THE WIDOW’S GRAVE.
BY EDWARD WOOLF.
INTRODUCTION.
Our village church is truly a venerable edifice, and I experience no small gratification in paying a daily visit to this ancient relic, to gaze upon its grey and crumbling turrets, or sit beneath its low and ivy covered porch, or wander among the tombs of the mouldering dead. I fancy I am somewhat singular in that respect, for—with the exception of one solitary instance—I seldom, if ever, meet with a companion actuated by a similar propensity.
The old sexton is acquainted with my peculiar disposition, and often joins me in my rambles through the churchyard. He is familiar with every inch of ground surrounding the church, and points with a degree of pride and importance to certain mounds, covered with thick grass, and sweet scented flowers, as being the spots where he performed the first melancholy duties of his office; and often sighs whilst with sorrowful accents he alludes to the approach of that day, when his own form shall mingle with the dust of those whom he has consigned to the bosom of the cold earth.
He is a reverend old man, and his locks are silvered by the frost of age; for seventy winters have passed over his head; yet he is hale and strong. I have conceived a pity and veneration for the old man, because I observe that he is shunned by many persons who are acquainted with his calling. Indeed a public executioner could not be treated with more contempt, or viewed with greater disgust, than this poor harmless and inoffensive creature both by the vulgar herd, and persons whose education and situation in life, should teach them to observe the respect due to honorable old age.
This kind hearted man frequently reverts to the disrespect he encounters from persons acquainted with his calling, and a tear will sometimes moisten his cold grey eye, and roll down his furrowed cheek. He has not a relation in the world to cheer him in his declining years, for Death has buried his kindred from a life of poverty and wretchedness, and they lie buried in that churchyard, where the old man has performed the office of sexton for the last half century.
We frequently visit the graves of his kindred. They are situated in a retired spot, rendered somewhat gloomy by certain dark cedar and yew trees, that cast a broad and deep shadow upon the green sward around; and he derives a melancholy satisfaction, from removing the weeds and briars from such spots of earth, as conceal the remains of those, whose smiles and affectionate assiduities, would have rendered his old age happy.
I believe that I am the only being to whom he is really attached, and I never approach the churchyard without beholding him leaning over the white painted palings, looking anxiously for my arrival; and no sooner does he recognise me, than a smile of satisfaction illumines his countenance, and he hastens to open the wicket, and welcome me.
There is an elm tree, beneath whose friendly shade we often sit, and hold our friendly converse. It is from beneath this tree, that I view the venerable church, and hear the deep and sombre tones of the old turret bell quiver upon the breeze, and gaze upon the green sward, dotted with memorials of the dead. How calm, how tranquil is that spot of earth! The awful stillness of death reigns there. So profound is the silence, that the very beatings of one’s heart fall perceptibly upon the ear; and should this silence be interrupted, it is only by the solemn voice of the old bell, or the wind moaning through the branches of the elm trees that shade the avenue. From the crevices of the mouldering tombs the lizard creeps forth to bask in the rays of the sun; leaving his damp unwholesome cavern, concealed amidst rank weeds to inhale the pure and refreshing breeze, and the genial warmth of the atmosphere, when the white frost of winter has disappeared, and the verdant carpet of Nature, enamelled with varied colored flowers, welcomes the approaching spring.
It is during my rambles with the old man among the tombs, that he relates certain anecdotes connected with the past lives of those persons whose names, ages, and days of their deaths are recorded upon the tablets erected to their memories.
It happened during one of our rambles, that we arrived at a mound covered with long and soft grass, A plain looking tablet of inferior workmanship placed at the head of the grave, informed us of the names and ages of these who slept below.
The inscription ran as follows:
SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
MARY ANN WALTERSON,
Who departed this life, February 6th, 18—
Aged 48 years.
ALSO OF
JOSEPH HENRY WALTERSON,
Son of the above,
Who departed this life, February 5th, 18—
Aged 20 years.
Upon our arrival at this grave, the old sexton clasped his hands behind him, and contemplated the tablet with a sorrowful expression of countenance: he then sighed, and shaking his head mournfully, exclaimed,
“Alas sir! this mound conceals the remains of two persons whose sad history I am too well acquainted with; for the remembrance of that misery a fond and doting mother endured, when bereaved of her only child, who met with an untimely end, can never be obliterated from my memory. Come! let us return to the seat beneath
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