Holidays at the Grange; or, A Week's Delight / Games and Stories for Parlor and Fireside

by Emily Mayer Higgins

The Good Grandmother.

In ancient times, in a country of the East, there lived a Queen Dowager, whose heart was eaten up by ambition. She was a king's daughter, and had ever been accustomed to rule. While her husband lived she had exerted great influence at court, and had turned away his heart from the true and established religion of the state to the cruel worship of the idols of her native land; and this she accomplished, although he had been religiously educated, and was the son of an eminently good man. Little did it affect her, that a highly-distinguished prophet of God wrote a letter to the king her husband, foretelling the evils that should befall himself, his family, and his kingdom, and that this prophecy had been literally fulfilled. Little did it humble her proud spirit, that by the common consent, her degenerate husband, who, through her persuasions and example, had been led away from the path of duty, was judged unworthy to be interred within the sepulchres of his ancestors, and was buried apart. She had too much of her mother within her to be daunted by such trifles as these; for both of her parents had acquired an eminence in wickedness which have made their names by-words: but her mother's especially is considered almost a synonym for every thing that is unlovely in woman.

After her husband's death, her son succeeded to the throne, and he also did wickedly, for he had been educated under his mother's eyes, trod in her footsteps, and courted the society of her connections. And this was the cause of his death; for while paying a visit at the court of his uncle, her brother, they both were killed together in a successful insurrection. And now, if ever, if any thing of the woman was left in her nature, the queen's heart would be softened and humbled: at one fell swoop, death had carried off her only son, her brother, and every member of her father's house; she only was left, of all that proud and numerous family. Her aged mother, aged, but not venerable, although now a great-grandmother, had met her fate in a characteristic manner. Determined, if she must die, to do so like a queen, she had put on her royal robes, and adorned herself with jewels, and caused her withered face, upon which every evil passion had left its mark, to be painted into some semblance of youth and beauty. Her eyelids were stained with the dark antimony still used in the East, to restore, if possible, the former brilliant softness to eyes of hard, blazing, wicked blackness. Gazing from an upper window of the palace upon the usurper, as he drove into the courtyard, the fearless woman, resolved to show her spirit to the last, railed upon him, and quoted a notable instance from history of one who, like him, had been a successful rebel, but had reigned for only seven days. Enraged at her insolence, her enemy, looking up, asked, "Who in the palace is on my side?" At these words, some officers of the household cast her down from the window: thus ingloriously she died, and the prancing horses of the chariot trampled over her. He who now was universally acknowledged to be the king, soon gave orders that she should be buried, observing that, wretch as she was, she was of royal blood. But the vulture and the jackal had been before him: naught remained of that haughty, revengeful, and heaven-defying woman, save the skull, the feet, and the palms of her hands. Thus, to the very letter, was fulfilled the prediction of a prophet, one of her contemporaries: it was the same individual who had sent an epistle to her son-in-law, the late husband of our heroine, announcing his fate. This fearless reprover of kings did not live to see the accomplishment of the divine messages he was commissioned to deliver, and yet he had not died: read me that riddle, if you can.

When the queen, who, from one distinguishing act of her life, I have called the good grandmother, heard the sad tidings of the death of her only son, of her mother, and of all her kin, what did she? mourn, and weep, and give herself up to melancholy? she was quite incapable of such weakness. If she had no children left, she at least had grandchildren—she must take care of them—the tender little playful babes, her own flesh and blood, and all that was left upon the earth of her late son. And she did take care of them—the care that Pharaoh took of the Israelitish infants—the care that Herod took of the nurslings at Bethlehem—the care that the tiger takes of the lamb. She was worse than the tigress; for the latter will at least defend her young ones from all attacks, even at the peril of her own life. But she—shame of her sex!—commanded the immediate execution of all the children of her son, that she might reign alone, and never be called upon to resign the sceptre to a lawful heir.

They are slain! The shouts and laughter of that band of little ones is stopped forever—the galleries will never more re-echo to their youthful voices; vainly did they rush into the arms of their nurses for protection. They are slain; all save one! For if they have a grandmother they also have an aunt, and one who is ruled by different principles. She is the sister of their father, but probably had not the same mother as he: she early chose the paths of piety and goodness, and was wedded to a man of uncommon firmness and of the noblest character—the high priest of the nation. Soon as she had an intimation of the intentions of the queen, she hastened to the palace. But one only could she save—a little crowing babe, whom, with his nurse, she secreted in a safe place, until, under cover of the night, she was able to convey them to her own abode.

There, in the house of the Lord, the young child was reared. For six years he was hidden, and tenderly and carefully trained in the fear of God, while his grandmother reigned supreme in the land, to the subversion of all law and order. But when the prince was seven years old, the high priest, his uncle, took measures to secure to him the possession of his rights. He consulted with the wisest of the nation, and brought together the Levites from all parts of the land, and divided them into bands, giving each a particular post, to guard against surprise. He then brought forth from the treasuries of the temple the spears, shields, and bucklers which had belonged to King David, and distributed them among the captains of the several divisions. When all arrangements were made, and the people who were gathered together in the spacious courts for worship, waited to see what was about to happen, he retired; and came back, in his priestly garments, with the mitre upon his head, on which was written, on a golden plate, Holiness to the Lord—this sentence showing the intention of the priestly office. His robe, or under-garment, which hung in rich folds down to his feet, was of deep blue, and around the hem were alternate pomegranates of brilliant colors, and little golden bells, which made a tinkling sound as he moved along. Above this was worn the ephod, splendidly embroidered in gold, and blue, and purple, and scarlet, with a long and broad girdle at the waist, manufactured of the same gorgeous materials. Upon his bosom flashed the breastplate, composed of twelve large precious stones, all different, upon each one of which was engraved the name of a tribe of Israel; so that the High Priest bore them all upon his heart, when he ministered before the Lord. Well was this magnificent dress, which was made "for glory and for beauty," calculated to set off the dignity of the holy office, and to make the people gaze in admiring awe. But it was not the splendor of the pontifical robes, it was not the inspiring person of the high priest, at which the assembled multitudes eagerly gazed, when the Head of the Church again appeared before them. It was a little boy, of seven years old, who now attracted their attention—a pretty child, arrayed in royal garments, who was led forward by the venerable man. His stand was taken beside a pillar, and the guards, with drawn swords, gathered round him: his uncle placed upon his clustering curls the golden circlet, the symbol of how much power, what heavy cares, and what fearful responsibility! And when the people, long crushed to the earth by tyrannical rule, beheld it, hope again awaked in their hearts, and, with one accord, they clapped their hands, and shouted out, "God save the King!" And the trumpeters sounded aloud, and the harpers struck up the notes of praise and joy, and the full choir of trained singers joined in the jubilee. And thus was the young king proclaimed—while, in the innocence of childhood, he wonderingly looked on.

But the queen heard the shouts in her palace. For the first time in her life, it is most probable, she came to the house of God—but she came not to worship. "What means this riotous assembly?" she thought. "Can it be, that the vile rabble dare to think of revolt—against me? I will go, even alone, and awe them by my presence: it shall never be said that my mother's daughter feared aught in heaven above or the earth beneath." She went, that audacious woman, with all her crimes upon her head, and entered alone into the temple of the Holy One. She went to her death. The people made way for her, although they gazed upon her with loathing; and within the sanctuary she beheld the grandson, whom she had long thought to be numbered with the dead, in royal array, with the crown upon his head. When she saw this, she rent her clothes, and cried loudly, "Treason! treason!" But none joined in the cry: an ominous silence pervaded that vast assembly, and looks of hatred were cast upon her from the crowd. Seeing plainly that all were against her, her insolent pride gave way, and she turned to flee from that mass of stern, relentless eyes, all gazing, as it were, into her black and blood-stained heart. As she passed along, the people shrank back, as if an accursed thing were near them; and when she had passed from the consecrated limits, she was slain. None shed a tear over her grave, but the people enjoyed rest and peace, now that her tyranny was terminated.

"And that was the end of her!" said George. "And well she deserved her fate. A good grandmother, indeed! But who was she?"

"That's the very thing I want to know," replied Mary. "But perhaps some of you can tell me who her very lovely mother was?"

"There is no mistaking her," said Amy. "There is only one Jezebel in the world, I hope. Think of the horrid old thing, painting herself off, and trying to look like a beauty! I wonder if she thought she could possibly captivate the murderer of her son!"