# 'Way Down East; or, Portraitures of Yankee Life/Seth Woodsum's Wife

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Seth Woodsum's Wife.
As Mr. Seth Woodsum was mowing one morning in his lower haying field, and his eldest son, Obediah, a smart boy of thirteen, was opening the mown grass to the sun, Mr. Woodsum looked up towards his house, and beheld his little daughter Harriet, ten years of age, running towards him with her utmost speed. As she came up, he perceived she was greatly agitated; tears were running down her cheeks, and she had scarcely breath enough to speak.
"O, father," she faintly articulated, "mother is dreadful sick; she's on the bed, and says she shall die before you get there."
Mr. Woodsum was a man of a sober, sound mind, and calm nerves; but he had, what sometimes happens in this cold and loveless world of ours, a tender attachment for his wife, which made the message of the little girl fall upon his heart like a dagger. He dropped his scythe, and ran with great haste to the ​house. Obediah, who was at the other end of the field, seeing this unusual movement of his father, dropped his fork, and ran with all his might, and the two entered the house almost at the same time.
Mr. Woodsum hastened to the bedside, and took his wife's hand. "My dear Sally," said he, "what is the matter?"
"What is the matter?" echoed Mrs. Woodsum, with a plaintive groan. "I should n't think you would need to ask what is the matter, Mr. Woodsum. Don't you see I am dying?"
"Why, no, Sally, you don't look as if you was dying. What is the matter? how do you feel?"
"Oh, I shan't live till night," said Mrs. Woodsum with a heavy sigh; "I am going fast."
Mr. Woodsum, without waiting to make further inquiries, told Obediah to run and jump on to the horse, and ride over after Doctor Fairfield, and get him to come over as quick as he can come. "Tell him I am afraid your mother is dying. If the doctor's horse is away off in the pasture, ask him to take our horse and come right away over, while you go and catch his."
Obediah, with tears in his eyes, and his heart in his mouth, flew as though he had wings added to his feet, ​and in three minutes' time was mounted upon Old Grey, and galloping with full speed towards Doctor Fairfield's.
"My dear," said Mr. Woodsum, leaning his head upon the pillow, "how do you feel? What makes you think you are dying?" And he tenderly kissed her forehead as he spoke, and pressed her hand to his bosom.
"Oh, Samuel," for she generally called him by his Christian name, when under the influence of tender emotions; "Oh, Samuel, I feel dreadfully. I have pains darting through my head, and most all over me; and I feel dizzy, and can't hardly see; and my heart beats as though it would come through my side. And besides, I feel as though I was dying. I'm sure I can't live till night; and what will become of my poor children?" And she sobbed heavily and burst into a flood of tears.
Mr. Woodsum was affected. He could not bring himself to believe that his wife was in such immediate danger of dissolution as she seemed to apprehend. He thought she had no appearance of a dying person; but still her earnest and positive declarations, that she should not live through the day, sent a thrill through his veins, and a sinking to his heart that no ​language has power to describe. Mr. Woodsum was as ignorant of medicine as a child; he therefore did not attempt to do anything to relieve his wife, except to try to soothe her feelings by kind and encouraging words, till the doctor arrived. The half hour which elapsed, from the time Obediah left till the doctor came, seemed to Mr. Woodsum almost an age. He repeatedly went from the bedside to the door, to look and see if the doctor was anywhere near, and as often returned to hear his wife groan, and say she was sinking fast, and could not stand it many minutes longer.
At length Doctor Fairfield rode up to the door, on Mr. Woodsum's Old Grey, and with saddle-bags in hand, hastened into the house. A brief examination of the patient convinced him that it was a decided case of hypochondria, and he soon spoke encouraging words to her, and told her although she was considerably unwell, he did not doubt she would be better in a little while.
"Oh, Doctor, how can you say so?" said Mrs. Woodsum; "don't you see I am dying? I can't possibly live till night; I am sinking very fast, Doctor, and I shall never see the sun rise again. My heart sometimes almost stops its beating now, and my feet ​and hands are growing cold. But I must see my dear children once more; do let 'em come in and bid me farewell." Here she was so overwhelmed with sobs and tears as to prevent her saying more.
The doctor, perceiving it was in vain to talk or try to reason with her, assured her that as long as there was life there was hope, and told her he would give her some medicine that he did not doubt would help her. He accordingly administered the drugs usually approved by the faculty in such cases, and telling her that he would call and see her again in a day or two, he left the room. As he went out, Mr. Woodsum followed him, and desired to know, in private, his real opinion of the case. The doctor assured him he did not consider it at all alarming. It was only an ordinary case of hypochondria, and with proper treatment the patient would undoubtedly get better.
"It is a case," continued the doctor, "in which the mind needs to be administered to as much as the body. Divert her attention as much as possible by cheerful objects; let her be surrounded by agreeable company; give her a light, but generous and nutritive diet; and as soon as may be, get her to take gentle exercise in the open air, by riding on horseback, or running about the fields and gathering fruits ​and flowers in company with lively and congenial companions. Follow these directions, and continue to administer the medicines I have ordered, and I think Mrs. Woodsum will soon enjoy good health again."
Mr. Woodsum felt much relieved after hearing the doctor's opinion and prescriptions, and bade the kind physician good morning with a tolerably cheerful countenance. Most assiduously did he follow the doctor's directions, and in a few days he had the happiness to see his beloved wife again enjoying tolerable health, and pursuing her domestic duties with cheerfulness.
But alas! his sunshine of hope was destined soon to be obscured again by the clouds of sorrow and disappointment. It was not long before some change in the weather, and changes in her habits of living, and neglect of proper exercise in the open air, brought on a return of Mrs. Woodsum's gloom and despondency, in all their terrific power. Again she was sighing and weeping on the bed, and again Mr. Woodsum was hastily summoned from the field, and leaving his plough in mid-furrow, ran with breathless anxiety to the house, where the same scenes were again witnessed which we have already described. ​Not only once or twice, but repeatedly week after week and month after month, these exhibitions were given, and followed by similar results. Each relapse seemed to be more severe than the previous one, and on each occasion Mrs. Woodsum was more positive than ever that she was on her death-bed, and that there was no longer any help for her.
On one of these occasions, so strong was her impression that her dissolution was near, and so anxious did she appear to make every preparation for death, and with such solemn earnestness did she attend to certain details, preparatory to leaving her family for ever, that Mr. Woodsum almost lost the hope that usually attended him through these scenes, and felt, more than ever before, that what he had so often feared, was indeed about to become a painful and awful reality. Most tenderly did Mrs. Woodsum touch upon the subject of her separation from her husband and children.
"Our poor children—what will become of them when I am gone? And you, dear Samuel, how can I bear the thought of leaving you? I could feel reconciled to dying, if it was not for the thoughts of leaving you and the children. They will have nobody to take care of them, as a mother would, poor ​things; and then you will be so lonesome—it breaks my heart to think of it."
Here, her feelings overpowered her, and she was unable to proceed any further. Mr. Woodsum was for some time too much affected to make any reply. At last, summoning all his fortitude, and as much calmness as he could, he told her if it was the will of Providence that she should be separated from them, he hoped her last hours would not be pained with anxious solicitude about the future welfare of the family. It was true, the world would be a dreary place to him when she was gone; but he should keep the children with him, and with the blessing of heaven, he thought he should be able to make them comfortable and happy.
"Well, there's one thing, dear Samuel," said Mrs. Woodsum, "that I feel it my duty to speak to you about." And she pressed his hand in hers, and looked most solemnly and earnestly in his face. "You know, my dear," she continued, "how sad and desolate a family of children always is, when deprived of a mother. They may have a kind father, and kind friends, but nobody can supply the place of a mother. I feel as if it would be your duty—and I could not die in peace, if I did n't speak of it—I feel, dear ​Samuel, as if it would be your duty as soon after I am gone as would appear decent, to marry some good and kind woman, and bring her into the family to be the mother of our poor children, and to make your home happy. Promise me that you will do this, and I think it will relieve me of some of the distress I feel at the thought of dying."
This remark was, to Mr. Woodsum, most unexpected and most painful. It threw an anguish into his heart, such as he had never experienced till that moment. It forced upon his contemplation a thought that had never before occurred to him. The idea of being bereaved of the wife of his bosom, whom he had loved and cherished for fifteen years with the ardent attachment of a fond husband, had overwhelmed him with all the bitterness of woe; but the thought of transferring that attachment to another object, brought with it a double desolation. His associations before had all clothed his love for his wife with a feeling of immortality. She might be removed from him to another world, but he had not felt as though that would dissolve the holy bond that united them. His love would soon follow her to those eternal realms of bliss, and rest upon her like a mantle for ever. But this new and startling idea, of love for ​another, came to him, as comes to the wicked the idea of annihilation of the soul---an idea, compared with which no degree of misery imaginable is half so terrible. A cloud of intense darkness seemed for a moment to overshadow him, his heart sank within him, and his whole frame trembled with agitation. It was some minutes before he could find power to speak. And when he did, it was only to beseech his wife, in a solemn tone, not to allude to so distressing a subject again, a subject which he could not think of nor speak of, without suffering more than a thousand deaths.
The strong mental anguish of Mr. Woodsum seemed to have the effect to divert his wife's attention from her own sufferings, and by turning her emotions into a new channel, gave her system an opportunity to rally. She gradually grew better, as she had done in like cases before, and even before night was able to sit up, and became quite cheerful.
But her malady was only suspended, not cured; and again and again it returned upon her, and again and again her friends were summoned to witness her last sickness, and take their last farewell. And on these occasions, she had so often slightly and delicately hinted to Mr. Woodsum the propriety of his marrying a second wife, that even he could at last ​listen to the suggestion with a degree of indifference which he had once thought he could never feel.
At last, the sober saddening days of autumn came on. Mr. Woodsum was in the midst of his "fall work," which had been several times interrupted by these periodical turns of despondency in his wife. One morning he went to his field early, for he had a heavy day's work to do, and had engaged one of his neighbors to come with two yoke of oxen and a plough to help him "break up" an old mowing field. His neighbor could only help him that day, and he was very anxious to plough the whole field. He accordingly had left the children and nurse in the house, with strict charges to take good care of their mother. Mr. Woodsum was driving the team and his neighbor was holding the plough, and things went on to their mind till about ten o'clock in the forenoon, when little Harriet came running to the field, and told her father that her mother was "dreadful sick" and wanted him to come in as quick as he could, for she was certainly dying now. Mr. Woodsum, without saying a word, drove his team to the end of the furrow; but he looked thoughtful and perplexed. Although he felt persuaded that her danger was imaginary, as it had always proved to be before, still, ​the idea of the bare possibility that this sickness might be unto death, pressed upon him with such power, that he laid down his goad-stick, and telling his neighbor to let the cattle breathe awhile, walked deliberately towards the house. Before he had accomplished the whole distance, however, his own imagination had added such wings to his speed, that he found himself moving at a quick run. He entered the house, and found his wife as he had so often found her before, in her own estimation, almost ready to breathe her last. Her voice was faint and low, and her pillow was wet with tears. She had already taken her leave of her dear children, and waited only to exchange a few parting words with her beloved husband. Mr. Woodsum approached the bedside, and took her hand tenderly, as he had ever been wont to do, but he could not perceive any symptoms of approaching dissolution, different from what he had witnessed on a dozen former occasions.
"Now, my dear," said Mrs. Woodsum, faintly, "the time has come at last. I feel that I am on my death-bed, and have but a short time longer to stay with you. But I hope we shall feel resigned to the will of Heaven. I would go cheerfully, dear, if it was not for my anxiety about you and the children. ​Now, don't you think, my dear," she continued, with increasing tenderness, "don't you think it would be best for you to be married again to some kind good woman, that would be a mother to our dear little ones, and make your home pleasant for all of you?"
She paused, and looked earnestly in his face.
"Well, I've sometimes thought, of late, it might be best," said Mr. Woodsum, with a very solemn air.
"Then you have been thinking about it," said Mrs. Woodsum, with a slight contraction of the muscles of the face.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Woodsum, "I have sometimes thought about it, since you've had spells of being so very sick. It makes me feel dreadfully to think of it, but I don't know but it might be my duty."
"Well, I do think it would," said Mrs. Woodsum, "if you can only get the right sort of a person. Everything depends upon that, my dear, and I hope you will be very particular about who you get, very."
"I certainly shall," said Mr. Woodsum; "don't give yourself any uneasiness about that, my dear, for I assure you I shall be very particular. The person I shall probably have is one of the kindest and best tempered women in the world."
"But have you been thinking of any one in ​particular, my dear?" said Mrs. Woodsum, with a manifest look of uneasiness.
"Why, yes," said Mr. Woodsum, "there is one, that I have thought for some time past, I should probably marry, if it should be the will of Providence to take you from us."
"And pray, Mr. Woodsum, who can it be?" said the wife, with an expression, more of earth than heaven, returning to her eye. "Who is it, Mr. Woodsum? You have n't named it to her, have you?"
"Oh, by no means," said Mr. Woodsum; "but my dear, we had better drop the subject; it agitates you too much."
"But, Mr. Woodsum, you must tell me who it is; I never could die in peace till you do."
"It is a subject too painful to think about," said Mr. Woodsum, "and it don't appear to me it would be best to call names."
"But I insist upon it," said Mrs. Woodsum, who had by this time raised herself up with great earnestness and was leaning on her elbow, while her searching glance was reading every muscle in her husband's face. "Mr. Woodsum, I insist upon it!"
"Well, then," said Mr. Woodsum, with a sigh, "if you insist upon it, my dear—I have thought if it ​should be the will of Providence to take you from us, to be here no more, I have thought I should marry for my second wife, Hannah Lovejoy."
An earthly fire once more flashed from Mrs. Woodsum's eyes—she leaped from the bed like a cat; walked across the room, and seated herself in a chair.
"What!" she exclaimed, in a trembling voice almost choked with agitation—"what! marry that idle, sleepy slut of a Hannah Lovejoy! Mr. Woodsum, that is too much for flesh and blood to bear—I can't endure that, nor I won't. Hannah Lovejoy to be the mother of my children! No, that's what she never shall. So you may go to your ploughing, Mr. Woodsum, and set your heart at rest. Susan," she continued, "make up more fire under that dinner pot."
Mr. Woodsum went to the field, and pursued his work, and when he returned at noon, he found dinner well prepared, and his wife ready to do the honors of the table. Mrs. Woodsum's health from that day continued to improve, and she was never afterward visited by the terrible affliction of hypochondria.