A STORY ABOUT MYSELF.
Nobody could be more astonished than I, to find myself famous. I never dreamed of it, when I sat in a small room, at the top of the house where I lodged, scribbling over a sheet of coarse foolscap with noms de plume, out of which I was to choose one for my first article—which article I never thought of preserving, any more than the succeeding ones, supposing my meagre pecuniary remuneration the only reward I was to hope for. I think the reason I selected the name “Fern,” was because, when a child, and walking with my mother in the country, she always used to pluck a leaf of it, to place in her bosom, for its sweet odor; and that gloomy morning, when I almost despaired of earning bread for my children, I had been thinking of her, and wishing she were living, that I might lay my head upon her bosom and tell her all my sorrows; and then memory carried me back, I scarce knew how, to those childish days, when I ran before her in the woods, to pluck the sweet fern she loved; and then I said to myself, my name shall be “Fanny Fern”—little dreaming anybody would ever know or care anything about it.
I loved my mother;—everybody did. She had the kindest heart and sweetest voice in the world; and if there was any person in the circle of her acquaintance who was particularly disagreeable to her, for that person would she be sure to do a service, the first opportunity.
In a spare room in our house was an old armchair, and in it lay a large Bible. I often used to see my mother go into that room, sighing as she closed the door; and, young as I was, I had learned to watch for her coming out; for the sweet, calm, holy look her features wore, fascinated me like a spell. Now I know how it was! now, that the baptism of a woman’s lot has been mine also; and often, when blinded by the waves of trouble which have dashed over my head, have I thought of the open Bible in the old armchair, its pages wet with tears, which no human eye saw fall, wiped away by no human hand, but precious in His eyes as the seed of the husbandman, from which He garners the golden harvest sheaves.
Thus my mother was unselfish—ever with a gentle word for all; thus she looked upon life’s trials, as does the long-absent traveler upon the wayside discomforts of the journey, when the beacon light gleams from the window of the dear old home in sight. Thank God! she has reached it; and yet—and yet—the weary hours of desolation, my heart has ached for her human voice; in which I have sat with folded hands, while memory upbraided me with her patience, her fortitude, her Christ-like forbearance, her sweet, unmurmuring acceptance of the thorns in her life-path, for His sake, who wore the thorny crown.
Weeping, I remembered her gentle touch upon my arm, as I gave way to some impetuous burst of feeling, at the defection of some playmate, or friend, on whose unswerving friendship my childish heart had rested as on a rock. I saw her eyes, pitiful, imploring, sometimes tearful; for well she saw, as a mother’s prophet-eyes alone may see, her child’s future. She knew the passionate nature, that would be lacerated and probed to the quick, ere the Healer came with His heavenly balm. She knew that love’s silken cord could guide me, where the voice of severity never could drive; and so she let my hot, angry tears fall, and when the storm was spent, upon the dark cloud she painted the bow of promise, and to those only “who overcome,” she told me, was “given to eat of the tree of life.” Alas! and alas! that her child should be a child still!
If there is any poetry in my nature, from my mother I inherited it. She had the most intense enjoyment of the beauty of nature. From the lowliest field-blossom, to the most gorgeous sunset, nothing escaped her observant eye. I well remember, before the dark days came upon me, a visit I received from her in my lovely country home. It was one of those beautiful mornings when the smile of God seems to irradiate every living thing; to rest on the hilltops, to linger in the valleys, to sweeten the herbage for the unconscious cattle, and exhilarate even the bright-winged insects who flutter in the sunbeams; a morning in which simply to live were a blessing, for which humanity could find no adequate voice of thanks.
From out the dusty, noisy city, my mother had come to enjoy it. I had just placed my sleeping babe in its cradle, when I heard her footstep upon the nursery stairs. Stooping to kiss its rosy cheek, she seated herself at my window. The bright-winged orioles were darting through the green foliage, the grass waved in the meadow, starting up the little ground-bird to make its short, quick, circling flights; the contented cattle were browsing in the fields, or bowing their meek heads to the little brook, to drink; brown farmhouses nestled peacefully under the overshadowing trees, and far off in the distance stretched the hills, piled up against the clear blue sky, over which the fleecy clouds sailed leisurely, as if they too enjoyed all this wealth of beauty. My mother sat at the window, the soft summer wind gently lifting the brown curls from her temples;—then slowly—musically, as she laid her hand upon mine, while her whole face glowed, as did that of Moses when he came down from the mount, she said, “O Lord! how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all; the earth is full of thy riches. Who coverest thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a curtain: who walkest upon the wings of the wind. Every beast of the forest is thine; and the cattle upon a thousand hills. The world is thine, and the fullness thereof. I will sing praise unto God while I have my being.” When my mother ceased to speak, and relapsed again into silence, seemingly unconscious of my presence, I did not disturb her; for I knew that her soul was face to face with Him who hears the voiceless prayer, and needs not the bended knee.
My mother was eminently social, and particularly fond of the society of young people; so much so, indeed, that my young companions were always disappointed when she was absent from our little gatherings. Her winning, motherly ways, her warm welcome, her appreciation and toleration of exuberant young life, was as delightful as rare. I will not speak of the broken-hearted whom she drew to her bosom, of the needy to whom she ministered, of the thousand little rills of benevolence with which she fertilized so many hearts and homes; they are written, not in a perishable book of remembrance like mine, but in one which shall endure when the earth shall be rolled up like a scroll.
Had my mother’s time not been so constantly engrossed by a fast-increasing family, had she found time for literary pursuits, I am confident she would have distinguished herself. Her hurried letters, written with one foot upon the cradle, give ample evidence of this. She talked poetry unconsciously! The many gifted men to whom her hospitality was extended, and who were her warm personal friends, know this.
A part of every year my mother spent in the country. One summer, while I was yet a child, we were located in a very lovely spot near Boston. Connected with the church where my mother worshiped, was a female prayer meeting, held alternately at the houses of its different members. One warm summer afternoon, my mother passed through the garden where I was playing, and asked me if I would like to go too. I said yes, because I liked to walk with my mother anywhere; so we sauntered along the grassy path under the trees, till we came to a small, wooden house, half hidden by a tall hedge of lilacs. Then my mother led me through the low doorway, and up a pair of clean wooden stairs, into an old-fashioned raftered chamber, through whose open window the bees were humming in and out, and the scent of flowers, and song of birds, came pleasantly enough to my childish senses. Taking off my sunbonnet, and brushing back my curls, she seated me on a low stool at her feet, while one of the old ladies commenced reading the Bible aloud. All this time I was looking around curiously, as a child will, at the old-fashioned paper on the walls, with its pink shepherdesses and green dogs; at the old-fashioned fireplace, with its pitcher of asparagus branches, dotted with little red berries; at the high-post bedstead, with its rainbow-colored patchwork quilt, of all conceivable shapes and sizes; at its high-backed, stiff-looking chairs, with straw seats; at its china parrot on the mantel, and its framed sampler on the wall, with the inevitable tombstone and weeping willow, and afflicted female, handkerchief in hand.
After the tremulous old lady had done reading, they asked my mother to pray. I knelt with the rest; gradually my thoughts wandered from the china parrot, and patchwork quilt and sampler, to the words my mother was speaking. Her voice was low, and sweet, and pleading, as if God was very near, instead of on the “great, white throne,” far away from human reach, where so many good people are fond of placing Him. It seemed to me as if her head were lying, like the beloved John’s, upon His bosom; and He were not too great, or good, or wise, to listen well pleased to her full heart’s outpourings. Of course, these thoughts did not then, even to myself, find voice as now, but that was my vague, unexpressed feeling. Every musical word fell distinctly on my ear; and I listened as one listens to the sweet, soothing murmurs of a brook, in the fragrant summer time. I had loved my mother before; now I revered her; and it was with a new, delicious feeling I slid my hand within hers, as we passed through the low doorway, and back by the pleasant, grassy paths, to our home. How little she knew what was passing under the little sunbonnet at her side, or how near heaven she had brought me, in that old, raftered chamber.
I have spoken of my mother’s patience and forbearance. One scene I well remember. It occurred in our little sitting room at home. My mother had entered, with her usual soft step and pleasant tones, and addressed some question to me concerning the lesson I was learning, when a person entered, upon whom she had every claim for love, the deepest and strongest. To some pleasant remark of hers, this individual returned an answer so rude, so brutal, so stinging, that every drop of blood in my body seemed to congeal as the murderous syllables fell. I looked at my mother; the warm blood rushed to her temples, the smile faded from her face; then her eyes filled with tears, and bowing her head low upon her breast, with a meek, touching grace I shall never forget, she glided voiceless from the room. I did not follow her, but I knew where she had gone, as well as if I had done so. When I next saw her, save that her voice had an added sweetness, no trace of the poisoned arrow, so ruthlessly aimed at her peace, remained.
I have said my mother was hospitable; but her hospitality was not extended, like that of many, only to those who could give an equivalent in their pleasant society. One guest, who was quite the reverse of this, often received from her the kindest attention, not gratefully, not even pleasantly, for he was churlish to a degree. Vexed that she should thus waste her sweetness where it was so unappreciated, I one day expressed as much to my mother, adding, “that nobody liked him.” “Hush!” said she; “that is the very reason why I should be the more kind to him. He has a large family, and trouble and care have made him reserved and silent; he may thank me and yet not say so; besides, I do not do it for thanks,” she continued, cramming his carpet bag with her usual Lady Bountiful assiduity. The cup of cold water in the name of the Master, to the lowliest disciple, she never forgot.
To all these sweet womanly traits in my mother, was added a sound, practical judgment. On one occasion, while visiting me, a law paper was sent for my wifely signature. Without looking at it, for I hated, and to this day hate, anything of a business nature, I dipped my pen in the inkstand to append it. “Stay! child,” said my mother, arresting my hand, “do you know what that paper is about?” “Not I!” was my laughing reply; “but my husband sent it, and on his broad shoulders be the responsibility!” “That is wrong,” said she, gravely; “you should never sign any paper without a full understanding of its contents.” It seemed to me then that she was over-scrupulous, particularly as I knew she had the same implicit confidence in my husband that I had. I had reason afterward to see the wisdom of her caution.
My mother came to me one day, after rambling over my house with a motherly eye to my housekeeping—she who was such a perfect housekeeper—and held up to me a roll of bank bills, which she found lying loose upon my toilet-table. “Oh, they were safe enough!” said I; “my servants I know to be honest!” “That may be,” was her answer; “but don’t you know that you should never place temptation in their way?”
Foremost among my mother’s warm, personal friends, was Dr. Payson. For many years before the removal of our family from Portland, he was her pastor, and afterward, whenever he visited Boston, our house was emphatically his home; my mother welcoming his coming, and sitting spiritually at his feet, as did Mary of old her Christguest. Let me explain how I first came to love him. When I was a little girl, I used to be told by some who visited at our house, that if I was not a good girl, and did not love God, I should go to hell. Now hell seemed, as far as I could make it out from what they said, a place where people were burned forever for their sins on earth—burned, without being consumed, for millions and millions of years; and after that and so on, through a long eternity—a word I did not then, and do not now, comprehend. Well, I used to think about all this; sometimes as I went to school; sometimes as I lay awake in my little bed at night, and sometimes when I woke earlier than anybody else in the morning; and sometimes on Sunday, when I, now and then, caught the word “hell” in the minister’s sermon. I don’t know how it was, but it never frightened me. I think it was because I could not then, any more than I can now, believe it. The idea of loving anybody because I should be punished if I did not, seemed to freeze up the very fountain of love which I felt bubbling up in my heart, and I turned away from it with horror. I could not pray or read my Bible from fear. I did not know what fear was. I did not feel afraid of death, as my playmates did. When they told me to love God, I said that I did love Him. They did not believe me, because I did not like to talk about myself, or have others talk to me about myself; not that I was ashamed, but that it seemed to me, if I did so, that I should cease to feel. Sometimes, when they persisted in questioning and doubting me, I would get troubled, and run away, or hide. I did not like to “say my prayers,” as it is called; and at set times, morning and evening, and get on my knees to do it. I liked to have my prayer rise up out of my heart, and pass over my lips, without moving them to speech; and that wherever I happened to be, in the street, or in company, or wherever and whenever God’s goodness came into my mind, as it did often; for turn which way I would, I could see that his careful footprints had been before me, and his fingers busy, in making what I was sure then, and am sure now, none but a God could make. I did not understand a word of my catechism, though I said it like a parrot, because our minister told me to. “Election,” “Predestination,” and “Foreordaining,” seemed to me very long words, that meant very little; and the more they were “explained” to me, the more misty they grew, and have continued to do so ever since; and I don’t like to hear them talked about.
The God my eyes see, is not a tyrant, driving his creatures to heaven through fear of hell; he accepts no love that comes to him over that compulsory road. He pities us with an infinite pity, even when we turn away from Him; and the mistaken wretch who has done this through a long life, and worn out the patience of every earthly friend, never wears His out, is never forsaken by Him; his fellow men may hunt him to the world’s end, and drive him to despair, and still the God I see, holds out his imploring hands, and says, “Come to me!” and even at the last moment, when he has spent a long life in wasting and perverting every faculty of his soul, the God I see does not pursue him vengefully, or even frown upon him, but ever that small, soft whisper, “Come to me!” floats by him on the sweet air, is written on the warm sunbeam, which refreshes him all the same as if he had never forgotten to utter his thanks for it. Now, if this man dies, and turns away at the last from all this wonderful love, what more terrible “hell” can there be, than to remember that he has done so? that he has never made the slightest return for it, or ever recognized it? that no living creature was ever made better, or purer, or wiser, or happier, that he lived in the world? but that, on the contrary, he has helped them to destroy themselves as he has done himself? What “flames” could scorch like these thoughts? And that, in my opinion, is hell, and all the hell there is. It is just such a hell as wicked men have a foretaste of in this world, when they stop long enough to listen to that heavenly monitor conscience, which they try so hard to stifle. It is just such a hell as the wayward son feels, who runs away from the love and kindness of home, and returns to find only the graves of those who would have died for him.
But I am wandering a long way from what I was to tell you about—Dr. Payson.
I was dressing my doll one day, when my mother called me to come to her. I knew that some visitor had just come, for I heard the bell ring, and then a trunk drop heavily in the entry. I thought very likely it was a minister, for my mother always had a plate and a bed for them, and it made no difference, as I have told you, in her kindness, whether the minister was a big doctor of divinity, or a poor country clergyman, unknown beyond the small village where he preached. Well, as I told you, my mother called me; and it was a minister who had come, and he had gone up to his room with a bad nervous headache, brought on by traveling in the heat and dust; and I was to go up, so my mother said, and bathe his head with a preparation she gave me; very gently, and very quietly, as he reclined in the big easy chair. I did not want to go; I did not like ministers as well as my mother did; and I often used to run out one door, as they came in at another; and I was often obliged to come back, with a very red face, and shake hands with them. I did not like to hear them say to me, that “my heart was as hard as a rock,” and that “if I did not get it changed, I should go to hell.” My heart did not seem hard to me; I loved everybody and everything then; and I loved God too, in my own way, though not in the way they seemed to want me to, because I should go to hell if I did not; this thought made my heart grow hard in a minute—made me “feel ugly,” as children say; and that’s why I ran away from the ministers who kept telling me what a “wicked” child I was.
So you may be sure, when I heard what my mother said, I took the bottle she put in my hand, which I was to use in bathing the minister’s forehead, very unwillingly, and went very slowly up stairs to my task. My mother had been there before me, and closed the blinds, and given him a footstool for his weary feet; and there he sat, looking very pale, with his eyes closed, and his head laid back in the easy chair. He did not look at all like the other ministers I was so afraid of; and I cannot tell you why, as I tip-toed up to his chair, and moistened my fingers to bathe his heated forehead, and pushed back the dark locks from it, that I thought of the pictures I had sometimes seen of our Saviour, which looked to me so very sweet and lovely. He did not speak, or open his eyes, as my fingers moved over his temples; but I knew that it gave him relief, because he soon sank into a gentle slumber, and his head drooped a little on one shoulder.
I cannot tell why I did not then go out of the room—I, who disliked ministers so much—when I might easily have done so; but instead, I sat down on a low seat near him, and watched his face, as if there were some spell in it, which forbade me to go; and I felt so quiet and happy while I sat there, and dreaded lest some one should call me away. By and by he stirred, and passing his hand slowly over his forehead, opened his eyes; they were dark and soft as a woman’s. Holding out his hand to me, with a smile which I have never forgotten to this day, he said, as he drew me to his side, and laid his hand upon my head, “The Lord bless you! my child;” then he seated me upon his knee; but he said not a word to me about “hell,” or my being “wicked,” but closing his eyes again, he began telling me the story of the Saviour’s crucifixion. Now, I had heard it many times before, I had read it myself in the Bible, when I was told to do so, and yet, that day, in that quiet, darkened room, with that gentle hand upon my shoulder, I heard it for the first time. For the first time my tears fell, and my heart went out to the pure, patient sufferer on Calvary. When the story was finished, in those low, sweet tones, I did not speak. Placing his hand upon my head, he said, again, “The Lord bless you! my child;” and so I passed out with his loving benediction, and closing the door, listened still on the other side, as though only there I could learn to be good.
Many, many long years after this, when I was a grown woman, I visited my birthplace, Portland, from which my mother removed when I was six weeks old. I wandered up and down the streets of that lovely, leafy city, and tried to find the church where good Dr. Payson used to preach. Then, too, I wanted to see the house where I was born—the house where he laid hands of blessing on my baby forehead, when it was purple with what they thought was “the death-agony.” But where it was that the little, flickering life began, I could not find out; for my mother had then gone to the “better land.” Ah! who but God can comfort like a mother? who but God can so forgive? How many times I have shut my eyes, that I might recall her face—her blue, loving eyes, her soft, brown, curling hair; and how many times, when in great trouble, I have said, “Mother! mother!” as if she must hear and comfort her child.
GRANDPA’S BALD HEAD—Page [27].