Chapter D: Appleton & Co. 200 Broadway

“My dear Susan,” replied her mother, “you have so many nice things to make you happy, that you can do very well without a rabbit. You have nice clothes, good food and drink, and a clean bed on which to lie down at night. You have a pretty doll, a couple of pigeons, and a whole closet full of books and playthings. Poor little Julian had nothing of all these.”

“What!” said Susan, “had he not even good clothes to keep him warm?”

“Some old rags hastily patched together, were all he had to cover himself.”

“And did he have no bed?”

“A little straw in the corner, upon the ground.”

“And nothing to eat or drink?” asked Susan.

“Oftentimes nothing to eat,” said Mrs. Clare; “or, when he was very hungry, a morsel of dry brown bread with some water.”

“O, poor Julian!” exclaimed Susan. “If he were here, I would give him every day half of my breakfast and of my luncheon.”

“Now hear the rest of my story,” said her mother. “Notwithstanding he was so poor, Julian was contented, for his little rabbit made up for all his privations, and it was indeed a charming animal. Its hair was as white as snow glittering in the sunshine, and soft as silk. Its eyes were bright as diamonds, and then it was so tame, so fond of its little master! When his father gave him a bit of bread, Julian would go behind the hut, and sit down upon the grass; and then he had but to call, ‘Jeannot, Jeannot;’ and instantly his rabbit would run to him, leap upon his arm, and take from him the morsels of bread one by one in his mouth.”

“O, my dear mother,” Susan here exclaimed, “I must, indeed, I must have a rabbit exactly like it.”

“But you might tame with equal ease your lamb and your pigeons,” answered Mrs. Clare. “Believe me, my child, all animals are indued with gratitude, and they all love us, when they see that we love them. But let me return to little Julian. Although he had often to suffer hunger, cold, and numerous other hardships and privations, he still kept a good heart, because his little rabbit was to him every day a source of new pleasure.

“But at last a sad misfortune befell poor Julian; he became very sick. His father, for want of money, could not take care of him, which his sickness needed. So the poor little fellow lay stretched upon the damp floor, enduring great pain, without any one to cure him.

“His little rabbit soon came to find him, and took a place by his side on the straw. The little creature even looked at him so mournfully, that it seemed as if he would say to him:—‘Ah, my poor master, how I pity you!’ And Julian regarded his rabbit with looks so forlorn, that he seemed ready to reply: ‘Ah, my little rabbit; I shall soon have to leave you!’

“Fortunately there resided in the neighborhood a rich and benevolent man, who chanced to hear of Julian’s sickness and his father’s poverty. He immediately resolved to visit their hut, to learn if what he heard was true, and to see what aid he could render. When this good man entered the hut, and saw poor Julian sick, thin and pale, upon his bed of straw, he could hardly refrain from shedding tears.

“‘My poor child,’ said he, ‘be consoled. I come to bring you assistance.’

“So, without more delay, this kind friend caused Julian to be carried to his house, where a proper bed was prepared for him, and every care was taken to restore him to health. The means employed for his cure were so successful that, at the end of two weeks, he was able to return to his father’s hut.

“During that time the rich man had also afforded some aid to the father, and had presented little Julian with a whole new suit of clothes. So the father and son found themselves happier than they had ever been before. The little rabbit leaped up with joy on again beholding its dear Julian.

“The father now said to his son: ‘You see, my dear Julian, how happy this gentleman has made us. What shall we do to show him our gratitude?’

“Julian reflected a moment; and then exclaimed, full of joy: ‘Oh! I will go and carry him my little rabbit!’ ‘Yes, my child,’ said his father; ‘it is the most valuable thing that you have; it is all your wealth; you can do nothing better to prove to him your gratitude. Tell him, also, that your father will work for him, without pay, one day every week.’

“Julian took his rabbit, and, although much attached to it, he went nevertheless with a good deal of joy, to offer it to his benefactor. This worthy man first heard all that he had to say, but then fondly embraced him, and said: ‘It is well, my dear boy: we ought to be grateful towards those who do us a kindness; I am content with your good will. Not only I do not wish to deprive you of your rabbit, but I wish to do more for you than I have yet done.’ To be brief, the good gentleman paid the expense of Julian’s schooling, that he might have a good education; then he employed the boy’s father so profitably, that both were soon above want.

“Julian grew up an intelligent and industrious lad. Every thing prospered with him; and when the parents of other children wished to inspire their children with gratitude, they used to tell them the story of Julian and his little rabbit.”

QUEEN ANNE’S PHYSICIANS.

Anne, who was Queen of England from 1702 to 1714, was not a woman of strong mind, and among other whimsies, she had that of frequently fancying herself indisposed, when no one else could discover that any thing ailed her. One day, a fit of this sort seizing her, she sent in all haste for her physician, who was then Dr. Radcliffe, founder of the Radcliffe Library, Oxford. This functionary replied that he would “be at St. James’ presently after.” But he not appearing so quickly as was desired, a second and a third messenger were sent after him in succession, whereat the Doctor, well acquainted with the princess (Anne was then Princess of Denmark only), asseverated, in terms more energetic than courtly, that “her highness had nothing but the vapors, that she was in as good a state of health as any woman breathing, could she but give into the belief of it.” This outrageous assertion so greatly offended the princess, that Dr. Radcliffe was immediately superseded, and Dr. Gibbons, his rival and antagonist, appointed in his place.

It was not until the mortal illness of her husband, Prince George, awoke all the anxieties of the queen, that she consented once again to admit her offending servant to her presence; but the prince’s physicians all declaring that Dr. Radcliffe was the only person from whom help could be hoped for, her majesty sent her own coach to bring him to court, and was pleased to tell him that “no favors or rewards should be thought too much, could he but remove the convulsions she was troubled with in the cure of those that were racking the prince.” But it was too late—neither had the Doctor yet learned to flatter. He assured her majesty that nothing but death could release his Royal Highness from the pangs he suffered, and gave her further to understand, that there was nothing in the art of physic which could keep her consort in life more than six days from that period. The prince died accordingly, to the deep grief of the queen and her whole court.

The exact fulfillment of Radcliffe’s predictions as to the precise moment when his patients would cease to exist, was a subject of frequent surprise, and gave his contemporaries very exalted ideas of his knowledge. The Duchess of Marlborough, applying to him to go to Cambridge for the purpose of visiting her son, the Marquis of Blandford, who had been improperly treated for the small-pox by the medical men in attendance, Radcliffe replied, with more bitterness against his blundering compeers, than sympathy for the suffering mother—“Madam, I shall only put you to expense for no purpose, for you can do nothing for his lordship now, but send down an undertaker to take care of a funeral, for I can assure your grace that he is dead even by this time, and that of a disease called doctor; but for which unfortunate malady he might have recovered well enough.” Nor were his conjectures unfounded, as was proved by the next messenger.

The death of Queen Anne was almost immediately followed by that of her physician, and this last is said to have been hastened by the vexation Dr. Radcliffe suffered from a report that he had refused to attend the queen in her last illness. It appears that he had never been sent for by the council and authorized attendants of her majesty, but that a message had been sent by Mrs. Masham two hours only before the queen’s death. Dr. Radcliffe had received constant reports of her majesty’s condition from his friend Dr. Mead, and knew she was irrecoverable. “But had it not been so, the Doctor, says our authority, could not have attended through such an intimation.” By court etiquette it would seem that he could not, but the common sense view of the case would be, that the mere knowing her majesty to be ill was sufficient to warrant his attendance. Leaving these knotty points, however, we return to the fact, which was, that the Doctor’s life was so heavily embittered by threatening letters and attacks of various kinds after the queen’s death, that he no longer durst stir out of his house, and could have no peace within it. This preyed upon his health, already declining, and, “to conclude, this great and excellent man, who had made all manner of diseases fly before him, fell a victim to the ingratitude of a thankless world, _and the fury of the gout_, on the 1st of November, 1714, the Feast of All Saints: on that day being numbered with the blessed spirits, among whom sits enthroned our late sovereign lady, whose decease has been so injuriously and falsely laid to his charge.”

LIZZIE CARSON.

“Let me draw your chair nearer the window, dear mother; you will be better able to see your knitting, while I can sketch off my pattern on the pane.”

It was a childish and cheerful voice that woke the silence of that little cottage, where mother and daughter had long sat absorbed in their different employments, and it may be in melancholy thought. But Lizzie Carson, though only fourteen, had learned the necessity of subduing her sadness in the presence of her mother, that she might not add one unnecessary pang to the already burdened heart of her beloved and only parent.—My little readers will ask what grief can they have?—if the mother is kind, and the daughter dutiful, and living in a cottage, which must of course be in the country, among the birds and flowers—why should they not be happy? Some of you, whose bright eyes are glancing over these pages, a present among many others perhaps from a fond father, can scarcely understand the many trials of the poverty-stricken and fatherless child. The constant toiling for mere sustenance—the anxious fear that illness may put a stop to their labors, and grim want stare them yet more steadily in the face—these and a thousand other ills, the pampered child of wealth can never know. Oh, if I could by any effort of my pen induce some of you, dear children, to _think_ of these things—if I could persuade you how much happier you would feel in giving from your little stores, than in hoarding up all you receive, thereby engendering a selfish disposition—if, I say, I could induce you to be generous to the poor, I should think my time well spent in writing you this little story.

The mother of Lizzie Carson having received a good education from her parents, all they had to give, accepted the situation of teacher in a little village school, which she left to become the wife of John Carson, a small farmer in the neighborhood. Upright and honest, he had yet too little energy, owing to ill health, to succeed in the world, and year after year saw them sliding back instead of becoming more independent.

At last, when almost every thing had been sold to pay the rent, distress and anxiety did their work upon the enfeebled frame of the husband and father, and his plain deal coffin was among the last articles borne from the now desolate cottage.