Full text of "When they were children; stories of the childhood of famous men and women"

See other formats

*""««v-V IT ^ir ••-Si-'6*'

rw^Jr/wfi^SV

» P^iV^g^'

f^OT^^TO*

Ml !&wt«^HA>T&,'.«M

:JL, l*V\ f X'/J -.- XI vI-» n ir^JlZ

«*T='/*-VS-V XSX >7 L— 4^fer*C*'

i^K5

UK.w^^^g;D <=*

§A ^.^ ga^ BWr-^

^SJc? v*i^i T^ir^ '/^5»'-

tsAV^/X^
lv\V ' V*/1^ -c^

( V^rsr^--A.{/ \\;^

^ wwiJm

fs^ <^\^§K 'vlrs-y

^W M'/^>/)Sv

. «-~i/7 v . li -*— ^

S ^feHTVO ^ S&

<c^4^MKA'>

tP^s35$®^? i ^Wnto^

ijj XT ^Flp/f^ '^3 W:I8 7lP'/r?=f»

NY PUBL C L BRARY THE BRANCH LIBRARIES

3 3333 08119 6814

jQ20-Steedman

When they were children

H2J £T~

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

-^.V/ n r ? "
CT- '

-Vi

HOPE

AND

EXER-

-TION

Jlw

jxft /I

WHEN

THEY WERE

CHILDREN

Stories of the Childhood

of
Famous Men

and
Women

AMY- SXEEDMAN

\ >tn bih r I RANCH

I.F.AjSiTQKESCO

CiVV 0, .

!, \

ABOUT THIS BOOK

THE world has many stately palaces and great
cathedrals that tower in their loveliness high above the
humble dwellings around them, and their beauty and
wonder are the delight of our eyes. We look up at
their high walls, their gilded roofs, their slender spires
pointing to the sky ; we admire the great strength and
delicate tracery of their stonework, and whether in
sunshine or under the stars, they stand out as
monuments of what the mind of man has
, power to plan and his hands have skill to fashion.

But the foundations on which these buildings rest
e hidden from our eyes, buried deep down in the

'kness. Yet though unseen and seldom thought of,
in every case there has been the patient laying of stone
upon stone, without which the stately building could
never have been reared.

It is much the same with the great lives which
tower above the ordinary ones around us. Here and
there we note them ; we mark the noble deed, the
courage, the heroism, the flash of genius, the habit of
self-sacrifice, but we are apt to forget that all this did
not come into being suddenly, that in each case there
was a long time of preparation, a patient laying of
foundations in the years of childhood, act by act, as
stone is laid upon stone, before it was known what
manner of life would be built up.

vii

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

So whenever it is possible it is well to consider the
time of preparation as well as to admire the finished
work, and we shall learn to know these great men and
women all the better for hearing something of what
they thought and did when they were children.

" Souls are built as temples are —
Sunken deep, unseen, unknown,
Lies the sure foundation stone ;
Then the courses framed to bear
Lift the cloisters, pillared fair ;
Last of all the airy spire,
Soaring Heavenward, higher and higher,
Nearest sun and nearest star."

AMY STEEDMAN.

Vlll

PETER

CONTENTS

PAGE

SAINT AUGUSTINE ........ 1

S. Louis OP FRANCE 6

GIOTTO 13

S. CATHERINE OP SIENA 19

JEANNE D'ARC 27

MICHAEL ANGELO 36

QUEEN ELIZABETH -......, .43

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS 52

Louis XIII 62

SIR ISAAC NEWTON 73

SAMUEL JOHNSON . . . . . . . .79

FREDERICK THE GREAT ....... 86

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH ..... 96

GEORGE WASHINGTON . . . . . ' . . .110

GOETHE . . . . . . . . . .116

MOZART 130

HORATIO NELSON 139

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON . . . . . .147

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE . . . . . . .151

SIR WALTER SCOTT 160

ELIZABETH FRY . . . . . . . . .172

GEORGE STEPHENSON ... .... 177

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN 185

HANS ANDERSEN 196

ABRAHAM LINCOLN 205

CONTENTS

PAOB

ALFRED TENNYSON . . . . . . . .219

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY ..... 225

CHARLES DICKENS 237

ROBERT BROWNING ........ 248

DAVID LIVINGSTONE*" ........ 254

RICHARD WAGNER — ^ 262

jEAN-FRANgoiS MlLLET 272

CHARLOTTE BRONTE AND HER SISTERS .... 279

JOHN RUSKIN 289

QUEEN VICTORIA 296

GEORGE ELIOT 303

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE^ ....... 309

-JENNY LIND 315

ROSA BONHEUR ... ...... 324

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON ...... 335

SIR JOHIT EVERETT MILLAIS 347

LOUISA ALCOTT •. 356

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON 366

THOMAS ALVA EDISON'* 373

ROBERT Louis STEVENSON " 378

F [Y OF

CHY to

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

SAINT AUGUSTINE

THE story of S. Augustine's childhood is different from
almost all other saint stories, because it is told to us in
his own words. There are many beautiful lives of the
saints written by people who tried to write them as
truthfully as possible, but whd could, not bs qinte certain
of every fact. That is why -S, Augustine's oWri account
is so real and so interesting.

He begins his story from the very beginning of his
life, when he was a trny baby. Not that he could
remember as far back as that, but he watched other
babies, and knew that he muet have behaved exactly
as they did.

It was in the little town of Tagaste, on the northern
shore of Africa, that Augustine "was born in the year
of Our Lord 354. That little strip of coast with the sea
on one side and the desert on the other had seen the
martyrdom of Peptua and Cyprian when they laid down
their lives for the faith, and Augustine might well be
proud of his birthplace. His mother, Monica, was a
noble lady, loved and honoured by all who knew her,
whose heart was bound up in that one precious son of
hers. Many were the dreams she dreamed of his future
as she rocked him in her arms, but it was not of fame

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

or honours that she thought ; the prayer that came
from the depth of her heart was that her little son
should live to be a faithful soldier and servant of the
Master whom she served.

Like all other babies, Augustine began life by sleep-
ing a good deal, crying a good deal, and then, after a
while, breaking out into a smile occasionally. Next
came a desire to make his wishes known, and as he
could not yet talk, he babbled and waved his arms and
kicked vigorously. Then if he did not get his own way,
like all other babies, he lifted up his voice and wept.

Little by little he learned to walk and to talk, and
after that came school.

" Next I w-is put to school to get learning," he writes,
"in which 1, poor wretch, knew not what use there
was, and yet if idle I was beaten."

It was all very bewildering to a little boy. Why
should he be forced to learn things which he did not
understand and had not the least desire to know ?
Those whippings hurt sorely, but they did not explain
matters at all.

It wa,s the thought of the whippings that made
Augustine say his first real prayer to God. " So I
began as a boy to pray to Thee, though but a small
boy, yet with no small earnestness, that I might not be
beaten at school."

He was a thorough boy, eager for games and all
sorts of mischief, hating to be forced to stay indoors
and learn dull, wearisome lessons, and becoming idle
and listless when he ought to have been attending to
his work. So of course a whipping followed, and with
a little sore body he crept away and sobbed out the
prayer from his little sore soul.

SAINT AUGUSTINE

He did not understand how it could all be meant for
his good. We never quite understand that until school-
days are left far behind.

As the boy grew older, although he still hated to be
made to learn his lessons, he began to be more inter-
ested in them, and even to love the ones that had
stories in them.

"Latin I loved, not indeed reading, writing, and
arithmetic, but the story of Virgil. . . . Why, then, did
I hate the Greek Classics ? For Homer cunningly wove
the like fictions, and is most sweetly vain, yet was he
little to my boyish taste. And so, I suppose, would
Virgil be to Grecian children. The difficulty of a foreign
tongue dashed all the sweetness of Grecian fable.
Latin I learned without fear and suffering, amidst the
caresses of my nursery and jests of friends, smiling and
sportively encouraging me."

It does not need much patience and perseverance
to learn our native tongue, and Augustine possessed
very little patience and scarcely any perseverance
at ^all.

Which of us if we sat down to write out a list of our
faults would feel inclined to mention the little mean
sins which no one but ourselves knows anything about ?
It is so much easier to talk about the big faults that
sound rather grand, but no one cares to own up to
little mean underhand ways. Yet it is those little
mean sins which the great Saint acknowledges when
he writes down in his Confessions the story of his
childhood.

He was not always quite straight and fair in games,
he says. Sometimes in his eagerness to be first, and
when no one noticed, he cheated just a very little, but

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

enough to win the game. That was bad enough, but
if he found anyone else doing something which he
considered not strictly fair he was furiously angry,
and talked fiercely about the meanness of cheat-
ing. He was fond of showing off, too, and would
pretend to be much worse than he really was, just to
win the foolish admiration of his companions. There
is no doubt that Augustine was a very human little
boy.

He tells us that in a garden near his house there
was a pear-tree covered with pears which were neither
sweet nor large. But just because they belonged to
someone else he thought it fun to steal them, and he
and his companions went out one dark night and
robbed the tree of all its fruit. They did not care to
eat the pears, and, after tasting one or two, threw the
rest away to the pigs. There was no particular pleasure,
he allows, in doing this, and he would never have done
it alone, but he wanted the other boys to think how
bold and bad he was, and that he was afraid of
nothing.

All this scarcely seems as if it could be the account
of the childhood of a Saint, and yet there was always
something saintlike surrounding him, something of
which he took no heed, but which never failed him —
his mother's love and her earnest prayers.

She used to weep, he says, but he took no notice
of her tears, counting them womanish and having no
desire to mend his ways. But God counted those tears,
every one, and He listened to those prayers. Augustine
wandered away, like the prodigal in the parable,
into the far country of folly and sin, but his
mother's prayers were like a golden thread follow-

SAINT AUGUSTINE

ing him wherever he strayed, leading him at last
back to God. In God's good time those prayers were
answered, and the wild boy, so full of faults and
sins, became one of the purest and noblest of His
Saints.

S. LOUIS OF FRANCE

THE great bell of the Castle of Poissy was ringing out
its solemn call to the service of God on S. Mark's Day
in the year 1214, when the news was announced that
a prince had just been born within the castle, and that
the ringing of the bell must be stopped.

The great bell had swung backwards and forwards,
and its call had echoed through the castle and throbbed
its way through the low tower room where the mother
lay resting with her new-born son by her side.

There could be little rest for the Princess Blanche
while that bell rang out its message, but the moment
it was stopped she missed the sound, and seemed un-
happy that it should have been silenced for her sake.
The call to God's service must not cease ; she would
rather that she and her little son should be moved to
some outside place where the sound could not reach
them. The bell must ring on, and the princess with the
new-born baby might be taken to the poor shelter of
" The Lady's Barn " outside the castle.

So, at the very beginning of his little life S. Louis
of France, the baby born on the feast-day of S. Mark,
began to endure hardship in God's service. True, it
mattered little to him whether he was sheltered in a
castle or a barn, so long as he lay warm and safe in
his nurse's arms, just as our dear Lord Himself could
have felt no earthly need in that poor stable home, so

S. LOUIS OF FRANCE

long as His mother's arms were round Him, and she
wrapped Him from the cold. But even so, it was
fitting that the prince who was to strive so earnestly
to follow in the footsteps of his Master should begin
life in the same humble fashion.

There was no great stir at the court when this new
prince was born, for he was not the eldest son. His
brother Philip, now five years old, was heir to the
crown of France, and the new baby was considered of
so little importance that even the exact date of his
birth seems to have been forgotten. But although
there is some uncertainty about the year of his birth,
it is quite certain that he was born on S. Mark's Day.

The christening of the little prince was a very quiet
affair, with no pomp or ceremony. He was given his
name of Louis in the Collegiate Church of Poissy, and
there at the font the cross was traced on his brow, and
he was enrolled in the service of the King of Saints,
whom he was so faithfully to serve.

In after years the Saint King always spoke of the
Church of Poissy as the place where he received the
greatest honour of his life. When he said that, his
friends looked puzzled, and wondered if he did not
mean the Cathedral at Rheims, where the crown had
been placed upon his head ; but seeing their perplexity,
the King would smile, and explain that it was not the
crown of which he boasted, but " the cross they laid
upon my brow at Poissy."

The first years of Louis' life were full of sunshine
and unclouded happiness.

There were several children in the royal nursery,
so they played their games together, got into mischief,
and enjoyed thrilling adventures, as only boys can do.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

The fair-haired, blue-eyed Louis was as merry as any
of them, and nothing ever appeared to cloud his sunny
temper. He seemed to carry a charm about with him,
and wherever he went the sunshine of happiness went
with him.

Neither he nor any other of the royal children ran
any danger of being spoilt or over-indulged. They
had a mother of so strong a character that they quickly
learned their first lesson of obedience from her, and
she was so wonderfully good and wise that her rule,
though strict, was the best preparation the young
princes could have had for fighting the good fight in
all the storms and trials that awaited them.

It was while Philip and Louis were still little boys
that some misfortune befell their father when he was
away in England, and he sent to the children's grand-
father, Philip II, asking for help.

Now Philip II was a very strong and determined
old man, and he was angry with his son for getting
into difficulties.

"By the lance of S. James," he cried, "I will do
nothing to help him."

That was all very well, but he forgot that Blanche,
his daughter-in-law, had quite as strong a will as his,
and was quite as determined.

" Will you do nothing to help your son ? " she asked.
" Will you let him die in a foreign land ? "

" Of a surety," said the King, " I will do nothing to
help him."

" In God's name, then, I know what I will do," said
Blanche. " I have two fair children, and I will pawn
them that I may have money to supply my husband's
needs."

S. LOUIS OF FRANCE

But, after all, the fair children were not pawned,
for of course the King was obliged to give in, and
Blanche had her way.

This was the mother who trained up the little Saint
in his childhood, and " taught him to believe in God and
to love and fear Him in his youth."

The first cloud that overshadowed the clear sky of
Louis' happy childhood was the death of his brother
Philip. It was sad and bewildering to lose his special
playmate, and he was too young to understand those
beautiful words which his father and mother had
written over the tomb of their first-born son in Notre
Dame, "Death hath kept him from being a king on
earth that he might be a king in heaven."

Another death followed soon afterwards. The
children's grandfather, King Philip II, passed away,
and their father became Louis VIII. All this made
little Louis a person of some importance, for he was
heir-apparent now.

The children went to the Cathedral of Rheims to
be present at their father's coronation, and they must
have thoroughly enjoyed all the excitement of the
brilliant scene. As they rode back to Paris the way
was strewn with flowers, and when the gay company
reached the city gates they were met by welcoming
crowds bringing gifts for the newly-crowned King;
while inside the city the streets were hung with
carpets and tapestry, and there was rejoicing every-
where.

It was but a glimpse of the gay world which the
children caught after all, for they speedily went back
to the schoolroom and nursery. Lessons and rules
grew harder as the boys grew older, and if it had not

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

been that Louis had such a sunny, sweet temper there
might have been serious trouble at times. It is said
that his tutor believed in the old saying, " Spare the
rod, and spoil the child," and he certainly did his best
to prevent Louis from being spoilt in that way, for
he whipped him every day just in case he should do
anything to deserve it. The boy accepted the disci-
pline quite cheerfully, however, and nothing seemed
to spoil his temper or make him sullen. Everyone
loved him, servants and friends alike, and he was
always ready to do a kindness to anyone who needed
his help.

The children saw little of their father, for he had
ridden away to the wars soon after his coronation ; but,
after three years of waiting, Queen Blanche set out
one day with her children to welcome back her dearly-
loved lord.

It was a dull November day when she started,
and Louis rode by the side of the carriage, full of
eager excitement at the thought of seeing his father
again.

As they galloped along the muddy road a company
of soldiers came riding to meet them, and the Queen
looked anxiously out, for they rode slowly, as those who
bear ill news.

It was ill news indeed that was coming to meet the
brave Queen. Louis VIII was dead. The little fair-
haired boy who rode by his mother's side was now
King Louis IX.

" Would to God that I could die too ! " was the cry of
the poor Queen when the messenger told his tale. That
was her first thought, but afterwards she knew that
now of all times she must needs be strong and brave,

S. LOUIS OF FRANCE

for France and her young son needed all the help
she could give. There were enemies on every side
ready to snatch his inheritance from the boy. It
would need all her wisdom and courage to defend
the right.

Louis was twelve years old when this great respon-
sibility was laid upon his shoulders. In a moment his
childhood vanished, and the battle of life began.

First of all, it was necessary that the young soldier
should receive his knighthood, and to Louis each part
of that ceremony was full of deepest meaning. There
was the bathing, that washing which signified the
washing away of sin ; then the putting on of the snow-
white shirt, which meant that the young knight's body
should be kept pure. Afterwards came the crimson
robe, the colour of a true knight's blood, which he must
pour out "to serve and honour God and guard Holy
Church." His long brown stockings spoke of the
brown earth from whence he had come, and to which
he would return ; and the white girdle was an emblem
of purity and self-denial ; while the two golden spurs
were tokens of the obedience and eagerness he must
show in God's service. Then as he knelt in his new
armour before the altar the young knight received his
sword, the sword which he was to wield in defence of
the Christian faith.

All night long in the great Cathedral of Rheims the
boy knelt, keeping watch before the altar, where the
next day he was to be crowned King of France. Not a
sound echoed through the dim aisles, scarce a gleam of
light lifted the heavy shadows that closed in upon that
kneeling figure. The fair head was bowed; the boy's
soul was uplifted in prayer that God would accept his

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

service. Surely the white-robed angels kept watch
that night ; the cloud of Witnesses must have hovered
close around the kneeling boy, who in the years to
come was to show the world how a true knight and a
noble king could also be a Saint of God.

GIOTTO

FOURTEEN miles from the city of Florence, up among
the olive-yards and vineyards of Tuscany, the little
hamlet of Vespignano nestled in the hollow of the hills,
looking down through the blue mists to the domes and
towers of the fair City of Flowers. It was a simple little
village, and the people who lived there were simple,
honest, hard-working country folk, who spent their
days in tending their olive-trees and vines and keeping
watch over their sheep, like the shepherds of old.

From time to time echoes of the city life reached
the distant village, and to the people of Vespignano
Florence seemed the centre of the world where the
most wonderful things were always happening.

In one of the small sun-baked houses of the village
there lived a husbandman called Bondone, and it was
here in 1270 that his little son was born, to whom he
gave the name of Giotto.

Life was hard and rough in that country home, but
the peasant baby grew into a strong hardy boy, learn-
ing early what cold and hunger meant. His father
was sure that even in the wonderful city there could
not be found a cleverer, brighter boy than his. The
neighbours, too, were all fond of the brown-eyed,
bright-faced boy, and were proud of his quickness and
clever ways.

All through the long summer days Giotto played

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

about in the sunshine, as wild and free as the little
green lizards that darted about on the sunny walls ;
and when the bitter winds blew, and winter drove him
indoors, he was happy enough nestling in the corner
close to the big wood fire, roasting chestnuts, or playing
with the treasures which filled his pockets, gathered on
the hillside in the sunny summer days.

There were no picture books in these days ; indeed
there were few books of any sort, and Giotto had never
seen a picture in all his life. He had heard of one,
though, and it may be that he often dreamed of it as
he sat looking into the red heart of the fire.

News had come one day from Florence that a most
important event had happened there. The great artist
called Cimabue had been painting a picture in his
studio outside the Porto S. Piero, and everyone had
been on tiptoe of curiosity to know what it was like.
No one, however, had even caught a glimpse of it, until
the day when Charles of Anjou, King of Naples, hap-
pened to be passing through Florence, and, hearing
of the picture, desired to see it.

All the townsfolk crowded after him as he made
his way to the studio, and as many as could edged
their way in with him to gaze on the wonderful
painting.

It was a marvel of beauty, so they said, and nothing
else was talked of; while those who had not seen it
could only wait patiently until it should be finished.
When at last it was taken from the studio and carried
in triumph through the streets to the Church of Santa
Maria Novella, the whole city went wild with delight.
Never before had they seen such a Madonna and Child,
never before had anyone painted such angels of light.

GIOTTO

The first feeling as they gazed was one of awe and
reverence, but then a great shout of joy went up and
swept like a wave through the streets as the picture
was carried along. Ever after that part of the city
was called by a new name, the Borgo Allegri, or the
Glad Quarter.

" A noble picture ! worthy of the shout,
Wherewith along the streets the people bore
Its cherub-faces, which the sun threw out,
Until they stooped, and entered the church door."

There can be 110 doubt that the boy Giotto heard
about that wonderful picture, and perhaps listened
more eagerly to the news than anyone else in the
village.

For Giotto dreamed a great many dreams about
pictures, and he thought that a man that could paint
a picture like that must be the happiest man in all
the world. There was nothing he himself loved so
well as to scratch lines upon a smooth rock, trying
to draw the shape of the things he saw around him.
They could not be called pictures, for he had no
pencils and no paper, but it did not matter much to
him ; he was quite happy with a piece of sharpened
flint and any smooth surface to draw upon.

There was plenty of time, too, for drawing out on
the hillside, for since he was now ten years old he
was put in charge of his father's sheep, and spent
the long summer days watching lest they should
stray too far afield.

Out there under the blue sky his eyes made pictures
for him out of the fleecy white clouds as they slowly
changed from one form to another. He learned to

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

know exactly the shape of each flower, and how it
grew. He noticed how the olive-trees laid their silver
leaves against the blue background of the sky, and
how his sheep looked when they stooped to eat or lay
in the shadow of a rock.

Nothing escaped his keen, watchful eyes, and then
with eager hands he would sharpen a piece of flint,
choose out the smoothest rock, and try to draw the
wonderful shapes which had filled his eyes with their
beauty. Sometimes, too, he would try and draw a
village mother with her baby, or the little dog that
sat and watched him, head on one side, alert and
eager.

We know that he must have watched and pondered
over these things, for we see them looking out at us
from his pictures, painted long years after the village
life was left far behind. He always loved to paint and
to carve the things that had been around him in his
simple, happy childhood.

Now it happened one day when Giotto was out on
the hillside as usual with his sheep that a stranger
came riding along the lonely road that led to the
village. The boy kneeling by the rock, eagerly trying
to trace the outline of one of his sheep feeding close
at hand, did not hear the sound of the horse's hoofs,
and never paused to look up until a voice from the
road called to him. Then he started to his feet in
surprise, and greeted the stranger with a shy "Good
day, Master."

This was certainly no villager, but a stately knight
from the city, such as Giotto had never seen before.
The boy gazed up at him with wondering eyes.

Meanwhile the rider had dismounted, and stood

GIOTTO

looking at the drawing rudely scratched upon the
smooth surface of the rock.

" Who did that ? " he asked abruptly.

" I was trying to make a picture of one of my
sheep," answered the boy shamefacedly.

The man stood still, gazing intently at the drawing,
and then from it looked at the little barefooted shepherd
boy. Giotto was watching him shyly, he was not
accustomed to city ways, and the manner in which the
stranger looked at him made him feel shy.

"Who taught you to do this?" asked the stranger
after a pause.

" Nobody taught me," said Giotto, a smile of amuse-
ment breaking over his face ; " I only try to draw the
things that my eyes see."

The stranger smiled too.

" How would you like to come with me to Florence
and learn to be a painter ? " he asked.

Giotto's cheeks flushed and his eyes shone. " Indeed,
Master, I would come most willingly," he cried, " if only
my father will allow it."

" I will come with you, and we will ask him," said the
stranger.

The sheep could safely be left for a while, and Giotto
trotted along by the stranger's side until they reached
the village, and there they found Bondone working
under the olive-trees.

"Perhaps my name is known to you?" said the
stranger. " I am Cimabue, an artist of Florence, and
I will take your boy into my studio and teach him, that
he may one day become an artist too."

So this was the great man who had painted that
wonderful picture! It seemed too strange to be true,

17 B

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

It was a splendid chance for the boy, and Bondone
thankfully accepted the offer, although it meant taking
away from him the light of his eyes. Who would have
thought that the master would have deigned to notice
those rough drawings on the hillside rocks !

But Cimabue knew better than anyone else how
true and good those drawings were, and he recognised
at once the power that dwelt in those little rough
brown hands, and saw too in the boy's eager eyes how
his heart was in his work.

So together the master and pupil set out on the long
winding road that led to Florence, and before nightfall
the City of Flowers opened her gates to the great artist
and his humble apprentice.

It was only a simple shepherd lad that entered the
master's studio then. He knew nothing but what he
had learned from nature, under the blue sky, out on
the hillside, using only nature's materials, the rocks and
stones that lay around him, but the soul of the artist
was in the boy, and he helped to fill the world with
beauty and to sow the seed of the great tree of Art
which was to blossom so gloriously in later years.

S. CATHERINE OF SIENA

IT is more than five hundred years since S. Catherine
was born in the little hill town of Siena, in the heart of
Italy.

The hand of Time, which brings so many changes to
most places, has passed but lightly over this little city
set on a hill, and to-day it looks very much as it did in
those long ago days when the child Catherine trotted
about the steep streets, lived her happy life, and saw
her heavenly visions.

To-day if you climb the winding road that leads up
to the city, through the silver screen of the olive trees,
and pass through the great city gates, you will find in
one of the steepest of the narrow streets a house with
this motto written upon it in golden letters, "Sposae
Christi Katharinae domus," which means " the house of
Katherine the Bride of Christ." And if you go in you
will see the very room where S. Catherine used to live,
the bed of planks on which she slept, her little chapel,
and the other rooms which her brothers and sisters
used.

It all looks just as it did when Benincasa the dyer
of Siena lived there with his wife Lapa, in those old
stormy days when Italy was vexed with foes without
and within, and every city had need of a fortified wall
and strong gates to guard it.

Although the dyer and his wife had a very large

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

family of more than twenty children, they did not
think there was one too many, and when at last two
little girls came on the same birthday they had a
special welcome. But only little Catherine lived to
enjoy the welcome. The other twin after a few days
"winged her way to heaven," and all the love and
tenderness of the parents seemed to gather round the
baby that was left.

From the very first everyone loved little Catherine.
She was such a happy, friendly child, and she had the
sunniest smile that ever dimpled about a baby's lips.
All the neighbours were her friends, for she smiled
upon everyone, and as soon as she could toddle alone
she started out to pay visits in the most friendly way.

She was as welcome as the sunshine wherever she
went, and her happy smile lived deep in her eyes as
well as on her lips, so that it seemed to find its way
straight into the very saddest of hearts and carry a
little message of joy. Perhaps that was the reason
that erelong her stately name of Catherine was seldom
used, and instead they called the baby "Joy."

At first when she toddled through the open door
and wandered off alone the whole household was
alarmed.

" The baby is lost again," cried the other children
when no Catherine was to be seen, and the anxious
mother could not rest until the child was found and
carried home again. But as time went on the little
wanderer was left to do as she pleased, for no harm
ever came to her, and she was always sure to be safe
with some neighbour. Nothing ever frightened the
child in her wanderings. Everyone she met was a
friend, every bird and beast and flower was something

S. CATHERINE OF SIENA

to be loved and cared for. Wherever she went there
were hands ready to lift her over rough places and
kindly arms willing to carry her when her feet
grew tired.

As soon as she could walk far enough it was to the
church of S. Dominic that Catherine always made her
way. She could see the campanile from the window at
home when she looked across the little valley to the
church that crowned the hill, and the sound of the bell
had always seemed to her like a voice calling to her from
afar. Nowhere was the child so happy as in the little
side chapel when she knelt to say her prayers and felt
the holy angels were hovering close around.

She was about six years old when the first of those
heavenly visions was sent to bless her childish eyes,
according to the old promise, " Blessed are the pure in
heart, for they shall see God."

The busy mother had sent her and her little brother
Stephen to carry a message across the valley, and as
they were returning Catherine stood still for a moment
to look at the sunset. The old church of S. Dominic
stood out clear against a background of gold, and the
clouds, flushed to crimson, were like drifts of shining
glory in the sky.

Catherine stood, spellbound by the beauty of the
night, but Stephen plodded on. He did not greatly care
for sunsets. It was much more important to be home
in time for supper, and evening was coming on.

Catherine never noticed that she was left alone, she
did not hear Stephen calling to her. There she stood
perfectly still, the light of the sunset upon her face, her
hair shining like a golden halo around her head.

It was not the sunset but a heavenly vision which

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Catherine gazed upon. There among the golden clouds
sat the Madonna, holding in her arms the Infant Christ,
all throned in heavenly glory. It was not the poor
Madonna of the stable but the Queen of Heaven, a
circle of stars about her head, her robe as blue as the
summer sky. Only the same sweet Mother look was
there as when she bent over the manger bed.

But who shall describe the vision of the Christ
Child's face ? Catherine only knew it was the Christ,
and that He looked down upon her and smiled and
lifted one little hand in blessing. She only felt that He
drew to Himself all the love of her heart, and she laid
it at His feet.

Then it was that Stephen, returning in search of her,
shook her arm.

"Come on," he cried, "why art thou standing
here?"

Catherine looked at him as if she had just been
wakened from a dream.

" Oh Stephen," she cried, with a sob, " if only thou
hadst seen what I have seen, thou wouldst have left me
in peace."

The boy looked up bewildered ; there was nothing
to be seen but the church upon the hill, and a darkening
sky where the pale golden light was fading into grey.

The vision had vanished, and night began to close
in upon the two little figures as they went slowly home,
the boy vexed with his loitering sister, and she sobbing
with disappointment to think that the window in
heaven was shut and she might never again look
within.

But Catherine never forgot that vision, and as
she grew older the remembrance of the Christ Child's

S. CATHERINE OF SIENA

blessing made her long to grow more fit to be His
faithful servant.

She had heard a great deal about the servants of
God, called hermits, who went to live in desert places,
where they thought they could live a holier life, and
where they suffered many hardships in order to make
themselves more perfect. Some of them lived in caves
and had scarcely anything to eat, and then God sent
ravens to bring them food.

It all sounded a beautiful way of serving God.
Catherine was so fond of wandering about, and she
had always longed to get beyond the city gates and see
what the wild country round was like. She felt quite
certain that once outside she would be sure to find a
desert, and in the desert there would of course be
many caves in which she might live.

So one day, very early in the morning, Catherine
started out, having quite made up her mind to become
a hermit.

The city gates were open and she slipped past
unnoticed, and made her way down the steep hillside
among the tangled briars and rough stones. It was
very lonely out there, and everything looked so wild
and forlorn that she was quite sure it must be the
desert, especially when she spied a little cave in the
rocks all ready for her.

It was very nice to creep in out of the hot sunshine
into the cool shade and to rest until the sun went
down. But as night came on and she knelt to say
her evening prayer, she began to think of home and
the kind mother waiting there, and suddenly she
knew she had done wrong to come away, even though
she had meant to serve God.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Very quickly she left her cave and ran home aa
fast as her feet would carry her. The desert had not
been so very far away after all, and she soon reached
home and told her mother all about it. Afterwards
the neighbours said that angels had carried the child
home so quickly, but Catherine knew it was love
and repentance that had lent wings to her little
feet.

As Catherine grew older she loved more and more
to steal away to the church on the hill, to kneel in
the quiet little chapel and think about the Master
she had promised to serve. The stories of the saints,
too, filled her mind, and she often sighed to think
she was only a girl and could never be a great preacher
like her favourite S. Dominic. Nevertheless she
thought she might preach little sermons if it was
only to children of her own age, so very often
she gathered them round her, the little congregation
listening with wonderful willingness, for Catherine
had certainly the gift of a silver tongue.

In those days when a little girl reached the age
of twelve years, it was thought to be quite time that
her marriage should be thought of, and Catherine's
parents began to look about for a good husband for
their favourite child.

She had always been so obedient and so easy to
manage that their astonishment was great when she
told them quietly that she did not wish to marry,
and had made up her mind to serve God.

This was nonsense, said her mother. Girls often
fancied that they had a call to enter the convent and
later on found out their mistake. Catherine must
certainly marry. She should have gay new clothes

S. CATHERINE OF SIENA

and kerchiefs, and silver pins to deck her hair, and
then she would learn to do as she was bid.

But Catherine shook her head. She said very little
but she .was quite determined, and one day her mother
found that she had cut off all her beautiful golden
hair, hoping to make herself so ugly that no one would
want to marry her.

" Now, by my faith," said her father, " if thou wilt
not marry as I bid thee, then thou shalt do the house-
work and be our servant."

He expected this would be a great hardship, but
Catherine was only too glad to have the hard work
to do, and she did it so cheerfully and so thoroughly
that her father felt his anger begin to melt away. It
hurt Catherine sorely to vex her parents, only she
felt so sure that God had called her to serve Him
that she could not disobey the call. Then it happened
one day that as her father passed her room he looked
in, and saw her kneeling there with clasped hands
and upturned face, upon which seemed to be reflected
the peace of heaven, while round her head there shone
a bright light which as he looked took the form of
a snow-white dove hovering about her.

This sign from heaven and the patient humble
spirit of their little daughter made her parents feel
that the child had right on her side, and so they agreed
that she should have her way.

A little room was set aside which she made into
a chapel, where she could be alone to think and to
pray, and here she learned to prepare herself for the
life that lay before her, when she should go forth
into the world to serve her Master, Christ.

All this happened very long ago, you say. We do

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

not hear of people who see visions now, and genius
such as Catherine possessed is given to but few. That
is true, but though times have changed and visions
have faded from our matter-of-fact eyes, and the light
of genius burns but dimly, still the lesson which
Catherine learned in her childhood is the same lesson
we must learn to-day — to be faithful in little things
if we would be faithful in much. The wee common
plants which she so carefully tended in her childish
heart, her faith in prayer, her desire to serve God
and to carry happiness to all around her, these little
flowers of childhood may blossom on any child life
now, and the fruit at harvest time shall be gathered,
even though no splendid tasks well done shall win the
world's acclaim.

JEANNE D'ARC

BY the side of the grey willow trees and waving
rushes, the river Meuse wound its way through the
flat green valley, spreading itself sometimes in broad
flashes, sometimes winding like a narrow silver ribbon,
and again hiding away altogether among the grey
stones that marked its course. All was green, grey,
and level around. Even the little villages which
dotted the river banks, with low roofs covered with
moss and lichen, looked as if they were but a growth
of the valley, and the grey church tower the tallest
growth of all.

One of these little hamlets by which the river
flowed was the village of Domremy, a peaceful little
spot which seemed to have but little connection with
the great world of war and bloodshed which in those
unhappy days threatened to lay France in ruins.

The people of the village were no fighters, but poor
hard-working peaceful labourers, who tried to make
a living out of their few fields, guarding their flocks
and herds, and caring but little for the troubles that
tore their country in pieces, except when some
marauder swooped down and drove off their cattle and
seized their goods. Then indeed the trouble touched
them, but it was their own personal loss they feared.
France was so much divided into small factions that
there was little call to loyalty and patriotism.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Like all the other villages, Domremy had its church
with its little grey tower pointing upwards, and close to
the church, separated only by the churchyard, was the
house where Jacques d'Arc lived, and where on a cold
January morning (in 1412) his little daughter Jeanne
was born. There were other children in the house,
strong boys who would grow up to help their father,
and another girl, so the coming of this new baby made
but little stir. They carried her across the churchyard
to the village church, and there she received her name
of Jeanne, or Jeanette as she was always called at
home. It seemed to the simple villagers almost pre-
sumption to use the name of the great S. Jean for little
helpless commonplace babies, and so they almost always
added the diminutive, as we would say " little Jean."

There were all the. rightful number of godmothers
and godfathers round the font when Jeanne received
her name, and the priest, Messire Jean Minet, said
special prayers to preserve the child from evil spirits,
for did not a girl always need such special protection ?

Were there others round the font too which earthly
eyes could not see ? Surely the great cloud of witnesses
stooped low that day to gaze upon the little face, and
the church must have been filled with the rustling
sound of angel wings as that baby brow was signed
with the sign of the cross and the little soldier was
enrolled under Christ's banner.

It was not an idle life that awaited Jeanne.
Although her father was one of the chief men of the
village, he, like all the rest, was poor, and had to work
hard to make a living. There were many ways in
which the children could help as soon as they were old
enough, and each had his share to do.

JEANNE D'ARC

In winter time, when the mists hung low over the
valley and the sky was grey and cold above, Jeanne,
in her coarse woollen gown and wooden sabots, would
work in the fields or keep guard over the sheep. Then,
when spring came round, scattering her flowers over
the valley and wreathing a soft green haze over the
grey bushes at the Blackthorn Spring, when the buds
began to show warm and thick upon the Wood of the
Oaks upon the slope of the hill, there, barefooted and
happy, Jean gladly did her work, and was never tired
of wandering in the wood or sitting spinning in the
little garden behind the house, where the apple-blossoms
spread their dainty pink against the blue sky.

The other village children often talked with bated
breath of fairies who lived by the Blackthorn Spring
and under the old beech-tree, called " the Tree of the
Fairies," and even grown-up people believed in them
too.

" I have heard that fairies came to the tree in the
old days," said Jeanne's godmother once, " but for their
sins they came there no more."

But Jeanne did not believe much in those fairies.
She went sometimes with the other children to hang
wreaths upon the Fairy tree, but she never expected
to see them. She was much too busy and had too
many other things to think about to pay any attention
to fairies.

At home the good mother taught little Jeanne the
few lessons she had to learn. There was no need for a
little peasant girl to learn the ABC, for it was not
expected that she should read or write, but she learned
the Creed and the Lord's Prayer, and Our Lady's
" Hail Mary," and she was taught to spin and do fine

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

needlework, besides the weeding and digging and
work in the fields.

Sitting by the light that came sparingly through
the small windows of the little grey house, Jeanne and
her sister often sat spinning diligently, and while they
worked together the mother would tell them the tales
that Jeanne loved better than any fairy tales. These
were the stories of the lives of God's saints, and Jeanne
listened entranced, and was never tired of hearing
them over and over again. Best of all perhaps was the
beautiful story of the brave Maid Margaret, she of the
golden heart and pure unspotted life, fit emblem of the
golden-hearted, white-petalled daisy. Like Jeanne
herself, this maiden had walked barefooted in the
meadows, watching her sheep, when the Roman governor
had seized her and carried her off to Antioch. There
she refused to deny her Lord, and after being sorely
beaten and bruised she was cast into a dungeon. Then
came the part which made Jeanne's eyes gleam, when
the poor maiden, weak and suffering, was beset by
Satan, who came in the form of a fearsome dragon
breathing out flames and smoke, and gazing upon her
with burning eyes of dreadful fury.

The mother's voice went evenly on, while Jeanne
waited eagerly for the rest of the story.

" But Maid Margaret showed no sign of fear, even
when the monster came so close that she felt his hot
breath upon her cheek. She raised herself on one
arm, and then with a hand which did not even tremble,
she made before her the sign of the cross.

"The dragon vanished at that sacred sign. The
roaring ceased, the smoke cleared away, and Margaret
was alone once more.

JEANNE D'ARC

"Then a soft radiance lit up the dimness of the
dungeon, and a voice sweeter than any earthly music
fell on Margaret's ear :

" ' Margaret, faithful servant of Christ, give thanks
that thou hast triumphed over thy enemies. Hold fast
thy faith, for soon thy torments will be ended, and thy
Lord shall bid thee enter into thy rest.' '

Then came the ending of the story, the terrible
martyrdom and the promise of S. Margaret that she
would be ever near to help all women in distress who
called her memory to mind.

Another of Jeanne's favourites was the story of
S. Catherine, who in a vision saw the King of Glory,
and taking Him for her Lord and Master, found His
ring upon her finger, and remained faithful even unto
the cruel death which awaited her.

Perhaps in the chapel on the hill Jeanne may have
seen the pictures of her favourite saints set in the
windows through which the sun threw rainbow tints
upon her bowed head as she so often knelt before
the altar there. Surely too the picture of S. Michael
the Archangel must also have been set in those same
windows, for in no other way could the child have
learnt to know his face and figure, as there is no doubt
she early learned to do.

But life was not made up only of peaceful days
of spinning and story-telling and church-going in the
little grey village on the banks of the Meuse. Some-
times the distant storm came nearer, and the thunders
of war rolled past, and the poor folk of Domremy
suffered with the rest of France and were driven for
a while from their homes.

Jeanne listened breathlessly to the tales which

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

came from the outside world telling of wars and
bloodshed and treachery. The French were betrayed
into the cruel hands of the savage English people.
There was no King of France. The rightful King was
uncrowned and deserted. The villagers listened, too,
but they cared much more that their sheep and cattle
had been stolen, and were only anxious to guard them
from further harm. Only into Jeanne's heart the
news sank deep, and she could not forget the un-
crowned King.

Everyone in the village had a good word for little
Jeanne, although they often laughed at her for going
so often to church. She was too devout for a child,
they thought. Yet after all it had seemed to do her
some good, for her word could be absolutely trusted
and her solemn "There is no mistake" was much
more to be depended upon than the vows which other
people swore. She was so kind, too, to those in
trouble, and was always ready to nurse any sick child
in the village or to help in any way those who
needed her. Sitting spinning in the garden or
wandering with her sheep about the green meadows,
she dreamed her dreams, as most children do, but
she was a practical, healthy little maiden, friendly
with the other village children, strong and happy
and busy as the day was long. It was always a
great joy to her to steal into the quiet church and
kneel there, feeling the presence of God and His
saints very near, but even when she could not leave
her work to go there, she loved to hear the bells
calling to matins and compline. Wherever she was
and whatever she was doing, that sound was like
music to her, and it was a great disappointment

JEANNE D'ARC

when sometimes the old verger forgot to ring the
bells. Jeanne begged him to try and remember, and
then to sharpen his memory she added, "and if thou
dost not forget I will give thee cakes."

Time passed by and there was sorer need than
ever that some helper and defender should arise to
save France. Was there no strong man among her
sons whom God would raise up to do battle for the
rightful king? Yes, the call had come, but it came
to no strong man, no great warrior, but to the little
village maiden spinning under the pink petals of the
apple-trees.

It was only a voice she heard at first, which
seemed to come from the side of the garden nearest
to the church.

"I come from God to help thee to live a good
and holy life," it said. " Be good, little Jeanne, and
God will aid thee."

Jeanne started up and looked in the direction
from whence the voice came, and all that she saw
was a shining light, brighter than any she had ever
seen.

What could it mean? It was nothing evil, she
was sure, for the light was so wonderful and the
words were so good. Could it be the voice of an
angel ?

It was all so strange, she dared not tell anyone,
and so she kept the secret to herself. The next time
she heard the voice she was not so frightened, and
the simple words repeated again, " Little Jeanne, be
good," came like a message of comfort.

The third time when she heard the voice and saw
the light, there breathed into the radiance a shadowy

33 c

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

form having in his hand a shining sword, a crown
upon his head, and wings that wrapped him round.
In an instant Jeanne knew him for S. Michael, the
great warrior archangel, and she listened with bowed
head while he spoke.

" Little Jeanne," he said, "it is thou who must go
to the help of the King of France ; it is thou who
shalt give him back his kingdom."

As Jeanne knelt there trembling she could scarcely
believe the message was meant for her. What could
she, a little maiden of only thirteen summers, do in
this far-away village to help the King ?

" Daughter of God," said the voice she had learned
to know, "thou must leave thy village and go forth
into France."

Jeanne looked up.

" I am but a poor girl," she said ; " I know not how
to ride a horse or how to make war."

Again the voice sounded in her ears :

" Daughter of God, thou shalt lead the Dauphin to
Reims, that he may receive worthily his anointing."

There was much for Jeanne to ponder over when
the vision faded, but her thoughts were too deep to
tell to others. In those summer days as she sat in the
oak woods with the sunlight dancing through the green
leaves and the solemn stillness of the woods around
her, again and again she seemed to hear the voices
and see the shadowy forms of the saints who were sent
to help her. S. Margaret was there and S. Catherine
too, and it was in such heavenly company that she was
taught and strengthened and prepared for the work
that was awaiting her.

So the pleasant days of childhood spent in the green

JEANNE D'ARC

forests, the happy hours of spinning in the garden
passed away, and little Jeanne, trying to obey the
first message of the Voice's "be good," prepared to
answer the call, not in her own strength but in the
strength of God.

MICHAEL ANGELO

ON the 6th of March, in the year 1474, a special star
was shining up in heaven, and down on earth a new-
born baby was wailing. Lodovico Buonarroti, the
proud father of the wailing atom of humanity, noted
the star most carefully, for he had been watching the
sky to see if there was any sign there to foretell the
fortune of his son.

"A fated and happy star," said he to himself joy-
fully, and afterwards the wise men, who could tell
fortunes by the stars, told him he was right. Not that
Lodovico needed that anyone should assure him of
the brilliant future that awaited the child. Had he
not been born on Sunday, the luckiest of days, and
was there not something about the tiny face that
almost filled him with wondering awe and reverence ?
The secrets of heaven seemed still to linger about the
baby who had so lately come to earth.

"We will call him Michaelangelo," said his father.
It was the most splendid name he could think of, the
name of the great warrior archangel, the messenger
of God. Surely that name would fit the most glorious
destiny that awaited the little one.

Lodovico, who was at that time podesta, or mayor,
of Caprese, came of a very ancient and noble family
which had won much distinction in the service of
Florence. The little new archangel, then, must carry

MICHAEL ANGELO

on the family record and help to make their name
famous.

So it was with happy stars above and brightest
hopes around him that Michael Angelo was born at
Caprese, in the Casentino, not far from the holy ground
of La Vernia, where the blessed S. Francis suffered
and was so highly blessed.

Very soon after the birth of his son, Lodovico's
term of office came to an end and he returned to
Florence to take up his abode at the villa of Settignano,
three miles from the city. Most of the people living
round about the villa were stone-cutters, for there
were many stone quarries there, and it was to the
wife of one of these stone-cutters that the baby was
sent to be nursed.

In the pure fresh mountain air little Michael grew
strong both in mind and body, and the first sounds
he learned to know were the ringing of the hammer
and the working of the chisel in the stone quarries.
In after years the great master used to say that if
he had any good in him he owed it to the pure fresh
mountain air, and that his love of carving came also
from the stone-cutter's hut. Those sights and sounds
of the quarries sunk deep into the child's heart, like
a seed planted in a garden which was to spring up
and blossom into a marvellous flower.

As the years went on other children were born to
Lodovico, and Michael Angelo did not always seem
such a wonderful boy in his father's eyes after all.
Indeed he was rather a disappointment when he was
old enough to be sent to the school kept by Messere
Francesco of Urbino. He was not at all a brilliant
scholar, and his progress was slow and quite common-

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

place. It was even hinted that he was rather a dunce,
and he certainly neglected his lessons whenever he
possibly could so that he might have more time for
drawing. Give him a paper and pencil, and he forgot
about everything else.

It was extremely vexing, for his father had set his
heart on the boy being a credit to the family. What
was the use of this drawing which seemed to be all
that Michael cared about? He had no wish that a
son of his should be an artist, and meanwhile it was
most annoying to find the white-washed walls of the
house and terrace scribbled over with all sorts of
designs and figures. There was nothing to be done
but to whip the boy soundly and see if that would
put any sense into his head.

But the whippings did little good after all. Michael
only crept back again, sore in body and mind, to his
beloved drawings, and seemed to think it was quite
worth while to suffer pain for the sake of his work.

No one at home understood why he should be so
obstinate and determined, but he had a friend who
knew all about it and who was a great help and
comfort. How Michael envied his friend Francesco !
He was quite a little boy but he was not obliged to
go to school and learn dull lessons, and instead of
being whipped when he tried to draw pictures, he
spent his whole day at the studio of Messere Ghirlandajo,
with nothing to do but to learn all about drawing and
painting the livelong day. Every morning Francesco
brought to Michael designs borrowed from the master's
studio, and these Michael studied and faithfully copied,
and every day the desire of his heart to become an
artist grew stronger and ever stronger.

MICHAEL ANGELO

At last Lodovico saw that it was no use to scold and
whip the boy. His heart was evidently set on becoming
a painter, and nothing else would content him. The
golden dreams which the father had dreamed over the
baby's birth slowly faded into grey disappointment.
He decided that there was no chance now of Michael
making a splendid fortune in the wool or silk trade,
such as he had planned, but that the boy must be
allowed to have his way and continue that useless
drawing.

But although Lodovico was disappointed, having so
many other children to educate and but little money
coming in, still he was determined to do his very best
for his son. In all Italy there was no painter to equal
Domenico Ghirlandajo, and with him the boy should be
placed.

It was rather a surprise to find that after all Michael
was not an idler, and that the hours spent over his
drawing had not been wasted. It was seldom that a
boy was paid any wages during the first year of his
apprenticeship, but Messere Ghirlandajo found that
Michael's work was so good that it was worth paying
for, and it was arranged that he should receive a
salary of nearly ten pounds a year.

Now at last Michael Angelo was free to work with
all his might at the thing he loved best, and like a
young giant he put his whole mind and strength to his
tasks. So well did he work and so wonderful was his
talent that Ghirlandajo soon found there was not much
left to teach him, and that he could actually make
corrections on the master's own sketches.

It was like placing an eagle in a hawk's nest. The
young eagle quickly learned to soar far higher than

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the hawk could do, and erelong began to "sweep the
skies alone."

Ghirlandajo saw this quite clearly for himself, and
perhaps felt some envy and bitterness. It was not
pleasant to feel that a pupil, a mere boy, was outstrip-
ping his master.

They were working together one day in the great
Chapel of Santa Maria Novella when the master went
up silently behind the boy and watched him at work.

" This boy knows more than I do," said the master,
amazed at the drawing he saw. It was time Michael
should leave the studio.

So the year of his apprenticeship came to an end,
and Michael Angelo commenced at once to study
sculpture in the new art school opened by Lorenzo the
Magnificent in the Garden of the Medici. Francesco
was still his friend, and the boys now worked together
in great content.

It was all a veritable wonderland for Michael
Angelo ; he had never dreamed of such treasures of
beauty as were gathered together in the school of the
Magnificent. Pictures, sculpture, engravings, gems,
and enamels had all been collected by Lorenzo, whose
great desire was to encourage the love of art. The
studio of Messere Ghirlandajo had seemed a haven of
joy, here was indeed a paradise.

It was not long before Lorenzo noticed the keen-
faced boy working away so silently and diligently. He
watched him as he modelled some figures in terra-cotta
and was astonished at his masterly touch.

"Terra-cotta is but poor stuff to work on," said
Lorenzo ; " try instead what thou canst make of this
block of marble."

MICHAEL ANGELO

There was a marble face of an old faun lying close
at hand, and Michael set to work at once to copy it.
He had never handled a chisel before and knew nothing
about marble, but he never dreamt of saying so. He
meant to carve that marble to the best of his ability.
Difficulties were only there to be conquered.

So he worked away, forgetting all else but just the
faun's face that was hidden in the block of marble.
He chipped and he cut away, and as he worked the
life seemed to spring out of the stone and an exact
copy of the old faun grinned out of its marble prison.

Lorenzo was amazed next day when he returned
to see what the boy had made of his piece of marble.
It was the most wonderful copy he had ever seen,
and it was even better than the original, for Michael
had introduced ideas of his own, and had made the
laughing mouth a little open to show the teeth and
tongue of the faun. Lorenzo noticed this and turned
with a smile to the young artist.

"Thou shouldst have remembered that old folks
never keep all their teeth, but that some of them
are always wanting," he said.

Lorenzo only meant this as a joke, but Michael
was too much in earnest to understand jesting. He
seized his hammer and struck out several of the teeth
at once, never stopping to think if it would spoil
his work.

This also pleased Lorenzo greatly, and he saw at
once that here was no ordinary boy. There was
nothing the Magnificent loved so much as genius, and
he at once arranged that Michael Angelo was to be
received into the palace and become the companion
of Lorenzo's sons.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

From that moment fortune began to smile upon
the boy of the Medici Garden. Step by step he began
to climb the ladder of fame, just as the stars had
foretold. As he had seen within his first piece of
marble the face of the faun, so he set out now to
free with a giant's strength all the wondrous shapes
that lay imprisoned in the marble blocks ; and thus
to-day the world owes some of its most beautiful
statuary to the hammer and chisel of the boy who
has been so well named Michael Angelo, after the
warrior archangel, the Messenger of God.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

THE people of England were not at all satisfied with
the doings of their king, his Majesty Henry VIII.
Most of them had great sympathy with poor Queen
Katherine whom he had banished from the court,
and therefore had no great love for the new queen,
Anne Boleyn. So when it was announced that a little
daughter had been born to Anne, the news was received
with no signs of rejoicing whatever.

The King himself was extremely vexed that the
baby was a girl instead of a boy. All the astrologers
and fortune-tellers of the court had foretold the birth
of a prince, and Henry had been so certain of this
that the letters announcing the birth had been written
beforehand, and now to the word " prince " they had
to try and add a little " S " to turn it into princess.
And that little " S " stood for a very big disappointment
indeed.

It was at the old palace of Placentia, at Greenwich,
that the princess was born, and according to the old
rhyme she should have been " blythe and bonnie and
good and gay," for she was born on a Sunday, and
what was considered a good omen, she was born on
the eve of the birthday of the Virgin, in the room
known as "the chamber of the Virgins," from the
tapestry which decorated its walls telling the story
of the Ten Virgins. The fair young mother lying

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

there with her baby knew how disappointed the self-
willed king would be, and she tried to smile as she
pointed out that a baby born on such a special day
and in such a special room must turn out a very
special little virgin. But the King was not at all
inclined to smile. He was accustomed to having his
own way, and he wanted a prince, and he did not
quite know on whom to vent his wrath. So he
merely frowned and ordered the baby to be taken
away, and its cradle removed from the Queen's bed-
chamber in case the child should cry at night and
disturb his rest.

Nevertheless, in spite of the annoyance the baby
had caused, by being a princess instead of a prince,
the arrangements for the christening were ordered
in the most splendid and stately style.

The tiny red-faced baby, four days old, not very
bonnie, and by no means gay, was clad in the most
magnificent robes, and round her poor little limp neck
was fastened a mantle of purple velvet lined with
ermine, with a train of such a royal length that it had
to be supported behind by three of the courtiers.

Sailing down from London in barges came the
Lord Mayor and Aldermen in all their bravery to
attend the christening of the "faire ladye," and a
crowd of nobles, knights, and gentlemen gathered
there also at the King's command. All the houses
between the Palace and the Church of the Grey
Friars were hung with gay tapestry and the road
was strewn with green rushes, all in honour of the
little lady who was to be carried that way to church.

It was a splendid procession that wended its way
along the rush-strewn road. First came citizens of

QUEEN ELIZABETH

low degree, then gentlemen and nobles of higher
rank, and last the " faire ladye " herself in her purple
and ermine robes, surrounded by some of the greatest
ladies and nobles of the land.

At the silver font, with its canopy of crimson and
gold, stood the Bishop of London, with many other
bishops and cardinals, ready to receive the princess,
and among them was Cranmer, who was to be the
baby's godfather. So with all the pomp and ceremony
of the Church, the little lady who was afterwards to
be such a great queen received her name of Elizabeth.

"God of His infinite goodness send a prosperous
life and long, to the high and mighty princess of
England, Elizabeth," cried the royal herald, and then
there was a tremendous flourish of trumpets, and the
little bundle of purple and ermine was carried up to
the High Altar, where the Bishop, laying his hand
upon her small downy head, went through the rite of
confirmation.

After that the christening gifts were presented,
and besides many a golden bowl there was a cup of
fretted gold set with pearls and other splendid gifts
for the child who might one day be queen of England.

The company then solemnly partook of sugar-
plums and wafers, and, that being done, the procession
started for the palace again. This time the way was
lighted by five hundred flaring torches, and the men-at-
arms round the royal baby carried five waxen tapers.

It was all very splendid, but there was no real
rejoicing that day. There were many who looked
scornfully on all the pomp and ceremony and thought
it most unnecessary.

"The Princess Mary," they said, "is our real

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

princess. Anne Boleyn is no queen, and this child
has no right to be called a princess."

But the little Elizabeth cared no more for cold
looks than she did for golden gifts and royal robes.
After that first public appearance she retired to her
nursery and grew and flourished day by day as a
well-conducted baby should do. Then when she was
two months old the royal nursery was removed to
Hatfield, under the care of the Lady Margaret Bryan,
who had been appointed governess to the royal child.

So the little barque set sail most gaily at first
upon the perilous sea of life, and as yet there was
no sign of storm or stress. The Princess Elizabeth
was declared by Act of Parliament to be the next
heir to the crown, and everything about her was
ordered with the most royal splendour.

As the air of Chelsea seemed to agree well with
Her Royal Highness, the King built a palace for her
there, and was most particular that the nursery
should be supplied with the purest spring water.
Then he began to arrange a marriage for his little
daughter with a prince of the royal house of France,
but this came to naught, as Henry made too many
selfish conditions for his own advantage.

Those were sad days for the Princess Mary, whose
mother, Queen Katherine, had been so unjustly treated.
She was ordered to go and wait upon her little step-
sister and told she must no longer call herself princess,
as Elizabeth was now the Princess of England. Little
wonder was it that she disliked the baby with all
her heart and bitterly resented the favour shown
to her.

But no one need have grudged the little Elizabeth

QUEEN ELIZABETH

those few happy years of court favour. Very soon the
waves of this troublesome world threatened to over-
whelm her in the same storm that wrecked her poor
unhappy mother, and all the lofty state and splendour
of the royal nursery was swept away.

Elizabeth was not quite three years old when she
lost her mother. Poor Anne Boleyn must have longed
to see her little daughter in those dreary days when
she waited for death in the grim Tower prison, but if
she asked this favour it was not granted. The uncon-
scious happy child played as usual about the sunny
garden at Chelsea, watching the mulberry-tree, which
she had planted, put forth its buds in the soft spring
air, and making her daisy chains and cowslip veils,
while on Tower Green her mother was looking her last
upon the world which was so full of the magic of May.

But although Elizabeth was too young to be
troubled about her mother's death, she was quite old
enough to feel the change in her life. Where were the
servants now that were always ready to do her
bidding ? Why did she have no gay new clothes, and
why did everyone look so sad and worried ?

Her faithful governess, the Lady Bryan, did all that
was possible for the child, but even her careful hands
could not keep little garments from wearing out, and
there was no longer a plentiful purse to provide for
Elizabeth's needs. It was declared that she had no
right to the title of Princess, and under no conditions
could she ever become Queen of England.

The future might be dark enough but it was the
present that pressed most hardly, just then, upon the
child. It truly was enough to worry the poor gover-
ness who was left in charge. There was the little

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

princess growing out of her clothes, not fit to be seen,
with neither gown nor kirtle that she could wear, and
needing even night-gowns and night-caps, which it
seemed no one's business to provide. Then too, as she
complained in a letter to Lord Cromwell, "My lady
Elizabeth hath great pain with her great teeth, and
they come very slowly forth, which causeth me to
suffer her Grace to have her will more than I would.
I trust to God an' her teeth were well graft, to have
her Grace after another fashion than she is yet."
There was certainly a rod in pickle for Elizabeth as
soon as those teeth should appear, and there would be
no more excuse for naughty ways.

Evidently the good governess was not at all pleased
with the way her charge was being brought up just
then.

" She is as toward a child and as gentle of conditions
as ever I knew in my life," she says, but she is sure
that neither her health nor good manners would be
improved by the way she was being treated. Every
day the little princess was ordered to dine and sup
at the state table, and it was impossible to prevent her
clamouring for unsuitable dainties, wines and fruits,
whereas she ought to have been supping on bread and
milk in the nursery.

Elizabeth certainly owed much to this wise, sensible
governess, and even if the child's clothes were shabby
and she had neither " kerchief nor mob-caps " befitting
her rank, the simple life she was forced to lead was
much better for the little maiden than the pomp and
splendour of her first three years.

As for the prospect of wearing the crown of
England, that would in any case have been put out of

QUEEN ELIZABETH

her reach when a year later a little step-brother was
born, the long-expected, much-desired prince.

Bluff King Hal was in high good humour over the
arrival of the infant prince, and he could even afford to
bestow a little of his favour upon his four-year-old
daughter and allow her to attend the christening of
her brother.

It was a great day for Elizabeth, and the Lady Bryan
must have spent much time in drilling her and showing
her how to behave and how to manage the train of her
little court gown — so much depended on her good
behaviour and whether she would again find favour in
her father's eyes.

Nothing could have been more sedate and courtly
than the bearing of the little princess. She was lifted
up and carried to the font by the Earl of Hertford,
brother of the new queen, that she might see the
wonderful baby, but afterwards when the service was
over she walked with great dignity in the procession
holding the hand of the Princess Mary, while one of the
court ladies carried her train behind.

With the coming of the little brother came the
happiest days of Elizabeth's childhood. She was such
a wise, well-behaved small maiden, that she was
allowed to be much with the baby prince, and as soon
as he began to walk and talk she was like a little
mother to him, teaching him new words and all her
own store of wisdom.

Meanwhile she herself was being taught most care-
fully all that a princess should learn, and especially
how to sew and embroider, although her hands were
but small yet to use a needle properly. Still, by the
time the baby prince celebrated his second birthday

49 D

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and was presented with splendid gifts of gold and
silver and precious stones, there was a tiny white
cambric shirt among the gorgeous offerings which the
Princess Elizabeth, now six years old, had sewn with
her own hands.

The older he grew the more little Prince Edward
loved his " sweetest sister," and the children were very
happy together. They were both fond of lessons, and
books were a delight to them. Every morning for an
hour or more they studied the Bible, and then went on
to their other lessons of science and foreign languages.
Then when Edward went out riding or was taught
some manly sport, Elizabeth "betook herself to her
lute or viol, and when wearied with that, employed her
time in needlework."

At court, meanwhile, change followed change, for
the self-willed selfish King allowed nothing to stand in
the way of his pleasure, and Elizabeth erelong must have
grown quite accustomed to having new step-mothers.
They all in their turn were fond of the child, and at last
Katherine Parr, the sixth and last of Henry's wives, in-
sisted that Elizabeth should come to court and have an
apartment at the palace of Whitehall, and receive the
instruction which befitted a princess.

It must all have been somewhat bewildering to the
child, but she accepted everything very calmly, and was
quite ready to make friends with her various step-
mothers and assure them of her love and obedience,
It was a great grief to her when she was parted from
her little brother, but, for the rest, the various changes
in her life did not trouble her greatly. She always
behaved in a most seemly way and was a great
favourite with everyone.

QUEEN ELIZABETH

There was no doubt that the young princess was
wonderfully clever. At twelve years old she was an
excellent Latin scholar, knew four or five languages,
had studied history most diligently, and knew a great
deal about geography, astronomy, and mathematics.
Her teachers were amazed at her quickness, and those
who knew her used to say that God, having given
the princess such great gifts, must surely have some
special work for her to perform in the world.

But her future seemed then as uncertain as her
childhood's days had been. The little barque had
steered its way gallantly so far over shoals and
dangerous seas, and although there had been many
calm sunny days, the storms had never been very far
off and there had been many a shipwreck around her.
Who knew what her own fate would be ? Did she see
yet, far away on the horizon, the white sail of a
smaller, frailler craft which would some day cross her
track ? Gossips at court talked of the betrothal of the
baby Queen of Scots to the little Prince Edward, the
brother she loved so dearly, but Scotland was a long
way off and Mary Stuart was only three years old, and
it was foolish to feel any prickings of jealousy.

The little white sail was indeed very far away as
yet. How could she guess that in time to come she
should be to blame for its shipwreck, and that Mary's
death would leave such a blot upon her own fair
name that neither her wisdom nor her many queenly
virtues should suffice to cover or conceal the ugly stain.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

IT was in the month of December 1542, when grim
winter held all the land of Scotland in its iron grip,
and a storm of troubles swept the country, more fierce
even than the wintry blasts, that a royal baby first
saw the light in the old castle of Linlithgow.

" Is it a lad ? " asked the people anxiously of one
another. So much depended on that baby. He was
to be their future king, and deliver their land from
the English oppressor. The hopes of all the country
were centred on the child.

But alas ! it was no future king that was feebly
wailing in the nursery of the old palace.

" It's a puir wee lassie," was the news that passed
from mouth to mouth, and there were looks of bitter
disappointment and sad foreboding.

With all haste the news was carried to the dying
King James V, at Falkland, and when he heard of the
birth of his little daughter he too had no welcome to
give her. He had hoped with all his heart that he
might have a son to carry on the Stuart line and rule
the kingdom he was leaving.

" It came with a lass," he said slowly and sorrow-
fully, "and it will pass with a lass."

He was thinking how it was through Marjorie
Bruce that the Stuarts just came to the throne, and
it seemed but an ill omen that the crown should now
pass to another " lass."

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

Perhaps the bitter disappointment hastened the
King's end, for it was but an hour or two later that
he died, and the little fatherless baby at Linlithgow
became Queen of Scotland.

Then arose a storm of tongues, and a host of plots
and plans raged round the cradle of the tiny Queen.
Some wanted one thing and some another. Henry
VIII of England, her father's uncle, wanted her kingdom
as well as herself, and began at once to plot how he
might secure both. The Earl of Arran, the next heir
to the throne, wanted to have the child completely
under his care.

So they all plotted and quarrelled, and meanwhile
the Queen-mother, Mary of Lorraine, held the baby
safely in her arms and refused to be parted from her.
Enemies might gather round, but they had little chance
of harming the child when her mother's watchful care
surrounded her.

It was rumoured then that the baby was sickly and
likely to die, but well might the nurse, Janet Sinclair,
deny with scorn such idle tales. The child was as
healthy as a child could be. She was as fair and sweet
as a flower, and the pride of Janet's heart.

In the sunniest, warmest rooms of the old palace,
facing the lake, the royal baby grew and thrived,
caring not a jot for the storms that raged around her.
When the nobles of her realm came to render to her their
homage and to hail her as their Sovereign lady, Mary
Queen of Scotland and the Isles, their presence did not
greatly disturb her Majesty as she lay warm and
contented on her nurse's knee. The next great state
ceremonial, however, was not at all to her taste.

It had been considered safer to take the child to

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Stirling Castle, where she could be securely guarded
from foes at home and abroad, and here, nine months
later, her coronation was celebrated.

Little Mary was dressed in queenly robes, which
doubtless harassed her greatly, and carried in state
by her lord-keepers and other nobles across the
green to the stately church. There she was solemnly
crowned and presented to the people as their Sovereign
lady.

It was such a big crown for such a tiny head, and
the baby's hand could not grasp the heavy sceptre,
while the sword of state was bigger than the little
Sovereign lady herself. The throne on which she
was held was cold and comfortless, and it is little
wonder that she cried and protested loudly. She
wanted her mother and Janet her nurse. These great
rough men could not know how to hold a baby properly.
She did not like the crowd of faces, and the noise
frightened her. Then no one seemed to mind whether
she cried or not, and she had to sit on that uncomfort-
able throne while every prelate and peer of the realm
knelt before her and, placing a hand upon her head,
swore to serve her truly and loyally. She was even
kissed by her two kinsmen Arran and Lennox, and
that perhaps was worst of all.

"It is an evil sign," said the people, shaking their
heads solemnly, as their queen wept and wailed
bitterly all through her coronation. Poor little queen !
There were always people ready to blame her, even
when she did what every other child in her realm
would have done under the same circumstances.

So the baby's head was crowned in state and her
portrait was struck off on a little copper coin, which

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

was called a " bawbee " perhaps because of the baby
face upon it.

Now the King of England did not at all approve
of this coronation, and he was furiously angry because
all his plots had come to naught. He had planned
that the little Queen of Scotland should marry his
son Edward, and be brought up in England, but the
Queen-mother had different plans, and it was no easy
matter to storm the good old castle of Stirling and
carry away the baby by force. Cunning too was of
little avail, for the Queen was loyally guarded by her
lord-keepers, who had wise heads as well as faithful
hearts.

"We demand to see the Queen," said the Earl of
Angus, riding up to the castle with a strong company
of his followers behind. "It is rumoured that she
hath been removed and another child substituted
and we must see with our own eyes if this
be so."

The lord-keepers watched the armed men pressing
forward, but they answered calmly and courteously
that the request should be granted. Only the rule
of the castle was that but one man at a time should
enter the castle gate, be presented to the Queen, and
that in the presence of her lord-keepers and guards.
The plan had been to seize the child as soon as Angus
and his followers were admitted into the castle, and
their looks of rage and disappointment when their
plan came to naught must have warned the lord-
keepers to be more than ever on their guard.

The outside storms swept on and Mary's kingdom
was laid waste by the invading English, while men
quarrelled continually as to who should be the future

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

husband of the little Queen. And all the time the
little maiden herself grew like a rose in a sheltered
garden, gradually unfolding its petals and growing
more lovely day by day. There were other flowers too
in that sheltered garden, four other little Maries, her
playmates and niaids-of-honour. Together they learned
their lessons and stitched their pieces of embroidery,
and together they gaily played their games, as if the
world was full of sunshine, and no dark clouds of
war and misery hung over the land.

But the storm of war drew closer, and it was
thought safer for a while the little Queen should leave
the stronghold of Stirling Castle and take refuge in
the priory of Inchmahome, a little island in the Lake
of Menteith. From there she could easily escape to
the Highlands if the English army advanced on Stirling.

Mary was five years old at that time and was a
very charming child. She seemed to have the gift
of making everyone love her, and even the rough
fishermen of the lake, who saw her playing on the
shore with her four Maries, watched her with love
and loyalty in their eyes, and she ruled as a veritable
queen over their hearts.

Dressed in black silk with a gay tartan scarf, and
her shining golden hair bound with a rose-coloured
satin snood, she made a pretty picture for her loyal
subjects to gaze upon, as she and her maids-of-honour
held a mimic court on the little island.

Five years was no great age, but yet Mary was
already learning history, geography, and Latin, and
could speak French as well as English. She was
learning too how to sew tapestry and to embroider
as well.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

But while the little Queen was safely learning her
lessons and playing her games at Inchmahome, the
Queen-mother was anxiously arranging fresh plans
for her little daughter. She was a Frenchwoman,
and through all those years of trouble and anxious
fears her heart had always turned to her own dear
land of France, and now she decided that little Mary
should be sent there, and that when she was old
enough she should marry the young Dauphin Francis.
It was very hard to part with the child, but it seemed
to be the best and only way.

Everything was made ready as secretly as possible,
for although Henry VIII was now dead, the English
were still anxious to carry off the little Queen, and
it was impossible to set sail from Leith, for the English
fleet was guarding the Forth. So Mary and her maids-
of -honour and all her court and guardians were taken
to Dumbarton, and waited there until the French
galleys arrived to carry her over to France.

It was a very sad little child with tear-stained face
that set sail that day. She was leaving her mother
and going off to an unknown land, and everything
felt sad and strange to her. But although only six
years old she showed that she was a Stuart and a
queen, and she bore herself with gallant self-control.
Only the tears in her eyes spoke of a very sore little
heart as she bade her mother good-bye.

It might have been hoped that gentle winds and
kindly weather would make the voyage as pleasant
as possible for the little desolate Queen, but instead
of that a most terrific storm arose, and Lady Fleming,
the Queen's governess, began to wonder if they would
ever see land again. But at last, after days of tossing,

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

a haven was reached, and the little Scotch Queen and
all her court were landed on the coast of Brittany.
As soon as they were able they went at once to
Morlaix, to return thanks in the cathedral there for
their escape from the perils of the sea and from the
hands of the English.

It happened that as they were returning from the
city, the drawbridge over which the little Queen had
just passed gave way, and there was a scene of great
terror and confusion as it crashed down into the river
beneath. It was enough to frighten any child, but
Mary was perfectly calm and showed no sign what-
ever of fear.

It was this fearless spirit of hers which so charmed
her uncle Francis, Duke of Guise. "My niece," he
said to her, "there is one trait in which, above all
others, I recognise my own blood in you — you are as
brave as my bravest men-at-arms. If women went
into battle now, as they did in ancient times, I think
you would know how to die well."

Journeying on to the Castle of S. Germain, Mary
was welcomed there by the little French princes and
princesses, and saw for the first time the Dauphin who
was to be her future husband. The two children soon
became good friends, and as they were about the same
age they learned their lessons together, and were
taught their dancing steps by the same master.

Dancing came very easily to the graceful little
Queen, and it was not long before she and her small
partner were called upon to dance before the King
and Queen and the whole court. It was perhaps im-
possible to avoid bringing the child forward, for she
had exactly the gifts which best fitted her to shine

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

in a gay court, and she attracted notice wherever she
went. But the great sheltered life in the old grey
castle of Scotland must have been a healthier and
better training for the little maid. The brilliant
court of France was scarcely the best place in which
to bring up a child. Janet, the Scotch nurse, did not
greatly love the change, and must have often shaken
her wise head over these foreigners and their ways.
They tried at first to part her from her charge, but
that was no easy matter, and she soon showed that
she was not a person to be lightly set aside.

So two years passed by, and then came the joyful
news from Scotland that the Queen-mother was about
to return to France for a short time, to visit her
little daughter. Mary's delight knew no bounds, and
she wrote at once to her grandmother, the Duchess
of Guise, to tell the good news.

"My Lady," she wrote, "I am very glad to be able
to offer you these present lines for the purpose of
telling you the joyful tidings which I have received
from the Queen, my mother, who has promised me,
by her letters dated xxii. of April, to come over very
soon to see you and me, and for us to see her, which
will be to me the greatest happiness that I could
desire in this world ; and this rejoices me to such a
degree as to make me think I ought to do my duty
to the utmost, in the meantime, and study to become
very wise, in order to satisfy the good desire she has
to see me all you and she wish me to be."

The coming, so much looked forward to, was de-
layed for some months, and gave the little Queen
time to try and grow wise as she had planned, but
at last the happy day arrived.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

How the child must have longed to run and meet
her mother, to throw her arms round her neck and
feel the kisses she had missed so sadly! But the
meeting was a state affair and Mary had to remember
she was a queen first and a daughter afterwards.
She read the address of welcome that had been pre-
pared for her, and inquired solemnly into the affairs
of her kingdom with a graciousness and dignity that
sat quaintly on a child of eight years old, and it was
small wonder that everyone was delighted with her.
The only wonder was that her little head was not
turned by all the praise and admiration showered
upon her.

Childhood's days of happy unconsciousness were
but short ones for this little Queen of Scotland. Far
too early she knew the cares and troubles that gather
round the head that wears a crown. She still had
many hours of childish joy, gay days in the forest
hunting and hawking, fetes at court and many a
merry-making, but the weight of the crown was
always there, and each year brought fresh responsi-
bilities. After that one happy visit she never saw
her mother again, and that must alone have been a
sore grief to her faithful little heart. She was not
a child to forget easily, and those she loved had their
place very deep in her heart. She was carefully
thoughtful for all those who served her, and never
failed to help them when it was in her power. Many
a letter she wrote to the Queen-mother reminding
her how faithful the good Janet had been, and begging
for some favour to be bestowed upon her.

The childish face of the little Queen, so full of
charm and beauty, began very soon to wear a grave

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS

and thoughtful expression. Her eyes that gazed so
earnestly out to the future had often a wistful look
in them, for her life even at twelve years of age was
not a very easy one. What did the future hold for
her? Brilliant days of happiness perhaps, many
triumphs, and surely many cares. But who can look
into the future? It is hidden from all mortal eyes,
and was hidden then, thank God, from the wistful
innocent eyes of Scotland's child queen.

LOUIS XIII

" Is it a son ? I beseech you not to give me false hopes.
It would kill me."

So spake Henri-Quatre, King of France, to the nurse
who came to tell him of the birth of his child.

Yes, it was a son, a " petit M. le Dauphin," and as
the nurse uncovered him to show to his father, tears of
thankfulness ran down the King's cheeks. There had
been no Dauphin in France for nearly eighty years, but
now, thank Heaven, all was well.

"Ma mie," said Henry to his Queen, Marie de'
Medici, " God has done us the great grace of giving us
what we asked. We have a fair son."

Great preparations had been made for the arrival of
the Dauphin, and already a governess, Madame de
Montglat, had been chosen to take charge of the
precious heir to the crown of France. Into her care
the baby was given as soon as the first ceremonies
were over. But first of all it was necessary that his
little body should be carefully bathed in red wine
and oil, and his head anointed with oil of roses, and
then the King solemnly blessed his little son, and put
a sword into the little mottled fist as he prayed that
it might only be used for the glory of God and the
defence of the French nation.

The news of the Dauphin's birth was received
throughout France with the greatest rejoicings. Te

LOUIS XIII

Deuins were sung and general thanksgiving services
were held for this gift from Heaven, while the Pope
himself was invited to be godfather.

It was at the Castle of Fontainebleau, in the year
1G01, that this little descendant and namesake of
S. Louis was born, happily unconscious of all the duties
and responsibilities and dangers that were waiting for
the child who would one day wear a crown. He
laughed and gurgled, screamed and wailed just like
any other baby, although Maitre Jean Heroard, the
court physician, whose special charge he was, lost no
time in telling him how he had been sent by God to
be a " good, just, and righteous sovereign."

The baby listened attentively, being at that time
about three months old, and crowed with delight,
which Heroard solemnly declared was a sign of his
good understanding.

At any rate, however much or little the baby under-
stood, he grew and thrived in the pure fresh air of Saint
Germains, where his nursery was established and where
he was to pass most of his childhood.

Outside his nursery lurked the shadows of treason
and danger, and it was a peaceful rest for the King
when he could amuse himself by watching his little son
asleep in his cradle, or carry him out on to the terrace
in the warm spring air. The baby face was calm
and unconscious of all those traitorous plots which
were being planned to put an end to the little life
which had just begun.

But the clouds passed by and Louis began to grow
out of his babyhood. His governess, "Mamanga" as
he learned to call her, had entire charge of him, and
did not treat him in the wisest way. Either he was

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

treated too severely or over-indulged, and almost as
soon as he could walk he learned to fear the whip
which was always kept near at hand for his punish-
ment. There were other kinds of things too which
Mamanga taught him to fear. Sometimes when he
was naughty she would send for a mason working
about the palace and bid him carry the naughty child
away in his hod, or a locksmith would come and bring
with him hammer and nails, which it was said were
used to hammer into bad obstinate little boys. Worst
of all was the birch-rod which came dangling down the
chimney of the royal nursery, let down, so said the
governess, by an angel who had brought it from
heaven specially for him.

There were other children by this time in the royal
nursery, a baby sister and some half-brothers, and
Louis domineered over them all, for he had been
taught to think himself the most important person in
the world. Only good Heroard the physician, who
truly loved the child, saw how badly he was being
trained, but except where the Dauphin's health was
concerned he had no right to interfere.

There was one person, however, whom Louis ere-
long learned to obey. The King, his father, would
allow no wilful ways, and insisted that the spoilt child
should be instantly obedient. Father and son having
both strong wills they naturally very often clashed
and then a storm raged. Heroard writes in his journal,
when Louis was nearly three years old : " The King
comes to see him and plays with him daily. The
Dauphin is put into such a bad temper that he nearly
bursts himself with screaming, and all was in so great
confusion that I had not the courage to observe what

LOUIS XIII

he was doing, except that, crying very much, he wanted
to beat all the world."

It was a big desire, and no doubt those around him
came in for their share of blows from the furious little
hands, but even in his rage when he felt himself
roughly handled by the King and ordered to be imme-
diately whipped he recognised the voice of authority.

As soon as the Dauphin was considered old enough
to know how to behave properly he went with the
King and Queen to enjoy the pleasures of Fontainebleau,
and at first all went well.

The King was amused with the royal airs of his
small son, and laughed at the way he ruled the nursery.
The other children were not even allowed a cushion to
kneel on when they said their prayers.

" Pray God on the ground," he bade them sternly,
and when he found the King in his own particular seat
in the chapel he promptly ordered him to be turned
out. " He is in my place. Get out of it," he said.

But the Dauphin was beginning to love his father
with all his heart, which made it easier for him to learn
to be obedient. Together they walked about the
gardens hand in hand, and fed the swans and ducks
and played with the fountains. It was so delightful to
turn the water on and off with his own hands and send
a shower of drops over his father. The saddest part of
the day was when he was carried off to bed, and even
then the King came and kissed him good-night.

That all happened on the happy days when he was
obedient and good, but Heroard tells of stormy times
as well. There was one day when Louis was in the
nursery playing happily with his favourite drum, when
the order came for him to go to his father. This did

65 E

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

not happen to please the Dauphin at the moment, and
he went with a very bad grace. He entered the room
with a very cross little face and forgot to uncover his
head. The King sharply ordered him to take off his
hat, and, as he did not do it quickly enough, snatched it
off himself.

The Dauphin, inclined to be cross already, was now
in a furious temper, which grew worse as the King
proceeded calmly to take away his drum and drum-
sticks as well as his hat.

" My hat, my drum, my drum-sticks," screamed the
child.

The King, inclined to tease the little fury, put the
tiny hat upon his own head, out of reach of the small
hands, and the Dauphin was beside himself with rage.

"I want my hat," he screamed. Then the King
began to lose patience with such a cross little boy and
struck him on his cheek with the desired hat. Then
he caught him firmly by his wrists and lifted him high
in the air.

" He ! you hurt me ! He ! my drum ! He ! my hat ! "
screamed the child.

At last the Queen interfered and gave him his hat
and his drum, but he was carried away in disgrace to
be whipped. Even the whipping did not subdue him,
and he kicked and scratched his governess with all his
might. At last his nurse took him away and tried to
show him how naughty he was.

" Monsieur," she said, " you have been very stubborn.
You must not be so. You must obey papa."

" Kill Mamanga," he sobbed, " she is wicked. I will
kill all the world."

But these quarrels were difficult to make up, and it

LOUIS XIII

was some time before Louis and his father were friends
again. Only as time went on " le petit valet de papa,"
as he loved to call himself, learned to have more self-
control and to keep his temper.

At five years old Louis made his first public entry
into Paris and was welcomed by the people as their
future king, but it did not amuse him at all. " I have
been a great pleasure to my mother," he writes to the
King, " and I made war in her room and wakened the
enemy there with my drum. I have visited the Arsenal
and will pray God for the King. I am very sleepy."

The public baptism and naming of the Dauphin was
now to take place, and everyone tried to impress upon
him how well he must behave. If he was not very
good, they said, another dauphin would take his place
and his name.

"I would not care," replied the child; "I would be
very glad of it. I should then go where I pleased and
no one would follow me."

However when the time came both he and his little
sisters behaved extremely well, and Louis made all his
responses dutifully.

He wished he had been named Henri, after his father,
and it scarcely comforted him to be told of his great
namesake Saint Louis. There was no one in his eyes
so splendid as his soldier father, although he listened to
the story of the great saint with interest and was
somewhat consoled about his name.

Sometimes the people around him would speak to
Louis of the time when he would come to the throne and
fill his father's place, but he always turned angrily away
and would not hear of it. Even at the Twelfth Night
party when he was chosen king, he refused the title.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

" He ! that belongs to papa," he said.

His father's rights he guarded as his own, and there
was some difficulty when he was being instructed in the
Ten Commandments and came to the one " Thou shalt
not kill." He was quite sure that all the King's
enemies should perish.

" Ho, ho ! I shall kill Spaniards, who are papa's
enemies," he said ; " I shall turn them well into dust."

" Monsieur," replied the chaplain gravely, " Spaniards
must not be killed. They are Christians."

This was most disappointing and annoying, and
Louis was obliged to give in very sorrowfully.

" I will then go and kill Turks," he said gloomily.

After his public baptism, and now that he was six
years old, Louis began to feel that he ought to make
some good resolutions about his behaviour, and he de-
cided that when the devil tempted him to be stubborn
or wilful he would go away into a corner and say his
paternoster.

But alas ! when the temptation came the good
resolution was forgotten, as was shown very soon after.

It was the custom in Holy Week that on Maundy
Thursday the King should wash the feet of thirteen poor
old men, to commemorate the washing of the disciples'
feet at Jerusalem.

Now it happened that the King was not very well
that Easter and could not perform the ceremony, so
the Dauphin was bidden to take his place, which was
the beginning of the trouble.

Louis flatly refused to do as he was bid. He did not
want to wash anyone's feet, and it was only when the
King himself commanded him that he most unwillingly
consented.

LOUIS XIII

The ballroom of the palace was filled with a great
crowd of nobles and people, and the thirteen poor men
were all in readiness when the Dauphin entered.
He came slowly and unwillingly, gazed at the poor men
and then at the basin. Then his face grew red with
indignation. It was his own special basin which they
were using, and that was more than he could bear. He
drew back, and with sobs refused to have anything to
do with the washing of the feet, and at last the chap-
lain was obliged to take his place.

Perhaps the King had some sympathy for his little
son. At any rate Louis was not whipped that time
as he might have expected. He certainly did not
seem inclined to follow very closely in the footsteps
of his saintly namesake, but at the same time he
took a keen interest in his religious lessons, and
listened eagerly to any Bible stories. In chapel he
carefully pointed out to his little sister the prayers he
wished her to say, and was very scornful about the
fables she learned to repeat to her father. He himself
only repeated Bible stories which were true, he said.

But although little madame, now five years old,
listened meekly enough and said her prayers as
directed, she would sometimes, to his great astonish-
ment, turn round and rebuke him for his own bad
behaviour.

" He ! Monsieur," she said one day at dinner when
the Dauphin had been ill-tempered and rude to his
governess, " you should not act thus. You would not so
much as be known to be the son of the King. One must
not take fancies ; one must not give way to tempers,
Monsieur. Mamanga will whip you. One does not
speak thus to gouvernantis. It is not pretty, Monsieur."

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

So astonished was the Dauphin that he had nothing
to answer, for it was seldom indeed that anyone
under his royal rule dared to rebuke him. Perhaps
the lecture did him good, for he was rather too fond
of giving orders about the behaviour of others, and
did not hesitate to make his wishes known. Even
when his governess was in trouble over the death of
her husband, Louis issued his royal command.

" I wish you not to cry. Laugh," he calmly remarked,
becoming tired of the sight of her tears.

It was natural enough perhaps that he should
consider himself of so great importance, for those
around him never ceased to remind him that he was
the Dauphin and the future King of France. In his
father's absence it was he who gave the watchword
to the captain of the guard, and although he was
barely seven years old he wrote all his mother's letters
for her when she was ill.

"My place is everywhere," he said grandly once
when bidden to take his place in some little dance.

The time was now drawing near when the Dauphin
would be eight years old and would pass out of the
hands of his governess to be trained by tutors. Mean-
while, to prepare him for the change, a number of
boys of his own age, sons of noblemen, were sent with
their tutors to be with him at Saint Germains, where
he held a miniature court and ruled them as his father
ruled his kingdom.

" You are their master," Heroard told him. " When
they do wrong you must rebuke them, and for their
punishment tell them that, unless they are good, you
will love them no longer."

But this was not at all Louis' idea of ruling. He
thought there ought to be a much more severe punish-

LOUIS XIII

ment than the mere loss of his love and favour, and
he insisted that all evildoers should be whipped
soundly. One of his little companions when playing
together happened to strike a blow, and Louis im-
mediately ordered his tutor to whip him.

" But," said Heroard anxiously, " you will command
his tutor not to whip him on condition that he does
it no more ? "

" I do it in order that it should not happen again,"
said Louis firmly.

When at last the little Dauphin was handed over
to his governor, M. de Souvre, it was a great change
indeed, although he was not at all sorry to say good-
bye to his governess. Instead of the country life of
Saint Germains he had now to live at the Louvre, and
was not nearly so free to wander about at will, His
brothers and sisters were left behind in the nursery,
but his companions were the same and he ruled them
as strictly as ever, and refused to allow anyone to
interfere with his command. When he went out these
"little gentlemen" marched two and two in front of
him, and he drilled them and passed them in review
before the King, like a little soldier. His love for his
father grew ever greater and deeper, but there were
still times when his stubborn temper caused trouble
between them. Taken to Fontainebleau again, he
was out one day with the King when they came to
a ditch which the boy easily leapt over, standing at
the edge. The King ordered him to jump it with a
run, and Louis sulkily refused. He was afraid he
might miscalculate the distance and fall in, and that
his father would laugh at him. The King was not
accustomed to having his orders disobeyed, and be-

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

came more and more angry as Louis stubbornly refused
to jump. He was very much inclined to duck the
boy in the water, but instead told him he would whip
him soundly unless he jumped at once. Louis refused
and took the whipping silently, merely saying that
it did not hurt.

Perhaps his father was more strict and harsh
with him than with the other children, but when
the Queen pointed this out he said that there were
many people who would correct the others but there
was no one else who would whip the Dauphin.

Alas ! the strong hand that corrected little Louis
was soon to be removed, and there was but a short
time now for those happy walks or unhappy quarrels.
Only a few more months and then the terrified child
was told that his father had been assassinated in
the streets of Paris, and that the shouts he heard of
" Long live the King ! " were meant for him.

"I would I were not King," he cried; "I would it
were my brother. I fear they will kill me, as they
killed the King my father."

And at night he begged that he might not sleep
alone.

" Lest dreams should come to me," he said in a
fearful whisper.

Poor little King ! Well might he wish that his
head need not bear the weight of a crown. It was
such weary work to try and be wise, to put away his
toys and be a man. There were so many shadows
lurking round his path, so many evil dreams to haunt
him. In all the world surely there is none who need
so sorely Heaven's special help and protection as he
upon whose head there rests a crown.

SIR ISAAC NEWTON

LONG ago, in the year 1642, there was born on
Christmas Day one of the tiniest babies, with one
of the most wonderful brains that the world has ever
known. He was so small that his mother used after-
wards to say that he might have been easily put into
a quart mug, and yet inside the head of that little
Hop-o'-my-thumb there was something which was
to make him one of the great men of the earth.

Small as the baby was, he was a very precious
gift to his young mother, who had lost her husband
soon after her wedding day, and the little fatherless
baby was doubly welcome when he came into the
world with the sound of the Christmas bells.

It was in the manor house of Woolsthorpe in Lin-
colnshire that this baby was born, and on New Years
Day he was carried to the parish church at Colster-
worth and given the name of his father, Isaac
Newton. It could have been no easy matter to dress
the baby in any christening robe except such as a
fairy or pixie might wear, but the boy soon began
to grow apace and erelong showed plainly that he
was no changeling, but a healthy, vigorous young
Briton.

As soon as Isaac was old enough he went to a
day school, first at Skillington and then at Stoke,

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

but it was not until he was twelve years old that
he was entered at the public school of Graiitham,
and was sent to board at the house of Mr. Clark, an
apothecary of that town.

Now Isaac was rather careless and inattentive about
his lessons and was usually at the very bottom of his
class, until it happened one day that he had a fight
with a boy near the top. This boy was a bully and
did not play fair, but gave Isaac a very nasty kick
which hurt badly.

From that day young Isaac made up his mind to
get above his enemy in class, and at once gave his
whole mind to learning his lessons. Each day he won
a higher and higher place, and, even after passing the
enemy, kept steadily on until he became head boy of
the school.

Schoolboy games had little interest for Isaac, for
he had quite a different way of amusing himself and
needed every precious spare moment for carrying out
his plans. His head was full of ideas about making
mechanical models which would work by themselves,
and he collected by degrees all sorts of little saws,
hatchets, hammers, and other tools which he used with
deft clever fingers.

A windmill was being built just then on the road
not very far from Grantham, and Isaac watched the
building whenever he could with the most intense
interest. He made friends with the workmen, and was
allowed to look on while they put together all the
different parts of the machinery, so that by the time
it was finished he knew almost as much about it as
the workmen themselves. After that it was no very
difficult matter for him to make a small model of

SIR ISAAC NEWTON

the windmill with sails and machinery complete, to
the great wonder and admiration of all who saw it.

The wonderful little model windmill was set at
first on the roof of the house, that the wind might
turn the sails and set the machinery working, but as
winds are apt to be uncertain, Isaac thought of a new
plan and began to work his model by animal power.
A kind of treadmill was connected with the machinery,
and a mouse was set to run round and round, or
rather to try and run round, which set the wheel in
motion.

It is to be hoped that the inventor was kind to
" the little miller," as he called the mouse, for it
must have been hard and monotonous work for the
small animal who cared nothing for mechanical ex-
periments, and was only anxious to climb up to the
corn placed so temptingly beyond his reach above the
wheel.

Isaac's next idea was to make a clock worked by
water, and he begged the apothecary for a good- sized
wooden box and fitted it up \vith a dial and hands,
and arranged the works which were set agoing by
the slow dropping of a certain quantity of water which
he regulated daily. It really turned out to be quite
a useful clock, and was used by the whole family for
many years.

After that came the idea of a little carriage on
four wheels, which could be worked by the person
who sat inside, but although this was made it was
not a great success, as it was impossible to work it
uphill, and it was only useful on very smooth level
roads.

The boys at school soon discovered that although

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Isaac Newton was no good at games he could make
the most splendid things to play with, and his kites
were the envy of everyone. He made paper lanterns
too, which were extremely useful on winter mornings
when the boys had to find their way to school in
the dark. These lanterns served another purpose as
well and a more entertaining one, for it was great
sport on dark nights to light one and tie it on to the
tail of a kite, so that the folk round about talked in
awestruck tones of the comet that had been seen in
the sky.

Those school companions \vere nevertheless of no
great interest to Isaac, and his real friend was a little
girl, two or three years younger than himself, who
was living in the same house in which he lodged.
He must have been a very delightful friend for any
little girl to have, for he made her the most beautiful
chairs and tables for her dolls, and all kinds of little
cupboards and boxes in which to keep her treasures.
She was a clever child, and Isaac, who was a " sober,
silent, thinking lad," was much happier in her company
than in the playground with those shouting boys.
His friendship with little Miss Story lasted all his life.

All this time besides making toys and working
models, Isaac had taught himself to draw, and it was
one of his great pleasures. His room was hung with
pictures drawn and framed by himself, some of them
original drawings and some copies. It is said that
his walls were "covered with charcoal drawings of
birds, beasts, men, ships, and mathematical figures, all
of which were very well designed."

But although he was so fond of drawing it was cer-
tainly his making models which took up most of his

SIR ISAAC NEWTON

attention. The water-clock was not very satisfjictory
after all, and he now turned his attention to making
sun-dials. The country people round about thought very
highly of "Isaac's dial," and often came to tell the time
of day by it.

When Isaac was still a little boy, his mother had
married again and made her home at the rectory of
North Witham, but by the time he was fourteen his
step-father died and the family went back to live at the
old manor house of Woolsthorpe.

It was necessary then that some one should help to
work the farm, and as there was but little money to
spare for school fees, Isaac was brought home, that he
might set to work at once and learn to be a farmer.

There was not much of a farmer about Isaac, and
there seemed a poor chance of turning him into one.
When he was sent to the Grantham market to sell grain
and buy what the household required, he left all the
bargaining to the servant who went with him, and
wandered away to his old lodgings where he knew he
would find books to read. Sometimes he even carried
a book from home, with him, and stretched himself out
behind some hedge to read while the old servant went
on to the market, and lay absorbed until the servant
returned and it was time to go home.

It was just as bad if he went to do work in the
fields. His whole mind was bent on inventing water-
wheels or some other contrivance, or else he was so
deeply interested in watching the sun-shadows that he
allowed the sheep to wander away at their own sweet
will, and never noticed when the cows broke into the
cornfields, eating and trampling down the corn.

Evidently it was no use to try and make a farmer

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

of Isaac, for both the boy and the farm suffered, and so
his mother with a sigh made up her mind to let him go
back to school to prepare for the university. Perhaps,
after all, thought she, there might be something in his
queer ideas and his curious love for strange calculations.

So the path was made smooth for Isaac Newton to
follow until it led to those wonderful discoveries that
were to bring a flood of light into the world, and set
his name foremost in the list of great men of genius.

Well might they long afterwards write in the room
where that small baby was born one Christmas Day —

" Nature and Nature's laws lay hid in night,
God said ' Let Newton be,' and all was Light."

SAMUEL JOHNSON

THERE never was a more miserable-looking infant than
little Samuel Johnson when he first opened his eyes
to the light. It may be that his parents saw some
beauty in their new-born son, but to other eyes he
was nothing but a poor wailing atom, unhealthy and
unattractive.

" I wouldn't have picked up such a baby in the
street," remarked his aunt afterwards, and most people
would have quite agreed with her.

At first it seemed very unlikely that the baby would
live, and so he was baptized on the very day he was
born, on the 18th of September 1709, but in spite of
every drawback he struggled along and gradually began
to take a firmer hold on life.

It was in a curious old house near the market-place
of Lichfield that Samuel Johnson was born, and there
his father, Michael Johnson, sold books and stationery
and lived a busy life. He not only sold books in
Lichfield, but as there were but few booksellers there,
he went every market-day into Birmingham and did
business there as well. He was no longer a young
man when Samuel was born, and the baby was a great
source of pride and delight to him.

Samuel's mother knew nothing about books and was
not at all learned, but she was a clever woman in other
ways and very religious. As soon as Samuel was able

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

to understand anything she taught him that heaven
was the place to which good people went, and that bad
people went to a very different spot.

From the very first the poor baby suffered from a
disease called scrofula, or "king's evil," and this hurt
his eyes so badly that he became almost blind. In
those days people firmly believed that this disease could
be cured by the touch of a royal hand, and Samuel's
mother made up her mind to take the baby to London
and see what Queen Anne could do for him.

Although Samuel was only two and a half years
old at that time, he always remembered distinctly how
they travelled up in the stage-coach and how much the
passengers disliked him because he coughed so much
and was so troublesome. Then, too, he had " a sort of
solemn recollection of a lady in diamonds and a long
black hood," who had graciously laid her hand upon
him and the crowd of other people who had come to be
cured of the " king's evil."

Sad to say, Queen Anne's royal touch worked no
miracle, and Samuel was no better when his mother
carried him back to Lichfield. This time they travelled
in a waggon to avoid troubling the stage-coach pas-
sengers with a sick child, but before starting she bought
him a small silver cup and spoon, and that was the only
good he got from his visit to London.

As time went on, however, the child grew stronger
and soon began to show signs of having a most remark-
able mind. He had a wonderful memory and learned
so quickly that he was a continual marvel to those who
taught him. When still but a child in petticoats he
had learned to read. His mother one morning " put the
Common Prayer Book into his hands, pointed to the

SAMUEL JOHNSON

collect for the day and said, " Sam, you must get this
by heart." She went upstairs, leaving him to study it,
but by the time she had reached the second floor, she
heard him following her. "What's the matter?" said
she. " I can say it," he replied, and repeated it distinctly,
though he could not have read it more than twice.

Samuel's father by this time began to be quite
foolishly proud of his small son, and never lost an
opportunity of showing off his cleverness. Sam did not
like this at all. It made him feel like a pet dog which
is made to sit up and beg and show off his tricks, and
so whenever he saw a visitor his plan was to run away
and hide himself in a tree to escape notice.

There was no doubt that Samuel was an extremely
clever child, but he could scarcely have understood all
for which his father gave him credit. Perched on his
father's shoulder, he listened gravely to the sermon
preached in Lichfield Cathedral by the famous Dr.
Sacheverell, and when a friend in the crowd blamed
Michael Johnson for bringing such an infant to church,
the answer was ready.

" It was impossible to keep him at home," said the
proud father ; " young as he is, he has caught the public-
spirit and zeal for Sacheverell."

When Samuel was still very small he was sent to
a dame's school in Lichfield, and he soon proved to be
the best scholar that Dame Oliver ever had had. He
was not at all a good-tempered little boy, however, and
he had a very strong will of his own, so it was not
always easy to manage him.

As he was too young to go to school by himself,
besides being too short-sighted to find his way, a
servant was sent every day to take him and fetch him

8l F

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

back. Now it happened one day that the servant was
late and had not come by the time Samuel was ready
to start for home, and so, taking matters into his own
hands, he set out by himself. He was so blind that he
had to peer closely down at the path to see where he
was going, and when he came to the kennel in the
schoolyard he was obliged to go down on his hands and
knees to feel it all over that he might know what this
great obstacle was.

The schoolmistress was watching him carefully all
the time, and was afraid to let him go on alone in case
he should lose his way, fall over something, or be run
over himself, so she followed at a distance to see that
he got along safely. Suddenly, however, he turned
and caught sight of her and flew into a great rage,
as he felt deeply insulted at being watched. Then he
turned and ran back to her, and with all the strength
of his puny fists he beat her with all his might.

Although Michael Johnson was not well off, he
made up his mind that his clever boy should have the
very best education possible, and so when Samuel was
eight years old he was sent to the grammar school at
Lichfield. There for a time he was well content, for the
master was inclined to make much of the boy who
learned so quickly and had such a wonderful memory.
When, however, after two years he was promoted to
the vipper school, his troubles began.

The head master was very severe and very fond of
using the rod. He believed there was nothing so good
for boys as a good birching, and he beat them most
unmercifully. Johnson used to say of him afterwards,
"He never taught a boy in his life, he whipped and
they learned."

SAMUEL JOHNSON

Perhaps Samuel may have been whipped more than
was necessary, but at the same time it did him a great
deal of good, and he quite allowed that without those
whippings he would never have learned so much as he
did. In spite of all his cleverness he was an extremely
lazy boy, and always put off learning his lessons until
the last moment. He hated the trouble of writing, too,
and his plan was to get some other boy to write down
his verses and essays while he dictated them. At the
same time he learned so quickly that lessons were
really no trouble to him when he was forced to learn
them, and the whippings no doubt were meant to spur
him on.

" My master whipped me very well," he said in after
years. " Without that I should have done nothing."

At games Samuel was no use whatever. Not only
was he too lazy to care to play, but his eyesight was
too bad to allow him to shine in any sports, and so he
would have none of them. The only thing he cared to
do out-of-doors was to saunter along through the fields
with some admiring schoolfellow to keep him company
and listen to all he had to say. It could not have been
very lively for the admiring friend, for sometimes
Samuel would not even take the trouble to talk, or,
worse still, began to indulge in the bad habit of talking
to himself.

It was quite extraordinary what an influence he
had upon the other boys and how they all tried to win
his favour. It was as if he was head and shoulders
higher than any of them, and they all looked up to him
and admired him.

" From his earliest years," says Boswell, who wrote
his great biography, " his superiority was perceived

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and acknowledged. He was from the beginning a
king of men."

It is difficult to imagine anything less like a king
than the great clumsy, lazy boy, but there must have
been some strong feeling that made his schoolfellows
devoted to him. Every morning three of them came
to fetch him to school, and actually carried him all the
way.

" One in the middle stooped while he sat upon his
back, and one on each side supported him, and thus he
was borne triumphant."

By this time Samuel had grown into a large heavy
boy, and it was no light weight that his admirers
carried, and there must have been some great induce-
ment to make them become such beasts of burden.

In winter time, too, he condescended to be drawn
along the ice " by a boy barefooted, who pulled him
along by a garter fixed round him : no very easy opera-
tion, as his size was remarkably large."

But if Samuel was lazy about most things and not
at all keen on games, he was keen enough where read-
ing was concerned. Every book that came his way he
devoured, no matter how dull or difficult it was, pro-
vided he fancied it, and what he once read he never
forgot. When one of his schoolfellows once recited a
poem of eighteen verses to him, he repeated it after a
pause without one mistake except to vary " an epithet
by which he compared the line."

Now Samuel was quite aware of his superiority and
was not at all troubled by over-much modesty. Talk-
ing one day long afterwards to his friend Boswell
about his school-days, he said, " They never thought to
praise me by comparing me to anyone, they never said,

SAMUEL JOHNSON

' Johnson is as good a scholar as such a one,' but ' Such
a one is as good a scholar as Johnson,' and this was
said but of one, but of Lowe, and I do not think he was
as good a scholar." The desire to be first and to excel
in everything he undertook was the best spur to his
idle habits.

Perhaps the big awkward boy, with his gloomy
violent temper and his good opinion of himself, does not
make a very attractive picture, but it must be re-
membered that he had a kind and generous heart, and
that his greatness was never dimmed by any dishonour-
able act, that " no falsehood was ever spoken, no line
opposed to conscience was ever penned by this Colossus
of English Literature."

FREDERICK THE GREAT

THERE were great rejoicings at the Prussian court,
and thoughout all the Prussian dominions when, on the
24th of January 1712, the news spread like wildfire that
a young prince had been born at the palace in Berlin.
" Heaven send that he might be a healthy child," was the
pious hope of every Prussian heart, for was he not the
heir to the throne, after his father, the Crown Prince,
and had not the nation's hopes already been twice
dashed, by the death of r the other two princes born
before this one? It made the new prince doubly
precious, but in the midst of all the bonfires and
rejoicings there were those who shook their heads
gloomily over this new hope. The other little brothers
had both been so short-lived. The first one had died not
long after his christening, having been too much over-
burdened by the weight of his gorgeous christening
robes, and his poor soft little head too deeply indented
by the tiny crown that pressed so heavily on his
baby brow.

The next hope also vanished but too quickly, he
having died, it was thought, of fright caused by the
roar of the cannon which thundered out his welcome.
True, there had come a princess in between, who was
thriving well, but a princess was of small importance
to the Prussian nation. All their hopes were fixed
on this new-born prince.

FREDERICK THE GREAT

The father of the baby, soon to be Frederick II of
Prussia, was overjoyed that cold January day when
he held his precious little son in his arms. Indeed
he held him in such a big loving embrace that the
new baby stood a fair chance of being stifled even if
he wasn't roasted in the blaze of the huge fire before
which his father held him. Luckily a nurse snatched
him away in time, having but a poor opinion of such
nursing.

The new baby was certainly a small morsel of a
thing, but the court was told that it was "of great
promise," so the whole nation went wild with joy,
and when he was a week old he was christened with
the greatest pomp and received the name of Karl
Friedrich. Friedrich, Rich-in-Peace, was a family name
of the Hohenzollerns, and it was by that name that
the baby was to be known, the name to which the
world added his splendid title, marking him out as
Frederick the Great.

It was no courtly life of ease and luxury that
awaited the little prince in the palace of Berlin. His
father, Frederick the elder, was a soldier, with a
soldier's love of discipline, and he had no patience with
luxury or fine French ways. As soon as he became
king there was no more money spent on needless
extravagance at court, but his one ambition was to
make the Prussian army the finest in the world. Idle-
ness and evil ways he punished by law and by the
strength of his good right arm, for he was never seen
without his rattan, with which he "thrashed his
kingdom, his household, and his family into obedience
and good order."

Even the apple-women sitting at their stalls in the

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

street were bidden by the King to employ their time
in knitting, and woe betide any idle dame who sat
at ease with her hands in her lap if the King happened
to pass by and his eye fell upon her.

In spite of all these wild methods of keeping people
in order, the little prince's father was a splendid
manager, and if he did not allow luxuries for others
he himself lived a very simple life. He hated fine
clothes and the huge French wigs that were worn then.
He disliked silken curtains or stuffed chairs ; even
carpets were a trial to him, for they harboured dust.
To be very clean and neat was all that a soldier and
a nation of soldiers should strive after. His wife and
her women might want stuffed sofas, for they, poor
things, were only women, but for himself he would
have polished wood. His food, too, was of the plainest
and eaten as quickly as possible.

This then was the father who was planning the
upbringing of his small son, when the careful nurse
snatched the baby out of his arms, that the first few
years of its little life at least might be tended by
gentler hands than those of a soldier. The mother,
Sophie Dorothea of Hanover, was, it is said, "one of
the most beautiful princesses of her day," and the
baby was certainly much more like her than his rugged
father. She had a gentle loving nature too, and it
was pleasant to think that the little prince would
have some one to make excuses for him, and even
spoil him somewhat, as he grew up under his father's
iron rule.

Little Frederick was a lively quick child, " one of
the prettiest, vividest little boys, with eyes, with mind
and ways of uncommon brilliancy," but inclined to

FREDERICK THE GREAT

be rather delicate, so that it was almost a wonder that
he managed to battle his way through his childhood,
fed on " beer soup " and kept on as short allowance
of sleep as any Spartan boy,

For the first seven years of his life Prince Fritz was
under the care of women and especially of his gover-
ness, the Dame de Eoncoulles, who had also been gover-
ness to his father, the elder Frederick Wilhelm. The
poor lady had had no easy time with her first pupil, and
she thanked heaven that this new Frederick was not
likely to prove half as troublesome as his father had
been. Could she ever forget the day when that first
pupil of hers had insisted on putting his shoe-buckles
into his mouth, they being shining and to his baby mind
good for food ? Of course he swallowed one before she
could interfere to save it and him. That was bad enough,
but a worse shock was in store for her when she one day
ordered her small pupil to do something which was not
to his mind, and the moment her back was turned he
disappeared, and when she looked round all that was to
be seen of him was his hands clinging to the sill of the
third-story window, while his body dangled outside.
There he hung, threatening to drop down at any
moment, and refusing to come in until she should come
to terms. No, she was thankful to find that this new
Frederick was a much easier pupil to deal with, and not
at all like his father.

Sometimes, perhaps, it might have been easier
for the boy if he had been more like the King, or
at least, if he had been more inclined to fall in
with his Majesty's ways. As it was, the very fact
that he was ordered to do one thing made him
long to do another, and before he was seven years

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

old there had already been battles between father
and son.

Now, one of the first things his father planned to
give his son pleasure was a miniature soldier company,
a regiment of little boys which the prince was to com-
mand as soon as he should be drilled and taught a
soldier's duty. The seven-year-old colonel was dressed
in a tight blue bit of a coat and a cocked hat, as exactly
like his father as possible, but there the likeness ended,
for little Fritz did not care in the least for soldiers,
took no interest in drilling, and had no pride whatever
in his smart regiment. He was so much happier play-
ing his flute, and would much rather make music than
war.

It was just the same when he went hunting with his
father. Frederick Wilhelm was a keen hunter and
loved every kind of rough sport, but the boy took no
pleasure in it at all, and would always if possible steal
away into the forest and hold a concert with some of
his companions, who were also musical, and stay and
talk with mother and her ladies.

It really looked as if the boy was going to turn out
an effeminate fop, thought his father angrily, and yet
nothing had been left undone to harden him and turn
him out a true Prussian soldier.

As soon as he was seven years old he was taken out
of the hands of his governess and put under tutors, and
these tutors acted under the strictest rules set by the
King himself. His Majesty had chosen his men care-
fully, and the prince was placed in the special charge
of Duhan, a young French gentleman, who was " fonder
of fighting than of teaching grammar," therefore a
man after the King's own heart.

FREDERICK THE GREAT

First of all, the boy was to be taught to fear Cod,
for " God and the King " is the foundation of all Prussian
schooling. Then he was to learn arithmetic, mathe-
matics, artillery and economy, a great deal of history,
and no Latin whatever. Lastly, writes the King to the
two tutors, Finkenstein and Kalkstein, " you have, both
of you, in the highest measure, to make it your care to
infuse into my son a true love for the soldier business,
and to impress on him that, as there is nothing in the
world which can bring a prince renown and honour like
the sword, so he would be a despised creature before
all men, if he did not love it, and seek his sole glory
therein."

So much for the tutoring, but the boy's daily life
was as carefully mapped out as were his lessons, and
these are the rules set forth.

" Sunday. — On Sunday he is to rise at seven ; and as
soon as he has got his slippers on, shall kneel down at
his bedside, and pray to God, so as all in the room may
hear it. ... Then rapidly and vigorously wash himself
clean, dress and powder and comb himself. Prayer,
with washing, breakfast, and the rest to be done
pointedly within fifteen minutes."

The breakfast would not take long, for he was only
to have some tea, and that was to be drunk while his
hair was being combed.

"This finished, all the domestics and Duhan shall
come in and do family worship, prayer on their knees,
Duhan withal to read a chapter of the Bible1, and
sing some prayer, psalm, or hymn. It will then be
a quarter to eight. All the domestics then withdraw
again, and Duhan now reads with my son the Gospel
of the Sunday; expounds it a little, adducing the

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

main points of Christianity ; it will then be nine
o'clock."

" At nine he brings my son down to me, who goes
to church and dines along with me : the rest of the
day is then his own. At half -past nine in the evening
he shall come and bid me good-night. Shall then
directly go to his room ; very rapidly get off his clothes,
wash his hands ; and so soon as that is done Duhan
makes a prayer on his knees and sings a hymn ; all
the servants being again there. Instantly after which
my son shall get into bed ; shall be in bed at half -past
ten."

" Monday. — On Monday as on all week-days he is to
be called at six ; and so soon as called he is to rise ;
you are to stand to him that he do not loiter or turn
in bed, but briskly and at once get up and say his
prayers, the same as on Sunday morning. This done,
he shall as rapidly as possible get on his shoes and
spatterdashes ; also wash his face and hands, but not
with soap. Further shall put on his short dressing-
gown, have his hair combed out and greased, but not
powdered. While getting combed and greased, he shall
at the same time take breakfast of tea, so that both
jobs go on at once ; and all this shall be ended before
half-past six."

Then follows family worship as on Sunday, to be
finished by seven o'clock.

" From seven till nine Duhan takes him on history ;
at nine comes Noltanius with the Christian religion
till a quarter to eleven. Then Fritz rapidly washes his
face with water, hands with soap and water; clean
shirt; powders, and puts on his coat; about eleven
comes to the King. Stays with the King till two."

FREDERICK THE GREAT

"Directly at two he goes back to his room. Duhnu
is there ready ; takes him upon the maps and geo-
graphy from two to three— giving account of all the
European kingdoms, their strength and weakness, size,
riches and poverty of their towns. From three to
four, Duhan treats of morality. From four to five,
Duhan shall write German Letters with him, and see
that he gets a good style. About five, Fritz shall wash
his hands and go to the King ; ride out ; divert himself
in the air and not in his room ; and do what he likes,
if it is not against God."

The rest of the week-days are very much like the
Monday, but on Wednesday and Saturday there are
half holidays for little Fritz, though he is to forfeit
his Saturday holiday if his lessons have not been
satisfactory. The directions then end up with one
general rule for all days.

"In undressing and dressing you must accustom
him to get out of, and into, his clothes as fast as is
humanly possible. You will also look that he learn
to put on and put off his clothes himself, without help
from others; and that he be clean and neat and not

dirty."

And now let us look at this boy who has been
so carefully trained and instructed. We might expect
to see a sturdy soldier-like prince drilled into ab-
solute obedience, fond of his tub, extremely neat and

smart.

Alas ! Fritz looks rather delicate, not in the least
like a soldier, not at all fond of washing, and with a
very decided will of his own.

Instead of close-cropped military hair, Fritz likes to
wear his locks as long as possible, and even cultivates a

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

coxcomb. Instead of being proud to lead his regiment,
he loves to play the flute and make music.

Truly it was a great disappointment to have such a
son, but his Majesty could alter one thing at least. The
boy's hair should be cut, and the court barber was im-
mediately summoned, while the King himself looked on
and ordered him to crop and club that fair shining hair.
Little Fritz should be made to look like a soldier at any
rate.

Even at his lessons the boy set himself secretly
against his father. He was quick at learning everything,
but of course, since Latin was forbidden, it was Latin
that he set himself most diligently to learn.

He might have known that his disobedience could
not escape the quick eye of his Majesty, and one day
when he was hard at work with Latin dictionaries and
Latin grammars, laid out on the table, with a copy of
the Golden Ball, in walked the King and demanded to
know what he was doing.

" Your Majesty, I am explaining Aurea Balla (Golden
Ball) to the prince," answered the trembling tutor.

" Dog ! " roared the King, " I will Golden Ball you ! "
and down came his Majesty's stick with a whack across
his shoulders.

That was the worst thing about the King's strict
rules, they taught the boy to be secretly disobedient,
and when his disobedience was found out, there was
war between father and son, although the mother did
her best to screen and defend her son.

But in spite of it all, Frederick grew up with a fine
sense of truth and honour, and the strict training was
good for him. He was indeed a disappointment to his
father, who called him a piper and a poet and no soldier,

FREDERICK THE GREAT

but that was a great deal the father's own fault. He
had tried to stamp the new little coin with his own im-
press, so that the boy might be as like him " as a little
sixpence is like a half crown," but when it turned out,
as Carlyle says, that the new coin had a stamp of its
own " that will never be the half crown your Majesty
requires," he did not recognise that it was a golden
piece of greater value than any that had yet been given
to the Prussian nation.

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

THE village of Ecclefechan lies in the low pleasant
district of Annandale, about sixteen miles north of
Carlisle. It is a quiet grey little village, clean and
orderly, but with a cold " dour " look, not unlike the
village folk themselves. There are no gardens or
flowers to be seen, only rows of whitewashed cottages,
with doorsteps leading on to the cobblestones, and a
burn running down the middle of the street.

All those whitewashed cottages with their clean red
doorsteps look very much alike, but there is one which
rather stands out from the rest, for it is a double house
with an archway joining the two parts together. Here
it was that on December 4th, 1795, Thomas Carlyle was
born.

The Carlyles were an old Border family, who took
their name, it is thought, from the town of Carlisle.
In olden days they had been bold Border raiders,
knights and soldiers, but time and misfortune had
brought them low, and the family which now bore the
name had a hard struggle to win their way along.

The old house with the archway had been built by
James Carlyle and his brother with their own hands,
they having both learned the trade of masons, although
in their earlier days they had lived a wild free life,
hunting like Indians, tracking down game and making
a living out of the hares they caught. For a hare's
skin could be sold for sixpence, and its flesh provided

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

them with a good meal, and a good meal counted for a
great deal with the hungry lads.

Those days were now left behind, and it was a respect-
able, fairly well-to-do family that lived at Ecclefechan,
and although little Thomas ran about barefooted with
the other bairns, and seldom had anything but porridge,
milk, and potatoes for his food, it was a healthy, whole-
some life, and there was little to complain of.

It was, however, not a cheerful or joyous kind of
childhood for Thomas, the eldest boy, or for the six
brothers and sisters who followed him. The father,
James Carlyle, was a stern, silent man, of whom the
children stood greatly in awe. There was no merry
chatter, no fun nor telling of idle tales in their father's
presence, and there was a silence about the house which
made it exceedingly gloomy as well as quiet. No one
was expected to talk unless they had something worth
saying, and if Thomas chanced to make some childish
inaccurate remark, he was frozen by his father's look
and his cold " I don't believe thee."

But if his father was a terror to the little silent boy,
his mother was all that was loving and tender, and his
tongue would go fast enough when he found her alone,
always ready to listen, always understanding, and
always patient. Perhaps she too stood in awe of her
stern husband and grew quiet and silent, but although
she was a?, deeply religious as he was, she had a gayer,
happier nature, and was full of quiet humour.

" To her care for my body and soul," said Thomas
Carlyle in after years, " I owe endless gratitude."

It was she who taught him to read when he was still
such a tiny boy that he could not remember when he
began, and then when he was five he learned arithmetic

•
feet

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

with his father and was sent with the other village
children to the village school.

Like most of the Carlyles, Thomas had a violent
temper, and almost the first thing he remembered
distinctly was throwing his little brown stool at his
step-brother's head, when he was two years old, and
breaking off one of its legs. Sorrow for his badness and
grief for his broken stool mingled equally together then.

Sundays were very strictly observed in the little
Scottish village, and all children of reasonable years were
expected to walk soberly along to the meeting-house,
and there to sit as quiet as mice and as wide awake as
possible during the long hours of the service and sermon,
helped sometimes by the slow sucking of a peppermint.
The meeting-house was only a little heather-thatched
cottage, not large enough to hold a big congregation,
but people walked many miles to hear the minister
preach, and on stormy days there was a fine array of
dripping plaids hung up to dry inside the door.

Little Thomas never forgot those Sunday sermons
in the thatched cottage. Sitting by his mother's side,
he watched silently and with deep interest the faces of
all the people gathered there, noting especially an eager
handsome boy who walked all the way from Annan,
and the rugged faces of the older men, full of character,
intent and earnest, while the minister, " like an evange-
list in modern vesture, thundered out his soul-stirring
message."

" That poor temple of my childhood," Carlyle after-
wards said, "is more sacred to me than the biggest
cathedral."

It was one of those old earnest-faced men, "tall,
straight, very clean always, brown as mahogany, and

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

with a beard as white as snow," of whom a story is
told which shows us what kind of men they were amon-j;
whom Thomas Carlyle spent his childhood.

This old David Hope had a small farm by the Solway
shore, a part of the country where farming was difficult
and harvests late. It was always a hard matter to get
the harvests in, for often when the rain stopped there
followed a furious storm of wind which swept every-
thing before it. Then came a few gleams of sunshine,
when the farmer worked with all his might to save as
much of the corn as possible.

One day when David's corn was ready and the
household was having a hasty breakfast of porridge
before beginning to " lead in," a messenger came run-
ning to the farm. "Such a ragin' wind has risen as
will drive the stacks into the sea if let alone," he panted.

But David was putting on his spectacles to begin
family worship, and showed no signs of hurry.

" Wind," he repeated, " wind canna' get ae straw
that has been appointed mine. Sit down and let us
worship God."

These kind of people set a great value on educa-
tion for their children, and in most families their
greatest ambition was that one at least of the sons
should be a " scholar."

The stern silent father of the Carlyle household
had secretly watched his boy Thomas, and had come
to the conclusion that he was worth educating. The
schoolmaster gave a good report of his " figures,"
and the minister said he was doing well with his
Latin, so to the Annan Grammar School Thomas
was sent.

Thomas at ten years old was a shy, thoughtful

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

boy with little liking for rough companions, but with
a temper as fierce and hot as when he hurled his
stool at his brother's head. Many an anxious hour
did his mother spend thinking of that passionate
temper of his, and before he left for school she made
him promise her that he would never hit back when
he received a blow.

Clever boys, especially those who possess the
heaven-sent gift of genius, are seldom liked by the
ordinary commonplace schoolboy. It is difficult to
understand a genius, and boys don't like things they
can't understand, so, unless the clever boy can defend
himself by the strength of his good right arm, he
has not an easy time amongst his persecutors.

It was an unlucky thing for Thomas Carlyle that
his mother should have bound him by that promise,
for it left him at the mercy of the rough school
bullies, and for a long time he was as wretched and
unhappy as a boy could be.

He had started for school with such high hopes
and splendid ambitions. The whole world seemed
flooded with sunshine that Whitsuntide morning when
he trotted along by his father's side and entered
the main street of Annan as the clock struck eight,
eager to begin his school life. As they walked up
the road of the little town a small dog rushed past
them, mad with terror, having a tin kettle tied to
its tail. Thomas was sorry for the dog, but there
was no time to set it free. Little did he guess that
much the same kind of misery was now awaiting
him at the hands of those " human imps," his school-
fellows.

He kept his promise to his mother most faith-

IOO

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

fully, and though he longed with all his heart to
give back blow for blow, he steadily refused to fight.
This went on for some time, and any boy who know^
what it feels like to be called a coward, can well
understand what that boy, with his passionate temper,
must have suffered.

At last, however, he could stand it no longer.
Suddenly one day he turned upon the biggest bully
of the school, and all his pent-up rage burst forth,
lending his arm such strength that the astonished
bully had all the breath knocked out of his body
and bore the marks of his thrashing for many a long
day. After that life was a little more endurable for
Thomas Carlyle, but at best he always talked of his
school-days as a wretched and unhappy time.

As far as lessons were concerned Thomas made
good use of his opportunities, and he devoured every
book he could find. Latin and French he soon learned
to read with ease, and he did thoroughly well at
arithmetic and algebra. His father was satisfied,
and when, at thirteen, Thomas left the Grammar
School, there was a talk of sending him to the
University of Edinburgh.

It was a grave question, not to be settled in a
hurry, for it meant many sacrifices for the rest of
the family if the University fees were to be paid for
Thomas. The neighbours thought the idea a fooli.sh
one.

" Educate a boy," said one, " and he grows up to
despise his ignorant parents."

Others talked of the risk and the waste of money,
and said it was scarcely fair to spend so much on one
child when there were all the others to be provided for.

101

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

But James Carlyle was not one to be influenced
by his neighbours' opinions, and after thinking it
well over, he came to the conclusion that little Tom
was worth the risk and the sacrifice, and so at the
next term the boy set out to begin his University
life.

He was a mere boy not yet fourteen, but in those
days young boys entered the University, and Thomas
was quite able to take care of himself. He knew
very well how much depended upon him and how
carefully he must live, and to begin writh, as there
was no money for coach hire, he must walk all the
way to Edinburgh, nearly a hundred miles, while his
clothes, and the two sacks of oatmeal and potatoes,
were sent by the carrier.

A boy two or three years older than himself was
returning also on foot to the University, so Thomas
was put under his charge, and one dark frosty
November morning the journey was begun.

There were few words spoken at parting, for
Thomas was as silent as ever. His father and mother
walked with him through the village to set him on
his way, but there would be little show of feeling
when they bade him good-bye. His father's stern
eye did not encourage unnecessary farewells, but his
mother must have watched him go with an ache in
her heart, and no doubt Thomas saw in her loving
tender eyes what she could not put into words.

All the world seemed now to lie before the boy
as he walked across the moors, "given up to his bits
of reflections, in the silence of the hills," and his
mother, as she watched him disappear and turned
herself homewards, was " wae " to think of her boy

IO2

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

going off alone into the great world of temptation
and trial. But she need not have been afraid. The
boy's strong character, his hatred for all shams, his
love for all that was true and noble and beautiful,
protected him in the battle of life as if he had pos-
sessed some knightly armour.

Perhaps like most mothers she looked forward to
her first-born winning fame and honour, but even
she could not have dreamed that the roughly clad
village boy, whom she watched disappearing into the
morning mist, had already his feet set firmly on the
path which was to lead him to such honours and re-
nown as would win him a place among the great
men of the earth.

JANE WELSH

It was when Thomas Carlyle was still a small boy
of six, running barefoot about the village of Eccle-
fechan, that a little maid was born at Haddiiigton,
who in after years was to link her life to his with
a golden wedding-ring.

Janet Welsh was a very dainty little lady, living
in a charming home, surrounded by every care that
love and money could procure. She was the only
child of Dr. Welsh and his wife Grace Welsh, and
her parents were proud to trace their descent from
Wallace and Knox, so their daughter had every right
to show some decided character.

Such a fairy-like little maiden must have had the

103

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

fairies bidden to her christening, and if so they had
certainly brought her more gifts than they usually
bestowed on mere mortals. She was a very beautiful
child, with black hair and large black eyes, in which
there lurked a hint of fairy mocking laughter, and
her figure was so slight and graceful, that Carlyle
says she must have been "the prettiest little Jenny
Spinner that was dancing on the summer rays in her
time." So much for the gifts of outward appearance,
but she had beside a beautiful nature and a wonder-
ful mind.

Although she was an only child, she was not
spoilt, for rules were strictly laid down in the doctor's
household, and his daughter was taught to be un-
questioningly obedient. She might be wilful at times,
but her father's word was law, and she loved him
with all the strength of her child's heart. Like a
veritable sunbeam she kept the old home bright and
gay, and it would have been as impossible to be stern
with a sunbeam as with this dancing sprite of a child.

Always welcome wherever she went, she did not
know what shyness meant, and she was besides a
very self-possessed little lady and always knew how
to behave. It was when she was only six years
old that she appeared in public at a party given by
the dancing schoolmistress, and quite distinguished
herself.

It was a very grand party indeed, and rather a
solemn occasion, for all the papas and mammas of
the pupils were bidden, and there was to be a great
display of dancing steps, while Jeanie was chosen to
perform a dance all by herself.

That dance was to be the crowning event of the

104

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

evening, and Jeanie's heart was filled with a good
deal of secret anxiety, as she was very anxious to
make no mistakes, and it was a most difficult as well
as elegant pas seul.

Dressed in dainty garments, the little maid, in all
the bravery of silken skirts and sandal shoes, was
propped into a clothes-basket and carried across to
the party in state, the roads being muddy and there
being no carriage.

Shaking out her skirts when her turn came, she
stood poised with one toe pointed ready to begin, but
alas, the music that struck up was not the right music
at all ; the tune was all wrong, and it was impossible
to dance to it. Jeanie shook her head and the music
stopped. Again it was tried, and still it was hopelessly
wrong. The event of the evening was about to prove a
failure !

All the papas and mammas looked on, all the other
children stared round-eyed, and the sprite stood there
in the middle of the room "alone against the world,
forsaken by the music." There was a dreadful pause,
and then, with the fairy laughter glittering in her
eyes, the child looked up, caught her little skirt in
both hands and flung it over her head, and curtseying
behind its veil, " withdrew from the audience amidst
great applause."

Lessons were never any trouble to this child, indeed
it was difficult to give her enough to learn, for she
always wanted more, and it was not long before she
demanded to be allowed to "learn Latin like a boy."
Her mother thought that little girls should be taught
music and drawing and modern languages, and should
not want to learn boys' lessons, but her father, who was

105

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

proud of her quickness, was inclined to let her have her
own way.

In the end, however, Jeanie settled the matter her-
self by making friends with a boy in Haddington who
taught her the nouns of the first declension, and when
she had learned these by heart she secretly laid her
plans.

One evening when everyone supposed the child was
in bed, there was a mouse-like sound under the drawing-
room table and a small voice was heard to recite from
underneath the tablecloth, " Penna, a pen; pennce, of a
pen," and then a little figure crept out, and taking no
notice of the laughter that greeted her, Jeanie ran
into her father's arms and eagerly burst out, " I want
to learn Latin, please let me be a boy."

That settled the question. There was a school close
by where boys and girls were taught together, and to
this school Jeanie was sent to learn Latin, even if it
was impossible to learn to be a boy. Very unlike a
schoolboy did the little maiden look as she tripped
along to school dressed in a light blue pelisse fastened
with a black belt, and "dainty little cap, perhaps of
beaver-skin with flap turned up, with a modest little
plume in it."

The sprite with all her sweetness and gentleness had
a very fiery temper and a most determined character,
and the other children soon found this out.

The boys and girls at school were usually taught
in different rooms, but Jeanie was sometimes allowed
to learn her lessons in the boys' room, as she was so
eager to learn all that they did. The boys were all
devoted to her, but sometimes of course there were
quarrels, and one day a boy was impertinent to her

1 06

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

little ladyship. In a flash Jeanic doubled up her small
fist and struck the offender straight on the nose, so
that it immediately began to bleed.

Now there was a rule in school that no fighting was
allowed, and anyone who broke that rule was flogged,
so there was widespread dismay when at that very
moment a master walked in, and seeing the bleeding
nose, demanded to be told at once who had struck the
blow.

There was dead silence ; not one of the boys would
be so mean as to " tell on " a girl.

" Very well," said the master, " if no one will confess,
the whole school shall get the tawse."

Then at last a very small voice was uplifted.

(\ Please, sir, it was I," and Jeanie stood up and
faced the angry master.

Again there was a silence. The master tried to keep
grave, but first of all a smile spread over his face and
then he burst out laughing, as he told her she was " a
little deevil " and had no business there. " Go your
ways into the girls' room," he said, smiling down on the
demure little figure.

Soon after this a new schoolmaster came to take
charge of the Haddington school. He was Edward
Irving, the same eager-faced boy who used to walk so
far to the meeting-house at Ecclefechaii when Thomas
Carlyle sat there by his mother's side.

This new schoolmaster took a great interest in the
clever little girl with her beautiful face and dainty,
winsome ways, and it must indeed have been a pleasure
to teach a child who was so keen about her lessons.
Every morning at five o'clock Jeanie was up and
dressed, ready to begin her books, quick and eager

107

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

to learn all she could. It was not long before she was
dux of the school in mathematics.

But mathematics was not what she loved best. Of
all her lessons, those that made most impression on
her were her Latin books, especially Virgil. They were
not merely lesson books ; there was something in them
that influenced all her thoughts and actions.

When she was tempted to do a selfish or cowardly
thing, she did not say to herself, as she might once
have done, " If you do this you will not go to heaven
hereafter," or even " If you do this you will be whipt
here," but instead came the thought, " A Roman would
not have done it," and that was quite enough to keep
her straight and brave. Again, if she did any cour-
ageous action, when, for instance, she bravely caught
a gander by the throat and flung it out of her path
when it beset her with its fierce hissing, she was not
specially proud of the half-crown which was bestowed
upon her as a reward for her courage, but rather the
thought that the Roman Republic would have approved
filled her with satisfaction.

All this went steadily on until a tragedy occurred.
Someone " whose wish was law," most likely her
master, Edward Irving, had pointed out that a child
who read Virgil should be ashamed of playing with
dolls, and she immediately made up her mind that
her beloved doll should be sacrificed.

That doll was to have no common end, however ;
it was to die as befitted the doll of a "young lady
in Virgil," and was to perish as did Queen Dido.

A funeral pyre was made of a few bundles of
cedarwood, some sticks of cinnamon, a few cloves
and a nutmeg, and upon this was placed the doll's

1 08

THOMAS CARLYLE AND JANE WELSH

four-posted bed and all its treasured garments. Then
the new Dido was placed upon the bed, and through
the mouth of her small mistress spoke her dying speech,
and with some assistance set fire to the pyre and
stabbed herself with a penknife.

So far all had gone well, and the heroic Roman
mother had rather enjoyed the sacrifice, but when the
flames actually reached her beloved doll and Dido
began to blaze, all the motherly affection awoke, and
she, forgetting she was a Roman matron, burst into
tears, and tried to snatch the victim from the burning
heap. It was too late, however, for Dido was stuffed
with bran and burnt away merrily, while the poor
little executioner was carried off weeping and wailing
in a most unheroic manner.

There were no more tragedies after that until she
grew older, and then she took to verse-making, for
which she had a great gift.

The Tragedy written at that time was a wonderful
piece of work for a child of that age, but it was her
first and last attempt.

Poor little maiden, with her make-believe tragedies.
So many real tragedies awaited her in after life that
the memory of her sunny childhood days were always
precious to her, and the story of them a delight to
her grave, silent husband, whose boyhood had lacked
all the graciousness and happiness that had surrounded
his " little Jeanie."

109

GEORGE WASHINGTON

WHO does not know the story of George Washington
and his little hatchet? His very name recalls sad
memories of a time when, having wandered from the
path of truth, we were told the tale of the little boy
who said, " Father, I cannot tell a lie, I cut the cherry-
tree with my little hatchet."

We did not love George Washington then, and from
the land of memory comes the echo of a rebellious little
voice declaring, " I hate him and his horrid little hatchet
—I wish he had never been born."

But born he was, and besides acting as a good ex-
ample to untruthful children, he lived to be a very
great and very good man, and there is no name in
America more honoured or loved than his.

Now George Washington, although he is known as
the Great American and America's first President, was
English by descent. His great grandfather, finding
that England was no longer a pleasant land to live in
with Cromwell as ruler, left his home and sailed across
the ocean, with his brother, and settled in Virginia.
The great grandson of this Englishman, little George
Washington, was born in 1732, and by that time the
Washington family had lived and flourished in Virginia
for seventy-five years, although they still called them-
selves English, and thought of England as " home."

When little George was five years old his father

1 10

GEORGE WASHINGTON

moved from Pope's Creek, where the child had been
born, and went to live on another of his estates on the
Rappahannock River. It was a splendid country, with
great unbroken forests stretching out to east and west,
and broad rivers winding their way through fertile
fields. In these great forests, standing so thick with
trees that scarce a gleam of sunshine could creep in to
lighten the dim green twilight, all kinds of birds and
beasts had their home, and in the shadowy stillness there
were other moving forms besides the animals that crept
quietly and stealthily about. These forests were the
hunting ground of the Indians, and their canoes, too,
might be seen shooting about the rivers. As yet they
were quite friendly towards the white family who had
come to settle so close to them, but at any moment they
might become enemies.

Every now and then news would come from other
parts of the country telling of terrible deeds done by
the Indians to the white settlers, and George would
listen to these tales of cruelty and treachery until it
was difficult to feel quite brave, and not to be afraid.

English boys and girls safe at home love the exciting
stories of the Redskins on the warpath and the fasci-
nating description of their clever cunning, but it was a
different matter for George when those same Indians
wrere lurking in the forests close by, stealing like silent
shadows across his path, noiseless and mysterious in
their ways as the forest animals themselves.

But there were pleasant open places around the
house for George to play in, without wandering into
the shadows of the great forests. There was an apple
orchard, besides the garden and fields, and in spring-
time it was a veritable fairyland with its sea of pale

III

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

pink blossoms against the blue sky. That was very
beautiful to look at, but it was in autumn that
George loved the orchard best, for then the trees
were loaded with great rosy-cheeked apples and the
ground beneath was covered with equally delicious
" tumble-downs."

George had gone one day to the orchard with his
father and two of his cousins, and the sight of the
apples made him dance with joy.

" Father," he cried, " did you ever in all your life see
so many apples before ? "

" There are certainly a great many," answered his
father. " Don't you remember what I told you in spring
when your cousin gave you a large apple, and you
wanted to eat it all up yourself, instead of sharing it
with your brothers and sisters ? I told you then that you
should be generous and God would send us many more
apples in the autumn."

George hung his head. He remembered quite well,
and the sight of all these apples made him ashamed of
himself now. It was not very easy to own that he had
been greedy, and that he was sorry, but he was a good
fighter and presently he won the victory. " I am sorry
now, father," he said, "and if you'll forgive me this
time, you'll see if I'll ever be stingy again."

That was the kind of lesson his father wanted him
to learn, and it was the sort of teaching that George
never forgot.

When spring came George was much excited one
day, when he went into the garden to find that the
cabbage-bed had begun to show green shoots, and that
the green formed the letters of his own name, " George
Washington." He stood for a few moments quite

I 12

GEORGE WASHINGTON

silent, his eyes and mouth wide open in astonishment.
Surely it must be magic !

" Father, father ! " he shouted ; " O father ! do come
and see."

" What is the matter ? " asked his father.

" The cabbages are coming up, and are writing out
my name," cried George.

" Very curious," said his father.

" But who did it ? " asked George.

" I suppose they just grew so," said his father ; " don't
you think they came up that way by chance ? "

" They couldn't," said George ; " they wouldn't know
how to grow that way unless someone had made
them."

" You are quite right," said his father. " Nothing
grows by chance. I planted those cabbages in that
way on purpose to teach you that very lesson. There
are some people who say that everything grows by
chance, but that is impossible. There is someone who
plans everything. All the thousands of good things
you enjoy, the sunshine and the flowers, eyes to see
with, ears to hear with, feet to carry you about, all
are planned by God, and chance has nothing to do
with it."

George was only eight years old when he learned
that lesson, but he never forgot it all the rest of
his life.

It was about this time that George was given the
little hatchet which has become so famous. He had
gone about the garden chopping any old pieces of wood
he could find, when his eye fell on a beautiful English
cherry-tree, and this seemed the very thing on which
to try his new present. So he chopped away wit!)

113 H

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

great enjoyment until not only the bark was off but
the wood underneath was hacked and cut into pieces.

Next day his father happened to pass by that way
and caught sight of his favourite cherry-tree. He was
very angry when he saw the mischief that had been
done, and he went back immediately to ask everyone
in the house if he or she knew who had done it.

"My beautiful cherry-tree is utterly ruined," he
said ; "who could have hacked it in that way?"

No one knew anything about it. None of the
servants had been near the tree.

" I wouldn't have taken five guineas for it," said
Mr. Washington sorrowfully.

Just then George came wandering in, his hatchet in
his hand.

" George," said his father sternly, " do you know
who has killed that cherry-tree in the garden ? "

Now George until that moment had never thought
that he had harmed the tree, but hearing his father's
voice and seeing his troubled face, the child suddenly
realised the mischief he had done, and hung his head.
" George, did you do it ? " asked his father. It was all
very frightening. He was only a very little boy, and
his father was very angry, and the whole household
waited to hear what he had to say for himself. It was
not easy to be brave, but George manfully lifted his
head and looked straight at his father.

" I can't tell a lie, father," he said ; " I did cut it with
my hatchet."

So the boy spoke out bravely and truly, risking the
consequences, although he need not have been afraid,
for his father would rather have lost a hundred cherry-
trees than that his little son should have told one lie.

114

GEORGE WASHINGTON

It was only right that a boy who came of a soldierly
race, and who meant himself to be a soldier some day,
should learn the truest bravery of all. It was a better
preparation for him even than drilling his companions
and fighting mimic battles, as he was so fond of doing.
His big brother Laurence had joined the army and
gone away to fight King George's battles against the
Spaniards, and George wished with all his heart that
he too was old enough to wear a uniform and carry
a sword.

The sight of the soldiers as they marched past to the
music of the band, the sound of martial drums and the
waving of the English banner made his heart beat with
excitement and loyalty, and he made up his mind he
would be a soldier as his great-grandfather had been.
Little did he think as he watched the soldiers march
past, that when his time should come it would be under
another flag that he would be fighting, against that
England which he still thought of as his own country.

But all this was still in the future, and meanwhile
George went steadily on, learning all he could both at
school and at home. He was as upright and brave and
truthful as a boy could be, and besides that he learned
the magic of method, so that he got through far more
work than most boys could manage. His masters soon
discovered that he was no ordinary boy, and they felt
sure that a great future was in front of him. As his
brother Laurence said, " If a bright springtime is the
harbinger of an ample harvest, such a youth must fore-
shadow noble manhood-"

GOETHE

JOHANN CASPAR GOETHE, imperial councillor of Frank-
fort, was a stern, stately man, no longer in his first
youth, when he brought home to the old house in the
Grosse Hirschgraben his bride of seventeen summers,
Katharina Elizabeth, the daughter of the chief magis-
trate Johann Wolfgang Textor.

It was a great change for the young bride, who
was still scarcely more than a child. She had spent a
happy life in her father's house, with little or no re-
sponsibility, and now that was all left behind her and
she was the wife of this stern, stately man, more than
double her age, who made her feel as if she was still at
school when he set her lessons to learn and tried to
improve her mind.

Little wonder, then, that when a year later her
baby was born she welcomed him with delight, and felt
as if she and her little son were much nearer in age
than the solemn husband who was so full of wisdom
and knowledge.

It was in summer-time, on 28th of August 1749,
that little Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born, exactly
as the clocks were striking midday. The people of
Frankfort-on-the-Main were not at all interested in the
arrival of the baby in the old house in the Grosse
Hirschgraben, but the stars, it is said, were wiser and
knew that it was no ordinary child that had just come

116

GOETHE

into the world, and foretold for him a golden future
full of honour and renown.

Of course to his mother he was the most wonderful
baby that had ever been born, and certainly he was so
quick and clever, even when a little child, that there
was some excuse for her pride in him. And surely no
child ever had a more charming and delightful mother
as playfellow. She had such a sunny, unselfish nature,
that she was always happy herself, and always tried to
make others happy. Her eyes only looked for all that
was best in other people, and fault-finding was un-
known to her. Black thoughts had no place in her gay,
loving heart, and she had a marvellous way of smooth-
ing out difficulties and making the rough places plain.
All beautiful things were a joy to her, and she shared
all her pleasures with her little son, and could tell him
such wonderful fairy tales that while he listened he
seemed to be living in an enchanted land.

So little Wolfgang began very early to take delight
in what was fair and lovely, and to dislike all ugly
things. This was all very well, as far as it went, but
it was not convenient when he refused to play with
children unless they were pretty. He was but three
years old when he was once taken to visit a neighbour
where there happened to be a dark and extremely plain
child waiting to play with him. Wolfgang burst into
tears and pointed a shaking finger at him.

"That black child must go away," he sobbed, "I
cannot bear him."

Needless to say it was Wolfgang who was taken
away, and not the black child, and he had to learn the
most necessary lesson of self-control.

A little sister, Cornelia, came soon to share his

117

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

pleasures and be his playmate, and he loved the baby
so devotedly that he brought all his toys for her to
play with, and sat like a little watch-dog by her cradle.
Some other little brothers followed, but none of them
lived very long, and it was only Wolfgang and Cornelia
who lived to grow up the greatest of friends.

It was a curious old house where the brother and
sister played their games and learned their lessons to-
gether. It had so many gloomy passages and dark
corners that it was by no means a cheerful place, even
in the daytime, when the sun shone through the round
glass windows, and the cheerful voices of the servants
could be heard. But at night it was so gloomy and so
terrifying that the children lay in their little lonely
beds and shivered with fear. It was no use asking that
someone might stay near them. Their father declared
that children must be taught to fear nothing and to
grow accustomed to darkness and mystery.

Sometimes the terror was more than Wolfgang
could bear, and then he would step out of bed and creep
along to try and find some maid or servant to keep him
company. But his father never failed to hear the
patter of those small bare feet, and his way of trying to
make his little son more courageous was not a happy
one.

Wolfgang, creeping cautiously along, was suddenly
met by a dreadful unknown figure so much more terri-
fying than even his lonely bed, that he turned to fly and
dared not venture forth again. How could he recognise
in the dim light that the dreadful figure was merely his
father, who had turned his dressing-gown inside out to
furnish a disguise ?

The gay, tender-hearted young mother found a

118

GOETHE

much better way of helping the children to overcome
their fears and to be brave during the dark hours of
the night. She could not go against their father's
wishes, but as it was the time for peaches, and peaches
were a great treat, she thought of a splendid plan.
Every night when they went to bed, she told them
to try and be brave and good, and if they did their
very best there would be a dish of velvet-cheeked
peaches ready for them in the morning. The very
thought of those peaches was like a magic spell to
keep away the powers of darkness.

The room which the children loved best in all the
house was the large room on the ground floor where
their grandmother lived. There was always a welcome
awaiting them there, and if their father was strict, his
mother did her very best to spoil them. In her room
they could play at any games they liked and it did not
matter how noisy they were, and then she was like a
fairy godmother with her surprising gifts, and the sugar-
plums and dainty morsels which always appeared like
magic to fill their hungry little mouths.

Many were the pleasures she prepared for them,
but the greatest joy of all was the puppet show she
gave them one Christmas Eve. There was a tiny stage
and little figures all complete and a play to be acted.
Wolfgang was wild with delight, It was like a fairy
gift to him, and it opened the gates of another enchanted
land.

But life was by no means made up of fairy tales
and puppet shows for the little boy. There were many
serious duties to be performed and many lessons to be
mastered. The learned councillor had very decided
ideas about the education of children, and he began

119

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

early to teach them himself. As soon as they were old
enough to learn anything, Wolfgang and Cornelia had
their days filled with studies of different kinds. There
was very little time for play, and even playtime was
often taken up with instructive pleasure, such as feeding
and tending silk-worms, or helping to bleach valuable
old etchings. The evenings were even worse sometimes,
for then they had to read aloud from some book, so dull
and instructive that even their father occasionally
dropped asleep as he listened.

Then, oh ! joy and rapture, there was a chance of
escape from the dull prison-house into fairyland. They
knew their mother would have a story ready for them,
in fact, there was almost always one in the making,
and they were wild with interest to hear the next part.
Wolfgang, especially, lived in her stories.

" He fairly devoured me with his big black eyes,"
said his mother, " and when the fate of some favourite
character was not just to his liking, I saw the veins of
his forehead swelling with anger, while he tried to keep
back his tears."

It was all so real to him that sometimes he could
not help interrupting, especially if he was afraid things
were not going to turn out as he wished.

" Mother " he urged, " the princess will not marry that
horrid tailor, will she? Not even if he does kill the
giant ? "

"Wait and see" was all that his mother would say,
and then Wolfgang would go and whisper to his grand-
mother the ending that he hoped would follow. She
always listened patiently, and when the children were
in bed repeated the child's ideas to the chief story-teller
to weave into her tale.

120

GOETHE

Great was Wolfgang's delight when next time the
story went on exactly as he wanted it to do.

"I guessed it," he cried, his cheeks burning with
excitement, and his little heart thumping with delight.

But although Wolfgang loved his mother's stories so
well, he did not specially dislike his lessons, and he was
a pupil after his father's own heart. Learning of every
kind came easy to him, and the wonder was that the
child could do work of all kinds so well. Latin he
learned easily because his first Latin book rhymed, and
he could hum and sing it to himself like a song. There
was very little difficulty in teaching him any language.
Greek, Hebrew, French, his ear caught them all quickly
and easily. English he learned in four weeks from a
travelling English tutor, and Italian seemed to him such
a " funny language " that he learned it by merely
listening to the lessons given to his sister. He had his
own work to do in the same room, and as Cornelia was
taught Italian he listened too, and learned it quite as
quickly as she did.

There were not many books for children to read
in those days, but among the ones he had, Wolfgang
was never tired of Robinson Crusoe and the Bible.
Certainly the Bible was his chief favourite, especially
the stories in the Old Testament of the simple shepherd
folk, and he loved, too, the rhythm of the grand old
Psalms. It was the book his mother loved best of
all, and she used to tell him that all the wisdom of
the world was to be found there.

On the second floor of the old house, there was a
room called "the garden room," because a few plants
had been set to grow there, and this was Wolfgang's
favourite retreat. It was a quiet place in which to

121

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

learn his lessons, and read his books and dream his
dreams. Kneeling on the window-seat, he could look
out of the window over the gardens and the city
wall, across to the beautiful valley of the Main and
the mountains beyond. It was possible to watch from
afar the great storms gathering and sweeping up the
valley, like a host advancing in battle array, and at
eventide there was the glory of the sunset to watch
and wonder at. All these things were silently woven
into the web of the child's life and never forgotten.

Very soon after that Christmas Eve which had
brought the delight of the puppet show, the kind
old grandmother died, and then the councillor decided
to rebuild the old house, which he had not cared to
do while his mother was alive. It was not pulled
to pieces at once, but rebuilt story by story, so that
the family were able to stay there most of the time
and watch the rebuilding.

To the children all this was a delightful pleasure.
Wolfgang, dressed as a little bricklayer, helped to lay
the foundation-stone, and was never tired of watching
the men at their work and learning how a house
should be built. There was the joy, too, of playing
at see-saw on the planks with his sister and swinging
on the beams until he was giddy.

But at last, when it was time for the roof to be
taken off, it was quite impossible to stay in the house
any longer, and so until it should be finished the
children were sent away to school for the first and
last time in their lives. Wolfgang did not like school
at all. It was so ugly and disagreeable, the boys were
so rough and rude, and they bullied him unmercifully.

Perhaps it was but natural that the new boy should

122

GOETHE

receive little mercy at the hands of his companions.
His superior manners and the way that he walked
with his head in the air were most irritating, especially
in so small a boy.

Wolfgang certainly carried himself with rather a
trrand air. Once when his mother had watched him

cross the road with some other boys, she laughed to
see his grave and stately manner of walking, and
asked him if he meant in that way to distinguish
himself from his companions.

"I begin with this," he answered gravely. "Later
on in life, I shall distinguish myself in other ways."

It was enough to make anyone smile to see the
little five-year-old boy draw himself up and answer
with such dignity. He had been always rather im-
pressed with the tale of what the stars had foretold
at his birth, and he asked his mother gravely if she
thought they would help him towards that golden
future.

" Why must you have the assistance of the stars ? "
she said ; " other people get on very well without."

" I am not to be satisfied with what does for other
people," was Wolfgang's answer.

Such a boy naturally suffered a great deal at the
hands of the school bullies, but they did not quite
realise what kind of a child it was that they were
persecuting, or his wonderful power of self-command.

Fighting during lesson hours was strictly forbidden
at school, and it happened one day that the teacher
was absent and the boys were playing instead of
working, when they found the new boy learning his
lessons by himself, and they determined to make him
break the rule. A broom was found and three of the

123

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

boys made switches and began cutting and lashing
at Wolfgang's legs until the pain was almost more
than he could bear. Quite unmoved he sat on, keeping
one eye on the clock, while his anger grew hotter and
hotter with each smarting blow ; then at last the hour
struck, and he was free to fight. In an instant he was
on his feet, and so powerful was his rage that before
the bullies knew what was happening, two of them
were hurled backwards on to the floor and the third
was nearly throttled. Wolfgang needed no stars to
help him in that fight.

The only thing that made his schooldays pleasant
to him, was that he was now free to wander about
the town by himself, and could learn a great deal
about the townsfolk and their work, and the history
of the old buildings. Every kind of knowledge that
came his way was welcome to the boy, everything
was of interest. He tells us, in his account of his child-
hood, how he loved to wander out on to the great
bridge over the Main and watch the shining river
below.

" I always had a pleasant feeling," he says, " when
the gilt weathercock on the bridge cross glittered in
the sunshine."

Then across the river there was the wine-market,
where he could watch the cranes loading and unload-
ing the casks, and see the market-boats coming in
with their curious wares.

In the old town there was always a great crowd
on market days, and it was most exciting to push a
way through the people, and reach at last the book-
stalls where children could spend their pennies on
books of folk-songs, or coloured paper stamped with

124

GOETHE

golden animals. The meat-stalls were a great draw
back to Wolfgang's pleasure, and he always flew pa>t
them and tried not to see them. The pleasant feelin-
which the shining weathercock had given him v.
quite gone now.

Frankfort was a curious old town, with its walls
and bridges, its ramparts and moats, a fortress en-
closing other fortresses, little towns crowded together
within the big one. It was all full of interest to
Wolfgang, but the Rathhaus especially was a store-
house of delight whenever he could find someone
to tell him tales of all that had happened there.
It was a never-ending joy to dream of the Kings and
Emperors, and picture the coronations which those
old walls had seen. The child had always a love for
old things, old chronicles and pictures, and the beauti-
ful old curiosities in his father's museum. Venetian
glass, carved ivories, bronzes and ancient weapons, they
all had taught him to love and reverence the beautiful
things of the past, in which his father delighted.

Yet in some ways the present was quite as fascinat-
ing to Wolfgang as the past. The everyday work of
the craftsman, who made pottery as wonderful as
Venetian glass, was as deeply interesting to him as
the doings of Kings and Emperors.

The most exciting time of all the year in Frankfort
was when the two great fairs were held at Easter
and at Michaelmas, and Wolfgang loved to wat.-h
the people come flocking in from the outside world,
their manners, dress, and ways so different to any-
thing he saw in the old town. It was almost like a
huge puppet show, especially the "pipers' court,"
which he thought was the best show of all.

125

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

It was a relic of olden times, when there were so
many tolls to pay that the people used to bring gifts
to the chief magistrate to persuade him to abate the
tax. The custom was still continued, and at the
Michaelmas fair-time the magistrates assembled in
the Imperial Hall, with the chief magistrate in their
midst, one step higher than the rest, ready to receive
the burghers' gifts. First came the pipers, dressed
in blue mantles trimmed with gold braid, and their
queer old instruments; then followed the deputies
and attendants.

One by one each deputy stepped forward and pre-
sented his offering. There was pepper in a wooden
goblet, a pair of gloves curiously slashed and stitched,
and tasselled with silk, a white rod, and some small
pieces of silver money. There was also an old felt
hat brought by the deputy of the city of Worms, but
that was always given back again, that it might
serve another year.

What made this show so specially interesting to
the Goethe children was that their grandfather was
the chief magistrate, who sat on the highest seat
and received all the curious gifts, and when the
show was over it was always possible to make a
modest call on him, and perhaps be presented with
the wooden goblet, when their grandmother had
emptied out the pepper, or the white rod, or one of
the silver pieces. The gloves they knew were always
kept for their grandfather to wear when he was
working in his beloved garden, and pruning his rose
bushes.

The chief magistrate's little grandson was a great
favourite with all his grandfather's special friends,

126

GOETHE

and it was little wonder that he grew to be rather
stately in his manners, and a little inclined to feel
superior. It was not only because the boy was so quick
and so clever, that all those learned old men were so
fond of him ; it was his " goodness and purity " as
well, which made him "as refreshing as the morning
dew," and tempted them all to do their best to spoil
him.

The joyful day arrived at last, when the new house
was finished and the children could go home again,
much to their satisfaction. It was a much more
cheerful house than the old one had been, for now
there were scarcely any dark passages and ugly
corners, but all was made as light and as beautiful
as possible. There was no room for nightly terrors,
no lurking-places for cowardly fears now.

But, sad to say, a terror much worse than the
old imaginary ones was waiting to seize on Wolfgang
very soon after they returned to the new house. It
was the year of the terrible earthquake of Lisbon,
and all Europe was ringing with the dreadful news,
and Wolfgang listened in silent horror to the tale
of misery and woe. He had always felt so sure that
the good God took care of everybody, and now it
seemed as if He could no longer be kind or loving if
He allowed such a terrible thing to happen.

Just then, too, a fearful storm swept over the city,
and the hailstones broke the new windows and the
rain flooded the beautiful new house, while terrified
servants made the children almost as frightened as
they were themselves.

Wolfgang was only six years old then, and he
tried to think things out very seriously, with the

127

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

result that, like the people in the Old Testament, he
built a little altar to God, just as Noah and Abraham
had done after flood and fire.

A year later, when the Seven Years' War broke
out, the boy had something else to think about besides
earthquakes and floods. To Wolfgang Frederick was
the greatest hero that ever lived, and he listened
with shining eyes to all that his father told him
about the great King, but it was extremely puzzling
to find that his grandfather took the side of Austria
and had nothing but blame and scornful disdain for
Wolfgang's hero.

Here was another puzzle. The Lisbon earthquake
had made him doubt the goodness of God, and now
he began to doubt the justice of the world.

"He is a strange child," said his mother, at the
time when one of his little brothers died, and Wolf-
gang never shed a tear.

"Did you not love your little brother, then, that
you do not grieve for his loss ? " she asked.

There was no answer, only Wolfgang turned and
slowly went into his own room, and from under his
bed brought out a heap of papers, written all over
with stories and little lessons in childish handwriting.

" I had written all these that I might teach him,"
he said.

Ever since the early days when he had invented
the endings to his mother's tales, Wolfgang had gone
on making up stories and filling his mind with all
kinds of poetry, besides the lessons he learned with
his father, and these little tales must have been a
real labour of love to the boy, who was only now nine
years old.

128

GOETHE

Those strict lesson hours were very much inter-
rupted just then, when the French troops marched into
the town, and one of the King's lieutenants was
quartered in the councillor's house, to the wrath and
dismay of that same councillor. A great deal of life
and gaiety came with the French soldiers, and it was
impossible to keep the children steadily at work. There
was even a theatre opened, and there Wolfgang spent
golden hours of pure enjoyment, of which the puppet
show had been but a dim foreshadowing.

Of course the first thing to be done now was to write
a play, and the play was written, but a friend among
the actors thought it very poor stuff, and Wolfgang
was discouraged.

He had noticed, when he and his companions made
verses together, that however bad the verses were, the
boy who had written them thought them splendid and
could see no fault in them. He wondered if it could be
the same with him. He was so sure the things he did
were good, but then he always found there was some-
thing better still to be done. Would he ever reach up
to the highest ?

So he pondered and asked himself many questions,
but as yet there was no answer. The flower was very
fair, but who could tell them that the fruit was to be
so golden and so rare that the whole world was to
rejoice in the glorious harvest.

129

MOZART

THE good fairies must certainly have been very busy
around a certain cradle in the old city of Salzburg on
the 27th of January 1756, for that was the day on which
the little Wolfgang Mozart was born. There seemed
no end to the gifts bestowed upon this special child, but
most wonderful of all was his gift for music, greater
than any fairy gift, for it was the divine touch of genius.
Everything beautiful was a delight to Wolfgang as
soon as his eyes learned to look at things and his ears
learned to listen. The beautiful old city in which he
dwelt, the churches with their slender spires and the
splendid palaces, and beyond the snow-capped moun-
tains keeping sentinel like guardian angels, all made
life beautiful to the boy. How he loved to stand and
watch the great church processions, where the priests
in their gold-embroidered vestments swept through the
dim aisles of the cathedral ! The high altar blazing
with a hundred candles, veiled only by the faint haze
of blue smoke which wreathed up from the swinging
censers below, made him wonder if this was indeed the
very gate of heaven, but most glorious of all was the
sound of the organ as it swelled through the great
cathedral and died away like the echo of angel voices.
Little Wolfgang, kneeling there with the holy water
still wet on his forehead, felt as if heaven had opened
and the music was carrying him upwards upon angels'

130

MOZART

wings. But afterwards, when the candles were put out
and the music had died away, Wolfgang came quickly
back to earth again, and was a very happy ordinary
little mortal. Life was so full of sunshine for him, and
he had such a happy home, that he did not in the least
want to be an angel yet. His father, who was one
of the court musicians, in the band of the reigning
Archbishop, wras one of the kindest and most loving
of fathers, and his good-natured, kindly mother still
carried about with her much of the calm and peaceful-
ness of her convent training, so that the little household
was a very happy one.

Then too there was Nannerl, the elder sister, four
years older than Wolfgang, who was always ready to
play with him, and whom he loved dearly, although
she was not quite such a splendid playfellow as Herr
Schachtner, the court trumpeter, whom he adored with
all his heart.

There was nothing that Herr Schachtner could not
do, and he played the most delightful games, and what
was best of all, he always understood that every game
must be played to music. Even when they carried the
toys from one room to the other, a march was sung or
played upon the violin, to make it a real procession.

" Dost thou love me, Herr Schachtner ? " Wolfgang
would stop to ask every now and then, very anxiously,
and sometimes the trumpeter, to tease him, would shake
his head.

" No, I love thee not," he said.

Then, seeing the great tears beginning to gather in
the child's eyes, he quickly told him it was only a joke,
and then the play and the music went on cheerfully
again.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

When Wolfgang was three years old, his father
began to teach Nannerl to play the piano, and the
little boy always stood near watching his sister, full
of wonder and interest. His great delight then was
to stand by the piano and pick out "thirds" for him-
self, until his father, almost in sport, began to give
him lessons too. Then it was that his great gift first
began to be noticed. He could learn a minuet in
less than half an hour, and once learned, he played
it without one fault and in perfect time. It was all
the more wonderful because his tiny hands could only
stretch a few notes, but it seemed indeed as if some
magic dwelt in those small fingers.

Soon it was seen that Wolfgang's head was as full
of magic as his hands, and when he was five years
old he began to compose music himself, writing down
the notes without looking at the piano. His father
and Herr Schachtner, coming home together from
mass one day, found the boy very busy with paper,
pen, and ink, and asked him what he was doing.

"I am writing a pianoforte concerto," answered
Wolfgang, looking up, " it is nearly finished."

His father smiled at the important little face and
the very inky fingers.

" Let me see it," he said.

" It is not quite finished," said Wolfgang.

" Show it to me," said his father ; " no doubt it is
something very fine."

Now Wolfgang always dug his pen into the very
bottom of the ink-pot, and so of course a large blot
ran off each time the pen touched the paper. Naturally
the only thing then to be done was to smear off the
blot with the palm of the other hand, and write over

132

MOZART

the blotty part, so there was a good deal of ink spread
over everything.

His father took up the inky, smudged paper, and
smiled as he saw the notes scrawled all over it, like
ants running after each other. But as he looked more
carefully he started with surprise, and his smile of
amusement died away. This was no mere childish
scrawl ; it was a real musical composition.

" Herr Schachtner," he said, tears of pride shining
in his eyes, "only look how correct and according to
rule all this is written, and yet it cannot be made
use of, for it is so difficult that no one could attempt
to play it."

Wolfgang was listening, and hastened to explain
that of course it would need to be well practised before
it could be played.

"See," he said, "this is how it should go," and he
climbed on to the piano-stool and began to show them
what his idea had been when he wrote the music.

The boy was certainly a musical genius, there was
no doubt of it, and his sister, too, played almost as
wonderfully, so their father made up his mind that
he would show them to the world, for he was sure
they would win both fame and money.

So first of all the children were taken to Munich
and then on to Vienna, and it was like a royal progress,
for everywhere the people flocked to hear the wonderful
little performers.

The Empress Maria Theresa, who was a great lover
of music, ordered that the children should be brought
to play before her, and so to court little Wolfgang
and his sister went.

The boy did not know what shyness meant. He

133

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

was always so sure of being welcomed and loved
wherever he went, that he was never afraid of strangers
and was never awkward nor ill at ease. He put up
his face to be kissed when he was brought to greet
the Empress, and then offered to sit on her knee and
talk to her. He was only six years old and was small
for his age, so he looked a very quaint little figure
in his court suit, full-skirted coat and knee-breeches,
powdered hair, and buckled shoes. It seemed almost
impossible that such a tiny child could be the wonder-
ful musical genius that everyone talked of. But it
was a very dignified little boy that sat down to play
when he had finished his talk with the Empress.
Sitting perched up on the music-stool, he looked calmly
round and then beckoned to the Emperor, who was
standing close to the piano. Wolfgang could not bear
to play to people who did not understand and love
music, and he was not quite sure about the Emperor.

" Is not Monsieur Wagenseil here ? " he asked
anxiously. " We must send for him. He understands
the thing."

The composer was sent for immediately, and on his
arrival the Emperor gave up his place by the piano.
Wolfgang nodded his approval.

" Sir," he said, " I am going to play one of your con-
certos. You must turn over the pages for me."

The court might smile at the quaint little figure
issuing his commands like royalty, but amusement gave
place to wonder as soon as the child began to play.
It was almost unbelievable that those tiny hands
fluttering about the notes could produce such music.
Courtiers watched and listened and almost held their
breath.

MOZART

The little princess, Marie Antoinette, drew nearer
and nearer to the piano. This little boy, who was just
her age, must have come with his music out of fairy-
land. Everyone called him a wonder, and she had
never seen anyone so like a fairy prince before.

Then the music stopped, and Wolfgang was lifted
down that he might go and receive the thanks of the
Empress.

Perhaps the music was still surging in his head, or
perhaps the polished floors were too slippery for the
buckled shoes, but at any rate Wolfgang, after a few
steps, lost his balance, slipped and fell. In an instant
the little princess ran forward and helped him on to his
feet again, and the two children walked the rest of the
way together.

" You are good," said Wolfgang, holding her hand
tightly and standing on tiptoe to kiss her cheek. "I
will marry you."

The Empress smiled when she heard this.

" Why do you wish to marry her ? " she asked.

" Out of gratitude," replied Wolfgang, with his
courtly little bow ; " she was kind to me."

Poor little kind princess, if only it had been a real
fairy tale, and the fairy music-maker of six years old
could have carried her off to fairyland out of the reach
of all human cruelty and treachery !

But although Wolfgang did not carry off the
princess as he suggested, there was something else he
carried home which meant far more to him than all
the princesses in the world, and that was his first
violin.

Scarcely had the family arrived home in Sal/-
burg when a famous violin-player came to visit Herr

135

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Mozart to ask his opinion about some music he had
been composing. It was arranged to try it over at
once, the composer himself playing first violin and
Herr Schachtner second. Wolfgang, greatly interested,
hugging his little violin under his arm, begged that he
might be allowed to play second violin.

"That is a most foolish request," said his father
sharply ; " thou knowest nothing about the violin, and
hast never been taught to play upon it."

"There is no need to learn to play second violin,"
persisted Wolfgang.

" Run away at once," said his father, " and do not
trouble us further with your silly requests."

Wolfgang turned to go, hugging his little fiddle
tight, the tears running down his cheeks. "Let him
play with me," said Herr Schachtner, who could not
bear to see the child cry.

" Oh well, then, play along with Herr Schachtner,''
said his father, "but play so softly that no one can hear
thee, or else thou must go away."

Wolfgang, all smiles once more, dried his tears and
made ready his violin, and then crept close to his friend.
He meant to be as quiet as a mouse, and at first he
played very softly as he had been bidden, but presently
he forgot everything but the music, and then it was
that Herr Schachtner began to play more and more
softly, until he stopped altogether, and left Wolfgang
playing alone. Not a note was missed, the little violin
sang its way in perfect time and tune, and the small
fiddler ended by being quite sure he could play first
violin if they would let him try.

But although all this came so easily to the child, his
father always insisted that he should learn everything

136

MOZART

from the beginning, and learn it thoroughly. His
other lessons, too, were not neglected, for his fatln-r
was very strict, and was anxious that Wolfgang should
not be spoilt by the admiration he received. The
simple home life, the regular lessons, and the habit of
prompt obedience were better, he knew, for his little
son than being a little court butterfly, petted and
admired by royalty and allowed to do just what he
pleased.

Wolfgang loved his father with all his heart, and
was such a sunny-tempered, happy child that even
difficult lessons and hard rules were no hardship to him.
His father came " next to our gracious God," as he used
to say, and so he never dreamed of disobeying him.

Every night the father and son sang a little duet
of nonsense rhymes before Wolfgang went to bed, and
then he kissed the tip of his father's nose for good
night and made a little speech. " When I am older,"
he said, " I will put thee under a glass case, to keep
thee from the cold and to keep thee always at home."

Every year saw the little Mozart grow more and
more wonderful, as he ceased to be a child and grew
into boyhood. He learned to play the organ, so that
the priest at Heidelberg, having heard him there, wrote
the boy's name upon the organ and the date of his visit,
as a remembrance of this " wonder of God." He reigned
like a little king in Paris, and in England King George
IV and Queen Charlotte gave him a most royal wel-
come. He had his first commission to write an opera
when he was ten years old, and it proved quite an easy
thing for him to do. It seemed indeed as if there was
nothing he could not do in connection with music.
Every note he heard he could distinguish separately

137

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

by ear. He could compose music without a piano, play
everything at sight, and accompany any song by ear
alone.

It was a happy, sunny childhood this, and if the
clouds came later, they cast no backward shadow over
these happy days when the little maker of magic music-
used his fairy gift to fill the world with the beauty of
the melody which was always singing in his heart.

138

HORATIO NELSON

THE waves over which Britain rules so proudly were
beating on her shores, the tides ebbed and flowed under
the starlit sky, and there was no special sign to mark
the night of September 29, 1758. But the voice of the
great waters, ever so full of mystery, might well have
burst into a triumphant song. England might well
have rejoiced, for it was the night of the birth of her
sea-hero, Horatio Nelson.

But nothing triumphant or splendid marked the
birth of this particular baby. The village of Burnham-
Thorpe was as quiet a spot as could be found in all
England, and children were plentiful in the homely old
parsonage. Edmund Nelson, the rector, may perhaps
have sighed a little when he heard of the birth of
another son. It was another mouth to fill, and money
was not plentiful in the country parsonage. But
Catherine, his wife, had surely a welcome for her little
son, and if there was not much to give him, she at least
gave him a name of which she was proud. Her grand-
mother was a sister of Sir Robert Walpole, and the
baby should be called Horatio after his godfather Lord
Walpole.

Watching her boy as he grew up, noting the quick-
ness of his mind, his fearlessness and determination,
the mother may have dreamed many a dream of what
he would some day achieve, but they were dreams

139

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

which she did not live to see realised, for Horatio
was only nine years old when his mother died, leaving
eight little motherless children to the care of their
father, who was broken down in health and had but
few of this world's goods to make the way smoother.

It was at this time that the children's uncle, their
mother's brother, Captain Maurice Suckling, came on a
short visit to Burnham-Thorpe parsonage. The sight
of those eight children, and the thought of their future,
made their uncle feel as if he must help in some way.
So before he left he promised he would look after one
of the boys and have him trained in the Navy. He did
nothing just then, and perhaps forgot his promise when
he went away, but one at least of the children carefully
remembered it.

Horatio was not at all a strong child, but if his body
was weak, he had the strongest and most determined
mind that ever a child possessed, and was absolutely
fearless. When he was a very small boy, he was
staying once with his grandmother, and one morning
wandered out to hunt for birds' nests with the cowboy.
Dinner-time came, but there was no sign of Horatio,
and by and by his grandmother became anxious and a
search was made for him. The child could not be found
anywhere, and they feared that he might have been
carried off by gipsies, but at last he was discovered a
long way off from home, sitting quietly on the bank of
a stream, which was too deep for him to cross over.

" I wonder, child," said his grandmother when he
was brought to her, " that hunger and fear did not
drive you home."

" Fear ! grandmamma," he said wonderingly, " I never
saw fear. What is it ? "

140

HORATIO NELSON

It was something which he never saw, and never
knew all his life.

The school at North Walsham to which Horatio and
his brother William were sent was not very far from
Burnham-Thorpe, and the boys could easily ride over on
horseback from the parsonage. They were returning
to school after the Christmas holidays one very severe
winter, when they found the snow lying very deep, and
determined to turn and go back.

" The snow is too deep to venture on," said William
to their father when they returned. William did not
much care about going back to school.

" If that be the case," said their father, " you certainly
shall not go ; but make another attempt and I will
leave it to your honour. If the road is dangerous, you
may return : but remember, boys, I leave it to your
honour."

So off the two boys started again, and this time
they found the snow was really quite deep enough
to have given them a good excuse to go back. But
Horatio would not give in.

" We must go on," he said ; " remember, brother, it
was left to our honour."

There was nothing then left for William to do but to
go on too, for he knew it was no use trying to persuade
the other when it was a question of honour. Not that
Horatio was in the least a prig, and the boys all knew
that full well. He was ready for any adventure, the
more dangerous the better, and it was he who stole the
pears from the master's garden when no one else dared
to risk it.

" I'll get them to-night," he volunteered, and so when
darkpess hid the conspirators they knotted sheets

141

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

together and lowered the bold adventurer down from
the bedroom window. The boys waited breathlessly
while Horatio stripped the pear tree, and then, when
the return signal was given, they hauled him up
again and the spoil was divided. Every one had
a share except the robber himself, who did not want
any.,

"I only took them because every other boy was
afraid," he said.

The next Christmas holidays were rather lonely
ones for the children at Burnham-Thorpe parsonage, for
their father had been ill and was obliged to go to Bath
for his health. Horatio, who was now twelve years old,
was reading the county newspaper one morning when
he saw that his Uncle Maurice had been appointed to
the Raisonnable, a ship of sixty-four guns. This was
surely the time, thought Horatio, to remind him of that
promise he had made three years ago.

" Do, William," he said to his brother, " write to my
father and tell him I should like to go to sea with
Uncle Maurice."

William, who was a year or so older than Horatio,
undertook to write the letter, and their father, when
he received it, thought the idea a good one. He knew
that Horatio was anxious to work for himself, and
he believed the boy would get on.

"In whatever station he may be placed, he will
climb if possible to the very top of the tree," he said.

So he wrote at once to Captain Suckling and pro-
posed that he should take Horatio on board and make
a sailor of him.

The answer came, written in no very cheerful terms.
The delicate boy had evidently not impressed his uncle

142

HORATIO NELSON

as being of the stuff of which our hearts of oak are
made. " What," he wrote, " has poor Horatio done,
who is so weak, that he, above all the rest, should
be sent to rough it out at sea ? But let him come, and
the first time we go into action a cannon-ball may
knock off his head, and provide for him at once."

However it was a consent, if a somewhat gloomy
one, and the man-servant from the parsonage was sent
to North Walsham to tell the news to Horatio and
bid him get ready to join his ship.

There must have been a certain amount of rejoicing
at the thought of leaving school, and no doubt his
schoolfellows envied him greatly, but the glamour
of romance very soon faded for Horatio.

His father took him as far as London and then
put him into the Chatham coach, and after that the
boy had to manage for himself. It was very cold
when he arrived at Chatham, and he wandered about
trying to find the ship, and felt more lost and bewildered
each moment. Then a kindly officer took pity on the
forlorn-looking child, and finding he was Captain
Suckling's nephew, took him home to dinner before
sending him aboard.

But even when at last young Nelson stood on the
deck of the good ship Raisonnable his spirits did not
rise. His uncle was not there and no one knew he
was expected, and he had never felt so lonely and
wretched in his life before.

In all his after years Nelson never forgot the
forlorn wretchedness of those first few days on board
his first ship, and it made him very gentle with the
little midshipmen who were happy enough to sail
under his orders.

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

There had been some dispute with Spain about
the Falkland Isles, and the Raisonndble had been
ordered out to be ready in case of need, but when the
matter was settled she returned home, and Captain
Suckling was given the command of a gunboat, the
Triumph, which guarded the Thames.

This was not an active enough life for young Nelson,
so he was shipped off in a merchant vessel to the West
Indies, and after this second voyage he was Avith
his uncle again for a few months and learned to pilot
a boat among the rocks and sands from Chatham to
the Tower, and down to the North Foreland.

But there was much more exciting work to be
done than this, for Horatio heard that two ships were
being prepared to start off on a voyage of discovery
to the North Pole. No boys were to be shipped, as only
strong men would be needed for the adventure, but
nevertheless young Nelson made up his mind he was
going, and applied for a berth. Perhaps it was his
uncle's interest that helped him, but whatever it was,
he received permission to join the Carcass as coxwain.

The two ships, the Carcass and the Racehorse, set
sail for the north, and before very long there were
adventures enough even to suit Horatio's taste, and
rather more than the rest of the crew relished. At
one time when the ship was shut in by ice, young
Nelson was put in command of one of the boats which
was sent out to search for a free passage into open
water. Another boat had been sent from the Race-
horse, and this one soon found itself in great difficulties.

One of the men had fired at a walrus and wounded
it, and the wounded animal immediately called its
companions together and attacked the boat. They

144

HORATIO NELSON

tore away an oar and were just about to stave the
boat in when young Nelson came on the scene and
put the enemy to rout.

The more daring and dangerous the adventure, the
more the boy loved it, and one night without leave he
left the ship with a companion and started a bear hunt.
The captain was very anxious and very angry when he
discovered their absence, and when at last they were
seen in the distance attacking a huge bear, he signalled
to them to return immediately.

But Nelson paid no attention to the signal, he was so
determined to get that bear. His ammunition was all
gone, but he was sure he could manage it with the butt-
end of his musket, if only he could get near enough.
Luckily there was a chasm in the ice between him and
the bear, or the hunter would certainly have had the
worst of it.

Just then a shot was fired from the ship and the
bear made off, while Nelson had reluctantly to go
back.

The captain was very angry, and demanded what
he meant by going and hunting for bears in that way.

" Sir," said Horatio rather indignantly, " I wished to
kill the bear that I might carry the skin to my father."

The next voyage was to the East Indies, and here
the boy's health broke down and he lost heart alto-
gether. He had done his very best, learned all that he
could possibly learn, suffered great hardships, and had
not even yet won the rank of a midshipman. All
seemed black and gloomy enough in the present, all
looked black and gloomy enough ahead.

The difficulties still to be overcome seemed too great
to struggle with, he doubted if he would ever rise to

145 K

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the top of his profession, and he almost wished himself
overboard.

Then, just as everything looked black as night, a
light shone in, a splendid thought flashed through his
mind, and sent a glow through his heart. He had a,
king and a country to serve. For England's sake he
would succeed, he would brave every danger in her
service, and she, the mistress of the sea, would one day
be proud of her son. All that he asked was to serve
her well and faithfully to the end.

Again might the voice of the great deep have sung a
triumphant song as the boy saw his vision, and set his
face steadfastly towards the goal. The honour and
glory of England lay at the end of that shining road
which he saw stretching before him, and he never again
lost sight of the vision.

Surely the heart of every one of Britain's sons must
glow when he thinks of what that boy achieved, surely
there are boys to-day who are ready to hand the

message on :

" What have I done for you,

England, my England?
What is there I would not do,
England, my own ? "

146

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON

IN long ago days, when the stars were thought to hold
the secret of the fortune of every child born into the
world, wise men gazed up into the wonderful dome of
heaven, set with its millions of diamond lamps, and
tried to read in that shining page of night the secret
which only the coming years could unfold.

Surely if the stars, which look down so calmly arid
so coldly upon the little lives just beginning in this
world of ours, were really fortune-tellers, they would
have set a special sign in the heavens to mark the year
of Grace 1769, the year which saw the birth of Arthur,
Duke of Wellington, and Napoleon Bonaparte.

But the stars shone on as usual and the world went
its way, and there was nothing to mark the birth of our
great general, there was nothing to give even a hint of
what the years held in store for him. Indeed it seemed
of so little importance that we do not know the exact
day of his birth, nor the exact place where he was
born.

People say that every mother sees a halo round her
child which enables her to foresee the honours that will
crown the little downy head lying so helpless in its
cradle, but dreams like these were never dreamed over
the head of this particular baby. His mother never
thought much about him at all. Only as he grew older

147

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

she was vexed with his slow way of speaking and his
dull manner. He really did seem a very stupid boy.

" I vow," she would say, " I don't know what I shall
do with my awkward son Arthur."

When his lady mother said that, all the household of
course followed suit, and Arthur was considered an awk-
ward dunce, and no one troubled themselves much about
him. And if the stars took no notice of his birthday,
neither did the sun shine very brightly on his child-
hood, for he was a lonely, rather unhappy little boy.

School was considered the best place for a tiresome
child, and as soon as he was old enough Arthur was sent
away to a little school where he was not much happier
than he had been at home. He does not seem to have
had any hampers of good things, or much pocket-
money either. One of his schoolfellows remembered
long years afterwards how "Lord Wellesley called OD
Arthur one day and gave him a shilling." Not a very
big tip from an elder brother !

After the preparatory school Arthur was sent to
Eton, and there he was still considered a dull, stupid
boy. His head was so often in the clouds, and he
looked as if he was always dreaming, besides being
very shy. He was not a favourite amongst the boys
for he did not care much about games and never
played in the school cricket-matches or rowed in the
boat-races. Almost always by himself he wandered
about apparently doing nothing, but all the time he
was looking and learning, and storing up a golden
store in his mind. There was nothing too small for
him to notice. What seemed like unimportant details
to others, were the things he tried first of all to learn
before going on to bigger things.

148

ARTHUR, DUKE OF WELLINGTON

There was no thought in the boy's mind at that time
that he would become a soldier. He had no wish to
go into the army, although he was certainly by no
means afraid of fighting and could hold his own fairly
well with other boys.

Walking one day by the side of the river, he saw
one of his schoolfellows bathing and was prompted
to throw a small stone at him. The stone hit the
swimmer, who was naturally most indignant, and who
shouted out :

" Do that again and I'll come ashore and thrash you."

Of course, after a threat like that, there was nothing
left for Arthur Wellesley to do but to throw another
stone, and the furious bather scrambled up the bank
and proceeded to carry out his threat. Wellesley gave
back blow for blow, and ended by completely routing
the enemy, although he certainly was in the wrong
that time, and did not deserve the victory he won.

But there were other times when he did not come
off with such flying colours. On his grandfather's estate
in North Wales there lived a young blacksmith with
whom Arthur was very friendly, until one day when
some difference of opinion arose between them, and
they settled to fight it out. The battle was a fierce
one, but in the end the blacksmith was victorious, and
gave Arthur a sound thrashing. Long years after-
wards, that blacksmith used to proudly boast that he
had beaten the man who had conquered Napoleon and
all his generals, and he always added, "And M.-i-tn-
Wesley bore not a pin's worth of ill-will for the
beating, but made me his companion in many a wild
ramble after the fight, just as he had done before."

The school-days at Eton were cut short for Arthur,

149

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

when his father, Lord Mornington, died and his mother
went to live in Brussels and took him with her. There
he studied under a tutor, Monsieur Louis Goubert, whom
Arthur always kindly remembered, for in after years he
tells how " as I rode into Brussels the day after the
battle of Waterloo, I passed the old house and recog-
nised it, and pulling up ascertained that the old man
was still alive. I sent for him and recalled myself to
his recollection, shook hands with him and assured him
that for old acquaintance' sake he should be protected
from all molestation."

After a year at Brussels Arthur was sent to a school
at Angers, where he learned French, and according to a
friend's account, " he played well on the fiddle, but never
gave indication of any other species of talent."

By this time his mother was quite hopeless about
her awkward son Arthur, and she decided that he
should enter the army. " He is good for powder and
nothing more," she declared.

So his elder brother wrote to the Viceroy of Ireland
saying, " Let me remind you of a younger brother of
mine whom you were so kind as to take into your con-
sideration for a commission in the army. He is here
at this moment and perfectly idle. It is a matter of
indifference to me what commission he gets, provided he
gets it soon."

The stars must surely then have looked down with
quickened interest, watching for the fate of nations to
be decided, watching for the coming of the hero, whose
very name is now the glory of England, the quiet dull
boy who had " shown no signs of greatness," but who
stood out to win fame and honour for his nation and
himself.

150

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

THE island of Corsica had been coming through
troubled times, and there was still a feeling of war in
the air on the 15th of August 1769, when the little
Napoleon was born at Ajaccio.

The stars looked down on many a ruined home, on
many a battle-field only now beginning to show itself
green instead of red, and they looked down too upon
the little child, in whose tiny helpless hands were the
threads of fate that were to lead to many a wider battle-
field, dyed with even a deeper red.

Charles Bonaparte, the father of the little Napoleon,
had fought well for the liberty of his country, and it
was only when he saw that the struggle was a hopeless
one that he laid down his arms and accepted the French
as rulers of Corsica. He was a handsome, courtly
man and belonged to the old nobility, and his wife
Letizia was of noble family also. She was indeed well
fitted to be the wife of a soldier and the mother of one
of the greatest leaders of men the world has ever known.

No hardships kept Letizia from following her hus-
band through all the wars of that unhappy time, and
when the last battle was fought and lost, she escaped
with him, and carrying the eldest boy Joseph in her
arms, struggled through brushwood and open country,
waded through rivers and climbed hills, until they
reached a safe place of refuge, always cheerful and

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

uncomplaining. It was but a short time after those
weary days that her second son, Napoleon, was born.
Madame Mire, as she was called, loved her children
with all her heart, and Napoleon's love for his mother
was one of the beautiful things in his life, but she was
extremely severe and brought her sons up most strictly.
Many a sound whipping did she give them, and Napoleon
especially received even more than his share at her
hands. Joseph was a quiet kindly child, and both he
and little Lucien were easily managed, but Napoleon
was always a disturber of the peace, always wanting
his own way and ready to fight for it, caring not a jot
whether the person he fought with was thrice his size
and double his age.

With such a child as this, Madame Mire had natur-
ally no idea of sparing the rod. Even when Napoleon
was almost grown up she whipped him soundly one
day. He had called his grandmother " an old witch,"
which had made his mother very angry, and knowing
he would be punished for it, he kept out of her way all
day. But there was no escape, for in the evening
•when he was dressing for dinner, she quietly came into
his room, and the thrashing she gave him was none the
lighter for being so long delayed.

In the large bare room, with its whitewashed walls,
which was set apart for the children's playroom,
Napoleon played his own purposeful games by himself,
and seldom would join his brothers. He was the true
son of a soldier, and loved to march up and down beat-
ing his drum or charging with his wooden sabre. The
walls were covered with his drawings of soldiers,
ranged in battle array, and woe betide anyone who
scribbled over them.

152

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

This warlike spirit might ill have suited the gentle
nuns who were Napoleon's first teachers, but the child
was as much interested in his games and was a great
favourite with his teachers. " The little mathema-
tician" was what they called him, as they soon dis-
covered he had a genius for numbers.

Napoleon had little idea what a mathematician
meant. The nuns might call him that if they liked,
but he himself knew very well that he was going to be
a soldier and nothing else. Already he began to pre-
pare himself, and every morning when he started for
school he changed his piece of white bread, which was
given him for lunch, for a piece of coarse brown bread,
which was what the soldiers ate.

" I must grow accustomed to soldiers' fare," he said
very wisely.

As he grew older the big playroom became too
noisy a place for work, and so a little shed was built for
him behind the house where he could learn his lessons
and work out his sums in peace. All else was for-
gotten as he made his calculations and thought his big
thoughts, and he would walk about with his head in the
clouds and his stockings hanging over his heels, while
the other children mocked at him for his foolishness
and untidiness. But their jeers made not the slightest
impression upon him, only if he was once roused to
anger they quickly repented of their mirth.

Fear was something which was quite unknown to
Napoleon, and when he was only eight years old he
mounted a young spirited horse and rode oft" before
anyone could prevent him, to the dismay of the whole
family, who never expected to see him alive again. But
he thoroughly enjoyed his ride, and when he pulled up

153

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

at a distant farm he quickly made friends with the
farmer, and before he left begged to be allowed to go
over the mill. He examined each part of the machinery
and then asked :

"How much corn can the mill grind in an hour?"

The miller told him. and Napoleon considered for
a moment and then calculated exactly how much it
•would grind in a day and in a week.

" If that child lives." said the farmer when he took
him back to his mother, " he will make a mark in the
world."

For a short time Joseph and Napoleon went to-
gether to a school kept by the Abbe Recco. and there
lessons were arranged on a plan that entirely suited
Napoleon's tastes. The boys sat on forms, facing each
other, in two companies, the one called Romans and
the other Carthaginians. Oil the wall above were hung
warlike trophies, wooden swords and shields, banners
and battle-axes, and these were carried off as spoils of
war bv the form that excelled in their lessons.

•

Joseph being the elder was put in the Roman form,
and Napoleon was obliged to be a Carthaginian, which
did not please him at all. He wished to be a Roman
and as usual he got his own way. persuading his good-
natured brother to change with him. After that the
Carthaginians had a very hard struggle to keep their
shields and weapons, for the young Roman swept
everything before him and was satisfied with nothing
short of complete victory.

When Napoleon was nine and Joseph ten. their
father decided that the one should be a priest and the
other a soldier, and having a good deal of interest
with Marbceuf, the French Governor of Corsica, it

154

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

was no difficult matter to arrange that Napoleon should
enter one of the Royal Military Schools of Franc-.-. ;md
that Joseph should be trained at the College of An tun.

So Charles Bonaparte and his two boys left Ajaccio
in the winter of 1778, just before Christmas, and
journeyed to France, where the boys were both left
at Autun under the care of the Abbe de Chardon, as
it was necessary that Napoleon should learn French
before he entered the Military School.

Those were unhappy days for Napoleon, though
worse were yet to come, when he should be parted
from Joseph and be utterly alone, a stranger in a
strange land. He missed his home, his own room,
his garden, and above all the sunshine of his beloved
Corsica. French was a foreign tongue to him so he
talked but little, and he was only driven to speech
when anyone mentioned Corsica, and then he fired
up and declared that the French would never have
conquered his island had they not been ten to one.

No one cared very much for the gloomy, silent boy,
with his foreign tongue, his olive complexion and
piercing eyes, and the big forehead that could look
so lowering. The boys were half afraid of him, he
had such a passionate temper and did not seem to
care to make friends. He had no difficulty with his
lessons, for he was extremely quick and never needed
to be told anything twice over. When his master
taught some new fact, Napoleon listened with eyes
and mouth open, but when the same fact was repeated
he paid no attention whatever.

" You are not attending," his master said sharply
one day.

" Sir," replied Napoleon, " I know that already."

155

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

When the time came for him to say good-bye to
his brother and start for the Military School, Joseph
burst into tears at the parting, but Napoleon never
lost his self-control. Only one big tear squeezed its
•way out, and ran slowly down his cheek, and that
he brushed hastily away. One of the masters who
was standing near, watching the brothers, turned and
laid his hand on Joseph's arm.

"Your brother has shed only one tear," he said,
"but that shows his sorrow at leaving you as much
as all yours."

The Royal Military School at Brienne to which
Napoleon was sent had been originally a monastery,
and was now kept by monks of the order of the
Minims. About fifty boys of the poor nobility were
educated there at the King's expense, and about
the same number were received as ordinary pupils.
Napoleon's poverty being as easy to prove as his
nobility, he was entered as one of the King's scholars.

The boys had each a separate room, or cell, in
which was a water-jug and basin, and a bed with one
blanket for covering. In these cells they were locked
up at nights, and their days were spent in the class-
rooms or gardens. They never went home for their
holidays, and never left school from the day they
entered until their school-days came to an end. Until
they were twelve years old their hair was kept short,
but after that it was allowed to grow into a pigtail,
although powder was only allowed on Sundays and
saints' days.

Napoleon, though he was short, had broad shoulders
and carried himself well, and he must have looked
very soldierly in the school uniform — a blue coat with

156

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

red facings and white metal buttons engraved with
the arms of the college, blue waistcoat faced with
white, and breeches also of blue.

For a long time he was no more a favourite here
than he had been at Autun, and he lived a lonely life,
going about with a sullen, gloomy look and forbidding
air. Like all the other boys he had a garden of his
own, but Napoleon's garden was never gay with flowers
or open to the playing of games. The first thing he did
was to fence it round with a palisade, and then to plant
trees in it, so that he could hide himself and be alone,
dreaming his dreams and reading his books. If anyone
ever ventured inside that palisade, he seldom cared to
do so twice.

Lonely and homesick, Napoleon's great comfort was
in his books, and he loved to read the stories of great
men, and plan how he also would some day climb the
ladder of fame. He read and re-read Plutarch's Lives,
and that was his favourite book of all. The boys
laughed at his foreign name and curious ways, and
called him " the Spartan," but it was little Napoleon cared
for their jeers. Some day he would make them respect
the name he bore. He had no great affection for his
masters, any more than for the boys, but he had a
wonderful memory for any kindness shown to him and
a very grateful heart, and this was shown in after years
when his hands were full of golden favours and he gave
freely to all those people of Brienne. To the priest
who had prepared him for his first communion he gave
a pension and wrote a very grateful letter.

"I have not forgotten that it is to your virtuous
example, and to your wise precepts that I owe the high
position that I have reached," he wrote. "Without

157

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

religion, no happiness, no success is possible. I recom-
mend myself to your prayers."

But whether he went on his way alone, or was
occasionally helped and encouraged by his masters, it
made but little difference to Napoleon during those
school-days, for his whole heart was full of the one idea
of being a soldier, and learning all that a soldier should
know. Mathematics, history, and geography he loved,
but Latin he never would learn. It could never be of
any use to a soldier, he said.

The unfriendly feeling between Napoleon and his
companions grew stronger and stronger until at last a
climax was reached. The school had been divided into
companies of cadets, with a commander at the head
of each company, and the command of one of these
companies was given to Napoleon. The other com-
manders, on learning this, were determined it should
not be allowed, so they held a court-martial and agreed
that Napoleon should be degraded from his rank as he
was not fit to command comrades with whom he refused
to be friends.

The sentence was read with all due military solemnity
to Napoleon, and the boys expected a terrific attack of
temper, but instead the little degraded officer bore
himself with such humble dignity and submitted so
patiently that the boys liked him better than they had
ever done before, and gradually he became a great
favourite.

That winter was a very severe one, and the boys'
respect and admiration for Napoleon grew stronger
when he built for them a splendid snow fortress which
was a perfect marvel of skill and strength. He orga-
nised the defence and attack, drilled his soldiers and

158

NAPOLEON BONAPARTE

encouraged the enemy. The solitary sullen boy was like
a different being, and became the hero of the hour. His
will was law, and he could do as he liked with his
schoolboy army. So famous was that snow fortress
that the people from the village and the country round
about came to see it and to watch the fight and advise
the young commander.

Into Napoleon's heart had come the joy of knowing
that he could make others feel his will, and sway them
as he would.

It was the first faint gleam from the dawning star of
his fortunes which was to rise higher and higher until
it shone with a brilliance such as the world has seldom
seen.

It was his first victory, a happy innocent triumph,
and it was his first battle-field, but the field was white.

159

SIR WALTER SCOTT

IN the heart of the old grey capital of the North lies
a pleasant square, with tall, rather gloomy houses sur-
rounding it on every side, shutting out the poorer
streets in one direction and the quiet green meadows on
the other. This was considered a much healthier place
for children than the College Wynd where Mr. Walter
Scott, Writer to the Signet, had lived with his wife and
family for some years. One by one their children had
faded and died, leaving but six little mounds in the
churchyard and six locks of sunny hair for their mother
to cherish. So it was a happy day for her when there
was a flitting from the old house in College Wynd to the
pleasant open spaces of George Square, where it was
hoped that the last baby, Walter, and his two elder
brothers would grow up strong healthy children.

There certainly seemed no cause for anxiety about
the baby, for he was as well and happy as a child
should be, and by the time he was eighteen months old
he could run about by himself, and run swiftly too,
when he did not wish to be caught. There was one
night when his nurse must have lost all patience with
her " laddie." He did not want to go to bed, and when-
ever she tried to catch him he danced out of her reach,
wild with delight and merriment. The child was
surely bewitched or " fey," as the Scotch tongue called

1 60

SIR WALTER SCOTT

it, and she shook her head over this wild mood of his,
as she at last caught him and put him to bed.

The next day there was no more running about, for
the baby lay moaning and ill with a teething fever,
and when that left him they found, when they were
bathing him, that one of his little legs hung limp and
useless, with no life or power of movement in it.

Doctors were called in and everything possible was
done, but still the leg remained weak and useless, and it
seemed as if the child would be a cripple. Then Dr.
Rutherford, his grandfather, advised that he should be
sent away to the country, where he could be a great
deal in the open air, and where perhaps the weak leg
might grow strong again.

So it came to pass that little Walter was sent to live
with his other grandfather, Robert Scott of Sandy-
knowe, and the child's first memories were of the
Borderlands of Scotland, the Tweed and the Teviot,
and the old castle of Smailholm.

Every possible cure was tried for that poor little
lame leg, and some of the remedies were very curious
ones. Whenever a sheep was killed on the farm,
Walter, stripped of his clothes, was wrapped in the
warm newly-flayed skin and laid on the floor to crawl
about like a veritable Baby Bunting. The old white-
haired grandfather watched him anxiously and tried to
tempt the funny little figure, wrapped in its sheep's
clothing, to move about and use the weak leg, and
Walter also remembered an old colonel in a cocked hat
and scarlet waistcoat, kneeling down and drawing a
watch across the carpet before the creeping child.

But perhaps the best cure of all was the strong,
fresh country air, and the days spent out of doors,

161 L

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

when auld Sandy the "cow-bailie" carried Walter
about on his back, or set him down to crawl on the
thymey grass among the sheep and lambs.

" He was very gleg at the uptake, and soon kenned
every sheep and lamb by headmark as well as any of
them," said an old servant, Tibby, long afterwards, with
great pride.

Lying out there among the grassy knolls, he was
content to watch the sheep and the distant hills, to
crawl after wild flowers and the " velvet tufts of love-
liest green," and he never needed other amusements.

There was one day when a thunderstorm came up
suddenly and Miss Janet Scott, his aunt, remembered
where he was, and set off in haste to bring him home,
for she was afraid he might be lonely and frightened.
She need not have been anxious, for Walter was enjoy-
ing himself greatly. There he lay on his back watch-
ing the sky, clapping his hands at every flash of
lightning and shouting, " Bonny ! Bonny ! "

Everything about the countryside was "bonny" in
the child's eyes, and as he grew older he thought it
more beautiful still, when he heard the wonderful tales
of the Borderland, "where every field has its battle
and every rivulet its song." Auld Sandy would look
across to the distant Cheviots and tell of raiders and
famous battles, or pointing nearer still to where the
Eildons stood, " three crests against the saffron sky," he
whispered tales of the Faerie Queen and Thomas the
Rhymer, while stories even more wonderful and in-
teresting gathered round the old ruin of Smailholm
Tower which stood sentinel on the crags above. Many
a tale did Walter hear, too, of his own ancestors, of
John the Lamiter; of William the Boltfoot, who, in

162

SIR WALTER SCOTT

spite of his lameness, grew up to be one of the boldest
knights of all the country-side ; of auld Watt of Harden,
who swept over the Border with his gallant raiders,
and returned with goodly herds of English cattle ; of
"Beardie," his great-grandfather, who fought for the
Stuarts, and refused to cut off his beard since they
were banished.

Every kind of tale was a delight to the child, and he
was never tired of listening to anyone that would tell
him a story, whether he was riding on auld Sandy's
back out on the hills or lying on the floor at his grand-
mother's feet as she sat spinning by the fire. His
grandmother's tales, indeed, were as exciting as any
history of Robin Hood, and much more interesting, for
some of the heroes of whom she told were old family
connections, raiders and freebooters though they were,
and the stories about their bold deeds were endless.
Then, too, there were a few books lying on the window-
seat of the little parlour, which Aunt Janet read aloud
over and over again until Walter almost knew them
by heart.

The Ballad of Hardyknute was the first he learned
to repeat, and repeat it he did on every possible occasion,
greatly to the annoyance of the parish minister when
he called for a quiet chat.

" One may as well speak in the mouth of a cannon
as where that child is," he remarked grimly, sitting up,
tall and thin, and regarding the shouting child with
great disfavour. But they grew to be good friends
afterwards, the grave old minister and the little lame
ballad-lover.

Walter was four years old when it was decided that
he should try what the waters of Bath would do for

163

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

his lameness, and so with his good Aunt Janet he went
up to London by sea, and after seeing some of the
sights there, journeyed on to Bath. He must have had
a wonderful memory for so small a child, for although
he did not again see the Tower of London and West-
minster Abbey for twenty-five years, he was astonished
as a grown-up man to find how accurate were his
recollections of them both.

The next year was spent in Bath, and although it
must have been a great change from Sandyknowe,
there were other joys to make up for the loss of the
green meadows and his friend the shepherd. Chiefest
joy of all was the arrival of an uncle, Captain Robert
Scott, who was a delightful playfellow and a wonderful
person for providing treats and amusements. He even
took Walter to the theatre to see As You Like It, and
that was something Walter never forgot. He was so
much excited and interested that he could not keep
still, and when the quarrel between Orlando and his
brother began, the audience must have been amused to
hear a little voice cry out in shocked accents, " A'n't they
brothers ? "

Having lived the life of an only child at Sandy-
knowe, he did not realise that it was possible for brothers
to quarrel, but the knowledge came afterwards when
he lived amongst his own brothers in George Square.

The waters of Bath were given a fair trial with but
poor results, and then Aunt Janet brought little Walter
home again, first to Edinburgh and then back to Sandy-
knowe.

" The making of him " had begun long ago, when he
first began to crawl about the grassy slopes of the old
farm, when his eyes first learned to love the beautiful

164

SIR WALTER SCOTT

things he saw, and his ears to listen eagerly to the old
tales and ballads, and now before he was six years old
there was much that was already made of the man to
come.

He could ride fearlessly on his little Shetland pony,
and he rode well. He loved all out-of-door things,
birds, beasts, flowers, hills, dales, and rivers. All things
connected with the past were interesting in his eyes,
and he was a firm believer in the divine right of Prince
Charlie. Above all he loved with all his heart old tales,
old songs and ballads of every sort.

" He is born to be a strolling pedlar," was his father's
verdict.

" I was never a dunce, nor thought to be so, but an
incorrigibly idle imp, who was always longing to do
something else than what was enjoined him," was his
own opinion of himself.

There is yet another opinion of him contained in a
letter written about this time by the authoress of " The
Flowers of the Forest."

She writes, " I last night supped in Mr. Walter
Scott's. He has the most extraordinary genius of a
boy I ever saw. He was reading a poem to his mother
when I went in. I made him read on ; it was the
description of a shipwreck. His passion rose with the
storm. He lifted his eyes and hands. ' There's the mast
gone,' says he ; ' crash it goes ! — they will all perish ! '
The lady goes on to tell how she asked his opinion
of Milton and other books he was reading, and was
amazed with his answers.

" Pray what age do you suppose this boy to be ? "
she asks ; " name it now before I tell you."

" Why, twelve or fourteen."

165

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

" No such thing ; he is not quite six years old. He
has a lame leg, for which he was a year at Bath, and
has acquired the perfect English accent, which he has
not lost since he came, and he reads like a Garrick.
You will allow this an uncommon exotic."

Two more years were spent at Sandyknowe, and
then he was taken for a while again by Aunt Janet
to Prestonpans, to try what sea-bathing would do
for him. There he made another friend and heard
more of his beloved old tales from an old military
captain called Dalgetty, who had never before found
such an eager listener as the little lame boy.

But now that Walter was eight years old and was
growing so much stronger, his father began to think
it was high time that his regular education should
begin, and so the pleasant life at Sandyknowe came
to an end and Walter went home to George Square,
and after a little private teaching was entered at the
High School.

Perhaps he had been rather spoilt at Sandyknowe
where he was an only child and a favourite with every-
body, where his gentle old grandmother ruled with
a kindly hand, and where he was the joy of Aunt
Janet's heart, strict though she might be. At any
rate it was a trying change to find himself of much
less importance in a big household, where he had
to learn to give and take with other children, and
where he could not expect to have his own way or
to domineer over the others.

But his mother understood all about it, as mothers
do, and helped him to be patient and unselfish.
Perhaps the little lame son whom she had been obliged
to part from for so many years had a special place

1 66

SIR WALTER SCOTT

nearer her heart than the others, or perhaps she under-
stood him better, for she loved many of the things
he did, and Walter soon found that she was always
ready to listen to his favourite stories and ballads, and
his happiest times were when he was reading to her
or reciting long passages which he had learned, sure
of her sympathy.

It was no wonder that life was not only more
difficult but more stirring and noisy than in the old
farm, for in the George Square home there were
two brothers older than Walter, two that were younger,
and one little sister, Anne. One or other of them
was always getting into mischief or hurting himself,
but perhaps the most unfortunate of all was little
Anne.

When the wind banged the iron gate of the area
shut, it was Anne's hand that was caught in the hasp
and cruelly crushed. When the children were playing
round the old quarry-hole on the south side of the
Square, it was Anne who fell in and was nearly
drowned. But the worst accident of all was the
burning of her little cap when she was alone in the
room one day, for her head was terribly hurt, and she
was never quite strong and well again.

" Careful comforts " those children must have been
to the anxious mother, and she rather dreaded the time
when her lame boy must go to school and be knocked
about by the rough strong boys. But she need not
have been anxious about that. Walter was quite able
to hold his own, and he was absolutely fearless. He
might be lame, but he was a " bonny fechter," as the
other boys very soon found out.

The first day that Walter appeared in the High

167

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

School playground, or "the yards" as it was called,
a dispute arose between him and another boy.

" It's no use to hargle-bargle with a cripple," said
the boy contemptuously.

"I'll fight anyone my own size, if I may fight
mounted," said Walter. Whereupon one of the elder
boys in great delight arranged that the "two little
tinklers " should be lashed to a bench and fight the
quarrel out ; and Walter gave a good account of himself,
and carried the respect and admiration of his school-
fellows.

He was more of a success in the yards than in the
schoolroom at first, for the class in which he was
placed was rather too advanced for him, and he got
into the habit of sitting comfortably at the bottom
or middle of the class. It was a place which chanced
to be near the fire, and that made him the more con-
tented with it.

But although he was rather idle and careless about
learning his lessons, he was very quick with his
answers, and had a wonderful memory which some-
times stood him in such good stead that he easily
mounted to the top of the class, and then just as
easily went down again.

"What part of speech is with" asked the Rector
one day.

" A substantive," mumbled the dunce of the class.

" Is ivith ever a substantive? " demanded the Rector
of the head boy.

There was no answer ; the next boy was also silent,
and the question passed down the class until it reached
Walter very near the bottom.

"Yes," came the quick answer from him, and he

1 68

SIR WALTER SCOTT

quoted solemnly, " ' And Samson said unto Delilah,
If they bind me with seven green withs, that were never
dried, then shall I be weak, and as another man.' '

And of course up he went to the top of the class.

Many and ingenious were his ways of winning a
higher place, and the story of one successful plan he
told himself many years after.

" There was a boy," he said, " in my class at school
who stood always at the top, nor could I, with all my
efforts, supplant him. Day came after day and still
he kept his place, do what I would ; till at length I
observed that, when a question was asked him, he
always fumbled with his fingers at a particular button
in the lower part of his waistcoat. To remove it,
therefore, became expedient in my eyes, and in an evil
moment it was removed with a knife. Great was my
anxiety to know the success of my measure ; and it suc-
ceeded too well. When the boy was again questioned,
his fingers sought again for the button, but it was not
to be found. In his distress he looked down for it;
it was to be seen no more than to be felt. He stood
confounded, and I took possession of his place, nor did
he ever recover it ; or even I believe suspect who was
the author of his wrong. Often in after life has the
sight of him smote me as I passed by him ; and often
have I resolved to make him some reparation : but it
ended in good resolutions."

The masters might shake their heads over your
Walter Scott's idleness and " fooling," but they always
found him most interesting, while among the boys he
was a decided favourite. It was not only that they
admired his pluck and courage and the way he faced
up to the great drawback of his lameness, though that

169

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

alone would have appealed to any boy, for he was
such a thorough sportsman, but he had besides a magic
gift, as full of enchantment as any wizard's wand, and
as compelling as any fairy flute possessed by the Pied
Piper of Hamelin fame.

When winter came round and play hours were dark
and dreary, and outside games at a standstill, when the
boys gathered round "Lucky Brown's" fireside, then
began Walter Scott's hour." There was no one that
could tell tales as he could. The boys were spellbound
as they listened, and they crowded round nearer and
nearer not to lose a word, for the magic worked then
even as it did in later years, when it earned for him the
title of " the Wizard of the North."

Dr. Adam, the Rector, caught a glimpse now and then
of what was in the boy, and began to take a greater
interest in him, and when Walter saw that more was
expected of him, he made it a point of honour to come
up to his master's expectations, and so erelong he
easily worked his way up to the first form. Neither
did his lame leg prevent him winning honours in the
playground, and outside the playground as well, for he
could climb " the kittle nine stanes " above the precipice
of the Castle rock as boldly as anyone, and when the
boys sallied out with snowballs to harass the town
guard, he was one of the most valiant dread-noughts in
spite of his limp. He was a keen fighter, too, in the
street fights or " bickers " as they were called, battles
between the boys living in different parts of the city,
which were carried on with great good-will and energy.

But Walter's fighting days came to an end just then,
and his High School days too. He had been growing
too quickly, and again his health broke down.

170

SIR WALTER SCOTT

Aunt Janet lived at Kelso now, and she was only too
glad to have her boy with her once more, so there
Walter spent a quiet holiday time, and in the pleasant
garden running down to the Tweed read his beloved
books in peace and quietness, in the midst of his beloved
" land of romance."

For a short time each day he went to the village
grammar school, and there again the boys came under
the magic of his spell.

" He was certainly the best story-teller I had ever
heard, either then or since," says one of the boys, James
Ballantyne, who was afterwards to be the printer of
all Sir Walter Scott's works. " He soon discovered that
I was as fond of listening as he himself was of relating ;
and I remember it was a thing of daily occurrence, that
after he had made himself master of his own lessons,
I, alas, being still sadly to seek in mine, he used to
whisper to me, ' Come, slink over beside me, Jamie, and
I'll tell you a story.' '

Three generations have grown up since the voice
that told those tales was silent, but the magic of his
gift still holds men spellbound, and the golden key he
placed in their hands has opened the gate of a world
of Romance in which he himself used to dwell. The
little lame story-teller is gone but his magic lives on,
and any child who cares to listen may still hear the
invitation, " Come, slink over beside me, Jamie, and I'll
tell you a story."

171

ELIZABETH FRY

IT is not always the bravest children who grow up to
fight most manfully in the battle of life. When we
read of deeds of courage and daring and brave en-
durance, we are apt to think that the hero or heroine
must always have been as fearless and courageous in
childhood as in after life, and we forget that out of
weakness may come forth strength, and from fearful
timidity may spring the highest courage.

We do not know very much about the childhood of
Elizabeth Fry, the gentle Quaker lady, who worked
with such courage and devotion in our English prisons,
and fought single-handed the battle of the weak against
the strong, but what we know shows us that the most
timid and easily frightened child may learn to become
fearless and to fight the Good Fight with marvellous
courage and fortitude.

Elizabeth Gurney was born in Norwich on the 21st
of May 1780. The Gurney s were a very old family,
dating back from the time of William Rufus, when
their ancestors came over from the town of Gourney
in Normandy and settled in England. For generations
the family had been Quakers, but Elizabeth's parents
were not inclined to bring their children up too strictly,
and they mixed more with the world than many
Quakers thought fit to do.

Elizabeth, or Betsy as she was called, was the third

172

ELIZABETH FRY

daughter in a very large family, and her early years
were spent either at Norwich or at Bramerton, a little
country place on the edge of a common, some miles
from Norwich.

The pleasantest memories of Elizabeth's life were all
connected with Bramerton, although she was only a
tiny child when she lived there. The wild scenery
round the common, the comfortable farmhouses, the
picturesque village with its school, and the clustering
cottages all were interesting to the little "dove-like"
maid in her sober dress and Quaker bonnet, as she
walked out with her beloved mother. But most inter-
esting of all were the poor people who lived in the
cottages, and the little children who bobbed their
curtseys and pulled their forelocks when they came
trooping out of school. There was an old woman
with one arm, "one-armed Betty" as she was called,
who was a person of special interest, and a neigh-
bour with the fascinating name of Greengrass, who
proved to be worthy of her name by having the
most delicious strawberry-beds round the little pond
in her garden.

Betsy always loved to be out of doors, and when she
was not visiting the cottages with her mother, there
was the dear old-fashioned garden in which she could
wander about to her heart's content. It was there that
she first heard the story of Adam and Eve, and how
they were driven out of Paradise. She was quite sure
that the Garden of Eden must have been exactly like
her own dear beautiful garden, and she was so thankful
to think that there was no danger of meeting the angel
with the flaming sword round any corner now. In
spite of the many pleasant things around her, the

173

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

world seemed still very full of dangers ready to pounce
out and frighten little girls.

For instance, just as she was preparing to go for a
delightful drive with her father and mother, what
should she spy in a corner of the carriage but a gun ?
Now there was no telling when a gun might go off
suddenly, and the very look of it was a terror to Betsy.
The only way out of the difficulty was to say she did
not want to go, and to tearfully watch the carriage
drive away without her.

Even worse than those treacherous guns were the
fears that awaited her when she was put to bed and
left alone in the dark. As the light was carried away,
Betsy watched it disappear with despairing eyes. It
was like the setting of the last star of hope, leaving her
in a dark world of terror. All day long the shadow of
those dark hours cast a gloom even over the sunny
hours spent in the old garden, and sometimes when
someone spoke to her suddenly, or even looked at her,
she burst into frightened tears. Poor little maid, she
was desperately ashamed of those tears, and tried to
excuse them by saying that she thought her eyes were
very weak.

In summer-time, when the other children rejoiced at
the thought of going to the seaside, and talked of bathing
and wading and digging castles on the sands, Betsy was
very silent, and another fear crept out and seized her
with a cruel grip. She was terrified of bathing. To be
carried out into that wide cold sea, to feel everything
solid slipping away, to know that in a moment her
breath would be stopped and her eyes blinded by a
downward plunge into unknown depths, was all some-
thing too awful, too hopelessly terrifying to think about.

174

ELIZABETH FRY

Betsy could only hug herself in silont misery. The joys
of heaven were for her all summed up in that one com-
forting sentence, " And there was no more sea."

She never dreamed of telling anyone about her
haunting fears. That was quite an impossible thing
to do. Even when they so tormented her that she
burst into tears, she would never tell the reason of her
unhappiness. The worst of such fears as these is that
they must be borne alone.

Betsy was not very strong and not very fond of
lessons, and her governess came to the conclusion that
she was both stupid and obstinate. She was certainly
not very bright where lessons were concerned, and she
was rather fond of her own opinion, but she might
have done much better if she had been encouraged a
little. Because everyone said she was stupid she never
tried to be anything else, but only sighed and wished
she was as clever as Catherine or Rachel, her two elder
sisters.

She was very fond of Rachel, and they shared their
books and pictures and curiosities together, and had a
little set of tea-things of their very own.

There was no doubt that if Betsy was not very
clever she had an extremely loving little heart, but
that very love often added to the number of her fears.

The thought that her dearly loved mother might
some day die and leave her was a terrible thought, and
she would sometimes follow her about from place to
place like a faithful little dog, afraid of letting her out
of her sight. At night in the darkness, when this fear
drove all the others away and grew so tall and over-
powering that there was no room for any other, she used
to hide her head under the bedclothes and wish with

'75

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

all her heart that two large walls might crush the
whole family dead together, so that no one would be
left to mourn for another.

Often in the daytime, when the dear mother was
resting and lay asleep in her room, Betsy would steal
up close to the bed and listen " with exquisite anxiety "
to hear if she were really alive and breathing. There
seemed to be no rest for the child from these dark and
gloomy fears.

Delicate, timid, rather stupid, terrified of the dark,
frightened of the sea, surely this was scarcely the stun2
of which a heroine was to be made ? So we might
think, did we not bear in mind the Master hand that
moulds the clay, and realise the wonderful strength
and courage which is given to those who are " called to
be saints."

176

GEORGE STEPHENSON

THERE was no one in all the village so great a favourite
with the children as " old Bob," the fireman who worked
at the pumping-engine of Wylam Colliery. Bob's en-
gine was the place where all the little ones gathered
whenever they had time to spare, and they were
always sure of a welcome. There was no one who
could tell such wonderful and exciting stories as
Bob, and while he tended the engine fire he would
hold them all spellbound with his tales of the sailor
called Sindbad, and the man called Robinson Crusoe,
and many other stories which he made up out of his
own head.

It was no wonder that the children loved Bob, for
he was so kind and gentle with them, and they had so
few pleasures in their little lives that his stories were
their greatest treat. But other admirers besides the
children gathered round Bob as he worked at his
engine fire. There was scarcely a bird or an animal
about the place that did not know him and look upon
him as a friend. In winter-time the robins grew
so bold and friendly that they would scarcely let
him eat his dinner in peace, but came flocking about
him ready to take their share of his very meagre
meal. At his cottage the blackbirds were as much
at home as any of his children, flying in and out

177 M

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and expecting to be fed just as if they were part of
the family.

There were six little hungry mouths to feed at the
cottage besides the birds, and Bob and his careful wife
often found it very difficult to make both ends meet,
for his wages were only twelve shillings a week. " They
war an honest family, but sair haddeii doon i' th' world,"
said their kindly neighbours.

It was no easy matter then to feed and clothe the
children, and schooling of course was quite out of the
question. It was a luxury not to be thought of for
a moment.

All Bob's children loved their father, but it was
little George, the second son, born on June 9, 1781,
who was the most devoted of his admirers. To sit by
the engine fire and liston to those wonderful stories
was his greatest delight in life, only equalled when his
father took him bird-nesting and let him peep into
some nest where the dainty eggs lay cosy and warm,
or the young birds opened their mouths and gaped
for worms. All his father's friends, birds, beasts, and
creeping things, were George's friends as well.

Not that there was very much time for listening to
stories or bird-nesting, for George could seldom afford
to be idle. As soon as he could stand firmly on his feet
and understand what a message meant, he was sent
on errands to the village, and then, having shown he
was wise and trustworthy, he was allowed to carry his
father's dinner, and that was a proud day indeed. Not
only did he feel a responsible man, and a help to his
mother, but it meant a rest by his father's side, and a
stay perhaps, and at any rate the joy of feeding the
robins and making friends with them.

178

GEORGE STEPHENSON

At home George, or Geordie as he was called, was
a very careful little nurse, and helped to look after his
younger brothers and sisters and to take care of the
baby. That kept him fairly busy, as you may suppose,
for the coal waggons ran past the cottage door, dragged
by horses along the wooden rails, and it was no easy
matter to keep his charges out of danger.

The coal at Wylam was worked out by the time
George was eight years old, and Bob with his family
had to " follow the work " and move on to Dewley
Burn Colliery. By this time George was old enough
to be thinking of finding work himsolf to help on
the family, for there was no room for idle hands in
the cottage as soon as the hands were big enough to
earn even a few pence a day. George was only too
eager to begin, but work was not so easy to find. He
was a very determined child, and no difficulty could
ever daunt him. Somehow or other the difficulties
that stood in his way were always overcome.

There was one day when he went into Newcastle
with his sister Nell to buy a bonnet, going merely
"for company," for a boy's taste in bonnets was not
to be relied upon. Nell very soon found the one she
wanted at a shop in the Bigg Market, but alas, when
she asked its price she found it cost one shilling and
threepence more than she possessed.

Very much downcast, Nell left the shop and ex-
plained her disappointment to her brother.

" Never heed, Nell," he said ; " see if I canna win
siller enough to buy the bonnet. Stand ye there till
I come back."

So there Nell stood, patiently enough at first, but
as time went on growing more and more anxious as

179

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Geordie never appeared. It began to grow dusk and
the market-place was almost empty, and then at last,
when she was quite sure he had been run over and
killed, he came running towards her breathless with
haste.

"I've gotten the siller for the bonnet, Nell," he
cried proudly. He might be only eight years old, but
he felt every inch a man.

"Eh, Geordie," she said, "but hoo hae ye gotten
it?"

"Haudin' the gentlemen's horses," was his reply,
and he triumphantly counted out fifteen pennies into
her hand, and the bonnet was bought.

Holding horses paid very well as far as it went,
but it was regular work and a regular wage George
wanted, and at last to his joy he heard they were
needing a boy to herd the cows at the farm close by.
He applied at once for the post, and felt he was a
made man when he got it.

The pay was twopence a day and the work was
light, and the little herd boy was as happy as a
king. There was plenty of time to hunt for birds'
nests while the cows were quietly feeding, and to make
magic whistles out of the reeds and the rowan-tree
suckers.

" He cut a sappy sucker from the muckle rodden tree,
He trimmed it an' he wat it, an' he thumped it on his knee,
He never heard the teuchat when the harrow broke her eggs,
He missed the craggit heron nabbin' puddocks in the seggs,
He forgot to hound the collie on the cattle when they strayed,
But you should hae heard the whistle that the wee herd made ! "

But unlike the "wee herd" of the poem, Geordie

1 80

GEORGE STEPHENSON

was never " shod again for school," but winter and
summer alike he earned his twopence a day and
brought his wages home like a man.

His father's engine was still the thing he loved
best of all, and in his leisure moments he set to work
to make a model of it in clay which was greatly admired
by the pitman. He had wonderfully clever fingers, and
with a few pieces of wood, some string and old corks,
he also rigged up a winding-machine which could
actually be made to work.

Herding was all very well for a time, but in his
secret heart George had determined that some day
he would become an engineman. Meanwhile there was
nothing for it but to bide his time and do the work
that lay nearest to his hand well and thoroughly.
He made such a good little herd that very soon he
was taken on to lead the horses when they were
ploughing, although his little legs were still so short
that he could scarcely stride across the furrows. In
the early winter mornings, long before it was light,
when other children were still lying snug and warm
in bed, George was astir climbing on to the back of
the big cart-horse and riding off to his work, now
proudly earning a wage of fourpence a day.

But at last he placed his foot on the first step of
the ladder which was to lead to the goal of his hopes
— he was hired as a "picker" at the pit where his
father worked. His work was only to pick out all
the pieces of stone and dross from among the coal,
but it was work that had some connection with the
engine, and that was enough for Geordie. He and the
engine were both doing work for the colliery, and some
day he was determined they could do the work together.

181

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

The busy, careful little picker erelong was found to
be able to undertake more responsible work, and George
was set to drive the horse that worked the " gin." The
gin was a machine for drawing up coals or water from
the mine, and was worked by a horse that was driven
round and round in a circular track, and the knowledge
George had gained with the ploughing horses made him
a smart little driver. Now indeed he felt he was on the
high road to success.

He was now a " grit growing lad in bare legs and
feet," as one of the old miners described him, and was
very quick and full of fun and tricks. There was not
much time in his busy life for games and sports, but he
could beat any boy of his age at wrestling, and he was
a champion at lifting heavy weights.

Like his father he had a great love for animals and
birds, and there was scarcely a nest in the fields round
about that he did not know of. Of all the birds the
blackbird was his favourite, and when he found one of
their nests he used to watch it day by day until the eggs
were hatched and the birds nearly grown, and then he
took two or three of the young birds home with him
and kept them in the cottage. They were never put
into cages, but learned to fly about the room, and after-
wards when they were full grown they flew away out
of doors all day, but in the evening always returned to
roost on the top of the bed. Then when springtime
came and the time for nest-building, they departed to
the woods, but always came back again when their
children were reared and their responsibilities were
over.

When George was fourteen he took another step
upwards on the ladder he had set himself to climb, for

182

GEORGE STEPHENSON

he was then made assistant fireman and helped his
father to work his beloved engine at the Dewley
colliery. It was a great step upwards and he was
young for such a post, so his one fear was that the
master, seeing how small he was, might think he was
not fit for the work, nor worth being paid a shilling
a day. He was so anxious about this that he always
kept a bright look-out, and when he saw the master
coming he slipped away and hid himself until the
danger was past.

That was the only cloud in his sky, for the work
itself he loved, however hard it was, and he knew he
could do it. To work about the engine, to be near it
all day, to learn to know every bit of it was the one
desire of his heart. Ever since the days when he had
made little clay models, he had been keen on knowing
more and more about it, and some day he meant to
know all there was to know.

There stood the boy, barefooted, poorly clad, often
hungry, but with the determination in his heart that
was to rise above all difficulties. There was no one to
help him, he had never gone to school, no one had
taught him anything except the good lessons of obedi-
ence, honesty, and kindness to animals which he had
learned from his father and mother's example. With
determined perseverance he taught himself all that he
knew, fighting his way steadily upwards and onwards
with only the help of his own good right arm and the
brain which God had given him.

Whatever happened, George meant to succeed, but
even he did not yet dream of what that success was to
mean to the world.

It was not until he was nineteen that he learned his

183

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

ABC, for then he was able to pay the school fee of
threepence a week out of his own wages.

But meanwhile whatever piece of work came in his
way George tried to do it thoroughly and well, and
to the best of his ability. Whenever he found there
was something he could learn, he set himself to learn it
with all his might.

That was how George Stephenson^s childhood was
spent, and it was a splendid preparation for the great
work before him, when he should bring a new power
and force into the world. All honour, then, to the boy
who by the strength of his own right arm won such a
great victory in the battle of life.

184

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

THERE were already eight children in the house at
Spilsby when John was born on the 15th of April 1786.
The arrival of a new baby was quite an ordinary event
in that large family, but John was to have the special
distinction of being the youngest son, and to enjoy all
the privileges of a Benjamin. All the other brothers
and sisters teased and spoiled him by turns, but perhaps
on the whole there was more spoiling than teasing, for
he was such a frail, delicate child that everyone was
inclined to treat him gently.

For the first three years of his life it seemed as if
John would never live to grow up, but after that he
suddenly began to grow much stronger, and before very
long was quite able to hold his own with the other
children. He was a great favourite with everyone, and
had what the old nurse called " a way with him " which
no one could resist, and no spoiling seemed to hurt him.
He was a sunny-tempered child, easily managed, never
cross or fretful, and willing to be friendly with all the
world. Indeed he was exactly the sort of small boy
which nowadays an elder brother would describe as
" a jolly little chap."

Of course John had his faults like everyone else, and
his mother shook her head over what she considered
two very serious defects in his character. He was very
untidy, and he was extremely curious. Whatever was

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

going on, John must always try to find out all about it,
and when he had once set his mind on some discovery
there was no turning him from it. All the other
children were " neat and orderly," but John was seldom
fit to be seen. Either his socks sagged under his heels,
or there was a tear in his coat, or his frill was lost.
Something was always amiss, and as to his hands and
face, no sooner were they washed than they began at
once to get dirty again. He was not at all a credit to
the family, and unfortunately he could never be kept
in the background, out of sight, for he always wanted
to be in the front row and to see everything that was
going on.

Now on the opposite side of the street stood the
house of a very grand gentleman, at whose door many
carriages used to draw up and many grand visitors
paid daily calls. The sight of those visitors in their
silks and satins fascinated little John, and he loved to
stand and watch them arriving and departing. This,
however, did not please John's mother. It was not at
all seemly that an untidy, grubby little boy should
stand in full view of these genteel visitors, and so John
was " strictly forbidden to go over the way and stare
at this daily spectacle." The child, however, " seemed
utterly incapable of putting a curb on his curiosity,"
and time after time he disobeyed, until at last there
was nothing for it but to whip him.

On the landing of the staircase there hung a whip,
placed there as a terror to evil-doers, but seldom taken
down. It was merely a reminder of what might
happen, just as the tawse is hung up in Scotch house-
holds. But now the whip was solemnly taken down
and John suffered some well-deserved pain. Even that,

1 86

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

however, did not cure him, for we are told that " though
the boy was in no way rebellious in any other point,
neither entreaty nor whipping could prevent his punctual
attendance at the opposite door whenever a carriage
drew up."

So the child who was to be a great explorer began
very early to show how determined he could be when
he had set his heart upon anything. His childish
curiosity and naughty disobedience were scarcely a
thirst for discovery, but the determination was the
same, and he showed himself quite ready to endure
punishment and whippings just as afterwards he cheer-
fully suffered cold, darkness, and hardships in the
Arctic regions, when he had set his heart on his great
discovery.

As John grew older he began to show a tremendous
love for adventure, and whatever daring deed the other
boys performed, he was always eager to do something
more daring still. Sometimes the boys would begin to
talk of the great things they meant to do and the
exciting adventures that would be sure to happen to
them when they were men, and each one planned some
tremendously heroic action, until at last, when it came
to John's turn to say what he meant to do, there seemed
nothing left for him to choose. But as usual he was
not to be outdone, and he had his plan all ready.

" I am going to build a ladder," he said grandly, " so
high that I shall be able to climb up to heaven."

Of course it was pointed out to him that a ladder
couldn't stand upright unless it leaned against some-
thing, but he explained that it was a difficulty which
he meant to overcome. What was the use of diffi-
culties except to be overcome? he asked.

187

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Although John's home at Spilsby was not many
miles inland, it had nothing to do with any seaport
town, and it was not until he was ten years old and
was sent to the grammar school at Louth that he first
heard the call of the sea.

He had started off one fine holiday with another
boy to find their way to Salt fleet, which was ten miles
distant, meaning to have a good time, but little dream-
ing of the change which that day was to make in his
life. He was keenly interested in seeing a new place,
but he had no idea of the wonder that awaited him.
That first sight of the sea stirred his very soul.

In a moment it seemed to him that this was what
he had been seeking for ever since he was born. The
great mysterious sea, stretching away until it seemed
to touch the sky, was the ladder of which he had
dreamed. The sound of its breaking waves, the deep
rolling swell, seemed to call to him as a friend, and
instantly he recognised the voice and answered it with
all his heart. He would be a sailor, and he would be
nothing else.

Full of this great idea, with the sound of the sea ever
in his ears, and the longing for it tugging at his heart,
John lost no time in letting his father know, now that
he had made up his mind to be a sailor. He little
knew with what displeasure the news would be re-
ceived at home.

" It is absolute nonsense," declared John's father, " I
shall not consider it for a moment. The boy simply
wants to escape from the drudgery of school, and, like
every other boy, imagines that to go to sea is the way
to great and stirring adventures. I will not hear of
such a thing."

1 88

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

So John was sternly told that he might put the idea
out of his head at once, and that he had better make
up his mind to attend to his lessons.

It was no easy matter, however, to turn John from
any settled purpose, and he quietly persisted in his
request until at last his father grew very angry.

" I would rather follow my son to the grave than to
the sea," he thundered, and forbade the subject to be
mentioned again.

For two years John worked steadily at his school
lessons, and did his very best with them, although his
heart was set as firmly as ever on the hope of becom-
ing a sailor. It was the best way to show his deter-
mination, for it would never do for a sailor to shirk
any kind of work. He was a great favourite with his
schoolfellows and everyone else, for he possessed that
most wonderful gift called "charm," which is as full
of magic as any wizard's spell. Everyone loved the
sunny-tempered, merry-looking boy, so brave and frank
and friendly, " so quick to resent a slight, and so ready
to forgive it."

It was a great disappointment to his father when
John showed no signs of outgrowing his desire to go to
sea. The two years' discipline of school life seemed
only to have strengthened his determination, and as
time had proved no cure, it seemed wise now to try
another remedy.

It was such an easy thing to talk of being a sailor
while living comfortably at home, and looking at
the sea life through rose-coloured spectacles. The
first real experience of rough life on board ship was
usually enough to disenchant anyone. So it was
decided that John should be sent off on a cruise in a

189

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

merchant ship which traded between Hull and Lisbon,
and it was to be hoped that this taste of life at sea
would make him a wiser and a sadder boy.

It was all in vain. John returned home in great
spirits, keener than ever. No hardships could daunt
him, his heart was set on becoming a sailor. His
father now saw that it was wiser to give in, for this
was no mere boyish fancy, and he sorrowfully gave
his consent. A berth was procured for the boy on board
the Polyphemus, and it was arranged that an elder
brother should take him up to London, see to his
uniform and his outfit, and send him to join his ship.

The elder brother did not much relish the job. In
a letter home, he complained bitterly of the trouble
of "continually running after this clothes-buying
business," but in spite of his annoyance he could not
help feeling rather proud of his small brother when
he was rigged out in all the bravery of his new
uniform, and he was forced to admit in the same letter
that " the dirk and the cocked hat are rather attractive
parts of his dress."

At last, when all was ready, the little midshipman,
cocked hat and dirk complete, joined his ship, and set
sail for the north, the Polyphemus being part of the
English fleet, under the command of Sir Hyde Parker,
with Nelson as second in command.

From the calm quiet of the Lincolnshire home, where
nothing very exciting ever happened and where ad-
ventures were only to be met with in dreams, John
suddenly plunged into the wildest and most exciting
of times, and was in the thick of the most terrible sea-
battle which Nelson ever fought.

That glorious Battle of the Baltic was young

190

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

Franklin's baptism of fire, and it was a dreadful ex-
perience for the small midshipman. He himself
escaped unhurt, but around him were the dead and
dying, their groans mingling in his ears with the
roar of the guns. The sea was covered with pieces
of wreckage lit up by the lurid light of burning ships,
and as they anchored in Elsinore harbour and he
looked over into the clear water, he could see the dead
bodies lying thick there at the bottom, English and
Danes together.

But there was a glorious side as well to the horrors
of that day. Such deeds of daring arid bravery had
been done as made John's heart glow with pride to
think that he had had even the smallest share in the
great victory. It was the unconquerable spirit of the
English sailor which made Nelson that day clap his
blind eye to the telescope, and refuse to see the signal
to retire, as he nailed his colours to the mast and
fought on until the Danes were beaten.

No wonder that the little midshipman was proud to
belong to such a navy and such a country, and he was
surer than ever that there was nothing in all the world
so fine as to be an English sailor. His only fear now
was that he might miss the chance of going on an ex-
pedition to the South Seas, which it had been arranged
that he should join, before sailing for Elsinore, but
luckily for him the Polyphemus was ordered home at
once after the great battle, and he was just in time
to be transferred to the Investigator, which was bound
on a voyage of discovery. The captain, Matthew
Flinders, was an uncle of young Franklin, and took
a special interest in the boy and spared no pains to
turn him out a good sailor.

191

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

" It is with great pleasure," he wrote home, " that I
tell you of the good conduct of John. He is a very
fine youth, and there is every probability of his doing
credit to the Investigator and himself. His attention
to his duty has gained him the esteem of the first
Lieutenant, who scarcely knows how to talk enough
in his praise."

It must not be imagined that it was all smooth sail-
ing for John, and that everything was made charming
for him on board. He had his own hard work to do,
and many a hardship to endure besides a certain amount
of bullying. One of the officers especially took advan-
tage of the boy's keenness and made him do a groat deal
of extra work, taking all the credit of it to himself.
John naturally resented this, but he never complained,
and doggedly got through both his own share of work
and that of the lazy bully, which certainly did him no
harm.

It was not long, however, before his time on board
the Investigator came to a sudden end. The ship was a
poor one and quite untrustworthy, and at the first break-
down it was found impossible to repair her. There was
nothing for it but to ship all the crew back to England
in another vessel, and it was only the beginning of a
long series of misadventures.

The vessel on which the crew of the Investigator set
sail was wrecked almost immediately afterwards in the
Torres Straits, and it was only with great difficulty that
the men managed to land on a sandbank and to save
stores enough to keep them from starving. It was
quite as exciting as any Robinson Crusoe adventure,
and not nearly so pleasant, for the sandbank was much
worse than a desert island. The only thing to be done

192

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

was to rig up tents for shelter and hoist a blue ensign
with the Union Jack on a tall spar, in the hope that
some passing ship might see their signal of distress.

There was luckily enough food to last them for some
time, and so it was decided that one of the six-oared
boats should be manned and the captain should try and
find his way back to Sydney and bring relief.

It was weary waiting week after week on the de-
solate sandbank, watching the provisions grow less and
less, but John always kept up a stout heart, and at last
there was a cry of wild delight as the look-out man
caught sight of a sail bearing towards them. It was
the relief boats at last, and no time was lost in taking
the men off and arranging for their return to England.

Young Franklin with some others of the crew were
shipped to Canton, where they found a fleet of home-
ward-bound merchantmen, and so once more gaily set
sail for home.

In those days it was no uncommon fate for a
merchantman to be captured on the high seas by an
enemy or taken by a privateer, and so they all carried
guns and were as ready to fight as a man-o'-war. As
luck would have it, scarcely had young Franklin set sail
again towards home when a powerful French squadron
was sighted which bore down upon them, evidently ex-
pecting to make an easy and valuable capture.

Now instead of running away as the French natur-
ally expected ,':hem to do, the merchantmen turned
about and prepared to give fight, which mightily aston-
ished the enemy, and so well did the guns behave
that in a quarter of an hour the French drew off, having
had more than enough. Then came the order from the
English commander for a " general chase," and the

193 N

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

little fleet of merchantmen actually drove the French
squadron of war before them for nearly two hours.
Then at last the commander considered that his honour
was satisfied, and recalled his pursuing ships and pro-
ceeded once more on his way.

It is not difficult to picture the delight of young
Franklin in that extraordinary chase, and it was no
wonder he was proud of being a British sailor, born to
rule the waves. Arrived at home, the boy was specially
mentioned in the captain's report : " I beg leave to pre-
sent to the notice of the Hon. Court, Mr. Franklin, and
Mr. Olive, midshipmen in His Majesty's navy, who were
cast away with Lieut. Fowler in the Porpoise, and who
were, as well as that gentleman, passengers for England
on board the Earl Camden. Whatever may have been
the merits of others, theirs in their station were equally
conspicuous, and I should find it difficult in the ship's
company to name anyone, who for zeal and alacrity of
service and for general good conduct could advance a
stronger claim to approbation and reward."

That was surely a good home-coming for young
John, and a good showing that his love for the sea
was no idle fancy or desire to shirk work. In spite
of all the dangers and disasters, the boy had enjoyed
every bit of it and was full of a " cheery contentment."

He could no longer now be called a child, but he
was still but a young midshipman when he fought
at the Battle of Trafalgar and once more shared the
glory of a victory under Nelson, a victory which made
the British flag " supreme on every sea."

But the young sailor's heart was set on something
else besides the glory of victorious fighting. The keen
love of discovery, the call of the unknown, was in his

194

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN

blood, and, like many another of England's heroes, he
could not rest while there was a blank space upon the
map to be filled in.

To discover the North- West Passage was the dream
of his life, and there, among the ice-walls of his Arctic
prison, he laid down his life fighting to the last to
conquer the unknown. The boy who had answered
so faithfully the call of the sea, who had fought for
King and country, was of the stuff indeed of which
England's heroes are made, and although the place
where he was buried is unknown, and so has nothing to
mark it as the grave of a hero, yet in Westminster
Abbey is a fitting epitaph engraved in marble, as it is
graven on many an English heart :

" Not here ! the white North hath thy bones and thou,

Heroic sailor soul,

Art passing on thy happier voyage now
Towards no earthly pole."

195

HANS ANDERSEN

THE ancient town of Odeuse, in Denmark, seems
almost as if it was situated on the borders of Fairy-
land, so full is it of old stories and traditions and
curious legends. So it was really the exactly right
birthplace for little Hans Andersen, " the future Fairy
King," and there he was born on April 2, 1805..

No one could possibly have guessed that this baby
held in his tiny mottled fist the golden key to Fairy-
land, or that he had any connection whatever with
fairies. His home was not in the least like a palace,
in fact it was only a poor cobbler's room, so small
that quite half of it was taken up by the big bed
on which the baby lay, while the other half had
to serve for workshop, kitchen, and dining-room all
in one.

It certainly was a very poor and very small room,
but the baby learned to love it as soon as his quick
eyes began to look about and take notice of things.
There were shining glimpses to be caught of cups and
glasses on the top of the chest of drawers, and on the
panels of the door were painted beautiful gay pictures
of hills and dales and flowers which delighted . his
heart. Then too, as soon as he grew old enough to
toddle out by himself, he brought home all the wild
flowers he could find, and with their dear faces smiling

196

HANS ANDERSEN

at him he thought this room the loveliest home in
all the world.

In the evenings when he was tucked away into the
big bed and the cotton curtains were drawn round
it, he lay and listened to the tapping of the shoe-
maker's hammer, and the busy life going on in the
room, wide awake and perfectly contented.

" How nice and quiet he is, the blessed child," said
his mother, peeping in through the curtains to see if he
were asleep, and finding him with wide open eyes
smiling happily to himself.

That must have been the beginning of the fairies'
work, for they certainly kept him happy and amused
all through his babyhood. People might have called
those fairies the child's own thoughts and fancies, but
any sensible child who knows anything at all about
fairies knows better than that. The fairies may have
come in with the wild flowers or lay hidden in the fresh
birch branches that stood behind the polished stove, or
swung to and fro in the branches of sweet herbs that
hung from the rafters. At any rate there can be no
manner of doubt that they must have lived up above in
the roof-garden, although that garden was nothing
more than a box of earth where parsley and sweet peas
grew. Any one who doubts that has only to read " The
Snow Queen " to find there an exact description of little
Hans' roof-garden, and if there were no fairies there,
how could it have found its way into a real fairy tale ?

The father of little Hans was, as we have seen, a
cobbler, but he was not very clever at his trade, and
instead of mending shoes he was much fonder of build-
ing castles in the air or reading the books which
crowded into the shelf hung close to the window where

197

;H w;

1 _ Gtreet j

*—•;* — ->;«—»

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

he worked. He had plenty of time to make toys for
his little son, and Hans was the happy possessor of a
mill that could work while the miller danced, a peep-
show with puppets to act, and all kinds of pictures
that changed into different shapes when they were
pulled by a string.

Unfortunately this was not the best way of making
money, and the cobbler did not grow rich. There came
a day, however, when it looked as if fortune meant to
smile upon him. The squire of a country village close
by needed a shoemaker, and offered a house and a
garden, and grass for a cow, to the man who could make
a good pair of shoes.

There was great excitement in the cobbler's home
when a piece of silk was sent by the squire's lady to be
made into a pair of dancing-shoes, and every night
Hans, when he said his evening prayers, said a special
prayer asking God to help his father to make these
shoes most beautifully, so that they might all go to
the house with the garden, and the green field for the
cow, and live happily ever after.

But when the shoes were finished and the cobbler
carried them off rolled up in his apron to the great
house, the squire's lady was not at all pleased with them.
She said he had quite spoilt her beautiful piece of silk,
and she could not think of having such a bungler for
the shoemaker.

The poor cobbler listened in silence, and when she
had finished he caught up his knife and in a great rage
cut the pretty dancing-shoes into ribbons. Then he
turned and went sorrowfully home.

So that dream-castle tumbled to pieces, and Hans
wept bitterly because he thought God had paid no

198

HANS ANDERSEN

attention to his prayers. He was only a very little boy
and did not know that God has many ways of answering
children's prayers. Perhaps if Hans had gone to live
happily in the country as he wished, then he would
never have found his way into the much fairer country
of Fairyland.

Hans had a mother too, as well as a father, but she
was not a very wise mother, and she did not look after
him very carefully. Sometimes she spoilt him sadly
and allowed him to do whatever he liked, whether it
was bad or good, and sometimes she did not trouble
herself much about him at all. His best and wisest
friend was certainly his old grandmother, who lived
close by, and who used to come every day to see her
little grandson. All the nice old grandmothers in those
fairy tales are just like that grandmother of his. She
was always cheerful and kindly and very wise, with a
tiny bent figure and the sweetest of blue eyes. When-
ever she came she brought Hans a bunch of flowers,
and Hans would climb up to the top of the chest and
arrange them in the glasses that stood there. He had
wonderful hands for arranging flowers, and he used to
say, " Flowers know very well that I am fond of them ;
even if I were to stick a peg into the ground, I believe
it would grow." That was quite true. Flowers know,
almost as well as little boys and girls, who are fond of
them and who are not.

All the old people who lived near the cobbler's
house were fond of Hans, and he loved to go and see
them and tell them all the things he knew, until they
nodded their heads and said, " What a clever child it is ; "
then in return they would tell him all sorts of stories
which they had heard when they were children, and

199

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Hans carefully stored them up in his mind, to tell
many years afterwards to other children. There was
" The Tinder Box," " The Travelling Companions," and
many others that every child knows now.

But although the old people were fond of Hans he
was always a lonely child, and never had anyone of his
own age to play with. Even when he went to school
he never played games with the other boys. They
were so rough that they frightened him, and he was
much happier sitting by himself and dreaming his
dreams.

He did not stay very long at any school, for his
parents allowed him to do very much as he liked, and
school was not to his taste.

To begin with, his unwise mother had told the
schoolmistress at his first school that Hans was never
to be whipped, whatever happened, and the good dame
quite forgot this one day and gave him a well-deserved
tap with the birch-rod.

Hans said never a word, but got up at once, solemnly
tucked his book and his slate under his arm, and
marched out of the schoolroom. He went straight home
and told his mother what had happened, and instead
of sending him back to be whipped again, which would
certainly have been wise, she took him away from the
dame's school and sent him to another.

At this new school Hans was charmed to find a very
little girl whom he thought much nicer than the rough
boys, and with whom he immediately tried to make
friends. The little girl told him that she wanted
specially to learn arithmetic, that she might some day
be a dairymaid at a grand castle.

Hans at once set to work and drew a splendid castle

2OO

HANS ANDERSEN

on his slate, and told her it was a picture of his very
own castle, where she should be dairymaid some day.

"For you know," he said, "I am really a great
nobleman, and the castle belongs to me, but when I
was a baby the fairies came and took me out of my
cradle and carried me off to the cobbler's cottage."

He thought his new friend would love his make-
believe stories, just as the old people did, but the stolid
little dairymaid looked at him coldly. She did not
believe in fairies at all, and she thought that Hans was
not telling the truth, or that he was quite mad and
foolish.

Poor Hans never tried to tell any more tales after
that, but he went on dreaming them all the same.

Of course if a boy spends his time dreaming about
fairies he is apt to leave his lessons unlearned, and that
was exactly what happened to Hans. He was always
in disgrace and never knew his lessons, and his angry
master did not feel in the least less angry when the
boy presented him with large bunches of wild flowers.
The flowers were beautiful, but they could not make up
for idleness.

Hans could easily have learned his lessons if he had
tried, but he was not fond of lessons and was a great
deal too fond of only doing what he liked best. He
loved to make doll's clothes and to sit in the yard near
the gooseberry bush and watch its leaves unfolding
from day to day. There he sat under a tent which he
rigged up out of his mother's apron and a broomstick,
as happy as a king, and no one sent him back to school
or made him learn his lessons.

After the sad business of the dancing-shoes, the poor
cobbler grew less and less inclined to work, and at last

201

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

went off to be a soldier, hoping to return covered with
glory. That castle also tumbled to pieces, for the poor
man died before he began to fight. Then his widow
married again, and little Hans was left more than ever
to himself.

By this time the boy was eleven years old and was
growing into a long, lanky, queer-looking lad, with a
face that was almost comic in its ugliness.

If ever there was an Ugly Duckling it was Hans
Andersen. All the other boys laughed at him, teased
him, chased him away and shouted after him, until the
poor awkward child longed to run away and hide him-
self from the cruel, unkind world.

No one understood him, no one knew all the
wonderful things that he thought about and the great
things that he meant to do. He had begun to read
Shakespeare, and had made up his mind to be a great
writer of plays, but when it was discovered that Hans
Andersen was conceited enough to think he could write,
the boys shouted all the more scornfully after him,
"There goes the play-scribbler," and tormented him
more cruelly than ever.

Hans had a dim idea that the higher born, nobler
people would understand him better and treat him more
kindly, and certainly one or two of the great families
took an interest in the poor cobbler's son. It amused
them to hear him recite whole plays from memory, and
to see the poetry he tried to write when he knew little
about spelling and less about grammar. The boy was
certainly clever in some ways, but what could be done
with a boy who had left school almost as ignorant as
when he went to it ?

About this time there dawned a great day in Hans

202

HANS ANDERSEN

Andersen's life, the day of his confirmation at St.
Knut's Church. It was the Sunday after Easter, and
the boy had been thinking a great deal of the promises
he was about to make, eager to begin the new life,
and anxious to become a true and loyal servant of God.

But it was so difficult to keep his mind from straying
to other things. There was his new coat, which had
been made for him out of his father's old one. The
very thought of it filled him with pride, and above all
there was his new pair of boots. He had never worn
a pair of boots before, and these were quite new. His
only fear was that the people might not notice them,
and he was so glad when they creaked loudly as he
walked up the aisle. They made so much noise that
no one could help looking at them.

Then suddenly as he walked up, filled with delight
over his coat and the creaking of his new boots, he
remembered where he was and what he was doing,
and he hung his head with shame to think that at such
a time he should think more of his new boots than
about God.

He never forgot how he felt that day, and he
remembered it with sorrowful shame for many long
years afterwards. Indeed it was the remembrance of
those very confirmation boots which made him write
the story of " The Red Shoes."

But now it was time that Hans set to work in
earnest, for after being confirmed he was a child no
longer. His mother did not know what to do with him,
but Hans had quite made up his mind to go away to
Copenhagen to make his fortune.

" You go through a frightful lot of hardships first,"
he explained, " and then you become famous."

203

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

So the Ugly Duckling set out to see the world, quite
certain that he was going to live happily ever after-
wards, as the fairy tales say.

He little guessed all that lay before him, and how
truly " frightful " those hardships were to be. All that
he had neglected to learn had still to be learned, he
was to suffer hunger and cold and bitter want, and
again, like the Ugly Duckling, to be driven away,
laughed at, despised, and persecuted.

But the beautiful ending to the fairy tale was to be
his too. Hans Andersen, the queer, uncouth boy, was
to become Hans Andersen the author, whose beautiful
thoughts and dream pictures made him famous through-
out all lands, and who, with the golden key, unlocked
for all children the gates of Fairyland.

Like the swan who had once been the Ugly Duckling,
" he now felt glad at having suffered sorrow and trouble,
because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the
pleasure and happiness around him."

At the end he forgot all the hardships and sorrows
of his life. He only remembered the beautiful things,
and kept always the sunny heart of a little child, so that
he could say at the last, when he came to the very end
of the fairy tale, " Oh, how happy I am ! How beautiful
the world is ! Life is so beautiful ! It is just as if I
were sailing into a land far, far away, where there is
no pain, no sorrow."

204

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

IT was certainly a cold and comfortless way of be-
ginning life to be born in a log cabin, especially when
it was winter-time, and the cabin had no door to keep
out the wind, and no window to let in the light.
Abraham Lincoln could scarcely have started life in a
poorer home than that little log cabin, set in the midst
of a barren and desolate wilderness in the State of
Kentucky, where he first opened his eyes on the world
on February 12, 1809.

It was to he hoped that the new baby would grow
into a strong, brave boy, for there was no use for weak-
lings in the rough, dangerous life that awaited him.
Even his mother, who rocked him in her arms, had
early learned to handle a rifle that she might defend
herself and her children when the father, Thomas
Lincoln, was away. They were accustomed to all sorts
of dangers and hardships, for there were many wild
animals in the woods, and they were never quite safe
from the fear of Indians.

When Abraham, or Abe as he was called, grew old
enough to care for stories, there was nothing he loved
better than to stand at his father's knee and listen to
the tales of his adventures with the Redskins, and
most thrilling of all, the story of his grandfather's
death.

When Thomas Lincoln was about six years old he

205

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

went out one day into the fields with his father to help
with the building of a fence, while his two elder
brothers were at work close by in another field, and his
mother was busy at home in the log hut.

Suddenly, when the little boy was helping his father
to put up the fence, a party of Indians, hidden close by,
fired upon them and his father fell dead, shot through
the heart. The two bigger boys, hearing the noise of
firing, did the best thing they could, one running off to
fetch help from the nearest settler, and the other creep-
ing home as swiftly and secretly as possible and climbing
into the loft with his gun. From a loophole in the
wall he could see the Indians below, and at the very
moment he peered out there was one of them just
about to lift little Thomas off his feet. A well-directed
shot from the loft struck the Indian and killed him,
whereupon the child took to his heels, and ran like a
rabbit until he reached the shelter of the log hut.

Meanwhile the brave elder brother was calmly aim-
ing and firing at every Redskin whose head appeared
for a moment out of the ambush, and he blazed away
until the relief party arrived and the band of Indians
were put to flight.

Abe listened round-eyed with interest to tales like
these, though he was not sorry to think that the
Indians were driven further off now and were seldom
to be seen. He and his sister Sarah were quite safe if
they did not wander too far from home, and they could
fetch and carry water from the creek and make them-
selves useful in many ways out of doors.

At six years old Abe had learned to fish and to hunt,
although he was still too small to be trusted with a
gun. One of his favourite amusements was to swing

206

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

across the creek holding on to the branch of a sycamore
tree, and one day while he and another small boy were
enjoying themselves in that way, Abe lost his hold and
disappeared with a terrific splash into the water below.
The other boy was quite equal to the occasion, arid,
waiting till he reappeared, leaned over and dragged
him out with the greatest difficulty. If it had not been
for the presence of mind of the other child, Abe would
certainly have been drowned and America would never
have known one of the greatest and most famous of
her presidents.

" It is time those children had some learning," said
their father thoughtfully, when Abe was seven years
old and his sister a year or so older. " There's a man
come to that shanty half a mile away, and he says he is
going to keep a school. What do you say to sending
the children to him ? "

" Well," said their mother doubtfully, " he is a queer
sort of man to be a schoolmaster. He can't write
himself."

" He can read, so he says," replied Thomas Lincoln,
"and the children could learn that, anyway."

Thomas Lincoln had spent such a busy roving life
that he had never had time to learn either to read or to
write, and at the time he was married he could not even
sign his own name. His wife had had a little education
and was determined that he should at least learn to
write his name, so with great patience she taught
him how to hold a pen and make the letters, although
his great strong hands were much more at home
holding his gun or his axe. But nevertheless he was
most anxious that his children should learn all that he
had missed, although it puzzled him greatly to think

207

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

where the money was to come from to pay their
schooling.

There was certainly not much to be learned at
this first school to which Abe was sent, and in a
few weeks the children knew as much as their master,
which was saying but little.

There was a better school four miles away where
the master could both read and write, and although
it was a long way for the children to walk, they were
sturdy and strong, and set off gaily each morning,
carrying their dinner of hoe cake, which was all the
dinner they ever had.

The log cabin could now boast the beginning of
a library, for besides the Bible and Catechism there
was an old spelling-book out of which the children
learned their lessons. The Bible was the one book
which Abe had known from his babyhood, for his
mother read it aloud every Sunday and sometimes
on other days too. It was both story-book and
lesson-book, for the stories Abe knew before he could
read, and his first reading-lessons were spelled out
from it.

It was when Abe was about eight years old that
he began to learn to know what it really meant to
be a pioneer boy. The farm in Kentucky was not
a very successful affair, and Thomas Lincoln made
up his mind to try his luck in the new free State
of Indiana, where there seemed better prospects of
getting on.

It was a journey of a hundred miles from the old
home in Kentucky to the new one in Indiana, and
while the father took most of their belongings by
boat, the mother and two children set out on the

208

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

journey overland, with two horses to carry the bedding
and on which they could ride by turns when they
were tired. They were seven days on the road, and
at night the little party camped out under the stars
with their blankets spread on the ground. It was
not a very safe way of travelling, and there was
many a danger lurking around, but neither mother
nor children dreamed of being afraid. Fear was a
thing with which pioneers had nothing to do.

When at last the whole family arrived in Spence
County, Indiana, the first thing to be done was to
build some sort of shelter for themselves and their
goods. A road had been cut through the forests, but
all the clearing had still to be done, and there was
plenty of work for Abe, small as he was. His little
axe was needed for serious work now, and not only
for play, as he was quite able to cut the poles for
the cabin which his father was building. In a very
short time he learned to use his axe as a pioneer
boy should do.

At first it was only possible to build a " half -faced
camp," which was merely a cabin enclosed on three
sides with one side open, and which, in spite of the log
fires, was a bitterly cold shelter in winter-time. But
when spring came and the land was cleared enough
to plant corn and vegetables, a strong log hut was
begun, and Abe lent a willing hand, remembering the
bitter winds of the past winter.

It was hard work, for the great unhewn logs had
all to be notched and fitted together and the crevices
filled with clay ; and then there was the loft to be
made and a door and window fitted in.

Abe learned, too, how to make stools and a table,

209 o

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and by this time the muscles of his arms were like
whipcord, and he could swing his axe like a man.

A story is told of him in after days of how he
visited a hospital of wounded soldiers and shook hands
with three thousand of them, all eager to grip the
hand of their hero. Some friends looking on said
that they wondered his arm was not crippled by so
much handshaking, but he only smiled and said, " The
hardships of my early life gave me strong muscles."

Then he went to the open door and took up a
heavy axe which was lying there, and began to chop
a log of wood so vigorously that the chips flew about
in all directions. When he stopped he " extended his
right arm to full length, holding the axe out horizon-
tally without its even quivering as he held it." Strong
men who looked on — men accustomed to manual labour
— could not hold the axe in that position for a
moment.

After learning to be so useful with his axe, it was
only fair that Abe should be taught to handle a rifle,
and his father promised to begin to teach him at
once.

" You'll be able to go hunting and shoot turkey
and deer, and will keep us supplied with game," said
his father.

Abe's eyes glistened, and he could scarcely sleep
that night in his corner of the loft, he was so de-
lighted and excited over the thought of that rifle.
A rifle is rather a difficult thing for a small boy of
eight to manage, but Abe was determined to learn
to shoot, and in a short time he covered himself with
glory.

"Mother, mother!" he cried, bursting like a small

210

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

whirlwind into the cabin, " there's a flock of turkeys
out there. I'm. sure I could shoot one if I might have
the rifle."

His mother looked out through one of the loopholes
of the log hut.

" Sure enough," she said, " they are turkeys. You
might try a shot," and she fetched the gun, which was
always kept ready loaded.

Abe bobbed up and down excitedly while his mother
fixed the gun into the loophole and warned him to be
careful. Then he steadied himself, tried to take aim,
and pulled the trigger.

Bang ! went the gun, and back went Abe almost
head over heels, but in an instant he scrambled up and
rushed out. The smoke was just clearing away, and
sure enough there on the ground lay a large fat turkey,
shot dead.

" I've killed one," shouted Abe, " and it's a monster.
Mother, did you ever see such a big one ? " and he
struggled to lift the bird on high for her to see.

Just then his father came hurrying up.

" What's all this firing about ? " he asked anxiously.

" I've killed a turkey," said Abe, bursting with
pride.

" Did you do that ? " asked his father in amazement.

" Nobody else did it," said Abe with a chuckle. Of
course it was nothing but an accident, and altogether
the fault of the turkey for getting in the way of the
bullet, but it was a great triumph for Abe all the
same.

All this time Abe had kept on steadily with his
reading whenever he had time, especially in the long
winter evenings when he could read by the firelight.

21 1

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Lamps and candles were luxuries no settler could
afford, but wood was plentiful, and it was easy to heap
the fire high and make a splendid blaze.

He was careful, too, not to forget his writing, and he
practised writing his own name in the snow or with a
charred stick on slabs of wood. His father was not
always pleased to find every smooth surface in the
house scrawled over with black marks, but he had a
great respect for " learning," and when he found that
Abe was teaching himself to write, he was quite proud
of the boy.

When spring came round and they were work-
ing together in the fields, Abe took a stick and began
writing his name with great care in the soft earth.

"A.B.R.A.H.A.M L.I.N.C.O.L. N," he wrote.

44 What is the boy doing ? " asked a neighbour who
happened to be passing and stopped to talk to Thomas
Lincoln.

" Oh ! he's writing," said his father carelessly.

The man looked astonished.

" Can he write ? " he asked. " What does the writing
say?"

" It's my name," said Abe, spelling the letters out
one by one and pointing to them in turn.

The two men looked with respectful admiration at
the young genius and shook their heads. Such clever-
ness was beyond them. Little did they dream that the
name of Abraham Lincoln would some day be written,
not only on the soil of Indiana but in every annal of
the United States.

As time went on, Abe began to long for other books
to read besides the Bible, the Catechism, and the old
spelling-book. There must surely be many other books

212

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

in the world, he thought, but the difficulty was to get
hold of them.

Then a sad thing happened which for a while made
him forget all about his longing for books. His mother
died suddenly, and the little family in the log hut was
left very desolate.

Sarah was only eleven years old and could not
manage the housework very well, although Abe was
very handy and helped her a good deal. The home soon
began to look neglected and untidy, and Abe felt his
mother's loss keenly. Indeed it seemed as if all the sun-
shine had faded out of his life until one evening when
his father returned carrying a parcel under his arm.

" I've found something that will please you, my boy,"
he said kindly, and undoing the parcel he brought out
the Pilgrims Progress.

" Where did you find it ? " asked Abe wonderingly.
Such things were not usually to be found in the woods
or fields, neither did they drop from heaven.

"I didn't exactly find it," said his father, smiling.
" I saw it when I was in Pierson's house and borrowed
it for you."

Abe "was turning over the leaves, and he took a deep
breath of delight.

" It looks good," he said.

He was so eager to begin that he could eat no supper,
and when he had finished reading it he turned back
and began it all over again. The book made him so
happy that his father tried to get him another, and this
time it was j^Esops Fables, which charmed Abe even
more than the Pilgrims Progress had done. He read it
so often that he could erelong repeat most of the fables
by heart.

213

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Abe's mind was very good ground in which to sow
such seed, and in after life it blossomed out into a
wonderful power of story-telling and a marvellous
memory for anecdotes.

But although reading was very pleasant it was
somewhat apt to interfere with the day's work, and
by and by Abe's father began to grow impatient.

" Come, put away your book, there's too much work
to be done to waste time over reading," said his father.

" In a minute," said Abe.

"That's what makes boys lazy," said his father,
"reading books when they ought to be at work."

" Only a minute, and then I'll go," said Abe, scarcely
paying any attention to what his father was saying.

That of course could not be allowed.

"Put the book down and come at once," said his
father sternly.

Abe shut the book slowly and most unwillingly.

" Good boys should obey at once," said his father ;
" they should not need to be driven like cattle."

Abe had never before shown any signs of dis-
obedience and he did not mean to be disobedient now,
but those books seemed to lay a spell upon him which
it was difficult to resist.

His father began to fear he was growing lazy, and
everyone shook their heads over the boy and his
books. His cousin Denis declared that "Abe was
always reading, scribbling, ciphering, writing poetry
and such like," and that he was " awful lazy " ; but it
was a curious kind of laziness, for it meant seizing every
scrap of spare time between work to study, and sitting
up late into the night to read his beloved books. He
was so hungry for knowledge that he could not keep

2I4

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

away from books although "he had not a lazy bone
in his body." He could not help dreaming a little, and
sometimes the threshing and chopping and other work
suffered, but who could help dreaming over the delights
of Robinson Crusoe and the Life of Washington which
just then, at ten years old, opened a new world to
him.

After a while life became more cheerful in the
log hut, for Thomas Lincoln married again, and the
new stepmother brought brightness and comfort into
the home once more. She was a widow with three
children, which made a merry party in the log cabin,
and she also had a quantity of furniture and household
goods, so that in a short time the log hut was trans-
formed into quite an elegant abode.

The first thing the new stepmother insisted upon
was that a wooden flooring should be laid down, and
also that there should be real glass windows and a
door with hinges. The children's clothes, too, w^ere
made neat and tidy, and there was something else
for dinner besides hoe cakes.

Abe's stepmother was not inclined to call the boy
lazy as other people did when he pored over his books.
She was anxious to help him, and when for the first
time a school was opened in Indiana, she was anxious
that all the children should be sent to it.

" It's a good chance for you, Abe," she said. " You
ought to learn something about 'rithmetic as soon as
you can."

It was a curious kind of school and a very queer set
of pupils. The school was a rough log hut with a roof
so low that the master could scarcely stand upright,
and the windows were only holes covered with greased

215

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

paper which did not allow much light to filter through.
The one cheerful thing was the huge fireplace built
to hold logs four feet in length.

The children were gathered from far and near, all
sizes and in all sorts of garments. Abe rather fancied
himself in his new suit, made by his stepmother for
the occasion. He had a linsey-woolsey shirt, buckskin
breeches, a cap of coon skin, and no coat, for "over-
coats were unknown."

There was much for Abe to learn, and the school-
master, Andrew Crawford, found it a delight to teach
anyone so eager and intelligent.

" Abe is a wonderful boy, the best scholar I ever
had," he said to Thomas Lincoln. " He wants to know
everything that anyone else knows, and does not see
why he can't."

"That's Abe exactly," said his father. "I some-
times wish he liked work as much as he does a
book."

" He wouldn't be such a good scholar if he did," said
the schoolmaster.

"Maybe," answered his father, "but work is more
important than books in the backwoods."

"But Abe is not going to live always in the back-
woods," said the master. " He is a boy who is sure to
make his mark in the world. He is an honest, straight
boy too, as well as being clever. Only the other day I
found someone had broken off a buck's horn which I
had nailed to the school-house, and when I asked who
had done it, Abe immediately owned up and confessed
that he had been hanging on to it."

" Ah ! " said his father, " that's like him. He's been
reading the Life of Washington and thought a deal of

216

ABRAHAM LINCOLN

that story about his cutting the cherry-tree with his
new hatchet and then owning up handsomely."

" Well, he's a good boy," said the schoolmaster, " and
he'll go far."

He meant to do his very best for the boy, and
besides other things he began to teach his pupils
manners and how to behave nicely " in society." The
schoolroom was turned into a parlour for the time
being, and the children were supposed to be ladies and
gentlemen, as they came in one by one and made
their bow and were introduced to each other.

It was no easy matter for Abe to learn drawing-
room manners. Although he was scarcely fifteen he
was six feet high, and he did not in the least know what
to do with his long arms and legs. His feet, too, were
very much in the way, and he never realised before how
huge his hands were or what a long distance of bare
leg there was between his buckskin breeches and his
shoes.

Abraham was certainly an awkward-looking boy,
for his long legs were out of all proportion to his body,
and his small head looked almost comical set on the
top of such a tall maypole. People when they looked
at him would smile and ask what he meant to be when
he was a man.

" I am going to be President of the United States,"
he said with a chuckle, and everyone thought it a very
good joke.

The tall ungainly boy, in his queer shabby clothes,
living in the backwoods, willing to do the hardest work
for the smallest pay, what would he ever have to do
with the ruling of a great nation, or the fate of thou-
sands of his countrymen ? No wonder they thought it

217

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

a good joke, but the Fates, regardless as ever of the
laughter of fools, went on weaving their web of human
life, and little more than forty years afterwards the
whole world was mourning the loss of Abraham Lincoln,
the noblest President America had had since the days
of Washington.

218

ALFRED TENNYSON

ON the pleasant slopes of a Lincolnshire wold, there
nestles the little village of Somersby, and here in the
rectory, on a summer evening of 1809, Alfred Tennyson
was born. Outside the moors were purple with heather,
the woodbine peeped through the nursery window, the
roses and lilies in the rectory garden, thick with buds
and blossoms, whispered to each other in the summer
breeze, the tall hollyhocks and sunflowers kept guard
behind them, and the air was sweet with the scent of
lavender. Down by the brook which ran at the foot of
the field beyond the garden there were "brambley
wildernesses," and " sweet forget-me-nots " spread like
a sheet of blue. It seemed a fitting world to welcome
the coming of a poet.

The baby that had just opened its eyes upon this
flowery summer world was a very strong, sturdy boy.

" ' Here's a leg for a babe of a week ! ' says the doctor ; and he would

be bound,
There was not his like that year in twenty parishes round."

He was only two days old when he was baptized by
his father, Dr. Tennyson, the rector of Somersby, who
gave him the name of Alfred, almost before the baby's
eyes were accustomed to the light.

There were three older children in the rectory, and
this new baby soon became the old one, for brothers

219

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and sisters followed fast on each other's heels, until at
last there were twelve of them, eight boys and four
girls, like little steps and stairs one above another. It
was just as well, perhaps, that the rectory was not a
small one, so that the rector could write his sermons
in peace, undisturbed in his library by the children's
noise. Not that he was easily disturbed when once he
was among his beloved books, for then he seemed to
live in a world apart and forgot that the nursery and
schoolroom were echoing with the sound of twelve
little voices.

Later on, as the children grew older, they often
found their way into their father's library, and he
taught them to love his books, and showed them the
way into a new world of delight.

How the children loved their home ! There was the
dining-room, with its stained-glass windows that threw
coloured lights upon the walls where the sun shone,
" Butterfly souls " as someone called them ; there was
the sunny drawing-room lined with bookshelves, its
yellow - curtained windows looking out on to the
smooth green lawn and gay garden beyond ; there, too,
was the cheerful bow-windowed nursery, but best of
all they loved their mother's room. It was always
a paradise to them, for to be with their beautiful
mother meant having the best and merriest of times.

The children all took after their mother in their
love for animals, and she taught them from their
infancy to be kind and pitiful towards "all wounded
things?" It was so well known in the village that
Mrs. Tennyson could not bear to see an animal ill-
treated, that it became a favourite plan of the boys
to drag their dogs close to her window and then begin

ftp* o

220

ALFRED TENNYSON

to beat them, hoping that she would bribe them to
leave off or even perhaps buy the dog to save it from
ill-usage.

Perhaps of all the children it was Alfred who was
most keen on watching the habits of birds and beasts
and creeping things, and in the woods close by he was
a continual trial to the gamekeepers. No sooner had
they set a snare than " Master Alfred " would be sure
to come along and spring it.

" If ever we catch that there young gentleman who
is for ever springing the gins, we'll duck him in the
pond," they wrathfully exclaimed.

The rectory children were all clever and fond of
reading, and were never tired of making up stories
and inventing new games. It was just the kind of
family to play delightful games, for there were plenty
of children to play them, but these special children
possessed a special gift of inventing new plays, and
that made it still more delightful.

There was the game of battles, when each side
planted a willow wand upright in the ground for a
king, and stuck firmer sticks around him for a guard.
Then the enemy advanced with stones, which they
hurled at the willow kings until one or other was laid
low. There were mimic tournaments, and gallant
defences of stone heaps which they pretended were
ancient castles, and the boys were very fond of climb-
ing on to the roof of an old farmhouse near their
garden, and making believe they were watching for
advancing invaders from the battlements.

But perhaps what they loved to do best of all was
to write stories, and these they would sometimes hide
under the vegetable dishes at dinner, and when dinner

221

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

was over bring them out and read them aloud. The
stories were all •wonderfully good, but there was no
doubt that the boy who made the best stories and
invented the most thrilling games was Alfred.
Knights and ladies, wizards, enchantresses, dragons,
demons, and witches came trooping forth at his word
of command. He loved the sound of words and the
musical rhythm of poetry, and even before he could
read he had a way of stringing words together just
for the sake of the music in them.

Running outside on a stormy day while yet still
a baby, the wind tossing his dark hair and whistling
in his ears, he would spread out his arms wide in
delight and chant aloud : "I hear a voice that's
speaking in the wind." Long afterwards he tells how
the words " far, far away " always acted upon him like
a charm. As he grew bigger his lines grew longer, and
he had a song for everything he saw. He would begin :

" When winds are east and violets blow,
And slowly stalks the parson crow,"

making up hundreds of lines as he went along.

When Alfred was seven years old he had to decide
whether he would go to sea or go to school. He loved
the sea with all his heart, but then again he had an
idea that school was a palace of delight, and so when
the question was put, " Will you go to sea or to
school ? " he answered promptly, " To school."

Alas ! the palace of delight soon proved to be but
a dream, and the stern reality had no delight about
it whatever. The master of the Louth Grammar
School, to which he was sent, was one of the old-
fashioned kind who believed in much flogging, and

222

ALFRED TENNYSON

of course there were boys ready to bully and ill-use all
small new boys, and Alfred came in for his share.

The romance he had woven around the idea of
school life very soon faded when he found himself
sitting shivering with cold on the stone steps of the
school-house, holding his poor aching little head, which
had just been well punched to remind him that he was
a new boy. It was not a pleasant thing to learn lessons
when his head ached and his fingers were too frozen
to hold a pen, and Alfred hated that school.

There was an old wall covered with wild weeds
opposite the school windows, and the sight of the
waving grasses and cushions of moss was like the
friendly greeting of old friends to the lonely child, and
this was the only pleasant memory that he carried
away from school. How overjoyed he was when the
happy day came for him to return to the rectory and
do his lessons with his father ! His father was stern
perhaps, but lessons were a different thing with him.
Years afterwards, when Tennyson was telling his own
son about these lessons and how much he hated Horace
because he was the author so " thoroughly drummed "
into him, he went on to say sadly :

" And now they use me as a lesson-book at schools,
and they will call me ' that horrible Tennyson.' '

It was good to leave the hated school and to be back
at the rectory, in his own particular little attic-room,
where from the window he could watch the stars and
smell again the scent of the roses and lilies, and dream
his dreams and make words into music. Flowers, birds,
and beasts were all his friends, and he knew their ways
and their language in a wonderful way. One night,
leaning out of his attic window, he heard the cry of a,

223

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

baby owl, and when he answered it, the tiny fluffy ball
of feathers came flying in, and nestling close to him, ate
its supper from his hand and after that took up its
abode at the rectory.

Very often, too, at night he would steal out into the
darkness through the garden where "the lilies and
roses were all awake," out on to the moors, to watch
the sheep with the shepherd, and to lie on the heather
looking up at " the great star-patches " until the dawn
came up.

Perhaps it was then that " the gleam " first floated
dimly before his eyes, and the voice came which bade
him follow the highest and do his best to ennoble the
world with the gift which God had given him.

" Great the master
And sweet the magic ;
In early summers
Over the mountain
On human faces
And all around me
Moving to melody
Floated the gleam."

So the boy lying there under the stars saw the
vision and heard the message which was to rule his
life.

224

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

LOOKING back on the days of childhood, so much is
wrapped in the mist of forgetfulness that it is often
difficult to know what is fact and what is fancy. But
here and there in most of our memories the mist is
suddenly torn apart and some special thing stands out
as clear and distinct as all the rest is dim and blurred.

Little William Makepeace Thackeray had but misty
recollections of the first five years of his life spent in
India. There was a confused remembrance of dark
faces, a pleasant river, many servants to do his bidding,
and a busy kindly father. Then from the midst of the
shifting memories there sprang out clear and distinct a
scene which he never forgot.

Two little boys were walking down a ghaut, or river
stair, to where a boat was waiting to carry them to a
big ship which would soon set sail for England. They
had said good-bye to their mothers, and the mothers
were left behind. That was the misery which tore
away the kindly mist of forgetfulness which never
again closed round the remembrance of that parting.

The two little boys who climbed down those steps
were William Thackeray and his cousin Richmond
Shakespeare.

William was five years old, and India was not a
healthy place for children of that age. Five years ago,

225 P

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

in 1811, he had been born at Alipur, at the official resi-
dence of his father, who had held a high post in the
Indian Civil Service, but who had died when his little
son was only four years old. William did not remem-
ber his father, it was his young beautiful mother that
he clung to with all the love of his childish heart.

Of course it was very exciting to live on a ship
where everything was strange and new, and where he
and his cousin could enjoy all kinds of adventures and
games, but nothing made him forget that he had said
good-bye to his mother, and that he was going further
and further away from her. Other faces faded from
his memory, but no mist of forgetfulness ever blotted
out his mother's face.

However, days are long and time moves slowly when
one is only five years old, and although William did
not forget, he soon learned to be happy on board ship.
The days were so much alike that nothing stood out
very clearly in his memory until they reached the
island of St. Helena, when his black servant took him
ashore, and he went a long long walk across the island.
The next thing he remembered was that they came to
a garden, where a lonely man walked to and fro, his
head bowed and one hand thrust into his bosom. The
servant bade William look well at him.

" That is he," he whispered, " that is Bonaparte.
He eats three sheep every day, and all the children he
can lay hands on."

William shuddered. That must be an ogre indeed !
It was enough to terrify any little boy, although the
ogre really did not look so very large or fierce. Still, if
he could eat three sheep and a child or two for dessert
he must be a terrible ogre indeed, and William was not

226

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

at all sorry when the ship set sail and the island and
the terror were left behind.

Poor ogre, walking there in his loneliness and
despair ! He had frightened half the world, and now
in his prison garden he could still strike terror to the
heart of one small boy.

Arrived in England, William was given over into the
charge of his great-uncle, Peter Moore, of the Manse
of Hadley, where there was quite a little colony of
Thackeray relations. Everything was very grand and
stately in his uncle's house, but it was very different
when he went to stay with his mother's grandfather
and aunt at Fareham in Hampshire. There everything
was very simple, and yet William was as happy in one
place as the other, and it was only when his school-days
began that all the sunshine seemed to fade out of his life.

The small school to which he and his cousin Rich-
mond were sent was supposed to be a very good one,
and the parents in India were quite satisfied that it was
all that they could wish, but the fact was the master
was a " horrible tyrant," who made the children utterly
wretched.

William was "a tender little thing, just put into
short clothes " (that is to say, short jackets), and he felt
the cold of the English winter bitterly, and still missed
his mother and the sunshine of India. It was so very
cold at school. His poor little fingers and toes ached
with chilblains, and he was even cold inside, because he
had so little to eat, and the kind of food was so nasty.
Every night he knelt by the side of his bed — the bed
that was so hard and uncomfortable — and, in trembling
fear of being bullied and laughed at, he could only sob
out a very short prayer. " Pray God I roay dream of

227

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

my mother." But even if the dreams came, the next
morning came too, so there was another long miserable
day to be faced. " What a dreadful place that private
school was ; cold, chilblains, bad dinners, not enough
victuals, and caning awful."

It was a happy day for William when he left that
school, but the happiness did not last long, for his
next school at Chiswick was almost as bad. Not that
William ever dreamed of complaining, he accepted it all
as inevitable, and his aunt could have known but little
of his sufferings. It was by her dictation that he wrote
to his mother in India to tell her how happy he was,
because he had " so many good little boys to play with."
Then having written and posted the glowing account of
his happiness, William made up his mind that he could
stand his misery no longer and that he would run away
from school.

It was an easy matter to slip past the front door
and through the fine iron gates of Walpole House, and
William managed to run as far as the end of Chiswick
Lane, but there the road to Hammersmith looked so wide
and so frightening that his heart sank and he turned
and ran back again. It was a lucky thing for him that
he was able to slip back into his place before he was
missed, or there would certainly have been an exhibition
of " caning awful."

In after years Thackeray, in one of his great novels,
draws a picture of this school of his and calls it " Miss
Pinkerton's Academy " and describes the departure of
one of the pupils and how she flings a copy of Johnson's
Dictionary out of the carriage window and exclaims,
"So much for the Dixonary. Thank God I'm out of
Chiswick."

228

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

That most likely was exactly what Thackeray him-
self felt when he said good-bye to Walpole House, and
at the age of ten and a half was entered as a scholar at
Charterhouse.

Life looked much brighter then. His mother and
his stepfather had come home from India, and that
alone was enough to line every cloud with silver.
Through all his life, Thackeray's love for his beautiful
mother was so strong and filled his heart so entirely
that for her sake he was always gentle and courteous
to every woman, and it taught him, too, to have a
special tenderness for children and all who were weak
or helpless, or who needed a helping hand. It was like
a golden thread running through all his life.

School was still a trial and a horror to him, but now
there were always the holidays to look forward to, and
so it was possible to endure. Every week he secretly
took out the pocket-book which his mother had given
him and marked off, from the calendar, another seven
days from the black list that stretched itself out before
" that blessed day," the reddest of red-letter days, when
the holidays would begin.

Dr. Russell, the head-master of Charterhouse, was
not the sort of man to help and encourage a sensitive
and rather timid boy such as Thackeray was at ten
years old. He was like a " hungry lion," and his roar
alone struck terror to the hearts of the small boys
when they were first presented to him at school.

It is always a dreadful experience to be a new boy,
and Thackeray shook in his shoes when his turn came
to be interviewed by the master.

" Take that boy and his box to the matron," thundered
Dr. Russell in his most terrific voice, pointing at

229

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Thackeray as if he were a criminal about to be executed,
" and make my compliments to the junior master and
tell him the boy knows nothing and will just do for the
lowest form."

The poor little culprit slunk out after the janitor
and felt this was not a very cheerful beginning at the
new school, but he soon learnt to know that the head
master's bark was worse than his bite, and that although
he was stern and unsympathetic and " a beast," he was
" a just beast."

The junior master in whose care he was placed at
first did not help to make things more comfortable, and
the boys at his house were obliged to rough it in many
ways. There were fifty boys in the house, and they had
all to wash " in a leaden trough, under a cistern, with
lumps of fat, yellow soap floating about in the ice and
water."

Thackeray never enjoyed his school-days. He did not
shine either in games or in lessons, and he made but
few friends, although he was a great favourite with
those who really learned to know him. The lessons he
was obliged to learn, especially Greek and Latin, he
hated with all his heart.

" When I think of that Latin grammar," he writes
in after years, " and of other things which I was made
to learn in my youth, upon my conscience, I am sur-
prised that we ever survived it. When we think of the
boys who have been caned because they could not
master that intolerable jargon ! What a pitiful chorus
those poor little creatures send up ! " And then he adds,
" I have the same recollection of Greek in youth that I
have of castor oil."

At first when, through carelessness or backwardness,

230

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

Thackeray blundered in his lessons, it was torture to
him to be held up to ridicule by the head-master, and
he could only just manage to keep back the tears as the
reproof was thundered out.

"Your idleness is incorrigible, and your stupidity
beyond example. You are a disgrace to your school
and to your family, and I have no doubt will prove so
in after life to your country," roared the " hungry lion."
" A boy, sir, who does not learn his Greek play, cheats
the parent who spends money for his education. A boy
who cheats his parent is not very far from robbing or
forging upon his neighbour. A man who forges on his
neighbour pays the penalty of his crime on the gallows.
And it is not such a one that I pity (for he will be
deservedly cut off), but his maddened and heart-broken
parents, who are driven to a premature grave by his
crimes, or if they live, drag on a wretched and dis-
honoured old age. Go on, sir, and I warn you that the
very next mistake you make shall subject you to the
punishment of the rod."

But erelong all these terrible threats fell flat, and
Thackeray went his own way undisturbed by thoughts
of future disgrace.

"I was not a brilliant boy at school," he tells us;
" the only prize I ever remember to have got was in a
kind of lottery in which I was obliged to subscribe with
seventeen other competitors, and of which the prize was
a flogging. That I won. But I don't think I carried off
any other. Possibly from laziness, or if you please
from incapacity, but I certainly was rather inclined to
be on the side of the dunces."

Thackeray was always rather inclined to be on the
side of the dunces. They were such pleasant com-

231

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

panions, and so much more desirable than the learned
prigs who could " turn off Latin hexameters by the yard
and construe Greek quite glibly." He was quite sure
that in the long run the dunces never turned out to be
half such dull men as the prigs.

Now although Thackeray called himself a dunce
and hated his lessons, there was nothing he cared for so
much as books, only the books must be the ones he
chose for himself and not lesson-books.

He had as great an appetite for story-books,
especially those full of " fighting, escaping, robbing and
receiving," as he had for the raspberry open jam-tarts
which were the most delicious delicacy on earth to the
Charterhouse boys. In and out of school hours he had
always a book handy. He was whipped and he learned
his lessons, but neither whippings nor lessons did him
much good. It was from the books which he read with
such delight that he learned most of what was worth
knowing. Kenilworth, Waverley, the Pirate, all the
magical stories of the Wizard of the North were the
real teachers of Thackeray, and it has been said that
Sir Walter Scott and not Dr. Russell was his head-
master.

The desk in front of him would be piled up with
large, serious-looking books, Latin and Greek and dic-
tionaries, and it would seem as if he were studying
diligently. " Yes, but behind the great books which he
pretends to read, there is a little one with pictures,
which he is really reading. He, of course, is so much
engrossed that he does not notice one of the masters
stealing up behind and looking over his shoulder, with
a book in each hand, and the first thing he knows is
that his head is laid against one book and smacked

232

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

with the other, to teach him not to study the Waverley
Novels in lesson-time."

With the exception of Horace, Thackeray never
came to love any of the Greek or Latin authors,
but he delighted in Fielding, Steele, Goldsmith, and
Sterne.

The other boys looked askance at him at first, for
they rather mistrusted anyone who loved reading, but
when they found out that the stories he read were
the kind of tales that could be told over again in the
dormitories at night, they began to regard him with
respect. He could also draw most delightful caricatures,
and that helped to make him still more popular.

Like most schoolboys, Thackeray was fond of " tuck "
and had an extremely healthy appetite for unwhole-
some dainties. Of pasty "I have often eaten half-a-
crown's worth (including, I trust, ginger-beer) at our
school pastry-cook's," he tells us.

But money was not always plentiful, and once he
spent a most miserable term all for the want of three
and sixpence. He had bought a pencil-case from a
companion (a young Shylock of the school), hoping to
pay for it out of some expected tips, but the tips never
came, and the debt hung like a millstone about his
neck. The owner of the pencil dunned him for the
money from May till August, when the holidays began,
and then Thackeray most thankfully paid him out of
the five shillings which his tutor gave him to pay ex-
penses on his homeward journey. That only left him
one and six, but his tutor had also entrusted to his
care one pound five shillings which he was to carry
home to his parents, the last school account having
been overpaid.

233

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

The coach started for Tunbridge Wells from Fleet
Street at seven o'clock in the morning, and Thackeray
was so afraid of being too late that he arrived at six,
without having had any breakfast.

One shilling had gone to pay his cab, and the last
sixpence he had bestowed on the porter, so he had not
a penny of his own to spend, and he began to be
exceedingly hungry. A schoolfellow was enjoying a
delicious-looking breakfast in the inn coffee-room, but
Thackeray sat outside growing more and more hungry
every minute. There was, of course, the one pound five
shillings which had been entrusted to his care, but he
was quite sure it would be most dishonest to touch
that.

Presently, as he gazed mournfully around, his eyes
caught sight of a placard hanging in a little shop-
window close by, on which was printed, " Coffee two-
pence, round of buttered toast twopence."

Hunger suggested that fourpence was a very small
sum to appropriate, and the voice of hunger was so loud
that it quite drowned the voice of conscience, which
scarce spoke above a whisper when it murmured that
the money was not his to spend.

That cup of coffee, " muddy and not sweet enough,"
and that round of toast, " rancid and not buttered
enough," was the most delicious breakfast Thackeray
had ever eaten, but when every crumb and all the
coffee-grounds were finished and hunger was satisfied,
conscience began to make itself most disagreeable.

All the way home Thackeray could think of nothing
but that fourpence which he had had no right to spend.
Every milestone he passed (milestones which he had
always before greeted with such wild delight on his

234

WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY

way home) were like fingers of reproof pointing at
him. The moment he arrived and saw his parents he
began at once to confess.

" Bless the boy, how hungry he must be," was all his
mother said ; and his stepfather told him cheerily that
he ought to have gone in and had a proper breakfast at
the inn. They laughed together over the boy's distress
and the fatal f ourpence, but the story shows us what an
upright, conscientious boy young Thackeray was.

Perhaps it was the remembrance of such times, when
tips were scarce, that made Thackeray afterwards so
fond of tipping every boy he knew. He never saw a
boy without wanting to tip him, and when people shook
their heads and said it was unwise, he had no patience
with them.

"It is all very well, my dear sir, to say that boys
contract habits of expecting tips from their parents'
friends, that they become avaricious and so forth.
Avaricious ! fudge ! Boys contract habits of tart and
toffee eating which they do not carry into after life. . . .
No, if you have any little friends at school, out with
your half-crowns, my friend, and impart to those little
ones the fleeting joys of their age."

So the days at Charterhouse went by and Thackeray
began to leave his childhood behind him. He carried
away little love for his school-days at Charterhouse, but
without the remembrance of those days he could never
have written some of the best chapters of his immortal
novels. It was the hours spent there with his beloved
story-books which made him long to write stories him-
self, and his great ambition was to write a book which
boys would enjoy.

" If the gods would give me the desire of my heart

235

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

I should be able to write a story which boys would
relish for the next few dozen centuries," he said.

We all build our castles in the air, and have our
great ambitions, but only to a very few do the gods
grant the fulfilment of a wish, such as was granted to
William Makepeace Thackeray.

236

CHARLES DICKENS

ON the 7th of February, in the year 1812, there was a
baby born in a comfortable little house at Landport,
on the coast of Hampshire. Outside the sea was wail-
ing its winter dirge, and inside the baby was crying
as babies usually do when the world is very new to
them, whether it be winter or summer. And all this
happened, too, on a Friday night.

Now everyone knows that Friday is considered
rather an unlucky day on which to be born. " Friday's
child is full of woe," so the rhyme goes, and the old
nurse, who held the crying baby in her arms, shook her
head over him and thought it a pity he should begin
life at such an unlucky time. She did not know that
this baby was born with a magic gift, a gift that was to
make the old dull world forget its woes for a while
and laugh aloud with pure joy and delight, so that it
could never be quite such a dull old world again. Little
Charles Dickens was indeed a " Friday's child," but so
full was his heart of the joy of life, the magic of happi-
ness, that with his wonderful gift he turned whatever
he touched from despair into hope, from dull greyness
into the sunshine of joy and laughter.

But all this, of course, happened later on. Just at
first the small baby was very much like any ordinary
baby, beginning its little life with a mournful wail.

" I was born (as I have been informed and believe)

237

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

on a Friday, at twelve o'clock at night. It was re-
marked that the clock began to strike and I began to
cry simultaneously." So wrote Charles Dickens long
afterwards in one of his books called David Copperfield,
a great part of which is said to be the story of his own
life.

John Dickens was the name of the baby's father,
and he was a clerk in the Navy Pay Office, earning
enough money to keep things comfortable in the little
house at Portsea. He had married Elizabeth Barrow,
and a little daughter, Fanny, had been born two years
before the arrival of Charles upon the scene. There, in
the garden before the house, the two children used to
play together as soon as Charles was able to toddle by
himself.

Little children have often a way of noticing things
very closely, which seems quite wonderful. Perhaps it
is that they do not look at too many things at once,
and so remember very distinctly what they do notice.
Charles was certainly one of these noticing children,
and he had besides a wonderful memory. When he
was a man he described exactly the little garden in
which he had trotted about, holding Fanny's hand and
grasping the slice of bread and butter in his other little
chubby fist. How well he remembered, too, those
dreadful fowls that looked so tall and fierce as they
scuttled past him. There was the cock, almost as tall
as himself, that crowed with such vengeance that it
made him shiver, and the geese that came waddling
after him, stretching their long necks and making him
dream at nights that he was being chased by hungry
lions. He saw them all as clearly as he had seen them
with his baby eyes.

238

CHARLES DICKENS

But the home which the little boy remembered best,
and where he spent the happiest days of his childhood,
was at Chatham. Close at hand was the dockyard
with its wonderful ships, its delicious smell of tar,
its mysterious ropes and the queer old sailors ready
to talk to the eager little boy who was so keen on
all things connected with the sea. Those old seafaring
men found their way afterwards into many of his
stories, and when touched with his magic wand they
have lived on for ever.

Not far from Chatham, on the high road, was an old
house called Gadshill which had a great fascination
for Charles. When he was a very little boy his father
took him to see it, and told him that if he worked hard
and was very persevering he might some day live in
that very house or one quite as handsome. Charles
never forgot his father's words, and as soon as he
was old enough to walk there by himself he would
steal away and sit gazing at the old house, dreaming
dreams and making up pictures as he looked. Although
he was only a little boy he had read parts of Shake-
speare's plays, and knew that this was the place where
old Falstaff went out to rob the travellers, and that
made it all the more interesting. It was a very
" queer small boy " who used to sit there dreaming
those very large splendid dreams of what he would
do in the future, but they were dreams which some
day became real and solid.

Charles was not a strong child and was rather small
for his age. He never was very good at games, even
at marbles or peg-top, but he was fond of watching
the other boys, and while they played he always had
a book in his hand, for he was never tired of reading.

239

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Perhaps, if he had been stronger and able to play like
other boys, he would have read less and watched less,
but then how many things we would have missed later
on when he began to write his stories. His eyes were
so keen even then that he looked at and pondered
over everything, and never forgot the smallest details.

It was his mother who taught him to read, and
later on she began to teach him Latin too. In David
Copperfield he says, " I can faintly remember learning
the alphabet at her knee. To this day, when I look
upon the fat black letters in the primer, the puzzling
novelty of their shapes and the easy good-nature of

0 and Q and S, seem to present themselves again
before me as they used to do."

Here again is an account of the high-backed pew
in church at morning service, where as a little boy
he was warned not to let his eyes wander but to look
at the clergyman. " But I can't always look at him —

1 know him without that white thing on, and I am
afraid of his wondering why I stare so, and perhaps
stopping the service to inquire — and what am I to
do? It's a dreadful thing to gape, but I must do
something. I look at my mother, she pretends not
to see me. I look at a boy in the aisle, and he makes
faces at me. I look at the sunlight coming in at the
open door through the porch, and there I see a stray
sheep half making up his mind to come into the church.
I feel if I looked at him any longer, I might be tempted
to say something out loud ; and what would become of
me then ! . . . I look from Mr. Chillip, in his Sunday
neckcloth, to the pulpit, and think what a good place it
would be to play in, and what a castle it would make
with another boy coming up the stairs to attack it, and

240

CHARLES DICKENS

having the velvet cushion with the tassels thrown
down on his head. In time my eyes gradually shut
up ; and from seeming to hear the clergyman singing
a drowsy song in the heat I hear nothing until I fall oft'
the seat with a crash, and am taken out more dead
than alive."

Later on, in the same book, Dickens describes his
little store of books. " My father had left a small
collection of books in a little room upstairs to which
I had access (for it adjoined my own) and which
nobody else in our house ever troubled. From that
blessed little room Roderick Random, Peregrine Pickle,
Humphry Clinker, Tom Jones, the Vicar of Wakefield,
Don Quixote and Robinson Crusoe came out, a glorious
host to keep me company. They kept alive my fancy,
and my hope of something beyond that place and time
—they and the Arabian Nights and Tales of the
Genii — and did me no harm."

The books were not mere stories to him, they were
real life, and he knew the people that lived between
the covers of these books better than those he met
in the everyday world.

There is a wonderful country called the Land of
Make-Believe, which most children know well, but
which few grown-up people ever enter. It is so easy
to reach that you can arrive there in a second, and yet
when you are once inside its borders, the everyday
commonplace old world seems thousands of miles away.

Little Charles had found the key to the entrance
gate of that land when he found those old books, and
no child ever enjoyed the delights of Make-Believe
Land more than he did. Just think what a difference
it made to him ! Here was a little boy who looked

241 Q

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

very much like other little boys, whose jacket was often
dusty and hair untidy, whose ears were sometimes
boxed with the Latin grammar when he did not know
his lessons, and who had a curious habit of carrying
about the centre-piece of an old set of boot-trees.
That was what the commonplace people in the every-
day world saw. How different it all was in the Make-
Believe World. This was no little boy, but a tall
hearty captain of the Royal British Navy, wearing no
dusty jacket, but a splendid spotless uniform. The
curious weapon in his hand had nothing to do with an
old set of boot-trees, it was a terrific life-preserver
which kept at bay a swarm of bloodthirsty savages
that dogged the noble captain's footsteps. No boxing
of ears could hurt the captain's dignity, for such insults
are unknown in Make-Believe Land.

As children grow up it becomes more and more
difficult for them to find the way to Make-Believe Land,
and even when they sometimes reach the very gates
they are obliged to turn back sadly, for they have lost
the key. But this never happened to Charles Dickens.
He never forgot the way to that delightful land, he
never lost that Golden Key.

The next step after reading so many books was, of
course, the desire to write one himself, and so Charles
began a very grand tragedy entitled Mismar, the Sultan
of India. People began to think this very queer small
boy was extremely clever, and to find that he could
amuse and entertain them too. Not only could he write
stories but he could tell them as well, and he had a
quaint way of singing little comic songs that was quite
delightful.

His father was fond of showing him off, and often

242

CHARLES DICKENS

in the evenings, when he ought to have been in bed, he
was sitting in his little chair, lifted on to the table,
singing and amusing the assembled company.

It was not very good for him, but little Charles
enjoyed it all amazingly, and these were the happiest
years of all his childhood, especially when he and his
sister Fanny were sent to school. For, unlike most
little boys, Charles loved school and loved lessons. He
wanted to learn everything. He had made up his mind
that he was going to be a great and successful man.
The master soon noticed how quick and bright the boy
was, and took a great fancy to him, helping him even
out of school hours, so that he got on very quickly.

He was a handsome little boy at that time, with
long curly fair hair and keen bright eyes. He was
very good-tempered and amusing too, and his school-
fellows were all fond of him, for, although he was
clever he was not a prig, but loved all kinds of fun
and mischief as much as any of them. And what stories
he could tell them, too !

Then suddenly, when Charles was only eleven years
old, the sunshine seemed to fade out of his life and a
grey mist of misfortune descended on the family. His
father was never a good business man, and had begun
to owe more money than he could pay back. Instead
of living in the pleasant house at Chatham, the family
now moved to a small lodging in a poor part of London,
where everything seemed to Charles most wretched and
mean.

There was no more talk of schooling now. Charles
spent his time running errands, cleaning boots, and
trying to make himself generally useful. He could not
understand the change at all, and he was very miserable.

243

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

He did long so eagerly to learn many things, he had
built such splendid castles in the air of the great things
he meant to do, and now suddenly all the castles came
tumbling down and he was only a little, bewildered,
shabby boy, learning nothing, and with no one to teach
him anything. He would have given anything in the
world if only he could have gone back to school.

But there are other ways of learning besides having
lesson-books and going to school, and although Charles
did not know it, he was learning many things in the
London streets which no lesson-books could have taught
him. The same habit of looking at people and noticing
everything was as keen in London as it had been in the
Chatham dockyard. The look of the streets, the faces
of the poor people he saw, their ways and conversation
were all stored up carefully in his mind, and afterwards
with his magic touch he made them all alive and real
again for us, with a reality that makes them live for
ever. Indeed this world would have been a much duller
place for many people had not Charles Dickens learned
those odd lessons in the queer by-streets and out-of-the-
way corners of London life.

In those days, anyone who owed money and could
not pay it was put into what was called the Debtors'
Prison, and before very long Charles's father was taken
there, and the family fortunes went from bad to worse.

There were now several little brothers and sisters
besides Fanny, who was just then the only successful
member of the family, having been elected a pupil of
the Royal Academy of Music. It was but a sad little
household at No. 4 Gower Street, and money grew
scarcer every day. Charles began to carry off his
father's books to sell, and after that the furniture went

244

CHARLES DICKENS

piece by piece to the pawnshop, until there was nothing
left but a few chairs, the beds, and a table. Then it
was that some work was found for Charles to do.

In the early days at Chatham, Charles had been very
fond of one of his relations, a young man called James
Lamert. This youth had always been kind to the little
boy, taking him to the theatre, and even making a
little miniature theatre for him to play with. James
Lamert was now a manager of a blacking manufactory,
and he offered to take Charles into the warehouse, and
give him six shillings a week. The offer was thankfully
accepted, and the boy was set to work.

But what unsuitable work it was for the poor child,
and how he hated it ! He was a delicate little lad,
easily hurt in mind and body, and he shrank from the
rough companions and ugly sights and sounds amongst
which he now lived. It was indeed a miserable time,
and Charles Dickens never, all his life, forgot the misery
and unhappiness he suffered there. He had so longed
to go to school and to learn more and more, and now
all that he knew was slipping away and he was be-
coming a hopeless, ignorant little drudge. The place,
too, was full of horrors for him, as he describes it in one
of his books. " It was a crazy old house with a wharf
of its own, abutting on the water when the tide was
in, and on the wind when the tide was out, and literally
overrun with rats. Its panelled rooms, discoloured with
the dirt of a hundred years, I dare say ; its decaying
floors and staircase ; the squeaking and scuffling of the
old grey rats down in the cellars, and the dirt and
rottenness of the place ; are things, riot of many years
ago in my mind, but of the present time."

Here Charles Dickens worked, at first in a little

245

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

recess off the counting-house, but before long in the
common workroom with the other boys. Each boy had
his little table, with rows and rows of pots of blacking-
paste ready to be covered, first with oil-paper and then
with a little blue cap. The blue cover had then to be
tied round with string and the edges neatly trimmed
and the label stuck on. All day long, and every day,
there they sat, covering and pasting and snipping away
at those endless rows of little blacking-pots.

And yet in spite of all his unhappiness and dislike
of the work, Charles set his mind to it, and tried to do
it as well as he possibly could, and he learned to do
it as quickly and as thoroughly as any of the other
boys.

It was a strange life for a child to lead. His home
was now broken up and the whole family had gone to live
in rooms in the Debtors' Prison. Charles was boarded
out with an old woman, who took children in as lodgers,
and who he afterwards described as " an ill-favoured,
ill-conditioned old lady, of a stooping figure, with a
mottled face, like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard
grey eye that looked as if it might have been hammered
at an anvil without sustaining any injury. . . . She
was a great manager of children, and the secret of her
management was to give them everything that they
didn't like, and nothing they did — which was found to
sweeten their dispositions very much."

Charles was still such a little boy that he could not
know very well how to manage to live on his six
shillings a week. Sometimes he was tempted to spend
his money, which should have been kept to buy his
dinner, on stale pastry and then he had to go without
any dinner at all, and very often he had nothing to eat

246

CHARLES DICKENS

but a slice of pudding heavy and flabby, with great fat
raisins in it, stuck in whole at wide distances apart.

But in spite of the daily drudgery, the lonely,
pinching life, and the rough companionships, no real
bitterness seemed to creep into the boy's nature. His
wonderful sense of humour lifted him over many a rough
place, and the kindness and tenderness of his heart
taught him to find something good and kindly in those
around him. And all the time his keen eyes were
always watching, his active brain, always half uncon-
sciously, was noting things that happened around him,
and which he never afterwards forgot. Then after a
while brighter days began to dawn. The father of the
family managed to pay his debts and was able to leave
the Debtors' Prison, and Charles was set free from his
prison too. The blacking factory knew him no more.
Once more his hopes began to rise, once more he was to
have a chance of winning his way in the world. He
could scarcely believe his good fortune, it seemed so
much too good to be true, but he actually found himself
at school again and could begin to learn all that he
longed to know. So Charles thought he would now
begin to climb the ladder that was to lead him to fame
and greatness, but he did not know that he had already
mounted many a step, that the grey dreary life had
been a wonderful school for him, and the lessons he had
learned there would be useful to him all his life.
The magic wand was there ready to touch the world
and charm it at will from tears to laughter, but some
of its most potent spells would never have been laid
upon us "but for those childish days of want and hard-
ship, when he was learning his lessons from the book
of life.

247

ROBERT BROWNING

IT was in the month of May, when the pear tree in the
garden was white with blossom, when the wise thrush
was singing his song twice over, and the white-throat
and the swallows were building their nests, that the
poet Robert Browning was born.

Camberwell then, in the year 1812, was still a
country place, for London was quite three miles away,
and the house where the poet was born had its garden
gay with flowers, its fruit trees and strawberry beds, all
untouched by the London smoke.

So it was a very pleasant flowery world upon which
the baby first opened his eyes, and it was a world full
of music, too, for the nightingale and the thrush sang
outside the window in the garden where the pear tree
scattered its blossoms and dewdrops upon the clover
field beyond.

The little yellow-haired baby was rather a disturber
of the peace in that quiet country home. His book-
loving father and his gentle mother were not ac-
customed to anyone so full of life and energy, or one
who possessed so passionate a temper. It was certainly
his grandfather's temper over again which Robert
showed so early, and his grandfather's temper was one
before which everyone quailed.

As soon as the baby could speak he began to
clamour for " something to do," and he was never

248

ROBERT BROWNING

happy until he was given some live thing to play with.
From the very beginning of his childhood Robert loved
everything that was alive.

What was to be done when the baby refused to take
his " nasty medicine " ? In vain his mother pleaded
and reasoned and promised punishment. It was no use.
No, he was not going to take it unless — and a gleam of
hope shone through the stormy skies.

" Unless what ? " asked his mother anxiously.

" Unless you give me a speckled frog," answered the
young tyrant calmly, and feeling quite sure that the
speckled frog would soon be forthcoming, he made up a
rhyme on the spot to suit the occasion.

" Good people all, who wish to see
A boy take physic, look at me."

Meanwhile his patient mother might have been seen
through the window searching carefully among the
strawberry beds for that speckled frog, and never rest-
ing until she had found one.

She had a great deal of sympathy for her little son's
desire, for she too loved all living things, and under-
stood them in a way that was most wonderful. She
might almost have had some of the old magic nature of
the woodland fawn in her, for not only birds and
animals came to her at her call, but she lured even the
butterflies about her as she walked in the garden.

The love of animals, of flowers and of music, were
all inherited from his gentle mother, by the boy who
possessed his grandfather's temper. To hear his
mother play was a pleasure almost too keen for the
child, and when she went to the piano in the twilight,
and the sound reached him as he lay half asleep in his

249

AVHEX THEY WERE CHILDREN

little bed. it was like the call of the magic piper of
Hamelin. Out of bed he climbed, and with bare feet
pattering on the lloor, the little figure in its nightgown
crept closer and closer to the music, never making a
sound, and listening entranced until the music stopped.
Then, like a little whirlwind, he threw himself into his
mother's arms and clasped her tightly round her neck,
whispering " Play, play." between his sobs.

So, too, his mother's love of flowers was shared by
her eager little son. and the days they spent together
in the garden were very happy ones. Flowers to him
were almost like living friends, coming only second to
his beloved pets.

There was quite a small menagerie in the garden,
collected at various times by Robert and his mother,
beginning, perhaps, with the speckled frog. There was
a monkey and an eagle, owls and magpies, hedgehogs
and snakes, and any "poor thing" that needed a home.
The boy had a very tender heart where animals were
concerned. Stray cats were carried tenderly home, and
even insects were carefully treated, and great was his
delight in winter when he could warm a frozen lady-
bird back to life. Even in story-books he could not
bear to hear of the death of any animal, and he shed
many bitter tears over the end of his favourites.

At two years old little Robert was "a wonder at
drawing." as he was about many other things, and as
the Dulwich Gallery had just been opened and was only
" a green half -hour's walk across the fields," he early
learned to know the pictures there. Books and pictures
were what his father loved best, and Robert quickly
learnt to love them too.

Long before he could read, the child began to make

250

ROBERT BROWNING

up verses and string long rhymes together, and he
would stand by the dining-room table and recite while
he beat time with his hands on the table's edge, which
was about on a level with his small nose. By the time
he was five he could read and write easily, and began
to work on his first " composition." Now he began to
feel sure that those rhymes and verses were rather
foolish, and it was time to set to work on something
more serious. So the " composition " was quite a
different thing. He tried to make it something like
the scraps of Ossian he had read, and when it was
finished he felt it to be a fine piece of work indeed and
worth being preserved, so for the sake of future genera-
tions he laid it carefully under the cushion of a big
arm-chair.

His book-loving father was very proud of Robert's
cleverness, and the boy was allowed to live in the
library as much as he liked and to read any book he
fancied. And what a golden store of knowledge the
boy gathered from those books. Books about history,
about the lives of great men, about art and music, they
all were eagerly read and never forgotten by that
wonderful boy.

That was his real education, for school did but little
for him and he hated it with all his heart. Rules and
restraints were like a heavy chain to him, making
him feel like a prisoner, and when at eight years old
he was sent as a weekly boarder to the Rev. Thomas
Ready's school at Peckham, he considered it " undiluted
misery."

The Misses Ready were kind, good ladies who looked
after and taught the younger children, and poor little
Robert, who already knew almost all Pope's Homer

251

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

by heart, was obliged to listen to Watts' hymns while
he had his hair brushed and oiled once a week, by one
of the kind ladies.

Later on when he passed into the master's hands
he was no happier, for he had no great respect for Mr.
Ready's learning. He was sure his father knew a
great deal more than his schoolmaster, just as his
father's books were so infinitely superior to any that
could be found in the master's library. The bigger
boys bullied him, and all the restraints of school chafed
and tried his temper more and more. His only happy
times were when he was at home looking after his
beloved animals, riding his pony, reading in his father's
library, or climbing up to the top of Camberwell
hill.

Those long lonely rambles were perhaps his greatest
joys, after all. Up there on the hill, lying flat on the
grass under the trees, he was free to think his long
long thoughts, free to make friends with the birds that
came shyly hopping nearer and nearer as he wooed
them, free to watch for hours each tiny insect, each
springing blade of grass and budding leaf, free to notice,
mark, and remember every detail of nature's handi-
work.

It was afterwards, when the boy had grown into the
man, that the poet gave to the world that " abundant
music " which filled his soul, but it was now, during his
childhood, that the music was stored, note by note.
Some he gathered from the wisdom in his father's
books, some strain he caught when gazing at the
pictures in the gallery he so loved, many melodies he
learned from Mother Earth as he lay so close to her
upon the long grass, guessing her secrets and listening

252

ROBERT BROWNING

to her voice, but the golden store grew day by day,
as he lived and learned and looked.

" Overhead the tree tops meet,
Flowers and grass spring 'neath one's feet ;
There was naught above me, and naught below
My childhood had not learned to know."

253

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

THE old world goes on its way, so full of sorrows and
so full of sin, that the pages of her history make often
but sorrowful reading. So many of her sons there are
who strive only for riches and renown, who trample
down the weak and helpless or use them as stepping-
stones to achieve their end, and it seems as if selfish-
ness and cruelty were everywhere triumphant. But
here and there a name stands out upon the dark page,
the name of a hero writ in shining gold, and the story
of his life seems to lift poor human nature out of the
dust and makes it once more possible to believe that
we are the sons of God.

Like stars in a dark sky those names shine out, and
there are none that shine with a steadier, purer radiance
than the name of David Livingstone.

At the sound of that name a figure stands before us
as lifelike and as real as if he had lived but yesterday.
It is the figure of a man tall, strong, and powerful, with
keen fearless eyes, and the background is the dark con-
tinent of Africa where he laboured to bring deliverance
to the captive and carried the light of God's truth into
the Valley of the Shadow of Death.

This splendid figure with his splendid plan, his
knowledge and dauntless courage, we watch him as he
pushes his way through pathless jungles where the foot
of a white man had never trod, fighting with lions and

254

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

wild beasts, fighting a more strenuous fight yet with
disease and death, strong of arm and strong of brain,
with a heart as tender and compassionate as a woman's.
From what great family, we ask, did this hero spring,
what splendid chances went to the making of this man ?

A little grey village in Scotland, as poor and common-
place as the lives of the hard-working people who lived
there beside the cotton-spinning factories. This was
the birthplace of David Livingstone. A boyhood of
toil and hardship, a daily fight with poverty, a struggle
to obtain books and learning, these were the difficulties
of which the boy made stepping-stones to reach the
goal, aided by no brilliant chances of birth, riches, or
education.

In one of the narrow alleys of the village of Blantyre
in Lanarkshire there lived, about a hundred years ago,
a poor hard-working family called Livingstone. The
father, Neil Livingstone, was an upright industrious
man, rather stern perhaps, but with a kindly heart
beneath the sternness, and with good, brave Highland
blood in his veins. His grandfather had fought many
a battle for Bonnie Prince Charlie, and at last at Cul-
loden had laid down his life for his king. That was a
story which the children were never tired of hearing,
although their mother would shake her head over the
tale, and tell how her grandfather fought on the other
side. She, too, could tell many stories of the deeds of
her grandfather, who had lived in those cruel, terrible
times when the Covenanters were hunted down like wild
beasts, driven from their homes to take refuge in caves,
and imprisoned or put to death for conscience' sake.

The mother's blue-grey eyes shone as she talked of
those days, and although she was so small and delicate,

255

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

it was easy to see that the spirit of the Covenanters
still dwelt within her and that she would have fearlessly
faced death for what she believed to be the right.
There was never a more loyal and loving soul than that
which dwelt in this humble Scotch mother, and her
clear dark eyes were like windows out of which " her
love came beaming freely like the light of the sun."

It was a hard life and a difficult one which the
mother had to face. The money Neil Livingstone
earned by selling tea was little enough, and there were
five children to feed and clothe, besides the two little
mounds in the churchyard which left such an ache in
the mother's heart.

It was on the 19th of March 1813 that David was
born, just when the last wreaths of snow were melting
behind the dykes, and the first signs of spring had
begun to cheer the land after the long, dour winter
days. He was a strong healthy child, as hardy as his
Highland forefathers, and with his gentle mother's
beautiful grey-blue eyes and a great deal of her tender,
loving nature.

There was plenty of work in the home for even
small hands to do, and as soon as David was old enough
to go to the village school he had begun to be quite
a help to his mother. She was very particular about
keeping the house neat and tidy and spotlessly clean,
and she taught David to be thorough in all his work.
When he swept the room for her there was no leaving
of dust in dark corners where it might not be noticed,
no dusting round in circles and not underneath. David
learned to be as careful and tidy as she was herself, and
did his work most cheerfully, only asking that the door
might be kept shut while he was sweeping out the

256

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

room, so that the other village boys might not see him
doing housework.

Neil Livingstone was very strict with his children,
and his word was law in the house. Whenever he
made a rule they all knew it must be obeyed, and that
nothing would excuse disobedience. One of his rules
was that every night at dusk the cottage door was
locked for the night, and the children were all expected
to be home by that time.

Now it happened that one night David was so much
interested in his games that he never noticed that the
sun had gone down, and when he raced home in the
gloaming, it was to find the door shut and barred as
usual, while he was left outside. He looked blankly at
the closed door for a few minutes, but never dreamed of
knocking or kicking. His father's rules were like the
laws of the Medes and Persians, and there was nothing
to do but to make the best of it. A kind neighbour,
seeing him standing there supperless, gave him a slice
of bread, and David sat down on the doorstep, ate his
supper, and then curled himself up to sleep. Of course
his mother, missing the child, when it grew late, came
anxiously to the door to look out, and found him
quite prepared to spend the night there, and of course
his father, smiling rather grimly, said, " Bring the
bairn in."

By the time David was ten years old he was con-
sidered big enough to begin to earn his own living and
do something towards helping the rest of the family.
A place was found for him at the cotton-spinning mill,
his days at the village school came to an end, and he
began to work like a man.

Every morning he had his porridge at five o'clock,

257 R

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

buttoned his jacket tightly, pulled on his bonnet, and
set out in the pitch darkness or faint grey light of dawn
to walk to the factory, where work began at six o'clock.
He was what was called a " piecer," and his work was
to watch the looms and tie together the threads which
broke in the weaving.

It was not very exciting work, but it was extremely
tiring and, except for a break for meals, it went on
until eight o'clock at night, which meant working
almost fourteen hours a day.

But if David found it hard at first, when Saturday
came, and he was paid his first earnings, he was as happy
as a king. He held the half-crown tight in his fist,
having carefully planned beforehand what he meant to
do with it, and then he started for the village shop,
where he had seen an old Latin grammar for sale. He
had set his heart on that grammar, and it did not cost
a great deal, so when he had it safe under his arm he
ran all the way home, and bursting into the room, threw
his earnings into his mother's lap. It was quite the
proudest day in his life.

The old Latin grammar helped to lighten many a
dull hour at his work now. He propped it up on the top
of the spinning-frame, and as he went backwards and
forwards he learned little pieces of it by heart, until he
became a fairly good Latin scholar.

It might have been supposed that after fourteen
hours at the factory David would have been glad to
rest or play when he got home at night, but instead of
that he was off at once to the night-school, and even
when he returned at ten o'clock he would still sit up
poring over his beloved books, until his mother came
and blew out the candle and bade him be off to bed.

258

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

All the children loved books, and they had always
been encouraged by their father to read as much as
possible. Neil Livingstone himself collected all the
books he could, and was specially fond of stories of
travel and missionary work. Whenever there was a
missionary meeting held within walking distance he
was always there, and he took David with him whenever
he could. Those long days of \vork in the factory, the
hours spent in the night-school and the poring over books
till midnight might make one think that David was
merely a studious, hard-working boy, but whenever a
holiday came round he showed what a splendid out-of-
door boy he was as well. Away on the moors, scram-
bling over rocks, climbing hills, wading the river, he
was in his element, and what David did not know about
plants and beetles, birds and butterflies, was not con-
sidered worth knowing by the other boys. If he was
keen on his books he was just as keen on making collec-
tions, hunting for plants, and gathering together all kinds
of out-of-door knowledge. Nothing escaped his eye.

He was keen, too, on games, and knew all the best
pools for fishing, so that once he actually caught a
salmon. It was forbidden by law to land a salmon,
but David could not bring himself to be a law-abiding
citizen that time. It seemed a shame to throw the
great glittering fish into the water again, and yet it
was almost impossible to carry it home without being
seen. His brother Charlie was with him, and together
they considered the matter, with the result that David
slipped the salmon down the leg of Charlie's trousers
and then marched him home.

"Puir bairn, he's got an arfu swollen leg," said
the neighbours pityingly as they passed, and David

259

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

managed to keep his face becomingly solemn until
they reached home. There was no doubt that David
was the greatest favourite with all his brothers and
sisters. The whole house was merrier when David was
at home, and he could tell such splendid stories and was
always ready to play games with the little ones.

All this time there was something else David was
learning besides his factory work and his night-school
lessons, and that was to be honest and straightforward
and truthful in word and deed. He had been early
taught to fear God, but as he grew older something
more powerful than fear began to take hold of his
heart. The more he thought of our Lord's wonderful
life on earth, the more his heart was filled with a great
admiration and a great love, and a longing to follow
in His footsteps even afar off.

It was the thought of that going forth to seek
and to save that which was lost, to help the helpless
and the weak, that made the boy's heart burn within
him. That tender healing of body as well as soul,
the carrying of light into dark places, made his heart
throb with a great hero-worship, and slowly, day by
day, he began to weave his plan of service for his
Master, while he watched the weaving of the thread in
the loom and joined the broken pieces together.

There were far-off lands still in darkness, waiting
for the light. There were helpless men, women, and
little children stretching out their hands and calling
for aid, souls and bodies, as of old, waiting to be
healed.

He was only a poor factory boy dreaming his great
dream of service, longing to try to follow the example
of the Great Physician, making up his mind steadfastly

260

DAVID LIVINGSTONE

to do his best, however poor that best might be ; yet
there in the little grey village of the North, hedged in
011 every side with difficulties, he manfully set his face
towards the good, and never once did he turn back.

And what was the good towards which he strove
so earnestly? It was not the love and admiration
of his fellow-countrymen, not a name that should be
famous all the world over, nor the honoured rest
beneath the Abbey roof which shelters England's
heroes. All these were to be his indeed, but it was a
higher reward he sought, even the sound of his Master's
voice, saying once again, " Well done, good and faithful
servant."

261

RICHARD WAGNER

IT was in the merry month of May, in the year ISlo,
that the great musician Richard Wagner was born.
The room in which he first made his voice heard was
on the second floor of the Red and White Lion, in the
old town of Leipzig, where there was plenty of other
noises in the busy street outside to drown the sound of
his feeble wailing. Two days later he was carried to
S. Thomas' Church, where he received the name of
Wilhelm Richard.

Richard's father was a clerk in the police service at
Leipzig, but he was a student too, and loved all kinds of
literature and poetry, and was especially fond of the
theatre. Many of his friends were actors, and when,
soon after Richard's birth, he died and left a widow
and seven children, it was one of these actor friends,
a man named Ludwig Geyer, who took charge of the
family, married the widow, and became a kind and
loving stepfather to the children.

From the very first it was baby Richard who was
his stepfather's favourite, and he made up his mind that
the child should have the best possible education and
turn out a credit to the family. He was anxious that
all the children should do well, but his hopes were set
on Richard. It was 110 easy matter to provide for
a family of seven children, so Ludwig GejTer Mas
thankful when he was given a post in the theatre at

262

RICHARD WAGNER

Dresden and could comfortably settle there with his
large family.

Richard was only two years old when he left Leipzig,
so the very first thing he could remember was the
Dresden theatre and his kind stepfather carrying him
about the stage. The theatre was like a mysterious
magic world to him, whether he saw it from the stage
box or whether he wandered amongst the actors and
peeped half fearfully into the wardrobe, where wigs and
false noses and curious costumes were lurking ready to
spring out at him. Sometimes, too, he took part in the
performances, and that made him feel very important
indeed.

There was one special occasion when a performance
was given for the King of Saxony, and to Richard's
great joy he was allowed to act the part of an
angel.

He was sewn up in tights, and wings were fastened
to his shoulders, and although he had nothing to do
but to pose gracefully, he gave his whole mind seriously
to the task. He was not at all surprised, therefore, when
the performance was over he was told that the King
had sent him a big iced cake as a token of his approval.
He felt he had quite deserved it.

Sometimes there were a few words to be spoken in
the little parts which Richard took, and that provided a
good excuse for leaving his lessons unlearned.

" I had a most important part to learn," he would
say solemnly to his teacher, while all the other little
boys and girls listened enviously.

However, by the time Richard was six years old his
stepfather thought it was time to begin lessons in
earnest, and sent him to a clergyman's house, not far

263

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

from Dresden, to be taught there with several other
little boys.

So the magic world of the theatre was closed for
Richard, but other things began at once to interest him.
He enjoyed playing games, and books were discovered
to possess all kinds of new joys. There was the ex-
citing adventures of Robinson Crusoe, a biography of
Mozart, besides the real accounts in the newspapers
of the Greek War of Independence. That war fired all
Richard's imagination, and he wanted to hear all about
the Greeks, and he listened entranced to the old stories
of Greek mythology.

Scarcely a year had passed in the country parson-
age when again a change came into Richard's life. A
messenger arrived post-haste from Dresden to fetch
Richard home, as his stepfather was dying and wanted
to see him.

The boy set off at once on foot to walk the three
miles into Dresden, and when he arrived, very tired and
very frightened, he could scarcely understand why his
mother was crying and why his father should look so
strangely ill. They bade him play his little piece of
music on the piano in the next room to see if it would
interest the dying man, and as he stumbled over the
notes his stepfather listened and said, " Is it possible he
may have musical talent?" He had always been so
anxious to discover some special talent in the boy.

Early next morning the children were told that
their kind stepfather was dead, and had sent each one
a message and his blessing.

" He hoped to make something of you," said the
weeping mother to Richard, and it seemed as if now
that hope was dead too.

264

RICHARD WAGNER

Soon after that the good schoolmaster arrived and
took Richard back to the old parsonage, but he did not
stay there long. His stepfather's brother undertook to
look after the widow and children, and he arranged
that Richard should live with him at Eisleben, where he
carried on his business as a goldsmith.

Richard was accustomed to changes by this time,
and it felt almost like a new fairy tale to live in the
old house in the market-place of Eisleben, the little
town so full of memories of Martin Luther. Not that
Richard cared much about Luther. His fairy time was
made up of all the strange sights and sounds of the
busy market-place and the wonderful music of the
band of the hussars which were quartered near at
hand.

There was no saying what strange and delightful
sights might meet the eye when one looked out on to
that market-place. Sometimes there was even a circus
or a troupe of acrobats, and once there was a tight-rope
stretched from tower to tower across the square, on
which a man walked as easily as if he was on solid
earth.

Richard felt certain then, that to walk on a tight-
rope was the most splendid achievement in all the
world, and he set himself earnestly to learn how to do
it. He made a rope of twisted cords and stretched it
across the courtyard, and in a very short time, in spite
of many falls and bruises, he succeeded in walking
across with the help of a balancing-pole. But he grew
tired of being an acrobat erelong, and turned once
more to the joy of that wonderful music which was
more magic than anything else. One special piece he
was never tired of hearing, " The Huntsmen's Chorus,"

265

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

out of the Freischiitz. Why, he must have often seen
in Dresden the great composer Weber, who had made
this magic music ! It was something to dream about.

But besides the strange sights and haunting music
of the outside world, life was very interesting inside as
well. In a little dark room overlooking a narrow court-
yard, the old stepgrandmother lived, and Richard used
to love to creep quietly into the room and watch her as
she sat among her birds. In and out of the window
the robins fluttered, hopping fearlessly upon her chair
and fluttering about the green boughs which she
kept always fresh for them by the side of the china
stove. Sometimes, alas ! a cat would find its way in
and carry off one of the friendly robins, but Richard
always managed to catch others for the old woman
to tame, and she was so pleased with him that she
adopted him as well as the birds, and kept him tidy and
clean.

School did not fit in very well with the rest of the
fairy-tale life, and Richard had many a tussle with the
town-boys who mocked at his " square cap," but out of
school hours there were always adventures to be sought
for in the country round about and along the river
bank, which was like an enchanted world to him.

Then suddenly the fairy tale came to a cruel end.
Eisleben, the acrobats, the brass band, the old grand-
mother and her birds all faded away, and Richard's life
was changed once more, and he was sent off to Leipzig
to visit his father's relations the Wagners. He was
only eight years old, but he had seen so many changes
that he was quite ready for anything that might happen
next.

And here was a change indeed ! His uncle Adolph

266

RICHARD WAGNER

and aunt Friederike Wagner lived in a very large
and stately mansion, quite unlike the old house in the
market-place of Eisleben. It was a house that had
belonged to the Electoral family of Saxony since the
days of Augustus the Strong, and in one of its splendid
apartments a bed was prepared for the small guest in a
royal fashion.

It was delightful to live in a room hung with silken
curtains and filled with beautiful furniture, but it pos-
sessed one great drawback for Richard. He could not
bear to look at the rows of portraits that hung upon
the walls. The painted faces were exactly like a row
of ghosts watching him, and when he was left alone
with them they seemed to come to life and step down
from their frames and crowd around him. He tried to
shut his eyes, but they terrified him almost out of his
wits, although they were not terrifying portraits at all,
but gentle ladies in hooped petticoats, with charming
faces and powdered hair. Nevertheless when he crept
into the great state bed, and his aunt carried away the
candle, he lay shaking with terror until sleep came and
mercifully chased the ghosts away.

In spite of those haunting pictures, Richard was
sorry when his visit to Leipzig came to an end and
another change brought him back to his family home
at Dresden. All his brothers and sisters had been
getting on well in the world, and Rosalie, his eldest
sister, had such a good engagement at the Dresden
theatre that she was able to support the whole family
and keep things comfortable. Another sister was an
actress as well, and one of the brothers had also gone
on the stage, but their mother wished they had found
something different to do. She had no liking for the

267

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

theatre, and she was firmly determined that her
youngest boy should have nothing to do with it. She
was keenly anxious that Richard should turn out well,
and now that she had him at home again she watched
anxiously to see in what direction his talents lay.

It was rather difficult to decide what was to be
made of the boy, but as he was only just eight years
old it was clearly necessary to send him to school,
where it was to be hoped he would show some signs
of cleverness.

So to the Kreuz grammar school at Dresden Richard
went, but alas, for his mother's hopes ! He was im-
mediately placed in the lowest class, and began his
school career there as a dunce.

Before long, however, it was discovered that Richard
could be quick and clever enough when his interest was
aroused. Anything he wanted to learn he learned
quickly ; he was only dull and inattentive when he was
set to learn things he disliked, such as arithmetic and
grammar. Anything strange or mysterious, anything
with a story about it immediately interested him, and
because he loved the Greek myths he set to work to
learn Greek, that he might the better imagine how his
beloved heroes spoke to each other. Grammar was
always a tiresome obstacle, and he wished with all his
heart that he could learn a language without it, but
even grammar could be mastered if he made up his
mind to it.

So time went on, and still his mother watched
for some sign of special talent, and at last she thought
her hopes were to be realised.

The head-master of the grammar school had ordered
the boys to write a poem in memory of the sad death

268

RICHARD WAGNER

of one of their companions, and had promised that
if any of the verses should be considered good enough
he would have them published. Richard immediately
set to work and wrote his set of verses, which he
showed to one of the masters, and after the poem was
" cleared of extravagances " it was sent in.

The verses were declared to be the best that had
been written. The head-master decided that they
were worthy of being printed, and Richard suddenly
found himself famous.

" He is destined to be a poet," declared his mother,
as she folded her hands in thankfulness.

But she rejoiced too soon ! Richard soon tired of
making verses, and won no more laurels. He was
a rather idle but very happy schoolboy, fond of fun
and mischief, and eager for any kind of adventure.
What was the use of trying to be a poet ?

The old pictures at Leipzig were not the only things
that filled Richard's fancy with ghostly terrors. All
his life he had been haunted by uncanny fancies wher-
ever he went. Whenever he was left alone in a room
and he began to fix his attention on any particular
piece of furniture, it always seemed to become alive
and to twist itself into horrible shapes on purpose
to frighten him. Scarcely a night passed that he did
not wake up screaming over some dreadful dream, and
though he was whipped and punished for disturb-
ing the household, neither whipping nor punishment
seemed to have any effect in curing him. Indeed he
was so thankful to hear a human voice that he
welcomed punishment gladly. None of his brothers
or sisters would sleep near him, and the more he was
left alone the louder he screamed.

269

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Music had always been associated with Richard's
ghosts, and the sound of a violin had from his babyhood
filled him half with terror and half with a curious kind
of delight. He had never forgotten " The Huntsmen's
Chorus" which he had heard the band play in the
market-place of Eisleben, and now he began to long
to be able to play it for himself.

Weber, the composer of the Freischiitz, patted the
boy kindly on the head one day and asked if he wanted
to become a musician, but Richard's mother answered
for him. "He has never shown any signs of musical
talent," she said sadly, which was quite true.

Richard loved to hear music but had never taken
the trouble to make it for himself. Now, however, he
was fired with the desire to play the overture to
Freischiitz, which charmed him by its mysterious
feeling of ghostliness.

Without any help at all he set to work to pick out
the notes on the piano, and before long managed to
play the piece in his " own peculiar way." Seeing this,
his mother when he was twelve years old engaged
a master to give him regular music lessons, and he
soon learned to play whatever piece of music he
particularly fancied.

Now, too, he began to be interested in learning all
he could about music and the great composers.

"Who was Beethoven?" he asked his sisters, and
the story of the great master, deaf to his own wonder-
ful music, thrilled the boy with keenest sympathy.
At night, instead of ghosts he dreamed of the great
composers, met them and talked to them, and often
woke up sobbing with excitement.

At last he knew what he wanted to do. He would

270

RICHARD WAGNER

compose music. Of course he had once made up his
mind to be a tight-rope dancer, but that was when he
was seven. His mother had arranged that he should
be a poet, but then he had only been nine years old.
Now that he was thirteen he knew his own mind, and
he meant to set himself seriously to work to be a great
composer.

"I hoped to make something of the boy," his step-
father had said sorrowfully when he lay dying. But
Richard had needed no making. The genius was there
ready to unfold itself all in good time, and to thrill the
world with wild sweet music, music full of the strange
fancies and ghostly terrors which haunted little Richard
in his childhood's days.

271

JEAN-FRANCOIS MILLET

AMONG the great geniuses of the world we would
write in golden letters the name of Jean-Francois
Millet, adding, still with the golden pencil, the words
" peasant and painter."

All know the painter from his wonderful pictures,
almost every child has seen at least a copy of his
"Gleaners" or "The Aiigelus," but the peasant is not
so well known, and the story of his childhood is the
key to much of the beauty which lies hidden in the
great painter's work.

Listen then to the story of the childhood of Jean-
Franc,ois Millet, peasant and painter.

On the coast of Normandy, high up on one of those
frowning granite cliffs which overhang the sea, the
little town of Gruchy is perched like a sea-bird's nest
among the grey rocks. It has one long straggling
street leading downwards to the shore, for here the
cliffs have parted to fold in their cleft a little green
valley, where the sheep can be led out to find pasture,
and a possible path be found to the beach, where the
harvest of seaweed is gathered and drawn up to enrich
the fields above.

Looking outwards to the sea, through a vista of
frowning rocks, there is a gloomy grandeur about the
view in front of the town which seems to hold only sad
memories of storm and shipwreck, danger and death ;

272

JEAN-FRANQOIS MILLET

but on the other side are pleasant green fields and
sunny orchards, which give a homely, happy air of
peaceful content to the place where the hard-working
people of Gruchy earn their daily bread.

In one of the strongly-built, well-thatched houses
of the little town there lived, about a hundred years
ago, a peasant farmer called Jean-Louis Millet. Like
his father and grandfather before him, he worked in
the fields all day and returned at night to the same
comfortable old house which was large enough to
shelter the three generations which now gathered
under its roof. There was the grandmother, who
looked after the household and took care of the chil-
dren, there was Jean-Louis himself, his wife and eight
children. The mothers of Gruchy had little time to
look after their children, for, like the men, they were
busy at work in the fields all day, and so it was in the
house of Jean-Louis Millet that the old grandmother
was left in charge of the children and had most to do
with their bringing up. She loved them all and cared
tenderly for each one of them, but it was the eldest
boy she loved best of all. It was in her arms the boy
had first been laid, and she it was who carried him to
the little grey church and gave him the name of Jean-
Franc,ois ; Jean after his father, and Francois after the
saint of Assisi, who is the special protector of those who
know poverty and who, working under the open sky,
learn to know and love God's creatures and all the
wonderful works of His hands.

The stories of saints were all well known to the
old grandmother, and indeed she followed not afar off
in their footsteps, living her honest, simple, upright life,
and teaching little Francois to see God's hand in all the

273 s

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

wonderful things around him, the golden glory of the
gorse, the purple of the heather among the grey rocks,
the mighty cliffs, the thundering waves that broke on
the shore, as well as the piping notes of his " little
sisters the birds." And she taught him, too, to dread a
wrong action more than death.

" Wake up, my little FranQois," she would say in the
early mornings, bending over his bed and waking him
gently. "Thou knowest not how long the birds have
been singing the glory of God."

There was another inmate of the old house who had
a special love for the boy, and that was his great-uncle
the Abbe Charles Millet, a priest who suffered much
persecution at the time of the Revolution, but who was
now the parish priest of Gruchy. It was a thrilling tale
which Francois was never tired of hearing, how when
the soldiers were hunting him down, this great-uncle
had contrived a hiding-place close to his bed, and when
the soldiers came unexpectedly one day, he had only
just time to disappear before they burst in. The bed
he had been sleeping in was still warm, and this the
soldiers noticed at once.

" Yes, yes, he is here ! " they cried, " the bed is still
warm."

But search as they might they could find no
other trace of him, although he heard every word
they were saying, and knew in his hiding-place that
they were turning the house upside down in their
search.

This old man was no idler, and he worked as hard
as any other labourer in the fields, stowing away his
breviary in his pocket and tucking up his cassock before
he set to work. Wherever he went little Francois trotted

274

JEAN FRANCOIS MILLET

by his side, for the old man could not bear the child
out of his sight and was never tired of teaching and
training him.

There was one day which Francois never forgot. He
had wandered away from his uncle and had climbed
down to the sea-shore, and was enjoying all the delights
of fishing for tadpoles when he heard his name called
and saw his great-uncle furiously waving to him from
the cliff. He obeyed the call at once and climbed up,
but the old man had been badly frightened, and as soon
as he had the child safe and sound by his side again,
his anxiety suddenly turned to anger. He took off his
large three-cornered hat and beat Francois with it
soundly and then drove him up to the house, still
beating him with the hat as he went.

" Ah ! I'll help thee to get home," he cried with
each napping whack, and as Francois's legs were
short and fat they did not carry him very swiftly,
and he spent some painful moments before he reached
home.

After that Francois always regarded the three-
cornered hat with distrust, for, as he said years after-
wards, " I was not of an age to understand a tenderness
which showed itself by blows from a hat."

This great-uncle died when Francois was only seven,
but by that time the boy was learning his lessons at
school, which he had entered with flying colours some
months before. He was a big boy for his age and
strongly built, and had been already taught his lessons
at home, so that the elder children were rather proud
of him when they took him for the first time to school.
They boasted themselves of his strength and cleverness,
and declared that he would be able to beat any boy of

275

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

his own age or even older. So of course the first thing
they did was to arrange a fight.

There was no boy quite so young as Francois in
the school, but they picked out one a little older, the
strongest and most promising they could find, and pro-
ceeded to arrange the quarrel. A chip of wood was laid
on one boy's shoulder and the other was told, "I bet
you don't dare knock that chip off."

Of course no one but a coward could refuse, and
equally of course the other boy could not endure such an
insult, so as soon as the chip was knocked off the battle
began. In this fight Francois covered himself with
glory, to the pride and delight of his supporters, who
declared joyfully, " Millet is only six and a half, and he
has beaten a boy more than seven years old."

But when it came to lessons Francois was not quite
such a success. He never could learn things by heart,
and he was hopelessly dull at sums. Then, too, he had
a bad habit of drawing capital letters in his copy-book
when he ought to have been learning his lessons, and
yet when asked any question he always answered well
and sensibly. He was twelve years old when he went
to church at Greville to be confirmed, and the priest
there was so much impressed by his intelligent answers
that he asked him if he would like to be taught Latin.

" With Latin, my boy," said the priest, " you can
become a priest or a doctor."

"No," said Francois, "I don't wish to be either; I
wish to stay with my parents."

"Come all the same," said the priest, "you will
learn."

So Francois learned to read the Bible and Virgil in
Latin, and read them over and over again until he

276

JEAN-FRANQOIS MILLET

knew each word. But there was little time now to give
to books, for he was old enough to help his father in the
fields, and it was time he learnt to mow the grass, make
hay, bind the sheaves, thresh and winnow, plough and
sow.

So the father and son worked together at the daily
common tasks of the ordinary labourer, but they saw in
their work things which few ordinary labourers see.
They both loved everything that was beautiful either in
form or colour, and nothing to them was commonplace.
Years before, when Francois was a little boy, trotting
along by his father's side, his father would stoop and
pick a blade of grass and bid his little son look at it.

" See," he said, " how fine that is."

Or he would point to some tree they were passing
and say, " Look at that tree, how large and beautiful it
is, as beautiful as a flower."

One day they had stood together on the cliffs to
watch the sunset, and the wonderful pageant of the
crimson sky, and the golden glory of the shining sea
made Francois exclaim with delight. But his father
stood still and reverently bared his head. " My son, it
is God," he said, and Francois never forgot those words.

It was not until some years afterwards that the boy
began to try and draw pictures of the things he loved
to look at, and it was the old engravings in the Bible
that suggested the idea. He had little time for anything
but the farm work, and he was quite content to do that
thoroughly, to drive his furrow straight and clean, to
work with a will in the fields he loved. But at the
noonday rest, when the other workers lay sleeping, he
took his pencil and made careful drawings of all that
he saw from the window, the garden, the trees, and the

277

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

rocks, and later on the figures he had seen at work or
walking down the village street. The wonder and
terror of the sea, the tall poplars round the grey church
tower, the bent forms of old men, the women at their
work, all these things filled his head, and the longing
to draw them began to fill his heart.

So it was that Jean- Francois, the peasant, brought
all the wealth of his heart, his love of God and of
nature, to the making of Millet the painter, and it was
from the golden mine in the heart of the peasant that
the painter drew all that was best and most beautiful
in his art.

278

CHARLOTTE BRONTE AND HER SISTERS

THE February winds were blowing across the Yorkshire
hills and sweeping down the steep street of the little
village of Haworth, as the heavily-laden carts piled
with the furniture of the "new parson" came slowly
up towards the parsonage. Above the street the moors
rose higher and higher towards the round hills beyond,
and there was scarcely a tree or hedge for the mad
winds to wrestle with, as they swept the snow into
long drifts by the side of the grey dykes and passed
disdainfully over the stunted shrubs that struggled to
hold their own on the bleak hillside. At the top of
the steep village street the church, with its square
tower, stood out clear against the moor and sky, and
sheltering beside it was the low stone parsonage with
its strip of garden, shut in on both sides by the silent
churchyard.

There was curiosity astir in the village that day, for
the new parson and his family were expected to arrive
and several people were looking out of their doors and
windows as the carts came slowly on, the horses' feet
slipping and stumbling over the roughly-paved flag-
stones. Not that any of the villagers meant to show
any interest or had the least intention of welcoming the
new comers. The people of the West Riding were not
given to welcoming strangers, and were certainly no

279

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

respecters of persons. They were a rough independent
folk, inclined to mind their own business and to expect
other people to mind theirs, while they looked with a
good deal of suspicion on any unknown thing or person.
Their manners and appearance were as rugged as the
wild country around, but there were good loyal hearts
hidden away under the rough exterior, and kindly ways
were there too.

Slowly the carts were dragged upwards by the tired
horses until, in front of the church, they turned aside
into a narrow alley and drew up at the gate of the
parsonage. The new parson, Patrick Bronte, was
bringing his wife and six little children to make their
home there in the hillside village on the edge of the
moors, and this was the first sign of their arrival.

Patrick Bronte was an Irishman, tall, strong, and
handsome, quite a contrast to his small delicate wife,
who looked almost too fragile to face the strong moor-
land breezes. The six children were as delicate-looking
as their mother, and were like little rungs of a ladder,
beginning highest up with Maria, who was six years old,
and ending with Baby Anne, who was scarcely to be
counted by years as yet. The children had all been
born at Thornton, in Bradford parish, except the two
elder girls, Maria and Elizabeth. Charlotte, following
fast upon the heels of Elizabeth, was born on the 21st
of April 1816, and then followed in quick succession
Patrick, Emily, and Anne.

It was after little Anne was born that the mother's
health began to fail, and when the family arrived at
Ha worth it was plainly seen that she had not very long
to live. It had been no easy task to look after and
clothe and care for those six little ones, especially when

280

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

money was not too plentiful. Now it had grown to be
a task quite beyond her strength.

From the very first there was a shadow over the
parsonage, and the children, young as they were, felt it
in their strange old-fashioned way. They were wonder-
fully good, quiet children, never the least inclined to be
noisy or troublesome, and with their mother ill they
grew even quieter. Maria, feeling the heavy responsi-
bility of being the eldest, and bearing the weight of
seven years, was like a little mother to the younger
ones and easily kept them in order. She was very
small for her age, but she was her mother's right
hand, and had long ago learned to be useful in the
nursery and in household concerns. Their father was
not particularly fond of children and was always afraid
they would trouble their mother, so Maria kept them
all out of sight as much as possible, and they were as
quiet as little mice.

" You would not have known there was a child in
the house," said one of the old servants, "they were
such still, noiseless, good little creatures."

The parsonage was not very large, but there was
a small spare room above the front door, which was
called "the children's study," although the eldest
student was scarcely seven years old. Here Maria kept
the little ones amused, and when it was fine took them
out for walks over the moors. That heathery moorland
was the great delight of the children's hearts, and they
would wander out hand in hand, a solemn little pro-
cession of six, the elder ones carefully helping those
toddlers whose steps were still somewhat unsteady.

After one year at the Ha worth parsonage the invalid
mother died, and the lonely children grew even quieter

281

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and more lonely. Their father saw but little of them,
for he had even his meals by himself, but he laid down
strict rules that they should be brought up to be hardy
and not think too much of clothes or food. It was not
difficult to keep that rule, for there were very few
luxuries in the parsonage.

Mrs. Bronte had been too ill to make friends with
anyone within reach of Haworth, so there was no one
now to take an interest in the children, but before very
long an elderly aunt came from Cornwall to live with
them and take charge of the household. The children,
however, clung to one another and were quite content
to be left alone. They seemed to need no one if they
could only be together, and they lived entirely apart in
a world of their own, making their own pleasures and
interests.

Books were scarce, and Maria had begun early to
read the newspapers and to tell the younger ones any
news which she thought was suited to their under-
standing. There was always a great deal to be read
about the Duke of Wellington; he was Charlotte's
special hero, and any news about him was eagerly dis-
cussed. As soon as the children could read and write
they made up little plays and acted them together,
the characters usually being the Duke of Wellington,
Napoleon, Hannibal, or Caesar. Sometimes serious dis-
putes arose as to which was the greatest hero, and as it
was seldom that there was any disturbance in " the
children's study," their father strode upstairs at once to
see what was the matter and to settle the dispute.

He wondered sometimes what these children were
really like, and what thoughts they had in their minds,
and one day he hit on a curious plan of examining

282

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

them. He was quite sure if their faces were hidden
they would answer more freely and without any shy-
ness, so he got an old mask which was in the house,
and each child was told in turn to hide behind it and
answer out boldly.

He began with little four-year-old Anne.

" What does a child like you want most ? " he in-
quired.

The childish treble from behind the mask answered
promptly, " Age and experience."

Emily came next.

" What should be done with your brother when he
is a naughty boy ? " was the question.

"Reason with him, and when he won't listen to
reason, whip him," was the firm answer.

When Charlotte's turn came she was asked which
was the best book in the world, and the answer came
unhesitatingly, " The Bible."

" What is the next best book ? " asked her father.

"The book of nature," answered the sedate little
student.

Maria, then ten years old, was asked what was the
best way of spending time. " By laying it out for a
happy eternity," answered the anxious-minded little
sister-mother who had wasted very little of her time on
childish pleasures.

It was no wonder that the father felt rather puzzled
and thought that somehow they were unlike other
children.

It was just about that time, when Maria was ten
years old, that it was decided to send the two elder girls
to a school which had been started for poor clergymen's
daughters at Cowan Bridge. Maria and Elizabeth were

283

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the first to be sent off into this new unknown world of
school, but a few months later Charlotte and Emily
joined their sisters there.

It was a sad change for the children. Home-sick
and wretched, the four little girls went through a most
miserable time. It was not at all a suitable school for
such delicate children, and the hardships and misery
were almost more than they could bear. In winter-
time it was specially hard, and even the strongest and
most healthy children suffered greatly.

The getting-up bell rang long before it was light,
and the poor little shivering mortals had to huddle on
their clothes, brown stuff frocks and long holland pina-
fores, by candle-light, very often unable to wash at all,
as the water in the basins was frozen hard. Hair had
all to be brushed very flat and very straight back from
the face, and there was no excuse made for chapped
and chilblained hands if everything was not as neatly
arranged as possible. Then came prayers, and there
were lessons too, to be done before it was time for
breakfast.

The hungry shivering little sisters found it difficult
to eat the food provided for them, not because it was
simple, but because it was so badly cooked and unclean,
and often they went without their breakfast of burnt
porridge and had nothing to eat until dinner-time.

But worst of all, perhaps, were the long walks in
the bitter cold winds, when chilblains made every step
painful, and the grey frieze cloaks were not half thick
enough to keep out the piercing cold.

It was Maria who first began to show signs of failing
health, and when at last her father was sent for, and he
came to take her home, it was too late. She died a few

284

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

days after reaching the parsonage, and before the
summer was over the next little girl, Elizabeth, was
also laid to rest in the old grey churchyard which had
always seemed part of the children's home.

Charlotte and Emily were still left to endure the
school life for some months longer, but it was con-
sidered advisable that they should not face another
winter there, and so to their great joy they were
allowed to come home and take up again the old
dreamy, peaceful life with Patrick and Anne. The
heathery moors were like old friends welcoming them
back, and brought comfort to their sore little hearts as
they wandered out again hand in hand, only four now
instead of six.

Although Charlotte was not much older than the
rest, she at once became the responsible elder sister,
trying as best she could to fill Maria's place. Much too
anxious-minded and old for her nine years, she was, like
Martha, " careful and troubled about many things," and
seemed to have left childhood far behind her.

All the children's regular lessons were now done
with their aunt, but they learned a great deal more
from their father's conversation out of lesson hours.
He had a habit of talking over all kinds of public news
that interested him, and the children listened eagerly,
for they loved politics and any kind of out-of-the-way
information. For the rest they were well cared for by
Tabby, the elderly maid, who ruled them most strictly
but really loved them devotedly, and took a great
deal of trouble to give them any little treat she could
provide.

So the next few years were perhaps the happiest
the children had known, and they began once more to

285

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

invent their own pleasures and interests, and to write
out their " original compositions " together.

Pennies were never very plentiful at the parsonage,
and the children were obliged to be careful about
writing-paper, so the stories were written, mostly by
Charlotte, in the smallest possible handwriting, to take
up the smallest possible space ; handwriting which it is
now almost impossible to read without a magnifying
glass. These sheets, stitched together and put into
covers of stout sugar-paper, formed quite a little library
of at least a hundred volumes, containing tales, ro-
mances, poems, dramas, historical novels, and all kinds
of adventures.

The Duke of Wellington, still Charlotte's hero,
figured largely in these books, and everything of in-
terest was carefully noted by one or other of the
children, although it was Charlotte who did the greater
part of the " compositions." The quiet lonely life and
the hours spent on the moors studying "the back of
nature " were apt to make Charlotte somewhat dreamy
and romantic, but there was plenty of " the daily round,
the common task," to keep her practical and energetic
too. Besides her lessons she had to dust the rooms,
help with the cooking, look after the younger ones and
sew diligently under the stern eye of her aunt, but in
spite of everything she always found time to write out
those beloved little books. She was small for her age,
very slight and fragile, with soft thick brown hair and
rather a plain little face, adorned, however, with a pair
of wonderful reddish-brown eyes. When anything inter-
ested her greatly it seemed as if a lamp was lit behind
those eyes, and her whole soul suddenly shone out.
There was nothing merry or childlike about her, for she

286

CHARLOTTE BRONTE

was a solemn small maiden much weighed down by her
responsibilities, and her neat tidy ways and quiet
manners, added to her rather quaint dress, might well
have been described by those who knew her as " old-
fashioned."

Five years of this peaceful life in the old parsonage
passed by, and then, when Charlotte was fourteen, she
was once more sent away to school, but to a very
different kind of school this time.

There were only ten pupils at Roe Head, Dewsbury,
and the mistress, Miss Wooler, was so kind and motherly
that it seemed more like a large family than a school,
and Charlotte need not have dreaded beginning her
school life again. Long afterwards, one of the pupils
wrote a description of her arrival in these words :

"I first saw her coming out of a covered cart, in
very old-fashioned clothes, and looking very cold and
miserable. She was coming to school at Miss Wooler's.
When she appeared in the schoolroom her dress was
changed, but just as old. She looked a little old woman,
so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking
something, and moving her head from side to side to
catch a sight of it. She was very shy and nervous, and
spoke with a strong Irish accent. When a book was
given her, she dropped her head over it till her nose
nearly touched it, and when she was told to hold her
head up, up went the book after it, still close to her
nose, so that it was not possible to help laughing."

At first Charlotte was desperately home-sick, and she
did not seem at all to fit in with the other girls. The
lessons she should have known she knew but little
about, and all the curious knowledge she possessed on
other subjects only made the odd-looking girl seem all

287

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the more odd to her companions. She did not care for
games, for she did not know how to play them, and was
quite content to stand alone under the trees in the
garden, where she could watch the sky through the
branches and dream her dreams while the others
played. She was extremely fond of drawing, and every
picture that came her way she studied so long and so
carefully that the other girls would begin to tease her
and ask impatiently what it was she saw in it.

Then, if Charlotte was inclined to talk and explain
what she was looking at, the girls began to discover
that it was well worth while to listen to what the odd-
looking little girl had to say. By degrees she became a
great favourite with them, and whenever they wanted
a story it was Charlotte who was always called upon
to tell it.

It was at bedtime, perhaps, that those tales of
Charlotte's were particularly in demand, for her stories
always sounded specially thrilling in the dark. Indeed
one evening they were thrilled overmuch by one of
these tales, and frightened almost out of their wits,
so that someone screamed out loud and brought Miss
Wooler to see what could possibly be the matter.

The little girls of the old parsonage and wild moor-
land had a wonderful power within them. Those
schoolgirls shivering in their beds, as they listened to
the quiet voice that held them spellbound in the dark-
ness, felt the strange fascination of the little story-
teller, just as afterwards the world stopped to listen,
and listening fell also under the spell of the genius of
the sisters of Ha worth parsonage.

288

JOHN RUSKIN

AT the window of a small brick house in London a
child looked out with intent solemn eyes, watching the
water-carts as they drew up to be filled from the
wonderful post in front. He was rather a lonely little
boy, very fond of watching things silently for long
times together, and the swishing and gurgling of the
water, the wriggling of the serpent-like pipes, was a
constant and exciting joy to him. There was no one
to play with in the nursery, for this little boy was an
only child, and neither his mother nor his Scotch nurse
ever thought of playing with him. And there were no
wonderful toys waiting to be played with either.

" John must amuse himself," said his mother, and so
no toys were allowed. Only at first, when he was
quite a baby, he had a bunch of keys to play with,
because they made a pleasant jangling sound, and he
was too young then to amuse himself properly. He
had wanted one day to amuse himself with the tea-urn
when his nurse Ann carried him into the dining-room
at tea-time. Perhaps he was rather tired of that
bunch of keys and thought the shining urn much more
exciting, and liked the bubbling sound of boiling water.
So with a crow of delight he put out his tiny finger
to touch it.

" Keep your fingers back," said his mother quickly.

But John had a will of his own, and only stretched
his finger out further towards the toy he wanted.

289 T

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Ann turned to carry him away out of reach of
danger, but his mother stopped her.

" Let him touch it, Nurse," she said.

So Ann stood within reach of the urn and John
triumphantly put his soft little pink finger on its
shining side.

" That," he tells us many years afterwards, " was the
first piece of liberty I got, and the last which for some
time I asked for."

John soon learned many things which were useful
to know. If he tumbled on the stairs he was whipped,
and that taught him to walk carefully. If he cried he
was whipped again, and that taught him to be a good
quiet child, and if he did not do as he was told there
was another whipping, so it was little wonder that
John grew up a steady, quiet, obedient boy.

As he grew a little older he was allowed to have
a ball and a cart and bricks, but he never dreamed
of wanting the toys he saw in the shop windows. He
knew they were not for him.

Now John had an aunt who was determined that he
should have something more exciting to play with than
a bunch of keys or even a ball, and so on his birthday
she brought him a Punch and Judy show. It was a
splendid present. Punch and Judy were as big as real
ones, all gaily dressed in scarlet and gold, and when the
kind aunt tied them to a leg of a chair she made them
dance as if they were alive.

But they did not dance long for little John. As
soon as the aunt left, Punch and Judy also disappeared,
and John's mother told him it was best that he should
not have them.

It might seem as if Mrs. Ruskin was rather unkind

290

JOHN RUSK IN

to her little boy, but she was really the kindest and
most loving mother that any child ever had. She was
so anxious that John should grow up good and wise
and healthy, that she was determined not to spoil him.
She was sure that children should be seen and not heard,
and so until he had learned to be quiet and helpful he
was not even allowed to come in to dessert to crack nuts
for other people to eat. She was quite sure, too, that
sweets were bad for children, and she never allowed
John to have any dainties, although once when she
was giving out stores in the store-room, and John was
trotting silently by her side, she could not resist putting-
three raisins into his hand as a special treat. There
was a certain evening, too, which John always remem-
bered, when his father was dining alone and left a little
of his custard which John was allowed to finish, tasting
custard for the first time.

But there were happier and busier times for John
than watching from his London nursery window the
filling of water-carts, for when summer came round,
the travelling-chariot drove up to the door, and father,
mother, child and nurse set out on a journey to Scotland.
First of all the luggage was piled in, under the direction
of Ann, then the folding steps were let down and the
passengers climbed into their seats, while Ann was
perched up in the dickey behind.

What joy it was to John to sit there on the little
box which contained his clothes, between his father and
mother, where he could see everything as they galloped
along, watch the horses brought out at the inns, and
pretend he was a postboy himself, with a cushion for a
saddle and his father's legs to whip instead of a horse.

Then when at last the Border country was reached,

291

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and the Tweed like a silver ribbon lay winding its way
by, and it seemed like the Promised Land to John, while
A.nn always repeated her favourite verse :

" For Scotland, my darling, lies full in my view,
With her barefooted lassies, and mountains so blue."

Erelong the travelling-chariot arrived at Perth,
where at Rose Terrace another aunt lived, and here
happy days and golden hours awaited John.

There was his little cousin Jessie ready to play with
him, a garden full of delicious gooseberry-bushes sloping
down to the Tay, and the river itself "a treasure of
flowing diamonds," to be watched and wondered at.
There was no need for toys here, and there were no
lessons to cloud these sunny days. Only on Sundays
came a scriptural examination which John and Jessie
both enjoyed, as they always took higher places than
any of the elder cousins, and were as proud as two
little peacocks. But Sundays had always been days of
sore trial to John. All his best story-books were taken
from him that day, and although in church he was
allowed to hold his mother's golden vinaigrette, it did
not serve to wile away the dreary hour of the sermon,
and he found the bottom of the pew but a dull place to
sit quiet in.

John's mother had made up her mind long ago that
her little son was some day to be a clergyman, and so
he was taken very early to church, and even began
quite soon to preach sermons himself. Piling up the
red sofa-cushions in front of him for a pulpit, he be-
gan, "People, be good," and the sermon delighted his
mother's heart.

Not only on Sundays but every day John learned

292

JOHN RUSKIN

chapter after chapter of the Bible, and read it verse by
verse every day.

It all seemed a toil and a weariness perhaps to the
child, especially when at five years of age he learned to
repeat the whole of the 119th Psalm, but it trained his
ear early in rhythm, and afterwards, when an old man,
he says that this Bible teaching was " the most precious,
the one essential part of all my education."

But Sundays in Perth were lightened by having
Jessie for a playfellow, even although there was cold
mutton for dinner and they were strictly kept in order
by the old Scottish servant. They were not even allowed
the joy of jumping off their favourite box upon the
Sabbath day, and John felt extremely rebellious until
Jessie soothed him.

" Never mind, John," she said, " when we're married
we'll jump off boxes all day long if we like."

Returning home again in the chariot after the bliss-
ful summer months, it was no wonder that for John
the very thought of blue mountains meant a vision
of happy days, so when his portrait was painted and he
was asked what he would like to have in the distance
of his picture, he answered promptly, " Blue hills."

When John was four years old there came a plea-
sant change in his life, for his father bought a house
at Herne Hill, and this house had a delightful garden.
There were lilacs in it and laburnums, apple, pear, and
cherry trees, gooseberry bushes to rival the ones in the
Perth garden, and best of all an almond tree.

To John this was a perfect Garden of Eden. The
only two differences he knew of were that here all fruit,
instead of only one, was forbidden, and that there were
no animals to play with, which made him long all

293

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the more to play with the lions' cubs in Wombwell's
menagerie.

Here John grew up, learning to read in his own
way without any help, and very soon beginning to
write his own stories too, for his head was full, of the
wonderful tales which his father read aloud in the
evenings. John had a little recess in the drawing-room
which was his special domain, and there he sat and
listened to Sir Walter Scott's novels, or wrote stories
of his own, and then drank his cup of milk and ate
his slice of bread and butter before going to bed.

It was a curious, lonely, silent child who spent his
time in the Herne Hill garden watching the flowers,
watching the birds, watching the sky and the clouds,
and keenly interested in the pebbles. He was quite a
fearless child in spite of his old-fashioned ways, and
he never flinched when a great black Newfoundland
dog once flew at him and bit away a corner of his
mouth. The only thing that troubled him was the
fear that the dog might be sent away. Once, too, when
he tumbled head first into a deep tub of water, he very
calmly shoved himself up again with the little watering-
can which he happened to be holding in his hand,
and his presence of mind probably saved his life. But
he never learned to be good at games or sports, perhaps
because he was too carefully guarded from all risks.
Very unlike this was to one of his cousins, who was
taught to ride by being put bareback on a pony and
promised a thrashing if he fell off, and taught to swim
by being thrown into the water and then left to make
the best use he could of arms and legs.

There were two things besides writing books and
reading them which John loved, and one was drawing,

294

JOHN RUSKIN

beginning with printing letters and making maps,
and the other was the study of all things belonging
to nature, especially rocks and stones.

" From boyhood my son has been an artist," said his
father, " but he has been a geologist from infancy."

So the child grew into boyhood, and the greatest
joy of his life came to him when he went with his
father and mother to Switzerland.

They travelled in the same old delightful way in the
family chariot, with Ann as before on the dickey, but
the days of pretending to be a postboy were past for
John, and now he had either a sketch-book or note-
book in his hands, and childish things were left behind.

Thus it was that the boy, who was to become one
of the greatest masters of the English language, who
was to make others see through his eyes the beauties
of nature in a marvellous way, caught his first sight
of the Alps which was never afterwards forgotten.

" I well remember," he says, " watching the line of
the Black Forest hills enlarged rise as we crossed the
plain of the Rhine — Gates of the hills, opening for
me a new life — to cease no more, except at the Gates
of the Hills whence one returns not."

After that childhood was left behind, although the
things chosen and loved then went on growing with
his growth, so that at the end he could say he was still
just the same little child, only grown older and wiser.

295

QUEEN VICTORIA

THERE was a good deal of stir and excitement in
Kensington Palace on the 24th of May 1819, when it
was known that a little princess had been born under
the homely old roof. The Duke of Kent, her father,
was content to think his child was English by birth as
well as by descent, and if her German mother thought
longingly of her own land, and felt England to be but
a land of exile, still, she too was glad that the baby
should first see the light in an English home, and be
from the first hour of her birth an English princess.

For who knew what the future might hold in store
for the little one ? Who could tell what call England
might some day make upon this child ? She was not of
very great importance in the eyes of the world just
now, perhaps, for there were others nearer the throne
than she was, but already the shadow of a crown rested
on the little golden head, and the mother's anxious
eyes saw that shadow clearly.

In fairy tales, when the fairy princess lies in her
cradle and the fairies crowd round to bring her their
gifts even they are not strong enough to prevent the
dark shadow of trouble from forcing its way in and
casting a gloom around the royal child.

So it was with little Princess Victoria. Trouble
forced its way into the palace as easily as into the
poorest home in the land, and when the baby was

296

QUEEN VICTORIA

only eight months old her father died, and "her mother
was left alone with only her children in a strange, un-
friendly country where she was little known and little
cared for.

It would have been so easy for that German mother
to have taken the baby back to the dear home in
Germany and brought her up there, but the Duchess of
Kent never forgot that this child was an English
princess and must be trained in English ways, amongst
English people. It was the right path, not the easy one
she sought, and though the nation did not treat her
very kindly and the difficulties were many and weari-
some, she never thought of shirking what she felt was
her duty.

So the little princess grew up in her own land, very
much like any other English child, except that she had
fewer pleasures and was much more strictly brought up
than most children.

Sometimes it seemed as if she might grow up too
perfect, hedged in as she was by so many strict rules
and regulations, but it was soon seen that there was no
fear of that. The little lady had a decided will of her
own, and when it pleased her could be as naughty as
if she were just an ordinary child, and not a princess
at all.

Anyone, for instance, might have thought that a well-
conducted royal baby, when carried in the arms of a
bishop, would show some respect for a church digni-
tary, but Victoria thought otherwise, and suddenly and
gleefully buried both her hands in the bishop's wig and
shook it until the powder flew all around in a white
cloud, holding on grimly in spite of remonstrances, and
carrying away at last a handful of hair in each tiny fist.

297

Pul

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

Well might her nurse have remonstrated in the
words once addressed to another royal baby, "Your
highness, princesses don't do such things," and have
received the calm reply, " Well, this princess does."

Later on, when she was old enough to go riding on
her donkey through Kensington Gardens, she was ex-
tremely pleased with this mode of royal progress, and
firmly refused to get down and exercise her own little
legs. She preferred to ride, thank you. In vain the
nurses tried to persuade her. She took no notice of
them, and it was only when the old soldier who led her
donkey came and reasoned with her that she gave in.

"It will do my princess so much good to walk a
little," he said, whereupon his princess was graciously
pleased to descend.

But Victoria was by no means allowed to have
her own way on all occasions, and she was taught very
early that her little dole of pocket-money must be
spent wisely, and that when it was gone she could buy
nothing more until the next instalment was due.

She had been buying toys one day, and presents for
her mother and stepsister, and had spent her last
penny when she saw a special box which she wanted
for one of her cousins. But it cost half a crown, and
her money was all gone. The shopkeeper at once
reached down the box and put it with the other pur-
chases, but her governess stopped him.

" No," she said ; " you see the princess has not got
the money, therefore she cannot buy the box."

The shopkeeper then offered to put the box aside,
and this was agreed to. Before long quarter-day came
round and the princess received her pocket-money, and
on that very day at seven o'clock, before the shop was

298

QUEEN VICTORIA

open, there stood the donkey at the shop door, with the
eager little princess on its back, anxious to claim her
purchase.

When it came to learning the ABC fresh difficul-
ties arose, for the little princess had no wish to learn
her letters and saw no reason why she should. But if
she was firm her mother was firmer still, and told her
that if she refused to learn her letters she would never
be able to read all those books which were lying on
the table. So at last she gave in and said somewhat
sorrowfully :

" I learn too."

"There is no royal road by which you can make
yourself mistress of music," said her music-master
severely one day, when his patience had been worn out
by the little princess's inattention and naughtiness.

Victoria looked up with an imp of mischief in her
blue eyes. She jumped suddenly off the music-stool,
closed the piano, and turning the lock, carried off the
key.

" You see," she cried, triumphantly holding the key
up, " there is a royal road by which I can make myself
mistress of the piano."

But if any such tales came to her mother's ears,
Victoria no doubt received fitting punishment. When
the duchess came to the schoolroom to inquire how
the child was getting on with her lessons, sometimes the
governess was forced to give an unfavourable report.

"Once the princess was rather troublesome," she
was obliged to confess on the day of the music lesson.

"No," said Victoria quickly, "it was twice. Don't
you remember ? "

She was a straightforward, fearless child, " not given

299

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

to crying or complaints," and although she was so
simply brought up and kept so much in the nursery, she
knew how to behave in a courtly manner.

"What music would you like the band to play?"
asked William IV, her "Uncle King," one day when
the little princess was paying him a visit. And without
a moment's hesitation the little courtier replied :

" God Save the King."

Another day when visiting her aunt, Queen Adelaide,
she rather forgot her courtly manners, for when she
was asked what she would like to do for a special treat,
she answered at once that the thing she would like
best of all would be " to clean the windows."

It was not a very sunny life for a child, for her
mother was perhaps over anxious that she should learn
many lessons and not be spoilt with many pleasures,
but she was a happy little soul and made the most of
her holidays. She had a special love for dolls, and
played with them until she was nearly fourteen, dress-
ing them with the greatest care and writing down all
their names and characters in a little book. They were
small wooden Dutch dolls, which the children of to-day
would call ugly, but she loved them and they were
quite real people to her. Their clothes were so daintily
and beautifully made that it was a wonder that any
small hands could have sewn such fairy stitches and
taken such infinite pains.

It was when the little princess was nine years old
that Sir Walter Scott first saw her, and he tells about
the meeting in his diary.

" I dined with the Duchess of Kent," he wrote, " and
was introduced to the little Princess Victoria — the heir-
apparent to the House, as things now stand. This

300

QUEEN VICTORIA

little lady is educated with much care, and watched so
closely that no busy maid has a moment to whisper
' You are the Heir of England.' I suspect if we could
dissect the little heart we should find that some pigeon
or other bird of the air had carried the matter. She is
fair, like the Royal family."

But Sir Walter Scott was wrong, not even a little
bird had carried the news to her that she might one
day be Queen of England, and it was not until some
years later that she was told.

She was sitting in the schoolroom one day with her
governess, deeply interested in her history lesson, when
she turned over the page of the history book and found
between the leaves a new list of the kings and queens
of England which had been placed there.

" I never saw this before," she said, looking up.

"It was not thought necessary that you should,
princess," answered the governess.

There was a pause while Victoria still studied the
paper.

" I see I am nearer the throne than I thought," she
went on slowly.

" So it is, ma'am," said the governess, watching her.

Again there was a silence for a few minutes. In
those days children were taught to speak very care-
fully, and their remarks often sounded rather prim
and precise.

"Now many a child would boast," she said, "but
they don't know the difficulty. There is much splendour,
but there is much responsibility."

Then suddenly all the primness and moralising van-
ished, and the child's big heart and earnest, true char-
acter came naturally out. This great inheritance, of

301

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

which some child might feel inclined to boast, this load
of responsibility resting so quaintly on the childish
shoulders, was something very real to her, and the
chord of duty was touched which in all her after life
gave forth no uncertain sound. Turning to her gover-
ness, she held out her hand and said simply, "I will
be good."

It was a child's promise, not lightly given but coming
from the depths of the child's heart, a promise that was
to stretch like a golden thread through the years to
come, leading and guiding her upward and onward,
cutting through difficulties, shining in the dark hours
of life, gleaming through many a gorgeous pageant on
earth, vanishing only at last through the golden gate of
heaven. A golden thread indeed, directing not only her
own life but the fortunes and honour of England ; for
that great Empire whose flag is flung from North to
South, from East to West, was to grow greater still
under the wise rule of Victoria the Good.

Looking forward into the dim years of the future,
well might the need have been felt for some great vow,
some hero's arm to fight for and uphold the honour of
our land, and instead there stood a little, round-faced,
fair-haired child with earnest eyes and uplifted hand,
and greater than any warrior's vow sounded the simple
childish words, " I will be good."

302

GEORGE ELIOT

SCARCELY anyone to-day ever thinks of the brilliant
authoress by her real name of Mary Ann Evans. It is
still as " George Eliot " she is known, the name she took
when she first began to write her books, and did not
care to let the world know who it was who wrote
them.

But although the day was to come when the great
world should ring with the fame of George Eliot,
there was no stir in the little world about Arbury
Farm when Farmer Evans' youngest child, little Mary
Ann Evans, was born. Her birthday was on the 22nd
of November, S. Cecilia's Day, and it might have been
thought that her father, being a good churchman,
would have named the baby Cecilia, but it was by the
good old English name of Mary Ann that she was
baptized in the church at Chilvers Coton, known after-
wards as " Shapperton Church."

It was a very peaceful home to which the baby came,
and when she was four months old and the family
moved to the charming old house of Griff, with its red
brick walls so cosily covered with ivy, she was like a
bird in " the warm little nest where her affections were
fledged."

Griff was on the Arbury estate in Warwickshire, and
the quiet country-house was far away from the noise
and bustle of towns, with only the daily coach as a

303

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

link between it and the busy world. For in 1819, when
little Mary Ann Evans was born, it was the stage-coach
that carried travellers from place to place, brought the
news, and had charge of the post-bags. Not that there
were many letters to carry, for postage stamps had not
even been invented then, and it was so expensive to
send a letter that people never wrote unless they had
something very important to say.

The life at Griff was very quiet and uneventful for
the three children who lived there with their invalid
mother and busy father, who was always working with
both head and hands. Chrissy, the eldest, was rather a
prim little girl, a great favourite with her aunts, who
lived near, and with whom she spent a great deal of
her time, but Isaac and Mary Ann were the best of
friends and always played together. The boy was three
years older than his little sister, but she followed him
about like a shadow wherever he went, and whatever
he did, she tried to do as well. She loved Isaac with
all the strength of her warm little heart, and thought
there was no one in the world like him.

Mary Ann was fond of her grey-haired father too,
he was so tall and strong, just like a giant, and yet he
was as gentle as a woman with his "little wench." He
carried her about in his arms as if she were but a
feather-weight, and could tell her the most exciting
tales, tales of things that had really happened, to which
she listened with breathless attention.

The days of the French Revolution were not long
past, and many a story did the child hear of that
dreadful time and of what the great Napoleon was now
doing.

There never was a stauncher little Tory than Mary

304

GEORGE ELIOT

Ann as she listened to her father's views on revolutions
and rebels. There was something in the very way he
said the word " government," when he talked of what a
good strong government should do, that thrilled her,
and the word " rebel " had a tremendous sound of evil,
even if she was not quite sure what it meant.

Driving about the country, the busy land-agent and
farmer would sometimes take his little girl out with
him, and the child, standing between his knees as he
drove, watched everything with wide open eyes of in-
terest, and listened to all the country talk with eager
attention, always quite ready to give her opinion on
any subject, if she was asked. She was like a little elf
standing there, with her bright eyes and her hair flying
in all directions, those untidy elf-locks that were the
despair of her careful mother's heart.

The mother was very delicate and quite unable to
look after the children, so they were sent very early to
school, Isaac and Mary Ann being sent to a dame's
school close at hand, when Mary Ann was only just
four.

It was no hardship for the little girl to go to school
as long as she could be with her beloved brother, and
lessons did not trouble her much. Although she was
so old-fashioned she was not at all sharp, or quick at
learning to read, but that was perhaps because she was
much more fond of play. She had quite made up her
mind that she was going to be very great and grand
when she grew up, and she was anxious that people
should know this. It was worth while even trying to
impress the servants, and when the farm maid carne
into the parlour where the piano stood, Mary Ann
climbed up on to the music-stool with an air of great

305 «

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

importance and began to play very grandly, although
she did not know a note of music.

It was a sad day for the little sister when her brother
was sent away to a school at Coventry. Home would
indeed have been a very desolate place without him if
she had been left alone, but even one little chattering
tongue and one pair of restless feet were too much for
the invalid mother, and Mary Ann was also sent away
to a boarding-school to join her sister at Attleboro, not
far from Griff. She was only five years old and was
but a little child to go into a world of big schoolgirls,
but she was not on that account unhappy, for the girls
were very kind to her.

Only school was a very, very cold place and the
schoolroom fire was very small, and only those who
were lucky enough or strong enough to secure a fore-
most place had any chance of keeping warm. Outside
the circle round the fire, the poor little shivering child
wrapped her arms in her pinafore and felt the cold
creeping creeping up, until she wondered if she was ever
going to feel warm again.

But the nights were worse than the days, for although
it was warm in bed, it was more dreadful to feel
frightened than to feel cold. There was nothing
really to frighten her, but every night her fears came
trooping out in the darkness and attacked the poor
little quaking figure in her small bed. She never told
anyone about them, but both cold and fears helped to
hurt her in many ways.

The holidays of course were a time of wild delight,
when she had Isaac to play with again, and cold and
quaking fears were left behind. When a little girl
spends her days playing hide-and-seek in the great

306

GEORGE ELIOT

barns, fishing in the pond, driving round the country
and enjoying herself until she is tired, fears have not
a chance when bedtime comes, for before they can
troop out and seize her, she is safe and happy in the
land of dreams.

Books were also beginning to give Mary Ann a good
deal of pleasure about this time, although she had very
few of them. There was The Linnet's Life, the first
book her father gave her, which she read over and
over again until she knew it by heart, and then came
the gift from a kind old gentleman of ^ffisop's Fables,
which made her feel as if she had entered into a new
and wonderful land of delight.

There was only one little cloud in the blue sky of
those holiday times, and that was the fact that Isaac
had a pony given to him and he seemed to love that
pony more than he loved Mary Ann. The games in the
garden, the fishing in the pond, all the delights they
had shared together were neglected when there was a
pony to ride, and he would gallop away without one
regret while his poor deserted little sister watched him
go, with eyes full of tears and a sob in her throat.
It was always the one desire of her heart to stand first
with those she loved, and who would have thought
that a pony could have taken her place ?

Mary Ann was almost nine years old when she was
sent to her next boarding-school at Nuneaton, and here
her school-days were a great deal happier. To begin
with, she was very fond of her governess, Miss Lewis,
and love always spelled happiness to the child. Then,
too, she began to live in a new world, the world of books,
and when she once entered that enchanted country
she was as happy as the day was long. Every book

307

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

that came her way was a treasure, and whether she
was deep in the Pilgrims Progress or Defoe's History of
the Devil she was equally interested and equally happy.

At home it vexed her careful mother's heart that
she should burn so many candles and hurt her eyes by
reading in bed, but if that was stopped, she always
found some other way of spending her time with her
beloved books. Even Isaac and his pony were forgotten
when she entered her enchanted land.

At school she made few friends, her books were
all the friends she wanted, but she was fond of her
lessons too, and did her work well, and specially loved
writing her compositions.

Up in Scotland the Wizard of the North had been
weaving his spells, and the little girl in the Midlands of
England was just beginning to feel the magic of his
touch. A volume of Waverley had been lent by a
family friend, and Mary Ann was just in the middle of
the enchantment when the book was returned, no one
guessing that she was reading it.

What was to be done? Waverley must be finished
somehow, so the child set herself carefully to write out
the story as far as she had read it, and then made up
the rest for herself, writing it all out in the childish
hand- writing that was so like spider's legs.

It was childish writing then, but the thoughts came
already from a fruitful store garnered in the depth of
her childish mind, a store which in after years, worked
by her splendid genius, was to supply the world with
such stories as only " George Eliot " could write.

308

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

ON the 12th of May, the month of flowers, in the year
1820, a little English baby was born at the Villa
Colombaia, just outside Florence, the fair city of the
Arno. Spring had been busy sowing the fields with
flowers and spreading a carpet of tender green beneath
the grey olive trees. She decked with delicate budding
leaves the knotted festoons of vines, and scattered
blossoms abroad with such a lavish hand that the old
city of palaces, with its sun-baked roofs and narrow,
shadowy streets, now well deserved its name of the
City of Flowers.

New life was springing up everywhere, and the little
new life at the Villa Colombaia lifted its face to the
light in company with the flowers.

" We will call her Florence," said her mother.
So the City of Flowers gave its dear name to the little
English baby, who was one day to write it in letters of
gold upon the scroll of fame.

It was not very long before the English family went
back to their home in England, but the baby they
carried with them must always have seemed a link with
the beautiful old city, the rainbow- coloured flowers of
spring, and the sunshine and blue skies of Italy.

The first home that Florence knew in England was
Lea Hall, in Derbyshire, but when she was five years
old, and her sister Frances was six, they went to live in

309

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

a new house called Lea Hurst, which their father had
just rebuilt, and here all the rest of her childhood's
summer days were spent.

It was a beautiful home, for Mr. Nightingale loved
all beautiful things, and would have everything around
him as charming as possible. The windows facing
south looked over lawns and gardens and wooded
slopes across the valley where the Derwent water
wound its way, like a silver thread, to the hills beyond,
and on every side the view was lovely. But surely
most charming of all must have been the sight of the
two little maidens in their dainty muslin frocks,
Leghorn hats, and sandal shoes, as they played about
the garden slopes, among the beds of purple pansies,
blue forget-me-nots, and crimson wallflowers.

The children had each her own special garden, in
which they worked diligently, planting, weeding, and
watering, but it was Florence who was specially fond
of flowers. It seemed as if the old City of Flowers had
laid its charm upon her as well as gave her its name.

The two little sisters were very fond of their dolls,
too, although they showed their fondness in very
different ways, and brought up their families on quite
different plans. Florence's dolls were all delicate and
needed constant care. They spent most of their lives
in bed, going through dangerous illnesses, while they
were most carefully and tenderly nursed by their little
mother, who doctored them, and tempted their appetites
with dainty dishes until they were well again. Scarcely
were they up and dressed, however, than some fresh
ailment laid them low once more, and the nursing
began over again. Frances's dolls, on the contrary,
were scarcely ever in bed at all. They led stirring

310

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

lives of adventure and excitement, but when an acci-
dent occurred and an arm was broken or a leg came
off at the joint, it was Florence who tenderly "set"
the arm, and put the injured joint in splints.

And if it was interesting to nurse dolls, how much
more worth while was it to take care of live animals !
Florence looked upon all animals as her friends, more
especially those that were rather ugly and unfortunate.
Anything that needed her care appealed at once to her
tender little heart. It was she who welcomed and
admired the very commonplace kittens which the
stable-cat hid from less friendly eyes ; and the old pony
that was past work and of no use to anyone knew that
his little mistress loved him as much as ever. When-
ever she passed the paddock he came trotting over to
see her, and then he would poke his nose into her
pockets until he found an apple or a carrot, which was
always hidden somewhere ready for this daily game of
hide-and-seek. The birds, too, seemed to know and
trust her, and even the squirrels came darting down
for any nuts she carried with her, as she walked
through the woods, evidently looking upon her as quite
one of themselves.

Only half the year was spent at Lea Hurst, for in
winter and early spring the family went to live in their
other house, Embley Park, in Hampshire.

There were but few railways in those days, and so
the journey was made by coach or in their own
carriage, and it was always a delightful time for the
two children, who loved the excitement of driving along
the coaching roads and stopping to rest at nights at
the wayside inns.

During those winter months at Embley, Florence

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

and her sister were kept very strictly at lessons, with
their governess. Their father believed that girls
should be taught quite as thoroughly as boys, and he
planned his little daughters' lessons just as carefully as
if they had been sons. With him Florence learned
Greek and Latin and mathematics, and was extremely
quick at learning foreign languages.

The little girls were taught, too, by their mother to
work their samplers and to do fine sewing, so there was
not much spare time in their days, although some
hours were always set aside for them to run about
outside with their dogs, to scramble about the woods
or ride their ponies up hill and down dale.

From her mother, too, Florence learned the pleasure
of visiting the village people and getting to know them
in their homes, and she was always eager to be the
messenger when there was a pudding or jelly to be
carried to some invalid.

She was riding on her pony over the Hampshire
downs one day, after a round of visits with the vicar,
when they noticed that old Roger, the shepherd, was
having hard work to collect his scattered sheep, and
that he had no dog to help him.

The vicar stopped and called to him.

" Where's your dog ? " he asked.

" The boys have been throwing stones at him, your
reverence, and have broken his leg," answered the old
man.

"Do you mean to say Cap's leg is broken?" asked
Florence anxiously. She knew the name of every dog
about the place. "Can nothing be done for him?
Where is he?"

The old man shook his head.

312

FLORENCE NIGHTINGALE

"No, there's naught can be done, missy," he said.
" He will never be good for anything again. I've left
him lying yonder in that shed. I'll have to bring
along a rope this evening and put an end to him."

Florence turned beseeching eyes upon the vicar.

" Can't we go and see ? " she asked.

The vicar nodded, and they galloped off together to
the lonely shed, and in a moment Florence had slid off
her pony, entered the shed, and was kneeling by the
side of the suffering dog. She always seemed to under-
stand the language of animals, and as she patted and
soothed and spoke in a low tone to poor Cap, he seemed
at once to understand her, and feebly tried to wag his
tail in response, looking up at her with brown eyes full
of grateful trust.

The vicar, following after, carefully examined the
injured leg and declared it was not broken at all, but
that with careful nursing the dog might get well.

" What shall I do first ? " asked Florence anxiously.

" We might try a hot compress," said the vicar.

Florence did not know exactly what a hot compress
was, but when she understood that it was a cloth wrung
out in very hot water, she set to work at once. The
shepherd's boy was told to light a fire of sticks and fill
a kettle, and then came the question of a cloth and
bandages. Looking round, Florence's quick eye caught
sight of the shepherd's clean smock hanging behind the
door, and this she declared was the very thing that was
needed.

" Mamma will give him a new one," she said, as she
tore the smock into strips.

Very tenderly then did she doctor the swollen leg,
and in spite of the pain, the dog lay quite still under

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

her hand, watching her all the time with his under-
standing, grateful eyes.

A message was sent home to explain where Florence
was, and all that afternoon she watched by the side of
the suffering dog, and bathed the poor leg until the
swelling began to go down.

It was evening before the shepherd came, and he
came with a slow step, sorrowfully carrying a rope in
his hand.

"Deary me, miss," he exclaimed in astonishment,
when the dog gave a whine of welcome and tried to
come to him, " why, you've worked a wonder. I never
thought to see the old dog greet me again."

" You can throw away the rope, for he's going to get
quite well now," said Florence, "only you must nurse
him carefully, and I will show you how to make hot
compresses.''

Roger was only too glad to do all that the little lady
directed, and had no words to express his thanks. But
it was the look in Cap's grateful eyes that was all the
thanks that Florence cared for.

She was only a child then, always ready to help
anything that needed her care, tending her flowers
and learning to be orderly and diligent, but she was
laying the foundation of the great work that was to '
crown her life. The look of gratitude in the eyes of a
dog moved her childish, pitiful heart, but how well was
she to learn to know that look in the eyes of suffering
men, when the very name of Florence Nightingale meant
hope and comfort to the wounded soldiers, and the sight
of her face bending over them was to them as the face
of an angel.

JENNY LIND

ONCE upon a time, as the fairy tales say, there was
born in the northern city of Stockholm a baby girl, who
possessed as magic a gift as any princess in the fairy
tales of Hans Andersen.

At the time when this baby was born, in the year
1820, Hans Andersen was a boy of fifteen living not
very far off, in Denmark, with all those beautiful fairy
tales still in his head, and he did not meet our princess
until she was quite grown up, but the moment he saw
her he knew at once she was wonderful enough to have
lived all along in one of his own fairy tales.

Jenny Lind, of course, was not really a fairy princess,
nor indeed a princess at all. She was only a little
Swedish girl, born in a poor home in Stockholm, where
no one gave her a very warm welcome. Her young
father could not earn money enough for himself
and his wife, and now here was another mouth to fill !
Even the baby's mother did not feel specially glad at
the arrival of her little daughter. She, poor woman,
had to work hard and kept a day-school for other
people's children, and a child of her own was rather in
the way. Nobody guessed then that the baby had a
magic gift which was to bring her fame and fortune.
She was just a little unwelcome baby, christened very
grandly " Johanna Maria," but known always by the

315

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

funny, homely name of " Jenny." Life was to be full of
changes for little Jenny, and she was sent off at once
to live in the country under the care of Carl Ferndal,
organist and parish clerk of the church of Sollentuna.
This man and his wife took good care of the adopted
baby, and for four years Jenny lived the life of a country
child and was as happy as the day was long. She was
a real child of the woods and meadows, and loved
nothing so much as rolling on the grass, picking wild
flowers, and listening to the song of the birds. Birds
and flowers seemed to have a special message for her,
and she loved them with a love that never changed
through all her changing life.

Then at the end of four years the country life
vanished and town life began for the little maiden, for
her mother quarrelled with the organist and carried
Jenny back to Stockholm.

Everything was strange to the child in the big town.
She did not like so many people or so much noise.
She wished she was back in the woods listening to the
birds. Town noises were all so frightening and ugly.
Then suddenly she discovered that sounds could be
pleasant in a town too. Every morning as the soldiers
marched up the streets, they made music on their
bugles, and the tune they played went singing on in
her head all day long, just as the music of the birds
used to do in the green woods.

At last one morning when Jenny thought she was
quite alone and the soldiers' tune was still singing
softly in her head, she crept up to the piano, which had
been left open that her stepsister Amelia might practise
upon it, and began softly to pick out the tune with one
finger.

316

JENNY LIND

" Amelia, is that you practising ? " cried out the old
grandmother, who was passing.

There was no answer, but the music stopped at
once. The grandmother looked into the room. There
stood the square piano, but no one to be seen near it.
This was very strange. The grandmother rubbed her
eyes and looked again. She was sure she had heard
someone playing. Amelia might be hiding perhaps, so
in she came and poked about behind chairs and table,
until at last she caught sight of a tiny figure crouching
inside the square piano, and stooping down she dragged
out a very frightened and very dusty little Jenny.

" Child," said her grandmother, " was that you
playing ? "

Jenny caught her breath with a great sob and con-
fessed that she had tried to play on the piano without
permission.

The grandmother looked down at the tiny child with
amazement and almost with awe. She could scarcely
believe that Jenny could have made the music she had
heard. Already she caught the echo of that magic
gift, the very spirit of music which no one had as yet
guessed that the child possessed.

"Mark my words," she said afterwards to Jenny's
mother, " that child will bring you help."

That might perhaps happen some day, thought her
mother, but just now the child was rather a hindrance
than a help, and help was sorely needed. The day-
school kept by Frau Lind was not a success, and after a
few years she was obliged to give it up, and then Jenny
changed her home once more.

The steward or gatekeeper of the House of the
Widows, where Jenny's grandmother had found a home,

31?

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

had no children and wanted to adopt a little girl, and
this seemed the very thing for Jenny. It was a com-
fortable, happy home for the child, and she would be
able to see her grandmother whom she loved.

All this time the spirit of music had grown with the
child's growth, and in the new home she could no more
help singing than the birds in the trees.

" As a child I sang with every step I took, and with
every jump my feet made," she said many years after-
wards.

The little singing maiden, hopping about the quiet
Widows' Home, must have seemed like a bird shut up
in rather a gloomy cage, but Jenny was quite happy.
As long as she might sing to herself she was never
lonely, and then, too, she had always her dear cat with
the blue ribbon round his neck for company, and he
was most patient and polite in listening to her song.

There was a window in the steward's house which
looked down upon the busy street leading to S. Jacob's
church, and here on the broad window-seat Jenny used
to curl herself up, with the cat sitting opposite, and
sing to her heart's content.

The passers-by, when they heard the child's voice,
would pause and look up. They half expected to see a
bird-cage hanging there, but instead, all that was to be
seen was a round-faced little girl and a solemn cat with
a blue ribbon round his neck.

But wherever the song came from it was very sweet
and haunting, and seemed to go straight to the heart,
so the people always smiled as they looked upward,
and were never tired of listening.

Now among the people who passed to and fro under
the window of the steward's house was the maid of a

3'S

JENNY LIND

Mademoiselle Lundberg, a performer at the Royal Opera
House. This maid could not forget the sound of the
child's voice, and she thought of it so often that at last
she told her mistress about the little girl who sang to
her cat in the window of the House of the Widows.

It sounded a very pretty tale, and Mademoiselle
Lundberg began to think that she too would like to
hear the child with the bird-like voice, so she bade her
maid find out who the little girl was, and ask if she
might come and sing to her.

There was nothing very fairy-like about Jenny in
those days. She herself tells us that she was " a small,
ugly, broad-nosed, shy, undergrown girl," but when she
stood before the lady who had sent for her, and began
to sing, the magic of her music cast a spell over all
who listened.

" The child is a genius," cried Mademoiselle Lund-
berg. Then turning to Jenny's mother, who had come
with her, she said, " You must have her educated for the
stage."

But Frau Lind would not hear of such a thing, and
the old grandmother, too, shook her head when she was
told. They disliked the stage and thought it would be
an evil life for little Jenny.

" Yery well, then," said Mademoiselle Lundberg, " you
must at any rate have her taught singing."

There could be no objection to that, and after
talking it over Jenny's mother set out, with a letter
of introduction in one hand and her little daughter in
the other, to seek an interview with Herr Croclius, the
singing-master at the Royal Theatre.

There was something very grand and worldly and
almost frightening about the broad flight of steps which

319

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

led to the theatre, and as the mother and child climbed
up, Frau Lind's heart failed her again and all her doubts
came rushing back. She stood still and hesitated, half
inclined to turn round and go home.

But an eager little hand was dragging her forward,
and Jenny begged her to be quick and come on. Jenny
was quite sure that there must be no turning back, and
so, half unwillingly, her mother allowed herself to be
pulled along until she reached the room of Herr Croclius,
and they knocked timidly at the door.

The singing-master listened kindly to what they
had to say, and then bade Jenny sing one of her songs
to him, more out of kindness than because he took any
great interest in the small,- plain-looking child.

But the moment the song was begun all was changed.
Again the magic of her gift wove its wondrous spell,
and the tears gathered in the master's eyes as he
listened to the pure, fresh notes. Then when she had
finished he rose to his feet and held out his hand.

" You must come with me," he said, " to Count
Puke, the head of the theatre. We must show him
what a treasure we have found."

Now the Count was not at all inclined to think that
Jenny was a treasure at all, and he frowned when he
looked at the shy, plain little girl.

" How old is she ? " he asked, to begin with.

" Nine years old," said Croclius.

" Nine ! " exclaimed the Count. " But this is not a
creche. It is the King's Theatre."

He looked quite crossly at the small figure standing
there. A child of that age was only fit to be kept in a
nursery, what was the use of troubling a busy man
with such foolishness ?

320

JENNY LIND

"Well," said Croclius, "if the Count will not hear
her, then I will teach her for nothing myself, and she
will one day astonish you."

Indeed she had already begun to astonish the Count,
for he thought after all there must be something
wonderful about the commonplace child if Croclius,
the great singing-master, was willing to teach her
without any payment. At any rate he would allow
her to sing to him, and would judge for himself.

So again Jenny sang one of the songs which she had
sung to the cat when they sat together in the sunny
window, and once again the spell worked. She always
forgot her shyness when she once began to sing, arid
her whole face was transformed and " shone with
heavenly light."

In one of Hans Andersen's tales there is the story
of a nightingale that charmed the Emperor and all
his court with its wonderful singing, although it was
merely a plain little grey bird that almost shocked the
court with its humble appearance.

" Is it possible ? " said the lord-in-waiting. " I never
imagined it could be such a little plain simple thing
like that."

But when the Emperor heard the song of the little
grey bird, the tears came into his eyes and rolled down
his cheeks, and the song went straight to his heart.
He wished to reward the nightingale, but she would
take nothing.

" I have seen tears in an Emperor's eyes, and that
is my richest reward," she said.

That is what Jenny Lirid might have felt when she
finished her song, and looked up at the two men who
were listening to her. The Count was like the Emperor

321 X

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

in the fairy tale. He could only see the plain little
grey bird through a mist of tears which filled his eyes
and rolled down his cheeks.

Here was a treasure indeed. Such a singing bird
must not be allowed to escape, and so it was at once
arranged that Jenny should become the adopted child
of the Royal Theatre, and that she was to be educated
and taught to sing, all at the expense of the Govern-
ment.

Frau Lind gave her consent very unwillingly, but it
was a great matter that the child should be provided
for, and there seemed nothing else to be done.

So the little grey bird began her training, which was
to lead to such a world-wide success. She was scarcely
ten years old when she began to act at the Royal
Theatre, and her acting was almost as full of charm
as her singing, so that she might have become a great
actress as well as a great singer.

She was taught, of course, many other things be-
sides acting and singing, and did her lessons just like
any other little girl. Her sewing was perhaps the
thing she did best, for she loved to put in neat, dainty
stitches, and worked most exquisitely.

" Madame's stitches never come out," said her maid
when Jenny was grown up.

It might be thought a strange life for a child, and
there was much evil around her, but she grew up like a
daisy in a garden, white and pure, with gold at the heart
of her. Like S. Margaret, she kept herself unspotted
from the world, and the purity of her heart put to flight
the dragon of evil.

Even when the world began to ring with the fame
of this wonderful "nightingale," when kings and

322

JENNY LIND

queens begged that she would come and sing to them
in their palaces, when they " crowned her with flowers
and filled her lap with gold," Jenny Lind through it all
remained, like the princess in the fairy tale, " as good
as gold," unspoilt and simple, " with the manners of a
princess, the simplicity of a child, and the goodness of
an angel."

323

ROSA BONHEUR

IT was a simple, rather poor home in Bordeaux that
welcomed the birth of Marie Rosalie Bonheur on the
16th of March 1822.

Raymond Bonheur, her father, was a struggling
young artist who had married one of his pupils, Sophie
Marquis, but if there was little money in the house
there was much love, and if the home was simple it was
beautiful too, for both Raymond and his wife loved all
that was beautiful and all that was good.

It had been uphill work for the young father, and he
had had to make his own way in the world. His father
had been a cook in one of the great French families,
and Raymond's first attempts at drawing had been
to try and copy the ornaments made in butter and
sugar for the dinner-table. Then, as he showed great
talent and perseverance, he was sent to a drawing-
school at Bordeaux and later he began to give lessons
himself and married his beloved Sophie.

At the time when the first baby came, everything
was going well and the little home was fairly comfort-
able, for Sophie was a good musician and earned some-
thing by giving lessons, while the grandmother who
lived with them did a great deal of the housework and
left her free. So there was enough and to spare for
the little new-comer, who was the joy of their hearts.

Naturally, as soon as Rosalie began to know how to

324

ROSA BONHEUR

use her hands and her feet she was never tired of
trotting about after her father, and, whenever it was
possible, snatching one of his crayons in her fat little
fist. Any flat surface served her for a canvas, and the
door was specially suitable.

" Papa, papa ! Salie makes pictures," she cried, trium-
phantly pointing to a very scrawly design of round O's
and unsteady strokes on the smooth door.

"Rosalie is already showing a taste for the arts,"
said her father, smiling.

But although he laughed over her attempts he had
no desire that she should grow up to be an artist, and
he never encouraged her to try and draw. Thinking
over his own hardships and struggles, he wanted his
little girl to choose a happier, easier kind of work.

As time went on, life became more and more difficult
for the artist's family. There were two little brothers
now as well as Rosalie, and the grandparents were
getting old and feeble. Work, too, was scarce, and at
last Raymond Bonheur made up his mind to go to
Paris and see if fortune would smile upon him there.
It was hard to leave his wife and children behind, but
he felt sure he would soon find work and be able to
make a home for them.

The months that followed were difficult both for
him and for the wife he had left at Bordeaux, but the
home letters always cheered him, and Rosalie's "pic-
tures of little men," painted so carefully for her father,
made him smile and long to see his small daughter
again.

" Rosalie is sending you in the box her first tooth,
which has just come out, and a picture, with a promise
of nicer ones in the future," wrote her mother, and

325

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

then she adds, " I don't know what Rosalie will be,
but I have a conviction that she will be no ordinary

woman."

Many a mother has thought exactly the same of her
own particular little goose, which after all has never
become a swan, but in this case Rosalie's mother was
right.

At last the happy day came when the home in Paris
was ready, and Raymond wrote many directions to
his wife about the journey, which would take them
three days, bidding her not to grieve too much at
leaving Bordeaux. " And you, my little ones, try to
be good. Look round and fix in your memory the
spot you are leaving, for many years may go by before
you see it again. At last you are about to become
Parisians ! "

The six-year-old Rosalie was not at all likely to
forget that spot, and at first Paris was but a poor ex-
change for the wide, open country and the large sunny
garden where she had spent most of her little life. It
was dreadful to live in a dusty street, with nothing but
houses all around, and although it was springtime it
seemed chilly and dull in the busy town, and she missed
the sunshine and warmth of her southern home. Even
the bread tasted all wrong. Indeed, unlike the delicious
salty bread of Bordeaux, it had no taste at all.

At first there seemed nothing to admire about the
new home, but by and by Rosalie began to find out
quite a number of things that were pleasant to look at
even in the dusty street of the Rue S. Antoine.

Almost opposite the windows of the house where
the Bonheur family lived was the church of S. Paul,
with its beautiful porch, and once through that porch,

326

ROSA BONHEUR

Rosalie learned to find her away into the dim side
chapels where there were pictures to be seen. At first,
coming in out of the daylight, all was gloomy and in-
distinct, but if a little girl sat down patiently on one of
the marble steps, and looked up at the dim picture,
gradually rich beautiful colours began to glow out of
the twilight, and the kind gentle face of the Madonna
or some saint looked down at her. It was like watching
for the stars to come out at night, or searching for
violets among dark green leaves.

There was another pleasure, too, in that same street,
and that was the great wooden boar sitting in state on
his stand outside the pork butcher's shop at the corner.
He was a fearsome beast, with open mouth showing
fierce tusks, but Rosalie loved all animals, and even a
wooden beast was better than nothing. Every time
she passed she stopped to greet him, and patted his
head with a very friendly little hand.

Before very long it was arranged that Rosalie and
her two little brothers should go to school together.
In the same building where the Bonheurs now lived
there was a Mons. Antin, who kept a small school and
who offered to teach the artist's three children. It was
not at all usual for boys and girls to be taught together,
but Raymond Bonheur was rather fond of unusual
ideas, and so Rosalie went with her brothers. She
never knew what it meant to be shy or timid, and was
quite capable of holding her own among the boys. In
fact there is no doubt she was a thorough little tomboy,
and she herself tells us, " I was generally leader in all
the games, and did not hesitate now and again to use
my fists."

The sturdy little maid, with her thick, soft brown

327

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

hair, cut short and parted at the side, looked very like
a boy, and might easily have been mistaken for one.
Even at Bordeaux the old grandfather used to shake
his head over his granddaughter's boyish ways, and tell
her mother what he thought about them.

" You think you have a daughter," he said. " It is a
mistake, Rosalie is a boy in petticoats."

There were stirring times in Paris when Rosalie
was eight years old, and on the very day of the Revo-
lution of July, a little sister Juliette was born.

There was a cannon actually standing outside their
very door, ready to fire on the Place de la Bastille, and
evidently both Rosalie and her father found the cannon
much more exciting than the new baby, for there they
were both outside watching all that was going on.
Raymond, that he might have a better view, climbed
above the big entrance door, while Rosalie stood below,
and when the cannon was fired, the door was so violently
shaken that her father lost his hold and came down
head first, only just missing her.

The good, patient mother must have had her hands
very full in those days, but she never complained, and
was always cheerful and sweet-tempered. Her husband
had many strange ideas, but she always shared his
enthusiasm and believed in his noble ideals, and if her
little daughter was a tomboy, the child had the warmest
heart, and was loyal and obedient and loving.

Life was made a little more difficult just then for
the family since Raymond had decided to join the new
society, known as Saint Simonianism, and went to live
with the brethren at the " convent " at Menilmontant.
All the world was to be made different, evil was to dis-
appear, and everything that was good was to take its

328

ROSA BONHEUR

place, while at the same time women were to have
equal rights with men.

Many great and clever men joined the society, and
when on Sundays the Bonheur children went to see
their father, they learned to know people who were
well worth knowing, and who remained friends to them
all their lives.

The children's mother was quite as eager about this
new Christianity as their father, and she and the
children rather gloried in suffering for the cause when
they walked through the streets in the somewhat queer
garments of the Saint Simonians, and the street-boys
hurled insults and stones at them.

But although the new ideas were very lofty and
grand, they did not provide any money for daily bread,
and the burden of living fell very heavily on the
poor mother's shoulders. Uncomplaining as ever she
struggled on, but at last the end of the struggle came,
and she died, when Rosalie was not yet twelve years old.

For a time the four little motherless children were
left to the care of friends, and then to their joy their
father made a new home for them on the Quai de
1'Ecole, where they could all be together again.

It was quite time that Rosalie should have something
to do, and her father wanted her to learn something
more useful than drawing, which seemed the only thing
she cared for. The best plan, he decided, was to send
her to a dressmaker, where she might be taught to sew.

The dressmaker was found and Rosalie began her
lessons, but it really was little use trying to teach that
child to sew. Her fingers were clever enough when
she held a pencil, but a needle was a different matter.
Indeed, Rosalie's hands were most remarkable, they

329

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

were so exceedingly fine and small and supple, and she
had " a most energetic thumb," but fingers and thumbs
refused to do needlework. To sit in a dull room, on a
straight-backed chair, and thread needles and put in
careful stitches was more than Rosalie could endure.
The moment Madame Geiidorf's back was turned,
Rosalie escaped from the sewing-room and ran over to
the workshop where Mons. Gendorf was busy making
percussion caps for fowling-pieces.

Now there was some sense in work like that, thought
Rosalie, and she was quite eager to turn the wheel and
help to make percussion caps, only in that way her
sewing did not get on very fast, and so the dressmaking
lessons came to an end.

The next thing to be tried was a boarding-school, and
Rosalie was received as a pupil by Mme. Gibert in the
Rue de Reuilly.

Little did the poor Madame guess what she was to
suffer from the new pupil. Instead of learning gentle,
quiet manners from her companions, Rosalie began to
make them all almost as wild as herself. She was the
leader in every kind of fun and mischief in the school,
and her example infected all the rest of the pupils.
Poor Madame wrung her hands in despair. What could
one do when this troublesome child cut out the most
ridiculous figures in paper, tied them to a lump of
moistened bread, and flung them up to the ceiling,
where they hung and danced and capered, to the joy of
all the class and the wrath of the teacher ?

At last it could be borne no longer ! What was her
horror one day to come home and find all her pupils in
the garden engaged in a sham fight, with wooden sabres
for weapons, and Rosalie, of course, leading the charge

330

ROSA BONHEUR

right across her rose-plot, which was the pride of
Madame's heart. That was the last straw. Mons.
Bonheur was asked to remove his daughter before she
did any further mischief.

After that Rosalie's school education came to an
end. " If I am not mistaken," she says, " this Gibert
experiment was the last attempt to ' polish me off.' '

Then it was that, at last, her father saw that it
would be better to help Rosalie to do the one thing
her heart was set upon. Every morning she worked in
her father's studio when he was away, and said nothing
about what she was doing, but one evening, when he
returned earlier than usual, he found her finishing her
first picture from life — a bunch of cherries.

" Why, that's quite pretty," he said. " You must
now go to work in earnest."

Having once given in, he did indeed set her to work
in earnest and taught her most carefully. The other
children were at school, so Rosa had all his spare time,
and he had never to complain of either idleness or
inattention on her part. Every morning he set her
something to do, either to draw from the cast or to
copy an engraving or to make a study from nature,
and at night he went over all she had done. Whenever
he could, too, he took her long walks into the country
that she might study landscapes, animals, and birds.

Erelong she was allowed to copy in the Louvre, and
never was there a more diligent and serious student.
She was known as "the little hussar" from her quaint
dress, and she was perfectly happy working there all
day, with her lunch of bread and fried potatoes and a
draught of cold water from the courtyard.

English visitors, it is said, used often to stop and look

331

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

at her work, and say in careful French, "Very well,
very well indeed," and then go on to more lavish praise
in their own tongue.

Someone once said that Rosa was too modest to
listen to these praises, hut that remark made Rosalie
laugh most heartily. It was not modesty, she said,
which prevented her listening, but the fact that, as
she did not understand English, listening was of no use
to her.

Although the little artist worked so hard she did
not yet begin to grow very serious, neither did she out-
grow her love of childish games, for she tells us that
when she went to give drawing lessons to a little Polish
princess she and her pupil "did little else but slide up
and down the highly polished floor of the big gallery of
the Hotel Lambert."

All her life Rosalie had been fond of animals, and
her ambition had always been to paint them, and now
she began in earnest to collect her models and to follow
her own special line.

Before very long her father's studio was like a
Noah's Ark, and he must have suffered a good deal
from the menagerie. There were rabbits, fowls, ducks,
tame quails, a squirrel, a monkey, a goat, and many
other animals, all gathered together at various times.
In a letter, written to her by her father when she was
in the country, he reports on the health of her live
stock and says : " The canaries are singing ' Gloria Tibi
Domine,' and the finch is getting steadier on its legs.
The rats are off wandering somewhere or other, and
the butterflies, transfixed by a pin in your box with the
other insects, have not budged since their martyrdom.
So you see all those you care about are thriving."

332

ROSA BONHEUR

The favourite squirrel had a bad habit of gnawing
through the picture cords, and once a large picture fell
and smashed both easel and canvas, and would most
likely have killed the artist too, if he had been standing
in his usual place. After that the squirrel was shut up,
but Rosalie could not bear to see him in prison, and
took him out to the woods and set him at liberty.

Her love for animals was a very real and very deep
feeling, and rather than see one suffer she would with
her own hands put it out of its pain, however much it
cost her to do it.

It is difficult to know when Rosalie's childhood
ended and the famous Rosa Bonheur blossomed into
fame. There was always so much of the child about
her, and even when she was doing serious work she
would suddenly start a tournament in the studio with
her brothers, with maul-sticks for lances and palettes
for shields, while little Juliette, decked out in all the
old finery they could find, sat on the throne as the " fair
lady," for whose sake the knights were engaged in
deadly combat. It usually ended in broken easels and
damaged canvases, and the knights ruefully returned
to everyday life again in order to repair damages.

Perhaps it seemed as if fame came very suddenly
and easily to Rosa Bonheur, but the preparation had
been going on for many a long day. Those brown eyes
of hers, with their quick alert look, had noticed and
marked many things since the days when she played in
the big garden at Bordeaux, and it was her love and
patient study of animals that taught her how to draw
them so faithfully.

But even then something else was needed.

The boat may be built and prepared with care, the

333

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

sail may be set on high, but unless a breeze conies to
fill the sail the boat can make but little way. With all
the young artist's love for her work, in spite of all the
years of preparation, it needed, too, that heaven-sent
gift, which is bestowed but never earned, the gift of
genius.

334

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

IN the great hall of Camelot, where King Arthur held
his court, the walls were decked with the shields of all
his knights, set in three rows, from end to end. Some
shields were carved with a coat of arms, some had their
coats emblazoned with gold and colour, while others
again were blank, having only the name of the knight
written below.

It was easy, then, to see at a glance which knights
stood highest in the king's esteem, for those who had
done one noble deed had their arms carved upon their
shields, those that had done more had their arms not
only carved but emblazoned too, while those that had
done nothing to deserve reward showed but a blank
and empty shield.

In the hall of the Great King, where a shield is hung
for each of us, inscribed beneath, each with its name,
there may be many a name which the world delights to
honour, yet which is written there beneath a shield all
uncarved and unadorned, while some other name we
scarcely know may shine there to mark a shield all
inlaid with fairest colours and with purest gold.

Yet even here, seeing but dimly, at times we recog-
nise some knightly deeds so noble, some life so great
and pure, that we can almost see already the carving
and emblazoning of the shield that hangs above the
name of the true knight we honour, can almost hear

335

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the welcome of the King, " Well done, good and faithful
servant."

The story of the childhood of such great knights of
God, even when their shields were still blank and empty,
and the time of the carving had not yet come, is well
worth the telling, for it was the time of preparation for
their knightly deeds, the feeble tracing of the outline
which was afterwards to be filled in and illuminated in
crimson and gold.

So here is the story of the childhood of Bishop
Patteson, Missionary and Martyr.

John Coleridge Patteson was born in London, at
No. 7 Gower Street, Bedford Square, on the 1st of April
1827. His mother was the sister of the poet Coleridge,
and to her first-born son was given her family name of
Coleridge, as well as his father's name of John.

There were two little girls already in the nursery,
one a stepsister, Joan, seven years old, and the other,
Frances, or Fanny as she was called, only a year older
than her baby brother. Two years later another little
boy was born, so that made up a comfortable family of
four, two boys and two girls.

The father, Sir John Patteson, was a judge, and to
be the children of a judge meant having many pleasant
changes, going from place to place in England and
meeting many clever and brilliant people. The children
were sure no one had ever such a delightful father as
theirs, for with all his great cleverness he was full of
fun, and loved to see them happy although he insisted
on obedience and good behaviour.

But it was their mother who had most to do with
the children's training when they were little, and the
fair gentle lady needed all her firmness and strength of

336

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

mind in dealing with them, for they were by no means
good, pattern children. Coleridge, or Coley as he was
called, might look like a little cherub with his fair face
and thoughtful dark-blue eyes, but he had a hot temper
and a strong will, and he could be troublesome enough
to try even the patience of a mother. He would try
and see just how far he could go, and stubbornly refuse
to give in until the last moment, although he knew that
his mother was extremely firm, and always insisted on
being obeyed in the end.

But if Coley was troublesome he was very affection-
ate too, and as soon as the battle was over, he was
eager to say, " I will be good." Only that was not
enough for his mother. She waited until she saw that
he was really sorry, and she never allowed his easy
promise to save him from the punishment he deserved.

What was the use of saying " I will be good," after
he had flown into a passion and attacked his little sister
Fanny and stabbed her arm with a sharp pencil?
Fanny of course had been also to blame, for she had
been teasing him, but that was no excuse for a boy to
be so unmanly as to hurt his sister. So in spite of
his repentance Coley was soundly whipped, and bore it
manfully, while Fanny wept enough for two.

But although the mother had to rebuke and punish
she was also the children's best playfellow, and was
always ready to share all the fun and jokes of the
nursery. None of the children could bear to vex their
mother, their first thought being to spare her any worry.
Once, when they were at Oxford, little Fanny had the
misfortune to put her foot through a pane of glass.

" Oh ! mamma ! " she cried, " I did not mean to be an
expense to you."

337 Y

WHEN THEY AVERE CHILDREN

Whereupon Coley brought out three shillings, all his
little store, and put it into her hand to pay for the
damage.

Even by the time he was five years old Coley began
to control his temper and to overcome his childish
faults. On his fifth birthday, as he was now able to
read, his father gave him a Bible, and this he read most
eagerly. Some things puzzled him sorely, though, and
grown-up people so seldom answered his questions.

"What happened to all the fish during the flood?"
he asked, but never could get a satisfactory answer.
He loved Isaiah best, and declared that his first sermon
should be on the fifty-third chapter. For by this time
he had quite made up his mind what he meant to be.

" I shall be a clergyman," he told his mother, " and
make people happy by saying the Absolution."

Although the Bible was so well read, it was never
carelessly treated, and the little hands that turned the
pages must have been always reverent and careful, for
it was this same little Bible that was used twenty-seven
years later when he was consecrated as Bishop.

Other books might fare badly at his hands, for he
was not at all a model boy, being as careless and
thoughtless as most children are, disliking all lessons
and loving his games, but he always treated holy
things with thoughtful reverence, and tried to teach
his little brother to do so too.

" Think, Jimmy, think ! " he used to say, when the
child was kneeling at his nurse's knee, saying his
prayers but most evidently intent on what was going
on around him.

It was enough at first to plan to be a clergyman,
and choose the texts for his sermons, but presently his

338

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

ideas grew bigger. There had been a terrible hurricane
in the West Indies, where his uncle, the Bishop of
Barbados, was stationed, and the account of the storm,
and the adventures of the Bishop, thrilled him with
excitement. " I will be a Bishop, and I will have a
hurricane," he announced grandly.

But the bishopric and the hurricane were still in the
dim future, and something much less exciting, and to
his mind a great deal more trying, was to be endured in
the present — he was to go to school.

A little boy of eight is apt to be very home-sick and
miserable when he first leaves home, and Coley was
sure he was never going to be happy again. Even
the beautiful country around Ottery St. Mary and all
the joys of out-of-door life were no joys to him; his
one longing was to get away and be at home again.

" I can never be happy except in the holidays," he
writes to his mother. " To think of you all makes me
chry. I believe you will not mind that blot, for it was
a tear just before that fell."

To " chry " certainly sounds much more dignified with
the added h.

There was one little gleam of comfort in his hard
lot, and that was the fact that his grandparents lived
quite close to the school, and his Uncle F^ank not far
off at the Manor House. Whenever he was invited and
could obtain leave he went off to see them, and it was
a joy to leave school and all the boys behind for a while
and feel almost as if he was at home again. Indeed it
was such a joy to the lonely little home-sick boy that he
was tempted once or twice to invent the invitations
and obtain leave under false pretences.

Then came the terrible day when his wrong-doing

339

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

was discovered, and his Uncle Frank as well as the
head master made him feel desperately sorry and
ashamed of himself. He confessed at once when he
was questioned, and was quite straightforward in his
explanations of what he had been doing, but his Uncle
Frank soon showed him how mean and cowardly he
had been, and that hurt more than the punishment of
being kept within bounds and allowed to pay no visits
for a long time. In a letter to his father he tells how
sorry he is, and what his Uncle Frank had threatened
to do.

"He told me that if I ever told another falsehood
he would that instant march me into school and ask
Mr. Cornish to strip and birch me, and that if I fol-
lowed the same course I did now, and did not amend
it, if the birching did not do, he should not let me home
for the holidays, but I will not catch the birching."

Coley did not catch that birching, and indeed never
again needed anyone to remind him to be strictly
truthful. His school report spoke well of his conduct,
but had no great praise for his diligence at his lessons,
and the masters were sure he could do much better
if he would only try.

Coley was certainly not keen about his work, he
had very little ambition where his lessons were con-
cerned, and he was so much fonder of games and
sports. He was a good cricketer, rode straight, and
was so light and active that few could beat him at
running. He was a thorough sportsman too, and
never whimpered when he was hurt. When he broke
his collar-bone, no one at home knew about it until
afterwards when his mother's embrace made him
wince, and he explained why he had not mentioned it.

340

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

" I did not like to make a fuss," he muttered shame-
facedly.

Of course by that time he had learned to be very
happy at school, in spite of his dismal forebodings, and
he was a great favourite, for he was always so good-
natured, and so ready to help anyone, with scarcely
a thought for himself.

Never did a younger brother have a better protector
than did Jimmy of the wandering prayers, when he
arrived at Ottery St. Mary, to join Coley at school.
Schoolboys are not fond of showing affection openly,
but Coley saw to it that no one harmed or bullied
his little brother, and guarded him carefully with a
strong protecting love, hidden under a rough school-
boy manner.

The boys were not very long together at Ottery,
for Coley was now nearly eleven and ready for a
public school, so his next step onwards was his be-
coming an Eton boy.

It was still rather a hardship to go back to school
after holidays spent at home, but on the whole Coley
was thoroughly happy at Eton. His letters to his
mother told of successes in his class as well as in
games, and he wrote a long description of the young
Queen Victoria when she came to attend some cere-
mony at Eton.

He had evidently paid great attention to her
appearance and dress, that he might describe them
to his mother. But there was one little adventure
connected with the visit which he was rather shy of
mentioning.

The boys had thronged around the royal carriage,
all eager to show their loyalty, and little Patteson

341

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

was pushed forward in the crush until he became
entangled in one of the carriage wheels. The Queen,
with her usual presence of mind, leaned over and
held out her hand, and the boy, by grasping it, was
able to pull himself on to his feet again. He was so
bewildered that he never thought of trying to thank
her, and by the time he had recovered his wits the
carriage had rolled on. But although he had shown
no gratitude, the remembrance of that royal helping
hand made his feeling of personal loyalty even stronger
than it was before.

After that came another festive day, when the
Queen passed through on her wedding trip, and Coley
wrote a long description of the welcome given by the
Eton boys. It must have been a day to remember !
All the boys wore large bridal favours and white
gloves (not very white by the end of the day), and
it is difficult to say which part of it all Coley enjoyed
most. His letter describes the joy of chasing the
" clods " off the Long Walk wall, the tremendous
cheering, and the final rush to the Castle.

" You may fancy we were rather hot, running all
the way to the Castle, besides the exertion of knocking
over the clods and knocking at doors as we passed ;
but I was so happy."

There was one more royal visit mentioned in his
letters home, which was perhaps the one he enjoyed
most of all. It was when King Louis Philippe visited
Eton with the Queen, Prince Albert, and the Duke
of Wellington, who was the idol of the boys. Coley
describes the King and goes on to tell how the Duke of
Wellington by some mistake fell behind the rest, and
was hustled by the crowd, who did not recognise him.

342

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

"I was the first to perceive him," he writes, "and
springing forward, pushed back the fellows on each
side, who did not know whom they were tumbling
against, and, taking off my hat, cheered with might
and main."

The crowd took up the cheering, and in a moment
the whole school surrounded the Duke, and as he stood
alone in the middle of the boys, as Coley says, " I rather
think we did cheer him."

The soldierly figure of the Iron Duke and his un-
demonstrative way of enduring admiration is well
described.

"At last, giving about one touch to his hat, he
began to move on, saying, ' Get on, boys, get on.' I
never saw such enthusiasm here : the masters rushed
into the crowd, waving their caps and shouting like
any of us. As for myself I was half mad, and roared
myself hoarse in about five minutes."

Perhaps all these excitements rather interfered with
lessons, and Coley was as keen as ever about cricket
and bathing and boating, but at any rate the lessons
suffered. He had really tried to work, and it was a
bitter disappointment when he found that he had not
done as well as his masters expected of him. He
more than held his own with the other boys, and
that had quite satisfied him, but he had such splendid
abilities that he should have done much better if only
he had taken a real interest in his work. His sorrow
over his shortcomings was very real, however, and
he set to work at once with all his might, that he
might have a better report to send home. Great was
his joy when he was able to write news of a brilliant
success.

343

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

" I am so splitting with joy, you cannot think,"
he writes, " because now I have given you some proof
that I have been lately sapping, and doing pretty
well."

His wish to become a clergyman, which he had
announced when he was five years old, had never
changed, but now when he was fourteen the wish
began to grow into a steady purpose, and that purpose
was fixed by two sermons which he heard preached
at Windsor.

He had grown up but slowly, and there was still
much of the child about him, but he was gradually
leaving the little boy behind him and becoming more
of a man. Besides this, he was looking forward to
his confirmation, and that alone was enough to make
him more steady and thoughtful.

The New Windsor Parish Church was crowded to
overflowing on the Sunday when two great missionary
sermons were preached by Archbishops Wilberforce
and the newly-made Bishop of New Zealand. The
boys could not all find seats, and so many of them
stood throughout both morning and evening services,
listening with the keenest interest. The new bishop
was an old friend, for he had been curate at Windsor,
and the thought of the warfare he was setting out to
wage, and of the perils to be met, filled them all with
enthusiasm.

Among those listening lads stood young Patteson,
drinking in every word.

"The abundance of the sea shall be converted
unto thee, the forces of the Gentiles shall come unto
thee." The text rang in his ears like a call to battle,
and the echoes never died away.

344 '

JOHN COLERIDGE PATTESON

The evening sermon was another trumpet-call to
the boys to give of their best, and to furnish the
" nerves and sinews " for the warfare of the Master
under whose banner they were all enrolled. They were
told that even the smallest offering of real self-sacrifice
would be acceptable, and would be a power in the
great work of the Church.

Out on the green slopes of the hills above Galilee
there had once gathered a crowd of hungry listeners,
and the Master's direction, " Give ye them to eat,"
seemed to the disciples a command that it was im-
possible to obey. Only one little lad pressed forward
willing to give all that he had, although it was so
small ; and that offering in the Master's hands was
sufficient to feed the multitude.

So in that great crowded church again a little lad
stood ready with his offering, the gift of his life and
service, and again the Master's hand was ready to
receive the gift.

"Lady Patteson," said the Bishop, before he left
for New Zealand, when he was saying good-bye, " will
you give me Coley?"

The boy's mother started, she had never thought
of this. The carving on the knightly shield must
often first be traced in lines of pain and self-sacrifice
upon some other heart.

She did not answer then, but afterwards, when
she found that her boy's heart was set upon it, she
told him that, if he kept to his purpose, when the
time came he should have her consent and blessing.

Together the mother and son talked of the future,
and she was proud to think she was offering her
best. She was willing to let him go, and she bade

345

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

her young knight prepare himself for the fight; but
they did not know that when the time should come
for him to set forth, other hands would buckle on
his armour.

The boy stood at her side, his eyes shining with
eagerness, and his heart beating high with the hope
of doing good service for the King. His shield should
some day bear his arms and show the record of a
knightly deed, but they did not guess that there would
be blazoning too, and that the colours should shine
with the crimson of the martyr's dye, when the faith-
ful knight should lay down his life in his Master's
service.

346

SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS

IN the story of the childhood of famous men and
women, we seldom find the things we look for and
would expect to find there. If we might invent the
stories ourselves, they would, in most cases, be very
different from the real accounts. But now and again
we come across the record of a childhood which fits
exactly with our ideas of what it should have been,
and the story of the childhood of John Everett Millais
is one of these. The famous painter began steadily
from his earliest years to tread the road from which
his feet never wandered. The golden thread which
ran through all his life he grasped while still but a
child, and it led him on without break or tangle to
the goal of his ambition.

It was at Southampton that John Millais was born
on the 9th of June 1829, but it was at St. Heliers in
Jersey that he spent the first happy years of his
childhood. His father, John William Millais, was
descended from an old Norman family that had lived
for generations on the island, and St. Heliers was
an ideal home for children. Here John and his elder
brother William, and their sister Emily, played amongst
the rocks to their hearts' content, catching sand-eels
and crabs, poking about in the clear pools, and carry-
ing home all sorts of treasures to fill baths and

347

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

basins. It was rather a trial to their mother's
patience, for she would much rather that the treasures
had been left on the shore, and John, who was only
four rears old, was not a strong child, and she was
anxious when he escaped from her care, and went
to search for his beloved sea-beasts and sea-weeds.
However she soon found that the best way to keep
him safe and happy, and out of mischief, was to let
him have a pencil and paper on which to draw
pictures.

John loved fishing off the pier and hunting in
the pools, but he loved drawing pictures best of all.
With a pencil and some scraps of paper he was per-
fectly happy, and he was never tired of drawing birds
and butterflies, and anything else that caught his
fancy. Lying flat on the ground, he covered his paper
with all sorts of figures and animals, and very soon
other people besides his mother began to notice his
drawings and to think them extremely clever.

"Mark my words, that boy will be a very great
man some day, if he lives," said one of his uncles,
after looking at his nephew's work.

John was not a difficult child to manage at home.
He was frank and truthful and very affectionate,
but he always found it difficult to keep to rules, and
it was impossible to drive him by force to do any-
thing he had made up his mind not to do. It was
his mother who taught him his lessons and gave him
all the help he needed, and only once was the attempt
made to send him to school.

That school was certainly not a success, and he
had been there only two days when he was sent
home in dire disgrace. Some rule had been broken,

348

SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS

and the master declared that John should have a
thrashing to teach him to keep the rules another
time. But John did not see the justice of this, and
before the thrashing began he turned round quickly
and bit the master's hand. Of course he was sent
home at once, and told he need not come back any
more after such disgraceful behaviour.

Now John ought to have been very unhappy, and
perhaps he was a good deal ashamed of that bite, but as
far as school was concerned he was overjoyed to hear
that he need not go back. To do lessons with his
mother was quite a different thing altogether. With
her to teach him he loved his lessons, instead of hating
them with all his heart. " I owe everything to my
mother," he used to say, when his childhood's days were
past and he remembered all her love and patience with
her little boy.

When John was about six years old there came a
delightful and interesting change in his life, for the
family went to live at Dinan in Brittany, and the
children were charmed with all the new sights and
sounds. There were many kinds of new things for John
to draw, and greatest of all delights was the sight of
the regiments of French soldiers as they marched
through the town on their way to or from Brest. John
loved the grand buildings and all the beautiful things
his mother pointed out to him, but he was fascinated by
those gorgeous French uniforms.

In the Place du Gruxlin there was a bench from
which the two boys could watch the roll-call and see
the soldiers above the heads of the crowd, and they never
failed to be there when they heard the drums beating
and the sound of marching feet. John of course always

349

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

had his sketch-books with him, ready to draw all he
could see.

He was working away one day, anxious to finish the
portrait of a very smart drum-major in all the glory of
his gold trappings, bearskin, and gold-headed cane,
when two of the officers crept up silently behind the
bench and stood watching what he was doing. They
said nothing until the portrait was finished, and then
suddenly clapped him on the back and cried " Bravo ! "
They were so much astonished at the child's clever
drawing that they insisted on tipping him, and then
returned with the boy to his home, as they wished to
be introduced to his father and mother.

" The child should be sent at once to study in Paris,"
they declared, feeling sure they had discovered a genius.

The sketch of the drum-major was carried off by
them to the barracks and there shown with great pride
to the other officers. No one, however, would believe
that it could be the work of a child of six, and bets
began to be freely taken about it, while one of the two
officers started off post-haste to fetch little John to
prove their words.

It was very frightening to be carried off by the
strange soldier-man and taken to the barracks all alone,
and John went in fear and trembling, but as soon as
he got there and was given a pencil and a sheet of
paper he forgot to be afraid or shy, and began at once
to draw a portrait of the colonel smoking a big cigar.
It turned out to be a most excellent likeness, and the
other officers were so delighted as well as astonished
that they willingly paid their bet, which was the cost
of a good dinner.

After two years at Dinan the family returned once

350

SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS

more to St. Heliers, and there John began his first
lessons in drawing, but his master, Mr. Bessel, soon told
the boy's parents that there was nothing more he could
teach John, and he advised them to take their little son
up to London. It would be wiser to go at once to the
President of the Royal Academy, and ask his advice as
to what should be done with the young genius.

Now the President of the Royal Academy had often
been asked to look at the drawings of promising chil-
dren, and he was not at all encouraging when John
and his parents were shown in, and he heard what they
had to say.

" Better make him a chimney-sweep than an artist,"
he said. He had seen so many young men try to paint
pictures who would have been much better employed
sweeping chimneys.

However, the great man said he would look at the
child's sketches, and he evidently expected to see the
usual kind of work, which so often only seems wonder-
ful in the parents' eyes.

But when the sketches were produced and laid
before him, he suddenly sat straight up and his eyes
grew quite round with astonishment. He looked from
the sketches to the little fellow standing there, and
seemed to find it impossible to believe that such small
childish hands could have produced such masterly
work. Would John draw something here and now, he
asked, that he might look on and judge ?

There was no difficulty about that. John set himself
promptly to work and began a drawing of the fight
between Hector and Achilles. The president could
scarcely believe his own eyes. He was sorry he had
talked about chimney-sweeping, and he handsomely

351

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

apologised. Here was one of the few exceptions to his
rule, and he strongly advised the boy's parents to have
him trained to be an artist.

So it was settled that John should begin to work at
once to draw from the cast in the British Museum, and
after a short time, when he was nine years old, a place
was found for him in the Academy of Art, the best
school known at that time, kept by Henry Sars, a
portrait-painter.

The small boy with his delicate face, long fair curl-
ing hair, holland blouse and turned-down frilled collar,
was rather unlike the rest of the art students, and he
was an easy victim for the bullying of the bigger boys.
His fondness for work, his extreme diligence and won-
derful talent were added aggravations to the other
pupils, and one big hulking lazy fellow took a special
delight in torturing the child.

Little Millais' life was made a burden to him by this
big bully, and it only grew worse and worse as time
went on. They both had entered the competition for
the silver medal of the Society of Arts, and when
it was known that John had carried off the prize,
although he was only nine years old, his big rival was
furious.

The very next day the bully sat in the studio watch-
ing like a great spider in a web for the arrival of the
small boy, and biding his time until all the other
pupils were gone, he seized on the defenceless little boy
and began to take his cruel revenge.

In spite of his struggles, Millais was hung head
downwards out of the window and his legs were
fastened securely with scarves and pieces of string to
the iron bar of the window-guard. The child very soon

352

SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS

became unconscious, and would most likely have died
had not some passers-by in the street below noticed the
hanging figure, and given the alarm by ringing the
street door-bell.

After that the bully was seen no more at the
Academy, and Millais was left in peace.

The prize day at the Society of Arts was a red-letter
day in the life of John Millais, for he was to receive
his silver medal from the hands of his Royal Highness
the Duke of Sussex. Dressed in a "white plaid tunic,
with black belt and buckle ; short white frilled trousers
showing bare legs, with white socks and patent-
leather shoes ; a large white frilled collar, a bright neck-
tie, and his hair in golden curls," he walked up when
the secretary called out his name, "Mr. John Everett
Millais."

There was a pause. The Duke, who stood behind a
high raised desk, saw no one to whom he was to hand
the medal, and waited for the prize-winner to appear.

" The gentleman is a long time coming up," he said
at last to the secretary.

"He is here, your Royal Highness," replied the
secretary, and looking down over the desk, sure enough
the Duke saw that the gentleman was standing there,
but such a very little gentleman he was, that his golden
head did not reach to the level of the top of the desk.

A stool was then brought, and standing upon it the
winner of the silver medal could be seen more clearly,
and the Duke patted his head and wished him every
success.

" Remember, if at any time I can be of service to
you, you must not hesitate to write and say so," he
added kindly.

353 *

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

That was a lucky promise for John, and it was not
very long before he claimed the promised favour.
Both he and William were very keen on fishing, and
they had fished every year together in the Serpentine
and Round Pond, until permission was withdrawn.
Then John remembered the Duke's promise, and wrote
to ask if they might not be allowed to fish there as
usual, and the request was granted at once. After that
the pleasure was all the greater, for they were the envy
of all the other little boys, who were only allowed to
look on.

William was only two years older than John,
and they always were together as much as possible,
although William went to school and John still did
his lessons with his mother. Both boys were "mad
about art," and "knew every picture in the National
Gallery by heart." One of their plays was to make
a National Gallery of their own, out of a large deal
box, the pictures hung therein being about the size
of a visiting-card or a good-sized envelope.

All the old masters were hung there. There were
Rembrandts, Titians, Rubens, Turners, &c., all with
most gorgeous frames made out of the shining paper
of crackers, and all carefully varnished to look like
oil paintings.

It was a good thing that little Millais was child
enough to play at such games, for in other ways he
was so much older than his years, and he was getting
on so quickly with his work, that it seemed as if he
had already left his childhood behind him. He was
only ten when he was admitted to be a student of
the Royal Academy, "the youngest student who ever
found entrance within its walls, and during his

354

SIR JOHN EVERETT MILLAIS

years there he carried off in turn every honour the
Academy had to bestow."

So the golden thread led onwards, and the boy never
loosed his hold upon it nor strayed into other paths.
Little John Millais, " the child " of the Royal Academy,
went steadily forward until he became Sir John Millais,
its famous president.

355

LOUISA ALCOTT

OF the four "Little Women" in that book which
we all love, it is generally "Jo" who is the greatest
favourite. She is such a real person to us, and we
seem to know her so intimately that it is not at all
surprising to learn that she did not only live between
the covers of a book, but was a real live person
and lived a real life in this world of ours. Only her
name was really Louisa Alcott and not Jo March, and
the story she wrote about Jo and Meg, Beth and Amy,
was, with a few alterations, the story of herself and
her three sisters, Anna, Elizabeth, and May. Her story,
as we know, begins when "Jo" was almost grown
up, so there is a great deal more to be told about her
when she was a little girl.

Louisa Alcott was born in Germastown, Pennsyl-
vania, on the 29th of November 1832. She was the
second " little woman " born into the Alcott family, but
she had quite as warm a welcome as the first, and both
father and mother were proud to have another daughter.

From the very first Louisa was quite a credit to
the family. She was such a strong, healthy baby, and
such an extremely good one.

" The prettiest, best little thing in the world " was
the verdict of one of their friends. "It has a fair
complexion, dark bright eyes, long dark hair, a high

356

LOUISA ALCOTT

forehead, and altogether a countenance of more than
usual intelligence."

Perhaps as a tiny baby Louisa may have deserved
to be called "the best in the world," but certainly
as soon as she could toddle about by herself, and her
energetic little feet began to carry her into all sorts
of adventures, she could scarcely be considered such a
model of goodness.

She was but a baby of two years when the Alcott
family moved to Boston, and by that time she was
quite an independent little maiden. She and Anna
were carefully dressed in nice clean nankeen frocks for
the journey, which was to be made by steamboat, and
they looked the very picture of sweetness and good
behaviour.

In the bustle and excitement of settling on board,
however, no one at first noticed that the baby had
disappeared, and when an anxious search was made
it was some time before she could be found. When
at last they looked into the engine-room, there sat
the truant, as dirty as a little tinker and as happy as
a queen, watching the engines and having " a beautiful
time."

Those energetic feet of hers and her inquiring
mind led her into a good deal of mischief, and she was
never tired of trying to run away. Sometimes she
was caught and brought back before she had strayed
very far, but one day she escaped unnoticed and spent
a long happy day wandering about with some Irish
children with whom she had made friends. They played
about the common together and dug in the dust-heaps,
and when she was hungry the children shared with
her their store of cold potatoes, salt fish, and crusts.

357

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

It was all most delightful until evening came on, and
then Louisa suddenly began to think about home
and to wish she could find her way back. It was so
easy to run away, but not nearly so easy to return.
At last, when the other children left her, she gave it
up and sat down on a doorstep close to a big friendly
dog that allowed her to cuddle up close to him and
lay her tired head on his curly back. She watched
the lamplighter going his rounds and the lights begin
to twinkle in the streets, and then she fell fast asleep
and slept soundly until the town-crier came round
with his bell.

" Lost, stolen, or strayed," he cried, " a little girl, in
a pink frock, white hat, and new green shoes."

" Why, dat's me," said a small voice from the door-
step as Louisa sat up and rubbed her eyes, smiling a
very sleepy smile.

She did not at all like to be parted from the dear
curly dog, but the crier carried her off to his house and
gave her a most delicious supper of bread and treacle
on a tin plate with the alphabet round it.

So far the adventure had been nothing but pure
pleasure, but the fun came to an end the next day
when the runaway found herself tied to the arm of the
sofa, with plenty of time to sit still and repent.

She had not meant to be naughty. The world was
so full of interesting things, and she loved to make
friends with everybody.

"I love everybody in dis whole world," she had
declared with a beaming smile one morning at break-
fast, and the little Irish children had only come in for
their share.

That dinner of cold fish and potatoes must have been

353

LOUISA ALCOTT

a real treat to Louisa, for at home she seldom had
anything to eat but plain boiled rice without sugar and
some kind of porridge. Her father never ate meat,
and the children were not allowed to have it either.
It was no wonder that they sometimes grew very tired
of plain rice and porridge and longed for something
more tasty. Great indeed was their joy when a kind
old lady came to stay at a hotel close by, and used to
save up her pies and cakes in a bandbox ready to carry
over to the children.

Years afterwards, when Louisa had become a famous
authoress, she met the old lady again and went up
joyfully to greet her.

"Why, I did not think you would remember me,"
said the old friend.

"Do you think I shall ever forget that bandbox ? "
said Louisa Alcott, smiling reproachfully at her.

Occasionally on birthdays or some such special
occasion the children were allowed a cake, and birth-
days were a great event in the family.

Louisa on her fourth birthday held quite a reception
in her father's schoolroom. It was like being a queen
to have a crown of flowers on her head and to stand on
the table and hand each scholar a plummy cake as they
passed. But, sad to say, the supply of cakes ran short,
and the little queen found that if she gave each child
a cake there would be none left over for herself. That
did not seem at all fair, for, after all, was she not the
chief person on her own birthday ? So Louisa held the
last cake tight in her hand and refused to part with it.

Her mother, who was looking on, came and whispered
in her ear.

" It is always better to give away than to keep the

359

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

nice things," she said. " So I know my Louey will not
let the little friend go without."

It was hard to part with the " dear plummy cake,"
but Louisa handed it over to the waiting child, and
somehow, when her mother kissed her, she felt happier
than any plum-cake had ever made ht . feel.

That school, kept by Louisa's fatner, was never a
very successful one, and before very long it was given
up, and the family left Boston again and went to live
in a country house in Concord.

It was a delightful change for the children. They
loved the cottage and the garden full of trees, and they
had besides a large barn which they were allowed to
use as a playroom.

All the little Alcotts were fond of acting and dressing
up. They had found their way early into Make-Believe
Land, and now the old empty barn was the very place
for them to act their plays and pretending games. The
little Emersons and Hawthornes who lived in the
neighbourhood came to help, and together they acted
the Pilgrims Progress, Jack and the Beanstalk, and all
the stories they knew.

Lessons were carefully done, though, before play
began, and every morning the children went to their
father's study for several hours. Louisa tells us those
hours were very pleasant ones, for her father never
crammed them with learning but taught in the wisest,
pleasantest way. She says, " I never liked arithmetic,
nor grammar, and dodged those branches on all occa-
sions, but reading, writing, composition and geography
I enjoyed, as well as the stories read to us."

No one could tell stories as her father did, for he
was certainly a wonderful story-teller.

360

LOUISA ALCOTT

Besides the lessons in the study there was a share
of housework for each little girl to do, and plenty of
needlework too. Anna had made a whole shirt most
beautifully when she was ten years old, and Louisa tells
us, " At twelve I set up as a doll's dressmaker, with my
sign out and wonderful models in my window. All the
children employed me, and my turbans were the rage
at one time, to the great dismay of the neighbours'
hens, who were hotly hunted down that I might tweak
out their downiest feathers to adorn the dolls' head-
gear."

Yet in spite of housework and sewing Louisa was
certainly inclined to be a tomboy, and her greatest de-
light was always to be out of doors, running about the
fields and woods, climbing trees and racing with the
other children.

"I always thought I must have been a deer or a
horse in some former state," she says, " because it was
such a joy to run. No boy could be my friend till I
had beaten him in a race, and no girl if she refused to
climb trees, leap fences, and be a tomboy."

Her wise mother allowed Louisa to run about as
much as she liked, for she wanted her to grow up strong
in body as well as in mind, and believed that Nature
could teach her some of the best lessons. Indeed the
child never forgot those things which she learned out
in the woods, under the open sky, and one morning
she suddenly learned the greatest lesson of all.

She had been running over the hills very early in
the morning, before the dawn began to break, and had
thrown herself down to rest in the quiet woods, watch-
ing for the sun to rise. Through an arch of trees she
saw the light begin to flush the sky and the spell of

361

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

morning to touch the hills and river and wide green
meadows below, till the grey veil of shadows was turned
into a golden haze.

She had often watched a sunrise before, but she had
never before felt all the beauty and wonder of it, and
the certainty that God was there, very near to her.
The little pilgrim had caught a real glimpse of the
Celestial City, and it was a vision that never faded.

The happy days at Concord in the woods and garden
and old barn came to an end when Louisa was ten
years old, and once more the family moved to a new
home, this time to a farm called " Fruitlands," at
Harvard. Here their father helped to start quite a new
kind of life, with some other people who shared his
ideas. They were all to live together and have every-
thing in common, and no one was to buy or sell or
make money. It was quite like a picnic at first, and
the children thoroughly enjoyed themselves. This is
how Louisa describes the journey to " Fruitlands " : " On
the first day of June 1843 a large waggon, drawn by a
small horse, and containing a motley load, went lum-
bering over certain New England hills, with the pleasing
accompaniments of wind, rain, and hail. A serene man
with a serene child upon his knee was driving, or rather
being driven, for the small horse had it all his own
way. . . . Behind them was an energetic-looking woman,
with a benevolent brow, satirical mouth, and eyes
brimful of hope and courage. A baby reposed on her
lap, a mirror leaned against her knee, and a basket of
provisions danced at her feet, as she struggled with a
large, unruly umbrella. Two blue-eyed little girls, with
hands full of childish treasures, sat under an old shawl,
chattering happily together. . . . The wind whistled over

362

LOUISA ALCOTT

the bleak hills, the rain fell in a despondent drizzle,
and night began to fall. But the calm man gazed as
tranquilly into the fog as if he beheld a radiant bow of
promise spanning the grey sky. The cheery woman
tried to cover every one but herself with the big
umbrella. The little girls sang lullabies to their dolls
in soft, maternal murmurs. Thus these modern pil-
grims journeyed out of the old world to found a new
one in the wilderness. . . . The prospective Eden at
present consisted of an old red farmhouse, a dilapi-
dated barn, many acres of meadow-land, and a grove."

No one was to eat anything but grain and fruits
and roots at " Fruitlands," and they were to wear no
woollen garments, for that would have meant robbing
the sheep, and it was even suggested that no one
should wear shoes, because the leather was made from
the skins of animals. Here, however, the children's
mother took a firm stand, and she refused to allow her
little daughters to go barefoot.

The children were happy enough in their new home,
for although they had to do their share of hard work,
they were left free at other times to run about out of
doors, which was what they loved. They all kept their
diaries, and in hers Louisa gives a picture of their
daily life.

" I rose at five and had my bath. I love cold water !
Then we had our singing-lesson with Mr. Lane. After
breakfast I washed dishes and ran on the hill till nine,
and had some thoughts — it was so beautiful up there.
Did my lessons — wrote and spelt and did sums. . . .
Father asked us what was God's noblest work. Anna
said men, but I said babies. Men are often bad ; babies
never are. We had a long talk and I felt better after

363

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

it. ... We had bread and fruit for dinner. I read
and walked and played till supper-time."

There was only one other lady at "Fruitlands"
besides the children's mother, but she did very little
to help with the work. She gave the children music-
lessons which they did not like at all. Louisa writes
in her diary :

" I had a music-lesson with Miss P. I hate her, she
is so fussy. I ran in the wind and played be a horse
and had a lovely time in the woods with Anna and
Lizzie. We were fairies, and made gowns and paper
wings, I ' flied ' the highest of all." She goes on after-
wards to tell the story of the day when Mr. Emerson
and Miss Fuller came to visit them, and how the guests
had a long conversation with their father and mother
on the subject of education.

" Well, Mr. Alcott," said Miss Fuller at length, " you
have been able to carry out your methods in your own
family, and I should like to see your model children."

The visitors were standing talking on the doorstep,
and just then a tremendous uproar was heard close at
hand, and round the corner of the house dashed a
queer procession. Anna was wheeling a wheelbarrow
in which sat baby May crowned like a queen. Louisa
was harnessed as a horse, and Elizabeth ran barking at
the side pretending to be a dog. The shouts ceased
suddenly when the children caught sight of the visitors,
and the horse in her surprise stumbled and fell, bring-
ing wheelbarrow and baby and driver down in a heap.
Mrs. Alcott turned to Miss Fuller with a smile.

" Here are the model children," she said.

Louisa had always longed to have a room of her
very own, and at last when she was thirteen her wish

364

LOUISA ALCOTT

was granted. Again she writes, "I have at last got
the little room I have wanted so long, and am very
happy about it. It does me good to be alone, and
mother has made it very pretty and neat for me. My
work-basket and desk are by the window, and my closet
is full of dried herbs that smell very nice. The door
that opens into the garden will be very pretty in
summer, and I can run off to the woods when I like.

" I have made a plan for my life, as I am in my teens
and no more a child. I am old for my age, and don't
care much for girls' things. People think I am wild
and queer, but mother understands and helps me. I
have not told anyone about my plan, but I'm going to
be good. I've made so many good resolutions, and
written sad notes, and cried over my sins, but it doesn't
seem to do any good. Now I'm going to work really,
for I feel a true desire to improve, and be a help and
comfort, not a care and sorrow to my dear mother."

That plan for her life she carried out in spite of
failures and difficulties, and worked manfully for the
rest of the family, especially for the mother she loved
so dearly. She had always been fond of writing stories
and poems, as we know from her account of " Jo," but
it was uphill work at first.

" Stick to your teaching, you can't write," was the
advice given to her by a friend.

" I won't teach and I can write, and I'll prove it,"
said Louisa to herself.

How well she proved it we all know, and very
thankful we are that she stuck to her guns, for what
should we have done without our beloved book, Little
Women.

365

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON

IT was on a dark winter's day in January 1833 that
Charles George Gordon was born at No. 1 Kemp
Terrace, Woolwich Common, and England was blessed
by the birthday of one of the truest and noblest of
her hero sons.

The name of Gordon already stood for loyalty and
devotion to king and country. They were a race of
soldiers, a brave, fierce, fighting race these Gordons,
ready to pour out blood and treasure in defence of
their country, and in the service of their king. The
new-born baby had the blood of loyal and brave
generations of soldiers in his veins, and a name of
which to be proud.

Many a time, as his mother held her little son in
her arms, she must have prayed that he would keep
the precious inheritance of his fair name untarnished
and hand it on with added honours. She could not
guess that in English hearts his name was to be
graven deeper than that of any other hero knight,
that on England's roll of honour it was to shine as
a beacon, kindling men's hearts into a flame of devoted
admiration for this " Warrior of God."

Meanwhile the little child seemed a very ordinary
kind of baby, and rather a poor specimen to come
of such a warlike race. He was small and easily
frightened by the noise which the cannon made,

366

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON

although he heard it daily and should have grown
accustomed to it. When he grew a little older, how-
ever, he began to show signs of being no common-
place child, but one with a very strong character, a
wonderful amount of quiet determination and set
purpose.

He was a merry, bright-faced, mischievous little
lad, full of daring and fond of fun, but with an ear-
nestness underneath which answered to his mother's
training.

We know little of the first ten years of his life,
which were spent at Corfu, where his father, General
Gordon, held command, but the Duke of Cambridge
remembered in after years having seen a small boy
playing about there, a boy with a clever bright face,
and this was Charlie Gordon. It was there, too, that
the boy learned to swim in a way that showed him
to be quite fearless and very enterprising. Instead
of being fearful of going beyond his depth, Charlie
used to fling himself into deep water and kick out
alone, trusting always that someone would fish him
out if he began to go under.

There were six girls and four boys besides Charlie
in the Gordon family, so he had plenty of playfellows,
and when they all returned to England to live at
Woolwich there was no end to the gay times they had
together. Two elder brothers left home to enter the
army while Charlie was still a little boy, but there
were quite enough young Gordons left to get into
mischief and enjoy all kinds of adventures.

At Taunton, where Charlie was sent to school, he
did not distinguish himself in any way at his lessons,
although he liked making maps, and his drawing was

367

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

good. Books had no great charm for him, and he was
much keener on all kinds of sports. He was so fond
of fun and spent so much energy on games, that
there was no time left to try and win a high place
in his class.

It was in the holidays, however, that Charlie en-
joyed his happiest times. The high spirits of the
Gordon boys led them into all kinds of mischief, and
no one ever knew what they would do next. They
were great favourites at the Arsenal, where the work-
men would often neglect their proper business on
purpose to make splendid weapons for them. There
were squirts which could wet an enemy through and
through in a minute, cross-bows which could be used
with a screw for a bolt, and many other things
calculated to fill a boy's heart with pure joy.

How the door bells of the Woolwich houses used to
ring in those holiday times, and how angry the
servants used to be when they opened doors con-
tinually to find no one there and only the echo of
flying feet to explain the bell-ringing. Sometimes,
though, when a door stood open, Freddy, the youngest
boy, would be pushed in first and the door held shut
behind him while the bell was rung and he was left
to face the angry servant, and make the best excuse
he could.

During one of these holiday times, when other
amusements failed, the Gordon boys thought of a
brilliant new plan that kept them busy for a long
time. Their house just then happened to be overrun
with mice, and the boys set themselves diligently to
catch as many as they could alive and unhurt. The
house of the Commandant was just opposite, and as

368

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON

soon as a sufficient number of mice were caught they
were carried cautiously across the street, the Command-
ant's door was pushed gently open, and the prisoners
set free to scamper in a wild crowd into their new
home.

There was one adventure, however, which Charlie
considered his "greatest achievement," and which he
never forgot. This was a practical joke played upon
the senior cadets or " Pussies " as they were called.
These cadets were almost grown up and were not
people to be trifled with, which made it all the more
exciting, and it needed much courage and daring to
meddle with them. Their lecture-hall was opposite the
earthworks upon which they practised from time to
time, and every inch of these earthworks was well
known to Charlie and his brothers, who had many a
time played hide-and-seek there.

Now one evening, when a professor was lecturing to
the cadets in their hall, suddenly the most terrific noise
was heard, as of a tremendous explosion which seemed
to shatter every one of the windows at once. In an
instant the cadets were all on their feet, and they
swarmed out like bees disturbed in a hive. One glance
was enough to show them that there had been no
explosion, but that some mischievous persons had
pelted the windows with small shot at a given signal
all together. There was little doubt in the minds of
the " Pussies " who these mischievous persons were, for
Charlie Gordon and his brothers were never far to seek
when mischief was afoot.

With one accord the cadets made for the earth-
works, and there followed a most exciting chase. It
was lucky indeed for the Gordon boys that they knew

369 2 A

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

the turnings so well and could run like the wind, for
the " Pussies " were furiously angry and would have
shown little mercy if they had caught the offenders.
As it was, for a long time Charlie carefully avoided
meeting any of them, and he always afterwards remem-
bered that exciting hunt with a thrill of horror.

As soon as the school-days at Taunton came to an j
end, Charlie went to another school at Shooter's Hill
to be coached for the army, and after a year there he
passed into the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich.

If young Gordon did not make his mark in any of his
classes, he certainly made it amongst his companions. I
He was born to be a leader of men, and even the school-
boys felt his influence. He may have led others into ;
mischief, but he never tolerated any mean or under- I
hand act, and he was as generous as he was truthful •
and upright in word and deed. He was a slightly built )
boy, not very tall, with curly hair and light blue eyes ; I
eyes whose glance was as keen as a sharp sword, and
which used sometimes to flash like blue fire.

" Gordon's eyes looked you through and through,"
said a little Soudan boy, years afterwards, and even
at school those eyes saw straight through any mean
disguise or base motive, and seemed to read the very
heart of people. Any tale of distress set them aglow
with deep compassion, and yet at other times they
were the merriest eyes in all the world, brimming over
with laughter.

A boy had only to look at Charlie Gordon to know
that he could be trusted through thick and thin, and
that he would never desert a friend.

Even after he entered the Academy, Gordon still
got into trouble through his love of fun and practical

370

CHARLES GEORGE GORDON

joking, but he always took his punishment like a man,
and often bore more than his own share of the blame.

The cadets just then had got into a bad habit of
rushing pell-mell out of the dining-hall, and crowding
down the little narrow stair which led to it in an
exceedingly rough and unseemly manner. To check
this one day the senior corporal took his stand at the
head of the stair as the cadets left the dining-hall, and
stood there with outstretched arms to prevent the
usual rush. The sight was too tempting a one for
Charlie Gordon to resist. In an instant he lowered
his head and charged forward, so that he butted the
poor man straight in front and sent him flying back-
wards down the stairs and through the glass door
beyond.

Luckily the corporal was not injured, and only his
feelings were badly hurt ; but it was natural that he
should be very angry, and young Gordon came very
near to being dismissed, while he lost all the good-
conduct badges he had already won.

Although Gordon never grumbled over punishments
which he knew that he deserved, it was a different matter
when he felt that his honour was in any way called
into question. When one day he was told by a superior
that he would " never make an officer," he drew himself
up proudly and tore the epaulets off his shoulders,
throwing them at the feet of the officer who had
reproached him so unjustly.

He might be over-fond of fun and be led into many
scrapes, but he had a deep sense of the dignity and
nobility of the service which he had entered.

To " Honour all men. Love the brotherhood,
Fear God. Honour the King." These were the principles

371

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

which guided the life of Charles Gordon, and when
at last, on that dark day in England's history when
he stood alone face to face with death, deserted and
betrayed, he had kept his boyish code of honour un-
tarnished, pure and stainless, and had earned the right
to be known for all time as the true example of " a
very perfect knight."

372

THOMAS ALVA EDISON

IT is not only in fairy tales that we meet the
magician who with a word or a touch of his wand
can turn darkness into light, carry messages like the
wind, and make the commonplace things of everyday
life wonderful. It is not only in fairyland that such
magicians are born, for sometimes the dull old world
produces just as wonderful a wizard as any that are
to be found between the covers of Grimm or Hans
Andersen.

In the little village of Milan, in the State of Ohio,
not very many years ago Thomas Alva Edison was
born. There was no mysterious romance about the
birth of this magician. No one thought him very
wonderful at all, except perhaps his mother, and even
she found him only a tiresome boy at times. As to
Alva's father, he thought the boy rather slow and
stupid, and was quite worried about it. "Why, why,
why," was on his lips from morning till night, and
the number of questions he asked quite wore out
his father's patience. He wanted to know the reason
of everything and to prove for himself what was right
and what was wrong.

Just like ordinary boys, he was always getting int0
mischief, but whether it was by magic or good luck
he always managed to get out of it again. First of all
he fell into the canal that ran past the house where

373

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

he lived, but he was pulled out before he was drowned.
Then he tried falling into a pile of wheat in a grain
lift, and was nearly smothered, but he managed to get
out of that too. He had the top of one finger chopped
off instead of the skate strap which he was holding,
and when he tried to build a fire in a barn it was not
surprising that the barn itself caught fire in the most
ordinary way. There was nothing magical either in
the punishment that followed, when he was publicly
whipped in the village square as an example to other
naughty boys.

And yet in Alva Edison's big head the magic was
slowly working, although no one guessed it.

School had very little to do with helping on the
magic, for the boy was only there three months, and all
the time he sat at the foot of the class. " Al," as he
was called, was a veritable dunce, and the teacher could
make nothing of him. Perhaps, as usual, he asked too
many questions, and very likely they were questions she
could not answer.

But Alva's mother was vexed that her boy should
be called stupid, and so she took him away from school
and began to teach him herself. Down in the cellar he
was allowed to keep rows upon rows of little bottles,
collected from all parts of the town and filled with all
sorts of chemicals, with which he made experiments,
and each new discovery helped to add to the magic of
his brain.

Sometimes, though, the experiments were a failure
and the results far from pleasant.

" I will teach you to fly," he said one day to Michael
Gates, a boy older than himself who helped with the
work of the house.

374

THOMAS ALVA EDISON

Now Michael had a great admiration for Alva and
quite believed he was able to do what he said, so when
he was told to swallow a fearful dose of Seidlitz powders
he took them without a murmur, believing that the gas
they produced would hoist him up.

But alas ! instead of flying he was soon lying on
the ground twisted with pain, and his cries of agony
brought Alva's mother to the rescue, and she brought
out the switch which was kept behind the old grand-
father's clock and whipped the experimenter soundly.

But neither the failure of the experiment nor the
whipping discouraged Alva greatly. He was sure the
idea was all right and it was only Michael who was all
wrong.

There was not much money to spare in Alva's home,
and all those bottles and experiments cost a good
deal, so before very long, when he was only twelve
years old, he made up his mind to try to earn money
for himself.

First he tried market gardening with Michael (who
could dig if he could not fly), and he grew and sold
vegetables for a while, but he did not like the work.
Then after much persuasion his mother allowed him to
sell newspapers on the railway, and that suited him
much better. He had time to read the newspapers and
magazines as well as to sell them, and as he went back-
wards and forwards in the train from Huron, where
he now lived, to Detroit, he was allowed to use one of
the vans for his beloved experiments, and here he
collected all his bottles and worked away as he had
done in the cellar at home. Even that was not enough
to keep him busy, and when the Civil War broke out
and everyone wanted news, he started a little printing-

375

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

press in the van, and printed a newspaper of his very
own called The Weekly Herald, which he sold at " three
cents a copy."

But, sad to relate, an accident happened to the new
laboratory, and it and the printing-press came to an
untimely end. The train was running along a badly-
laid track one day, when it gave a sudden lurch, and
before Alva could catch it, a stick of phosphorus fell
from the shelf on to the floor of the van, and in an
instant the boards were in flames. The guard, a
Scotchman with a quick temper, managed to put the
fire out and save his van, but he was furious with the
boy, and boxed his ears so soundly that Alva ever
afterwards suffered from deafness. Then as soon as
the first station was reached the bottles and the printing-
press were bundled out on to the platform, and he was
left there, " tearful and indignant," in the midst of the
ruins.

It was after this that the magician began the work
that was to touch the whole world with magic. And
this is how his chance came. He was standing one day
talking to the stationmaster at a little railway station,
when he saw a tiny boy, the son of the station agent,
go wandering along the rails on which a train was
coming swiftly along. There was not a moment to be
lost, and in the flash of an instant Alva had jumped
down and caught the child just as the train dashed past,
and only just in time, for the wheel of one of the passing
carriages struck his heel. The child's father was not
rich enough to reward the boy with money, but instead
he offered to teach him telegraphy, and so the magic
wand was put into the boy's hand.

Tiny wires that bind the world together, that carry

376

THOMAS ALVA EDISON

voices and messages through the silent air, fairy boxes
filled with music and the sound of voices once breathed
in and kept enchained for ever — are not these the work
of a magician as wonderful as any that has ever lived
in Fairy Tale ?

377

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

" My tea is nearly ready, and the sun has left the sky ;
It's time to take the window and see Leerie going by ;
For every night at tea-time and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street."

" WHAT luck it is to have a lamp before our very own
door," thought little Louis Stevenson as he stood by
the nursery window to watch for the lamplighter.

One by one the lamps along Howard Place were
touched into points of light, until the lamplighter
reached No. 8, and then came the crowning joy of all,
when Leerie stopped to light that special lamp. Would
he look up and see the small face pressed against the
window, and nod " good evening," or would he be too
busy to think of little boys ?

It was no wonder that the coming of the lamp-
lighter was so eagerly looked for! The winter days
were often long and wearisome to the little child shut
up in the nursery there, and everything he could see
from his window was interesting and exciting.

Louis, or " Smout " as his father called him, was so
often ill, and caught cold so easily in the bitter cold
Edinburgh winds, that he was often kept indoors the
whole winter through, and all that he saw of the out-
side world was through his nursery window. They
were happy days indeed when he was well enough to

378

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

play about the nursery, to lie flat on the floor chalking
and painting his pictures, and to watch for Leerie when
the gloaming came. But there were many other days
spent in bed, when Louis was obliged to make-believe
a good deal to keep himself happy, as he sat up with
a little shawl pinned round his shoulders and his toys
arranged on the counterpane beside him.

It was all very well to make-believe in the daytime,
when he could drill his soldiers and sail his ships and
build his cities on " the pleasant land of counterpane,"
but when night came on it was weary work to lie long
hours awake with a cough that hurt, dreaming half-
waking dreams of wild terrors that were worst of all.

The wintry winds shrieked as they swept past,
thumping at the window and howling away into the
distance, and they sounded to the shivering child like a
horseman galloping up into the town, thundering past
with jingling spurs in fearful haste on some dreadful
errand, only to turn and gallop back again with the
same mysterious haste. Louis in his little bed, shaken
with terrified sobs, said his prayers over and over again,
and longed for the morning to come. It was so
difficult to be brave when the night was so dark and he
was so full of aches and pains.

But there was always someone at hand ready to
comfort the child through those long dreadful hours.
His nurse, Alison Cunningham, " Cummie " as he called
her, never failed him. She was always there to drive
away the terrors and soothe the pain, always patient
and always gentle with the poor little weary boy. His
nurseries changed first to Inverleith Row and then to
No. 17 Heriot Row, but Cummie was always there. She
was his sure refuge from terrors at night and the

379

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

sharer of his joys by day ; the feeling of " her most
comfortable hand" he never forgot. Sometimes on
those long watchful nights, when his wide-open eyes
began to see fearful shapes, he would ask :

" Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?"

She would wrap a blanket round him and carry him
over to the window, where he could look across the
dark trees of the gardens beneath and see a few lights
shining in the windows of the houses in Queen Street
opposite. Safe in her arms, no shadows could touch
him, and together they gravely discussed the question
as to whether the lights meant that another wee laddie
was awake watching with his nurse for the morn
to come.

" When will the carts come in ? " was the question
always on his lips those weary nights. For the coming
of the carts always meant that daybreak was at hand
and the world was astir once more.

" Out in the city sounds begin,
Thank the kind God, the carts come in !
An hour or two more, and God is so kind,
The day shall be blue in the window blind."

But it was not only Cummie who watched over and
cared for little Louis, there were his father and his
mother too. Often during the night the nursery door
would open gently, and his father would come in and sit
by his bedside and tell him story after story, until the
child forgot his pain and weariness and drifted away
into the land of dreams. His father's tales always had

380

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

a special charm for him and helped him through one
terrible hour which he never forgot. He had been left
alone in a room and by mistake had locked himself in,
and then was unable to unlock the door. Evening was
coming on, all his terrors of the dark began to gather
round as the shadows crept nearer.

" All the wicked shadows coming tramp, tramp, tramp,
With the black night overhead."

But his father was close at hand, and his voice came
through the keyhole talking about such delightful, in-
teresting things that Louis held his breath to listen
and quite forgot the shadows and the darkness until
the locksmith arrived to open the door.

Then there was his young mother, " my jewelest of
mothers " as he called her, who was so ready to play
with him and who always made even the dull nursery
a sunshiny, happy place. She was not very strong,
and Louis began early to try to take care of her. One
day when he was only three years old, he was left
alone with her after dinner and remembered that
Cummie always wrapped a shawl about her ; there was
no shawl to be found, but he reached up and took a
d'oyley off the table, carefully unfolded it, and spread
it over as much of her as it would cover.

" That's a wee bittie, mama," he said comfortingly.

Cummie was very strict about Sunday, but his
"jewelest of mothers" had a way of overcoming the
difficulty, and if he promised to play nothing but
the "Pilgrim Progress" game she sewed a patch on
the back of one of his wooden figures, and lo ! there
was Christian, ready to flee from the City of Destruc-
tion, with all his exciting adventures ahead.

38"

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

There was of course the Shorter Catechism to be
learned, and there was no way of avoiding that, but
afterwards came long chapters out of the Bible which
Louis loved to listen to, and Cummie would read
parts of the old writings of the Covenanters, and
everything she read to him she managed to make
most interesting. Louis himself learned to repeat
long passages out of the Bible, besides Psalms and
hymns, and he always recited them with a great deal
of action, his small hands scarcely ever still, and his
dark eyes shining with excitement.

With mother and Cummie to amuse him all day
long, he was rather like a small prince in the nursery,
and it was his will and pleasure that someone should
constantly read to him. He never could listen quietly
to any story, but must always try to act it, slaying
dragons, attacking the enemy, galloping off on a fiery
horse to carry news to the enemy, until he was tired
out, and Cummie would smooth back the hair from
his hot forehead, and try to persuade him to rest.

"Sit down and bide quiet for a bittie," she said,
and coaxed him to sew a piece of his kettle-holder, or
knit the garter that was as black as only a child's
grimy little hands could make it.

When spring came it brought new life to little
Louis, and the long nights of pain and cold winter
days were forgotten, as he played about the garden
of his grandfather's manse at Colinton. Like the
flowers, he began to lift up his head and grow strong
in the sunshine. It was a different world to him
when the sun shone and the sky was blue, and the
splendid colours of the flowers made his days a rain-
bow riot of delight. There was no more lying in

382

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

bed, no more coughs and wakeful nights, but instead,
long warm summer days spent in the garden, or
down by the river, where there was the joy of Louis's
heart — a mill.

There were cousins there too, in the sunny garden,
ready to play all the games that Louis invented, to
lie behind the bushes with toy guns watching for a
drove of antelopes to go by, to be shipwrecked sailors
on a desert island, where the only food to be had
to keep them from starvation was buttercups, and even
to eat those buttercups and suffer the after effects
rather than spoil the pretending game.

There too was the kind aunt who brought out
biscuits and calves'-foot jelly at eleven o'clock from
her store-room, which always had so delicious a smell
of raisins and soap and spices. Never was there so
kind an aunt, and never did anything taste so good
as those biscuits and that calves'-foot jelly.

The children stood rather in awe of their grand-
father, for he was very strict, and woe betide any
small foot that left its mark on the flower-beds of
the manse garden. It was whispered that their grand-
father made a nightly round and examined each little
muddy shoe put out to be cleaned at night, ready to
fit it into the track which the evildoer had left on
the flower-bed. It was enough to make them very
careful where they stepped. It was awe-inspiring, too,
to see their grandfather in the pulpit every Sunday,
and though they admired his beautiful face and his
white hair, there was something rather terrifying about
him, and the cold dark room where he sat solemnly
writing his sermons was seldom invaded by any of
his grandchildren.

383

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

But there was something in that dark room which
Louis longed with all his heart to possess. On the
walls hung some very highly-coloured Indian pictures,
just the sort of gorgeous colouring that Louis loved,
and he wanted one more than anything else in all
the world. At last there came a day when he was
sent into the awesome room to repeat a Psalm to
his grandfather, and his heart beat high with hope.
Perhaps if he said his Psalm very nicely, his grand-
father might reward him with a gift of one of those
coloured pictures.

" Thy foot He'll not let slide, nor will
He slumber that thee keeps"

quavered the little voice, while Louis kept one eye
on his grandfather's solemn face, and one on the
Indian picture. When the Psalm was finished, his
grandfather lifted him on his knee, and kissing him
gave him " a kindly little sermon " which so surprised
Louis, who had a very loving little heart, that he
quite forgot his disappointment about the gaily-coloured
pictures he had longed for.

When those sunny summer days came to an end
and Louis went back to Heriot Row, he had a com-
panion with him now who made even the grey days
cheerful. His cousin Robert Alan Stevenson spent a
whole winter with him, and together they lived in a
make-believe world of their own. Disagreeable things
were turned into delightful plays, and even their meals
were interesting. Instead of having to eat up a plateful
of uninteresting porridge for breakfast, the magic of
make-believe turned it into a foreign land, covered with
snow (which was the sugar of course) or an island that

384

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

was threatened by the encroaching sea (that was the
cream), and the excitement of seeing the dry land
disappearing or the snow mountains being cleared
was so entrancing that the porridge was eaten up
before the magic came to an end. Even cold mutton
could be charmed into something quite delicious when
Louis called it red venison, and described the mighty
hunter who had gone forth and shot down the deer
after many desperate adventures. Jelly was always a
kind of golden globe of enchantment to him, and he
was sure the spoon might at any moment reveal a secret
hollow, filled with amber light.

The boys possessed also very grand make-believe
kingdoms which kept them very busy with the affairs
of the nation. The kingdoms were called Encyclopaedia
and Nosingtonia, and were both islands, for Louis loved
islands then as much as afterwards when "Treasure
Island " took the place of Nosingtonia.

But perhaps the greatest joy of all was when
Saturday afternoons came round and the boys went
down to Leith to look at the ships, always the chief
delight of their hearts. Passing down Leith Walk they
came to a stationer's shop at the corner, where in the
window there stood a tiny toy theatre, and piled about
it a heap of playbooks, " A penny plain and twopence
coloured."

Happy indeed was the child who had a penny to
spend (for of course no self-respecting boy with paint-
box at home ever thought of buying a " Twopence
coloured"), who could walk into the shop with assur-
ance and ask to see those books. Many a time did
Louis stand outside, having no penny to spend, and
try to see the outside pictures and to read as much

385 2 B

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

of the printing as could be seen at such a disad-
vantage.

It was no use going in unless the penny was forth-
coming, for Mr. Smith kept a stern eye on little boys,
and seemed to know at a glance whether they were
" intending purchasers " or not. Inside the dark little
shop which " smelt of Bibles " he stood, and seemed to
grudge them the pleasure of even turning over the
pages of those thrilling plays.

" I do not believe, child, that you are an intending
purchaser at all," he growled one day, sweeping the
precious books away when Louis had " swithered " over
his choice so long that no wonder dark suspicions were
aroused.

It was those little books which opened to Louis the
golden world of romance, the doors of which were
never closed to him again.

It was not until Louis was eight years old that he
began to read. His mother and Cummie had always
been ready to read to him, and that, he thought, was
the pleasanter way. But quite suddenly he discovered
that it was good to be able to read stories to himself,
and it was a red-letter day when he first got possession
of the Arabian Nights.

Long before he could write, he was fond of dictating
stories to anyone who would write them for him, and
poor patient Cummie would write sheet after sheet of
nonsense, all of which she treasured and read to his
mother afterwards. Sitting over the fire at night
while Louis lay sleeping in his little bed, the mother
and nurse whispered together over the cleverness of
their boy, and anxiously tried to reassure each other
that he was growing stronger, while they built their

386

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

castles in the air always for Louis to dwell in as
king.

Louis's school-days made but little impression upon
him. He was so often kept away by ill-health, and the
schools were so often changed, that he never won many
laurels there. Whatever he liked to learn he learned
with all his heart, and to the rest he gave very little
attention whatever. He was not very fond of games,
for he was not strong enough to play them well, and
it was only when the make-believe magic began that
he was in his element. He played football, but had
to invent a tale of enchantment which changed the
ball into a talisman, and the players into two Arabian
nations, before he could enjoy it.

Far more exciting than any football was the business
of being a lantern-bearer, that game of games, which
he described with his magic pen long afterwards.

Picture Louis, stealing out of the house at North
Berwick on a late September evening, his overcoat
buttoned up tightly over something that bulged at the
waist, his very walk betokening an errand of mystery.
Presently, coming over the wind-swrept shore, another
dark figure is seen, also with a buttoned-up overcoat,
and the same kind of bulge at the waist.

" Have you got your lantern ? " breathed Louis.

" Yes," comes the answer. All is well. Over the
links and away to the shore the mysterious figures
wend their way and are joined by others equally
mysterious, and one by one they climb into an old boat
and crouch together there at the bottom. The wind
whistles and shrieks overhead, but down there they are
sheltered, and the overcoats are slowly and carefully
unbuttoned, and what seemed to be but a bulge is

337

WHEN THEY WERE CHILDREN

shown to be a tin lantern burning brightly, which quite
accounts for the strong smell of toasting tin which has
been hanging in the air about them.

In the dim light of these lanterns the lantern-bearers
sit, and wild and exciting is the talk that mingles with
the shriek of the wind, while the sky is black overhead,
and the sound of the sea is in their ears.

No one can talk as Louis does, he lays a spell upon
them all with his make-believe magic, but after all it
is not the talk that is so fascinating, but rather the
buttoning up of those overcoats over the lighted lan-
terns, the exquisite joy of knowing that unseen and
unsuspected a hidden light is burning brightly there —
that was the joy of being a lantern-bearer.

So it was that the make-believe magic kept Louis
happy in his childhood's games, and when he grew up
to be a man and left the games behind him, the make-
believe magic was never left behind, but gave a great
happiness to the world as well as to himself.

"Be good and make others happy" was his own
particular rule, for he believed that everyone should be
as happy as ever they could, and even children should
remember that —

" The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

464 28

Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON <5*> Co.
at Paul's Work, Edinburgh

3/"

£<0 1-M ^

y ^^ftVJ! ^r aCT"^^ '' '

B.^^W4^fe^

fc^i^^^r
$%$#$m& ;>/>',

SA"W^-» » /^

^44— >.vjr rvr^*-*,/ N£

1 $^^^
v» .ol^ TS--«.

1 ^.^S^-^1
^lo/^JS^},

>W 0<£L££\$P

ytssw>/

*sf car""
A/^x-s-':-2L>»

t^^5

a <J>^^

^4-^-?c ««V

JP ^€-^

fr^vO-^*^

EI§955¥ ^-- Sw§P%!.

j^5^vt

, ^ Jy'v Ln/fe». ^ I> v.

b^^lli

^'na^*TX~Xl1ft

^PA-Tn^1^

-M^^V'i,:

Sh^atare

^S«>J2jf

Internet Archive Audio

Featured

Top

Images

Featured

Top

Software

Featured

Top

Books

Featured

Top

Video

Featured

Top

Mobile Apps

Browser Extensions

Archive-It Subscription

Save Page Now

Full text of "When they were children; stories of the childhood of famous men and women"

See other formats