I WAS six years of age when she came to fill the terrible void caused
by the death of my mother. I can well remember how we children drew
back from the stranger who had come to take her place. There were seven
of us; each an idolater at the shrine of our dear mother's memory.
The oldest, who possessed a quick, bright intellect, and was somewhat
willful withal, quite resented the idea of a second mother. Her strong
hostility was contagious, for she was at the head of domestic affairs.
Then some sympathizing neighbor would place her hand on my head and
say, compassionately, "Poor boy! You'll have a hard time trying to make
a mother out of a mother-in-law. She'll never feel toward you as if you
were her own child."
Well, one day I was measured for a new suit of clothes. Other articles
of toilet to correspond came ere long. Indeed, there seemed to be a
general refurnishing throughout house and household. What it all meant
I could not conjecture, and no one told me. Then one afternoon there
came a universal scrubbing of the faces and hands of the children,
and we were all dressed in our best clothes. There was something
unusual about to take place. What could it be? Not a meeting, for no
such preparation, that is, in kind and spirit, ever preceded those
staid religious gatherings often witnessed in our large, old-fashioned
parlor. Still, a hush and a gravity pervaded the busy household,
imparting a sort of half-and-half aspect, somewhat festive and somewhat
solemn. At length the important secret was condescendingly communicated
to me.
"Now," said my eldest sister, as she combed my hair back "a la
Maffitt," (for like other sentimentally inclined young ladies of the
town, she had been captivated with the Irish preacher's eloquence), "do
you behave like a little man this evening, for father's going to be
married, and we are all to be at the wedding!"
"Wedding! What do they do there?"
"Why, you little dunce, there'll be a whole parlor full of folks, and
the minister will be there and make a speech and pray, and marry father
and his bride, and then cake and wine will be passed around to all the
company. You'll get a large slice of the best cake you ever ate, and a
sip of the wine, and then—why, then you see, you'll have a step-mother
to train you up in the way you should go. How will you like that?"
Bolt upright, in an exceedingly uncomfortable position, on a stiff,
hard chair, scarcely daring to wink, I sat on that eventful night.
Several relatives of the bride spoke kindly to me, without, in the
least, relaxing my mental and muscular rigidity, till one of them,
since known as the most lovable of aunts, brought me a piece of
handsomely frosted cake, and a glass of wine, both of which I supposed
were mysterious parts of the mysterious marriage rite. Though how
eating and drinking helped to give me a new mother I did not comprehend.
"Take it all, dear!" said she, sinking down before me on the carpet, as
I diffidently broke off a crumb of the cake. "It's yours, and you have
just as good a right to it as any body, if you 'are' a little boy."
I obeyed, thinking it a part of the ceremony, gazing the while into her
black eyes, that were soft, and limpid, and loving.
Our new mother went home with us that night, for the marriage was at
"Aunt Abby's." What a prim set we were indeed! What a constraint was on
us, knowing a mother-in-law was installed in the home, to reign over
us, her unwilling subjects. Very undemocratic it seemed, certainly, for
we hadn't cast a vote nor been consulted even! However, the general
awkwardness was relieved by her leaving home on a bridal visit. She was
to be gone a fortnight. How glad we were!
How we dreaded her return, gossiping about it, hoping it might be
protracted. But she came promptly back to her post, and, spite of my
suspicions, I couldn't help a warm glow as she kissed us each, and,
unpacking her trunk, gave the presents she had brought us. Her cordial,
motherly greeting was a shock to our prejudices, from which they did
not at once recover. But objections to the step-mother of a more
personal nature were soon discussed.
"To think that your father should marry a 'country' woman, farm-born
and bred," said one. "She can not have seen any thing of society, and
must be coarse and low. And your first mother was a perfect lady!"
"New brooms sweep clean," suggested another, "but look out for black
eyes; they are always deceitful!"
Poor, dear woman! little did she know what a burden she was assuming in
becoming the wife of a widower with seven children, who had been taught
to distrust her noblest actions, and set her authority at defiance.
But meagerly could she forecast the toil and anxiety, the heart-griefs
and perplexities that were to wait on her footsteps daily; the gloomy
hours of sickness and of death; the battlings with pecuniary reverses;
the clothing, and feeding, and nurturing of those henceforward to
call her mother. But, having put her hand to the plow, she did not
turn back from the heavy responsibilities of her lot. With a heroic
endurance, a sublime self-forgetfulness, that, a thousand times since
assuming manhood's cares have filled me with wonder as I have retraced
her history, did she press forward, conquering difficulties, winning
triumphs, until, without a peer, she sat enthroned in our love in her
beautiful, I had almost said angelic goodness, and costly devotion.
Ah! what would have become of us without "her?" What a marvel of a
worker she was! Early and late at her tasks, never lagging, turning off
labor with a despatch that few might hope to rival. The sweet breath of
the country, its good, honest fare, its healthful scenes,—what would
she have done as "our" mother without the firm-toned constitution they
had molded. And in her little tripping way, as she almost flew about
house, how graceful!
Rarely did she administer chastisement, however richly deserved, for
she well know that officious critics would intermeddle. She referred
our misdemeanors to father. Though even then, there were those who
intimated before us that she loved to find fault with her step-children.
One day an incident laid bare her heart in some measure to my eyes.
I had been perverse, disrespectful, disobedient. As a punishment, she
sent me to bed supperless. I knew the punishment was deserved, but went
to my room muttering complaints. At length I fell asleep. How long I
remained thus I do not know, but suddenly waking I saw her kneeling at
the bedside, her face pale, and her eyes mournfully fixed upon me.
"Oh," said she, gently, "I am so glad you awoke. You lay so still I
was almost afraid you were not alive; I was listening to hear if you
breathed. Are you well, dear? I came in to see you. I know it's hard
for you to go without your supper; it was hard for me to punish you,
but I 'do' want you to be a good boy, that you may grow up a good
and useful man!" Then, after a moment's pause, in eager tones, she
continued, "Do you really think, dear child, that I love to find fault
with you? or that I wronged you to-night in what I said or did?"
Thus did she yearn after me with a mother's solicitude, and humble
herself to plead with me after my wanton disobedience. My heart melted,
and I said, "I have been a naughty, selfish boy, and you have been too
kind to me. I deserved to be punished. I want you to forgive and love
me."
How tenderly she imprinted a kiss upon my forehead, and fervently
imploring God's blessing, glided from the room.
Hers was a rugged path for the most part, such as one sees running up a
mountain side, over roots, and stones, and brambles. From what secret
spring did she derive her more than human strength? Where obtain the
patience and fortitude that glorified her daily character? Ah! is there
more than one fountain-head? Rising before day, while yet the occupants
of the house were wrapped in sleep, she would retire to a little
room and pour out her soul in fervent prayer. Sometimes the still
air of the morning twilight has seemed to my quickened sensibilities
to be pervaded and throbbing, as if her very soul, in its fervent
pleadings, filled the space around me. Strangely thrilled, I have
listened, wondering at the feeling that oppressed me; awe, sadness,
self-dissatisfaction, desires for a better life crowding upon the mind,
as the plaintive, tremulous voice could just be heard. When she had
left communing with her divine Friend, and we met her at the morning
meal, no one would fail to be struck with her aspect; serious, serene,
trustful—peace, Christ's peace, impressed upon her brow. You would take
knowledge of her that she had been with Jesus.
"Ah!" said one, "when she has children of her own then you'll see a
difference!"
Well, Lizzie, with her dark, reflective eyes, came. Afterwards plump
little Sarah, with her hazel orbs. And was it not a miracle that
half-sisters and brothers grew so into unity as to need to be reminded
that the full relation was not theirs!
How often I have collected my scattered faculties, as if to master a
new thought, when a visitor remarked, "These are your step-sisters, I
suppose?"
"Step-sisters!" I would reply. "Oh, yes, I had forgotten it!" quickly
to forget it again.
And what a love was hers! What delicate, far-reaching sympathies! what
boundless charity! what intuitive perception of other's rights, and
ready, persuasive championship of the unappreciated and the wronged.
What genial, winning ways towards the young; how self-denyingly
benevolent. And as age enfeebled her step and silvered her head,
growing younger and younger in her tastes, responding to the innocent
jest, delighting in innocent enjoyments, charming every one with her
kind words and kind deeds.
"Grandmother is coming!" Henry, the youngest, would exclaim, as he
rushed into the house to be first with the good news.
Sure enough. Feebly tripping along, with a mysterious package, too
heavy for her strength, under her arm, she would approach, panting with
exertion, her face radiant with affection.
"O mother!" we would say, "you have taken too much pains to see us—the
walk is too much for you!"
"Don't say a word!" she would answer, deprecatingly; "I couldn't stay
away any longer. I must know how you all do. And here," undoing her
bundle, "are some little things I have brought for the children."
Her energetic heart grew in wealth of love marvelously, and her
sympathies embraced the world. But specially among her kindred did
their quick and active power appear. It was strange to us how soon she
became aware of it, if any trouble invaded our ranks.
One night, sudden, evil news, of which none knew but ourselves, kept
our little circle sleepless. We lived remote from the maternal roof.
Next morning, calling there, mother took me aside and said, "Tell me,
my son, if you were unhappy last night. I must know, for I could not
sleep—you were on my mind so. It seemed to me that you were in trouble!"
But she's gone. Three weeks ago to-day, over the wires flew the
message: "Mother is very sick, and can live only a few hours?"
Then immediately following came the crushing announcement of her death.
But she passed away as she had lived. In usual health she stood by her
chair, about to take her seat at the dinner-table, uttering one of
her pleasant remarks, when the wing of the death angel touched her;
she fell, speechless, unconscious, and never revived. It was as if
the loving Saviour designed her last words should be like her, should
represent her, and from the family board her spirit went up to the
kindred hearts around the feast-table of heaven.
Dear, noble, sainted mother! how can we bear to see thee no more and
hear no more thy words of love! But thou art safe, happy, robed in
glory.