Chatterbox, 1906 Part 94

One bright morning in the spring-time, a green caterpillar, on the bough of a tree, was gazing at a ladybird and seemed bent upon making her acquaintance. However, the ladybird disdained the insect, and flew away among the flowers. Some time after, in the summer, the ladybird was earnestly admiring a beautiful b.u.t.terfly which was fluttering about near her. She even approached the pretty creature and began a conversation, when the b.u.t.terfly exclaimed, 'No, no, madam! I do not value compliments from turncoats. You were ashamed of my appearance when I was only a caterpillar; but now that I have risen in the world, doubtless you would be very glad to make my acquaintance.' The b.u.t.terfly then spread out its light wings and flew away, leaving the ladybird to her own reflections.

A HUNDRED YEARS AGO.

True Tales of the Year 1806.

X.--WILLIAM PITT: BORN 1759, DIED 1806.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

On May 28th, 1759, there was born at the pretty little village of Hayes, in Middles.e.x, a puny babe, who in after years was to be one of the greatest statesmen of his time.

The year of his birth was one of many British successes, both by sea and land; it was the year of the victories of Minden, in Germany, and of Quebec, in America, and of triumphs both in India and Africa, so that Horace Walpole in a letter of that time says, 'One is forced to ask every morning what victory there is, for fear of missing one.'

Pitt was a most precocious child, and was fond of reading stiff books of history and poetry at an age when other children barely knew their letters. Even whilst in the nursery he would declare that 'when he was a man he would speak in the House like his father!'

Lord Chatham, his father (the elder Pitt, as he is often called), was proud of the intelligent little fellow, and took pains to fit him for a Parliamentary career by teaching him elocution, and making him recite every day a pa.s.sage from Milton or Shakespeare. Lord Chatham seems to have taken more interest in the education of his five children than was usual among parents of his day. We are told by Bishop Tomline that 'he seldom suffered a day to pa.s.s without giving instruction of some sort to his children, and seldom without reading a chapter of the Bible with them.'

William was so delicate that he was never sent to school, and at one time it was feared he would not have been reared; but a doctor prescribed liberal doses of port wine, and this 'pleasant medicine,' we hear, pleased the child, and he drank a great deal of it daily. Though at the time it seemed to suit him, yet there is little doubt it planted the seeds of the disease which was to carry him off before middle age.

At fourteen, William's tutors said that he knew more than most lads at eighteen and was quite ready for College, so he was sent to Oxford, where he amazed his tutors by his wisdom and learning. At seventeen he left the University with the degree of M.A., which was, at that time, unwisely given to the sons of peers without any examination.

He then studied for the Bar, and attended the Western Circuit, and at the age of twenty-one he put his foot on the first rung of Parliamentary fame, by becoming Member for Appleby. His success was almost instantaneous, and after his third speech, one of the Opposition remarked to Mr. Fox, who was Pitt's life-long rival, 'Mr. Pitt promises to be one of the first men in Parliament,' to which remark Fox answered generously, 'He is so already, sir!'

Pitt's voice was singularly clear and deep-toned, and he had been well trained as to the use to make of it, but his personal actions were too vehement, and one wag remarked, 'Mr. Fox, in speaking, saws the air with his hands, but Mr. Pitt saws with his whole body.'

At twenty-three Pitt became Chancellor of the Exchequer, and in the following year the young man became Prime Minister, the youngest Prime Minister who has ever sat in the House of Commons.

His administration was at first highly successful, but his genius was better fitted for peaceable and domestic government, than for the warlike policy which circ.u.mstances thrust upon him.

When in 1792 the French Revolution broke out and a war with France seemed inevitable, and when the power of Buonaparte became alarming to every government, Pitt succeeded in forming a coalition of Austria, Russia, and England, and felt perfectly confident of opposing a barrier to the ambition of 'the Corsican.'

But while the Russian troops were slowly coming up from Poland, Buonaparte swiftly a.s.sembled together a huge army, and defeated the Austrians at Ulm. The news of this defeat came to England in a roundabout way in a Dutch newspaper. Pitt received it on a Sunday, when all the public offices were closed. He knew no Dutch himself, and feverishly anxious to learn what had happened, he be-thought himself of Lord Malmesbury, who had been our Minister in Holland, and he took the paper to him to translate.

When Pitt was thus informed of the defeat of our ally, his grief was unbounded, and though a few days later he heard of the victory of Trafalgar, yet this was overshadowed later on by the French victory of Austerlitz, a disappointment which left Pitt a broken man.

His last public speech was at the Lord Mayor's banquet after the battle of Trafalgar, when the crowd, carried away with the victory, took the horses out of Pitt's carriage and drew him along in triumph to the Mansion House.

The Lord Mayor proposed Pitt's health and hailed him as the 'Saviour of Europe,' but Pitt in his answer made use of the following memorable words: 'I thank you for the honour you have done me; but England is not to be saved by a single man. England has saved herself by her exertions, and will, I trust, save Europe by her example.'

Pitt had now but a few more weeks to live. He died on January 23rd, 1806, the twenty-fifth anniversary of the day when he first took his seat in Parliament, and his death was undoubtedly hastened by his distress at the state of affairs between France and England.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "The crowd drew him along in triumph."]

He was awarded a public funeral, and on one of the monuments erected to his memory it is recorded that 'having for twenty years dispensed the favours of the Crown, yet he ever lived simply and died poor.'

[Ill.u.s.tration]

A BRAVE LAD.

It was Sat.u.r.day afternoon when the boys of Wedderburn School went off as usual to swim their boats on a beautiful lake, only a quarter of a mile away. Fred Langton had a new boat, a regular beauty, which his grandfather had sent to him as a birthday present, and it must be admitted that many admiring eyes were directed to this boat, for it was a larger and better-constructed one than any of the others, and each boy was of course, anxious that his own boat should win the race. But although all the boys admired Fred's boat, and wished that they could have had one as good, still they felt no grudge towards Fred himself, for he was a general favourite in the school, being kind-hearted, unselfish, always willing to lend anything that he had to his companions, and never known to tell tales, or to do a mean action of any kind.

'I tell you,' said Bill Cowan to his own particular chum, Joe Morris, 'that boat of Fred's will beat ours all hollow! I wish I had one as good!'

'Well, suppose it does win,' replied Joe Morris, 'I shall not grudge it to him, for Fred is no sneak; he is out-and-out the jolliest fellow in Wedderburn School.'

'So he is,' said Bill Cowan, 'and no mistake about it. Well, here we are at the lake, and now for some fun.'

On this particular Sat.u.r.day, however, Fred was destined to distinguish himself in quite another way, and to win the applause not only of his companions, but of the people who were walking up and down the border of the lake, enjoying the sunshine and the refreshing breeze. The little boats were all in full sail, and the schoolboys were shouting with glee at the fun, when quite suddenly a fine fox-terrier took it into his head to pursue the boats and show that he could swim as well as they could.

Poor dog! It was quite true that he could swim; but unfortunately he got entangled among weeds, and after floundering about for a little and barking piteously for help, he gradually sank till his body was quite out of sight, only his head and neck being visible to the schoolboys, who looked on in horror, not knowing how they could save the poor animal.

'Oh, I say, I can't stand this!' cried Fred Langton; 'he will be drowned. I must go in and fetch him out!'

'No, no!' cried Bill Cowan; 'the lake is quite deep just at that place.'

'Yes, I know it's deep,' added Joe Morris, 'and, besides, you can't swim, Fred; don't be silly. Who cares for a dog being drowned?'

'I do, for one,' cried Fred, and dashing into the water he waded out to where the poor dog was half-standing, half-lying, among the choking weeds. Yes, the water was deep; but stretching out his arms he contrived to catch hold of the poor animal, and he quickly waded back to sh.o.r.e amid ringing cheers from all the people who had now gathered on the bank to watch the plucky lad. And whose was the dog? n.o.body knew; it seemed, indeed, to have no owner and no home. But Fred and his companions carried it back with them to the school, and, after having told their tale, they begged the head master to keep it for himself; and as Dr.

Williams could not discover anything about the dog's ownership, he _did_ keep it. So Fred's brave deed not only saved the animal's life, but procured a good home for it as well.

TRUE HAPPINESS.

How small, of all that human hearts endure, That part which lords or kings can cause or cure; Still to ourselves, in every place consigned, Our own felicity we make or find.

These lines were added by Dr. Johnson to Goldsmith's poem, the _Traveller_, with Goldsmith's consent, and the lesson in them is well worth remembering.

DREAM-TIME.

The wind against the window blows; The dustman comes along the street; The lamps are lit, the darkness grows; The dreams come in with noiseless feet.

Oh, haste to bed: the dreams await The children, with their sweetest song.

Don't loiter; you may be too late, The best of dreams are never long.