THE WIDOW AND HER SON
by Washington Irving
Pittie olde age, within whose silver hairesHonour and reverence evermore have rain'd.
MARLOWE'S TAMBURLAINE.
THOSE who are in the habit of remarking such matters, must havenoticed the passive quiet of an English landscape on Sunday. Theclacking of the mill, the regularly recurring stroke of the flail, thedin of the blacksmith's hammer, the whistling of the ploughman, therattling of the cart, and all other sounds of rural labor aresuspended. The very farm-dogs bark less frequently, being lessdisturbed by passing travellers. At such times I have almost fanciedthe winds sunk into quiet, and that the sunny landscape, with itsfresh green tints melting into blue haze, enjoyed the hallowed calm.
Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky.
Well was it ordained that the day of devotion should be a day of rest.
The holy repose which reigns over the face of nature, has its moralinfluence; every restless passion is charmed down, and we feel thenatural religion of the soul gently springing up within us. For mypart, there are feelings that visit me, in a country church, amidthe beautiful serenity of nature, which I experience nowhere else; andif not a more religious, I think I am a better man on Sunday than onany other day of the seven.
During my recent residence in the country, I used frequently toattend at the old village church. Its shadowy aisles; its moulderingmonuments; its dark oaken panelling, all reverend with the gloom ofdeparted years, seemed to fit it for the haunt of solemn meditation;but being in a wealthy aristocratic neighborhood, the glitter offashion penetrated even into the sanctuary; and I felt myselfcontinually thrown back upon the world by the frigidity and pomp ofthe poor worms around me. The only being in the whole congregation whoappeared thoroughly to feel the humble and prostrate piety of a trueChristian was a poor decrepit old woman, bending under the weight ofyears and infirmities. She bore the traces of something better thanabject poverty. The lingerings of decent pride were visible in herappearance. Her dress, though humble in the extreme, wasscrupulously clean. Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded her,for she did not take her seat among the village poor, but sat alone onthe steps of the altar. She seemed to have survived all love, allfriendship, all society; and to have nothing left her but the hopes ofheaven. When I saw her feebly rising and bending her aged form inprayer; habitually conning her prayer-book, which her palsied hand andfailing eyes would not permit her to read, but which she evidentlyknew by heart; I felt persuaded that the faltering voice of thatpoor woman arose to heaven far before the responses of the clerk,the swell of the organ, or the chanting of the choir.
I am fond of loitering about country churches, and this was sodelightfully situated, that it frequently attracted me. It stood ona knoll, round which a small stream made a beautiful bend, and thenwound its way through a long reach of soft meadow scenery. Thechurch was surrounded by yew-trees which seemed almost coeval withitself. Its tall Gothic spire shot up lightly from among them, withrooks and crows generally wheeling about it. I was seated there onestill sunny morning, watching two laborers who were digging a grave.
They had chosen one of the most remote and neglected corners of thechurch-yard; where, from the number of nameless graves around, itwould appear that the indigent and friendless were huddled into theearth. I was told that the new-made grave was for the only son of apoor widow. While I was meditating on the distinctions of worldlyrank, which extend thus down into the very dust, the toll of thebell announced the approach of the funeral. They were the obsequies ofpoverty, with which pride had nothing to do. A coffin of theplainest materials, without pall or other covering, was borne bysome of the villagers. The sexton walked before with an air of coldindifference. There were no mock mourners in the trappings of affectedwoe; but there was one real mourner who feebly tottered after thecorpse. It was the aged mother of the deceased- the poor old womanwhom I had seen seated on the steps of the altar. She was supported bya humble friend, who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few of theneighboring poor had joined the train, and some children of thevillage were running hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking mirth,and now pausing to gaze, with childish curiosity, on the grief ofthe mourner.
As the funeral train approached the grave, the parson issued fromthe church porch, arrayed in the surplice, with prayer-book in hand,and attended by the clerk. The service, however, was a mere act ofcharity. The deceased had been destitute, and the survivor waspenniless. It was shuffled through, therefore, in form, but coldly andunfeelingly. The well-fed priest moved but a few steps from the churchdoor; his voice could scarcely be heard at the grave; and never didI hear the funeral service, that sublime and touching ceremony, turnedinto such a frigid mummery of words.
I approached the grave. The coffin was placed on the ground. On itwere inscribed the name and age of the deceased- "George Somers,aged 26 years." The poor mother had been assisted to kneel down at thehead of it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in prayer, but Icould perceive by a feeble rocking of the body, and a convulsivemotion of her lips, that she was gazing on the last relics of her son,with the yearnings of a mother's heart.
