Grandfather was struck by Laurence’s idea, that the historic chair should
utter a voice, and thus pour forth the collected wisdom of two centuries.
The old gentleman had once possessed no inconsiderable share of fancy;
and, even now, its fading sunshine occasionally glimmered among his more
sombre reflections.
As the history of the chair had exhausted all his facts, Grandfather
determined to have recourse to fable. So, after warning the children that
they must not mistake this story for a true one, he related what we shall
call,—
GRANDFATHER’S DREAM
Laurence and Clara, where were you last night? Where were you, Charley,
and dear little Alice? You had all gone to rest, and left old Grandfather
to meditate alone, in his great chair. The lamp had grown so dim, that its
light hardly illuminated the alabaster shade. The wood fire had crumbled
into heavy embers, among which the little flames danced, and quivered, and
sported about, like fairies.
And here sat Grandfather, all by himself. He knew that it was bedtime; yet
he could not help longing to hear your merry voices, or to hold a
comfortable chat with some old friend; because then his pillow would be
visited by pleasant dreams. But, as neither children nor friends were at
hand, Grandfather leaned back in the great chair, and closed his eyes, for
the sake of meditating more profoundly.
And, when Grandfather’s meditations had grown very profound indeed, he
fancied that he heard a sound over his head, as if somebody were preparing
to speak.
"Hem!" it said, in a dry, husky tone. "H-e-m! Hem!"
As Grandfather did not know that any person was in the room, he started up
in great surprise, and peeped hither and thither, behind the chair, and
into the recess by the fireside, and at the dark nook yonder, near the
bookcase. Nobody could he see.
"Pooh!" said Grandfather to himself, "I must have been dreaming."
But, just as he was going to resume his seat, Grandfather happened to look
at the great chair. The rays of fire-light were flickering upon it in such
a manner that it really seemed as if its oaken frame were all alive. What!
Did it not move its elbow? There, too! It certainly lifted one of its
ponderous fore-legs, as if it had a notion of drawing itself a little
nearer to the fire. Meanwhile, the lion’s head nodded at Grandfather, with
as polite and sociable a look as a lion’s visage, carved in oak, could
possibly be expected to assume. Well, this is strange!
"Good evening, my old friend," said the dry and husky voice, now a little
clearer than before. "We have been intimately acquainted so long, that I
think it high time we have a chat together."
Grandfather was looking straight at the lion’s head, and could not be
mistaken in supposing that it moved its lips. So here the mystery was all
explained.
"I was not aware," said Grandfather, with a civil salutation to his oaken
companion, "that you possessed the faculty of speech. Otherwise, I should
often have been glad to converse with such a solid, useful, and
substantial, if not brilliant member of society."
"Oh!" replied the ancient chair, in a quiet and easy tone, for it had now
cleared its throat of the dust of ages. "I am naturally a silent and
incommunicative sort of character. Once or twice, in the course of a
century, I unclose my lips. When the gentle Lady Arbella departed this
life, I uttered a groan. When the honest mint-master weighed his plump
daughter against the pine-tree shillings, I chuckled audibly at the joke.
When old Simon Bradstreet took the place of the tyrant Andros, I joined in
the general huzza, and capered upon my wooden legs, for joy. To be sure,
the bystanders were so fully occupied with their own feelings, that my
sympathy was quite unnoticed."
"And have you often held a private chat with your friends?" asked
Grandfather.
"Not often," answered the chair. "I once talked with Sir William Phips,
and communicated my ideas about the witchcraft delusion. Cotton Mather had
several conversations with me, and derived great benefit from my
historical reminiscences. In the days of the Stamp Act, I whispered in the
ear of Hutchinson, bidding him to remember what stock his countrymen were
descended of, and to think whether the spirit of their forefathers had
utterly departed from them. The last man whom I favored with a colloquy,
was that stout old republican, Samuel Adams."
"And how happens it," inquired Grandfather, "that there is no record nor
tradition of your conversational abilities? It is an uncommon thing to
meet with a chair that can talk."
"Why, to tell you the truth," said the chair, giving itself a hitch nearer
to the hearth, "I am not apt to choose the most suitable moments for
unclosing my lips. Sometimes I have inconsiderately begun to speak, when
my occupant, lolling back in my arms, was inclined to take an after-dinner
nap. Or, perhaps, the impulse to talk may be felt at midnight, when the
lamp burns dim, and the fire crumbles into decay, and the studious or
thoughtful man finds that his brain is in a mist. Oftenest, I have
unwisely uttered my wisdom in the ears of sick persons, when the
inquietude of fever made them toss about, upon my cushion. And so it
happens, that, though my words make a pretty strong impression at the
moment, yet my auditors invariably remember them only as a dream. I should
not wonder if you, my excellent friend, were to do the same, to-morrow
morning."
"Nor I either," thought Grandfather to himself. However, he thanked this
respectable old chair for beginning the conversation, and begged to know
whether it had any thing particular to communicate.
"I have been listening attentively to your narrative of my adventures,"
replied the chair, "and it must be owned, that your correctness entitles
you to be held up as a pattern to biographers. Nevertheless, there are a
few omissions, which I should be glad to see supplied. For instance, you
make no mention of the good knight, Sir Richard Saltonstall, nor of the
famous Hugh Peters, nor of those old regicide judges, Whalley, Goffe, and
Dixwell. Yet I have borne the weight of all these distinguished
characters, at one time or another."
Grandfather promised amendment, if ever he should have an opportunity to
repeat his narrative. The good old chair, which still seemed to retain a
due regard for outward appearance, then reminded him how long a time had
passed, since it had been provided with a new cushion. It likewise
expressed the opinion, that the oaken figures on its back would show to
much better advantage, by the aid of a little varnish.
"And I have had a complaint in this joint," continued the chair,
endeavoring to lift one of its legs, "ever since Charley trundled his
wheelbarrow against me."
"It shall be attended to," said Grandfather. "And now, venerable chair, I
have a favor to solicit. During an existence of more than two centuries,
you have had a familiar intercourse with men who were esteemed the wisest
of their day. Doubtless, with your capacious understanding, you have
treasured up many an invaluable lesson of wisdom. You certainly have had
time enough to guess the riddle of life. Tell us poor mortals, then, how
we may be happy!"
The lion’s head fixed its eyes thoughtfully upon the fire, and the whole
chair assumed an aspect of deep meditation. Finally, it beckoned to
Grandfather with its elbow, and made a step sideways towards him, as if it
had a very important secret to communicate.
"As long as I have stood in the midst of human affairs," said the chair,
with a very oracular enunciation, "I have constantly observed that
JUSTICE, TRUTH, and LOVE, are the chief ingredients of every happy life."
"Justice, Truth, and Love!" exclaimed Grandfather. "We need not exist two
centuries to find out that these qualities are essential to our happiness.
This is no secret. Every human being is born with the instinctive
knowledge of it."
"Ah!" cried the chair, drawing back in surprise. "From what I have
observed of the dealings of man with man, and nation with nation, I never
should have suspected that they knew this all-important secret. And, with
this eternal lesson written in your soul, do you ask me to sift new wisdom
for you, out of my petty existence of two or three centuries?"
"But, my dear chair—" said Grandfather.
"Not a word more," interrupted the chair; "here I close my lips for the
next hundred years. At the end of that period, if I shall have discovered
any new precepts of happiness, better than what Heaven has already taught
you, they shall assuredly be given to the world."
In the energy of its utterance, the oaken chair seemed to stamp its foot,
and trod, (we hope unintentionally) upon Grandfather’s toe. The old
gentleman started, and found that he had been asleep in the great chair,
and that his heavy walking stick had fallen down across his foot.
"Grandfather," cried little Alice, clapping her hands, "you must dream a
new dream, every night, about our chair!"
Laurence, and Clara, and Charley, said the same. But the good old
gentleman shook his head, and declared that here ended the history, real
or fabulous, of GRANDFATHER’S CHAIR.
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES
BENJAMIN WEST,
SIR ISAAC NEWTON,
SAMUEL JOHNSON
OLIVER CROMWELL,
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN,
QUEEN CHRISTINA.
This small volume, and others of a similar character, from the
same hand, have not been composed without a deep sense of
responsibility. The author regards children as sacred, and would
not, for the world, cast any thing into the fountain of a young
heart, that might embitter and pollute its waters. And, even in
point of the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile literature is as
well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he succeed in
pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by them
till their own old age—a far longer period of literary existence
than is generally attained, by those who seek immortality from the
judgments of full grown men.
Chapter I
When Edward Temple was about eight or nine years old, he was afflicted
with a disorder of the eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was naturally
so delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the boy should
become totally blind. He therefore gave strict directions to keep him in a
darkened chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray of the blessed
light of Heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad.
This was a sad thing for Edward! It was just the same as if there were to
be no more sunshine, nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor
light of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for
months,—a longer and drearier night than that which voyagers are compelled
to endure, when their ship is ice-bound, throughout the winter, in the
Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother George, and the
sweet face of little Emily Robinson, must all vanish, and leave him in
utter darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps, it is true, would
be heard around him; he would feel his mother’s embrace, and the kind
pressure of all their hands; but still it would seem as if they were a
thousand miles away.
And then his studies! They were to be entirely given up. This was another
grievous trial; for Edward’s memory hardly went back to the period when he
had not known how to read. Many and many a holiday had he spent at his
book, poring over its pages until the deepening twilight confused the
print, and made all the letters run into long words. Then would he press
his hands across his eyes, and wonder why they pained him so, and, when
the candles were lighted, what was the reason that they burned so dimly,
like the moon in a foggy night. Poor little fellow! So far as his eyes
were concerned, he was already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles
almost as much as his own grandfather did.
And now, alas! the time was come, when even grandfather’s spectacles could
not have assisted Edward to read. After a few bitter tears, which only
pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to the surgeon’s orders.
His eyes were bandaged, and, with his mother on one side, and his little
friend Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened chamber.
"Mother, I shall be very miserable," said Edward, sobbing.
"Oh, no, my dear child!" replied his mother, cheerfully. "Your eyesight
was a precious gift of Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be
miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. There
are other enjoyments, besides what come to us through our eyes."
"None that are worth having," said Edward.
"Ah! but you will not think so long," rejoined Mrs. Temple, with
tenderness. "All of us—your father, and myself, and George, and our sweet
Emily—will try to find occupation and amusement for you. We will use all
our eyes to make you happy. Will not they be better than a single pair?"
"I will sit by you all day long," said Emily, in her low, sweet voice,
putting her hand into that of Edward.
"And so will I, Ned," said George, his elder brother,—"school time and
all, if my father will permit me."
Edward’s brother George was three or four years older than himself, a
fine, hardy lad, of a bold and ardent temper. He was the leader of his
comrades in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his proficiency at
study, there was not much to be said. He had sense and ability enough to
have made himself a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do,
that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. So fond was
George of boisterous sports and exercises, that it was really a great
token of affection and sympathy, when he offered to sit all day long in a
dark chamber, with his poor brother Edward.
As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter of one of Mr. Temple’s
dearest friends. Ever since her mother went to Heaven, (which was soon
after Emily’s birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the household where we
now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love her as well as their own
children; for they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the boys have
known the blessing of a sister, had not this gentle stranger come to teach
them what it was. If I could show you Emily’s face, with her dark hair
smoothed away from her forehead, you would be pleased with her look of
simplicity and loving-kindness, but might think that she was somewhat too
grave for a child of seven years old. But you would not love her the less
for that.
So brother George, and this loving little girl, were to be Edward’s
companions and playmates, while he should be kept prisoner in the dark
chamber. When the first bitterness of his grief was over, he began to feel
that there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life, even for a boy
whose eyes were covered with a bandage.
"I thank you, dear mother," said he, with only a few sobs, "and you,
Emily; and you too, George. You will all be very kind to me, I know. And
my father—will not he come and see me, every day?"
"Yes, my dear boy," said Mr. Temple; for, though invisible to Edward, he
was standing close beside him. "I will spend some hours of every day with
you. And as I have often amused you by relating stories and adventures,
while you had the use of your eyes, I can do the same, now that you are
unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?"
"Oh, very much!" replied Edward.
"Well then," said his father, "this evening we will begin the series of
Biographical Stories, which I promised you some time ago."
Chapter II
When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward considerably revived in
spirits, and disposed to be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure
of the boy, as it was dimly seen by the fire-light, reclining in a well
stuffed easy-chair, looked so very comfortable that many people might have
envied him. When a man’s eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of
the world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune to have them
bandaged.
Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward’s side, with the air of an
accomplished nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would permit,
she watched all his motions, and each varying expression of his face, and
tried to anticipate her patient’s wishes, before his tongue could utter
them. Yet it was noticeable, that the child manifested an indescribable
awe and disquietude, whenever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for to
her simple and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend Edward
was separated from her, because she could not see his eyes. A friend’s
eyes tell us many things, which could never be spoken by the tongue.
George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys
are accustomed to do, in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never
having felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to
sympathize with the sufferings of others.
"Well, my dear Edward," inquired Mrs. Temple, "is your chair quite
comfortable? and has your little nurse provided for all your wants? If so,
your father is ready to begin his stories."
"Oh, I am very well now," answered Edward, with a faint smile. "And my
ears have not forsaken me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So, pray,
dear father, begin!"
It was Mr. Temple’s design to tell the children a series of true stories,
the incidents of which should be taken from the childhood and early life
of eminent people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, and Emily,
into closer acquaintance with the famous persons who have lived in other
times, by showing that they also had been children once. Although Mr.
Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was founded on fact, yet
he felt himself at liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a
new coloring, so that his auditors might understand them the better.
"My first story," said he, "shall be about a painter of pictures."
"Dear me!" cried Edward, with a sigh. "I am afraid I shall never look at
pictures any more."
"We will hope for the best," answered his father. "In the mean time, you
must try to see things within your own mind."
Mr. Temple then began the following story:
BENJAMIN WEST
BORN 1738. DIED 1820.
In the year 1738, there came into the world, in the town of Springfield,
Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, from whom his parents and neighbors looked
for wonderful things. A famous preacher of the Society of Friends had
prophesied about little Ben, and foretold that he would be one of the most
remarkable characters that had appeared on earth since the days of William
Penn. On this account, the eyes of many people were fixed upon the boy.
Some of his ancestors had won great renown in the old wars of England and
France; but it was probably expected that Ben would become a preacher, and
would convert multitudes to the peaceful doctrines of the Quakers. Friend
West and his wife were thought to be very fortunate in having such a son.
Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years, without doing any thing
that was worthy to be told in history. But, one summer afternoon, in his
seventh year, his mother put a fan into his hand, and bade him keep the
flies away from the face of a little babe, who lay fast asleep in the
cradle. She then left the room.
The boy waved the fan to-and-fro, and drove away the buzzing flies
whenever they had the impertinence to come near the baby’s face. When they
had all flown out of the window, or into distant parts of the room, he
bent over the cradle, and delighted himself with gazing at the sleeping
infant. It was, indeed, a very pretty sight. The little personage in the
cradle slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, looking
as full of blissful quiet as if angels were singing lullabies in its ear.
Indeed, it must have been dreaming about Heaven; for, while Ben stooped
over the cradle, the little baby smiled.
"How beautiful she looks!" said Ben to himself. "What a pity it is, that
such a pretty smile should not last forever!"
Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard of that wonderful
art, by which a look, that appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made
to last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him of such an
art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On a table, near at
hand, there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors, black and red. The
boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and kneeling down beside the cradle,
began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was busied in this
manner, he heard his mother’s step approaching, and hastily tried to
conceal the paper.
"Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?" inquired his mother,
observing marks of confusion in his face.
At first, Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if there might be
something wrong in stealing the baby’s face, and putting it upon a sheet
of paper. However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into
her hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well scolded. But when
the good lady saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black ink,
she uttered a scream of surprise and joy.
"Bless me!" cried she. "It is a picture of little Sally!"
And then she threw her arms round our friend Benjamin, and kissed him so
tenderly, that he never afterwards was afraid to show his performances to
his mother.
As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast delight in looking at the
hues and forms of nature. For instance, he was greatly pleased with the
blue violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet
cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of the year, when the
woods were variegated with all the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to
desire nothing better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The
purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. And he was
continually endeavoring to draw the figures of trees, men, mountains,
houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on
barn-doors, or on the floor.
In these old times, the Mohawk Indians were still numerous in
Pennsylvania. Every year a party of them used to pay a visit to
Springfield, because the wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood
there. These wild men grew fond of little Ben, and made him very happy by
giving him some of the red and yellow paint with which they were
accustomed to adorn their faces. His mother, too, presented him with a
piece of indigo. Thus he now had three colors,—red, blue, and yellow—and
could manufacture green, by mixing the yellow with the blue. Our friend
Ben was overjoyed, and doubtless showed his gratitude to the Indians by
taking their likenesses, in the strange dresses which they wore, with
feathers, tomahawks, and bows and arrows.
But, all this time, the young artist had no paint-brushes, nor were there
any to be bought, unless he had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However,
he was a very ingenious boy, and resolved to manufacture paint-brushes for
himself. With this design, he laid hold upon—what do you think? why, upon
a respectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by the fireside.
"Puss," said little Ben to the cat, "pray give me some of the fur from the
tip of thy tail!"
Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to
have the fur, whether she were willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal
for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was armed
with his mother’s scissors, and very dexterously clipped off fur enough to
make a paint-brush. This was of so much use to him, that he applied to
Madam Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so thin
and ragged, that she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter.
Poor thing! she was forced to creep close into the chimney-corner, and
eyed Ben with a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben considered it more
necessary that he should have paint-brushes, than that Puss should be
warm.
About this period, Friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a
merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of
Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it
ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful
plumage, and of the wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was
ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.
"Why, Friend West," exclaimed the Philadelphia merchant, "what has
possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on earth
didst thou get them?"
Then Friend West explained, that all these pictures were painted by little
Ben, with no better materials than red and yellow ochre and a piece of
indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat’s fur.
"Verily," said Mr. Pennington, "the boy hath a wonderful faculty. Some of
our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin
appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser than we are."
The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered
him a wonderful boy. When his parents saw how much their son’s
performances were admired, they no doubt remembered the prophecy of the
old Quaker preacher, respecting Ben’s future eminence. Yet they could not
understand how he was ever to become a very great and useful man, merely
by making pictures.
One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington’s return to Philadelphia, a
package arrived at Springfield, directed to our little friend Ben.
"What can it possibly be?" thought Ben, when it was put into his hands.
"Who can have sent me such a great square package as this!"
On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped it, behold! there was
a paint-box, with a great many cakes of paint, and brushes of various
sizes. It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were likewise several
squares of canvas, such as artists use for painting pictures upon, and, in
addition to all these treasures, some beautiful engravings of landscapes.
These were the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those of his
own drawing.
What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! At bedtime, he put
the paint-box under his pillow, and got hardly a wink of sleep; for, all
night long, his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In the
morning, he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the
dinner-hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more than a mouthful or
two of food, before he hurried back to the garret again. The next day, and
the next, he was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother thought it
time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly followed him to the
garret.
On opening the door, the first object that presented itself to her eyes
was our friend Benjamin, giving the last touches to a beautiful picture.
He had copied portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture out
of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful than the
originals. The grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the houses, were
all painted in their proper colors. There, too, was the sunshine and the
shadow, looking as natural as life.
"My dear child, thou hast done wonders!" cried his mother.
The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And well might she be proud of
her boy; for there were touches in this picture, which old artists, who
had spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed of. Many
a year afterwards, this wonderful production was exhibited at the Royal
Academy in London.
When Benjamin was quite a large lad, he was sent to school at
Philadelphia. Not long after his arrival, he had a slight attack of fever,
which confined him to his bed. The light, which would otherwise have
disturbed him, was excluded from his chamber by means of closed wooden
shutters. At first, it appeared so totally dark, that Ben could not
distinguish any object in the room. By degrees, however, his eyes became
accustomed to the scanty light.
He was lying on his back, looking up towards the ceiling, when suddenly he
beheld the dim apparition of a white cow, moving slowly over his head! Ben
started, and rubbed his eyes, in the greatest amazement.
"What can this mean?" thought he.
The white cow disappeared; and next came several pigs, who trotted along
the ceiling, and vanished into the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike
did these grunters look, that Ben almost seemed to hear them squeak.
"Well, this is very strange!" said Ben to himself.
When the people of the house came to see him, Benjamin told them of the
marvellous circumstance which had occurred. But they would not believe
him.
"Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses!" cried they. "How is it
possible that a white cow and a litter of pigs should be visible on the
ceiling of a dark chamber?"
Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eyesight, and was determined
to search the mystery to the bottom. For this purpose, when he was again
left alone, he got out of bed, and examined the window-shutters. He soon
perceived a small chink in one of them, through which a ray of light found
its passage, and rested upon the ceiling. Now the science of optics will
inform us, that the pictures of the white cow and the pigs, and of other
objects out of doors, came into the dark chamber, through this narrow
chink, and were painted over Benjamin’s head. It is greatly to his credit,
that he discovered the scientific principle of this phenomenon, and, by
means of it, constructed a Camera Obscura, or Magic Lantern, out of a
hollow box. This was of great advantage to him in drawing landscapes.
Well; time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw and paint pictures,
until he had now reached the age when it was proper that he should choose
a business for life. His father and mother were in considerable perplexity
about him. According to the ideas of the Quakers it is not right for
people to spend their lives in occupations that are of no real and
sensible advantage to the world. Now, what advantage could the world
expect from Benjamin’s pictures? This was a difficult question; and, in
order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined to consult the
preachers and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all assembled
in the meeting-house, and discussed the matter from beginning to end.
Finally, they came to a very wise decision. It seemed so evident that
Providence had created Benjamin to be a painter, and had given him
abilities which would be thrown away in any other business, that the
Quakers resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even acknowledged
that the sight of a beautiful picture might convey instruction to the
mind, and might benefit the heart, as much as a good book or a wise
discourse. They therefore committed the youth to the direction of God,
being well assured that he best knew what was his proper sphere of
usefulness. The old men laid their hands upon Benjamin’s head, and gave
him their blessing, and the women kissed him affectionately. All consented
that he should go forth into the world, and learn to be a painter, by
studying the best pictures of ancient and modern times.
So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, and his native
woods and streams, and the good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians
who had given him his first colors,—he left all the places and persons
whom he had hitherto known,—and returned to them no more. He went first to
Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many great
people, but retained all the sobriety and simplicity which he had learned
among the Quakers. It is related of him, that, when he was presented at
the court of the Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his head, even
while kissing the Prince’s hand.
When he was twenty-five years old, he went to London, and established
himself there as an artist. In due course of time, he acquired great fame
by his pictures, and was made chief painter to King George the Third, and
President of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the Quakers of Pennsylvania
heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy of the old preacher, as
to little Ben’s future eminence, was now accomplished. It is true, they
shook their heads at his pictures of battle and bloodshed, such as the
Death of Wolfe,—thinking that these terrible scenes should not be held up
to the admiration of the world.
But they approved of the great paintings in which he represented the
miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer of Mankind. King George employed
him to adorn a large and beautiful chapel, at Windsor Castle, with
pictures of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a magnificent
picture of Christ Healing the Sick, which he gave to the Hospital at
Philadelphia. It was exhibited to the public, and produced so much profit
that the Hospital was enlarged, so as to accommodate thirty more patients.
If Benjamin West had done no other good deed than this, yet it would have
been enough to entitle him to an honorable remembrance forever. At this
very day, there are thirty poor people in the Hospital, who owe all their
comforts to that same picture.
We shall mention only a single incident more. The picture of Christ
Healing the Sick was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London, where it
covered a vast space, and displayed a multitude of figures as large as
life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, hung a small and
faded landscape. It was the same that little Ben had painted in his
father’s garret, after receiving the paint-box and engravings from good
Mr. Pennington.
He lived many years, in peace and honor, and died in 1820, at the age of
eighty-two. The story of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale;
for there are few stranger transformations than that of a little unknown
Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most distinguished English
painter of his day. Let us each make the best use of our natural
abilities, as Benjamin West did; and with the blessing of Providence, we
shall arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but little matter
whether we acquire it or not.
"Thank you for the story, my dear father," said Edward, when it was
finished. "Do you know, that it seems as if I could see things without the
help of my eyes? While you were speaking, I have seen little Ben, and the
baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and the white cow and the pigs, and
kind Mr. Pennington, and all the good old Quakers, almost as plainly as if
they were in this very room."
"It is because your attention was not disturbed by outward objects,"
replied Mr. Temple. "People, when deprived of sight, often have more vivid
ideas than those who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will venture
to say that George has not attended to the story quite so closely."
"No indeed," said George, "but it was a very pretty story for all that.
How I should have laughed to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the black
cat’s tail! I intend to try the experiment with Emily’s kitten."
"Oh, no, no, George!" cried Emily, earnestly. "My kitten cannot spare her
tail."
Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him to retire to bed. When
the family bade him good night, he turned his face towards them, looking
very loth to part.
"I shall not know when morning comes," said he sorrowfully. "And besides I
want to hear your voices all the time; for, when nobody is speaking, it
seems as if I were alone in a dark world!"
"You must have faith, my dear child," replied his mother. "Faith is the
soul’s eyesight; and when we possess it, the world is never dark nor
lonely."
Chapter III
The next day, Edward began to get accustomed to his new condition of life.
Once, indeed, when his parents were out of the way, and only Emily was
left to take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to thrust
aside the bandage, and peep at the anxious face of his little nurse. But,
in spite of the dimness of the chamber, the experiment caused him so much
pain, that he felt no inclination to take another look. So, with a deep
sigh, he resigned himself to his fate.
"Emily, pray talk to me!" said he, somewhat impatiently.
Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and did not possess that
liveliness of disposition which renders some children such excellent
companions. She seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making many
words about small matters. But the love and earnestness of her heart
taught her how to amuse poor Edward, in his darkness. She put her
knitting-work into his hands.
"You must learn how to knit," said she.
"What! without using my eyes?" cried Edward.
"I can knit with my eyes shut," replied Emily.
Then, with her own little hands, she guided Edward’s fingers, while he set
about this new occupation. So awkward were his first attempts, that any
other little girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily preserved her
gravity, and showed the utmost patience in taking up the innumerable
stitches which he let down. In the course of an hour or two, his progress
was quite encouraging.
When evening came, Edward acknowledged that the day had been far less
wearisome than he anticipated. But he was glad, nevertheless, when his
father and mother, and George and Emily, all took their seats around his
chair. He put out his hand to grasp each of their hands, and smiled with a
very bright expression upon his lips.
"Now I can see you all, with my mind’s eye," said he; "and now, father,
pray tell us another story."
So Mr. Temple began.
SIR ISAAC NEWTON
BORN 1642. DIED 1727.
On Christmas-day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton was born, at the small
village of Woolsthorpe, in England. Little did his mother think, when she
beheld her new-born babe, that he was destined to explain many matters
which had been a mystery ever since the creation of the world.
Isaac’s father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married again to a clergyman,
and went to reside at North Witham. Her son was left to the care of his
good old grandmother, who was very kind to him, and sent him to school. In
his early years, Isaac did not appear to be a very bright scholar, but was
chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He had
a set of little tools, and saws of various sizes, manufactured by himself.
With the aid of these, Isaac contrived to make many curious articles, at
which he worked with so much skill, that he seemed to have been born with
a saw or chisel in his hand.
The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the things which Isaac
manufactured. And his old grandmother, I suppose, was never weary of
talking about him.
"He’ll make a capital workman, one of these days," she would probably say.
"No fear but what Isaac will do well in the world, and be a rich man
before he dies."
It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations of his grandmother
and the neighbors, about Isaac’s future life. Some of them, perhaps,
fancied that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, rose-wood, or
polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and magnificently gilded. And
then, doubtless, all the rich people would purchase these fine things, to
adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought that little Isaac was
destined to be an architect, and would build splendid mansions for the
nobility and gentry, and churches too, with the tallest steeples that had
ever been seen in England.
Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac’s grandmother to apprentice
him to a clockmaker; for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to
have a taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that
profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up for himself, and
would manufacture curious clocks, like those that contain sets of dancing
figures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is struck; or like
those, where a ship sails across the face of the clock, and is seen
tossing up and down on the waves, as often as the pendulum vibrates.
Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that Isaac would devote
himself to the manufacture of clocks; since he had already made one, of a
kind which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, not by
wheels and weights, like other clocks, but by the dropping of water. This
was an object of great wonderment to all the people roundabout; and it
must be confessed that there are few boys, or men either, who could
contrive to tell what o’clock it is, by means of a bowl of water.
Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sun-dial. Thus his grandmother was
never at a loss to know the hour; for the water-clock would tell it in the
shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sun-dial is said to be still in
existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house where Isaac dwelt. If
so, it must have marked the passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed,
since Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous moments of his
life; it marked the hour of his death; and still the sunshine creeps
slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set it up.
Yet we must not say that the sun-dial has lasted longer than its maker;
for Isaac Newton will exist, long after the dial—yea, and long after the
sun itself—shall have crumbled to decay.
Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowledge by the simplest
means. For instance, what method do you suppose he took, to find out the
strength of the wind? You will never guess how the boy could compel that
unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wanderer, the wind, to tell him the
measure of its strength. Yet nothing can be more simple. He jumped against
the wind; and by the length of his jump, he could calculate the force of a
gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. Thus, even in his boyish
sports, he was continually searching out the secrets of philosophy.
Not far from his grandmother’s residence there was a windmill, which
operated on a new plan. Isaac was in the habit of going thither
frequently, and would spend whole hours in examining its various parts.
While the mill was at rest, he pryed into its internal machinery. When its
broad sails were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process by
which the mill-stones were made to revolve, and crush the grain that was
put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its
construction, he was observed to be unusually busy with his tools.
It was not long before his grandmother, and all the neighborhood, knew
what Isaac had been about. He had constructed a model of the windmill.
Though not so large, I suppose as one of the box-traps which boys set to
catch squirrels, yet every part of the mill and its machinery was
complete. Its little sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round
very swiftly when the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of
wind from Isaac’s mouth, or from a pair of bellows, was sufficient to set
the sails in motion. And—what was most curious—if a handful of grains of
wheat were put into the little hopper, they would soon be converted into
snow-white flour.
Isaac’s playmates were enchanted with his new windmill. They thought that
nothing so pretty, and so wonderful, had ever been seen in the whole
world.
"But, Isaac," said one of them, "you have forgotten one thing that belongs
to a mill."
"What is that?" asked Isaac; for he supposed, that, from the roof of the
mill to its foundation, he had forgotten nothing.
"Why, where is the miller?" said his friend.
"That is true!—I must look out for one," said Isaac; and he set himself to
consider how the deficiency should be supplied.
He might easily have made the miniature figure of a man; but then it would
not have been able to move about, and perform the duties of a miller. As
Captain Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of Lilliput,
Isaac did not know that there were little men in the world, whose size was
just suited to his windmill. It so happened, however, that a mouse had
just been caught in the trap; and, as no other miller could be found, Mr.
Mouse was appointed to that important office. The new miller made a very
respectable appearance in his dark gray coat. To be sure, he had not a
very good character for honesty, and was suspected of sometimes stealing a
portion of the grain which was given him to grind. But perhaps some
two-legged millers are quite as dishonest as this small quadruped.
As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far more important matters
in his mind than the manufacture of toys, like the little windmill. All
day long, if left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought, or
engaged in some book of mathematics, or natural philosophy. At night, I
think it probable, he looked up with reverential curiosity to the stars,
and wondered whether they were worlds, like our own,—and how great was
their distance from the earth,—and what was the power that kept them in
their courses. Perhaps, even so early in life, Isaac Newton felt a
presentiment that he should be able, hereafter, to answer all these
questions.
When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother’s second husband being now
dead, she wished her son to leave school, and assist her in managing the
farm at Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to turn his
attention to farming. But his mind was so bent on becoming a scholar, that
his mother sent him back to school, and afterwards to the University of
Cambridge.
I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton’s boyhood. My story would
be far too long, were I to mention all the splendid discoveries which he
made, after he came to be a man. He was the first that found out the
nature of Light; for, before his day, nobody could tell what the sunshine
was composed of. You remember, I suppose, the story of an apple’s falling
on his head, and thus leading him to discover the force of gravitation,
which keeps the heavenly bodies in their courses. When he had once got
hold of this idea, he never permitted his mind to rest, until he had
searched out all the laws, by which the planets are guided through the
sky. This he did as thoroughly as if he had gone up among the stars, and
tracked them in their orbits. The boy had found out the mechanism of a
windmill; the man explained to his fellow-men the mechanism of the
universe.
While making these researches he was accustomed to spend night after night
in a lofty tower, gazing at the heavenly bodies through a telescope. His
mind was lifted far above the things of this world. He may be said,
indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in worlds that lie
thousands and millions of miles away; for where the thoughts and the heart
are, there is our true existence.
Did you never hear the story of Newton and his little dog Diamond? One
day, when he was fifty years old, and had been hard at work more than
twenty years, studying the theory of Light, he went out of his chamber,
leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the table lay a heap of
manuscript papers, containing all the discoveries which Newton had made
during those twenty years. When his master was gone, up rose little
Diamond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the lighted candle. The
papers immediately caught fire.
Just as the destruction was completed, Newton opened the chamber-door, and
perceived that the labors of twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes.
There stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief. Almost any
other man would have sentenced the dog to immediate death. But Newton
patted him on the head with his usual kindness, although grief was at his
heart.
"Oh, Diamond, Diamond," exclaimed he, "thou little knowest the mischief
thou hast done."
This incident affected his health and spirits for some time afterwards;
but, from his conduct towards the little dog, you may judge what was the
sweetness of his temper.
Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired great renown, and was made
a Member of Parliament, and received the honor of knighthood from the
king. But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and felt no pride
in the vastness of his knowledge. All that he had learned only made him
feel how little he knew in comparison to what remained to be known.
"I seem to myself like a child," observed he, "playing on the sea-shore,
and picking up here and there a curious shell or a pretty pebble, while
the boundless ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me."
At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years old, Sir Isaac
Newton died,—or rather he ceased to live on earth. We may be permitted to
believe that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom and goodness of
the Creator, as earnestly, and with even more success, than while his
spirit animated a mortal body. He has left a fame behind him, which will
be as endurable as if his name were written in letters of light, formed by
the stars upon the midnight sky.
"I love to hear about mechanical contrivances—such as the water-clock and
the little windmill," remarked George. "I suppose if Sir Isaac Newton had
only thought of it, he might have found out the steam-engine, and
railroads, and all the other famous inventions that have come into use
since his day."
"Very possibly he might," replied Mr. Temple; "and, no doubt, a great many
people would think it more useful to manufacture steam-engines, than to
search out the system of the universe. Other great astronomers, besides
Newton, have been endowed with mechanical genius. There was David
Rittenhouse, an American,—he made a perfect little water-mill, when he was
only seven or eight years old. But this sort of ingenuity is but a mere
trifle in comparison with the other talents of such men."
"It must have been beautiful," said Edward, "to spend whole nights in a
high tower, as Newton did, gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the
meteors. But what would Newton have done, had he been blind? or if his
eyes had been no better than mine?"
"Why, even then, my dear child," observed Mrs. Temple, "he would have
found out some way of enlightening his mind, and of elevating his soul.
But, come! little Emily is waiting to bid you good night. You must go to
sleep, and dream of seeing all our faces."
"But how sad it will be, when I awake!" murmured Edward.
Chapter IV
In the course of the next day, the harmony of our little family was
disturbed by something like a quarrel between George and Edward.
The former, though he loved his brother dearly, had found it quite too
great a sacrifice of his own enjoyments, to spend all his playtime in a
darkened chamber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined to be despotic.
He felt as if his bandaged eyes entitled him to demand that everybody, who
enjoyed the blessing of sight, should contribute to his comfort and
amusement. He therefore insisted that George, instead of going out to play
at foot-ball, should join with himself and Emily in a game of questions
and answers.
George resolutely refused, and ran out of the house. He did not revisit
Edward’s chamber till the evening, when he stole in, looking confused, yet
somewhat sullen, and sat down beside his father’s chair. It was evident,
by a motion of Edward’s head and a slight trembling of his lips, that he
was aware of George’s entrance, though his footsteps had been almost
inaudible. Emily, with her serious and earnest little face, looked from
one to the other, as if she longed to be a messenger of peace between
them.
Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of these circumstances, began a
story.
SAMUEL JOHNSON
BORN 1709. DIED 1784.
"Sam," said Mr. Michael Johnson of Lichfield, one morning, "I am very
feeble and ailing to-day. You must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend
the bookstall in the market-place there."
This was spoken, above a hundred years ago, by an elderly man, who had
once been a thriving bookseller at Lichfield, in England. Being now in
reduced circumstances, he was forced to go, every market-day, and sell
books at a stall, in the neighboring village of Uttoxeter.
His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great boy of very singular
aspect. He had an intelligent face; but it was seamed and distorted by a
scrofulous humor, which affected his eyes so badly, that sometimes he was
almost blind. Owing to the same cause, his head would often shake with a
tremulous motion, as if he were afflicted with the palsy. When Sam was an
infant, the famous Queen Anne had tried to cure him of this disease, by
laying her royal hands upon his head. But though the touch of a king or
Queen was supposed to be a certain remedy for scrofula, it produced no
good effect upon Sam Johnson.
At the time which we speak of, the poor lad was not very well dressed, and
wore shoes from which his toes peeped out; for his old father had barely
the means of supporting his wife and children. But, poor as the family
were, young Sam Johnson had as much pride as any nobleman’s son in
England. The fact was, he felt conscious of uncommon sense and ability,
which, in his own opinion, entitled him to great respect from the world.
Perhaps he would have been glad, if grown people had treated him as
reverentially as his school-fellows did. Three of them were accustomed to
come for him, every morning; and while he sat upon the back of one, the
two others supported him on each side, and thus he rode to school in
triumph!
Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could not bear the idea of
standing all day in Uttoxeter market, offering books to the rude and
ignorant country-people. Doubtless he felt the more reluctant on account
of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and the tremulous
motion of his head.
When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted, and made an indistinct
grumbling in his throat; then he looked his old father in the face, and
answered him loudly and deliberately.
"Sir," said he, "I will not go to Uttoxeter market!"
Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad’s obstinacy ever since his
birth; and while Sam was younger, the old gentleman had probably used the
rod, whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was now too feeble, and
too much out of spirits, to contend with this stubborn and
violent-tempered boy. He therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared
to go to Uttoxeter himself.
"Well Sam," said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat and staff, "If, for the
sake of your foolish pride, you can suffer your poor sick father to stand
all day in the noise and confusion of the market, when he ought to be in
his bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, Sam, when I am
dead and gone!"
So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with
sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble,
melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was, that he should be
forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an ungrateful
son, who was too proud to do any thing for his father, or his mother, or
himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson, with a sullen countenance, till he
was out of sight.
But when the old man’s figure, as he went stooping along the street, was
no more to be seen, the boy’s heart began to smite him. He had a vivid
imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father, standing
in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd
around him, Sam seemed to behold him, arranging his literary merchandise
upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice.
Here was Addison’s Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was
Pope’s translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden’s poems, or
those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver’s Travels, and a variety of
little gilt-covered children’s books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the
Giant-queller, Mother Goose’s Melodies, and others which our
great-grandparents used to read in their childhood. And here were sermons
for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry
and some dismal ones, for the country people to sing.
Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and
ballads, now to the rude yeomen, who perhaps could not read a word,—now to
the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and
foxes,—now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for
sugar-plums or gingerbread, rather than for picture-books. And if Mr.
Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an
hour’s talk to get a profit of only sixpence.
"My poor father!" thought Sam to himself. "How his head will ache, and how
heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade
me!"
Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did not
know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.
"Mother," said he, "did you think father seemed very ill to-day?"
"Yes, Sam," answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the
fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner. "Your father did look
very ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his stead.
You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, to do something for
your poor father, who has done so much for you."
The lad made no reply. But again his imagination set to work, and conjured
up another picture of poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot
sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and
disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him. "Had this
old man no son," the people would say among themselves, "who might have
taken his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his bed?" And
perhaps—but this was a terrible thought for Sam!—perhaps his father would
faint away, and fall down in the market-place, with his gray hair in the
dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a corpse. And there
would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr. Johnson, and whispering,
"Is he dead? Is he dead?"
And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself: "Is he dead?"
"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he, within his own heart. "God
forgive me! God forgive me!"
But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not truly penitent. Had he
been so, he would have hastened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and
have fallen at his father’s feet, even in the midst of the crowded
market-place. There he would have confessed his fault, and besought Mr.
Johnson to go home, and leave the rest of the day’s work to him. But such
was Sam’s pride and natural stubbornness, that he could not bring himself
to this humiliation. Yet he ought to have done so, for his own sake, and
for his father’s sake, and for God’s sake.
After sunset, old Michael Johnson came slowly home, and sat down in his
customary chair. He said nothing to Sam; nor do I know that a single word
ever passed between them, on the subject of the son’s disobedience. In a
few years, his father died and left Sam to fight his way through the world
by himself. It would make our story much too long were I to tell you even
a few of the remarkable events of Sam’s life. Moreover, there is the less
need of this, because many books have been written about that poor boy,
and the fame that he acquired, and all that he did or talked of doing,
after he came to be a man.
But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his boyhood upward, until
the latest day of his life, he never forgot the story of Uttoxeter market.
Often when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or master of an
Academy at Edial, or a writer for the London booksellers,—in all his
poverty and toil, and in all his success,—while he was walking the streets
without a shilling to buy food, or when the greatest men of England were
proud to feast him at their table,—still that heavy and remorseful thought
came back to him:—"I was cruel to my poor father in his illness!" Many and
many a time, awake or in his dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson,
standing in the dust and confusion of the market-place, and pressing his
withered hand to his forehead as if it ached.
Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
to bear us company through life.
Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was longer than usual,
Mr. Temple here made a short pause. He perceived that Emily was in tears,
and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker, with an air of
great earnestness and interest. As for George he had withdrawn into the
dusky shadow behind his father’s chair.
Chapter V
In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:
SAMUEL JOHNSON—CONTINUED.
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.
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 cart-loads 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.
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.
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.
"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!"
"What a queer old fellow this is!" muttered the people among themselves,
hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.
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.
On the very spot of ground, where the stranger now stood, some aged people
remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his bookstall. The
little children, who had once bought picture-books of him, were
grandfathers now.
"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old gentleman to himself.
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 market-place 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 wrapt 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 twitchings and contortions of his features.
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
bare-headed 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.
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:
"I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?"
"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."
"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."
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.
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 noon-day in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on the very spot
where Michael Johnson had once kept his bookstall. 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.
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?