extraordinary in that. It has happened to many children, of whom the
world never even heard that they were born. Grandfather’s house! It is
the child’s paradise. He has only to cry for what he wants, to obtain
it. Grandpa quite forgets the wholesome authority he exercised with the
_parents_ of his little grandchild, and how well they were made “to
mind;” and he will always find some excuse, when they say to him while
he is spoiling their boy, “Grandpa, you never allowed _us_ to do thus,
and so.” He only shakes his silver head, and kisses the noisy rogue. He
is old, and it may seem to him the least troublesome way to manage; or,
being so near the grave, _love_ may seem to the poor old man the most
precious thing while he stays here; and he will long have slept his last
sleep, before that pretty but willful boy will know enough to love him
better for restraining him. And so old grandpa, wanting all the love he
can get, from everybody, before his heart grows cold forever, _won’t
see_ the child’s little tricks, or, if he does, but says, “Ah, well,
he’s only a child!” or, “He don’t feel well to-day!” or, “We must not be
too hard upon him, till he gets older and wiser.” Then it is really very
difficult for grandpa, or anybody else, to manage a _sick_ child. One
cannot tell what is obstinacy and what disease. One fears to be harsh
and cruel to a little crippled thing; the pale face appeals so
irresistibly to a kind heart; and “What if he should die?” is apt to
decide all doubts in the child’s favor. And then, a child almost
unbearably irritable, the first years of its life, grows sweet-tempered,
docile, and affectionate, with returning health. But I have rambled a
long way from my story—of lame little Walter Scott, who was sent to his
grandfather, to “Sandy Knowe,” for change of air, in charge of his
nurse. Now, this nursemaid had a lover, whom she had been obliged to
leave behind when she went with the sick child. This made her cross;
from that she began to hate the poor sick boy; and from that, to
entertain thoughts of killing him with a pair of scissors, that she
might get back again to her lover. Luckily, this was discovered, and she
was sent off; Grandpa Scott, of course, pitying the boy all the more on
account of the danger he had been in. Of course, he asked everybody what
was good for his grandson’s complaint. One person recommended that a
sheep should be killed, and the child immediately wrapped in its warm
skin. This was done; and behold little Walter lying on the floor, in his
woolly covering, and Grandpa Scott sitting there coaxing him to crawl
round, and exercise his little lame leg. There was his Grandma Scott,
too, in her elbow chair, looking on. Now and then a visitor would drop
in—some old military man, to see grandpa; and the two would sit and talk
about “the American Revolution,” then going on. These stories made
little Walter’s eyes shine, for under the lamb’s woolly skin there beat
a little lion heart; and then this little three-year-old boy crawled
nearer and nearer the chairs where the old men were sitting, and
devoured every word they said. All children like stories that are
wonderful and marvelous, but perhaps little Walter would never have been
such a beautiful story writer when he grew up, had he not lain there in
his lamb skin, in the little parlor at Sandy Knowe, listening to those
old men’s stories. People don’t think of these things when they talk
before children, who look so unconscious of what is going on.
Besides his good grandparents, Walter had a very kind aunt, by the name
of Janet, who liked children, and was fond of telling Walter stories,
and teaching him to repeat little ballads. Of one of these in
particular, he was very fond; and when he lay sprawling on the floor, he
used to say it over to himself. It seems that among his grandpa’s
friends was one of those persons who have no love for, and, of course,
no patience with, children. This person had a very long face, very thin
legs, and a very narrow chest; so I suppose we must forgive him. Did you
ever know a fat, broad-chested man or woman to hate children? I never
did. Well, when little Walter lay there under foot, amusing himself with
his favorite ballad, this long-legged man would frown, and turning to
his grandpa, say, “One may as well speak in the mouth of a cannon as
where that child is!” It is so unnatural a thing to dislike children,
that I prefer to believe, when persons do so, that it is because they
are sick and nervous. However, little Walter did not bear this gentleman
any ill-will for it; because, long afterward, when he heard that he was
sick and dying, he went to see him, and they took a kind farewell of
each other.
It seems that Walter’s sickness did not sour his disposition; an old
woman by the name of Tibby, at Sandy Knowe, says that “he was a
sweet-tempered little bairn, and a darling with all the house.” The
shepherds delighted to carry him on their backs among the crags, and he
soon learned to know every sheep and lamb in the flock, by the mark put
on their heads. Best of all, he liked an old man, who had the
superintendence of all the flocks, who was called “the cow-bailie;” when
Walter saw him in the morning, he never would be satisfied until he had
been put astride his shoulder and carried to the crags, to keep him
company while he watched his flocks. After a while, he became weary of
this, as children will; then the nice old man blew a particular note on
his whistle, to let the maid servant know that she was to come up and
carry him down the crags to his grandpa, in the little cozy parlor.
Many—many—many years after this, when Walter was an old man, he went
back to see those crags, and this is what he said: “Oh, how I used to
love the sheep and lambs when I rolled round here upon the grass; I have
never forgotten the feeling—no, not till this day!”
Once, when little Walter was up on the crags, the people in the house
where he lived forgot him. A thunder storm came up. Suddenly his Aunt
Janet remembered that he was there, and ran up, much frightened, to
bring him home. There she found him, lying comfortably on his back, the
sharp, forked lightning playing overhead, and little Walter clapping his
hands and crying, “Bonny! bonny!” at every flash. Walter’s grandpa,
finding that he was fond of riding on the old cow-bailie’s shoulder,
bought him a cunning little Shetland pony, hardly as large as a
Newfoundland dog; in fact, he was so small that he used to walk into the
parlor like a dog, and feed from the child’s hand. He did not think then
that one day he should have a little grandchild lame like himself, and
that he should buy _him_ just such a little pony, and name it like
that—“Marion;”—but so it was.
Walter was a great reader. He read to his aunt, read to himself, and
read to his mother. One day he was reading to his mother an account of a
shipwreck, and became very much excited; lifting his hands and eyes, and
saying, “There’s the mast gone! crash! now they’ll all perish!” While he
was reading, a lady had come in to see his mother. After he had
recovered a little from his agitation, he turned to the lady-visitor
with a politeness quite remarkable in a child of only six years, and
said, “This is too melancholy! had I not better read you something more
amusing?” The lady thought, as well she might, that if she wanted to be
“amused” she had better make him talk; so she said, knowing he had been
reading Milton, “How did you like Milton, Walter?” “I think,” said he,
“that it is very strange that Adam, who had just come newly into the
world, should know everything. I suppose, though, it must be only the
poet’s fancy.” “You forget,” said the lady, “that God created Adam quite
perfect.” Walter reflected a moment, seemed satisfied, and yielded the
point. When his Aunt Janet took him up to bed that night, he said,
“Auntie, I like that lady; I think she is a virtuoso like myself.” “Dear
Walter!” exclaimed Aunt Jenny, opening wide her eyes, “what _is_ a
virtuoso?” “Why, aunt, it is one who wishes, and _will_ know,
everything.” Of course, you may believe that his Aunt Jenny tucked him
up that night in the full belief that he would never live to grow up.
Luckily for us all, she was mistaken.
Are you tired hearing stories about him? Because I have another one I
want to tell you, though I dare say, if you are reading this book of
mine aloud to your mother, she has said to herself fifty times (and I
like her fifty times better for saying it), “Pooh! our Ben, or our Sam,
or our Harry, said a great many wonderful things, quite as wonderful as
these, as I could show, if ‘a mother’ ever had a minute’s time to write
and tell the world of it.” I’ve no doubt of it, my dear madam; I shall
certainly die in the belief that children say about all there is worth
listening to in this world; but to proceed with my story. One day, when
Walter was sitting at the gate with an attendant, a woe-begone old
beggar came up, and asked for charity. After he had received it, the
attendant said, “Walter, how thankful should you be, that you are not
obliged to beg your bread in that way.” Walter looked up wistfully, as
if he did not comprehend; then replied, “Homer was a beggar.” “How do
you know?” asked the attendant. “Why, don’t you remember?
“‘Seven Roman cities strove for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.’”
How lucky that Walter was not kept in the city! I think nothing could
have made him well but taking him just where he was taken; out on the
crags, where the fresh wind blew, and the grass was so sweet, and
everything about him tempted him to crawl on a _little_ farther, and
then a _little_ farther; a tuft of moss, or a curious stone, or some
little thing which he wished to take in his own hand, and examine more
closely. Oh, I am quite sure he must have died in the city; his poor
lame leg would have shrunk more and more, for want of exercise; for a
carpet ever so soft, can never be like that which God has spread for the
bare feet of the poorest country child. But you must not suppose, all
this while, that he learned nothing save that which the sky, and the
crags, and the sheep taught him. Aunt Janet used to give him lessons
when he was well enough, and as he could bear them. Ah! it is well that
there are some good women who never marry. Else, what would so many sick
children do, for patient, careful, good, loving nurses? How many of them
have been coaxed by such round the most dangerous point of childhood,
where medicine was nothing, and good nursing _everything_, to the
astonishment of all who prophesied an early death. Such women have their
reward, for these little ones become almost as dear to them as if in
name—as well as in self-forgetting love—they were mothers. God bless
them all! as the silver threads gleam amid their tresses. They will not
be lonely in Heaven.
Children are full of funny whims; though I think, if we follow them but
carefully, we shall, oftener than not, find good reason for them. Walter
had a dislike almost amounting to terror of a _statue_. Very likely, he
might first have seen one by a dim light, which, to his startled vision,
gave it a ghostly look. It might have been so, though I don’t know that
it was. When his Uncle Robert, who was very fond of him, found this out,
he did not laugh at him, or scold him, but he took him, whenever it was
possible, to see fine statues; and he soon learned, not only to conquer
his dislike, but to admire their beauty exceedingly.
By and by his friends thought it was time he went to school, he was
growing so much stronger, though not well of his lameness; in fact, I
believe that all his after life he walked with a stick. So to school he
went, I dare say, with many misgivings; I dare say he wondered whether
the boys would make fun of his lameness. I dare say he wondered what he
should do with himself while they were running, and leaping, and playing
all sorts of rough-and-tumble plays out of doors, and out of school
hours. I dare say he dreaded, as do all children, the first day at a new
school. I dare say he wondered whether the education he had picked up by
bits, as his lame leg would let him, would pass muster at a big boys’
school; or whether he would be called “a dunce,” as well as “lame.” I
don’t know that he thought any of these thoughts, but I shouldn’t wonder
if he had. I suppose his grandpa, and his Uncle Robert, and his Aunt
Janet all felt anxious, too; but, as it turned out, there was no great
occasion for it, for he seemed quite well able, after he got there, to
manage his own little affairs. In the first place, knowing that he
couldn’t “rough it” much in the playground, and not liking, of course,
to be left in a corner alone, he commenced telling such wonderful tales
and stories, that the boys were glad to crowd round him and listen; and
they were worth listening to; else the boys wouldn’t have staid, I can
tell you. How they _would_ have stared, had they then been told that
this lame fellow was destined to set the whole world by the ears by the
stories he should write. Ah! you don’t know, you boys, what famous men
you may be sharing your apples and cake with in the playground. You
don’t know what a big man you may become _yourself_, only by being _his_
boyhood’s friend. How his future biographer will hunt you out, and
catechise you about the color of his eyes, and hair, and the shape of
his finger nails, and what he said, and did, and ate, and drank, and
what he did like, and what he didn’t like; and it is very well you don’t
know all this, because it would spoil your present fun and freedom; and
it is very well “the master” don’t know “a genius” when he is boxing his
ears, because they might _grow very long_ for the need of such
discipline!
Well, like other boys, Master Walter was sometimes at the top, and
sometimes at the bottom of his class. On one occasion he made a sudden
leap to the top. The master asked the boys “Is _with_ ever a
substantive?” All were silent, until the question reached Walter, nearly
at the bottom of the class, who instantly replied by quoting from the
book of Judges, “And Sampson said unto Delilah, ‘If they bind me with
seven green _withs_ that were never dried, then shall I be weak, and as
another man.’” Pretty keen! wasn’t it? The other boys twiddled their
thumbs, and looked foolish, and he went to the top. I don’t believe his
mother thought, when she read him the Bible, of his laying that text on
the shelf of his memory, to be brought forth in that queer way. But a
smart answer does not stand a boy in the place of hard study, as you may
have found out if you ever tried it; so Master Walter found himself at
the bottom of the class again one fine day. This didn’t suit the young
man, and what suited him less was the fact that the boy who was at the
head seemed to mean to stay there, too. Day after day passed, and nobody
could get his place. Walter pondered deeply how he should manage. He
looked sharply at him, to see if he could not accomplish by stratagem
what he could not gain fairly. At length he observed that when a
question was asked this—_at-the-top boy_—he always fumbled with his
fingers at a particular button on the lower part of his waistcoat. _If
Walter could only succeed in cutting off that button!_ He watched his
chance—knife in hand. When that top boy was again questioned, he felt,
as usual, for the friendly button. It was gone! He looked down for it;
it was no more to be seen than to be felt. He stuttered—he stammered—he
missed his lesson; and that wretched, roguish Walter took his place. But
I can tell you he didn’t feel happy about it; for he says he never
passed him but his heart smote him for it, though the top boy never knew
who stole his _lesson button_. Scott says he often promised himself to
make some amends for the boyish injury he did him; but he never did.
Scott also says that when this boy grew a young man, he became a
drunkard, and died early. That was a pity, though I don’t think it was
on account of that button; do you? Still, Scott always wished all the
more that he had not been unkind to the poor, unfortunate fellow.
You will be glad to know that Walter continued to grow stronger and
stronger, so that his limb, though it disfigured, did not disable him.
He had not been taunted with it in his childhood, like poor Byron, till
he imagined everybody who looked at him thought of nothing else. He had
been very, very kindly cared for, and tenderly nursed. Pity Byron was
not, though I think he _never_ would have been half the man Scott was;
but then, I’m “_only a woman_,” and you needn’t mind what _I_ say. Well,
when Walter grew to be a fine young man, he was very fond of strolling
off to see beautiful scenery, and when he once began these journeys, he
never knew how fast time was passing, how far he had gone, and when and
where to stop. Not knowing how to draw pictures of the places he visited
with his pencil (he did not know then how beautifully his pen would do
it some day), he resolved to cut a branch of a tree from every place
which particularly pleased him, and label it with the name of the spot
where it grew, and afterward have a set of chess men made out of the
wood, as he was then very fond of this game, which, by the way, with a
courtesy to Paul Morphy, I think a very stupid game; though perhaps this
is because I never could sit still long enough to learn how to play it.
This idea of Walter’s was a very pretty one, though he never carried it
into execution. He never played chess after boyhood—saying that it was a
sad “waste of brains;” and he might have added, a sad waste of backbone;
at least for “Young America,” who has few enough outdoor sports now, to
keep his breastbone and his backbone from clinging together.
Walter’s mother was very anxious he should learn music; but he declares
he had neither voice nor ear for it. He says that, when the attempt was
made to instruct him, and the music teacher came to give him lessons, a
lady who lived in their neighborhood sent in “to beg that the children
in that house might not all be flogged at the same hour, because,
though, doubtless, they all deserved it, the noise they made was really
dreadful!”
Walter’s mother appears to have been a very intelligent, kind-hearted,
well-educated woman. Not educated according to our standard, exactly;
since, at the age of eighty, when sitting down, she never touched the
back of her chair any more than if the eye of the schoolmistress was
then upon her, who used to force pupils “to sit upright.” She died
before Walter came to be the “great unknown” whom everybody was
wondering about. But, after all, what matters it, so far as she was
concerned? since it is _love_, not greatness, for which a mother’s heart
hungers; and Walter loved his mother.
After her death, among her papers was found a weak, boyish scrawl, with
penciled marks still visible, of a translation in verse from Horace and
Virgil, by “her dear boy Walter.” I said, just now, what mattered it to
_her_ that he was famous? little, truly, so that he loved her; and yet,
for _him_, for any one, to whom the world’s praises have come, ah, it is
of the loved dead that they _then_ think?
With all his glory, with all his troop of friends, seen and unseen, I
doubt if he was ever so happy as when lying at _her_ feet, wrapped in
the warm sheepskin, in the little sunny parlor at Sandy Knowe. When you
read his books—and it is a great thing to say that children _may_ read
them—you will remember all these little stories I have been telling you
about his childhood; and that, when he came to die, full of age and
honors, _this_ is what he said to his son, as he stood by his bedside:
“My dear, be a good man: be virtuous, be religious—be a _good_ man.
_Nothing else will give you any real comfort when you come to lie
here._”
AUNT MAGGIE.
Maggie More—that was her name; people who knew her well called her Aunt
Maggie; this did not displease her; she was a sociable little body,
quite willing to befriend anybody who felt the need of an aunt, or whom
the world had used hardly. Maggie was not rich as we use the word, but
she was rich in good health, in good temper, and a certain faculty of
making the best of everything that happened. The little shop she kept
would have made a Broadway storekeeper laugh. Well, let him laugh; he
could afford to do it, if he never made a dishonest penny oftener than
Aunt Maggie. _She_ never told a poor soul who had scraped a few
shillings together to buy a calico dress, that “it would wash,” (meaning
that it would wash _out_.) _Her_ yardstick never had a way of slipping,
so that six yards and a half measured, when you got it home, but six
yards. She never gave crossed sixpences and shillings to children who
were sent to buy tape and needles; and so, as I told you, Aunt Maggie
did not get rich as fast as they who do such things; but Maggie had read
in a Book which the people I speak of seldom open, because, when they
do, it is sure to prick their consciences—Aunt Maggie had read in that
book, that “they who make haste to be rich shall not be innocent,” and
she believed it. She had not yet outgrown the Bible; it did not lie on
her little deal table merely to gather dust, or that the minister might
see it when he called once a year. She did not think that, though the
Bible was well enough for those who lived at the time it was written, it
could teach her nothing at this day; she did not think it a proof of
courage or of a superior understanding to make light of its blessed
teachings. No, no, Aunt Maggie knew better; she had seen too many in her
lifetime, who had talked that way when everything went well with them,
sink down in despair when the waves of trouble dashed over them, and she
had seen too many whom that blessed book had buoyed up through billows
of trouble that rolled mountain high, not to cling to the Bible. No, no;
Aunt Maggie was an old woman, but she was not yet old enough to let go
her Heavenly Father’s hand, and try to walk alone. She knew how surely
she should stumble and fall if she did.
Nor did Aunt Maggie’s religion consist merely in reading her Bible and
going to church; when she read on its pages, “Visit the fatherless and
widows in their affliction,” she did it.
“What is the matter, Aunt Maggie?” asked a bronzed sea captain, who had
rolled into her little shop to buy a new watch ribbon. “This is the
first time I ever saw you look as if there was a squall ahead. Got any
watch ribbons, Aunt Maggie?—none of your flimsy things for an old
sea-dog like me. Give us something that will stand a twitch or
two—that’s it—take your pay—(throwing her his purse)—and mind you take
enough—there’s nobody else wants it now”—and the old captain drew a long
sigh.
“The Lord does,” answered Aunt Maggie, folding her arms on the counter,
and looking earnestly in the captain’s face.
“What do you mean by that, hey? Has some Bible society run a-foul of
you? Want a church built, to shut out everybody who don’t believe as you
do, eh, Aunt Maggie?” and the old captain stowed away a bit of tobacco
in his cheek, with a knowing look.
“It’s just here,” said Aunt Maggie—“the poor ye have always with you;
that was said a great many thousand years ago, but it is just as true
now.”
“I don’t know who should know, Aunt, better than you,” said the captain;
“you who are always helping them. Go on.”
“Well, there’s a poor young creature who lies dead a stone’s throw from
here, an English girl, whose husband brought her to this country, and
then left her to take care of herself. I was with her all last night,
and this morning she laid her little babe in my arms, and I promised to
care for it when she was gone. Poor thing! she had her senses but a few
minutes to tell me anything. Her parents, it seems, disinherited her for
marrying her husband. She would not tell their name. She had pawned, one
by one, every article in her possession, for money; and now, there’s the
babe. God helping me, she shall be taken care of as I promised, but you
know it’s little I have—and the mother must have decent burial.”
“English—did you say she was?” asked the captain.
“Aye—English,” said Aunt Maggie—“fair-haired and blue-eyed—the pride of
some home. Oh! how little they, who must have loved her once, think how
cold and desolate she lies now. It is well,” said Aunt Maggie, “that
_God_ can forgive—when earthly parents turn away.”
“You don’t know what it is, Aunt Maggie,” said the captain, striding
across the floor, “to have the child you loved better than your heart’s
blood, leave your arms for a stranger’s, whom she has known mayhap but a
day.”
“It must be bitter,” said Aunt Maggie, “and yet, year after year, we
turn our backs upon Him who has done more for us than any earthly parent
can. If He still feeds us, cares for us, forgives us, what are _we_
to——”
“True—true!” said the old captain, dashing his hand across his eyes;
“this girl is English, you say?”
“Yes; and as you are English too, I thought mayhap you’d like to help a
countrywoman; I am going to see to the babe now,” said Aunt Maggie;
“mayhap you’d like to see it too?”
“Aye—aye,” replied the captain.
On they went, to the end of the long street—past grog shops, and pawn
shops, and mock-auction shops, and second-hand furniture shops, and
rickety old tenement houses, where ragged clothes flapped, and broken
windows were stuffed with paper; where dogs barked and parrots
screamed—for many of these poor people, who can scarcely keep
themselves, keep these pets,—past young girls, homeless and shameless,
alas!—past young men, old, not in years, but in sin—past little
children, who only knew God’s blessed name to blaspheme it. At last Aunt
Maggie turned down an alley, dark, narrow, and dingy, and entering one
of the low doors, began to ascend the creaky stairs, that seemed
swarming with children, of all sorts and sizes, dwarfed in the cradle by
disease and neglect. When Aunt Maggie reached the top flight, she
stopped before a door, through which came the faint wailing of a little
babe, and the low lullaby of a woman’s voice. Upon the bed, opposite the
door, lay the dead woman, with a sheet thrown over her face.
“Would you like to see her?” asked Aunt Maggie, turning to the captain.
“’Tis a sweet face.”
“Yes—no,” answered the captain, turning away, and then advancing again
toward the bed.
“Mary! Mary!” he cried, as the pale upturned face lay uncovered before
him: “_my_ Mary _here_!” and he threw his arms around the neck of the
dead girl, and trembled like the strong tree before the tempest blast.
“_His_ Mary!” murmured Aunt Maggie, taking the motherless babe from the
old woman’s arms; “_his_ Mary—then this is his grandchild. Didn’t I say
that the Lord would provide for the helpless?”