Harper's Young People, November 23, 1880 online

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Produced by Annie R. McGuire



* * * * *


Tuesday, November 23, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance

* * * * *

[Illustration: LITTLE SAMUEL. - [SEE NEXT PAGE.]]



A long time ago - more than three thousand years - a little boy was born
to a loving mother. She was a Jewess, and in those days it was the
custom to be called by only one name. Her name was Hannah, or Anna. She
lived with the father of her little boy in a mountain village six or
eight miles north of the city of Jerusalem.

Hannah was a tender-hearted woman, and as good as she was gentle. She
longed to have a little boy who might grow up and be trained to be a
teacher of the true God among the people around her, who were very
ignorant and wicked in those days. So she prayed, and God heard her
prayer. Upon the birth of the little fellow she named him Samuel, which
means _Asked of God_. So happy and grateful to God was this Jewish
mother that she wrote a wonderful song, which has been preserved all
these years, and may be still read in the Bible.

When her boy was two or three years old she carried him to the place
where the people of the country met to worship God, where was the great
tent called the Tabernacle, with its different coverings, of which we
are told in the second book of the Bible, and where the priest of God
and those that assisted him lived. Here she left him, with many warm
kisses and tears, that he might be taught by these religious men, and be
fitted to become in after-years a prophet or teacher of the true God.
His school had no vacations; but once a year regularly his mother came
to see him, bringing him a new, rich mantle as a gift of love, and a
proper robe for one who assisted in public worship, although a child, to

Every one saw that he was a remarkable boy. The old priest loved him as
a son. The blessed God in heaven also loves children, and knows how to
express His love to them so that they will understand it. He sometimes
intimates to them, when He is about to call them to some great work,
that they are by-and-by to become His ministers. Many a little fellow as
young as Samuel has felt in his mind, he hardly knew how or why, that he
would some time be a preacher of the Gospel.

When Samuel was about twelve years of age this wonderful thing happened
to him. He had a little room by himself within the great tent where the
people worshipped. The aged priest, whose name was Eli, had another
quite near to him. In the night, while the lamps were still burning in
the Tabernacle, and he had fallen asleep on his bed, he was suddenly
awaked by a voice calling him by name. He supposed, of course, it was
Eli calling, and he hurried to the old man's chamber, saying, as he
entered, "Here am I."

"I did not call you," said Eli; "go, lie down again."

He had hardly dropped into slumber once more, when the same voice awaked
him again: "Samuel, Samuel," it said.

He ran again to the room of Eli, and said, "Here am I; for thou didst
call me."

The old man thought, probably, that he was disturbed by terrifying
dreams, and said to him, "I called not, my son; lie down again."

A third time the voice called. It is wonderful that the lad was not
affrighted. But if one loves God and does right, there is nothing that
can harm him. The open-faced child of the Tabernacle, obeying without
hesitation, although answering twice in vain, hastened to the chamber of
Eli with his ready and filial response, "Here am I; for thou didst call

The aged minister then knew that it was not a human voice, but the voice
of God. He said to the child, "Go, lie down, and if the voice is heard
again, say, 'Speak, Lord, for Thy servant heareth.'"

He went alone to his chamber and to his bed in the silence of the night,
and once more the voice came, so sweet and gentle as not to terrify him,
"Samuel, Samuel."

"Speak, Lord," he answered, as he sat up on his bed, "for Thy servant

Then God gave him a message to his master, and to the people, and made
him at this early age a teacher and a prophet of the Lord.

It was just at this moment, when the boy sits up, solemnly, with his
eyes wide-opened, listening to the Divine voice, that the great English
painter Sir Joshua Reynolds, in his well-known picture, represents the
prophet-child. It is at this moment that his wondering and prayerful
face is caught by the artist in the beautiful picture which is given in
this paper.

God does not now speak audibly in the sleeping-rooms of little fellows;
but when they kneel, night by night, by their bedsides, and say, "Speak,
Lord, for Thy servant heareth," He comes into their minds and leads and
teaches them just as if He called them by name. There is no prayer goes
up to Heaven more readily heard or answered than the simple words of a
sincere, praying child.

[Begun in HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE No. 53, November 2.]




When the courier who brought the news that Lafayette had landed again in
Boston was introduced to the presence of General Washington, those who
were standing by saw tears of joy run down the cheeks of the veteran
soldier; and when Lafayette came to him, bearing the glad tidings that
ships and men and money were on their way from France to aid in the
common cause, the happiness of Washington was beyond words. And well it
might be. The help the French had sent the year before was of little
use. The country had again fallen into a weary and grumbling mood. The
army had shrunken until it was the mere ghost of an army. There was no
money in the Treasury. Washington wrote to Lafayette that he had not
enough cash at his disposal, or in the whole army, to pay one messenger
to ride fifty miles. And here came back the dearly loved friend from
France, whose zeal and talent had won from the French government
promises of the most generous help. No wonder that the brave American
commander welcomed Lafayette with a heart filled with gratitude and

The young Marquis resumed his old place at the head of the advance guard
of chosen troops. He had brought back from France a thousand little
gifts for his old corps - badges for the soldiers, swords for the
officers, a bright new silken flag for each battalion - kindly proofs of
the affection with which he had constantly remembered them.

The French fleet, and an army under the Count de Rochambeau, followed
quickly after Lafayette, and great efforts were made to agree upon a
common plan for the campaign. Unluckily only a part of the fleet came at
first, and this part got shut up by a larger English fleet at Newport,
and was of little value, except that the English ships which were
watching it could not ravage the American coasts.

Just at this moment happened one of those little incidents which
sometimes have great effect. Washington had gone from near New York over
to Connecticut to hold a meeting with the French commanders. On his way
back he turned off his road to show to Lafayette the forts at West Point
on the Hudson River, of which he was quite proud, and which had been
laid out by an intimate friend of Lafayette's. Benedict Arnold, who was
in command at West Point, had just arranged to betray the post to the
English. Major André, an English officer, had been sent up to close the
bargain. On his way back to New York he was captured as a spy, and all
the papers on his person were sent to General Arnold, whose treason no
one suspected. Arnold received them a half-hour before he expected
General Washington. Had he not looked for Washington's arrival he could
have released André, and carried out his wicked plan. Instead, he fled
straightway to the British camp; so that Washington's love for
Lafayette, which made him wish to show him the forts at West Point, was,
in this curious fashion, a means of saving the American cause. Had the
British captured West Point, and cut off the Eastern from the Central
and Southern States, the Americans might easily have been subdued.

The year 1780 passed without any events of importance. But early in 1781
Washington sent Lafayette south into Virginia with a couple of thousand
men to capture an English garrison at Portsmouth, near the mouth of the
Chesapeake Bay. This he was to do with the help of a French fleet, which
was to arrive there at the same time. But an English fleet got ahead of
the French fleet, and beat it in a sea-battle off Cape Henry. Lafayette
was about to return, when Washington wrote him to stay and try to
protect the State of Virginia, which the British were about to overrun.
Lafayette staid, of course, but he had a hard time of it. His troops had
not expected to remain, and were inclined to desert and go home, the
more because they were very badly clothed. Lafayette borrowed $10,000 in
his own name, and got them new clothing and shoes. Then he issued an
order telling them that he was about to start on a dangerous business,
and any man who was afraid to go with him would be sent back. That put a
stop to desertion.

Meanwhile, Lord Cornwallis, the ablest General the British had in
America, made his appearance with an army much stronger than
Lafayette's. He was "a cool, active" man, and was bent on capturing the
young Frenchman. Lafayette drew back slowly before him, trying to
deceive him as to his real strength.

At last Cornwallis had pushed the little army of Americans away
northward to the foot of the mountains, and wrote to New York, "The boy
can not now escape me." But marching all night by a back road through
the woods, and leaving his baggage and tents and heavy guns behind him,
Lafayette appeared to the astonished eyes of the British commander in a
strong position, from which he could not be driven. Just at this point
Lafayette got some more men from Washington's camp and from Virginia,
and then commenced one of the most remarkable campaigns ever known.
Lafayette, still much weaker than Cornwallis, was so active, and
appeared so confident, that the English slowly withdrew toward the
coast. Always seeming anxious to fight, yet never risking a general
battle, Lafayette followed Cornwallis until he got him into the village
of Yorktown, between the York River and the James River. There the
British felt safe, thinking that they could at any time get to New York
by water, or with a few more men could sally out and drive Lafayette
from Virginia.

But Lafayette expected a French fleet off the coast, and contented
himself with carefully watching his enemy, and writing to Washington to
hasten south with his army and make the capture of the British certain.
At last the French fleet came, and poor Cornwallis, with all his skill
and courage, was surrounded. He could hardly believe his eyes, and tried
in one way and another to break through; but it was of no use. The
French landed in large force, and their commanders urged Lafayette to
take Yorktown by storm. They appealed to his love of fame. He had foiled
Cornwallis, and shut him up in Yorktown: he ought to have the glory of
his capture. But the humane young hero put aside this temptation, and
refused to waste his men's lives in a venture which might not succeed.
He knew that Cornwallis could not escape, and that when Washington
arrived with his army the British would have to surrender, with little
or no bloodshed - so admirably combined in his character were courage,
prudence, and kindness. At last Washington came, with Count de
Rochambeau and a large army, and Cornwallis on the 19th of October was
compelled to lay down his arms. And this practically ended the war,
although it was not until two years after that peace was declared, and
the United States were acknowledged to be free and independent.

Lafayette sailed for France on the 23d December, 1781. He had the proud
satisfaction of knowing that the greatest victory of the war which had
made a nation free had been due to the aid he had got from his own
country, and to the patience, fortitude, and genius with which he had
himself commanded in the last campaign.

From on board the ship on the eve of sailing he wrote to his beloved
Washington: "Adieu, my dear General. I know your heart so well that I am
sure that no distance can change your attachment for me. With the same
sincerity I assure you that my tenderness, my respect, my gratitude for
you are beyond all expression; that at the moment of quitting you I feel
more than ever the force of those bonds of friendship which bind me
forever to you; and that the dearest wish of my heart is to show you by
my zeal and my services how great are my respect and my affection."



In the Chow Dynasty (about three thousand years ago) there was a man
named Laou Lai-tsze. When he was seventy years of age he used to put on
bright and many-colored clothes, and then he would play about like a
child. Sometimes he would carry water into the hall, and pretend to
stumble, and fall flat on the ground; and then he would cry, and run up
to his parents' side to please the old people, and all to make them
forget, for a time at least, their own great age.

* * * * *

There was once a man named Han. When he was a boy he misbehaved himself
very often, and his mother used to beat him with a bamboo rod. One day
he cried after the beating, and his mother was greatly surprised, and
said, "I have beaten you many a time, and you have never cried before;
why do you cry to-day?"

"Oh, mother," he replied, "you used to _hurt_ me when you flogged me;
but now I weep because you are not strong enough to hurt me."

"It makes one weep," says the Chinese moralist, "even to read this
story." Who does not long to have the dear vanished hand back again, and
the still voice speaking again, if even to punish and reprove?

* * * * *

About eighteen hundred years ago there was a man named Ong, who, when a
child, lost his father, and lived alone with his mother. Civil war broke
out, and he carried his mother off on his back to escape the confusion.
Many a time, when he was out searching for some food for his mother, he
met the banditti, who seized him and threatened to drag him off. But he
wept, and told them of his old mother at home depending on him; and even
these rough robbers had not the heart to kill him.

* * * * *

About eighteen hundred years ago there was a man named Mao, who
entertained a friend, one Koh, and kept him to spend the night. Early on
the following morning Mao killed a fowl for breakfast, and Mr. Koh
flattered himself that it was for _him_. But no! it was for Mao's old
mother; and Mao and Koh sat down to nothing but greens and rice. When
Koh saw this he rose up from the table, bowed low to Mao, and said,
"Well done, illustrious man!"




A hundred little chicks or more,
Downy, soft, and yellow,
Were peeping out their discontent
In voices far from mellow.
I looked around in wonderment -
No mothers were at hand
To gather 'neath their outstretched wings
The doleful little band;

And as I gazed, a small wee voice
From one chick seemed to say:
"Perhaps you think we like it,
This fine new-fangled way;
But it's very disagreeable,
For, strange as it may seem,
We never had a mother -
They hatched us out by steam;

"And they call us 'Happy Orphans,'
When we're ready all to weep,
For no answering cluck comes back to us,
Though we peep, and peep, and peep.
They say it's scientific,
And I've no doubt it is true,
But I would rather have a mother -
Now really wouldn't you!"


[Begun in No. 46 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, September 14.]





"What do you think was the counterfeiter's excuse for running away?"
asked Sam Wardwell of Canning Forbes, on meeting him at the Post-office,
to which both boys had been sent by their parents.

"I give it up," said Canning, who had not the slightest taste for

"He said he would have come back and given himself up after court had
met and adjourned, but he didn't want to be tried now."

"He wanted to wait for some new evidence in his defense, perhaps,"
suggested Canning.

"New grandfather!" ejaculated Sam, very contemptuously. "He wanted to
stay in jail here, doing nothing, for the next six months, rather than
go to the Penitentiary and work hard. That's what my father says."

"Perhaps your father is right," said Canning; "but what does he think of

"What does he think?" answered Sam: "why, just what everybody else
thinks; he thinks Paul is the greatest boy that ever was, and he says he
wishes I would be just like him."

"Well, why don't you?" asked Canning.

"How can I?" said Sam, in an aggrieved tone. "I can't do just as I
please, as Paul can, and I haven't got any great mystery to keep me up,
as everybody knows Paul has."

"Didn't you ever have a great mystery?" asked Canning.

"Never but once," said Sam; "that was when I hooked a big package of
loaf-sugar out of father's store, and had to keep finding new places to
hide it in until it was eaten up."

"I suppose that mystery helped keep you up?" suggested Canning.

"Well, you see - Oh, look! there comes father; I suppose he's wondering
why I don't bring his letters. Good-by;" and Sam got away from that very
provoking question as fast as possible.

As for the other boys, they simply sat on the sidewalk opposite old Mrs.
Battle's, and worshipped the house, from which their hero had not been
successfully coaxed to come out. In spite of Paul's caution to Benny,
and the promises that he received in return, the deputy had talked so
enthusiastically about Paul to all the men he met, that the story sped
about town that Paul had done as much toward recapturing the prisoner as
the officer had. This story might have been spoiled had Benny acted
according to the spirit of his promise, but the little fellow had been
so elated by the looks that people gave him, as he marched with Paul and
the counterfeiter through the street, that he could not bear to
deliberately rob himself of his fame, as of course he would do as soon
as Paul's story had been told. So Benny refused to be seen; he went to
bed very early, and before breakfast he had hidden himself in the unused
attic of his mother's cottage, where he nursed his glory until he felt
that he was simply starving for something to eat.

And all this while his fictitious valor was nowhere in the eyes of the
populace, for Mr. Morton himself had gone out immediately after
breakfast, and had himself given Paul's version of the affair to every
one, besides giving Benny a fair share of the credit for the
tender-heartedness displayed by the two boys toward the captive, so that
when Benny finally entered the world again he found he had lost some
hours of praise to which he was honestly entitled. As for Paul, the
teacher begged every one to say nothing at all to him about it. The boy
was somewhat peculiar, he said; the affair had made a very painful
impression upon him, and any one who really admired him could best prove
it by treating him just as before, and not reminding him in any way of
Laketon's most famous day.

Mr. Morton had not yet decided whether to open his school again, and the
boys, although they would have been sorry to have him go away from
Laketon, hoped he would not decide before court opened, for now that the
counterfeiter had been mixed up in some way with two of their own
number, the boys with one accord determined that they would have to
attend the trial; indeed, it seemed to some of them that the trial could
not go on without them, for did they not know the two boys who had
helped bring the prisoner back from the woods? They thought they did.

When the day for the trial came, and the Sheriff opened the court-room,
the doors of which had been kept locked because of the immense crowd
that threatened to fill the house in advance of the hour for the
session, he was surprised to find seventeen boys in the front seats of
the gallery. On questioning them, he learned that most of them had
entered through a window before sunrise, and that two had slept in the
gallery all night. He was about to remove the entire party, but the boys
begged so hard to be allowed to remain, and they reminded him so
earnestly that they all were particular friends of Paul, that the
Sheriff, who once had been a boy himself, relented and let them remain.

It was about six in the afternoon, according to the boys, but only a
quarter before ten by the court-house clock, when the front doors were
opened and the crowd poured in. Within the next five minutes any boy in
that front gallery row could have sold his seat for a dollar, but not a
boy flinched from what he considered a public duty, although every one
knew just what to do with a dollar if he could get it. Soon the lawyers
flocked in by the Judge's door, and grouped themselves about the table
inside the rail, and at five minutes before ten his honor the Judge
entered and took his seat. Then the Sheriff allowed Mr. Morton and Paul
to enter by the Judge's door, because they were unable to get through
the crowd in front. At sight of Paul the whole front row of the gallery
burst into a storm of hand-clapping.

The Judge rapped vigorously with his little mallet, and exclaimed, "Mr.
Sheriff, preserve order. The court is now open."


The Sheriff, first giving chairs in the lawyers' circle to Paul and the
teacher, because there were no other seats vacant, went down in front of
the gallery, and shouted to the boys that if they made any more
disturbance he would throw them all out of the window and break their
heads on the pavement below.

No lighter threat would have been of any avail, for a more restless set
of boys than they were during the next half-hour never was seen. It
seemed to them that the trial never would begin; lawyers talked to the
Judge about all sorts of things, and the Judge looked over papers as
leisurely as if time were eternity; but finally his honor said,

"Mr. Sheriff, bring in John Doe."

Every one in the front row of the gallery stood up, two or three minutes
later, as Ned Johnston, who sat where he could look through the open
door by which the Judge had entered, signaled that the prisoner was
coming. Many other people stood up when the Sheriff and the prisoner
entered, for all were curious to have a good look at the man whom but
few of them had seen. The Sheriff placed John Doe in the prisoners' box,
where, to the great disgust of the boys, only the back of a head and two
shoulders could be seen from the gallery. His honor nodded at the clerk,
and the clerk arose, cleared his throat, and said,

"John Doe, stand up."

The prisoner obeyed; and as his head was slightly turned, so as to face
the clerk, the boys had a fair view of it. It did not seem a bad face;
indeed, it was rather handsome and pleasing, although there was a steady
twitching of the lips that prevented its looking exactly the same from
first to last.

"John Doe," said the clerk, turning over some of the sheets of a very
bulky document he held in his hand, "a Grand Jury appointed by this
Court has found a true bill of indictment against you for passing
counterfeit money, to wit, a five-dollar note purporting to have been
issued by the Founders' National Bank of Mechanics' Valley, State of
Pennsylvania, the same note having been offered in payment for goods
purchased from Samuel Wardwell, a merchant doing business in this town
of Laketon, and for passing similar bills upon other persons herein
resident. Are you guilty or not guilty?"

"Guilty," answered the prisoner.

A sensation ran through the house, and at least half a dozen of the
fifty or more citizens who had hoped to be drawn on the jury whispered
to their neighbors that it was a shameful trick to appeal to the Judge's
sympathy, and get off with a light sentence; but they hoped that his
honor would not be taken in by any such hypocritical nonsense.

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Online LibraryVariousHarper's Young People, November 23, 1880 → online text (page 1 of 4)