University of Virginia Library

VI.—THE PRINTER BOY AND THE AMBASSADOR.

Genius in its glory—genius on its eagle-wings—genius soaring away
there in the skies!

This is a sight we often see!

But Genius in its work-shop—Genius in its cell—Genius digging away
in the dark mines of poverty—Toil in the brain, and Toil in the heart—this
is an every day fact—yet a sight that we do not often see!

Let us for a moment look at the strange contrast between—Intellect
standing there, in the sunlight of Fame, with the shouts of millions ringing
in its ears—and Intellect down there, in cold and night-crouching in the
work-shop or the garret; neglected—unpitied—and alone!

Let us for a moment behold two pictures, illustrating The Great Facts—
Intellect in its rags, and Intellect in its Glory.

The first picture has not much in it to strike your fancy—here are no
dim Cathedral aisles, grand with fretted arch and towering with pillars—
here are no scenes of nature in her sublimity, when deep lakes bosomed in
colossal cliffs, dawn on your eye—or yet, of nature's repose, when quiet
dells musical with the lull of waterfalls, breaking through the purple twilight
steal gently in dream-glimpses upon your soul!

No! Here is but a picture of plain rude Toil—yes, hot, tired, dusty
toil!

The morning sunshine is stealing through the dim panes of an old
window—yes, stealing and struggling through those dim panes, into the
dark recesses of yonder room. It is a strange old room—the walls cracked
in an hundred places, are hung with cobwebs—the floor, dark as ink, is
stained with dismal black blotches—and all around are scattered the
evidences of some plain workman's craft—heaps of paper, little pieces of
antimony are scattered over the floor—and there, in the light of the
morning sun, beside that window, stands a young man of some twenty
years—quite a boy—his coat thrown aside, his faded garments covered
with patches, while his right hand grasps several of those small bits of
antimony.

Why this is but a dull picture—a plain, sober, every-day fact.

Yet look again upon that boy standing there, in the full light of the
morning sun—there is meaning in that massive brow, shaded by locks of

dark brown hair—there is meaning in that full grey eye, now dilating and
burning, as that young man stands there alone, alone in the old room.

But what is this grim monster on which the young man leans? This
thing of uncouth shape, built of massy iron, full of springs and screws, and
bolts—tell us the name of this strange uncouth monster, on which that
young man rests his hand?

Ah! that grim old monster is a terrible thing—a horrid Phantom for dishonest
priests or traitor kings! Yes, that uncouth shape every now and
then, speaks out words that shake the world—for it is a Printing Press!

And the young man standing there in a rude garb, with the warm sunshine
streaming over his bold brow—that young man standing alone
—neglected—unknown—is a Printer Boy;—yes, an earnest Son of Toil;
thinking deep thoughts there in that old room, with its dusty floor and its
cobweb-hung walls!

Those thoughts will one day shake the world.

Now let us look upon the other picture:—

Ah! here is a scene full of Night and Music and Romance!

We stand in a magnificent garden, musical with waterfalls, and yonder,
far through these arcades of towering trees, a massive palace breaks up into
the deep azure of night.

Let us approach that palace, with its thousand windows flashing with
lights—hark! how the music of a full band comes stealing along this garden
—mingling with the hum of fountains—gathering in one burst up into the
dark concave of Heaven.

Let us enter this palace! Up wide stair-ways where heavy carpets give
no echo to the footfall—up wide stair-ways—through long corridors,
adorned with statues—into this splendid saloon.

Yes, a splendid saloon—yon chandelier flinging a shower of light over
this array of noble lords and beautiful women—on every side the flash of
jewels—the glitter of embroidery—the soft mild gleam of pearls, rising into
light, with the pulsation of fair bosoms—ah! this is indeed a splendid
scene!

And yonder—far through the crowd of nobility and beauty—yonder,
under folds of purple tapestry, dotted with gold, stands the Throne, and on
that Throne—the King!

That King—these courtiers—noble lords—and proud dames—are all
awaiting a strange spectacle! The appearance of an Ambassador from an
unknown Republic far over the waters. They are all anxious to look upon
this strange man—whose fame goes before him. Hark—to those whispers
—it is even said this strange Ambassador of an unknown Republic, has
called down the lightnings from God's eternal sky.

No doubt this Ambassador will be something very uncouth, yet it still
must be plain that he will try to veil his uncouthness in a splendid Court
dress!

The King, the Courtiers, are all on the tip-toe of expectation!

Why does not this Magician from the New World—this Chainer of
thunderbolts—appear?

Suddenly there is a murmur—the tinselled crowd part on either side—
look!—he comes: the Magician, the Ambassador!

He comes walking through that lane, whose walls are beautiful women;
—is he decked out in a Court dress? Is he abashed by the presence of
the King?

Ah, no! Look there—how the King starts with surprise, as that plain
man comes forward! That plain man with the bold brow, the curling
locks behind his ears—and such odious home-made blue stockings upon his
limbs.

Look there, and in that Magician—that Chainer of the Lightnings—behold
the Printer Boy of the dusty room; stout-hearted, true-souled, common-sense
Benjamin Franklin!

And shall we leave these two pictures, without looking at the deep moral
they inculcate?

Without the slightest disrespect to the professions called learned, I stand
here to-night, to confess that the great Truth of Franklin's life is the
sanctity of Toil!

Yes, that your true Nobleman of God's creation, is not your lawyer, digging
away among musty parchments, not even your white cravatted divine
—but this man, who clad in the coarse garments of Toil, comes out from
the work-shop and stands with the noon-day sun upon his brow, not
ashamed to own himself a Mechanic!

Ah! my friends, there is a world of meaning in these pictures! They
speak to your hearts now—they will speak to the heart of Universal Man
forever!

Here, the unknown Printer Boy standing at his labor, neglected, unknown;
clad in a patched garb, with the laborer's sweat upon his brow
—There, the Man whom nations are proud to claim as their own, standing
as the Ambassador of a Free People—standing as a Prophet of the
Rights of Man—unawed, unabashed, in the Presence of Royalty and
Gold!

Benjamin Franklin, in his brown coat and blue stockings, mocking to
shame the pomp of these Courtiers—the glittering robes of yonder King!