CHAPTER EIGHTH. WILLIAM WIRT'S CHILDHOOD. "For the structure that we raise, Time is with materials filled; Our to-days and yesterdays, Are the blocks with which we build."-Longfellow. FOR the encouragement of young men laboring under serious disadvantages, an example will now be given of one who, in the words of his eloquent biographer,* "springing from an humble origin, was enabled to attain to high distinction among his countrymen." William Wirt was born in the year 1772. His father kept a tavern in Bladensburg, Maryland. William was the youngest of six children, and was early left an orphan, his father dying before he was two years old, and his mother before he had reached his eighth year. William was a lively, shrewd, pleasant-tempered, and beautiful boy, upon whom many eyes were turned in kindly regard. * Hon. John P. Kennedy, from whose "Life of Wirt" we have, with his permission, made copious extracts. And well it was for the orphan boy that he won this kindly regard. In a charming autobiography, written for his own family, William Wirt has given an amusing and exceedingly interesting account of his early life. He says, "In 1779, I was sent to Georgetown, eight miles from Bladensburg, to school. I was placed at boarding with the family of Mr. Schoolfield, a Quaker. They occupied a small house of hewn logs at the eastern end of Bridge street. Friend Schoolfield was a well-set, square-built, honest-faced, and honest-hearted Quaker; his wife one of the best of creation. A deep sadness fell upon me when I was left by the person who accompanied me to Georgetown. When I could no longer see a face that I knew, nor an object that was not strange, I remember the sense of total desertion and forlornness that seized upon my heart. Unlike anything I have felt in after years, I sobbed, as if my heart would break, for hours together, and was utterly inconsolable, notwithstanding the maternal tenderness with which good Mrs. Schoolfield tried to comfort me. Almost half a century has rolled over the incident, yet full well do I recollect with what gentle affection and touching sympathy she urged every topic that was calculated to console a child of my years. After quieting me in some measure by her caresses, she took down her Bible and read to me the story of Joseph and his brethren. It is probable I had read it before, as such things are usually read, without understanding it; but she made me comprehend it, and in the distresses of Joseph and his father, I forgot my own. His separation from his family had brought him to great honor, and possibly mine, I thought, might be equally fortunate. I claim some sense of gratitude. I never forgot an act of kindness, and never received one that my heart has not impelled me to wish for some occasion to return it. So far as my experience goes, I am persuaded, too, that doing an act of kindness, and still more, repeated acts to the same individual, are as apt to attach the heart of the benefactor to the object, as that of the beneficiary to the person who does him the service. It was so in this instance. I went to see Mrs. Schoolfield after I became a man, and a warmer meeting has seldom taken place between mother and son." Here, then, is the secret of the "kindly regard,”—the affectionate, grateful disposition of the youthful Wirt. The romance of his character is exhibited, most amusingly, in the following account of his first love. The boy must have been at the time eight years old. He tells the story as follows :- "From Georgetown I was transferred to a classical school about forty miles from Bladensburg. I was boarded with a widow lady by the name of Love, and my residence in her family forms one of the few sunny spots in the retrospect of my childhood. There were two boys of us near the same age; Johnson Carnes was rather older and larger than I was. He was a good, diffident, rather grave boy, with better common sense than I had but he did not sing, was rather homely, and had no mirth and frolic in him; I, on the contrary, was pert, lively, and saucy-and they used to say pretty withal-I said smart things sometimes, and sang two or three songs of humor very well." "To crown all, I had a sweetheart, one of the prettiest cherubs that ever was born. Mr. Thomas Reeder lived The house was of brick, on the banks of the Potomac. We fell most exceed- situated on a high, airy bank, giving a beautiful view of the river, which is there four miles wide. Peggy Reeder was the only child of her parents, about my own age, rather younger, and as beautiful as it is possible for a child to be. ingly in love with each other. make long visits to her Aunt Love; and no two lovers, however romantic, were ever more happy than we. On my part, it was a serious passion. No lover was ever more disconsolate in the absence of his mistress, nor more enraptured at meeting her. I do not know whether it is held that the affections keep pace with the intellect in their development, but I do know that there is nothing in the sentiment of happy love which I did not experience for that girl, in the course of the two years when I resided as Mrs. Love's. When I left there we were firmly engaged to be married at the following Easter. I felt proud and happy, not in the least doubting the fulfillment of the engagement at the time appointed. "As for school, Mr. Dent was a most excellent man, a sincere and pious Christian, and, I presume, a good teacher. In the two years, Johnson Carnes and myself got as far advanced as Cæsar's Commentaries, though we could not have been well grounded, for when I changed to another school, I was put back to Cornelius Nepos. Mr. Dent was very good-tempered. I do not remember to have received from him a harsh word, or any kind of punishment, but once." The imaginative character of William Wirt's mind was early developed. He says, "I became sensible of the power of forming and pursuing, at pleasure, a daydream, from which I derived great enjoyment, and to which I found myself often recurring. There was nothing in the scenery around me to awaken such vagaries. It was tame, gentle, and peaceful; there was neither incentive nor fuel for poetic dreams. Mine were the amusements of the dull morning walks from Mrs. Love's to the school-house. It was a walk of about two miles, and my companion was rather disposed to silence. I remember very distinctly the subject of one of these vagaries, from the circumstance of my having recalled, renewed, and varied it again and again, from the pleasure it afforded me. I imagined myself the owner of a |