_BURTON’S SCHOOL LIFE._
It becomes necessary to transport the reader from Bar Harbor and the
events of the last chapter to a small inland town in New Hampshire, and
also to turn back “the whirligig of time” twelve years.
“Jumping o’er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hourglass.”
In a quiet village, situated but a few miles from some of the higher
of the White Mountain peaks, there stood a rather old-fashioned, but
substantial and commodious, country-house. Its location was in the
upper part of the village, fronting the green, and quite removed from
the few shops and stores which were at the lower end of the main
street. It was a square, brick structure, with a four-sided roof, and
on the front a small veranda, over which woodbine and rose vines had
crept, and were pendent over the front entrance. The windows in the
rear afforded a picturesque prospect, having a foreground of forest and
field, and, in the distance, a charming view of some of the loftiest
mountains of the Presidential range. For several years it had been
the home of the family of James Burton, and at the present time was
occupied by Mrs. Burton, and her four children--Mr. Burton having
died about two years previous. Just across, and on the opposite side
of the green, stood the little white village meeting-house, with its
spire pointing heavenward, and in its tower hung the bell, which with
clarion tones had called the fathers and children, for two or three
generations, to worship within its hallowed walls.
On a beautiful Sunday morning in June, 187-, the old bell’s melodious
invitation went out to the villagers and country folk, and the
reverberations of its music chased each other over the hills and
valleys through the clear morning air. No other sound was audible; and
as its tones died away in a graceful _diminuendo_, an atmosphere of
quiet rest prevailed, and even nature seemed silent and in repose.
“How still the morning of the hallow’d day!
Mute is the voice of rural labor, hush’d
The ploughboy’s whistle and the milkmaid’s song.”
On such a Sabbath the sun seems brighter, the mountains grander, the
air softer, and the flowers sweeter, as if nature herself were in a
silent exercise of gratitude and praise.
“Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.”
The New-England rural Sabbath of those days was ideally perfect--so
far as rest from manual labor could make it so; but there was a tinge
of austerity and hardness perceptible, which hindered its perfect
adaptability to youthful life in view of the fact that “the Sabbath was
made for man.” The Puritan, in his reaction from the Sunday pleasure
and license of other countries and religions, lost in a measure that
intrinsic gladness and joyousness, which is an element needed to make
the day complete. That spiritual exaltation which would render the
Sabbath “a delight,” seems to have given place to a literal attempt, as
a duty, to pay strict regard for the sanctity of its hours. In times
past, a mistaken and almost morbid conscientiousness has sometimes
transformed the brightest day of the week into a burden, or even a
“fetish.” Such tendencies are disappearing, and the current is setting
in too strongly in the opposite direction, but in the time and place
with which we are dealing a hearty, youthful laugh on the first day of
the week met with stern reproval; and a walk in any other direction
than to or from the church, or “graveyard,” was of very doubtful
propriety.
For several years before his death, James Burton had been the
leading lawyer of the town, and his profession had yielded him a
liberal income, which, from the local standpoint, was large. As may
be inferred, Mrs. Burton found herself with ample means for her own
comfort and for the maintenance and education of her children. Of the
four Edward was the oldest, being at this time about twelve years
of age, with one brother and two sisters younger. He was unusually
intelligent, conscientious, and helpful for his age, and his mother
already had come to regard him as a companion, and almost an adviser.
In past years his father had expressed the desire that Edward, in due
time, should follow in his footsteps, by making the law his profession;
but his mother had other plans. It was her earnest intention that
Edward’s education and career should be shaped for the clerical
profession, rather than the bar. In her view, the clergyman’s “calling”
was by far the noblest of all human occupations, and her highest
ambition for her son was, that some day he might be placed upon such
a pedestal as every minister of the gospel was entitled to occupy.
At this time the country minister did not possess that unquestioned
authority as arbiter in all matters--religious, ethical, political,
and social--which was the rule a generation or two before; yet, in a
rural community like this, the village pastor occupied a plane above
and somewhat removed from that of any other citizen. His opinions on
all subjects were entitled to great respect because of his office,
and they could not lightly be called in question. The sacredness of
his vocation, rather than his superior judgment, made him a kind of
universal “oracle.” In the older time the New-England rural pastor
carried such a weight of responsibility, that a solemn awe and gravity
attached themselves to his very personality. Happily this old-time
rigidity and austerity are passing away, and the modern pastor is often
the most genial and lovable of men. Children no longer hide from his
presence, but make him their welcome and familiar friend. Such external
changes and manifestations are the visible register of a growing
internal warmth and progress. If written and theoretical creeds have
not changed, it is certain that “practical” ones have been greatly
modified. The former sternness and austerity, which gave religion the
air of its being a disagreeable necessity, is yielding to a naturalness
and loveliness which make it attractive in proportion as the change
makes progress. It is undeniable that much of the infidelity,
materialism, and atheism now prevailing are but the natural reaction
from former extreme and unwarranted statements of religious dogma. It
was well meant and sincere, but none the less mischievous. It savored
much of “the letter which killeth,” rather than of “the spirit which
giveth life.” Theological systems of the seventeenth century must be
expanded and modified, else the light of the present era will discover
their leanness, and put them aside as obsolete.
Mrs. Burton not only had a wholesome ambition for the success of her
son, but was thrilled with an intense and kindly sympathy for that
greater part of the human family, which she believed to be hopelessly
lost. She anticipated with gladness of heart the service which Edward
might render in repairing the world-wide ruin which resulted from “the
fall of man.” With the utmost conscientiousness and devotion, she
improved every opportunity to sow such seed, and arouse such motives
in his youthful mind, as would bring about her ideal result. All her
endeavors were ably seconded by Mr. Johnson, the village pastor, who
was a most kind, devoted friend, and who took great interest in her
plans.
On this lovely Sabbath morning, Mrs. Burton and her children occupied
their accustomed pew in the little white meeting-house. It was an
occasion of unusual interest for the church, for over twenty new
members were to be received to its fellowship. Mrs. Burton’s heart was
overflowing with gladness and thanksgiving as she saw the long line
of candidates ranged in front of the pulpit platform, and among them
her son, who was the most youthful of all. She felt that the prayers
of many years had been answered. This important accession to the
membership of the church was the fruit of a quiet but deep spiritual
movement which had taken place without any unusual instrumentality.
An important part of the ceremony observed in the reception of new
members, consisted of the reading of the lengthy creed, to which those
who would enter the church must give their assent section by section.
Its abstruse and positive statements about Decrees, Predestination,
Foreordination, and Retribution, as formulated by the scholastic
theologians of the seventeenth century, formed the only gateway into
the fold. How such simple-minded Christian youth, who needed only
spiritual nourishment, and a quiet moulding into Christ-likeness, could
digest and receive sustenance from the “strong meat” of the Westminster
divines, may well be questioned. The extreme sanctity with which this
“system” has been regarded, and the great reluctance of the church to
modify or revise it, to bring it more nearly into harmony with the best
thought of the present time, is unexplainable. It seems to have been
regarded as the “ark of the Lord,” to which no man dare put his hand.
Not until its oppressiveness as a bar to church membership is more
generally realized, will it be replaced by a plain, simple statement
of Christian truth. Edward Burton and his companions regarded it as
their solemn duty to believe it,--to the letter,--but they could not
understand it. After the impressive service was concluded, Edward
and his mother wended their way homeward, freely discussing measures
and plans for the future. Edward was in full accord with his mother
concerning the course which she had marked out for him, and entered
into the whole design with enthusiasm. The comprehensive plan to be
prosecuted, included three distinct courses of study, the completion
of which would require at least ten or eleven years. It comprised a
preparatory course at an academy in a neighboring town; followed by
a classical course at Dartmouth College, and, finally, a thorough
theological training at Andover Seminary.
We shall not linger to follow in detail the history of Edward Burton
during the progress of his education. With the exception of a few
brief resting-places, we shall glide forward through the coming years,
as rapidly as they were passed in the backward flight. Following the
events of the rare June sabbath, the summer days soon sped away,
bringing the time when Edward was to enter upon the first stage of the
career which awaited his youthful aspirations. As the time for him to
leave home drew near, he and his mother both began to realize how much
the separation meant for them.
“’Tis the pang alone to part
From those we love, that rends the heart.”
Edward never had spent more than a single night away before, and now,
to leave the quiet peaceful haven of home, launch his bark and put
forth into unknown waters, was a severe trial. When the coach arrived
that was to bear him away, as his light belongings were being hoisted
upon the rack, his mother clasped him in her arms, and gave him her
benediction. The struggle was severe, but brief. The pathos of the
scene caused even the sturdy driver to brush aside a tear, but as
Edward stepped into the stage, he uttered a few brave words of cheer,
threw a kiss to his mother, and then with a crack of the whip the coach
rolled away.
The first few weeks of school life seemed to him like so many months.
It did not require the full and tender letters which twice a week came
from his mother, to bring up visions of her and of his home-life,
which were now left behind. When severe attacks of home-sickness came
on, he realized that occupation was the best antidote, and vigorously
plunged into his studies. A slight insight into Edward’s school life
may be afforded by the quotation, verbatim, of two or three of the many
letters sent to his mother.
One received two months after he left home was as follows:
CHESTER ACADEMY, November --, 187-.
DEAR MOTHER,--Your good letter came yesterday. I was so glad to hear
from you and I carry each of your letters in my pocket till the next
one comes, so that I can read it over many times. It seems a year
since I left you gazing at the old stage coach, which carried me
away. I have kept count, and this is the sixteenth letter which I
have sent you. I have got pretty well acquainted with most all the
boys. The principal is very kind to me, but among the three teachers
that hear my lessons I like Miss Bailey the best. I have not got a
single mark yet for being late at prayers since I came. They come
at nine o’clock in the morning, but perhaps I have told you of
that before. Miss Bailey says she thinks that I am doing well in
Latin, and splendidly in Arithmetic. My lessons are all through by
three o’clock, and we have from that time to five, for baseball and
croquet. There is only one fellow here that can beat me at croquet,
Jim Brown. I like my boarding-place better than I did at first, but
their pies can’t come up to yours nor their doughnuts either. Dear
mother, I think over all your good advice every day, and try to keep
it. I am learning to sing, with all the other things, and Prof.
Meldrum says that my voice is very good. I do not forget to read my
chapter every day, nor to say my prayers every morning and night.
Flora, the boarding-house keeper’s little girl, that I have spoken of
before, is very kind to me, and I think she is real nice. I think my
room-mate, George Williams, is about as nice a fellow as I ever knew,
only he is a little quick-tempered. Dear mother, I am counting the
days to when my first vacation will come, and I shall see you again.
But it is getting late, and I must study my history lesson to-night.
Dear mother, good-night and give a good smack from me to Henry, Susy,
and little Ella.
From your loving son,
EDWARD.
The following, taken at random from a large pile of letters, was
written three and a half years later:
CHESTER ACADEMY, May --, 187-.
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I have had so much extra work this week, in getting
ready for my final examinations, that you will receive this letter
a day or two later than usual. My last term here will soon be at
an end, and while I am anticipating much pleasure in being at home
during the summer vacation, I shall leave here with many regrets.
Our graduating class numbers sixteen, and nine, besides myself, will
enter old Dartmouth next fall. This will make it very pleasant for
me, for, with one exception, they are all very nice fellows. I have
a piece of news for you. The principal has just informed me that I
have been appointed Salutatorian, for the closing exhibition. It
makes me “shake in my boots” a little to think of it, for all the
leading people of the town always attend our graduation exercises.
Flora says that she hopes that I will not break down. I always was a
little timid, you know, but it will be so long before I get into my
own pulpit, that I think I will be bravely over it before that time.
I must begin on my salutatory oration very soon, and I shall take
much pains with it, especially since you are going to be present.
William Tapley, our valedictorian, is a splendid orator, but in other
departments my reports, on an average, are slightly better than his.
He never has any trouble with his hands when he speaks. Some of our
class had a little spree the other night, and among other antics,
they unhung several of the villagers’ front gates. I did not join the
party, though strongly urged to do so. I have every assurance from
my teachers that I shall be well prepared for the regular college
course, and I begin to think how it will seem to be a freshman within
the “classic shades” of Dartmouth. In our croquet tournament of
last week, I came out the champion; and in baseball and rowing I am
well up in the list. Our religious society in the Academy is in a
flourishing condition, and I have taken considerable interest in its
meetings, and occasionally conducted them. In giving you these items
regarding my success, I trust that my motive is not mere personal
pride, but I have related them because I know they will gratify you.
I often feel, that in a deep sense, I am your representative; and not
only that, but that your encouragement and inspiration, more than all
other things put together, have contributed to my advancement. I have
made arrangements at our boarding-house for a good place for you,
which will be all ready upon your arrival.
With love to the dear brother and sisters,
I am, ever your dutiful son,
EDWARD.
A little more than four years later we pause long enough to glance at a
single letter.
DARTMOUTH COLLEGE, June --, 188-.
MY DEAR MOTHER,--I very much regret that you are unable to come
and be with me during my last days at Dartmouth, as we both had
anticipated. I am glad, however, to learn, by yours of the 24th,
that you are much improved, and that in all probability your health
will shortly be restored. As I expect so soon to be with you, I
now will give only a few items regarding our graduating exercises;
reserving details, until I see you. You will notice by a copy of
the college periodical which I have just sent you, that I received
the prize for General Progress (made during the college course)
and also, Honorable Mention in Philosophy, Latin and Greek. I was
appointed to make the “Campus address” on class day, and it was well
received. Quite to my surprise, the judges of prize speaking awarded
to me the second prize, William Tapley easily winning the first. The
subject of my address was Compulsory Morality, its thesis being the
proposition: that a small amount of voluntary well-doing is worth
infinitely more than all the compulsory morality which legislation
can effect. I shall take pleasure in reading it to you when I get
home. I hope that my religious life has been gradually developed,
during my college life, and I have had special help from two of the
professors, who, knowing my interest in theology, and my future
plans, have kindly aided me. The special lines of study which I have
most enjoyed, are Paley’s Evidences; Butler’s Analogy; Latin and
Greek; and Moral Philosophy. I have invited William Tapley to spend
a week with us, some time in July. I did not think it necessary to
write you in regard to it, for I know that you are always glad to see
my friends, and he is one of my intimates. I have taken considerable
interest in athletic sports recently, and have good solid muscle,
and sound health. I know that it will please you to be assured that
my temperance principles remain unimpaired, and also, that when the
class “farewell pipe” was smoked, my whiffs were, from necessity,
very few. A majority of our class are religious men, and two others
besides Tapley and myself expect to prepare for the ministry, at
Andover. Our baccalaureate sermon was excellent, and must have had
an inspiring influence upon every one who heard it. The text was,
“The field is the world.” In the light of its masterly exposition,
I am considering whether it may not lie in the line of my duty, at
the proper time, to offer my services as a missionary, in some part
of the foreign field. We will talk it all over when I get home. I
expect to get my matters all closed up here, so as to come to you on
Tuesday. “Old Dartmouth,” my Alma Mater, will always be dear to me.
Regards to Mr. Johnson, and love to Henry, Susy, and Ella.
Dutifully yours,
EDWARD.