Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry From Biophysical Aspects To Clinical Applications 1st Edition Gouverneur Veronique
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Fluorine in
to Clinical Applications
From Biophysical Aspects
Pharmaceutical and
Medicinal Chemistry
Molecular Medicine and Medicinal Chemistry
Book Series Editors: Professor Colin Fishwick (School of Chemistry, University
of Leeds, UK)
Dr Paul Ko Ferrigno and Professor Terence Rabbitts FRS,
FMedSci (Leeds Institute of Molecular Medicine,
St. James’s Hospital, UK)
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Published:
by WASHINGTON UNIV IN ST. LOUIS on 03/24/13. For personal use only.
DNA Deamination and the Immune System: AID in Health and Disease
edited by Sebastian Fugmann (National Institutes of Health, USA),
Marilyn Diaz (National Institutes of Health, USA) and
Nina Papavasiliou (Rockefeller University, USA)
Fluorine in
Pharmaceutical and
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Medicinal Chemistry
by WASHINGTON UNIV IN ST. LOUIS on 03/24/13. For personal use only.
Véronique Gouverneur
University of Oxford, UK
Klaus Müller
F Hoffmann-La Roche AG, Switzerland
Editors
Distributed by
World Scientific Publishing Co. Pte. Ltd.
5 Toh Tuck Link, Singapore 596224
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For photocopying of material in this volume, please pay a copying fee through the Copyright
Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. In this case permission to
photocopy is not required from the publisher.
ISBN-13 978-1-84816-634-9
ISBN-10 1-84816-634-6
Printed in Singapore.
Foreword
François Diederich
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vi Foreword
Foreword vii
viii Foreword
the probes and their incorporation into peptides. Challenges in the prepa-
ration of hitherto missing probes, such as F3C–substituted proline, are
identified.
Section 2 deals with the introduction of organofluorine into bio-
medical leads and drugs and their use against various biological targets.
The chapter by S. Swallow on Fluorine-Containing Pharmaceuticals starts
Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry Downloaded from www.worldscientific.com
Foreword ix
x Foreword
François Diederich
Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry Downloaded from www.worldscientific.com
Preface
Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry Downloaded from www.worldscientific.com
Fluorine has a distinctive place in the periodic table and has absorbed the
attention of numerous scientists over many decades. Fluorine chemistry
today is a well-established branch of modern sciences, which has tremen-
dously benefited various research areas from material to medical sciences.
The synthesis of fluorinated compounds has been extensively explored.
Today, this field of research still stretches to the limit the creativity of
chemists eager to develop new concepts for both selective fluorination and
clever design and manipulation of fluorinated building blocks. The
increased availability of fluorinated compounds has led to insightful stud-
ies aimed at deciphering the effects of fluorine substitution on
physicochemical properties. Aspects of fluorine chemistry have been
competently discussed in numerous books and reviews. This monograph
is intended for a broad readership of professionals and researchers partic-
ularly interested in life sciences and medicine. An effort has been made to
integrate chemistry, biology, drug discovery and medicine in a way that
gives the reader an appreciation of how fluorine has enriched the life sci-
ences in many respects. Molecules substituted with fluorine have
improved our understanding of the molecular mechanisms of disease
states and are continuously contributing to the advancement of drug dis-
covery and diagnostic imaging. These aspects are covered in this book,
which is organised around three sections. The first part provides answers
on the fundamental question of how the introduction of fluorine modulates
the physicochemical and molecular recognition properties of biologically
xi
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xii Preface
in the field bring the reader up to date with twelve chapters discussing all
aspects of their respective research areas from essential background infor-
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Contents
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by WASHINGTON UNIV IN ST. LOUIS on 03/24/13. For personal use only.
Foreword v
François Diederich
Preface xi
Véronique Gouverneur and Klaus Müller
Section 1 1
1 Synthesis and Properties of Fluorinated Nucleobases
in DNA and RNA 3
Holger Gohlke, Jelena Bozilovic and Joachim W. Engels
1.1 Introduction 3
1.2 Fluorine in Molecular Recognition 4
1.3 Synthesis of Fluoro-Substituted Benzenes, Benzimidazoles
and Indoles, and their Incorporation into Model RNA 6
1.3.1 Chemical syntheses of fluoro-substituted
benzenes, benzimidazoles and indoles 6
1.3.2 Synthesis of 12-mer RNA duplexes that
incorporate fluoronucleosides 12
1.3.3 RNA melting studies and thermodynamic data 13
1.4 Origin of the Molecular Recognition Properties of
Fluorinated Nucleobases 16
1.4.1 Stacking and desolvation: Insights from
thermodynamic analyses 16
1.4.2 C–H…F–C interactions: Crystallographic
analysis of fluoro-substituted NNIs 17
xiii
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b1171 Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry
xiv Contents
Contents xv
xvi Contents
Section 2 139
5 Fluorine-Containing Pharmaceuticals 141
Steve Swallow
5.1 Introduction 141
5.1.1 Survey of fluorine-containing pharmaceuticals 142
5.2 Case Studies 144
5.2.1 Ezetimibe (Zetia) 144
5.2.2 Celecoxib (Celebrex) 147
5.2.3 Sitagliptin (Januvia) 147
5.2.4 Fluconazole (Diflucan) and Voriconazole
(Vfend) 154
5.2.5 Fluoroquinolones 158
5.2.6 Fluticasone propionate (Flovent, Flixotide) 160
5.2.7 Aprepitant (Emend) 165
5.3 Summary and Future Outlook 169
References 170
Contents xvii
xviii Contents
Contents xix
8.2.4 2′-Fluoro-2′,3′-didehydro-2′,3′-dideoxy
nucleosides 252
8.3 Nucleosides Fluorinated at C3′ 254
8.3.1 3′-α-Fluoro nucleosides 254
8.3.2 3′-β-Fluoro nucleosides 256
8.3.3 3′,3′-Difluoro nucleosides 258
8.3.4 3′-Fluoro-2′, 3′-didehydro-2′, 3′-dideoxy
nucleosides 260
8.4 Nucleosides Fluorinated at C4′ 261
8.5 Nucleosides Fluorinated at C6′ 263
8.6 5′-Fluorinated and Phosphonodifluoromethylenated
Nucleosides 269
8.7 Nucleosides Bearing Exocyclic Fluorocarbon
Substituents at C2′, C3′ and C4′ 272
8.7.1 Nucleosides containing a trifluoromethyl
group 272
8.7.2 Nucleosides containing a difluoromethylene,
fluoromethylene or difluoromethyl group 274
8.8 Other Fluorinated Nucleosides 276
8.8.1 Fluorinated cyclopropyl nucleosides 276
8.8.2 Fluorinated cyclobutyl and oxetanosyl
nucleosides 278
8.8.3 Fluorinated pyranosyl nucleosides 278
8.9 Conformational Studies of Fluorinated Nucleosides 280
8.10 Conclusion 284
References 284
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xx Contents
Section 3 333
18
10 F-Radionuclide Chemistry 335
Romain Bejot and Véronique Gouverneur
10.1 Introduction 335
10.1.1 Radioisotope 18F 335
10.1.2 Nuclear reactions 335
10.1.3 Production of 18F 337
10.1.4 Positron emission tomography (PET) 338
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Contents xxi
xxii Contents
19
12 F NMR: Clinical and Molecular Imaging Applications 461
Vikram D. Kodibagkar, Rami R. Hallac, Dawen Zhao,
Jian-Xin Yu and Ralph P. Mason
12.1 Introduction 461
12.2 Clinical Applications and Drug Metabolism 468
12.3 Reporter Molecule Strategies 473
12.3.1 Physical interactions 474
12.3.2 Chemical association 480
12.3.3 Chemical interactions 484
12.4 Passive Reporter Molecules 490
12.5 Recent Innovations, Novelties and Future Improvements 492
12.5.1 Chemistry and molecular engineering 492
12.5.2 Biology 495
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Contents xxiii
Index 525
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b1171 Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry
1
Synthesis and Properties
Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry Downloaded from www.worldscientific.com
of Fluorinated Nucleobases
in DNA and RNA
by MCGILL UNIVERSITY on 03/01/13. For personal use only.
1.1 Introduction
The stability of nucleic acid structures is predominantly governed by hydro-
gen bonding, base stacking, and solvation. To probe these interactions, a
common approach is to replace the native bases adenine (A), uracil
(U)/thymidine (T), guanosine (G) and cytosine (C) with analogues in which
functional groups are added, deleted, blocked or rearranged. The size and
shape of the analogues should be preserved as closely as possible to native
bases. Such ‘non-polar nucleoside isosteres’ (NNIs) then allow detection of
the predominant forces within nucleic acid structures without introducing
steric effects. For DNA, this concept was introduced by Kool and coworkers
in 1994 (Schweitzer and Kool, 1994). Initially, these molecules were intended
to be used as probes of the importance of hydrogen bonding and base stack-
ing in the formation of stable DNA duplex structures (Schweitzer and Kool,
1994; Kool and Sintim, 2006). In the context of DNA replication, it was later
3
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b1171 Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry
concluded by these authors that steric effects rather than hydrogen bonding
was the chief explanation for replication fidelity (Kool, 1998; Kool and
Sintim, 2006). In 1999, the concept of NNI was introduced into the RNA
world by Engels and coworkers, initially using fluorinated benzenes and
benzimidazoles as pyrimidine and purine base analogues, respectively
(Parsch and Engels, 1999, 2000). Syntheses and crystallographic studies of
Fluorine in Pharmaceutical and Medicinal Chemistry Downloaded from www.worldscientific.com
these and other NNIs as well as thermodynamic analyses and computer sim-
ulations of model RNAs incorporating them are reviewed here. These
combined studies have proved invaluable for probing the physical forces that
govern the stability of RNA and shedding light on the role of fluorine in
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M other Nature does not always, like other mothers, lay her pet
children on downy pillows, and under silken canopies. She
seems to delight in showing that money shall buy everything but
brains. At any rate, she not only opened our poet’s big, lustrous eyes,
in a clay cottage, put roughly together by his father’s own hands, but,
shortly after his birth, she blew it down over his head, and the
mother and child were picked out from among the ruins, and carried
to a neighbor’s for safe keeping—rather a rough welcome to a world
which, in its own slow fashion, after the mold was on his breast,
heaped over it honors, which seemed then such a mockery.
But the poor little baby and his mother, happy in their mutual
love, knew little enough of all this. A good, loving mother she was,
Agnes by name; keeping her house in order with a matron’s pride;
chanting old songs and ballads to her baby-boy, as she glided
cheerfully about; not discouraged when things went wrong on the
farm, and the crops failed, and the table was scantily supplied with
food—singing, hoping, trusting, loving still; a very woman, over
whose head cottages might tumble, so that her heart was but
satisfied.
Robert’s father was a good man, who performed each day’s duty as
carefully as though each day brought other reward than that of
having done his duty. It is a brave, strong heart, my dear children,
which can do this. All can labor when success follows; it is disaster,
defeat, difficulties, which prove what a man’s soul is made of. It is
just here that the ranks grow thin in life’s battle—just here that the
faint-hearted perish by the wayside, or desert, like cowards, to the
enemy. William Burns stood manfully to his duty, plodding on, year
after year;—when one plan failed, trying another; never saying, when
his day’s work was done, “Ah! but this is too discouraging! I’ll to the
alehouse, to drown my griefs in strong drink!” Neither did he go
home moody and disconsolate, to drive his children into corners, and
bring tears to the eyes of his toiling wife. But morning and evening
the prayer went up, with unfailing trust in Heaven. Oh! but that was
glorious! I love William Burns! Did he say at night, when so weary,
“Now, at least, I’ll rest?” Not he: there were little bright eyes about
him, out of which the eager soul was looking. So he gathered them
about his armchair on those long winter evenings, and read to them,
and taught them, and answered their simple yet deep questions. One
of Robert’s sweetest poems, the Cotter’s Saturday Night, was written
about this. Robert’s father told his children, too, of the history of
their country; of skirmishes, sieges, and battles; old songs and
ballads, too, he repeated to them, charming their young ears. Was
not this a lovely home picture? Oh! how much were these peasant
children to be envied above the children of richer parents, kept in the
nursery, in the long intervals when their parents, forgetful of these
sweet duties, were seeking their own pleasure and amusement. More
blessed, surely, is the humblest roof, round whose evening hearth
gather nightly, all its inmates, young and old.
Nor—poor as they were—did they lack books. Dainties they could
forego, but not books; confusedly thrown about—soiled and
thumbed; but—unlike our gilded, center-table ornaments—well
selected, and well read. And so the years passed on, as does the life of
so many human beings, quiet, but eventful.
Who sneers at “old women”? I should like to trace, for a jeering
world, the influence of that important person in the Burns family.
Old Jenny Wilson! Little she herself knew her power, when, with
Robert Burns upon her knee, she poured into his listening ear her
never-ending store of tales about fairies, and “brownies,” and
witches, and giants, and dragons. So strong was the impression these
supernatural stories made upon the mind of the boy, that he declared
that, in later life, he could never go through a suspicious-looking
place, without expecting to see some unearthly shape appear. Who
shall determine how much this withered old woman had to do with
making the boy a poet? And yet, poor humble soul—that is an idea
which seldom enters the mind of his admirers. The bent figure, with
wrinkle-seamed face, gliding noiselessly about your house, doing
odds and ends of household labor, now singing a child to sleep, now
cooking at the kitchen fire, now repairing a garment, or watching by
a sickbed—always on hand, yet never in anybody’s way; silent,
grateful, unobtrusive, yet beloved of Heaven—have you not known
them?
Robert’s mother, the good Agnes, had a voice sweet as her name.
The ballads she sang him were all of a serious cast. She had learned
them, when a girl, from her mother. Oh, these songs! Many a simple
hymn, thus listened to by childhood’s ear, has been that soul’s last
utterance this side the grave. All other childish impressions may have
faded away, but “mother’s hymn” is never forgotten. That strain,
heard by none else, will sometimes come, an unbidden, unwelcome
guest; and neither in noise nor wine can that bearded man drown it—
this mother’s hymn! Sing on, sing on, ye patient, toiling mothers!
over the cradle—by the fireside. Angels smile as they listen. The lark
whom the cloud covers, is not lost.
The father of Robert Burns did not consider, because he was a
poor man, that it was an excuse for depriving his boys of any
advantages of education within his reach, as many a farmer, similarly
situated, and intent only on gain, has thought it right to do. His good
sense, in this respect, was well rewarded; for Robert’s first teacher
said of him, that “he took such pleasure in learning, and I in
teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the two was most
zealous in the business.” It is such scholars as these who brighten the
otherwise dreary lot of the teacher. Pupils who study, not because
they must, and as little as possible at that, but because they have an
appetite for it, and crave knowledge. Of course, a good teacher
endeavors to be equally faithful to all the pupils who are intrusted to
him—the stupid and wayward, as well as the studious. But there
must be to him a peculiar pleasure in helping, guiding, and watching
over a pupil so eager to acquire. The mother bird, who coaxes her
fledglings to the edge of the nest, and, by circling flights overhead,
invites them to follow, understands, of course, how the little,
cowering thing, who sits crouched on a neighboring twig, may be too
indolent, or too timid to go farther; but she looks with proud delight
upon the bold little soarer, who, observing well her lesson, reaches
the top of the tallest tree, and sits, swaying and singing, upon its
topmost branch.
Robert, however, had not always the good luck to have, as in this
case, an intelligent, appreciative teacher. I suppose it is not treason
to admit, even in a child’s book, which, by some, is considered a
place for tremendous fibbing, that a teacher may occasionally err, as
well as his pupil. That teachers have been known to mistake their
vocation, when they have judged themselves qualified, after trying
and failing in every other employment, to fill such a difficult and
honorable position.
It seems there was a certain Hugh Rodgers, to whose school
Robert was sent. It was the very bad custom of those times, when
pupils of his age first entered a school, to take the master to a tavern,
and treat him to some liquor. This Robert did, in company with
another boy, named Willie, who entered at the same time. Do you
suppose that schoolmaster ever thought remorsefully about this in
after years, when he heard what a wreck strong drink had made of
poor Robert? Well, the boy Willie and Robert became great friends
from that day; often staying at each other’s houses, and always
spending the intervals between morning and afternoon school, in
each other’s company. When the other boys were playing ball, they
would talk together on subjects to improve their minds. Now, as they
walked while they talked, their omitting to play ball was not of so
much consequence as it would otherwise have been—at least,
according to my motto, which is, chests first, brains afterward. But
to go on. These disputatious youngsters sharpened their wits on all
sorts of knotty subjects, and also invited several of their companions
to join their debating society—whether to improve them, or to have
an audience to approve their skill, I can’t say; perhaps a little of both.
By and by the master heard of it. He didn’t like it. He had an idea
boys should have no ideas that the master didn’t put into their heads
for them. So one day, when the school was all assembled, he walked
up to the desks of Robert and Willie, and began, very unwisely, to
taunt them about it before all the scholars—something in this style:
“So, boys, I understand that you consider yourselves qualified to
decide upon matters of importance, which wiser heads usually let
alone. I trust, from debating, you won’t come to blows, young
gentlemen,” &c., &c. Now, the boys who had not joined their
debating society, set up a laugh, like little rascals, at the rebuked
Robert and Willie. This, of course, as the teacher should have known,
stung them to the quick; and Robert, with a flushed face, resolved to
“speak up” to the master. I find no fault with his reply, which was
this; that both he and Willie rather thought that he (the master)
would be pleased, instead of displeased, at this effort to improve
their minds. At this, Hugh Rodgers laughed contemptuously, and
said he should be glad to know what these mighty nonsensical
discussions might be about. Willie replied that they had a new
subject every day; that he could not recollect all; but that the
question of that day had been, whether is a great general, or
respectable merchant, the more valuable member of society. At this,
Hugh Rodgers laughed more uproariously and provokingly than
before, saying, that it was a very silly question, since there could be
no doubt for a moment about it. “Very well,” said Robert Burns, now
thoroughly roused, “if you think so, I will take any side you please, if
you will allow me to discuss it with you.”
The unfortunate schoolmaster consented. He commenced the
argument with a pompous flourish in favor of the general. Burns
took the other side, and soon had the upper hand of the
schoolmaster, who made a very lame reply. Soon the schoolmaster’s
hand was observed to shake, his voice to tremble, and, in a state of
pitiable vexation, he dismissed the school.
Poor man! he understood mathematics better than human nature;
and himself least of all. This was an unfortunate victory, for two
reasons. It was an unnecessary degradation of a man who had his
estimable qualities, and it increased the self-sufficiency of young
Burns, who was born with his arms sufficiently a-kimbo. Alexander-
fashion, he soon sighed for another conquest. His bedfellow, John
Nevins, was a great wrestler. Nothing would do, but he must floor
John Nevins. Strutting up to John, he challenged him to the combat.
John soon took that nonsense out of him, by laying him low.
Vanquished, he sprang to his feet, and challenged him to a
discussion. There he had him!—John having more muscle than
brain. Burns’s pride was comforted, and he retreated, a satisfied
youth. This is all I know about Robert’s childhood.
Silver hairs were now gathering thickly on his good father’s
temples, as he toiled on, to little use, while children grew up fast
about his knees, to be fed, schooled, and clothed by his labor. Robert
and his brother looked sadly on, as his health declined. Robert had
little inclination for his father’s work, and yet, somebody must take
his place; for consumption was even then making rapid and fearful
havoc with his constitution. The good old man ceased from his labors
at last, and went where the weary rest. For a while, Robert strove to
fill his place—strove well, strove earnestly. But the farmer who stops
to write poems over his plough, seldom reaps a harvest to satisfy
hungry mouths. And so, poverty came, instead of potatoes, and
Robert Burns, although the troubled eyes of his wife looked into his,
and his little children were growing up fast about him, and needed a
good father, to teach them how to live in this world, and to earn
bread for them till they became big enough to earn it for themselves,
it came about that, instead of doing this, he drank whisky to help him
forget that he ought to keep on ploughing, if poetry did not bring him
bread, and so made poverty a great deal worse. His wife was very,
very sorrowful about it, and his little children became tired of waiting
for him to love them, and care for them. Perhaps you say, Oh, how
could he do so? My dear children, how can anybody ever do wrong?
How can you ever vex your dear mother, who is so good to you, and
go pouting to bed, and never tell her that you are “sorry”? and still,
while you are sleeping, that dear, good, forgiving mother stoops over
your little bed, and kisses your forehead, and looks to see if you are
warm and comfortable, before she can sleep, the same as if you had
been a good child, instead of a bad one. I hope you will think of this
before that good mother dies, and tell her that you are very sorry for
grieving her; and I hope, too, that Robert Burns, before it was too
late, said that he was sorry for grieving those who loved him, and for
wasting his life; but I do not know about that.
OLD HICKORY.
M any a time, I dare say, you have sat on your bench at school,
with your cotton handkerchief spread over your knee, looking
at the stern face of this famous man upon it; every bristling hair
upon his head seeming to say for itself, In the name of the
commonwealth, stand and deliver! You have thought, perhaps, that a
man with such a sharp eye and granite face as that, must be a very
terrible person, whose heart was quite left out when he was made,
and whom little children had better run away from. It is just because
this was not true, that I first believed in General Jackson. A brave
man is never a mean one; and it is mean to despise or bully children
and women. I place children first, because every woman who has
ever had one, does so. But to my story. We, who have lived so
peacefully and quietly in the land for which our brave ancestors
fought, do not think as often as we ought of the sufferings and trials
through which they purchased it for us. Until lately, our houses were
not burned down over our heads, or ransacked and robbed, nor our
mothers and sisters insulted before our eyes, nor our fathers and
brothers dragged off as prisoners of war, and kicked and cuffed for
sport by the enemy. All this, Andrew Jackson’s boyish eyes saw. Do
you wonder at the fire in them? One of his earliest recollections was
of the meeting house in his native place turned into a hospital for his
wounded, maimed, dying, brave countrymen; and his own widowed
mother, leading him there by the hand to nurse them, and dress their
wounds, and comfort them, as only a woman with a strong heart and
angel touch can. Could the boy stand by and see all this, and not long
for the time when he should grow big, and stout, and tall, and help
fight for his country? Could he help being impatient, he, the son of
this unprotected mother, when one after another of these poor
fellows was brought in, with their fresh, ghastly wounds, and laid
down to die? And when, later, his cousin’s house was taken by the
British, and the furniture was broken in pieces, and his cousin’s wife
was insulted by the officers, and he and his brother were taken
prisoners, and ordered by the officer, with an oath, to clean his
muddy boots; and, because they both refused, were cut and slashed
across the face and head by this bullying, cowardly fellow, Andrew
then being only twelve years old; and then were marched miles and
miles away down South, and not allowed a morsel of food by the way,
and forbidden even to scoop up water from the streams they were
fording, to quench their feverish thirst? Ah! do you wonder now at
that stern face? Suppose your dear mother, whom your dear father,
whom you can just remember, loved so tenderly, was driven across
the country with you and your little brother, from place to place, for
safety, in those troublous times, and subjected to all kinds of
hardships, bearing up under it bravely, as good women will. Suppose
that when you and your brother—still boys—were dragged off as
prisoners of war, this dear, brave mother traveled off alone, and
never rested till she managed, by an exchange of prisoners with the
British general, to get her dear boys back again; but wan and wasted
with small pox, and the wounds that they had received from that big,
cowardly British officer, all undressed and uncared for; these boys,
her Andrew, her Robert? Well, as your mother would have nursed
you and your brother through her tears, so Andrew Jackson’s mother
nursed her fatherless boys. But was Andrew a boy to forget either his
mother’s love, or the British? No, indeed! And when, after he became
well, and the whole band went to live in the house of a friend, and
Andrew picked beans, and pulled fodder, and drove cattle, and went
to mill, do you wonder that when he was sent to the blacksmith’s, to
get the farm tools mended, he brought home spears of iron, and all
sorts of odd-looking, rough weapons, that, while waiting for the
blacksmith, he had himself manufactured “to kill the British with”?
Do you wonder that he fastened the blade of a scythe to a pole, and
exclaimed, fiercely, as he cut down the weeds with it, “Oh! if I were
only a man, wouldn’t I sweep off the British with my grass blade?”
And he did it, too, afterward. Let those who call him “fierce, savage,
vindictive,” remember how these sorrows of his childhood were
burned in upon his soul; remember what burning tears must have
fallen upon the little bundle containing all his dead mother’s clothes,
she who had struggled and suffered through the war of the
Revolution, and left him an orphan at fifteen years, with only the
memory of her love and his country’s wrongs. As he stood weeping
over that little bundle, friendless, homeless, and heart-broken,
thinking of all she had been to him, and looking wistfully forward
into the dim unknown, he did not see the future President of the
United States, and hear his voice falter as he said, “I learned that,
years ago, from my dear, good mother!” Well might he remember her
then. You ask me if Andrew found no opportunity to get an education
in these troublous times? You may be sure his mother knew the value
of that! and sent her boys, when quite young, to the best schools she
could find in their native place. Schools, in those days, were not the
furnace-heated, mahogany-desked affairs we see now. Pupils did not
carry an extra pair of shoes to put on when they entered, for fear of
soiling the floor. Velvet jackets were not worn by the boys, nor gold
bracelets by the girls. Andrew Jackson’s schoolroom was an old log
house made of pines, the crevices being filled in with clay, which the
boys used to pick out when it came spring, to let in the fresh air. In
this school no French, nor drawing, nor “moral science,” was taught.
Reading, writing, and arithmetic was all. For a gymnasium, there
were the grand old trees, which the freckled, sunburnt, redheaded
Andrew was free to swing upon when school was done; and he went
up and down them like a squirrel. I think he was better at that than
at his books, if the truth must out; however, “learning” did not go
before chests in those days, luckily for us, who enjoy the blessings for
which our fathers’ strong arms fought. So Andrew studied some, and
leaped, and wrestled, and jumped more;—was kind to defenceless
small boys, but had his fist in the face of every fellow who made fun
of him, or taunted him, or in any way pushed him to the wall.
Andrew had one very bad habit when a boy, which, I am sorry to
say, followed him all his life. He swore fearfully! An oath, from
anybody’s mouth, is hateful; but from a child’s mouth! I know
nothing more saddening and pitiful. Often, I know, children will use
such words, quite unconscious of their meaning, as they pick them
up from those who have no such excuse for their utterance, till the
habit becomes so fixed, that only in later life, when they pain some
person who is “old-fashioned” enough to reverence the name they
use so lightly, do they become conscious of the extent of this
disgusting habit. The idea of its being “manly” to swear is ridiculous
enough; since the lowest, most brutal ruffian in creation, can, and
does, outdo you in this accomplishment. I think Andrew would have
enjoyed his boyish sports quite as well without these bad words; and
he was a splendid fellow for all athletic exercises. Had he been alive
when that game of cricket was won by the English cricketers, I don’t
know what would have happened; well, it wouldn’t have happened;
or had it, the victors would never have gone home alive to tell of it!
Andrew was a good son to his mother; he was honest, and truthful,
and kind to her always. He never forgot her as long as he lived. He
used often, when President of the United States, to stop in the midst
of his conversation, and say, reverently and proudly, “That I learned
from my good mother!”
One cannot help feeling sad that she should have lived long
enough only to bear the burden and heat of the day, and not share
with her boy its calm repose and reward. And yet, who can believe
that a mother and son so loving are divided, though one crosses
alone the dark river before the other? We have seen, of a fine
summer morning, after the sun shone out, fine gossamer threads,
before invisible, floating, yet fixed, in the air above us. So, when the
light of eternity shines on our life-path, shall these chords of a
mother’s love be seen to have entwined themselves around and about
us—leading us in a way we knew not.
Jackson’s life was a strange one. It is for me only now to speak of
his childhood and youth. His relation to our country’s history will not
suffer you to rest satisfied with this. His after-life is better told than I
could tell it you, by a man who is now looking over my shoulder, and
who says, I have just told you a fib. If you read “Parton’s Life of
Andrew Jackson,” however, you will see that I have told the truth.
THE DEAF AND DUMB FRENCH BOY.
You may be sure the poor dying mother felt badly enough about all
this, as she lay in her bed, growing thinner, and paler, and weaker
each day. She could see the churchyard where she was to be buried
from her chamber window; in fact, one had to pass through it, with
its moss-grown tombstones, to get to the house, which was a very
gloomy one at best, as parsonage houses are too apt to be. I suppose
she tried very hard to feel willing to leave them; but she found she
could not do it, if she saw their dear little faces every day. So they did
not go to her sick-room any more; she could hear the pattering of
their tiny feet in the entry, and their hushed whispers as they passed
her door, and so, pressing her hands tightly over her mother heart, to
still its pain, and leaning on the Crucified, she passed away.
It is very dreadful for a child to lose its mother—much worse, I
think, than to lose a father; because a father, be he ever so good and
kind, must be away from his little ones, and cannot, by any
possibility, understand their little wants and ways as a mother can;
and a child’s heart is such a tender thing to touch; one may mean
well, and give it such exquisite pain, and the poor thing cringes, and
shrinks, and has no words by which it can tell its distress. But
suppose the father understands nothing about a child’s heart.
Suppose he thinks to treat it like a grown person’s, who has been
knocked about the world till he don’t care for anything, who never
cries, never laughs, never is glad, never is sorry, never wants to lay
his head on a dear, kind shoulder, and cry—what then? Suppose that
father, instead of taking breakfast, dinner, and supper with his lonely
little children, takes his meals up in his own room, and leaves them
sobbing over theirs, while they try to swallow the food that tasted so
sweet when their dear mother sat at the head of the table—what
then? Suppose it was a bleak, dreary country where they lived, where
no flowers grew, where were no gardens; and that, when these little
children became tired of huddling together, like a frightened flock of
lambs, in their gloomy nursery, where never a cheerful fire was
lighted, or cheerful lamps twinkled when night came on—suppose
they tied on their little bonnets, and, led by the eldest, who was only
seven, went through the damp churchyard, past their mother’s grave,
and out on the bleak, cold hills to walk, without their father to lead
them by the hand, or take them up in his arms when tired, or speak a
kind word, or warm their little chilled hearts or hands in any way?
Suppose day after day went by in this fashion, what sort of children
do you suppose they would become? Healthy, hearty, rosy, jumping
little things, such as God and man love to see, loving play and frolic,
with broad chests and shoulders, and bright eyes and hearts? Not at
all. They never once thought of playing; they hadn’t a toy in the
house; their heads grew big, and their bodies grew little; and they
were as wide awake at night, as if somebody had hired them not to go
to sleep. But their father slept soundly, all the same as if their little
hearts were not like an empty cage, out of which music and beauty
has taken wing forever. Well, God loved them; that’s a comfort, and
that thought kept little Charlotte’s heart from sinking, when she tried
to be mother to her younger brothers and sisters; all the while she
needed a mother herself, more than any dictionary could ever tell.
After a while, an aunt came to their house, to take charge of them.
I was glad of that. I hoped she would make them play dolls, and run,
and jump about; I hoped she would make the fires and lamps burn
cheerily, and go round the house shedding brightness from her finger
tips, as only a woman knows how. I hoped she would go out to walk
with the little orphans, and when they came home to supper, sit
down with them at the table, and say funny things to make them
laugh; and good things to make them happy and glad. I hoped she
would tie on their little night dresses with her own hands, and kiss
them down on their pillows, and say, God bless you, my little
darlings! It was such a pity she didn’t. I am sure a woman ought to
understand little children better than she seemed to. But she just
shut herself up in her room, the same way their father did, and took
all her meals alone. I have no patience with her. I wish I had lived
near them; they should have eaten and drank with me, poor little
souls! Well, they had a kitchen, and a good old servant, named
Tabby, in it, and, from what I can find out, she was more of a mother
to them, in her rough fashion, than anybody else. I told you these
children had no toys; and, what was worse, they did not want any;
they used to read newspapers and talk politics, just as your father
and his gentleman friends might, in your parlor. As to “Mother
Goose,” I am sure they never heard of her, though they read many
books that are considered much wiser, and which were just as much
out of place in a nursery, as a joint of roast beef would be to set
before your little month-old baby, for its dinner. But how should they
know that? Nobody about them seemed to think that childhood
comes but once; or, in fact, was intended to come at all for them.
“Milk for babes” was not the fashion at Haworth parsonage. Well,
time passed on, till their father concluded to send Charlotte away to
school, with her sisters. So they were put into a little covered cart
with their things, and jolted along. I hope their father kissed them
when they went away, but I am not at all sure of it. I am afraid he was
too dignified. It is hard enough for a child to go away to school with a
warm kiss on the lips, and a trunk full of comfortable clothes, in
every stitch of which is woven a mother’s blessing. It is hard enough
for a healthy, romping child, who is able to ask for what it wants
everywhere, and on all occasions, to leave home, and go a long
distance to a strange school, even though it may have letters often,
and plum cakes often, and all sorts of little love-tokens, which home
delights to send to the absent one. But to these little timid ones, who
had never played with children, and were as much afraid of them as
of strange, grown people; who had come up, shy and awkward and
old-fashioned, and were painfully conscious of it, as soon as it was
brought to their notice by contrast with those children, who had
come from their warm firesides like some graceful house-plants, full
of blossoms and verdure—ah! it was very sad for the poor little
Brontë girls. What could they do when they got there, but stand at
the window, and cry, as they looked out upon the snowy landscape?
And when the girls urged them to play ball, and other such healthful
games, they had no heart for it—no physical strength for it, either;
they would have been tumbled over forty times in a minute, by their
playmates, like so many ninepins, with a great, thumping ball. Well,
they had a bad time of it, any way, at this school—bad food, bad air,
and exposure. I suppose, too, their clothes were not warm enough,
for the hand was cold that would have made the warm garment for
those bloodless, shrunken limbs. It is “mother’s” fingers that fit the
cloak close to the little neck, so that through no treacherous crevice
the cruel “croup” may creep; it is “mother’s” fingers that quilt the
little winter skirt with the soft, warm wool, and furnish the thick
stocking, and comfortable hood. It is “mother’s” eye which sees just
the thing that is needed to meet all weathers. We can imagine how
they went shivering along, half clad, to the church on Sunday, where
never a fire was lighted; how blue were their fingers; how cold their
little feet! No wonder they grew sick. Little Maria Brontë, who was
delicate under the remains of the whooping cough, suffered most
severely from cold, and want of nourishing food. A blister was
applied to her side for her relief, and the poor, weak child, happening
to linger in bed one morning later than the usual hour for rising, was
harshly dragged in this state into the middle of the room, and then
punished, because she had not strength enough to dress herself in
time to appear with the other scholars. This must have been very
hard to bear. Perhaps you ask, Why didn’t Charlotte Brontë write
home about it? She had two reasons: one was, that both she and her
sisters were most anxious to learn everything that they could learn at
this school; and in the next place, they had been so accustomed to
keep all their childish troubles to themselves, although their hearts
were nearly breaking, that I don’t suppose they once imagined, if
they thought of it, that it would do any good to complain. So they
shivered in the cold, and tried to swallow the bad food that was given
them, when they grew so hungry they could not do without it, until
poor little Maria grew so very bad, that her father had to be sent for.
God pitied the poor child, and took her to heaven, to be with her
mother. She died a few days after reaching home. Charlotte and
Emily, the two remaining sisters, did not long stay in the school after
their sister’s death. I think their father at last woke up to the thought,
that they might die too, and nobody might be left at the old, gloomy
parsonage, to send up his meals, or wait upon him, or read to him, or
mend his clothes. So he brought them home too. I believe all children
are fond of being in the kitchen. They are active, and like to see what
is going on; they like to watch the cooking, and ask questions about it
—often, much better than the cook likes to answer. The little Brontë
girls’ cook was named Tabby, and a funny old woman she was. She
was very kind to them, but she would have her own way, and made
them do as she said; still, I have no doubt, from what I know of her,
that she put by many a nice little bit for their hungry mouths, and
told them a great many fairy stories, as they cuddled round the old
kitchen fire, when her work was done; but I think they had to be very
careful not to meddle with anything without leave, or get in her way,
when she was hurried or busy; and that was all right enough, for the
poor old thing must have elbow-room, you know; besides, it is a good
thing for a child to be taught that it may not order about a good,
faithful servant, old enough to be its mother, merely because she is a
servant.
About this time the little girls began to amuse themselves writing
little plays, poetry, and “compositions” for their own amusement.
They had a little “make believe” newspaper, too, for which they and
their brother Patrick used to write, and old Tabby had to speak pretty
sharp, sometimes, to make them go to bed, when they were busy with
these things. I suppose they did not care to go to bed early, for they
did not sleep as healthy, happy children do, the moment their heads
touch the pillow, until a mother’s soft kiss wakes them to a new day
of joy; but no doubt they turned and tossed, and wished it were
daylight, and all their sorrows grew larger and more intolerable to
bear in the silent, dreary night. They who have been in great trouble
know this; when the faintest leaf-whisper, from one tree to another,
seems like spirit voices, torturing one with a language which you try,
but cannot understand; when the dear ones who are dead seem so
very near, and yet so very far away; when their faces seem to look out
from the darkness, like a star suddenly appearing from a black cloud,
and then again wrapped in its dusky folds. No wonder the nervous,
lonely little Brontës begged Tabby not to send them to bed.
Charlotte did not stay long at home; her father resolved to send
her away to school again, and her little sister and brother were forced
to do without her.
When persons interest us very much, it is natural to wish to know
how they look.
Well, then, Charlotte Brontë, at the time she went to this school,
was a very homely little girl. One of her schoolmates draws for us this
picture of her, at that time: “I first saw her coming out of a covered
cart, in very old-fashioned clothes, looking very cold, and very
miserable. When she afterward appeared in the schoolroom, her
dress was changed, but just as old-fashioned. She looked like a little
old woman, so short-sighted that she always appeared to be seeking
something, and moving her head from side to side to catch sight of it.
She was very shy and nervous, and spoke with a strong Irish accent.
When a book was given her, she dropped her head over it, till her
nose nearly touched it, and when she was told to hold her head up,
up went the book after it, so that it was not possible to help
laughing.” Another schoolmate says, that the first time she saw
Charlotte, she was standing by the schoolroom window, looking out
on the snowy landscape and crying, while all the rest of the girls were
at play. Poor child! no doubt she felt desolate enough. Fortunately
for Charlotte, her teacher, Miss Woolen, was a lady of intelligent
mind and kind heart. She understood the odd-looking, timid, wise
little being before her. She knew that there was a gem, all but the
setting. So she did not overlook the knowledge stowed away in that
little busy brain, because grammar and geography had found no
place there. Then came the question, how to manage this little
sensitive pupil, without keeping back the other girls in the class, who
already understood these branches, though, perhaps, they were far
behind her in others. At first she thought she must put her in the
second class, till, as school girls say, she had “caught up” with the
other girls. But the moment she mentioned it, Charlotte’s
mortification and distress were such, that, like a wise teacher, she
saw that if she only saved her this pain, by allowing her to go into the
first class, she immediately would make up by private study wherein
she was deficient; and so it proved.
One feels as glad at this kindness, as though she were one’s own
little sister. We find her, at this time, not playing with the other
romping girls, but standing in the playground with a book, or looking
dreamily at the scenery. When urged to join them in their sports, she
said No—always pleasantly. Playing ball, and such healthful games,
she probably disliked, as much, perhaps, for lack of bodily strength,
as from any other cause; though that would have come by degrees,
had she only allowed herself to try; it was a great pity she did not.
However, she was always so good-natured and amiable, that she was
a favorite with the girls, although she wouldn’t play with them.
Sometimes, with the natural freedom of their age, they would tell her
that she was “awkward,” or ugly; but this never displeased her,
though, I have no doubt, she felt sorry that they thought so. In the
portraits of that fine face of hers, which I have seen, the term “ugly”
seems to be sadly misapplied. Those might think so, who fancy a
pink and white doll-face; but neither could such see the moral
beauty of her daily life, over that thorny road, every meek, patient
step of which was as the Saviour’s at Gethsemane.
Charlotte remained a year at this school, studying very hard. This
was well, had she also remembered that her fragile body needed
equal care with her mind; for of what use is knowledge if there is no
bodily strength by which we can make it useful to those about us?
Charlotte had no watchful mother, to impress this upon her as a
religious duty; to remind her that she was as responsible for the care
of her body, as for the improvement of her mind. And so her mind
kept on expanding, and threatening to shatter its feeble prison house
in pieces. It was a great pity; but it seems even in England, where so
much more attention is paid than here to “raising” perfect, robust
specimens of men and women, such things do happen. At Miss
Woolen’s school, Charlotte formed an agreeable intimacy with two
schoolmates—young ladies of her own age. This was a great benefit
to her, because she had been made so prematurely old in her
feelings, by loneliness and sorrow. One cannot help catching
animation and hope from a bright, joyous, fresh-hearted, breezy
companion, though one is ever so apt to look on the gloomy side of
things. And so it is quite cheering to know that, upon leaving Miss
Woolen’s school, and going back to her father’s dull house, these
young girls exchanged letters and visits with one another. And now,
perhaps, you suppose, that when Charlotte reached home, she sat
down and folded her hands in utter hopelessness, saying, “How
awful dull it is here! there is no use in trying to live in such a desolate
old cage of a place; it is really too bad for a young creature like me to
be shut up here. It is too bad for any girl so fond of reading, writing,
and drawing, to be a mere drudge in this lonesome place!” Perhaps
you think that, as she was a “genius,” she said or thought all this. Not
at all; and I’ll tell you why; because her genius was genuine, not
sham. It is only make believe geniuses who think the every-day
duties of life beneath their intellects. I want you to remember that
Charlotte Brontë did not shrink from one of them. She swept, and
she dusted, and she made beds, and she made bread (good, light,
wholesome bread, too), and pared potatoes, and watched the pot
boil, and kept everything in as nice order as if she had no taste for
anything but housekeeping. Perhaps you think then that she folded
her hands, and said, “I should think I had done enough now!” There
you are wrong again. She looked from her window into the little
churchyard, where her mother was lying, and said, “Now I must be a
mother to my brothers and sisters!” and she repaired their clothes,
and she taught them; for she had thoroughly learned her own
lessons and all those things she had studied at school. There’s a girl
for you! and all this, when she was so very fond of reading and
writing, which stood to her lonely heart in place of loving friends, for
whom she longed.
At length, on account of want of money, it became necessary for
some one of the family to go out into the world to earn it. Who
should it be? One would have naturally supposed the brother, as
being a sturdy, healthy fellow, better able to fight his way than his
delicate sisters, who shrank timidly from the sight of strange faces
and strange voices. It seemed not the thing for them to go out into
the wilderness, to make the path easy for his feet? If so, which of the
sisters should do this? Emily? Anne? or Charlotte? Emily grew
homesick to that degree when away, that her life was in danger, and
was obliged to be recalled for that reason. So, whoever was sent, she
must not go; for were there not two sisters already in the
churchyard? Anne was too young. Charlotte, then, was, as usual, to
buckle on the armor of duty over her brave heart, and stagger forth
with what strength she might, to face the world. She was to be a
governess! Imagine, if you can, the most torturing situation in which
to place such a nature as hers; and the daily trial of it, could not come
up to that included to her in the little word “governess.” Fortunately,
her first experiment was with Miss Woolen, her old teacher—her
scholars being younger sisters of her own playmates. Whatever she
did, she did with her might; therefore, so zealous was she to make
herself useful in her new situation, and so conscientious in the
discharge of duties which a less noble girl would have dodged, or
evaded sufficiently, at least, to make the position bearable, that we
soon hear of the breaking down of her feeble body, so that she almost
became crazy.
She had frightful thoughts and gloomy ideas about religious
things; anxiety about her sister Emily, who, resolving not to burden
her father with her support, had concluded to go forth likewise. Then
she was troubled, too, about the home affairs, which, as the elder
sister, she could not, even at a distance, shake off; and thus, leaving
childhood, which had been but childhood in name to her, we find
Charlotte a woman, brave yet fearful; timid but courageous; the
lion’s heart in the humming bird’s body. I meant only to have told
you about her childhood; and yet you may ask me, was Charlotte
never again comfortable, light-hearted, and happy? Did nobody but
her sisters ever love her very dearly? Did nobody else find out what a
good, intelligent, gifted girl she was? Oh yes, at last! At last came
fame and honor to the little, quiet Charlotte. Great men and great
women wanted to know her, because she wrote so beautifully, or, as
they said, was “a genius;” and she had plenty of complimentary
letters and invitations to visit, and all the publishers wanted to
publish her books; and she earned money enough to put a great
many pretty things in the little dull parlor at home, so that she hardly
knew it to be the same room; but, dear me! by that time all her
sisters lay in the little churchyard with her mother; and poor
Charlotte looked about at all these pretty things, and great tears
came into her eyes, as she thought, Oh, why didn’t all my money and
my friends come while they were alive, and could have been made
comfortable and happy by them, so that we could all have lived at
home together, and not been separated, to go away and teach school?
Why? Poor Charlotte could not find out that why, as she sat in that
little parlor, looking, with tearful eyes, at all the pretty things her
money had bought. Perhaps you ask what her father said now to his
good, gifted daughter. Oh, he sat up alone in his room, and was very
proud of her; but that didn’t warm her heart any, you know. By and
by a gentleman came along and asked her to be his wife. And after a
while she said, Yes, I will. I suppose she thought, I want to be loved,
more than anything in this world. It is very well, perhaps, to be “a
genius,” and to be admired; but my heart aches all the same. Yes, I
will be loved; and then I shall be happy; for, after all, the brightest