[Illustration: LITTLE EFFIE.—Page 305.]
A
NEW STORY BOOK
FOR CHILDREN.
BY
FANNY FERN.
NEW YORK:
MASON BROTHERS, 7 MERCER STREET;
BOSTON: MASON & HAMLIN;
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1864.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864, by
MASON BROTHERS,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
JOHN F. TROW,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
50 Green Street.
THIS BOOK
IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO
=“Little Effie.”=
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A STORY ABOUT MYSELF, 7
GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD, 27
JOHN BROWN, 32
THE PLOUGHBOY POET, 56
OLD HICKORY, 68
THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY, 76
THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS, 82
THE KIND WORD, 103
THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE, 106
TWO QUARRELSOME OLD MEN, 128
THE LITTLE PRINCES, 131
OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON, 146
THE LITTLE LORD, 157
THE POLICEMAN, 165
LITTLE ADRIAN, 173
THE PEDDLER’S SON, 186
JEMMY LAWTON, 193
HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON, 200
THE BOY WALTER SCOTT, 206
AUNT MAGGIE, 224
A FUNERAL I SAW, 231
WATCHES, 234
OLD ZACHARIAH, 239
LITTLE GERTRUDE, 244
THE FAITHFUL DOG, 249
A QUESTION ANSWERED, 258
THE NURSE’S DAY OUT, 262
SWEET SIXTEEN, 266
SITTING FOR MY PORTRAIT, 268
ABOUT A JOURNEY I TOOK, 270
WHEN I WAS YOUNG, 283
A NURSERY THOUGHT, 287
THE USE OF GRANDMOTHERS, 289
THE INVENTOR OF THE LOCOMOTIVE, 291
TO MY LITTLE FRIENDS, 303
BABY EFFIE, 305
A STORY ABOUT MYSELF.
Nobody could be more astonished than I, to find myself famous. I never
dreamed of it, when I sat in a small room, at the top of the house where
I lodged, scribbling over a sheet of coarse foolscap with _noms de
plume_, out of which I was to choose one for my first article—which
article I never thought of preserving, any more than the succeeding
ones, supposing my meagre pecuniary remuneration the only reward I was
to hope for. I think the reason I selected the name “Fern,” was because,
when a child, and walking with my mother in the country, she always used
to pluck a leaf of it, to place in her bosom, for its sweet odor; and
that gloomy morning, when I almost despaired of earning bread for my
children, I had been thinking of her, and wishing she were living, that
I might lay my head upon her bosom and tell her all my sorrows; and then
memory carried me back, I scarce knew how, to those childish days, when
I ran before her in the woods, to pluck the sweet fern she loved; and
then I said to myself, my name shall be “Fanny Fern”—little dreaming
anybody would ever know or care anything about it.
I loved my mother;—everybody did. She had the kindest heart and sweetest
voice in the world; and if there was any person in the circle of her
acquaintance who was particularly disagreeable to her, for that person
would she be sure to do a service, the first opportunity.
In a spare room in our house was an old armchair, and in it lay a large
Bible. I often used to see my mother go into that room, sighing as she
closed the door; and, young as I was, I had learned to watch for her
coming out; for the sweet, calm, holy look her features wore, fascinated
me like a spell. _Now_ I know how it was! now, that the baptism of a
woman’s lot has been mine also; and often, when blinded by the waves of
trouble which have dashed over my head, have I thought of the open Bible
in the old armchair, its pages wet with tears, which no human eye saw
fall, wiped away by no human hand, but precious in _His_ eyes as the
seed of the husbandman, from which He garners the golden harvest
sheaves.
Thus my mother was unselfish—ever with a gentle word for all; thus she
looked upon life’s trials, as does the long-absent traveler upon the
wayside discomforts of the journey, when the beacon light gleams from
the window of the dear old home in sight. Thank God! she has reached it;
and yet—and yet—the weary hours of desolation, my heart has ached for
her human voice; in which I have sat with folded hands, while memory
upbraided me with her patience, her fortitude, her Christ-like
forbearance, her sweet, unmurmuring acceptance of the thorns in her
life-path, for His sake, who wore the thorny crown.
Weeping, I remembered her gentle touch upon my arm, as I gave way to
some impetuous burst of feeling, at the defection of some playmate, or
friend, on whose unswerving friendship my childish heart had rested as
on a rock. I saw her eyes, pitiful, imploring, sometimes tearful; for
well she saw, as a mother’s prophet-eyes alone may see, her child’s
future. She knew the passionate nature, that would be lacerated and
probed to the quick, ere the Healer came with His heavenly balm. She
knew that love’s silken cord could guide me, where the voice of severity
never could drive; and so she let my hot, angry tears fall, and when the
storm was spent, upon the dark cloud she painted the bow of promise, and
_to those only_ “_who overcome_,” she told me, was “given to eat of the
tree of life.” Alas! and alas! that her child should be a child still!
If there is any poetry in my nature, from my mother I inherited it. She
had the most intense enjoyment of the beauty of nature. From the
lowliest field-blossom, to the most gorgeous sunset, nothing escaped her
observant eye. I well remember, before the dark days came upon me, a
visit I received from her in my lovely country home. It was one of those
beautiful mornings when the smile of God seems to irradiate every living
thing; to rest on the hilltops, to linger in the valleys, to sweeten the
herbage for the unconscious cattle, and exhilarate even the
bright-winged insects who flutter in the sunbeams; a morning in which
simply to live were a blessing, for which humanity could find no
adequate voice of thanks.
From out the dusty, noisy city, my mother had come to enjoy it. I had
just placed my sleeping babe in its cradle, when I heard her footstep
upon the nursery stairs. Stooping to kiss its rosy cheek, she seated
herself at my window. The bright-winged orioles were darting through the
green foliage, the grass waved in the meadow, starting up the little
ground-bird to make its short, quick, circling flights; the contented
cattle were browsing in the fields, or bowing their meek heads to the
little brook, to drink; brown farmhouses nestled peacefully under the
overshadowing trees, and far off in the distance stretched the hills,
piled up against the clear blue sky, over which the fleecy clouds sailed
leisurely, as if they too enjoyed all this wealth of beauty. My mother
sat at the window, the soft summer wind gently lifting the brown curls
from her temples;—then slowly—musically, as she laid her hand upon mine,
while her whole face glowed, as did that of Moses when he came down from
the mount, she said, “O Lord! how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast
thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches. Who coverest
thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens
like a curtain: who walkest upon the wings of the wind. Every beast of
the forest is thine; and the cattle upon a thousand hills. The world is
thine, and the fullness thereof. I will sing praise unto God while I
have my being.” When my mother ceased to speak, and relapsed again into
silence, seemingly unconscious of my presence, I did not disturb her;
for I knew that her soul was face to face with Him who hears the
voiceless prayer, and needs not the bended knee.
My mother was eminently social, and particularly fond of the society of
young people; so much so, indeed, that my young companions were always
disappointed when she was absent from our little gatherings. Her
winning, motherly ways, her warm welcome, her appreciation and
toleration of exuberant young life, was as delightful as rare. I will
not speak of the broken-hearted whom she drew to her bosom, of the needy
to whom she ministered, of the thousand little rills of benevolence with
which she fertilized so many hearts and homes; they are written, not in
a perishable book of remembrance like mine, but in one which shall
endure when the earth shall be rolled up like a scroll.
Had my mother’s time not been so constantly engrossed by a
fast-increasing family, had she found time for literary pursuits, I am
confident she would have distinguished herself. Her hurried letters,
written with one foot upon the cradle, give ample evidence of this. She
_talked poetry unconsciously_! The many gifted men to whom her
hospitality was extended, and who were her warm personal friends, know
this.
A part of every year my mother spent in the country. One summer, while I
was yet a child, we were located in a very lovely spot near Boston.
Connected with the church where my mother worshiped, was a female prayer
meeting, held alternately at the houses of its different members. One
warm summer afternoon, my mother passed through the garden where I was
playing, and asked me if I would like to go too. I said yes, because I
liked to walk with my mother anywhere; so we sauntered along the grassy
path under the trees, till we came to a small, wooden house, half hidden
by a tall hedge of lilacs. Then my mother led me through the low
doorway, and up a pair of clean wooden stairs, into an old-fashioned
raftered chamber, through whose open window the bees were humming in and
out, and the scent of flowers, and song of birds, came pleasantly enough
to my childish senses. Taking off my sunbonnet, and brushing back my
curls, she seated me on a low stool at her feet, while one of the old
ladies commenced reading the Bible aloud. All this time I was looking
around curiously, as a child will, at the old-fashioned paper on the
walls, with its pink shepherdesses and green dogs; at the old-fashioned
fireplace, with its pitcher of asparagus branches, dotted with little
red berries; at the high-post bedstead, with its rainbow-colored
patchwork quilt, of all conceivable shapes and sizes; at its
high-backed, stiff-looking chairs, with straw seats; at its china parrot
on the mantel, and its framed sampler on the wall, with the inevitable
tombstone and weeping willow, and afflicted female, handkerchief in
hand.
After the tremulous old lady had done reading, they asked my mother to
pray. I knelt with the rest; gradually my thoughts wandered from the
china parrot, and patchwork quilt and sampler, to the words my mother
was speaking. Her voice was low, and sweet, and pleading, as if God was
very near, instead of on the “great, white throne,” far away from human
reach, where so many good people are fond of placing Him. It seemed to
me as if her head were lying, like the beloved John’s, upon His bosom;
and He were not too great, or good, or wise, to listen well pleased to
her full heart’s outpourings. Of course, these thoughts did not then,
even to myself, find voice as now, but that was my vague, unexpressed
feeling. Every musical word fell distinctly on my ear; and I listened as
one listens to the sweet, soothing murmurs of a brook, in the fragrant
summer time. I had loved my mother before; now I _revered_ her; and it
was with a new, delicious feeling I slid my hand within hers, as we
passed through the low doorway, and back by the pleasant, grassy paths,
to our home. How little she knew what was passing under the little
sunbonnet at her side, or how near heaven she had brought me, in that
old, raftered chamber.
I have spoken of my mother’s patience and forbearance. One scene I well
remember. It occurred in our little sitting room at home. My mother had
entered, with her usual soft step and pleasant tones, and addressed some
question to me concerning the lesson I was learning, when a person
entered, upon whom she had every claim for love, the deepest and
strongest. To some pleasant remark of hers, this individual returned an
answer so rude, so brutal, so stinging, that every drop of blood in my
body seemed to congeal as the murderous syllables fell. I looked at my
mother; the warm blood rushed to her temples, the smile faded from her
face; then her eyes filled with tears, and bowing her head low upon her
breast, with a meek, touching grace I shall never forget, she glided
voiceless from the room. I did not follow her, but I knew where she had
gone, as well as if I had done so. When I next saw her, save that her
voice had an added sweetness, no trace of the poisoned arrow, so
ruthlessly aimed at her peace, remained.
I have said my mother was hospitable; but her hospitality was not
extended, like that of many, only to those who could give an equivalent
in their pleasant society. One guest, who was quite the reverse of this,
often received from her the kindest attention, not gratefully, not even
pleasantly, for he was churlish to a degree. Vexed that she should thus
waste her sweetness where it was so unappreciated, I one day expressed
as much to my mother, adding, “that nobody liked him.” “Hush!” said she;
“that is the very reason why I should be the more kind to him. He has a
large family, and trouble and care have made him reserved and silent; he
may thank me and yet not say so; besides, I do not do it for thanks,”
she continued, cramming his carpet bag with her usual Lady Bountiful
assiduity. The cup of cold water in the name of the Master, to the
lowliest disciple, she never forgot.
To all these sweet womanly traits in my mother, was added a sound,
practical judgment. On one occasion, while visiting me, a law paper was
sent for my wifely signature. Without looking at it, for I hated, and to
this day hate, anything of a business nature, I dipped my pen in the
inkstand to append it. “Stay! child,” said my mother, arresting my hand,
“do you know what that paper is about?” “Not I!” was my laughing reply;
“but my husband sent it, and on his broad shoulders be the
responsibility!” “That is wrong,” said she, gravely; “you should never
sign any paper without a full understanding of its contents.” It seemed
to me then that she was over-scrupulous, particularly as I knew she had
the same implicit confidence in my husband that I had. I had reason
afterward to see the wisdom of her caution.
My mother came to me one day, after rambling over my house with a
motherly eye to my housekeeping—she who was such a perfect
housekeeper—and held up to me a roll of bank bills, which she found
lying loose upon my toilet-table. “Oh, they were safe enough!” said I;
“my servants I know to be honest!” “That may be,” was her answer; “but
don’t you know that you should never place temptation in their way?”
Foremost among my mother’s warm, personal friends, was Dr. Payson. For
many years before the removal of our family from Portland, he was her
pastor, and afterward, whenever he visited Boston, our house was
emphatically his _home_; my mother welcoming his coming, and sitting
spiritually at his feet, as did Mary of old her Christguest. Let me
explain how I first came to love him. When I was a little girl, I used
to be told by some who visited at our house, that if I was not a good
girl, and did not love God, I should go to hell. Now hell seemed, as far
as I could make it out from what they said, a place where people were
burned forever for their sins on earth—burned, without being consumed,
for millions and millions of years; and after that and so on, through a
long _eternity_—a word I did not then, and do not now, comprehend. Well,
I used to think about all this; sometimes as I went to school; sometimes
as I lay awake in my little bed at night, and sometimes when I woke
earlier than anybody else in the morning; and sometimes on Sunday, when
I, now and then, caught the word “hell” in the minister’s sermon. I
don’t know how it was, but it never frightened me. I think it was
because I could not then, any more than I can now, believe it. The idea
of loving anybody because I should be punished if I did not, seemed to
freeze up the very fountain of love which I felt bubbling up in my
heart, and I turned away from it with horror. I could not pray or read
my Bible from fear. I did not know what fear was. I did not feel afraid
of death, as my playmates did. When they told me to love God, I said
that I did love Him. They did not believe me, because I did not like to
talk about myself, or have others talk to me about myself; not that I
was ashamed, but that it seemed to me, if I did so, that I should cease
to feel. Sometimes, when they persisted in questioning and doubting me,
I would get troubled, and run away, or hide. I did not like to “say my
prayers,” as it is called; and at set times, morning and evening, and
get on my knees to do it. I liked to have my prayer rise up out of my
heart, and pass over my lips, without moving them to speech; and that
wherever I happened to be, in the street, or in company, or wherever and
whenever God’s goodness came into my mind, as it did often; for turn
which way I would, I could see that his careful footprints had been
before me, and his fingers busy, in making what I was sure then, and am
sure now, none but a _God_ could make. I did not understand a word of my
catechism, though I said it like a parrot, because our minister told me
to. “Election,” “Predestination,” and “Foreordaining,” seemed to me very
long words, that meant very little; and the more they were “explained”
to me, the more misty they grew, and have continued to do so ever since;
and I don’t like to hear them talked about.
The God _my eyes_ see, is not a tyrant, driving his creatures to heaven
through fear of hell; he accepts no love that comes to him over that
compulsory road. He pities us with an infinite pity, even when we turn
away from Him; and the mistaken wretch who has done this through a long
life, and worn out the patience of every earthly friend, never wears His
out, is never forsaken by Him; his fellow men may hunt him to the
world’s end, and drive him to despair, and still the God _I_ see, holds
out his imploring hands, and says, “Come to me!” and even at the last
moment, when he has spent a long life in wasting and perverting every
faculty of his soul, the God I see does not pursue him vengefully, or
even frown upon him, but ever that small, soft whisper, “Come to me!”
floats by him on the sweet air, is written on the warm sunbeam, which
refreshes him all the same as if he had never forgotten to utter his
thanks for it. Now, if this man dies, and turns away at the last from
all this wonderful love, what more terrible “hell” can there be, than to
remember that he has done so? that he has never made the slightest
return for it, or ever recognized it? that no living creature was ever
made better, or purer, or wiser, or happier, that he lived in the world?
but that, on the contrary, he has helped them to destroy themselves as
he has done himself? What “flames” could scorch like these thoughts? And
that, in my opinion, _is_ hell, and all the hell there is. It is just
such a hell as wicked men have a foretaste of in this world, when they
stop long enough to listen to that heavenly monitor conscience, which
they try so hard to stifle. It is just such a hell as the wayward son
feels, who runs away from the love and kindness of home, and returns to
find only the graves of those who would have died for him.
But I am wandering a long way from what I was to tell you about—Dr.
Payson.
I was dressing my doll one day, when my mother called me to come to her.
I knew that some visitor had just come, for I heard the bell ring, and
then a trunk drop heavily in the entry. I thought very likely it was a
minister, for my mother always had a plate and a bed for them, and it
made no difference, as I have told you, in her kindness, whether the
minister was a big doctor of divinity, or a poor country clergyman,
unknown beyond the small village where he preached. Well, as I told you,
my mother called me; and it _was_ a minister who had come, and he had
gone up to his room with a bad nervous headache, brought on by traveling
in the heat and dust; and I was to go up, so my mother said, and bathe
his head with a preparation she gave me; very gently, and very quietly,
as he reclined in the big easy chair. I did not want to go; I did not
like ministers as well as my mother did; and I often used to run out one
door, as they came in at another; and I was often obliged to come back,
with a very red face, and shake hands with them. I did not like to hear
them say to me, that “my heart was as hard as a rock,” and that “if I
did not get it changed, I should go to hell.” My heart did not seem hard
to me; I loved everybody and everything _then_; and I loved God too, in
my own way, though not in the way they seemed to want me to, because I
should go to hell if I did not; this thought made my heart grow hard in
a minute—made me “feel ugly,” as children say; and that’s why I ran away
from the ministers who kept telling me what a “wicked” child I was.
So you may be sure, when I heard what my mother said, I took the bottle
she put in my hand, which I was to use in bathing the minister’s
forehead, very unwillingly, and went very slowly up stairs to my task.
My mother had been there before me, and closed the blinds, and given him
a footstool for his weary feet; and there he sat, looking very pale,
with his eyes closed, and his head laid back in the easy chair. He did
not look at all like the other ministers I was so afraid of; and I
cannot tell you why, as I tip-toed up to his chair, and moistened my
fingers to bathe his heated forehead, and pushed back the dark locks
from it, that I thought of the pictures I had sometimes seen of our
Saviour, which looked to me so very sweet and lovely. He did not speak,
or open his eyes, as my fingers moved over his temples; but I knew that
it gave him relief, because he soon sank into a gentle slumber, and his
head drooped a little on one shoulder.
I cannot tell why I did not then go out of the room—I, who disliked
ministers so much—when I might easily have done so; but instead, I sat
down on a low seat near him, and watched his face, as if there were some
spell in it, which forbade me to go; and I felt so quiet and happy while
I sat there, and dreaded lest some one should call me away. By and by he
stirred, and passing his hand slowly over his forehead, opened his eyes;
they were dark and soft as a woman’s. Holding out his hand to me, with a
smile which I have never forgotten to this day, he said, as he drew me
to his side, and laid his hand upon my head, “The Lord bless you! my
child;” then he seated me upon his knee; but he said not a word to me
about “hell,” or my being “wicked,” but closing his eyes again, he began
telling me the story of the Saviour’s crucifixion. Now, I had heard it
many times before, I had read it myself in the Bible, when I was told to
do so, and yet, that day, in that quiet, darkened room, with that gentle
hand upon my shoulder, I heard it for the first time. For the first time
my tears fell, and my heart went out to the pure, patient sufferer on
Calvary. When the story was finished, in those low, sweet tones, I did
not speak. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, again, “The Lord
bless you! my child;” and so I passed out with his loving benediction,
and closing the door, listened still on the other side, as though only
_there_ I could learn to be good.
* * * * *
Many, many long years after this, when I was a grown woman, I visited my
birthplace, Portland, from which my mother removed when I was six weeks
old. I wandered up and down the streets of that lovely, leafy city, and
tried to find the church where good Dr. Payson used to preach. Then,
too, I wanted to see the house where I was born—the house where he laid
hands of blessing on my baby forehead, when it was purple with what they
thought was “the death-agony.” But where it was that the little,
flickering life began, I could not find out; for my mother had then gone
to the “better land.” Ah! who but God can comfort like a mother? who but
God can so forgive? How many times I have shut my eyes, that I might
recall her face—her blue, loving eyes, her soft, brown, curling hair;
and how many times, when in great trouble, I have said, “Mother!
mother!” as if she _must_ hear and comfort her child.
[Illustration: GRANDPA’S BALD HEAD—Page 27.]
GRANDPAPA’S BALD HEAD.
“Shall I have a bald head, grandfather, when I am eighty?” asked little
Kitty; “and will it shine, and be smooth, like yours?” “Your head don’t
look much like it now, little puss!” said the old man, lifting the
silky, yellow curls; “and that puts me in mind that I’ve a story to tell
you—a ‘real, true story;’ and all about grandpa, too.
“When grandpa was little, like you, he didn’t live in a city like this,
where the houses all touch one another, and it is as much as ever one
can get a glimpse of the sky, because they are so tall. He lived in a
little log house, ’way off in the forest, and there was no other log
house in sight for a great many miles. There were no carriages to be
seen there, or fine ladies, or fine gentlemen; but there were plenty of
squirrels darting up and down the trees, and running off to their hiding
places; and there were more little birds than I could count hopping over
the ground, and singing in the branches overhead; and there were plenty
of pretty wild flowers, peeping out here and there, in quiet,
out-of-the-way little places, and little patches of bright green moss,
so soft and thick, that they looked just like velvet cushions, for
little fairies to sit on; and there was a red and white cow, who gave us
plenty of good milk for breakfast and supper; and some funny little
pigs, with black, twinkling bead eyes, and very short tails, who went
scampering about just where they liked, and munching acorns.
“The log house was very rough outside, but my mother had planted blue
and white morning glories, and bright yellow nasturtiums, all around it,
and they climbed quite up to the little roof, and hung their blossoms
about it, so that, had it not been for the funny old chimney, peeping
out of the top, you might have thought it a little bower, like the one
down in your mother’s garden yonder. Sometimes my mother took me on her
knee at sunset, and sat in the doorway, to watch the little birds and
squirrels as they went to bed, and sometimes I sat by her side in the
grass, while she milked the old red and white cow. Sometimes I watched
my father as he chopped wood. I liked to see the great ax come down in
his strong hand, and I liked to see the splinters of wood fly about.
Often he would cry out, ‘Not so near, Dan! not so near, boy; or some
fine day I’ll be chopping your head off!’ At this, my mother would come
running out of the house, and catching me up under her arm, set me down
in the doorway, after she had placed a board across, to prevent my
clambering out again. But one day my mother had gone out, far into the
forest, to look for the old red and white cow, who had strayed away; so
I was left alone with my father. I was very glad of that; because he was
so busy chopping and piling up his wood, that he hadn’t much time to say
‘What are you at, Dan?’ as my mother did, who seemed to me to have eyes
in the back of her head, whenever I wanted to be mischievous. So, at
first I sat quite still on the doorstep, as my mother told me, watching
my father’s ax as it gleamed in the sun, and then came down with a crash
in the wood. By and by I got tired of this, and crept a little nearer;
and as my father did not notice it, I hitched on a little farther and
then a little farther, so that I could see better. Then I got quite
close up, and just as my father raised the ax to strike, I stooped my
head to pick up a splinter of wood from the log he was chopping. The
next moment I found myself fastened down tight to the log, and heard my
father groan out, as if he were dreadfully hurt. Then he caught me up in
his arms, kissed my face, and held it up to the light, while his own was
as white as if he were dead; for there, on the log, on the edge of the
ax, lay one of my long yellow curls, and I was not killed at all, nor
even scratched; and here,” said the old man, taking a paper from his
pocketbook, and drawing out a bright, golden curl, “here is the lock
that the ax cut off, instead of grandpa’s head; it don’t look as if it
ever grew on this bald, shiny pate, does it? See, it is just the color
of yours, Kitty; grandpa keeps it in his pocketbook, and whenever he
feels troubled and worried about anything, he looks at it, and says,
Well, God took care of me _then_, and I won’t believe that he will
forget me _now_.” Little Kitty took the curl in her hand, and looked at
it very steadily awhile. Presently she looked up at her grandpa and
said, “Did your mother whip you when she came back, for getting off the
doorstep?” “No,” said grandpa, laughing, “I think she forgot to do that.
I remember she gave me a great deal of milk that night for my supper,
and kissed me, and cried a great deal, when she tied on my nightgown and
put me into bed.”
JOHN BROWN.
“John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave,
His soul is marching on!”
You have all heard that song, sung at the piano at home, whistled in the
street, and shouted by the soldiers as they went off to the war; well,
shouldn’t you like to have me tell you what sort of a _child_ John Brown
was?
[Illustration: JOHN BROWN.—page 32.]
Little boys who live in cities, and wear velvet coats, and hats with
plumes in them, and have long, silky curls, just like a little girl’s,
hanging over their shoulders to their belts, and drag along through the
streets holding on to a nurse’s hand, when they are seven or eight years
old, and are more afraid of a little mud on their boots or on their
velvet coats than anything else; who have more rocking horses, and
whips, and humming tops, and velocipedes, and guns, and swords, and
marbles, and Noah’s arks, and bat and balls, than they know what to do
with, can hardly imagine how a little boy in the country, with none of
these things, and with nobody to amuse him, or to tell him how to amuse
himself, could possibly be happy or contented. I am going to tell you
about John Brown, who was another kind of boy. He had never seen a city,
or wore a hat on his head. He jumped out of bed himself without any
nurse, and ran out of doors barefoot into the grass, eating a bit of
bread for breakfast, or anything that came handy. There were no houses
about, for he lived in a little hut, in the wilderness, with nothing but
trees, and wild beasts, and Indians. He was only five years old when his
father took him and his mother in an old ox cart, and went ’way off in
the forest to live. As I told you, he had no toys; and he used, though
such a little fellow, to help drive the cows home; and now and then he
would ride a horse, without any saddle, to water. Sometimes he would
watch his father kill rattlesnakes—great big fellows, too, such as you
have shuddered to look at, even through a glass case in the Museum; and
he learned not to be afraid of them, too. At first he trembled a little
at a live Indian, when he met him in the woods, and was more afraid
still of his rifle; but very soon he became used to them, and liked to
hang about and see what they did; and after a while he learned some of
their queer talk himself, so that they could understand each other very
well. I suppose he got along with the Indians much better than his
father, who stammered very badly, and is said never to have spoken plain
at all, except when he was praying. Wasn’t that very strange? Johnny’s
father used to dress deerskins; and Johnny learned it so well by
watching him, that he could at any time dress the skin of a squirrel, or
a raccoon, or a cat, or a dog. He learned, too, to make whiplashes of
leather, and sometimes he would manage to get pennies for them, which
made him feel very grand, just as if he kept shop. When he was about six
years old, a poor Indian boy gave him a marble—the first he had ever
seen. It was bright yellow, and Johnny thought it was splendid, and kept
it carefully a long while, turning it over, and holding it up to the
light, and rolling it on the floor of his father’s hut. One unlucky day,
Johnny lost the yellow marble. I dare say you will laugh when I tell you
that it took years to cure him of mourning for that marble; and that he
used to have long fits of crying about it. But you must remember that it
was the only toy he ever had, and that there were no shops about there
where he could get more. One day, after the loss of the marble, he
caught a little squirrel. It bit Johnny badly while he was catching it.
However, Johnny held on to him, for he was not a kind of boy to let a
thing go, after he had once made up his mind to have it; and so the
squirrel made the best of it, particularly when he found he had lost his
bushy tail in the fight, and he let Johnny tame him, and feed him, and
he would climb up on Johnny’s shoulder, and look at him with his little
bright eye, and then scamper down again over the grass, and then back
again, and perch on Johnny’s hand, so that he was just as dear to him as
your little brother is to you; or the good little boy next door, who
plays with you in your father’s yard, and never once vexes you. One day
Johnny and his squirrel went into the woods to play; and while Johnny
was busy picking up sticks, the squirrel wandered away and got lost; and
for a year or two after that, the poor boy mourned for his little pet,
looking at all the squirrels he could see, for his own little bob-tailed
squirrel, because no other squirrel would do but that one he had tamed
and loved. But he never found him; and, between you and me, perhaps it
was just as well for the squirrel. I dare say he is cracking nuts quite
happily in some snug tree, and scampering about with his little baby
squirrels, and has quite forgot Johnny and his lost tail.
What Johnny liked above all things, was to be sent off by his father a
great way though the wilderness, with droves of cattle; and when he was
only twelve years old, he used to go with them more than a hundred
miles. What do you think of that? He was quite proud of it himself, and
nobody could have affronted him more than to offer to help him at such
times. He was more like a little Indian than anything else; he could
hear so quickly any sound a long way off; and he declared that he had
often smelled the frying of doughnuts at five miles’ distance. Pretty
good nose, hadn’t he?
When Johnny was eight years old, his mother died. Ah! you may be sure
that the loss of the yellow marble, and the bob-tailed squirrel, was
nothing to this. He cried and mourned for her, as he wandered through
the woods, or drove cattle for his father, and I suppose sometimes,
though he loved his father, that when he came within sight of the little
hut, he would rather have lain on the ground all night, than to have
gone into it, and missed her pleasant “Well, Johnny, is that you, dear?”
Well, he got along as well as he could, and grew a hardy, tough lad in
the open-air work his father gave him to do.
Some time after this, when away some hundred miles from home with a
drove of cattle, he stopped at an inn with a landlord who had a very
bright little slave boy, just Johnny’s age. This little slave boy’s
master made a great pet of Johnny, and brought him to the table with his
best company, and repeated all his smart sayings, and asked them if they
did not think it wonderful, that a boy of his age could drive so many
cattle safely one hundred miles from home? And, of course, they petted
Johnny too, and praised him, and thought he was quite a wonder. I
suppose Johnny would have felt very nice about it, had it not been that
the little slave boy, who was just his age, and as bright a little boy
as Johnny, was beaten before his very eyes by his master, with an iron
shovel, or anything that came handy; and while Johnny was fed with
everything good, this little fellow was half starved, and half frozen
with cold, on account of his thin clothing. Johnny could not forget
that; he had never seen anything like it before; when he went to his
comfortable bed, it troubled him; when he ate good food, it seemed to
choke him; when he put on warm clothes, he felt ashamed to be warm,
while the little slave boy was shivering; and Johnny felt worse, because
he was only about ten years old, and couldn’t do anything to help him;
but as he was going home through the woods, he said, aloud, as if he
were telling it to “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” “When I grow bigger,
I’ll fight for the slaves; and I’ll fight for the slaves wherever I see
them, so long as I live.” For all this, Johnny was such a bashful boy,
that about this time, when a lady to whom he was sent on an errand gave
him a piece of bread and butter, he did not dare to tell her he didn’t
eat butter, but as soon as he got out of the house he ran for a long
distance, till he was out of sight, and then threw it away.
About this time a friend of Johnny’s, who owned some good books, offered
to lend him some to read, for he knew how to read, although he had been
to school but little. He liked history very much, and became so
interested in these books, that he wanted to know all the people who had
studied and read books too, and who could tell him about the world, and
things which had happened in it, and how everything came about; and this
desire for learning gave him a dislike to foolish talk and foolish
people; and whenever he heard any sensible talk go on, as he traveled
off with his cattle, he just pricked up his ears, and stored it away in
his little head, to think of when he got home. You have no idea how much
he picked up and how much he educated himself in that way. It would
shame many boys who go to good schools, only to turn out lazy, stupid
dunces.
When Johnny was fifteen, his father put him at the head of his currier
and tanner establishment. Here Johnny had a large company of men and
boys to look after. Now, _men_ don’t like much to have a _boy_ order
them to do this or that, even though they are working for that boy’s
father; but Johnny was so bright and knowing, and pleasant, that you
will not be surprised to hear that they got along nicely together.
Instead of quarreling with him, the men used to praise him for being so
smart; so that, though he was very bashful when he began business, by
the time he was twenty, he began to think he really _was_ a smart
fellow, sure enough. But that was natural, you know; and I only think it
was a wonder he was not quite spoiled by so much praise, and so much
power, when he was so young. His young brother used to make fun of him
and call him “King Johnny,” because he spoke in such a decided way to
the workmen, when he wanted anything done; but Johnny went about his
business and let him talk. He had his hands full cooking his own
dinners, and learning arithmetic, and surveying, and I don’t know what
else besides; for he was not a fellow who could even be idle a minute,
you may be sure of that. The world was too full of things he wanted to
know, and he was in too great a hurry to get at them.
All the time John was a young man, he never wanted, or wore, fine
clothes, although he was neat and tidy. He ate plain food, and never
touched tobacco, or spirits, or tea, or coffee. He drank milk, or only
water. So, you see, he had a clear head for study and business, and I
don’t think he ever knew the meaning of the word “dyspepsia.” When John
got a letter, he always wrote on the back of it the name of the person
who wrote it, and either “Not answered,” or “Not time to read,” or “No
answer needed.” I tell you this to show you how thoroughly he did
everything he undertook; and so honest was John, that he refused to sell
his customers any leather, until every drop of moisture had been dried
out of it, because the water would make it weigh more, you know, and, of
course, he would get money that did not _really_ belong to him. I think,
had John lived in New York, some of the business men here would have
thought him crazy, or he would have thought them crazy; but, you see,
John couldn’t cheat; not even though he should never be found out in it.
Most young men, when they are of John’s age, think more about their own
affairs than anything else—their own business, their own pleasures,
etc.; whether they will ever be rich men, _how_ rich they will be, and
all that. It was not so with John. He wanted money, ’tis true, but all
this time he had not forgotten the little slave boy, and others like
him, and it was for such as he that he wanted money, that he might help
them away from their masters, and help them to be free by and by. He
married, and had many children of his own, and when these children grew
up, they all felt just as their father did about the slaves. After a
time, John helped eleven slaves to get away to Canada, where they were
quite safe. How glad they must have been! and how they must have loved
John! Somebody asked John how he felt when he got them there? he said
that he was so happy about it, that he was quite ready to die then. But
there was other work for John and his boys to do. There was a place
called Kansas, where John’s boys went to live; but as soon as the people
there found out that John’s boys and himself loved the slaves, they
began to steal their cattle, and burn their fences, and try, in every
possible way, to trouble and bother them. So John’s boys wrote home to
the old man about it, and told him that he must send them some guns and
muskets, to defend their property and their lives with. Well, the old
man didn’t have to stop to think long about that. He told his other
boys, who were living at home with him, about it, and they agreed to
start right off for Kansas, with as many guns and muskets as they could
get. John had no idea of his boys out there being murdered and robbed,
without fighting for them, especially when they were treated so merely
for pitying the poor slaves. When they reached there, John and his four
boys, they each had a short, heavy broadsword strapped to their sides.
Each one had a quantity of firearms and revolvers, and there were poles
standing endwise round the wagon box, with fixed bayonets, pointing
upward. Oh! I can tell you, he was in real earnest about it! Well, they
suffered great hardships there, while fighting for their rights: one of
John’s boys was taken by the enemy, and driven with chains on him, so
far in a hot sun to prison, that he became a maniac; another of his sons
was so injured, that he became a cripple for life; another son was
murdered while quietly walking along the road, and as he lay a corpse on
the ground, one of his brutal enemies discharged a loaded pistol in his
mouth. All this John had to bear, but he only said, “It is very hard;
but my sons have died in a good cause—died for the poor slaves.” Most
people thought, “John has had enough of it now; he will fight no more
about slavery; he has taken the rest of his boys back to his old home in
the mountains, and he will not be in a hurry to have them killed.”
They were mistaken. John was only waiting to whet his sword. He knew how
to wait. One day, the whole country about Harper’s Ferry was in a state
of distraction. The women and children were frightened to death, for
John Brown was down there; and it was said he was going to help all the
slaves he could to get away from their masters; and that his boys were
there to help him, and a great many other men; and that they had guns,
and swords, and pistols in plenty, and meant to fight fiercely, if
anybody tried to hinder them. John chose Harper’s Ferry, because there
were mountains all about it, and he had known every turn in them, and
all their valleys, too, for seventeen years, and in case they were
beaten, he thought it would be a good place for himself and the slaves
to hide in, as well as a good place to fight from. The first night of
John’s attack on the town, he and his men put out all the lights in the
street, and took possession of the armory, where the firearms, you know,
are kept. Then they took three watchmen, and locked them up in the
guardhouse. There must have been friendly black people in the town who
helped them do all this. Some of them cut down the telegraph wires, and
others tore up the railroad track after the train had passed. When it
came daylight, John and his men took prisoner every person who came out
into the streets, and when people said, “Why do you do this? What do you
mean?” John and his men said, “We mean to free the slaves!” One of the
workmen employed at the armory, when he came to work that morning, and
saw an armed guard at the gate, asked of John’s guard, “By what
authority have you taken possession of this building?” “By the authority
of God Almighty!” said he.
Well, one after another, the workmen who came to their work in the
armory that day, were taken prisoners. There was a terrible panic, I can
tell you. John and his five sons were inside the armory grounds, while
others were stationed outside the walls, to hold the town—some at the
bridges, some at one place, some another. When the workmen whom John
took prisoners told him how troubled their wives and children would be
about them, John kindly allowed them to go home, under a guard of his
soldiers, to tell them not to be frightened. John wanted, in doing this,
to make the people understand that the prisoners in his hands should not
be hurt; a brave man, you know, is always a tender-hearted man. Poor
John! he lingered too long about these things. The people whom he
allowed to go in the cars, before he tore up the railroad track, wrote
on little slips of paper terrible accounts of him, and scattered them
through the country as the cars went flying through; so the first thing
he knew, one hundred soldiers came to Harper’s Ferry from Charlestown.
Now, indeed, they had bloody work. John’s men began to get killed, but
not one of them but sold his life as dearly as he could, fighting
fiercely till he could fight no longer. Some lay dying in the street,
some of the corpses floated down the river, some were taken, bleeding
and gasping, to prison. Even after John’s men were dead, his enemies
continued to kick and beat their insensible bodies, and many ran sticks
into their wounds. And now John knew that all that was left him, was to
sell his life as dearly as he could. With one son dead by his side, and
another shot through, he felt the pulse of his dying boy with one hand,
and held his rifle with the other, and told his few men about him to be
firm and calm. He said that his boys came with him to fight of their own
accord, and that they had died in a good cause. Well, the soldiers soon
battered down the building, and got in where John and his men were. An
officer, as soon as he saw John, although he and his men had then done
firing, struck him in the face, and knocked him down. The same officer
repeated the blow several times, and then, when John was lying on the
ground, helpless, another soldier ran his bayonet twice into the old
man’s body, whose face and hair were clotted with blood. Then they
searched his pockets, and took what they wanted, and then carried him,
bleeding, to the guard house, and laid him on the bare floor, without
anything under him. Then the governor hurried down to see him, with
several of his friends, and though the poor old man was writhing in
agony with his wounds, and the blood and the smoke were not yet washed
from his face, for thirty hours they let him lie upon the floor, with
his head propped up on a chair, while they questioned him, and while the
mob insulted him. After that, John was carried off to Charlestown jail,
under a guard of soldiers. The body of John’s son was carried off for
the doctors to cut up. Seven days after this John was dragged from his
bed, and being unable to stand, was supported on each side by an officer
into court, and there laid on a bed, to be tried by the laws of
Virginia, for what he had done. Well, John had a “_Virginia_ trial.”
A trial, you know, is a fair hearing on both sides. John was faint and
bleeding, and unable to stand; they refused to let him have a lawyer to
speak for him, and declared him guilty without hearing at all his side;
although the law declares a man innocent till he is proved _by law_ to
be guilty. Then they told the jailer to shoot him if anybody tried to
help him escape; and this was John’s _trial_. Now, John did not wish to
die with the character of a robber or a murderer, and before they took
him out of court, he lifted his head up from his mattress and told them
that he had not had a fair trial; that he was too sick to talk; that his
money, fifty or sixty dollars in gold, had been taken from him, and that
he could not now pay anybody to do any errands for him; that they ought
to give him time to send for his friends. But it was of no use, because
they had determined _not_ to give him time; so he was brought into court
again on his bed soon after, and sentenced to be hung, _i. e._, if he
did not die first, on Friday, the second day of December; and when the
judge said that John would be hung where everybody would have a chance
to see it, one man jumped up before John and clapped his hands, because
he was so glad that he should see the brave old man die.
Forty-two days in all, John lay in a Charlestown prison. All that time,
sick as he was, no clean clothes were given him, although sixty dollars
of his money were taken from his pocket when he was arrested. All those
forty-two days and nights, he had lain there in the stiff, dirty,
blood-stained garments in which he fell.