think it was begun by the ancient Romans, who had on the fourteenth or
fifteenth of February a festival in honor of Lupercus, "the destroyer of
wolves"--a wolf-destroyer being quite worthy of honor in those wild
days, let me tell you. At this festival it was the custom, among other
curious things, to pair off the young men and maidens in the same chance
way, and with the same result of a year's attentions.
Even this is not wholly satisfactory. Who began it among the Romans?
becomes the next interesting question. One old writer says it was
brought to Rome from Arcadia sixty years before the Trojan war (which
Homer wrote about, you know). I'm sure that's far enough back to satisfy
anybody. The same writer also says that the Pope tried to abolish it in
the fifth century, but he succeeded only in sending it down to us in the
name of St. Valentine instead of Lupercus.
[Illustration: FOR THIS WAS ON SAINT VALENTINE'S DAY]
Our own ancestry in England and Scotland have observed some very funny
customs within the last three centuries. At one time valentines were
fashionable among the nobility, and, while still selected by lot, it
became the duty of a gentleman to give to the lady who fell to his lot a
handsome present. Pieces of jewelry costing thousands of dollars were
not unusual, though smaller things, as gloves, were more common.
There was a tradition among the country people that every bird chose its
mate on Valentine's day; and at one time it was the custom for young
folks to go out before daylight on that morning and try to catch an owl
and two sparrows in a net. If they succeeded, it was a good omen, and
entitled them to gifts from the villagers. Another fashion among them
was to write the valentine, tie it to an apple or orange, and steal up
to the house of the chosen one in the evening, open the door quietly,
and throw it in.
Those were the days of charms, and of course the rural maidens had a
sure and infallible charm foretelling the future husband. On the eve of
St. Valentine's day, the anxious damsel prepared for sleep by pinning to
her pillow five bay leaves, one at each corner and one in the middle
(which must have been delightful to sleep on, by the way). If she
dreamed of her sweetheart, she was sure to marry him before the end of
the year.
But to make it a sure thing, the candidate for matrimony must boil an
egg hard, take out the yolk, and fill its place with salt. Just before
going to bed, she must eat egg, salt, shell and all, and neither speak
nor drink after it. If that wouldn't insure her a vivid dream, there
surely could be no virtue in charms.
Modern valentines, aside from the valuable presents often contained in
them, are very pretty things, and they are growing prettier every year,
since large business houses spare neither skill nor money in getting
them up. The most interesting thing about them, to "grown-ups," is the
way they are made; and perhaps even you youngsters, who watch eagerly
for the postman, "sinking beneath the load of delicate embarrassments
not his own," would like to know how satin and lace and flowers and
other dainty things grew into a valentine.
It was no fairy's handiwork. It went through the hands of grimy-looking
workmen before it reached your hands.
To be sure, a dreamy artist may have designed it, but a lithographer,
with inky fingers, printed the picture part of it; a die-cutter, with
sleeves rolled up, made a pattern in steel of the lace-work on the edge;
and a dingy-looking pressman, with a paper hat on, stamped the pattern
around the picture. Another hard-handed workman rubbed the back of the
stamped lace with sand-paper till it came in holes and looked like lace,
and not merely like stamped paper; and a row of girls at a common long
table put on the colors with stencils, gummed on the hearts and darts
and cupids and flowers, and otherwise finished the thing exactly like
the pattern before them.
You see, the sentiment about a valentine doesn't begin until Tom, Dick,
or Harry takes it from the stationer, and writes your name on it.
[Illustration: ST. VALENTINE'S LETTER-CARRIERS]
=Washington's Birthday=
_February 22_
GEORGE WASHINGTON
Born February 22, 1732 Died December 14, 1799
Washington was the first President of the United States, and the son of
a Virginia planter. He attended school until about sixteen years of age,
was engaged in surveying, 1748-51, became an officer in the Continental
army, and President in 1789. He was re-elected in 1793. He was
preëminent for his sound judgment and perfect self-control. It is said
that no act of his public life can be traced to personal caprice,
ambition, or resentment.
=THE BOYHOOD OF WASHINGTON=
BY HORACE E. SCUDDER
It was near the shore of the Potomac River, between Pope's Creek and
Bridge's Creek, that Augustine Washington lived when his son George was
born. The land had been in the family ever since Augustine's
grandfather, John Washington, had bought it, when he came over from
England in 1657. John Washington was a soldier and a public-spirited
man, and so the parish in which he lived--for Virginia was divided into
parishes as some other colonies into townships--was named Washington. It
is a quiet neighborhood; not a sign remains of the old house, and the
only mark of the place is a stone slab, broken and overgrown with weeds
and brambles, which lies on a bed of bricks taken from the remnants of
the old chimney of the house. It bears the inscription:
Here
The 11th of February, 1732 (old style)
George Washington
was born
[Illustration: SLAB THAT MARKS THE LOCATION OF THE HOUSE WHERE
WASHINGTON WAS BORN]
The English had lately agreed to use the calendar of Pope Gregory, which
added eleven days to the reckoning, but people still used the old style
as well as the new. By the new style, the birthday was February 22, and
that is the day which is now observed. The family into which the child
was born consisted of the father and mother, Augustine and Mary
Washington, and two boys, Lawrence and Augustine. These were sons of
Augustine Washington and a former wife who had died four years before.
George Washington was the eldest of the children of Augustine and Mary
Washington; he had afterward three brothers and two sisters, but one of
the sisters died in infancy.
It was not long after George Washington's birth that the house in which
he was born was burned, and as his father was at the time especially
interested in some iron-works at a distance, it was determined not to
rebuild upon the lonely place. Accordingly Augustine Washington removed
his family to a place which he owned in Stafford County, on the banks of
the Rappahannock River opposite Fredericksburg. The house is not now
standing, but a picture was made of it before it was destroyed. It was,
like many Virginia houses of the day, divided into four rooms on a
floor, and had great outside chimneys at either end.
Here George Washington spent his childhood. He learned to read, write,
and cipher at a small school kept by Hobby, the sexton of the parish
church. Among his playmates was Richard Henry Lee, who was afterward a
famous Virginian. When the boys grew up, they wrote to each other of
grave matters of war and state, but here is the beginning of their
correspondence, written when they were nine years old.
"RICHARD HENRY LEE TO GEORGE WASHINGTON:
"Pa brought me two pretty books full of pictures he got them in
Alexandria they have pictures of dogs and cats and tigers and
elefants and ever so many pretty things cousin bids me send you one
of them it has a picture of an elefant and a little Indian boy on
his back like uncle jo's sam pa says if I learn my tasks good he
will let uncle jo bring me to see you will you ask your ma to let
you come to see me.
"RICHARD HENRY LEE."
"GEORGE WASHINGTON TO RICHARD HENRY LEE:
"DEAR DICKEY I thank you very much for the pretty picture book you
gave me. Sam asked me to show him the pictures and I showed him all
the pictures in it; and I read to him how the tame elephant took
care of the master's little boy, and put him on his back and would
not let anybody touch his master's little son. I can read three or
four pages sometimes without missing a word. Ma says I may go to
see you, and stay all day with you next week if it be not rainy.
She says I may ride my pony Hero if Uncle Ben will go with me and
lead Hero. I have a little piece of poetry about the picture book
you gave me, but I mustn't tell you who wrote the poetry.
"'G.W.'s compliments to R.H.L.,
And likes his book full well,
Henceforth will count him his friend,
And hopes many happy days he may spend.'
"Your good friend,
"GEORGE WASHINGTON.
"I am going to get a whip top soon, and you may see it and whip
it."[1]
It looks very much as if Richard Henry sent his letter off just as it
was written. I suspect that his correspondent's letter was looked over,
corrected, and copied before it was sent. Very possibly Augustine
Washington was absent at the time on one of his journeys; but at any
rate the boy owed most of his training to his mother, for only two years
after this, his father died, and he was left to his mother's care.
[Illustration: MONUMENT ON THE SITE OF GEORGE WASHINGTON'S BIRTHPLACE]
She was a woman born to command, and since she was left alone with a
family and an estate to care for, she took the reins into her own hands,
and never gave them up to any one else. She used to drive about
in an old-fashioned open chaise, visiting the various parts of her farm,
just as a planter would do on horseback. The story is told that she had
given an agent directions how to do a piece of work, and he had seen fit
to do it differently, because he thought his way a better one. He showed
her the improvement.
"And pray," said the lady, "who gave you any exercise of judgment in the
matter? I command you, sir; there is nothing left for you but to obey."
In those days, more than now, a boy used very formal language when
addressing his mother. He might love her warmly, but he was expected to
treat her with a great show of respect. When Washington wrote to his
mother, even after he was of age, he began his letter, "Honored Madam,"
and signed it, "Your dutiful son." This was a part of the manners of the
time. It was like the stiff dress which men wore when they paid their
respects to others; it was put on for the occasion, and one would have
been thought very unmannerly who did not make a marked difference
between his every-day dress and that which he wore when he went into the
presence of his betters. So Washington, when he wrote to his mother,
would not say, "Dear Mother."
Such habits as this go deeper than mere forms of speech. I do not
suppose that the sons of this lady feared her, but they stood in awe of
her, which is quite a different thing.
"We were all as mute as mice, when in her presence," says one of
Washington's companions; and common report makes her to have been very
much such a woman as her son afterward was a man.
I think that George Washington owed two strong traits to his mother,--a
governing spirit, and a spirit of order and method. She taught him many
lessons and gave him many rules; but, after all, it was her character
shaping his which was most powerful. She taught him to be truthful, but
her lessons were not half so forcible as her own truthfulness.
There is a story told of George Washington's boyhood--unfortunately
there are not many stories--which is to the point. His father had taken
a great deal of pride in his blooded horses, and his mother afterward
took great pains to keep the stock pure. She had several young horses
that had not yet been broken, and one of them in particular, a sorrel,
was extremely spirited. No one had been able to do anything with it, and
it was pronounced thoroughly vicious, as people are apt to pronounce
horses which they have not learned to master. George was determined to
ride this colt, and told his companions that if they would help him
catch it, he would ride and tame it.
[Illustration: OLD WHITE CHAPEL, LANCASTER COUNTY, VIRGINIA, WHERE
WASHINGTON AND HIS MOTHER ATTENDED SERVICE]
Early in the morning they set out for the pasture, where the boys
managed to surround the sorrel and then to put a bit into its mouth.
Washington sprang on its back, the boys dropped the bridle, and away
flew the angry animal. Its rider at once began to command; the horse
resisted, backing about the field, rearing and plunging. The boys became
thoroughly alarmed, but Washington kept his seat, never once losing his
self-control or his mastery of the colt. The struggle was a sharp one;
when suddenly, as if determined to rid itself of its rider, the creature
leaped into the air with a tremendous bound. It was its last. The
violence burst a blood-vessel, and the noble horse fell dead.
Before the boys could sufficiently recover to consider how they should
extricate themselves from the scrape, they were called to breakfast; and
the mistress of the house, knowing that they had been in the fields,
began to ask after her stock.
"Pray, young gentlemen," said she, "have you seen my blooded colts in
your rambles? I hope they are well taken care of. My favorite, I am
told, is as large as his sire."
The boys looked at one another, and no one liked to speak. Of course the
mother repeated her question.
"The sorrel is dead, madam," said her son. "I killed him!"
And then he told the whole story. They say that his mother flushed with
anger, as her son often used to, and then, like him, controlled herself,
and presently said, quietly:
"It is well; but while I regret the loss of my favorite, I rejoice in
my son who always speaks the truth."
The story of Washington's killing the blooded colt is of a piece with
other stories less particular, which show that he was a very athletic
fellow. Of course, when a boy becomes famous, every one likes to
remember the wonderful things he did before he was famous, and
Washington's playmates, when they grew up, used to show the spot by the
Rappahannock near Fredericksburg where he stood and threw a stone to the
opposite bank; and at the celebrated Natural Bridge, the arch of which
is two hundred feet above the ground, they always tell the visitor that
George Washington threw a stone in the air the whole height. He
undoubtedly took part in all the sports which were the favorites of his
country at that time--he pitched heavy bars, tossed quoits, ran, leaped,
and wrestled; for he was a powerful, large-limbed young fellow, and he
had a very large and strong hand.
(From "Life of George Washington" by Horace E. Scudder, published by
Houghton, Mifflin & Co.)
(The illustrations in this story are copied from the original pictures in
Mr. B.J. Lossing's "Mt. Vernon and its Associations," by permission of
Messrs. J.C. Yorston & Co., Cincinnati, Ohio.)
[Footnote 1: From B.J. Lossing's "The Home of Washington."]
=Longfellow's Birthday=
_February 27_
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW
Born February 27, 1807 Died March 24, 1882
Longfellow graduated at Bowdoin College in 1825; traveled in Europe in
1826; was professor at Bowdoin in 1829-35; again visited Europe 1835-36;
and was professor at Harvard College 1836-54. He continued to reside at
Cambridge. He is best known and loved for his poems, though he wrote
three novels.
=LONGFELLOW AND THE CHILDREN=
BY LUCY LARCOM
The poets who love children are the poets whom children love. It is
natural that they should care much for each other, because both children
and poets look into things in the same way,--simply, with open eyes and
hearts, seeing Nature as it is, and finding whatever is lovable and pure
in the people who surround them, as flowers may receive back from
flowers sweet odors for those which they have given. The little child is
born with a poet's heart in him, and the poet has been fitly called "the
eternal child."
Not that all children or all poets are alike in this. But of Longfellow
we think as of one who has always been fresh and natural in his sympathy
for children, one who has loved them as they have loved him.
We wish he had given us more of the memories of his own childhood. One
vivid picture of it comes to us in "My Lost Youth," a poem which shows
us how everything he saw when a child must have left within him a
life-long impression. That boyhood by the sea must have been full of
dreams as well as of pictures. The beautiful bay with its green islands,
widening out to the Atlantic on the east, and the dim chain of
mountains, the highest in New England, lying far away on the
northwestern horizon, give his native city a roomy feeling not often
experienced in the streets of a town; and the boy-poet must have felt
his imagination taking wings there, for many a long flight. So he more
than hints to us in his song:
"I can see the shadowy lines of its trees,
And catch, in sudden gleams,
The sheen of the far-surrounding seas,
And islands that were the Hesperides
Of all my boyish dreams.
And the burden of that old song,
It murmurs and whispers still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'
"I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea.
And the voice of that wayward song
Is singing and saying still:
'A boy's will is the wind's will,
And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.'"
Longfellow's earliest volume, "The Voices of the Night," was one of the
few books of American poetry that some of us who are now growing old
ourselves can remember reading, just as we were emerging from childhood.
"The Reaper and the Flowers" and the "Psalm of Life,"--I recall the
delight with which I used to repeat those poems. The latter, so full of
suggestions which a very young person could feel, but only half
understand, was for that very reason the more fascinating. It seemed to
give glimpses, through opening doors, of that wonderful new world of
mankind, where children are always longing to wander freely as men and
women. Looking forward and aspiring are among the first occupations of
an imaginative child; and the school-boy who declaimed the words:
"Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,"
and the school-girl who read them quietly by herself, felt them,
perhaps, no less keenly than the man of thought and experience.
Longfellow has said that--
"Sublimity always is simple
Both in sermon and song, a child can seize on its meaning,"
and the simplicity of his poetry is the reason why children and young
people have always loved it; the reason, also, why it has been enjoyed
by men and women and children all over the world.
One of his poems which has been the delight of children and grown people
alike is the "Village Blacksmith," the first half of which is a
description that many a boy might feel as if he could have written
himself--if he only had the poet's command of words and rhymes, and the
poet's genius! Is not this one of the proofs of a good poem, that it
haunts us until it seems as if it had almost grown out of our own mind?
How life-like the picture is!--
"And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor."
No wonder the Cambridge children, when the old chestnut-tree that
overhung the smithy was cut down, had a memento shaped into a chair
from its boughs, to present to him who had made it an immortal tree in
his verse! It bore flower and fruit for them a second time in his
acknowledgment of the gift; for he told them how--
"There, by the blacksmith's forge, beside the street
Its blossoms, white and sweet,
Enticed the bees, until it seemed alive,
And murmured like a hive.
"And when the wind of autumn, with a shout
Tossed its great arms about,
The shining chestnuts, bursting from the sheath,
Dropped to the ground beneath."
In its own wild, winsome way, the song of "Hiawatha's Childhood" is one
of the prettiest fancies in poetry. It is a dream of babyhood in the
"forest primeval," with Nature for nurse and teacher; and it makes us
feel as if--were the poet's idea only a possibility--it might have been
very pleasant to be a savage baby, although we consider it so much
better to be civilized.
How Longfellow loved the very little ones can be seen in such verses as
the "Hanging of the Crane," and in those earlier lines "To a Child,"
where the baby on his mother's knee gazes at the painted tiles, shakes
his "coral rattle with the silver bells," or escapes through the open
door into the old halls where once
"The Father of his country dwelt."
Those verses give us a charming glimpse of the home-life in the historic
mansion which is now so rich with poetic, as well as patriotic
associations.
How beautiful it was to be let in to that twilight library scene
described in the "Children's Hour":
"A sudden rush from the stair-way,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded,
They enter my castle wall!
"They climb up into my turret,
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere."
Afterward, when sorrow and loss had come to the happy home, in the
sudden removal of the mother of those merry children, the father who
loved them so had a sadder song for them, as he looked onward into their
orphaned lives:
"O little feet, that such long years
Must wander on, through hopes and fears,
Must ache and bleed beneath your load,
I, nearer to the wayside inn,
Where toil shall cease, and rest begin,
Am weary, thinking of your road!"
[Illustration: LONGFELLOW'S HOUSE--ONCE WASHINGTON'S HEADQUARTERS AT
CAMBRIDGE]
Longfellow loved all children, and had a word for them whenever he met
them.
At a concert, going early with her father, a little girl espied Mr.
Longfellow sitting alone, and begged that she might go and speak to him.
Her father, himself a stranger, took the liberty of introducing his
little daughter Edith to the poet.
"Edith?" said Mr. Longfellow, tenderly. "Ah! I have an Edith, too; but
_my_ baby Edith is twenty years old." And he seated the child beside
him, taking her hand in his, and making her promise to come and see him
at his house in Cambridge.
"What is the name of your sled, my boy?" he said to a small lad, who
came tugging one up the road toward him, on a winter morning.
"It's 'Evange_line_.' Mr. Longfellow wrote 'Evange_line_.' Did you ever
see Mr. Longfellow?" answered the little fellow, as he ran by, doubtless
wondering at the smile on the face of the pleasant gray-haired
gentleman.
Professor Monti, who witnessed the pretty scene, tells the story of a
little girl who one Christmas inquired the way to the poet's house, and
asked if she could just step inside the yard; and he relates how Mr.
Longfellow, being told she was there, went to the door and called her
in, and showed her the "old clock on the stairs," and many other
interesting things about the house, leaving his little guest with
beautiful memories of that Christmas day to carry all through her life.
This was characteristic of the poet's hospitality, delicate and
courteous and thoughtful to all who crossed his threshold. Many a
trembling young girl, frightened at her own boldness in having ventured
into his presence, was set at ease by her host in the most genial way;
he would make her forget herself in the interesting mementos all about
her, devoting himself to her entertainment as if it were the one
pleasure of the hour for him to do so.
[Illustration: Henry W. Longfellow]
It is often said, and with reason, that we Americans do not think enough
of manners--that politeness of behavior which comes from genuine
sympathy and a delicate perception of others' feelings. Certainly our
young people might look to Mr. Longfellow as a model in this respect. He
was a perfect gentleman, in the best sense of that term, always
considerate, and quick to see where he might do a kindness, or say a
pleasant word.
The celebration of Longfellow's seventy-fifth birthday by
school-children all over the country is something that those children
must be glad to think of now--glad to remember that the poet knew how
much they cared for him and for what he had written. Even the blind
children, who have to read with their fingers, were enjoying his songs
with the rest. How pleasant that must have been to him! Certainly, as it
seems to me, the best tribute that the young people of the country can
pay to his memory is to become more familiar with his poems.