Were any of you born in New England, in the good old catechising,
church-going, school-going, orderly times? If so, you may have
seen my Uncle Abel; the most perpendicular, rectangular, upright,
downright good man that ever labored six days and rested on the
seventh.
You remember his hard, weather-beaten countenance, where every line
seemed drawn with "a pen of iron and the point of a diamond;" his
considerate gray eyes, that moved over objects as if it were not
best to be in a hurry about seeing; the circumspect opening and
shutting of the mouth; his down-sitting and up-rising, all performed
with conviction aforethought--in short, the whole ordering of his
life and conversation, which was, according to the tenor of the
military order, "to the right about face--forward, march!"
Now, if you supposed, from all this triangularism of exterior, that
this good man had nothing kindly within, you were much mistaken.
You often find the greenest grass under a snowdrift; and though my
uncle's mind was not exactly of the flower garden kind, still there
was an abundance of wholesome and kindly vegetation there.
It is true, he seldom laughed, and never joked himself; but no man
had a more serious and weighty conviction of what a good joke was
in another; and when some exceeding witticism was dispensed in his
presence, you might see Uncle Abel's face slowly relax into an
expression of solemn satisfaction, and he would look at the author
with a sort of quiet wonder, as if it was past his comprehension how
such a thing could ever come into a man's head.
Uncle Abel, too, had some relish for the fine arts; in proof of
which, I might adduce the pleasure with which he gazed at the plates
in his family Bible, the likeness whereof is neither in heaven,
nor on earth, nor under the earth. And he was also such an eminent
musician, that he could go through the singing-book at one sitting
without the least fatigue, beating time like a windmill all the way.
He had, too, a liberal hand, though his liberality was all by the
rule of three. He did by his neighbor exactly as he would be done
by. He loved some things in this world very sincerely; he loved his
God much, but he honored and feared him more. He was exact with
others; he was more exact with himself, and he expected his God to
be more exact still.
Everything in Uncle Abel's house was in the same time, place,
manner, and form, from year's end to year's end. There was old
Master Bose, a dog after my uncle's own heart, who always walked
as if he was studying the multiplication table. There was the old
clock, forever ticking in the kitchen corner, with a picture on
its face of the sun, forever setting behind a perpendicular row of
poplar-trees. There was the never failing supply of red peppers
and onions hanging over the chimney. There, too, were the yearly
hollyhocks and morning-glories blooming about the windows. There
was the "best room," with its sanded floor, the cupboard in one
corner with its glass doors, the ever green asparagus bushes in
the chimney, and there was the stand with the Bible and almanac
on it in another corner. There, too, was Aunt Betsey, who never
looked any older, because she always looked as old as she could;
who always dried her catnip and wormwood the last of September, and
began to clean house the first of May. In short, this was the land
of continuance. Old Time never took it into his head to practice
either addition, or subtraction, or multiplication on its sum total.
This Aunt Betsey aforenamed was the neatest and most efficient piece
of human machinery that ever operated in forty places at once. She
was always everywhere, predominating over and seeing to everything;
and though my uncle had been twice married, Aunt Betsey's rule and
authority had never been broken. She reigned over his wives when
living, and reigned after them when dead, and so seemed likely to
reign on to the end of the chapter. But my uncle's latest wife
left Aunt Betsey a much less tractable subject than ever before
had fallen to her lot. Little Edward was the child of my uncle's
old age, and a brighter, merrier little blossom never grew on the
verge of an avalanche. He had been committed to the nursing of his
grandmamma till he had arrived at the age of _in_discretion, and
then my old uncle's heart so yearned for him that he was sent for to
come home.
His introduction into the family excited a terrible sensation.
Never was there such a contemner of dignities, such a violator of
high places and sanctities, as this very Master Edward. It was all
in vain to try to teach him decorum. He was the most outrageously
merry elf that ever shook a head of curls, and it was all the same
to him whether it was "Sabba' day" or any other day. He laughed
and frolicked with everybody and everything that came in his way,
not even excepting his solemn old father; and when you saw him,
with his fair arms around the old man's neck, and his bright blue
eyes and blooming cheek peering out beside the bleak face of Uncle
Abel, you might fancy you saw spring caressing winter. Uncle Abel's
metaphysics were sorely puzzled by this sparkling, dancing compound
of spirit and matter; nor could he devise any method of bringing it
into any reasonable shape, for he did mischief with an energy and
perseverance that was truly astonishing. Once he scoured the floor
with Aunt Betsey's very Scotch snuff; once he washed up the hearth
with Uncle Abel's most immaculate clothes-brush; and once he was
found trying to make Bose wear his father's spectacles. In short,
there was no use, except the right one, to which he did not put
everything that came in his way.
But Uncle Abel was most of all puzzled to know what to do with
him on the Sabbath, for on that day Master Edward seemed to exert
himself to be particularly diligent and entertaining.
"Edward! Edward must not play Sunday!" his father would call out;
and then Edward would hold up his curly head, and look as grave as
the Catechism; but in three minutes you would see "pussy" scampering
through the "best room," with Edward at her heels, to the entire
discomposure of all devotion in Aunt Betsey and all others in
authority.
At length my uncle came to the conclusion that "it wasn't in natur'
to teach him any better," and that "he could no more keep Sunday
than the brook down in the lot." My poor uncle! he did not know
what was the matter with his heart, but certain it was, he lost all
faculty of scolding when little Edward was in the case, and he would
rub his spectacles a quarter of an hour longer than common when Aunt
Betsey was detailing his witticisms and clever doings.
In process of time our hero had compassed his third year and arrived
at the dignity of going to school. He went illustriously through the
spelling-book, and then attacked the Catechism; went from "man's
chief end" to the "requirin's and forbiddin's" in a fortnight, and
at last came home inordinately merry, to tell his father that he had
got to "Amen." After this, he made a regular business of saying over
the whole every Sunday evening, standing with his hands folded in
front and his checked apron folded down, occasionally glancing round
to see if pussy gave proper attention. And, being of a practically
benevolent turn of mind, he made several commendable efforts to
teach Bose the Catechism, in which he succeeded as well as might be
expected. In short, without further detail, Master Edward bade fair
to become a literary wonder.
But alas for poor little Edward! his merry dance was soon over. A
day came when he sickened. Aunt Betsey tried her whole herbarium,
but in vain: he grew rapidly worse and worse. His father sickened
in heart, but said nothing; he only stayed by his bedside day and
night, trying all means to save, with affecting pertinacity.
"Can't you think of anything more, doctor?" said he to the
physician, when all had been tried in vain.
"Nothing," answered the physician.
A momentary convulsion passed over my uncle's face. "The will of the
Lord be done," said he, almost with a groan of anguish.
Just at that moment a ray of the setting sun pierced the checked
curtains, and gleamed like an angel's smile across the face of the
little sufferer. He woke from troubled sleep.
"Oh, dear! I am so sick!" he gasped feebly. His father raised him in
his arms; he breathed easier, and looked up with a grateful smile.
Just then his old playmate, the cat, crossed the room. "There goes
pussy," said he; "oh, dear! I shall never play any more!"
At that moment a deadly change passed over his face. He looked up
in his father's face with an imploring expression, and put out his
hand as if for help. There was one moment of agony, and then the
sweet features all settled into a smile of peace, and "mortality was
swallowed up of life."
My uncle laid him down, and looked one moment at his beautiful
face. It was too much for his principles, too much for his
consistency, and "he lifted up his voice and wept."
The next morning was the Sabbath,--the funeral day,--and it rose
with "breath all incense and with cheek all bloom." Uncle Abel
was as calm and collected as ever; but in his face there was a
sorrow-stricken appearance touching to behold. I remember him at
family prayers, as he bent over the great Bible and began the psalm,
"Lord, thou hast been our dwelling-place in all generations."
Apparently he was touched by the melancholy splendor of the poetry,
for after reading a few verses he stopped. There was a dead silence,
interrupted only by the tick of the clock. He cleared his voice
repeatedly, and tried to go on, but in vain. He closed the book,
and kneeled down to prayer. The energy of sorrow broke through his
usual formal reverence, and his language flowed forth with a deep
and sorrowful pathos which I shall never forget. The God so much
reverenced, so much feared, seemed to draw near to him as a friend
and comforter, his refuge and strength, "a very present help in time
of trouble."
My uncle rose, and I saw him walk to the room of the departed one.
He uncovered the face. It was set with the seal of death; but oh,
how surpassingly lovely! The brilliancy of life was gone, but that
pure, transparent face was touched with a mysterious, triumphant
brightness, which seemed like the dawning of heaven.
My uncle looked long and earnestly. He felt the beauty of what
he gazed on; his heart was softened, but he had no words for his
feelings. He left the room unconsciously, and stood in the front
door. The morning was bright, the bells were ringing for church, the
birds were singing merrily, and the pet squirrel of little Edward
was frolicking about the door. My uncle watched him as he ran first
up one tree, and then down and up another, and then over the fence,
whisking his brush and chattering just as if nothing was the matter.
With a deep sigh Uncle Abel broke forth, "How happy that cretur' is!
Well, the Lord's will be done."
That day the dust was committed to dust, amid the lamentations of
all who had known little Edward. Years have passed since then, and
all that is mortal of my uncle has long since been gathered to his
fathers; but his just and upright spirit has entered the glorious
liberty of the sons of God. Yes, the good man may have had opinions
which the philosophical scorn, weaknesses at which the thoughtless
smile; but death shall change him into all that is enlightened,
wise, and refined, for he shall awake in "His" likeness, and "be
satisfied."