cotton handkerchief spread over your knee, looking at the stern face of
this famous man upon it; every bristling hair upon his head seeming to
say for itself, In the name of the commonwealth, stand and deliver! You
have thought, perhaps, that a man with such a sharp eye and granite face
as that, must be a very terrible person, whose heart was quite left out
when he was made, and whom little children had better run away from. It
is just because this was _not_ true, that I first believed in General
Jackson. A brave man is never a mean one; and it _is_ mean to despise or
bully children and women. I place _children_ first, because every woman
who has ever had one, does so. But to my story. We, who have lived so
peacefully and quietly in the land for which our brave ancestors fought,
do not think as often as we ought of the sufferings and trials through
which they purchased it for us. Until lately, our houses were not burned
down over our heads, or ransacked and robbed, nor our mothers and
sisters insulted before our eyes, nor our fathers and brothers dragged
off as prisoners of war, and kicked and cuffed for sport by the enemy.
All this, Andrew Jackson’s boyish eyes saw. Do you wonder at the fire in
them? One of his earliest recollections was of the meeting house in his
native place turned into a hospital for his wounded, maimed, dying,
brave countrymen; and his own widowed mother, leading him there by the
hand to nurse them, and dress their wounds, and comfort them, as only a
woman with a strong heart and angel touch can. Could the boy stand by
and see all this, and not long for the time when he should grow big, and
stout, and tall, and help fight for his country? Could he help being
impatient, he, the son of this unprotected mother, when one after
another of these poor fellows was brought in, with their fresh, ghastly
wounds, and laid down to die? And when, later, his cousin’s house was
taken by the British, and the furniture was broken in pieces, and his
cousin’s wife was insulted by the officers, and he and his brother were
taken prisoners, and ordered by the officer, with an oath, to clean his
muddy boots; and, because they both refused, were cut and slashed across
the face and head by this bullying, cowardly fellow, Andrew then being
only twelve years old; and then were marched miles and miles away down
South, and not allowed a morsel of food by the way, and forbidden even
to scoop up water from the streams they were fording, to quench their
feverish thirst? Ah! do you wonder now at that stern face? Suppose your
dear mother, whom your dear father, whom you can just remember, loved so
tenderly, was driven across the country with you and your little
brother, from place to place, for safety, in those troublous times, and
subjected to all kinds of hardships, bearing up under it bravely, as
good women will. Suppose that when you and your brother—still boys—were
dragged off as prisoners of war, this dear, brave mother traveled off
alone, and never rested till she managed, by an exchange of prisoners
with the British general, to get her dear boys back again; but wan and
wasted with small pox, and the wounds that they had received from that
big, cowardly British officer, all undressed and uncared for; these
boys, _her_ Andrew, her Robert? Well, as your mother would have nursed
you and your brother through her tears, so Andrew Jackson’s mother
nursed her fatherless boys. But was Andrew a boy to forget either his
mother’s love, or the British? No, indeed! And when, after he became
well, and the whole band went to live in the house of a friend, and
Andrew picked beans, and pulled fodder, and drove cattle, and went to
mill, do you wonder that when he was sent to the blacksmith’s, to get
the farm tools mended, he brought home spears of iron, and all sorts of
odd-looking, rough weapons, that, while waiting for the blacksmith, he
had himself manufactured “to kill the British with”? Do you wonder that
he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and exclaimed, fiercely, as
he cut down the weeds with it, “Oh! if I were only a man, wouldn’t I
sweep off the British with my grass blade?” And he did it, too,
afterward. Let those who call him “fierce, savage, vindictive,” remember
how these sorrows of his childhood were burned in upon his soul;
remember what burning tears must have fallen upon the little bundle
containing all his dead mother’s clothes, she who had struggled and
suffered through the war of the Revolution, and left him an orphan at
fifteen years, with only the memory of her love and his country’s
wrongs. As he stood weeping over that little bundle, friendless,
homeless, and heart-broken, thinking of all she had been to him, and
looking wistfully forward into the dim unknown, he did not see the
future President of the United States, and hear his voice falter as he
said, “I learned that, years ago, from my dear, good mother!” Well might
he remember her then. You ask me if Andrew found no opportunity to get
an education in these troublous times? You may be sure his mother knew
the value of that! and sent her boys, when quite young, to the best
schools she could find in their native place. Schools, in those days,
were not the furnace-heated, mahogany-desked affairs we see now. Pupils
did not carry an extra pair of shoes to put on when they entered, for
fear of soiling the floor. Velvet jackets were not worn by the boys, nor
gold bracelets by the girls. Andrew Jackson’s schoolroom was an old log
house made of pines, the crevices being filled in with clay, which the
boys used to pick out when it came spring, to let in the fresh air. In
this school no French, nor drawing, nor “moral science,” was taught.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic was all. For a gymnasium, there were
the grand old trees, which the freckled, sunburnt, redheaded Andrew was
free to swing upon when school was done; and he went up and down them
like a squirrel. I think he was better at that than at his books, if the
truth must out; however, “learning” did not go before chests in those
days, luckily for us, who enjoy the blessings for which our fathers’
strong arms fought. So Andrew studied some, and leaped, and wrestled,
and jumped more;—was kind to defenceless small boys, but had his fist in
the face of every fellow who made fun of him, or taunted him, or in any
way pushed him to the wall.
Andrew had one very bad habit when a boy, which, I am sorry to say,
followed him all his life. He swore fearfully! An oath, from anybody’s
mouth, is hateful; but from a _child’s_ mouth! I know nothing more
saddening and pitiful. Often, I know, children will use such words,
quite unconscious of their meaning, as they pick them up from those who
have no such excuse for their utterance, till the habit becomes so
fixed, that only in later life, when they pain some person who is
“old-fashioned” enough to reverence the name they use so lightly, do
they become conscious of the extent of this disgusting habit. The idea
of its being “manly” to swear is ridiculous enough; since the lowest,
most brutal ruffian in creation, can, and does, outdo you in this
accomplishment. I think Andrew would have enjoyed his boyish sports
quite as well without these bad words; and he _was_ a splendid fellow
for all athletic exercises. Had he been alive when that game of cricket
was won by the English cricketers, I don’t know what would have
happened; well, it _wouldn’t_ have happened; or had it, the victors
would never have gone home alive to tell of it!
Andrew was a good son to his mother; he was honest, and truthful, and
kind to her always. He never forgot her as long as he lived. He used
often, when President of the United States, to stop in the midst of his
conversation, and say, reverently and proudly, “_That_ I learned from my
good mother!”
One cannot help feeling sad that she should have lived long enough only
to bear the burden and heat of the day, and not share with her boy its
calm repose and reward. And yet, who can believe that a mother and son
so loving are divided, though one crosses alone the dark river before
the other? We have seen, of a fine summer morning, after the sun shone
out, fine gossamer threads, before invisible, floating, yet fixed, in
the air above us. So, when the light of eternity shines on our
life-path, shall these chords of a mother’s love be seen to have
entwined themselves around and about us—leading us in a way we knew not.
Jackson’s life was a strange one. It is for me only now to speak of his
childhood and youth. His relation to our country’s history will not
suffer you to rest satisfied with this. His after-life is better told
than I could tell it you, by a man who is now looking over my shoulder,
and who says, I have just told you a fib. If you read “Parton’s Life of
Andrew Jackson,” however, you will see that I have told the truth.
THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY.
I was sitting, this morning, at my window, looking at a fine sunrise,
when suddenly I thought, how terrible, were I to become blind! And then
I asked myself, were I to choose between blindness and deafness, how
should I decide? Never to see the dear faces, never to see the blue sky,
or green earth, or delicate flowers;—never to listen to the melody of
birds, or the sweet voices of the trees and streams, or hum of busy
insect-life; or, more dreadful still, never to hear the sweet voices of
those I love;—oh, how could I choose? When we murmur and complain,
surely we forget the blessings of hearing and sight; they are so common,
that we forget to be grateful; so common, that we need to have written
pitying words to the deaf of our own kin, or led the sightless, fully to
understand their sufferings. And yet all the world is not now dark to
the blind, or voiceless to the deaf, thanks to the good people who teach
both these unfortunates. How different was their position once, a long
while ago! Let me tell you about it.
In France lived a little boy, born of parents who had six deaf and dumb
children, three boys and three girls. It must have been very dull to
them all; but one of them, little Pierre, seemed to feel it most.
Children of his own age would not play with him, they seemed to despise
him; so he trotted round like a little dog, trying to amuse himself with
sticks, and stones, and anything that came in his way; his body grew
tall, like other children’s, but his mind remained a little baby. He
didn’t know whether he had been made, or had made himself. His father
taught him to make prayers by signs, morning and evening. Poor little
fellow! he would get on his knees, and look upward, and make his lips
move, as if he had been speaking; but he did not know there was any God:
he was worshiping the beautiful sky. He took a great fancy to a
particular star, because it was so bright and beautiful; and at one
time, when his mother lay very sick, he used to go out every evening,
and kneeling down, make signs to it, to make her well; but finding that
she did not get any better, he grew very angry, and threw stones at the
star, supposing that it might, after all, be the cause of his deafness,
his mother’s sickness, and all their other troubles. Seeing others move
their lips when speaking, he moved his, hoping the talk would come out;
and sometimes he made noises like an animal. When people told him the
trouble was in his ears, then he took some brandy, poured it into his
ears, and then stopped them up with cotton, as he had seen people do who
had cold in their heads. Pierre desired much to learn to read and write.
He often saw young boys and girls who were going to school, and he
desired to follow them; not that he knew what reading and writing really
were, but from a feeling that there were some privileges and enjoyments
from which he ought not to be shut out. The poor child begged his
father, as well as he knew how, with tears in his eyes, to let him go to
school. His father refused, making signs to him that he was deaf and
dumb, and therefore could never learn anything. Then little Pierre cried
very loud, and taking some books, tried to read them; but he neither
knew the letters nor the words. Then he became angry, and putting his
fingers into his ears, demanded impatiently to have them cured. Then his
father told him again, that there was no help for it; and Pierre was
quite heart-broken. He left his father’s house, and without telling him,
started off alone to school, and going into the schoolhouse, asked the
master, by signs, to teach him to read and write. The schoolmaster (I
think he could not have had any little children of his own) refused him
roughly and drove him away from the school. Then Pierre cried very much;
but you will be glad when I tell you that, although only twelve years
old, he was such a little hero that he wouldn’t give up. He took a pen,
and tried, all alone, to form the writing signs; and that, indeed, was
the best and only thing he could do, and he stuck to it, though
everybody discouraged him.
His father used sometimes to set him to watch the flocks; oftentimes
people, in passing, who found out his condition, gave the boy money. One
day—and it was a great day for poor Pierre—when he was thus watching the
flocks, a gentleman who was passing took a fancy to him, and inviting
him to his house, gave him something to eat and drink. Then the
gentleman went off to Bordeaux, where he lived. Not long after, Pierre’s
father, for some reason or other, moved to Bordeaux; and then this kind
gentleman spoke of Pierre to a learned man of his acquaintance, who was
interested in deaf and dumb persons, and he consented to take Pierre and
try to teach him. Are you not glad? and you will be gladder still, when
I tell you how fast he learned, and how, by his own strong will,
assisted by his kind tutor, he unriveted, one by one, the chains with
which his wits were bound, and casting them aside, stood forth under the
bright star, at which he used to throw stones, and understood now what
it was, and who made it. You may be sure that nobody had to tease little
Pierre to learn _his_ lessons, as some little children have to be teased
to study theirs. No indeed! he felt like jumping and leaping for joy
that he was able to learn; and it seemed to him that there was nothing
left in the world worth fretting about, now that he could learn, like
other children.
That is all I know about little Pierre, but I hope he grew up a _good_
as well as a smart man; don’t you?
THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS.
“Like as a father pitieth his children.”
According to this text, Charlotte Brontë, though no orphan, had no
father. She was born in the little village of Haworth, England. Her
father was a clergyman, and a very curious man, if the stories told of
him are true. I dare say he may have been a good man in his way, but I
don’t fancy his way. I don’t like his burning up some pretty little red
shoes, belonging to his little children, because he did not like the
color. I don’t like his firing off pistols, when he got angry, and
terrifying his little meek wife. I shouldn’t want to hear such a
terrible minister preach, had I gone to his church. Well, never mind
that. His feeble little wife was taken very sick, and the doctor said
she must die; die, and leave those little children to the care of this
father I have spoken of, who seemed to be about as fit for the charge,
as an elephant would be to take care of little humming birds. One touch
of his great paw would crush the life out of them.
[Illustration: LITTLE CHARLOTTE.—Page 82.]
You may be sure the poor dying mother felt badly enough about all this,
as she lay in her bed, growing thinner, and paler, and weaker each day.
She could see the churchyard where she was to be buried from her chamber
window; in fact, one had to pass through it, with its moss-grown
tombstones, to get to the house, which was a very gloomy one at best, as
parsonage houses are too apt to be. I suppose she tried very hard to
feel willing to leave them; but she found she could not do it, if she
saw their dear little faces every day. So they did not go to her
sick-room any more; she could hear the pattering of their tiny feet in
the entry, and their hushed whispers as they passed her door, and so,
pressing her hands tightly over her mother heart, to still its pain, and
leaning on the Crucified, she passed away.
It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much worse, I think,
than to lose a father; because a father, be he ever so good and kind,
_must_ be away from his little ones, and cannot, by any possibility,
understand their little wants and ways as a mother can; and a child’s
heart is such a tender thing to touch; one may mean well, and give it
such exquisite pain, and the poor thing cringes, and shrinks, and has no
words by which it can tell its distress. But suppose the father
understands nothing about a child’s heart. Suppose he thinks to treat it
like a grown person’s, who has been knocked about the world till he
don’t care for anything, who never cries, never laughs, never is glad,
never is sorry, never wants to lay his head on a dear, kind shoulder,
and cry—what then? Suppose that father, instead of taking breakfast,
dinner, and supper with his lonely little children, takes his meals up
in his own room, and leaves them sobbing over theirs, while they try to
swallow the food that tasted so sweet when their dear mother sat at the
head of the table—what then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country
where they lived, where no flowers grew, where were no gardens; and
that, when these little children became tired of huddling together, like
a frightened flock of lambs, in their gloomy nursery, where never a
cheerful fire was lighted, or cheerful lamps twinkled when night came
on—suppose they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by the eldest,
who was only seven, went through the damp churchyard, past their
mother’s grave, and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without their
father to lead them by the hand, or take them up in his arms when tired,
or speak a kind word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands in
any way? Suppose day after day went by in this fashion, what sort of
children do you suppose they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy,
jumping little things, such as God and man love to see, loving play and
frolic, with broad chests and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not
at all. They never once thought of playing; they hadn’t a toy in the
house; their heads grew big, and their bodies grew little; and they were
as wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired them not to go to
sleep. But their father slept soundly, all the same as if their little
hearts were not like an empty cage, out of which music and beauty has
taken wing forever. Well, _God loved them; that’s a comfort_, and that
thought kept little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she tried to be
mother to her younger brothers and sisters; all the while she needed a
mother herself, more than any dictionary could ever tell.
After a while, an aunt came to their house, to take charge of them. I
was glad of that. I hoped she would make them play dolls, and run, and
jump about; I hoped she would make the fires and lamps burn cheerily,
and go round the house shedding brightness from her finger tips, as only
a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out to walk with the little
orphans, and when they came home to supper, sit down with them at the
table, and say funny things to make them laugh; and good things to make
them happy and glad. I hoped she would tie on their little night dresses
with her own hands, and kiss them down on their pillows, and say, God
bless you, my little darlings! It was _such_ a pity she didn’t. I am
sure a _woman_ ought to understand little children better than she
seemed to. But she just shut herself up in her room, the same way their
father did, and took all _her_ meals alone. I have no patience with her.
I wish I had lived near them; they should have eaten and drank with me,
poor little souls! Well, they had a kitchen, and a good old servant,
named Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she was more of a
mother to them, in her rough fashion, than anybody else. I told you
these children had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not want any;
they used to read newspapers and talk politics, just as your father and
his gentleman friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother Goose,” I am
sure they never heard of her, though they read many books that are
considered much wiser, and which were just as much out of place in a
nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to set before your little
month-old baby, for its dinner. But how should they know that? Nobody
about them seemed to think that childhood comes but once; or, in fact,
was intended to come at all for them. “Milk for babes” was not the
fashion at Haworth parsonage. Well, time passed on, till their father
concluded to send Charlotte away to school, with her sisters. So they
were put into a little covered cart with their things, and jolted along.
I hope their father kissed them when they went away, but I am not at all
sure of it. I am afraid he was too dignified. It is hard enough for a
child to go away to school with a warm kiss on the lips, and a trunk
full of comfortable clothes, in every stitch of which is woven a
mother’s blessing. It is hard enough for a healthy, romping child, who
is able to ask for what it wants everywhere, and on all occasions, to
leave home, and go a long distance to a strange school, even though it
may have letters often, and plum cakes often, and all sorts of little
love-tokens, which home delights to send to the absent one. But to these
little timid ones, who had never played with children, and were as much
afraid of them as of strange, grown people; who had come up, shy and
awkward and old-fashioned, and were painfully conscious of it, as soon
as it was brought to their notice by contrast with those children, who
had come from their warm firesides like some graceful house-plants, full
of blossoms and verdure—ah! it was very sad for the poor little Brontë
girls. What could they do when they got there, but stand at the window,
and cry, as they looked out upon the snowy landscape? And when the girls
urged them to play ball, and other such healthful games, they had no
heart for it—no physical strength for it, either; they would have been
tumbled over forty times in a minute, by their playmates, like so many
ninepins, with a great, thumping ball. Well, they had a bad time of it,
any way, at this school—bad food, bad air, and exposure. I suppose, too,
their clothes were not warm enough, for the hand was cold that would
have made the warm garment for those bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is
“mother’s” fingers that fit the cloak close to the little neck, so that
through no treacherous crevice the cruel “croup” may creep; it is
“mother’s” fingers that quilt the little winter skirt with the soft,
warm wool, and furnish the thick stocking, and comfortable hood. It is
“mother’s” eye which sees just the thing that is needed to meet all
weathers. We can imagine how they went shivering along, half clad, to
the church on Sunday, where never a fire was lighted; how blue were
their fingers; how cold their little feet! No wonder they grew sick.
Little Maria Brontë, who was delicate under the remains of the whooping
cough, suffered most severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. A
blister was applied to her side for her relief, and the poor, weak
child, happening to linger in bed one morning later than the usual hour
for rising, was harshly dragged in this state into the middle of the
room, and then punished, because she had not strength enough to dress
herself in time to appear with the other scholars. This must have been
very hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write
home about it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she and her
sisters were most anxious to learn everything that they could learn at
this school; and in the next place, they had been so accustomed to keep
all their childish troubles to themselves, although their hearts were
nearly breaking, that I don’t suppose they once imagined, if they
thought of it, that it would do any good to complain. So they shivered
in the cold, and tried to swallow the bad food that was given them, when
they grew so hungry they could not do without it, until poor little
Maria grew so very bad, that her father had to be sent for. God pitied
the poor child, and took her to heaven, to be with her mother. She died
a few days after reaching home. Charlotte and Emily, the two remaining
sisters, did not long stay in the school after their sister’s death. I
think their father at last woke up to the thought, that _they_ might die
too, and nobody might be left at the old, gloomy parsonage, to send up
his meals, or wait upon him, or read to him, or mend his clothes. So he
brought them home too. I believe all children are fond of being in the
kitchen. They are active, and like to see what is going on; they like to
watch the cooking, and ask questions about it—often, much better than
the cook likes to answer. The little Brontë girls’ cook was named Tabby,
and a funny old woman she was. She was very kind to them, but she would
have her own way, and made them do as she said; still, I have no doubt,
from what I know of her, that she put by many a nice little bit for
their hungry mouths, and told them a great many fairy stories, as they
cuddled round the old kitchen fire, when her work was done; but I think
they had to be very careful not to meddle with anything without leave,
or get in her way, when she was hurried or busy; and that was all right
enough, for the poor old thing must have elbow-room, you know; besides,
it is a good thing for a child to be taught that it may not order about
a good, faithful servant, old enough to be its mother, merely because
she is a servant.
About this time the little girls began to amuse themselves writing
little plays, poetry, and “compositions” for their own amusement. They
had a little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which they and their
brother Patrick used to write, and old Tabby had to speak pretty sharp,
sometimes, to make them go to bed, when they were busy with these
things. I suppose they did not care to go to bed early, for they did not
sleep as healthy, happy children do, the moment their heads touch the
pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them to a new day of joy; but
no doubt they turned and tossed, and wished it were daylight, and all
their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable to bear in the silent,
dreary night. They who have been in great trouble know this; when the
faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another, seems like spirit
voices, torturing one with a language which you try, but _cannot_
understand; when the dear ones who are dead seem so very near, and yet
so very far away; when their faces seem to look out from the darkness,
like a star suddenly appearing from a black cloud, and then again
wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the nervous, lonely little Brontës
begged Tabby not to send them to bed.
Charlotte did not stay long at home; her father resolved to send her
away to school again, and her little sister and brother were forced to
do without her.
When persons interest us very much, it is natural to wish to know how
they look.