Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Very well, my children,” said Mrs. Fletcher, as, after tea, William and Susan finished recounting to her the various matters that they had set in order that afternoon; “I believe now we can say that our week’s work is finished, and that we have nothing to do but rest and enjoy ourselves.”

  “O, and papa will show us the pictures in those great books that he brought home for us last Monday, will he not?” said little Robert.

  “And, mother, you will tell us some more about Solomon’s temple and his palaces, won’t you?” said Susan.

  “And I should like to know if father has found out the answer to that hard question I gave him last Sunday?” said Willie.

  “All will come in good time,” said Mrs. Fletcher. “But tell me, my dear children, are you sure that you are quite ready for the Sabbath? You say you have put away the books and the playthings; have you put away, too, all wrong and unkind feelings? Do you feel kindly and pleasantly towards every body?”

  “Yes, mother,” said Willie, who appeared to have taken a great part of this speech to himself; “I went over to Tom Walter’s this very morning to ask him about that chicken of mine, and he said that he did not mean to hit it, and did not know he had till I told him of it; and so we made all up again, and I am glad I went.”

  “I am inclined to think, Willie,” said his father, “that if every body would make it a rule to settle up all their differences before Sunday, there would be very few long quarrels and lawsuits. In about half the cases, a quarrel is founded on some misunderstanding that would be got over in five minutes if one would go directly to the person for explanation.”

  “I suppose I need not ask you,” said Mrs. Fletcher, “whether you have fully learned your Sunday school lessons.”

  “O, to be sure,” said William. “You know, mother, that Susan and I were busy about them through Monday and Tuesday, and then this afternoon we looked them over again, and wrote down some questions.”

  “And I heard Robert say his all through, and showed him all the places on the Bible Atlas,” said Susan.

  “Well, then,” said my friend, “if every thing is done, let us begin Sunday with some music.”

  Thanks to the recent improvements in the musical instruction of the young, every family can now form a domestic concert, with words and tunes adapted to the capacity and the voices of children; and while these little ones, full of animation, pressed round their mother as she sat at the piano, and accompanied her music with the words of some beautiful hymns, I thought that, though I might have heard finer music, I had never listened to any that answered the purpose of music so well.

  It was a custom at my friend’s to retire at an early hour on Saturday evening, in order that there might be abundant time for rest, and no excuse for late rising on the Sabbath; and, accordingly, when the children had done singing, after a short season of family devotion, we all betook ourselves to our chambers, and I, for one, fell asleep with the impression of having finished the week most agreeably, and with anticipations of very great pleasure on the morrow.

  Early in the morning I was roused from my sleep by the sound of little voices singing with great animation in the room next to mine, and, listening, I caught the following words: —

  “Awake! awake! your bed forsake, To God your praises pay; The morning sun is clear and bright; With joy we hail his cheerful light. In songs of love Praise God above — It is the Sabbath day!”

  The last words were repeated and prolonged most vehemently by a voice that I knew for Master William’s.

  “Now, Willie, I like the other one best,” said the soft voice of little Susan; and immediately she began, —

  “How sweet is the day, When, leaving our play, The Saviour we seek! The fair morning glows When Jesus arose — The best in the week.”

  Master William helped along with great spirit in the singing of this tune, though I heard him observing, at the end of the first verse, that he liked the other one better, because “it seemed to step off so kind o’ lively;” and his accommodating sister followed him as he began singing it again with redoubled animation.

  It was a beautiful summer morning, and the voices of the children within accorded well with the notes of birds and bleating flocks without — a cheerful, yet Sabbath-like and quieting sound.

  “Blessed be children’s music!” said I to myself; “how much better this is than the solitary tick, tick, of old Uncle Fletcher’s tall mahogany clock!”

  The family bell summoned us to the breakfast room just as the children had finished their hymn. The little breakfast parlor had been swept and garnished expressly for the day, and a vase of beautiful flowers, which the children had the day before collected from their gardens, adorned the centre table. The door of one of the bookcases by the fireplace was thrown open, presenting to view a collection of prettily bound books, over the top of which appeared in gilt letters the inscription, “Sabbath Library.” The windows were thrown open to let in the invigorating breath of the early morning, and the birds that flitted among the rosebushes without seemed scarcely lighter and more buoyant than did the children as they entered the room. It was legibly written on every face in the house, that the happiest day in the week had arrived, and each one seemed to enter into its duties with a whole soul. It was still early when the breakfast and the season of family devotion were over, and the children eagerly gathered round the table to get a sight of the pictures in the new books which their father had purchased in New York the week before, and which had been reserved as a Sunday’s treat. They were a beautiful edition of Calmet’s Dictionary, in several large volumes, with very superior engravings.

  “It seems to me that this work must be very expensive,” I remarked to my friend, as we were turning the leaves.

  “Indeed it is so,” he replied; “but here is one place where I am less withheld by considerations of expense than in any other. In all that concerns making a show in the world, I am perfectly ready to economize. I can do very well without expensive clothing or fashionable furniture, and am willing that we should be looked on as very plain sort of people in all such matters; but in all that relates to the cultivation of the mind, and the improvement of the hearts of my children, I am willing to go to the extent of my ability. Whatever will give my children a better knowledge of, or deeper interest in, the Bible, or enable them to spend a Sabbath profitably and without weariness, stands first on my list among things to be purchased. I have spent in this way one third as much as the furnishing of my house costs me.” On looking over the shelves of the Sabbath library, I perceived that my friend had been at no small pains in the selection. It comprised all the popular standard works for the illustration of the Bible, together with the best of the modern religious publications adapted to the capacity of young children. Two large drawers below were filled with maps and scriptural engravings, some of them of a very superior character.

  “We have been collecting these things gradually ever since we have been at housekeeping,” said my friend; “the children take an interest in this library, as something more particularly belonging to them, and some of the books are donations from their little earnings.”

  “Yes,” said Willie, “I bought Helen’s Pilgrimage with my egg money, and Susan bought the Life of David, and little Robert is going to buy one, too, next new year.”

  “But,” said I, “would not the Sunday school library answer all the purpose of this?”

  “The Sabbath school library is an admirable thing,” said my friend; “but this does more fully and perfectly what that was intended to do. It makes a sort of central attraction at home on the Sabbath, and makes the acquisition of religious knowledge and the proper observance of the Sabbath a sort of family enterprise. You know,” he added, smiling, “that people always feel interested for an object in which they have invested money.”

  The sound of the first Sabbath school bell put an end to this conversation. The children promptly made themselves ready, and as their father was the superintendent of t
he school, and their mother one of the teachers, it was quite a family party.

  One part of every Sabbath at my friend’s was spent by one or both parents with the children, in a sort of review of the week. The attention of the little ones was directed to their own characters, the various defects or improvements of the past week were pointed out, and they were stimulated to be on their guard in the time to come, and the whole was closed by earnest prayer for such heavenly aid as the temptations and faults of each particular one might need. After church in the evening, while the children were thus withdrawn to their mother’s apartment, I could not forbear reminding my friend of old times, and of the rather anti-sabbatical turn of his mind in our boyish days.

  “Now, William,” said I, “do you know that you were the last boy of whom such an enterprise in Sabbath keeping as this was to have been expected? I suppose you remember Sunday at ‘the old place’?”

  “Nay, now, I think I was the very one,” said he, smiling, “for I had sense enough to see, as I grew up, that the day must be kept thoroughly or not at all, and I had enough blood and motion in my composition to see that something must be done to enliven and make it interesting; so I set myself about it. It was one of the first of our housekeeping resolutions, that the Sabbath should be made a pleasant day, and yet be as inviolably kept as in the strictest times of our good father; and we have brought things to run in that channel so long, that it seems to be the natural order.”

  “I have always supposed,” said I, “that it required a peculiar talent, and more than common information in a parent, to accomplish this to any extent.”

  “It requires nothing,” replied my friend, “but common sense, and a strong determination to do it. Parents who make a definite object of the religious instruction of their children, if they have common sense, can very soon see what is necessary in order to interest them; and, if they find themselves wanting in the requisite information, they can, in these days, very readily acquire it. The sources of religious knowledge are so numerous, and so popular in their form, that all can avail themselves of them. The only difficulty, after all, is, that the keeping of the Sabbath and the imparting of religious instruction are not made enough of a home object. Parents pass off the responsibility on to the Sunday school teacher, and suppose, of course, if they send their children to Sunday school, they do the best they can for them. Now, I am satisfied, from my experience as a Sabbath school teacher, that the best religious instruction imparted abroad still stands in need of the coöperation of a systematic plan of religious discipline and instruction at home; for, after all, God gives a power to the efforts of a parent that can never be transferred to other hands.”

  “But do you suppose,” said I, “that the common class of minds, with ordinary advantages, can do what you have done?”

  “I think in most cases they could, if they begin right. But when both parents and children have formed habits, it is more difficult to change than to begin right at first. However, I think all might accomplish a great deal if they would give time, money, and effort towards it. It is because the object is regarded of so little value, compared with other things of a worldly nature, that so little is done.”

  My friend was here interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Fletcher with the children. Mrs. Fletcher sat down to the piano, and the Sabbath was closed with the happy songs of the little ones; nor could I notice a single anxious eye turning to the window to see if the sun was not almost down. The tender and softened expression of each countenance bore witness to the subduing power of those instructions which had hallowed the last hour, and their sweet, bird-like voices harmonized well with the beautiful words, —

  “How sweet the light of Sabbath eve! How soft the sunbeam lingering there! Those holy hours this, low earth leave, And rise on wings of faith and prayer.”

  LET EVERY MAN MIND HIS OWN BUSINESS.

  “And so you will not sign this paper?” said Alfred Melton to his cousin, a fine-looking young man, who was lounging by the centre table.

  “Not I, indeed. What in life have I to do with these decidedly vulgar temperance pledges? Pshaw! they have a relish of whiskey in their very essence!”

  “Come, come, Cousin Melton,” said a brilliant, dark-eyed girl, who had been lolling on the sofa during the conference, “I beg of you to give over attempting to evangelize Edward. You see, as Falstaff has it, ‘he is little better than one of the wicked.’ You must not waste such valuable temperance documents on him.”

  “But, seriously, Melton, my good fellow,” resumed Edward, “this signing, and sealing, and pledging is altogether an unnecessary affair for me. My past and present habits, my situation in life, — in short, every thing that can be mentioned with regard to me, — goes against the supposition of my ever becoming the slave of a vice so debasing; and this pledging myself to avoid it is something altogether needless — nay, by implication, it is degrading. As to what you say of my influence, I am inclined to the opinion, that if every man will look to himself, every man will be looked to. This modern notion of tacking the whole responsibility of society on to every individual is one I am not at all inclined to adopt; for, first, I know it is a troublesome doctrine; and, secondly, I doubt if it be a true one. For both which reasons, I shall decline extending to it my patronage.”

  “Well, positively,” exclaimed the lady, “you gentlemen have the gift of continuance in an uncommon degree. You have discussed this matter backward and forward till I am ready to perish. I will take the matter in hand myself, and sign a temperance pledge for Edward, and see that he gets into none of those naughty courses upon which you have been so pathetic.”

  “I dare say,” said Melton, glancing on her brilliant face with evident admiration, “that you will be the best temperance pledge he could have. But every man, cousin, may not be so fortunate.”

  “But, Melton,” said Edward, “seeing my steady habits are so well provided for, you must carry your logic and eloquence to some poor fellow less favored.” And thus the conference ended.

  “What a good disinterested fellow Melton is!” said Edward, after he had left.

  “Yes, good, as the day is long,” said Augusta, “but rather prosy, after all. This tiresome temperance business! One never hears the end of it nowadays. Temperance papers — temperance tracts — temperance hotels — temperance this, that, and the other thing, even down to temperance pocket handkerchiefs for little boys! Really, the world is getting intemperately temperate.”

  “Ah, well! with the security you have offered, Augusta, I shall dread no temptation.”

  Though there was nothing peculiar in these words, yet there was a certain earnestness of tone that called the color into the face of Augusta, and set her to sewing with uncommon assiduity. And thereupon Edward proceeded with some remark about “guardian angels,” together with many other things of the kind, which, though they contain no more that is new than a temperance lecture, always seem to have a peculiar freshness to people in certain circumstances. In fact, before the hour was at an end, Edward and Augusta had forgotten where they began, and had wandered far into that land of anticipations and bright dreams which surrounds the young and loving before they eat of the tree of experience, and gain the fatal knowledge of good and evil.

  But here, stopping our sketching pencil, let us throw in a little background and perspective that will enable our readers to perceive more readily the entire picture.

  Edward Howard was a young man whose brilliant talents and captivating manners had placed him first in the society in which he moved. Though without property or weight of family connections, he had become a leader in the circles where these appendages are most considered, and there were none of their immunities and privileges that were not freely at his disposal.

  Augusta Elmore was conspicuous in all that lies within the sphere of feminine attainment. She was an orphan, and accustomed from a very early age to the free enjoyment and control of an independent property. This circumstance, doubtless, added to the magic of
her personal graces in procuring for her that flattering deference which beauty and wealth secure.

  Her mental powers were naturally superior, although, from want of motive, they had received no development, except such as would secure success in society. Native good sense, with great strength of feeling and independence of mind, had saved her from becoming heartless and frivolous. She was better fitted to lead and to influence than to be influenced or led. And hence, though not swayed by any habitual sense of moral responsibility, the tone of her character seemed altogether more elevated than the average of fashionable society.

  General expectation had united the destiny of two persons who seemed every way fitted for each other, and for once general expectation did not err. A few months after the interview mentioned were witnessed the festivities and congratulations of their brilliant and happy marriage.

  Never did two young persons commence life under happier auspices. “What an exact match!” “What a beautiful couple!” said all the gossips. “They seem made for each other,” said every one; and so thought the happy lovers themselves.

  Love, which with persons of strong character is always an earnest and sobering principle, had made them thoughtful and considerate; and as they looked forward to future life, and talked of the days before them, their plans and ideas were as rational as any plans can be, when formed entirely with reference to this life, without any regard to another.

  For a while their absorbing attachment to each other tended to withdraw them from the temptations and allurements of company; and many a long winter evening passed delightfully in the elegant quietude of home, as they read, and sang, and talked of the past, and dreamed of the future in each other’s society. But, contradictory as it may appear to the theory of the sentimentalist, it is nevertheless a fact, that two persons cannot always find sufficient excitement in talking to each other merely; and this is especially true of those to whom high excitement has been a necessary of life. After a while, the young couple, though loving each other none the less, began to respond to the many calls which invited them again into society, and the pride they felt in each other added zest to the pleasures of their return.