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.
"I am glad! I am so glad!" said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. "Now I
shall sleep quietly to-night."
"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."
Chapter VI
About this period, Mr. Temple found it necessary to take a journey, which
interrupted the series of Biographical Stories for several evenings. In
the interval, Edward practised various methods of employing and amusing
his mind.
Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which he had formerly seen,
until the intensity of his recollection seemed to restore him the gift of
sight, and place every thing anew before his eyes. Sometimes he repeated
verses of poetry, which he did not know to be in his memory, until he
found them there, just at the time of need. Sometimes he attempted to
solve arithmetical questions, which had perplexed him while at school.
Then, with his mother’s assistance, he learned the letters of the
string-alphabet, which is used in some of the Institutions for the Blind,
in Europe. When one of his friends gave him a leaf of Saint Mark’s Gospel,
printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it by passing his
fingers over the letters, as blind children do.
His brother George was now very kind, and spent so much time in the
darkened chamber, that Edward often insisted upon his going out to play.
George told him all about the affairs at school, and related many amusing
incidents that happened among his comrades, and informed him what sports
were now in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and whose little
ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she repeated stories
which she had learned from a new book, called THE FLOWER PEOPLE, in which
the snow-drops, the violets, the columbines, the roses, and all that
lovely tribe, are represented as telling their secrets to a little girl.
The flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward almost fancied
that he could behold their bloom and smell their fragrant breath.
Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward’s confinement passed
not unhappily. In due time, his father returned; and the next evening,
when the family were assembled, he began a story.
"I must first observe, children," said he, "that some writers deny the
truth of the incident which I am about to relate to you. There certainly
is but little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable writers, however,
tell it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an interesting story, and
has an excellent moral."
So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of
OLIVER CROMWELL
BORN 1599. DIED 1658.
Not long after King James the First took the place of Queen Elizabeth on
the throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place called
Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his life, I
suppose, pretty much like other English knights and squires in those days,
hunting hares and foxes, and drinking large quantities of ale and wine.
The old house in which he dwelt, had been occupied by his ancestors before
him, for a good many years. In it there was a great hall, hung round with
coats of arms, and helmets, cuirasses and swords which his forefathers had
used in battle, and with horns of deer and tails of foxes, which they or
Sir Oliver himself had killed in the chase.
This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver, after
himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little
Noll. His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was often
sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome little
fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, and always running
into some danger or other from which he seemed to escape only by miracle.
Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had befallen
him. A huge ape which was kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in
his forepaws and clambered with him to the roof of the house. There this
ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, as if he had done
the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately, however, he brought
the child safe down again; and the event was afterwards considered an omen
that Noll would reach a very elevated station in the world.
One morning, when Noll was five or six years old, a royal messenger
arrived at Hinchinbrooke, with tidings that King James was coming to dine
with Sir Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor to be sure, but a very
great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, squires, guards, and
yeomen, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well as himself; and
more provisions would be eaten, and more wine drunk, in that one day, than
generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver expressed much thankfulness for
the king’s intended visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the
best preparations in their power. So a great fire was kindled in the
kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured out of the
chimney, that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, and frying, were going
on merrily.
By and by the sound of trumpets was heard, approaching nearer and nearer;
and a heavy, old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove
up to the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, stood at the gate
to receive the king. His Majesty was dressed in a suit of green, not very
new; he had a feather in his hat, and a triple ruff round his neck; and
over his shoulder was slung a hunting horn, instead of a sword.
Altogether, he had not the most dignified aspect in the world; but the
spectators gazed at him as if there was something superhuman and divine in
his person. They even shaded their eyes with their hands, as if they were
dazzled by the glory of his countenance.
"How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking in a Scotch accent; for
Scotland was his native country. "By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad
to see ye!"
The good knight thanked the king, at the same time kneeling down, while
his Majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir
Oliver’s attention to a little boy, who had come with him in the coach. He
was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and was more
richly dressed than the king himself. Though by no means an ill-looking
child; he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his cheeks were rather pale, as
if he had been kept moping within doors, instead of being sent out to play
in the sun and wind.
"I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said the king. "I hope, Sir
Oliver, ye have a son of your own, to be his playmate?"
Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom one
of the attendants had now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful to see
how all the spectators, even the aged men, with their gray beards, humbled
themselves before this child. They bent their bodies till their beards
almost swept the dust. They looked as if they were ready to kneel down and
worship him.
The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared to
contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a superior
being; so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of himself. He
naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great Britain and all its
inhabitants, had been created solely for his benefit and amusement. This
was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear enough after he had ascended his
father’s throne.
"What a noble little prince he is!" exclaimed Sir Oliver, lifting his
hands in admiration. "No, please your Majesty, I have no son to be the
playmate of his Royal Highness; but there is a nephew of mine, somewhere
about the house. He is near the prince’s age, and will be but too happy to
wait upon his Royal Highness."
"Send for him, man! send for him!" said the king.
But, as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll. While
King James was speaking, a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust
himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants, and greeted the
prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose (which had been put on new
and clean in honor of the king’s visit) were already soiled and torn with
the rough play in which he had spent the morning. He looked no more
abashed than if King James were his uncle, and the prince one of his
customary playfellows.
This was little Noll himself.
"Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew," said sir Oliver, somewhat
ashamed of Noll’s appearance and demeanor. "Oliver, make your obeisance to
the king’s Majesty!"
The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king; for, in those
days, children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James,
who prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few questions
in the Latin Grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The little
prince in a very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand, not for
Noll to shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.
"Nephew," said Sir Oliver, "pay your duty to the prince."
"I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince’s hand, with a
rude laugh. "Why should I kiss that boy’s hand?"
All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of
all. But the king laughed heartily, saying that little Noll had a stubborn
English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn betimes what
sort of a people he was to rule over.
So King James and his train entered the house; and the prince, with Noll
and some other children, was sent to play in a separate room while his
Majesty was at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; for boys,
whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play, and are
pleased with one another’s society. What games they diverted themselves
with, I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball—perhaps at blindman’s
buff—perhaps at leap-frog—perhaps at prison-bars. Such games have been in
use for hundreds of years; and princes as well as poor children have spent
some of their happiest hours in playing at them.
Meanwhile, King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver, in the
great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of
a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was with the
deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him wine, or the various
delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You would have
thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a supernatural
being; only he seemed to have quite as much need of those vulgar matters,
food and drink, as any other person at the table. But fate had ordained
that good King James should not finish his dinner in peace.
All of a sudden, there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the
children were at play. Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed
up together; while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, trying
to restore order among the children. The king, and everybody else at
table, looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them think that a
general rebellion had broken out.
"Mercy on us!" muttered Sir Oliver; "that graceless nephew of mine is in
some mischief or other. The naughty little whelp!"
Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the matter, followed by many
of the guests, and the king among them. They all crowded to the door of
the play-room.
On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, with his rich dress
all torn, and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood was
streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a
mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled expression,
as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him a
beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a
lion, looking as if he were ready to fight not only the prince, but the
king and kingdom too.
"You little villain!" cried his uncle. "What have you been about? Down on
your knees, this instant, and ask the prince’s pardon. How dare you lay
your hands on the king’s Majesty’s royal son?"
"He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little Noll; "and I’ve only
given him his due."
Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and
horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little varlet,
who had dared to resent a blow from the king’s own son. Some of the
courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the Tower
of London, and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their great
zeal for the king’s service, were about to lay hands on the boy, and
chastise him in the royal presence.
But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered them
to desist.
"Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; "and, if
thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends with
thee."
"I never will!" cried the little prince, stamping his foot.
"Peace, Charlie, peace!" said the king; then addressing Sir Oliver and the
attendants, "Harm not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good lesson,
if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter, should he be
tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen, let him
remember little Noll Cromwell, and his own bloody nose!"
So the king finished his dinner and departed; and, for many a long year,
the childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was
forgotten. The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, and have
met a more peaceful death, had he remembered that quarrel, and the moral
which his father drew from it. But, when old King James was dead, and
Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a man,
and that his meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have
the property and lives of the people of England entirely at his own
disposal. But the Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him,
and beat him in many battles, and pulled him down from his throne.
Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side, and the
people of England on the other, there was a famous leader, who did more
towards the ruin of royal authority, than all the rest. The contest seemed
like a wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man. And the
king was overthrown.
When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader sat
in the judgment-hall. Many judges were present, besides himself; but he
alone had the power to save King Charles, or to doom him to the scaffold.
After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was entreated by
his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty from death.
"No!" said he sternly. "Better that one man should perish, than that the
whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall
die!"
When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy
stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor
victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid his
head upon the block. He looked on, with a steadfast gaze, while a
black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe, and smote off that anointed
head at a single blow.
"It is a righteous deed," perhaps he said to himself. "Now Englishmen may
enjoy their rights."
At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy
chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleam
showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many
battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care, and
with the continual exercise of stern authority. Probably there was not a
single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little
Noll, who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he!
He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon
the dead monarch’s face. Then, probably, his mind went back over all the
marvellous events, that had brought the hereditary king of England to this
dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, an humble individual, to the
possession of kingly power. He was a king, though without the empty title,
or the glittering crown.
"Why was it," said Cromwell to himself—or might have said—as he gazed at
the pale features in the coffin,—"Why was it, that this great king fell,
and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm?"
And, indeed, why was it?
King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a child,
he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother. He deemed
himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were created only
for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many
faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his fellow-men; and
therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their strength to him.
"Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!" exclaimed Edward.
"And would you like to be a Cromwell?" inquired his father.
"I should like it well," replied George, "only I would not have put the
poor old king to death. I would have sent him out of the kingdom, or
perhaps have allowed him to live in a small house, near the gate of the
royal palace. It was too severe, to cut off his head."
"Kings are in such an unfortunate position," said Mr. Temple, "that they
must either be almost deified by their subjects, or else be dethroned and
beheaded. In either case it is a pitiable lot."
"Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king!" said Edward.
"Well, my dear Edward," observed his mother, with a smile, "I am glad you
are convinced that your own lot is not the hardest in the world."
Chapter VII
It was a pleasant sight (for those who had eyes) to see how patiently the
blinded little boy now submitted to what he had at first deemed an
intolerable calamity. The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort
to depend on the enjoyment of any single sense. Though he has made the
world so very beautiful, yet it is possible to be happy without ever
beholding the blue sky, or the green and flowery earth, or the kind faces
of those whom we love. Thus it appears that all the external beauty of the
universe is a free gift from God, over and above what is necessary to our
comfort. How grateful, then, should we be to that Divine Benevolence,
which showers even superfluous bounties upon us!
One truth, therefore, which Edward’s blindness had taught him, was, that
his mind and soul could dispense with the assistance of his eyes.
Doubtless, however, he would have found this lesson far more difficult to
learn, had it not been for the affection of those around him. His parents,
and George and Emily, aided him to bear his misfortune; if possible, they
would have lent him their own eyes. And this, too, was a good lesson for
him. It taught him how dependent on one another God has ordained us to be;
insomuch that all the necessities of mankind should incite them to mutual
love.
So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the world, better than he
ever did before. And he felt grateful towards his father for spending the
evenings in telling him stories—more grateful, probably, than any of my
little readers will feel towards me for so carefully writing those same
stories down.
"Come, dear father," said he, the next evening, "now tell us all about
some other little boy, who was destined to be a famous man."
"How would you like a story of a Boston boy?" asked his father.
"Oh, pray let us have it!" cried George eagerly. "It will be all the
better if he has been to our schools, and has coasted on the Common, and
sailed boats in the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted with him then."
"Well, then," said Mr. Temple, "I will introduce you to a Boston boy, whom
all the world became acquainted with, after he grew to be a man."
The story was as follows:—
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
BORN 1706. DIED 1790.
In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy used to be seen in the
streets of Boston, who was known among his schoolfellows and playmates by
the name of Ben Franklin. Ben was born in 1706; so that he was now about
ten years old. His father, who had come over from England, was a
soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, and resided in Milk Street, not far from
the old South Church.
Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a brighter one when at play
with his comrades. He had some remarkable qualities which always seemed to
give him the lead, whether at sport or in more serious matters. I might
tell you a number of amusing anecdotes about him. You are acquainted, I
suppose, with his famous story of the WHISTLE, and how he bought it with a
whole pocketful of coppers, and afterwards repented of his bargain. But
Ben had grown a great boy since those days, and had gained wisdom by
experience; for it was one of his peculiarities, that no incident ever
happened to him without teaching him some valuable lesson. Thus he
generally profited more by his misfortunes, than many people do by the
most favorable events that could befall them.
Ben’s face was already pretty well known to the inhabitants of Boston. The
selectmen, and other people of note, often used to visit his father, for
the sake of talking about the affairs of the town or province. Mr.
Franklin was considered a person of great wisdom and integrity, and was
respected by all who knew him, although he supported his family by the
humble trade of boiling soap, and making tallow-candles.
While his father and the visitors were holding deep consultations about
public affairs, little Ben would sit on his stool in a corner, listening
with the greatest interest, as if he understood every word. Indeed, his
features were so full of intelligence, that there could be but little
doubt, not only that he understood what was said, but that he could have
expressed some very sagacious opinions out of his own mind. But, in those
days, boys were expected to be silent in the presence of their elders.
However, Ben Franklin was looked upon as a very promising lad, who would
talk and act wisely by and by.
"Neighbor Franklin," his father’s friends would sometimes say, "you ought
to send this boy to college and make a minister of him."
"I have often thought of it," his father would reply; "and my brother
Benjamin promises to give him a great many volumes of manuscript sermons
in case he should be educated for the church. But I have a large family to
support, and cannot afford the expense."
In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide bread for his
family, that, when the boy was ten years old, it became necessary to take
him from school. Ben was then employed in cutting candlewicks into equal
lengths, and filling the moulds with tallow; and many families in Boston
spent their evenings by the light of the candles which he had helped to
make. Thus, you see, in his early days, as well as in his manhood his
labors contributed to throw light upon dark matters.
Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to keep company with his
former schoolfellows. He and the other boys were very fond of fishing, and
spent any of their leisure hours on the margin of the mill-pond, catching
flounders, perch, eels, and tom-cod, which came up thither with the tide.
The place where they fished is now, probably, covered with stone-pavements
and brick buildings, and thronged with people, and with vehicles of all
kinds. But, at that period, it was a marshy spot on the outskirts of the
town, where gulls flitted and screamed overhead, and salt meadow-grass
grew under foot. On the edge of the water there was a deep bed of clay, in
which the boys were forced to stand, while they caught their fish. Here
they dabbled in mud and mire like a flock of ducks.
"This is very uncomfortable," said Ben Franklin one day to his comrades,
while they were standing mid-leg deep in the quagmire.
"So it is," said the other boys. "What a pity we have no better place to
stand!"
If it had not been for Ben, nothing more would have been done or said
about the matter. But it was not in his nature to be sensible of an
inconvenience, without using his best efforts to find a remedy. So, as he
and his comrades were returning from the water-side, Ben suddenly threw
down his string of fish with a very determined air:
"Boys," cried he, "I have thought of a scheme, which will be greatly for
our benefit, and for the public benefit!"
It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little chap—this
rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy—talking about schemes for the public
benefit! Nevertheless, his companions were ready to listen, being assured
that Ben’s scheme, whatever it was, would be well worth their attention.
They remembered how sagaciously he had conducted all their enterprises,
ever since he had been old enough to wear small-clothes.
They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance of sailing across the
mill-pond by lying flat on his back, in the water, and allowing himself to
be drawn along by a paper-kite. If Ben could do that, he might certainly
do any thing.
"What is your scheme, Ben?—what is it?" cried they all.
It so happened that they had now come to a spot of ground where a new
house was to be built. Scattered round about lay a great many large
stones, which were to be used for the cellar and foundation. Ben mounted
upon the highest of these stones, so that he might speak with the more
authority.
"You know, lads," said he, "what a plague it is, to be forced to stand in
the quagmire yonder—over shoes and stockings (if we wear any) in mud and
water. See! I am bedaubed to the knees of my small-clothes, and you are
all in the same pickle. Unless we can find some remedy for this evil, our
fishing-business must be entirely given up. And, surely, this would be a
terrible misfortune!"
"That it would!—that it would!" said his comrades, sorrowfully.
"Now I propose," continued Master Benjamin, "that we build a wharf, for
the purpose of carrying on our fisheries. You see these stones. The
workmen mean to use them for the underpinning of a house; but that would
be for only one man’s advantage. My plan is to take these same stones, and
carry them to the edge of the water and build a wharf with them. This will
not only enable us to carry on the fishing business with comfort, and to
better advantage, but it will likewise be a great convenience to boats
passing up and down the stream. Thus, instead of one man, fifty, or a
hundred, or a thousand, besides ourselves, may be benefited by these
stones. What say you, lads?—shall we build the wharf?"
Ben’s proposal was received with one of those uproarious shouts, wherewith
boys usually express their delight at whatever completely suits their
views. Nobody thought of questioning the right and justice of building a
wharf, with stones that belonged to another person.
"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted they. "Let’s set about it!"
It was agreed that they should all be on the spot, that evening, and
commence their grand public enterprise by moonlight. Accordingly, at the
appointed time, the whole gang of youthful laborers assembled, and eagerly
began to remove the stones. They had not calculated how much toil would be
requisite, in this important part of their undertaking. The very first
stone which they laid hold of, proved so heavy, that it almost seemed to
be fastened to the ground. Nothing but Ben Franklin’s cheerful and
resolute spirit could have induced them to persevere.
Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the enterprise. By his
mechanical genius, he contrived methods to lighten the labor of
transporting the stones; so that one boy, under his directions, would
perform as much as half a dozen, if left to themselves. Whenever their
spirits flagged, he had some joke ready, which seemed to renew their
strength by setting them all into a roar of laughter. And when, after an
hour or two of hard work, the stones were transported to the water-side,
Ben Franklin was the engineer, to superintend the construction of the
wharf.
The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great deal of labor by their
multitude, though the individual strength of each could have accomplished
but little. Finally, just as the moon sank below the horizon, the great
work was finished.
"Now, boys," cried Ben, "let’s give three cheers, and go home to bed.
To-morrow, we may catch fish at our ease!" "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!"
shouted his comrades.
Then they all went home, in such an ecstasy of delight that they could
hardly get a wink of sleep.
The story was not yet finished; but George’s impatience caused him to
interrupt it.
"How I wish that I could have helped to build that wharf!" exclaimed he.
"It must have been glorious fun. Ben Franklin for ever, say I!"
"It was a very pretty piece of work," said Mr. Temple. "But wait till you
hear the end of the story."
"Father," inquired Edward, "whereabouts in Boston was the mill-pond, on
which Ben built his wharf?"
"I do not exactly know," answered Mr. Temple; "but I suppose it to have
been on the northern verge of the town, in the vicinity of what are now
called Merrimack and Charlestown streets. That thronged portion of the
city was once a marsh. Some of it, in fact, was covered with water."
Chapter VIII
As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. Temple proceeded to
relate what consequences ensued from the building of Ben Franklin’s wharf.
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN—CONTINUED
In the morning, when the early sunbeams were gleaming on the steeples and
roofs of the town, and gilding the water that surrounded it, the masons
came, rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the foundation of the new
house. But, on reaching the spot, they rubbed their eyes so much the
harder. What had become of their heap of stones!
"Why, Sam," said one to another, in great perplexity, "here’s been some
witchcraft at work, while we were asleep. The stones must have flown away
through the air!"
"More likely they have been stolen!" answered Sam.
"But who on earth would think of stealing a heap of stones?" cried a
third. "Could a man carry them away in his pocket?"
The master-mason, who was a gruff kind of man, stood scratching his head,
and said nothing, at first. But, looking carefully on the ground, he
discerned innumerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes, and some
barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, he saw that they formed a
beaten path towards the water-side.
"Ah, I see what the mischief is," said he, nodding his head. "Those little
rascals, the boys! they have stolen our stones to build a wharf with!"
The masons immediately went to examine the new structure. And to say the
truth, it was well worth looking at, so neatly, and with such admirable
skill, had it been planned and finished. The stones were put together so
securely, that there was no danger of their being loosened by the tide,
however swiftly it might sweep along. There was a broad and safe platform
to stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast their lines into
deep water, and draw up fish in abundance. Indeed, it almost seemed as if
Ben and his comrades might be forgiven for taking the stones, because they
had done their job in such a workmanlike manner.
"The chaps, that built this wharf, understood their business pretty well,"
said one of the masons. "I should not be ashamed of such a piece of work
myself."
But the master-mason did not seem to enjoy the joke. He was one of those
unreasonable people, who care a great deal more for their own rights and
privileges, than for the convenience of all the rest of the world.
"Sam," said he, more gruffly than usual, "go call a constable."
So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on foot to discover the
perpetrators of the theft. In the course of the day, warrants were issued,
with the signature of a Justice of the Peace, to take the bodies of
Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed persons, who had stolen a heap
of stones. If the owner of the stolen property had not been more merciful
than the master-mason, it might have gone hard with our friend Benjamin
and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for them, the gentleman had a
respect for Ben’s father, and moreover, was amused with the spirit of the
whole affair. He therefore let the culprits off pretty easily.
But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor boys had to go through
another trial, and receive sentence, and suffer execution too, from their
own fathers. Many a rod I grieve to say, was worn to the stump, on that
unlucky night.
As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than of his father’s
disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I have mentioned before, was a sagacious
man, and also an inflexibly upright one. He had read much, for a person in
his rank of life, and had pondered upon the ways of the world, until he
had gained more wisdom than a whole library of books could have taught
him. Ben had a greater reverence for his father, than for any other person
in the world, as well on account of his spotless integrity, as of his
practical sense and deep views of things.
Consequently, after being released from the clutches of the law, Ben came
into his father’s presence, with no small perturbation of mind.
"Benjamin, come hither," began Mr. Franklin, in his customary solemn and
weighty tone.
The boy approached, and stood before his father’s chair, waiting
reverently to hear what judgment this good man would pass upon his late
offence. He felt that now the right and wrong of the whole matter would be
made to appear.
"Benjamin," said his father, "what could induce you to take property which
did not belong to you?"
"Why, father," replied Ben, hanging his head, at first, but then lifting
his eyes to Mr. Franklin’s face, "if it had been merely for my own
benefit, I never should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the wharf
would be a public convenience. If the owner of the stones should build a
house with them, nobody will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I
made use of them in a way that was for the advantage of many persons. I
thought it right to aim at doing good to the greatest number."
"My son," said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, "so far as it was in your power,
you have done a greater harm to the public, than to the owner of the
stones."
"How can that be, father?" asked Ben.
"Because," answered his father, "in building your wharf with stolen
materials, you have committed a moral wrong. There is no more terrible
mistake, than to violate what is eternally right, for the sake of a
seeming expediency. Those who act upon such a principle, do the utmost in
their power to destroy all that is good in the world."
"Heaven forbid!" said Benjamin.
"No act," continued Mr. Franklin, "can possibly be for the benefit of the
public generally, which involves injustice to any individual. It would be
easy to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we suppose that our
all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the affairs of the world,
that a wrong act should be the true method of attaining a right end? It is
impious to think so! And I do verily believe, Benjamin, that almost all
the public and private misery of mankind arises from a neglect of this
great truth—that evil can produce only evil—that good ends must be wrought
out by good means."
"I will never forget it again," said Benjamin, bowing his head.
"Remember," concluded his father, "that, whenever we vary from the highest
rule of right, just so far we do an injury to the world. It may seem
otherwise for the moment; but, both in Time and in Eternity, it will be
found so."
To the close of his life, Ben Franklin never forgot this conversation with
his father; and we have reason to suppose, that in most of his public and
private career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which that good
and wise man had then taught him.
After the great event of building the wharf, Ben continued to cut
wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about two years. But, as he had no
love for that occupation, his father often took him to see various
artisans at their work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer.
Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the knowledge of which
afterwards proved very useful to him. But he seemed much inclined to go to
sea. In order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his taste for
letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother, who had lately
set up a printing-office in Boston.
Here he had many opportunities of reading new books, and of hearing
instructive conversation. He exercised himself so successfully in writing
composition, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, he
became a contributor to his brother’s newspaper. Ben was also a versifier,
if not a poet. He made two doleful ballads; one about the shipwreck of
Captain Worthilake, and the other about the pirate Black Beard, who not
long before, infested the American seas.
When Ben’s verses were printed, his brother sent him to sell them to the
town’s-people, wet from the press. "Buy my ballads!" shouted Benjamin, as
he trudged through the streets, with a basketful on his arm. "Who’ll buy a
ballad about Black Beard? A penny a piece! a penny a piece! who’ll buy my
ballads?"
If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed ballads could be
discovered now, it would be worth more than its weight in gold.
In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood and youth, until, on
account of some disagreement with his brother, he left his native town and
went to Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless and hungry
young man, and bought three-pence worth of bread to satisfy his appetite.
Not knowing where else to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house, sat down,
and fell fast asleep. He has not told us whether his slumbers were visited
by any dreams. But it would have been a strange dream, indeed, and an
incredible one, that should have foretold how great a man he was destined
to become, and how much he would be honored in that very city, where he
was now friendless, and unknown.
So here we finish our story of the childhood of Benjamin Franklin. One of
these days, if you would know what he was in his manhood, you must read
his own works, and the history of American Independence.
"Do let us hear a little more of him!" said Edward; "not that I admire him
so much as many other characters; but he interests me, because he was a
Yankee boy."
"My dear son," replied Mr. Temple, "it would require a whole volume of
talk, to tell you all that is worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There
is a very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst of a
thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the lightning from the clouds, and
proving that it was the same thing as electricity. His whole life would be
an interesting story, if we had time to tell it."
"But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so famous," said George. "I
have seen his portrait a great many times. There is a wooden bust of him
in one of our streets, and marble ones, I suppose, in some other places.
And towns, and ships of war, and steamboats, and banks, and academies, and
children, are often named after Franklin. Why should he have grown so very
famous?"
"Your question is a reasonable one, George," answered his father. "I doubt
whether Franklin’s philosophical discoveries, important as they were, or
even his vast political services, would have given him all the fame which
he acquired. It appears to me that Poor Richard’s Almanac did more than
any thing else towards making him familiarly known to the public. As the
writer of those proverbs, which Poor Richard was supposed to utter,
Franklin became the counsellor and household friend of almost every family
in America. Thus, it was the humblest of all his labors that has done the
most for his fame."
"I have read some of those proverbs," remarked Edward; "but I do not like
them. They are all about getting money, or saving it."
"Well," said his father, "they were suited to the condition of the
country; and their effect, upon the whole, has doubtless been
good,—although they teach men but a very small portion of their duties."
Chapter IX
Hitherto, Mr. Temple’s narratives had all been about boys and men. But,
the next evening, he bethought himself that the quiet little Emily would
perhaps be glad to hear the story of a child of her own sex. He therefore
resolved to narrate the youthful adventures of Christina of Sweden, who
began to be a Queen at the age of no more than six years. If we have any
little girls among our readers, they must not suppose that Christina is
set before them as a pattern of what they ought to be. On the contrary,
the tale of her life is chiefly profitable as showing the evil effects of
a wrong education, which caused this daughter of a king to be both useless
and unhappy.
Here follows the story.
QUEEN CHRISTINA
BORN 1626. DIED 1689.
In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of Sweden, there was
born, in 1626, a little princess. The king, her father, gave her the name
of Christina, in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in love.
His own name was Gustavus Adolphus; and he was also called the Lion of the
North, because he had gained greater fame in war than any other prince or
general then alive. With this valiant king for their commander, the Swedes
had made themselves terrible to the Emperor of Germany and to the King of
France, and were looked upon as the chief defence of the Protestant
religion.
The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child. To confess the
truth, she was remarkably plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her
so much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina’s want of
beauty, and also, because both the king and queen had wished for a son,
who might have gained as great renown in battle as his father had.
The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of the infant princess.
When Christina was very young, she was taken violently sick. Gustavus
Adolphus, who was several hundred miles from Stockholm, travelled night
and day, and never rested until he held the poor child in his arms. On her
recovery, he made a solemn festival, in order to show his joy to the
people of Sweden and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event, he
took his daughter with him in all the journeys which he made through his
kingdom.
Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little girl. When she was
two years old, the king and herself, in the course of a journey, came to
the strong fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers clad in
steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. There were likewise great
cannons, pointing their black mouths at Gustavus and little Christina, and
ready to belch out their smoke and thunder; for whenever a king enters a
fortress it is customary to receive him with a royal salute of artillery.
But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and his daughter, as they
were about to enter the gateway.
"May it please your Majesty," said he, taking off his steel cap and bowing
profoundly, "I fear that if we receive you with a salute of cannon, the
little princess will be frightened almost to death."
Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was indeed apprehensive
that the thunder of so many cannon might perhaps throw her into
convulsions. He had almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter
the fortress quietly, as common people might have done, without all this
head-splitting racket. But no; this would not do.
"Let them fire," said he, waving his hand. "Christina is a soldier’s
daughter, and must learn to bear the noise of cannon."
So the captain uttered the word of command, and immediately there was a
terrible peal of thunder from the cannon, and such a gush of smoke that it
enveloped the whole fortress in its volumes. But, amid all the din and
confusion, Christina was seen clapping her little hands, and laughing in
an ecstasy of delight. Probably nothing ever pleased her father so much as
to see that his daughter promised to be fearless as himself. He determined
to educate her exactly as if she had been a boy, and to teach her all the
knowledge needful to the ruler of a kingdom and the commander of an army.
But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence had created her to be
a woman, and that it was not for him to make a man of her.
However, the king derived great happiness from his beloved Christina. It
must have been a pleasant sight to see the powerful monarch of Sweden
playing in some magnificent hall of the palace with this merry little
girl. Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested upon his
shoulders. He forgot that the wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to
consult with him how to render Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He
forgot that the Emperor of Germany and the King of France were plotting
together how they might pull him down from his throne.
Yes; Gustavus forgot all the perils and cares and pompous irksomeness of a
royal life, and was as happy, while playing with his child, as the
humblest peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance along
the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, with his upright,
martial figure, his warworn visage, and commanding aspect, and the small,
round form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish merriment! Her
little fingers were clasped in her father’s hand, which had held the
leading-staff in many famous victories. His crown and sceptre were her
playthings. She could disarm Gustavus of his sword, which was so terrible
to the princes of Europe.
But alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy Christina’s society.
When she was four years old, Gustavus was summoned to take command of the
allied armies of Germany, which were fighting against the Emperor. His
greatest affliction was the necessity of parting with his child; but
people in such high stations have but little opportunity for domestic
happiness. He called an assembly of the Senators of Sweden, and confided
Christina to their care, saying that each one of them must be a father to
her, if he himself should fall in battle.
At the moment of his departure Christina ran towards him, and began to
address him with a speech which somebody had taught her for the occasion.
Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs of the kingdom, so
that he did not immediately attend to the childish voice of his little
girl. Christina, who did not love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped
short, and pulled him by the coat.
"Father," said she, "why do not you listen to my speech?"
In a moment, the king forgot every thing, except that he was parting with
what he loved best in all the world. He caught the child in his arms,
pressed her to his bosom, and burst into tears. Yes; though he was a brave
man, and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast, and though armies
were waiting for him to lead them to battle,—still, his heart melted
within him, and he wept. Christina, too, was so afflicted that her
attendants began to fear that she would actually die of grief. But
probably she was soon comforted; for children seldom remember their
parents quite so faithfully as their parents remember them.
For two years more, Christina remained in the palace at Stockholm. The
queen, her mother, had accompanied Gustavus to the wars. The child,
therefore, was left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the
kingdom. But these wise men knew better how to manage the affairs of
state, than how to govern and educate a little girl so as to render her a
good and happy woman.
When two years had passed away, tidings were brought to Stockholm which
filled everybody with triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes had
won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But alas! the warlike king of Sweden,
the Lion of the North, the father of our little Christina,—had been slain
at the foot of a great stone, which still marks the spot of that hero’s
death.
Soon after this sad event, a General Assembly, or Congress, consisting of
deputations from the nobles, the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of
Sweden was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the purpose of
declaring little Christina to be Queen of Sweden, and giving her the crown
and sceptre of her deceased father. Silence being proclaimed, the
Chancellor Oxenstiern arose.
"We desire to know," said he, "whether the people of Sweden will take the
daughter of our dead king, Gustavus Adolphus, to be their Queen."
When the Chancellor had spoken, an old man with white hair, and in coarse
apparel, stood up in the midst of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars
Larrson by name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a farm.
"Who is this daughter of Gustavus?" asked the old man. "We do not know
her. Let her be shown to us."
Then Christina was brought into the hall, and placed before the old
peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see a child—a little girl of six
years old—offered to the Swedes as their ruler, instead of the brave king,
her father, who had led them to victory so many times. Could her baby
fingers wield a sword in war? Could her childish mind govern the nation
wisely in peace?
But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves these questions. Old
Lars Larrson took Christina up in his arms, and gazed earnestly into her
face. He had known the great Gustavus well; and his heart was touched,
when he saw the likeness which the little girl bore to that heroic
monarch.
"Yes," cried he, with the tears gushing down his furrowed cheeks, "this is
truly the daughter of our Gustavus! Here is her father’s brow!—here is his
piercing eye! She is his very picture. This child shall be our queen!"
[Image #4]
Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the reverend clergy, and the
burghers, and the peasants, knelt down at the child’s feet, and kissed her
hand.
"Long live Christina, queen of Sweden!" shouted they.
Even after she was a woman grown, Christina remembered the pleasure which
she felt in seeing all these men at her feet, and hearing them acknowledge
her as their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn that power
does not insure happiness. As yet, however, she had not any real power.
All the public business, it is true, was transacted in her name; but the
kingdom was governed by a number of the most experienced statesmen, who
were called a Regency.
But it was considered necessary that the little queen should be present at
the public ceremonies, and should behave just as if she were in reality
the ruler of the nation. When she was seven years of age, some ambassadors
from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swedish court. They wore long beards,
and were clad in a strange fashion, with furs, and other outlandish
ornaments; and as they were inhabitants of a half-civilized country, they
did not behave like other people. The Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid
that the young queen would burst out a-laughing, at the first sight of
these queer ambassadors; or else that she would be frightened by their
unusual aspect.
"Why should I be frightened?" said the little queen;—"and do you suppose
that I have no better manners than to laugh? Only tell me how I must
behave; and I will do it."
Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were introduced; and Christina
received them, and answered their speeches, with as much dignity and
propriety as if she had been a grown woman.
All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you must not suppose that
she was left to act as she pleased. She had a preceptor, named John
Mathias, who was a very learned man, and capable of instructing her in all
the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach her the delicate
graces and gentle virtues of a woman. She was surrounded almost entirely
by men; and had learned to despise the society of her own sex. At the age
of nine years, she was separated from her mother, whom the Swedes did not
consider a proper person to be entrusted with the charge of her. No little
girl, who sits by a New England fireside, has cause to envy Christina, in
the royal palace at Stockholm.
Yet she made great progress in her studies. She learned to read the
classical authors of Greece and Rome, and became a great admirer of the
heroes and poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises, she could
ride on horseback as well as any man in her kingdom. She was fond of
hunting, and could shoot at a mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was
the only feminine accomplishment with which she had any acquaintance.
She was so restless in her disposition, that none of her attendants were
sure of a moment’s quiet, neither day nor night. She grew up, I am sorry
to say, a very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, and, in
short, unfit to make those around her happy, or to be happy herself. Let
every little girl, who has been taught self-control, and a due regard for
the rights of others, thank heaven that she has had better instruction
than this poor little queen of Sweden.
At the age of eighteen, Christina was declared free to govern the kingdom
by herself, without the aid of a regency. At this period of her life, she
was a young woman of striking aspect, a good figure and intelligent face,
but very strangely dressed. She wore a short habit of gray cloth, with a
man’s vest over it, and a black scarf around her neck, but no jewels, nor
ornaments of any kind.
Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appearance, there was
something in her air and manner that proclaimed her as the ruler of a
kingdom. Her eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old
General Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of Sweden to tremble in
battle, actually trembled himself, when he encountered the eyes of the
queen. But it would have been better for Christina if she could have made
people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks, instead of affrighting
them by such terrible glances.
And now I have told you almost all that is amusing or instructive, in the
childhood of Christina. Only a few more words need be said about her; for
it is neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many things that she
did, after she grew to be a woman.
When she had worn the crown a few years, she began to consider it beneath
her dignity to be called a queen, because the name implied that she
belonged to the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be proclaimed
KING, thus declaring to the world that she despised her own sex, and was
desirous of being ranked among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her
age, Christina grew tired of royalty, and resolved to be neither a king
nor a queen any longer. She took the crown from her head, with her own
hands, and ceased to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not greatly
regret her abdication; for she had governed them ill, and had taken much
of their property to supply her extravagance.
Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina left Sweden and
travelled over many of the countries of Europe. Everywhere, she was
received with great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the renowned
Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful queen. Perhaps you would like to
know something about her personal appearance, in the latter part of her
life. She is described as wearing a man’s vest, a short gray petticoat,
embroidered with gold and silver, and a black wig, which was thrust awry
upon her head. She wore no gloves, and so seldom washed her hands that
nobody could tell what had been their original color. In this strange
dress, and, I suppose, without washing her hands or face, she visited the
magnificent court of Louis the Fourteenth.
She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, nor regretted her death,
nor planted a single flower upon her grave. Happy are the little girls of
America, who are brought up quietly and tenderly, at the domestic hearth,
and thus become gentle and delicate women! May none of them ever lose the
loveliness of their sex, by receiving such an education as that of Queen
Christina!
Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very reverse of little
Christina. She seemed shocked at the idea of such a bold and masculine
character as has been described in the foregoing story.
"I never could have loved her," whispered she to Mrs. Temple; and then she
added, with that love of personal neatness, which generally accompanies
purity of heart:—"It troubles me to think of her unclean hands!"
"Christina was a sad specimen of womankind, indeed," said Mrs. Temple.
"But it is very possible for a woman to have a strong mind, and to be
fitted for the active business of life, without losing any of her natural
delicacy. Perhaps, some time or other, Mr. Temple will tell you a story of
such a woman."
It was now time for Edward to be left to repose. His brother George shook
him heartily by the hand, and hoped, as he had hoped twenty times before,
that to-morrow or the next day, Ned’s eyes would be strong enough to look
the sun right in the face.
"Thank you, George," replied Edward, smiling; "but I am not half so
impatient as at first. If my bodily eyesight were as good as yours,
perhaps I could not see things so distinctly with my mind’s eye. But now
there is a light within which shows me the little Quaker artist, Ben West,
and Isaac Newton with his windmill, and stubborn Sam Johnson, and stout
Noll Cromwell, and shrewd Ben Franklin, and little Queen Christina with
the Swedes kneeling at her feet. It seems as if I really saw these
personages face to face. So I can bear the darkness outside of me pretty
well."
When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her mouth and kissed him as her
farewell for the night.
"Ah, I forgot!" said Edward, with a sigh. "I cannot see any of your faces.
What would it signify to see all the famous people in the world, if I must
be blind to the faces that I love?"
"You must try to see us with your heart, my dear child," said his mother.
Edward went to bed, somewhat dispirited, but quickly falling asleep, was
visited with such a pleasant dream of the sunshine and of his dearest
friends that he felt the happier for it all the next day. And we hope to
find him still happy when we meet again.
THE END.
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utterance a voice that must stir an earnest life in the brothers
and sisters of her nation. She is one of the spiritual products of
the soil, which has of late given evidence of spiritual fertility;
and she promises not to be the least healthy, as she is not the
least choice among them; she is only putting out her spring buds;
if no untimely frost shall nip them, when the summer suns are warm
they will be splendid blossoms, and long before autumn begins to
dim the sky with its mellow shootings they will be luxuriant
fruit.—HENRY GILES.
_Alderbrook_.
_A Collection of Fanny Forester’s Village Sketches, Poems, &c_. With a
fine Mezzotinto Portrait of the Author, engraved by Sartain. Ninth
edition, enlarged.
2 vols. 12mo, $1.75; gilt $2.50; gilt extra $3.00. The same in 1 vol.
$1.62; gilt $2.25; gilt extra $2.75.
Who has not heard of Fanny Forester,—’charming Fanny Forester,’ as
she is deservedly called? Her sketches have been more generally
read and admired than those of almost any other periodical writer
of our day. There is a freshness, grace, sprightliness, purity,
and actualness about them, which charms and invigorates; and we
are glad to find them collected and published in a form both
elegant and convenient. Miss Chubbuck, it will be remembered, was
married a few months ago to the Rev. Dr. Judson, and is now on her
way, with that devoted missionary, to the scene of his former
labors. The dedicatory preface of these volumes, to her husband,
is one of the most graceful and touching we have ever seen. A
beautifully engraved portrait of the lady, by Sartain, is prefixed
to the first volume. This collection will make a very acceptable
and suitable present in the approaching Holidays.—SALEM REGISTER.
This is one of those charming books which well deserves a place in
every family library, and which has already won a place in
thousands of hearts. The Sketches comprised in these beautiful
volumes are so full of grace and tenderness, so pure in their
style and so elevated in their tone, that none can read them
without delight and profit. We hazard little in saying that the
touching story of "Grace Linden," which properly leads the
collection, is scarcely surpassed in beauty by any thing in the
works of Maria Edgeworth, or Mary Russell Mitford. There are a
great many other Sketches, in the volumes, that deserve special
praise; but we will not deal in particulars when all are so
admirable.
The authoress of "Alderbrook" is now a self-denying, zealous
missionary of the Cross, in Asia, and, as Mrs. Judson, has written
many very charming things. She is best known, however, under her
_nomme de plume_; and however honored may be the revered name she
now bears, that of Fanny Forester will be cherished with pride and
pleasure by her friends and readers.—So. LIT. GAZETTE.