John O'Brien

CHAPTER I. «Ho«v’iKG HOW John’s early ideas began to shoot

He is lost ! He will fall !

I tell you no ! Be quiet, there ! Bring some blankets, and let stout men hold them by the corners. We may save him yet.

What is the matter ?

Why in Cross Street, Boston, year of our Lord 1819, on a fine May morning, there was a great crowd ; and they were staring at something that was resting upon the gutter of a four-story house. It was an overgrown monlcey, with an infant in its ugly arms.

Baby seemed to like the sport as well as Jocko did. The animal had often seen nurse fondle the infant, and he tried to outdo her in her own business. He would pat baby ; sing — no, chatter to it ; and now and then he would give it a little toss in the air, to the unspeakable fright of the people below, who opened their eyes as if they meant them for blankets ; and their mouths, as if they were so many soft places to catch the little thing that was going to fall.

It gave uncrowable delight to baby, though. We don’t have to wait until we are weaned before we have some notion of the peculiar sweetness of stolen waters, and baby seemed to know that something good was going on, .that wouldn’t last a great while. It didn’t feel afraid to fall, and it took quite kindly to its ugly nurse.

What is the reason, James, that all children, from Romulus and Remus to the hero of. this story, have liked ugly nurses better than handsome ones ?

I deny the fact, says James ; I didn’t.

Well, I’ll go on with my story.

Some wise fellows in the crowd were going to set up a shout, hoping that the animal would be frightened, and run back into the house. Their well-meant effort was nipped in the bud by an old salt, who had b^en at Ape’s Hill, on the African coast. He said that the creature would drop his charge at the first alarm. Other considerate men wanted to go to the top of the house, and give chase to Jocko. The sailor had provided against such an attempt. A few friends guarded the interior of the. house, and tried as well as they could to calm the distracted mother. As for nurse, she had gone quite mad. She had set her clothes on fire twice ; she had scratched and bit herself ; and now she was tugging at her hair, which gave way, because it was a wig. She wanted to be laid in the same coffin with her darling John.

Meanwhile, men were ready on the sidewalk, with blankets. Every precaution was taken, and there was nothing for it but to wait the pleasure of the monkey. He was evidently disposed to play at something else ; besides, baby was heavy ; ‘it weighed sixteen pounds. So he clambered up the roof, got into the house, and left baby in the cradle, whence he had stolen it. He looked as if he had done a good, action. It was his last, though, for he dined on a short allowance of wind, brought about by a bit of rope, and nothing to stand upon.*

I am glad that Jocko did not let me fall. This story would not go on well without its hero.

I have my parents’ authority for saying that I was the most wonderful baby that ever lived. Nurse used to cry, sometimes, and say, that such a bright child wouldn’t be long for this world. I have thought since that I was no better than other babies. One of the first things I remember was a scolding I got from mother. I recollect she said that the evil one must be at my elbow,' telling me what mischief to make next.

I will tell you something that I think I remember. I must have been very little, and I had almost fulfilled nurse’s proph-

* This incident happened at the time and in the place described- Baby, now a man, is well known to the writer.

ecy, by dy’ng of the dysentery. It was warm, bright weather ; and, O, how good the breezes felt to me, after I had been made to lie still in a dark room, and take nasty physic so many times I It seems like a dream to me now ; and when I go in my sleep to better lands, I always feel those breezes coming back. Well, I saw some fruit across the way, and it looked good. I was scarcely able to talk, but I made mother understand that I must have some of that fruit. And I hac my own way about it. Mother tried very hard to make me understand that it was not good for me ; she thought that she would gain her point by giving me other goodies that would not hurt me ; she promised me all the pretty toys that were ever made ; but it was of no use. I wanted the fruit, and nothing else. Well, she gave it up. She thought that fretting would hurt me more than the melon would ; and besides, “ natur don’t crave any thing for nothin’.” This last was suggested by the nurse. I ate as much of the fruit as I wanted,- and in three hours I was sick enough.

What is the matter with John } said my father, when he came home, in the afternoon. He was getting along finely this morning.

Why, he wanted a piece of melon, and he begged so hard, that I was afraid to vex him in his present weak state.

Foolish mother ! I am afraid that he will never eat another melon. And father ran for the doctor, without saying another word.

Many days passed before I was as well as T was when I asked for the fruit.

The sickness passed away, and I quite forgot it. But I remembered that I could have my own way with mother . This little piece of knowledge was of great use to me ; at least, I thought so in my childish days. I only had to coax and tease her, and I almost always got what I wanted. I was her only child, and she could not bear to see a shadow rest upon my face for a moment.

It seems to me that I knew that I would have that melon, young as I was.. Perhaps I had often gained my point before. I don’t know.

Gained your pointy you great fool ! What point could you have to gain, at that age } Were you not a little animal^ wanting nothing but what was necessai^ to support animal life It requires reflection and calculation to gain any point. How could you calculate then 7

Now, that is just what I deny. My father had a theory about children, and he almost always acted to suit it. I have thought of his notion since, and I like it somewhat.

It was not long before my father died, and he was talking with a gentleman who had called to pass a quiet evening with us. Father was just beginning to let me sit in the room when he had evening visitors, and I liked it well ; for I thought that I was partly a man, when I was not sent to bed at sunset. I remember how I gained this favor. One afternoon, when he came home, I went to him, and looked straight into his eyes, as I had seen him do, when he wanted to say something very important.

Well, my son ?

Father, am I a hen 7

Why, no, my boy.

He never called me a fool, no matter how strange my questions were. He answered them as gravely as if they had been put by wise old men.

Well, father, am I a rooster 7

My dear child, no ! Why do you ask these questions }

Because I heard mother saying that they ought to go to bed at sunset. Now I think that I can tell you why I should not be sent to bed when they go.

Well !

They are not driven to roost. They go because they want to. Now, I have to go to bed very often when I had rather not. I always try to mind you as well as 1 can ; but sometimes I feel as if I would rather go without my supper, than be sent to my room so early. I cannot always get to sleep, because I try to think what you and mother are saying, when you are all alone. Do you think that I would tell any body what you say, father ?

Father and mother looked at one another. I thought that 1. knew what that look meant, and I was pretty sure that I was going to get what I asked for. By this time I had come very near to him, and I was looking earnestly into his eyes. I always thought that my face looked better there than in a glass.

My boy, I know that you never did such a mean actioa Have you any thing more to say ?

How proud I always felt, when he used to say that he knew I would not do this or that bad thing ! He said it very often. How many times it kept me from doing a naughty action! I said to myself, Father knows that I will not do this thing, and I will not. I did not exactly understand how he knew it I thought that perhaps my guardian angel told him my thoughts. I could not see how he could find them out so many times as he did in any other w’ay.

Yes, father, there is another thing. I cannot see that the fowls do any thing but^eat. Now, when it is dark, they cannot find any worms, so they go to sleep until the light comes. Now, father, I was made for something else than eating and drinking. You told me so, a great while ago. I want to read and hear you talk. ^

Father whispered something to mother. I don’t know wha it was ; but he told me that I need not go to bed that evening until nine o’clock. I cannot tell you how glad I was, for I knew that Mr. and Mrs. Sandford were coming to our house that evening, and I could scarcely eat my supper for joy. I wanted to have the tea things cleared away in a hurry, because I was afraid that they would come before we were ready to sit down and talk.

John, bring your chair, and sit beside me. I did so. Do you know why I have done what you asked me ?

I suppose that it was to humor me, father.

No, my son, it was not. I never humor you, when you ask for any thing which you ought not to have. When I can see good reasons for doing as you wish, I always like to do it, when I can.

So you saw good reasons for letting me sit with you to-night }

You gave them, my boy. Do you know what a logician is }

No, sir.

Well, no matter. You have proved to me that you are not a fowl, and that, in some things, you ought not to be treated like one. You gave good reasons for what you said, and I believed them.

Then a logician is a man that gives good reasons for what he says, is he, sir }

Something like it. Do you remember how you wanted to walk out with me last Thursday ^

Yes, sir. It was a fine afternoon ; the sun shone so brightly, and every thing looked so pleasant, that I wanted to take the air. You would not let me go.

1 *

Why not ? Did you give me any good reason for your wish ?

Father, I only said that I wanted to walk.

Well ?

And you told me to look at a little black cloud that was in one corner of the sky, towards Roxbury. You said that there would be rain before night.

And you did not believe me.

Father, that is saying too much. I did not know what to think. Every thing looked so beautiful ! 1 was sorry when

you went away without me.

Were you sorry all the afternoon.

O, no, sir. F stood at the front door, watching that little black cloud. It began to grow bigger and bigger, until at last it seemed to be coming this way. I was so busy looking at it, that I forgot all about my disappointment. And then the whole sky grew black, and some big drops of rain fell upon my face. I shut the door, and went to the window, where I watched the people scampering every way to get out of the storm. I was glad that I was at home. Then it began to thunder and lighten terribly.

Were you frightened ?

No, sir. I used to be afraid of lightning, until you told me what it was. You made it so plain to me, that I knew all about it. And then you took me to Dr. Farnsworth’s house, and made him show me the machine for making lightning He showed me how to turn the crank, and make it, too. 1 was never afraid of lightning after that. Ha, ha, ha !

What are you laughing at ?

Why, father, my dog Carlo. You know I turned the crank, and made him put his paw on the wire. How he jumped and yelled ! And O, I forgot to tell you how I got a beautiful new book, this afternoon, on your account.

On my account ! How was that ?

Why, father, Mr. Upton and the school committee came to see us to-day. Miss Parmenter told us that they were coming, and she bade us do her credit. What a dear, good mistress she is! Well, Lydia Kimball had kept the head for a week, and I was glad of it, although I wanted to be at the head too. When we said our lessons, this morning, she happened to make a mistake. She knew the lesson well enough, but she was thinking about something else then. At any rate, Miss Parmenter asked me, and I knew the answe.

— so I went to the head. The committee came, as I told you, and you know that there was a little shower this afternoon.

Mr. Upton spoke to us. Children, do you know what thunder and lightning are ? James Gardner stood up.

Well, my little fellow, what is it.? said Mr. Upton.

W^hen it thunders, God is talking !

Father, what do you think of that answer .? There was something good in it, but it did not seem right.

My boy, you have just said it. I think that you know nearly as well as I can tell you ; only you cannot explain your notion properly. Why do you think that James Gardner’s answer had something good in it.?

Why, father, I do not know ; that is, I cannot tell exactly what I mean. God made the thing that thunders, that is certain. Then it is his. The thunder is a noise that comes out of the clouds, towards heaven, where God is. You might call it a kind of a voice, only you cannot understand what it says, any more than I could understand what you were saying yesterday to that Frenchman. Besides, thunder is the loudest noise 1 ever heard, and I suppose that if God were to talk, he would make such a noise. And then 1 remember that God came down in fire on Mount Sinai, and when he spoke there was thunder and lightning. You know that you carried me to Boylston Hall, last Sunday evening, to hear the “ Creation.” When they were singing God’s words, a man near the organ banged the drum, now and then. You told me that it was meant for thunder. I thought that it was ■ queer thunder, and so did the man, I think ; for he did not look very solemn about it.

Very well, my son, now tell me why the answer did not seem right to you.

O, that is easy enough. There is a question iri the Catechism, Has God a body .? and the answer is. No, he is a pure spirit. Now, if God has not got a body, he has no tongue ; so he cannot talk, as we do.

Very well, John. Now, do not you think that it was better for you to study out the matter for yourself, than to hear me explain it .? I should have told you, in other words, what you have said just now.

Perhaps you would, father. Sometimes I think that I know some things, but when I try to explain myself, I do not always know how to do it ; and sometimes I talk^ such nonnense that I begin to think that people are laughing at me ; . ^ and then I begin to stammer, and sometimes I cry like a litt.e fool. But I never feel so when I am talking with you. You ask just the right kind of questions, and they seem to leam me how to give the answers that I want to give. It is a nice way of teaching, father. You ask me a question that puts me in the way of knowing things, and you make me think all the time that I have found them out myself. But I am not quite satisfied, yet.

What do you want to know }

Why, the Catechism says that God has no body. But, in the Old Testament, he talks about his body ; and he used to speak words to Moses. How is that }

My dear boy, have I not told you often that there are many things which no one in the world can understand r

Yes, sir. I remember, the other day, that you puzzled me a great deal when you asked me why I lifted my arm when I wanted to. You said that it was as strange to you as it was to me, although I never thought before that there was any thing about it hard to understand.

Well, you believe that you can lift up your arm when you want to }

Father, I know that I can. See here !

And you do not understand how it is done }

No, sir.

Well, what lesson do you learn from that?

I thought for a moment. I suppose it is, that there are a great many things which are very true, and which we cannot understand, for all that.

Quite right. Remember this when any body asks you a question about something in the Catechism which looks strange to you.

Then you cannot tell how it is thafe God has no body, while he says that he has.

Softly, my boy ; you are getting on too fast. God does not say any where that he has a real body. You think that he may have one, because some things he says sound as if he had a body. Is it not so ?

Yes, sir.

Very well. I have often told you about your guardian angel. Do you not think that he can do any thing that you can, and better than you can, too ? Is he not much moie powerful than you are ?

O, yes, father.

Well, he can speak, then ; and he can do things which make him appear as it* he had a body. Did you ever read about angels doing these things ?

Yes, sir. Abraham, and Jacob, and some other good men, were very familiar with angels. But did not these good spirits deceive men, when they made them believe that they had bodies, while they had not ? I know that this is a wrong question, but it looks very strange.

Do you remember the story you told me about John Wilson ?

Yes, sir.

Well, tell it again.

Why, father, John Wilson looks just like Charles Carpenter ; you can hardly tell them apart. Well, John’s father bought for him a suit of clothes that looks exactly like Charles’s suit. So, Monday morning John came to school, and every body, almost, called him Charles Carpenter. 1 was almost going to call him so, too. Well, John made a mistake in his lesson. I believe it was the first he ever made.

Stand out in the middle of the floor, Charles Carpenter, says the master.

After lessons were over, the master took out his cowhide. Now, Charles Carpenter, you are always lazy. You never get your lessons properly. I will teach you to do better than this, if I can. And then John got a terrible beating ; but he did not say a word.

Now, Charles Carpenter, go to your desk. I wish you were as good a boy as John Wilson is !

Then some of the boys burst out laughing. The master asked what it meant. One of the biggest stood up, and said, Master, you have been beating John Wilson all this time.

Why, it cannot be ! said he. Come here, sir. Why, so it is ! John Wilson, why did you not tell me that you were not Charles Carpenter ?

Because I like him, and I did’nt want him to be whipped.

You are a noble boy, said the master. I will make some amends to you for this.

There is the story, father. How we all loved John Wilson after that !

Very well, John. Do you remember our talk, last summer, about the round tower, and the crooked stick ?

Let me see ! O yes, I remember. You took your stick and put it into the water, and I was sure that it was broken, it did not look like the same cane. And when we were a great way out in the country, you made me stop when we had got to the top of a hill, and you asked me whether a monument, which we saw a great way off, were round, or square. Father, I knew that it was square, but it looked round then^ that is certain.

Well. Now you said just now that it seems as if the angels deceived people, because they appeared to have bodies, like oure.

Yes, sir.

Did John Wilson deceive the master ? Did the stick make you think that it was crooked ? Or did the monument make you believe that it was round ?

I thought for a minute. I begin to see into it, father. The master did not stop to look sharply at John Wilson ; and 1 was in too great a hurry in making up my mind about the ■cane and the monument. So I judged too hastily, when 1 said that it seems as if angels deceived people, sometimes did I, father .?

You did, my son. Now think- well, and tell me what lesson is to be learned from all this ?

It means that we ought not always trust to appearances, I think. But if the cane and the monument did not deceive me, how is it that my copy book says, ‘‘'‘Men are often deceived hy appearances ? ” I wrote it out in coarse hand to-day at school.

My boy, we are very proud creatures. We make mistakes, and then we blame any thing, and any body, but ourselves. Now that we have seen what ought to be thought of James Gardner’s answer to Mr. Upton, when he asked what thunder and lightning meant, let us hear what happened next. When he said that the thunder is God’s voice, what answer did he get .?

Father, Mr. Upton smiled, and asked his name, how old he was, and where he went to meeting. Then he said to James, Your answer is partly right ; but I think that we can get nearer to the truth. Does any one else wish to an swer }

Jane Hill stood up. Well, my little girl .? said Mr Upton.

Thunder and lightning is made to strike little boys ana girls when they tell lies.

We all laughed at that, but Mr. Upton looked very sober and he stopped us. Who told you that ? he asked.

My mother told me so a great many times, said Jane. • Father, was not that a very silly answer ? I have known a great many boys and girls who tell lies, sometimes, and none of them were killed for it ; so it must be a lie. What a horrid thing it is for a father or mother to tell lies to their boys and girls. I know that you could not tell me one, father.

Father then turned to my mother, and began to talk about it. It is very wrong, he said, for parents to say these things, and they are punished severely for it, sometimes. I think that men and women who are afraid of thunder and lightning, almost always have to thank their parents, or some ignorant nurse, for it. I remember how a beautiful little girl in Ireland was ruined by this foolish custom of frightening children into good conduct. Her name was Annie O’Connor, and she was about seven years old. She had told a lie, it seems, and her mother caught her in it ; for she was not a finished liar, so she did it in a bungling way. Her mother forgave her, for that time, but told her never to tell a lie to any body again ; if she did, the lightning would strike. her surely.

About a month after, Annie did not come home from school at the usual time. Two hours passed, and she came, when her mother asked her why she was so late. Annie said that the mistress had kept her for not learning her lessons well. This mistress was the parson’s sister, for Mr. O’Connor was a Protestant.

You were rightly served, said her mother. You were reading that story book all the morning, instead of getting your lesson.

Now Annie had told a lie. There was a vulgar daughter of a drunken squireen, who was a perfect nuisance to all that knew her. She would swear as badly as the worst boys ; indeed, she kept scarcely any other company. She always took great pleasure in tormenting the other girls, but she seemed to like Annie ; indeed, no one could help doing so, for she was very pretty, and very gentle, too. Annie was strictly forbidden, by her parents, to keep company with Ellen Dwyer, but Ellen gave her no peace until she would be sociable ; and Annie, seeing how hard she tried to please her, thought that her parents must be wrong in being so very strict about it ; so their intimacy grew every day. On this afternoon, Ellen persuaded Annie to go with her^o her house , indeed, she had often urged her to go there, telling her that she would show her a great many fine things that she had never seen before, and above all, a new dress, that had come from Dublin only the day before. Annie at last agreed to go with her, and they went together to the hall. But Annie was uneasy, for she knew that she was doing wrong, and she did not know what to tell her mother when she would go home. Ellen made up the lie for her, and Annie told it, as I said before.

Not long after she got home, the sky suddenly grew dark, and there was the heaviest shower I ever saw. The thunder was very grand, and the lightning very sharp. A barn was struck, and it made a great fire. The storm lasted almost two hours.

That storm ruined poor Annie. When she first heard the thunder, she was very uneasy ; but as the lightning grew sharp and near, she was in an agony of terror. Then her mother knew. that she had told a lie, but she had forgotten her foolish prophecy, until Annie clung to her, with her eyes wild, and her features distorted with uncontrollable fright; and as she clutched her mother’s clothes, as a man that is drowning will seize a rope, she begged for life ; she prayed that the lightning might not strike her, and she would never tell a lie again. The lightning came nearer and nearer, and Annie ran through the rooms, from cellar to garret, like a mad creature, as indeed she had really become. When the barn, which was near her father’s house, was struck, she sprang up in the air, and then fell to the ground senseless. It would have been well for her if that moment had been her last ; but it was not the will of God. Pretty Annie was an idiot, and she is one now. The wretched mother was awfully punished for her lie to the poor little girl.

The plan is thoroughly bad. Children soon learn that they have been deceived, and the end of it is, that they lose all respect for their parents, and they do more bad actions than ever, for they are not afraid of punishment that never comes.