Edward Burton

It becomes necessary to transport the reader from Bar Harbor and the events of the last chapter to a small inland town in New Hampshire, and also to turn back “the whirligig of time” twelve years.

In a quiet village, situated but a few miles from some of the higher of the White Mountain peaks, there stood a rather old-fashioned, but substantial and commodious, country-house. Its location was in the upper part of the village, fronting the green, and quite removed from the few shops and stores which were at the lower end of the main street. It was a square, brick structure, with a four-sided roof, and on the front a small veranda, over which woodbine and rose vines had crept, and were pendent over the front entrance. The windows in the rear afforded a picturesque prospect, having a foreground of forest and field, and, in the distance, a charming view of some of the loftiest mountains of the Presidential range. For several years it had been the home of the family of James Burton, and at the present time was occupied by Mrs. Burton, and her four children—Mr. Burton having died about two years previous. Just across, and on the opposite side of the green, stood the little white village meeting-house, with its spire pointing heavenward, and in its tower hung the bell, which with clarion tones had called the fathers and children, for two or three generations, to worship within its hallowed walls.

On a beautiful Sunday morning in June, 187-, the old bell’s melodious invitation went out to the villagers and country folk, and the reverberations of its music chased each other over the hills and valleys through the clear morning air. No other sound was audible; and as its tones died away in a graceful diminuendo, an atmosphere of quiet rest prevailed, and even nature seemed silent and in repose.

On such a Sabbath the sun seems brighter, the mountains grander, the air softer, and the flowers sweeter, as if nature herself were in a silent exercise of gratitude and praise.

The New-England rural Sabbath of those days was ideally perfect—so far as rest from manual labor could make it so; but there was a tinge of austerity and hardness perceptible, which hindered its perfect adaptability to youthful life in view of the fact that “the Sabbath was made for man.” The Puritan, in his reaction from the Sunday pleasure and license of other countries and religions, lost in a measure that intrinsic gladness and joyousness, which is an element needed to make the day complete. That spiritual exaltation which would render the Sabbath “a delight,” seems to have given place to a literal attempt, as a duty, to pay strict regard for the sanctity of its hours. In times past, a mistaken and almost morbid conscientiousness has sometimes transformed the brightest day of the week into a burden, or even a “fetish.” Such tendencies are disappearing, and the current is setting in too strongly in the opposite direction, but in the time and place with which we are dealing a hearty, youthful laugh on the first day of the week met with stern reproval; and a walk in any other direction than to or from the church, or “graveyard,” was of very doubtful propriety.

For several years before his death, James Burton had been the leading lawyer of the town, and his profession had yielded him a liberal income, which, from the local standpoint, was large. As may be inferred, Mrs. Burton found herself with ample means for her own comfort and for the maintenance and education of her children. Of the four Edward was the oldest, being at this time about twelve years of age, with one brother and two sisters younger. He was unusually intelligent, conscientious, and helpful for his age, and his mother already had come to regard him as a companion, and almost an adviser. In past years his father had expressed the desire that Edward, in due time, should follow in his footsteps, by making the law his profession; but his mother had other plans. It was her earnest intention that Edward’s education and career should be shaped for the clerical profession, rather than the bar. In her view, the clergyman’s “calling” was by far the noblest of all human occupations, and her highest ambition for her son was, that some day he might be placed upon such a pedestal as every minister of the gospel was entitled to occupy. At this time the country minister did not possess that unquestioned authority as arbiter in all matters—religious, ethical, political, and social—which was the rule a generation or two before; yet, in a rural community like this, the village pastor occupied a plane above and somewhat removed from that of any other citizen. His opinions on all subjects were entitled to great respect because of his office, and they could not lightly be called in question. The sacredness of his vocation, rather than his superior judgment, made him a kind of universal “oracle.” In the older time the New-England rural pastor carried such a weight of responsibility, that a solemn awe and gravity attached themselves to his very personality. Happily this old-time rigidity and austerity are passing away, and the modern pastor is often the most genial and lovable of men. Children no longer hide from his presence, but make him their welcome and familiar friend. Such external changes and manifestations are the visible register of a growing internal warmth and progress. If written and theoretical creeds have not changed, it is certain that “practical” ones have been greatly modified. The former sternness and austerity, which gave religion the air of its being a disagreeable necessity, is yielding to a naturalness and loveliness which make it attractive in proportion as the change makes progress. It is undeniable that much of the infidelity, materialism, and atheism now prevailing are but the natural reaction from former extreme and unwarranted statements of religious dogma. It was well meant and sincere, but none the less mischievous. It savored much of “the letter which killeth,” rather than of “the spirit which giveth life.” Theological systems of the seventeenth century must be expanded and modified, else the light of the present era will discover their leanness, and put them aside as obsolete.

Mrs. Burton not only had a wholesome ambition for the success of her son, but was thrilled with an intense and kindly sympathy for that greater part of the human family, which she believed to be hopelessly lost. She anticipated with gladness of heart the service which Edward might render in repairing the world-wide ruin which resulted from “the fall of man.” With the utmost conscientiousness and devotion, she improved every opportunity to sow such seed, and arouse such motives in his youthful mind, as would bring about her ideal result. All her endeavors were ably seconded by Mr. Johnson, the village pastor, who was a most kind, devoted friend, and who took great interest in her plans.

On this lovely Sabbath morning, Mrs. Burton and her children occupied their accustomed pew in the little white meeting-house. It was an occasion of unusual interest for the church, for over twenty new members were to be received to its fellowship. Mrs. Burton’s heart was overflowing with gladness and thanksgiving as she saw the long line of candidates ranged in front of the pulpit platform, and among them her son, who was the most youthful of all. She felt that the prayers of many years had been answered. This important accession to the membership of the church was the fruit of a quiet but deep spiritual movement which had taken place without any unusual instrumentality. An important part of the ceremony observed in the reception of new members, consisted of the reading of the lengthy creed, to which those who would enter the church must give their assent section by section. Its abstruse and positive statements about Decrees, Predestination, Foreordination, and Retribution, as formulated by the scholastic theologians of the seventeenth century, formed the only gateway into the fold. How such simple-minded Christian youth, who needed only spiritual nourishment, and a quiet moulding into Christ-likeness, could digest and receive sustenance from the “strong meat” of the Westminster divines, may well be questioned. The extreme sanctity with which this “system” has been regarded, and the great reluctance of the church to modify or revise it, to bring it more nearly into harmony with the best thought of the present time, is unexplainable. It seems to have been regarded as the “ark of the Lord,” to which no man dare put his hand. Not until its oppressiveness as a bar to church membership is more generally realized, will it be replaced by a plain, simple statement of Christian truth. Edward Burton and his companions regarded it as their solemn duty to believe it,—to the letter,—but they could not understand it. After the impressive service was concluded, Edward and his mother wended their way homeward, freely discussing measures and plans for the future. Edward was in full accord with his mother concerning the course which she had marked out for him, and entered into the whole design with enthusiasm. The comprehensive plan to be prosecuted, included three distinct courses of study, the completion of which would require at least ten or eleven years. It comprised a preparatory course at an academy in a neighboring town; followed by a classical course at Dartmouth College, and, finally, a thorough theological training at Andover Seminary.

We shall not linger to follow in detail the history of Edward Burton during the progress of his education. With the exception of a few brief resting-places, we shall glide forward through the coming years, as rapidly as they were passed in the backward flight. Following the events of the rare June sabbath, the summer days soon sped away, bringing the time when Edward was to enter upon the first stage of the career which awaited his youthful aspirations. As the time for him to leave home drew near, he and his mother both began to realize how much the separation meant for them.

Edward never had spent more than a single night away before, and now, to leave the quiet peaceful haven of home, launch his bark and put forth into unknown waters, was a severe trial. When the coach arrived that was to bear him away, as his light belongings were being hoisted upon the rack, his mother clasped him in her arms, and gave him her benediction. The struggle was severe, but brief. The pathos of the scene caused even the sturdy driver to brush aside a tear, but as Edward stepped into the stage, he uttered a few brave words of cheer, threw a kiss to his mother, and then with a crack of the whip the coach rolled away.

The first few weeks of school life seemed to him like so many months. It did not require the full and tender letters which twice a week came from his mother, to bring up visions of her and of his home-life, which were now left behind. When severe attacks of home-sickness came on, he realized that occupation was the best antidote, and vigorously plunged into his studies. A slight insight into Edward’s school life may be afforded by the quotation, verbatim, of two or three of the many letters sent to his mother.

One received two months after he left home was as follows:

The following, taken at random from a large pile of letters, was written three and a half years later:

A little more than four years later we pause long enough to glance at a single letter.