The mother's book

by Lydia Maria Child

‘If we analyze the slavish fear of death, which constitutes no trifling portion of human misery, we shall often find it impossible to be accounted for on any other grounds than those of early association. Frequently does this slavish fear operate in the bosoms of those who know not the pangs of an accusing conscience, and whose spirits bear them witness that they have reason to have hope and confidence towards God. But in vain does reason and religion speak peace to the soul of him whose first ideas of death have been accompanied with strong impressions of terror. The association thus formed is too powerful to be broken, and the only resource to which minds under its influence generally resort, is to drive the subject from their thoughts as much as possible. To this cause we may attribute the unwillingness which many people evince towards making a settlement of their affairs; not that they entertain the superstitious notion of accelerating the hour of their death by making a will; but that the aversion to the subject of death is so strong in their minds, that they feel a repugnance to the consideration of whatever is even remotely connected with it.

‘How often the same association operates in deterring from the serious contemplation of a future state, we must leave to the consciences of individuals to determine. Its tendency to enfeeble the mind, and its consequences in detracting from the happiness of life, are obvious to common observation; but as every subject of this nature is best elucidated by examples, I shall beg leave to introduce two from real life, in which the importance of early association will, I trust, be clearly illustrated.

‘The first instance I shall give of the abiding influence of strong impressions received in infancy, is in the character of a lady who is now no more; and who was too eminent for piety and virtue, to leave any doubt of her being now exalted to the enjoyment of that felicity which her enfeebled mind, during its abode on earth, never dared to contemplate. The first view she had of death in infancy was accompanied with peculiar circumstances of terror; and this powerful impression was, by the injudicious language of the nursery, aggravated and increased, till the idea of death became associated with all the images of horror which the imagination could conceive. Although born of a noble family, her education was strictly pious; but the piety which she witnessed was tinctured with fanaticism, and had little in it of that divine spirit of “love which casteth out fear.” Her understanding was naturally excellent; or, in other words, what is in our sex generally termed masculine; and it was improved by the advantages of a very superior education. But not all the advantages she derived from nature or cultivation, not all the strength of a sound judgment, nor all the sagacity of a penetrating and cultivated genius, could counteract the association which rendered the idea of death a subject of perpetual terror to her mind. Exemplary in the performance of every religious and every social duty, full of faith and of good works, she never dared to dart a glance of hope beyond the tomb. The gloomy shadows that hovered over the regions of death made the heart recoil from the salutary meditation; and when sickness brought the subject to her view, her whole soul was involved in a tumult of horror and dismay. In every illness it became the business of her family and friends to devise methods of concealing from her the real danger. Every face was then dressed in forced smiles, and every tongue employed in the repetition of flattering falsehoods. To mention the death of any person in her presence became a sort of petit treason in her family; and from the pains that were taken to conceal every event of this kind from her knowledge, it was easy to conjecture how much was to be dreaded from the direful effect such information would infallibly produce. She might, indeed, be said

“To die a thousand deaths in fearing one.”

And had often suffered much more from the apprehension, than she could have suffered from the most agonizing torture that ever attended the hour of dissolution.

‘Here we have an instance of a noble mind subjected by means of early association to the most cruel bondage. Let us now take a view of the consequences of impressing the mind with more agreeable associations on the same subject at the same early period.

‘A friend of mine, on expressing his admiration of the cheerfulness and composure, which a lady of his acquaintance had invariably shown on the threatened approach of death, was thus answered: “The fortitude you so highly applaud, I indeed acknowledge as the first and greatest of blessings; for to it I owe the enjoyment of all the mercies, which a good Providence has graciously mingled in the cup of suffering. But I take no merit to myself on its account. It is not, as you suppose, the magnanimous effort of reason; and however it may be supported by that religious principle which inspires hope, and teaches resignation, while I see those who are my superiors in every Christian grace and virtue appalled by the terrors of death, I cannot to religion alone attribute my superior fortitude. For that fortitude I am, under God, chiefly indebted to the judicious friend of my infancy, who made the idea of death not only familiar but pleasant to my imagination. The sudden death of an elderly lady to whom I was much attached, gave her an opportunity, before I had attained my sixth year, of impressing this subject on my mind in the most agreeable colors.

‘“To this judicious management do I attribute much of that serenity, which, on the apprehended approach of death, has ever possessed my mind. Had the idea been first impressed upon my imagination with its usual gloomy accompaniments, it is probable that it would still have been there invested in robes of terror; nor would all the efforts of reason, nor all the arguments of religion, have been able in these moments effectually to tranquillize my soul. Nor is it only in the hour of real danger that I have experienced the good effects of this freedom from the slavish fear of death; it has saved me from a thousand petty alarms and foolish apprehensions, into which people of stronger minds than I can boast, are frequently betrayed by the involuntary impulse of terror. So much, my good friend, do we all owe to early education.”’

To these remarks, I will add an anecdote, that came under the observation of one of my friends. A little girl saw a beloved aunt die. The child was very young,—she had no ideas at all about death,—it was her first lesson on the subject. She was much affected, and wept bitterly. Her mother led her to the bed, kissed the cheek of the corpse, and observed how smiling and happy the countenance looked. ‘We must not weep for dear aunt Betsy,’ said she; ‘she is living now with the angels; and though she cannot come to see us, she loves us, and will rejoice when we are good. If we are good, like her, we shall go to heaven, where she is; and to go to heaven, is like going to a happy home.’

This conversation soothed the child’s mind; she felt the cold hand, kissed the cold cheek, and felt sure that her aunt was still alive and loved her.