The Clergyman's Wife and Other Sketches

Front matter

THE CLERGYMAN'S WIFE

AND OTHER SKETCHES.

A COLLECTION OF

The Clergyman's Wife

The Clergyman's Wife.

It was a fruitful subject for wonder, speculation, and gossip, when Amy Morton bestowed her hand upon Ethan Mildmay, the youthful pastor of an unpretending flock, in a remote New England village. Mr. Mildmay's salary was very small, and his worldly prospects gave no large promise. Moreover, his health was far from robust, for the nervous activity of his mind too often exhausted his physical strength, paled the glow of his unrounded cheek, shadowed his musing eyes by the drooping of weary lids, and left his form too slender for its exceeding height.

Amy had been delicately nurtured. In the home she left for Ethan's she had been surrounded by every desirable luxury. Her sunny sweetness of temperament made her the gladdening centre of a large social circle. She enjoyed, too, what people are apt indefinitely to call "the world." She took pleasure in travelling, she delighted in merry gatherings, she joined in the dance with spirit, she appreciated literature and art, a fine concert, a good play, a grand opera. The sanctimon- ious pronounced her by no means good enough for a clergyman's helpmate, and the worldly declared her far too shining and attractive for the wife of a poor pastor.

No striking symmetrical regularity rendered Amy's face or figure remarkable. The latter may be described by the brief designation of "trim." The superlative charm of the former consisted in a pair of deep blue eyes, shaded by singularly black lashes. It was a countenance that involuntarily reminded you of Wordsworth's lines—

But Amy's voice had a spell that far surpassed the power of exterior loveliness, for it gave an irresistible assurance of the most varying, most harmonious, most eloquent internal beauty. Those tones were literally spoken-music, and penetrated at once to the heart. When they were sorrowful, their pathos might have drawn tears from a listener who could not comprehend the words uttered, and when they were glad, the gushing, matinal song of the lark is not more purely joyous.

Yet Amy's vivacity was never boisterous. It was combined with a soft repose of manner, suggestive of reserved power that only waited development through life's coming demands for action.

Coleridge declares that "the perfection of a woman's character is to be characterless." We think his somewhat startling assertion admits of interpretation. When all the attributes that compose a character are in such complete unison that they form a smooth and lovely whole, without the sharp prominence of any one trait, perfection is approached. This coherency, this harmony, this perfect balance characterized Amy's mental organization.

Amy had only one answer for those alarmed relatives and friends who came, with their worldly reasonings, to convince her of the folly of her choice. An answer full of maidenly, uncalculating simplicity. She loved him, she replied; he was the only man who had the power to inspire her with love; when he asked her for her heart, he only claimed that which was already his own.

Amy's attachment was not the capricious, evanescent, unaccountable emotion which is falsely dignified as "love;" not that mere physical, sensuous attraction which makes so many women cling to men they know not why. Amy loved the attributes of her lover's soul, the qualities of his mind and heart that make up the true man and shine through his exterior. She knew what she loved.

As to Ethan Midmay's ill health, which was urged as one objection to her union with him, it only awakened her tenderness; and the smiling patience with which bodily infirmities were borne endeared him more and more, until through his very suffering he became sanctified in her eyes.

True, he was poor, but she had often heard him say that to every one of God's creatures as much or as little worldly wealth is allotted as can be of spiritual benefit. Much to those whom much would profit in some manner which the all-wise Giver alone comprehends, and little to those who would more rapidly gain spiritual riches through the scantiness of their worldly possessions. He had taught her that there were no such words as accident and chance with God, and that all things were ever working together for the good of those who love the Lord. How then could Ethan's poverty be regarded as an evil?

Let friends say what they might, Ethan and Amy felt that they were not unsuited. The happiness of marriage lies more in the fitness of one being for companionship with another, than in the actual qualities with which either one is endowed. The bond between Ethan and Amy sprang from this mental adaptedness, and caused a transfusion of mind which could not be otherwise than productive of felicity. One nature seemed the complement of the other; each was incomplete without that perfecting counterpart.

Mr. Mildmay's parsonage was a tiny cottage, so greenly veiled by a network of vines, so closely belted by overshadowing elms, that it looked like a bird's nest peeping out from its leafy canopy. This picturesque abode was encircled by a small garden. The soil had been so carefully enriched and every inch of ground was under such high cultivation, that the narrow circuit yielded a wonderful profusion and succession of fruits, vegetables, and flowers. He who labored to implant good seed in human hearts, found his chief relaxation in the culture of this little spot of earth, and a never-failing enjoyment in pondering over and searching out the divine significance of its varied products.

To this sequestered home, far from the care and clamor of the guileful world, Mr. Mildmay carried his bride. Amy's domestic capabilities were now called into full play. Her knowledge of housekeeping was limited in the extreme, but she had sound sense, aptitude, ready hands, and a willing heart. She maintained that any woman of ordinary intellect, who has the will, can become an expert and thrifty housewife, and she soon exemplified the truth of her declaration.

Her orderly mind systematized and, by consequence, lightened all her labors. Household avocations were not drudgeries to her; she idealized them by the remembrance of the comfort they secured for him she loved.

She had the gift to evoke beauty out of the simplest combinations. As you crossed her threshold, the eye was charmed by the most tasteful disposition of furniture, light, color; by picturesque but inexpensive adornments; and you were always greeted by the penetrating aroma of delicate flowers. The little parlor and her husband's study were invariably decked with them. She never spread the table for meals without placing upon it a tiny vase, freshly filled, or a basket of moss inlaid with expanding buds. Dishes of fruit were usually garnished with leaves and scented blossoms. Indeed, Amy had a strong propensity to imitate the fanciful culinary achievements of the fair Imogen, who cut into symbolical shapes the roots she cooked. At least so Ethan used laughingly to tell her when he tasted her preserves. Many a jest passed between the pair on the subject of her beautifying touches, for Mr. Mildmay was as cheerful as he was devout, and

"They sweetened every meal with social glee."

Amy was soon valued by her husband's parishioners. She mingled with them as constantly as her household duties permitted. The qualities of heart and intellect, the cultivation and genial grace that had made her the delight of her former social sphere, rendered her beloved in her new position. Her prompt sympathy, her quick appreciation, her cheerful looks, her winning manners, the penetrating melody of her voice, elicited spontaneous confidence and won involuntary affection. Every one, but Ethan, was surprised to see how quickly she became acquainted with the most unapproachable of his flock, how confidingly they talked to her of their hopes and disappointments, their joys and sufferings, their struggles and shortcomings, and with what unwearied interest she listened, sympathized, consoled or advised, in tones of touching sweetness that made her simplest words impressive. Thus she effectually aided in her husband's labors for their welfare.

Mr. Mildmay was not a flowery pulpit declaimer of the sensation school, but there was a persuasive eloquence in the truths he clearly presented to the minds of his hearers which had a more permanently healthful, a more regenerating influence, than the most exciting sermon that ever stirred a congregation into enthusiasm for the servant of the Lord, without raising hearts to the Lord himself. The young pastor's mien, his very presence calmed, encouraged, and elevated. He taught, not by preceptive wisdom alone, but by the example of his life, by the broad charity, the love for others by which his Master had said his disciples should be known. Ethan Mildmay was a stranger to the morose bigotry that dwarfs the mental stature of so many pious men. The grandeur of his own spiritual breadth and height enabled him to reach the hearts of not a few whose expanded intellects rendered them inaccessible to a narrower grasp.

The religion with which he inspired his congregation was not made up of mere external observances and empty forms. He taught them that the truths they heard must sink into their hearts and take form, and spring up, and come blossoming forth in the every-day acts of their lives. That regeneration is not the result of a moment's violent excitement, but a purifying work that, once commenced in the soul, must gradually, steadily progress through a whole existence. That the religion of a true servant of the Lord, a true member of his church, is made up of Charity as inseparable from genuine Faith as the heat of the sun's rays is from their light. A charity that rejoices in finding good in others, that seeks, (does not wait for, but zealously seeks) opportunities of serving others; a charity that influences every word man utters; every thought that flits through his mind; every purpose of his will; every movement of his life.

The piety he commended was not a lip-service, chiefly evinced by church-going and external sanctity, easily simulated and often hollow, void of all goodness; it was not the so-called "renunciation of the world," but a life full of good deeds in the midst of the world, the true renunciation in renouncing the evil things of this world.

Mr. Mildmay's congregation had rapidly increased since his marriage. It seemed as though his union with one so thoroughly congenial, so trustful yet so helpful, had rendered his manhood more complete, had imparted to him double strength, double influence, double power for good.

To his Sunday-school, in particular, Amy lent the most active assistance. Little children she tenderly loved. To watch and foster the expanding germs that shoot daily in a young child's spirit, was to her an ineffable happiness. What wonder that her heart swelled, almost to rapture, when, in the first year of her wifehood, the precious promise of maternity was accorded her! How full of grateful, tearfully grateful, delight were her day dreams, as she sat plying her needle upon tiny caps, and dresses, and sacques, and picturing to herself the little wearer, towards whom her heart yearned with the most bounteous love!

She felt that the woman to whom the guardianship of a child's immortal soul is entrusted, shares the holy office that angels are ever discharging, the guiding of young feet along the paths that lead to heaven. In the words of the greatest, wisest of woman-poets, that

"A child is given to sanctify A woman; set her in the sight of all The clear-eyed heavens, a chosen minister To do their business and lead spirits up The difficult, blue heights."

And now the hour to which Amy had looked forward with so much tender thankfulness, was at hand. That hour was one of more than ordinary danger. For two days her, life was in imminent peril. Her protracted sufferings were borne with womanly heroism, a heroism not less wonderful because it is not rare. On the morning of the third day a son was born to her. But when she listened for that first, faint wail, so full of music to the newly made mother's ear, there was silence, deep silence in the chamber!

She turned her large, blue eyes inquiringly, hopefully, towards those that surrounded her couch. There was no gleam of answering joy in the looks that met hers, every face was blank! With a stifled cry of anguish, she stretched her feeble hand towards her husband, and her white lips moved inarticulately.

He folded her tenderly in his arms, he held her close to his swelling heart in the silence of inward prayer. Then as the tremulous motion of the form that quivered in his embrace, slowly subsided, he whispered, "It is God's will, Amy; shall we oppose our wishes to His wisdom?"

It was an earthquake shock to Amy, the sudden vanishing away, the sliding from underneath her feet of a realm of hope, a world of happiness. But her husband's calm, instantaneous, undoubting recognition of his Master's will, infused fortitude into her stricken spirit. She uttered not one lamentation, not one murmur.

After a while, in a low, trembling tone, she begged that the babe might be placed in her arms. The little, lifeless form, arrayed in the white robe upon which she had expended so many hours of delightful labor, was laid upon a pillow by her side. With what eager eyes she scanned the features of that cherub face! They seemed very perfect, very lovely in their marble stillness and whiteness. Again and again she kissed the cold lips that had never breathed, never moved to draw nourishment, and thrill with joy the heart on which that tiny head reposed. For hours she lay gazing on the motionless face, and holding the icy hands in hers, until she almost fancied they grew warm with returning life.

At length it was needful to remove the corpse. Then Amy's frame was convulsed with sobs, the fountain of her tears was opened, and they fell in heavy showers upon the withered bud which no such rain could revive. But would not this folded flower, despite its untimely earthly blight, expand in the gardens of the Lord? Was not the jewel this little, perishing casket contained, set in the crown of eternity? Parted, not lost; passing through death into life; wherefore should Amy mourn the babe that had only "gone before?"

Amy recovered her strength more rapidly than was anticipated. In a short time she was able to take her former place in the household, and resume her habitual avocations. Through the house and through the garden, her melodious voice was once more heard, chanting all day; and if the tones were sadder than of old, they were not less sweet. She seemed but little changed, though at times a cloud of dreamy pensiveness overshadowed her young face. But, in a few months, it was brightened away, for again that holy promise, which she had welcomed with such ecstasy, was repeated. Now her joy was mingled with strange forebodings, and depressing fears, yet they only seemed to render her yearnings more intense.

When the hour came, her illness was even more severe, her sufferings were even more protracted; but, at length, her expectant, happy ears caught the longed-for sound, the cry of an infant's voice! Very feeble, very low, and yet as distinctly heard by her as the peal of rejoicing bells by a royal mother when a Prince is born!

Amy turned to her husband with an uncontrollable burst of emotion. What was the meaning of that look of anguish? She stretched out her eager arms for the infant. Wrapped in its little woollen blanket it was, at once, laid in her bosom.

Still no smile in her husband's half-averted eyes, no words of congratulation from his trembling lips. Oh! it was incomprehensible!

She heard the child's faint moans; she felt the clutch of the small fingers; the quick throbbing of the thread-like pulses; he lived! he breathed! he was hers!

The moans grow fainter and fainter, and then fade into a low, hardly audible murmur—the baby hand relaxes its hold—a strange pallor spreads over the tiny face—the lids drop heavily over the eyes! What is this? The limbs grow rigid—the lips are white and still—the breath has ceased! Amy holds a stiffening, freezing corpse in her arms!

This trial was far severer than its precedent, for at the very moment when her highest hopes were embraced by reality, she was called to lay them down, once more, on the altar of Faith.

And that trial did not end here. The voice of one, whose medical skill and wisdom she could not doubt, pronounced that she could never again enfold within her arms a living child of her own—could never be a mother! That crown of glory she must not even wish to wear, or the rebellious yearning would dim the lustre of a more unfading crown prepared by angel hands for the head that bows with unquestioning, unmurmuring submission to the will divine.

What? Should the walls of her secluded home never echo the melody of a child's laugh? Should no little feet, gambolling among the flowers, fly to meet her at her coming? No tiny hand charm away her cares? No lisping tongue thrill her heart with the sound of the sacred word, "mother?" Should there be no infant soul in which she could plant heavenly seed that might yield a celestial harvest! No! no! no! Hard, hard indeed, was it to say "amen," and great was the anguish of her truly womanly nature, many were her inward struggles, her tears, her prayers.

She leaned more helplessly than ever before on her high-hearted husband, and bade him teach her the lesson of resignation; bade him repeat to her, over and over again, that all which God orders is well. And, with his fond arm about her waist, her head resting on his shoulder, and his kindly voice dropping words of wisdom, like healing balm, upon her lacerated spirit, the teachings were not in vain. She found inexpressible comfort when he talked to her of the state of their two angel boys in their bright home. Upon that theme she dwelt untiringly, and soon her sorrow was hallowed to her. She accepted her fate, and it ceased to be terrible.

The darts of anguish fix not where the sea Of suffering has been thoroughly fortified By acquiescence in the will supreme, For time and for eternity!"

Her health was restored very slowly, and she never regained her former strength; yet she threw herself into active employment as the greatest safeguard against the melancholy which now and then would steal over her. Gradually the tranquil smiles returned to her lip. Her face had lost something of its joyous look, but had gained a holier expression that told of the chastening of grief, the bruise of the crushed flower that drew forth greater sweetness.

The young husband and wife were more united than ever. The link that childhood forges to bind the hearts of married partners, grew out of their mutual bereavement. Every year they clung to each other with fonder, more helpful, more absorbing love.

The movement of Amy's life was very calm, but rounded by acts of steady, systematic goodness. Thus was born that heavenly peace which springs from the conscientious discharge of daily duties, even the most trivial, and thus was found the only true nepenthe!

Every day she asked herself "Has my existence bettered some other life to-day?" "Have I shared my gifts with others?" "Have I cheered any troubled heart?" "Have I made any burden lighter, any discordant spirits more harmonious?" And few were the days upon which Amy could not answer these soul-searching questions with thankfulness. When it was not in her power to do much, she was content to do little, if in that little she "did what she could!" True, she was never fully satisfied with the amount of good achieved, but what large nature ever is?

In spite of her heavy bereavement, and the much coveted blessing forever denied, the clergyman's wife was one of the happiest mortals that walked the earth. Could any being adopt Amy's rules of life and not be happy? Truly the Kingdom of God is "within us," and well has it been said, "God has two dwellings; one in heaven, the other in a meek and thankful heart."

The Beauty of Age

The Beauty of Age.

All the poets who ever sang have chronicled the loveliness of childhood, of youth, of maturity; but the beauty of old age, not less alluring, not less impressive, and far more rare, has been the source of fewer inspirations. "Beauty in Age?" cries Youth, his bright, disparaging eyes flashing dissent. "Beauty, forsooth? The unequivocal respectability of Age, its wisdom sometimes, its claims upon our reverence occasionally, we admit, but infirmity and Decay are the handmaidens of Age, they were never yet the tire-women of beauty!"

Listening to that scoff, an image rises before our mental vision, that rebukes Youth's hasty verdict; Age stands forth invested with triune beauty, physical, mental, spiritual! It is the picture of a Patriarch serenely counting the sands of his eightieth winter. A noble presence, with form erect as though Time had felt it fruitless labor and never essayed to bend its stateliness. About the high and meditative brow press silver locks, silken as childhood's tresses. The dark, genial eyes kindle brightly with every emotion. The lines about the finely curved mouth tell it has been used to smile on iron circumstance, ay, these eighty years! Every furrow upon that countenance speaks of heroic battles with misfortune, ending in victories, of perfect faith crowned with the halo of peace, of the sympathetic nature that looks benignly upon all creation. The Patriarch's step has not lost its firmness, nor his voice its full, melodious tones, for his warm, fervent spirit has melted the frost of Age's winter before it could gather on his heart and paralyze his faculties. The movement of his life has ever been rapid, impulsive, energetic, persevering. His hands more diligently employed in succoring than acquiring, his every blessing shared, his worst enemy pardoned,—well has he earned the rare attributes that distinguish his age. Rich is he in years, aged in no other sense.

And yet he has suffered more, perhaps, than most men. He has known the sting of treachery, the sharp pinch of penury, the icy touch of ingratitude, the agony of bereavement! A single stroke of Fate has hurled him, in an instant, from the pinnacle of wealth and worldly dignity into the abyss of poverty, embarrassment, and what would have been despair to weaker men. Again and again he has been lifted up, he has achieved great successes, he has welcomed Heaven's good gifts in abundant showers, and again and again has he been cast down and stripped of all. Prosperity essayed with the heat of her meridian sun, Adversity with his freezing winds, to rob him of the mantle of Faith in God's providence. Vain attempt! He only drew its folds more closely about him, and looking upwards, murmured, "It is well! it is well! Even as thou wilt, O Lord!" Herein lies the secret of youthful vigor, of unsubdued buoyancy, of the capacity for enjoyment, of the beauty in age preserved to an eightieth year.

Especially we love to recall his face as it looked upon a memorable celebration at which we were permitted to be present. Every heart beneath his hospitable roof beat gladly upon that day. There was a fête in honor of his seventy-eighth birthday. It would occupy too much space to describe the joyous festival; we will only touch upon the opening scene. The Patriarch sat beside a devoted wife, surrounded by a host of sons and daughters, grandsons and grand-daughters, who had flocked from their distant homes to gather about him. Many friends, too, were there, some whose dark locks had whitened side by side with his.

Within a bowery recess, decked with evergreens, and garlanded with festoons of natural flowers, behold a group of lovely children, clad in white, with flower-crowned brows and radiant faces. In the centre stands a classic-featured young maiden of but nine summers, holding by the hand a little sister of seven. These are the two youngest of the Patriarch's many daughters, the last roses of his long summer. The knot of little ones that encircle them, down to the golden-haired, blue-eyed, three-year old boy and girl in the corner, who stand with their tiny arms clasped about each other, are his grandchildren. The dark-eyed child, the central star of this youthful galaxy, in a voice, distinct, liquid, and full of genuine pathos, utters the salutatory lines which some elder sister (given to the sin of rhyming,) has taught her. The verses have no value in themselves, yet happy tears roll slowly down the cheeks of the Patriarch, and fall from the gentle eyes of his wife, as they listen. And friends weep, not merely because the sight moves them, but because, oh! truly because they feel and are melted by the beauty of that Patriarch's old age. These were the words the little damsel uttered with such touching emphasis:—

Welcome this festive scene!—this glad array Of smiling faces gathered here! These friends who join to celebrate the day We deem the happiest of the year! The day so fraught with good—so bless'd of heaven And bless'd by thankful hearts on earth— For seventy years and eight the brightest given, The day that saw our father's birth!

A stately tree he seems, that towers high, Its boughs with fruit all richly laden, While spring-time blossoms, such as you and I, <>(To her little sister,) Its topmost branches crown and gladden! Ah! many blasts—ah! many tempests loud, Have battled round his noble head, And shook the limbs—(the trunk they never bowed—) And desolation round them spread!

With every storm the tree but higher sprang, As nearer heaven it strove to rise, While birds of hope amid its foliage sang Their cheerful anthems to the skies. Well pleased, the Lord of the great vineyard saw That tree obedient to his will, And bade his angels guard it evermore From gales too rude, from every ill!

And when for many years its boughs have flung Protecting shade, a refuge sweet, O'er hundreds of the loved ones, old and young, Who fondly gather round its feet; While every heart with grateful love expands, Thanksgivings from all voices rise, He'll bid his angel host, with gentlest hands, Transplant that tree to paradise!

Far distant be that hour! O'er this rejoice! Devoted wife and children dear! And friends and kindred, all, with blended voice, Call blessings on his opening year! Let sorrow, cares, be all forgot to-night, In honor of this natal day; With cloudless hearts and brows let all unite, And homage to our father pay!

The Step-Mother

The Step-Mother.

Step-mother! Unmusically jars the word upon the ear! A sense of something harsh and chilling strikes against the heart at the sound. The vision of a place usurped, of children thrust from their father's knee, of old and pleasant ways put aside, and all things rendered strange and new in the familiar home, is conjured up by its utterance.

Let that not be! thou who hast borne a step-mother's title with such wondrous grace that it becomes ennobled in thy person. Give it melody, caught from the music of thy accordant life! Stand forth in the purple light of my thoughts, draped with the sweet and sacred memories which cling about thy lovely presence, that I may paint thee fitly. If the lines be but true, the tinting faithful, the portrait thine, it will wipe away the long reproach from the name of "step-dame," and embalm it in the fragrant aroma of gratitude and reverence and most tender love.

The waves of twenty years, or more, have melted at thy feet upon the shores of time, since first with pleading eyes and timid mien, thou tookest the place a sainted mother left unfilled. Her children, not ungraciously—it may be with forbearing kindness—made room for thee beside the crowded hearth; but could they welcome, even the best of earth, to that dear seat which she of heaven had sanctified? No voice could call thee "mother;" the tender epithet seemed sacrilege upon her children's lips. The stranger was respected as their father's choice; for his sake valued, not beloved and honored for her own.

Was not thy gentle spirit sad and ill at ease, sitting among those half-averted faces, sons and daughters of one whose holy footprints thou hadst come to press out with thy faltering feet? They asked not, knew not; the hand of him whose wisdom none dared question, placed thee in their midst; the inevitable was accepted as the endurable.

How mild and meek thou wert, how doubtful of thyself, how all unconscious of thy own surpassing virtues! So unassuming that thou could'st not think the noblest act of thine was better than the common deeds of others. Ever blushing at thyself, the very wit, that flashed upon thy lips, because the bubbling fount within, could not repress its sparkling gush, was uttered in a tone that might escape the ear. Thus, shrinkingly, in thy new orbit didst thou move, thy life with unpretentious goodness rounded.

Soon, very soon, the holy magnetism that en- sphered thy soul, was felt within that home. One face turned lovingly thy way, one heart expanded wide to let thee in, one little hand was placed confidingly in thine, one guileless head pillowed itself upon thy breast, and sought a mother's lost caresses there. Childhood's pure instinct, that has quicker knowledge of the good and true than older and more dull perceptions, found out maternal throbs in the "step-mother's" heart and proclaimed them with responsive tenderness. The youngest darling of the house, she who had been lifted up to sit upon a mother's death-bed, who had received upon her sinless brow the glorifying halo of a mother's dying smile; (oh! precious and mysterious benison that has illumined and enriched her life with manifold blessings from that hour to this!) 'Twas she, that little child, who knew and loved thee first! Quickly another and another face turned towards thee; another and another heart unclosed to let thee in; another and another hand grasped thine with warm and trusting clasp, and formed a sacred compact never to be broken.