University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.
“UNCLE PHIL.”

We have rather unceremoniously presented
some of the humble inhabitants of Essex to our
readers. A few more preparatory words to ensure
a better acquaintance. Philip May was bred
a hatter. His trade and patrimony (amounting to

a few hundred dollars) would have ensured independence
to most of his countrymen; but Philip
lacked their characteristics—energy and sound
judgment, and all the prospering go-ahead qualities
that abound with them. But, lacking these,
a most kind Providence had given him a disposition
that made him content without them, and
quite independent of their results. His horizon
was bounded by the present hour—he literally
took no thought for the morrow. He married early,
and in this turning point of life Heaven seemed
to have taken special care of him. Never was a
wife better calculated by vigour, firmness, and industry,
to counteract the destructive tendencies of
a shiftless husband. Nor was she, like some driving
wives, a thorn in her quiet, loving husband's
side. While she cured all the evils that could
be cured in her condition, she endured the incurable
with cheerfulness—a marvellous lightener of
the burdens of life!

Before his marriage Philip built a house, the
cost of which far exceeding his means, he finished
but one end of it, and the rest was left for the rains
to enter, and the winds to whistle through, till he
took his wife's counsel, sold his house, paid his
debts, and bought a snug little dwelling far more
comfortable than their “shingle palace” in its best
state.

But, before they arrived at this stage in the
journey of life, both good and evil had chanced to
them. Their firstborn, Ellen, ran into an open
cistern, the surface of which was just on a level
with the platform before the house: so it had remained
a year after the active child began to run

about; and, to its mother's reiterated requests and
warnings, Philip always answered—“Now that's
just what I am going about next week.” When
his only child was drowned in this seeming water-trap
was certainly no time to reproach Philip, and
he who never reproached any one could not be expected
to make himself an exception. He merely
said, “It was a wonderful providence Ellen was
drowned that day, for the very next he calculated
to put a kerb to the cistern—but it was meant so
to be—he always felt Ellen was not long for this
world!” Their next child was our friend Charlotte;
and she, like her drowned sister, was born with
one of the best mortal gifts—a sound constitution,
which, watched over by her wise and vigilant
mother, promised a long life of physical comfort.
But these prospects were sadly reversed when
her father, having one day taken her out in his
wagon, left her holding the reins “while he just
stepped to speak to a neighbour.” While he was
speaking, the horse took fright, Charlotte was
thrown out, and received an injury that imbittered
her whole life. Philip was really grieved by this
accident. He said “It seemed somehow as if it
was so to be, for he had no thought of taking Charlotte
out that day till he met her in his way.”

His next mishap was the burning of his workshop,
in which, on one gusty day, he left a blazing
fire. A consequence so natural seemed very strange
to Uncle Phil, who said “It was most onaccountable,
for he had often left it just so, and it had never
burnt up before!” This incident gave a new
turn to Philip's life. He abandoned his trade, and
really loving, or, as he said, “aiming” to suit everybody,

he was glad to be rid of incessant complaints
of want of punctuality, bad materials, and bad work,
and became what most imbeciles become sooner
or later, a Jack at all trades. In a community like
that at Essex, where labourers in every department
are few, and work plenty, even the universal
Jack need not starve; and Uncle Phil, if unskilful
and slack, was always good-natured, and seldom so
much engrossed by one employment that he could
not leave it for another. But, though rather an
unprofitable labourer, Uncle Phil had no vices.
He was temperate and frugal in his habits, and
a striking illustration of how far these virtues alone
will sustain a man even in worldly matters. His
small supplies were so well managed by his wife,
that no want was felt by his family during her life.
That valuable life was prematurely ended. Soon
after the birth of her last baby, Uncle Phil was
called up in the night by some cattle having entered
his garden through his rickety fence. His bedroom
door opened upon the yard; he left it open;
it was a damp, chilling night. Mrs. May, being
her own nurse, had fallen asleep exhausted. She
awoke in an ague that proved the prelude to a
fatal illness; and Uncle Phil, being no curious tracer
of effects to causes, took no note of the open
door, and the damp night, and replied to the condolence
of his friends that “Miss May was too
good a wife for him—the only wonder was Providence
had spared her so long.” More gifted people
than honest Uncle Phil deposite quietly at the
door of Providence the natural consequences of
their own carelessness.

The baby soon followed its mother, and Philip

May was left with but two children—Charlotte, at
the time of her mother's death, thirteen, and Susan,
nine. They had been so far admirably trained by
their mother, and were imbued with her character,
seeming only to resemble their father in hearts
running over with the milk of human kindness, unless
Susan's all-conquering cheerfulness was derived
from her father's ever-acquiescing patience.
His was a passive virtue—hers an active principle.
If any one unacquainted with the condition
of life in New-England should imagine that the
Mays had suffered the evils of real poverty, they
must allow us to set them right. In all our widespread
country there is very little necessary poverty.
In New-England none that is not the result
of vice or disease. If the moral and physical laws
of the Creator were obeyed, the first of these
causes would be at an end, and the second would
scarcely exist.[1] Industry and frugality are wonderful
multipliers of small means. Philip May
brought in but little, but that little was well administered.
His house was clean—his garden productive
(the girls kept it wed)—his furniture carefully
preserved—his family comfortably clad, and
his girls schooled. No wonder Uncle Phil never
dreamed he was a poor man!

Henry Aikin was the youngest of twelve children.
His father was a farmer—all his property,
real and personal, might have amounted to some

five or six thousand dollars, and on this he had his
dozen children to feed and clothe, and fit to fill
honourable places in society—to be farmers, mechanics,
doctors, ministers, and so on. In such a
family, well regulated, there are excellent lessons
in the economy of human life, and well learned
were they by the Aikins, and afterward well applied.

Morris Finley was the son of the only man in
Essex who had not any regular business. He
was what our rustics call a schemer and a jockey;
in a larger sphere he would have been a speculator.
Money, not as a means, but as an end, seemed
to him the chief good; and he had always a
plan for getting a little more of it than his neighbours.
He was keen-sighted and quick-witted; of
course he often succeeded, but sometimes failed;
and, distrusted and disliked through life, at the end
of it he was not richer in worldly goods than his
neighbours, and poor indeed was he in all other
respects. He had, however, infused his ruling
passion into his son Morris, and he, being better
educated than his father, and regularly trained to
business, had a far better chance of ultimate success.