University of Virginia Library

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 laboured 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 his 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 tenour 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 snow-drift;
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 to
his neighbour exactly as he would be done by;
he loved some things in this world very sincerely:

he loved his God much, but he honoured
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 were 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 evergreen
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

practise 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 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 discomposure 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 he succeeded as well as
might be expected. In short, without farther
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 with pussy 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 splendour 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.”