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, I could munch 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, looking earnestly—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 for him; 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, there was 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. His heart was 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.”
Pretty well, for three years old. Sam, however, declared, when he grew older, that his father wrote it, and tried to pass it off for his. That amiable fib, if it was such, was hardly worth while, as there needed no proof of the child’s cleverness.