Biographical Stories

This small volume and others of a similar character, from the same hand,
have not been composed without a deep sense of responsibility. The
author regards children as sacred, and would not, for the world, cast
anything into the fountain of a young heart that might imbitter and
pollute its waters. And, even in point of the reputation to be aimed
at, juvenile literature is as well worth cultivating as any other. The
writer, if he succeed in pleasing his little readers, may hope to be
remembered by them till their own old age,--a far longer period of
literary existence than is generally attained by those who seek
immortality from the judgments of full-grown men.

--



CHAPTER 1.

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 icebound, 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 hook, 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