"How may the mother's heart
Dwell on her son, and dare to hope again?
The Spring's rich promise hath been given in vain,
The lovely must depart!
Is _he_ not gone, our brightest and our best?
Come near! and bear the early-called to rest!
"Ye weep, and it is well!
For tears befit earth's partings! Yesterday
Song was upon the lips of this pale clay,
And sunshine seemed to dwell
Where'er he moved--the welcome and the blessed!
Now gaze and bear the silent unto rest!" MRS. HEMANS.
_Friday, March 16th, 1838._
My dearly loved mother,--With a heart borne down with sorrow, I take my
pen to communicate the sad intelligence which even as I write my heart
refuses to believe. My sweet little Walter, my first-born son; your only
grandchild, is, alas! no more on earth!
_Evening._
I could go no farther this morning; the dreadful reality overwhelmed me;
and I could only weep afresh. My dear, doubly _dear_ husband came and
wept with me. Then he took that precious book which contains so many
words of comfort to poor broken hearts, and read passage after passage.
We knelt together, and told Jesus all our sorrow and grief at the loss
of our darling; that our hearts were like to burst that we should see
his face no more,--no more hear his merry laugh, or his shout of
delight. And Jesus, our elder brother, seemed to stand by us, and weep
with us as he did with Mary and Martha of olden time. But at length he
pointed to the beautiful azure sky above, while his tender notes fell
like low sweet music upon our ears, hushing into peace the waves of
sorrow which were roaring and dashing over us. "Beyond those bright
aerial regions is the throne of the eternal. Before him are a multitude
whom no man can number, of little ones who were early transplanted from
this cold and sinful earth to the pure air of heaven. While sinful
nations in affright hide their faces from the searching glance of him
who sitteth upon the throne, yet upon these little ones he lifts the
light of his countenance, and bestows his constant smiles. Your child
washed in my blood, purified and sanctified by my spirit, is among them
swelling with his infant voice the choir who are ever singing, 'worthy
the lamb that was slain for our sins.'"
Those gracious words from our sympathizing Saviour, soothed our grief,
and were balm to our wounded hearts. When we arose from our knees, we
felt a new attraction to our home beyond the skies. We were the parents
of an angel.
_Saturday, March 17th._
I feel a painful pleasure in thinking over every circumstance connected
with the sickness and death of my sweet child. While I write, my little
Pauline, who has wept herself sick at the loss of her dear brother, is
sitting on a cricket at my feet with her head resting in my lap. She is
trying to restrain the sobs which ever and anon burst out afresh, from
her tender, affectionate heart.
"Mamma," says the trembling voice, "will you please tell me more about
that happy place where my brother has gone? Is he playing on his harp
now?" I have quieted her by the promise that when I have written a
letter to her grandmamma in England, I will read it to her.
On Thursday, the eighth of this month, our beautiful boy appeared
perfectly well. The weather, which had been very windy and bleak, was
unusually mild, and the children could hardly contain their joy at being
able to be out of doors. Walter was warmly clad and placed in his wagon,
while Pauline was only too happy in helping Ann to draw him round the
garden. About ten o'clock the sun was so warm that the walks became damp
from the melting of the frost, and I called them in. Walter was put into
his crib for his nap, which was undisturbed. When he awoke I gazed at
him with pride. His eyes were perfectly brilliant with beauty, his lips
were red as coral and his cheeks rivalled the blush of the rose. As I
held him in my arms and pushed back the curls from his broad, noble
brow, so like his father's, my heart said, "what a beautiful boy, and he
is my own." I was astonished to find him so ready to sit quietly in my
lap while Pauline, by every art of which she was capable, was trying to
decoy him away. He laughed aloud at her antics as she danced about the
room, hiding behind the door, and then with a merry shout bursting out
upon him; but when she said "brother, hide now," he would lay his head
on my breast, and lisp, "tay with mamma." He sat thus nearly an hour,
which was so unusual that I began to feel a little alarm. Frank laughed
at me for indulging such a feeling, merely because he was quiet; and
certainly one could hardly realize danger as they looked upon his face,
which was the very picture of health and beauty.
After dinner Ann brought him to me in her arms, saying "he wants to lie
quiet, and will not eat his bread and milk." Frank then felt his pulse,
and said it was too quick. He gave me a powder for Walter to take if he
was no better; but in the course of the afternoon, he slid from my lap,
and played an hour or two with his sister. He was not as boisterous as
usual, and seemed disposed to yield in everything to Pauline's wishes.
When I was putting him into bed she said several times, "Isn't brother a
nice boy, mamma?"
When my husband came home, he went directly to the crib, and found him
in a gentle perspiration, but still with a feverish pulse. I told him I
had bathed his feet in warm water, which he approved, but thought it
best to give the powder. When I retired he appeared no worse, and
feeling more easy about him, I soon fell asleep.
I was awakened by a loud, shrill noise from the crib, such as I had
never before heard. With one bound I was at his side, screaming "Frank,
Oh, _Frank_! what can that noise be?"
Alas, no Frank answered! He had been called away. Whether I had
forgotten it or never knew it until that moment I cannot tell. But
another sound came, more horrible than the first. I ran to Ann's room
and told her to ring for Cæsar and Phebe. Then I flew back to my boy, my
darling boy. He seemed to be suffocated. I caught him in my arms, and
tossed him to catch his breath. Oh! how frightened he looked. Soon Ann
and all came rushing into the room.
"Oh, Cæsar!" I cried, "where is your master?"
Without another word he went in search of him. Ann ran for mother and
sister, while Phebe hurried to the kitchen, and brought some olive oil
which she succeeded in pouring down his throat.
"Don't be scare missus, it's de croup. Mass'r Frank cures heaps o'
chilen sick wid it. Ole Phebe knows God not send for dis chile yet."
I wrung my hands. Before Cæsar could have had time to harness I began to
expect him back.
Mother soon came in and took my boy from me, telling me to dress. I
forgot that I had only thrown on a wrapper. Mother was so calm I began
to hope it was not so bad as I feared. She had already sent Phebe for
hot water; telling Emily to go to the medicine chest, and procure a
bottle of antimonial wine. This she gave at once, and with his little
feet and limbs in very warm water, while he was wrapped in blankets, he
appeared better. But he looked at me with such an imploring expression
as he said "mamma," that the tone stirred the deepest fountains of my
heart.
"Oh, my darling!" I cried, "mamma would help you if she could!" Oh, how
the little breast heaved; and he grew worse again,--every minute he grew
worse. Mother said not a word, but kept administering to him.
"Where can Cæsar be?" she said at length, and I knew from her looks she
feared the worst.
Then I heard a horse come dashing up to the door, and Frank almost flew
into the room.
"Thank God!" was all that mother could say. The poor father knelt before
his boy. His mother told him in a word what she had done. Oh! the look
of indescribable agony that passed over his face as he found he was
_too_ late!
_Our boy was dying!_
Frank would not give up even then, but said "while there is life there
is hope." But the breast heaved more feebly--the shrill sound gradually
ceased--until lying in the arms of his grandmother, with his father and
mother kneeling before him--his precious hand encircling my finger, he
gave one last, lingering look at each of the group standing around him,
and without a struggle or a sigh--only a slight shudder, he fell sweetly
asleep.
After a few moments, so calm, so untroubled was that beautiful brow, so
sweetly smiled those ruby lips, that as I gazed, I could not believe the
spirit had fled. I could hardly refrain from catching him in my arms.
"Walter! oh, _Walter_!!" I cried, "can't you speak once more to poor
mamma?" I passionately kissed his brow, his eyes, his beautiful
lips!--oh, how proud I had been of those pouting, red lips; but they
would never speak again.
I felt a strong arm put around me, and a kind voice told me I must not
stay. My dear husband led me to the library, while mother, with Emily
and Ann, performed the last offices for the dearly loved one.
"Oh, Frank!" said I, "why, _why_ were you gone?"
He hid his face in his hands, and his bosom heaved convulsively. It is
dreadful to see a man weep. I put my arms around his neck, and we wept
long and bitterly. It was so sudden, the blow staggered me. It was now
morning. Only yesterday morning, and my Walter was well; now, where is
he?
I started. "Oh! what will Pauline say?"
Frank went softly up stairs, and found her quietly sleeping, and he did
not awake her. How I dreaded her awaking! When I looked up, as Frank
came into the room, I was shocked at the pallor of his countenance; his
lips were closely shut, and I started to my feet, almost fearing he were
about to fall. He pressed me tightly in his arms for a moment, and then
we silently lifted up our hearts to God for strength to say, "Thy will
be done."
After this, I was, myself, astonished at the calmness which stole over
me. I went to my chamber, though he would have detained me; and there I
saw my little one more beautiful than ever. The impress of heaven was
upon his brow!
By his side stood Pauline in her night dress; her long curls hanging
carelessly down her back, her eyes distended, her lips parted as if to
speak. With one hand she touched the little fingers laid together upon
the breast, then started back, awed by the marble coldness. I sprang
toward her and caught her in my arms. So quietly had she stepped from
her low bed in the adjoining room, and come to see if her brother was
awake, that mother and sister who sat weeping at the farther end of the
apartment, had not noticed her until I entered.
"Mamma," asked the frightened voice, "what is the matter with my
brother? his hands are very cold."
I put a shawl around her, sat down with her in my lap, and began to tell
her, but burst into tears. She heard sobbing, and looked from one to
another frightened, and wondering.
Emily came and tried to tell her that her dear little brother had gone
to God.
She pointed to the crib, as if to say he was there.
Emily said, "his soul has gone to God."
"And has papa's soul gone too?" she asked quickly, "my brother couldn't
go alone; he was too little."
Oh, how my tears burst forth afresh!
"Pauline," said Emily, "the angels came from heaven to take dear little
Walter's soul up to God. Jesus wanted him there."
"How long will he have to stay there?"
"Oh, Pauline!" I exclaimed, "he will never, _never_ come back, we shall
never see him again."
The poor stricken child sobbed aloud. Mother took her from me. "Go to
Frank," she whispered, "and I will try to soothe her."
I went below, and softly entered the library, where my dear husband
knelt by the sofa, with his face buried in his hands. I went gently to
his side, when he put his arm around me. I whispered, "pray for me too."
And in a broken voice, interrupted by convulsive sobs, he did pray that
we might not murmur at this stroke of our father's rod.
After a while, I heard a gentle knock at the door, and Cæsar's voice
asking if mass'r Frank would please eat some breakfast. When he saw me,
the poor man cried aloud. Oh! what an idol he had made of his young
master! His large faithful heart was swelling with grief, which he had
in vain tried to control. I gave him my hand, and found a world of
comfort in his sympathizing tears.
"Oh, missus Lenox!" said he sobbing, "I 'spects 'twas God's will."
"Yes, Cæsar, but it's hard for my poor heart to say 'Thy will be done.'
You must pray for me, Cæsar."
"Oh, missus!" said he, "we'se all got to pray for dat."
I left Frank walking the room, and went up stairs where mother was
dressing Pauline. Ann I found sitting on a trunk in her chamber, with
her head upon the bed, weeping bitterly.
"My good Ann," I said, "will you come in and stay by the side of the
crib while we are below?" I tried to compose myself, but broke down
again.
"I can't, oh, I can't!" she cried, "don't ask me. I can't see him yet."
Finding her in such a condition, I left her, and begged mother to allow
me to remain with my boy; but she said, it was my duty to go below to my
husband. It was in vain for us to try to eat. Pauline sobbed so
violently, that her father was obliged to hold her in his arms to soothe
her. I severely blamed myself for saying what I said to the sensitive
child.
"My little daughter," said Frank in a most touching tone, "when you say
your prayers, do not you ask God to make you a good child, so that you
can go to heaven? And then you prayed God last night to make your little
brother good, so that he could go; did you not ask this?"
She could hardly speak, but she sobbed out, "I didn't ask God to take
him so soon, I wanted us to go together."
Her father could but press her to his heart. How often had we prayed
that they might be fitted for heaven; but alas! had not dreamed of such
a sudden separation.
_Tuesday, March 20th._
Our little one lies buried in a shady knoll at the end of the garden,
and there, when I have done with time, I hope to be laid beside him.
Many times in the day do we bend our steps to the quiet retreat, and
weep over the little grave. Pauline weeps less, and by the deep
spiritual light in her eyes, I think she begins to understand something
of the glory and purity of that world where her beloved brother has
gone.
Our good friends Cæsar, Phebe, Ann, and Ruth, have shared so truly in
our grief, that I feel as if they were related to us. Poor Ann is
almost unfitted for everything. Whenever she sees his clothes or toys
she weeps afresh.
With regard to myself, I feel at times a submission to the divine will,
and even can realize the blessedness of my child in being with his
Saviour, freed from sin and temptation to do evil; and then I am calm.
But the merest trifle unnerves me. I have not had the heart to put away
his clothes, and his little cap and cloak have hung in the hall as
heretofore. A day or two since, I missed the cap from the hook, and
going into the library I found my dear husband in an agony of grief over
it. I was thankful that I was now able to be the comforter.
_Thursday, June 7th._
I suppose ere this you have received the sad intelligence in my last,
together with one of later date from Frank.
I have but just arrived at home from a journey to B---- and some other
places. I was exceedingly unwilling to leave my husband, whose duty
detained him at home. But both on my own account and Pauline's, he
thought it best to change the scene.
If it were not for the night, I could control my feelings; but I dream
of my boy, and awake to find myself childless. Often he seems to stand
by me or float before me in the air, and that dreadful, agonized "mamma"
he uttered, rings in my ears, and awakes me in affright.
Of late, however, I have been less disturbed, and my dreams of him are
delightful. Frank is unwilling to have me dwell so much upon my sorrow,
and when I see him, though pale and suffering, going on quietly with his
round of duties, I feel reproved.
I commenced writing of our journey. We went directly to B---- after
receiving a very kind invitation from uncle and aunt Morgan. Mother came
over to the house to be with her son, and Emily accompanied me. Our
journey was shorter than the former one, being all the way by railroad.
We found our thoughtful cousin waiting for us at the station. The sight
of his smiling face brought my little Walter so forcibly to mind, that I
was completely overcome. Poor fellow! he was much distressed, and tried
to soothe me. Pauline was delighted to see him, and put her hand in his,
as confidingly as of old.
Uncle and aunt received us with parental tenderness. I was glad to hear
from them so good an account of their son. He has gone into business in
B----, and bids fair not only to be a wealthy, but a useful man. He went
unknown to his parents and collected a Sabbath-school in the outskirts
of the town, and in a place where the inhabitants had heretofore been
regarded as too abandoned to be reclaimed. Here for a year past he has
spent all the time he could command from other duties, during the week,
as well as on the Sabbath, and now it is called the "Morgan parish."
Many who have known Joseph from babyhood, shook their heads when he
commenced this labor of love; and thought, he only intended it for a new
frolic,--that the novelty would soon pass away, and he would tire of the
confinement. But as they see him more and more interested in his school,
comprising now not only children, but parents, they feel a great respect
for the young man.
I am quite amused at the way he treats Pauline, a little maiden of five
years. He never plays with her, as it would be natural for him to do
with a child of her age, but appears to regard her as something sacred;
and is as delicate in his attentions as if she had numbered four times
five years.
But cousin has not lost his character for fun. He would not be Joseph if
he had; but he is very careful in his jokes not to wound the feelings of
others. Then his manner of treating his parents is so much more
respectful than formerly. Dear uncle and aunt! With what pride do they
look upon his fine manly form and his bright happy face. Then they know
this is a sure index of his heart. I found out his age while we were
there, which was less than I had supposed. But I will keep his secret.
After a delightful visit at B---- we returned by a somewhat circuitous
route to visit other relatives, to whom I was not an entire stranger,
having met them at mother's. Pauline was very much delighted with
travelling, and Emily took pains to point out to her every object of
interest.
I must not omit to mention a circumstance which occurred before we left
B----. Joseph was reading various items from a New York paper while we
sat around the breakfast table to which we all listened with interest,
when he came upon the following. "We learn that the Honorable Mr.
Karswell, and family, of the firm of C. M. Karswell and brothers, are
about to leave by the packet ship Cambria for Liverpool, where he is to
meet his son, who has been travelling for a number of years in company
with a distinguished clergyman, formerly settled in Waverley,
Massachusetts, when they intend to make the tour of Europe and to visit
the Holy Land. Mr. Karswell considers himself very fortunate in having
been able to avail himself of the company of Mr. Benson in their
travels; he being familiar with the languages of the countries through
which they pass; and every way a great acquisition."
I could not tell how Emily looked, for I took particular pains to be
occupied with Pauline, but I am sure my own face burned.
"Well," said uncle, "pass on to the next," little aware what an interest
that small item had to some of the hearers. Emily soon made an excuse to
leave the room, and I thought it best not to revert to the subject. In
the course of the day I looked over the paper to see if any part of this
communication had been omitted in the reading; when to my astonishment
it was nicely cut out.
Aunt looked up at my expression of surprise and said, "O! Emily asked if
we had done with the paper, she wanted to cut out a pattern of
something." I had my own thoughts, but of course said nothing, and so
the subject passed. I may as well say here that on my return, I asked
Frank what family Mr. Karswell had, and learned that there were two
accomplished daughters. He has been a widower many years, and the eldest
daughter has kept house for him. The younger one, Gertrude, Frank says,
gave promise of great beauty.
Frank was a little troubled about the cutting out of that "pattern" from
the paper, especially as Emily did it so secretly. "If she loves him
yet," said he, "she has had a severe punishment for her proud
dissimulation."
On our return from New York, and when we were within thirty miles of
home, the cars were full, and Emily was separated from us by two seats,
Pauline and I being together. A gentleman who was a stranger to me took
the vacant seat by sister. He was very much browned, as if he had come
from a foreign clime, but altogether a noble specimen of man. After a
few moments I was astonished to see them in the full tide of
conversation, Emily being more interested than I had seen her for many a
day. The burden of the conversation at length devolved upon her, while
he grew more and more taciturn, until I saw that he put his handkerchief
to his eyes and was much overcome by what she said. As she turned a
little toward her companion, I saw that her own eyes were humid with
tears; and I wondered at the meaning of this emotion. Fortunately for my
curiosity, we soon reached a station, and the persons sitting in front
of us left. Emily and her companion immediately arose and availed
themselves of this seat.
I was not a little surprised, as well as pleased, when Emily said to me,
"Do you remember, Cora, I told you about Edward Ryland, brother to your
little Anna's mother?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"Well, this is he, just returned from India. He has not heard from his
sister for many years. I have been giving him a sketch of her history."
I cordially gave him my hand, which he grasped so warmly, that I did not
recover from the pressure during the remainder of our ride. He begged
for all the news, saying, "I am absolutely famished for intelligence
from home friends." He was very much affected at hearing of the
reformation and peaceful death of Squire Lee; and shocked though not
much astonished at the conduct of Joseph. From his frequent inquiries
concerning families in Waverley, I more than suspected there was some
one in that place whom the thought of meeting thrilled his soul with the
sentiment,
"My heart's so full of joy,
That I shall do some wild extravagance
Of love in public; and the foolish world,
Which knows not tenderness, will think me mad."
We were so much engaged in talking as to be unaware of our near approach
to Crawford, and sprang hastily to our feet as the conductor called out
the familiar name. Inviting Mr. Ryland to make us an early call, we took
a carriage and drove home, where we had no reason to complain of our
reception. I went into the house very gently, and pushing open the
library door, I saw my own dear Frank sitting, reading with his back to
the entrance. I crept softly across the room, and put my arms around his
neck. He sprang to his feet letting his book fall, and caught me in his
arms.
"My wife, mine own, I will never let you leave me again. If you go, I
shall follow. I am good for nothing without you.--
"Thinkest thou
That I could live, and let thee go,
Who art my life itself?--no--no."
We then went to find mother and all the dear family. I had been dreading
the return for fear my grief would overpower me; but I was graciously
supported. Frank was very kind, and kept us busily talking. I believe
Emily told every circumstance which had happened during our absence,
(which I omitted I mean) except the one unimportant fact of her begging
and saving as a choice article, an inch of waste paper.
_Monday, September 10th._
Allen Mansfield and Lucy are very pleasantly settled near us. Mrs.
Burns, and one of the chambermaids from Lee Hall form their
establishment, together with a little stranger a week old, who has
already received the name of Emily Lenox. Frank says, Lucy is
exceedingly happy and grateful for the sweet treasure.
There is one event connected with this family, however, which has cast a
gloom over the whole town, at least the sober part of it. The
distillery, which was closed very soon after Squire Lee was taken sick,
has been started again, and is now in full tide of operation under the
energetic management of an agent procured by Joseph. He is absent and
Lee Hall is closed. Report says, he has gone abroad in company with his
inseparable companion, Mr. Colby. It is really saddening to think of a
young man of good talents, as Mr. Colby appeared to be, so entirely led
away and ruined by bad company. For many months before they went away,
his office was closed, and he made no pretensions to business. He had
his home entirely with Joseph, if home it could be called, where there
was drinking and fighting both in the parlors and in the kitchen. Many
times the man who professedly kept up the establishment, had to call in
help to separate Mr. Colby and Joseph. When drunk, they tried to kill
each other; but when sober, or partly so, were apparently the best of
friends.