Part 10

Now Komer turned his attention to writing books. Gifted men were proud of his friendship; he could talk with them on any subject. His four and twentieth year found him famous. The old cow, were she living, which was doubtful, must take care of herself; he had “browsing” of his own to do. I hope he kept that horse he copied from the tobacco paper. I hope he made a drawing of the old hut where he was born; and the peddler, with his pipe, and his pack, and the green meadows where he used to dream away the lonely summer days, while old Brindle switched the flies, and winked lazily at the patches of blue sky, as she lay under the broad tree shadows. I hope he did not forget his old mother, if she was ignorant; because she knew enough to love him, and perhaps, had she not praised that horse, because her little Komer drew it, he might have tended cows all his life; who knows?

JEMMY LAWTON.

School was out! “Hurra!” screamed all the boys, and up went their caps in the air, as they all commenced trying the strength of their limbs and trowsers, some by climbing up trees, some over fences, some by leap-frog, some by bat and ball; and thus they all separated, and went their different ways home, and Jemmy Lawton went his, too. It was not with so light a step as his schoolfellows; and when the last boy was out of sight, he drew a deep sigh, and crowding his cap down over his eyes, and looking carefully about him in every direction, as if to reassure himself that not one boy lingered to keep him company, moved on. He was an honest boy; he had no thought of stealing anything on the way—it was not that; he was not afraid of “the master,” for he was always at the head of his class, and seemed more anxious to understand his lessons than any boy in school. He was not afraid any big boy would thrash him, nor was he lying in wait for any smaller boy to thrash. No, Jemmy was no such coward. On he moved, with leaden feet, past the old, familiar spots; past the grocer’s, with his peanuts, and oranges, and cocoanuts, and nicely potted flowers, that he hoped would attract the housewives who came to buy his sugar and tea; past the baker’s, with his tempting pies and tarts, and piles of sugared cakes, and heaps of candy; past the toy shop, and the tinman’s, and the shoe store: he had read all their signs till they were as familiar to him as his own name, and now he had turned the last corner of the street in which was his own house. _Now_ it was that the child turned pale, and set his white teeth together, and drew his breath hard. His house was a very pretty one, with a nice little garden spot in front, in which were fragrant flowers, for his mother was very fond of them—almost as fond as she was of Jemmy.

He had a kind mother, then? Yes; but do you see that crowd of boys, like a little black swarm, round the pretty white gate before his house? You cannot see what they are looking at so earnestly inside the fence, but you can hear their shouts and laughter, and so, alas! does Jemmy. His face is not white now—it is as red as the daisies in his mother’s garden, and his eyes flash like the raindrops on the daisies’ bosoms, that the bright sun is now shining upon. Alas! when will there be sunshine in Jemmy’s house?

“Ah, there’s Jim now,” said a rude boy, loud enough for Jemmy to hear. “Here’s your drunken father, Jim.”

“Stand away! go home! off with you all!” shouted Jemmy, in a harsh, fierce voice, that contrasted strangely with his slight figure, and sweet, infantile face; “off with you!” and he walked into the centre of the group, where, crouched upon the ground, was a man, vainly trying, on his hands and knees—for he could not stand—to reach the door to get in; his nice broadcloth coat was covered with dirt; his hat was crushed in; bits of straw and grass were sticking in his thick, black hair; his eyes were red, and he did not even see his own little boy, who was crimson with shame as he stood over him, and vainly tried to help him to his feet. “Off with you!” shouted Jemmy again to the boys, who laughed as his father fell against him, almost knocking him over; “off with you, I say!” bringing his little foot to the ground with a stamp that made them all start; then, rushing up to the door, he rang the bell violently, and turned his head away, to conceal the tears that would no longer be kept back. A woman came to the door—it was Jemmy’s mother, and together they helped in the drunken husband and father.

No wonder Jemmy dreaded going home from school! It was not the first time, nor the second, nor the third, that he had helped his father in at the area door when he was too drunk to find his way up the front steps to his own house; and sometimes Jemmy, only that he thought of his mother, would have wished himself dead. It was so terrible—the brutal laugh and jests of those cruel boys. Oh! I hope you never do such mean things. I have known children who taunted their playmates and schoolfellows with such troubles when they were angry with them, or sometimes, as in this case, for mere sport. It is a sign of a base, mean, cruel nature, and the boy or girl who would remind any child of their acquaintance of a disagreeable thing of this kind, which is hard enough to hear at best, and twit and taunt them with it, or pain them by noticing it in any way, is a boy or a girl to be shunned and avoided. Nero, the tyrant, who roasted people for his amusement, must have been such a boy. I am sorry to say I have known little girls equally malicious and wicked—bad women they will surely grow up, if not broken of such mean cruelty before they are women.

A drunkard is a drunkard all the same, whether he gets drunk on bad rum or champagne; whether he takes his senses away at the club house, or low, corner grocery: he comes to the gutter just as surely in the end. It made no difference to little Jemmy that his father got drunk on rich old wine, and sipped it from cut glasses in a handsome apartment; his mother was just as heart-broken, and her children just as miserable as they could be. Dollar after dollar the man was swallowing; and Jemmy might well study hard, and be at the head of his class, for he would need all he could earn to coin into bread and butter, by the time he got old enough to keep his mother and little brothers and sisters. And Jemmy’s father _used_ to be so kind—that memory came often to the child, to make him patient under his trouble, to help him to excuse him for the wrong he was doing both himself and them. “He was so kind _once_!” Jemmy would sob out in his little bed at night. “I remember——,” and then he would beguile himself by remembering the walks and rides he used to take with him—the Christmas presents—how pleased father was to hear his lessons well recited—and now! Oh, nobody who has not dropped from such a height of happiness down to that dreadful “now” can tell how bruised the poor heart may be by the fall! God help little Jemmy and all like him, who have sorrows all the greater that they must bear the burden alone; that they are _unspeakable_ sorrows, save to Him who will never taunt us with their heavy burden, or turn to us a careless ear.

You may be sure that when Jemmy grew up he never drank. Long before the beard grew on his soft, white chin, his father’s bloated face was hidden under a tombstone; and when, in after years, young men of his own age locked arms, or clapping each other on the shoulder, as they passed some gilded saloon, said to one another and to him, “Come in and take a drink,” you may be sure that the smile died away on Jemmy’s face, and he saw—not the bright lights in the saloon window, nor the gay, laughing throng inside—but instead, a form crouching like a beast at his feet, dirt-besmeared, with bloodshot eyes—creeping, crawling, like a loathsome reptile, who has no soul to save—for whom there is no Heaven, no glorious future after death—nothing but annihilation. Ah, no; Jemmy could not “take a drink”—his very soul sickened when they asked him.

HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON.

A CHAPTER FOR BOYS.

Did you ever hear of Lord Chesterfield? I dare say you have; if not, you very likely will, before you are much older. He wrote some letters to a son of his, which have become famous, telling how to eat, and drink, and walk, and talk politely; how to dress, how to carve, how to dance, how to write letters; how to enter a room, how to go out of it; how to smile at people whom he disliked; what books to read, what sort of people to visit, and to choose for his friends. Every now and then I used to hear of this book, and hear some person say, in speaking of another person, “He has very fine manners—he is quite Chesterfieldian;” which seemed to mean very great praise. Now, I have no boys—more’s the pity; but still, I thought, I will read this Lord Chesterfield’s book, and see how _he_ thinks a boy should be brought up, because I have my own notions on that subject, as well as his lordship, although I have had no occasion to practice them; and I think good manners are by no means to be despised, though they are not at all the most important part of a boy’s education.

Well, there was just the mistake _I_ think this gentleman made about his son, whom he drilled in these things like a little soldier; it was the outside only that he was most careful about polishing and adorning. It was to get a high place in this short-lived world that he was to make his best bow, wear his hat and coat gracefully, and study Latin, and talk French and Italian. It was to secure the notice of great, and powerful, and fashionable people, that he was to cultivate his taste and talents, and improve his person; not to do good, not to benefit in any way his fellow creatures by the great influence all this would give him to do good, but _solely to benefit himself_, and to hear it said that he was a perfect gentleman, which, by the way, would have been untrue, had he done all this and done no more, because no man acting from such selfish motives _can_ be a perfect gentleman, though, to careless eyes, he may appear so. Then this Lord Chesterfield told his son never to get angry with anybody, not because anger was wrong, and debased the soul of him who indulged it, but because it was not good policy to make an enemy even of the meanest person, who might some day be able either to help or to injure one. Then he advised him to speak very respectfully of God and religious things, because it was considered “decorous” to do so, and because it gave a man influence, not because it is base and ungrateful to receive all the good things God showers down upon us at every moment, while we little Lilliputians are, practically, at least, denying His very existence, and doing all we can to blot and deface and mar His image in our souls, and helping others to do the same; not because He who loves and pities us so tenderly waits month after month, year after year, with patience unspeakable, to see us turn to Him with a loving, penitent “Our Father;” not for this, but because it was “respectable” to be religious. It is quite pitiful to read this gentleman’s letters to his son, and see, while he appeared to love him so fondly, how entirely he was educating him for this world, with not a thought beyond, for those ages upon ages which that immortal spirit must travel through in joy or pain, just as he prepared for it here. It is pitiful that he never said one word to the boy about using his talents and influence for lightening the burdens which were so heavily weighing down his less favored fellow mortals, but everything was to begin and end in himself; that _he_ was to shine in public and private; that _he_ was to be admired, not for his goodness of heart, but, like the peacock, for his fine plumage—like the bird, for his sweet voice.

Well, the boy was to travel and see the world, and everything in it worth seeing, but by no means to associate with any but “fashionable people;” as if he _could_ see all that was “worth seeing,” in such an artificial atmosphere; as if fashionable people were “the world;” as if God’s purest, and brightest, and best, did not shine out like diamonds from dirt-heaps; as if _that_ was the way to read human nature, which the boy was told to study so perfectly that he could play upon the chords of human feeling and human passion, as does a skillful musician upon his favorite instrument. No; as well might he judge of a book by looking at its gilt binding. He was to talk to women, who, his father told him, “were only grown up children.” I wonder had he a mother? I wonder had she whispered a prayer over his cradle? I wonder had she never gone without sleep and rest, that his little head might be pillowed softly? I always ask these questions when men speak disrespectfully of women; well, he was to talk to women, and be good friends with, and flatter them, because, foolish and silly as they were, they had, after all, influence in the world, and might “make or mar his fortune;” there you see it is again _the everlasting I_, at the top and bottom of everything.

Now, you will naturally inquire how this paragon turned out, when he became a man; whether this boy, educated with so much care, and at so much expense, repaid it all;—you will naturally suppose, that with such advantages of education and society, he overtopped all his fellows. His father’s ambition was to see him in Parliament, which answers in England, you know, to our American Congress—except that there is no head-breaking allowed in that honorable body. Our hero had now grown to man’s stature; he wore a coat any tailor might be proud of; made a bow equal to a dancing master; and could tell fibs so politely that even his father was delighted. So far, so good. Now he was to put the crown on it all, by making his first speech in Parliament; he who had the dictionary at his tongue’s end, and the rules of etiquette at his finger ends; who had been drilled in rhetoric, and oratory, and diplomacy, and in all the steps considered necessary by his father to make a great public man. Well—he got up—and stuttered—and stammered—and hemmed—and ha-ha-d—and made a most disgraceful failure. Do you suppose he would have done it, had his whole soul been on fire with some grand, God-like project for helping his fellow creatures? _Never!_ But his whole thoughts were centered in himself; what sort of figure he cut—what impression he should make; what this—that—and the other great person was thinking of him. Of course he came down like a collapsed balloon, as all men do who have no higher standard than the approbation of human beings.

Oh, I tell you what it is; you may cram a man’s _head_ as full as you please, if you neglect his _heart_, he will be, after all, like a Dead Sea apple—and yield you only—_ashes_.

THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.

A weakly child sent to his grandfather’s, for change of air! Nothing extraordinary in that. It has happened to many children, of whom the world never even heard that they were born. Grandfather’s house! It is the child’s paradise. He has only to cry for what he wants, to obtain it. Grandpa quite forgets the wholesome authority he exercised with the _parents_ of his little grandchild, and how well they were made “to mind;” and he will always find some excuse, when they say to him while he is spoiling their boy, “Grandpa, you never allowed _us_ to do thus, and so.” He only shakes his silver head, and kisses the noisy rogue. He is old, and it may seem to him the least troublesome way to manage; or, being so near the grave, _love_ may seem to the poor old man the most precious thing while he stays here; and he will long have slept his last sleep, before that pretty but willful boy will know enough to love him better for restraining him. And so old grandpa, wanting all the love he can get, from everybody, before his heart grows cold forever, _won’t see_ the child’s little tricks, or, if he does, but says, “Ah, well, he’s only a child!” or, “He don’t feel well to-day!” or, “We must not be too hard upon him, till he gets older and wiser.” Then it is really very difficult for grandpa, or anybody else, to manage a _sick_ child. One cannot tell what is obstinacy and what disease. One fears to be harsh and cruel to a little crippled thing; the pale face appeals so irresistibly to a kind heart; and “What if he should die?” is apt to decide all doubts in the child’s favor. And then, a child almost unbearably irritable, the first years of its life, grows sweet-tempered, docile, and affectionate, with returning health. But I have rambled a long way from my story—of lame little Walter Scott, who was sent to his grandfather, to “Sandy Knowe,” for change of air, in charge of his nurse. Now, this nursemaid had a lover, whom she had been obliged to leave behind when she went with the sick child. This made her cross; from that she began to hate the poor sick boy; and from that, to entertain thoughts of killing him with a pair of scissors, that she might get back again to her lover. Luckily, this was discovered, and she was sent off; Grandpa Scott, of course, pitying the boy all the more on account of the danger he had been in. Of course, he asked everybody what was good for his grandson’s complaint. One person recommended that a sheep should be killed, and the child immediately wrapped in its warm skin. This was done; and behold little Walter lying on the floor, in his woolly covering, and Grandpa Scott sitting there coaxing him to crawl round, and exercise his little lame leg. There was his Grandma Scott, too, in her elbow chair, looking on. Now and then a visitor would drop in—some old military man, to see grandpa; and the two would sit and talk about “the American Revolution,” then going on. These stories made little Walter’s eyes shine, for under the lamb’s woolly skin there beat a little lion heart; and then this little three-year-old boy crawled nearer and nearer the chairs where the old men were sitting, and devoured every word they said. All children like stories that are wonderful and marvelous, but perhaps little Walter would never have been such a beautiful story writer when he grew up, had he not lain there in his lamb skin, in the little parlor at Sandy Knowe, listening to those old men’s stories. People don’t think of these things when they talk before children, who look so unconscious of what is going on.

Besides his good grandparents, Walter had a very kind aunt, by the name of Janet, who liked children, and was fond of telling Walter stories, and teaching him to repeat little ballads. Of one of these in particular, he was very fond; and when he lay sprawling on the floor, he used to say it over to himself. It seems that among his grandpa’s friends was one of those persons who have no love for, and, of course, no patience with, children. This person had a very long face, very thin legs, and a very narrow chest; so I suppose we must forgive him. Did you ever know a fat, broad-chested man or woman to hate children? I never did. Well, when little Walter lay there under foot, amusing himself with his favorite ballad, this long-legged man would frown, and turning to his grandpa, say, “One may as well speak in the mouth of a cannon as where that child is!” It is so unnatural a thing to dislike children, that I prefer to believe, when persons do so, that it is because they are sick and nervous. However, little Walter did not bear this gentleman any ill-will for it; because, long afterward, when he heard that he was sick and dying, he went to see him, and they took a kind farewell of each other.

It seems that Walter’s sickness did not sour his disposition; an old woman by the name of Tibby, at Sandy Knowe, says that “he was a sweet-tempered little bairn, and a darling with all the house.” The shepherds delighted to carry him on their backs among the crags, and he soon learned to know every sheep and lamb in the flock, by the mark put on their heads. Best of all, he liked an old man, who had the superintendence of all the flocks, who was called “the cow-bailie;” when Walter saw him in the morning, he never would be satisfied until he had been put astride his shoulder and carried to the crags, to keep him company while he watched his flocks. After a while, he became weary of this, as children will; then the nice old man blew a particular note on his whistle, to let the maid servant know that she was to come up and carry him down the crags to his grandpa, in the little cozy parlor. Many—many—many years after this, when Walter was an old man, he went back to see those crags, and this is what he said: “Oh, how I used to love the sheep and lambs when I rolled round here upon the grass; I have never forgotten the feeling—no, not till this day!”

Once, when little Walter was up on the crags, the people in the house where he lived forgot him. A thunder storm came up. Suddenly his Aunt Janet remembered that he was there, and ran up, much frightened, to bring him home. There she found him, lying comfortably on his back, the sharp, forked lightning playing overhead, and little Walter clapping his hands and crying, “Bonny! bonny!” at every flash. Walter’s grandpa, finding that he was fond of riding on the old cow-bailie’s shoulder, bought him a cunning little Shetland pony, hardly as large as a Newfoundland dog; in fact, he was so small that he used to walk into the parlor like a dog, and feed from the child’s hand. He did not think then that one day he should have a little grandchild lame like himself, and that he should buy _him_ just such a little pony, and name it like that—“Marion;”—but so it was.

Walter was a great reader. He read to his aunt, read to himself, and read to his mother. One day he was reading to his mother an account of a shipwreck, and became very much excited; lifting his hands and eyes, and saying, “There’s the mast gone! crash! now they’ll all perish!” While he was reading, a lady had come in to see his mother. After he had recovered a little from his agitation, he turned to the lady-visitor with a politeness quite remarkable in a child of only six years, and said, “This is too melancholy! had I not better read you something more amusing?” The lady thought, as well she might, that if she wanted to be “amused” she had better make him talk; so she said, knowing he had been reading Milton, “How did you like Milton, Walter?” “I think,” said he, “that it is very strange that Adam, who had just come newly into the world, should know everything. I suppose, though, it must be only the poet’s fancy.” “You forget,” said the lady, “that God created Adam quite perfect.” Walter reflected a moment, seemed satisfied, and yielded the point. When his Aunt Janet took him up to bed that night, he said, “Auntie, I like that lady; I think she is a virtuoso like myself.” “Dear Walter!” exclaimed Aunt Jenny, opening wide her eyes, “what _is_ a virtuoso?” “Why, aunt, it is one who wishes, and _will_ know, everything.” Of course, you may believe that his Aunt Jenny tucked him up that night in the full belief that he would never live to grow up. Luckily for us all, she was mistaken.