The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey Crayon
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.
A SUNDAY IN LONDON.*
* Part of a sketch omitted in the preceding editions.
IN a preceding paper I have spoken of an English Sunday in the country
and its tranquillizing effect upon the landscape; but where is its
sacred influence more strikingly apparent than in the very heart of that
great Babel, London? On this sacred day the gigantic monster is charmed
into repose. The intolerable din and struggle of the week are at an
end. The shops are shut. The fires of forges and manufactories are
extinguished, and the sun, no longer obscured by murky clouds of smoke,
pours down a sober yellow radiance into the quiet streets. The
few pedestrians we meet, instead of hurrying forward with anxious
countenances, move leisurely along; their brows are smoothed from the
wrinkles of business and care; they have put on their Sunday looks and
Sunday manners with their Sunday clothes, and are cleansed in mind as
well as in person.
And now the melodious clangor of bells from church towers summons their
several flocks to the fold. Forth issues from his mansion the family
of the decent tradesman, the small children in the advance; then the
citizen and his comely spouse, followed by the grown-up daughters,
with small morocco-bound prayer-books laid in the folds of their
pocket-handkerchiefs. The housemaid looks after them from the window,
admiring the finery of the family, and receiving, perhaps, a nod and
smile from her young mistresses, at whose toilet she has assisted.
Now rumbles along the carriage of some magnate of the city, peradventure
an alderman or a sheriff, and now the patter of many feet announces it
procession of charity scholars in uniforms of antique cut, and each with
a prayer-book under his arm.
The ringing of bells is at an end; the rumbling of the carriage has
ceased; the pattering of feet is heard no more; the flocks are folded
in ancient churches, cramped up in by-lanes and corners of the crowded
city, where the vigilant beadle keeps watch, like the shepherd’s dog,
round the threshold of the sanctuary. For a time everything is hushed,
but soon is heard the deep, pervading sound of the organ, rolling and
vibrating through the empty lanes and courts, and the sweet chanting of
the choir making them resound with melody and praise. Never have I been
more sensible of the sanctifying effect of church music than when I
have heard it thus poured forth, like a river of joy, through the inmost
recesses of this great metropolis, elevating it, as it were, from all
the sordid pollutions of the week, and bearing the poor world-worn soul
on a tide of triumphant harmony to heaven.
The morning service is at an end. The streets are again alive with the
congregations returning to their homes, but soon again relapse into
silence. Now comes on the Sunday dinner, which, to the city tradesman,
is a meal of some importance. There is more leisure for social enjoyment
at the board. Members of the family can now gather together, who are
separated by the laborious occupations of the week. A school-boy may be
permitted on that day to come to the paternal home; an old friend of
the family takes his accustomed Sunday seat at the board, tells over
his well-known stories, and rejoices young and old with his well-known
jokes.
On Sunday afternoon the city pours forth its lesions to breathe the
fresh air and enjoy the sunshine of the parks and rural environs.
Satirists may say what they please about the rural enjoyments of a
London citizen on Sunday, but to me there is something delightful in
beholding the poor prisoner of the crowded and dusty city enabled thus
to come forth once a week and throw himself upon the green bosom of
nature. He is like a child restored to the mother’s breast; and they