If George was engaged in argument with any one else, he would sit by, with his head bowed down, looking out from under his shaggy eyebrows with a shamefaced satisfaction very unusual with him. Expressions of affection from the naturally gentle are not half so touching as those which are forced out from the hard-favored and severe; and George was affected, even to pain, by the evident pride and regard of his father.
“He never said so much to any body before,” thought he, “and what will he do if I die?”
In such thoughts as these Grace found her brother engaged one still autumn morning, as he stood leaning against the garden fence.
“What are you solemnizing here for, this bright day, brother George?” said she, as she bounded down the alley.
The young man turned and looked on her happy face with a sort of twilight smile.
“How happy you are, Grace!” said he.
“To be sure I am; and you ought to be too, because you are better.”
“I am happy, Grace — that is, I hope I shall be.”
“You are sick, I know you are,” said Grace; “you look worn out. O, I wish your heart could spring once, as mine does.”
“I am not well, dear Grace, and I fear I never shall be,” said he, turning away, and fixing his eyes on the fading trees opposite.
“O George! dear George, don’t, don’t say that; you’ll break all our hearts,” said Grace, with tears in her own eyes.
“Yes, but it is true, sister: I do not feel it on my own account so much as —— However,” he added, “it will all be the same in heaven.”
It was but a week after this that a violent cold hastened the progress of debility into a confirmed malady. He sunk very fast. Aunt Sally, with the self-deceit of a fond and cheerful heart, thought every day that “he would be better,” and Uncle Lot resisted conviction with all the obstinate pertinacity of his character, while the sick man felt that he had not the heart to undeceive them.
James was now at the house every day, exhausting all his energy and invention in the case of his friend; and any one who had seen him in his hours of recklessness and glee, could scarcely recognize him as the being whose step was so careful, whose eye so watchful, whose voice and touch were so gentle, as he moved around the sick bed. But the same quickness which makes a mind buoyant in gladness, often makes it gentlest and most sympathetic in sorrow.
It was now nearly morning in the sick room. George had been restless and feverish all night; but towards day he fell into a slight slumber, and James sat by his side, almost holding his breath lest he should waken him. It was yet dusk, but the sky was brightening with a solemn glow, and the stars were beginning to disappear; all, save the bright and morning one, which, standing alone in the east, looked tenderly through the casement, like the eye of our heavenly Father, watching over us when all earthly friendships are fading.
George awoke with a placid expression of countenance, and fixing his eyes on the brightening sky, murmured faintly, —
“The sweet, immortal morning sheds Its blushes round the spheres.”
A moment after, a shade passed over his face; he pressed his fingers over his eyes, and the tears dropped silently on his pillow.
“George! dear George!” said James, bending over him.
“It’s my friends — it’s my father — my mother,” said he, faintly.
“Jesus Christ will watch over them,” said James, soothingly.
“O, yes, I know he will; for he loved his own which were in the world; he loved them unto the end. But I am dying — and before I have done any good.”
“O, do not say so,” said James; “think, think what you have done, if only for me. God bless you for it! God will bless you for it; it will follow you to heaven; it will bring me there. Yes, I will do as you have taught me. I will give my life, my soul, my whole strength to it; and then you will not have lived in vain.”
George smiled, and looked upward; “his face was as that of an angel;” and James, in his warmth, continued, —
“It is not I alone who can say this; we all bless you; every one in this place blesses you; you will be had in everlasting remembrance by some hearts here, I know.”
“Bless God!” said George.
“We do,” said James. “I bless him that I ever knew you; we all bless him, and we love you, and shall forever.”
The glow that had kindled over the pale face of the invalid again faded as he said, —
“But, James, I must, I ought to tell my father and mother; I ought to, and how can I?”
At that moment the door opened, and Uncle Lot made his appearance. He seemed struck with the paleness of George’s face; and coming to the side of the bed, he felt his pulse, and laid his hand anxiously on his forehead, and clearing his voice several times, inquired “if he didn’t feel a little better.”
“No, father,” said George; then taking his hand, he looked anxiously in his face, and seemed to hesitate a moment. “Father,” he began, “you know that we ought to submit to God.”
There was something in his expression at this moment which flashed the truth into the old man’s mind. He dropped his son’s hand with an exclamation of agony, and turning quickly, left the room.
“Father! father!” said Grace, trying to rouse him, as he stood with his arms folded by the kitchen window.
“Get away, child!” said he, roughly.
“Father, mother says breakfast is ready.”
“I don’t want any breakfast,” said he, turning short about. “Sally, what are you fixing in that ‘ere porringer?”
“O, it’s only a little tea for George; ‘twill comfort him up, and make him feel better, poor fellow.”
“You won’t make him feel better — he’s gone,” said Uncle Lot, hoarsely.
“O, dear heart, no!” said Aunt Sally.
“Be still a’ contradicting me; I won’t be contradicted all the time by nobody. The short of the case is, that George is goin’ to die just as we’ve got him ready to be a minister and all; and I wish to pity I was in my grave myself, and so — —” said Uncle Lot, as he plunged out of the door, and shut it after him.
It is well for man that there is one Being who sees the suffering heart as it is, and not as it manifests itself through the repellances of outward infirmity, and who, perhaps, feels more for the stern and wayward than for those whose gentler feelings win for them human sympathy. With all his singularities, there was in the heart of Uncle Lot a depth of religious sincerity; but there are few characters where religion does any thing more than struggle with natural defect, and modify what would else be far worse.
In this hour of trial, all the native obstinacy and pertinacity of the old man’s character rose, and while he felt the necessity of submission, it seemed impossible to submit; and thus, reproaching himself, struggling in vain to repress the murmurs of nature, repulsing from him all external sympathy, his mind was “tempest-tossed, and not comforted.”
It was on the still afternoon of the following Sabbath that he was sent for, in haste, to the chamber of his son. He entered, and saw that the hour was come. The family were all there. Grace and James, side by side, bent over the dying one, and his mother sat afar off, with her face hid in her apron, “that she might not see the death of the child.” The aged minister was there, and the Bible lay open before him. The father walked to the side of the bed. He stood still, and gazed on the face now brightening with “life and immortality.” The son lifted up his eyes; he saw his father, smiled, and put out his hand. “I am glad you are come,” said he. “O George, to the pity, don’t! don’t smile on me so! I know what is coming; I have tried, and tried, and I can’t, I can’t have it so;” and his frame shook, and he sobbed audibly. The room was still as death; there was none that seemed able to comfort him. At last the son repeated, in a sweet, but interrupted voice, those words of man’s best Friend: “Let not your heart be troubled; in my Father’s house are many mansions.”
“Yes; but I can’t help being troubled; I
suppose the Lord’s will must be done, but it’ll kill me.”
“O father, don’t, don’t break my heart,” said the son, much agitated. “I shall see you again in heaven, and you shall see me again; and then ‘your heart shall rejoice, and your joy no man taketh from you.’”
“I never shall get to heaven if I feel as I do now,” said the old man. “I cannot have it so.”
The mild face of the sufferer was overcast. “I wish he saw all that I do,” said he, in a low voice. Then looking towards the minister, he articulated, “Pray for us.”
They knelt in prayer. It was soothing, as real prayer always must be; and when they rose, every one seemed more calm. But the sufferer was exhausted; his countenance changed; he looked on his friends; there was a faint whisper, “Peace I leave with you” — and he was in heaven.
We need not dwell on what followed. The seed sown by the righteous often blossoms over their grave; and so was it with this good man. The words of peace which he spoke unto his friends while he was yet with them came into remembrance after he was gone; and though he was laid in the grave with many tears, yet it was with softened and submissive hearts.
“The Lord bless him,” said Uncle Lot, as he and James were standing, last of all, over the grave. “I believe my heart is gone to heaven with him; and I think the Lord really did know what was best, after all.”
Our friend James seemed now to become the support of the family; and the bereaved old man unconsciously began to transfer to him the affections that had been left vacant.
“James,” said he to him one day, “I suppose you know that you are about the same to me as a son.”
“I hope so,” said James, kindly.
“Well, well, you’ll go to college next week, and none o’ y’r keepin’ school to get along. I’ve got enough to bring you safe out — that is, if you’ll be car’ful and stiddy.”
James knew the heart too well to refuse a favor in which the poor old man’s mind was comforting itself. He had the self-command to abstain from any extraordinary expressions of gratitude, but took it kindly, as a matter of course.
“Dear Grace,” said he to her, the last evening before he left home, “I am changed; we both are altered since we first knew each other; and now I am going to be gone a long time, but I am sure — —”
He stopped to arrange his thoughts.
“Yes, you may be sure of all those things that you wish to say, and cannot,” said Grace.
“Thank you,” said James; then, looking thoughtfully, he added, “God help me. I believe I have mind enough to be what I mean to; but whatever I am or have shall be given to God and my fellow-men; and then, Grace, your brother in heaven will rejoice over me.”
“I believe he does now,” said Grace. “God bless you, James; I don’t know what would have become of us if you had not been here.”
“Yes, you will live to be like him, and to do even more good,” she added, her face brightening as she spoke, till James thought she really must be right.
It was five years after this that James was spoken of as an eloquent and successful minister in the state of C., and was settled in one of its most thriving villages. Late one autumn evening, a tall, bony, hard-favored man was observed making his way into the outskirts of the place.
“Halloa, there!” he called to a man over the other side of a fence; “what town is this ‘ere?”
“It’s Farmington, sir.”
“Well, I want to know if you know any thing of a boy of mine that lives here?”
“A boy of yours? Who?”
“Why, I’ve got a boy here, that’s livin’ on the town, and I thought I’d jest look him up.”
“I don’t know any boy that is living on the town. What’s his name?”
“Why,” said the old man, pushing his hat off from his forehead, “I believe they call him James Benton.”
“James Benton! Why, that is our minister’s name!”
“O, wal, I believe he is the minister, come to think on’t. He’s a boy o’ mine, though. Where does he live?”
“In that white house that you see set back from the road there, with all those trees round it.”
At this instant a tall, manly-looking person approached from behind. Have we not seen that face before? It is a touch graver than of old, and its lines have a more thoughtful significance; but all the vivacity of James Benton sparkles in that quick smile as his eye falls on the old man.
“I thought you could not keep away from us long,” said he, with the prompt cheerfulness of his boyhood, and laying hold of both of Uncle Lot’s hard hands.
They approached the gate; a bright face glances past the window, and in a moment Grace is at the door.
“Father! dear father!”
“You’d better make believe be so glad,” said Uncle Lot, his eyes glistening as he spoke.
“Come, come, father, I have authority in these days,” said Grace, drawing him towards the house; “so no disrespectful speeches; away with your hat and coat, and sit down in this great chair.”
“So, ho! Miss Grace,” said Uncle Lot, “you are at your old tricks, ordering round as usual. Well, if I must, I must;” so down he sat.
“Father,” said Grace, as he was leaving them, after a few days’ stay, “it’s Thanksgiving day next month, and you and mother must come and stay with us.”
Accordingly, the following month found Aunt Sally and Uncle Lot by the minister’s fireside, delighted witnesses of the Thanksgiving presents which a willing people were pouring in; and the next day they had once more the pleasure of seeing a son of theirs in the sacred desk, and hearing a sermon that every body said was “the best that he ever preached;” and it is to be remarked, that this was the standing commentary on all James’s discourses, so that it was evident he was going on unto perfection.
“There’s a great deal that’s worth having in this ‘ere life after all,” said Uncle Lot, as he sat by the coals of the bright evening fire of that day; “that is, if we’d only take it when the Lord lays it in our way.”
“Yes,” said James; “and let us only take it as we should, and this life will be cheerfulness, and the next fulness of joy.”
LOVE versus LAW.
How many kinds of beauty there are! How many even in the human form! There are the bloom and motion of childhood, the freshness and ripe perfection of youth, the dignity of manhood, the softness of woman — all different, yet each in its kind perfect.
But there is none so peculiar, none that bears more the image of the heavenly, than the beauty of Christian old age. It is like the loveliness of those calm autumn days, when the heats of summer are past, when the harvest is gathered into the garner, and the sun shines over the placid fields and fading woods, which stand waiting for their last change. It is a beauty more strictly moral, more belonging to the soul, than that of any other period of life. Poetic fiction always paints the old man as a Christian; nor is there any period where the virtues of Christianity seem to find a more harmonious development. The aged man, who has outlived the hurry of passion — who has withstood the urgency of temptation — who has concentrated the religious impulses of youth into habits of obedience and love — who, having served his generation by the will of God, now leans in helplessness on Him whom once he served, is, perhaps, one of the most faultless representations of the beauty of holiness that this world affords.
Thoughts something like these arose in my mind as I slowly turned my footsteps from the graveyard of my native village, where I had been wandering after years of absence. It was a lovely spot — a soft slope of ground close by a little stream, that ran sparkling through the cedars and junipers beyond it, while on the other side arose a green hill, with the white village laid like a necklace of pearls upon its bosom.
There is no feature of the landscape more picturesque and peculiar than that of the graveyard — that “city of the silent,” as it is beautifully expressed by the Orientals — standing amid the bloom and rejoicing of nature, its white
stones glittering in the sun, a memorial of decay, a link between the living and the dead.
As I moved slowly from mound to mound, and read the inscriptions, which purported that many a money-saving man, and many a busy, anxious housewife, and many a prattling, half-blossomed child, had done with care or mirth, I was struck with a plain slab, bearing the inscription, “To the memory of Deacon Enos Dudley, who died in his hundredth year.” My eye was caught by this inscription, for in other years I had well known the person it recorded. At this instant, his mild and venerable form arose before me as erst it used to rise from the deacon’s seat, a straight, close slip just below the pulpit. I recollect his quiet and lowly coming into meeting, precisely ten minutes before the time, every Sunday, — his tall form a little stooping, — his best suit of butternut-colored Sunday clothes, with long flaps and wide cuffs, on one of which two pins were always to be seen stuck in with the most reverent precision. When seated, the top of the pew came just to his chin, so that his silvery, placid head rose above it like the moon above the horizon. His head was one that might have been sketched for a St. John — bald at the top, and around the temples adorned with a soft flow of bright fine hair, —
“That down his shoulders reverently spread, As hoary frost with spangles doth attire The naked branches of an oak half dead.”
He was then of great age, and every line of his patient face seemed to say, “And now, Lord, what wait I for?” Yet still, year after year, was he to be seen in the same place, with the same dutiful punctuality.
The services he offered to his God were all given with the exactness of an ancient Israelite. No words could have persuaded him of the propriety of meditating when the choir was singing, or of sitting down, even through infirmity, before the close of the longest prayer that ever was offered. A mighty contrast was he to his fellow-officer, Deacon Abrams, a tight, little, tripping, well-to-do man, who used to sit beside him with his hair brushed straight up like a little blaze, his coat buttoned up trig and close, his psalm book in hand, and his quick gray eyes turned first on one side of the broad aisle, and then on the other, and then up into the gallery, like a man who came to church on business, and felt responsible for every thing that was going on in the house.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 473
