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.