Nevertheless I was able to rejoice at the successful escape from something much worse than I had yet endured, and having once triumphed over Parsons, I no longer feared him as I used to do. Even if I met him in the street, I believed I could prevent him from taking me back to his house, and the more pressing difficulty was how to obtain food and shelter, and, subsequently, work.

Becoming hungry as the afternoon wore on, I went into St. James's Park, and, taking off my jacket and waistcoat, did not put the waistcoat on again, but carried it under my arm to a small p.a.w.nbroker's shop near Victoria Station, where I obtained eightpence in exchange. For my tall hat I received a shilling, and then, pa.s.sing a very cheap shop, I bought a grey cloth cap for threepence three-farthings, so that on the whole I gained about one and fourpence by the deal.

Knowing that I must husband my resources, I bought a penny saveloy and a chunk of bread at an eating-house, and then wandered about the streets until nearly nightfall, wondering where I should sleep. The first night was, however, by no means uncomfortable, for, pa.s.sing a large stable-yard, I saw it contained several empty omnibuses, and, waiting until n.o.body was looking, I made a rush into one of these; I lay down at full length on the seat, and slept until a stable-man woke me at half-past five the next morning.

But over the next few days I intend to pa.s.s rapidly, for indeed they were too full of wretchedness to be dwelt upon. From early morning until late at night I wandered about the streets or in the parks, where also I slept. I took every care of my scanty stock of money, but at last it came to an end. Once I held a horse for twopence, once I carried a heavy portmanteau from Charing Cross to Tottenham Court Road for a penny, and once a lady took pity on my condition and gave me threepence. Then I parted with my jacket, and lived on the proceeds for three days while walking about with nothing above my shirt.

(_Continued on page 173._)

GOOD-BYE TO THE LAST FIRE.

Good-bye, old fire! We won't forget Your pleasant warmth and glow, When evening shades were dark as jet, And outside lay the snow.

But now, you see, we're right in May, It's spring, without a doubt, And so, good fire, I grieve to say It's time that you were out.

The little leaves are springing green, The skies above are blue; The primrose everywhere is seen, The almond's blooming too.

Of course, you don't expect to stay When flowers are round about, And so, good fire, again I say It's time that you were out.

But when, once more, November chill Its cloak of mist has spread, And o'er the lonely winter hill The sun goes soon to bed, We'll call you back with joyous shout, And, as the shades descend, We'll draw the blinds to shut them out And greet you as a friend.

JOHN LEA.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1805.

IV.--THE STORY OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

On the 2nd of April, 1805, was born, amid very humble surroundings, a little Danish boy named Hans Christian Andersen, who, in later years, became the most popular tale-writer that perhaps the world has ever known. Andersen's Fairy Tales, though written in a past century, and for another generation, are just as popular to-day as they ever were, and it seems as if all children (and grown-up people who have kept their child-like hearts) could never tire of these delightful stories. We can all read, and re-read, the 'Ugly Duckling,' or the 'Eleven Wild Swans;'

we can sympathise with the love of the faithful 'Tin Soldier;' and who can resist laughing at all the outrageous performances of 'Little Claus and Big Claus?' Truly, Andersen had the key to unlock all hearts!

[Ill.u.s.tration: Hans Christian Andersen.

Born April 2, 1805. Died August 4, 1875.]

Now for the story of the writer's life.

The father of Hans Andersen was only a poor shoe-maker, but he loved reading and poetry, and seems to have taught his little boy a similar love. The shoe-maker amused himself by making a toy theatre for his little Hans, and showed him how to work the puppets, and make them act little plays. This was a winter amus.e.m.e.nt. In the long summer days he would often take the child to the woods--and here, in the great birch forests, the two would spend the hours, hardly saying a word to each other, but each dreaming his own dreams as they sauntered along the shady paths.

But these happy childish days soon came to an end: the kind father died, and Hans had to go to a charity school, where he learnt little beyond reading and writing.

Money was now very scarce in his home, and both Hans and his mother were often hard put to it for a meal.

One day they went out into the fields to glean corn, and were chased off the ground by a cruel bailiff, who ran after them with a heavy whip. The bailiff, with his long legs, soon overtook the little eight-year-old Hans, and was about to bring his whip down on the child's shoulders, when Hans turned round, and looking full at the angry man, exclaimed: 'How dare you strike me when you know G.o.d can see you?'

The bailiff was so taken aback at this rebuke from the mouth of a child that he dropped his whip, and, fumbling in his pocket, produced some money, which he offered to Hans to make up for his unkindness.

A year or two later a widow wanted some one to read aloud to her, and Hans got the place. The widow's husband had been a poet, and, as Hans read out his poems, the boy's ambition was fired.

'I too will be a poet!' he cried, and, on returning home, he at once set to work and wrote--a tragedy!

The news of this performance spread amongst the neighbours (very likely the mother boasted of it, as mothers will), and all wished to hear it; so they came together in one of the larger cottages, and Hans read his wonderful tragedy to the company, and felt bitterly hurt when the greater part of them laughed heartily at the play.

Meanwhile the mother was growing poorer and poorer, and Hans had to leave school, and to try and earn his bread.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "'How dare you strike me when you know G.o.d can see you?'"]

He went to a large factory, and here the workmen, finding Hans had a good voice and knew many ballads, would get him to sing to them, and to act scenes for their amus.e.m.e.nt from the great Danish writer, Holberg, whilst another of the boys employed in the factory was told off to do Hans' work for him.

After a time, however, the men tired of Hans and his songs, and he had to take his place amongst the other boys, who, being jealous of the notice that had been taken of Hans, led him a sorry life. At last he could bear their persecution no more, and left the factory--never to return to it.

The next few months he spent quietly at home, reading eagerly any book he could get hold of, and specially delighting in a copy of Shakespeare.

The old toy theatre was had out once more, and the puppets were put through the scenes of the _Merchant of Venice_ and _King Lear_.

After a short time it was decided that Hans was to be apprenticed to a tailor. Hans, however, had other ambitions than to sit cross-legged on a board; he had read much lately of famous men, and he now said to his mother, 'I want to be famous, too!'

He had his plans all made, and had, he said, plenty of money to carry them out, for he had lately earned the immense sum (as it seemed to him) of thirty shillings, by singing and reciting at the houses of rich people. With this capital he begged his mother to let him go to Copenhagen and try his fortune.

She consented unwillingly at last, and the fourteen-year-old boy set off to make his own way in the world.

He reached Copenhagen--the city which now proudly claims him for her own--late one September afternoon, and at once went to the theatre and begged for employment, telling the manager he had a good voice and loved acting.

'You are too thin for the stage,' said the manager, shortly.

'Let me have a salary of a hundred dollars, sir, and I will soon grow fat,' quickly answered the boy.

'We only take people of education here,' said the manager, and poor Hans had to go away with a heavy heart.

Could he only have foreseen that in a few years' time his own plays would be acted at that very theatre, and a throng of eager citizens would be applauding the words of the now friendless boy!

But this was all in the future. At present misery and starvation stared him in the face.

At last, after he had met with endless failures, a rich Copenhagen merchant saw there was genius in the boy, and, finding that he lacked education, sent him to school to learn Latin and mathematics.

It was, of course, very galling to Hans, now a tall lad of seventeen, to have to sit on a bench with little boys of nine and ten, and be jeered at by both master and scholars for his backwardness. But Hans persevered, and at last he pa.s.sed all his examinations, and was granted a travelling scholarship.

Meanwhile he had published his first book, which was at once successful; the promise of his boyhood began to be fulfilled, for he wrote the fairy tales by which he became famous, not only in his own country, but all over Europe.

He travelled in Italy, France, Germany, and Spain, and in 1847 he came to England, where, to his great delight, he found his stories better known than even in his own country. He was a welcome guest at many of our great houses, and, on a second visit to England some few years later, he stayed with Charles d.i.c.kens at Gad's Hill.

Andersen never married; he lived in Copenhagen when not on his travels, and here he loved to gather round him children of all ages and all ranks, whom he would delight with some of his wonderful tales.

On his seventieth birthday he was fairly overwhelmed with letters and presents of kindly greetings from all parts of the globe, and these tokens of love and goodwill much pleased the old man.