THE OLD MAN'S STORY.
Come about me, little ones, and I will tell you my story. I seem old toyou now; but once I was as young as you. I had twelve brothers andsisters; but now they are all gone before me into the better land, and Iremain here alone upon the earth without them.
I am very old. My teeth have fallen away from my mouth one by one, untilthey are all gone. My bald head has a very few gray hairs; my ears aredeaf, so I can scarcely hear your young, sweet voices: and the brightsky is dimmed to my eyes. Slowly my footsteps totter along the earth, aswhen I first stepped into my mother's outstretched arms.
My wife long ago went before me to the grave, and I have left manychildren there. Many a time have I seen the green sod laid over thegrave of loved ones. Often have I wept at the sight of God's servant,Death; but when next he comes I shall hail him with joy, for he will beto me the beloved friend who bears me to my home above.
Now that I am grown old, God lovingly carries me back to the days of mychildhood. He sends many a loving spirit upon the wings of consolationto bear me into the fair region of youth. The scenes of the few yearssince--all the noise and bustle of my manhood's prime--are banished faraway from me, and only the stillness and quiet of my childhood closearound the last moments of my earthly existence. Thus, dear children,bathing me in the innocence and trustful spirit of my childhood, doesGod prepare me for my home in his beautiful garden.
I told you I had twelve brothers and sisters. O, well do I recall themall! They come near, and I feel their presence as of old! I am glad tolinger mostly on their early days; for, in after life, their hearts werefilled with sorrow, their fresh spirits wearied, and care brought andfilled their souls with other feelings than those of love and sympathyto others.
Our fairest and brightest brother was Fred. I was only one year youngerthan he, and I remember well how I watched my mother while she nursedhim, and sent me away from the arms which a little before had been mysole possession. I could not understand it, and my little heart wasfilled with dismay. I would creep away by myself, sit down, and in themost pitiful manner repeat to myself, "Poor Sammy! poor Sammy!" Thesense of desolation was very great; and in the whole course of my life Ido not remember to have known a more distressing grief. When I grew tobe a man, and disappointments came upon me; when I laid my wife andchildren in their graves, and knew there was not one left of my line butmyself--a miserable old man--there was hope in my sorrow, light in mydarkness; for I knew the love of God and the life of eternity. Thesedeep sorrows had, also, bright heights; but it was not so then. I couldnot feel God's love. My mother's care had been all I knew; and, now thatit seemed given to another, I was alone and wretched. There was aterrible sense of injustice, which nearly broke my heart. I could notunderstand how my little brother could have the right to what wasdenied me.
I have always tenderly pitied children who had griefs; then they needour care more than the grown children, who feel God's love and wisdom.But these little ones grope in a kind of darkness. Suffering is amystery to them; they can perceive no cause or end for it; they onlyknow they suffer.
After a while, I, too, was allowed to sit on my mother's lap with thisbrother, and then I began to love him, he was _so_ beautiful. There wasno child in the county which could be compared with him, and, simplybecause of his beauty and his cunning ways, he gained the power of aking over the household, so that as soon as he began to run about heruled it, and me even more than the rest.
The country was very new then, and all the gay, flourishing towns andvillages, which are now scattered in every direction, scarcely existedeven in the minds of the first sanguine settlers. Dark woods and sombreswamps covered the surface; and what do you think we had instead ofroads, when we wanted to go from one town to another? The first one whofound his way along cut pieces of bark out of the trees, and othersfollowed these marks, until after a time they cut down the trees andmade a road. I think this is the reason old roads in this country are socrooked; for you know a man cannot walk very straight through a forest.
Our near neighbors lived a mile from us, and it was quite a littlejourney to go and see them. We had a village, too, in which were but twobuildings, the meeting-house and blacksmith's shop. You children wouldhardly think you could live in such a place; yet such was the state ofthings ninety-three years ago.
Well, my father and mother had come up from a town near Boston, becausemy grandfather could give them some land here, and they built theirhouse, and made it their home. The house stands now; it is the very onein which my brothers and sisters were all born.
In her parlor my mother had a very nice piece of furniture, which hermother had given her as a wedding present, and of which she was veryproud, inasmuch as no parlor in the county could boast the like. It wasa looking-glass!
Well, laugh! No wonder it seems funny to you that any one should soprize a looking-glass, when you all have so many of them; but you canhave no idea how different everything was then. The people were verypoor, and, although they owned many acres of land, yet they couldfrequently sell it but for one dollar an acre, and thought that a finebargain. You see we had no money to buy the elegant luxuries you have inyour houses--the carpets, and sofas, and rocking-chairs. Our floors werehard, covered now and then with a little sand, perhaps, as a greatluxury. The chairs were straight and high, while our tables were smalland low, and the cups from which we drank our tea as small as those youplay with. But, before I say any more, I want to tell you of the fate ofmother's looking-glass.
The _great room_ (as mother's parlor was called) was always keptcarefully closed, and a very sacred, awful and mysterious place it wasto us children. It so happened, one day when mother had gone away, thatmy little brother Fred began to be acted upon very powerfully by adesire to take one peep into that room. By some strange neglect motherhad left the door unlatched--for she kept her bonnet in there, andalways put it on before the glass. The temptation to go in wasaltogether too powerful for Fred to withstand, and, especially as othershad never pronounced the little monosyllable no, to him, he had no mindto begin by saying it to himself. So in he went, and almost the firstthing he saw was mother's looking-glass, hanging over the table betweenthe two front windows. As he went towards it he saw a little boy, whoseemed to be peering and staring at him from between the windows. He hadno idea it was himself he saw, never having seen the looking-glassbefore, nor his own reflected image. You may be sure he looked rightearnestly upon the strange child. If he stepped forward, so did the boy;if he turned away, and then looked cautiously back to watch the boy,there he was, looking at him in a very sly manner. Freddy, enraged atthis, rushed out for a stone, and, bringing it in, hurled it at thelooking-glass. But it was all in vain, for, even after the glassrattled down and strewed the floor with its many pieces, that impudentboy peeped at him from every bit of glass in which he looked.
When my mother came home, and went to put away her bonnet in the greatroom, as usual, she found her beautiful looking-glass lying on thefloor, broken into a hundred pieces. When she came out, and demanded ofus what it meant, Fred told her of a little boy he saw behind it, atwhom he was offended and hurled a stone, but that still the boy lookedat him from the pieces of glass and made him very angry.
Then mother laughed when she heard Fred's story, and, catching him up inher arms, kissed him again and again. She forgot to chide him for hisdisobedience in going where he had been forbidden to go, and for hisfoolish anger at the supposed boy. She was so much amused at his versionof the story, that she did not explain to him what the boy was, and howthe looking-glass reflected figures before it, but he was left to findthat out by his experience afterwards.
If my brother, long before that, had learned lessons of love andforbearance, this circumstance, slight as it may seem, would never haveoccurred. Instead of the threatening and distrustful look in the mirror,he would have found a laughing face, and a tiny, loving hand would havebeen given him. O, my dear children, this story has a higher meaningthan I thought of when I commenced! I
n the feelings of those whom weapproach we see the reflection of our own; if we approach any one withlove, it is given to us from them. Think of this: it will serve youwell, and teach you to be careful, ere you hurl the stone, to know whatis the object of your anger.
I have often thought that we all helped to make my brother selfish. Hewas so very beautiful that we indulged him in every whim he had; so hecame to look upon us at last as bound to serve him. I do not blame himonly; they who had the nurturing of him, they to whom his young spiritwas sent so fair from God's heavenly gardens, in their unwise lovetaught him to think of himself, and make others serve his purposes.
These dear, helpless little ones--they come to us in fresh beauty like aspring morning, and we taint their spirits with selfishness, and darkenthem with worldly care!
Years after, when my brother and myself had grown to men, we bound ourinterests in one. He had quicker parts than I--was a much betterscholar; so I trusted all our business confidently in his hands. But Igrieve to say he did not meet my confidence with honor--he took from mypurse to enrich his own; and when I stood by his bedside, at last, andsaw how the deep wrinkles were worn in by care upon his once roundcheek, I wept. I wept that he should die without having found in lifethat peace which any one would have predicted for him over his cradle,when the rosy cheeks sank into the soft pillow, and the long lashes ofhis baby eyelids rested upon them! I love that brother now, and hischild, who had become penniless after his death, I warmed in mychimney-corner, and held to my heart as though she had been my ownchild. Brother, I know thou hast repented, long ago, of the wrongs thoudidst inflict, and that some time, in the presence of God, I shall claspthee in my arms, pure again as when we sat together on our mother'sknee!
See how I have wandered away off from my story!
Let me tell you how we got our clothes. Did you ever ask yourself whatwe could do then, when there were so few shops, and so little money tocarry to the shops?
We had sheep, who gave us wool, which my mother spun, and wove it intocloth. Just think of that! Do you imagine you would have as fineclothes, if your mothers had to spin all the cloth? She knit, too, O, sofast! as well in the dark as the light. I have known her to knit acoarse stocking easily of an evening--her fingers _flew_ along theneedles! Cotton cloth was a great rarity among us. I remember once mymother had a cotton gown, and it was esteemed very precious.
Father made our shoes, and rough ones they were too, and which we onlywore in the coldest part of the winter. The long winter evenings were sobeautiful to us! Father taught us to read and spell, and chalked outsums on the wall for us; then we would draw profiles on the wall, forthe great blaze of the wood-fire cast a bright light, and, consequently,the shadow was well marked. A huge chimney-place we had, with a broadhearth, and all about this would we sit, roasting apples and poppingcorn by the heat of the fire.
So we lived; in the summer, playing "hi-spy" around the corners of thebarn, and, in the winter, living snugly in the chimney-corner, tellingstories.
When the revolutionary war broke out,--you've heard of that, of course;but then I'm afraid you'll never know how much we endured then; ourfeeling against the injustice of Mother England was very great. You donot know how we had loved her, nor how we children used to listen tostories of that beautiful country beyond the sea. Our father and motherspoke of it as "Home," and we all hoped that some time, when we were menand women, we might go "Home." Then, when she began to tax us for moremoney than we were able to pay, in order to build grand palaces, itseemed hard to us; and, even after we had remonstrated again and again,she took no notice of our petitions. She laid a heavy tax on some littlecomforts we had, such as _sugar_ and molasses; and then, when we refusedto buy them rather than pay the tax, she imposed a heavy tax on tea,and sent a great deal of it here to force us to buy it. We wouldn't havethe tea, however, and you must have heard how a party of men, disguisedas Indians, threw it all into Boston harbor.
All these things seemed the more cruel because they came from "Home."And, finally, worn out with the injustice constantly experienced attheir hands, we prepared to resist them by war.
The declaration of independence, which you celebrate every fourth ofJuly, was received with mingled emotions of joy and sorrow. It wassevering an old tie which had once been sweet; but yet it promised us,through the doubtful conflict, freedom and independence.
How enthusiastic we children were! Father made us rude wooden guns; anddrilled us every morning, for no one knew how long the war would last;but we were determined to conquer, even though our fathers died in thewar, and our children succeeded to it. I remember when the recruitingarmy came round. I seized my gun, and manfully joined its ranks. But tomy dismay I was sent back; my wooden gun, and extreme youth, werethought insufficient to meet the demands of a soldier's duty. I rememberwell when the battle was fought on Bunker Hill. A great part of the townwas gathered upon a slight elevation, from which we could distinctlyhear the roaring of the cannons and the clashing of the artillery. Itwas a terrible day! There was many a woman there who had a father orhusband in the battle; and, at each report which filled their ears, theyfancied they saw them falling before the foe, and trampled beneath thefeet of the conquerors.
Those were trying times. Children, I pray God you may never know such;and you never can, for you will not struggle with poverty as we did.When I look upon your happy faces, and see the satchel full of books onyour arm,--when I look in upon your happy homes, upon the career ofhonor and usefulness before you in the future,--I am, by the strongcontrast, transported to those "trying times" when we lived in the coldhouses, and wore the coarse cloth; when we sacrificed the refinements ofknowledge, and the pleasures of luxury, to the bold struggle of libertyagainst tyranny; when our hard-working mothers at home melted theirlast pewter plate, that the guns should know no lack of bullets, andsent all the little comforts of food and clothing they could find, tobless the husbands and fathers toiling in the war; and when the fathersfought with the fangs of thirst and hunger fast upon them, and leavingbehind them, upon the sharp ice, the traces of their footsteps, engravenby their bleeding feet. Then, children, tears of joy and gratitude fillmy eyes; for we did not toil in vain. In you all do I behold the fruitsof our labor. We were ignorant, that you might be wise; poor, that youmight be rich; outlawed and disgraced, that you might build up a freeand generous nation. And, in reaping these privileges, do not forget theold man, and the old woman, who, bowed and wrinkled with age, need yourkind hand. _We_ have given you these things gladly; and now, before wego to our further toil in eternity, let us hear your blessed voicesspeaking to us in kind tones of love; let us feel your young lipspressed upon our old brows; let us clasp your little hands, and feel thegladness with which your attentions come to us. And when you see an oldman, alone, with those of his generation passed away, treat himtenderly. Guide his tottering footsteps, and bear with him when he isslow; for he is waiting for the kind servant, Death. He is thinking of adear little girl, who, long ago, with her blue eyes and golden hair, herlight step and soft embrace, went up to live with the angels; and thetears fall fast over his worn cheeks, as he remembers the lone place sheleft in his heart, for she was the last thing which had been left himfrom his broken family. Speak to the old man gently, for his heart isoften in converse with the beautiful past! Speak to him gently, for hissoul dwells among the angels of heaven!