When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted and made an indistinct grumbling in his throat; then he looked his old father in the face and answered him loudly and deliberately.
“Sir,” said he, “I will not go to Uttoxeter market!”
Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad’s obstinacy ever since his birth; and while Sam was younger, the old gentleman had probably used the rod whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was now too feeble and too much out of spirits to contend with this stubborn and violent-tempered boy. He therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared to go to Uttoxeter himself.
“Well, Sam,” said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat and staff, “if for the sake of your foolish pride you can suffer your poor sick father to stand all day in the noise and confusion of the market when he ought to be in his bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, Sam, when I am dead and gone.”
So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble, melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was that he should be forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an ungrateful son who was too proud to do anything for his father, or his mother, or himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson with a sullen countenance till he was out of sight.
But when the old man’s figure, as he went stooping along the street, was no more to be seen, the boy’s heart began to smite him. He had a vivid imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father standing in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd around him. Sam seemed to behold him arranging his literary merchandise upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice. Here was Addison’s Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was Pope’s translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden’s poems, or those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver’s Travels, and a variety of little gilt-covered children’s books, such as Tom Thumb, Jack the Giant Queller, Mother Goose’s Melodies, and others which our great-grandparents used to read in their childhood. And here were sermons for the pious, and pamphlets for the politicians, and ballads, some merry and some dismal ones, for the country people to sing.
Sam, in imagination, saw his father offer these books, pamphlets, and ballads, now to the rude yeomen who perhaps could not read a word; now to the country squires, who cared for nothing but to hunt hares and foxes; now to the children, who chose to spend their coppers for sugar-plums or gingerbread rather than for picture-books. And if Mr. Johnson should sell a book to man, woman, or child, it would cost him an hour’s talk to get a profit of only sixpence.
“My poor father!” thought Sam to himself. “How his head will ache! and how heavy his heart will be! I am almost sorry that I did not do as he bade me.”
Then the boy went to his mother, who was busy about the house. She did not know of what had passed between Mr. Johnson and Sam.
“Mother,” said he, “did you think father seemed very ill to-day?”