University of Virginia Library

9. THE WIDOW AND HER SON.

A group of villagers surrounded an open grave. A
woman, holding two young children by the hand, was
bowed down with grief. There seemed to be no other
immediate mourners. But many an eye turned on them
with sympathy, and more than one glistened with tears.

In a small, rural community, every death is felt as a
solemn thing, and in some measure, a general loss. The
circumstances that attended it, are inquired into, and remembered;
while, in cities, the frequent hearse scarce
gains a glance, or a thought, from the passing throng.

On this occasion it was distinctly known, that Mr.
Jones, the carpenter of the village, who was that day
buried, had led a reproachless life, and that his death,
by sudden disease, in the prime of his days, would be an

unspeakable loss to his wife, and little ones. Pitying
kindness stirred in the hearts of those honest people,
and whatever service their limited means allowed, was
promptly rendered. It was the earnest desire of the
widow, to keep, if possible, the cottage where they had
resided since their marriage; and which was the more
dear, from having been built by the hands of her husband.
They respected her diligence and prudence, and
at their seasons of fruit-gathering and harvest she was
not forgotten. But as her health, which had been worn
down by watching and sorrow, returned, her energies
also were quickened to labor, that she might bring up
her children without the aid of charity: and her efforts
were prospered.

In the course of a few years, it was thought advisable
for her daughter, who was ingenious with the needle, to
go to a neighboring town and obtain instruction in the
trade of a dressmaker. Richard, who was two years
younger, remained with his mother, attending in winter
the village-school, and at other periods of the year, finding
occasional employment among the farmers in the
vicinity. It was seen by all, how much the widow's
heart was bound up in him, and how she was always
devising means for his improvement and happiness.

But as Richard grew older, he liked the society of
idle boys, and it was feared did not fully appreciate, or
repay her affection. He was known to be addicted to
his own way, and had been heard to express contempt

for the authority of women. There were rumors of
his having frequented places where liquors were sold;
yet none imagined the disobedience and disrespect which
that lonely cottage sometimes witnessed, for the mother
complained only to her God, in the low sigh of prayer.
She was not able to break his intimacy with evil associates,
and, ere he reached his eighteenth year, had too
much reason to believe him a partaker in their vices.

It was supposed that she was unacquainted with his
conduct, because she spoke not of it to others, and continued
to treat him with tenderness. But deep Love,
though sometimes willing to appear blind, is quick-sighted
to the faults of its object. It may keep silence, but the
glance of discovery, and the thrill of torture, are alike
electric.

The widowed mother had hoped much from the return
of her daughter, and the aid of her young, cheerful
spirit, in rendering their home attractive. Her arrival,
in full possession of her trade, with the approbation of
her employers, gave to her lone heart a joy long untasted.
Margaret was an active and loving girl, graceful
in her person, and faithful to every duty. Her industry
provided new comforts for the cottage, while her innocent
gayety enlivened it.

The widowed mother earnestly besought her assistance,
in saving their endangered one from the perils that
surrounded him; and her sisterly love poured itself out
upon his heart, in a full, warm flood. It would seem

that he caught the enthusiasm of her example; for he
returned with more of diligence to his former labors,
while his intervals of leisure were spent at home. When
his mother saw him seated by their pleasant little hearth,
sometimes reading to Margaret, while she plied the
needle, or occasionally winding her silks, and arranging
the spools in her work-table, their young voices mingling
in song, or laughter, she felt how powerful was the influence
of a good sister, and lifted up her soul in praise
to the Rock of their salvation. Somewhat more of filial
respect and observance she might have desired, but was
content that her own claims should be overlooked, might
he only be rescued. Months fled, and her pallid cheek
had already resumed the tinge of a long-forgotten happiness.

One day, when spring made the earth beautiful, on
entering suddenly Margaret's little chamber, she surprised
her in a passion of tears.

“My daughter! My dear child!”

“Oh, mother! I wish you had not come, just now.”

“Tell me, are you sick?”

“No, not sick. Only my heart is broken.”

“Can you not trust me with your trouble?”

Long and bursting sobs followed, with stifled attempts
at utterance.

“Mother, we have been so happy, I cannot bear to
destroy it all. Richard,—my poor brother.”

“Speak! what has he done?”

Hiding her face in her mother's bosom, she said in
broken tones,—

“You ought to know,—I must tell you. It cannot
longer be concealed that he often comes home late, and
disguised with liquor. I tried to shut out the truth from
myself. Then I tried to hide it from others. But it is
all in vain.”

“Alas! I thought he was changed, that your blessed
hand had saved him. Tell me what you have discovered.”

“I would fain spare you. But I have seen enough,
for weeks past, to destroy my peace. Last night, you
had retired before he came. He entered with a reeling
step, and coarse, hateful words. I strove to get him
silently to his bed, lest he might disturb you. But he
withstood me. His fair blue eyes were like balls of fire;
and he cursed me, till I fled from him.”

The mother clasped her closer to her heart, and bathed
her brow with tears.

“Look to Him, my child, who ordereth all our trials.
Night after night, have I spent in sleepless prayer for the
poor, sinful boy.”

“Ah! then you have known it long. Mother, you have
been too indulgent. You should warn and reprove him,
and give him no rest, until he repent and forsake his
sin.”

“All that was in my power to do, has been faithfully
done. I have not spared him. But he revolted. He

despised my woman's voice, my motherly love. I forbore
to distress your young heart with all that I might have
revealed. I feared to damp the courage on which my
hopes were built. I told you freely of his danger from
evil associates, but relied on the power of your love too
much, too fondly. Yet you have been an angel to him,
and to me.”

“Mother, I will myself rebuke him. I will speak for
you, and for God.”

“Margaret, may He give you wisdom. Should your
brother's mind not be in a right state, your words will be
hurled back upon your own head. Sometimes, I have
poured out my whole soul in reproof. Then, again, I
have refrained, to save him from the sin of cursing his
mother. Yet speak to him, Margaret, if you will. May
God give power to your words. Still, I cannot but fear
lest you take a wrong time, when his feelings are inflamed
with intemperance.”

“Be at peace, in this, dearest mother, I will not
broach such a subject but at a fitting time.”

The mother had little hope from the intended appeal
of her daughter. Indeed, she shrank from it, for she
best knew the temper of her son. Yet she humbled herself
to go to the vender of liquor, and beseech him to
withhold it from him, in the name of the widow's God.
Margaret drooped in secret, but spoke cheering words to
her brother, with an unclouded brow. One day, he had
aided her in some slight operation in the garden, with

unwonted kindness. She fancied that she saw in his eye,
the reviving spirit of better days. Throwing her arm
around his neck, she said,—

“Brother Richard, you can be so good. How I wish
it were always thus.”

“Always to be working under your orders, I suppose.
No doubt, that would be quite pleasing. All you women
like to rule, when you can.”

“Not to rule, but to see those we love rule themselves.”

“Is that what you tell Will Palmer, when he sits here
so long, watching you like a cat, and looking as wise as
an owl? If you should chance to marry him, you'd tell
him another tale, and try all ways to rule him yourself.
Now, Miss Mag Jones, tell the whole truth: why is that
same deacon that is to be, here forever?”

“I will not hide anything from you, dear Richard,
who have known my thoughts from my cradle. We shall
probably be married in the autumn, and then”—

“And then, what?”

“Oh, brother! then, I hope you will do all in your
power to comfort mother, when I shall not be here.”

“Not be here! Do you expect to move to Oregon, or
sit on the top of the Andes, with this remarkable sweetheart
of yours?”

“We shall not leave this village. But when I have a
new home and other duties, I hope you will be daughter
and son both, to our poor mother. Remember how hard

she has worked to bring us up, how she has watched us
in sickness, and prayed for us, at all times. Her only
earthly hope is in us; especially in you, her son.”

“Margaret, what are you driving at?”

“Oh, Richard! forsake those evil associates, who are
leading you to ruin. Break off the habit of drinking, that
debases, and destroys you. For the sake of our widowed
mother, for the sake of our father's unblemished memory,
for the sake of the sister, who loves you as her own
soul”—

“For the sake of what else? Bill Palmer, I presume.
Is there never to be an end to these women's tongues?
So it has been these three years; preach, preach, till I
have prayed for deafness. I have had no rest, for
Mrs. Jones's eternal sermons; and now you must needs
come to help her, with your everlasting gab.”

The young girl heeded not that his eyes flashed, and
that the veins of his neck were swollen and sanguine.
Throwing off the timidity of her nature, she spoke slowly,
and with solemn emphasis, as one inspired.

“If you have no pity on the mother who bore you, no
tender memory of the father who laid his hands on your
head, when they were cold in death; no regard for an
honest, honorable reputation; at least, have some pity on
your own undying soul, some fear of the bar of judgment,
of the worm that never dies, and seek mercy while
there is hope, and repent, that you may be forgiven.”

“I tell you what, I'll not bear this from you. I know

something to make fine words out of, too. Your mother
has been slandering me, prohibiting the traffic in liquor,
I understand: for aught I know, you were her spokesman.
Wise women! as if there was but one place on
this round world, where it is sold. Hypocrites you are,
both of you! making boast of your love, and publishing
evil against me. Look out, how you drive a man to
desperation. If you see my face no more, thank yourselves!”

And with a hoarse imprecation, he threw himself over
the garden fence, and disappeared. That night there was
agonizing grief in the pleasant cottage, tears, and listening
for the feet that came not. Then, were days of vain
search, and harrowing anxiety, closed by sleepless watchings.
Alas! for the poor mother's heart! What had
the boy been left to do? what! Had not his sister
been too severe? Would that her reproaches had been
less sharp to his sore heart, or that she had taken a better
time, when he might have been more patient. Thus
travailed the yearning heart of the mother, with the old,
blind Eden-policy, vain excuse.

Again another tide of struggling emotion. Would he
but come, even as he had so often done, with unequal
steps, and muttered threatenings. Would he only come,
that the Love which had nursed his innocent infancy,
might once more look upon his face. Then swept terrible
thoughts over the mother's soul, images of reckless
crime, and ghastly suicide. But she gave them not

utterance to the daughter who sate beside her, working
and weeping. For she said, the burden of the child is
already greater than she can bear.

Yet he, who was the cause of all this agony, hastened
night and day from the quiet spot of his birth, towards
the sea-coast, boiling with passion. He conceived himself
to have been utterly disgraced by the prohibition of
his mother to the seller of liquors, not feeling that the
disgrace was in the sin that had made such prohibition
necessary. He wildly counted those who most loved him,
as conspirators against his peace; for vice, to its other
distortions of soul, adds the insanity of mistaking the
best friends for enemies.

Full of vengeful purpose, and knowing that his mother
had long dreaded lest he should choose the life of a sailor,
he hurried to a seaport, and shipped on a whaling voyage.
As the vessel was to sail immediately, to be absent more
than three years, and he entered under a feigned name,
it gave him pleasure that he should thus baffle pursuit or
discovery.

“Let them trace me, if they can,” said he; “and
when I get back, I'll sail again, without seeing them.
They may preach now as long as they please, but I'll be
out of their hearing.”

Thus, in the madness of a sinful heart, he threw himself
upon the great deep, without a thought of kindness
towards man, or a prayer to God. Yet he was ill-prepared
for the lot of hardship he had chosen,—the coarse

fare, the iron sway, the long night-watch, and the
slippery shroud in the tempest. To drown misery in
the daily allowance of liquor, was his principal resource,
when at first the sea-sickness seized him, and afterwards,
when his sea-sins sank him still lower in brutality. Vile
language, bad songs, and frequent broils were the entertainments
of the forecastle; while the toilsome duties of
a raw sailor before the mast, were imbittered by the
caprices of the captain, himself a votary of intemperance.
A stronger shadowing forth of the intercourse of condemned
spirits could scarcely be given, than the fierce
crew of that rude vessel exhibited, shut out, for years,
from all humanizing and holy influences. Yet strange to
say, the recreant, who had abused the indulgences of
home and the supplications of love, derived some benefit
where it could least have been anticipated. Indolence
was exchanged for regular employment, and he learned
the new and hard lesson of submission to authority; and
whenever a lawless spirit is enforced to industry, and the
subjugation of its will, it must be in some degree a gainer.
So, with the inconsistency of our fallen nature, the soul
that had spurned the sunbeam, and hardened under the
shower, was arrested by the thunderblot, and taught by
the lightning.

In the strong excitement and peril of conflict with the
huge monarch of the deep, he gained some elevation,
by a temporary forgetfulness of self; for that one image,
long magnified and dilated, had closed the mind to all

ennobling prospects, and generous resolves. The deadlights
of the soul had been so long shut in, that the
first ray that streamed through them, seemed new and
wonderful.

Accident and ill-fortune protracted their voyage, several
months beyond its intended limits. While pursuing
a homeward course, some seasons of serious reflection,
when not under the sway of intemperance, came over
Richard Jones. For he was not utterly hardened; and
prayers continually rose up from his forsaken home, that,
if yet in the land of the living, he might repent, and find
hope. Conscience, at times, wrought powerfully, so that
he dreaded to be alone, or turned as a refuge to the vile
revelry of comrades whom he despised.

Once, as he paced the deck in his midnight watch,
while the vessel went rushing onward through the deep,
dark sea, solemn thoughts settled heavily around him.
Here, and there, a star looked down upon him, with
watchful, reproving eye. He felt alone, in the presence
of some mighty, mysterious Being. Early memories returned;
the lessons of the Sabbath-school, the plaintive
toll of the church-bell, the voice of his mother, as seated
on her knee, she taught him of the dear Saviour, who
took the children to his breast, and blessed them.

A few drops of rain, from a passing cloud, fell upon
his head. In the excitement of the reverie, he gasped,—

“These are her tears! Yes! Just so they felt on my

forehead, when she used to beseech me to forsake the
foolish, and live, and go in the way of understanding.”

He leaned over the vessel's side. The rain-drops
ceased, and the phosphorescence of the waters was like
a great lake of fire. The billows rose, tossing their
white crests for a moment, and then sank into the
burning flood. He watched them till his brain grew
giddy. Presently, a single faint moonbeam shot through
the cleft of a cloud. As it glimmered over the surge,
he thought a face loomed up, and gazed on him,—a
fair young face, paler than marble. A hand seemed
to stretch itself out, arms to bend in an embracing
clasp, a floating death-shroud gleamed,—and all was
lost forever.

“Oh, Margaret! oh, my sister!” he shrieked, “just so
she looked when she adjured me, in the name of God, to
have pity on my poor mother, and on my own soul.”

As if he had witnessed her funeral obsequies, he wept
in remorseful grief. His watch closed. In horror of
spirit, he retired, but not to sleep. Even the hardened
men who surrounded him forbore to jeer, when they
heard him moan in anguish, “Oh, Margaret! oh, my
sister!”

These strong and painful impressions scarcely wore
away during the brief remainder of the voyage. When
he saw in dim outline, the hills of his country gleaming
amid the clouds, a new joy took possession of his soul.
And when his feet rested again on the solid earth, and

he received his wages, his first thought was to hasten
and share them with those whom he had so recklessly
forsaken.

“Will you come to my house, sir?” said a man, upon
the wharf, near him. “Good accommodations, sir, for
sailor gentlemen. Everything, first cut and first cost.”

“Where is your house?”

“Near by. Here, boy; take this fine young man's
chest along. I'll show you the way, sir. The favorite
boarding-house for all jolly, noble-spirited tars.”

It was evident that he was now in the power of a
land-shark. Alas! for all his hopes: the struggles of
conscience, the rekindling of right affections. Temptation,
and the force of habit, were too strong for him.
Almost continually intoxicated, his hard earnings vanished,
he knew not how, or where. It was not long ere
his rapacious landlord pronounced him in debt, and
produced claims which he was unable to meet. His
chest with all its contents was seized, and he, miserably
clad, and half bewildered, was turned into the streets,
by his sordid betrayer.

As the fumes of prolonged inebriety subsided, horrible
images surrounded him. Smothered resolutions, and
pampered vices, sprang from the seething caldron of his
brain, frowning and gibbering like ghostly tormentors.
Monstrous creatures grinned and beckoned, and when he
would have fled, cold slimy serpents seemed to coil
around and fetter his trembling limbs.

Still, with returning reason came a deeper misery.
He desired to die, but death fled from him. Covering
his face with his hands, as he sate on the ground, in the
damp, chill air of evening, he meditated different forms
of suicide. He would fain have plunged into the sea,
but his tottering limbs failed him. Searching for his
knife, the only movable that remained to him, he examined
its blunted edge, and loosened blade, as if doubting
their efficiency. Thus engaged, by the dim light of
a street-lamp, groans, as if the pangs of death had
seized him, burst from his heaving breast. Half believing
himself already a dweller with condemned spirits,
he started at the sound of a human voice.

“Thee art in trouble, I think.”

The eyes once so clear in days of innocence, opening
wide and wild, glared with amazement on the calm,
compassionate brow of a middle-aged man, in the garb
of a Quaker. The knife fell from his quivering hand,
and sounded on the pavement. But there was no answer.

“Thee art in great trouble, friend!”

“Friend! Friend! Who calls me friend? I have
no friends, but the tormentors to whom I am going.”

“Hast thou a wife? or children?”

“No, no; God be thanked. No wife, nor children.
I tell you there are no friends left, but the fiends who
have come for me. No home, but their eternal fires.

Shoals of them were here just now,—ready! aye, ready!”
and he laughed a demoniac laugh.

“Poor, poor youth! I see thee art a sailor.”

“I was once. What I am now, I know not. I wish
to be nothing. Leave me to myself, and those that are
howling around me. Here! here! I come:” and he
groped aimlessly for his lost knife.

The heart of the philanthropist yearned as over an
erring brother. The spirit of the Master who came to
seek and to save the lost, moved within him.

“Alas! poor victim. How many have fallen, like
thee, before the strong man armed. Sick art thou, at
the very soul. I will give thee shelter for the night.
Come with me, to my home.”

“Home! Home?” shouted the inebriate, as if he
understood him not. And while the benevolent man,
taking his arm, staid his uncertain footsteps, he still
repeated, but in tones more humanized and tender,—“Home! your home? What! me a sinner?” until a burst
of unwonted tears relieved the fires within.

And as that blessed man led him to his own house,
and laid him upon a good bed, speaking words of comfort;
heard he not from above that deep, thrilling melody,
“I was sick, and ye visited me, in prison, and ye
came unto me. Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one
of these, ye have done it unto me?”

With reviving day the sinful man revived; humbled
in heart, and sad. Subdued by suffering, and softened

by a kindness, which he felt to be wholly undeserved,
he poured out a fervent prayer for divine aid in the
great work of reformation. He was glad to avail himself,
without delay, of the proposal of his benefactor, to
enter on service in a temperance ship ready to sail immediately
for the East Indies.

“I am acquainted with the captain,” said the good
man, “and can induce him to take thee. I am also interested
in the vessel, and in the results of her voyage.
A relative of mine, goes out as supercargo. Both of
them will be thy friends, if thou art true to thyself.
But intemperance bringeth sickness to the soul, as well
as to the body. Wherefore, pray for healing, and strive
for penitence, and angels who rejoice over the returning
sinner, will give thee aid.”

Self-abasement, and gratitude to his preserver, swelled
like an overwhelming flood, and choked his utterance.

“All men have sinned, my son, though not all in the
same way. But there is mercy for every one that sorroweth,
and forsaketh the evil. God hath given me the
great happiness to help some who have fallen as low as
thee. Thank Him, therefore, and not the poor arm of
flesh. May He give thee-strength to stand firm on the
Rock of salvation.”

Broken words, mingled with tears, struggled vainly
to express the emotions of the departing sailor. His
benefactor once more shaking him heartily by the hand,
bade him farewell.

“Peace be with thee, on the great waters. And remember
to strive and pray.”

A new world seemed to open upon the rescued one.
Of the quietness and order that pervaded a temperance
ship, he had no anticipation. There were neither quarrels
nor profanity, so common among the crew, nor arrogance,
and capricious punishment, on the part of those
in power. Cheerful obedience, and just authority prevailed,
as in a well-regulated family. He was both surprised
and delighted to find his welfare an object of
interest with the officers of the ship, to receive kind
counsel from them, and to be permitted to employ his
brief intervals of leisure with the well-chosen volumes
of a seaman's library.

Still it was not with him, as if he had never sinned.
Not all at once could he respire freely in a pure atmosphere.
Physical exhaustion, from the withdrawal of
stimulants to which he had been long accustomed, sometimes
caused such deep despondence, that life itself
seemed a burden.

Cherished vice brings also a degree of moral obliquity.
Every permitted sin lifts a barrier between the clear
shining of God's countenance, and the cold and frail
human heart. Perverted trains of thought, and polluted
remembrances still lingered with him, and feelings
long debased, did not readily acquire an upward tendency.
Yet the parting admonition of his benefactor to
strive and pray, ever sounded in his ears, and became

the motto of his soul. By little and little, through
faithful obedience, he obtained the victory. His improvement
was noticed by others, before he dared to
congratulate himself; for humility had strangely become
a part of his character, who once defied all laws, human
and divine. His countenance began to resume the ingenuous
expression of early years, and the eyes, so long
fiery, or downcast, looked up with the clearness of hope.

“Blessings on the temperance ship!” he often ejaculated,
as he paced the deck in his nightly watch, “and
eternal blessings on the holy man, who snatched me
from the lowest hell.”

At his arrival in a foreign port, he was watchful to
avoid every temptation. His friend, the supercargo,
took him under his especial charge, and finding him much
better educated than is usual with sailors, gave him employment
of a higher nature, which was both steady and
lucrative. His expenses were regulated with extreme
economy, that he might lay up more liberally for those
dear ones at home, whose images became more and more
vivid, as his heart threw off the debasing dominion of
intemperance, and its host of evils.

The returning voyage was one of unmingled satisfaction.
Compunction had given place to a healthful virtue,
whose root was not in himself.

“Why is this?” he often soliloquized: “why should
I be saved, while so many perish? How have I deserved
such mercy, who willingly made a beast of myself, through

the fiery draught of intemperance? Oh, my mother! I
know that thy prayers have followed me,—they have
saved me.”

With what a surpassing beauty did the hills of his
native land gleam upon his eye, unfolding before him,
like angels' wings. He felt also, that an angel's mission
was his to the hearts that loved him, and which he in
madness had wounded. Immediately on reaching the
shore, he began his journey to them. Stopping his ears
to the sounds of the city, where he had once sunk so
low, he hurried by its haunts of temptation, less from
fear, than from sickening disgust.

Autumn had ripened its fruits, without sacrificing the
verdure of summer. It was the same season that, seven
years before, he had traversed this region. But with
what contrasted prospects, and purposes! How truly
has it been said, that no two individuals can differ more
from each other, than the same individual may, at different
periods of life, differ from himself.

Richard Jones scarcely paused on his way for sleep, or
for refreshment. He sought communion with none. The
food of his own thoughts sufficed. As he drew near the
spot of his birth, impatience increased almost beyond
endurance. The rapid wheels seemed to make no progress,
and the distance to lengthen interminably. Quitting
the public vehicle, which did not pass that secluded
part of the village where his parental cottage was situated,
he sought it in solitude. It was pleasant to him to

come thus unknown, and he meditated the rapturous surprise
he was about to create.

Those rocks! that river! can they be the same? The
roof! the very roof! and the maple that shaded it.—But
the garden-fence, the gate, are broken and gone. Where
is the honeysuckle that Margaret trained? He was about
to lift the latch,—to burst in, as in days of old. But
other thoughts came over him, and he knocked gently, as
a stranger; again, more earnestly.

“Who is there?”

It was a broad, gruff accent. He opened the door; a
large, coarse woman stood there, with sleeves rolled above
her red elbows, toiling at the wash-tub.

“Does the Widow Jones live here?”

“The Widow who? why, Lord, no. I live here myself,
to be sure.”

The quivering lips, and parched tongue, scarcely articulated,—

“Where is Margaret Jones?”

“How should I know? I never hearn o' such a one,
not I. Tho' I've been here, and hereabouts, this two
year, I reckon.”

A horror of great darkness fell upon the weary traveller.
He turned from the door. Whither should he go?
There was no neighboring house, and had there been, he
would fain have hidden his misery from all who had ever
known him. Instinctively he entered the burial-ground,
which was near by. There was his father's grave with

its modest stone, where he had been so often led in childhood.
By its side was another, not fresh, yet the sods
were imperfectly consolidated, and had not gathered
greenness. He threw himself upon it,—he grasped a
few dry weeds that grew there, and waved in the rising
blast.

“This is to be alone in the world! Oh God! I have
deserved it; I was her murderer! but I dreamed not of
such misery!”

Long he lay there, in his tempestuous grief, without
being sensible of a faint hollow sound, heard at regular
intervals. It was the spade of the sexton, casting up
earth and stones from the depth of a grave, in which he
labored. Even his deaf ear caught the voice of anguish,
as he finished his work. Coming forward, he stood in
wonder, as if to illustrate the description of the poet:

Starting at that withered effigy, which in the dim haze
of twilight seemed more like a ghost than a man, he
exclaimed,—

“Did you ever hear of a middle-aged woman, called
the Widow Jones?”

“Hear of her! I know'd her well, and her husband
too. An honest, hard-working man he was; and when
he died, was well spoke of, through all this village.”

“And his wife?”—

“Why everybody pitied her, inasmuch as her husband
died so sudden, and left leetle, or no means behind, for
her and the children.”

“There were children, then?”

“Yes, two on 'em. She worked hard enough, to
bring 'em up, I guess. I remember the funeral, as if
'twas only yesterday. I stood just about where you do
now; and I used this spade, the very first time it ever
was used, to dig that same grave.”

With a convulsive effort, as when one plucks a dagger
from his breast, he asked faintly,—

“When did she die?”

“Die? mercy on you! Why, I don't s'pose she's dead
at all. Sure, I should have been called on to dig the
grave, if she had died: that's sartain. I've had all the
business of that sort, in these parts, as you may say, for
this forty year, and better. There did once come a person
from the North country, and try to undersell me.
But he did'nt do his work thorough. His graves caved
in. He couldn't get a living, and so he went off. I'll
show ye one of the graves of his digging, if you'll just
came along,”—

“Tell me, for God's sake! if the Widow Jones still
lives?”

“Why, man! what's the matter on ye? you're as
white as the tomb-stones. I tell ye, she's alive, for
aught I know to the contrary. She moved away from

here, a considerable time ago. It an't so well with her,
as 'twas in days past.”

Grasping the sexton strongly by the arm, he demanded,—

“Where is she to be found?”

“Oh Lord! help! help! the man will murder me, I
verily believe. Did ye ever hear of what was called the
stone-house? just at the hither eend of the next village,
after you cross a bridge, and go up a hill, and turn to
the right, and see a small cluster of buildings, and a mill,
and a meetin'-house? Well, she lives there in a kind of
a suller-room, for I was a telling you, I expect, she an't
none too well off.—Goodness! the creature is gone as if
he wanted to ride a streak o' lightning, and whip up. He
is demented, without a doubt. What a terrible risk I've
run! Deliver us from crazy men, here among the tombs.
How awful my arm aches, where he clutched it.”

While the garrulous sexton made his way to his own
dwelling, to describe his mysterious guest, and imminent
peril of life; the supposed maniac was traversing the
intervening space with breathless rapidity. Lights began
to glimmer from the sparsely-sprinkled dwellings. The
laborers, returning from toil, took their evening repast
with their families. Here and there, a blazing hearth
marked the chillness of advancing autumn.

Rushing onward towards a long, low building of gray
stone, which appeared to have many tenants, he leaned a
moment against its walls, to recover respiration, and

bowing down, looked through an uncurtained window in
its gloomy basement. By the flickering light of some
brush-wood, burning in the chimney, he saw a woman
placing the fragments of a loaf upon a table, beside which
sate two young children. She was thin, and bent; but
having her head turned from him, he was unable to see
her features. Could that be her; so changed? Yet.
the “come in,” that responded to his rap, was in a tone
that thrilled his inmost soul.

“Have you any food to bestow? I have travelled far,
and am hungry.”

“Sit down, sir, here at the table. I wish I had something
better to offer you. But you are welcome to our
poor fare.”

And she pushed towards him the bread and the knife.
He cut a slice, with a trembling hand. The youngest
child, watching the movement, whispered, with a reproachful
look,—

“Granny! you said I should have two pieces to night,
'cause there was no dinner.”

“Hush, Richard!” said the little sister, folding her
arms around his neck.

The returning wanderer with difficulty maintained his
disguise, as he marked the deep wrinkles on that brow,
which he had left so comely.

“Have you only this broken loaf, my good woman? I
fear the portion I have taken, will not leave enough for
you and these little ones.”

“We shall have more to-morrow, sir, if God will. It
was not always thus with us. When my dear daughter
and her husband were alive, there was always a sufficiency
for the children, and for me. But they are both
dead, sir; the father, last year, and she, when that boy
was born.”

“Had you no other children?”

“Yes, sir. One, a son, a dear and most beautiful boy.
Long years have passed, since he went away. Whether
he is in the land of the living, God only knows.”

Her suppressed sob was changed to surprise and resistance,
as the stranger would fain have folded her in his
arms. Then, kneeling at her feet, and holding her thin
hands in his, he said,—

“Mother! dear mother! can you forgive me all?”

There was no reply. The sunken eyes strained wide
open, and fixed. Color fled from the lips. He carried
her to the poor, low bed, and threw water upon her temples.
He chafed the rigid hands, and in vain sought for
some restorative to administer.

“Wretch that I am! Have I indeed killed her?”

And then the shrieks of the children grew shrill and
deafening,—

“The strange man has killed grandmother!”

But the trance was brief. Light came to the eye, and
joy to the heart, known only to that of the mother who,
having sown in tears, beholds suddenly the blessed, unexpected
harvest.

“Do I live to see thy face? Let me hear thy dear
voice once more, my son.”

But the son had vanished. At his return came supplies,
such as that poor, half-subterranean apartment
had never before witnessed; and ere long, with those
half-famished children, they partook of a repast, whose
rich elements of enjoyment have seldom been surpassed
on this troubled earth.

“What a good, strange man!” said the satisfied boy.

“We must not call him the strange man any more,
but our uncle,” said little Margaret; “so he told me
himself.”

“Why must we say so?”

“Because he was dear mother's dear brother, just as
you are mine. Did not you see that he cried, when
grandmother told him she was dead?”

“Well, I shall love him for that, and for the good
supper he gave us.”

“Have you here my father's large Bible?” asked the
son of the widow. She brought it forth from its sacred
depositary, carefully wrapped in a towel. Tears of rapturous
gratitude chased each other along the furrows,
which bitter and burning ones had made so deep, as she
heard him, with slow and solemn utterance, read that
self-abasing melody of the Psalmist: “Have mercy upon
me, O God, according to thy loving-kindness; according
to the multitude of thy mercies, blot out my transgressions.”

This was the Psalm, that during his brokenness of
spirit, on the deep waters, had been his comforter; and
now he seemed to breathe into its eloquent words, the
soul of penitence and devotion. At its close, he kneeled
and poured out a fervent prayer to the God of their salvation;
and the sleep which fell that night upon all the
habitants of that lowly abode, was sweet as an angel's
smile.

The daily efforts of Richard Jones, for the comfort of
his mother, were beautiful. Her unspoken wishes were
studied with a zeal, which feels it can never either fully
repay, or atone. For her sake, and for that of the little
orphans intrusted to their care, he rejoiced at the gains,
which, through the friendship of the supercargo, he had
been enabled to acquire in a foreign clime, and which to
their moderated desires were comparative wealth.

But amid the prosperity which had been granted him,
he still turned with humility to the memorials of his
wasted years. In his conversations with his mother, he
frankly narrated his sins; and while he went down into
the dark depths whither intemperance had led him, she
shuddered, and was silent. Yet, when he spoke of the
benefactor who had found him in the streets, ready to
become a self-murderer, she raised her clasped hands,
and with strong emotion besought blessings on him who
had “saved a soul from death.” They felt that it is not
the highest and holiest compassion to relieve the body's
ills; but to rescue and bind up the poor heart that hath

wounded itself, and which the world hath cast out, to be
trodden down in its unpurged guilt.

He was not long in discovering how the heart of his
mother yearned after that former home, from which
poverty had driven her. On inquiry, he found that it
might be obtained, having been recently tenanted by
vagrant people. The time that he devoted to its thorough
repair was happily spent. Its broken casements
were replaced, and its dingy walls whitened. The fences
were restored, with the pretty gate, over whose arch he
promised himself, that another season should bring the
blossoming vine that his lost sister had loved.

He sought also, in various places, those articles of
furniture which had been disposed of through necessity,
and which he had valued in earlier days. Soon the old
clock, with a new case, merrily ticked in the corner, and
the cushioned arm-chair again stood by the hearth-stone.
Near it was poor Margaret's work-table, with a
freshly-polished surface, on which he laid, when about
to take possession, the large family Bible bearing his
father's name.

Bright and happy was that morning, when leaning on
his arm, the children walking hand in hand beside them,
neatly apparelled, the widowed mother approached the
home endeared by tender recollections, and whence, poor
and desolate, she had gone forth. As she paused a moment
at the door, the overflowing, unutterable emotion,
was gratitude for the restored virtue of the being most

beloved on earth. It would seem that congenial thoughts
occupied him, for drawing her arm more tenderly within
his own, he said: “Lo! this thy son was dead, and is
alive again, and was lost, and is found.”