Chapter II: Part 2

Well, one after another, the workmen who came to their work in the armory that day, were taken prisoners. There was a terrible panic, I can tell you. John and his five sons were inside the armory grounds, while others were stationed outside the walls, to hold the town—some at the bridges, some at one place, some another. When the workmen whom John took prisoners told him how troubled their wives and children would be about them, John kindly allowed them to go home, under a guard of his soldiers, to tell them not to be frightened. John wanted, in doing this, to make the people understand that the prisoners in his hands should not be hurt; a brave man, you know, is always a tender-hearted man. Poor John! he lingered too long about these things. The people whom he allowed to go in the cars, before he tore up the railroad track, wrote on little slips of paper terrible accounts of him, and scattered them through the country as the cars went flying through; so the first thing he knew, one hundred soldiers came to Harper’s Ferry from Charlestown. Now, indeed, they had bloody work. John’s men began to get killed, but not one of them but sold his life as dearly as he could, fighting fiercely till he could fight no longer. Some lay dying in the street, some of the corpses floated down the river, some were taken, bleeding and gasping, to prison. Even after John’s men were dead, his enemies continued to kick and beat their insensible bodies, and many ran sticks into their wounds. And now John knew that all that was left him, was to sell his life as dearly as he could. With one son dead by his side, and another shot through, he felt the pulse of his dying boy with one hand, and held his rifle with the other, and told his few men about him to be firm and calm. He said that his boys came with him to fight of their own accord, and that they had died in a good cause. Well, the soldiers soon battered down the building, and got in where John and his men were. An officer, as soon as he saw John, although he and his men had then done firing, struck him in the face, and knocked him down. The same officer repeated the blow several times, and then, when John was lying on the ground, helpless, another soldier ran his bayonet twice into the old man’s body, whose face and hair were clotted with blood. Then they searched his pockets, and took what they wanted, and then carried him, bleeding, to the guard house, and laid him on the bare floor, without anything under him. Then the governor hurried down to see him, with several of his friends, and though the poor old man was writhing in agony with his wounds, and the blood and the smoke were not yet washed from his face, for thirty hours they let him lie upon the floor, with his head propped up on a chair, while they questioned him, and while the mob insulted him. After that, John was carried off to Charlestown jail, under a guard of soldiers. The body of John’s son was carried off for the doctors to cut up. Seven days after this John was dragged from his bed, and being unable to stand, was supported on each side by an officer into court, and there laid on a bed, to be tried by the laws of Virginia, for what he had done. Well, John had a “_Virginia_ trial.”

A trial, you know, is a fair hearing on both sides. John was faint and bleeding, and unable to stand; they refused to let him have a lawyer to speak for him, and declared him guilty without hearing at all his side; although the law declares a man innocent till he is proved _by law_ to be guilty. Then they told the jailer to shoot him if anybody tried to help him escape; and this was John’s _trial_. Now, John did not wish to die with the character of a robber or a murderer, and before they took him out of court, he lifted his head up from his mattress and told them that he had not had a fair trial; that he was too sick to talk; that his money, fifty or sixty dollars in gold, had been taken from him, and that he could not now pay anybody to do any errands for him; that they ought to give him time to send for his friends. But it was of no use, because they had determined _not_ to give him time; so he was brought into court again on his bed soon after, and sentenced to be hung, _i. e._, if he did not die first, on Friday, the second day of December; and when the judge said that John would be hung where everybody would have a chance to see it, one man jumped up before John and clapped his hands, because he was so glad that he should see the brave old man die.

Forty-two days in all, John lay in a Charlestown prison. All that time, sick as he was, no clean clothes were given him, although sixty dollars of his money were taken from his pocket when he was arrested. All those forty-two days and nights, he had lain there in the stiff, dirty, blood-stained garments in which he fell.

Well, John had two Virginia militia companies come out of curiosity to see him in prison. He treated them civilly, but told the jailer, after they left, that he did not like being made a monkey show of. Everybody who loved slavery, was allowed to gape and stare at John as much as they pleased; but John’s friends, although they were ladies and gentlemen who had traveled a long distance, found it hard work to get leave to take a peep at him.

John’s wife wanted to come and see him before he died, and bid him good by. John told her she would be insulted and badly treated, and she had better stay at home with the children; and besides, I suppose, John was afraid it would make it harder for him to die, and leave her and the girls all alone in the world. But the poor woman could not bear not to look in the face of her children’s father once more, and at last John told her she might come. When she got there, the jailer led her into the cell, but she could not speak to John, nor John to her. She only laid her head upon his breast, and clasped his neck with her arms.

Then, seeing a heavy chain on John’s ankles, and fearing it might pain him, she kneeled on the floor and pulled two pair of woolen socks on his feet. Then John told her what to say to his children at home, and how he wanted them to live, when he was dead; and that she must pay some money to some persons for him, whom he named; and then he read her his “will,” which he had made. And then John and his wife ate their “last supper” together. Perhaps these words will remind you, as they did me, of another “Last Supper.” And then the jailer, Captain Anis, told the poor wife that she must go. And then John said to his wife, “God bless you! Mary; good by;” and then she went out, and never saw John more, till she looked upon his dead face.

There were three ropes sent to hang John Brown with; South Carolina sent one, Missouri one, and Kentucky one. They chose the Kentucky rope, because it was the stronger, and then it was shown, in public, to the people. Well, the second day of December, when the old man was to be strangled, came at last. It was a lovely day, so mild and warm that the windows of all the houses were open. The scaffold was to be in a field, half a mile from the jail. At seven in the morning the carpenters came to fix it. At eight o’clock the soldiers began to come; horsemen, dressed in scarlet jackets, were placed about the field, and a double line of sentries farther on; then the State of Virginia, fearing, after all this, that it would not be safe enough from a feeble, sick old man, brought a huge brass cannon, so placed and pointed, that if a rescue were attempted, John might be blown into little atoms in a moment. There were about five hundred soldiers in the field; and lines of them were stretched over fifteen miles. There were not many people of the place there to see John hung, for they dared not leave their slaves alone at home, for fear of mischief in their absence; for all the poor slaves knew very well that John was to be hung that day, because he was _their friend_.

At eleven o’clock, they brought John out of jail, and put him in the wagon, to drive him to execution.

As John stepped from out the door of his prison, a black woman, with a little child in her arms, stood near. He stopped for a moment, stooped over, and kissed the little black child. Soon after, as he passed along, another black woman said, “God bless you! old man. I wish I could help you, but I cannot.” This made the tears come in John’s eyes for the first time.

By John’s side was seated the undertaker, and on the wagon was a black coffin, enclosed in a box, because his body was to go to his poor wife after these Virginians had done with him. Then several companies of soldiers, mounted on horseback, rode beside the wagon, which was drawn by two white horses. As they went along, John looked at the lovely Blue Mountains and the bright sky, and the warm sunshine spread over all, and said, calmly, “This is a beautiful country; I have not seen it before.” The jailer, who sat beside him, could hardly say “yes,” he was so astonished to see John so quiet and smiling, as if he were only taking a ride on that lovely day. Then the undertaker said to John, “You are more cheerful than I am, Captain Brown.”

“Yes,” said the old man, “_I ought to be_.”

And now the wagon had come to the field, where stood the gallows, and all those hundreds of soldiers, and the great brass cannon. The bright sun shone on the bayonets and muskets of the soldiers and their gay uniforms, and the lovely Blue Mountains looked very calm and peaceful; and the soldiers kept very close to old John, for Virginia felt uneasy till the breath was out of him. Then John got out of the wagon and stood on the scaffold, and took his hat off for the last time, and laid it down by his side. Then he thanked the jailer, who had been kind to him; then they tied his elbows and ankles; then they drew a white cap over his eyes, and then they put the Kentucky rope around his neck. Then the sheriff told John to step forward; and John said, “I can’t see; you must lead me.” Then the sheriff asked John to drop his handkerchief, for a signal for him to hang him; and John said, “Now I am ready; only don’t keep me long waiting.”

When John asked his enemies for time for his trial, they wouldn’t let him have any; now, when he did not want any more time, they kept him waiting. So they made the old man stand there, blindfolded, full ten minutes, while they marched the soldiers up and down, and in and out, just as if they were drilling on parade. Some of the soldiers felt ashamed of this cruelty to the old man, and muttered between their teeth, for it was as much as their necks were worth to say it loud, “Shame! shame!” Then, at last, after the military maneuvers were over, the rope was cut, and John struggled and strangled and died. Then, you know, after that, Virginia had to be _very_ sure the old man _was_ really dead; so first the Charlestown doctors went up and poked him over, and pulled him about; then the military doctors had their turn; lifting up his arms, and putting their ears a great deal closer to his breast than they would have cared to do once, to see if he breathed; then they swung the body this way and that, in the air, for thirty-eight minutes. Then they lifted the body upon the scaffold, and it fell into a harmless heap. Then, although all the doctors who had pulled him around declared that he was dead, still Virginia was so afraid of John, that she insisted on cutting the dead body’s head off, or making it swallow some poison, for fear, by some hocus pocus, it might wake up again. But it didn’t wake—_at least, not in the way they expected_. But there is fierce fighting down in Virginia to-day; for, though John Brown’s body lies mouldering in the grave,

_His soul is marching on!_

THE PLOUGHBOY POET.

Mother Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet children on downy pillows, and under silken canopies. She seems to delight in showing that money shall buy everything _but_ brains. At any rate, she not only opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes, in a clay cottage, put roughly together by his father’s own hands, but, shortly after his birth, she blew it down over his head, and the mother and child were picked out from among the ruins, and carried to a neighbor’s for safe keeping—rather a rough welcome to a world which, in its own slow fashion, after the mold was on his breast, heaped over it honors, which seemed then such a mockery.

But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual love, knew little enough of all this. A good, loving mother she was, Agnes by name; keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride; chanting old songs and ballads to her baby-boy, as she glided cheerfully about; not discouraged when things went wrong on the farm, and the crops failed, and the table was scantily supplied with food—singing, hoping, trusting, loving still; a very woman, over whose head cottages _might_ tumble, so that her _heart_ was but satisfied.

Robert’s father was a good man, who performed each day’s duty as carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of having done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, my dear children, which can do this. All can labor when success follows; it is disaster, defeat, difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is made of. It is just here that the ranks grow thin in life’s battle—just here that the faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on, year after year;—when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when his day’s work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! I’ll to the alehouse, to drown my griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go home moody and disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and bring tears to the eyes of his toiling wife. But morning and evening the prayer went up, with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that was glorious! I love William Burns! Did he say at night, when so weary, “_Now_, at least, I’ll rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes about him, out of which the eager soul was looking. So he gathered them about his armchair on those long winter evenings, and read to them, and taught them, and answered their simple yet deep questions. One of Robert’s sweetest poems, the Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written about this. Robert’s father told his children, too, of the history of their country; of skirmishes, sieges, and battles; old songs and ballads, too, he repeated to them, charming their young ears. Was not this a lovely home picture? Oh! how much were these peasant children to be envied above the children of richer parents, kept in the nursery, in the long intervals when their parents, forgetful of these sweet duties, were seeking their own pleasure and amusement. More blessed, surely, is the humblest roof, round whose evening hearth gather nightly, all its inmates, young and old.

Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. Dainties they could forego, but not books; confusedly thrown about—soiled and thumbed; but—unlike our gilded, center-table ornaments—well selected, and well read. And so the years passed on, as does the life of so many human beings, quiet, but eventful.

Who sneers at “old women”? I should like to trace, for a jeering world, the influence of that important person in the Burns family. Old Jenny Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, with Robert Burns upon her knee, she poured into his listening ear her never-ending store of tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and witches, and giants, and dragons. So strong was the impression these supernatural stories made upon the mind of the boy, that he declared that, in later life, he could never go through a suspicious-looking place, without expecting to see some unearthly shape appear. Who shall determine how much this withered old woman had to do with making the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble soul—that is an idea which seldom enters the mind of his admirers. The bent figure, with wrinkle-seamed face, gliding noiselessly about your house, doing odds and ends of household labor, now singing a child to sleep, now cooking at the kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or watching by a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in anybody’s way; silent, grateful, unobtrusive, yet beloved of Heaven—have you not known them?

Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as her name. The ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learned them, when a girl, from _her_ mother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple hymn, thus listened to by childhood’s ear, has been that soul’s last utterance this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have faded away, but “mother’s hymn” is never forgotten. That strain, heard by none else, will sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome guest; and neither in noise nor wine can that bearded man drown it—this _mother’s hymn_! Sing on, sing on, ye patient, toiling mothers! over the cradle—by the fireside. Angels smile as they listen. The lark whom the cloud covers, is not lost.

The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a poor man, that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any advantages of education within his reach, as many a farmer, similarly situated, and intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good sense, in this respect, was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher said of him, that “he took such pleasure in learning, and I in teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most zealous in the business.” It is such scholars as these who brighten the otherwise _dreary_ lot of the teacher. Pupils who study, not because they must, and as little as possible at that, but because they have an appetite for it, and crave knowledge. Of course, a good teacher endeavors to be equally faithful to all the pupils who are intrusted to him—the stupid and wayward, as well as the studious. But there must be to him a peculiar pleasure in helping, guiding, and watching over a pupil so eager to acquire. The mother bird, who coaxes her fledglings to the edge of the nest, and, by circling flights overhead, invites them to follow, understands, of course, how the little, cowering thing, who sits crouched on a neighboring twig, may be too indolent, or too timid to go farther; but she looks with proud delight upon the bold little soarer, who, observing well her lesson, reaches the top of the tallest tree, and sits, swaying and singing, upon its topmost branch.

Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have, as in this case, an intelligent, appreciative teacher. I suppose it is not treason to admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is considered a place for tremendous fibbing, that a teacher may occasionally err, as well as his pupil. That teachers have been known to mistake their vocation, when they have judged themselves qualified, after trying and failing in every other employment, to fill such a difficult and honorable position.

It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school Robert was sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when pupils of his age first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern, and treat him to some liquor. This Robert did, in company with another boy, named Willie, who entered at the same time. Do you suppose that schoolmaster ever thought remorsefully about this in after years, when he heard what a wreck strong drink had made of poor Robert? Well, the boy Willie and Robert became great friends from that day; often staying at each other’s houses, and always spending the intervals between morning and afternoon school, in each other’s company. When the other boys were playing ball, they would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. Now, as they _walked_ while they talked, their omitting to play ball was not of so much consequence as it would otherwise have been—at least, according to my motto, which is, _chests first, brains afterward_. But to go on. These disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all sorts of knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions to join their debating society—whether to improve them, or to have an audience to approve their skill, I can’t say; perhaps a little of both.

By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t like it. He had an idea boys should have no ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads for them. So one day, when the school was all assembled, he walked up to the desks of Robert and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to taunt them about it before all the scholars—something in this style: “So, boys, I understand that you consider yourselves qualified to decide upon matters of importance, which wiser heads usually let alone. I trust, from debating, you won’t come to blows, young gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the boys who had not joined their debating society, set up a laugh, like little rascals, at the rebuked Robert and Willie. This, of course, as the teacher should have known, stung them to the quick; and Robert, with a flushed face, resolved to “speak up” to the master. I find no fault with his reply, which was this; that both he and Willie rather thought that he (the master) would be pleased, instead of displeased, at this effort to improve their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed contemptuously, and said he should be glad to know what these mighty nonsensical discussions might be about. Willie replied that they had a new subject every day; that he could not recollect all; but that the question of that day had been, whether is a great general, or respectable merchant, the more valuable member of society. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed more uproariously and provokingly than before, saying, that it was a very silly question, since there could be no doubt for a moment about it. “Very well,” said Robert Burns, now thoroughly roused, “if you think so, I will take any side you please, if you will allow me to discuss it with you.”

The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He commenced the argument with a pompous flourish in favor of the general. Burns took the other side, and soon had the upper hand of the schoolmaster, who made a very lame reply. Soon the schoolmaster’s hand was observed to shake, his voice to tremble, and, in a state of pitiable vexation, he dismissed the school.

Poor man! he understood mathematics better than human nature; and himself least of all. This was an unfortunate victory, for two reasons. It was an unnecessary degradation of a man who had his estimable qualities, and it increased the self-sufficiency of young Burns, who was born with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-fashion, he soon sighed for another conquest. His bedfellow, John Nevins, was a great wrestler. Nothing would do, but he must floor John Nevins. Strutting up to John, he challenged him to the combat. John soon took that nonsense out of him, by laying him low. Vanquished, he sprang to his feet, and challenged him to a discussion. _There he had him!_—John having more muscle than brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, and he retreated, a satisfied youth. This is all I know about Robert’s _childhood_.

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.