meeting them half way." But I think my friend Mrs. Talbot had never
chanced to hear this saying, old as it is; for she was extremely prone
at all times to look only upon the dark side, and this habit was a
source of much trouble to herself as well as her family. Mr. Talbot
might properly have been called a well-to-do farmer. They were
surrounded by an intelligent and interesting family; and a stranger, in
taking a passing view of their home and its surroundings, would have
been strongly inclined to think that happiness and contentment might be
found beneath their roof; but a short sojourn in the dwelling alluded to
would certainly have dispelled the illusion. This Mrs. Talbot was
possessed of a most unhappy disposition. She seemed to entertain the
idea that the whole world was in league to render her miserable. It has
often struck me with surprise, that a person surrounded with so much to
render life happy should indulge in so discontented and repining a
temper as did Mrs. Talbot. She was famous for dwelling at length upon
her trials, as often as she could obtain a listener; and when I first
became acquainted with her I really regarded her with a feeling of pity;
but after a time I mentally decided that the greater part of her
grievances existed only in her own imagination. She spent a large
portion of her time in deploring the sins of the whole world in general,
and of her own family and immediate neighbors in particular; while she
looked upon herself as having almost, if not quite, attained to
perfection.
I recollect calling one day upon Mr. Talbot; he was of a very social
disposition, and we engaged for a short time in a lively conversation.
Mrs. Talbot was present, and, strange to tell, once actually laughed at
some amusing remark made by her husband. He soon after left the room,
and her countenance resumed its usual doleful expression as she
addressed me, saying, "I wish I could have any hopes of Mr. Talbot; but
I am afraid the last state of that man will be worse than the first." I
questioned her as to her meaning; and she went on to tell me that her
husband had once made a profession of religion; but she feared he was
then in a "backslidden state," as she termed it. I know not how this
matter might have been; but during my acquaintance with Mr. Talbot I
never observed any thing in his conduct which to me seemed inconsistent
with a profession of religion. He certainly excelled his wife in one
thing, and that was christian charity; for he was seldom if ever heard
to speak of the shortcomings of others. It is quite possible that he
thought his wife said enough upon the subject to suffice for both. Mrs.
Talbot made a point of visiting her neighbors, if she chanced to hear of
their meeting with any trouble or misfortune. The reason she gave for so
doing was that she might sympathize with them; and if sickness invaded a
household Mrs. Talbot was sure to be there; but I used often to think
that her friends must look upon her as one of "Job's comforters," for no
sickness was so severe, no misfortune so great, that she did not
prophesy something worse still. According to her own ideas she was often
favored with warnings of sickness and misfortune both to her own family
and others. She was also a famous believer in dreams; and often
entertained her friends at the breakfast table by relating her dreams of
the previous night. I remember meeting with her upon one occasion, when
it struck me that her countenance wore a look of unusual solemnity, even
for her, so much so, that I enquired the cause, "Ah!" said she, "we are
to have sickness, perhaps death, in our family very soon; for only last
night I dreamed I saw a white horse coming toward our house upon the
full gallop; and to dream of a white horse is a sure sign of sickness,
and the faster the horse seems in our dream to be approaching us the
sooner the sickness will come." Her husband often remonstrated with her
upon the folly of indulging in these idle fancies. I remember a reply
he once made to some of her gloomy forebodings "I think the best way is
for each one to discharge their duty in the different relations of life;
and leave the future in the hands of an All-wise Providence." "That is
always the way with you," was her reply. "You have grown heedless and
careless with your love of the world; but you will perhaps think of my
warnings when too late." Before meeting with Mrs. Talbot I had often
heard the remark that none were so cheerful as the true Christian; but I
soon saw that her views must be widely different. A hearty laugh she
seemed to regard as almost a crime. A cheerful laugh upon any occasion
would cause her to shake her head in a rueful manner, and denounce it as
untimely mirth. Upon one occasion she went to hear a preacher that had
lately arrived in the neighboring village. This same preacher was
remarkable for drawing dismal pictures, and was very severe in his
denunciations, while he quite forgot to offer a word of encouragement to
the humble seeker after good. Upon the Sabbath in question Mrs. Talbot
returned from church, and seated herself at the dinner table with a
countenance of moot woeful solemnity. Her husband at length enquired,
how she had enjoyed the sermon. "O!" replied she, "he is a preacher
after my own heart, and his sermon explained all my views clearly."
"Indeed," replied Mr. Talbot, "he must have a wonderful flow of
language to have handled so extensive a subject, in the usual time
allotted to a sermon." His answer displeased her very much. Among her
other gloomy forebodings she always seemed sure of the fact that Mr.
Talbot would survive her; and she replied: "That is always the way. You
make light of every thing I say; and I only hope you won't have all
these things to repent of when I shall be no more." Mr. Talbot seemed
sorry he had wounded her feelings, and replied: "We shall both live our
appointed time, and it is not for us to decide which of us will be first
removed." The last time I saw Mrs. Talbot she was indulging in her
anticipation of some coming calamity. I have learned from various
sources, that since I last saw her she has met _real_ afflictions of a
very trying nature, even to the most hopeful; and it may be that the
presence of real troubles have put to flight many which were only
imaginary; and she may by this time have learned to be thankful for
whatever of blessings may yet be left her in her path through life.
EDWARD BARTON.
My schoolmate Edward Barton, or 'Ned,' as he was usually called by the
boys, was such an odd character in his way, that I trust my readers will
pardon me for introducing him to their notice. His father was a
physician in a distant village, and was justly esteemed among the
residents of the place. He had an extensive practice both in the village
and surrounding country, and his time was very much occupied; and as Ned
grew up he proved a source of constant anxiety to his father, who, being
unable to keep him under his own eye, at length decided to send him to
reside with some relatives in a farming district some twenty miles from
his home. Ned's disposition was a singular compound of good and evil,
and his conduct depended, in a great measure, upon the companions he
associated with. He was easily persuaded, and often during his father's
frequent and lengthened absences from home he played truant from school,
and associated with the worst boys in the village. I well remember the
morning he first entered our school. He was then about twelve years of
age; but owing to his carelessness and inattention, he had made but
slight progress in study. I learned afterward that he had so long borne
the names of "dunce" and "blockhead" in the school he attended in his
own village that he supposed himself to be really such, and made up his
mind that it was useless for him to try to be anything else: and I think
when our teacher first called him up for examination he was inclined to
be of the same opinion. The teacher first addressed him by saying, "How
far have you advanced in reading, my boy?" "Don't know, sir, never
thought any thing about how far I've been." "Well, at least," replied
the master, "you can tell me the names of the books you have studied, in
reading and spelling." "Oh, yes," replied the boy. "I've been clean
through 'Webster's Elementary and the Progressive Reader.'" "Can you
tell me the subject of any of your lessons?" "I can just remember one
story, about a dog that was crossing a river on a plank with a piece of
meat in his mouth, and when he saw his shadder in the water, made a
spring at it, and dropped the meat which he held in his mouth, and it
was at once carried away by the current." "Well," said the teacher, "as
you remember the story so well, you can perhaps tell me what lesson we
can learn from this fable." "I thought," replied the boy, "when I read
the story, that the best way is to hold on to what we are sure of, and
not grab after a shadder and lose the whole." "Your idea is certainly a
correct one," said the master, "and now we will turn to some other
branch of study; can you cipher?" "Don't know, I never tried," replied
the boy, with the greatest coolness imaginable. "Well," replied the
teacher, "we will, after a time, see how you succeed, when you _do_ try.
Can you tell me what the study of Geography teaches us?" "O," said the
boy, "geography tells all about the world, the folks who live in it, and
'most everything else." The master then asked him some questions
regarding the divisions of land and water, and for a short time he
answered with some degree of correctness. At length, while referring to
the divisions of water, the master said, "Can you tell me what is a
strait?" This question seemed a "puzzler" to him, and for some moments
he looked downward as if studying the matter; when the question was
repeated in rather a sharp tone, it seemed he thought it wiser to give
an answer of some kind than none at all, and he replied: "When a river
runs in a straight course, we call it straight, and when it twists and
winds about, we call it crooked." "A river is not a strait," replied the
teacher with the manner of one who prayed for patience. "Well! at any
rate," said the boy, "straight is straight, and crooked is crooked, and
that is all I know about it." It was evident from the teacher's manner
that he was half inclined to think the boy was endeavoring to impose
upon him by feigning ignorance; and he dismissed him to his seat for
the time being, thinking, no doubt, that he had met with a case out of
the common order of school experience. It seems that the boy had never
before attended school with punctuality, and it required a long time, to
teach him to observe anything like system, either in his conduct or
studies. Our teacher, though very firm, was mild and judicious in his
government; and, thinking that possibly Ned's disposition had been
injured by former harshness at school, resolved to avoid inflicting
corporal punishment as long as possible; and try upon him the effect of
kindness and mild persuasion. He had one very annoying habit, and that
was he would very seldom give a satisfactory answer if suddenly asked a
direct question, and often his reply would be very absurd, sometimes
bordering on downright impudence. The master noticed one afternoon,
after calling the boys from their play at recess, that Ned had not
entered the school-room with the others. Stepping to the door, he found
him seated very composedly in the yard, working busily upon a toy he was
fashioning with a knife from a piece of wood. "Why do you remain
outside, Edward, after the other boys are called in?" said the master.
"Cos I did'nt come in, sir," replied Ned, without looking up, or even
pausing in his employment This was too much for the patience of any one;
and seizing him by the arm the master drew him into a small room which
adjoined the school-room; and bestowed upon him, what Ned afterward
confidentially informed us, was "a regular old-fashioned thrashing." I
was not aware till then that the style of using the rod was liable to
change, but it would seem that Ned thought otherwise; and if his screams
upon this occasion were taken as proof in the matter, I should be
inclined to think the old-fashioned method very effective. The whipping
which Ned received created quite a sensation among us boys, for it was
not often that Mr. S. used the rod; We began to have our fears that as
he had got his "hand in," more of us might share the fate of poor Ned.
In a very serious conversation which we held upon the matter, on our way
home that evening, some of us asked Ned why he screamed so loud. "I
thought," said he, "if I hollered pretty well, he would think he'd
licked me enough and stop; but I don't see what great harm I did any
way. He asked why I stayed out; and I said, cos I did't go in, and I am
sure I could'nt give a better reason than that." Time passed on, and by
degrees Ned dropped many of his odd ways; and began to make tolerable
progress in study; but still much patience and forbearance was necessary
on the part of the teacher. He had the same habit of frequently giving
absurd answers in his class, as well as upon other occasions; but after
a time his stupid answers were much less frequent, and Mr. S. began to
indulge the hope that he would soon overcome the habit entirely. When
he had attended school for about six months, as was the custom two or
three times a year, we passed under what to the school boys was an
"awful review" in presence of those awe-inspiring personages, termed in
those days the school-trustees, and any other friends of the school, who
might chance to be present. We all, even to the teacher, had our fears
lest Ned (who had not yet entirely discontinued the practice) should
give some of his comical answers when questioned by our visitors; but
the day came, and with it the school-trustees and a number of other
friends. The classes were first examined in reading and spelling; and
Ned acquitted himself much better than we had dared to hope; and we
began to think he might pass the afternoon without making any serious
blunder. After the reading and spelling lessons, the class was summoned
for examination in Geography. Elated by his success in reading and
spelling, Ned took his place with a pompous consequential manner, as if
expecting to win countless laurels for his proficiency. He got along
very well till some one put the question, "What may the Island of
Australia properly be called on account of its vast size?" "One of the
Pyramids," answered Ned, in a loud confident voice. The gentleman who
was questioning us looked astounded, and there fell an awkward silence,
which only was broken by the half-smothered laughter of the others in
the class. The teacher, wishing to get over the matter in some way, at
length said, "I am surprised, Edward, that you should give so senseless
an answer to so simple a question." Now, one very striking peculiarity
in Ned's character was his unwillingness to acknowledge himself in the
wrong, however ridiculous his answer might be; and he was disposed to
argue his point upon this occasion. "Any way," said he, "the Pyramids
are large, and so is Australia; and I thought it might sometimes be
called a pyramid for convenience of description." The idea of Ned
entering into an argument with the trustees of the school struck the
rest of the boys as so extremely ludicrous, that our long pent-up mirth
found vent in a burst of laughter through the whole class, and no one
present had the heart to chide us; for it was with intense difficulty
that the elderly gentlemen maintained their own gravity. The teacher was
obliged to exercise his authority before Ned could be silenced; and the
remaining part of the examination proved rather a failure. I know not
how it happened, but from that day there was a marked improvement in
Edward Barton, in every respect. He attended the school for two years;
and when he left us it was to accompany his parents to one of the far
Western States. His father had relatives residing in the west, and had
received from them such glowing accounts of the country, that he decided
upon removing thither. Any one who saw Ned when he left us would almost
have failed to recognize him as the same boy who entered the school two
years previous. Mr. S. was his friend as well as his teacher; and during
the second year of his stay took a deep interest in him; he had
thoroughly studied his disposition, and learned to bear with his faults,
and under his judicious management Ned began really to make good
progress in study. We had all become attached to him, and were all sorry
when he left us. He was much elated with the prospect of his journey to
the West; and talked much of the wonders he expected to behold on his
way thither. He came one day at the noon-hour to collect his books and
bid us good-bye, his father having come to take him home for a short
time before setting out on their journey. The boys were all on the
play-ground when he entered the school-room to bid his teacher good-bye.
When he came out he looked very sober, and there was a suspicious
moisture in his eyes which very much resembled tears. Instead of the
usual noisy mirth on the play-ground there was almost complete silence,
while Ned shook hands with us one by one, saying, "he would tell us all
the wonders of the Western World when he came back." Years have rolled
by with their various changes since that day; he has never yet returned;
and I have only heard from him two or three times during the time. My
last tidings were, that he was married and settled down to a life of
industry upon a fine farm, in his western home; but I sometimes, when I
think of him, even yet wonder, if he has learned the difference between
the "Pyramids of Egypt" and the "Island Continent of Australia."
THE WEARY AT REST.
The weary at rest. This idea was very strongly impressed upon my mind
by a funeral which I once attended in the distant village of C. It was
that of a very aged woman, whom I had often heard mentioned as one who
had been subjected for many years to bodily suffering in no ordinary
degree. I had never seen her, but was acquainted with many who visited
her frequently; and I became interested from hearing her so often spoken
of as a bright example of patience and resignation under affliction; and
I was accustomed to enquire for her as often as I had opportunity. Owing
to a rheumatic affection of her limbs, she had, as I was informed, been
unable, for several years, to rise from her bed without assistance, and
much of the time experienced severe pain. I was informed by her friends
that through her protracted period of suffering she was never heard to
utter a complaining or repining word, but was found daily in a calm,
even cheerful frame of mind. After a time I left the village and
returned to my home. Returning thither to visit some relatives after the
lapse of a few months, I met with a friend, soon after my arrival, who
informed me of the death of old Mrs. H., which had taken place the day
previous. Two days later I joined the large numbers who assembled to pay
their last tribute of respect to one of the oldest residents of their
village. As is usual upon funeral occasions, the coffin was placed in
front of the pulpit, and a large number occupied the front pews which
were appropriated to the friends of the deceased. In those pews were
seated men in whose hair the silver threads were beginning to mingle,
and women who were themselves mothers of families, who all met around
the coffin of their aged mother. Childhood, youth and middle age was all
represented in that company of mourners. Their pastor, Mr. M., delivered
a very appropriate discourse from the words. "Blessed are the dead who
die in the Lord." In the course of his sermon he took occasion to
remark, that a funeral discourse should apply to the living--not the
dead. I had before listened to different sermons from this same text;
but I never listened to a more searching application of the words than
upon this occasion.
Near the close of his sermon, he said: "I presume many of you are aware
that I deem it unnecessary as well as unwise, on occasions of this kind,
for a minister to dwell at length, upon the life and character of the
deceased, for, as I have before said, our duty is with the living; but
upon the present occasion, I think I may with propriety say, that we see
before us the lifeless remains of one who has 'died in the Lord.' I
have been for many years acquainted with our aged sister now departed,
and have ever regarded her as an humble and earnest christian. I have
frequently visited her during her lengthened period of suffering; and
have felt deeply humbled for my own want of resignation to the ills of
life, when I observed the exemplary manner with which this aged woman
bore her sufferings, which at times were very severe; and more than
this, I stood by her dying bed, which I can truly say presented a
foretaste of heavenly triumph."
At the close of the service permission was given for any one who was
desirous of so doing to look upon the "corpse," and with many others I
drew nigh the coffin. I had been told that the habitual expression of
her countenance was one of pain, and I was surprised by the calm and
peaceful expression which rested upon the face of the dead. There was no
sign of past suffering visible; and the idea of perfect rest was
conveyed to my mind, as I gazed upon her now lifeless features. When the
strangers had all retired the relatives and near friends drew nigh to
take their last sad look of the aged one who in life had been so dear to
them. It seemed that her age and utter helplessness had all the more
endeared her to her children and other friends; and many of them wept
audibly as they retired from the coffin. As the coffin was borne from
the church, the choir sung in subdued tones, accompanied by the solemn
notes of the organ, the beautiful hymn commencing with the lines.
"Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;
The Saviour hath passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom."
When the long procession reached the church yard, the coffin was lowered
to its final resting place, and the Burial Service was read by their
pastor, and most of the company departed to their homes. I know not how
it was, but, although a stranger to the deceased, I was among the few
who lingered till the grave was filled up. That funeral impressed me
deeply; and has often since recurred to my mind, amid the cares and
turmoil of after life.
THE RAINY AFTERNOON.