OLD DOCTOR JOHNSON,
The man who wrote the big dictionary. It makes my head ache to think of it; but Dr. Johnson’s head and mine are about as much alike as a pea and a pumpkin, so there’s no use in talking about that. He lived through it, and made himself famous by it, as well as by many other things he said and did. It always comforts me to think that these literary giants, after all, had to begin life as we all did—in a cradle; the doctor was a baby once, like the rest of us; ate candy, I suppose, and cried for his mammy, although he grew up into such a shaggy lion, that his roar frightened timid folks half out of their wits. But, like other big animals, who sniff gently when little bits of creatures run past, as much as to say, Icouldmunch you up, were you worth the trouble, so the doctor, in his solemn grandeur,let ladies frisk round him unharmed; and liked it, too! But I am outrunning my story; let us go back to his cradle.
The first thing we hear of him is, his being perched on his father’s shoulder, at church, when he was only three years old,lookingearnestly—for he couldn’t have understood what was said—at a famous minister who preached in those days. Somebody asked his father, why he brought such a little baby into such a crowd? His answer was, that he could not keep him at home, and that he would have stayed forever in church, contentedly, looking at the minister. He was not the first little Samuel who went early to the temple, as you know, if you have read your Bible. It would be worth something to know what kept him so bewitched there, on his father’s shoulder, and what the little creature was really thinking about. Perhaps the clergyman had a very loving look in his face; and a baby’s eyes are quick to see that. Or, perhaps he had a sweet, lullaby voice, which charmed that little ear, like sweet music. Or, perhaps, being tired of seeing the same things over and over again at home, that sea of faces, in the crowded church, had a strange fascination forhim; but we might go on perhaps-ing forever, since nobody can tell us the truth about it.
By and by, getting down from his father’s shoulder, he went to school. One day, the servant sent to bring him home, not arriving in time, he started to return by himself, although he was so very near-sighted that he was obliged to get down on his hands and knees, and take a view of the crossing, before venturing over. His good, careful schoolmistress, fearing that he might miss his way, or fall, or be run over, followed him at a distance, to see that no harm came to him. Master Samuel, happening to turn round, saw this, to his great displeasure. Immediately he commenced beating her, in a furious rage, as fast as his little hands could fly, for what he considered an insult to his future beard. Imagine the little, insane, red-faced pigmy, and the placid schoolma’am! I wonder, did he ever think of it, when he grew up; when he made war with that sharp tongue of his, instead of his fists. I do not consider this an improvement on his juvenile style of warfare; inasmuch as bruised flesh heals quicker than a bruised spirit, and there are words that hurt worse than the most stunning blow. However, therewas this excuse for his life-long irritability, in the fact that, from childhood, he was a victim to that dreadful disease, the scrofula, which disfigured his face, and nearly destroyed the sight of one eye. Hisheartwas good and kind, as you will see.
Samuel was quite remarkable for his wonderful memory. When he was a little fellow in petticoats, and had learned to read, his mother, one morning, placed the prayer book in his hands, and pointing to the “collect” for the day, said, “Sam, you must get this by heart!” Leaving him to study it, she shut the door, and went up stairs. By the time she had reached the second floor, she heard him following her. “What’s the matter?” asked she. “I can say it,” Sam replied. His mother did not believe him; still, she took the book, and bade him begin; and, sure enough, he said it off like a minister, although he could not possibly have had time to read it over more than twice. They tell another story of him: that when three years old, he happened to tread on a little duckling, the eleventh of a brood, and killed it, whereupon he wrote the following epitaph:
“Here lies good Master Duck,Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;If it had lived, it had been good luck,For then we’d had an odd one.”
“Here lies good Master Duck,Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;If it had lived, it had been good luck,For then we’d had an odd one.”
“Here lies good Master Duck,Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;If it had lived, it had been good luck,For then we’d had an odd one.”
“Here lies good Master Duck,
Whom Samuel Johnson trod on;
If it had lived, it had been good luck,
For then we’d had an odd one.”
Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, declared, when he grew older, that hisfatherwrote it, and tried to pass it off for his. That amiable fib, if itwassuch, was hardly worth while, as there needed no proof of the child’s cleverness.
I told you how much he was troubled with scrofula. There was a superstition in those days, that if any one afflicted by this disease could be touched by the royal hand of a king, a cure would speedily follow. Many persons, who had a great reputation for wisdom, were foolish enough to believe this. Sam’s mother, therefore, may be excused, for what, in other circumstances, would have been called “a woman’s whim.” At any rate, up to London she went with little Sam. Queen Anne was king then, if you’ll pardon an Irish-ism; and Sam’s childish recollection of her was a solemn lady in diamonds, with a long, black hood. Did she cure him? Of course not; though his kind mother, I’ve no doubt, alwaysfelt better satisfied with herself for having tried it. Sam still continued to go to school, however, and one old lady to whom he went, had such an affection for him, that, years after, when he was a young man, just about to enter college, she came to bid him good by, bringing with her a big, motherly piece of gingerbread, as a token of her affection, adding that “he was the best scholar she ever had.” Sam didn’t make fun of it behind her back, as would many young men; he had sense enough to understand the great compliment conveyed in that piece of cake.
The Latin and other masters who succeeded the old lady, did not admire young Sam as much as she did; instead of “gingerbread,” he got tremendous whippings, one of the masters saying, benevolently, while he “laid it on,” “And this I do, to save you from the gallows.” I myself have more faith in the gingerbread than in the whipping system, which, I believe, has as often driven boystothe gallows, as “from” it. But it seems Samuel owed them no grudge; for being asked, later in life, how he came to have such an accurate knowledge of Latin, replied, “My master whipt me very well;” and all his life long,heinsisted andpersisted, thatonly by the rodwas learning ever introduced into a boy’s head. Still, to my eye, “birches” look best in the woods. I can’t help thinking that the gentle sway of the old lady would have carried him safe through his Latin too, had she but known enough to teach it.
In all schools, the boy who knows the most, rules the rest. So it was with Sam; who, if he helped them into difficulty with his roguish pranks, helped them also with their lessons, when they came to a standstill for want of his quick comprehension. They all looked up to him with great deference, and so far did this carry them, that they carried him! actually and really. Three boys used to call at his lodgings every morning, as humble attendants, to bear him to school. One, in the middle, stooped, while he sat on his back; while one on each side supported him; and thus the great, lazy Sam was borne along in triumph!
There is one thing which I believe to be true of the childhood and youth of all persons distinguished for true knowledge. It is this: they never rest satisfied with ignorance on any point, which,by any possibility, can be explained or made clear. It was so with Samuel; also, he never forgot what he thus heard, or had read. I know well that a young person who is “inquisitive” is much more troublesome than one who never thinks, and only rests satisfied with just what is put into the ear, and desires no more; and parents and teachers, too, are too apt to silence the inquisitive mind with “don’t ask questions!” or “don’t be so troublesome!” or, if they answer, do it in a careless, lazy way, that only surrounds the questioner with new difficulty, instead of helping him out of it; never reflecting that it is by thisself-educating processthat the child arrives at thebest halfof what he will ever know. Don’t misunderstand me; don’t think I mean that a child, or a young person, is impertinently to interrupt the conversation of his elders, and clamor for an immediate answer. I don’t mean so, any more than I think it right to snub him back into ignorance with that harrowing “little pitcher” proverb, which used to make me tear my hair out, at being forced to “be seen,” while I was not allowed “to be heard.”
It is my private belief, spite of my admirationof the great Sam, that he was physically—lazy. Riding boy-back to school gave me the first glimmering of it. Afterward, the fact that his favorite, indeed, only diversion in winter was, being drawn on the ice by a barefooted boy, who pulled him along by a garter fixed around him—no easy job for the shivering barefooter, as Sam was not only “great” intellectually, but physically. His defective sight prevented him from enjoying the common sports of boys, if this is any excuse for what would seem to be a piece of selfishness on his part. Perhaps to his inability for active sports, we may ascribe his appetite for romances in his leisure hours—a practice which he afterward deeply regretted, because, as he declared, it unsettled his mind, and stood very much in the way of his decision upon any profession in life.
At the age of twenty, Samuel’s disease took the form of an overpowering melancholy, which, I am sorry to say, never wholly left him during his life. In every possible way the poor fellow struggled against it, by study, by reading, by going into company, by sitting up late at night, till he was sure of losing himself in sleep. This melancholy took the form of great fear of death. Hecould not bear to hear the word “death” mentioned in his presence. I think, however, it was “dying” he feared,not“death.” I think he feared physical pain and suffering, not another state of existence; for all his ideas ofthatwere pleasant and happy, like those of a child going home to its parent, whom, though he may have sinned against, he tenderly loves, and constantly implores forgiveness from. A more kind-hearted man than Samuel Johnson never lived, with all his bluntness, which, after all, is much preferable to the smooth tongue which rolls deceit, like a sweet morsel, in honeyed words. He had also this noble trait: he was quick to ask forgiveness where his blunt words had wounded. He did not think either his dignity or his manliness compromised by confessing himself in the wrong. I want you to notice this particularly; because small, narrow minds think it “mean and poor-spirited” to do this, even when convinced that they are wrong. This blunt, rough, ordinary-looking, ill-dressed old man (for he lived, after all, to be an old man), had a kingly heart. I could tell you many instances of his kindness to the poor and unfortunate; of his devoted love for his wife, who diedmany years before him, and whose memory he sacredly and lovingly cherished. He numbered among his friends many great and talented people, who were attracted to him by the good qualities I have named, as, also, by his brilliant and intellectual conversation. Royalty, too, paid him special honor; and in his latter days, when money was not so plenty as it should have been in the pocket of a man to whom the world owes so much, the highest people in the land most assiduously endeavored to make his descent to the grave easy, by travel, change of scene, and more comfortable accommodations than he could otherwise have had. Rough as Dr. Johnson was reputed to be, he was a great favorite with ladies. No dandy could outdo him in a neat, graceful compliment to them, and no insect could sting sharper than he either, if they disgusted him with their nonsense and folly. Nice, honest, sham-hating old man! I am glad that the Saviour he loved, smiled so lovingly on him at the last, that he fearlessly crossed the dark waves he had dreaded, to lay that weary head upon His bosom.