Books: The Pedler of Dust Sticks
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Eliza Lee Follen >> The Pedler of Dust Sticks
Henry, ever after his separation from her, would go, at the
anniversary of her birth and death, and take all his children and
grand-children with him to her grave. They carried wreaths and
bouquets of flowers, and laid them there; and he would sit down with
them and relate some anecdote about their mother.
It is a custom with the people of Germany to strew flowers on the
graves of their friends. The burying ground was not far from the
street, and often unfeeling boys would steal these sacred flowers;
but not one was ever stolen from the grave of Agatha.
The sister of whom we have before spoken, whom we will call also by
her Christian name, Catharine, loved her sister with the most
devoted love, and when Agatha was dying, promised her that she would
be a mother to her children, and never leave them till they were
able to take care of themselves.
She kept her word. She refused many offers of marriage, which she
might have been disposed to accept, and was a true mother to her
sister's children, till they were all either married or old enough
not to want her care. Then, at the age of fifty, aunt Catharine
married a widower, who had three children, who wanted her care.
From the time Henry lost his dear wife, he devoted himself not only
more than ever to his children, but also to the good of his workmen.
He sought in duty, in good works, for strength to bear his heavy
sorrow; so that death might not divide him from her he loved, but
that he might be fitting himself for an eternal union with her in
heaven.
Henry never forgot that he had been obliged to work hard for a
living himself, and he also remembered what had been his greatest
trials in his days of poverty. He determined to save his workmen
from these sufferings as much as possible.
He recollected and still felt the evils of a want of education. He
could never forget how with longing eyes he had used to look at
books, and what a joy it had been to him to go to school; and he
resolved that his children should be well instructed. The garden of
knowledge, that was so tempting to him, and that he was not allowed
to enter, he resolved should be open to them. He gave them the best
instructors he could find, and took care that they should be taught
every thing that would be useful to them--the modern languages,
music, drawing, history, &c.
Henry had found the blessing of being able to labor skilfully with
his hands; so he insisted that all his children should learn how to
work with their own hands.
"My daughters," he said, "in order to be good housewives, must know
how every thing ought to be done, and be able to do it. If they are
poor, this will save them from much misery, and secure them comfort
and respectability."
He insisted that those of his sons who engaged in his business
should work with the workmen, wear the same dress, and do just as
they did; so that the boys might be independent of circumstances,
and have the security of a good living, come what would. Thus every
one of his children had the advantages which belong to poverty as
well as those of riches. Their father said to them, that if they
knew what work was, they would know what to require of those who
labored for them; that they would have more feeling for laborers,
and more respect for them.
Henry was truly the friend of his workmen. He gave them time enough
to go to school. He encouraged temperance; he had a weak kind of
beer, made of herbs, for them to drink, so that they might not
desire spirit. He gave them, once a year, a handsome dinner, at
which he presided himself. He encouraged them to read, and helped
them to obtain books. He had a singing master, and took care that
every one who had a voice should be taught to sing. He bought a
pianoforte for them, and had it put in a room in the factory, where
any one, who had time, and wished to play, could go and play upon
it; and he gave them a music teacher.
He did every thing he could to make their life beautiful and happy.
He induced them to save a small sum every week from their wages, as
a fund to be used when any one died, or was sick, or was married, or
wanted particular aid beyond what his wages afforded.
Henry's factory was the abode of industry, temperance, and
cheerfulness. The workmen all loved him like a brother. It was his
great object to show them that labor was an honorable thing, and to
make laborers as happy as he thought they ought to be.
Henry was much interested in all that related to the United States
of America; and he was very angry at our slavery. He felt that
slavery brought labor into discredit, and his heart ached for the
poor slaves, who are cut off from all knowledge, all improvement.
Nothing excited in him such a deep indignation, nothing awaked such
abhorrence in his heart, as the thought of a man's receiving the
services of another without making adequate compensation; or the
idea of any man exercising tyranny over his brother man.
Henry's workmen were the happiest and best in Hamburg. They loved
their employer with their whole hearts; there was nothing they would
not do for him. When his factory had been established twenty-five
years, the workmen determined to have a jubilee on the occasion, and
to hold it on his birthday. They kept their intention a secret from
him till the day arrived; but they were obliged to tell his
children, who, they knew, would wish to make arrangements for
receiving them in such a way as their father would approve of, if he
knew of it.
It was summer time; and on Henry's birthday, at seven o'clock in the
morning, (for they knew their friend was an early riser,) a strain
of grand and beautiful music broke the stillness of the early hour,
and a long procession of five hundred men was seen to wind around
the house.
The musicians, playing upon their fine wind instruments, and dressed
very gayly, came first. Then came those of his workmen who had been
with him twenty-five years; then his clerks and book-keepers; then
followed his other workmen, and then all the boys who were employed
in his factory. All wore black coats, with a green bow pinned on the
breast.
They drew up in a circle on the lawn before his house; and five old
men, who had been with him for twenty-five years, stood in the
centre, holding something which was wrapped up in the Hamburg flag.
Now all the musical instruments played a solemn, religious hymn.
Immediately after, the five hundred voices joined in singing it.
Never did a truer music rise to heaven than this; it was the music
of grateful, happy hearts.
When the hymn was sung, the book-keeper came forward and made an
address to his master, in the name of them all. In this address they
told Henry how happy he had made them; how much good he had done
them; how sensible they were of his kindness to them, and how full
of gratitude their hearts were towards him. They expressed the hope
that they should live with him all their lives.
Now the old men advanced, and uncovered what they bore in their
hands. It was a fine portrait of their benefactor, in a splendid
frame. The picture was surrounded on the margin by fine drawings,
arranged in a tasteful manner, of all the various articles which
were made in his factory, views of his warehouses in Hamburg, of the
factory in which they worked, of his house in town, of the one in
the country where they then were, and of the old exchange, where he
used to stand when he sold canes and dust sticks. Then the old men
presented to him the picture, saying only a few words of respectful
affection.
The good man shed tears. He could not speak at first. At last he
said, that this was the first time in his life that he regretted
that he could not speak in public; that if he had ever done any
thing for them, that day more than repaid him for all. They then
gave him three cheers. They now sang a German national tune, to
words which had been written for the occasion.
The children, who, as I told you, knew what was to happen, had
prepared a breakfast for these five hundred of their father's
friends. All the tables were spread in the garden behind the house,
and Henry desired that all the store rooms should be opened, and
that nothing should be spared.
After an excellent breakfast, at which the children of the good man
waited, the procession marched around to the fine music; and the
workmen, having enjoyed themselves all the morning to their hearts'
content, went to partake of a dinner which the family had provided
for them in a large farm house. Here they sang, and laughed, and
told stories till about eight o'clock in the evening, when they
returned by railway to Hamburg, in a special train which the
railroad directors ordered, free of expense, out of respect for
Henry. The railroad was behind Henry's house, and as the workmen
passed, they waved their hats and cheered him and the family till
they were out of hearing.
The picture I had so much admired was a copy of this very picture
which the workmen had presented. The original was hung up in Henry's
drawing room, as his most valuable possession. No wonder his
daughter felt proud of that picture, and loved to show her copy of
it to her friends. Near it hung a likeness of his dear Agatha. She
was very beautiful. It was a pleasant thing to hear the daughter
talk of her father and mother.
Thus did Henry live a useful, honorable, and happy life--the natural
result of his industry, perseverance, uprightness, and true
benevolence. Like Ben Adhem, he had shown his love to God by his
love to man.
One of Henry's sons had come to this country, to set up a cane and
whalebone factory in New York. The father had aided him as far as he
thought best, but urged him to depend as far as possible upon his
own industry and ability.
This son followed his father's example, and was very successful; but
was obliged, on account of the bad effects of our climate upon his
health, to return to his native land. The father, who was anxious to
visit the United States, and wished much to see his daughter again,
who was particularly dear to him, determined to come, for a while,
in his son's place. Henry thought also that his health, which began
to fail, might be benefited by a sea voyage.
One reason why he wished much to visit America was, that he might
see, with his own eyes, the position of the laboring classes in the
Free States. Of the Slave States he never could think with patience.
His daughter told me that the only time when she had seen her father
lose his self-command, was when a gentleman, just returned from the
West Indies, had defended slavery, and had said that the negroes
were only fit to be slaves. Henry's anger was irrepressible, and,
although it was at his own table, and he was remarkable for his
hospitality and politeness, he could not help showing his
indignation.
Nothing could exceed his delight at what he saw in this part of our
country. The appearance every where of prosperity and comfort; the
cheerful look of our mechanics and laborers; their activity; the
freedom and joyousness of their manners,--all spoke to him of a
free, prosperous, and happy people.
He was only, for any long time, in New York, where his son's factory
was, and in Massachusetts, where his daughter lived. Unhappily his
health did not improve. On the contrary, it failed almost daily.
Still he enjoyed himself much. While in this part of the country, he
took many drives around the environs of Boston with his daughter,
and expressed the greatest delight at the aspect of the country,
particularly at the appearance of the houses of the farmers and
mechanics.
He found, when in the city of New York, that attention to business
was too much for his strength; so he resolved to travel. "Nature,"
he said, "will cure me; I will go to Niagara."
He brought with him, as a companion and nurse, his youngest son, a
lad of fifteen years of age. The boy went every where with him. When
they arrived at Niagara, Henry would not go to the Falls with any
other visitors; he only allowed his son to accompany him. When he
first saw this glorious wonder of our western world, he fell on his
knees and wept; he could not contain his emotion. He was a true
worshipper of Nature, and he courted her healing influences; but he
only found still greater peace and health of mind; his bodily health
did not return.
His daughter, who, like all Germans, held a festival every
Christmas, wrote to urge him to pass his Christmas with her at her
Massachusetts home; he was then in New York. He replied that he was
too ill to bear the journey at that season. The pleasure of the
thought of her Christmas evening was gone; but she determined to
make it as pleasant as she could to her husband and children, though
her thoughts and her heart were with her sick father.
In the morning, however, a telegraphic message arrived from her
father, saying he would be with them at eight o'clock in the
evening.
With the Germans, the whole family make presents to each other, no
matter how trifling; but some little present every one receives.
Henry's little granddaughter was dressed in a style as fairy-like as
possible, and presented her grandfather with a basket of such fruits
as the season would allow of, as the most appropriate present for a
lover of Nature. A very happy evening the good man had with his
children.
He was forced to return to New York. It was not many months after
that his daughter heard that he was very ill at Oyster Bay, where he
had gone to a water cure establishment. She went immediately to him,
and remained with him, nursing him, and reading to him, till he was
better, though not well.
During this period, when he was able to bear the fatigue, his
daughter drove him in a gig round the neighboring country; and she
told me that such was his interest in the laborers, that he would
never pass one without stopping, and asking him questions about his
mode of working, &c. He could not speak English; but she was the
interpreter.
At last he insisted upon his daughter's returning to her family.
There was something so solemn, so repressed, in his manner, when he
took leave of her, that she was afterwards convinced that he knew he
should never see her again; but he said not a word of the kind.
His health grew worse; his strength failed daily; and he determined
to return to Germany, so as to die in his native land. He wrote to
his daughter, to ask her, as a proof of her love for him, not to
come to say farewell. She was ill at the time, and submitted with a
sad and aching heart.
She had seen her dear, excellent father for the last time. He lived
to arrive in Hamburg. His workmen, when they heard of his arrival,
went to the vessel, and bore him in their arms to his country house,
where he died eight days afterwards.
He showed his strong and deep love of nature in these his last
hours; for when he was so weak as to be apparently unconscious of
the presence of those he loved, he begged to be carried into his
garden, that he might hear the birds sing, and look upon his flowers
once more.
When he knew he was breathing his last, he said to his children who
were standing around his bed, "Be useful, and love one another."
His death was considered a public calamity in Hamburg. His workmen
felt that they had lost their benefactor and brother. His children
knew that life could never give them another such friend.
His body was placed in the great hall, in his country house, and
surrounded by orange trees in full bloom. Flowers he loved to the
very last; and flowers shed their perfume over the mortal garment of
his great and beautiful soul. One after another, his workmen and his
other friends came and looked at his sweet and noble countenance,
and took a last farewell.
In Germany, when a distinguished man dies, he is carried to the
grave on an elevated hearse decorated with black feathers and all
the trappings of woe; but Henry's workmen insisted upon carrying
their benefactor and friend to his last home in their arms. Their
sorrowing hearts were the truest mourning, the only pomp and
circumstance worthy of the occasion; and their streaming eyes were
the modest and unobtrusive, but most deeply affecting, pageant of
that day. All the inhabitants followed him, with mourning in their
hearts. Remembering Henry's love for flowers, his fellow-citizens
made arches of flowers in three places for his mortal remains to
pass under, as the most appropriate testimonial of their love. The
public officers all followed him to the grave, and the military paid
him appropriate honors. Three different addresses were delivered
over his body by distinguished speakers, and then hundreds and
hundreds of voices joined in singing a hymn to his praise written by
a friend.
Henry made such an arrangement of his business, and left such
directions about it, as to make sure that his workmen should, if
they wished it, have employment in his factory for ten years to
come. He divided his property equally amongst his children, and
bequeathed to them all his charities, which were not few, saying
that he knew that his children would do as he had done, and that
these duties would be sacred with them.
Such a life needs no comment. Its eloquence, its immortal power, is
its truth, its reality.
Among the many beautiful things that were written in honor of Henry,
I have translated these as peculiarly simple and just.
"ON THE GRAVE OF THE GOOD, GREAT MAN."
"Henry--, a MAN in the best sense of the term, strong in body and
soul, with a heart full of the noblest purposes, which he carried
out into action, without show and with a child-like mind."
"To the great Giver of all things thankful for the smallest gift. To
his family a devoted father. To his friends a faithful friend. To
the state a useful citizen. To the poor a benefactor. To the dying a
worthy example."
"Why was this power broken in the prime of life? Why were the wings
of this diligent spirit clipped? Why were stopped the beatings of
this heart, which beat for all created things? Sad questions, which
can only find an answer in the assurance that all which God wills
for us is good."
"Peace be with thee, friend and brother! We can never forget thee."
Around their father's grave the children stand,
And mourning friends are shedding bitter tears;
With sorrowing faces men are standing here,
Whose tender love did bear him in their arms
In sickness once, and now once more in death,
Him who protector, friend, and helper was;
And many eyes whose tears he wiped away,
Are weeping at his narrow house to-day.
When the frail vestments of the soul
Are hidden in the tomb, what then remains to man?
The memory of his deeds is ours.
O sacred death, then, like the flowers of spring,
Many good deeds are brought to light.
Blessed and full of love, good children
And true friends stand at his grave,
And there with truth loudly declare,
"A noble soul has gone to heaven;
Rich seed has borne celestial fruit;
His whole day's work now in God is done."
Thus speak we now over thy grave,
Our friend, now glorified and living in our hearts.
A lasting monument thou thyself hast built
In every heart which thy great worth has known.
Yes, more than marble or than brass, our love
Shall honor thee, who dwellest in our hearts.
These tears, which pure love consecrates to thee,
Thou noble man, whom God has called away
From work which He himself has blessed,--
These grateful tears shall fall upon the tomb
That hides the earthly garment of our friend.
O, let us ne'er forget the firm and earnest mind
Which bore him swiftly onward in his course;
How from a slender twig he built a bridge
O'er which he safely hastened to the work
Which youthful hope and courage planned.
Think how the circle of his love embraced
His children and his children's children, all,
His highest joy their happiness and good.
Think how he labored for the good of all,
Supporter, benefactor, faithful friend!
How with his wise and powerful mind
He served and blessed his native place!
His works remain to speak his praise.
How did his generous, noble spirit glow
With joy at all the good and beautiful
Which time and human skill brought forth!
He ever did the standard gladly gain
Which light, and truth, and justice raised;
And when his noble efforts seemed to fail,
Found ever in his pure and quiet breast a sweet repose.
We give to-day thy dust to dust.
Thy spirit, thy true being, is with us.
Thou art not dead; thou art already risen.
Loved friend, thou livest, and thou watchest o'er us still.
Be dry our tears; be hushed our sighs;
Victor o'er death, our friend still lives;
Takes his reward from the Great Master's band.
Deep night has passed away. On him
Eternal morning breaks. He,
From the dark chamber of the grave,
Goes to the light of the All-holy One.
Weep, weep no more! Look up with hope on high!
There does he dwell. He liveth too on earth.
The Master who has called him hence to higher work,
To-morrow will call us--perhaps to-day.
Then shall we see him once again. He, who went home
From earth in weakness and in pain,
Is risen there in everlasting joy and strength.
Till then we here resolve to live like him,
That we, like him, may die religious, true, and free.
When any little boy reads this true story of a good, great man, I
would have him remember that Henry began to be a good, great man
when only eight years old. Henry began by being industrious,
patient, and good humored, so that people liked to buy his sticks.
Then he was faithful and true to his father, and would not leave
him, not even for the sake of gaining some advantages. Henry used
all his faculties, and, by making his pretty canes, he got money,
not to buy sugar plums, but to pay for instruction. When he did
wrong, he took his punishment cheerfully, and did not commit the
same fault again. All the virtues which finally made him a good,
great man he began to practise when he was only eight years of age,
when he was really a little boy.
I would have every little boy and girl who reads this story try to
imitate him. If he is poor, let him learn to do something useful, so
to earn money that may help his father and mother, and perhaps be
the means of giving him a better education. If he is rich, let him
seek to get knowledge, and let him remember those who have not as
much as he has, like little Eva, who taught Uncle Tom. Let him
remember that the selfish and the lazy cannot be truly happy; that
selfishness is its own punishment in the end; that no children and
no men are truly happy or truly good who do not obey the words of
the noble-minded Henry on his death-bed--
"Be useful, and love one another"
THE MIGHTY DEEDS OF ABC.
A LETTER TO A LITTLE BOY FROM HIS AUNT.
MY DEAR FRANK: I was much pleased with your writing me a letter. If
you were to take a piece of paper, and do up some sugar plums in it,
and send it to me, I should eat up the sugar plums, and then there
would be nothing left but the piece of white paper; but if you take
a piece of paper, and mark on it with a pen some crooked and some
straight, some round and some long strokes, they tell me, though
they make no noise, that you love me, and they seem just like little
messengers from you to me, all with something to tell me of my dear
little Frank.
Besides, after these messengers have spoken once, there they stand
ready to speak again as soon as I only look at them, and tell me the
same pleasant story the second time that they did the first.
If I were to put them away in a safe place for forty years, and then
look at them, when you were beginning to be an old man, these
crooked scratches of your pen would still talk to me of little
Frank, as he was when I held him in my lap, and we used to laugh,
and talk, and tell stories together.
Think, then, my dear Frank, how much better it is to be able to fill
a letter with these curious strokes to send to a friend than to have
bushels of sugar plums to send him.
Did you ever think what curious things these little letters are? You
know the great Bible that you love to look at so much, and to hear
father read from. All the wonderful things related in it are told by
twenty-six little letters.
It is they that tell you of the creation of the world, of the
beautiful garden called Eden in which Adam and Eve lived; they tell
you the sad story of their disobedience to God, and of their being
turned out of paradise.
Then they tell you all about the Israelites, or Jews, as we call
them. In the same book, these twenty-six letters place themselves a
little differently, and tell you the story of Joseph and his
brethren that you were so much pleased with when your father read it
to you, and that of David and Goliath, that you like so much.