 | THE WIDOW AND HER SON. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. |  |
THE WIDOW AND HER SON.
During my residence in the country, I used frequently
to attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles,
its mouldering monuments, its dark oaken pannelling,
all reverend with the gloom of departed years, seemed to
fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday,
too, in the country, is so holy in its repose; such a pensive
quiet reigns over the face of nature, that every restless
passion is charmed down, and we feel all the natural
religion of the soul gently springing up within us.
The bridal of the earth and sky.”
there are feelings that visit me in a country church, amid
the beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience no
where else; and if not a more religious, I think I am a
better man on Sunday, than on any other day of the
seven.
But in this church I felt myself continually thrown
back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp of the
poor worms around me. The only being that seemed
thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a
true Christian, was a poor decrepid old woman, bending
under the weight of years and infirmities. She bore the
traces of something better than abject poverty. The
Her dress, though humble in the extreme, was scrupulously
clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded
her, for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar. She seemed
to have survived all love, all friendship, all society; and
to have nothing left her but the hopes of heaven. When
I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form in
prayer—habitually conning her prayer book, which her
palsied hand and failing eyes would not permit her to
read, but which she evidently knew by heart—I felt persuaded
that the faultering voice of that poor woman arose
to heaven far before the responses of the clerk, the swell
of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and
this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently attracted
me. It stood on a knoll, round which a small
stream made a beautiful bend, and then wound its way
through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. The church
was surrounded by yew trees which seemed almost coeval
with itself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from
among them, with rooks and crows generally wheeling
about it. I was seated there one still sunny morning,
watching two labourers who were digging a grave. They
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners
of the church-yard; where, from the number of nameless
graves around, it would appear that the indigent and
friendless were huddled into the earth. I was told that
the new made grave was for the only son of a poor widow.
While I was meditating on the distinctions of
worldly rank, which extend thus down into the very
dust, the toll of the bell announced the approach of the
funeral. They were the obsequies of poverty, with which
pride had nothing to do. A coffin of the plainest materials,
without pall or other covering, was borne by some
of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air
of cold indifference. There were no mock mourners in
the trappings of affected wo; but there was one real
mourner who feebly tottered after the corpse. It was
the aged mother of the deceased—the poor old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She
was supported by a humble friend, who was endeavouring
to comfort her. A few of the neighbouring poor
had joined the train, and some children of the village
were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking
on the grief of the mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson
issued from the church porch, arrayed in the surplice,
with prayer-book in hand, and attended by the clerk.
The service however, was a mere act of charity. The
deceased had been destitute, and the surviver was pennyless.
It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but
coldly and unfeelingly. The well fed priest moved but
a few steps from the church door; his voice could scarcely
be heard at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral
service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turned
into such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on
the ground. On it were inscribed the name and age of
the deceased—“George Sommers, aged 26 years.” The
poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at the head
of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer,
but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking of the body, and
a convulsive motion of the lips, that she was gazing on
the last relics of her son, with the yearnings of a mother's
heart.
Preparations were made to deposite the coffin into the
earth. There was that bustling stir which breaks so
harshly on the feelings of grief and affection; directions
given in the cold tones of business: the striking of spades
into sand and gravel; which, at the grave of those we
love, is, of all sounds, the most withering. The bustle
around seemed to awaken the mother from a wretched
reverie. She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about
with a faint wildness. As the men approached with
cords to lower the coffin into the grave, she wrung her
hands and broke into an agony of grief. The poor woman
who attended her took her by the arm, endeavouring
to raise her from the earth, and to whisper something
like consolation—“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 be comforted.
As they lowered the body into the earth, the creaking
of the cords seemed to agonize her; but when, on some
accidental obstruction, there was a jostling of the coffin,
all the tenderness of the mother burst forth; as if any
harm could come to him who was far beyond the reach of
worldly suffering.
I could see no more—my heart swelled into my throat
barbarous part in standing by and gazing idly on this
scene of maternal anguish. I wandered to another part
of the church-yard, where I remained until the funeral
train had dispersed.
When I saw the mother slowly and painfully quitting
the grave, leaving behind her the remains of all that was
dear to her on earth, and returning to silence and destitution,
my heart ached for her. What, thought I, are the
distresses of the rich! they have friends to soothe—pleasures
to beguile—a world to divert and dissipate their
griefs. What are the sorrows of the young! Their
growing minds soon close above the wound—their elastic
spirits soon rise above the pressure—their green and
ductile affections soon twine round new objects. But
the sorrows of the poor, who have no outward appliances
to soothe—the sorrows of the aged, with whom life at best
is but a wintry day, and who can look for no aftergrowth
of joy—the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute,
mourning over an only son, the last solace of her years;
these are indeed sorrows which make us feel the impotency
of consolation.
It was some time before I left the church-yard. On my
way homeward I met with the woman who had acted as
comforter: she was just returning from accompanying the
mother to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her some
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 rural occupations, and the assistance
of a small garden, had supported themselves creditably
and comfortably, and led a happy and a blameless life.
They had only one son, who had grown up to be the staff
and pride of their 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 his parents! It did
one's heart good, to see him of a Sunday, dressed out in
his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery, supporting his old
mother to church—for she was always fonder of leaning
on George's arm, than on her good man's; and, poor soul,
she might well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was
not in the country round.”
Unfortunately the son was tempted, during a year of
scarcity and agricultural hardship to enter into the service
river. He had not been long in this employ when he
was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried off to sea.
His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond
that they could learn nothing. It was the loss of their
main prop. The father, who was already infirm, grew
heartless and melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The
widow, left lonely, in her age and feebleness, could no
longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still
there was a kind of feeling toward her throughout the
village, and a certain respect as being one of the oldest
inhabitants. As no one applied for the cottage, in which
she had passed so many happy days, she was permitted
to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almost helpless.
The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied,
from the scanty productions of her little garden, which
the neighbours would now and then cultivate for her.
It was but a few days before the time at which these
circumstances were told me, that she was gathering some
vegetables for a repast, when she heard the cottage door
which faced the garden suddenly open. A stranger came
out, and seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around,
He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated and
ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken by sickness
and hardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her,
but his steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his
knees before her, and sobbed like a child. The poor woman
gazed upon him with a vacant and wandering eye—
“Oh my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son?
your poor boy George?” It was indeed the wreck of
her once noble lad; who, shattered by wounds, by sickness
and foreign imprisonment, had, at length, dragged
his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among the scenes of
his childhood.
I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a
meeting, where joy and sorrow were so completely blended:
still he was alive! he was come 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 to finish the work of fate, the desolation of
his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched
himself on the pallet on which his widowed mother
had passed many a sleepless night, and never rose from it
again.
The villagers when they heard that George Sommers
and assistance that their humble means afforded. He
was too weak, however, to talk—he could only look his
thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and
he seemed unwilling 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 and despondency; who
that has pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness
of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother
“that looked on his childhood,” that smoothed his pillow
and administered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an
enduring tenderness in the love of a mother 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 will sacrifice every comfort to his convenience; she
will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; she will
glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity;—and, if
misfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from
his misfortunes; and if disgrace settle upon his name,
she will still love and cherish him in spite of his disgrace;
and if all the world beside cast him off, she will be all
the world to him.
Poor George Sommers had known what it was to be in
sickness and none to soothe—lonely and in prison, and
none to visit him. He could not endure his 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. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream,
and look anxiously up until he saw her 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 visit the cottage of the mourner, and administer
pecuniary assistance, and, if possible, comfort. I
found, however, on inquiry, that the good feelings of the
villagers had prompted them to do every thing that the
case admitted; 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 surprize, I saw the poor old woman tottering
down the aisle to her accustomed seat on the 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 pious affection and utter
poverty: a black ribbon or so—a faded black handkerchief,
and one or two more such humble attempts to express
by outward signs that grief that passes show. When
I looked round upon the storied monuments; the stately
hatchments; the cold marble pomp, with which grandeur
mourned magnificently over departed pride, and turned
to this 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 broken heart, I felt that this
living monument of real grief was worth them all.
I related her story to some of the wealthy members
of the congregation, and they were moved by it. They
exerted themselves to render her situation more comfortable,
and to lighten her afflictions. It was, however,
but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the course
of a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual
seat at church, and before I left the neighbourhood I heard,
with a feeling of satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed
her last, and had gone to rejoin those she loved, in that
world where sorrow is never known, and friends are never
parted.
| THE WIDOW AND HER SON. The beauties of Washington Irving, author of "The sketch-book," "Knickerbocker," "Crayon miscellany," &c. | |