sat upon the back of one, the
two others supported him on each side, and thus he rode to school in
triumph!

Being a personage of so much importance, Sam could not bear the idea of
standing all day in Uttoxeter market, offering books to the rude and
ignorant country-people. Doubtless he felt the more reluctant on account
of his shabby clothes, and the disorder of his eyes, and the tremulous
motion of his head.

When Mr. Michael Johnson spoke, Sam pouted, and made an indistinct
grumbling in his throat; then he looked his old father in the face, and
answered him loudly and deliberately.

"Sir," said he, "I will not go to Uttoxeter market!"

Mr. Johnson had seen a great deal of the lad's obstinacy ever since his
birth; and while Sam was younger, the old gentleman had probably used the
rod, whenever occasion seemed to require. But he was now too feeble, and
too much out of spirits, to contend with this stubborn and
violent-tempered boy. He therefore gave up the point at once, and prepared
to go to Uttoxeter himself.

"Well Sam," said Mr. Johnson, as he took his hat and staff, "If, for the
sake of your foolish pride, you can suffer your poor sick father to stand
all day in the noise and confusion of the market, when he ought to be in
his bed, I have no more to say. But you will think of this, Sam, when I am
dead and gone!"

So the poor old man (perhaps with a tear in his eye, but certainly with
sorrow in his heart) set forth towards Uttoxeter. The gray-haired, feeble,
melancholy Michael Johnson! How sad a thing it was, that he should be
forced to go, in his sickness, and toil for the support of an ungrateful
son, who was too proud to do any thing for his father, or his mother, or
himself! Sam looked after Mr. Johnson, with a sullen countenance, till he
was out of sight.

But when the old man's figure, as he went stooping along the street, was
no more to be seen, the boy's heart began to smite him. He had a vivid
imagination, and it tormented him with the image of his father, standing
in the market-place of Uttoxeter and offering his books to the noisy crowd
around him, Sam seemed to behold him, arranging his literary merchandise
upon the stall in such a way as was best calculated to attract notice.
Here was Addison's Spectator, a long row of little volumes; here was
Pope's translation of the Iliad and Odyssey; here were Dryden's poems, or
those of Prior. Here, likewise, were Gulliver's Travels, and a variety of
litt