"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 O, 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."
AUNT MARY.
Since sketching character is the mode, I too take up my pencil, not to
make you laugh, though peradventure it may be--to get you to sleep.
I am now a tolerably old gentleman--an old bachelor, moreover--and, what
is more to the point, an unpretending and sober-minded one. Lest,
however, any of the ladies should take exceptions against me in the very
outset, I will merely remark, _en passant_, that a man can sometimes
become an old bachelor because he has _too much_ heart as well as too
little.
Years ago--before any of my readers were born--I was a little
good-for-nought of a boy, of precisely that unlucky kind who are always
in every body's way, and always in mischief. I had, to watch over my
uprearing, a father and mother, and a whole army of older brothers and
sisters. My relatives bore a very great resemblance to other human
beings, neither good angels nor the opposite class, but, as
mathematicians say, "in the mean proportion."
As I have before insinuated, I was a sort of family scape-grace among
them, and one on whose head all the domestic trespasses were regularly
visited, either by real, actual desert or by imputation.
For this order of things, there was, I confess, a very solid and serious
foundation, in the constitution of my mind. Whether I was born under
some cross-eyed planet, or whether I was fairy-smitten in my cradle,
certain it is that I was, from the dawn of existence, a sort of "Murad
the Unlucky;" an out-of-time, out-of-place, out-of-form sort of a boy,
with whom nothing prospered.
Who always left open doors in cold weather? It was Henry. Who was sure
to upset his coffee cup at breakfast, or to knock over his tumbler at
dinner, or to prostrate saltcellar, pepper box, and mustard pot, if he
only happened to move his arm? Why, Henry. Who was plate breaker general
for the family? It was Henry. Who tangled mamma's silks and cottons, and
tore up the last newspaper for papa, or threw down old Ph[oe]be's
clothes horse, with all her clean ironing thereupon? Why, Henry.
Now all this was no "malice prepense" in me, for I solemnly believe that
I was the best-natured boy in the world; but something was the matter
with the attraction of cohesion, or the attraction of gravitation--with
the general dispensation of matter around me--that, let me do what I
would, things would fall down, and break, or be torn and damaged, if I
only came near them; and my unluckiness in any matter seemed in exact
proportion to my carefulness.
If any body in the room with me had a headache, or any kind of nervous
irritability, which made it particularly necessary for others to be
quiet, and if I was in an especial desire unto the same, I was sure,
while stepping around on tiptoe, to fall headlong over a chair, which
would give an introductory push to the shovel, which would fall upon the
tongs, which would animate the poker, and all together would set in
action two or three sticks of wood, and down they would come together,
with just that hearty, sociable sort of racket, which showed that they
were disposed to make as much of the opportunity as possible.
In the same manner, every thing that came into my hand, or was at all
connected with me, was sure to lose by it. If I rejoiced in a clean
apron in the morning, I was sure to make a full-length prostration
thereupon on my way to school, and come home nothing better, but rather
worse. If I was sent on an errand, I was sure either to lose my money in
going, or my purchases in returning; and on these occasions my mother
would often comfort me with the reflection, that it was well that my
ears were fastened to my head, or I should lose them too. Of course, I
was a fair mark for the exhortatory powers, not only of my parents, but
of all my aunts, uncles, and cousins, to the third and fourth
generation, who ceased not to reprove, rebuke, and exhort with all
long-suffering and doctrine.
All this would have been very well if nature had not gifted me with a
very unnecessary and uncomfortable capacity of _feeling_, which, like a
refined ear for music, is undesirable, because, in this world, one meets
with discord ninety-nine times where it meets with harmony once. Much,
therefore, as I furnished occasion to be scolded at, I never became
_used_ to scolding, so that I was just as much galled by it the
_forty_-first time as the first. There was no such thing as philosophy
in me: I had just that unreasonable heart which is not conformed unto
the nature of things, neither indeed _can_ be. I was timid, and
shrinking, and proud; I was nothing to any one around me but an awkward,
unlucky boy; nothing to my parents but one of half a dozen children,
whose faces were to be washed and stockings mended on Saturday
afternoon. If I was very sick, I had medicine and the doctor; if I was a
little sick, I was exhorted unto patience; and if I was sick at heart, I
was left to prescribe for myself.
Now, all this was very well: what should a child need but meat, and
drink, and room to play, and a school to teach him reading and writing,
and somebody to take care of him when sick? Certainly, nothing.
But the feelings of grown-up children exist in the mind of little ones
oftener than is supposed; and I had, even at this early day, the same
keen sense of all that touched the heart wrong; the same longing for
something which should touch it aright; the same discontent, with
latent, matter-of-course affection, and the same craving for sympathy,
which has been the unprofitable fashion of this world in all ages. And
no human being possessing such constitutionals has a better chance of
being made unhappy by them than the backward, uninteresting, wrong-doing
child. We can all sympathize, to some extent, with _men_ and _women_;
but how few can go back to the sympathies of childhood; can understand
the desolate insignificance of not being one of the _grown-up_ people;
of being sent to bed, to be _out of the way_ in the evening, and to
school, to be out of the way in the morning; of manifold similar
grievances and distresses, which the child has no elocution to set
forth, and the grown person no imagination to conceive.
When I was seven years old, I was told one morning, with considerable
domestic acclamation, that Aunt Mary was coming to make us a visit; and
so, when the carriage that brought her stopped at our door, I pulled off
my dirty apron, and ran in among the crowd of brothers and sisters to
see what was coming. I shall not describe her first appearance, for, as
I think of her, I begin to grow somewhat sentimental, in spite of my
spectacles, and might, perhaps, talk a little nonsense.
Perhaps every man, whether married or unmarried, who has lived to the
age of fifty or thereabouts, has seen some woman who, in his mind, is
_the_ woman, in distinction from all others. She may not have been a
relative; she may not have been a wife; she may simply have shone on him
from afar; she may be remembered in the distance of years as a star that
is set, as music that is hushed, as beauty and loveliness faded forever;
but _remembered_ she is with interest, with fervor, with enthusiasm;
with all that heart can feel, and more than words can tell.
To me there has been but one such, and that is she whom I describe. "Was
she beautiful?" you ask. I also will ask you one question: "If an angel
from heaven should dwell in human form, and animate any human face,
would not that face be lovely? It might not be _beautiful_, but would it
not be lovely?" She was not beautiful except after this fashion.
How well I remember her, as she used sometimes to sit thinking, with her
head resting on her hand, her face mild and placid, with a quiet October
sunshine in her blue eyes, and an ever-present smile over her whole
countenance. I remember the sudden sweetness of look when any one spoke
to her; the prompt attention, the quick comprehension of things before
you uttered them, the obliging readiness to leave for you whatever she
was doing.
To those who mistake occasional pensiveness for melancholy, it might
seem strange to say that my Aunt Mary was always happy. Yet she was so.
Her spirits never rose to buoyancy, and never sunk to despondency. I
know that it is an article in the sentimental confession of faith that
such a character cannot be interesting. For this impression there is
some ground. The placidity of a medium commonplace mind is
uninteresting, but the placidity of a strong and well-governed one
borders on the sublime. Mutability of emotion characterizes inferior
orders of being; but He who combines all interest, all excitement, all
perfection, is "the same yesterday, to-day, and forever." And if there
be any thing sublime in the idea of an almighty mind, in perfect peace
itself, and, therefore, at leisure to bestow all its energies on the
wants of others, there is at least a reflection of the same sublimity in
the character of that human being who has so quieted and governed the
world within, that nothing is left to absorb sympathy or distract
attention from those around.
Such a woman was my Aunt Mary. Her placidity was not so much the result
of temperament as of choice. She had every susceptibility of suffering
incident to the noblest and most delicate construction of mind; but they
had been so directed, that, instead of concentrating thought on self,
they had prepared her to understand and feel for others.
She was, beyond all things else, a sympathetic person, and her
character, like the green in a landscape, was less remarkable for what
it was in itself than for its perfect and beautiful harmony with all the
coloring and shading around it.
Other women have had talents, others have been good; but no woman that
ever I knew possessed goodness and talent in union with such an
intuitive perception of feelings, and such a faculty of instantaneous
adaptation to them. The most troublesome thing in this world is to be
condemned to the society of a person who can never understand any thing
you say unless you say the whole of it, making your commas and periods
as you go along; and the most desirable thing in the world is to live
with a person who saves you all the trouble of talking, by knowing just
what you mean before you begin to speak.
Something of this kind of talent I began to feel, to my great relief,
when Aunt Mary came into the family. I remember the very first evening,
as she sat by the hearth, surrounded by all the family, her eye glanced
on me with an expression that let me know she _saw_ me; and when the
clock struck eight, and my mother proclaimed that it was my bedtime, my
countenance fell as I moved sorrowfully from the back of her rocking
chair, and thought how many beautiful stories Aunt Mary would tell after
I was gone to bed. She turned towards me with such a look of real
understanding, such an evident insight into the case, that I went into
banishment with a lighter heart than ever I did before. How very
contrary is the obstinate estimate of the heart to the rational estimate
of worldly wisdom! Are there not some who can remember when one word,
one look, or even the withholding of a word, has drawn their heart more
to a person than all the substantial favors in the world? By ordinary
acceptation, substantial kindness respects the necessaries of animal
existence; while those wants which are peculiar to mind, and will exist
with it forever, by equally correct classification, are designated as
sentimental ones, the supply of which, though it will excite more
gratitude in fact, ought not to in theory. Before Aunt Mary had lived
with us a month, I loved her beyond any body in the world; and a
utilitarian would have been amused in ciphering out the amount of favors
which produced this result. It was a look--a word--a smile: it was that
she seemed pleased with my new kite; that she rejoiced with me when I
learned to spin a top; that she alone seemed to estimate my proficiency
in playing ball and marbles; that she never looked at all vexed when I
upset her workbox upon the floor; that she received all my awkward
gallantry and _mal-adroit_ helpfulness as if it had been in the best
taste in the world; that when she was sick, she insisted on letting me
wait on her, though I made my customary havoc among the pitchers and
tumblers of her room, and displayed, through my zeal to please, a more
than ordinary share of insufficiency for the station. She also was the
only person that ever I _conversed_ with, and I used to wonder how any
body who could talk all about matters and things with grown-up persons
could talk so sensibly about marbles, and hoops, and skates, and all
sorts of little-boy matters; and I will say, by the by, that the same
sort of speculation has often occurred to the minds of older people in
connection with her. She knew the value of varied information in making
a woman, not a pedant, but a sympathetic, companionable being; and such
she was to almost every class of mind.
She had, too, the faculty of drawing others up to her level in
conversation, so that I would often find myself going on in most
profound style while talking with her, and would wonder, when I was
through, whether I was really a little boy still.
When she had enlightened us many months, the time came for her to take
leave, and she besought my mother to give me to her for company. All the
family wondered what she could find to like in Henry; but if she did
like me, it was no matter, and so was the case disposed of.
From that time I _lived_ with her--and there are some persons who can
make the word _live_ signify much more than it commonly does--and she
wrought on my character all those miracles which benevolent genius can
work. She quieted my heart, directed my feelings, unfolded my mind, and
educated me, not harshly or by force, but as the blessed sunshine
educates the flower, into full and perfect life; and when all that was
mortal of her died to this world, her words and deeds of unutterable
love shed a twilight around her memory that will fade only in the
brightness of heaven.
FRANKNESS.
There is one kind of frankness, which is the result of perfect
unsuspiciousness, and which requires a measure of ignorance of the world
and of life: this kind appeals to our generosity and tenderness. There
is another, which is the frankness of a strong but pure mind, acquainted
with life, clear in its discrimination and upright in its intention, yet
above disguise or concealment: this kind excites respect. The first
seems to proceed simply from impulse, the second from impulse and
reflection united; the first proceeds, in a measure, from ignorance, the
second from knowledge; the first is born from an undoubting confidence
in others, the second from a virtuous and well-grounded reliance on
one's self.
Now, if you suppose that this is the beginning of a sermon or of a
fourth of July oration, you are very much mistaken, though, I must
confess, it hath rather an uncertain sound. I merely prefaced it to a
little sketch of character, which you may look at if you please, though
I am not sure you will like it.
It was said of Alice H. that she had the mind of a man, the heart of a
woman, and the face of an angel--a combination that all my readers will
think peculiarly happy.
There never was a woman who was so unlike the mass of society in her
modes of thinking and acting, yet so generally popular. But the most
remarkable thing about her was her proud superiority to all disguise, in
thought, word, and deed. She pleased you; for she spoke out a hundred
things that you would conceal, and spoke them with a dignified assurance
that made you wonder that you had ever hesitated to say them yourself.
Nor did this unreserve appear like the weakness of one who could not
conceal, or like a determination to make war on the forms of society. It
was rather a calm, well-guided integrity, regulated by a just sense of
propriety; knowing when to be silent, but speaking the truth when it
spoke at all.
Her extraordinary frankness often beguiled superficial observers into
supposing themselves fully acquainted with her long before they were so,
as the beautiful transparency of some lakes is said to deceive the eye
as to their depth; yet the longer you knew her, the more variety and
compass of character appeared through the same transparent medium. But
you may just visit Miss Alice for half an hour to-night, and judge for
yourselves. You may walk into this little parlor. There sits Miss Alice
on that sofa, sewing a pair of lace sleeves into a satin dress, in which
peculiarly angelic employment she may persevere till we have finished
another sketch.
Do you see that pretty little lady, with sparkling eyes, elastic form,
and beautiful hand and foot, sitting opposite to her? She is a belle:
the character is written in her face--it sparkles from her eye--it
dimples in her smile, and pervades the whole woman.
But there--Alice has risen, and is gone to the mirror, and is arranging
the finest auburn hair in the world in the most tasteful manner. The
little lady watches every motion as comically as a kitten watches a
pin-ball.
"It is all in vain to deny it, Alice--you are really anxious to _look
pretty_ this evening," said she.
"I certainly am," said Alice, quietly.
"Ay, and you hope you shall please Mr. A. and Mr. B.," said the little
accusing angel.
"Certainly I do," said Alice, as she twisted her fingers in a beautiful
curl.
"Well, I would not tell of it, Alice, if I did."
"Then you should not ask me," said Alice.
"I _declare_! Alice!"
"And what do you declare?"
"I never saw such a girl as you are!"
"Very likely," said Alice, stooping to pick up a pin.
"Well, for _my_ part," said the little lady, "I never would take any
pains to make any body like me--_particularly_ a gentleman."
"I would," said Alice, "if they would not like me without."
"Why, Alice! I should not think you were so fond of admiration."
"I like to be admired very much," said Alice, returning to the sofa,
"and I suppose every body else does."
"_I_ don't care about admiration," said the little lady. "I would be as
well satisfied that people shouldn't like me as that they should."
"Then, cousin, I think it's a pity we all like you so well," said Alice,
with a good-humored smile. If Miss Alice had penetration, she never made
a severe use of it.
"But really, cousin," said the little lady, "I should not think such a
girl as you would think any thing about dress, or admiration, and all
that."
"I don't know what sort of a girl you think I am," said Alice, "but, for
my own part, _I_ only pretend to be a common human being, and am not
ashamed of common human feelings. If God has made us so that we love
admiration, why should we not honestly say so. _I_ love it--_you_ love
it--every body loves it; and why should not every body say it?"
"Why, yes," said the little lady, "I suppose every body has a--has a--a
general love for admiration. I am willing to acknowledge that _I_ have;
but----"
"But you have no love for it in particular," said Alice, "I suppose you
mean to say; that is just the way the matter is commonly disposed of.
Every body is willing to acknowledge a general wish for the good opinion
of others, but half the world are ashamed to own it when it comes to a
particular case. Now I have made up my mind, that if it is correct in
general, it is correct in particular; and I mean to own it both ways."
"But, somehow, it seems mean," said the little lady.
"It is mean to live for it, to be selfishly engrossed in it, but not
mean to enjoy it when it comes, or even to seek it, if we neglect no
higher interest in doing so. All that God made us to feel is dignified
and pure, unless we pervert it."
"But, Alice, I never heard any person speak out so frankly as you do."
"Almost all that is innocent and natural may be spoken out; and as for
that which is not innocent and natural, it ought not even to be
thought."
"But _can_ every thing be spoken that may be thought?" said the lady.
"No; we have an instinct which teaches us to be silent sometimes: but,
if we speak at all, let it be in simplicity and sincerity."
"Now, for instance, Alice," said the lady, "it is very innocent and
natural, as you say, to think this, that, and the other nice thing of
yourself, especially when every body is telling you of it; now would you
speak the truth if any one asked you on this point?"
"If it were a person who had a right to ask, and if it were a proper
time and place, I would," said Alice.
"Well, then," said the bright lady, "I ask you, Alice, in this very
proper time and place, do you think that you are handsome?"
"Now, I suppose you expect me to make a courtesy to every chair in the
room before I answer," said Alice; "but, dispensing with that ceremony,
I will tell you fairly, I think I am."
"Do you think that you are good?"
"Not entirely," said Alice.
"Well, but don't you think you are better than most people?"
"As far as I can tell, I think I am better than some people; but really,
cousin, I don't trust my own judgment in this matter," said Alice.
"Well, Alice, one more question. Do you think James Martyrs likes you or
me best?"
"I do not know," said Alice.
"I did not ask you what you knew, but what you thought," said the lady;
"you must have some thought about it."
"Well, then, I think he likes me best," said Alice.
Just then the door opened, and in walked the identical James Martyrs.
Alice blushed, looked a little comical, and went on with her sewing,
while the little lady began,--
"Really, Mr. James, I wish you had come a minute sooner, to hear Alice's
confessions."
"What has she confessed?" said James.
"Why, that she is handsomer and better than most folks."
"That's nothing to be ashamed of," said James.
"O, that's not all; she wants to look pretty, and loves to be admired,
and all----"
"It sounds very much like her," said James, looking at Alice.
"O, but, besides that," said the lady, "she has been preaching a
discourse in justification of vanity and self-love----"
"And next time you shall take notes when I preach," said Alice, "for I
don't think your memory is remarkably happy."
"You see, James," said the lady, "that Alice makes it a point to say
exactly the truth when she speaks at all, and I've been puzzling her
with questions. I really wish you would ask her some, and see what she
will say. But, mercy! there is Uncle C. come to take me to ride. I must
run." And off flew the little humming bird, leaving James and Alice
_tete-a-tete_.
"There really is one question----" said James, clearing his voice.
Alice looked up.
"There is one question, Alice, which I wish you _would_ answer."