THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd. MARLOWE'S TAMBURLAINE.
THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have noticedthe passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The clacking ofthe mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, the din of theblacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, the rattling ofthe cart, and all other sounds of rural labor are suspended. Thevery farm-dogs bark less frequently, being less disturbed by passingtravellers. At such times I have almost fancied the wind sunk intoquiet, and that the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints meltinginto blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so brigh' The bridal of the earth and sky.
Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest.The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature has its moralinfluence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel thenatural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For mypart, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amid thebeautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; and ifnot a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than on anyother day of the seven.
During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently to attendat the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments,its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom of departed years,seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation; but, being in awealthy, aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetratedeven into the sanctuary; and I felt myself continually thrown back uponthe world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. Theonly being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to feel thehumble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a poor decrepit oldwoman, bending under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore thetraces of something better than abject poverty. The lingerings of decentpride were visible in her appearance. Her dress, though humble in theextreme, was scrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had beenawarded her, for she did not take her seat among the village poor, butsat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived alllove, all friendship, all society, and to have nothing left her but thehopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged formin prayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied handand failing eyes could not permit her to read, but which she evidentlyknew by heart, I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of that poorwoman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swellof the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was sodelightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood on aknoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend and then woundits way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church wassurrounded by yew trees, which seemed almost coeval with itself. Itstall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, with rooks and crowsgenerally wheeling about it. I was seated there one still sunny morningwatching two laborers who were digging a grave. They had chosen one ofthe most remote and neglected corners of the churchyard, where, from thenumber of nameless graves around, it would appear that the indigent andfriendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that the new-madegrave was for the only son of a poor widow. While I was meditating onthe distinctions of worldly rank, which extend thus down into the verydust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the funeral. Theywere the obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing to do. Acoffin of the plainest materials, without pall or other covering, wasborne by some of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an airof cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings ofaffected woe, but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered afterthe corpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased, the poor old womanwhom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported bya humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of theneighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of the villagewere running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth, and nowpausing to gaze, with childish curiosity on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued from thechurch-porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand, andattended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act of charity.The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor was penniless. Itwas shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly and unfeeling. Thewell-fed priest moved but a few steps from the church door; his voicecould scarcely be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeralservice, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned into such a frigidmummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On it wereinscribed the name and age of the deceased--"George Somers, aged 26years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the headof it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer; but I couldperceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsive motion ofthe lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son with theyearnings of a mother's heart.
Preparations were made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There wasthat bustling stir, which breaks so harshly on the feelings of grief andaffection; directions given in the cold tones of business; the strikingof spades into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we love,is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle around seemed towaken the mother from a wretched revery. She raised her glazed eyes, andlooked about with a faint wildness. As the men approached with cords tolower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her hands, and broke intoan agony of grief. The poor woman who attended her took her by the armendeavoring to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something likeconsolation: "Nay, now--nay, now--don't take it so sorely to heart."She could only shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not to becomforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking of the cordsseemed to agonize her; but when, on some accidental obstruction, therewas a jostling of the coffin, all the tenderness of the mother burstforth, as if any harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach ofworldly suffering.
I could see no more--my heart swelled into my throat--my eyes filledwith tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in standing byand gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to anotherpart of the churchyard, where I remained until the funeral train haddispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting the grave, leavingbehind her the remains of all that was dear to her on earth, andreturning to silence and destitution, my heart ached for her. What,thought I, are the distresses of the rich? They have friends tosoothe--pleasures to beguile--a world to divert and dissipate theirgriefs. What are the sorrows of the young? Their growing minds soonclose above the wound--their elastic spirits soon rise beneath thepressure--their green and ductile affections soon twine round newobjects. But the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances tosoothe--the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best is but a wintryday, and who can look for no after-growth of joy--the sorrows of awidow, aged, solitary, destitute, mourning over an only son, the lastsolace of her years,--these are indeed sorrows which make us feel theimpotency of consolation.
It was some time before I left the churchyard. On my way homeward, I metwith the woman who had acted as comforter: she was just returning fromaccompanying the mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from hersome particulars connected with the affecting scene I had witnessed.
The parents of the deceased had resided in the village from childhood.They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and by various ruraloccupations, and the assistance of a small garden, had supportedthemselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and a blamelesslife. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff and pride oftheir age. "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such a comely lad,so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, so dutiful to hisparents! It did one's heart good to see
him of a Sunday, drest out inhis best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother tochurch; for she was always fonder of leaning on George's arm than on hergood man's; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of him, for a finerlad there was not in the country round."
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity andagricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the smallcraft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long in thisemploy, when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea.His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond that they couldlearn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. The father, who wasalready infirm, grew heartless and melancholy and sunk into his grave.The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness, could no longersupport herself, and came upon the parish. Still there was a kindfeeling towards her throughout the village, and a certain respect asbeing one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottagein which she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted to remainin it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless. The few wants ofnature were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions of her littlegarden, which the neighbors would now and then cultivate for her. It wasbut a few days before the time at which these circumstances were toldme, that she was gathering some vegetables for her repast, when sheheard the cottage-door which faced the garden, suddenly opened. Astranger came out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around.He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and ghastly pale, andbore the air of one broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her andhastened towards her, but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank onhis knees before her and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed uponhim with a vacant and wandering eye. "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don'tyou know your son? your poor boy, George?" It was, indeed, the wreckof her once noble lad; who shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreignimprisonment, had, at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, torepose among the scenes of his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting, wheresorrow and joy were so completely blended: still, he was alive! he wascome home! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her old age! Nature,however, was exhausted in him; and if any thing had been wanting tofinish the work of fate, the desolation of his native cottage would havebeen sufficient. He stretched himself on the pallet on which his widowedmother had passed many a sleepless night, and he never rose from itagain.
The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned, crowdedto see him, offering every comfort and assistance that their humblemeans afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk--he could onlylook his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and he seemedunwilling to be helped by any other hand.
There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride of manhood,that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy.Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sickness anddespondency, who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect andloneliness of a foreign land, but has thought on the mother "that lookedon his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, and administered to hishelplessness? Oh, there is an enduring tenderness in the love of amother to a son, that transcends all other affections of the heart.It is neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted by danger,nor weakened by worthlessness, nor stifled by ingratitude. She willsacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender everypleasure to his enjoyment; she will glory in his fame and exult in hisprosperity; and, if misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer toher from misfortune; and if disgrace settle upon his name, she willstill love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all theworld beside cast him off, she will be all the world to him.
Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and none tosoothe--lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could not endurehis mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye would follow her.She would sit for hours by his bed watching him as he slept. Sometimeshe would start from a feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he sawher bending over him; when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom,and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a child. In this way he died.
My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was to visitthe cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance, and, ifpossible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelingsof the villagers had prompted them to do everything that the caseadmitted; and as the poor know best how to console each other's sorrows,I did not venture to intrude.
The next Sunday I was at the village church, when, to my surprise, I sawthe poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seat onthe steps of the altar.
She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for her son;and nothing could be more touching than this struggle between piousaffection and utter poverty--a black ribbon or so, a faded blackhandkerchief, and one or two more such humble attempts to express byoutward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round uponthe storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp withwhich grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned tothis poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow at the altar of her God,and offering up the prayers and praises of a pious though a brokenheart, I felt that this living monument of real grief was worth themall.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members of the congregation,and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves to render hersituation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions. It was,however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course of aSunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat at church, andbefore I left the neighborhood I heard, with a feeling of satisfaction,that she had quietly breathed her last, and had gone to rejoin those sheloved, in that world where sorrow is never known and friends are neverparted.
The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon Page 14
