Chapter V: Part 5

I wonder if you like pictures as well as I do? I dare say your father may have hung some on his parlor, or study, or chamber walls, and perhaps you have often sat alone in those rooms, looking at them and thinking. They were pleasant company for you—you liked the shapely trees and contented cattle, the beautiful clouds, and the grass that you could almost see waving, as the fragrant breeze swept by. You thought, perhaps, how well the artist must have studied nature, and with what a loving eye, thus successfully to create it; and you imagined, perhaps, that his heart was as tranquil and unruffled, while at his work, as the clear lake you saw in his picture. I remember thinking so, when I was a child, and wishing I, too, were an artist, that, when the storm raged without, and the chill rain came slanting down, I could still create sunny skies, and blooming, fadeless flowers. I did not know then, what I know now, how painfully many artists struggle up to notice from poverty and obscurity; what a sad history those pictures, could they only speak, might tell of sleepless nights and hungry days, and fireless hearths (for it is adversity that brings out the strength of our natures). I did not think of the wealth and fame which come so often only to the filming eye and palsied hand of age, and then to be left at the grave’s brink. I did not know, what I know now, that they who have genius in any department of art, stand upon a dizzy pinnacle, what with those who, unable to reach the same elevation themselves, and who would fain throw or pull them down, and what with the danger that they themselves should lose sight of the thorny path by which they reached it, and, satisfied with human applause, never think that upon every gift, every talent, should be written “Holiness to the Lord.” I did not reflect that by so much as talent increases influence, by so much it places in the hands of its possessor the means of improving and benefiting, as well as amusing and delighting, those for whom this short life is but the porch to the temple whose splendors they whose garments are washed white, alone shall surely see. And how beautiful, how fitting it is, that at His feet who bestowed the gift of genius, its fruit should be laid.

No; these thoughts came with after years, when I went out into the world; but now, I never look at a beautiful picture or statue, or read an interesting book, that I do not think of these things; and when I read of an artist who, with great powers, paints pictures which harm the looker on, and influence him to evil—for pictures, though tongueless, have eloquent voices; when I read of a great artist, who can command any price, how large soever, for anything he may choose to paint, yet often wanting a meal of victuals, not because he gave it to the poor, but because he swallowed it all in the wine cup, and only rouses himself to work when he wants more, oh! then I feel sorrier than I can tell you; for genius is not an every-day gift, and life is short enough to learn our lessons for eternity, without pulling the minute hands of time forward.

It is pleasant to see artists and men of talent honored by kings and princes. I once heard a story of the Emperor Maximilian and the painter Albert Durer, which pleased me very much. Durer was painting on a wall of the palace one day, in presence of the emperor and his courtiers. He was a small man, and being unable to reach sufficiently high to complete the upper part of one of the figures he was painting, he looked around for something to raise him higher. The emperor, noticing this, ordered one of the gentlemen present to hand him a stool. The courtier was very angry at this; he considered the artist beneath him, and so he handed it to him in a very ungracious manner, muttering as he did so.

The emperor heard him, and turning sharply round, made him this proper and noble answer: “Sir, I can make a noble out of a peasant any day, but I cannot form an ignoramus into a man of genius like Durer.” I think the pompous courtier must have blushed a little at this, or, if he did not, so much the worse for him.

There was once a little boy, named Adrian. His mother was a poor peasant, and little Adrian used to sit on the floor with a pencil and paper in his hand, to keep him out of mischief. By and by his mother, seeing him very busy with his drawing, peeped over his shoulder, and lo! there, upon the paper, were beautiful birds and flowers, and all sorts of pretty things, which the little rogue had drawn; for he did not know, any more than his mother, that he was an artist. Still, his mother thought them very pretty—what mother wouldn’t, had they been ever so ugly?—and it occurred to her that she could copy in needlework those pretty pictures, on the caps and neckerchiefs she was in the habit of embroidering, to sell to the peasant women who came to market. One day, while little Adrian sat in the shop where his mother sold her needlework, an artist happened to pass, and, stopping at the window, watched through the glass the little Adrian as he drew the patterns. After a while he went in, and asked the boy if he would not like to become an artist. “Oh, yes!” he almost screamed out; “better than anything in this world, if my mother is only willing!” The poor woman was glad enough of the offer, and little Adrian went home with his master as happy—not “as a king,” for that’s a lying phrase—but as happy as a little robin of a bright spring morning.

Oh, how diligently he worked, and how fast he learned what was taught him! His master had no need to rap him over the knuckles with “Come, come, what are you thinking about?” not at all; he scarcely lifted his eyes from his work, so eager was he. His master had other pupils, but he took Adrian away from them, and shut him up in a little attic in the top of the house, to draw. The other scholars didn’t like this, for Adrian was very good company, and they all liked him; besides, they did not see the reason why he should be shut up there, and they felt curious to find it out. So one day, when the master was out, they stole softly up to the attic, and peeping through a window, saw the poor little prisoner painting very beautiful pictures for his jailer, who used to sell them, and pocket the money for himself.

It was very lucky that they found him, for he had become very thin and emaciated, what with hard work and poor food. The boys told Adrian that he was a great artist, though he did not know it, and that he might earn a great deal of money; and they offered, if he could draw some pictures slily, to sell them for him when his master did not know it, and get him some pocket money, for his own use. The hungry little boy artist was delighted at this, and soon found means to do it; but his cruel master and his wife soon found it out, and put a stop to it, by watching him so closely that it was quite impossible. Then the poor child grew thinner and thinner, until one of the boys contrived a plan for him to escape; in the daytime he wandered in the back streets, and at night he curled himself up in the organ loft of one of the churches, and all the time he was turning over plans in his bewildered head for the future. One day, while he was thus situated, he met a person who had once seen him at his master’s house. “Why,” said he to Adrian, looking pityingly at his thin figure, “have you left your master’s roof?” The child began to cry, for he was quite worn out, and besides, was overcome by the kind manner of his questioner, so different from that of his old master. So he very honestly told him the truth, and why he had run away. His pale face, his sobs, and his wretched clothes were so many proofs of the truth of his story, and the gentleman said, “If you will agree to return to your master, I will talk to him, and see that he treats you better in future.” While all this was going on, his old master Hals had hunted everywhere for him, for he could ill afford to part with so valuable a pupil. One would suppose that this thought, if no better one, would have made Hals treat him better; but, after all, avarice is very short-sighted, though it is said to be so keen.

Well, of course, he was overjoyed to get Adrian back, caressed him, and gave him a new suit of clothes, and all that, so that the innocent, trusting child really believed all that he said was gospel truth, and commenced painting again, with so much industry and so well, that his master got larger prices than ever for his little drawings. Still, the miserly Hals never gave Adrian any of it, and so Adrian made up his mind that, as fair promises would neither feed nor clothe him, he would run away again. This time he planned better, for he ran so far his master couldn’t find him—way off into another city, and took refuge with an innkeeper, who liked artists, because his own son was one, though, like many other children, nobody thought him famous but his own father. He soon grew cheerful, and fat, and merry, under kind treatment; it is a blessed thing, is it not? that youth is so elastic—that it is always ready, after a disappointment, to begin again with fresh courage. For a while, Adrian kept steadily at his work, and to his delight and astonishment, they brought him higher prices than ever, though no one knew who the artist was. One day he came panting home to his friend the innkeeper in a great state of excitement. His pockets were full of gold—he could scarcely believe it was not all a dream. He emptied it all out on the bed, and then jumped into the middle of it, that he might, as he said, know how it felt for once “to roll in wealth.” Well, we can pardon him that. None but they who have been kicked and cuffed round the world, and had a crust of bread thrown grudgingly at them, can understand the full deliciousness of independence, especially when that independence is the result of their own honest labor. Adrian had a right to wave his hat in the air; and, had I been there, I would have helped him hurra! and when we had finished, I would have said, “Now you have felt how uncomfortable a thing poverty is—don’t squander that money foolishly, because it was quickly earned; put it away safely, where it may do you and others good, and keep on working.” But, I am sorry to tell you that Adrian did neither. He gathered up all his money, left the house, and did not return for more than a week. On his return, his friend the innkeeper asked him what he had done with his money. “All gone!” said the foolish fellow; “I’ve not a bit left.” And that is the way he went on—first a fit of work, then a fit of wasteful dissipation. He earned a great deal, and spent more than he earned; so that he who might have been so free and independent, was constantly obliged to be running away from those to whom he owed money. Was it not a pity? On one of these occasions, he forgot to provide himself with what is called a passport, _i. e._, permission from the government to pass from one city to another; and because he had not this permission, they supposed him to be a spy, and threw him into prison. Confined in the same prison was a certain duke, to whom he told his pitiful story, assuring him that he was no spy, but only an artist who had come to that city to follow his profession. Of course, the duke did not know whether he was fibbing or not; he had only the artist’s own word for it. Adrian saw this, so he said, “Bring me painting materials, and I’ll soon prove to you that what I say is true.” The duke, having a friend in the city who was a great artist, had a mind to try him. So he got his friend to procure Adrian, the suspected spy, the materials he desired. Just below the windows of his cell, a group of soldiers were assembled, playing cards. This scene Adrian painted, and so well, that every man’s figure was a complete portrait in itself. The duke was delighted, and sent for his friend the artist, to see what his opinion might be. The moment he saw it, he exclaimed, “It must be Adrian Brauwer’s; no other artist could paint with such force and beauty!” and immediately offered a high price for it. But the duke would not part with it. It was painted under singular circumstances, and was, besides, a very beautiful picture. He immediately interested himself with the governor to get Adrian out of prison, which he succeeded in doing, and then, being liberated himself, he took Adrian home to his own house, gave him new suits of clothes, and tried to keep him from wasting his talents and time, and throwing himself away on bad companions. You will be sorry to know that it was quite useless; sorry to know that his bad passions had become, from indulgence, his tyrants, so that he was no longer his own master, but theirs; sorry to know that he ran away from the house of his benefactor, sold the very clothes he gave him, mixed with all sorts of bad people in loathsome places, till finally, destitute and diseased, he was carried to one of the public hospitals, where, unknown by any who had admired his talents, and pitied his follies, he died miserably, at the early age of thirty-two, and was buried in a cemetery among the paupers. When the duke, his benefactor, heard of this, he shed tears at the melancholy end of a life which might have been so useful, so honored, and so honorable. He ordered the corpse to be taken up from its pauper grave, gave it a funeral in a church, and designed a monument for the erring man, which last, however, was never accomplished, as he died himself soon after.

It is pleasant to turn from so sad a story to that of other artists, who labored on, though steeped to the very lips in poverty, for loving wives and children, who, in turn, did all in their power to lighten the artists’ toil. Living lives full of love, and without reproach, creating beauty when everything around them was miserably shabby and forlorn—everything but the love and patient endurance which can make out of the dreariest earthly home a heaven.

THE PEDDLER’S SON.

I am only a poor boy, what can I do? what can I ever be, but just what I am? ignorant, uneducated, insignificant? Stop, no creature of God is insignificant; that is impossible, because you are to live forever. Fettered and cramped in this life you may be; but this life is not all, nor is it impossible even here for you to take your place with the wise and the honorable of this world. You look about you, and shake your head doubtfully. Your father and mother are good and kind to you, as far as they can be. But they never read; they know nothing, care for nothing, save that they are to work day by day till they die, merely to get bread enough to keep them alive. But your _mind_ is hungry; you want something for _that_. Bread and meat for your body don’t suffice you; you know there is something better. How shall you find it? who will help you to it? And you look about and around you, and reach out your arms, as if to implore some invisible power to come to your aid. Do you know how many whose names are loved, honored, and cherished by thousands, began life just so? Do you know what might there is in the little words “I will”?

Let me tell you a story.

In a poor hut in Germany lived a lad. This hut had only one room, with a fireplace in it, and no stairs. Instead, a ladder in it went up to the roof. Besides the lad of whom I have spoken, there was the usual supply of a poor man’s children.

The principal support of the family was a cow, and the principal employment of Komer, the name of my hero, was to collect, in the spring, the sedges which had been thrown up by the waters, to make litter for the cow. After the meadows had become green, he passed the long summer days in watching her, sometimes alone, and sometimes in company with other boys. He also brought dry wood to burn, and helped glean in harvest time; and when the autumn winds shook the trees roughly, he gathered acorns, and sold them to those who kept geese. When he grew larger, he helped his father, who was a peddler, to carry his bundles from hut to hut. There was a small school, too, where Komer learned to read and write, but that was all he learned there.

One evening (Komer never forgot that evening) he was sitting at a table with his parents. A small lamp was burning upon it, and his father, who had just come home with his peddler’s pack, was talking to his mother about his business. The old peddler loved smoking, and had brought home with him a packet of tobacco, the wrapper of which lay upon the table. On it was the picture of a horse.

Little Komer idly took up the picture. This is very good, thought he; I wonder if I could draw one like it, if I should try? Who knows but I might? Little Komer looked at his father; he was very busy talking; so he took pen, ink, and a piece of paper, and shyly began. When he had finished, he looked at it; it seemed to him very perfect, and his little heart swelled with a new, strange delight. Then Komer showed it to his parents—one can’t be happy alone—and they praised and admired it, more because Komer did it, than anything else. By and by Komer went to bed; it was dark, but still he saw his horse—he couldn’t sleep for thinking of it; he tossed and turned, and longed for daylight, that he might _really_ see it with his bodily eyes again; for he was not quite sure, after all, but that he was dreaming. Morning came; it was no dream—there was the horse; but Komer was never again the same Komer. All that day he was excited, restless, and the next, and the next; how was he to become a _real_ painter? Near his father’s hut lived a potter, who had some outlines, as models for painting his plates and dishes. Little Komer went to him, and begged the loan of these outlines for a little while. Then he made a blank book, and very carefully copied them into it with pen and ink. The people in the huts round thought it quite wonderful, and they were handed about, till, at last, they came to a man who was a sort of “mayor” of the place where Komer lived. He was so pleased and astonished, that he sent for the boy, made him presents, praised his drawings, and asked him if he would like to be a painter.

Like it? of course, Komer nearly jumped out of his skin for joy. Like to go to a great city to a master painter, and learn how to be one himself? Of course, he could not find his tongue to tell all the joy that filled his heart. There was no need—his glowing face was enough. The gentleman said he would talk of it to his parents. Now, his parents never heard of any kind of painting, save doors and houses; therefore, when the gentleman asked them, they answered that it was a very dangerous trade; for houses in cities were sometimes seven stories high, and Komer might break his legs or neck. And so Komer did not go to the city, but kept on watching the old cow.

But for all that, this gentleman, and others to whom he showed Komer’s drawing, did not forget him or them, but kept on talking about the wonderful child; and, what was more to their credit, tried to help him. They sent for him to take lessons with _their_ children in French, Latin, and music. That he need not be ashamed to come among them, they gave him better clothing, and the gentleman who first saw him brought him to eat with his family, at his own table.

Little Komer did not think—as you do—that it was a hardship to study; not he. He flew at his books with a will; and till he was sixteen, never spent an idle moment in lesson hours. After this, he did some copying for a gentleman, besides other writing, in order to earn money. Then, for the first time, he went to a great city, and gazed on splendid paintings, till he was nearly beside himself with rapture. Now, indeed, nothing could stop him. He made the acquaintance of a young artist, and commenced immediately; weeping, that he was not permitted to do so, when he first had the offer; so hard did he work—so absorbed was he with this one idea—that he grew sick; his hands began to tremble, like those of a palsied old man, and he could no longer hold a pencil. Now, indeed, he must rest, if he would not die; but he was too active to lie upon the shelf and be quite idle; if he could not draw, he would read. He took up a volume of poems. Why could not _he_ write? He, _Komer_? Why not? He seized his pen; he wrote poem after poem; they were copied, praised, and set to music!

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

JEMMY LAWTON.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOW A GREAT LORD EDUCATED HIS SON.

A CHAPTER FOR BOYS.

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

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

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

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

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

THE BOY WALTER SCOTT.

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

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

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

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

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

Are you tired hearing stories about him? Because I have another one I want to tell you, though I dare say, if you are reading this book of mine aloud to your mother, she has said to herself fifty times (and I like her fifty times better for saying it), “Pooh! our Ben, or our Sam, or our Harry, said a great many wonderful things, quite as wonderful as these, as I could show, if ‘a mother’ ever had a minute’s time to write and tell the world of it.” I’ve no doubt of it, my dear madam; I shall certainly die in the belief that children say about all there is worth listening to in this world; but to proceed with my story. One day, when Walter was sitting at the gate with an attendant, a woe-begone old beggar came up, and asked for charity. After he had received it, the attendant said, “Walter, how thankful should you be, that you are not obliged to beg your bread in that way.” Walter looked up wistfully, as if he did not comprehend; then replied, “Homer was a beggar.” “How do you know?” asked the attendant. “Why, don’t you remember?

“‘Seven Roman cities strove for Homer dead,
Through which the living Homer begged his bread.’”

How lucky that Walter was not kept in the city! I think nothing could have made him well but taking him just where he was taken; out on the crags, where the fresh wind blew, and the grass was so sweet, and everything about him tempted him to crawl on a _little_ farther, and then a _little_ farther; a tuft of moss, or a curious stone, or some little thing which he wished to take in his own hand, and examine more closely. Oh, I am quite sure he must have died in the city; his poor lame leg would have shrunk more and more, for want of exercise; for a carpet ever so soft, can never be like that which God has spread for the bare feet of the poorest country child. But you must not suppose, all this while, that he learned nothing save that which the sky, and the crags, and the sheep taught him. Aunt Janet used to give him lessons when he was well enough, and as he could bear them. Ah! it is well that there are some good women who never marry. Else, what would so many sick children do, for patient, careful, good, loving nurses? How many of them have been coaxed by such round the most dangerous point of childhood, where medicine was nothing, and good nursing _everything_, to the astonishment of all who prophesied an early death. Such women have their reward, for these little ones become almost as dear to them as if in name—as well as in self-forgetting love—they were mothers. God bless them all! as the silver threads gleam amid their tresses. They will not be lonely in Heaven.

Children are full of funny whims; though I think, if we follow them but carefully, we shall, oftener than not, find good reason for them. Walter had a dislike almost amounting to terror of a _statue_. Very likely, he might first have seen one by a dim light, which, to his startled vision, gave it a ghostly look. It might have been so, though I don’t know that it was. When his Uncle Robert, who was very fond of him, found this out, he did not laugh at him, or scold him, but he took him, whenever it was possible, to see fine statues; and he soon learned, not only to conquer his dislike, but to admire their beauty exceedingly.