Mr. Sterrett, my father is on a new place, and I want to help him all I can."

He had spent but six dollars for personal expenses in seven months, and was to receive one hundred and thirty-five from Judge J. M.

Sterret of the Erie "Gazette" for substitute work.

He retained but fifteen dollars and gave the rest to his father, with whom he had moved from Vermont to Western Pennsylvania, and for whom he had camped out many a night to guard the sheep from wolves.

He was nearly twenty-one; and, although tall and gawky, with tow-colored hair, a pale face and whining voice, he resolved to seek his fortune in New York City.

Slinging his bundle of clothes on a stick over his shoulder, he walked sixty miles through the woods to Buffalo, rode on a canal boat to Albany, descended the Hudson in a barge, and reached New York, just as the sun was rising, August 18, 1831. He found board over a saloon at two dollars and a half a week.

His journey of six hundred miles had cost him but five dollars.

For days Horace wandered up and down the streets, going into scores of buildings and asking if they wanted "a hand"; but "no" was the invariable reply.

His quaint appearance led many to think he was an escaped apprentice.

One Sunday at his boarding-place he heard that printers were wanted at "West's Printing-office."

He was at the door at five o'clock Monday morning, and asked the foreman for a job at seven.

The latter had no idea that a country greenhorn could set type for the Polyglot Testament on which help was needed, but said: "Fix up a case for him and we'll see if he _can_ do anything."

When the proprietor came in, he objected to the new-comer and told the foreman to let him go when his first day's work was done.

That night Horace showed a proof of the largest and most correct day's work that had then been done.

In ten years he was a partner in a small printing-office.

He founded the "New Yorker," the best weekly paper in the United States, but it was not profitable.

When Harrison was nominated for President in 1840, Greeley started "The Log-Cabin," which reached the then fabulous circulation of ninety thousand.

But on this paper at a penny per copy he made no money.

His next venture was "The New York Tribune," price one cent.

To start it he borrowed a thousand dollars and printed five thousand copies of the first number.

It was difficult to give them all away.

He began with six hundred subscribers, and increased the list to eleven thousand in six weeks.

The demand for the "Tribune" grew faster than new machinery could be obtained to print it.

It was a paper whose editor, whatever his mistakes, always tried to be right.

James Gordon Bennett had made a failure of his "New York Courier" in 1825, of the "Globe" in 1832, and of the "Pennsylvanian" a little later, and was only known as a clever writer for the press, who had saved a few hundred dollars by hard labor and strict economy for fourteen years.

In 1835 he asked Horace Greeley to join him in starting a new daily paper, the "New York Herald."

Greeley declined, but recommended two young printers, who formed partnership with Bennett, and the "Herald" was started on May 6, 1835, with a cash capital to pay expenses for _ten days_.

Bennet hired a small cellar in Wall Street, furnished it with a chair and a desk composed of a plank supported by two barrels; and there, doing all the work except the printing, began the work of making a really great daily newspaper, a thing then unknown in America, as all its predecessors were party organs.

Steadily the young man struggled towards his ideal, giving the news, fresh and crisp, from an ever-widening area, until his paper was famous for giving the current history of the world as fully and quickly as any competitor, and often much more thoroughly and far more promptly.

Neither labor nor expense was spared in obtaining prompt and reliable information on every topic of general interest.

It was an up-hill job, but its completion was finally marked by the opening at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street of the most complete newspaper establishment then known.

One of the first things to attract the attention on entering George W. Childs' private office in Philadelphia was this motto, which was the key-note of the success of a boy who started with "no chance": "Nihil sine labore."

It was his early ambition to own the "Philadelphia Ledger" and the great building in which it was published; but how could a poor boy working for . 00 a week ever hope to own such a great paper?

However, he had great determination and indomitable energy; and as soon as he had saved a few hundred dollars as a clerk in a bookstore, he began business as a publisher.

He made "great hits" in some of the works he published, such as "Kane's Arctic Expedition."

He had a keen sense of what would please the public, and there seemed no end to his industry.

In spite of the fact that the "Ledger" was losing money every day, his friends could not dissuade him from buying it, and in 1864 the dreams of his boyhood found fulfilment.

He doubled the subscription price, lowered the advertising rates, to the astonishment of everybody, and the paper entered upon a career of remarkable prosperity, the profits sometimes amounting to over four hundred thousand dollars a year.

He always refused to lower the wages of his employees even when every other establishment in Philadelphia was doing so.

At a banquet in Lyons, nearly a century and a half ago, a discussion arose in regard to the meaning of a painting representing some scene in the mythology or history of Greece.

Seeing that the discussion was growing warm, the host turned to one of the waiters and asked him to explain the picture.

Greatly to the surprise of the company, the servant gave a clear concise account of the whole subject, so plain and convincing that it at once settled the dispute.

"In what school have you studied, Monsieur?"

asked one of the guests, addressing the waiter with great respect.

"I have studied in many schools, Monseigneur," replied the young servant: "but the school in which I studied longest and learned most is the school of adversity."

Well had he profited by poverty's lessons; for, although then but a poor waiter, all Europe soon rang with the fame of the writings of the greatest genius of his age and country, Jean Jacques Rousseau.

The smooth sand beach of Lake Erie constituted the foolscap on which, for want of other material, P. R.

Spencer, a barefoot boy with no chance, perfected the essential principles of the Spencerian system of penmanship, the most beautiful exposition of graphic art.

For eight years William Cobbett had followed the plow, when he ran away to London, copied law papers for eight or nine months, and then enlisted in an infantry regiment.

During his first year of soldier life he subscribed to a circulating library at Chatham, read every book in it, and began to study.

"I learned grammar when I was a private soldier on the pay of sixpence a day.

The edge of my berth, or that of the guard-bed, was my seat to study in; my knapsack was my bookcase; a bit of board lying on my lap was my writing-table, and the task did not demand anything like a year of my life.

I had no money to purchase candles or oil; in winter it was rarely that I could get any evening light but that of the fire, and only my turn, even, of that.

To buy a pen or a sheet of paper I was compelled to forego some portion of my food, though in a state of half starvation.

I had no moment of time that I could call my own, and I had to read and write amidst the talking, laughing, singing, whistling, and bawling of at least half a score of the most thoughtless of men, and that, too, in the hours of their freedom from all control.

Think not lightly of the _farthing_ I had to give, now and then, for pen, ink, or paper.

That farthing was, alas!

a great sum to me.

I was as tall as I am now, and I had great health and great exercise.

The whole of the money not expended for us at market was _twopence a week_ for each man.

I remember, and well I may!

that upon one occasion I had, after all absolutely necessary expenses, made shift to have a half-penny in reserve, which I had destined for the purpose of a red herring in the morning, but so hungry as to be hardly able to endure life, when I pulled off my clothes at night, I found that I had lost my half-penny.

I buried my head in the miserable sheet and rug, and cried like a child."

But Cobbett made even his poverty and hard circumstances serve his all-absorbing passion for knowledge and success.

"If I," said he, "under such circumstances could encounter and overcome this task, is there, can there be in the whole world, a youth to find any excuse for its non-performance?"

Humphrey Davy had but a slender chance to acquire great scientific knowledge, yet he had true mettle in him, and he made even old pans, kettles, and bottles contribute to his success, as he experimented and studied in the attic of the apothecary-store where he worked.

"Many a farmer's son," says Thurlow Weed, "has found the best opportunities for mental improvement in his intervals of leisure while tending 'sap-bush.'

Such, at any rate, was my own experience.

At night you had only to feed the kettles and keep up the fires, the sap having been gathered and the wood cut before dark.

During the day we would always lay in a good stock of 'fat-pine,' by the light of which, blazing bright before the sugar-house, I passed many a delightful night in reading.

I remember in this way to have a history of the French Revolution, and to have obtained a better and more enduring knowledge of its events and horrors and of the actors in that great national tragedy than I have received from all subsequent reading.

I remember, also, how happy I was in being able to borrow the books of a Mr. Keyes, after a two-mile tramp through the snow, shoeless, my feet swaddled in remnants of rag carpet."

"May I have a holiday to-morrow, father?"

asked Theodore Parker one August afternoon.

The poor Lexington millwright looked in surprise at his youngest son, for it was a busy time, but he saw from the boy's earnest face that he had no ordinary object in view, and granted the request.

Theodore rose very early the next morning, walked through the dust ten miles to Harvard College, and presented himself for a candidate for admission.

He had been unable to attend school regularly since he was eight years old, but he had managed to go three months each winter, and had reviewed his lessons again and again as he followed the plow or worked at other tasks.

All his odd moments had been hoarded, too, for reading useful books, which he borrowed.

One book he could not borrow, but he felt that he must have it; so on summer mornings he rose long before the sun and picked bushel after bushel of berries, which he sent to Boston, and so got the money to buy that coveted Latin dictionary.

"Well done, my boy!"

said the millwright, when his son came home late at night and told of his successful examination; "but, Theodore, I cannot afford to keep you there!"

"True, father," said Theodore, "I am not going to stay there; I shall study at home, at odd times, and thus prepare myself for a final examination, which will give me a diploma."

He did this; and, by teaching school as he grew older, got money to study for two years at Harvard, where he was graduated with honor.

Years after, when, as the trusted friend and adviser of Seward, Chase, Sumner, Garrison, Horace Mann, and Wendell Phillips, his influence for good was felt in the hearts of all his countrymen, it was a pleasure for him to recall his early struggles and triumphs among the rocks and bushes of Lexington.

"The proudest moment of my life," said Elihu Burritt, "was when I had first gained the full meaning of the first fifteen lines of Homer's Iliad."

Elihu Burritt's father died when he was sixteen, and Elihu was apprenticed to a blacksmith in his native village of New Britain, Conn.

He had to work at the forge for ten or twelve hours a day; but while blowing the bellows, he would solve mentally difficult problems in arithmetic.

In a diary kept at Worcester, whither he went some ten years later to enjoy its library privileges, are such entries as these,--"Monday, June 18, headache, 40 pages Cuvier's 'Theory of the Earth,' 64 pages French, 11 hours' forging.

Tuesday, June 19, 60 lines Hebrew, 30 Danish, 10 lines Bohemian, 9 lines Polish, 15 names of stars, 10 hours' forging.

Wednesday, June 20, 25 lines Hebrew, 8 lines Syriac, 11 hours' forging."

He mastered 18 languages and 32 dialects.

He became eminent as the "Learned Blacksmith," and for his noble work in the service of humanity.

Edward Everett said of the manner in which this boy with no chance acquired great learning: "It is enough to make one who has good opportunities for education hang his head in shame."

The barefoot Christine Nilsson in remote Sweden had little chance, but she won the admiration of the world for her wondrous power of song, combined with rare womanly grace.

"Let me say in regard to your adverse worldly circumstances," says Dr. Talmage to young men, "that you are on a level now with those who are finally to succeed.

Mark my words, and think of it thirty years from now.

You will find that those who are then the millionaires of this country, who are the orators of the country, who are the poets of the country, who are the strong merchants of the country, who are the great philanthropists of the country,--mightiest in the church and state,--are now on a level with you, not an inch above you, and in straightened circumstances.

"No outfit, no capital to start with?

Young man, go down to the library and get some books, and read of what wonderful mechanism God gave you in your hand, in your foot, in your eye, in your ear, and then ask some doctor to take you into the dissecting-room and illustrate to you what you have read about, and never again commit the blasphemy of saying you have no capital to start with.

_Equipped_?

_Why, the poorest young man is equipped as only the God of the whole universe could afford to equip him_."

A newsboy is not a very promising candidate for success or honors in any line of life.

A young man can't set out in life with much less chance than when he starts his "daily" for a living.

Yet the man who more than any other is responsible for the industrial regeneration of this continent started in life as a newsboy on the Grand Trunk Railway.

Thomas Alva Edison was then about fifteen years of age.

He had already begun to dabble in chemistry, and had fitted up a small itinerant laboratory.

One day, as he was performing some occult experiment, the train rounded a curve, and the bottle of sulphuric acid broke.

There followed a series of unearthly odors and unnatural complications.

The conductor, who had suffered long and patiently, promptly ejected the youthful devotee, and in the process of the scientist's expulsion added a resounding box upon the ear.

Edison passed through one dramatic situation after another--always mastering it--until he attained at an early age the scientific throne of the world.

When recently asked the secret of his success, he said he had always been a total abstainer and singularly moderate in everything but work.

Daniel Manning who was President Cleveland's first campaign manager and afterwards Secretary of the Treasury, started out as a newsboy with apparently the world against him.

So did Thurlow Weed; so did David B. Hill.

New York seems to have been prolific in enterprising newsboys.

What nonsense for two uneducated and unknown youths who met in a cheap boarding-house in Boston to array themselves against an institution whose roots were embedded in the very constitution of our country, and which was upheld by scholars, statesmen, churches, wealth, and aristocracy, without distinction of creed or politics!

What chance had they against the prejudices and sentiment of a nation?

But these young men were fired by a lofty purpose, and they were thoroughly in earnest.

One of them, Benjamin Lundy, had already started in Ohio a paper called "The Genius of Universal Liberty," and had carried the entire edition home on his back from the printing-office, twenty miles, every month.

He had walked four hundred miles on his way to Tennessee to increase his subscription list.

He was no ordinary young man.

With William Lloyd Garrison, he started to prosecute his work more earnestly in Baltimore.

The sight of the slave-pens along the principal streets; of vessel-loads of unfortunates torn from home and family and sent to Southern ports; the heartrending scenes at the auction blocks, made an impression on Garrison never to be forgotten;

and the young man whose mother was too poor to send him to school, although she early taught him to hate oppression, resolved to devote his life to secure the freedom of these poor wretches.

In the first issue of his paper, Garrison urged an immediate emancipation, and called down upon his head the wrath of the entire community.

He was arrested and sent to jail.

John G. Whittier, a noble friend in the North, was so touched at the news that, being too poor to furnish the money himself, he wrote to Henry Clay, begging him to release Garrison by paying the fine.

After forty-nine days of imprisonment he was set free.

Wendell Phillips said of him, "He was imprisoned for his opinion when he was twenty-four.

He had confronted a nation in the bloom of his youth."

In Boston, with no money, friends, or influence, in a little upstairs room, Garrison started the "Liberator."

Read the declaration of this poor young man with "no chance," in the very first issue: "I will be as harsh as truth, as uncompromising as justice.

I am in earnest.

I will not equivocate, I will not excuse; I will not retreat a single inch, and I will be heard."

What audacity for a young man, with the world against him!

Hon. Robert Y. Hayne, of South Carolina, wrote to Otis, mayor of Boston, that some one had sent him a copy of the "Liberator," and asked him to ascertain the name of the publisher.

Otis replied that he had found a poor young man printing "this insignificant sheet in an obscure hole, his only auxiliary a negro boy, his supporters a few persons of all colors and little influence."

But this poor young man, eating, sleeping, and printing in this "obscure hole," had set the world to thinking, and must be suppressed.

The Vigilance Association of South Carolina offered a reward of fifteen hundred dollars for the arrest and prosecution of any one detected circulating the "Liberator."

The Governors of one or two States set a price on the editor's head.

The legislature of Georgia offered a reward of five thousand dollars for his arrest and conviction.

Garrison and his coadjutors were denounced everywhere.

A clergyman named Lovejoy was killed by a mob in Illinois for espousing the cause, while defending his printing-press, and in the old "Cradle of American Liberty" the wealth, power, and culture of Massachusetts arrayed itself against the "Abolitionists" so outrageously, that a mere spectator, a young lawyer of great promise, asked to be lifted upon the high platform, and replied in such a speech as was never before heard in Faneuil Hall.

"When I heard the gentleman lay down the principles which place the murderers of Lovejoy at Alton side by side with Otis and Hancock, with Quincy and Adams," said Wendell Phillips, pointing to their portraits on the walls.

"I thought those pictured lips would have broken into voice to rebuke the recreant American, the slanderer of the dead.

For the sentiments that he has uttered, on soil consecrated by the prayers of the Puritans and the blood of patriots.

the earth should have yawned and swallowed him up."

The whole nation was wrought to fever heat.

Between the Northern pioneers and Southern chivalry the struggle was long and fierce, even in far California.

The drama culminated in the shock of civil war.

When the war was ended, and, after thirty-five years of untiring, heroic conflict, Garrison was invited as the nation's guest, by President Lincoln, to see the stars and stripes unfurled once more above Fort Sumter, an emancipated slave delivered the address of welcome, and his two daughters, no longer chattels in appreciation presented Garrison with a beautiful wreath of flowers.

About this time Richard Cobden, another powerful friend of the oppressed, died in London.

His father had died leaving nine children almost penniless.

The boy earned his living by watching a neighbor's sheep, but had no chance to attend school until he was ten years old.

He was sent to a boarding-school, where he was abused, half starved, and allowed to write home only once in three months.

At fifteen he entered his uncle's store in London as a clerk.

He learned French by rising early and studying while his companions slept.

He was soon sent out in a gig as a commercial traveler.

He called upon John Bright to enlist his aid in fighting the terrible "Corn-Laws" which were taking bread from the poor and giving it to the rich.

He found Mr. Bright in great grief, for his wife was lying dead in the house.

"There are thousands of homes in England at this moment," said Richard Cobden, "where wives, mothers, and children are dying of hunger.

Now, when the first paroxysm of grief is passed, I would advise you to come with me, and we will never rest until the Corn-Laws are repealed."

Cobden could no longer see the poor man's bread stopped at the Custom-House and taxed for the benefit of the landlord and farmer, and he threw his whole soul into this great reform.

"This is not a party question," said he, "for men of all parties are united upon it.

It is a pantry question,--a question between the working millions and the aristocracy."

They formed the "Anti-Corn-Law League," which, aided by the Irish famine,--for it was hunger that at last ate through those stone walls of protection,--secured the repeal of the law in 1846. Mr. Bright said: "There is not in Great Britain a poor man's home that has not a bigger, better, and cheaper loaf through Richard Cobden's labors."

John Bright himself was the son of a poor working man, and in those days the doors of the higher schools were closed to such as he; but the great Quaker heart of this resolute youth was touched with pity for the millions of England's and Ireland's poor, starving under the Corn-Laws.

During the frightful famine, which cut off two millions of Ireland's population in a year, John Bright was more powerful than all the nobility of England.

The whole aristocracy trembled before his invincible logic, his mighty eloquence, and his commanding character.

Except possibly Cobden, no other man did so much to give the laborer a shorter day, a cheaper loaf, an added shilling.

Over a stable in London lived a poor boy named Michael Faraday, who carried newspapers about the streets to loan to customers for a penny apiece.

He was apprenticed for seven years to a bookbinder and bookseller.

When binding the Encyclopaedia Britannica, his eyes caught the article on electricity, and he could not rest until he had read it.

He procured a glass vial, an old pan, and a few simple articles, and began to experiment.

A customer became interested in the boy, and took him to hear Sir Humphry Davy lecture on chemistry.

He summoned courage to write the great scientist and sent the notes he had taken of his lecture.

One night, not long after, just as Michael was about to retire, Sir Humphry Davy's carriage stopped at his humble lodging, and a servant handed him a written invitation to call upon the great lecturer the next morning.

Michael could scarcely trust his eyes as he read the note.

In the morning he called as requested, and was engaged to clean instruments and take them to and from the lecture-room.

He watched eagerly every movement of Davy, as with a glass mask over his face, he developed his safety-lamp and experimented with dangerous explosives.

Michael studied and experimented, too, and it was not long before this poor boy with no chance was invited to lecture before the great philosophical society.

He was appointed professor at the Royal Academy of Woolwich, and became the wonder of the age in science.

Tyndall said of him, "He is the greatest experimental philosopher the world has ever seen."

When Sir Humphry Davy was asked what was his greatest discovery, he replied "Michael Faraday."

"What has been done can be done again," said the boy with no chance, Disraeli, who become Lord Beaconsfield, England's great Prime Minister.

"I am not a slave, I am not a captive, and by energy I can overcome greater obstacles."