Democratic Sentinel, Volume 8, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 June 1884 — A MATER DOLOROSA. [ARTICLE]

A MATER DOLOROSA.

A Chinese woman has no identity of her own. She is simply of consequence as the wife of some man, or the mother of a son. If this phase of existence sheds but little glory upon her, it also relieves her of many responsibilities, and gives to her obscurity the value of contentment. Aunt Nancy was the wife of Uncle 'Lisha. It would be impossible to give a biography of Aunt Nancy without including Uncle ’Lisha, or to eliminate her individuality long enough to serve her up alone. And I doubt if the dear old lady would like such marital independence. Nor do I think she would recognize any picture of herself that was not a reflection of him. Like the moon, she shone by borrowed light. Uncle ’Lisha was a living illustration of the old adage, “It is better to be born'lucky than rich.” His property was inherited, and he never did a day’s work in his life. But everybody else in his family worked, Aunt N ancy, his wife, more than any of them. Uncle ’Lisha didn’t work because he enjoyed poor health. A partial list of his complaints would read about like this:

~ Fever and ague. Chronic indigestion. Paralysis of the heart. Paralysis of the liver, i Inflammatory rheumatism. ■ Lameness in the left knee. Lameness in the right knee. Ossification of the joints. hereditary consumption (On the mother’s side.) Hereditary apolexy. , (On the father’s side.) These were just a few of the ills which beset the poor man, and made him exceedingly careful of himself. He couldn't stoop for fear of apoplectio symptoms;he was afraid to lift anything, on account of his spine; he never dared hurry, as his heart had a habit of beating, and, in fact, nothing agreed with him except—doing nothing. He was the very same boy referred to in the following incident. lam aware it is credited to the Beecher family, but they never had a monopoly of lazy boys, if they did of bright ones. Uncle ’Lisha’s father, the good doctor, had one time been away from home a few days, leaving his two boys, Elisha and Ezekiel, to do the chores. When he retrnned, nothing had been done, and he discovered the boys in a hay-mow, read- . ing stories. “Zeke!” thundered the Doctor, “come

There, sir.” Zefee Came and stood shame-facedly doefore him. "What have you been doing since I was away?” “Nothing, sir.” “Elisha, come here, you, and give an account of yourself. Tell the truth, now. What have you been doing ?” “Helping Zeke, sir.” This faculty was Uncle ’Lisha’s stock in trade, and he steadily improved it and made others believe in it, until they really considered it wrong to expect him to do anything. I can see him yet putting on his boots of a winter’s morning. All the cattle had been foddered, water drawn, and wood carried in. Aunt Nancy had been up hours, getting breakfast and hushing the children, and telling them not to make a noise and wake “poor father,” who f&in’t slept a wink all night. Gentle ssoul! It is possible that she believed it, for she was too tirjd herself to lie Sftake to see. And when he came down they all waited on him and handed him his boots, while he lingered patiently in front of the hot fire. Then he would cough feebly, put his hand to his heart, sigh —and warm the inside of his boot. After resting from this exertion he would take a strap in each hand and with several attempts get it on. Then a long rest, before a similar process with the other one. A drink of reviving water was then handed by one child, while another stood by and looked at him as if he had been a tenhorned wonder. “ Poor father ” was only afflicted with spring fever, which lasted him the year round—in other

words, chronic laziness. “I shan’t last long,” he would say, in that whinv-piny voice which exasperated all who knew him as he really was. “Then, Nancy, you and the children can have it all your own way.” And'Aunt Nancy would cry, and the children howl, and there would be some added delicacy at the sufferer’s plate for the next meal. “There’s only a dozen eggs in the house,” that saintly woman would observe. “Now, children, I’m going to cook those for your t poor father—don’t one of you ask for eggs.” But when he reached the last egg one of the tempted children would pluck up courage to hint for it. Uncle WStik* would look at that child with a CMUttenance of meek reproach, and say: “lea, take it, take it, and let your jpeor Sick father starve.” These was no chance for Aunt Nancy

to have any pet ailments. If she was sick and complained, Uncle ’Lisha would say: “I’ve felt just so, mother,” and that settled it If he was going anywhere, he would put in the saving clause: “If I live, and Nancy’s well.” Her headaches were mere chimeras of the imagination. “I’ve suffered worse and never mentioned it—suffered like a wintergreen, ” he wonld add, as if that were the plus ultra of misery. Every year or two he made a new will, and every day he advised Aunt Nancy what to do when he was gone. In their early married life, when the children were small, he had dreaded that she would marry again, but in later years this fear had no place in his thoughts. The children themselves were married and gone, and Aunt Nancy was an old woman with a white, placid face, and bands of iron-gray hair—not really old, hut worn out—her life had been such a perpetual echo of Uncle ’Lisha. He didn’t like company, so she didn’t nave any. He never wanted to go anywhere, so she stayed at home. If she ever went to church she had to go alone, and that was so dreary, and she had so many inquiries to answer about his health that she seldom w r ent. “You’ll miss me when Pm gone,” he would say, cheerfully, and so she would. And she would have missed the old clock in the corner, too, if it had suddenly disappeared. “ What does the doctor say about me ?” he asked her one day when the village physician had gone out, first calling her to one side. Perhaps Aunt Nancy was a little worn out that day, or believed in heroic treatment, but she deliberately answered: “He thinks yon haven’t a disease in the world, Elisha, and that if you would take more exercise it would be better for you.” He was wounded to the quick, and did not speak to her for twenty-four hours, and he discharged the impolitic physician the next dav. Uncle ’Lisha was fond of lachrymose hymns, and when not singing “Hark, from the tombs a doleful sound,” lie would tip back his chair—the easiest in the house—close his eyes aud chant by the hour:

“ I’m going home No more to roam. No more to sin and sorrow, No more to wear The brow of care, I’m go:ng home to-morrow.” But to-morrows came and went, and Uncle ’Lisha did not go home. There was a shelf in the closet which was especially devoted to his medicines. In his early days he had dosed mildly with rhubarb and sarsaparilla. Then quinine became the fashion, and he dissipated on that. Liniments for rheumatism, patent nostrums and alterative pills completed the list, except that there was no end to the domestic remedies, such as mustard and ginger, and other alleviating agents. “When I am gone,” he would say, mournfully, “give my medicines to some deserving poor person. There’ll never be another such sufferer in the family as I have been.”

t But there came a day when even Uncle Tiisha’s ailments were of little account. Aunt Nancy was sick, very sick. She had been breaking down all summer, but no one had been concerned, least of all her husband, who had developed new symptoms that were very alarming—to himself. Finally, she went to her bed and sent for the children. They at once called in a Doctor, who on liis first visit looked exceedingly grave. Upon the second he asked for a private interview with Uncle ’Lisha. “Your wife is a very sick Woman,” he said, abruptly. “She does seem ailing,” said Uncle ’Lisha, rubbing his lame knee, and forgetting at the moment which one it was; “but, bless you, Fve had the same symptoms so long I’m used to them, Doctor. She’s well, compared to me, actually well. H The doctor looked at the old man with some contempt. “Threatened lives last long,” he said, bluntly. “But have it your own way. I’ve tried to prepare you —that’s all.” The doctor took his leave, and Uncle ’Lisha went into the sick-room. All was calm and serene. Most of all, that pale still face on the pillow. The patient eyes held the same kindly light in them that had been there for thirty years when they met his. The pinched, white cheeks were only more sunken and withered.

“Having a kind of spell, ain’t yon, Nancy?," said Uncle ’Lisha. “Now, don’t git discouraged. I’ve felt jest so hundreds of times! It’s nothing new and nothing to worry about.” “I’m not worrying,” said his wife, faintly; “I am dying, ’Lisha.” “Nancy, you oughtn’t to talk about such a serious thing as that so lightly. It—it—makes my rheumatiz worse to hear you. You ought to have some consideration for me. I can’t stand every tiling. ” “Poor old boy,” said Aunt Nancy, shaking his plump, strong hand. “Poor’Lisha! you will miss mo for awhile. ”

“There, there, now,” said Uncle Tisha, soothingly; “I’ll give you a spoonfull of my tonic in the morning, and 'you’ll come out like a lark in the spring time. Go to sleep, Nancy; it’ll help you wonderfully. It always helps me. ” The next morning Aunt Lucy had taken the tonic of a new life. “I’m going home first, after all,” she said with a smile, and died. This upset all the calculations of a life time with Uncle ’Lisha. He had nobody to complain to, no one who cared in the least whether he had twenty ailments or one. He i was not encouraged to be lazy, and holpless, and selfish, and he fell into complete ruin. He had enough to live on, but nothing to live for, as he could not complain to himself, or discuss with himself his own symptoms. He never talked of dying or sung “I’m going home” again. In fine weather he went up to his wife’s grave. Doubtless it would have distressed her had she known that she was deaf to his complaints, In his room a dress and shawl of hers hung near his chair. When he finally became ill in earnest he made light of it. Fox'their mother’s sake the chil-

dren tended him dutifully. One night he stretched out a wasted hand and touched his wife’s dress. “Nancy,” they heard him whisper, “Pm going home, I’m going; home tomorrow. ” They buried him beside her.— Mrs. Payne, in Detroit Free Press.