________________________________________________
_
The Widow and her Son
Pittie olde age, within whose silver haires
Honour and reverence evermore have rain'd.
MARLOWE'S TAMBURLAINE.
THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters must have
noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. The
clacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the
flail, the din of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the
ploughman, the rattling of the cart, and all other sounds of
rural labor are suspended. The very farm-dogs bark less
frequently, being less disturbed by passing travellers. At such
times I have almost fancied the wind sunk into quiet, and that
the sunny landscape, with its fresh green tints melting into blue
haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so brigh'
The bridal of the earth and sky.
Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of
rest. The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature has
its moral influence; every restless passion is charmed down, and
we feel the natural religion of the soul gently springing up
within us. For my part, there are feelings that visit me, in a
country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, which I
experience nowhere else; and if not a more religious, I think I
am a better man on Sunday than on any other day of the seven.
During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently to
attend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles, its
mouldering monuments, its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with
the gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of
solemn meditation; but, being in a wealthy, aristocratic
neighborhood, the glitter of fashion penetrated even into the
sanctuary; and I felt myself continually thrown back upon the
world, by the frigidity and pomp of the poor worms around me. The
only being in the whole congregation who appeared thoroughly to
feel the humble and prostrate piety of a true Christian was a
poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight of years and
infirmities. She bore the traces of something better than abject
poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in her
appearance. 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 could not
permit her to read, but which she evidently knew by heart, I felt
persuaded that the faltering 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 laborers
who were digging a grave. They had chosen one of the most remote
and neglected corners of the churchyard, 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 woe, 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 endeavoring to
comfort her. A few of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running hand in hand, now
shouting with unthinking mirth, and now pausing to gaze, with
childish curiosity 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 survivor
was penniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but
coldly and unfeeling. 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
Somers, 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 deposit the coffin in 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 waken the mother from a
wretched revery. 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 endeavoring 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--my eyes
filled with tears; I felt as if I were acting a barbarous part in
standing by and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish. I
wandered to another part of the churchyard, 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 beneath 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 after-growth 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 churchyard. 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 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, drest 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 of one of the
small craft that plied on a neighboring 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 feeling
towards 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 neighbors
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 her repast, when she heard
the cottage-door which faced the garden, suddenly opened. 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 sorrow and joy 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 he never rose from it again.
The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned,
crowded to see him, offering every comfort 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 misfortune; 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 Somers 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 everything 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
surprise, 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 which 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 neighborhood
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.
Washington Irving's short story: The Widow and her Son
_
Read next: A Sunday in London
Read previous: The Country Church
Table of content of Sketch Book of Geoffrey Crayon
GO TO TOP OF SCREEN
Post your reviewYour review will be placed after the table of content of this book
