University of Virginia Library

A grievous wrong it were, and treason done
Unto the common heart of human kind,
By which all live and love, to yield this thought
Place for an instant, that because the griefs
We tell of, are not high and stately woes,
But simple sorrows, pangs of every day,—
Or that because the hearts that owned those griefs
Beat underneath low roofs of cottages,
We therefore shall not win a listening ear;
And in this faith bold am I to relate
The lowly history of a common grief,
A sorrow in which high and low alike
Have equal share, a mother's grief—and this
In words as nearly as may be her own;
For while invention barren proves and old,
Nature is rich and manifold and new.

But this much needful preface to her tale
Let first find place. A little cottage girl
Was Honor Neale; and in the further west
Of Ireland stood her parents' lowly hut:
And there she was a learner for a while,
As God's good hand had ordered, at a school
Where the pure doctrine and the lore of Christ
Were truly taught; and there this little child,
Though slow to learn, yet rendered earnest heed
To all she heard; but after some short time,
Before it could be known if that good seed
Sown in her heart would put forth blade and ear,
Her parents, whether of their own accord,
Or urged by some suggestion from without,
Withdrew her, and she laboured in the fields
Beside her father. 'Twas a late wet spring,
And she, of weakly frame, could ill endure
To carry heavy burdens on her back,
As she was tasked to do, till many times
She left her labour, and returning home
Sat down and cried for weariness and pain;
But still her mother, thinking that she made
More of her pains than need was, in the hope
She might be suffered to return to school,
Would sometimes ask her, had she then no mind
To lend her father what small help she could,
On whom the burden of a family
Of many daughters with one only boy
Pressed heavily—and then without a word
She would return unto her work again.
But soon she evidently grew too weak
For toil, and soon too weak to leave the house.
Three years her sickness lasted; in which while,
In a dark corner of the cottage sitting,
Much in her reading she improved herself,
And of her own accord she learnt by heart
Some hymns, with which she solaced lonely hours;
But chiefly was delighted when they came
To visit her, as now they often did,
Who with a lively interest kept in mind
This child, somewhile a pupil in their care.
But if through gracious teaching from on high,
And through that lengthened discipline of pain,
In spirit she grew fitter for her change,
In body she grew weaker day by day;
And by degrees her pains had so increased,
That when the tidings came that she was gone,
What could they do, who knew what she endured,
But render hearty thanks for her release?

Willing to speak some comfort if they might
Unto the sorrowing, willing too to learn
How at the last it fared with this poor child,
The friends of whom I speak, not many days
After the tidings reached them of her death,
Knocked at the cottage door yet once again.
Much was the mother at their entrance moved;
For all the past, associated with them,
Came to her mind; but presently she spoke,
And seemed to find much comfort and relief
In talking freely of her child, and all
Her sorrow into sympathizing ears
Outpouring, and abruptly thus began—
‘For months before she died she slept with me,
For I had pains and troubles of my own,
Which would have kept me waking anyhow,
And I was glad the others in the house,
Who had been toiling hard the whole day long,
And could enjoy sound sleep, should have their rest
Unbroken. Often in the dark dark night,
When all the house was quiet, she would say,
If I had risen to move her in the bed
More times than common, or to give her drink,
“Oh, mother, when you used to bid me do
Things which I did not like, how many times
I disobeyed you—I am much afraid
I often vexed and grieved you at the heart.”
“No, Honor, you were always a good child,”
I answered, and 'twas nothing more than truth.
Ah, Sir, if she were sitting by my side,
I should not now be praising her this way;
And it is rather I should grieve to think
I did not show more tenderness to her.
For, Honor, had I thought that you and I
Would have to part so soon, I would have been
Much kinder to you. She has lain awake
For hours together, then as if a thought
Suddenly struck her,—“This is not the way
I should be praying. Mother, lift me up,
And set the pillow under my sore knee.”
And then she has continued so, until
Her head grew heavy, and she asked again
To be set down. How often in the night,
When all is quiet in the lonesome house,
I now stretch out my hands and feel about,
Betwixt awake and sleeping, round the bed—
For this now comes of course, and when my hands
Find nothing, feeling round in emptiness,
Oh then it is, or when the dreary light
Of morning comes, my grief sits heaviest on me,
As though my loss were but of yesterday,
So that I scarce have strength to lift my hand,
Or go about the needful work o' the house.
But as the day gets forward, what with tasks
That must be done, and neighbours coming in,
And pleasant light of the sun, and cheerful sounds,
My heart grows somewhat lighter, till the weight
Of all comes back at evening again.

The very day before she died, she said,
“Dear mother, would you lift me in your arms,
And carry me this once over the door,
That I might look on the green fields again?”
The day was cold and raw—and I refused,
Till seeing that her mind was set on this,
I wrapped the blanket round her safe and warm;
But when I took her in my arms, it went
Unto my heart—I raised her with such ease!
She had so pined and wasted, that her weight
Was even as nothing; but I bore her out
Into the air, and carried her all round
The clover field, and showed her everything;
And as I brought her back she only said,
Supposing I was wearied with her weight,
“I never shall be asking this again.”

And the last day, the morning that she died,
She was as usual reading in the book
Which had been given her when she quitted school:
Ah! Sir, I have forgotten most of what
Was in that book; but when I call to mind
Its beautiful words, it makes me sad to think
That there was no such learning in my time,
For so I might be reading now myself
The very words that I have heard her read,
And maybe might find comfort for my grief;
I know at least that she found comfort there,
'Twas that which made her happy at the last.
For at the first, when first her pains began,
She could not bear to think that she was dying,
And would grow angry if a neighbour spoke
As though her end was near: and the first time
She was persuaded she could not recover,
“Oh mother,” she cried out in agony,
“Where am I going? Am I going where
I never can come back to you again,
And shall I not talk to you any more,
And never sit beside you and look up
Into your face, when you are suffering pain,
And ask what ails you?” Then she would at first
Be at some times impatient in her pains,
And then I could do nothing to her mind.
But for the last months of her life she seemed
To count that each thing was too good for her;
And any little service done to her,
And every little present which was brought
By a kind neighbour, was enough to make
The thankful tears to come into her eyes.
In all your life you never could have seen
One young or old so willing to depart,
Nor yet so ready; 'tis not I alone
Say this, but one who had more right to know.

For 'twas about three weeks before the last,
We saw that there was something on her mind,
And questioning her, she answered that she wished
To see the Priest, and to confess herself
Once more before she died. He came at once,
And was alone with her for near an hour:
And when he just was standing at the door
Ready to mount his horse, I heard him say
Unto some neighbours that were standing by—
“I never saw a happier holier child
Than that is, ready to depart this world.”
But then as he was taking his last leave,
She fixed her eyes upon him with a look
As though she had left something still unsaid.
He asked her,—“Is there anything, dear child,
You have forgotten which you wish to tell?
You need not fear to speak before them all.”
“Well, Sir,” she answered, “I was thinking then
'Tis now about three years ago there lived
A little orphan here, and she and I
Were often sent into the fields together
To tend the cows; and when 'twas cold and wet
I many times would run into the house,
That I might ask my mother for some food,
Or warm myself awhile, and did not care
To leave her out alone in all the cold:
I hoped I might have seen her before this,
And have her pardon asked before she died,
For that has ever since been on my mind,
And during all my illness troubling me;
For had she had a mother of her own,
She would have gone to her as stout and bold
As I to mine, and boldly asked of her
All that she wanted.” “You are a happy child,
Dying this way, and grieving so your heart
For such a little sin;” and then he said,
The Priest in all our hearing said, “I wish
That I had died when I was of your age,
So not to have more sin on me than yours
To answer for:”—these were his very words.

But I was saying that the day she died
She had been reading for some little time,
And then complained her eyes were growing dim,
And bade me wipe them. I was just then sweeping
The hearth, and had made up our little fire;
But when I heard her speak this way, I knew
What now was coming; but I wiped her eyes
As she desired—I knew it was no use,
And presently she gave me back the book;
“For, mother dear,” she said, “I cannot see
To read a single word;” and just as though
She felt she would not want it any more,
Bade me to place it carefully aside,
And putting on the cover, set it by
In the hand-basket. There was no one else
In all the house, excepting she and me—
The others all were gone unto their work.
And now I knew the time was close at hand,
Which had been drawing on for near three years.
And presently I spoke to her again,
And now she made no answer—only stretched
Her hand out to me. I took hold of it,
But in a moment let it go again,
And lighting the twelve tapers held them there—
It was a custom that my mother had,
When one was dying—so I lighted them,
And being lighted, held them all myself,
For there were none beside me in the house.
But when I saw the breath was leaving her,
I dropped them all, and by her side fell down,
But soon recovering picked them up again,
And held them there till they were all burned down,
And as the last of them was going out
She breathed at the same moment her last breath.

And she is gone, Sir,—but what matter now,
What matter? She was but a little child,
Yet Nature cannot choose but sometimes grieve,
And must have way: why had it only been
A stranger's child I had been rearing thus,
And tending for now nearly fourteen years,
My heart would needs be sad to let her go.
But my own child, my darling Honoreen—
Though when I think on all things, I believe
That I am glad He took her to Himself;
It may be I shall follow before long,
For I am a poor weak creature that have seen
Much toil and trouble. Blessed be His Name
That took her first: if I had gone the first,
And left her a poor cripple in the world,
No doubt they would have all been kind to her;
But who is like a mother?—even if they
Had wished it most, they never could have done
What I have done for her; and then at last
She might have wearied all their patience out.
Then blessings be upon His holy Name,
Who called her out of this poor sinful world,
And took her to Himself.

They buried her
Down in the valley in the old churchyard,
Beside the ruined church. I wished to go
And see her laid within her little grave;
'Twould have been better for me, I believe,
If they had suffered me to go with them;
But they were all against it, and that time
They might have had their way in anything.
But when I saw the little funeral
Wind down the field, I turned and shut the door,
And sitting on a stool I hid my face;
I know not what it was came over me,
But I grew giddy, and fell down, and struck
My head against the corner of a chair,
And there has been a noise there ever since.

And now I thank you. Many a journey long
You took through wet and cold to see my child,
And she found much of comfort in your words;
And at the last I think was better pleased
To go than stay. Then why should I so grieve?
And why should I not rather feel and say,
'Twas the best nursing that I ever did,
To nurse her and to bring her up for Him,
Who called her to the knowledge of Himself,
Then took her out of this poor sinful world?’