Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - Anonymous
[Illustration: ARTHUR AND HIS DOG.]
ARTHUR HAMILTON,
AND HIS DOG.
_Written for the Massachusetts Sabbath School Society, and
approved by the Committee of Publication_.
1851.
ARTHUR HAMILTON.
CHAPTER I.
LEAVING HOME.
One pleasant October evening, Arthur Hamilton was at play in front of
the small, brown cottage in which he lived. He and his brother James,
were having a great frolic with a large spotted dog, who was performing
a great variety of antics, such as only well-educated dogs understand.
But Rover had been carefully initiated into the mysteries of making a
bow while standing on his hind legs, tossing pieces of bread off his
nose, putting up his fore-paws with a most imploring look, and piteous
whine, which the boys called "begging for money," and when a chip had
been given him, he uttered a most energetic bow-wow-wow, which they
regarded as equivalent to "thank you, sir," and walked off.
While they were thus amusing themselves, their mother was sitting on the
rude piazza which ran along the front of the cottage, now looking at the
merry children, and then thoughtfully gazing at the long shadows which
were stretching across the road. Mrs. Hamilton was a woman of wonderful
strength, and energy, both of body and mind; and she had been sustained
for many years by the Christian's hope; but there was now a heavy burden
resting on her soul, which even her native energy and Christian trust
were unable to remove. She had known many days of worldly prosperity,
since she had resided in that little cottage; but of late, trials had
multiplied; and days and nights of heart-crushing sorrow had been
appointed unto her. He who should have shared life's trials and
lightened their weight, had proved recreant to his trust, and was now
wandering, she knew not whither; and poverty was staring the deserted
family in the face. Debts had accumulated, and though Mrs. Hamilton had
done all that could be done to meet the emergency, though she had
labored incessantly, and borne fatigue and self-denial, with a brave and
cheerful spirit, it had been found necessary to leave the home so dear
to her,--the home where she had been brought a fair and youthful bride;
where she had spent many happy years, and which was endeared to her by
so many sweet and hallowed, as well as painful, associations. Every foot
of the green meadow, the orchard on the hill, and the pasture lying
beyond, was dear to her; and it was painful to see them pass into other
hands. But that heaviest of all the trials which poverty brings to the
mother's heart, was hers also. The conviction had been forced upon her,
that she must separate the children, and find other homes for such as
were old enough to do any thing for themselves. This necessary
separation had now taken place. Her eldest son had gone to a distant
southern state, carrying with him, his mother's prayers and blessings;
and a strong arm, and stout heart, with which to win himself a name and
a place in his adopted home. John, the second, still remained with her,
assisting, by his unceasing toil, to earn a supply for their daily
wants. Henry, the third son, a bright-eyed youth of sixteen, had
attracted the notice of his pastor, and by his advice and assistance,
had been placed on the list of the beneficiaries of the American
Education Society, and was now at an Academy, preparing for College.
James was living with a farmer in the neighborhood, and was now on the
green with Arthur. These changes had already taken place, and now, could
she part with Arthur,--her sweet-tempered, gentle Arthur? That was the
question which agitated and saddened her. An offer had been made her, by
Mr. Martin, who lived in an adjoining town, and whom she knew to be an
excellent man. He wished to take Arthur, and keep him till he was
twenty-one; would clothe him, send him to school, and treat him as one
of his own family; training him to habits of industry and economy. Could
she hope any thing better for her darling boy? There was a younger
brother and two sisters still remaining at home, and embarrassed as she
was, ought she not to be grateful for such an opening, and thankfully
avail herself of it? Such was the view another might take of the
subject, but to her it was unspeakably painful to think of the
separation. Arthur was ten years old; but he was a modest and timid boy,
whose sensitive nature had led him to cling more closely to his mother's
side than his bolder and more active brothers.
Mrs. Hamilton knew that this was no time for the indulgence of
sentiment; she knew that _duty_ must be done, even though every
chord of her heart quivered with agony. After much consideration and
earnest prayer, she had concluded to let him go, and the thought of
sending him away from her, and all he loved, among entire strangers, was
what made her so sorrowful. She strove to calm herself by the
reflection, that she had done what seemed to be right, and by
remembering the blessed promises of God's Holy Word to the fatherless,
and to all those who put their trust in Him. With a cheerful voice, she
called the boys, telling James it was time for him to go home, as
Captain L., with whom he lived, was a very particular man, and would be
displeased if he staid out beyond the proper time. Mrs. Hamilton's sons
had been trained to obedience, and James never thought of lingering and
loitering for half an hour, as I have seen some boys do, after being
told to go. He just gave Rover a good pat on the back, and saying a
hasty "good-night" to his mother and Arthur, he ran home.
Arthur was alone with his mother, and she told him of the arrangement
she had made for him, and the reasons for it. Arthur was quite overcome
at the idea of a separation from the mother he loved so dearly, and
exclaimed--
"Oh, mother, don't send me away from home, I can earn something, and
will work very hard if you will only let me stay. Please mother, let me
stay with you!"
"It is quite as painful to me, Arthur," said his mother, "to part from
you, as it can be to you; but I think it is best for you; and I am sure
you will not increase my trials by complaining. Be a brave boy, Arthur,
and learn to submit cheerfully to what God sends upon you. Trust in Him,
and he will bless you wherever you are. Always remember He watches over
you, and loves you. I think Mr. and Mrs. Martin will be kind to you, and
I hope you will make yourself very useful to them. They are quite aged,
and a pair of young hands and feet can be of great service to them.
Always do cheerfully whatever they wish of you, even if not quite so
agreeable at the moment. Always be respectful in your manners to them,
and to all others with whom you come in contact, and try to make them
happier. A little boy may do a good deal to make others happy, or
unhappy. I hope you will try to do what is right at all times, and I
doubt not you will be contented and happy there, after you become
accustomed to it."
Arthur had dried his tears, but his heart was heavy as he laid down in
his bed that night, and when he was alone, his sobs burst forth afresh.
It seemed to him very cruel to send him among strange people, and he
thought he should rather go without much to eat or wear, than to leave
home.
About ten days after, John carried Arthur to Mr. Martin's. Mrs. Hamilton
had made his clothes look as neat and tidy as possible, by thoroughly
washing and mending them, (for she could not afford to get any new
ones), and John had made him a nice box, in which they were all
carefully placed.
Arthur tried to be a brave boy, as his mother wished; but he could not
eat his breakfast that morning. Every mouthful seemed to choke him; and
when he bade his mother and the children good-bye, the tears would come
fast and thick into his eyes, in spite of all he could do to prevent it.
Tears were in his mother's eyes too, but she spoke cheerfully.
"Well, Arthur," said she, "it will be only six weeks to Thanksgiving,
and Mr. Martin has promised you shall come home then; and how glad we
shall all be to see you!"
It was a sunny, autumn morning. The white frost lay on the grass and the
fences, and the north-wind was chilly, as the boys drove on. Rover
persisted in following them, and finally Arthur begged John to take him
in, and carry him over. Rover was delighted, and laid himself down in
the bottom of the wagon, and looked affectionately into Arthur's face.
"Poor Rover," said he, "you will miss me I know; and I shall miss you a
great deal more. I wonder if Mr. Martin has a dog?"
"I guess not," said John, "for he took no notice of Rover, and every
body who likes dogs speaks to Rover, because he is so large and
handsome. I am afraid you will be homesick at first over there, but we
must do the best we can, for these are hard times. I don't see how we
can do any thing more than pay the rent this year, after all my summer's
work; for the dry weather ruined the potatoes, and corn won't bring more
than fifty cents a bushel; and how we are to live, I don't see. I am not
afraid for myself, but it is too bad for mother, and the little ones;
so, if you are homesick, you must try to get over it again, and not come
back, or let mother know it, for she has just as much trouble as she can
bear already."
"Oh, no," said Arthur, "I won't be homesick, I _will_ be a brave
boy, as mother calls it, and never complain, let what will come; but I
do wish we were not so poor."
"I don't know," said John, "I think poor folks that work hard, enjoy
about as much as anybody, after all. It isn't a disgrace to be poor, if
we are only honest, and do what is right; and you know the minister said
last Sabbath, that Jesus Christ when he lived on the earth was a poor
man, and worked with his hands for a living. He won't despise the poor
now he has gone into heaven again; for he will remember how he was poor
once. Mother says, nothing will break her heart but living to see us do
some wicked deed, and that she could not survive that. We must be
careful not to break her heart, musn't we, Arthur?"
So the lads rode on till noon; and when the sun shone out warmly, the
forest-trees looked more magnificent in its golden light, than King
Solomon in all his glory. There was the crimson-leaved maple, and the
yellow beach, and the variegated oak, mingled with the fresh green
hemlocks and pines. There was something in the quiet, and deep stillness
of the woods, which made the boys silent, as they rode through; they
felt the influence of its exceeding beauty, though they could not have
expressed it in words; for God always speaks to us through his works,
and if we will listen to the voice, our hearts will be softened, and
pleasant and profitable thoughts will arise.
It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's.
He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "she
expected they would come that day." She was a grave-looking old lady,
who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked over
the top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow,
and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions she
asked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martin
showed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and John
carried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After staying
half an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of his
situation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard,
and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthur
with such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears,
exclaiming--
"Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay." Brushing
the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the
yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,--
"But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back
with me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and try
to be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is a
very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin
will let you have a bed in it next spring."
"But it is living here all alone, which I dread," said Arthur.
"You know mother says we are never all alone," said John. "God will be
with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of
your conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you come
home. Just think how soon they will be gone!"
Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered
what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid
his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying--
"Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company."
"I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to
leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him."
John now untied his horse, saying,
"Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur."
Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that
nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little
Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now,"
said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly."
Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the
wagon, and drove off.
It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and
the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no
affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs.
Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with
a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship
imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been
accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted
boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his
new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate
plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the
rough chilling blast.
None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering
such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such
an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there
is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest
sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if
necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher
elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his
courage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years;
but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles to
thy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of a
stranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch,
under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek to
develope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength and
vigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increase
confidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do not
expose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do not
understand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind their
feelings, cannot possess his confidence.
We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's.
They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over
it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great
alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the
most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur
thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely
to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They
shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too
shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a
_brave_ boy."
Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it with
streaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over and
over, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel her
loving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words,
saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usually
write. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_
night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheering
spot, to which he often looked forward; and as week after week passed
away, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that that
long-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_
come at last.
CHAPTER II.
THANKSGIVING.
Thanksgiving! dear, delightful Thanksgiving! What a happy sound in all
childish ears! What visions of roast turkeys, plum puddings, and pumpkin
pies rise before us at the name! What hosts of rosy cheeks, sparkling
eyes, nicely-combed little heads, and bounding feet; what blazing fires
and warm parlors; what large stuffed rocking-chairs, with
comfortable-looking grandpapas and grandmamas in them; what huge bundles
of flannel, out of which, plump blue-eyed babies roll; what stuffed
hoods and cloaks, from which little boys and girls emerge; and better
than all, what warm hearts brimming with affection; what sweet songs of
joyful praise; what untold depths of "sacred and home-felt delight,"
belong to thee, dear, glad, Thanksgiving-day!
Let us look in at Mrs. Hamilton's on Thanksgiving eve. Every thing in
her little sitting-room is just as clean as it can possibly be; the fire
burns brightly, and the blaze goes dancing and leaping merrily up the
chimney, diffusing throughout the room an aspect of cheerfulness. Henry,
"the student," as John calls him, is at home; for of course it is
vacation in his school; and his mother looks with pride on the manly
form and handsome face of this her favorite boy, who has certainly grown
taller and handsomer since his last visit at home, in her eyes at least;
and who is now entertaining himself by teaching his pet, Emma, (a little
girl of four,) to repeat the Greek alphabet, and whose funny
pronunciation of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, &c., is received with peals
of laughter by the other children.
"We will make a famous Greek scholar of you yet," said Harry, "who
knows, darling Em, but you may be a great poetess before you die? But
you won't be a blue stocking, I hope!"
"My stockings are _red_," said the unconscious Emma; "mother don't
make me _blue_ stockings," sticking out her little feet by way of
confirming the fact.
Charlie, the baby, as he is called, now almost three years old, has
donned his new red flannel dress, and white apron, in honor of the day.
James is cracking butternuts in one corner, and a well-heaped milk-pan
is the trophy of his persevering toil. Lucy, the eldest sister, has come
home, and she and Mary are deep in some confidential conversation the
opposite side of the room, stopping every now and then to listen, as if
expecting to hear some pleasant sound. Among them all, the mother moves
with a beaming face and quiet step, completing the arrangements of the
table, which is standing at the backside of the room, covered by a snowy
cloth, and decorated with the best plates, and china cups and saucers,
the relics of more prosperous days.
"Hurra, they've come! they've come!" said James, tossing down his
hammer, and bounding over the pan of nuts; "that's our wagon, I know."
All are at the door. 'Tis they! Yes, 'tis John and Arthur, our dear
little Arthur home again! How they all seize upon and kiss him! How the
mother holds him to her heart with tearful eyes! Ah, this is joy; such
joy as can be purchased only by separation and suffering. Who that
looked now on Arthur's beaming eye, and glowing cheek, could dream that
they had been clouded by sorrow, or dimmed by tears?
Of all the happy groups that were assembled in our old Commonwealth that
night, few we think were happier than this. Rover was by no means a
silent witness of the joy. He would not leave Arthur's side a moment,
and constantly sought to attract his notice. Arthur had been always very
fond of Rover, almost more so than the other children, though he was a
great favorite with all, and Rover had missed him since he went away
almost as much as Arthur had missed Rover; so it was a joyful re-union
on both sides. He was a large dog, of the Newfoundland breed, with
shaggy hair. He had beautiful white spots, and long, silky ears, and was
a very good-natured dog. He would let Charlie get on his back, and ride
him all about the yard; and the boys had made a little sled to which
they fastened Rover, and Emma, well wrapped up in her hood and cloak,
with her woolen mittens on, would have quite long rides after him;
sometimes in the yard, and sometimes in the street.
How much the children had to talk about that night; how many stories to
tell Arthur, and questions to ask him in return! Arthur had decided
beforehand not to make any complaint, or to say he was unhappy, or
homesick; and indeed in the pleasure of being at home again, he almost
forgot he had ever been unhappy. He was to stay till Monday morning, and
to him those four days seemed a long period of enjoyment, quite too long
to be saddened yet by the thoughts of separation. The night settled down
on the inmates of the cottage, and sweet sleep sealed up all eyes; even
those of the weary mother. The year had brought many trials, and some
heavy ones, but there was in spite of them all, much to be thankful for,
especially that all her beloved children had been preserved to her, and
were so healthy, so promising, and so likely to prove blessings to her.
Ah, how long afterwards did she recall that merry evening, and those
beaming faces, with a heavy heart!
CHAPTER III.
THE SEPARATION.
Thanksgiving is over! Its dinner, its frolics, its boisterous mirth, are
all in the past! It is Sabbath evening. A sadness seems to hang about
the party. Lucy had returned to her aunt, with whom she lived. James was
to go home that evening. Henry and Arthur in the morning. They with John
and their mother, sat thoughtfully around the fire; the younger children
were in bed; little was said by any one, but Mrs. Hamilton, wishing to
have a more private interview with Arthur, took him to her room. There
she questioned him about his new home more particularly. To her
amazement, the moment she spoke of his returning, he burst into a flood
of tears. Poor Arthur! he meant to be brave, and to hide his troubles,
but now that his heart had been warmed by the light of affection and
home-joy, the idea of going back was terrible to him. He could not
deceive, or keep back any thing. With passionate earnestness, he
besought his mother to let him stay at home.
"I will only eat a potatoe and a piece of bread, if you will let me
stay, mother; indeed I won't be much of a burden to you, but oh, dear
mother, don't send me back there," cried he, sobbing as if his heart
would break.
This was a sad trial for Mrs. Hamilton, and she paused to think what was
right, and to ask for guidance from on high. It seemed to her that
Arthur's dissatisfaction arose from his own weakness of spirit, rather
than from anything really disagreeable in his situation. They were kind
to him; he was not over-worked; could attend a good school; and would it
not be an injury to him, to indulge this excessive love for home, and
yield to his entreaties? Would he ever be a man, with courage to face
the storms of life, if she, with a woman's weakness, allowed her
feelings to prevail over her judgment? It must not be. She must be firm
for his sake; cruel as it seemed, it was real kindness, and she trusted
he would soon be contented. If not, she could then change her
determination if she wished. So she told him once more, that duty and
not present enjoyment was to be consulted; that she still thought it was
best for him to stay at Mr. Martin's, and she still believed he would
find contentment and peace there, in doing his duty. She did not upbraid
him, but told him very tenderly, she wished him to acquire more strength
of purpose, and to gain the habit of controlling his feelings. If he did
not, he could never be happy or useful, and it would be sad indeed to
grow up a weak, timid and useless being, who had not strength of
character enough to pursue what was right, if difficulties lay in the
path. "Whenever you are lonely and sad," said she, "think of me, and how
much pleasure you are giving me by staying and doing your duty. Think of
your Father in heaven, who watches over you, and will be well-pleased
when you try to subdue your faults. Never forget to ask Him for strength
to do right, and He will give it, if you ask in sincerity. Remember
always that He has placed us in the world to become his children, and
grow holy; and it is often through trial, we are made better. You will
be a better boy if you conquer your weakness, and become cheerful and
contented, than you could have been, had no sacrifice been required of
you. My dear child, I do believe God will bless you, and enable you to
conquer."