Poor Rachel, passing slowly away from the world that had so applauded
her hollow, but brilliant career, tasted the bitterness of death in
reflecting that she should so soon be given over to the worms and the
biographers. Fortunate Rachel, resting in serene confidence that the two
would be fellow-laborers! It is the unhappy fate of her survivors to
have reached a day in which biographers have grown impatient of the
decorous delay which their lowly coadjutors demand. They can no longer
wait for the lingering soul to yield up its title-deeds before they
enter in and take possession; but, fired with an evil energy, they
outstrip the worms and torment us before the time.
Curiosity is undoubtedly one of the heaven-appointed passions of the
human animal. Dear to the heart of man has ever been his neighbor's
business. Precious in the eyes of woman is the linen-closet of that
neighbor's wife. During its tender teething infancy, the world's sobs
could always be soothed into smiles by an open bureau with large
liberty to upheave its contents from turret to foundation-stone. As the
infant world ascended from cambric and dimity to broadcloth and
crinoline, its propensity for investigation grew stronger. It loved not
bureaus less, but a great many other things more. What sad consequences
might have ensued, had this passion been left to forage for itself, no
one can tell. But, by the wonderful principle of adaptation which
obtains throughout the universe, the love of receiving information is
met and mastered by the love of imparting information. As much pleasure
as it gives Angelina to learn how many towels and table-cloths go into
Seraphina's wedding-outfit, so much, yea, more, swells in Cherubella's
bosom at being able to present to her friend this apple from the tree of
knowledge. The worthy Muggins finds no small consolation for the loss of
his overcoat and umbrella from the front entry in the exhilaration he
experiences while relating to each member of his ever-revolving circle
of friends the details of his loss,--the suspicion, the search, the
certainty,--the conjectures, suggestions, and emotions of himself and
his family.
Hence these tears which we are about to shed. For, betwixt the love of
hearing on the one side, and the love of telling, on the other, small
space remains on which one may adventure to set the sole of his foot and
feel safe from the spoiler. There is of course a legitimate
gratification for every legitimate desire,--the desire to know our
neighbors' affairs among others. But there is a limit to this
gratification, and it is hinted at by legal enactments. The law justly
enough bounds a man's power over his possessions. For twenty-one years
after his generation has passed away, his dead hand may rule the wealth
which its living skill amassed. Then it dies another death, draws back
into a deeper grave, and has henceforth no more power than any
sister-clod. But, except as a penalty for crime, the law awards to a man
right to his own possessions through life; and the personal facts and
circumstances of his life have usually been considered among his
closest, most inalienable possessions.
Alas, that the times are changed, and we be all dead men so far as
concerns immunity from publication! There is no manner of advantage in
being alive. The sole safety is to lie flat on the earth along with
one's generation. The moment an audacious head is lifted one inch above
the general level, pop! goes the unerring rifle of some biographical
sharp-shooter, and it is all over with the unhappy owner. A perfectly
respectable and well-meaning man, suffering under the accumulated pains
of Presidentship, has the additional and entirely undeserved ignominy of
being hawked about the country as the "Pioneer Boy." A statesman whose
reputation for integrity has been worth millions to the land, and whose
patriotism should have won him a better fate, is stigmatized in
duodecimo as the "Ferry Boy." An innocent and popular Governor is
fastened in the pillory under the thin disguise of the "Bobbin Boy."
Every victorious advance of our grand army is followed by a long
procession of biographical statistics. A brave man leading his troops to
victory may escape the bullets and bayonets of the foe, but he is sure
to be transfixed to the sides of a newspaper with the pen of some
cannibal entomologist. We are thrilled to-day with the telegram
announcing the brilliant and successful charge made by General Smith's
command; and according to that inevitable law of succession by which the
sun his daily round of duty runs, we shall be thrilled to-morrow with
the startling announcement that "General Smith was born in ----," etc.,
etc., etc.
Unquestionably, there is somewhere in the land a regularly organized
biographical bureau, by which every man, President or private, has his
lot apportioned him,--one mulcted in a folio, the other in a paragraph.
If we examine somewhat closely the features of this peculiar
institution, we shall learn that a distinguishing characteristic of the
new school of biography is the astonishing familiarity shown by the
narrator with the circumstances, the conversations, and the very
thoughts of remarkable boys in their early life. The incidents of
childhood are usually forgotten before the man's renown has given them
any importance; the few anecdotes which tradition has preserved are
seized upon with the utmost avidity and placed in the most conspicuous
position; but in these later books we have illustrious children
portrayed with a Pre-Raphaelitic and most prodigal pencil.
Take the opening scene in a garden where "Nat"--we must protest against
this irreverent abbreviation of the name of that honored Governor whose
life in little we are about to behold--and his father are at work.
"'There, Nat, if you plant and hoe your squashes with care, you will
raise a nice parcel of them on this piece of ground. It is good soil for
squashes.'
"'How many seeds shall I put into a hill?' inquired Nat.
"'Seven or eight. It is well to put in enough, as some of them may not
come up, and when they get to growing well, pull up all but four in a
hill. You must not have your hills too near together,--they should be
five feet apart, and then the vines will cover the ground all over. I
should think there would be room for fifty hills on this patch of
ground.'
"'How many squashes do you think I shall raise, father?'
"'Well,' said his father, smiling, 'that is hard telling. We won't count
the chickens before they are hatched. But if you are industrious, and
take very good care indeed of your vines, stir the ground often and keep
out all the weeds and kill the bugs, I have little doubt that you will
get well paid for your labor.'
"'If I have fifty hills,' said Nat, 'and four vines in each hill, I
shall have two hundred vines in all; and if there is one squash on each
vine, there will be two hundred squashes.'
"'Yes; but there are so many _ifs_ about it, that you may be
disappointed after all. Perhaps the bugs will destroy half your vines.'
"'I can kill the bugs,' said Nat.
"'Perhaps dry weather will wither them all up.'
"'I can water them every day, if they need it.'
"'That is certainly having good courage, Nat,' added his father; 'but if
you conquer the bugs, and get around the dry weather, it may be too wet
and blast your vines,--or there may be such a hail-storm as I have known
several times in my life, and cut them to pieces.'
"'I don't think there will be such a hail-storm this year; there never
was one like it since I can remember.'
"'I hope there won't be,' replied his father. 'It is well to look on the
bright side, and hope for the best, for it keeps the courage up. It is
also well to look out for disappointment. I know a gentleman who thought
he would raise some ducks,'" etc., etc., etc.
We are told that this scene was enacted about thirty-five years ago,
and, as if we should not be sufficiently lost in admiration of that
wonderful memory which enabled somebody to retain so long, and restore
so unimpaired, the words and deeds of that distant May morning, we are
further informed that the author is "obliged to pass over much that
belongs to the patch of squashes"! "Is it possible?" one is led to
exclaim. We should certainly have supposed that this report was
exhaustive. We can hardly conceive that any further interest should
inhere in that patch of squashes; whereas it seems that the half was not
told us. Nor is this the sole instance. Records equally minute of
conversations equally brilliant are lavished on page after page with a
recklessness of expenditure that argues unlimited wealth,--conversations
between the Boy and his father, between the Boy and his mother, between
the Boy's father and mother, between the Boy's neighbors about the Boy,
in which his numerous excellences are set in the strongest light,
exhortations of the Boy's teacher to his school, play-ground talk of
the Boy and his fellow-boys,--among whom the Boy invariably stands head
and shoulders higher than they. We fear the world of boys has hitherto
been much demoralized by being informed that many distinguished men were
but dull fellows in the school-house, or unnoticed on the play-ground.
But we have changed all that. The Bobbin Boy was the most industrious,
the most persevering, the most self-reliant, the most virtuous, the most
exemplary of all the boys of his time. So was the Ferry Boy, and the
Pioneer Boy so. "Nat"--we blame and protest, but we join in the plan of
using this undignified _sobriquet_--Nat was the one that swam three rods
under water; Nat astonished the school with the eloquence of his
declamation; it was Nat that got all the glory of the games; it was of
no use for any one to try for any prize where Nat was a competitor. And
as Nat's neighbors thought of Nat, so thought Abe's--we shudder at the
sound--Abe's neighbors of Abe, the Pioneer Boy. Of what Salmon's
neighbors said about Salmon we are not so well informed; but we have no
doubt they often exclaimed one to another,--
"Was never Salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes on Dee!"
Nor are the Boys backward in having a tolerably good opinion of their
own goodness.
"Never swear, my son," says Abe's mother to the infant Abe.
"I never do," says Abraham.
"Boys are likely to want their own way, and spend their time in
idleness," says the mother of a President, upon another occasion.
"I sha'n't," responds virtuous Abraham.
"Always speak the truth, my son."
"I do tell the truth," was "Abraham's usual reply."
"When a boy gets to going to the tavern to smoke and swear," says Nat's
mother, "he is almost sure to drink, and become a ruined man."
"I never do smoke, mother," replies Nat, pouring cataracts of innocence.
"I never go to the stable nor tavern. I don't associate with Sam and Ben
Drake, nor with James Cole, nor with Oliver Fowle, more than I can help.
For I know they are bad boys. I see that the worst scholars at school
are those who are said to disobey their parents, and every one of them
are poor scholars, and they use profane language."
Virtue so immaculate at so tender an age seems to us, we are forced to
admit, unnatural. The boys that have fallen in our way have never been
in the habit of making profound moral reflections, and we cannot resist
the unpleasant suspicion that Nat had just been playing at marbles for
"havings" with Cole, Fowle, and both the Drakes at the village-inn, and,
having found this vegetable repast too strong for his digestion, went
home to his mother and wreaked his discomfort on edifying moral maxims.
Or else he was a prig.
The unusual and highly exciting nature of the incidents recorded in
these biographies must be their excuse for a seeming violation of
privacy. When a rare and precious gem is in question, one must not be
over-scrupulous about breaking open the casket. What puerile prejudice
in favor of privacy can rear its head in face of the statement which
tells us that at the age of seven years our honored President--may he
still continue such!--"devoted himself to learning to read with an
energy and enthusiasm that insured success"?--such success that we learn
"he could read _some_ when he left school."
At the age of nine he shot a turkey!
Soon after,--for here we are involved in a chronological haze,--he began
to "take lessons in penmanship with the most enthusiastic ardor."
Subsequently, "there, on the soil of Indiana, ABRAHAM LINCOLN WROTE HIS
NAME, WITH A STICK, in large characters,--a sort of prophetic act, that
students of history may love to ponder. For, since that day, he has
'gone up higher,' and written his name, by public acts, on the annals of
every State in the Union."
He wrote a letter.
He rescued a toad from cruel boys,--for, though "he could kill game for
food as a necessity, and dangerous wild animals, his soul shrunk from
torturing even a fly." Dear heart, we can easily believe that!
He bought a Ramsay's "Life of Washington," and paid for it with the
labor of his own hands.
He helped to save a drunkard's life. "He thought more of the drunkard's
safety than he did of his own ease. And there are many of his personal
acquaintances in our land who will bear witness, that, from that day to
this, this amiable quality of heart has won him admiring friends."
He took a flat-boat to New Orleans, and defended her against the
negroes, who, poor fellows, were not prophetic enough to see that they
were plotting against their Deliverer.
He "always had much _dry_ wit about him that kept _oozing_ out"!
We have given a bird's-eye view of the main incidents of his boyhood,
for we cannot quite agree with our author in thinking that his "old
grammar laid the foundation, in part, of Abraham's future character,"
seeing we have previously been told that he had "become the most
important man in the place," and we have the same writer's authority for
believing that "the habits of life are usually fixed by the time a lad
is fifteen years of age." Nor can we admit that his grammar even "taught
him the rudiments of his native language," when we have been having
proof upon proof, for two hundred and eighty-six pages, that he was
already familiar with its rudiments. We are equally skeptical as to
whether it really "opened the golden gate of knowledge" for him: we
should certainty say that this gate had stood ajar, at least, for years.
Indeed, that portion of his history which relates to grammar seems to us
by far the most unsatisfactory of all. In his honesty, in his
penmanship, in his kindness of heart, in his wit, dry or damp, we feel a
confidence which not even the shock of political campaigns has been able
to move. But in respect of grammar we find ourselves in a state of the
most painful uncertainty. We have never regarded it as our beloved
President's strong point, but we have considered any linguistic defect
more than atoned for by the hearty, timely, sturdy, plain sense which
appeals so directly and forcibly to the good sense of others. This book
calls up a distressing doubt, and a doubt that strikes at vital
interests. "Grammar," our President is reported to have said before he
had cast the integuments of a grocer's clerk, "Grammar is the art of
speaking and writing the English language with propriety"! Is this a
definition, we sorrowfully ask, becoming an American citizen? It has,
indeed, in many respects the qualities of a perfect definition. It is
deep; it is accurate; it is exhaustive; but it is _not_ loyal. Coming
from the lips of a subject of Great Britain, it would not surprise us.
An Englishman undoubtedly believes that grammar is the art of speaking
and writing the English language with propriety. All the grammatical
research that preceded the establishment of his mother-tongue was but
the collection of fuel to feed the flame of its glory; all that follows
will be to diffuse the light of that flame to the ends of the earth.
Greek, Latin, Sanscrit, were but stepping-stones to the English
language. Philology _per se_ is a myth. The English language in its
completeness is the completion of grammatical science. To that all
knowledge tends; from that all honor radiates. So claims proud Britain's
prouder son. But can an American tamely submit to such a monopoly? Is
not grammar rather, or at least quite as much, the art of speaking and
writing the _American_ language correctly, and shall he sit calmly by
and witness this gross outrage upon his dearest rights? But, as our
author would say, we "must not dwell," and most gladly do we leave this
unpleasant branch of a very pleasant subject, inwardly supplicating,
that, whatever disaster is yet to befall us, we may be spared the pang
of suspecting that our revered President, so stanch against the Rebels,
so unflinching for the Slave, is in danger of lowering his lofty crest
before the rampant British lion! In view of such a calamity, one can
only say in the words of that distinguished British citizen who, living
in England in the full light of the nineteenth century, must be supposed
to have reached the summit of grammatical excellence,--
"Gin I mun doy I mun doy, an' loife they says is sweet,
But gin I mun doy I mun doy, for I couldn' abear to see it."
The life of the Ferry Boy was scarcely less adventurous than that of the
Pioneer Boy, and was, indeed, in some respects its counterpart. As the
latter learned to write on the tops of stools, so the former learned to
read on bits of birch-bark. At an early period of his existence he broke
a capful of eggs. He owned a calf. He caught an eel. He put salt on a
bird's tail and learned his first lesson of the deceitfulness of the
human heart. He walked to Niagara Falls from Buffalo. He got lost in the
woods. He went to live with his uncle in Ohio, where he displayed spirit
and killed a pig. Here also occurred a "prophecy" almost as striking as
the Pioneer Boy's writing his name with a stick. "Salmon" wished to go
swimming. "The Bishop said, 'No!' adding, 'Why, Salmon, the country
might lose its future President, if you should get drowned!' This was
the first time his name had ever been mentioned in connection with that
high office; and the remark, coming from the grave Bishop's lips, must
have made a strong impression on him. Was it prophetic?" Let us assume
that it was, although it must for the present be ranked with what is
theologically called "unfulfilled prophecy." We cannot, at any rate, be
too thankful that the only occasion on which it was ever hinted to an
American boy that he might one day become President has not been
suffered to pass into oblivion, but has found in this little volume a
monument more durable than brass. To go on with our inventory. A whole
flock of thirteen pigeons shot by the Ferry Boy answered through their
misty shroud to the Pioneer Boy's turkey which called to them aloud. He
taught school two weeks, and then had leave to resign. He went to
Washington and said his prayers like a good boy: we trust he has kept up
the practice ever since.
From such a record there is but one inference: if the man is not
President, he ought to be!
One great element in the success which these little books have met, the
one fact which, we are persuaded, accounts for the quiet, but
significant "twenty-sixth thousand" that we find on the title-page of
one of them, is the pains which their authors take to make their meaning
clear. They do not, like too many of our modern authors, leave a book
half written, forcing the reader to finish their work as he goes along.
They are instant, in season and out of season, with explanation,
illustration, reflection, until the idea is, so to speak, reduced to
pulp, and the reader has nothing to perform save the act of deglutition.
"When he ['Nat'] was only four years old, and was learning to read
little words of two letters, he came across one about which he had quite
a dispute with his teacher. It was INN.
"'What is that?' asked his teacher.
"'I-double n,' he answered.
"'What does i-double n spell?'
"'Tavern,' was his quick reply.
"The teacher smiled, and said, 'No; it spells INN. Now read it again.'
"'I-double n--tavern,' said he.
"'I told you that it did not spell tavern, it spells INN. Now pronounce
it correctly.'
"'It _do_ spell tavern,' said he.
"The teacher was finally obliged to give it up, and let him enjoy his
own opinion. She probably called him obstinate, although there was
nothing of the kind about him, as we shall see. His mother took up the
matter at home, but failed to convince him that i-double n did not spell
tavern. It was not until some time after that he changed his opinion on
this important subject.
"That this instance was no evidence of obstinacy in Nat, but only of a
disposition to think 'on his own hook,' is evident from the following
circumstances. There was a picture of a public-house in his book against
the word INN, with the old-fashioned sign-post in front, on which a sign
was swinging. Near his father's, also, stood a public-house, which
everybody called a _tavern_, with a tall post and sign in front of it,
exactly like that in his book; and Nat said within himself, 'If Mr.
Morse's house [the landlord[G]] is a tavern, then this is a tavern in my
book.' He cared little how it was spelled; if it did not spell tavern,
'_it ought to_,' he thought. Children believe what they _see_, more than
what they hear. What they lack in reason and judgment they make up in
eyes. So Nat had seen the _tavern_ near his father's house again and
again, and he had stopped to look at the sign in front of it a great
many times, and his eyes told him it was just like that in the book;
therefore it was his deliberate opinion that i-double n spelt tavern,
and he was not to be beaten out of an opinion that was based on such
clear evidence. It was a good sign in Nat. It was true of the three men
to whom we have just referred,--Bowditch, Davy, and Buxton. From their
childhood they thought for themselves, so that, when they became men,
they defended their opinions against imposing opposition. True, a youth
must not be too forward in advancing his ideas, especially if they do
not harmonize with those of older persons. Self-esteem and
self-confidence should be guarded against. Still, in avoiding these
evils, he is not obliged to believe anything just because he is told so.
It is better for him to understand the reason of things, and believe
them on that account."
Would our Parks, our Palfreys, our Prescotts, our Emersons, have
expounded this matter so clearly? Most assuredly not. They would have
left us in the Cimmerian darkness of dreary conjecture regarding the
causes of Nat's strange opinion, and the lessons to be drawn from it. Or
if they had condescended to explanation, it would have been comprised in
a curt phrase or two. No boundary-line between a virtue and its vice
would have been drawn so that a wayfaring man, though a fool, should not
err in following it. This author has struck the golden mean. There is
just enough, and not too much.