very homely little girl. One of her schoolmates draws for us this
picture of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out of a covered
cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, looking very cold, and very
miserable. When she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her dress was
changed, but just as old-fashioned. She looked like a little old woman,
so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking something, and
moving her head from side to side to catch sight of it. She was very shy
and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was given
her, she dropped her head over it, till her nose nearly touched it, and
when she was told to hold her head up, up went the book after it, so
that it was not possible to help laughing.” Another schoolmate says,
that the first time she saw Charlotte, she was standing by the
schoolroom window, looking out on the snowy landscape and crying, while
all the rest of the girls were at play. Poor child! no doubt she felt
desolate enough. Fortunately for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss Woolen,
was a lady of intelligent mind and kind heart. She understood the
odd-looking, timid, wise little being before her. She knew that there
was a gem, all but the setting. So she did not overlook the knowledge
stowed away in that little busy brain, because grammar and geography had
found no place there. Then came the question, how to manage this little
sensitive pupil, without keeping back the other girls in the class, who
already understood these branches, though, perhaps, they were far behind
her in others. At first she thought she _must_ put her in the second
class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught up” with the other
girls. But the moment she mentioned it, Charlotte’s mortification and
distress were such, that, like a wise teacher, she saw that if she only
saved her this pain, by allowing her to go into the _first_ class, she
immediately would make up by private study wherein she was deficient;
and so it proved.
One feels as glad at this kindness, as though she were one’s own little
sister. We find her, at this time, not playing with the other romping
girls, but standing in the playground with a book, or looking dreamily
at the scenery. When urged to join them in their sports, she said
No—always pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful games, she
probably disliked, as much, perhaps, for lack of bodily strength, as
from any other cause; though that would have come by degrees, had she
only allowed herself to try; it was a great pity she did not. However,
she was always so good-natured and amiable, that she was a favorite with
the girls, although she wouldn’t play with them. Sometimes, with the
natural freedom of their age, they would tell her that she was
“awkward,” or ugly; but this never displeased her, though, I have no
doubt, she felt sorry that they thought so. In the portraits of that
fine face of hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly” seems to be sadly
misapplied. Those might think so, who fancy a pink and white doll-face;
but neither could such see the _moral_ beauty of her daily life, over
that thorny road, every meek, patient step of which was as the Saviour’s
at Gethsemane.
Charlotte remained a year at this school, studying very hard. This was
well, had she also remembered that her fragile body needed equal care
with her mind; for of what use is knowledge if there is no bodily
strength by which we can make it useful to those about us? Charlotte had
no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a religious duty; to
remind her that she was as responsible for the care of her body, as for
the improvement of her mind. And so her mind kept on expanding, and
threatening to shatter its feeble prison house in pieces. It was a great
pity; but it seems even in England, where so much more attention is paid
than here to “raising” perfect, robust specimens of men and women, such
things do happen. At Miss Woolen’s school, Charlotte formed an agreeable
intimacy with two schoolmates—young ladies of her own age. This was a
great benefit to her, because she had been made so prematurely old in
her feelings, by loneliness and sorrow. One cannot help catching
animation and hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy
companion, though one is ever so apt to look on the gloomy side of
things. And so it is quite cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss
Woolen’s school, and going back to her father’s dull house, these young
girls exchanged letters and visits with one another. And now, perhaps,
you suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she sat down and folded
her hands in utter hopelessness, saying, “How awful dull it is here!
there is no use in trying to live in such a desolate old cage of a
place; it is really too bad for a young creature like me to be shut up
here. It is too bad for any girl so fond of reading, writing, and
drawing, to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” Perhaps you think
that, as she was a “genius,” she said or thought all this. Not at all;
and I’ll tell you why; because her genius was _genuine_, not sham. It is
only make believe geniuses who think the every-day duties of life
beneath their intellects. I want you to remember that Charlotte Brontë
did not shrink from one of them. She swept, and she dusted, and she made
beds, and she made bread (good, light, wholesome bread, too), and pared
potatoes, and watched the pot boil, and kept everything in as nice order
as if she had no taste for anything but housekeeping. Perhaps you think
then that she folded her hands, and said, “I should think I had done
enough now!” There you are wrong again. She looked from her window into
the little churchyard, where her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must
be a mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she repaired their clothes,
and she taught them; for she had _thoroughly_ learned her own lessons
and all those things she had studied at school. There’s a girl for you!
and all this, when she was so very fond of reading and writing, which
stood to her lonely heart in place of loving friends, for whom she
longed.
At length, on account of want of money, it became necessary for some one
of the family to go out into the world to earn it. Who should it be? One
would have naturally supposed the brother, as being a sturdy, healthy
fellow, better able to fight his way than his delicate sisters, who
shrank timidly from the sight of strange faces and strange voices. It
seemed not the thing for _them_ to go out into the wilderness, to make
the path easy for _his_ feet? If so, _which_ of the sisters should do
this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? Emily grew homesick to that degree when
away, that her life was in danger, and was obliged to be recalled for
that reason. So, whoever was sent, _she_ must not go; for were there not
two sisters already in the churchyard? Anne was too young. _Charlotte_,
then, was, as usual, to buckle on the armor of duty over her brave
heart, and stagger forth with what strength she might, to face the
world. She was to be a _governess_! Imagine, if you can, the most
torturing situation in which to place such a nature as hers; and the
daily trial of it, could not come up to that included to her in the
little word “governess.” Fortunately, her _first_ experiment was with
Miss Woolen, her old teacher—her scholars being younger sisters of her
own playmates. Whatever she did, she did with her might; therefore, so
zealous was she to make herself useful in her new situation, and so
conscientious in the discharge of duties which a less noble girl would
have dodged, or evaded sufficiently, at least, to make the position
bearable, that we soon hear of the breaking down of her feeble body, so
that she almost became crazy.
She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas about religious things;
anxiety about her sister Emily, who, resolving not to burden her father
with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. Then she was
troubled, too, about the home affairs, which, as the elder sister, she
could not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving childhood,
which had been but childhood in name to her, we find Charlotte a woman,
brave yet fearful; timid but courageous; the lion’s heart in the humming
bird’s body. I meant only to have told you about her childhood; and yet
you may ask me, was Charlotte never again comfortable, light-hearted,
and happy? Did nobody but her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did
nobody else find out what a good, intelligent, gifted girl she was? Oh
yes, at last! At last came fame and honor to the little, quiet
Charlotte. Great men and great women wanted to know her, because she
wrote so beautifully, or, as they said, was “a genius;” and she had
plenty of complimentary letters and invitations to visit, and all the
publishers wanted to publish her books; and she earned money enough to
put a great many pretty things in the little dull parlor at home, so
that she hardly knew it to be the same room; but, dear me! by that time
all her sisters lay in the little churchyard with her mother; and poor
Charlotte looked about at all these pretty things, and great tears came
into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, _why_ didn’t all my money and my
friends come while _they_ were alive, and could have been made
comfortable and happy by them, so that we could all have lived at home
together, and not been separated, to go away and teach school? _Why?_
Poor Charlotte could not find out that _why_, as she sat in that little
parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at all the pretty things her money
had bought. Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his good, gifted
daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his room, and was very proud of her;
but that didn’t warm _her_ heart any, you know. By and by a gentleman
came along and asked her to be his wife. And after a while she said,
Yes, I will. I suppose she thought, I want to be loved, more than
anything in this world. It is very well, perhaps, to be “a genius,” and
to be admired; but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I will be loved;
and then I shall be happy; for, after all, the brightest world is cold
and chilly, without love to warm it. I am glad she was married; because
her husband was good and kind to her, and she began to smile, and look
so bright you would not have known her. She was happier than she had
ever been in all her life. But one day, not long after she was married,
she caught a very bad cold, and everybody saw that she was going to die;
she had suffered very much in her life, and she was not strong enough to
struggle any more. Now, don’t say, “What a pity!” when I tell you that
she really died. It is never a pity, when the loving and the
tender-hearted go where there is no more grieving.
THE KIND WORD.
Not many years since, a poor blind man was feeling his way through some
of the public roads to a small town in England, in search of employment,
having only about him a small sum of money, contributed by some friends
of the same trade as himself. Though he could see nothing, he yet felt
the blessed, warm sunshine, and the soft southwest breeze that lifted
his locks so gently, and bore to him the perfume of the early flowers.
This was a joy. On his way a young woman, a foot traveler like himself,
inquired of him if he could tell her whether she was on the right way to
a certain town she wished to reach. Her voice was tremulous. The
kind-hearted blind man said at once to himself, the poor young thing is
desolate and troubled. I will help her. His kindness gave her
confidence, and she told him, as well as she could for her tears, that
she was turned out of her own father’s house by the unkindness of a
mother-in-law, and was then looking out for a situation as house maid in
some respectable family. The blind man was older than she; he knew well
the danger to which her youth exposed her. He immediately found the
young girl a safe place to lodge, and the next day gave himself no rest,
till he had groped his way through the streets of the town, and found a
kind family, who agreed to take her under the shelter of their roof.
Afterward he learned from her, that this act of kindness had saved her
from throwing herself into the river, when the poor creature was nearly
crazy with misery. I tell you this little bit of a story, to show you
that there is nobody in this world so poor or so miserable, that he
cannot help somebody else. Because _kind words_, you know, cost nothing;
and one can certainly always give _them_ to the unfortunate. _Of what
use is a kind word?_ Oh, surely you never were in trouble, or you could
not ask _that_! I believe heaven is full of those whom a kind word has
helped there; and our jails and prison houses here are full of poor
creatures who have gone there for _want_ of a kind word when they were
tempted to do wrong—for want of somebody to say, _Don’t_ do it! for if
nobody else cares for you, God cares for you; and you must care for
yourself, because you are to live forever.
THE CORSICAN AND THE CREOLE.
In the lovely island of Martinique, a little girl was born. With her
soft, dark eyes, lithe form, and fairy step, she was beautiful enough to
have been its fairy queen. The livelong day she sang and danced among
the flowers, the soft breeze lifting her locks, and tinting her cheeks
with rose. The servants who had charge of her, as she floated past them
in her light tissue robes, exclaimed, How beautiful she is! She was good
as well as beautiful; she did not abuse her power over them; therefore
they loved as well as admired her. Pity she ever left that pretty island
home, with its birds and flowers! Pity that diamonds should lie heavily
on the brow that looked so fair from under its wild-rose wreath. But in
another island—rugged, rocky, with bandit-infested mountains—a little
boy was born.
His majestic, strong-hearted mother stepped like a Roman matron. One day
this Corsican mother was bending over the little Napoleon as he lay upon
her lap, when an old man came in. Looking at the child’s uncovered back,
he called Madame Letitia’s attention to a mark upon it, which he said
was that of a tree, feeble in its roots, but whose branches should reach
to the heavens. “This child,” said the gray-haired old prophet, “will
one day rule the world.” The beautiful young mother smiled
incredulously, as she looked around their simple room, where little
Napoleon’s brothers and sisters played and studied from day to day,
under her own eye, their hours for refreshment, sleep, and lessons
marked out by her, and never departed from, any more than if it were a
convent, and she its stately but loving lady abbess. “_Rule the world!_”
She looked into the baby’s calm blue eyes, and thought no more of it.
Were they not happy enough? It was a loving mother’s thought, but none
the less heaven-born for that. Rule the world! She took the white,
dimpled baby hand in hers, but never dreamed of “Marengo” or Austerlitz,
and alas!—least of all—St. Helena!
By and by this little boy grew out of his mother’s lap, and began to cry
for a little cannon. When he got it, he collected around him a company
of little Corsican boys, himself the commander—even his baby head never
dreamed of taking any place but the highest—and began to drill them to
fight a battle with another boy company in the town. You may be sure
they all had to step to _his_ tune, even his elder brothers; and as time
went on, it was very soon understood in the family, that what Master
Napoleon said, was pretty likely to be done. His father looked on and
thought very deeply, and, like a wise man, carried his son to a military
school, where his wishes could be gratified, under proper
restraints—where he learned that he who wishes to command must first
learn how to submit. Here, being in his element, he was happy, quiet,
and diligent. Only once his fiery spirit broke out. His quartermaster,
one day, for some fault, condemned him to eat his dinner on his knees,
in the woolen dress of disgrace, at the door of the refectory.
Napoleon’s “sense of honor” was so deeply wounded by this, that he fell
upon the floor in a fit. When the headmaster heard of it, he became very
angry, and said, “What! _punish so severely my best mathematician_!” It
was a good, wholesome lesson for him, though, for all that. He didn’t
die of it! On the contrary, when he went home to Ajaccio, his native
place, to pay a visit in vacation, he gave his orders about the
education of his brothers and sisters as if he were the father of the
family, instead of the second son. We must do him the justice to say,
however, that his advice on these subjects was sensible, and well timed.
Perhaps his mother began to think there was something in the prophecy of
the old man about her son, more than she had dreamed of. We can imagine
her watching the young soldier, as he sat, for hours, under an old oak
tree near the house, dreaming about a future with which he had already
begun to grapple, although about it he could know so little. But
dreaming did not content him. He formed clubs among the young men,
delivered speeches, and, all unconsciously to himself, was working out
the destiny, step by step, foretold on his baby back by the old Corsican
herdsman. His eye had a strange fire in it, his voice a trumpet tone;
and they who listened, bowed to its strange, wild music, they could
scarce tell why. Even then he was no mere ranter; he had studied hard,
studied ceaselessly; the more difficulties he encountered in any branch
of knowledge, the more eager he grew to master them. It is said that at
school he never spent an idle moment; and when he came among his young
companions, they felt this. They knew, when Napoleon opened his mouth,
that he had something to say. It is all very fine for boys to dodge
school duties, and school tasks. Ah! how many of them, in after life,
would give worlds to recall those wasted hours in some great crisis,
when strong, powerful, well-chosen words, from him who knows how to use
them, would place in their hands so mighty a sceptre for the defense of
human rights! Not that this power is never perverted; but we are not to
speak of this now. The habits of intense study, industry, and close
application of the young Napoleon were the solid foundation upon which
the superstructure of his future greatness rested. This concentration of
mind it was that enabled him, in after years, with the rapidity of
lightning, to despatch business over which other military men would have
droned till the precious moment in which action would have been
available, had flown past. Remember this of Napoleon: he was a hard
student in his youth. Whatever he undertook he did _thoroughly_. _He
knew what he knew._
Meantime the lovely young girl of whom we have spoken, all unknown to
the young soldier, was dancing and singing the hours away. One day her
young friends said to her, “Josephine, come with us to Euphemia, the old
mulatto woman, and have your fortune told.” Josephine was not
superstitious, but still she held out her pretty hand to the old witch,
who examined it with great care, and, it is said, told her exactly what
really happened to her in after life. The gay Josephine only laughed and
tossed her bright head, saying, “Who promises so much, only creates
distrust,” and went back to her cottage home, quite unmoved at the
prospect of “becoming the wife of a man who would one day rule the
world.” If you ask me how the old Corsican herdsman, or how the old
mulatto woman in Martinique, knew what should befall Josephine and
Napoleon, I answer, “More than likely, the prophecies, like all rumors,
grew by repetition, and were mainly filled out after these things had
actually happened; because no sensible person ever believes that a human
hand is allowed to draw aside the curtain behind which God has wisely
hidden mysteries so great.” Josephine was young and happy; why should
she wish to be “great”? The old mulatto woman might chatter all day; she
did not chirp one sweet note the less. Unlike Napoleon, she disliked
study. Her mother, Madame Tascher, used to threaten her with a convent
if she did not skip less and study more. “My good and pretty child,” she
would say to her, “your _heart_ is excellent, but your _head_—ah, what a
head! I must send you away from home to France, among companions who,
knowing more than yourself, will show you how ignorant you are.” All
this, Madame said very seriously and coldly, for she saw that it was
high time something was done. Then she left her daughter to think it
over.
To be found fault with, and threatened! That, indeed, was something new
to the petted child. She began crying in good earnest, so that her
servant women came running, to see what was the matter. Not being able,
as usual, to comfort her, they cried too, till the noise reached the
ears of her father, who was very fond of her. Now I am about to tell you
a secret. The truth was, it was not the idea of hard study which
frightened this pretty young lady, when her mother spoke of sending her
to France; but the idea of separation from a little boy-lover about
_ten_ years old, named William K. I don’t wonder you laugh; the idea
_is_ funny; but you must remember that a little Creole girl and boy, are
as old at ten, as a boy and girl of sixteen in our cold climate. Well,
this is all about it. Listen: William’s parents had come to Martinique
to live, in consequence of the misfortunes of the unhappy Prince Edward,
whose banner they followed. Arriving at Martinique, a friendship had
sprung up between the two families, and there Josephine and William had
been promised by their parents to each other, when they should be old
enough. _Now_ you know why the little girl-wife that was to be, cried so
hard at the idea of being sent away from Martinique. Well, the very
first chance my little lady had, she told her dear William what her
mother had threatened to do. Then William ran, crying, to _his_ mother,
about Josephine’s being sent away to France, and teased her to go to
Josephine’s mother, and beg her not to afflict her dear boy William so
cruelly; and that the child had actually fallen sick of a fever in
consequence, raving continually for “Josephine,” and begging his mother
to hide her from every eye, lest he should “lose his little promised
wife.” After a while, what with his mother’s comforting words, he grew
better, and William’s teacher being chosen for Josephine’s teacher, that
young lady suddenly took to study with a vigor which astonished
everybody, except William himself, who had his own reasons for not being
surprised. Suffice it to say, she drew well, learned to play both the
harp and piano, and was making great progress in the English language.
For a time all went on happily and well. But one evil day for Josephine,
William’s father found it necessary to leave Martinique for England,
with his family, to claim some property which had been left him. Now, it
was true that he had to leave on business; but it was also true, that
both the parents of the children had changed their minds about the
marriage of the little lovers. Now, I agree with you that this was very
cruel, after promising them to each other; but the fact was, in plain
black and white, that each loved money and position, better than the
happiness of these young people; however, they did not want a fuss, so
they kept quiet, and said nothing to the children about all that; they
merely separated them; and each was to suppose, after many anxious days
and months, spent in waiting for letters, that the other was forgotten.
It was too bad—I am quite angry about it myself; a promise is a promise,
and just as binding when made to a child, as to a grown person; and
more, too, because children are so trusting, that it is a greater shame
to deceive them. So William went to England with his father, and
Josephine wandered round the beautiful island, carving his name on the
trees, and saying to herself each day, _now_, to-day, I shall
_certainly_ hear from him! Surely, to-morrow, I _shall_ have a letter!
Meantime the beautiful Maria Tascher, Josephine’s elder sister, was
taken very sick. All that love and skill could do for her, was of no
avail. She died. After this, poor Josephine grew more sad than ever. She
never smiled now, or put roses in her hair, or danced with her young
companions; but sighed—oh, such _deep_ sighs for such a young thing—and
grew almost as pale as the dead Maria.