</h3>
<p>
In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:—
</p>
<p>
<br /><br />
</p>
<h3>
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
</h3>
<h4>
[CONTINUED]
</h4>
<p>
Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since young Sam Johnson had
shown himself so hard-hearted towards his father. It was now market-day in
the village of Uttoxeter.
</p>
<p>
In the street of the village you might see cattle-dealers with cows and
oxen for sale, and pig-drovers with herds of squeaking swine, and farmers
with cartloads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other produce of the
soil. Now and then a farmer’s red-faced wife trotted along on horseback,
with butter and cheese in two large panniers. The people of the village,
with country squires, and other visitors from the neighborhood, walked
hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling, and making just such a
bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made half a century before.
</p>
<p>
In one part of the street there was a puppet-show with a ridiculous
merry-andrew, who kept both grown people and children in a roar of
laughter. On the opposite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter, with
ivy climbing up its walls and partly obscuring its Gothic windows.
</p>
<p>
There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient church, and the hands
on the dial-plate had now almost reached the hour of noon. At this busiest
hour of the market a strange old gentleman was seen making his way among
the crowd, he was very tall and bulky, and wore a brown coat and
small-clothes, with black worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On his head
was a three cornered hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig thrust itself
out, all in disorder. The old gentleman elbowed the people aside, and
forced his way through the midst of them with a singular kind of gait,
rolling his body hither and thither, so that he needed twice as much room
as any other person there.
</p>
<p>
“Make way, sir!” he would cry out, in a loud, harsh voice, when somebody
happened to interrupt his progress. “Sir, you intrude your person into the
public thoroughfare!”
</p>
<p>
“What a queer old fellow this is!” muttered the people among themselves,
hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.
</p>
<p>
But when they looked into the venerable stranger’s face, not the most
thoughtless among them dared to offer him the least impertinence. Though
his features were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and though his
eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was something of authority and wisdom
in his look, which impressed them all with awe. So they stood aside to let
him pass; and the old gentleman made his way across the market-place, and
paused near the corner of the ivy-mantled church. Just as he reached it
the clock struck twelve.
</p>
<p>
On the very spot of ground where the stranger now stood some aged people
remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his book-stall. The
little children who had once bought picture-books of him were grandfathers
now.
</p>
<p>
“Yes; here is the very spot!” muttered the old gentleman to himself.
</p>
<p>
There this unknown personage took his stand and removed the three-cornered
hat from his head. It was the busiest hour of the day. What with the hum
of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of pigs, and the
laughter caused by the merry-andrew, the marketplace was in very great
confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice it any more than if the
silence of a desert were around him. He was rapt in his own thoughts.
Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven, as if in prayer;
sometimes he bent his head, as if an insupportable weight of sorrow were
upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect that there was a motion
of his head and an almost continual tremor throughout his frame, with
singular twitches and contortions of his features.
</p>
<p>
The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but he seemed not to feel
its fervor. A dark cloud swept across the sky and rain-drops pattered into
the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The people began
to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman with superstitious fear and
wonder. Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore was he standing
bareheaded in the market-place? Even the school-boys left the merry-andrew
and came to gaze, with wide-open eyes, at this tall, strange-looking old
man.
</p>
<p>
There was a cattle-drover in the village who had recently made a journey
to the Smithfield market, in London. No sooner had this man thrust his way
through the throng and taken a look at the unknown personage, than he
whispered to one of his acquaintances,—
</p>
<p>
“I say, Neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?”
</p>
<p>
“Ay, that I would,” replied Neighbor Hutchins, “for a queerer chap I never
saw in my life. Somehow it makes me feel small to look at him. He’s more
than a common man.”
</p>
<p>
“You may well say so,” answered the cattle-drover. “Why, that’s the famous
Doctor Samuel Johnson, who they say is the greatest and learnedest man in
England. I saw him in London streets, walking with one Mr. Boswell.”
</p>
<p>
Yes; the poor boy, the friendless Sam, with whom we began our story, had
become the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson. He was universally acknowledged
as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. He had given shape
and permanence to his native language by his Dictionary. Thousands upon
thousands of people had read his Idler, his Rambler, and his Rasselas.
Noble and wealthy men and beautiful ladies deemed it their highest
privilege to be his companions. Even the King of Great Britain had sought
his acquaintance, and told him what an honor he considered it that such a
man had been born in his dominions. He was now at the summit of literary
renown.
</p>
<p>
But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remembrance which had
tormented him through life. Never never had he forgotten his father’s
sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never, though the old man’s troubles had
been over so many years, had he forgiven himself for inflicting such a
pang upon his heart. And now, in his old age, he had come hither to do
penance, by standing at noonday, in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on the
very spot where Michael Johnson had once kept his book-stall. The aged and
illustrious man had done what the poor boy refused to do. By thus
expressing his deep repentance and humiliation of heart, he hoped to gain
peace of conscience and the forgiveness of God.
</p>
<p>
My dear children, if you have grieved (I will not say your parents, but if
you have grieved) the heart of any human being who has a claim upon your
love, then think of Samuel Johnson’s penance. Will it not be better to
redeem the error now than to endure the agony of remorse for fifty years?
Would you not rather say to a brother, “I have erred; forgive me!” than
perhaps to go hereafter and shed bitter tears upon his grave?
</p>
<p>
Hardly was the story concluded when George hastily arose, and Edward
likewise, stretching forth his hands into the darkness that surrounded him
to find his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness: each besought
the other’s forgiveness; and having done so, the trouble of their hearts
vanished away like a dream.
</p>
<p>
“I am glad! I am so glad!” said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. “Now I
shall sleep quietly to-night.”
</p>
<p>
“My sweet child,” thought Mrs. Temple as she kissed her, “mayest thou
never know how much strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many a
night’s rest.”
</p>
<p>
<br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap06"></a>
</p>
<h4>