Part 8

I told you how much he was troubled with scrofula. There was a superstition in those days, that if any one afflicted by this disease could be touched by the royal hand of a king, a cure would speedily follow. Many persons, who had a great reputation for wisdom, were foolish enough to believe this. Sam’s mother, therefore, may be excused, for what, in other circumstances, would have been called “a woman’s whim.” At any rate, up to London she went with little Sam. Queen Anne was king then, if you’ll pardon an Irish-ism; and Sam’s childish recollection of her was a solemn lady in diamonds, with a long, black hood. Did she cure him? Of course not; though his kind mother, I’ve no doubt, always felt better satisfied with herself for having tried it. Sam still continued to go to school, however, and one old lady to whom he went, had such an affection for him, that, years after, when he was a young man, just about to enter college, she came to bid him good by, bringing with her a big, motherly piece of gingerbread, as a token of her affection, adding that “he was the best scholar she ever had.” Sam didn’t make fun of it behind her back, as would many young men; he had sense enough to understand the great compliment conveyed in that piece of cake.

The Latin and other masters who succeeded the old lady, did not admire young Sam as much as she did; instead of “gingerbread,” he got tremendous whippings, one of the masters saying, benevolently, while he “laid it on,” “And this I do, to save you from the gallows.” I myself have more faith in the gingerbread than in the whipping system, which, I believe, has as often driven boys _to_ the gallows, as “from” it. But it seems Samuel owed them no grudge; for being asked, later in life, how he came to have such an accurate knowledge of Latin, replied, “My master whipt me very well;” and all his life long, he _in_sisted and _per_sisted, that _only by the rod_ was learning ever introduced into a boy’s head. Still, to my eye, “birches” look best in the woods. I can’t help thinking that the gentle sway of the old lady would have carried him safe through his Latin too, had she but known enough to teach it.

In all schools, the boy who knows the most, rules the rest. So it was with Sam; who, if he helped them into difficulty with his roguish pranks, helped them also with their lessons, when they came to a standstill for want of his quick comprehension. They all looked up to him with great deference, and so far did this carry them, that they carried him! actually and really. Three boys used to call at his lodgings every morning, as humble attendants, to bear him to school. One, in the middle, stooped, while he sat on his back; while one on each side supported him; and thus the great, lazy Sam was borne along in triumph!

There is one thing which I believe to be true of the childhood and youth of all persons distinguished for true knowledge. It is this: they never rest satisfied with ignorance on any point, which, by any possibility, can be explained or made clear. It was so with Samuel; also, he never forgot what he thus heard, or had read. I know well that a young person who is “inquisitive” is much more troublesome than one who never thinks, and only rests satisfied with just what is put into the ear, and desires no more; and parents and teachers, too, are too apt to silence the inquisitive mind with “don’t ask questions!” or “don’t be so troublesome!” or, if they answer, do it in a careless, lazy way, that only surrounds the questioner with new difficulty, instead of helping him out of it; never reflecting that it is by this _self-educating process_ that the child arrives at the _best half_ of what he will ever know. Don’t misunderstand me; don’t think I mean that a child, or a young person, is impertinently to interrupt the conversation of his elders, and clamor for an immediate answer. I don’t mean so, any more than I think it right to snub him back into ignorance with that harrowing “little pitcher” proverb, which used to make me tear my hair out, at being forced to “be seen,” while I was not allowed “to be heard.”

It is my private belief, spite of my admiration of the great Sam, that he was physically—lazy. Riding boy-back to school gave me the first glimmering of it. Afterward, the fact that his favorite, indeed, only diversion in winter was, being drawn on the ice by a barefooted boy, who pulled him along by a garter fixed around him—no easy job for the shivering barefooter, as Sam was not only “great” intellectually, but physically. His defective sight prevented him from enjoying the common sports of boys, if this is any excuse for what would seem to be a piece of selfishness on his part. Perhaps to his inability for active sports, we may ascribe his appetite for romances in his leisure hours—a practice which he afterward deeply regretted, because, as he declared, it unsettled his mind, and stood very much in the way of his decision upon any profession in life.

At the age of twenty, Samuel’s disease took the form of an overpowering melancholy, which, I am sorry to say, never wholly left him during his life. In every possible way the poor fellow struggled against it, by study, by reading, by going into company, by sitting up late at night, till he was sure of losing himself in sleep. This melancholy took the form of great fear of death. He could not bear to hear the word “death” mentioned in his presence. I think, however, it was “_dying_” he feared, _not_ “_death_.” I think he feared physical pain and suffering, not another state of existence; for all his ideas of _that_ were pleasant and happy, like those of a child going home to its parent, whom, though he may have sinned against, he tenderly loves, and constantly implores forgiveness from. A more kind-hearted man than Samuel Johnson never lived, with all his bluntness, which, after all, is much preferable to the smooth tongue which rolls deceit, like a sweet morsel, in honeyed words. He had also this noble trait: he was quick to ask forgiveness where his blunt words had wounded. He did not think either his dignity or his manliness compromised by confessing himself in the wrong. I want you to notice this particularly; because small, narrow minds think it “mean and poor-spirited” to do this, even when convinced that they are wrong. This blunt, rough, ordinary-looking, ill-dressed old man (for he lived, after all, to be an old man), had a kingly heart. I could tell you many instances of his kindness to the poor and unfortunate; of his devoted love for his wife, who died many years before him, and whose memory he sacredly and lovingly cherished. He numbered among his friends many great and talented people, who were attracted to him by the good qualities I have named, as, also, by his brilliant and intellectual conversation. Royalty, too, paid him special honor; and in his latter days, when money was not so plenty as it should have been in the pocket of a man to whom the world owes so much, the highest people in the land most assiduously endeavored to make his descent to the grave easy, by travel, change of scene, and more comfortable accommodations than he could otherwise have had. Rough as Dr. Johnson was reputed to be, he was a great favorite with ladies. No dandy could outdo him in a neat, graceful compliment to them, and no insect could sting sharper than he either, if they disgusted him with their nonsense and folly. Nice, honest, sham-hating old man! I am glad that the Saviour he loved, smiled so lovingly on him at the last, that he fearlessly crossed the dark waves he had dreaded, to lay that weary head upon His bosom.

THE LITTLE LORD.

Everybody has heard of Lord Byron. The world says, he had a very bad temper; and the world says his mother had a very bad temper, too. For once the world was right; but when I tell you that Byron’s mother, when a pretty, warm-hearted girl, married a man she dearly loved, and found out, after marriage, that it was her money, not herself, that he loved, and that, while spending this extravagantly, he was at the same time mean enough to ill-treat and abuse her, I think we should inquire how sweet-tempered we could have been under such circumstances, before we call _her_ hard names. I believe this is the way God judges us, and that he always takes into account, as man does not, the circumstances by which we have been surrounded for good or evil. It is easy for anybody to be amiable, when there is nothing to thwart or annoy.

Well, as I have said, poor Mrs. Byron had a weary life of it; and little George, hearing his mother say violent words, when her misery pressed hard upon her, learned to say them, too; and set his handsome lips together, till he looked like a little fiend; and tore his frocks to tatters when things did not suit him; and later, when he was too old for this, he used to turn so deadly pale with speechless rage, that one would almost rather have encountered the violent words of his childhood.

A mother who cannot, or does not, control herself, cannot, of course, control her child; so that there was presented at their home that most pitiable of all sights, mother and child always contending for the mastery.

I should tell you that this handsome boy was born with a deformed foot, which prevented him from exercising, like other children; and that he suffered not only from this restraint, but from the painful, and, as it proved, useless remedies, that were resorted to for his cure. An active, restless, lame boy! Cannot you see that this must have been hard to bear? But when I add that his own mother, in her angry fits, used to taunt him with his lameness, till the mere mention of his twisted foot, or even a glance at it, nearly drove him crazy, I am sure you cannot but pity him. And so this personal defect, which she might have soothed and loved him into feeling it a happiness to bear, because it should naturally have called out the fullness of a mother’s pitying heart, became to him, through her mismanagement, like a nest of scorpions, to lash into fury his worst passions. This was very dreadful. _I_ try to remember it, and _you_ must, when you read the bitter, bad words of his manhood, which stand over against his name, and, alas! will always stand; for the hand is cold and powerless now, which should have dashed them out; the eyes are closed now, from which the tear of repentance should fall to wash them away; the voice is forever hushed, which should say, beware! to the young feet, which he would lure with flowers, only to be bitten by serpents.

And yet, it is beautiful to know, that his unhappy childhood, which, like a blighting mildew, overspread all his future life, had not power _quite_ to extinguish the angel in him. Thus we hear that, when sent away to an English school, he interfered, notwithstanding his lameness, between a big boy and a little one, whom the former was severely punishing. Unable to fight in defence of the poor little fellow, upon whom the torturing blows were descending, Byron stood boldly up before his persecutor, and begged, with crimson cheeks and tearful eyes, that he might, at least, “take half the blows that were intended for the little boy.” I think you will agree with me that this was very brave and magnanimous. I have another little anecdote of the same kind to tell you. Not long after this, a little boy came to the school, who had just recovered from a severe illness, which had left him very lame. Byron, seeing a bigger boy threatening him, took him one side, and said, “Don’t be troubled; if he abuses you, tell me, and I’ll thrash him if I can,” and he afterward did it.

Unfortunately for Byron, he became a lord, while he was yet a schoolboy. I say unfortunately, because, had he been a poor boy, I think it might have made a man of him. His mother, delighted at his being a lord, took every opportunity to make him as proud as a little peacock, by telling him of how much consequence it would make him in the eyes of the world; as if being a lord was of any account if he did nothing but strut about to parade his title, and enjoy the mean pleasure of forcing those who were “beneath him” (by so much as that they lacked a coat of arms) to make gracious way for him. Imagine this little schoolboy, so puffed up with that idea of his mother, that the first time he was called by his title in school, he actually burst into tears—from sheer delight! One can’t smile at it, for it was the sowing of a poisonous seed, which should spring up into a “tree,” under whose shadows should die the sweet flowers of kindness and generosity which, I have already told you, were springing up in the child’s heart. Such grand airs did “my lord” put on, that the boys used to nickname him “_the baron_.” You will not be surprised to hear, that this foolish pride of rank grew with his youth, and strengthened with his strength, so that, when he became a man (could he be said to be one, when under the dominion of such a childish feeling?) he would have his coat of arms put on his bed-curtains, and everywhere else where it could possibly be placed; and upon one occasion, when his title was omitted, he flew into the most absurd paroxysm of rage. Petty and pitiful, was it not?

It is a dreadful thing when a child is unable to respect and reverence a parent. There are such cases; this was one. Byron’s mother sometimes came to school to see him. On one occasion, being displeased with something she met there, she burst into a furious passion with the teacher. When one of Byron’s schoolmates, with more simplicity than politeness, said to him, “George, your mother is a fool,” “I know it!” was the boy’s gloomy reply. This seems to me the saddest thing that ever fell from a child’s lip. Still, it is due to him to say, that with this knowledge bitterly burned in upon his soul, he never failed in _outward_ attention to her wishes, or in letters during his absence, informing her carefully of all that most nearly concerned him; although for the sweet, holy name of “mother,” he substituted “Madam,” or “Dear Madam.” Unhappy mother! unhappy son! So much that was naturally kind in both, each loving the other, and yet, in each, the active elements of perpetual discord. Each yearning for affection with the intensity of strong natures, and yet perpetually a great gulf between them, over which their outstretched hands might never meet!

I wish I could tell you that this unhappy child grew up a happy, and, what is better, a good man. But neither was true. His fine poetical talent was not used to bless, or soothe, or instruct his fellow beings. His powers of pleasing were exerted for unworthy purposes, and wasted upon unworthy objects—and the miseries which his unbridled temper and extravagance brought upon him in after years, he neither accepted as his just punishment, nor strove, in a manly way, to atone for, and retrieve. Lord Byron has been called “a great man.” I do not think him such. The “greatness” which lacks moral courage to meet the ills of life, which only makes them an excuse for wallowing in wickedness, must of necessity be a spurious greatness. It is put to shame by the quiet heroism of thousands of women, many of whom can neither read, write, nor spell, who toil on by thousands all over our land, facing misery, poverty, wretchedness in every form, with trust in God unwavering to the last moment of life. That’s what I call “greatness.” One would think, that the more a man knew, the better should he be able to hold the fiery horses of his passions with a master hand—to keep them subservient by a strong bit and bridle. Else, of what use is his intellect? He might as well be a mere animal; better, too, by far, because for the animal there is no remorseful future. He is but a pitiable specimen of manhood, who has resolution enough in a land of plenty to endure the keen pangs of hunger day by day, lest eating should spoil the outline of his handsome face and form, and yet is powerless to control passions which, scorpion-like, will sting him, long after his perishable body has crumbled into dust.

THE POLICEMAN.

I heard a little boy say, the other day, “When I grow up, I mean to be a policeman!” He liked the bright star on the policeman’s breast, and the big club in his hand. He thought it would be “fun” to sound his whistle, when he spied a fellow getting a ride for nothing on the steps of an omnibus, and to see him running off as fast as he could, for fear of a crack from the driver’s long whip. He thought it would be nice to walk up and down, and scare the little beggar girls, who were teasing for “one penny, please,” from the ladies on the sunshiny side of the street, as they came out of the shops. But he _didn’t_ think, how many policemen have kissed their little boys and girls, when they left at night, and been killed before these little ones woke in the morning, by some robber, or murderer, whom they had to catch in the night. He didn’t think how many wretched, drunken men and women they have to drag through the streets, to the station houses, every day, and how many shocking fights they have to see and take part in. He didn’t think how forlorn it must be to pace up and down of a cold, dismal night, that other people might lie snug and safe in their warm beds, till morning. He didn’t think how sick a policeman might get of misery, and poverty, and wretchedness, and how glad he was sometimes to walk into a nice, clean neighborhood, where people had enough to eat, and drink, and wear, and live clean and comfortable. You see, Johnny was only nine years old, and didn’t know about all these things. It was his birthday, that very day that he said, “I want to be a policeman,” and he had beautiful presents, and a little sugared plumcake, made on purpose for him by his grandmother; and he was to have a little party in the evening, and ice cream and cake to eat; and they were to play blind man’s buff, and all go to the circus in the evening, to see the horses, who flew round so fast that you could hardly tell what color they were. Well, that very day the policeman he was looking at, and envying, had seen a dreadful sight. As he was going round on his “beat,” through one of the narrow streets in New York, he heard a little girl, who was just nine years old that very day like Johnny, crying piteously. He went into the room where the noise came from, and saw, not a birthday party, of warmly-dressed little children, and a bright fire, and pretty pictures on the walls, and such beautiful roses on the pretty carpet, that one almost hated to step on them. No, indeed! The floor was bare, and so were the walls; there was no bed in the room, no chairs, no tables; but on the floor lay a dead woman, and over her stood her own little girl, named Katy, only nine years old that very day, crying, as I told you, as if her little heart would break. In her hand was a basket of cold victuals, that her mother had sent her out alone to beg; and there lay her mother, _dead!_ and now little Katy was all alone in the great city, with no friend to whom she could tell her troubles, and no money even to buy a coffin for her dead mother. No wonder she cried. The policeman asked the little girl how long her mother had been dead; and when she could stop sobbing, she told him, that her mother told Katy, in the morning, to go beg some food, and that she had to be gone a long while, before she could get any; and when she came back, she found her mother lying so still on the floor; and that she called “Mother!” and she didn’t speak; and that, when she touched her, she was so cold, she knew she must be dead; and then poor little Katy trembled, because she didn’t know what was to become of her, or whether the policeman would take her away from her mother; for, while her body lay there on the floor with her, the poor little girl felt as though her mother was still with her. But the policeman didn’t speak, for he was looking round the room, and presently he found a bottle; there was nothing in it _now_, but there _had_ been some rum in it; and now you know why it was the room had no fire and no furniture, and how a mother could stay at home, and send her poor little girl out alone in a great city to beg. Katy didn’t say a word. I suppose she, too, knew that her mother used to get drunk; but she didn’t want to talk about it. She only knew that her mother was all the friend she had, bad or good, and that she lay there _dead_, and would never say “Katy” any more; and so she began to cry again, as if her heart would break. Well, the policeman had a little girl of his own, and he felt very sorry for her; so he didn’t take her to the “station house,” where all sorts of drunken people are carried, but he took her to his own home, and asked his kind-hearted wife, to whom he told Katy’s story, to give her some warm breakfast, and keep her till he came back again. At first Katy didn’t want to stay there, warm and pleasant as it was. She would rather have sat on the bare floor, beside her dead mother; but the sorrows of most little children are soon forgotten by them; and when little Katy looked round again at the clean, bright, warm room, and had eaten a nice little bit of beefsteak, and some bread, and drank a cup of warm milk, she began to feel a great deal better. Nanny, the policeman’s little girl, had a beautiful doll, which she let Katy hold in her own hands. This pleased Katy very much; she had often seen dolls in the shop windows, but she never thought to have one in her own hand all her life. Well, little Nanny gave her leave to take off the dolly’s dress, and put it to bed; and Katy was so bright and happy, when the policeman came back, that he hardly knew she was the same little Katy; but at the sight of him, tears came into her eyes, she gave the dolly back to Nanny, and sobbed out, “I want to see my mother.”