“Dear father, how I should hate to be a king!” exclaimed Edward.

“And would you like to be a Cromwell?” inquired his father.

“I should like it well,” replied George, “only I would not have put the poor old king to death.  I would have sent him out of the kingdom, or perhaps have allowed him to live in a small house, near the gate of the royal palace.  It was too severe, to cut off his head.”

“Kings are in such an unfortunate position,” said Mr. Temple, “that they must either be almost deified by their subjects, or else be dethroned and beheaded.  In either case it is a pitiable lot.”

“Oh, I had rather be blind than be a king!” said Edward.

“Well, my dear Edward,” observed his mother, with a smile, “I am glad you are convinced that your own lot is not the hardest in the world.”

Chapter VII

It was a pleasant sight (for those who had eyes) to see how patiently the blinded little boy now submitted to what he had at first deemed an intolerable calamity.  The beneficent Creator has not allowed our comfort to depend on the enjoyment of any single sense.  Though he has made the world so very beautiful, yet it is possible to be happy without ever beholding the blue sky, or the green and flowery earth, or the kind faces of those whom we love.  Thus it appears that all the external beauty of the universe is a free gift from God, over and above what is necessary to our comfort.  How grateful, then, should we be to that Divine Benevolence, which showers even superfluous bounties upon us!

One truth, therefore, which Edward’s blindness had taught him, was, that his mind and soul could dispense with the assistance of his eyes.  Doubtless, however, he would have found this lesson far more difficult to learn, had it not been for the affection of those around him.  His parents, and George and Emily, aided him to bear his misfortune; if possible, they would have lent him their own eyes.  And this, too, was a good lesson for him.  It taught him how dependent on one another God has ordained us to be; insomuch that all the necessities of mankind should incite them to mutual love.

So Edward loved his friends, and perhaps all the world, better than he ever did before.  And he felt grateful towards his father for spending the evenings in telling him stories—­more grateful, probably, than any of my little readers will feel towards me for so carefully writing those same stories down.

“Come, dear father,” said he, the next evening, “now tell us all about some other little boy, who was destined to be a famous man.”

“How would you like a story of a Boston boy?” asked his father.

“Oh, pray let us have it!” cried George eagerly.  “It will be all the better if he has been to our schools, and has coasted on the Common, and sailed boats in the Frog Pond.  I shall feel acquainted with him then.”