Horatio Alger - From Farm Boy to Senator

But thirty years have elapsed since the death of Daniel Webster, and there is already danger that, so far as young people are concerned, he will become an historic reminiscence. Schoolboys, who declaim the eloquent extracts from his speeches which are included in all the school speakers, are indeed able to form some idea of his great oratorical powers and the themes which called them forth; but I have found that young classical students, as a rule, know more of Cicero’s life than of his. It seems to me eminently fitting that the leading incidents in the life of our great countryman, his struggles for an education, the steps by which he rose to professional and political distinction, should be made familiar to American boys. I have therefore essayed a “story biography,” which I have tried to write in such a manner as to make it attractive to young people, who are apt to turn away from ordinary biographies, in the fear that they may prove dull.

I have not found my task an easy one. Webster’s life is so crowded with great services and events, it is so interwoven with the history of the nation, that to give a fair idea of him in a volume of ordinary size is almost impossible. I have found it necessary to leave out some things, and to refer briefly to others, lest my book should expand to undue proportions. Let me acknowledge then, with the utmost frankness, that my work is incomplete, and necessarily so. This causes me less regret, because those whom I may be fortunate enough to interest in my subject will readily find all that they wish to know in the noble Life of Webster, by George Ticknor Curtis, the captivating Reminiscences, by Peter Harvey, the Private Correspondence, edited by Fletcher Webster, and the collection of Mr. Webster’s speeches, edited by Mr. Everett. They will also find interesting views of Mr. Webster’s senatorial career in the Reminiscences of Congress, by Charles W. March.

If this unpretending volume shall contribute in any way to extend the study of Mr. Webster’s life and works, I shall feel that my labor has been well bestowed.

Horatio Alger, Jr.

March 28, 1882.

“Where are you going, Daniel?”

“To Mr. Hoyt’s store.”

“I’ll go in with you. Where is ’Zekiel this morning?”

“I left him at work on the farm.”

“I suppose you will both be farmers when you grow up?”

“I don’t know,” answered Daniel, thoughtfully. “I don’t think I shall like it, but there isn’t anything else to do in Salisbury.”

“You might keep a store, and teach school like Master Hoyt.”

“Perhaps so. I should like it better than farming.”

Daniel was but eight years old, a boy of strik[Pg 9]

[Pg 10]ing appearance, with black hair and eyes, and a swarthy complexion. He was of slender frame, and his large dark eyes, deep set beneath an overhanging brow, gave a singular appearance to the thin face of the delicate looking boy.

He was a farmer’s son, and lived in a plain, old-fashioned house, shaded by fine elms, and separated from the broad, quiet street by a fence. It was situated in a valley, at the bend of the Merrimac, on both sides of which rose high hills, which the boy climbed many a time for the more extended view they commanded. From a high sheep-pasture on his father’s farm, through a wide opening in the hills, he could see on a clear day Brentney Mountain in Vermont, and in a different direction the snowy top of Mount Washington, far away to the northeast.

He entered the humble store with his companion.

Behind the counter stood Master Hoyt, a tall man, of stern aspect, which could strike terror into the hearts of delinquent scholars when in the winter they came to receive instruction from him.

“Good morning, Daniel,” said Master Hoyt, who was waiting upon a customer.

“Good morning, sir,” answered Daniel, respectfully.

“I hope you won’t forget what you learned at school last winter.”

“No, sir, I will try not to.”

“You mustn’t forget your reading and writing.”

“No, sir; I read whatever I can find, but I don’t like writing much.”

“You’ll never make much of a hand at writing, Daniel. Ezekiel writes far better than you. But you won’t need writing much when you’re following the plough.”

“I hope I shan’t have to do that, Master Hoyt.”

“Ay, you’re hardly strong enough, you may find something else to do in time. You may keep school like me—who knows?—but you’ll have to get some one else to set the copies,” and Master Hoyt laughed, as if he thought it a good joke.

Daniel listened gravely to the master’s prediction, but it seemed to him he should hardly care to be a teacher like Mr. Hoyt, for the latter, though he was a good reader, wrote an excellent hand, and had a slight knowledge of grammar, could carry his pupils no further. No pupil was likely to wonder that “one small head could carry all he knew.” Yet the boys respected him, and in his limited way he did them good.

Master Hoyt had by this time finished waiting upon his customer, and was at leisure to pay attention to his two young callers. He regarded them rather as pupils than as customers, for it is quite the custom in sparsely settled neighborhoods to “drop in” at the store for a chat.

Meanwhile Daniel’s roving eyes had been attracted by a cotton pocket-handkerchief, which appeared to have something printed upon it.

Master Hoyt noticed the direction of the boy’s gaze.

“I see you are looking at the handkerchief,” he said. “Would you like to see what is printed on it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The handkerchief was taken down and placed in the boy’s hands. It was quite customary in those days, when books and papers were comparatively rare and difficult to obtain, to combine literature with plain homely utility, by printing reading matter of some kind on cheap cotton handkerchiefs. Nowadays boys would probably object to such a custom, but the boy, Daniel who was fond of reading, was attracted.

“Is it a story?” he asked.

“No, Daniel; it is the Constitution of the United States—the government we live under.”

Daniel’s interest was excited. Of the government he knew something, but not much, and up to that moment he had not known that there was a constitution, and indeed he couldn’t tell what a constitution was, but he thought he would like to know.

“What is the price?” he asked.

“Twenty-five cents.”

Daniel felt in his pocket, and drew out a quarter of a dollar. It represented all his worldly wealth. It had not come to him all at once, but was the accumulation of pennies saved. He may have had other plans for spending it, but now when there was a chance of securing something to read he could not resist the temptation, so he passed over his precious coin, and the handkerchief became his.

“It’s a good purchase,” said Master Hoyt, approvingly. “Take it home, Daniel, and read it, and you’ll know something of the government we’re living under. I suppose you’ve heard your father talk of the days when he was a soldier, and fought against the British?”

“Yes, sir.”

“When soldiers were called for, Captain Webster was one of the first to answer the call. But of course you are too young to remember that time.”

“Yes, sir; but I have heard father talk about it.”

“Ay, ay; your father was selected to stand guard before General Washington’s headquarters on the night after Arnold’s treason. The general knew he could depend upon him.”

“Yes, sir; I am sure of that,” said the boy proudly, for he had a high reverence and respect for his soldier father, who on his side was devoted to the best interests of his sons, and was ready when the time came to make sacrifices for them such as would have made most fathers hesitate.