Part 4

Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his good father’s temples, as he toiled on, to little use, while children grew up fast about his knees, to be fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert and his brother looked sadly on, as his health declined. Robert had little inclination for his father’s work, and yet, somebody must take his place; for consumption was even then making rapid and fearful havoc with his constitution. The good old man ceased from his labors at last, and went where the weary rest. For a while, Robert strove to fill his place—strove well, strove earnestly. But the farmer who stops to write poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to satisfy hungry mouths. And so, poverty came, instead of potatoes, and Robert Burns, although the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his, and his little children were growing up fast about him, and needed a good father, to teach them how to live in this world, and to earn bread for them till they became big enough to earn it for themselves, it came about that, instead of doing this, he drank whisky to help him forget that he ought to keep on ploughing, if poetry did not bring him bread, and so made poverty a great deal worse. His wife was very, very sorrowful about it, and his little children became tired of waiting for him to love them, and care for them. Perhaps you say, Oh, how _could_ he do so? My dear children, how can _anybody_ ever do wrong? How can _you_ ever vex your dear mother, who is so good to you, and go pouting to bed, and never tell her that you are “sorry”? and still, while you are sleeping, that dear, good, forgiving mother stoops over your little bed, and kisses your forehead, and looks to see if you are warm and comfortable, before she can sleep, the same as if you had been a good child, instead of a bad one. I hope you will think of this before that good mother dies, and tell her that you are very sorry for grieving her; and I hope, too, that Robert Burns, before it was too late, said that he was sorry for grieving those who loved him, and for wasting his life; but I do not know about that.

OLD HICKORY.

Many a time, I dare say, you have sat on your bench at school, with your cotton handkerchief spread over your knee, looking at the stern face of this famous man upon it; every bristling hair upon his head seeming to say for itself, In the name of the commonwealth, stand and deliver! You have thought, perhaps, that a man with such a sharp eye and granite face as that, must be a very terrible person, whose heart was quite left out when he was made, and whom little children had better run away from. It is just because this was _not_ true, that I first believed in General Jackson. A brave man is never a mean one; and it _is_ mean to despise or bully children and women. I place _children_ first, because every woman who has ever had one, does so. But to my story. We, who have lived so peacefully and quietly in the land for which our brave ancestors fought, do not think as often as we ought of the sufferings and trials through which they purchased it for us. Until lately, our houses were not burned down over our heads, or ransacked and robbed, nor our mothers and sisters insulted before our eyes, nor our fathers and brothers dragged off as prisoners of war, and kicked and cuffed for sport by the enemy. All this, Andrew Jackson’s boyish eyes saw. Do you wonder at the fire in them? One of his earliest recollections was of the meeting house in his native place turned into a hospital for his wounded, maimed, dying, brave countrymen; and his own widowed mother, leading him there by the hand to nurse them, and dress their wounds, and comfort them, as only a woman with a strong heart and angel touch can. Could the boy stand by and see all this, and not long for the time when he should grow big, and stout, and tall, and help fight for his country? Could he help being impatient, he, the son of this unprotected mother, when one after another of these poor fellows was brought in, with their fresh, ghastly wounds, and laid down to die? And when, later, his cousin’s house was taken by the British, and the furniture was broken in pieces, and his cousin’s wife was insulted by the officers, and he and his brother were taken prisoners, and ordered by the officer, with an oath, to clean his muddy boots; and, because they both refused, were cut and slashed across the face and head by this bullying, cowardly fellow, Andrew then being only twelve years old; and then were marched miles and miles away down South, and not allowed a morsel of food by the way, and forbidden even to scoop up water from the streams they were fording, to quench their feverish thirst? Ah! do you wonder now at that stern face? Suppose your dear mother, whom your dear father, whom you can just remember, loved so tenderly, was driven across the country with you and your little brother, from place to place, for safety, in those troublous times, and subjected to all kinds of hardships, bearing up under it bravely, as good women will. Suppose that when you and your brother—still boys—were dragged off as prisoners of war, this dear, brave mother traveled off alone, and never rested till she managed, by an exchange of prisoners with the British general, to get her dear boys back again; but wan and wasted with small pox, and the wounds that they had received from that big, cowardly British officer, all undressed and uncared for; these boys, _her_ Andrew, her Robert? Well, as your mother would have nursed you and your brother through her tears, so Andrew Jackson’s mother nursed her fatherless boys. But was Andrew a boy to forget either his mother’s love, or the British? No, indeed! And when, after he became well, and the whole band went to live in the house of a friend, and Andrew picked beans, and pulled fodder, and drove cattle, and went to mill, do you wonder that when he was sent to the blacksmith’s, to get the farm tools mended, he brought home spears of iron, and all sorts of odd-looking, rough weapons, that, while waiting for the blacksmith, he had himself manufactured “to kill the British with”? Do you wonder that he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and exclaimed, fiercely, as he cut down the weeds with it, “Oh! if I were only a man, wouldn’t I sweep off the British with my grass blade?” And he did it, too, afterward. Let those who call him “fierce, savage, vindictive,” remember how these sorrows of his childhood were burned in upon his soul; remember what burning tears must have fallen upon the little bundle containing all his dead mother’s clothes, she who had struggled and suffered through the war of the Revolution, and left him an orphan at fifteen years, with only the memory of her love and his country’s wrongs. As he stood weeping over that little bundle, friendless, homeless, and heart-broken, thinking of all she had been to him, and looking wistfully forward into the dim unknown, he did not see the future President of the United States, and hear his voice falter as he said, “I learned that, years ago, from my dear, good mother!” Well might he remember her then. You ask me if Andrew found no opportunity to get an education in these troublous times? You may be sure his mother knew the value of that! and sent her boys, when quite young, to the best schools she could find in their native place. Schools, in those days, were not the furnace-heated, mahogany-desked affairs we see now. Pupils did not carry an extra pair of shoes to put on when they entered, for fear of soiling the floor. Velvet jackets were not worn by the boys, nor gold bracelets by the girls. Andrew Jackson’s schoolroom was an old log house made of pines, the crevices being filled in with clay, which the boys used to pick out when it came spring, to let in the fresh air. In this school no French, nor drawing, nor “moral science,” was taught. Reading, writing, and arithmetic was all. For a gymnasium, there were the grand old trees, which the freckled, sunburnt, redheaded Andrew was free to swing upon when school was done; and he went up and down them like a squirrel. I think he was better at that than at his books, if the truth must out; however, “learning” did not go before chests in those days, luckily for us, who enjoy the blessings for which our fathers’ strong arms fought. So Andrew studied some, and leaped, and wrestled, and jumped more;—was kind to defenceless small boys, but had his fist in the face of every fellow who made fun of him, or taunted him, or in any way pushed him to the wall.

Andrew had one very bad habit when a boy, which, I am sorry to say, followed him all his life. He swore fearfully! An oath, from anybody’s mouth, is hateful; but from a _child’s_ mouth! I know nothing more saddening and pitiful. Often, I know, children will use such words, quite unconscious of their meaning, as they pick them up from those who have no such excuse for their utterance, till the habit becomes so fixed, that only in later life, when they pain some person who is “old-fashioned” enough to reverence the name they use so lightly, do they become conscious of the extent of this disgusting habit. The idea of its being “manly” to swear is ridiculous enough; since the lowest, most brutal ruffian in creation, can, and does, outdo you in this accomplishment. I think Andrew would have enjoyed his boyish sports quite as well without these bad words; and he _was_ a splendid fellow for all athletic exercises. Had he been alive when that game of cricket was won by the English cricketers, I don’t know what would have happened; well, it _wouldn’t_ have happened; or had it, the victors would never have gone home alive to tell of it!

Andrew was a good son to his mother; he was honest, and truthful, and kind to her always. He never forgot her as long as he lived. He used often, when President of the United States, to stop in the midst of his conversation, and say, reverently and proudly, “_That_ I learned from my good mother!”

One cannot help feeling sad that she should have lived long enough only to bear the burden and heat of the day, and not share with her boy its calm repose and reward. And yet, who can believe that a mother and son so loving are divided, though one crosses alone the dark river before the other? We have seen, of a fine summer morning, after the sun shone out, fine gossamer threads, before invisible, floating, yet fixed, in the air above us. So, when the light of eternity shines on our life-path, shall these chords of a mother’s love be seen to have entwined themselves around and about us—leading us in a way we knew not.

Jackson’s life was a strange one. It is for me only now to speak of his childhood and youth. His relation to our country’s history will not suffer you to rest satisfied with this. His after-life is better told than I could tell it you, by a man who is now looking over my shoulder, and who says, I have just told you a fib. If you read “Parton’s Life of Andrew Jackson,” however, you will see that I have told the truth.

THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY.

I was sitting, this morning, at my window, looking at a fine sunrise, when suddenly I thought, how terrible, were I to become blind! And then I asked myself, were I to choose between blindness and deafness, how should I decide? Never to see the dear faces, never to see the blue sky, or green earth, or delicate flowers;—never to listen to the melody of birds, or the sweet voices of the trees and streams, or hum of busy insect-life; or, more dreadful still, never to hear the sweet voices of those I love;—oh, how could I choose? When we murmur and complain, surely we forget the blessings of hearing and sight; they are so common, that we forget to be grateful; so common, that we need to have written pitying words to the deaf of our own kin, or led the sightless, fully to understand their sufferings. And yet all the world is not now dark to the blind, or voiceless to the deaf, thanks to the good people who teach both these unfortunates. How different was their position once, a long while ago! Let me tell you about it.

In France lived a little boy, born of parents who had six deaf and dumb children, three boys and three girls. It must have been very dull to them all; but one of them, little Pierre, seemed to feel it most. Children of his own age would not play with him, they seemed to despise him; so he trotted round like a little dog, trying to amuse himself with sticks, and stones, and anything that came in his way; his body grew tall, like other children’s, but his mind remained a little baby. He didn’t know whether he had been made, or had made himself. His father taught him to make prayers by signs, morning and evening. Poor little fellow! he would get on his knees, and look upward, and make his lips move, as if he had been speaking; but he did not know there was any God: he was worshiping the beautiful sky. He took a great fancy to a particular star, because it was so bright and beautiful; and at one time, when his mother lay very sick, he used to go out every evening, and kneeling down, make signs to it, to make her well; but finding that she did not get any better, he grew very angry, and threw stones at the star, supposing that it might, after all, be the cause of his deafness, his mother’s sickness, and all their other troubles. Seeing others move their lips when speaking, he moved his, hoping the talk would come out; and sometimes he made noises like an animal. When people told him the trouble was in his ears, then he took some brandy, poured it into his ears, and then stopped them up with cotton, as he had seen people do who had cold in their heads. Pierre desired much to learn to read and write. He often saw young boys and girls who were going to school, and he desired to follow them; not that he knew what reading and writing really were, but from a feeling that there were some privileges and enjoyments from which he ought not to be shut out. The poor child begged his father, as well as he knew how, with tears in his eyes, to let him go to school. His father refused, making signs to him that he was deaf and dumb, and therefore could never learn anything. Then little Pierre cried very loud, and taking some books, tried to read them; but he neither knew the letters nor the words. Then he became angry, and putting his fingers into his ears, demanded impatiently to have them cured. Then his father told him again, that there was no help for it; and Pierre was quite heart-broken. He left his father’s house, and without telling him, started off alone to school, and going into the schoolhouse, asked the master, by signs, to teach him to read and write. The schoolmaster (I think he could not have had any little children of his own) refused him roughly and drove him away from the school. Then Pierre cried very much; but you will be glad when I tell you that, although only twelve years old, he was such a little hero that he wouldn’t give up. He took a pen, and tried, all alone, to form the writing signs; and that, indeed, was the best and only thing he could do, and he stuck to it, though everybody discouraged him.

His father used sometimes to set him to watch the flocks; oftentimes people, in passing, who found out his condition, gave the boy money. One day—and it was a great day for poor Pierre—when he was thus watching the flocks, a gentleman who was passing took a fancy to him, and inviting him to his house, gave him something to eat and drink. Then the gentleman went off to Bordeaux, where he lived. Not long after, Pierre’s father, for some reason or other, moved to Bordeaux; and then this kind gentleman spoke of Pierre to a learned man of his acquaintance, who was interested in deaf and dumb persons, and he consented to take Pierre and try to teach him. Are you not glad? and you will be gladder still, when I tell you how fast he learned, and how, by his own strong will, assisted by his kind tutor, he unriveted, one by one, the chains with which his wits were bound, and casting them aside, stood forth under the bright star, at which he used to throw stones, and understood now what it was, and who made it. You may be sure that nobody had to tease little Pierre to learn _his_ lessons, as some little children have to be teased to study theirs. No indeed! he felt like jumping and leaping for joy that he was able to learn; and it seemed to him that there was nothing left in the world worth fretting about, now that he could learn, like other children.

That is all I know about little Pierre, but I hope he grew up a _good_ as well as a smart man; don’t you?

THE THREE GIFTED SISTERS.

“Like as a father pitieth his children.”

According to this text, Charlotte Brontë, though no orphan, had no father. She was born in the little village of Haworth, England. Her father was a clergyman, and a very curious man, if the stories told of him are true. I dare say he may have been a good man in his way, but I don’t fancy his way. I don’t like his burning up some pretty little red shoes, belonging to his little children, because he did not like the color. I don’t like his firing off pistols, when he got angry, and terrifying his little meek wife. I shouldn’t want to hear such a terrible minister preach, had I gone to his church. Well, never mind that. His feeble little wife was taken very sick, and the doctor said she must die; die, and leave those little children to the care of this father I have spoken of, who seemed to be about as fit for the charge, as an elephant would be to take care of little humming birds. One touch of his great paw would crush the life out of them.

You may be sure the poor dying mother felt badly enough about all this, as she lay in her bed, growing thinner, and paler, and weaker each day. She could see the churchyard where she was to be buried from her chamber window; in fact, one had to pass through it, with its moss-grown tombstones, to get to the house, which was a very gloomy one at best, as parsonage houses are too apt to be. I suppose she tried very hard to feel willing to leave them; but she found she could not do it, if she saw their dear little faces every day. So they did not go to her sick-room any more; she could hear the pattering of their tiny feet in the entry, and their hushed whispers as they passed her door, and so, pressing her hands tightly over her mother heart, to still its pain, and leaning on the Crucified, she passed away.

It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much worse, I think, than to lose a father; because a father, be he ever so good and kind, _must_ be away from his little ones, and cannot, by any possibility, understand their little wants and ways as a mother can; and a child’s heart is such a tender thing to touch; one may mean well, and give it such exquisite pain, and the poor thing cringes, and shrinks, and has no words by which it can tell its distress. But suppose the father understands nothing about a child’s heart. Suppose he thinks to treat it like a grown person’s, who has been knocked about the world till he don’t care for anything, who never cries, never laughs, never is glad, never is sorry, never wants to lay his head on a dear, kind shoulder, and cry—what then? Suppose that father, instead of taking breakfast, dinner, and supper with his lonely little children, takes his meals up in his own room, and leaves them sobbing over theirs, while they try to swallow the food that tasted so sweet when their dear mother sat at the head of the table—what then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country where they lived, where no flowers grew, where were no gardens; and that, when these little children became tired of huddling together, like a frightened flock of lambs, in their gloomy nursery, where never a cheerful fire was lighted, or cheerful lamps twinkled when night came on—suppose they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by the eldest, who was only seven, went through the damp churchyard, past their mother’s grave, and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without their father to lead them by the hand, or take them up in his arms when tired, or speak a kind word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands in any way? Suppose day after day went by in this fashion, what sort of children do you suppose they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy, jumping little things, such as God and man love to see, loving play and frolic, with broad chests and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not at all. They never once thought of playing; they hadn’t a toy in the house; their heads grew big, and their bodies grew little; and they were as wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired them not to go to sleep. But their father slept soundly, all the same as if their little hearts were not like an empty cage, out of which music and beauty has taken wing forever. Well, _God loved them; that’s a comfort_, and that thought kept little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she tried to be mother to her younger brothers and sisters; all the while she needed a mother herself, more than any dictionary could ever tell.