Chapter IV: Part 4

“As happy as a king—as happy as a queen!” Ah! what thoughtless words are these! The tall pine rocks to and fro, and struggles with the fierce winds and storms; one by one, its beautiful green branches are torn off, and in an unexpected moment comes the terrible lightning flash, scorching its very heart, and leaving it but a blackened cinder. All the time the little flower at its feet sleeps, secure in its sweetness, its very lowliness its surest safeguard and protection. Do you never think of this when you envy the rich and the great? Perhaps you are poor, and meanly clad, and poorly fed; and it seems to you that God is not good and just, to make such a difference between you and another child of your own age, who seems to be born only to have everything it wants, and to rule over others? Have you never, when walking in the field, spied upon some rocky height, a gaudy flower, which you imagined to be sweet-scented and beautiful? Have you never torn your clothes, and sprained your limbs, and nearly put your eyes out with briers, to get it, only to find it, when obtained, nauseous, and full of thorns? Have you never chased the brilliant butterfly over the meadows, till your breath gave out, only to hold in your rash hand, after the eager, weary chase, but a handful of glittering dust?

Well, just like this is human greatness, seen at a distance—just so unsatisfactory its possession. Now, I suppose, you sometimes sit down and dream with your eyes open, what you would like to be when you grow up. I know I did, when I was a child. I don’t remember that I ever wished to be great or celebrated; I never cared for that, and I care for it now less than ever; but I wanted to be loved, oh! so much—so much! I forgot that they whom I loved might die, or change, and so, you see, my house, built upon the sand, was as likely to tumble over as they who desire greatness. But I used to hear my little companions say, Oh, if I were a prince or a princess! and I suppose children now-a-days wish the same wishes as then; for childhood is childhood, while it lasts, all the world over, with its blue skies, and rosy clouds, and angel dreams—never seeing the dark cloud in the distance; never hearing the low, muttered thunder, or seeing the brief lightning flash. And oh! it is well that it is so, else the little bud would not dare to unfold its bright leaves; but would close them tightly round its little, fragrant heart, and shrivel up in its green inclosure, and drop from the stem, before the world had praised God for the gift of its sweetness.

Perhaps you think princes and princesses are happy? Let me tell you the story of two little princes.

They had lived in a great deal of splendor in a beautiful palace—had plenty of rich clothes, plenty of toys, plenty of little ponies in the stable to ride, plenty of servants to wait on them, and to do whatever they wished; and I suppose the poor little things thought it would always be so. But kings have enemies as well as friends, and so had their father; and these enemies grew more numerous, and wished that the father of these little princes were dead; and after a while they succeeded in having things their own way, and the king was sentenced to have his head cut off. Ah! it was not well to be a little prince then! for little princes, if they live long enough, will one day be kings, you know, unless they are put out of the way; and so these bad men thought. Therefore, when their father was led out to be beheaded, these cruel wretches forced the little princes to see it done, and then took their father’s blood, and sprinkled it upon their bright, fair locks, and upon their little garments. And then they took them, although they had committed no crime, unless it was a crime to be the children of this king whom they hated, and put them in prison. This was bad enough; but they did worse than that. They shut them each up in a separate cage, made very broad at the top, but narrowed down to a point at the bottom, so that the little prisoners could neither stand straight, nor sit, nor lie down; and then they fastened them in. The elder of these little boys was but eight years old, and the other only six. Just fancy it! The only comfort they had, was to put their arms through the bars of their cages, and hold each other by the hand.

“We cannot live this way long,” said little Frank, the younger, as the tears rolled down his cheeks.

“Would papa like to see you cry?” asked Henri. “Do you not see,” said the courageous child, “that they treat us like men of whom they are afraid; let us not, then, act like babies.”

So little Frank dried his tears, as his brother bade him; and they talked about the beautiful palace they used to live in, and the fountains, and the groves, and the gardens; and tried to imagine themselves back there, and so to forget their troubles; but, after all, it was dreary work.

One day, a little mouse peeped out of its hole in the lonely dungeon. I dare say you have often run away from a mouse, or else wanted to have it killed, or taken away; but then you were never shut up in a dungeon, with nobody to care for you, else you would feel as these little prisoners did, and have been glad to see even a friendly mouse. At first the mouse was afraid, and ran back to its hole at sight of the little princes. They called and called, and coaxed it to come back, for they were very weary of their cages, and of having nothing to do, day after day. Besides, their cramped limbs ached badly, and it was hard work to bear pain of body as well as pain of mind, and have no one to say, I am sorry for you, dear child. At last the little children thought of throwing out a few crumbs of their prison bread. The little hungry mouse understood that, and ventured out, and by and by, after a few days, he would climb up into their cages, and eat from their hands.

When the wicked wretches who put them there heard of this, and found out how patiently and sweetly these dear children bore their trials, and that their little innocent heads drooped every night in peaceful slumber, they were very angry; so they resolved to try other means of tormenting them. So they called the executioner, and ordered him to go to their dungeon once a week, and draw out one tooth from each of them. Just think of that! You have had a tooth taken out, I dare say, but your mother, or father, or sister was by your side, and holding your hand, and pitying you with all their might, and wishing they could bear the pain for you, and that gave you courage. And then it was soon over, and only for once; and the bad toothache from which it delivered you was, after all, worse to bear. But the little princes had no toothache; they had a bad heartache, but trusting in God, they were trying to be patient, and love even a little mouse, since they were denied everything else. Oh! how mean and cowardly that great, big, strong man—that executioner—must have felt, when he went in to torment two such little angels!

When he told them what he had come for, the youngest boy commenced crying, and the elder brother said to the executioner, “I beg you not to draw out a tooth from Frank; you see how weak he is, and how ill!”

Then the executioner, hard as he was, shed tears; still he knew that he must carry back two teeth, or have his own head cut off; and so told the boys.

“Well, then,” said the elder brother, the brave Henri, “take out two from my mouth, instead of one from my brother’s; I am strong, but the slightest pain will kill him.” For a long time the two boys struggled which should suffer for the other, until a messenger was sent, to know why the executioner did not return—why he delayed. Then he advanced to the cage, and drew a tooth from Henri, and was going toward Francis, when Henri cried out, “No, no; take the other from my mouth; don’t touch Francis!” and the executioner carried back two teeth; but they were both from the mouth of the brave Henri. Every week he went back to the dungeon, and every week did this heroic boy lose two teeth, one for himself one for his brother; but alas! his bodily strength began to fail, though his little lion heart was strong as ever. His limbs no longer sustained him; he doubled up in the bottom of the cage, and tried to put out his hand to his little brother.

“Frank,” said he, “I am dying; but perhaps, some time, you may get out; if you should, and you should find our mother, oh, tell her how I love her, just as I am about to die. Good by, Frank! give some crumbs every day to our little mouse for me, won’t you, Frank?” and the next moment, before Frank could answer him—so stupefied was the child with grief—the brave Henri was dead, and nobody was in the dungeon but Frank and the little mouse.

Nobody, did I say? Ah! God was there. Why he permitted all this suffering, neither you nor I know; but I hope we shall know one of these days. The angels are always learning such things in heaven. It puzzles me often now, when I think about them, and sometimes I get impatient, and wish God would tell me right off why he permits this, when he could so easily prevent it; and then I think of the many, many times, in which I have shed impatient tears at my own troubles, and then time has passed on, and I have seen, even in this world, with my dim, earthly eyes, how much better it was that those very things should have happened which grieved me so. But with our bright, heavenly eyes, in the broad, clear light of eternity, how easily, dear children, shall we untwist these tangled threads of life, which seem to mock our efforts here. We can wait, for, just as sure as that God reigns, it is all right.

Dear me! I suppose you are very impatient to know what became of poor Frank, when he was left alone? Well, soon after Henri died, the wretches who imprisoned the two innocent children died also; and then Frank was taken from his dungeon, and set at liberty. Oh! how glad he must have been to see the blue sky, and the green fields, and the sweet flowers, and, better than all, to find his dear mother.

What a sorrowful story he had to tell her! and how many times they wept, to think of poor Henri, and how the mother wept at night, over little Frank, while he was sleeping, whose dungeon tortures had made him a cripple for life. Ah! it is not well to be a little prince.

Let me tell you another story, of a child who was born of a noble family in France. His father and grandfather were both great generals; they had been in many battles, and were considered very brave men; but war is such a terrible, terrible thing, is it not? husbands, fathers, and brothers falling to the ground, like grass before the mower’s scythe; but in those days war was not spoken of in this way. Dead men were thought no more of than dead sheep; unless, indeed, it might be some great commander or general. As if a soul wasn’t a soul, no matter whether it lodged in the body of a common soldier or his officer. As if a common soldier’s relatives would not grieve at his loss as much as the relatives of his commanding officer for him. As if sorrow did not sit down in the hovel, as well as in the hall. As if an orphan were not an orphan, and a widow a widow, in every rank of life. But, as I tell you, people did not think this way when this lad lived, of whom I am about to tell you. It was all glory and epaulettes. Little Paul had guns and swords, and flags and drums, put into his hands almost as soon as he was born, by his father and grandfather, who wished to train him up for a great hero. When he was a _very_ good boy, his reward was to play battle with his grandfather, with a set of pasteboard soldiers, to teach him how to manage the enemy in difficult positions; and all this boy’s dreams, by day and night, were of such things. When he was only ten years old, his father was commanded to join the army, for there was to be a great battle, a _real_ battle. So he told his wife, who cried very much, that he was going to leave her, perhaps for ever; and then he took his little boy in his arms, to bid him good by. Paul did not cry, but he looked his father in the face very steadily, and said, “Papa, I must go too. I must fight by your side in that battle!” This pleased his father and grandfather very much; and his mother began to be frightened, for fear that they would really consent to the child’s going; and sure enough they did, and little Paul was half beside himself with joy, that he was to take part, with real swords and real men, in a real battle. Perhaps you say, Oh, of course, his father took care that he should not be in any danger, and made everything easy for him. Not at all, as you shall hear; for little Paul insisted, as soon as he joined the army, that no favor should be shown him because he was so young, and because he had been born of a noble family, and brought up tenderly; he insisted upon sharing all the fatigue and danger, and felt quite insulted, if any of the old men in the army seemed to fear for him, or not think him capable of his duty. He wanted to do just as the common soldiers did; sleep on the bare ground, and eat of their common food. A week after he had joined the army, he had proved himself so brave, that they made him ensign, and gave him the colors to carry. Perhaps you say, Of course, his father did that! No; the whole regiment were quite proud of him, and said that the little fellow deserved it. You must not think that he forgot his mother, who was so anxious about her boy. He wrote her a little letter, which was a funny mixture of childishness and manliness, telling her that he had a wound in his right arm from the enemy, who wished to seize his pretty flag. “That would have been fine, indeed!” wrote little Paul, “when I had just had it given me to defend!” Then he tells her, that his new hat was spoilt, but that he can get another, and that once he fell off his horse, when the enemy rushed at them, but soon was up again, firing his pistols after them. Three months the child was there, in the army, and often suffered much from cold and other causes; but he never complained; and when not engaged in fighting, used to laugh as merrily as any other child of ten years old, and at as trifling things.

But at last came a day, which was to decide the battle, one way or another. On the morning of that day, Paul’s father took him in his arms, and said, “Give me a kiss, Paul; for we may never meet again.” Paul gave him two—one for his mother—and then they separated. Little Paul was stationed away from his father, at a post which he was not to leave without permission from a superior officer.

The battle went on; the dead and dying strewed the ground. Little Paul saw his brave companions falling all around him. Still the child stood at his post, until a ball fractured his leg; then, in his agony, he said, what all children say in their pain, “Mother!” fainting as he said it. Some time after, a soldier flying from the field, saw a child lying beneath his horse. All the army knew Paul, and loved him; so the soldier forgot all about his own danger, and stopped to pick up poor little Paul from the dead soldiers around him, and put him on his shoulders, to carry him to the camp. Several times the enemy stopped him; but he had only to point to the wounded child—for everybody had heard of “Little Paul,”—and they let him pass.

When he got to the camp, little Paul came to his senses; and then they told him that it would be necessary to cut off his leg.

“Better that, than my head!” said Paul; “but stop!” said he, as a thought struck him; “it may kill me, may it not?” The doctor bowed his head; he could not say yes, he felt so sorry for him.

“Give me, then, half an hour first, and let me write to my mother!” said Paul; and with great agony he wrote tremblingly a few lines to her whose thoughts were always of her boy.

After this he said, “Now I am ready!” His father stood by, holding his little hand, and whispering, “Courage, my child! courage!”

Little Paul smiled and answered, “Oh, I have plenty—more than any of you!” but as he said it, the smile faded, and a deadly pallor overspread his face.

“Oh, papa, I am dying!” said Paul.

You have seen a cloud-shadow flit over a sunny meadow.

“Oh, papa, I am dying!”

Little Paul never spoke again, and the smile faded from his face, and the small hand grew cold in the father’s grasp. Ah! poor little brave Paul! He did not think of this when he and his grandfather played battle, with wooden soldiers, evening after evening, on the study table, in their pleasant chateau in France. I think it was a great shame ever to take little Paul from there; don’t you?

OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON,

The man who wrote the big dictionary. It makes my head ache to think of it; but Dr. Johnson’s head and mine are about as much alike as a pea and a pumpkin, so there’s no use in talking about that. He lived through it, and made himself famous by it, as well as by many other things he said and did. It always comforts me to think that these literary giants, after all, had to begin life as we all did—in a cradle; the doctor was a baby once, like the rest of us; ate candy, I suppose, and cried for his mammy, although he grew up into such a shaggy lion, that his roar frightened timid folks half out of their wits. But, like other big animals, who sniff gently when little bits of creatures run past, as much as to say, I _could_ munch you up, were you worth the trouble, so the doctor, in his solemn grandeur, let ladies frisk round him unharmed; and liked it, too! But I am outrunning my story; let us go back to his cradle.

The first thing we hear of him is, his being perched on his father’s shoulder, at church, when he was only three years old, _looking_ earnestly—for he couldn’t have understood what was said—at a famous minister who preached in those days. Somebody asked his father, why he brought such a little baby into such a crowd? His answer was, that he could not keep him at home, and that he would have stayed forever in church, contentedly, looking at the minister. He was not the first little Samuel who went early to the temple, as you know, if you have read your Bible. It would be worth something to know what kept him so bewitched there, on his father’s shoulder, and what the little creature was really thinking about. Perhaps the clergyman had a very loving look in his face; and a baby’s eyes are quick to see that. Or, perhaps he had a sweet, lullaby voice, which charmed that little ear, like sweet music. Or, perhaps, being tired of seeing the same things over and over again at home, that sea of faces, in the crowded church, had a strange fascination for him; but we might go on perhaps-ing forever, since nobody can tell us the truth about it.

By and by, getting down from his father’s shoulder, he went to school. One day, the servant sent to bring him home, not arriving in time, he started to return by himself, although he was so very near-sighted that he was obliged to get down on his hands and knees, and take a view of the crossing, before venturing over. His good, careful schoolmistress, fearing that he might miss his way, or fall, or be run over, followed him at a distance, to see that no harm came to him. Master Samuel, happening to turn round, saw this, to his great displeasure. Immediately he commenced beating her, in a furious rage, as fast as his little hands could fly, for what he considered an insult to his future beard. Imagine the little, insane, red-faced pigmy, and the placid schoolma’am! I wonder, did he ever think of it, when he grew up; when he made war with that sharp tongue of his, instead of his fists. I do not consider this an improvement on his juvenile style of warfare; inasmuch as bruised flesh heals quicker than a bruised spirit, and there are words that hurt worse than the most stunning blow. However, there was this excuse for his life-long irritability, in the fact that, from childhood, he was a victim to that dreadful disease, the scrofula, which disfigured his face, and nearly destroyed the sight of one eye. His _heart_ was good and kind, as you will see.

Samuel was quite remarkable for his wonderful memory. When he was a little fellow in petticoats, and had learned to read, his mother, one morning, placed the prayer book in his hands, and pointing to the “collect” for the day, said, “Sam, you must get this by heart!” Leaving him to study it, she shut the door, and went up stairs. By the time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. “What’s the matter?” asked she. “I can say it,” Sam replied. His mother did not believe him; still, she took the book, and bade him begin; and, sure enough, he said it off like a minister, although he could not possibly have had time to read it over more than twice. They tell another story of him: that when three years old, he happened to tread on a little duckling, the eleventh of a brood, and killed it, whereupon he wrote the following epitaph:

“Here lies good Master Duck,
Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;
If it had lived, it had been good luck,
For then we’d had an odd one.”

Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, declared, when he grew older, that his _father_ wrote it, and tried to pass it off for his. That amiable fib, if it _was_ such, was hardly worth while, as there needed no proof of the child’s cleverness.

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.”

Then the policeman’s wife wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron, and turned away to the window; for she thought, Oh, how dreadful it would be, if _my_ little, curly-headed Nanny were as friendless as this poor little girl. And then she and the policeman whispered together at the window a long while, and Katy heard the policeman say, “But it will be so much trouble for you, Mary, and, you know, I can hardly earn enough now to eat and to wear for you and me and Nanny!” but his wife only cried the more, and said, “Poor little thing! suppose it were our own little Nanny, John!” and then they whispered together again; and then the policeman patted his wife on the shoulder, and took up his hat and his big club, and went out; and then his wife got some warm water, and some soap, and washed Katy’s face, and hands, and neck, and combed her bright, brown hair smooth and nice, and put on one of Nanny’s little dresses, and told her, while she was doing it, that she was going to be Nanny’s little sister now, and always live there with them, and have plenty to eat, and never go shivering out in the streets, to beg cold victuals any more; but still little Katy sobbed out, every now and then, “I want to see my mother.” Poor little girl! she forgot that her mother was very unkind to her sometimes; that she used to drink rum, and beat her when she came home, if she did not beg cold victuals enough, or bring some pennies; she forgot all this; and every time she thought of her, it was only as lying on the floor, cold and _dead_; and the great big lump came up again in her throat, and she wanted to go back to the old, dreadful room, and look at her dear, dead mother once more. But Katy’s mother was not there, though she did not know it; they had carried her away and buried her out of sight; but they didn’t tell Katy that, till she became used to living with them, for fear it would make her little heart ache so bad; but by and by, when her little thin cheeks had grown round and rosy, like Nanny’s, and when she began to run about the house and play “Puss in the Corner” with Nanny, then they told her. And, do you know, after a while, it seemed to little Katy that she had _always_ lived with the good policeman and his wife, and that the dreadful, desolate room, and the cold victuals, and the ragged clothes, were only a bad dream, and not real at all. It just seemed to her as though Nanny were _really_ her little _own_ sister, when they slept in the same bed at night, and laid their rosy cheeks on the same pillow. By and by the policeman’s wife was taken very sick, and then she found out what a good heart the little beggar girl had; for Katy ran up stairs and down for her, and gave her the doctor’s medicine; and sat by her bed, and bathed her hot forehead, and repaid her for all her care; and, after many years, when the policeman’s wife died, and Katy was married, and had a home of her own, she took poor, motherless Nanny there, and gave her a nice little room all by herself, and a table to put her dear mother’s workbox on, and very pretty pictures on the wall; and when Nanny said, with wet eyes, “How good you are to me, Katy!” she said, “Ah! I haven’t forgotten who took me in when _I_ had no mother, and fed and clothed me!”

LITTLE ADRIAN.