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Page 72
BIOGRAPHICAL STORIES.
CHAPTER I.
When Edward Temple was about eight or nine years old, he was afflicted
with a disorder of the eyes. It was so severe, and his sight was
naturally so delicate, that the surgeon felt some apprehensions lest the
boy should become totally blind. He therefore gave strict directions to
keep him in a darkened chamber, with a bandage over his eyes. Not a ray
of the blessed light of Heaven could be suffered to visit the poor lad.
This was a sad thing for Edward! It was just the same as if there were
to be no more sunshine, nor moonlight, nor glow of the cheerful fire,
nor light of lamps. A night had begun which was to continue perhaps for
months,--a longer and drearier night than that which voyagers are
compelled to endure, when their ship is ice-bound, throughout the
winter, in the Arctic Ocean. His dear father and mother, his brother
George, and the sweet face of little Emily Robinson, must all vanish,
and leave him in utter darkness and solitude. Their voices and
footsteps, it is true, would be heard around him; he would feel his
mother's embrace, and the kind pressure of all their hands; but still it
would seem as if they were a thousand miles away.
And then his studies! They were to be entirely given up. This was
another grievous trial; for Edward's memory hardly went back to the
period when he had not known how to read. Many and many a holiday had he
spent at his book, poring over its pages until the deepening twilight
confused the print, and made all the letters run into long words. Then
would he press his hands across his eyes, and wonder why they pained him
so, and, when the candles were lighted, what was the reason that they
burned so dimly, like the moon in a foggy night. Poor little fellow! So
far as his eyes were concerned, he was already an old man, and needed a
pair of spectacles almost as much as his own grandfather did.
And now, alas! the time was come, when even grandfather's spectacles
could not have assisted Edward to read. After a few bitter tears, which
only pained his eyes the more, the poor boy submitted to the surgeon's
orders. His eyes were bandaged, and, with his mother on one side, and
his little friend Emily on the other, he was led into a darkened
chamber.
"Mother, I shall be very miserable," said Edward, sobbing.
"Oh, no, my dear child!" replied his mother, cheerfully. "Your eyesight
was a precious gift of Heaven, it is true; but you would do wrong to be
miserable for its loss, even if there were no hope of regaining it.
There are other enjoyments, besides what come to us through our eyes."
"None that are worth having," said Edward.
"Ah! but you will not think so long," rejoined Mrs. Temple, with
tenderness. "All of us--your father, and myself, and George, and our
sweet Emily--will try to find occupation and amusement for you. We will
use all our eyes to make you happy. Will not they be better than a
single pair?"
"I will sit by you all day long," said Emily, in her low, sweet voice,
putting her hand into that of Edward.
"And so will I, Ned," said George, his elder brother,--"school time and
all, if my father will permit me."
Edward's brother George was three or four years older than himself, a
fine, hardy lad, of a bold and ardent temper. He was the leader of his
comrades in all their enterprises and amusements. As to his proficiency
at study, there was not much to be said. He had sense and ability enough
to have made himself a scholar, but found so many pleasanter things to
do, that he seldom took hold of a book with his whole heart. So fond was
George of boisterous sports and exercises, that it was really a great
token of affection and sympathy, when he offered to sit all day long in
a dark chamber, with his poor brother Edward.
As for little Emily Robinson, she was the daughter of one of Mr.
Temple's dearest friends. Ever since her mother went to Heaven, (which
was soon after Emily's birth,) the little girl had dwelt in the
household where we now find her. Mr. and Mrs. Temple seemed to love her
as well as their own children; for they had no daughter except Emily;
nor would the boys have known the blessing of a sister, had not this
gentle stranger come to teach them what it was. If I could show you
Emily's face, with her dark hair smoothed away from her forehead, you
would be pleased with her look of simplicity and loving-kindness, but
might think that she was somewhat too grave for a child of seven years
old. But you would not love her the less for that.
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