Stories of Great Men Part 1

Stories of Great Men.

by Faye Huntington.

CHAPTER I.

ALEXANDER THE GREAT.

Where shall we begin? With "A" of course, but there are so many great men whose names begin with A, I don't know how to select. However, I might as well go back a good way in the world's history, and say Alexander the Great. Since he was so great that they added the word to his name, perhaps he ought to head the list. Though mind, he is not my idea of a great man, after all.

Who was he, what was he, and when did he live? Three questions in one, and questions which when well answered tell a great deal.

He was the son of King Philip of Macedonia, and was born at Pella three hundred and fifty-six years before Jesus came to this earth. His father was a strong brave soldier, and his mother was a strong fierce woman, and their son is said to have been like them both. When he was thirteen years old he had one of the greatest men in the world for his teacher.

This man's name was Aristotle.

Another "A," you see; but I shall have to leave you to discover his greatness for yourselves.

When Alexander was sixteen, his father left him to manage the country while he himself went to war.

When he was eighteen he won a great victory in the army. Very soon afterwards his father was killed, and Alexander with his great army fought his way into power, and made people recognize him as ruler of the Greeks.

From that time on, for years, his story might be told in one word, War.

Battle after battle was fought and won; cities were destroyed; in Thebes, just one house was left standing, which belonged to a poet named Pindar. I know you are curious to hear why his house was spared, and I know that the industrious ones will try to look it up, and the lazy ones will yawn and say, "Oh, never mind; what do I care?"

Alexander's next wish was to conquer Persia. I am sure you would be interested to read the account of his triumphant march. The people were so afraid of him that they would run when they heard that his army was coming; sometimes without an attempt to defend their cities; and all that Alexander would have to do when he reached the town would be to march in and take possession.

This series of battles was closed at a place named Gordium.

Have you ever heard of the "Gordian knot?"

The story is, that at this place, Gordium, there was a car or chariot, which had been dedicated to the G.o.ds; and a certain G.o.d had said that whoever should succeed in untying the knot which fastened the pole of the car to the yoke, should rule over Asia. No one had been found who could untie it. But what did Alexander do when he found he could not untie it, but cut it in two with his sword! And the people accepted him as the man who was to rule!

War, war, war! The great Persian soldier, Darius, had such a high opinion of his own large army that he let Alexander get with his soldiers to a point where they could fight, and could not well be taken, and another great victory was the end of the story. When Darius saw his mistake, and tried to coax Alexander into being friends, by offering his daughter for the conqueror's wife, and a great deal of land in the bargain, Alexander replied that he would marry the daughter if he wanted her, whether her father was willing or not; and that all the land belonged to him.

Now comes a dreadful story of wrong. Alexander heard that a plot to take his life had been discovered by one of his men named Philotas, but that he had not told of it for two days. When asked why he did not, he said that the story came from a worthless source and was not to be believed.

But Alexander did not trust him and decided that he should be killed. As if this was not enough, he had him tortured to make him tell the names of others who were suspected. It is said that Alexander stood by, and watched the writhings, and listened to the screams of this man who had fought by his side in many battles!

Yet he seemed sometimes able to trust people. Once, when he was sick, word came to him that his physician had been bribed to poison him. When his next dose of medicine was ready, Alexander laid the letter which told this story, before his friend, the physician, then drank the medicine, to show how fully he trusted him.

Before he was thirty-three years old this wonderful, sad life was ended! I do not know anything sadder than a great, bad man. I cannot help wondering how it would have been if Alexander had lived about three hundred years later, and met Jesus Christ. Yet he might have known Jesus as Abraham did, and David, and Samuel, and all that long list of great men.

The story of his last sickness is very dreadful. It seemed to have been brought on by his awful grief over the death of a friend. But he had such a strange way of grieving! All night he would spend in drinking liquor, and all day he lay and slept off its effects. But one morning he found himself unable to rise, and he never rose again. When he was asked who should succeed him as ruler of the kingdom, he said, "the strongest." But he gave his signet ring to one of his generals named Perdiccas.

So closed this great _little_ life. The greatest soldier who ever lived, as men talk about soldiers, but an utter failure in the sight of him who said: "He that ruleth his own spirit, is greater than he that taketh a city."

CHAPTER II.

ADDISON, JOSEPH.

When I was a little girl, I sat listening one day while several gentlemen who were visiting my father, talked together, and one of them told a queer story which interested me very much, and called forth bursts of laughter from the gentlemen. Then, one said, "That is almost equal to Addison's time."

Over this sentence I puzzled. The only person whom I knew by that name was an old lame man who lived at the lower end of a long straggling street, and who was not remarkable for anything but laziness. What could the gentlemen who were visiting my father know about him, and what did they mean by "Addison's time?" I hovered around my father for quite a while, looking for a chance to ask questions, but there was no break in the conversation, so I gave it up. Something recalled the matter to me during the afternoon, and I asked a boy who lived near us, and with whom I was on quite friendly terms, if old Joe Addison had a clock that was queer; explaining to him at the same time why I wanted to know. He replied that he had seen a very large and very ugly-looking watch hanging in the shoe shop by old Joe's bench, and that Joe called it his turnip, and could take the outside casing all off, just as one could take a thing out of a box. This then was the explanation, I thought, but though we talked it over very thoroughly, we failed to see any connection between the story that the gentlemen had laughed over, and old Joe Addison's watch.

Something else came up to interest us, and we forgot all about it. And it was more than a year afterwards that I learned that my father's friends did not refer to old Joe at all, but to another Joseph Addison who was quite a different character.

I want you all to become acquainted with the real Joseph Addison; enough to know what it means when you hear him mentioned.

So, if you please, set down his name in your alphabetical dictionary: Joseph Addison.

He was born on a May-day, so it will not be hard to remember so much of his birthday. But how shall we remember the date? Well, you know the first figure of course, for as we count time, it is always one. Now jump to six. Sixteen hundred? Yes; that's it. Two more figures. What is the next figure to six? Set it down. And the next figure to one? Set that down. Now what have you? Sixteen hundred and seventy-two. A little thinking will fix that date so you will not be likely to forget it, and it is really quite nice to know just when people lived. Now what was Addison, that people are remembering him for two hundred years? First a scholar. Then he must have studied hard. Also he was an author--a poet.

When he was about twenty-one he wrote a poem addressed to Dryden. Just remember that man's name, will you? Some day we will make his acquaintance. Then he translated Latin poetry, and wrote several descriptive poems. People do not seem to have thought any of them remarkable, and for my part I don't know how he made his living.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOSEPH ADDISON.]

We next hear of him as a traveller. His friends managed to get a pension for him from the king, which was to give him a chance to travel and qualify himself to serve his Majesty.

Imagine our government giving a young man a salary to travel around with, just so that he might get ready to work for it! Joseph went to France, and to Italy, and to Switzerland. Wait, did I tell you where he was born? In Wiltshire, England. His father was a minister. I don't think the government was so very good to him, though, for it forgot to pay his salary, after the first year, and he had to pay his own travelling expenses. He seems to have worked hard at his writing, and some of the poems which people read and admire to-day were written during these journeys. One named the "Letter From Italy." Some people think it is the very best of all his poems.

When he was thirty-eight years old his life began to grow brighter. His friends succeeded in getting him a government office, and there was a certain great duke about whose victories Addison made a poem for which he was paid a large price. From that time he steadily rose in power. He became secretary to Lord Halifax, and then entered Parliament. In this place he knew one thing which great men do not always learn. That was, how to keep still. He was spoken of as "the silent member." A good deal of his writing is in the form of plays which were acted in the theatres.

He had a friend named Richard Steele, with whom we must sometime get acquainted. This Mr. Steele was editor of a paper called _The Tattler_, for which Addison wrote a great deal. The paper which followed _The Tattler_ was named _The Spectator_, and in these two papers are gathered some of the finest writings of the two men. Newspapers were not so plenty then as now, and _The Spectator_ became famous. Everybody took it. Addison's essays which were written for it are still read and admired.

When he was about forty-six years old, he quarrelled with his old friend Steele, and they took to writing against each other in the papers, and calling one another names, like naughty children. At least Steele did; I am not sure that Addison ever stooped so low. He did not live long after that. In fact, he died in the June after he was forty-seven. He was buried in Westminster Abbey in the Poets' Corner.

Now you have been introduced to him, I hope as you grow older you will be interested to study his character.

CHAPTER III.

AGa.s.sIZ, LOUIS JOHN RUDOLPH.

Isn't that a pretty name? When he was a little Swiss boy roaming about his home, I wonder if his mother called him Louis or Rudolph, or plain John? How many years ago was that? Oh, not so very many. It was one May day, in 1807, that he opened his eyes on this world. I don't know very much about his boyhood that can be told here. He was always a good scholar. Everybody who has anything to say of him seems to be sure of that. And on questioning them, I find they mean by it that he worked hard at his lessons and learned them. No boy or girl must think that good scholars are born so. Every one of them has to work for their wisdom. Our boy studied at home. His father was a minister. When he was old enough he was sent away to the best schools within reach, where he studied medicine. He became a famous man, but not as a physician. The fact is he was an ichthyologist. Ah, now I've caught you! Who knows the meaning of that word? Boys, are there any ichthyologists among your friends? I asked a little girl what the word meant. She did not know and turned to her tall brother who was studying Latin. "Humph!" he said. "Of course I know. It is one who understands ichthyology."

"But what is ichthyology?" she persisted.

"Why, it is--it is ichthyology, of course," he said; and that is as much as he seemed to know about it.

Really, I think we can do better than that. An ichthyologist is one who understands all about fishes. Think of the little slippery, scaly things having such a long word as that belonging to them! Where did they get it? Oh, go back to the Greek language, and ask your father, or your brother, or somebody, to tell you the Greek word for fish, and you will be able to guess the rest out for yourselves.