True Stories From History and Biography (27 page)

And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself: "Is he dead?"

"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he, within his own heart. "God
forgive me! God forgive me!"

But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not truly penitent. Had he
been so, he would have hastened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and
have fallen at his father's feet, even in the midst of the crowded
market-place. There he would have confessed his fault, and besought Mr.
Johnson to go home, and leave the rest of the day's work to him. But such
was Sam's pride and natural stubbornness, that he could not bring himself
to this humiliation. Yet he ought to have done so, for his own sake, and
for his father's sake, and for God's sake.

After sunset, old Michael Johnson came slowly home, and sat down in his
customary chair. He said nothing to Sam; nor do I know that a single word
ever passed between them, on the subject of the son's disobedience. In a
few years, his father died and left Sam to fight his way through the world
by himself. It would make our story much too long were I to tell you even
a few of the remarkable events of Sam's life. Moreover, there is the less
need of this, because many books have been written about that poor boy,
and the fame that he acquired, and all that he did or talked of doing,
after he came to be a man.

But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his boyhood upward, until
the latest day of his life, he never forgot the story of Uttoxeter market.
Often when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or master of an
Academy at Edial, or a writer for the London booksellers,—in all his
poverty and toil, and in all his success,—while he was walking the streets
without a shilling to buy food, or when the greatest men of England were
proud to feast him at their table,—still that heavy and remorseful thought
came back to him:—"I was cruel to my poor father in his illness!" Many and
many a time, awake or in his dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson,
standing in the dust and confusion of the market-place, and pressing his
withered hand to his forehead as if it ached.

Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
to bear us company through life.

Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was longer than usual,
Mr. Temple here made a short pause. He perceived that Emily was in tears,
and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker, with an air of
great earnestness and interest. As for George he had withdrawn into the
dusky shadow behind his father's chair.

In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:

Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since young Sam Johnson had
shown himself so hard-hearted towards his father. It was now market-day in
the village of Uttoxeter.

In the street of the village, you might see cattle-dealers with cows and
oxen for sale, and pig-drovers, with herds of squeaking swine, and
farmers, with cart-loads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other
produce of the soil. Now and then a farmer's red-faced wife trotted along
on horseback, with butter and cheese in two large panniers. The people of
the village, with country squires and other visitors from the
neighborhood, walked hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling,
and making just such a bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made
half a century before.

In one part of the street, there was a puppet-show, with a ridiculous
Merry-Andrew, who kept both grown people and children in a roar of
laughter. On the opposite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter, with
ivy climbing up its walls, and partly obscuring its Gothic windows.

There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient church; and the hands
on the dial-plate had now almost reached the hour of noon. At this busiest
hour of the market, a strange old gentleman was seen making his way among
the crowd. He was very tall and bulky, and wore a brown coat and small
clothes, with black worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On his head was a
three-cornered hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig thrust itself out, all
in disorder. The old gentleman elbowed the people aside, and forced his
way through the midst of them with a singular kind of gait, rolling his
body hither and thither, so that he needed twice as much room as any other
person there.

"Make way, sir!" he would cry out, in a loud, harsh voice, when somebody
happened to interrupt his progress.—"Sir, you intrude your person into the
public thoroughfare!"

"What a queer old fellow this is!" muttered the people among themselves,
hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.

But, when they looked into the venerable stranger's face, not the most
thoughtless among them dared to offer him the least impertinence. Though
his features were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and though his
eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was something of authority and wisdom
in his look, which impressed them all with awe. So they stood aside to let
him pass; and the old gentleman made his way across the market-place, and
paused near the corner of the ivy-mantled church. Just as he reached it,
the clock struck twelve.

On the very spot of ground, where the stranger now stood, some aged people
remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his bookstall. The
little children, who had once bought picture-books of him, were
grandfathers now.

"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old gentleman to himself.

There this unknown personage took his stand, and removed the
three-cornered hat from his head. It was the busiest hour of the day. What
with the hum of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of pigs,
and the laughter caused by the Merry-Andrew, the market-place was in very
great confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice it, any more than
if the silence of a desert were around him. He was wrapt in his own
thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven, as if in
prayer; sometimes he bent his head, as if an insupportable weight of
sorrow were upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect that there
was a motion of his head, and an almost continual tremor throughout his
frame, with singular twitchings and contortions of his features.

The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but he seemed not to feel
its fervor. A dark cloud swept across the sky, and rain-drops pattered
into the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The people
began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman, with superstitious fear and
wonder. Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore was he standing
bare-headed in the market-place? Even the school-boys left the
Merry-Andrew, and came to gaze, with wide open eyes, at this tall,
strange-looking old man.

There was a cattle-drover in the village, who had recently made a journey
to the Smithfield market, in London. No sooner had this man thrust his way
through the throng, and taken a look at the unknown personage, than he
whispered to one of his acquaintances:

"I say, neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?"

"Ay, that I would," replied neighbor Hutchins; "for a queerer chap I never
saw in my life! Somehow, it makes me feel small to look at him. He's more
than a common man."

"You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover. "Why, that's the famous
Doctor Samuel Johnson, who, they say, is the greatest and learnedest man
in England. I saw him in London Streets, walking with one Mr. Boswell."

Yes; the poor boy—the friendless Sam—with, whom we began our story, had
become the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson! He was universally acknowledged
as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. He had given shape
and permanence to his native language, by his Dictionary. Thousands upon
thousands of people had read his Idler, his Rambler, and his Rasselas.
Noble and wealthy men, and beautiful ladies, deemed it their highest
privilege to be his companions. Even the king of Great Britain had sought
his acquaintance, and told him what an honor he considered it, that such a
man had been born in his dominions. He was now at the summit of literary
renown.

But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remembrance, which had
tormented him through life. Never, never, had he forgotten his father's
sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never—though the old man's troubles had
been over so many years—had he forgiven himself for inflicting such a pang
upon his heart. And now, in his old age, he had come hither to do penance,
by standing at noon-day in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on the very spot
where Michael Johnson had once kept his bookstall. The aged and
illustrious man had done what the poor boy refused to do. By thus
expressing his deep repentance and humiliation of heart, he hoped to gain
peace of conscience, and the forgiveness of God.

My dear children, if you have grieved—I will not say, your parents—but, if
you have grieved the heart of any human being, who has a claim upon your
love, then think of Samuel Johnson's penance! Will it not be better to
redeem the error now, than to endure the agony of remorse for fifty years?
Would you not rather say to a brother—"I have erred! Forgive me!"—than
perhaps to go hereafter, and shed bitter tears upon his grave?

Hardly was the story concluded, when George hastily arose, and Edward
likewise, stretching forth his hands into the darkness that surrounded
him, to find his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness; each
besought the other's forgiveness; and having, done so, the trouble of
their hearts vanished away like a dream.

"I am glad! I am so glad!" said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. "Now I
shall sleep quietly to-night."

"My sweet child," thought Mrs. Temple, as she kissed her, "mayest thou
never know how much strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many a
night's rest."

About this period, Mr. Temple found it necessary to take a journey, which
interrupted the series of Biographical Stories for several evenings. In
the interval, Edward practised various methods of employing and amusing
his mind.

Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which he had formerly seen,
until the intensity of his recollection seemed to restore him the gift of
sight, and place every thing anew before his eyes. Sometimes he repeated
verses of poetry, which he did not know to be in his memory, until he
found them there, just at the time of need. Sometimes he attempted to
solve arithmetical questions, which had perplexed him while at school.

Then, with his mother's assistance, he learned the letters of the
string-alphabet, which is used in some of the Institutions for the Blind,
in Europe. When one of his friends gave him a leaf of Saint Mark's Gospel,
printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it by passing his
fingers over the letters, as blind children do.

His brother George was now very kind, and spent so much time in the
darkened chamber, that Edward often insisted upon his going out to play.
George told him all about the affairs at school, and related many amusing
incidents that happened among his comrades, and informed him what sports
were now in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and whose little
ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she repeated stories
which she had learned from a new book, called THE FLOWER PEOPLE, in which
the snow-drops, the violets, the columbines, the roses, and all that
lovely tribe, are represented as telling their secrets to a little girl.
The flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward almost fancied
that he could behold their bloom and smell their fragrant breath.

Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward's confinement passed
not unhappily. In due time, his father returned; and the next evening,
when the family were assembled, he began a story.

"I must first observe, children," said he, "that some writers deny the
truth of the incident which I am about to relate to you. There certainly
is but little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable writers, however,
tell it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an interesting story, and
has an excellent moral."

So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of

Not long after King James the First took the place of Queen Elizabeth on
the throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place called
Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his life, I
suppose, pretty much like other English knights and squires in those days,
hunting hares and foxes, and drinking large quantities of ale and wine.
The old house in which he dwelt, had been occupied by his ancestors before
him, for a good many years. In it there was a great hall, hung round with
coats of arms, and helmets, cuirasses and swords which his forefathers had
used in battle, and with horns of deer and tails of foxes, which they or
Sir Oliver himself had killed in the chase.

This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver, after
himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little
Noll. His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was often
sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome little
fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, and always running
into some danger or other from which he seemed to escape only by miracle.

Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had befallen
him. A huge ape which was kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in
his forepaws and clambered with him to the roof of the house. There this
ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, as if he had done
the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately, however, he brought
the child safe down again; and the event was afterwards considered an omen
that Noll would reach a very elevated station in the world.