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Page 83
The lad made no reply. But again his imagination set to work, and
conjured up another picture of poor Michael Johnson. He was standing in
the hot sunshine of the market-place, and looking so weary, sick, and
disconsolate, that the eyes of all the crowd were drawn to him. "Had
this old man no son," the people would say among themselves, "who might
have taken his place at the bookstall, while the father kept his bed?"
And perhaps--but this was a terrible thought for Sam!--perhaps his
father would faint away, and fall down in the market-place, with his
gray hair in the dust, and his venerable face as deathlike as that of a
corpse. And there would be the bystanders gazing earnestly at Mr.
Johnson, and whispering, "Is he dead? Is he dead?"
And Sam shuddered, as he repeated to himself: "Is he dead?"
"Oh, I have been a cruel son!" thought he, within his own heart. "God
forgive me! God forgive me!"
But God could not yet forgive him; for he was not truly penitent. Had he
been so, he would have hastened away that very moment to Uttoxeter, and
have fallen at his father's feet, even in the midst of the crowded
market-place. There he would have confessed his fault, and besought Mr.
Johnson to go home, and leave the rest of the day's work to him. But
such was Sam's pride and natural stubbornness, that he could not bring
himself to this humiliation. Yet he ought to have done so, for his own
sake, and for his father's sake, and for God's sake.
After sunset, old Michael Johnson came slowly home, and sat down in his
customary chair. He said nothing to Sam; nor do I know that a single
word ever passed between them, on the subject of the son's disobedience.
In a few years, his father died and left Sam to fight his way through
the world by himself. It would make our story much too long were I to
tell you even a few of the remarkable events of Sam's life. Moreover,
there is the less need of this, because many books have been written
about that poor boy, and the fame that he acquired, and all that he did
or talked of doing, after he came to be a man.
But one thing I must not neglect to say. From his boyhood upward, until
the latest day of his life, he never forgot the story of Uttoxeter
market. Often when he was a scholar of the University of Oxford, or
master of an Academy at Edial, or a writer for the London
booksellers,--in all his poverty and toil, and in all his
success,--while he was walking the streets without a shilling to buy
food, or when the greatest men of England were proud to feast him at
their table,--still that heavy and remorseful thought came back to
him:--"I was cruel to my poor father in his illness!" Many and many a
time, awake or in his dreams, he seemed to see old Michael Johnson,
standing in the dust and confusion of the market-place, and pressing his
withered hand to his forehead as if it ached.
Alas! my dear children, it is a sad thing to have such a thought as this
to bear us company through life.
* * * * *
Though the story was but half finished, yet, as it was longer than
usual, Mr. Temple here made a short pause. He perceived that Emily was
in tears, and Edward turned his half-veiled face towards the speaker,
with an air of great earnestness and interest. As for George he had
withdrawn into the dusky shadow behind his father's chair.
CHAPTER V.
In a few moments Mr. Temple resumed the story, as follows:
SAMUEL JOHNSON.
CONTINUED.
Well, my children, fifty years had passed away since young Sam Johnson
had shown himself so hard-hearted towards his father. It was now
market-day in the village of Uttoxeter.
In the street of the village, you might see cattle-dealers with cows and
oxen for sale, and pig-drovers, with herds of squeaking swine, and
farmers, with cart-loads of cabbages, turnips, onions, and all other
produce of the soil. Now and then a farmer's red-faced wife trotted
along on horseback, with butter and cheese in two large panniers. The
people of the village, with country squires and other visitors from the
neighborhood, walked hither and thither, trading, jesting, quarrelling,
and making just such a bustle as their fathers and grandfathers had made
half a century before.
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