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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Biographical Stories, by Nathaniel Hawthorne

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: Biographical Stories

Author: Nathaniel Hawthorne


Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9254]
First Posted: September 25, 2003
Last Updated: December 15, 2016

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES ***




Produced by David Widger and Al Haines





</pre>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      TRUE STORIES OF HISTORY AND BIOGRAPHY<br />
    </h4>
    <h3>
      By Nathaniel Hawthorne<br />
    </h3>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES<br />
    </h2>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <p class="noindent">
      CONTENTS: <br /><br /> <a href="#west">BENJAMIN WEST.</a><br /> <a
      href="#newton">SIR ISAAC NEWTON.</a><br /> <a href="#johnson">SAMUEL
      JOHNSON.</a><br /> <a href="#cromwell">OLIVER CROMWELL.</a><br /> <a
      href="#franklin">BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.</a><br /> <a href="#christina">QUEEN
      CHRISTINA.</a><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES
    </h3>
    <p>
      This small volume and others of a similar character, from the same hand,
      have not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility. The author
      regards children as sacred, and would not, for the world, cast anything
      into the fountain of a young heart that might imbitter and pollute its
      waters. And, even in point of the reputation to be aimed at, juvenile
      literature is as well worth cultivating as any other. The writer, if he
      succeed in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be remembered by them
      till their own old age,&mdash;a far longer period of literary existence
      than is generally attained by those who seek immortality from the
      judgments of full-grown men.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap01"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h4>
    <p>
      When Edward Temple was about eight or nine years old he was afflicted with
      a disorder of the eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was naturally so
      delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the boy should
      become totally blind. He therefore gave strict directions to keep him in a
      darkened chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray of the blessed
      light of heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was a sad thing for Edward. It was just the same as if there were to
      be no more sunshine, nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire, nor
      light of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for
      months,&mdash;a longer and drearier night than that which voyagers are
      compelled to endure when their ship is icebound, throughout the winter, in
      the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother George, and the
      sweet face of little Emily Robinson must all vanish and leave him in utter
      darkness and solitude. Their voices and footsteps, it is true, would be
      heard around him; he would feel his mother&rsquo;s embrace and the kind pressure
      of all their hands; but still it would seem as if they were a thousand
      miles away.
    </p>
    <p>
      And then his studies,&mdash;they were to be entirely given up. This was
      another grievous trial; for Edward&rsquo;s memory hardly went back to the period
      when he had not known how to read. Many and many a holiday had he spent at
      his hook, poring over its pages until the deepening twilight confused the
      print and made all the letters run into long words. Then, would he press
      his hands across his eyes and wonder why they pained him so; and when the
      candles were lighted, what was the reason that they burned so dimly, like
      the moon in a foggy night? Poor little fellow! So far as his eyes were
      concerned he was already an old man, and needed a pair of spectacles
      almost as much as his own grandfather did.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now, alas! the time was come when even grandfather&rsquo;s spectacles could
      not have assisted Edward to read. After a few bitter tears, which only
      pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to the surgeon&rsquo;s orders.
      His eyes were bandaged, and, with his mother on one side and his little
      friend Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened chamber.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother, I shall be very miserable!&rdquo; said Edward, sobbing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O no, my dear child!&rdquo; replied his mother, cheerfully. &ldquo;Your eyesight was
      a precious gift of Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be
      miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it. There
      are other enjoyments besides what come to us through our eyes.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;None that are worth having,&rdquo; said Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, but you will not think so long,&rdquo; rejoined Mrs. Temple, with
      tenderness. &ldquo;All of us&mdash;your father, and myself, and George, and our
      sweet Emily&mdash;will try to find occupation and amusement for you. We
      will use all our eyes to make you happy. Will they not be better than a
      single pair?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will sit, by you all day long,&rdquo; said Emily, in her low, sweet voice,
      putting her hand into that of Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And so will I, Ned,&rdquo; said George, his elder brother, &ldquo;school time and
      all, if my father will permit me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edward&rsquo;s brother George was three or four years older than himself,&mdash;a
      fine, hardy lad, of a bold and ardent temper. He was the leader of his
      comrades in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his proficiency at
      study there was not much to be said. He had sense and ability enough to
      have made himself a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to do
      that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. So fond was
      George of boisterous sports and exercises that it was really a great token
      of affection and sympathy when he offered to sit all day long in a dark
      chamber with his poor brother Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter of one of Mr. Temple&rsquo;s
      dearest friends. Ever since her mother went to heaven (which was soon
      after Emily&rsquo;s birth) the little girl had dwelt in the household where we
      now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love her as well as their own
      children; for they had no daughter except Emily; nor would the boys have
      known the blessing of a sister had not this gentle stranger come to teach
      them what it was. If I could show you Emily&rsquo;s face, with her dark hair
      smoothed away from her forehead, you would be pleased with her look of
      simplicity and loving kindness, but might think that she was somewhat too
      grave for a child of seven years old. But you would not love her the less
      for that.
    </p>
    <p>
      So brother George and this loving little girl were to be Edward&rsquo;s
      companions and playmates while he should be kept prisoner in the dark
      chamber. When the first bitterness of his grief was over he began to feel
      that, there might be some comforts and enjoyments in life even for a boy
      whose eyes were covered with a bandage.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I thank you, dear mother,&rdquo; said he, with only a few sobs; &ldquo;and you,
      Emily; and you too, George. You will all be very kind to me, I know. And
      my father,&mdash;will not he come and see me every day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, my dear boy,&rdquo; said Mr. Temple; for, though invisible to Edward, he
      was standing close beside him. &ldquo;I will spend some hours of every day with
      you. And as I have often amused you by relating stories and adventures
      while you had the use of your eves, I can do the same now that you are
      unable to read. Will this please you, Edward?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, very much,&rdquo; replied Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said his father, &ldquo;this evening we will begin the series of
      Biographical Stories which I promised you some time ago.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap02"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h4>
    <p>
      When evening came, Mr. Temple found Edward considerably revived in spirits
      and disposed to be resigned to his misfortune. Indeed, the figure of the
      boy, as it was dimly seen by the firelight, reclining in a well-stuffed
      easy-chair, looked so very comfortable that many people might have envied
      hun. When a man&rsquo;s eyes have grown old with gazing at the ways of the
      world, it does not seem such a terrible misfortune to have them bandaged.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Emily Robinson sat by Edward&rsquo;s side with the air of an accomplished
      nurse. As well as the duskiness of the chamber would permit she watched
      all his motions and each varying expression of his face, and tried to
      anticipate her patient&rsquo;s wishes before his tongue could utter them. Yet it
      was noticeable that the child manifested an indescribable awe and
      disquietude whenever she fixed her eyes on the bandage; for, to her simple
      and affectionate heart, it seemed as if her dear friend Edward was
      separated from her because she could not see his eyes. A friend&rsquo;s eyes
      tell us many things which could never be spoken by the tongue.
    </p>
    <p>
      George, likewise, looked awkward and confused, as stout and healthy boys
      are accustomed to do in the society of the sick or afflicted. Never having
      felt pain or sorrow, they are abashed, from not knowing how to sympathize
      with the sufferings of others.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear Edward,&rdquo; inquired Mrs. Temple, &ldquo;is Your chair quite
      comfortable? and has your little nurse provided for all your wants? If so,
      your father is ready to begin his stories.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I am very well now,&rdquo; answered Edward, with a faint smile. &ldquo;And my ears
      have not forsaken me, though my eyes are good for nothing. So pray, dear
      father, begin.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was Mr. Temple&rsquo;s design to tell the children a series of true stories,
      the incidents of which should be taken from the childhood and early life
      of eminent people. Thus he hoped to bring George, and Edward, and Emily
      into closer acquaintance with the famous persons who have lived in other
      times by showing that they also had been children once. Although Mr.
      Temple was scrupulous to relate nothing but what was founded on fact, yet
      he felt himself at liberty to clothe the incidents of his narrative in a
      new coloring, so that his auditors might understand them the better.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My first story,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;shall be about a painter of pictures.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear me!&rdquo; cried Edward, with a sigh. &ldquo;I am afraid I shall never look at
      pictures any more.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We will hope for the best,&rdquo; answered his father. &ldquo;In the mean time, you
      must try to see things within your own mind.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Temple then began the following story:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="west"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      BENJAMIN WEST.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1738. DIED 1820]
    </h4>
    <p>
      In the year 1735 there came into the world, in the town of Springfield,
      Pennsylvania, a Quaker infant, from whom his parents and neighbors looked
      for wonderful things. A famous preacher of the Society of Friends had
      prophesied about little Ben, and foretold that he would be one of the most
      remarkable characters that, had appeared on the earth since the days of
      William Penn. On this account the eyes of many people were fixed upon the
      boy. Some of his ancestors had won great renown in the old wars of England
      and France; but it was probably expected that Ben would become a preacher,
      and would convert multitudes to the peaceful doctrines of the Quakers.
      Friend West and his wife were thought to be very fortunate in having such
      a son.
    </p>
    <p>
      Little Ben lived to the ripe age of six years without doing anything that
      was worthy to be told in history. But one summer afternoon, in his seventh
      year, his mother put a fan into his hand and bade him keep the flies away
      from the face of a little babe who lay fast asleep in the cradle. She then
      left the room.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy waved the fan to and fro and drove away the buzzing flies whenever
      they had the impertinence to come near the baby&rsquo;s face. When they had all
      flown out of the window or into distant parts of the room, he bent over
      the cradle and delighted himself with gazing at the sleeping infant. It
      was, indeed, a very pretty sight. The little personage in the cradle
      slumbered peacefully, with its waxen hands under its chin, looking as full
      of blissful quiet as if angels were singing lullabies in its ear. Indeed,
      it must have been dreaming about heaven; for, while Ben stooped over the
      cradle, the little baby smiled.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How beautiful she looks!&rdquo; said Ben to himself. &ldquo;What a pity it is that
      such a pretty smile should not last forever!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Now Ben, at this period of his life, had never heard of that wonderful art
      by which a look, that appears and vanishes in a moment, may be made to
      last for hundreds of years. But, though nobody had told him of such an
      art, he may be said to have invented it for himself. On a table near at
      hand there were pens and paper, and ink of two colors, black and red. The
      boy seized a pen and sheet of paper, and, kneeling down beside the cradle,
      began to draw a likeness of the infant. While he was busied in this manner
      he heard his mother&rsquo;s step approaching, and hastily tried to conceal the
      paper.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benjamin, my son, what hast thou been doing?&rdquo; inquired his mother,
      observing marks of confusion in his face.
    </p>
    <p>
      At first Ben was unwilling to tell; for he felt as if there might be
      something wrong in stealing the baby&rsquo;s face and putting it upon a sheet of
      paper. However, as his mother insisted, he finally put the sketch into her
      hand, and then hung his head, expecting to be well scolded. But when the
      good lady saw what was on the paper, in lines of red and black ink, she
      uttered a scream of surprise and joy.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Bless me!&rdquo; cried she. &ldquo;It is a picture of little Sally!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And then she threw her arms round our friend Benjamin, and kissed him so
      tenderly that he never afterwards was afraid to show his performances to
      his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Ben grew older, he was observed to take vast delight in looking at the
      lines and forms of nature. For instance, he was greatly pleased with the
      blue violets of spring, the wild roses of summer, and the scarlet
      cardinal-flowers of early autumn. In the decline of the year, when the
      woods were variegated with all the colors of the rainbow, Ben seemed to
      desire nothing better than to gaze at them from morn till night. The
      purple and golden clouds of sunset were a joy to him. And he was
      continually endeavoring to draw the figures of trees, men, mountains,
      houses, cattle, geese, ducks, and turkeys, with a piece of chalk, on barn
      doors or on the floor.
    </p>
    <p>
      In these old times the Mohawk Indians were still numerous in Pennsylvania.
      Every year a party of them used to pay a visit to Springfield, because the
      wigwams of their ancestors had formerly stood there. These wild men grew
      fond of little Ben, and made him very happy by giving him some of the red
      and yellow paint with which they were accustomed to adorn their faces. His
      mother, too, presented him with a piece of indigo. Thus he now had three
      colors,&mdash;red, blue, and yellow,&mdash;and could manufacture green by
      mixing the yellow with the blue. Our friend Ben was overjoyed, and
      doubtless showed his gratitude to the Indians by taking their likenesses
      in the strange dresses which they wore, with feathers, tomahawks, and bows
      and arrows.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all this time the young artist had no paint-brushes; nor were there
      any to be bought, unless he had sent to Philadelphia on purpose. However,
      he was a very ingenious boy, aid resolved to manufacture paint-brushes for
      himself. With this design he laid hold upon&mdash;what do you think? Why,
      upon a respectable old black cat, who was sleeping quietly by the
      fireside.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Puss,&rdquo; said little Ben to the cat, &ldquo;pray give me some of the fur from the
      tip of thy tail?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Though he addressed the black cat so civilly, yet Ben was determined to
      have the fur whether she were willing or not. Puss, who had no great zeal
      for the fine arts, would have resisted if she could; but the boy was armed
      with his mother&rsquo;s scissors, and very dexterously clipped off fur enough to
      make a paint-brush. This was of so much use to him that be applied to
      Madame Puss again and again, until her warm coat of fur had become so thin
      and ragged that she could hardly keep comfortable through the winter. Poor
      thing! she was forced to creep close into the chimney-corner, and eyed Ben
      with a very rueful physiognomy. But Ben considered it more necessary that
      he should have paint-brushes than that puss should be warm.
    </p>
    <p>
      About this period friend West received a visit from Mr. Pennington, a
      merchant of Philadelphia, who was likewise a member of the Society of
      Friends. The visitor, on entering the parlor, was surprised to see it
      ornamented with drawings of Indian chiefs, and of birds with beautiful
      plumage, and of the wild flowers of the forest. Nothing of the kind was
      ever seen before in the habitation of a Quaker farmer.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Friend West,&rdquo; exclaimed the Philadelphia merchant, &ldquo;what has
      possessed thee to cover thy walls with all these pictures? Where on earth
      didst then get them?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Friend West explained that all these pictures were painted by little
      Ben, with no better materials than red and yellow ochre and a piece of
      indigo, and with brushes made of the black cat&rsquo;s fur.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Verily,&rdquo; said Mr. Pennington, &ldquo;the boy hath a wonderful faculty. Some of
      our friends might look upon these matters as vanity; but little Benjamin
      appears to have been born a painter; and Providence is wiser than we are.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good merchant patted Benjamin on the head, and evidently considered
      him a wonderful boy. When his parents saw how much their son&rsquo;s
      performances were admired, they, no doubt, remembered the prophecy of the
      old Quaker preacher respecting Ben&rsquo;s future eminence. Yet they could not
      understand how he was ever to become a very great and useful man merely by
      making pictures.
    </p>
    <p>
      One evening, shortly after Mr. Pennington&rsquo;s return to Philadelphia, a
      package arrived at Springfield, directed to our little friend Ben.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can it possibly be?&rdquo; thought Ben, when it was put into his hands.
      &ldquo;Who can have sent me such a great square package as this?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      On taking off the thick brown paper which enveloped it, behold! there was
      a paint-box, with a great many cakes of paint, and brushes of various
      sizes. It was the gift of good Mr. Pennington. There were likewise several
      squares of canvas such as artists use for painting pictures upon, and, in
      addition to all these treasures, some beautiful engravings of landscapes.
      These were the first pictures that Ben had ever seen, except those of his
      own drawing.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a joyful evening was this for the little artist! At bedtime he put
      the paint-box under his pillow, and got hardly a wink of sleep; for, all
      night long, his fancy was painting pictures in the darkness. In the
      morning he hurried to the garret, and was seen no more till the
      dinner-hour; nor did he give himself time to eat more than a mouthful or
      two of food before he hurried back to the garret again. The next day, and
      the next, he was just as busy as ever; until at last his mother thought it
      time to ascertain what he was about. She accordingly followed him to the
      garret.
    </p>
    <p>
      On opening the door, the first object that presented itself to her eyes
      was our friend Benjamin, giving the last touches to a beautiful picture.
      He had copied portions of two of the engravings, and made one picture out
      of both, with such admirable skill that it was far more beautiful than the
      originals. The grass, the trees, the water, the sky, and the houses were
      all painted in their proper colors. There, too, where the sunshine and the
      shadow, looking as natural as life.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear child, thou hast done wonders!&rdquo; cried his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      The good lady was in an ecstasy of delight. And well might she be proud of
      her boy; for there were touches in this picture which old artists, who had
      spent a lifetime in the business, need not have been ashamed of. Many a
      year afterwards, this wonderful production was exhibited at the Royal
      Academy in London.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Benjamin was quite a large lad he was sent to school at Philadelphia.
      Not long after his arrival he had a slight attack of fever, which confined
      him to his bed. The light, which would otherwise have disturbed him, was
      excluded from his chamber by means of closed wooden shutters. At first it
      appeared so totally dark that Ben could not distinguish any object in the
      room. By degrees, however, his eyes became accustomed to the scanty light.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was lying on his back, looking up towards the ceiling, when suddenly he
      beheld the dim apparition of a white cow moving slowly over his head! Ben
      started, and rubbed his eyes in the greatest amazement.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What can this mean?&rdquo; thought he.
    </p>
    <p>
      The white cow disappeared; and next came several pigs, which trotted along
      the ceiling and vanished into the darkness of the chamber. So lifelike did
      these grunters look that Ben almost seemed to hear them squeak.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, this is very strange!&rdquo; said Ben to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the people of the house came to see him, Benjamin told them of the
      marvellous circumstance which had occurred. But they would not believe
      him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benjamin, thou art surely out of thy senses!&rdquo; cried they. &ldquo;How is it
      possible that a white cow and a litter of pigs should be visible on the
      ceiling of a dark chamber?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Ben, however, had great confidence in his own eyesight, and was determined
      to search the mystery to the bottom. For this purpose, when he was again
      left alone, he got out of bed and examined the window-shutters. He soon
      perceived a small chink in one of them, through which a ray of light found
      its passage and rested upon the ceiling. Now, the science of optics will
      inform us that the pictures of the white cow and the pigs, and of other
      objects out of doors, came into the dark chamber through this narrow
      chink, and were painted over Benjamin&rsquo;s head. It is greatly to his credit
      that he discovered the scientific principle of this phenomenon, and by
      means of it constructed a camera-obscura, or magic-lantern, out of a
      hollow box. This was of great advantage to him in drawing landscapes.
    </p>
    <p>
      Well, time went on, and Benjamin continued to draw and paint pictures
      until he had now reached the age when it was proper that he should choose
      a business for life. His father and mother were in considerable perplexity
      about him. According to the ideas of the Quakers, it is not right for
      people to spend their lives in occupations that are of no real and
      sensible advantage to the world. Now, what advantage could the world
      expect from Benjamin&rsquo;s pictures? This was a difficult question; and, in
      order to set their minds at rest, his parents determined to consult the
      preachers and wise men of their society. Accordingly, they all assembled
      in the meeting-house, and discussed the matter from beginning to end.
    </p>
    <p>
      Finally they came to a very wise decision. It seemed so evident that
      Providence had created Benjamin to be a painter, and had given him
      abilities which would be thrown away in any other business, that the
      Quakers resolved not to oppose his inclination. They even acknowledged
      that the sight of a beautiful picture might convey instruction to the mind
      and might benefit the heart as much as a good book or a wise discourse.
      They therefore committed the youth to the direction of God, being well
      assured that he best knew what was his proper sphere of usefulness. The
      old men laid their hands upon Benjamin&rsquo;s head and gave him their blessing,
      and the women kissed him affectionately. All consented that he should go
      forth into the world and learn to be a painter by studying the best
      pictures of ancient and modern times.
    </p>
    <p>
      So our friend Benjamin left the dwelling of his parents, and his native
      woods and streams, and the good Quakers of Springfield, and the Indians
      who had given him his first colors; he left all the places and persons
      whom he had hitherto known, and returned to them no more. He went first to
      Philadelphia, and afterwards to Europe. Here he was noticed by many great
      people, but retained all the sobriety and simplicity which he had learned
      among the Quakers. It is related of him, that, when he was presented at
      the court of the Prince of Parma, he kept his hat upon his head even while
      kissing the Prince&rsquo;s hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      When he was twenty-five years old he went to London and established
      himself there as all artist. In due course of time he acquired great fame
      by his pictures, and was made chief painter to King George III. and
      president of the Royal Academy of Arts. When the Quakers of Pennsylvania
      heard of his success, they felt that the prophecy of the old preacher as
      to little Ben&rsquo;s future eminence was now accomplished. It is true, they
      shook their heads at his pictures of battle and bloodshed, such as the
      Death of Wolfe, thinking that these terrible scene, should not be held up
      to the admiration of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But they approved of the great paintings in which he represented the
      miracles and sufferings of the Redeemer of mankind. King George employed
      him to adorn a large and beautiful chapel at Windsor Castle with pictures
      of these sacred subjects. He likewise painted a magnificent picture of
      Christ Healing the Sick, which he gave to the hospital at Philadelphia. It
      was exhibited to the public, and produced so much profit that the hospital
      was enlarged so as to accommodate thirty more patients. If Benjamin West
      had done no other good deed than this, yet it would have been enough to
      entitle him to an honorable remembrance forever. At this very day there
      are thirty poor people in the hospital who owe all their comforts to that
      same picture..
    </p>
    <p>
      We shall mention only a single incident more. The picture of Christ
      Healing the Sick was exhibited at the Royal Academy in London, where it
      covered a vast space and displayed a multitude of figures as large as
      life. On the wall, close beside this admirable picture, hung a small and
      faded landscape. It was the same that little Ben had painted in his
      father&rsquo;s garret, after receiving the paint-box and engravings from good
      Mr. Pennington.
    </p>
    <p>
      He lived many years in peace and honor, and died in 1820, at the age of
      eighty-two. The story of his life is almost as wonderful as a fairy tale;
      for there are few stranger transformations than that of a little unknown
      Quaker boy, in the wilds of America, into the most distinguished English
      painter of his day. Let us each make the best use of our natural abilities
      as Benjamin West did; and, with the blessing of Providence, we shall
      arrive at some good end. As for fame, it is but little matter whether we
      acquire it or not.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you for the story, my dear father,&rdquo; said Edward, when it was
      finished. &ldquo;Do you know that it seems as if I could see things without the
      help of my eyes? While you were speaking I have seen little Bert, and the
      baby in its cradle, and the Indians, and the white cow, and the pigs, and
      kind Mr. Pennington, and all the good old Quakers, almost as plainly as if
      they were in this very room.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is because your attention was not disturbed by outward objects,&rdquo;
       replied Mr. Temple. &ldquo;People, when deprived of sight, often have more vivid
      ideas than those who possess the perfect use of their eyes. I will venture
      to say that George has not attended to the story quite so closely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No, indeed,&rdquo; said George; &ldquo;but it was a very pretty story for all that.
      How I should have laughed to see Ben making a paint-brush out of the black
      cat&rsquo;s tail! I intend to try the experiment with Emily&rsquo;s kitten.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O no, no, George!&rdquo; cried Emily, earnestly. &ldquo;My kitten cannot spare her
      tail.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Edward being an invalid, it was now time for him to retire to bed. When
      the family bade him good night he turned his face towards them, looking
      very loath to part.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I shall not know when morning comes,&rdquo; said he, sorrowfully. &ldquo;And besides,
      I want to hear your voices all the time; for, when nobody is speaking, it
      seems as if I were alone in a dark world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must have faith, my dear child,&rdquo; replied his mother. &ldquo;Faith is the
      soul&rsquo;s eyesight; and when we possess it the world is never dark nor
      lonely.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br />
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER III.
    </h4>
    <p>
      The next day Edward began to get accustomed to his new condition of life.
      Once, indeed, when his parents were out of the way and only Emily was left
      to take care of him, he could not resist the temptation to thrust aside
      the bandage and peep at the anxious face of his little nurse. But, in
      spite of the dimness of the chamber, the experiment caused him so much
      pain that he felt no inclination to take another look. So, with a deep
      sigh, here signed himself to his fate.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Emily, pray talk to me!&rdquo; said he, somewhat impatiently.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now, Emily was a remarkably silent little girl, and did not possess that
      liveliness of disposition which renders some children such excellent
      companions. She seldom laughed, and had not the faculty of making many
      words about small matters. But the love and earnestness of her heart
      taught her how to amuse poor Edward in his darkness. She put her
      knitting-work into his hands.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must learn how to knit,&rdquo; said she.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What! without using my eyes?&rdquo; cried Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I can knit with my eyes shut,&rdquo; replied Emily.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then with her own little hands she guided Edward&rsquo;s fingers while he set
      about this new occupation. So awkward were his first attempts that any
      other little girl would have laughed heartily. But Emily preserved her
      gravity, and showed the utmost patience in taking up the innumerable
      stitches which he let down. In the course of an hour or two his progress
      was quite encouraging.
    </p>
    <p>
      When evening came, Edward acknowledged that the day had been far less
      wearisome than he anticipated. But he was glad, nevertheless, when his
      father and mother, and George and Emily, all took their seats around his
      chair. He put out his hand to grasp each of their hands, and smiled with a
      very bright expression upon his lips.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now I can see you all with my mind&rsquo;s eye,&rdquo; said he. &ldquo;And now, father,
      pray tell us another story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So Mr. Temple began.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="newton"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      SIR ISAAC NEWTON.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1642, DIED 1727]
    </h4>
    <p>
      On Christmas day, in the year 1642, Isaac Newton was born at the small
      village of Woolsthorpe, in England. Little did his mother think, when she
      beheld her newborn babe, that he was destined to explain many matters
      which had been a mystery ever since the creation of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      Isaac&rsquo;s father being dead, Mrs. Newton was married again to a clergyman,
      and went to reside at North Witham. Her son was left to the care of his
      good old grandmother, who was very kind to him and sent him to school. In
      his early years Isaac did not appear to be a very bright scholar, but was
      chiefly remarkable for his ingenuity in all mechanical occupations. He had
      a set of little tools and saws of various sizes manufactured by himself.
      With the aid of these Isaac contrived to make many curious articles, at
      which he worked with so much skill that he seemed to have been born with a
      saw or chisel in hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      The neighbors looked with vast admiration at the things which Isaac
      manufactured. And his old grandmother, I suppose, was never weary of
      talking about him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He&rsquo;ll make a capital workman one of these days,&rdquo; she would probably say.
      &ldquo;No fear but what Isaac will do well in the world and be a rich man before
      he dies.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It is amusing to conjecture what were the anticipations of his grandmother
      and the neighbors about Isaac&rsquo;s future life. Some of them, perhaps,
      fancied that he would make beautiful furniture of mahogany, rosewood, or
      polished oak, inlaid with ivory and ebony, and magnificently gilded. And
      then, doubtless, all the rich people would purchase these fine things to
      adorn their drawing-rooms. Others probably thought that little Isaac was
      destined to be an architect, and would build splendid mansions for the
      nobility and gentry, and churches too, with the tallest steeples that had
      ever been seen in England.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some of his friends, no doubt, advised Isaac&rsquo;s grandmother to apprentice
      him to a clock-maker; for, besides his mechanical skill, the boy seemed to
      have a taste for mathematics, which would be very useful to him in that
      profession. And then, in due time, Isaac would set up for himself, and
      would manufacture curious clocks, like those that contain sets of dancing
      figures, which issue from the dial-plate when the hour is struck; or like
      those where a ship sails across the face of the clock, and is seen tossing
      up and down on the waves as often as the pendulum vibrates.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, there was some ground for supposing that Isaac would devote
      himself to the manufacture of clocks; since he had already made one, of a
      kind which nobody had ever heard of before. It was set a-going, not by
      wheels and weights like other clocks, but by the dropping of water. This
      was an object of great wonderment to all the people round about; and it
      must be confessed that there are few boys, or men either, who could
      contrive to tell what o&rsquo;clock it is by means of a bowl of water.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides the water-clock, Isaac made a sundial. Thus his grandmother was
      never at a loss to know the hour; for the water-clock would tell it in the
      shade, and the dial in the sunshine. The sundial is said to be still in
      existence at Woolsthorpe, on the corner of the house where Isaac dwelt. If
      so, it must have marked the passage of every sunny hour that has elapsed
      since Isaac Newton was a boy. It marked all the famous moments of his
      life; it marked the hour of his death; and still the sunshine creeps
      slowly over it, as regularly as when Isaac first set it up.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet we must not say that the sundial has lasted longer than its maker; for
      Isaac Newton will exist long after the dial&mdash;yes, and long after the
      sun itself&mdash;shall have crumbled to decay.
    </p>
    <p>
      Isaac possessed a wonderful faculty of acquiring knowledge by the simplest
      means. For instance, what method do you suppose he took to find out the
      strength of the wind? You will never guess how the boy could compel that
      unseen, inconstant, and ungovernable wonder, the wind, to tell him the
      measure of its strength. Yet nothing can be more simple. He jumped against
      the wind; and by the length of his jump he could calculate the force of a
      gentle breeze, a brisk gale, or a tempest. Thus, even in his boyish
      sports, he was continually searching out the secrets of philosophy.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not far from his grandmother&rsquo;s residence there was a windmill which
      operated on a new plan. Isaac was in the habit of going thither
      frequently, and would spend whole hours in examining its various parts.
      While the mill was at rest he pried into its internal machinery. When its
      broad sails were set in motion by the wind, he watched the process by
      which the mill-stones were made to revolve and crush the grain that was
      put into the hopper. After gaining a thorough knowledge of its
      construction he was observed to be unusually busy with his tools.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was not long before his grandmother and all the neighborhood knew what
      Isaac had been about. He had constructed a model of the windmill. Though
      not so large, I suppose, as one of the box traps which boys set to catch
      squirrels, yet every part of the mill and is machinery was complete. Its
      little sails were neatly made of linen, and whirled round very swiftly
      when the mill was placed in a draught of air. Even a puff of wind from
      Isaac&rsquo;s mouth or from a pair of bellows was sufficient to set the sails in
      motion. And, what was most curious, if a handful of grains of wheat were
      put into the little hopper, they would soon be converted into snow-white
      flour.
    </p>
    <p>
      Isaac&rsquo;s playmates were enchanted with his new windmill. They thought that
      nothing so pretty and so wonderful had ever been seen in the whole world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, Isaac,&rdquo; said one of them, &ldquo;you have forgotten one thing that belongs
      to a mill.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is that?&rdquo; asked Isaac; for he supposed that, from the roof of the
      mill to its foundation, he had forgotten nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, where is the miller?&rdquo; said his friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That is true,&mdash;I must look out for one,&rdquo; said Isaac; and he set
      himself to consider how the deficiency should be supplied.
    </p>
    <p>
      He might easily have made the miniature figure of a man; but then it would
      not have been able to move about and perform the duties of a miller. As
      Captain Lemuel Gulliver had not yet discovered the island of Lilliput,
      Isaac did not know that there were little men in the world whose size was
      just suited to his windmill. It so happened, however, that a mouse had
      just been caught in the trap; and, as no other miller could be found, Mr.
      Mouse was appointed to that important office. The new miller made a very
      respectable appearance in his dark gray coat. To be sure, he had not a
      very good character for honesty, and was suspected of sometimes stealing a
      portion of the grain which was given him to grind. But perhaps some
      two-legged millers are quite as dishonest as this small quadruped.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Isaac grew older, it was found that he had far more important matters
      in his mind than the manufacture of toys like the little windmill. All day
      long, if left to himself, he was either absorbed in thought or engaged in
      some book of mathematics or natural philosophy. At night, I think it
      probable, he looked up with reverential curiosity to the stars, and
      wondered whether they were worlds like our own, and how great was their
      distance from the earth, and what was the power that kept them in their
      courses. Perhaps, even so early in life, Isaac Newton felt a presentiment
      that he should be able, hereafter, to answer all these questions.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Isaac was fourteen years old, his mother&rsquo;s second husband being now
      dead, she wished her son to leave school and assist her in managing the
      farm at Woolsthorpe. For a year or two, therefore, he tried to turn his
      attention to farming. But his mind was so bent on becoming a scholar that
      his mother sent him back to school, and afterwards to the University of
      Cambridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have now finished my anecdotes of Isaac Newton&rsquo;s boyhood. My story would
      be far too long were I to mention all the splendid discoveries which he
      made after he came to be a man. He was the first that found out the nature
      of light; for, before his day, nobody could tell what the sunshine was
      composed of. You remember, I suppose, the story of an apple&rsquo;s falling on
      his head, and thus leading him to discover the force of gravitation, which
      keeps the heavenly bodies in their courses. When he had once got hold of
      this idea, he never permitted his mind to rest until he had searched out
      all the laws by which the planets are guided through the sky. This he did
      as thoroughly as if he had gone up among the stars and tracked them in
      their orbits. The boy had found out the mechanism of a windmill; the man
      explained to his fellow-men the mechanism of the universe.
    </p>
    <p>
      While making these researches he was accustomed to spend night after night
      in a lofty tower, gazing at the heavenly bodies through a telescope. His
      mind was lifted far above the things of this world. He may be said,
      indeed, to have spent the greater part of his life in worlds that lie
      thousands and millions of miles away; for where the thoughts and the heart
      are, there is our true existence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Did you never hear the story of Newton and his little dog Diamond? One
      day, when he was fifty years old, and had been hard at work more than
      twenty years studying the theory of light, he went out of his chamber,
      leaving his little dog asleep before the fire. On the table lay a heap of
      manuscript papers, containing all the discoveries which Newton had made
      during those twenty years. When his master was gone, up rose little
      Diamond, jumped upon the table, and overthrew the lighted candle. The
      papers immediately caught fire.
    </p>
    <p>
      Just as the destruction was completed Newton opened the chamber door, and
      perceived that the labors of twenty years were reduced to a heap of ashes.
      There stood little Diamond, the author of all the mischief. Almost any
      other man would have sentenced the dog to immediate death. But Newton
      patted him on the head with his usual kindness, although grief was at his
      heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O Diamond, Diamond,&rdquo; exclaimed he, &ldquo;thou little knowest the mischief then
      hast done!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This incident affected his health and spirits for some time afterwards;
      but, from his conduct towards the little dog, you may judge what was the
      sweetness of his temper.
    </p>
    <p>
      Newton lived to be a very old man, and acquired great renown, and was made
      a member of Parliament, and received the honor of knighthood from the
      king. But he cared little for earthly fame and honors, and felt no pride
      in the vastness of his knowledge. All that he had learned only made him
      feel how little he knew in comparison to what remained to be known.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I seem to myself like a child,&rdquo; observed he, &ldquo;playing on the sea-shore,
      and picking up here and there a curious shell or a pretty pebble, while
      the boundless ocean of Truth lies undiscovered before me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At last, in 1727, when he was fourscore and five years old, Sir Isaac
      Newton died,&mdash;or rather, he ceased to live on earth. We may be
      permitted to believe that he is still searching out the infinite wisdom
      and goodness of the Creator as earnestly, and with even more success, than
      while his spirit animated a mortal body. He has left a fame behind him
      which will be as endurable as if his name were written in letters of light
      formed by the stars upon the midnight sky.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I love to hear about mechanical contrivances, such as the water-clock and
      the little windmill,&rdquo; remarked George. &ldquo;I suppose, if Sir Isaac Newton had
      only thought of it, he might have found out the steam-engine, and
      railroads, and all the other famous inventions that have come into use
      since his day.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Very possibly he might,&rdquo; replied Mr. Temple; &ldquo;and no doubt a great many
      people would think it more useful to manufacture steam-engines than to
      search out the system of the universe. Other great astronomers besides
      Newton have been endowed with mechanical genius. There was David
      Rittenhouse, an American,&mdash;lie made a perfect little water-mill when
      he was only seven or eight years old. But this sort of ingenuity is but a
      mere trifle in comparison with the other talents of such men.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It must have been beautiful,&rdquo; said Edward, &ldquo;to spend whole nights in a
      high tower as Newton did, gazing at the stars, and the comets, and the
      meteors. But what would Newton have done had he been blind? or if his eyes
      had been no better than mine?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, even then, my dear child,&rdquo; observed Mrs. Temple, &ldquo;he would have
      found out some way of enlightening his mind and of elevating his soul. But
      come; little Emily is waiting to bid you good night. You must go to sleep
      and dream of seeing all our faces.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But how sad it will be when I awake!&rdquo; murmured Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap04"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER IV.
    </h4>
    <p>
      In the course of the next day the harmony of our little family was
      disturbed by something like a quarrel between George and Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      The former, though he loved his brother dearly, had found it quite too
      great a sacrifice of his own enjoyments to spend all his play-time in a
      darkened chamber. Edward, on the other hand, was inclined to be despotic.
      He felt as if his bandaged eyes entitled him to demand that everybody who
      enjoyed the blessing of sight should contribute to his comfort and
      amusement. He therefore insisted that George, instead of going out to play
      at football, should join with himself and Emily in a game of questions and
      answers.
    </p>
    <p>
      George resolutely refused, and ran out of the house. He did not revisit
      Edward&rsquo;s chamber till the evening, when he stole in, looking confused, yet
      somewhat sullen, and sat down beside his father&rsquo;s chair. It was evident,
      by a motion of Edward&rsquo;s head and a slight trembling of his lips, that he
      was aware of George&rsquo;s entrance, though his footsteps had been almost
      inaudible. Emily, with her serious and earnest little face, looked from
      one to the other, as if she longed to be a messenger of peace between
      them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Temple, without seeming to notice any of these circumstances, began a
      story.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="johnson"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      SAMUEL JOHNSON
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1709 DIED 1784.]
    </h4>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sam,&rdquo; said Mr. Michael Johnson, of Lichfield, one morning, &ldquo;I am very
      feeble and ailing to-day. You must go to Uttoxeter in my stead, and tend
      the bookstall in the market-place there.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      This was spoken above a hundred years ago, by an elderly man, who had once
      been a thriving bookseller at Lichfield, in England. Being now in reduced
      circumstances, he was forced to go every market-day and sell books at a
      stall, in the neighboring village of Uttoxeter.
    </p>
    <p>
      His son, to whom Mr. Johnson spoke, was a great boy, of very singular
      aspect. He had an intelligent face; but it was seamed and distorted by a
      scrofulous humor, which affected his eyes so badly that sometimes he was
      almost blind. Owing to the same cause his head would often shake with a
      tremulous motion as if he were afflicted with the palsy. When Sam was an
      infant, the famous Queen Anne had tried to cure him of this disease by
      laying her royal hands upon his head. But though the touch of a king or
      queen was supposed to be a certain remedy for scrofula, it produced no
      good effect upon Sam Johnson.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the time which we speak of the poor lad was not very well dressed, and
      wore shoes from which his toes peeped out; for his old father had barely
      the means of supporting his wife and children. But, poor as the family
      were, young Sam Johnson had as much pride as any nobleman&rsquo;s son in
      England. The fact was, he felt conscious of uncommon sense and ability,
      which, in his own opinion, entitled him to great respect from the world.
      Perhaps he would have been glad if grown people had treated him as
      reverentially as his schoolfellows did. Three of them were accustomed to
      come for him every morning; and while he sat upon the back of one, the two
      others supported him on each side; and thus he rode to school in triumph.
    </p>
    <p>
      Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could not bear the idea of
      standing all day in Uttoxeter market offering books to the rude and
      ignorant country people. Doubtless he felt the more reluctant on account
      of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and the tremulous
      motion of his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted and made an indistinct
      grumbling in his throat; then he looked his old father in the face and
      answered him loudly and deliberately.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sir,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;I will not go to Uttoxeter market!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad&rsquo;s obstinacy ever since his
      birth; and while Sam was younger, the old gentleman had probably used the
      rod whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was now too feeble and too
      much out of spirits to contend with this stubborn and violent-tempered
      boy. He therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared to go to
      Uttoxeter himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, Sam,&rdquo; said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat and staff, &ldquo;if for the
      sake of your foolish pride you can suffer your poor sick father to stand
      all day in the noise and confusion of the market when he ought to be in
      his bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, Sam, when I am
      dead and gone.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with
      sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble,
      melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was that he should be
      forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an ungrateful
      son who was too proud to do anything for his father, or his mother, or
      himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson with a sullen countenance till he
      was out of sight.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when the old man&rsquo;s figure, as he went stooping along the street, was
      no more to be seen, the boy&rsquo;s heart began to smite him. He had a vivid
      imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father standing in
      the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd
      around him. Sam seemed to behold him arranging his literary merchandise
      upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice.
      Here was Addison&rsquo;s Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was
      Pope&rsquo;s translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden&rsquo;s poems, or
      those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver&rsquo;s Travels, and a variety of
      little gilt-covered children&rsquo;s books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the Giant
      Queller, Mother Goose&rsquo;s Melodies, and others which our great-grandparents
      used to read in their childhood. And here were sermons for the pious, and
      pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry and some dismal
      ones, for the country people to sing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and
      ballads, now to the rude yeomen who perhaps could not read a word; now to
      the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and foxes;
      now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for sugar-plums or
      gingerbread rather than for picture-books. And if Mr. Johnson should sell
      a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an hour&rsquo;s talk to get a
      profit of only sixpence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My poor father!&rdquo; thought Sam to himself. &ldquo;How his head will ache! and how
      heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade
      me.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did not
      know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mother,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;did you think father seemed very ill to-day?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes, Sam,&rdquo; answered his mother, turning with a flushed face from the
      fire, where she was cooking their scanty dinner. &ldquo;Your father did look
      very ill; and it is a pity he did not send you to Uttoxeter in his stead.
      You are a great boy now, and would rejoice, I am sure, to do something for
      your poor father, who has done so much for you.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The lad made no reply. But again his imagination set to work and conjured
      up another picture of poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in the hot
      sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and
      disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him. &ldquo;Had this
      old man no son,&rdquo; the people would say among themselves, &ldquo;who might have
      taken his place at the bookstall while the father kept his bed?&rdquo; And
      perhaps, but this was a terrible thought for Sam!&mdash;perhaps his father
      would faint away and fall down in the marketplace, with his gray hair in
      the dust and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a corpse. And
      there would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr. Johnson and
      whispering, &ldquo;Is he dead? Is he dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And Sam shuddered as he repeated to himself, &ldquo;Is he dead?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I have been a cruel son!&rdquo; thought he, within his own heart. &ldquo;God
      forgive me! God forgive me!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;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&rsquo;s work to him. But such
      was Sam&rsquo;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, for
      his father&rsquo;s sake, and for God&rsquo;s sake.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;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&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;in all his
      poverty and toil and in all his success,&mdash;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,&mdash;still that heavy and
      remorseful thought came back to him, &ldquo;I was cruel to my poor father in his
      illness!&rdquo; 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
      to bear us company through life.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;s chair.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap05"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER V.
    </h3>
    <p>
      In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      SAMUEL JOHNSON.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [CONTINUED]
    </h4>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 cartloads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other produce of the
      soil. Now and then a farmer&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Make way, sir!&rdquo; he would cry out, in a loud, harsh voice, when somebody
      happened to interrupt his progress. &ldquo;Sir, you intrude your person into the
      public thoroughfare!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a queer old fellow this is!&rdquo; muttered the people among themselves,
      hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.
    </p>
    <p>
      But when they looked into the venerable stranger&rsquo;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.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the very spot of ground where the stranger now stood some aged people
      remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his book-stall. The
      little children who had once bought picture-books of him were grandfathers
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes; here is the very spot!&rdquo; muttered the old gentleman to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 marketplace 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 rapt 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 twitches and contortions of his features.
    </p>
    <p>
      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
      bareheaded 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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,&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I say, Neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
      is?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ay, that I would,&rdquo; replied Neighbor Hutchins, &ldquo;for a queerer chap I never
      saw in my life. Somehow it makes me feel small to look at him. He&rsquo;s more
      than a common man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You may well say so,&rdquo; answered the cattle-drover. &ldquo;Why, that&rsquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remembrance which had
      tormented him through life. Never never had he forgotten his father&rsquo;s
      sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never, though the old man&rsquo;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 noonday, in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on the
      very spot where Michael Johnson had once kept his book-stall. 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;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, &ldquo;I have erred; forgive me!&rdquo; than
      perhaps to go hereafter and shed bitter tears upon his grave?
    </p>
    <p>
      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&rsquo;s forgiveness; and having done so, the trouble of their hearts
      vanished away like a dream.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I am glad! I am so glad!&rdquo; said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. &ldquo;Now I
      shall sleep quietly to-night.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My sweet child,&rdquo; thought Mrs. Temple as she kissed her, &ldquo;mayest thou
      never know how much strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many a
      night&rsquo;s rest.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap06"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER VI.
    </h4>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 everything 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then, with his mother&rsquo;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 St. Mark&rsquo;s Gospel,
      printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it by passing his
      fingers over the letters as blind children do.
    </p>
    <p>
      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 snowdrops, 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward&rsquo;s confinement passed
      not unhappily. In due time his father returned; and the next evening, when
      the family were assembled, he began a story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I must first observe, children,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;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.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="cromwell"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      OLIVER CROMWELL.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1599 DIED 1658.]
    </h4>
    <p>
      Not long after King James I. 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,
      bunting 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, hang 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      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.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had befallen
      hum. A huge ape, which was kept in the family, snatched up little Noll in
      his fore paws and clambered with him to the roof of the house. There this
      ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators, as if it 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.
    </p>
    <p>
      One morning, when Noll was five or six years old a royal messenger arrived
      at Hinchinbrooke with tidings that King James was coming to dine with Sir
      Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a very great
      trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, squires, guards and
      yeomen, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well as himself; and
      more provisions would be eaten and more wine drunk in that one day than
      generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver expressed much thankfulness for
      the king&rsquo;s intended visit, and ordered his butler and cook to make the
      best preparations in their power. So a great fire was kindled in the
      kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured out of the
      chimney that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, and frying were going on
      merrily.
    </p>
    <p>
      By and by the sound of trumpets was heard approaching nearer and nearer; a
      heavy, old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove up to
      the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, stood at the gate to
      receive the king. His Majesty was dressed in a suit of green not very new;
      he had a feather in his hat and a triple ruff round his neck, and over his
      shoulder was slung a hunting-horn instead of a sword. Altogether he had
      not the most dignified aspect in the world; but the spectators gazed at
      him as if there was something superhuman and divine in his person. They
      even shaded their eyes with their hands, as if they were dazzled by the
      glory of his countenance.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How are ye, man?&rdquo; cried King James, speaking in a Scotch accent; for
      Scotland was his native country. &ldquo;By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am glad
      to see ye!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The good knight thanked the king; at the same time kneeling down while his
      Majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed Sir
      Oliver&rsquo;s attention to a little boy who had come with him in the coach. He
      was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and was more
      richly dressed than the king himself. Though by no means an ill-looking
      child, he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his cheeks were rather pale, as
      if he had been kept moping within doors, instead of being sent out to play
      in the sun and wind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have brought my son Charlie to see ye,&rdquo; said the king. &ldquo;I hope, Sir
      Oliver, ye have a son of your own to be his playmate.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom one
      of the attendants had now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful to see
      how all the spectators, even the aged men with their gray beards, humbled
      themselves before this child. They bent their bodies till their beards
      almost swept the dust: They looked as if they were ready to kneel down and
      worship him.
    </p>
    <p>
      The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared to
      contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a superior
      being; so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of himself. He
      naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great Britain and all its
      inhabitants had been created solely for his benefit and amusement. This
      was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear enough after he had ascended his
      father&rsquo;s throne.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What a noble little prince he is!&rdquo; exclaimed Sir Oliver, lifting his
      hands in admiration. &ldquo;No, please your Majesty, I have no son to be the
      playmate of his royal highness; but there is a nephew of mine somewhere
      about the house. He is near the prince&rsquo;s age, and will be but too happy to
      wait upon his royal highness.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Send for him, man! send for him!&rdquo; said the king.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll. While
      King James was speaking, a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little urchin thrust
      himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants and greeted the
      prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose (which had been put on new
      and clean in honor of the king&rsquo;s visit) were already soiled and torn with
      the rough play in which he had spent the morning. He looked no more
      abashed than if King James were his uncle and the prince one of his
      customary playfellows.
    </p>
    <p>
      This was little Noll himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew,&rdquo; said Sir Oliver, somewhat
      ashamed of Noll&rsquo;s appearance and demeanor. &ldquo;Oliver, make your obeisance to
      the king&rsquo;s majesty.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king; for in those days
      children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James, who
      prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few questions in
      the Latin grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The little prince,
      in a very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand, not for Noll to
      shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Nephew,&rdquo; said Sir Oliver, &ldquo;pay your duty to the prince.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I owe him no duty,&rdquo; cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince&rsquo;s hand with a
      rude laugh. &ldquo;Why should I kiss that boy&rsquo;s hand?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of
      all. But the king laughed heartily, saying, that little Noll had a
      stubborn English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn betimes
      what sort of a people he was to rule over.
    </p>
    <p>
      So King James and his train entered the house; and the prince, with Noll
      and some other children, was sent to play in a separate room while his
      Majesty was at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; for boys,
      whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play, and are
      pleased with one another&rsquo;s society. What games they diverted themselves
      with I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball, perhaps at
      blind-man&rsquo;s-buff, perhaps at leap-frog, perhaps at prison-bars. Such games
      have been in use for hundreds of years; and princes as well as poor
      children have spent some of their happiest hours in playing at them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Meanwhile King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver in the
      great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head of
      a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was with the
      deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him wine or the various
      delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You would have
      thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a supernatural
      being; only he seemed to have quite as much need of those vulgar matters,
      food and drink, as any other person at the table. But fate had ordained
      that good King James should not finish his dinner in peace.
    </p>
    <p>
      All of a sudden there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the
      children were at play. Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were mixed
      up together; while the voices of elder persons were likewise heard, trying
      to restore order among the children. The king and everybody else at table
      looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them think that a general
      rebellion had broken out.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Mercy on us!&rdquo; muttered Sir Oliver; &ldquo;that graceless nephew of mine is in
      some mischief or other. The naughty little whelp!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the matter, followed by many
      of the guests, and the king among them. They all crowded to the door of
      the playroom.
    </p>
    <p>
      On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, with his rich dress
      all torn and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood was
      streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a
      mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled expression,
      as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him a
      beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a
      lion, looking as if he were ready to fight, not only the prince, but the
      king and kingdom too.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You little villain!&rdquo; cried his uncle. &ldquo;What have you been about? Down on
      your knees, this instant, and ask the prince&rsquo;s pardon. How dare you lay
      your hands on the king&rsquo;s majesty&rsquo;s royal son?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;He struck me first,&rdquo; grumbled the valiant little Noll; &ldquo;and I&rsquo;ve only
      given him his due.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and
      horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little varlet,
      who had dared to resent a blow from the king&rsquo;s own son. Some of the
      courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the Tower
      of London and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their great
      zeal for the king&rsquo;s service, were about to lay hands on the boy and
      chastise him in the royal presence.
    </p>
    <p>
      But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered them
      to desist.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thou art a bold boy,&rdquo; said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; &ldquo;and, if
      thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends with
      thee.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never will!&rdquo; cried the little prince, stamping his foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Peace, Charlie, peace!&rdquo; said the king; then addressing Sir Oliver and the
      attendants, &ldquo;Harm not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good lesson,
      if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter, should he be
      tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen, let him
      remember little Noll Cromwell and his own bloody nose.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the king finished his dinner and departed; and for many a long year the
      childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was forgotten.
      The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, and have met a more
      peaceful death, had he remembered that quarrel and the moral which his
      father drew from it. But when old King James was dead, and Charles sat
      upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a man, and that his
      meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to have the property
      and lives of the people of England entirely at his own disposal. But the
      Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him and beat him in many
      battles, and pulled him down from his throne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side and the people
      of England on the other there was a famous leader, who did more towards
      the ruin of royal authority than all the rest. The contest seemed like a
      wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man. And the king was
      overthrown.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader sat
      in the judgment hall. Many judges were present besides himself; but he
      alone had the power to save King Charles or to doom him to the scaffold.
      After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was entreated by
      his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty from death.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No!&rdquo; said he, sternly. &ldquo;Better that one man should perish than that the
      whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he shall
      die!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy
      stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor
      victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid his
      head upon the block. He looked on with a steadfast gaze while a
      black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe and smote off that anointed
      head at a single blow.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It is a righteous deed,&rdquo; perhaps he said to himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy
      chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleams
      showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many
      battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care and
      with the continual exercise of stern authority. Probably there was not a
      single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little Noll
      who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he!
    </p>
    <p>
      He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon
      the dead monarch&rsquo;s face. Then, probably, his mind went back over all the
      marvellous events that had brought the hereditary King of England to this
      dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, a humble individual, to the
      possession of kingly power. He was a king, though without the empty title
      or the glittering crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why was it,&rdquo; said Cromwell to himself, or might have said, as he gazed at
      the pale features in the coffin,&mdash;&ldquo;why was it that this great king
      fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the realm?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      And, indeed, why was it?
    </p>
    <p>
      King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a child,
      he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother. He deemed
      himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were created only
      for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in spite of his many
      faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of his fellow-men; and
      therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their strength to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!&rdquo; exclaimed Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;And would you like to be a Cromwell?&rdquo; inquired his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I should like it well,&rdquo; replied George; &ldquo;only I would not have put the
      poor old king to death. I would have sent him out of the kingdom, or
      perhaps have allowed him to live in a small house near the gate of the
      royal palace. It was too severe to cut off his head.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Kings are in such an unfortunate position,&rdquo; said Mr. Temple, &ldquo;that they
      must either be almost deified by their subjects, or else be dethroned and
      beheaded. In either case it is a pitiable lot.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, I had rather be blind than be a king!&rdquo; said Edward.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, my dear Edward,&rdquo; observed his mother, with a smile, &ldquo;I am glad you
      are convinced that your own lot is not the hardest in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap07"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER VII.
    </h4>
    <p>
      It was a pleasant sight, for those who had eyes, to see how patiently the
      blinded little boy now submitted to what he had at first deemed an
      intolerable calamity. The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort
      to depend on the enjoyment of any single sense. Though he has made the
      world so very beautiful, yet it is possible to be happy without ever be
      holding the blue sky, or the green and flowery earth, or the kind faces of
      those whom we love. Thus it appears that all the external beauty of the
      universe is a free gift from God over and above what is necessary to our
      comfort. How grateful, then, should we be to that divine Benevolence,
      which showers even superfluous bounties upon us!
    </p>
    <p>
      One truth, therefore, which Edward&rsquo;s blindness had taught him was, that
      his mind and soul could dispense with the assistance of his eyes.
      Doubtless, however, he would have found this lesson far more difficult to
      learn had it not been for the affection of those around him. His parents,
      and George and Emily, aided him to bear his misfortune; if possible, they
      would have lent him their own eyes. And this, too, was a good lesson for
      him. It taught him how dependent on one another God has ordained us to be,
      insomuch that all the necessities of mankind should incite them to mutual
      love.
    </p>
    <p>
      So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the world, better than he
      ever did before. And he felt grateful towards his father for spending the
      evenings in telling him stories,&mdash;more grateful, probably, than any
      of my little readers will feel towards me for so carefully writing these
      same stories down.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Come, dear father,&rdquo; said he, the next evening, &ldquo;now tell us about some
      other little boy who was destined to be a famous man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How would you like a story of a Boston boy?&rdquo; asked his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;O, pray let us have it!&rdquo; cried George, eagerly. &ldquo;It will be all the
      better if he has been to our schools, and has coasted on the Common, and
      sailed boats in the Frog Pond. I shall feel acquainted with him. then.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well, then,&rdquo; said Mr. Temple, &ldquo;I will introduce you to a Boston boy whom
      all the world became acquainted with after he grew to be a man.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The story was as follows:&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="franklin"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1706, DIED 1790]
    </h4>
    <p>
      In the year 1716, or about that period, a boy used to be seen in the
      streets of Boston who was known among his schoolfellows and playmates by
      the name of Ben Franklin. Ben was born in 1706; so that he was now about
      ten years old. His father, who had come over from England, was a
      soap-boiler and tallow-chandler, and resided in Milk Street, not far from
      the Old South Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ben was a bright boy at his book, and even a brighter one when at play
      with his comrades. He had some remarkable qualities which always seemed to
      give him the lead, whether at sport or in more serious matters. I might
      tell you a number of amusing anecdotes about him. You are acquainted, I
      suppose, with his famous story of the WHISTLE, and how he bought it, with
      a whole pocketful of coppers and afterwards repented of his bargain. But
      Ben had grown a great boy since those days, and had gained wisdom by
      experience; for it was one of his peculiarities, that no incident ever
      happened to him without teaching him some valuable lesson. Thus he
      generally profited more by his misfortunes than many people do by the most
      favorable events that could befall them.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ben&rsquo;s face was already pretty well known to the inhabitants of Boston. The
      selectmen and other people of note often used to visit his father, for the
      sake of talking about the affairs of the town or province. Mr. Franklin
      was considered a person of great wisdom and integrity, and was respected
      by all who knew him, although he supported his family by the humble trade
      of boiling soap and making tallow candles.
    </p>
    <p>
      While his father and the visitors were holding deep consultations about
      public affairs, little Ben would sit on his stool in a corner, listening
      with the greatest interest, as if he understood every word. Indeed, his
      features were so full of intelligence that there could be but little
      doubt, not only that he understood what was said, but that he could have
      expressed some very sagacious opinions out of his own mind. But in those
      days boys were expected to be silent in the presence of their elders.
      However, Ben Franklin was looked upon as a very promising lad, who would
      talk and act wisely by and by.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Neighbor Franklin,&rdquo; his father&rsquo;s friends would sometimes say, &ldquo;you ought
      to send this boy to college and make a minister of him.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have often thought of it,&rdquo; his father would reply; &ldquo;and my brother
      Benjamin promises to give him a great many volumes of manuscript sermons,
      in case he should be educated for the church. But I have a large family to
      support, and cannot afford the expense.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In fact, Mr. Franklin found it so difficult to provide bread for his
      family, that, when the boy was ten years old, it became necessary to take
      him from school. Ben was then employed in cutting candle-wicks into equal
      lengths and filling the moulds with tallow; and many families in Boston
      spent their evenings by the light of the candles which he had helped to
      make. Thus, you see, in his early days, as well as in his manhood, his
      labors contributed to throw light upon dark matters.
    </p>
    <p>
      Busy as his life now was, Ben still found time to keep company with his
      former schoolfellows. He and the other boys were very fond of fishing, and
      spent many of their leisure hours on the margin of the mill-pond, catching
      flounders, perch, eels, and tomcod, which came up thither with the tide.
      The place where they fished is now, probably, covered with stone pavements
      and brick buildings, and thronged with people and with vehicles of all
      kinds. But at that period it was a marshy spot on the outskirts of the
      town, where gulls flitted and screamed overhead and salt-meadow grass grew
      under foot.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the edge of the water there was a deep bed of clay, in which the boys
      were forced to stand while they caught their fish. Here they dabbled in
      mud and mire like a flock of ducks.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;This is very uncomfortable,&rdquo; said Ben Franklin one day to his comrades,
      while they were standing mid-leg deep in the quagmire.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;So it is,&rdquo; said the other boys. &ldquo;What a pity we have no better place to
      stand!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If it mad not been for Ben, nothing more would have been done or said
      about, the matter. Butt it was not in his nature to be sensible of an
      inconvenience without using his best efforts to find a remedy. So, as he
      and his comrades were returning from the water-side, Ben suddenly threw
      down his string of fish with a very determined air.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Boys,&rdquo; cried he, &ldquo;I have thought of a scheme which will be greatly for
      our benefit and for the public benefit.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was queer enough, to be sure, to hear this little chap&mdash;this
      rosy-cheeked, ten-year-old boy&mdash;talking about schemes for the public
      benefit! Nevertheless, his companions were ready to listen, being assured
      that Ben&rsquo;s scheme, whatever it was, would be well worth their attention.
      They remembered how sagaciously he had conducted all their enterprises
      ever since he had been old enough to wear small-clothes.
    </p>
    <p>
      They remembered, too, his wonderful contrivance of sailing across the
      mill-pond by lying flat on his back in the water and allowing himself to
      be drawn along by a paper kite. If Ben could do that, he might certainly
      do anything.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;What is your scheme, Ben?&mdash;what is it?&rdquo; cried they all.
    </p>
    <p>
      It so happened that they had now come to a spot of ground where a new
      house was to be built. Scattered round about lay a great many large stones
      which were to be used for the cellar and foundation. Ben mounted upon the
      highest of these stones, so that he might speak with the more authority.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You know, lads,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;what a plague it is to be forced to stand in
      the quagmire yonder,&mdash;over shoes and stockings (if we wear any) in
      mud and water. See! I am bedaubed to the knees of my small-clothes; and
      you are all in the same pickle. Unless we can find some remedy for this
      evil, our fishing business must be entirely given up. And, surely, this
      would be a terrible misfortune!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;That it would! that it would!&rdquo; said his comrades, sorrowfully.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, I propose,&rdquo; continued Master Benjamin, &ldquo;that we build a wharf, for
      the purpose of carrying on our fisheries. You see these stones. The
      workmen mean to use them for the underpinning of a house; but that would
      be for only one man&rsquo;s advantage. My plan is to take these same stones and
      carry them to the edge of the water and build a wharf with them. This will
      not only enable us to carry on the fishing business with comfort and to
      better advantage, but it will likewise be a great convenience to boats
      passing up and down the stream. Thus, instead of one man, fifty, or a
      hundred, or a thousand, besides ourselves, may be benefited by these
      stones. What say you, lads? shall we build the wharf?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Bell&rsquo;s proposal was received with one of those uproarious shouts wherewith
      boys usually express their delight at whatever completely suits their
      views. Nobody thought of questioning the right and justice of building a
      wharf with stones that belonged to another person.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurrah! hurrah!&rdquo; shouted they. &ldquo;Let&rsquo;s set about it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was agreed that they should all be on the spot that evening and
      commence their grand public enterprise by moonlight. Accordingly, at the
      appointed time, the whole gang of youthful laborers assembled, and eagerly
      began to remove the stones. They had not calculated how much toil would be
      requisite in this important part of their undertaking. The very first
      stone which they laid hold of proved so heavy that it almost seemed to be
      fastened to the ground. Nothing but Ben Franklin&rsquo;s cheerful and resolute
      spirit could have induced them to persevere.
    </p>
    <p>
      Ben, as might be expected, was the soul of the enterprise. By his
      mechanical genius, he contrived methods to lighten the labor of
      transporting the stones, so that one boy, under his directions, would
      perform as much as half a dozen if left to themselves. Whenever their
      spirits flagged he had some joke ready, which seemed to renew their
      strength, by setting them all into a roar of laughter. And when, after an
      hour or two of hard work, the stones were transported to the water-side,
      Bell Franklin was the engineer to superintend the construction of the
      wharf.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boys, like a colony of ants, performed a great deal of labor by their
      multitude, though the individual strength of each could have accomplished
      but little. Finally, just as the moon sank below the horizon, the great
      work was finished.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Now, boys,&rdquo; cried Ben, &ldquo;let&rsquo;s give three cheers and go home to bed.
      To-morrow we may catch fish at our ease.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!&rdquo; shouted his comrades.
    </p>
    <p>
      Then they all went home in such an ecstasy of delight that they could
      hardly get a wink of sleep.
    </p>
    <p>
      The story was not yet finished; but George&rsquo;s impatience caused him to
      interrupt it.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How I wish that I could have helped to build that wharf!&rdquo; exclaimed he.
      &ldquo;It must have been glorious fun. Ben Franklin forever, say I.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;It was a very pretty piece of work,&rdquo; said Mr. Temple. &ldquo;But wait till you
      hear the end of the story.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; inquired Edward, &ldquo;whereabouts in Boston was the mill-pond on
      which Ben built his wharf?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I do not exactly know,&rdquo; answered Mr. Temple; &ldquo;but I suppose it to have
      been on the northern verge of the town, in the vicinity of what are now
      called Merrimack and Charlestown Streets. That thronged portion of the
      city was once a marsh. Some of it, in fact, was covered with water.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="chap08"></a>
    </p>
    <h4>
      CHAPTER VIII.
    </h4>
    <p>
      As the children had no more questions to ask, Mr. Temple proceeded to
      relate what consequences ensued from the building of Bell Franklin&rsquo;s
      wharf.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [CONTINUED]
    </h4>
    <p>
      In the morning, when the early sunbeams were gleaming on the steeples and
      roofs of the town and gilding the water that surrounded it, the masons
      came, rubbing their eyes, to begin their work at the foundation of the new
      house. But, on reaching the spot, they rubbed their eyes so much the
      harder. What had become of their heap of stones?
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, Sam,&rdquo; said one to another, in great perplexity, &ldquo;here&rsquo;s been some
      witchcraft at work while we were asleep. The stones must have flown away
      through the air!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;More likely they have been stolen!&rdquo; answered Sam.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But who on earth would think of stealing a heap of stones?&rdquo; cried a
      third. &ldquo;Could a man carry them away in his pocket?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The master mason, who was a gruff kind of man, stood scratching his head,
      and said nothing at first. But, looking carefully on the ground, he
      discerned innumerable tracks of little feet, some with shoes and some
      barefoot. Following these tracks with his eye, he saw that they formed a
      beaten path towards the water-side.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I see what the mischief is,&rdquo; said he, nodding his head. &ldquo;Those little
      rascals, the boys,&mdash;they have stolen our stones to build a wharf
      with!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      The masons immediately went to examine the new structure. And to say the
      truth, it was well worth looking at, so neatly and with such admirable
      skill had it been planned and finished. The stones were put together so
      securely that there was no danger of their being loosened by the tide,
      however swiftly it might sweep along. There was a broad and safe platform
      to stand upon, whence the little fishermen might cast their lines into
      deep water and draw up fish in abundance. Indeed, it almost seemed as if
      Ben and his comrades might be forgiven for taking the stones, because they
      had done their job in such a workmanlike manner.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;The chaps that built this wharf understood their business pretty well,&rdquo;
       said one of the masons. &ldquo;I should not be ashamed of such a piece of work
      myself.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      But the master mason did not seem to enjoy the joke. He was one of those
      unreasonable people who care a great deal more for their own rights and
      privileges than for the convenience of all the rest of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Sam,&rdquo; said he, more gruffly than usual, &ldquo;go call a constable.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So Sam called a constable, and inquiries were set on foot to discover the
      perpetrators of the theft. In the course of the day warrants were issued,
      with the signature of a justice of the peace, to take the bodies of
      Benjamin Franklin and other evil-disposed persons who had stolen a heap of
      stones. If the owner of the stolen property had not been more merciful
      than the master mason, it might have gone hard with our friend Benjamin
      and his fellow-laborers. But, luckily for them, the gentleman had a
      respect for Ben&rsquo;s father, and, moreover, was amused with the spirit of the
      whole affair. He therefore let the culprits off pretty easily.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, when the constables were dismissed, the poor boys had to go through
      another trial, and receive sentence, and suffer execution, too, from their
      own fathers. Many a rod, I grieve to say, was worn to the stump on that
      unlucky night.
    </p>
    <p>
      As for Ben, he was less afraid of a whipping than of his father&rsquo;s
      disapprobation. Mr. Franklin, as I have mentioned before, was a sagacious
      man, and also an inflexibly upright one. He had read much for a person in
      his rank of life, and had pondered upon the ways of the world, until he
      had gained more wisdom than a whole library of books could have taught
      him. Ben had a greater reverence for his father than for any other person
      in the world, as well on account of his spotless integrity as of his
      practical sense and deep views of things.
    </p>
    <p>
      Consequently, after being released from the clutches of the law, Ben came
      into his father&rsquo;s presence with no small perturbation of mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benjamin, come hither,&rdquo; began Mr. Franklin, in his customary solemn and
      weighty tone.
    </p>
    <p>
      The boy approached and stood before his father&rsquo;s chair, waiting reverently
      to hear what judgment this good man would pass upon his late offence. He
      felt that now the right and wrong of the whole matter would be made to
      appear.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Benjamin!&rdquo; said his father, &ldquo;what could induce you to take property which
      did not belong to you?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why, father,&rdquo; replied Ben, hanging his head at first, but then lifting
      eyes to Mr. Franklin&rsquo;s face, &ldquo;if it had been merely for my own benefit, I
      never should have dreamed of it. But I knew that the wharf would be a
      public convenience. If the owner of the stones should build a house with
      them, nobody will enjoy any advantage except himself. Now, I made use of
      them in a way that was for the advantage of many persons. I thought it
      right to aim at doing good to the greatest number.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My son,&rdquo; said Mr. Franklin, solemnly, &ldquo;so far as it was in your power,
      you have done a greater harm to the public than to the owner of the
      stones.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;How can that he, father?&rdquo; asked Ben.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Because,&rdquo; answered his father, &ldquo;in building your wharf with stolen
      materials, you have committed a moral wrong. There is no more terrible
      mistake than to violate what is eternally right for the sake of a seeming
      expediency. Those who act upon such a principle do the utmost in their
      power to destroy all that is good in the world.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Heaven forbid!&rdquo; said Benjamin.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;No act,&rdquo; continued Mr. Franklin, &ldquo;can possibly be for the benefit of the
      public generally which involves injustice to any individual. It would be
      easy to prove this by examples. But, indeed, can we suppose that our
      all-wise and just Creator would have so ordered the affairs of the world
      that a wrong act should be the true method of attaining a right end? It is
      impious to think so. And I do verily believe, Benjamin, that almost all
      the public and private misery of mankind arises from a neglect of this
      great truth,&mdash;that evil can produce only evil,&mdash;that good ends
      must be wrought out by good means.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I will never forget it again,&rdquo; said Benjamin, bowing his head.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Remember,&rdquo; concluded his father, &ldquo;that, whenever we vary from the highest
      rule of right, just so far we do an injury to the world. It may seem
      otherwise for the moment; but, both in time and in eternity, it will be
      found so.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      To the close of his life Ben Franklin never forgot this conversation with
      his father; and we have reason to suppose that, in most of his public and
      private career, he endeavored to act upon the principles which that good
      and wise man had then taught him.
    </p>
    <p>
      After the great event of building the wharf, Ben continued to cut
      wick-yarn and fill candle-moulds for about two years. But, as he had no
      love for that occupation, his father often took him to see various
      artisans at their work, in order to discover what trade he would prefer.
      Thus Ben learned the use of a great many tools, the knowledge of which
      afterwards proved very useful to him. But he seemed much inclined to go to
      sea. In order to keep him at home, and likewise to gratify his taste for
      letters, the lad was bound apprentice to his elder brother, who had lately
      set up a printing-office in Boston.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here he had many opportunities of reading new books and of hearing
      instructive conversation. He exercised himself so successfully in writing
      compositions, that, when no more than thirteen or fourteen years old, he
      became a contributor to his brother&rsquo;s newspaper. Ben was also a versifier,
      if not a poet. He made two doleful ballads,&mdash;one about the shipwreck
      of Captain Worthilake; and the other about the pirate Black Beard, who,
      not long before, infested the American seas.
    </p>
    <p>
      When Ben&rsquo;s verses were printed, his brother sent him to sell them to the
      townspeople wet from the press. &ldquo;Buy my ballads!&rdquo; shouted Benjamin, as he
      trudged through the streets with a basketful on his arm. &ldquo;Who&rsquo;ll buy a
      ballad about Black Beard? A penny apiece! a penny apiece! Who&rsquo;ll buy my
      ballads?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      If one of those roughly composed and rudely printed ballads could be
      discovered now, it would be worth more than its weight in gold.
    </p>
    <p>
      In this way our friend Benjamin spent his boyhood and youth, until, on
      account of some disagreement with his brother, he left his native town and
      went to Philadelphia. He landed in the latter city, a homeless and hungry
      young man, and bought three-pence worth of bread to satisfy his appetite.
      Not knowing where else to go, he entered a Quaker meeting-house, sat down,
      and fell fast asleep. He has not told us whether his slumbers were visited
      by any dreams. But it would have been a strange dream, indeed, and an
      incredible one, that should have foretold how great a man he was destined
      to become, and how much he would be honored in that very city where he was
      now friendless and unknown.
    </p>
    <p>
      So here we finish our story of the childhood of Benjamin Franklin. One of
      these days, if you would know what he was in his manhood, you must read
      his own works and the history of American independence.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Do let us hear a little more of him!&rdquo; said Edward; &ldquo;not that I admire him
      so much as many other characters; but he interests me, because he was a
      Yankee boy.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;My dear son,&rdquo; replied Mr. Temple, &ldquo;it would require a whole volume of
      talk to tell you all that is worth knowing about Benjamin Franklin. There
      is a very pretty anecdote of his flying a kite in the midst of a
      thunder-storm, and thus drawing down the lightning from the clouds and
      proving that it was the same thing as electricity. His whole life would be
      an interesting story, if we had time to tell it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;But, pray, dear father, tell us what made him so famous,&rdquo; said George. &ldquo;I
      have seen his portrait a great many tines. There is a wooden bust of him
      in one of our streets; and marble ones, I suppose, in some other places.
      And towns, and ships of war, and steamboats, and banks, and academies, and
      children are often named after Franklin. Why should he have grown so very
      famous?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Your question is a reasonable one, George,&rdquo; answered his father. &ldquo;I doubt
      whether Franklin&rsquo;s philosophical discoveries, important as they were, or
      even his vast political services, would have given him all the fame which
      he acquired. It appears to me that Poor Richard&rsquo;s Almanac did more than
      anything else towards making him familiarly known to the public. As the
      writer of those proverbs which Poor Richard was supposed to utter,
      Franklin became the counsellor and household friend of almost every family
      in America. Thus it was the humblest of all his labors that has done the
      most for his fame.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I have read some of those proverbs,&rdquo; remarked Edward; &ldquo;but I do not like
      them. They are all about getting money or saving it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Well,&rdquo; said his father, &ldquo;they were suited to the condition of the
      country; and their effect, upon the whole, has doubtless been good,
      although they teach men but a very small portion of their duties.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      CHAPTER IX.
    </h3>
    <p>
      Hitherto Mr. Temple&rsquo;s narratives had all been about boys and men. But, the
      next evening, he bethought himself that the quiet little Emily would
      perhaps be glad to hear the story of a child of her own sex. He therefore
      resolved to narrate the youthful adventures of Christina, of Sweden, who
      began to be a queen at the age of no more than six years. If we have any
      little girls among our readers, they must not suppose that Christina is
      set before them as a pattern of what they ought to be. On the contrary,
      the tale of her life is chiefly profitable as showing the evil effects of
      a wrong education, which caused this daughter of a king to be both useless
      and unhappy. Here follows the story.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /> <a name="christina"></a>
    </p>
    <h3>
      QUEEN CHRISTINA.
    </h3>
    <h4>
      [BORN 1626 DIED 1689]
    </h4>
    <p>
      In the royal palace at Stockholm, the capital city of Sweden, there was
      horn, in 1626, a little princess. The king, her father; gave her the name
      of Christina, in memory of a Swedish girl with whom he had been in love.
      His own name was Gustavus Adolphus; and he was also called the Lion of the
      North, because he had gained greater fame in war than any other prince or
      general then alive.
    </p>
    <p>
      With this valiant king for their commander, the Swedes had made themselves
      terrible to the Emperor of Germany and to the king of France, and were
      looked upon as the chief defence of the Protestant religion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The little Christina was by no means a beautiful child. To confess the
      truth, she was remarkably plain. The queen, her mother, did not love her
      so much as she ought; partly, perhaps, on account of Christina&rsquo;s want of
      beauty, and also because both the king and queen had wished for a son, who
      might have gained as great renown in battle as his father had.
    </p>
    <p>
      The king, however, soon became exceedingly fond of the infant princess.
      When Christina was very young she was taken violently sick. Gustavus
      Adolphus, who was several hundred miles from Stockholm, travelled night
      and day, and never rested until he held the poor child in his arms. On her
      recovery he made a solemn festival, in order to show his joy to the people
      of Sweden and express his gratitude to Heaven. After this event he took
      his daughter with him in all the journeys which he made throughout his
      kingdom.
    </p>
    <p>
      Christina soon proved herself a bold and sturdy little girl. When she was
      two years old, the king and herself, in the course of a journey, came to
      the strong fortress of Colmar. On the battlements were soldiers clad in
      steel armor, which glittered in the sunshine. There were likewise great
      cannons, pointing their black months at Gustavus and little Christina, and
      ready to belch out their smoke and thunder; for, whenever a king enters a
      fortress, it is customary to receive him with a royal salute of artillery.
    </p>
    <p>
      But the captain of the fortress met Gustavus and his daughter as they were
      about to enter the gateway.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;May it please your Majesty,&rdquo; said he, taking off his steel cap and bowing
      profoundly, &ldquo;I fear that, if we receive you with a salute of cannon, the
      little princess will be frightened almost to death.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Gustavus looked earnestly at his daughter, and was indeed apprehensive
      that the thunder of so many cannon might perhaps throw her into
      convulsions. He had almost a mind to tell the captain to let them enter
      the fortress quietly, as common people might have done, without all this
      head-splitting racket. But no; this would not do.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Let them fire,&rdquo; said he, waving his hand. &ldquo;Christina is a soldier&rsquo;s
      daughter, and must learn to bear the noise of cannon.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      So the captain uttered the word of command, and immediately there was a
      terrible peal of thunder from the cannon, and such a gush of smoke that it
      enveloped the whole fortress in its volumes. But, amid all the din and
      confusion, Christina was seen clapping her little hands and laughing in an
      ecstasy of delight. Probably nothing ever pleased her father so much as to
      see that his daughter promised to be fearless as himself. He determined to
      educate her exactly as if she had been a boy, and to teach her all the
      knowledge needful to the ruler of a kingdom and the commander of an army.
    </p>
    <p>
      But Gustavus should have remembered that Providence had created her to be
      a woman, and that it was not for him to make a man of her.
    </p>
    <p>
      However, the king derived great happiness from his beloved Christina. It
      must have been a pleasant sight to see the powerful monarch of Sweden
      playing in some magnificent hall of the palace with his merry little girl.
      Then he forgot that the weight of a kingdom rested upon his shoulders. He
      forgot that the wise Chancellor Oxenstiern was waiting to consult with him
      how to render Sweden the greatest nation of Europe. He forgot that the
      Emperor of Germany and the King of France were plotting together how they
      might pull him down from his throne.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yes; Gustavus forgot all the perils, and cares, and pompous irksomeness of
      a royal life; and was as happy, while playing with his child, as the
      humblest peasant in the realm of Sweden. How gayly did they dance along
      the marble floor of the palace, this valiant king, with his upright,
      martial figure, his war-worn visage, and commanding aspect, and the small,
      round form of Christina, with her rosy face of childish merriment! Her
      little fingers were clasped in her father&rsquo;s hand, which had held the
      leading staff in many famous victories. His crown and sceptre were her
      playthings. She could disarm Gustavus of his sword, which was so terrible
      to the princes of Europe.
    </p>
    <p>
      But, alas! the king was not long permitted to enjoy Christina&rsquo;s society.
      When she was four years old Gustavus was summoned to take command of the
      allied armies of Germany, which were fighting against the emperor. His
      greatest affliction was the necessity of parting with his child; but
      people in such high stations have but little opportunity for domestic
      happiness. He called an assembly of the senators of Sweden and confided
      Christina to their care, saying, that each one of them must be a father to
      her if he himself should fall in battle.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the moment of his departure Christina ran towards him and began to
      address him with a speech which somebody had taught her for the occasion.
      Gustavus was busied with thoughts about the affairs of the kingdom, so
      that he did not immediately attend to the childish voice of his little
      girl. Christina, who did not love to be unnoticed, immediately stopped
      short and pulled him by the coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Father,&rdquo; said she, &ldquo;why do not you listen to my speech?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      In a moment the king forgot everything except that, he was parting with
      what he loved best in all the world. He caught the child in his arms,
      pressed her to his bosom, and burst into tears. Yes; though he was a brave
      man, and though he wore a steel corselet on his breast, and though armies
      were waiting for him to lead them to battle, still his heart melted within
      him, and he wept. Christina, too, was so afflicted that her attendants
      began to fear that she would actually die of grief. But probably she was
      soon comforted; for children seldom remember their parents quite so
      faithfully as their parents remember them.
    </p>
    <p>
      For two years more Christina remained in the palace at Stockholm. The
      queen, her mother, had accompanied Gustavus to the wars. The child,
      therefore, was left to the guardianship of five of the wisest men in the
      kingdom. But these wise men knew better how to manage the affairs of state
      than how to govern and educate a little girl so as to render her a good
      and happy woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      When two years had passed away, tidings were brought to Stockholm which
      filled everybody with triumph and sorrow at the same time. The Swedes had
      won a glorious victory at Lutzen. But, alas! the warlike King of Sweden,
      the Lion of the North, the father of our little Christina, had been slain
      at the foot of a great stone, which still marks the spot of that hero&rsquo;s
      death.
    </p>
    <p>
      Soon after this sad event, a general assembly, or congress, consisting of
      deputations from the nobles, the clergy, the burghers, and the peasants of
      Sweden, was summoned to meet at Stockholm. It was for the purpose of
      declaring little Christina to be Queen of Sweden and giving her the crown
      and sceptre of her deceased father. Silence being proclaimed, the
      Chancellor Oxenstiern arose.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;We desire to know,&rdquo; said he, &ldquo;whether the people of Sweden will take the
      daughter of our dead king, Gustavus Adolphus, to be their queen.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When the chancellor had spoken, an old man, with white hair and in coarse
      apparel, stood up in the midst of the assembly. He was a peasant, Lars
      Larrson by name, and had spent most of his life in laboring on a farm.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Who is this daughter of Gustavus?&rdquo; asked the old man. &ldquo;We do not know
      her. Let her be shown to us.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then Christina was brought into the hall and placed before the old
      peasant. It was strange, no doubt, to see a child&mdash;a little girl of
      six years old&mdash;offered to the Swedes as their ruler instead of the
      brave king, her father, who had led then to victory so many times. Could
      her baby fingers wield a sword in war? Could her childish mind govern the
      nation wisely in peace?
    </p>
    <p>
      But the Swedes do not appear to have asked themselves these questions. Old
      Lars Larrson took Christina up in his arms and gazed earnestly into her
      face.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had known the great Gustavus well; and his heart was touched when he
      saw the likeness which the little girl bore to that heroic monarch.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Yes,&rdquo; cried he, with the tears gushing down his furrowed cheeks; &ldquo;this is
      truly the daughter of our Gustavus! Here is her father&rsquo;s brow!&mdash;here
      is his piercing eye! She is his very picture! This child shall be our
      queen!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Then all the proud nobles of Sweden, and the reverend clergy, and the
      burghers, and the peasants, knelt down at the child&rsquo;s feet and kissed her
      hand.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Long live Christina, Queen of Sweden!&rdquo; shouted they.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even after she was a woman grown Christina remembered the pleasure which
      she felt in seeing all of hose men at her feet and hearing them
      acknowledge her as their supreme ruler. Poor child! she was yet to learn
      that power does not insure happiness. As yet, however, she had not any
      real power. All the public business, it is true, was transacted in her
      name; but the kingdom was governed by a number of the most experienced
      statesmen, who were called a regency.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was considered necessary that the little queen, should be present
      at the public ceremonies, and should behave just as if she were in reality
      the ruler of the nation. When she was seven years of age, some ambassadors
      from the Czar of Muscovy came to the Swedish court. They wore long beards,
      and were clad in a strange fashion, with furs and other outlandish
      ornaments; and as they were inhabitants of a half-civilized country, they
      did not behave like other people. The Chancellor Oxenstiern was afraid
      that the young queen would burst out a laughing at the first sight of
      these queer ambassadors, or else that she would be frightened by their
      unusual aspect.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Why should I be frightened?&rdquo; said the little queen. &ldquo;And do you suppose
      that I have no better manners than to laugh? Only tell me how I must
      behave, and I will do it.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      Accordingly, the Muscovite ambassadors were introduced; and Christina
      received them and answered their speeches with as much dignity and
      propriety as if sho had been a grown woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this time, though Christina was now a queen, you must not suppose that
      she was left to act as she pleased. She had a preceptor, named John
      Mathias, who was a very learned man and capable of instructing her in all
      the branches of science. But there was nobody to teach her the delicate
      graces and gentle virtues of a woman. She was surrounded almost entirely
      by men, and had learned to despise the society of her own sex. At the age
      of nine years she was separated from her mother, whom the Swedes did not
      consider a proper person to be intrusted with the charge of her. No little
      girl who sits by a New England fireside has cause to envy Christina in the
      royal palace at Stockholm.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet she made great progress in her studies. She learned to read the
      classical authors of Greece and Rome, and became a great admirer of the
      heroes and poets of old times. Then, as for active exercises, she could
      ride on horseback as well as any man in her kingdom. She was fond of
      hunting, and could shoot at a mark with wonderful skill. But dancing was
      the only feminine accomplishment with which she had any acquaintance.
    </p>
    <p>
      She was so restless in her disposition that none of her attendants were
      sure of a moment&rsquo;s quiet neither day nor night. She grew up, I am sorry to
      say, a very unamiable person, ill-tempered, proud, stubborn, and, in
      short, unfit to make those around her happy or to be happy herself. Let
      every little girl, who has been taught self-control and a due regard for
      the rights of others, thank Heaven that she has had better instruction
      than this poor little Queen of Sweden.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the age of eighteen Christina was declared free to govern the kingdom
      by herself without the aid of a regency. At this period of her life she
      was a young woman of striking aspect, a good figure, and intelligent face,
      but very strangely dressed. She wore a short habit of gray cloth, with a
      man&rsquo;s vest over it, and a black scarf around her neck; but no jewels nor
      ornaments of any kind.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yet, though Christina was so negligent of her appearance, there was
      something in her air and manner that proclaimed her as the ruler of a
      kingdom. Her eyes, it is said, had a very fierce and haughty look. Old
      General Wrangel, who had often caused the enemies of Sweden to tremble in
      battle, actually trembled himself when he encountered the eyes of the
      queen. But it would have been better for Christina if she could have made
      people love her, by means of soft and gentle looks, instead of affrighting
      them by such terrible glances.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now I have told you almost all that is amusing or instructive in the
      childhood of Christina. Only a few more words need be said about her; for
      it is neither pleasant nor profitable to think of many things that she did
      after she grew to be a woman.
    </p>
    <p>
      When she had worn the crown a few years, she began to consider it beneath
      her dignity to be called a queen, because the name implied that she
      belonged to the weaker sex. She therefore caused herself to be proclaimed
      KING; thus declaring to the world that she despised her own sex and was
      desirous of being ranked among men. But in the twenty-eighth year of her
      age Christina grew tired of royalty, and resolved to be neither a king nor
      a queen any longer. She took the crown from her head with her own hands,
      and ceased to be the ruler of Sweden. The people did not greatly regret
      her abdication; for she had governed them ill, and had taken much of their
      property to supply her extravagance.
    </p>
    <p>
      Having thus given up her hereditary crown, Christina left Sweden and
      travelled over many of the countries of Europe. Everywhere she was
      received with great ceremony, because she was the daughter of the renowned
      Gustavus, and had herself been a powerful queen. Perhaps you would like to
      know something about her personal appearance in the latter part of time
      life. She is described as wearing a man&rsquo;s vest, a short gray petticoat,
      embroidered with gold and silver, and a black wig, which was thrust awry
      upon her head. She wore no gloves, and so seldom washed her hands that
      nobody could fell what had been their original color. In this strange
      dress, and, I suppose, without washing her hands or face, she visited the
      magnificent court of Louis XIV.
    </p>
    <p>
      She died in 1689. None loved her while she lived, nor regretted her death,
      nor planted a single flower upon her grave. Happy are the little girls of
      America, who are brought up quietly and tenderly at the domestic hearth,
      and thus become gentle and delicate women! May none of them ever lose the
      loveliness of their sex by receiving such an education as that of Queen
      Christina!
    </p>
    <p>
      Emily, timid, quiet, and sensitive, was the very reverse of little
      Christina. She seemed shocked at the idea of such a bold and masculine
      character as has been described in the foregoing story.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;I never could have loved her,&rdquo; whispered she to Mrs. Temple; and then she
      added, with that love of personal neatness which generally accompanies
      purity of heart, &ldquo;It troubles me to think of her unclean hands!&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Christina was a sad specimen of womankind indeed,&rdquo; said Mrs. Temple. &ldquo;But
      it is very possible for a woman to have a strong mind, and to be fitted
      for the active business of life, without losing any of her natural
      delicacy. Perhaps some time or other Mr. Temple will tell you a story of
      such a woman.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      It was now time for Edward to be left to repose. His brother George shook
      him heartily by the hand, and hoped, as he had hoped twenty times before,
      that tomorrow or the next day Ned&rsquo;s eyes would be strong enough to look
      the sun right in the face.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Thank you, George,&rdquo; replied Edward, smiling; &ldquo;but I am not half so
      impatient as at first. If my bodily eyesight were as good as yours,
      perhaps I could not see things so distinctly with my mind&rsquo;s eye. But now
      there is a light within which shows me the little Quaker artist, Ben West,
      and Isaac Newton with his windmill, and stubborn Sam Johnson, and stout
      Noll Cromwell, and shrewd Ben Franklin, and little Queen Christina, with
      the Swedes kneeling at her feet. It seems as if I really saw these
      personages face to face. So I can bear the darkness outside of me pretty
      well.&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      When Edward ceased speaking, Emily put up her mouth and kissed him as her
      farewell for the night.
    </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;Ah, I forgot!&rdquo; said Edward, with a sigh. &ldquo;I cannot see any of your faces.
      What would it signify to see all the famous people in the world, if I must
      be blind to the faces that I love?&rdquo;
     </p>
    <p>
      &ldquo;You must try to see us with your heart, my dear child,&rdquo; said his mother.
    </p>
    <p>
      Edward went to bed somewhat dispirited; but, quickly falling asleep, was
      visited with such a pleasant dream of the sunshine and of his dearest
      friends that he felt the happier for it all the next day. And we hope to
      find him still happy when we meet again.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /><br /><br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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