Biographical Stories
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Nathaniel Hawthorne >> Biographical Stories
But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his boyhood upward until
the latest day of his life he never forgot the story of Uttoxeter
market. Often when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or
master of an academy at Edial, or a writer for the London booksellers,--
in all his poverty and toil and in all his success,--while he was
walking the streets without a shilling to buy food, or when the greatest
men of England were proud to feast him at their table,--still that heavy
and remorseful thought came back to him, "I was cruel to my poor father
in his illness!" Many and many a time, awake or in his dreams, he
seemed to see old Michael Johnson standing in the dust and confusion of
the market-place and pressing his withered hand to his forehead as if it
ached.
Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
to bear us company through life.
Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was longer than
usual, Mr. Temple here made a short pause. He perceived that Emily was
in tears, and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker
with an air of great earnestness and interest. As for George, he had
withdrawn into the dusky shadow behind his father's chair.
CHAPTER V.
In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:--
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
[CONTINUED]
Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since young Sam Johnson
had shown himself so hard-hearted towards his father. It was now
market-day in the village of Uttoxeter.
In the street of the village you might see cattle-dealers with cows and
oxen for sale, and pig-drovers with herds of squeaking swine, and
farmers with cartloads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other
produce of the soil. Now and then a farmer's red-faced wife trotted
along on horseback, with butter and cheese in two large panniers. The
people of the village, with country squires, and other visitors from the
neighborhood, walked hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling,
and making just such a bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made
half a century before.
In one part of the street there was a puppet-show with a ridiculous
merry-andrew, who kept both grown people and children in a roar of
laughter. On the opposite side was the old stone church of Uttoxeter,
with ivy climbing up its walls and partly obscuring its Gothic windows.
There was a clock in the gray tower of the ancient church, and the hands
on the dial-plate had now almost reached the hour of noon. At this
busiest hour of the market a strange old gentleman was seen making his
way among the crowd, he was very tall and bulky, and wore a brown coat
and small-clothes, with black worsted stockings and buckled shoes. On
his head was a three cornered hat, beneath which a bushy gray wig thrust
itself out, all in disorder. The old gentleman elbowed the people
aside, and forced his way through the midst of them with a singular kind
of gait, rolling his body hither and thither, so that he needed twice as
much room as any other person there.
"Make way, sir!" he would cry out, in a loud, harsh voice, when somebody
happened to interrupt his progress. "Sir, you intrude your person into
the public thoroughfare!"
"What a queer old fellow this is!" muttered the people among themselves,
hardly knowing whether to laugh or to be angry.
But when they looked into the venerable stranger's face, not the most
thoughtless among them dared to offer him the least impertinence.
Though his features were scarred and distorted with the scrofula, and
though his eyes were dim and bleared, yet there was something of
authority and wisdom in his look, which impressed them all with awe. So
they stood aside to let him pass; and the old gentleman made his way
across the market-place, and paused near the corner of the ivy-mantled
church. Just as he reached it the clock struck twelve.
On the very spot of ground where the stranger now stood some aged people
remembered that old Michael Johnson had formerly kept his book-stall.
The little children who had once bought picture-books of him were
grandfathers now.
"Yes; here is the very spot!" muttered the old gentleman to himself.
There this unknown personage took his stand and removed the three-
cornered hat from his head. It was the busiest hour of the day. What
with the hum of human voices, the lowing of cattle, the squeaking of
pigs, and the laughter caused by the merry-andrew, the marketplace was
in very great confusion. But the stranger seemed not to notice it any
more than if the silence of a desert were around him. He was rapt in
his own thoughts. Sometimes he raised his furrowed brow to heaven, as
if in prayer; sometimes he bent his head, as if an insupportable weight
of sorrow were upon him. It increased the awfulness of his aspect that
there was a motion of his head and an almost continual tremor throughout
his frame, with singular twitches and contortions of his features.
The hot sun blazed upon his unprotected head; but he seemed not to feel
its fervor. A dark cloud swept across the sky and rain-drops pattered
into the market-place; but the stranger heeded not the shower. The
people began to gaze at the mysterious old gentleman with superstitious
fear and wonder. Who could he be? Whence did he come? Wherefore was
he standing bareheaded in the market-place? Even the school-boys left
the merry-andrew and came to gaze, with wide-open eyes, at this tall,
strange-looking old man.
There was a cattle-drover in the village who had recently made a journey
to the Smithfield market, in London. No sooner had this man thrust his
way through the throng and taken a look at the unknown personage, than
he whispered to one of his acquaintances,--
"I say, Neighbor Hutchins, would ye like to know who this old gentleman
is?"
"Ay, that I would," replied Neighbor Hutchins, "for a queerer chap I
never saw in my life. Somehow it makes me feel small to look at him.
He's more than a common man."
"You may well say so," answered the cattle-drover. "Why, that's the
famous Doctor Samuel Johnson, who they say is the greatest and
learnedest man in England. I saw him in London streets, walking with
one Mr. Boswell."
Yes; the poor boy, the friendless Sam, with whom we began our story, had
become the famous Doctor Samuel Johnson. He was universally
acknowledged as the wisest man and greatest writer in all England. He
had given shape and permanence to his native language by his Dictionary.
Thousands upon thousands of people had read his Idler, his Rambler, and
his Rasselas. Noble and wealthy men and beautiful ladies deemed it
their highest privilege to be his companions. Even the King of Great
Britain had sought his acquaintance, and told him what an honor he
considered it that such a man had been born in his dominions. He was
now at the summit of literary renown.
But all his fame could not extinguish the bitter remembrance which had
tormented him through life. Never never had he forgotten his father's
sorrowful and upbraiding look. Never, though the old man's troubles had
been over so many years, had he forgiven himself for inflicting such a
pang upon his heart. And now, in his old age, he had come hither to do
penance, by standing at noonday, in the market-place of Uttoxeter, on
the very spot where Michael Johnson had once kept his book-stall. The
aged and illustrious man had done what the poor boy refused to do. By
thus expressing his deep repentance and humiliation of heart, he hoped
to gain peace of conscience and the forgiveness of God.
My dear children, if you have grieved (I will not say your parents, but
if you have grieved) the heart of any human being who has a claim upon
your love, then think of Samuel Johnson's penance. Will it not be
better to redeem the error now than to endure the agony of remorse for
fifty years? Would you not rather say to a brother, "I have erred;
forgive me!" than perhaps to go hereafter and shed bitter tears upon his
grave?
Hardly was the story concluded when George hastily arose, and Edward
likewise, stretching forth his hands into the darkness that surrounded
him to find his brother. Both accused themselves of unkindness: each
besought the other's forgiveness; and having done so, the trouble of
their hearts vanished away like a dream.
"I am glad! I am so glad!" said Emily, in a low, earnest voice. "Now I
shall sleep quietly to-night."
"My sweet child," thought Mrs. Temple as she kissed her, "mayest thou
never know how much strife there is on earth! It would cost thee many a
night's rest."
CHAPTER VI.
About this period Mr. Temple found it necessary to take a journey, which
interrupted the series of Biographical Stories for several evenings. In
the interval, Edward practised various methods of employing and amusing
his mind.
Sometimes he meditated upon beautiful objects which he had formerly
seen, until the intensity of his recollection seemed to restore him the
gift of sight and place everything anew before his eyes. Sometimes he
repeated verses of poetry which he did not know to be in his memory
until he found them there just at the time of need. Sometimes he
attempted to solve arithmetical questions which had perplexed him while
at school.
Then, with his mother's assistance, he learned the letters of the string
alphabet, which is used in some of the institutions for the blind in
Europe. When one of his friends gave him a leaf of St. Mark's Gospel,
printed in embossed characters, he endeavored to read it by passing his
fingers over the letters as blind children do.
His brother George was now very kind, and spent so much time in the
darkened chamber that Edward often insisted upon his going out to play.
George told him all about the affairs at school, and related many
amusing incidents that happened among his comrades, and informed him
what sports were now in fashion, and whose kite soared the highest, and
whose little ship sailed fleetest on the Frog Pond. As for Emily, she
repeated stories which she had learned from a new book called THE FLOWER
PEOPLE, in which the snowdrops, the violets, the columbines, the roses,
and all that lovely tribe are represented as telling their secrets to a
little girl. The flowers talked sweetly, as flowers should; and Edward
almost fancied that he could behold their bloom and smell their fragrant
breath.
Thus, in one way or another, the dark days of Edward's confinement
passed not unhappily. In due time his father returned; and the next
evening, when the family were assembled, he began a story.
"I must first observe, children," said he, "that some writers deny the
truth of the incident which I am about to relate to you. There
certainly is but little evidence in favor of it. Other respectable
writers, however, tell it for a fact; and, at all events, it is an
interesting story, and has an excellent moral."
So Mr. Temple proceeded to talk about the early days of
OLIVER CROMWELL.
[BORN 1599 DIED 1658.]
Not long after King James I. took the place of Queen Elizabeth on the
throne of England, there lived an English knight at a place called
Hinchinbrooke. His name was Sir Oliver Cromwell. He spent his life, I
suppose, pretty much like other English knights and squires in those
days, bunting hares and foxes and drinking large quantities of ale and
wine. The old house in which he dwelt had been occupied by his
ancestors before him for a good many years. In it there was a great
hall, hang round with coats of arms and helmets, cuirasses and swords,
which his forefathers had used in battle, and with horns of deer and
tails of foxes which they or Sir Oliver himself had killed in the chase.
This Sir Oliver Cromwell had a nephew, who had been called Oliver, after
himself, but who was generally known in the family by the name of little
Noll. His father was a younger brother of Sir Oliver. The child was
often sent to visit his uncle, who probably found him a troublesome
little fellow to take care of. He was forever in mischief, and always
running into some danger or other, from which he seemed to escape only
by miracle.
Even while he was an infant in the cradle a strange accident had
befallen hum. A huge ape, which was kept in the family, snatched up
little Noll in his fore paws and clambered with him to the roof of the
house. There this ugly beast sat grinning at the affrighted spectators,
as if it had done the most praiseworthy thing imaginable. Fortunately,
however, he brought the child safe down again; and the event was
afterwards considered an omen that Noll would reach a very elevated
station in the world.
One morning, when Noll was five or six years old a royal messenger
arrived at Hinchinbrooke with tidings that King James was coming to dine
with Sir Oliver Cromwell. This was a high honor, to be sure, but a very
great trouble; for all the lords and ladies, knights, squires, guards
and yeomen, who waited on the king, were to be feasted as well as
himself; and more provisions would be eaten and more wine drunk in that
one day than generally in a month. However, Sir Oliver expressed much
thankfulness for the king's intended visit, and ordered his butler and
cook to make the best preparations in their power. So a great fire was
kindled in the kitchen; and the neighbors knew by the smoke which poured
out of the chimney that boiling, baking, stewing, roasting, and frying
were going on merrily.
By and by the sound of trumpets was heard approaching nearer and nearer;
a heavy, old-fashioned coach, surrounded by guards on horseback, drove
up to the house. Sir Oliver, with his hat in his hand, stood at the
gate to receive the king. His Majesty was dressed in a suit of green
not very new; he had a feather in his hat and a triple ruff round his
neck, and over his shoulder was slung a hunting-horn instead of a sword.
Altogether he had not the most dignified aspect in the world; but the
spectators gazed at him as if there was something superhuman and divine
in his person. They even shaded their eyes with their hands, as if they
were dazzled by the glory of his countenance.
"How are ye, man?" cried King James, speaking in a Scotch accent; for
Scotland was his native country. "By my crown, Sir Oliver, but I am
glad to see ye!"
The good knight thanked the king; at the same time kneeling down while
his Majesty alighted. When King James stood on the ground, he directed
Sir Oliver's attention to a little boy who had come with him in the
coach. He was six or seven years old, and wore a hat and feather, and
was more richly dressed than the king himself. Though by no means an
ill-looking child, he seemed shy, or even sulky; and his cheeks were
rather pale, as if he had been kept moping within doors, instead of
being sent out to play in the sun and wind.
"I have brought my son Charlie to see ye," said the king. "I hope, Sir
Oliver, ye have a son of your own to be his playmate."
Sir Oliver Cromwell made a reverential bow to the little prince, whom
one of the attendants had now taken out of the coach. It was wonderful
to see how all the spectators, even the aged men with their gray beards,
humbled themselves before this child. They bent their bodies till their
beards almost swept the dust: They looked as if they were ready to kneel
down and worship him.
The poor little prince! From his earliest infancy not a soul had dared
to contradict him; everybody around him had acted as if he were a
superior being; so that, of course, he had imbibed the same opinion of
himself. He naturally supposed that the whole kingdom of Great Britain
and all its inhabitants had been created solely for his benefit and
amusement. This was a sad mistake; and it cost him dear enough after he
had ascended his father's throne.
"What a noble little prince he is!" exclaimed Sir Oliver, lifting his
hands in admiration. "No, please your Majesty, I have no son to be the
playmate of his royal highness; but there is a nephew of mine somewhere
about the house. He is near the prince's age, and will be but too happy
to wait upon his royal highness."
"Send for him, man! send for him!" said the king.
But, as it happened, there was no need of sending for Master Noll.
While King James was speaking, a rugged, bold-faced, sturdy little
urchin thrust himself through the throng of courtiers and attendants and
greeted the prince with a broad stare. His doublet and hose (which had
been put on new and clean in honor of the king's visit) were already
soiled and torn with the rough play in which he had spent the morning.
He looked no more abashed than if King James were his uncle and the
prince one of his customary playfellows.
This was little Noll himself.
"Here, please your Majesty, is my nephew," said Sir Oliver, somewhat
ashamed of Noll's appearance and demeanor. "Oliver, make your obeisance
to the king's majesty."
The boy made a pretty respectful obeisance to the king; for in those
days children were taught to pay reverence to their elders. King James,
who prided himself greatly on his scholarship, asked Noll a few
questions in the Latin grammar, and then introduced him to his son. The
little prince, in a very grave and dignified manner, extended his hand,
not for Noll to shake, but that he might kneel down and kiss it.
"Nephew," said Sir Oliver, "pay your duty to the prince."
"I owe him no duty," cried Noll, thrusting aside the prince's hand with
a rude laugh. "Why should I kiss that boy's hand?"
All the courtiers were amazed and confounded, and Sir Oliver the most of
all. But the king laughed heartily, saying, that little Noll had a
stubborn English spirit, and that it was well for his son to learn
betimes what sort of a people he was to rule over.
So King James and his train entered the house; and the prince, with Noll
and some other children, was sent to play in a separate room while his
Majesty was at dinner. The young people soon became acquainted; for
boys, whether the sons of monarchs or of peasants, all like play, and
are pleased with one another's society. What games they diverted
themselves with I cannot tell. Perhaps they played at ball, perhaps at
blind-man's-buff, perhaps at leap-frog, perhaps at prison-bars. Such
games have been in use for hundreds of years; and princes as well as
poor children have spent some of their happiest hours in playing at
them.
Meanwhile King James and his nobles were feasting with Sir Oliver in the
great hall. The king sat in a gilded chair, under a canopy, at the head
of a long table. Whenever any of the company addressed him, it was with
the deepest reverence. If the attendants offered him wine or the
various delicacies of the festival, it was upon their bended knees. You
would have thought, by these tokens of worship, that the monarch was a
supernatural being; only he seemed to have quite as much need of those
vulgar matters, food and drink, as any other person at the table. But
fate had ordained that good King James should not finish his dinner in
peace.
All of a sudden there arose a terrible uproar in the room where the
children were at play. Angry shouts and shrill cries of alarm were
mixed up together; while the voices of elder persons were likewise
heard, trying to restore order among the children. The king and
everybody else at table looked aghast; for perhaps the tumult made them
think that a general rebellion had broken out.
"Mercy on us!" muttered Sir Oliver; "that graceless nephew of mine is in
some mischief or other. The naughty little whelp!"
Getting up from table, he ran to see what was the matter, followed by
many of the guests, and the king among them. They all crowded to the
door of the playroom.
On looking in, they beheld the little Prince Charles, with his rich
dress all torn and covered with the dust of the floor. His royal blood
was streaming from his nose in great abundance. He gazed at Noll with a
mixture of rage and affright, and at the same time a puzzled expression,
as if he could not understand how any mortal boy should dare to give him
a beating. As for Noll, there stood his sturdy little figure, bold as a
lion, looking as if he were ready to fight, not only the prince, but the
king and kingdom too.
"You little villain!" cried his uncle. "What have you been about? Down
on your knees, this instant, and ask the prince's pardon. How dare you
lay your hands on the king's majesty's royal son?"
"He struck me first," grumbled the valiant little Noll; "and I've only
given him his due."
Sir Oliver and the guests lifted up their hands in astonishment and
horror. No punishment seemed severe enough for this wicked little
varlet, who had dared to resent a blow from the king's own son. Some of
the courtiers were of opinion that Noll should be sent prisoner to the
Tower of London and brought to trial for high treason. Others, in their
great zeal for the king's service, were about to lay hands on the boy
and chastise him in the royal presence.
But King James, who sometimes showed a good deal of sagacity, ordered
them to desist.
"Thou art a bold boy," said he, looking fixedly at little Noll; "and,
if thou live to be a man, my son Charlie would do wisely to be friends
with thee."
"I never will!" cried the little prince, stamping his foot.
"Peace, Charlie, peace!" said the king; then addressing Sir Oliver and
the attendants, "Harm not the urchin; for he has taught my son a good
lesson, if Heaven do but give him grace to profit by it. Hereafter,
should he be tempted to tyrannize over the stubborn race of Englishmen,
let him remember little Noll Cromwell and his own bloody nose."
So the king finished his dinner and departed; and for many a long year
the childish quarrel between Prince Charles and Noll Cromwell was
forgotten. The prince, indeed, might have lived a happier life, and
have met a more peaceful death, had he remembered that quarrel and the
moral which his father drew from it. But when old King James was dead,
and Charles sat upon his throne, he seemed to forget that he was but a
man, and that his meanest subjects were men as well as he. He wished to
have the property and lives of the people of England entirely at his own
disposal. But the Puritans, and all who loved liberty, rose against him
and beat him in many battles, and pulled him down from his throne.
Throughout this war between the king and nobles on one side and the
people of England on the other there was a famous leader, who did more
towards the ruin of royal authority than all the rest. The contest
seemed like a wrestling-match between King Charles and this strong man.
And the king was overthrown.
When the discrowned monarch was brought to trial, that warlike leader
sat in the judgment hall. Many judges were present besides himself; but
he alone had the power to save King Charles or to doom him to the
scaffold. After sentence was pronounced, this victorious general was
entreated by his own children, on their knees, to rescue his Majesty
from death.
"No!" said he, sternly. "Better that one man should perish than that
the whole country should be ruined for his sake. It is resolved that he
shall die!"
When Charles, no longer a king, was led to the scaffold, his great enemy
stood at a window of the royal palace of Whitehall. He beheld the poor
victim of pride, and an evil education, and misused power, as he laid
his head upon the block. He looked on with a steadfast gaze while a
black-veiled executioner lifted the fatal axe and smote off that
anointed head at a single blow.
"It is a righteous deed," perhaps he said to himself.
"Now Englishmen may enjoy their rights."
At night, when the body of Charles was laid in the coffin, in a gloomy
chamber, the general entered, lighting himself with a torch. Its gleams
showed that he was now growing old; his visage was scarred with the many
battles in which he had led the van; his brow was wrinkled with care and
with the continual exercise of stern authority. Probably there was not
a single trait, either of aspect or manner, that belonged to the little
Noll who had battled so stoutly with Prince Charles. Yet this was he!
He lifted the coffin-lid, and caused the light of his torch to fall upon
the dead monarch's face. Then, probably, his mind went back over all
the marvellous events that had brought the hereditary King of England to
this dishonored coffin, and had raised himself, a humble individual, to
the possession of kingly power. He was a king, though without the empty
title or the glittering crown.
"Why was it," said Cromwell to himself, or might have said, as he gazed
at the pale features in the coffin,--"why was it that this great king
fell, and that poor Noll Cromwell has gained all the power of the
realm?"
And, indeed, why was it?
King Charles had fallen, because, in his manhood the same as when a
child, he disdained to feel that every human creature was his brother.
He deemed himself a superior being, and fancied that his subjects were
created only for a king to rule over. And Cromwell rose, because, in
spite of his many faults, he mainly fought for the rights and freedom of
his fellow-men; and therefore the poor and the oppressed all lent their
strength to him.