in France. His father and grandfather were both great generals; they had
been in many battles, and were considered very brave men; but war is
such a terrible, terrible thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and
brothers falling to the ground, like grass before the mower’s scythe;
but in those days war was not spoken of in this way. Dead men were
thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, it might be some
great commander or general. As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter
whether it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his officer. As if
a common soldier’s relatives would not grieve at his loss as much as the
relatives of his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did not sit
down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. As if an orphan were not an
orphan, and a widow a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you,
people did not think this way when this lad lived, of whom I am about to
tell you. It was all glory and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and
swords, and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as soon as he was
born, by his father and grandfather, who wished to train him up for a
great hero. When he was a _very_ good boy, his reward was to play battle
with his grandfather, with a set of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him
how to manage the enemy in difficult positions; and all this boy’s
dreams, by day and night, were of such things. When he was only ten
years old, his father was commanded to join the army, for there was to
be a great battle, a _real_ battle. So he told his wife, who cried very
much, that he was going to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took
his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. Paul did not cry, but he
looked his father in the face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go
too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” This pleased his father
and grandfather very much; and his mother began to be frightened, for
fear that they would really consent to the child’s going; and sure
enough they did, and little Paul was half beside himself with joy, that
he was to take part, with real swords and real men, in a real battle.
Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his father took care that he should not
be in any danger, and made everything easy for him. Not at all, as you
shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as soon as he joined the army,
that no favor should be shown him because he was so young, and because
he had been born of a noble family, and brought up tenderly; he insisted
upon sharing all the fatigue and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any
of the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, or not think him
capable of his duty. He wanted to do just as the common soldiers did;
sleep on the bare ground, and eat of their common food. A week after he
had joined the army, he had proved himself so brave, that they made him
ensign, and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps you say, Of course,
his father did that! No; the whole regiment were quite proud of him, and
said that the little fellow deserved it. You must not think that he
forgot his mother, who was so anxious about her boy. He wrote her a
little letter, which was a funny mixture of childishness and manliness,
telling her that he had a wound in his right arm from the enemy, who
wished to seize his pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!”
wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it given me to defend!” Then he
tells her, that his new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, and
that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy rushed at them, but soon
was up again, firing his pistols after them. Three months the child was
there, in the army, and often suffered much from cold and other causes;
but he never complained; and when not engaged in fighting, used to laugh
as merrily as any other child of ten years old, and at as trifling
things.
But at last came a day, which was to decide the battle, one way or
another. On the morning of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms,
and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may never meet again.” Paul gave
him two—one for his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul was
stationed away from his father, at a post which he was not to leave
without permission from a superior officer.
The battle went on; the dead and dying strewed the ground. Little Paul
saw his brave companions falling all around him. Still the child stood
at his post, until a ball fractured his leg; then, in his agony, he
said, what all children say in their pain, “Mother!” fainting as he said
it. Some time after, a soldier flying from the field, saw a child lying
beneath his horse. All the army knew Paul, and loved him; so the soldier
forgot all about his own danger, and stopped to pick up poor little Paul
from the dead soldiers around him, and put him on his shoulders, to
carry him to the camp. Several times the enemy stopped him; but he had
only to point to the wounded child—for everybody had heard of “Little
Paul,”—and they let him pass.
When he got to the camp, little Paul came to his senses; and then they
told him that it would be necessary to cut off his leg.
“Better that, than my head!” said Paul; “but stop!” said he, as a
thought struck him; “it may kill me, may it not?” The doctor bowed his
head; he could not say yes, he felt so sorry for him.
“Give me, then, half an hour first, and let me write to my mother!” said
Paul; and with great agony he wrote tremblingly a few lines to her whose
thoughts were always of her boy.
After this he said, “Now I am ready!” His father stood by, holding his
little hand, and whispering, “Courage, my child! courage!”
Little Paul smiled and answered, “Oh, I have plenty—more than any of
you!” but as he said it, the smile faded, and a deadly pallor overspread
his face.
“Oh, papa, I am dying!” said Paul.
You have seen a cloud-shadow flit over a sunny meadow.
“Oh, papa, I am dying!”
Little Paul never spoke again, and the smile faded from his face, and
the small hand grew cold in the father’s grasp. Ah! poor little brave
Paul! He did not think of this when he and his grandfather played
battle, with wooden soldiers, evening after evening, on the study table,
in their pleasant chateau in France. I think it was a great shame ever
to take little Paul from there; don’t you?
OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON,
The man who wrote the big dictionary. It makes my head ache to think of
it; but Dr. Johnson’s head and mine are about as much alike as a pea and
a pumpkin, so there’s no use in talking about that. He lived through it,
and made himself famous by it, as well as by many other things he said
and did. It always comforts me to think that these literary giants,
after all, had to begin life as we all did—in a cradle; the doctor was a
baby once, like the rest of us; ate candy, I suppose, and cried for his
mammy, although he grew up into such a shaggy lion, that his roar
frightened timid folks half out of their wits. But, like other big
animals, who sniff gently when little bits of creatures run past, as
much as to say, I _could_ munch you up, were you worth the trouble, so
the doctor, in his solemn grandeur, let ladies frisk round him unharmed;
and liked it, too! But I am outrunning my story; let us go back to his
cradle.
The first thing we hear of him is, his being perched on his father’s
shoulder, at church, when he was only three years old, _looking_
earnestly—for he couldn’t have understood what was said—at a famous
minister who preached in those days. Somebody asked his father, why he
brought such a little baby into such a crowd? His answer was, that he
could not keep him at home, and that he would have stayed forever in
church, contentedly, looking at the minister. He was not the first
little Samuel who went early to the temple, as you know, if you have
read your Bible. It would be worth something to know what kept him so
bewitched there, on his father’s shoulder, and what the little creature
was really thinking about. Perhaps the clergyman had a very loving look
in his face; and a baby’s eyes are quick to see that. Or, perhaps he had
a sweet, lullaby voice, which charmed that little ear, like sweet music.
Or, perhaps, being tired of seeing the same things over and over again
at home, that sea of faces, in the crowded church, had a strange
fascination for him; but we might go on perhaps-ing forever, since
nobody can tell us the truth about it.
By and by, getting down from his father’s shoulder, he went to school.
One day, the servant sent to bring him home, not arriving in time, he
started to return by himself, although he was so very near-sighted that
he was obliged to get down on his hands and knees, and take a view of
the crossing, before venturing over. His good, careful schoolmistress,
fearing that he might miss his way, or fall, or be run over, followed
him at a distance, to see that no harm came to him. Master Samuel,
happening to turn round, saw this, to his great displeasure. Immediately
he commenced beating her, in a furious rage, as fast as his little hands
could fly, for what he considered an insult to his future beard. Imagine
the little, insane, red-faced pigmy, and the placid schoolma’am! I
wonder, did he ever think of it, when he grew up; when he made war with
that sharp tongue of his, instead of his fists. I do not consider this
an improvement on his juvenile style of warfare; inasmuch as bruised
flesh heals quicker than a bruised spirit, and there are words that hurt
worse than the most stunning blow. However, there was this excuse for
his life-long irritability, in the fact that, from childhood, he was a
victim to that dreadful disease, the scrofula, which disfigured his
face, and nearly destroyed the sight of one eye. His _heart_ was good
and kind, as you will see.
Samuel was quite remarkable for his wonderful memory. When he was a
little fellow in petticoats, and had learned to read, his mother, one
morning, placed the prayer book in his hands, and pointing to the
“collect” for the day, said, “Sam, you must get this by heart!” Leaving
him to study it, she shut the door, and went up stairs. By the time she
had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. “What’s the
matter?” asked she. “I can say it,” Sam replied. His mother did not
believe him; still, she took the book, and bade him begin; and, sure
enough, he said it off like a minister, although he could not possibly
have had time to read it over more than twice. They tell another story
of him: that when three years old, he happened to tread on a little
duckling, the eleventh of a brood, and killed it, whereupon he wrote the
following epitaph:
“Here lies good Master Duck,
Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;
If it had lived, it had been good luck,
For then we’d had an odd one.”
Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, declared, when he grew
older, that his _father_ wrote it, and tried to pass it off for his.
That amiable fib, if it _was_ such, was hardly worth while, as there
needed no proof of the child’s cleverness.
I told you how much he was troubled with scrofula. There was a
superstition in those days, that if any one afflicted by this disease
could be touched by the royal hand of a king, a cure would speedily
follow. Many persons, who had a great reputation for wisdom, were
foolish enough to believe this. Sam’s mother, therefore, may be excused,
for what, in other circumstances, would have been called “a woman’s
whim.” At any rate, up to London she went with little Sam. Queen Anne
was king then, if you’ll pardon an Irish-ism; and Sam’s childish
recollection of her was a solemn lady in diamonds, with a long, black
hood. Did she cure him? Of course not; though his kind mother, I’ve no
doubt, always felt better satisfied with herself for having tried it.
Sam still continued to go to school, however, and one old lady to whom
he went, had such an affection for him, that, years after, when he was a
young man, just about to enter college, she came to bid him good by,
bringing with her a big, motherly piece of gingerbread, as a token of
her affection, adding that “he was the best scholar she ever had.” Sam
didn’t make fun of it behind her back, as would many young men; he had
sense enough to understand the great compliment conveyed in that piece
of cake.
The Latin and other masters who succeeded the old lady, did not admire
young Sam as much as she did; instead of “gingerbread,” he got
tremendous whippings, one of the masters saying, benevolently, while he
“laid it on,” “And this I do, to save you from the gallows.” I myself
have more faith in the gingerbread than in the whipping system, which, I
believe, has as often driven boys _to_ the gallows, as “from” it. But it
seems Samuel owed them no grudge; for being asked, later in life, how he
came to have such an accurate knowledge of Latin, replied, “My master
whipt me very well;” and all his life long, he _in_sisted and
_per_sisted, that _only by the rod_ was learning ever introduced into a
boy’s head. Still, to my eye, “birches” look best in the woods. I can’t
help thinking that the gentle sway of the old lady would have carried
him safe through his Latin too, had she but known enough to teach it.
In all schools, the boy who knows the most, rules the rest. So it was
with Sam; who, if he helped them into difficulty with his roguish
pranks, helped them also with their lessons, when they came to a
standstill for want of his quick comprehension. They all looked up to
him with great deference, and so far did this carry them, that they
carried him! actually and really. Three boys used to call at his
lodgings every morning, as humble attendants, to bear him to school.
One, in the middle, stooped, while he sat on his back; while one on each
side supported him; and thus the great, lazy Sam was borne along in
triumph!
There is one thing which I believe to be true of the childhood and youth
of all persons distinguished for true knowledge. It is this: they never
rest satisfied with ignorance on any point, which, by any possibility,
can be explained or made clear. It was so with Samuel; also, he never
forgot what he thus heard, or had read. I know well that a young person
who is “inquisitive” is much more troublesome than one who never thinks,
and only rests satisfied with just what is put into the ear, and desires
no more; and parents and teachers, too, are too apt to silence the
inquisitive mind with “don’t ask questions!” or “don’t be so
troublesome!” or, if they answer, do it in a careless, lazy way, that
only surrounds the questioner with new difficulty, instead of helping
him out of it; never reflecting that it is by this _self-educating
process_ that the child arrives at the _best half_ of what he will ever
know. Don’t misunderstand me; don’t think I mean that a child, or a
young person, is impertinently to interrupt the conversation of his
elders, and clamor for an immediate answer. I don’t mean so, any more
than I think it right to snub him back into ignorance with that
harrowing “little pitcher” proverb, which used to make me tear my hair
out, at being forced to “be seen,” while I was not allowed “to be
heard.”
It is my private belief, spite of my admiration of the great Sam, that
he was physically—lazy. Riding boy-back to school gave me the first
glimmering of it. Afterward, the fact that his favorite, indeed, only
diversion in winter was, being drawn on the ice by a barefooted boy, who
pulled him along by a garter fixed around him—no easy job for the
shivering barefooter, as Sam was not only “great” intellectually, but
physically. His defective sight prevented him from enjoying the common
sports of boys, if this is any excuse for what would seem to be a piece
of selfishness on his part. Perhaps to his inability for active sports,
we may ascribe his appetite for romances in his leisure hours—a practice
which he afterward deeply regretted, because, as he declared, it
unsettled his mind, and stood very much in the way of his decision upon
any profession in life.
At the age of twenty, Samuel’s disease took the form of an overpowering
melancholy, which, I am sorry to say, never wholly left him during his
life. In every possible way the poor fellow struggled against it, by
study, by reading, by going into company, by sitting up late at night,
till he was sure of losing himself in sleep. This melancholy took the
form of great fear of death. He could not bear to hear the word “death”
mentioned in his presence. I think, however, it was “_dying_” he feared,
_not_ “_death_.” I think he feared physical pain and suffering, not
another state of existence; for all his ideas of _that_ were pleasant
and happy, like those of a child going home to its parent, whom, though
he may have sinned against, he tenderly loves, and constantly implores
forgiveness from. A more kind-hearted man than Samuel Johnson never
lived, with all his bluntness, which, after all, is much preferable to
the smooth tongue which rolls deceit, like a sweet morsel, in honeyed
words. He had also this noble trait: he was quick to ask forgiveness
where his blunt words had wounded. He did not think either his dignity
or his manliness compromised by confessing himself in the wrong. I want
you to notice this particularly; because small, narrow minds think it
“mean and poor-spirited” to do this, even when convinced that they are
wrong. This blunt, rough, ordinary-looking, ill-dressed old man (for he
lived, after all, to be an old man), had a kingly heart. I could tell
you many instances of his kindness to the poor and unfortunate; of his
devoted love for his wife, who died many years before him, and whose
memory he sacredly and lovingly cherished. He numbered among his friends
many great and talented people, who were attracted to him by the good
qualities I have named, as, also, by his brilliant and intellectual
conversation. Royalty, too, paid him special honor; and in his latter
days, when money was not so plenty as it should have been in the pocket
of a man to whom the world owes so much, the highest people in the land
most assiduously endeavored to make his descent to the grave easy, by
travel, change of scene, and more comfortable accommodations than he
could otherwise have had. Rough as Dr. Johnson was reputed to be, he was
a great favorite with ladies. No dandy could outdo him in a neat,
graceful compliment to them, and no insect could sting sharper than he
either, if they disgusted him with their nonsense and folly. Nice,
honest, sham-hating old man! I am glad that the Saviour he loved, smiled
so lovingly on him at the last, that he fearlessly crossed the dark
waves he had dreaded, to lay that weary head upon His bosom.
THE LITTLE LORD.
Everybody has heard of Lord Byron. The world says, he had a very bad
temper; and the world says his mother had a very bad temper, too. For
once the world was right; but when I tell you that Byron’s mother, when
a pretty, warm-hearted girl, married a man she dearly loved, and found
out, after marriage, that it was her money, not herself, that he loved,
and that, while spending this extravagantly, he was at the same time
mean enough to ill-treat and abuse her, I think we should inquire how
sweet-tempered we could have been under such circumstances, before we
call _her_ hard names. I believe this is the way God judges us, and that
he always takes into account, as man does not, the circumstances by
which we have been surrounded for good or evil. It is easy for anybody
to be amiable, when there is nothing to thwart or annoy.
Well, as I have said, poor Mrs. Byron had a weary life of it; and little
George, hearing his mother say violent words, when her misery pressed
hard upon her, learned to say them, too; and set his handsome lips
together, till he looked like a little fiend; and tore his frocks to
tatters when things did not suit him; and later, when he was too old for
this, he used to turn so deadly pale with speechless rage, that one
would almost rather have encountered the violent words of his childhood.
A mother who cannot, or does not, control herself, cannot, of course,
control her child; so that there was presented at their home that most
pitiable of all sights, mother and child always contending for the
mastery.
I should tell you that this handsome boy was born with a deformed foot,
which prevented him from exercising, like other children; and that he
suffered not only from this restraint, but from the painful, and, as it
proved, useless remedies, that were resorted to for his cure. An active,
restless, lame boy! Cannot you see that this must have been hard to
bear? But when I add that his own mother, in her angry fits, used to
taunt him with his lameness, till the mere mention of his twisted foot,
or even a glance at it, nearly drove him crazy, I am sure you cannot but
pity him. And so this personal defect, which she might have soothed and
loved him into feeling it a happiness to bear, because it should
naturally have called out the fullness of a mother’s pitying heart,
became to him, through her mismanagement, like a nest of scorpions, to
lash into fury his worst passions. This was very dreadful. _I_ try to
remember it, and _you_ must, when you read the bitter, bad words of his
manhood, which stand over against his name, and, alas! will always
stand; for the hand is cold and powerless now, which should have dashed
them out; the eyes are closed now, from which the tear of repentance
should fall to wash them away; the voice is forever hushed, which should
say, beware! to the young feet, which he would lure with flowers, only
to be bitten by serpents.
And yet, it is beautiful to know, that his unhappy childhood, which,
like a blighting mildew, overspread all his future life, had not power
_quite_ to extinguish the angel in him. Thus we hear that, when sent
away to an English school, he interfered, notwithstanding his lameness,
between a big boy and a little one, whom the former was severely
punishing. Unable to fight in defence of the poor little fellow, upon
whom the torturing blows were descending, Byron stood boldly up before
his persecutor, and begged, with crimson cheeks and tearful eyes, that
he might, at least, “take half the blows that were intended for the
little boy.” I think you will agree with me that this was very brave and
magnanimous. I have another little anecdote of the same kind to tell
you. Not long after this, a little boy came to the school, who had just
recovered from a severe illness, which had left him very lame. Byron,
seeing a bigger boy threatening him, took him one side, and said, “Don’t
be troubled; if he abuses you, tell me, and I’ll thrash him if I can,”
and he afterward did it.
Unfortunately for Byron, he became a lord, while he was yet a schoolboy.
I say unfortunately, because, had he been a poor boy, I think it might
have made a man of him. His mother, delighted at his being a lord, took
every opportunity to make him as proud as a little peacock, by telling
him of how much consequence it would make him in the eyes of the world;
as if being a lord was of any account if he did nothing but strut about
to parade his title, and enjoy the mean pleasure of forcing those who
were “beneath him” (by so much as that they lacked a coat of arms) to
make gracious way for him. Imagine this little schoolboy, so puffed up
with that idea of his mother, that the first time he was called by his
title in school, he actually burst into tears—from sheer delight! One
can’t smile at it, for it was the sowing of a poisonous seed, which
should spring up into a “tree,” under whose shadows should die the sweet
flowers of kindness and generosity which, I have already told you, were
springing up in the child’s heart. Such grand airs did “my lord” put on,
that the boys used to nickname him “_the baron_.” You will not be
surprised to hear, that this foolish pride of rank grew with his youth,
and strengthened with his strength, so that, when he became a man (could
he be said to be one, when under the dominion of such a childish
feeling?) he would have his coat of arms put on his bed-curtains, and
everywhere else where it could possibly be placed; and upon one
occasion, when his title was omitted, he flew into the most absurd
paroxysm of rage. Petty and pitiful, was it not?