Belmont chronicle. [volume] (St. Clairsville, Ohio) 1855-1973, 1856-04-24
tear, ever through her own children had
none 10 she'd. -

! else" These cruel, heartless words rang II
our ears as we saw the coffin borne up the
aisle. The bell tolled long and loud, unit
its iron tongue had chronicle theyears eftht
toil-worn mother. One-two -three-four
fve:-how clearly and almost merrily eacl
stroke told of her once peaceful slumber on
her mothers bosom. and of her seat at night
fall on her weary fathers knees. Six--sev.
NEUTRALITY-SUSPICIOUS. out the tale o
he- sports upon the greensward, in the mead
ow, and by the brook. Eleveu-twelve-
thirteen--fourteen--f spoke more grave.
ly OF school days and little household joys
and cares. Sixteen-seventeen-eighteen,
sounded out the. .enraptured visions of maid.
enhood and dream of early love. Nineteen
brought before US the happy bride. Twenty
spoke Of the young mother, whose heart was
fulito bursting with the new strong love
which G cd had wakened in her bosom. And
then, stroke after stroke, told her early wo-
ma N hood--of the love care, and hopes and
fears and tolls through which she passed du-
ring those long years, till Fifty! rang out,
harsh and loud. From that to sixty, each
stroke told of the strong, woman-hearted
mother and grandmother, living over again
her own joys and sorrows in those of her
/ children and children's chiljren. Every
family of all the group wanted grandmother
then, and the only strife was who should
secure the prize; but hark the bell tolls on!
Seventy-seventyone yone-two--three--fou
She begins to grow feeble; requires some
care; is not always perfectly patient or salts
fed; she goes from one child's house to auo-
ther. so that no one place seems like home.
She murmurs in plaintiye tones, that after all
her toll and WEAKNESS, it is hard she cannot
be allowed home to die in; that she must be
sent rather than nuited from house to house
| Eighty-eighty- o-three--four;-
| ah, she is now a second child-now sshe has
oatLired her usef efulneSS-she has now ceased
to be comfort to herself or anybody;"--
that is, she has ceased to be profitable 20
her earth C, aving and maney-grasping chill
dren!
Now sounds out, ,reverberating through orr
lovely forest, and echoing back from our'shill
of the dead" Eighty-nine! There she lies
now in the coffin, cold and stil-she makes
no trouble now-demands no love, no soft
words, no tender little offices. A look Of
patient endurance, we fancied also an -ex-
preston of grief for ,,unrequited love sat {
her marble features. Her children were
there, clad in weeds of woe, and in irony We
remembered the strong mans words "She
,cas good mother in her day.
When the bell ceased tolling, the strange
minister rose in the pulpit. His form was
erect and his voice strong, but his hair was
| silvery white. He read several passages of
Scripture expressive of Gods compassion to
feeble man, and especially his tenderness
when gray hairs are on him and his strength
| faileth. He then made some touching re-
marks on human frailty, and of dependence
on Gud, urging all present to make their
peace with their Maker while in health, that
they might claim his promises when heart
and flesh should fail them. sThen," he said,
"the eternal God shall be thy refuge, and be-
meath thee shall be the ever 'asting arms
Leaning cVer the desk, and gazing intently
on the cofined form before him, he then said
| reverently, "From little child Eave honor
ed the aged; but never till gray hairs cover
ed my own head, did know truly how much
love and sympathy this class have a right to
demand of their fellow-creatures. Now
feel ii. Our mother" he added most tender
ly "who now lies in death before us, was a
stranger to me, as are all these her descend,
dants. All know of her is what her son
told me to-day--that she was brought to
this tow from afar, sixty-ninc years ago, a
happy brde--that here she passed me st o
. her life, toi ing as only mothers have t-ength
to to- unt she had reared large family ot
sons and daughters-that she left her home
here, clad in the weeds of widow hood, 10
dwell among her children; and that till
health and vigor left her, she lived for you
her descendants. You, who together have
shared her love and her care, know h wv well
you have requted her. God forbid tha,
, conscience should accuse any of you of in
gratitude or murmuring on account of the
care she has been to you of late. When
you go back to your homes, be careful ot
! your words and your example before your
own children, for the fruit of your own do
ing you will surely reap fr. m them when
you yourselves totter on the brink of the
grave: | entreat you as friend, as one who
has himself entered the sevening of life,' that
you never say in the presence of your fami-
lies nor heaven, "O.r mother outlived her
usefulness-she was a burden to u.s. Never;
never; mother cannot live SO long as that.
NJ; when she can no longer labor for her
children, nor yet care for herself, she can fall
like precious weig hit on their faithful bo-
SONS. and call forth, by her helplessness, all
the noble, generous feelings of their ma
| lures.
Adieu, then, poor toil-worn mother--there
are no more sleepless nights, no more days
of pain for thee. Undying vigor and ever
lasting usefulness are part of the inheritance
of the redeemed. Feeble as thou vert on
EARTH thou wilt be no burden on the bosom
of Infinite Love but there shalt ihou find thy
lorged for rest, and receive sympathy from
Jesus and his ransomed fold.''