July 17, 2025 • 8 mins
Dive into Warners engaging and humor-filled memoir as he shares his experiences growing up on a farm in Charlemont, Massachusetts. Narrated by Mark Penfold, this podcast will transport you back to a simpler time and place.
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Episode Transcript
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Speaker 1 (00:00):
Chapter nineteen of Being a Boy by Charles Dudley Warner.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by
Mark Penfold, Chapter nineteen, a contrast to the New England Boy.
One evening at Vesper's in Genoa, attracted by a burst
(00:22):
of music from the swinging curtain at the doorway, I
entered a little church, much frequented by the common people.
An unexpected and exceedingly pretty sight rewarded me. It was
all Soul's Day. In Italy, almost every day is set
apart for some festival or belongs to some saint or another.
And I suppose that when Leapier brings around the extra day,
(00:44):
there is a saint ready to claim the twenty ninth
of February. Whatever the day was to the elders, the
evening was devoted to the children. The first thing I
noticed was that the quaint old church was lighted up
with innumerable wax tapers, an uncommon sight, for the darkness
of a Catholic church in the evening is usually relieved
only by a candle here and there, and by a
(01:06):
blazing pyramid of them on the high altar. The use
of gas is held to be a vulgar thing all
over Europe, and especially unfit for a church or an
aristocratic palace. Then I saw that each taper belonged to
a little boy or girl, and the groups of children
were scattered all about the church. There was a group
by every side, altar and chapel. All the benches were
(01:28):
occupied by knots of them, and there were so many
circles of them seated on the pavement that I could
with difficulty make my way among them. There were hundreds
of children in the church, all dressed in their holiday apparel,
and all intent upon the illumination, which seemed to be
a private affair to each one of them, And not
much effect had their tapers upon the darkness of the
(01:48):
vast vaults above them. The tapers were little spiral coils
of wax, which the children unrolled as fast as they burned,
and when they were tired of holding them, they rested
them on the ground and watched the burning. I stood
some time by a group of a dozen seated in
a corner of the church. They had massed all the
tapers in the center and formed a ring about the spectacle,
(02:09):
sitting with their legs straight out before them, and their
toes turned up the light shone full in their happy faces,
and made the group enveloped otherwise in darkness, like one
of Correggio's pictures of children or angels. Correggio was a
famous Italian artist of the sixteenth century who painted cherubs
like children who were just going to heaven, and children
(02:30):
like cherubs who had just come out of it. But
then he had the Italian children for models, and they
get the knack of being lovely very young. An Italian
child finds it as easy to be pretty as an
American child to be good. One could not but be
struck with the patience these little people exhibited in their
occupation and the enjoyment they got out of it. There
(02:52):
was no noise, all conversed in subdued whispers, and behaved
in the most gentle manner to each other, especially to them.
And there were many of them so small that they
could only toddle about by the most judicious exercise of
their equilibrium. I do not say this by way of
reproof to any other kind of children. These little groups,
as I have said, were scattered all about the church,
(03:15):
and they made with their tapers little spots of light
which looked in the distance, very much like Couragio's picture
which is at Dresden, the Holy Family at night, and
the light from the Divine Child blazing in the faces
of all the attendants. Some of the children were infants
in the nurse's arms, but no one was too small
to have a taper and to run the risk of
burning its fingers. There is nothing that a baby likes
(03:39):
more than a lighted candle. And the Church has understood
this longing in human nature and found means to gratify
it by this festival of tapers. The groups do not
all remain long in place, you may imagine. There is
a good deal of shifting about, and I see little
stragglers wandering over the church like fairies lighted by fireflies.
(03:59):
Occasionally they form a little procession and march from one
altar to another, their lights twinkling as they go. But
all this time there is music pouring out of the
organ loft at the end of the church and flooding
all its spaces with its volume. In front of the
organ is a choir of boys led by a round
faced and jolly monk, who rolls about as he sings,
(04:19):
and lets the deep bass noise, rumble about a long
time in his stomach before he pours it out of
his mouth. I can see the faces of all of
them quite well. For each singer has a candle to
light his music book. And next to the monk stands
the boy, the handsomest boy in the whole world. Probably
at this moment. I can see now his great, liquid
(04:40):
dark eyes, and his exquisite face, and the way he
tossed back his long, waving hair when he struck into
his part. He resembled the portraits of Raphael when that
artist was a boy. Only I think he looked better
than Raphael, and without trying, for he seemed to be
a spontaneous sort of boy. And how that boy did sing.
He was the soprano of the choir, and he had
(05:02):
a voice of heavenly sweetness. When he opened his mouth
and tossed back his head, he filled the church with
exquisite melody. He sang like a lark or like an angel.
As we never heard an angel sing. That comparison is
not worth much. I have seen pictures of angels singing.
There is one by Yon and Hubert van Eyck in
(05:22):
the gallery at Berlin, and they open their mouths like
this boy, but I can't say as much for their
singing the lark, which you very likely never heard either,
for larks are as scarce in America as angels. Is
a bird that springs up from the meadow and begins
to sing as he rises in a spiral flight, and
the higher he mounts, the sweeter he sings, until you
(05:43):
think the notes are dropping out of heaven itself, and
you hear him when he is gone from sight, and
you think you hear him long after all sound has ceased.
And yet this boy sang better than a lark, because
he had more notes and a greater compass and more volume.
Although he shook out his voice in the same glee
some abundance. I am sorry that I cannot add that
this ravishingly beautiful boy was a good boy. He was
(06:06):
probably one of the most mischievous boys that was ever
in an organ loft. All the time that he was
singing the Vespers, he was skylarking like an imp. While
he was pouring out the most divine melody. He would
take the opportunity of kicking the shins of the boy
next to him. And while he was waiting for his part,
he would kick out behind at any one who was
incautious enough to approach him. There never was such a
(06:29):
vicious boy. He kept the whole loft in a ferment.
When the monk rumbled his bass in his stomach, the
boy cut up monkey shines that set every other boy
into a laugh. Or he stirred up a row that
set them all at fisticuffs. And yet this boy was
a great favorite. The jolly monk loved him best of all,
and bore with his wildest pranks. When he was wanted
(06:50):
to see his part, and was skylarking in the rear,
the fat monk took him by the ear and brought
him forward. And when he gave the boy's ear a twist,
the boy opened his lovely mouth and poured forth such
a flood of melody as you never heard. And he
didn't mind his notes. He seemed to know his notes
by heart, and could sing and look off like a
nightingale on a bough. He knew his power, that boy,
(07:12):
and he stepped forward to his stand when he pleased,
certain that he would be forgiven as soon as he
began to sing. And such spirit and life as he
threw into the performance, rollicking through the vespers, with a
perfect abandon of carriage, as if he could sing himself
out of his skin if he liked. While the little
angels down below were pattering about with their wax tapers,
(07:33):
keeping the holy fire burning. Suddenly the organ stopped, the
monk shut his book with a bang, The boys blew
out the candles, and I heard them all tumbling downstairs
in a gale of noise and laughter. The beautiful boy
I saw no more about him, plays the light of
tender memory. But were he twice as lovely, I could
(07:55):
never think of him as having either the simple manliness
or the good fortune of the New England Boy. The
End of Chapter nineteen and the End of Being a
Boy by Charles Dudley Warner. Recording by Mark Penfold, Completed
(08:17):
September twenty first, two thousand ten, Lincoln, Nebraska,
Chapter nineteen of Being a Boy by Charles Dudley Warner.
This LibriVox recording is in the public domain recording by
Mark Penfold, Chapter nineteen, a contrast to the New England Boy.
One evening at Vesper's in Genoa, attracted by a burst
(00:22):
of music from the swinging curtain at the doorway, I
entered a little church, much frequented by the common people.
An unexpected and exceedingly pretty sight rewarded me. It was
all Soul's Day. In Italy, almost every day is set
apart for some festival or belongs to some saint or another.
And I suppose that when Leapier brings around the extra day,
(00:44):
there is a saint ready to claim the twenty ninth
of February. Whatever the day was to the elders, the
evening was devoted to the children. The first thing I
noticed was that the quaint old church was lighted up
with innumerable wax tapers, an uncommon sight, for the darkness
of a Catholic church in the evening is usually relieved
only by a candle here and there, and by a
(01:06):
blazing pyramid of them on the high altar. The use
of gas is held to be a vulgar thing all
over Europe, and especially unfit for a church or an
aristocratic palace. Then I saw that each taper belonged to
a little boy or girl, and the groups of children
were scattered all about the church. There was a group
by every side, altar and chapel. All the benches were
(01:28):
occupied by knots of them, and there were so many
circles of them seated on the pavement that I could
with difficulty make my way among them. There were hundreds
of children in the church, all dressed in their holiday apparel,
and all intent upon the illumination, which seemed to be
a private affair to each one of them, And not
much effect had their tapers upon the darkness of the
(01:48):
vast vaults above them. The tapers were little spiral coils
of wax, which the children unrolled as fast as they burned,
and when they were tired of holding them, they rested
them on the ground and watched the burning. I stood
some time by a group of a dozen seated in
a corner of the church. They had massed all the
tapers in the center and formed a ring about the spectacle,
(02:09):
sitting with their legs straight out before them, and their
toes turned up the light shone full in their happy faces,
and made the group enveloped otherwise in darkness, like one
of Correggio's pictures of children or angels. Correggio was a
famous Italian artist of the sixteenth century who painted cherubs
like children who were just going to heaven, and children
(02:30):
like cherubs who had just come out of it. But
then he had the Italian children for models, and they
get the knack of being lovely very young. An Italian
child finds it as easy to be pretty as an
American child to be good. One could not but be
struck with the patience these little people exhibited in their
occupation and the enjoyment they got out of it. There
(02:52):
was no noise, all conversed in subdued whispers, and behaved
in the most gentle manner to each other, especially to them.
And there were many of them so small that they
could only toddle about by the most judicious exercise of
their equilibrium. I do not say this by way of
reproof to any other kind of children. These little groups,
as I have said, were scattered all about the church,
(03:15):
and they made with their tapers little spots of light
which looked in the distance, very much like Couragio's picture
which is at Dresden, the Holy Family at night, and
the light from the Divine Child blazing in the faces
of all the attendants. Some of the children were infants
in the nurse's arms, but no one was too small
to have a taper and to run the risk of
burning its fingers. There is nothing that a baby likes
(03:39):
more than a lighted candle. And the Church has understood
this longing in human nature and found means to gratify
it by this festival of tapers. The groups do not
all remain long in place, you may imagine. There is
a good deal of shifting about, and I see little
stragglers wandering over the church like fairies lighted by fireflies.
(03:59):
Occasionally they form a little procession and march from one
altar to another, their lights twinkling as they go. But
all this time there is music pouring out of the
organ loft at the end of the church and flooding
all its spaces with its volume. In front of the
organ is a choir of boys led by a round
faced and jolly monk, who rolls about as he sings,
(04:19):
and lets the deep bass noise, rumble about a long
time in his stomach before he pours it out of
his mouth. I can see the faces of all of
them quite well. For each singer has a candle to
light his music book. And next to the monk stands
the boy, the handsomest boy in the whole world. Probably
at this moment. I can see now his great, liquid
(04:40):
dark eyes, and his exquisite face, and the way he
tossed back his long, waving hair when he struck into
his part. He resembled the portraits of Raphael when that
artist was a boy. Only I think he looked better
than Raphael, and without trying, for he seemed to be
a spontaneous sort of boy. And how that boy did sing.
He was the soprano of the choir, and he had
(05:02):
a voice of heavenly sweetness. When he opened his mouth
and tossed back his head, he filled the church with
exquisite melody. He sang like a lark or like an angel.
As we never heard an angel sing. That comparison is
not worth much. I have seen pictures of angels singing.
There is one by Yon and Hubert van Eyck in
(05:22):
the gallery at Berlin, and they open their mouths like
this boy, but I can't say as much for their
singing the lark, which you very likely never heard either,
for larks are as scarce in America as angels. Is
a bird that springs up from the meadow and begins
to sing as he rises in a spiral flight, and
the higher he mounts, the sweeter he sings, until you
(05:43):
think the notes are dropping out of heaven itself, and
you hear him when he is gone from sight, and
you think you hear him long after all sound has ceased.
And yet this boy sang better than a lark, because
he had more notes and a greater compass and more volume.
Although he shook out his voice in the same glee
some abundance. I am sorry that I cannot add that
this ravishingly beautiful boy was a good boy. He was
(06:06):
probably one of the most mischievous boys that was ever
in an organ loft. All the time that he was
singing the Vespers, he was skylarking like an imp. While
he was pouring out the most divine melody. He would
take the opportunity of kicking the shins of the boy
next to him. And while he was waiting for his part,
he would kick out behind at any one who was
incautious enough to approach him. There never was such a
(06:29):
vicious boy. He kept the whole loft in a ferment.
When the monk rumbled his bass in his stomach, the
boy cut up monkey shines that set every other boy
into a laugh. Or he stirred up a row that
set them all at fisticuffs. And yet this boy was
a great favorite. The jolly monk loved him best of all,
and bore with his wildest pranks. When he was wanted
(06:50):
to see his part, and was skylarking in the rear,
the fat monk took him by the ear and brought
him forward. And when he gave the boy's ear a twist,
the boy opened his lovely mouth and poured forth such
a flood of melody as you never heard. And he
didn't mind his notes. He seemed to know his notes
by heart, and could sing and look off like a
nightingale on a bough. He knew his power, that boy,
(07:12):
and he stepped forward to his stand when he pleased,
certain that he would be forgiven as soon as he
began to sing. And such spirit and life as he
threw into the performance, rollicking through the vespers, with a
perfect abandon of carriage, as if he could sing himself
out of his skin if he liked. While the little
angels down below were pattering about with their wax tapers,
(07:33):
keeping the holy fire burning. Suddenly the organ stopped, the
monk shut his book with a bang, The boys blew
out the candles, and I heard them all tumbling downstairs
in a gale of noise and laughter. The beautiful boy
I saw no more about him, plays the light of
tender memory. But were he twice as lovely, I could
(07:55):
never think of him as having either the simple manliness
or the good fortune of the New England Boy. The
End of Chapter nineteen and the End of Being a
Boy by Charles Dudley Warner. Recording by Mark Penfold, Completed
(08:17):
September twenty first, two thousand ten, Lincoln, Nebraska,
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