 | Mary Hollis |  |
MARY HOLLIS.
Many persons, in the village of ———, in Massachusetts,
remember Mary Lowe, a diligent, ingenious
little girl of a respectable family, who was left an orphan
when quite young, with a very slender provision,
which her guardians wisely expended, in obtaining for
her a decent education and the tayloring trade. She
went from house to house, eating her bread in singleness
of heart. She was approved by the elderly and
judicious, for her prudent, industrious, and quiet ways;
and she made herself the delight of all the children, by
her obliging disposition and good humour. The little
boys said, “Mary would always put pockets in their
clothes;” and the older boys, who longed to be emancipated
from the indignity of having their clothes made
by a woman-taylor, were still conciliated by Mary's
gentle manners, and a little, too, by the smart look
which she contrived to give to their apparel. I think
I can see her now bending over her goose, and as it
heavily trod the seams, singing some playful song to
the little group around her; and smiling and blushing
as she caught the approving glances of the elders of
the family.
But poor Mary was not destined to glide down the
stream of life, without experience of the storms that
ruffle its current. She married William Hollis, and
was, by a series of misfortunes, reduced from comfortable
circumstances to penury. There was nothing
extraordinary in her case. Every one has occasion to
notice the swift destruction that comes upon a family,
when the husband resigns himself to habits of intemperance.
Intemperance leads, necessarily, to idleness.
Health and strength disappear, and confusion takes
the place of order. It seems to make little difference,
whether the unhappy slave of this vice has been accustomed
to careful and diligent habits, or brought up
to idleness; whether born to fortune, or to earn his
bread by the sweat of his brow. In one case the ruin
may be nearer than in another, but in all cases, ruin is
inevitable.
It is not now my purpose to trace the steps of William
Hollis, from the time when he was an industrious
apprentice at the shoe-making trade. Who, that
then saw him issue from his master's dwelling on a
Sunday morning, with the cheerful look of youth, the
health and vigor of dawning manhood, neatly equipped
for church, would have recognized him a few years
after, returning from a tavern brawl on a Saturday
night, to his much-enduring wife, and breaking on the
quiet of his home, with the voice of cursing!
It was after one of those scenes of excess, which
had, of late, become more frequent, that, with just
enough of reason left to direct his steps towards his
own dwelling, he left his noisy companions. His
house was at one extremity of the village, and, with
a few other mean buildings around it, was usually
occupied by its poorest inhabitants. A bye and narrow
road led to it. William's instinct had often guided
him safely, but on this occasion he had drank more
than usual, and after reeling on till he had nearly finished
his way, the feeble ray of light that shot through
the patched panes of his own window, caught his eyes,
side of the way to the other. He was cursing its
uncertain aid, when he stumbled and fell senseless to
the ground. The noise of his fall, accompanied by a
loud groan, called one of his neighbours, Samuel Hill,
to his assistance.
Hill brought a lantern, and discovered that the poor
creature was quite senseless. He had, in falling, hit
his head against a large stone, which had been rolled
to the door, to serve the purpose of a horseblock.—
This compassionate neighbour called some others to
his aid. They conveyed him in their arms to his wife.
It was too common a circumstance for him to stay
out late, to excite any alarm in her. She had closed
the labours of the week, and by her neatness and exertion,
given to her home the appearance of order and
comfort, that betokens a preparation for the Lord's day.
Her eldest child, a girl of six years, was sitting on a
little bench by the fire, reading aloud in the testament:
two of the children were asleep in their bed, and a
sick infant, lying in the arms of its mother, whose meek
and care-worn countenance, as the light fell strongly
upon it, from the bright flame of a pine knot, showed that
her thoughts were divided between the troubles of this
world, and the consolations of the word to which she
was listening. At this moment the door opened, and
disclosed to her neighbours the peace that even the
“wicked cannot trouble.” They paused, for an instant,
from a strong feeling of compassion and respect.
The noise had called the attention of Mrs. Hollis.—
Immediately she became pale as death, and uttered a
deep groan; then exerting a self-command, for which
she was remarkable, she laid her sick baby beside her
sleeping brothers, and telling the little girl to lay down
beside her sister to keep her warm, she spread open
her own bed, and asked the men to lay her husband in
it. Alas! this was not the first time he had been
brought to her in a brutish condition.
Mary had always avoided the sympathy of her
neighbours: she had never been heard to speak of her
husband's vices, and some wondered, that Mary Hollis
was so blind she could not see them. Others sneeringly
observed, “there were none so blind as those
that would not see.” But, when no eye saw, but His
who pitieth all our sorrows, her tears flowed, and her
prayers ascended, that the sinner might be converted
from the error of his ways, and that she might be sustained
under the burthen of her sorrows. She was
not like some, who, when they have prayed they may
do their duty, are apt to think their duty is accomplished.
Her prayers were used as the means of
strength, and she felt, after communing with the Father
of Spirits, that a ray of light marked the path of
duty, through the day. William was the father of her
children, and it was her incessant care to shield his
faults from them. When he was sober, he was kind
and affectionate to his children, and his wife, in the
main; and when he was intoxicated, Mary sought to
remove his children from his sight. But, anxious as
she was to hide the father's vices, she never resorted
to falsehood, for she knew she must not do evil that
good might come. Her children were young and unsuspicious,
therefore it was not difficult to keep them
ignorant.
Mary thanked the men for their kindness, and was
saying, she should not need any further assistance,
when as she drew the bed clothes over her husband,
she saw that his pale face was stained with blood.
“He is hurt!” cried she.
“To be sure he is,” said Hill, who had been hitherto
awed into silence, by Mary's unexpected calmness;
“and it is a wonder to me, if he comes to himself this
night. Such a bruise as that, and on the temple too,
is a pretty bad affair.”
“Can one of you go for the Doctor,” said Mary in a
trembling voice. Hill sent one of his companions, and
He assisted Mary in applying such remedies as the
house afforded, but they were without effect. The
Doctor came. He examined the wound, and felt the
patient's pulse. “Nothing can be done,” said he.
Poor Mary was, for a moment, speechless with agonv,
“Oh!” she then exclaimed, “my poor husband! could
he but offer one prayer, could he but speak to me once
more!” She sunk on her knees by the side of the unhappy
man. Little Sally, unaccustomed to see her
mother in any agitation, uttered a shriek of terror.
The infant, awakened by the confusion, moaned greviously,
but Mary was insensible to every thing but
the misery of her dying husband. She continued kneeling,
holding William's cold hand in hers, and pouring
out her soul in prayers for him. In about an hour, his
whole frame became convulsed, he rolled up his eyes,
and extended his arms. It was the last struggle.
Poor William closed his eyes forever, an early victim
of intemperance.
Tender mothers, faithful wives, solitary sufferers,
may conceive of Mary's misery. There were some
who said “Mary Hollis professes to be a christian, and
it does not become a christian to be so cast down.”
Others said, “If she had lost the best husband in the
world, she could not mourn more.” But it was, precisely,
because she was a christian, and, because her
unhappy husband was not only, not the best, but was
one for whom she must sorrow without hope, that
she thus mourned—Mary dared not even hope, for her
bible told her, “The drunkard hath not eternal life.”
There was no good word of promise there, for the impenitent
sinner. It was true, William had sometimes,
after uncommon excess, and the suffering consequent
thereupon, formed good resolutions and made solemn
promises; but perhaps the very next occasion of temptation
would find him as weak and yielding as ever;
and Mary felt, that such penitence deepened the shade
her heart, “could any sinner look upon my wretched
William and waste the precious hours of probation!
Oh! that they could realize, that the destiny of ages depends
upon their moments of time.”
Could Mary have borne her sorrows, if she could
have permitted them to prey on her mind? The poor
have a blessing in the necessity of labour, that outweighs
many of the splendid favours, which they see,
perhaps, with envy, in the scale of the rich. Mary
had never lived to herself, and, for the first time in her
life, this strong and overwhelming tide of grief bore
away with resistless force, the claims of others, and
made her forget, in the indulgence of her sorrow, the
wants of the destitute little creatures around her.
The day after the funeral of her husband, Mary was
sitting in a stupor of grief from which she was roused,
by the crying of one of the little boys.
“Sally,” said she, “what does John cry for?”
“Mother,” replied the child, with a faultering voice,
“John is hungry. The bread and meat Mr. Hill
brought, was all finished yesterday, and we've none of
us had any breakfast.”
The pressing wants of her children, recalled the
Mother to a sense of her duty. “Oh!” said she, “I
must feed these lambs, and with the help of God, I
will feed them, with temporal and spiritual food.”
She drew her children to her, and kneeling down, she
dedicated herself and offspring to Him, who is the
`Husband of the widow, and the Father of the fatherless.”
Her thoughts turned on her poor William, and
for the first time, since the stroke had fallen on her,
she heartily submitted to it, and was able to say with
complete resignation, though not without agony. `Thy
will be done.' She had laid her troubles at His feet,
who careth for us, and in the service in which she was
engaged, she found a peace which enabled her quietly
to bear the yoke, that had seemed an intolerable burthen.
She rose from her devotions, with her heart
serenity of her countenance, and the energy of her
movements, must have thought she had heard the gracious
words, `Fear not, for I am with you.'
Immediate relief was necessary, and Mrs. Hollis had
none of that pride, which sometimes makes people
ashamed of their poverty, when it fails to impel them
to those exertions which are necessary to escape from
it. She sent her child to her neighbour Hill's, to ask
for a loaf of bread. It was freely given, but Mrs. Hill
had not grace enough to restrain her tongue, as the
door closed after little Sally.
“There is no pride that can stand every thing. I
have known the time, when Mary Hollis would rather
starve to death, than to have asked for a piece of
bread. I am sure I am sorry for her, but it is strange
how much some folks must suffer, before they are humbled.
Pride must have a fall, and it's best it should:—
not but what I feel for her,—but the Lord knows who
needs the rod.”
Mrs. Hill's husband was too much used to the talking
of his wife to give much heed to it on common occasions,
but he had tender feelings, and the sorrows of
his neighbour had touched his heart.
“Yes,” said he, “the Lord knows who needs it;
and though I don't profess to read the Bible as much
as you do, that says, he chasteneth whom he loveth;
and besides, Betsy, I'm thinking that it is not easy always,
to understand the ways of the Lord, nor safe
nor charitable to explain his judgments. Does not
the Saviour say `judge not lest ye be judged,' and
how does he reprove his disciples when he says, `of
those eighteen men on whom the tower of Siloam fell,
think ye they were sinners above all the men that
dwell in Jerusalem?”
Betsy was checked for a moment,—albeit unused to
hear her husband quote the Bible,—but collecting all
her forces, “Any body” said she, “can serve themselves
with a text here and there, but it takes grace to
thing but pride could keep Mary Hollis out of her bed
spinning and weaving till 12 o'clock by the light of the
fire, just to get a piece out of the loom, to fit her children
for Sunday school, when the Ladies' charitable
Society agreed to clothe all the poor children? No,
no, John, destruction is sure to come after pride, for
Solomon says, `The Lord will destroy the house of
the proud.”
“Yes,” said John, “and establish the border of the
widow:—and a blessing, I believe, is in store for Mary
Hollis. If every woman was like her, it would not
take some hard days' work for you and I to pay our
poor's tax.”
This was an argument which had some weight with
Mrs. Hill. “Far be it from me,” she said “to discourage
any one's working, but I like to see that people feel
their situation. If Mary Hollis had been like other
people, I should not blame her for working hard, but
never could I get one word out of her about her troubles.
She never owned that her husband drank,—that
is, never said any thing about it; and many a time,
when he had one of his frolics, I have been there, to
have a little neighbour-like talk with her,—to tell her,
how much every body pitied her, and that such troubles
were not sent upon her for nothing. She would
say, that what troubles she had, it was easier for her to
bear than to complain of; and then she never failed to
turn to talking about something else. Oh! it is enough,
to provoke a saint, to see any body so wilful.”
John, certainly, did not think silence a provocation,
nor his wife quite a saint, but his reply, which, perhaps,
would have had more justice than discretion in it, was
interrupted by the return of little Sally, who came to
say “her mother would be obliged to Mr. Hill, to ask
Mr. Germain (the minister) to call at her mother's,
and her mother would be glad to speak with Mrs.
Hill.”
Betsy Hill, mollified by the expectation of confidence,
was not a little chagrined, when she found all Mrs.
Hollis wished was to effect an exchange of commodities
with her, to supply the present necessities of her
children. She offered Mrs. Hill her best gown, the
relict of better days, for some pork and potatoes. Betsy
was not thought a hard-hearted woman, but no occasion
ever tempted her to discredit her sense, by making
a bad bargain; and as selfishness is too apt to make us
overvalue our own possessions, her bargains were not
always strictly just. After a careful scrutiny of the
gown, and many remarks upon the damages done by
time, the present reduced price of goods, &c. to all
which, Mrs. Hollis listened patiently, and replied mildly,
the terms of sale were adjusted to the satisfaction
of both parties. It was a principle with Mary, never
to beg, while she could by any exertion or self-denial,
do without it; but no one could more gratefully receive
a kindness.
The minister of the village, was, in the gospel sense,
the overseer of his flock. His first duty he knew,
was to minister to their spiritual wants; but, that being
done, he did not leave the rest undone. His benevolent
heart was continually devising good, and his
strong, practical mind, contriving some mode for its application.
His wife was a fellow-worker with him,
and the sobriety, industry and order of their household,
were an excellent comment on the public preaching
of the Pastor. No scoffer could ever say, “Mr. Germain,
knew how to preach better than to practice.”
No infidel could point you in derision to his family, as
exemplifiying the impotence of the principles he taught;
but a numerous family, early inured to difficult exertions,
and painful self-denials, to habits of temperance,
obedience and love, exhibited the blessedness of a well
ordered household. His people, witnessing the effects
of his wisdom, had confidence in it, and sought, in all
cases of difficulty in their temporal affairs, his advice;
prosperity of their families to the salutary counsels of
their beloved pastor.
The good man had anticipated the wants of Mary,
and was already on his way to her, when he met Hill.
They naturally, fell into conversation on Mary's embarrassments.
Hill said, “that a lone woman as she
was, and none of the strongest, she must put her children
upon the town;—that her husband, though he was
bad enough, had contributed something to the support
of his family, but if his wife had not been the best
christian in the world, they could never have kept it
together.”
“Ah! John,” said Mr. Germain, “I am glad to find
you think a man better off, for having a christian
wife.”
“Certainly I do sir, if she be a real christian.”
“Well, and what do you call a real christian?”
John was a little daunted, and hesitated, fearing,
perhaps, that his definition might not be agreeable to
the common ideas of the christian character, but his
zealous admiration of Mary's bright virtues, augmented,
perhaps, by his involuntary setting them in contrast
to the deep shades of his own rough mate, gave him
courage to proceed. “Why, sir, I call a woman a
christian, that is as patient as Job, and has full as many
troubles;—for what can be worse to one who fears
and serves God as she does, than to have a drunken
husband come staggering and swearing home? I call
a woman a christian, that works from morning till
night, to get bread for her family, and is never heard
to scold or mutter. I call a woman a christian, sir,
that's got proud relations, that despise her, and neighbours
that are always picking at her, and yet has never
been known to notice or complain of it, though she
feels it. I am certain of that; for I remember her little
girl came crying home from school one day, when
I was there, and said her cousin Anne Mason, would
not sit on the bench beside her, and said her mother
Mary's cheek was the colour of scarlet, and the tear
glistened in her eye, but it took her but a minute to
come to herself; and then she said, `My dear child,
your anger is almost as bad as Anne's pride. Act well,
and no good person will despise you, because you are
poor.”
“Oh, Mr. Germain,—you said in your sermon, a
meek spirit is worth all the riches of this world.”
“But,” said Mr. Germain, willing further to try
John's estimate of a christian, “is that all, John?
You give Mary great praise, but you speak only of
what is called morality.”
“Mr. Germain,” exclaimed John, “I did not think
to find you among them that despise morality. I know
a great many people cry down morality, but to my
mind, it stands to reason, that such morality as Mary
Hollis' must come from religion. It is obedience to
the laws of God, made known to us by his Son. I
don't believe any thing but the grace of God can help
any one through such a sea of troubles. Why, sir, it
is as much of a miracle, if we could but see it in that
light, as Peter's walking on the sea; and Mary would
have sunk long ago, if her faith had not kept her up.
It may be, sir, you think Mary is not a christian, because
you do not see her at meeting so often as my
wife, and some other women:—I mean no offence, but
I'm thinking Mary is more in the way of her duty,
keeping at home, working for her children, and setting
an example that's better than the catechism to them;—
and besides, sir, she does not forget other duties neither.
Many's the time that I have seen her, when I looked
into her window as I passed by, kneeling with her little
ones about her. Of a sabbath, she is always sure
to be at meeting, and her children with her; not kept at
home, as some I know, because they have not smart
clothes to wear there. Besides, Mr. Germain, Mary
is a member of your church, can it be, that you dont
think her a christian?”
Mr. Germain certainly did think her a christian,
and one of the highest order, and he answered John,
that he looked upon her as an ensample to the whole
flock, and that he was glad to find that he had such
correct notions of christian duty.
John made some apology for having dared to preach
before the minister, and Mr. Germain kindly parted
from him, shaking his hand, and telling him that he
wished he could always preach as good a sermon as
he had heard that morning.
Mr. Germain found Mary composed. “The waters”
he said to her, “have compassed you about, but have
not overwhelmed you, my friend.”
“No, sir,” she replied, “I have found a resting
place: I know all is right; and I feel, that as the `eagle
fluttereth over her young,' so I, and my little
ones, are gathered under the sheltering wings of Him
who will not leave nor forsake us. I am a feeble instrument
in his hands, of myself, quite insufficient for these
things. But I have submitted to his rebuke, and I feel
a strength made perfect in my weakness, for the duties
that are before me.”
Mary then entered into an explanation of her situation.
She said, it had been her steady aim to keep
out of debt, that if her husband had seen his fault he
might have been free from any discouragement to reformation.
She had thought it better to do without
what seemed even necessary to the family, than incur
a debt, where she could not see her way clear to pay
it. If she had not, she could not have felt that she was
strictly honest; for what was it, but taking from others
what she was not sure of being able to return. Some,
she said, had blamed her for not soliciting charity.—
She believed it was not pride that had withheld her;—
there were some who could not live without charity,
and while she could she dared not encroach on their
rights. She had not even a mite to give, and therefore
she had felt more anxious not to take the portion
as she proceeded to say, that she feared there was
a bill against them at the tavern. She would thank
Mr. Germain most kindly, to ascertain for her.—
“I cannot” said she, “send my child to enquire.—
I cannot go myself.” She burst into tears. Mr. Germain
assured her it should be attended to. Her husband's
work-benches and utensils, she hoped, would
raise enough to discharge the debt. She had a cow;
but as there was no provision for it, that must be sold,
—that would bring something, but she feared not
enough, with all that she could do, to carry her children
through the long winter before them. Sally, she
said, was nine years old, and, perhaps, her services in
a family, as she was an industrious, handy child, might
be thought an equivalent for her support. The three
younger children she should endeavour to keep with
her.
Although Mr. Germain had a favourable opinion of
Mary, he had not thought her capable of such energetic
plans. She had a mild, quiet way with her, and
he had fallen into a common mistake, in regard to unpretending
characters, that she was rather formed to
suffer, than to act. He expressed with cordiality and
paternal kindness, his approbation of all her plans, and
left her with an assurance that he would immediately
attend to her request. Mr. Germain was not one of
those who satisfy themselves with intending to do good,
and quiet their consciences with a few benevolent emotions.
He remembered, that it was the servant who
did the will of his Master, and not he who promised to
do it, that was approved by him. There is a good
maxim with notable housewives, “a stitch in time
saves nine.” The same proportion may be observed
in the economy of benevolence;—there delay is often
ruinous.
Mr. Germain's people often wondered that he who
accomplished so much, should have so much leisure;
might learn, observed a habit of method, which entered
into all his arrangements, and one rule from which
he was never known to deviate, not to put off till tomorrow,
what may as well be done to-day. The past,
he would say, has gone with its record to the Most High.
We cannot count upon an hour of the future; the present
is all we possess, and is a talent for which we
must render our account.
In obedience to his general rule, Mr. Germain
went immediately to the tavern. He found the bar
room empty. As he entered it, his eye was attracted
by the chalked accounts, which were scrawled on its
smoked and dirty wall. He soon detected poor William's
among them, and was so intent on ascertaining
its amount, that he did not hear or heed the footsteps
of a young man who entered and placed himself on
the seat near him. As he finished the sad business, he
heard adeep sigh, and turning, saw this man whose eye
was eag erly fixed on him. He knew him, and knew
the truth which his livid complexion and heavy eye
proclaimed, that he was addicted to the destructive
vice which ruins so many individuals, and renders their
families the abodes of misery. “Young man,” said
Mr. Germain,” this is a heavy score, but this can be
wiped out. But who can now touch that account
which is registered against the unhappy sinner in the
great book? Oh! my friend, does not this hand-writing
on the wall speak to your conscience? When you
yesterday, followed your companion to the silent, solitary
grave, did no thought follow his spirit to the presence
of the Judge? Be admonished—use the day of
reprieve—cast not away the mercy that is offered to
you. `Escape for thy life, look not behind thee.'
More than death awaits thee here,—the destruction of
soul and body in hell.”
The conscience of the unhappy man was a wakened;
he covered his face with his hands and sobbed aloud.
trust these are tears of penitence, and that they will
lead you back to your Fathers' house where there is
room enough and to spare. You have a difficult task
before you, but you are yet young. Steady resolution
in the fear of God, will have the blessing of God.
Abandon this haunt,—forsake the seducing society of
your companions, that you may not be a partaker of
their evil deeds; apply yourself, constantly, to your
business, and seek your pleasure in your family. Oh!
what a feast will the gratitude of your good wife, and
the prosperity of your little children be to you, after the
husks you have fed on.”
These were words spoken in season, and that was
an hour never forgotten by the penitent. Mr. Germain
visited him often, encouraging and confirming him in
his good resolations. And when sorrow or disappointment
has sometimes borne heavily on this good
man,—as who can escape it in this world! his heart has
been cheered, by the sight of the healthy cheerful
countenance of the reformed man, as he passed him,
at work on his flourishing little farm. “Oh!” he would
say to Mr. Germain,” that, I could persuade others to
exchange the way of the transgressor which is hard
indeed, for paths of perfect peace.”
But to return to Mary's business. Mr. Germain,
found a purchaser for all the contents of William's workshop,
and their avails satisfied the tavern reckoning. He
then went to lay Mary's case before a benevolent
Lady, to whose aid and advice he often had recourse,
Mrs. —, suggested that a contribution might be
easily obtained from the families in the neighbourhood,
who well might afford, to spare enough from their fulness
to save Mary the necessity of parting with her cow.
A collection of provisions was accordingly made, and
sent to her, and most thankfully received by Mary.
A few days after, her neighbour, Mrs. Hill, called
to see her. After sitting awhile, she said to Mrs. Hollis.
Mrs. C—'s.”
“No, I am not” said Mrs. Hollis.
“Well I told them so, I knew better; I would starve
to death, with my children, if I was you, before I would
do it. To be sure, I have not got the pride that some
people has; but, my spirit is above that; there is no
knowing what we may be brought to, but I never can
be brought to make my children wait upon any body.
That's proper negroes' work, and it's for that, the
mark has been kept upon them, since it was put upon
Cain, who, the Bible says, was the first of their race.”
There were so many opinions and principles advanced
in this out-pouring of Betsy Hill, that her mild
neighbour hardly knew what to reply to first. She
calmly replied, “I believe the Bible does not say, that
the coloured people are descended from Cain, and I
cannot think, Mrs. Hill, that service is either a hardship
or disgrace to those whom God has seen fit to
place among the poor of this world.”
“But,” said Mrs. Hill, (for she made great pretences
to religion, and did not choose to appear negligent
of its obligations) “I think it is a very wicked thing
for people to hold their head so high, that they can't
sit down at the same table with their hired people.—
A'nt they children of one Father in Heaven, and ha'nt
they got to lie down in the dust together? No, no, you
will never make me believe it's right to live out, where
you must be prisoned up in a kitchen, and as like as
not, have a negro eat in the same room with you.”
Mary could not restrain a smile, at the inconsistency
of her neighbour, who, with one breath proclaimed a
law of perfect equality, and at the next, shrunk instinctively
from being placed on a level with those that
she deemed below her. She was, however, too wise,
to attempt to stem the current of Mrs. Hill's clamour.
Her life was her argument, and, insensible, indeed,
must that person have been, who was not touched by
me; I did not decline Mrs. C—'s offer on account
of my child's being there obliged to do the work,
and fill the place of a servant. She must serve, and I
hope she will, in all `humility of mind.' Mrs. C—
has a large disorderly family, her kitchen is filled with
servants who keep up a scene of riot and contention,
the family live without any observance of religion.—
Even the sabbath, with them, is not a day of rest and
quiet. I cannot expose my child to the dangers and
temptations of such a family. Mrs. Martin has offered
to take her.”
“Mrs. Martin!” exclaimed Sally Hill, “Mrs.
C— for my money, for all Mrs. Martin.”
“I know well:” said Mary, some persons would
think her too strict; but she is strict only in obliging her
people to be diligent, orderly, neat, and regular.
This is the yoke I wish my child to bear in her youth.”
“Well,” said Betsy, “my advice has not been asked,
and nobody is obliged to take it; but I would as
soon let one of my children walk through the fire to
Moloch, as go to live with the Martins. Some folks
call them religious, but I believe the scripture, `it is
impossible for a rich person to enter into the kingdom
of Heaven.”
“The scriptures say difficult, not impossible,” said
Mary.
“That's all the same, for the matter of that, but I
can't but wonder at you. I should think you'd have
more feeling for your child than to make a slave of her.
The Martins have as many rules and regulations as
kings and queens. Every night the doors are locked
up by 10 o'clock, and if any of them are out after,
they may freeze to death, but the door must not be
opened. Then, there is a long list of laws pasted
over the kitchen fire place, that I saw with my own
eyes, and there is a punishment put against every rule
for the breaking it.”
“And a reward, is there not,” said Mary, “for
those who observe the laws?”
“I don't know any thing about that. There may
be, but who wants rewards from such tyrants? Then,
every night, after prayers, they are all told what to do
the next day. I would as soon make a cart-horse of
my child at once, as to have her driven day after day,
without any mind of her own. All the girls she has
brought up look like Quakers, they are dressed so
plain.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “and so comfortably.”
“She can afford to make them comfortable. No
thanks to her for that.”
“Mrs. Hill,” said Mary, “Mrs. Martin's family is
an example to every body, and I take it as a great favour
from Him who has promised to be a `Father to
the fatherless,' that my child is to be placed there.—
She will have to work, but never beyond her years and
strength; and work I consider a blessing. How many
children do we know that are kept at home by mothers,
who are either too proud to put them out to service,
(for pride is in the cottage as well as in the palace,)
or else have not resolution to part with them, who
are brought up in idleness. We have not employment
for our children at home. A poor man has not
land for his boys to work on, and we have not in our
houses, wherewith to keep the girls busy.—The boys,
now and then get a few hours' work, an errand to do,
or some little job; but these do not give them good habits,
and we seldom see children that are carried along
in this way, that prosper in the world. It is hard for
me to put my child away from me, for she is a help and
comfort to me, but I must consult my child's good, and
not please myself at her expence.”
This was a new mode of reasoning to Betsy, and
one which she did not relish. She took her leave,
muttering that there were none so deaf as those that
would not hear. Mary did hear and obey,—not the
ranting of her ill-judging neighbour, but the dictates
man.
Mrs. Hollis was blessed with health;—time rolled on,
and her little cottage, which had been stripped of almost
every article, from time to time, to satisfy her
husband's debts, began again to wear a look of comfort
and plenty. Even Betsey Hill, who was not disposed
to do Mary justice, said it was a wonder what
luck some people had. Mary's luck was easily explained.
She did not believe in witches, nor pretend
to magic. After her husband's death, she resumed
her old trade. Many persons, seeing her anxiety to
support her family gave her work. She used to say,
that her health and her time were her capital, and that
it was her own fault, if the interest of such a stock did
not support her. Many acts of friendship and generosity
she received from Mrs. Martin, who would say
it was a pleasure to give Mary Hollis any thing, she
took such good care of all she had, “and 'gar'd the auld
claithes look amaist as well as new.”
When the boys were old enough, they were placed
in the families of respectable farmers. The youngest
girl remained with her Mother, who has taught her
her trade. It is now 20 years since the dreadful night
of William's death. Mrs. Martin has become a widow,
and Sally is still with her, and a blessing, her kind employer
says, she has proved to her. She is now Mrs. Martin's
house-keeper, respected by all who know her, and
beloved by her mistress, who places unlimited confidence
in her. Mrs. Hollis eldest son, has gone to Ohio, with
the son of his master, and settled on a thriving farm,
which his fidelity and industry have earned. The second
son has bought and paid for a little farm adjoining
his mother's cottage, which he has repaired and enclosed
with a neat fence. He has married a young girl
brought up in Mrs. Martin's family, approved by his
Mother, and loved by his sisters. Mrs. Hollis, has
reserved to herself one room of her cottage, where she
God, who permits her in her declining years to walk
in “green pastures by the side of still waters.” Her
youngest daughter plies her Mother's trade, and is as
great a favourite with the present generation, as her
Mother was with their predecessors.
| Mary Hollis | |