Oh, it was a fine thing to see the vigor and discipline with which he managed the business; so that if, on a hot, drowsy Sunday, any part of the choir hung back or sung sleepily on the first part of a verse, they were obliged to bestir themselves in good earnest, and sing three times as fast, in order to get through with the others.’Kiah Morse was no advocate for your dozy, drawling singing, that one may do at leisure, between sleeping and waking, I assure you; indeed, he got entirely out of the graces of Deacon Dundas and one or two other portly, leisurely old gentlemen below, who had been used to throw back their heads, shut up their eyes, and take the comfort of the psalm, by prolonging indefinitely all the notes. The first Sunday after’Kiah took the music in hand, the old deacon really rubbed his eyes and looked about him, for the psalm was sung off before he was ready to get his mouth opened, and he really looked upon it as a most irreverent piece of business.
But the glory of’Kiah’s art consisted in the execution of those good old billowy compositions called fuguing tunes, where the four parts that compose the choir take up the song, and go racing around one after another, each singing a different set of words, till, at length, by some inexplicable magic, they all come together again, and sail smoothly out into a rolling sea of song. I remember the wonder with which I used to look from side to side when treble, tenor, counter, and bass were thus roaring and foaming, — and it verily seemed to me as if the psalm was going to pieces among the breakers, — and the delighted astonishment with which I found that each particular verse did emerge whole and uninjured from the storm.
But alas for the wonders of that old meeting-house, how they are passed away! Even the venerable building itself has been pulled down, and its fragments scattered; yet still I retain enough of my childish feelings to wonder whether any little boy was gratified by the possession of those painted tulips and grapevines, which my childish eye used to covet, and about the obtaining of which, in case the house should ever be pulled down, I devised so many schemes during the long sermons and services of summer days. I have visited the spot where it stood, but the modern, fair-looking building that stands in its room bears no trace of it; and of the various familiar faces that used to be seen inside not one remains. Verily, I must be growing old; and as old people are apt to spin long stories, I check myself, and lay down my pen.
LITTLE EDWARD
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 indiscretion, 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 dis
composure 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 be 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.”
CONVERSATION ON CONVERSATION
“For every idle word that men shall speak, they shall give account thereof in the day of judgment.”
“A very solemn sermon,” said Miss B., shaking her head impressively, as she sat down to table on Sunday noon; then giving a deep sigh, she added, “I am afraid that if an account is to be rendered for all our idle words, some people will have a great deal to answer for.”
“Why, Cousin Anna,” replied a sprightly young lady opposite, “what do you mean by idle words?”
“All words that have not a strictly useful tendency, Helen,” replied Miss B.
“I don’t know what is to become of me, then,” answered Helen, “for I never can think of anything useful to say. I sit and try sometimes, but it always stops my talking. I don’t think anything in the world is so doleful as a set of persons sitting round, all trying to say something useful, like a parcel of old clocks ticking at each other. I think one might as well take the vow of entire silence, like the monks of La Trappe.”
“It is probable,” said Miss B., “that a greater part of our ordinary conversation had better be dispensed with. ‘In the multitude of words there wanteth not sin.’ For my own part, my conscience often reproaches me with the sins of my tongue.”
“I’m sure you don’t sin much that way, I must say,” said Helen; “but, cousin, I really think it is a freezing business sitting still and reflecting all the time when friends are together; and, after all, I can’t bring myself to feel as if it were wrong to talk and chatter away a good part of the time, just for the sake of talking. For instance, if a friend comes in of a morning to make a call, I talk about the weather, my roses, my canary-birds, or anything that comes uppermost.”
“And about lace, and bonnet patterns, and the last fashions,” added Miss B. sarcastically.
“Well, supposing we do; where’s the harm?”
“Where’s the good?” said Miss B.
“The good! why, it passes time agreeably, and makes us feel kindly towards each other.”
“I think, Helen,” said Miss B., “if you had a higher view of Christian responsibility, you would not be satisfied with merely passing time agreeably, or exciting agreeable feelings in others. Does not the very text we are speaking of show that we have an account to give in the day of judgment for all this trifling, useless conversation?”
“I don’t know what that text does mean,” replied Helen, looking seriously; “but if it means as you say, I think it is a very hard, strait rule.”
“Well,” replied Miss B., “is not duty always hard and strait? ‘Strait is the gate, and narrow is the way,’ you know.”
Helen sighed.
“What do you think of this, Uncle C.?” she said, after some pause. The uncle of the two young ladies had been listening thus far in silence.
“I think,” he replied, “that before people begin t
o discuss, they should be quite sure as to what they are talking about, and I am not exactly clear in this case. You say, Anna,” said he, turning to Miss B., “that all conversation is idle which has not a directly useful tendency. Now, what do you mean by that? Are we never to say anything that has not for its direct and specific object the benefit of others or of ourselves?”
“Yes,” replied Miss B., “I suppose not.”
“Well, then, when I say, ‘Good-morning, sir; ’tis a pleasant day,’ I have no such object. Are these, then, idle words?”
“Why, no, not exactly,” replied Miss B.; “in some cases it is necessary to say something, so as not to appear rude.”
“Very well,” replied her uncle. “You admit, then, that some things, which are not instructive in themselves considered, are to be said to keep up the intercourse of society?”
“Certainly; some things,” said Miss B.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 458