MARY! what a charm there is in that name! Burns, Byron, and the sweet-spirited Cowper owe to it their noblest inspiration, and have embalmed it in undying verse. True, it has not ever been worn by the noble and the good; and yet I doubt not that we are more lenient to the fair, but frail rival of England's virgin queen, simply because her name was Mary.

      I love it because it was my mother's name; and though she has, for many years, been a dweller in the better land, it seems to me that her name is Mary still. The youngest of our household, whose voice is its music, and whose smile is its light, wears the same name; and so I have a Mary on earth, and a Mary in heaven.

      But holier memories cluster round the name; it brings before me the loving sister of Lazarus, who sat at the feet of Jesus. The sad group of women who stood near the cross, in the saddest hour of all time, all wore this name, one of them, then as superior in her exceeding sorrow as once she was in her exceeding love when she folded to her breast the infant whose birth the angels heralded, but whose anguish, as he now hung expiring, pierced her soul with grief unutterable.

      The Marys of history and of sacred story have called forth the most eloquent prose and the sweetest verse, the finest touches of the pencil and the fairest specimens of the sculptor's art. It is not my purpose to attempt to add another tribute to any of these, but to sketch from life one whose example is worthy of imitation by the Marys in all the families in our land--my theme is Aunt Mary. She is not my aunt, and indeed not at all related, but in common with all who know her, I have fallen into the habit of speaking of her as if she were; for, in truth, she stands higher in my esteem than many who have a blood-title to that name. She is a sister of charity; not one of that sisterhood who go about dressed like sad mourners, and on whose faces I have never seen a smile; her robe is not of black serge; she does not wear sackcloth nor sit in ashes; I have even seen her wearing colors that some would call gay, and sometimes flowers in her bonnet; at her girdle she hears neither cross nor rosary; but if she bears not true love for her Savior in her heart, I know not why she, like him, goes about doing good. Aunt Mary is no prim maiden lady, who, in consequence of hopes early blighted, has chosen to go through the world companionless, and, having no family of her own, makes herself a blessing to the families of others; on the contrary, she married early, and is still happy with the husband of her youth; she has a large family, and more than one grandchild prattles round her knees. To look in her face you would not think her over forty; if she were walking before you on the street, from the ease and rapidity of her movements you would think her much younger; she has a carriage ever at her call, yet few of her age and position in society walk as much as she; to tell the truth she is often found in lanes and alleys where poverty and diseases are not strangers, but where carriages are seldom seen. Though wealthy, she can scarcely be called fashionable, not from any lack of means, but on account of certain old-fashioned notions. Being a professor of religion, she does not think the ball-room a proper place of resort, or that Christians can have a box at the opera or theater, and have at the same time a proper respect for their profession or regard for their influence. Her carriage is not seen on the fashionable drive on Sunday afternoon; a funeral, a pressing need on the part of some distressed one, sickness or sorrow calling for aid and sympathy, alone call her from her religious duties on that sacred day; nay, she even thinks such acts are a part of her religion. She dresses well, not gaudily, but becomingly; her garments do not excite the envy of some and shame others by too striking a contrast; the poor members of the Church are not ashamed when they sit near Aunt Mary, nor is she ashamed of them--she is lowly in heart.

      She is rigidly punctual in her attendance on public worship; not only when some preacher of rare ability is to occupy the pulpit, but on all occasions; and her pastor would think it almost as strange for one of the pews to be absent as Aunt Mary. The prayer meeting, too, would never dwindle down to a mere handful if all were of her spirit. Should company come in, as is often the case on that evening, it is no reason why she should remain at home; she excuses herself to her visitors, it is prayer meeting night and she must go; and, I doubt not that others would loiter were it not for the uneasy thought, I can go surely if Aunt Mary can.

      She has thus an influence far greater than mere words can exert. It is easy to say in times of unusual interest, "you ought to go, you will enjoy yourself so much if you do;" but it is far better, like her, to set the example of going at all times; she has no convenient headache to plead, no unusual occupation [326] during the day, no important letter that must be written, no rare concert that must be heard, no rare sight that must be seen, none of these things are permitted to come between her and her duty. Aunt Mary is no bigot; of course she is ardently attached to her own Church, but she heartily engages in any good work which calls forth the labor and liberality of other communions. It is not necessary that a city missionary be a minister of her Church to insure her aid, provided the work be a good one; it matters little by whom it was begun, or what denomination gets the credit, she lends the helping band. Asylums for widows, the unfortunate, the erring, find in her a generous active patroness; she gives not money alone; she gives her sympathy, her advice, her prayers, her tears, striving while she gives what is needful for the body to benefit the soul. She does much to reclaim the sinful, unfortunate, and degraded of her own sex, and has the satisfaction of knowing that many have been rescued from a life the most wretched, from a fate the most fearful. Remembering that they have souls to save, she is not ashamed to meet with these poor outcasts, and endeavor to lure them back to virtue. She even thinks it proper to strive to lead such repentant ones to Christ; she has wept with them as they wept over their sins, and has rejoiced with them in their new-found joy of pardon. She is not alarmed lest some persons should get into the Church who are not respectable, who, in fact, had been great sinners; she remembers how Christ treated a woman who was a sinner, and believes that it was sinners that Jesus died to save. Hence, if any such desire to join her Church, she does all in her power to encourage them in their endeavors after a better life; if they should prefer another Church, her care for them does not cease, she remembers that their souls are precious, and watches over them with a sister's care; many jewels once defiled in the dust shall shine brightly in Aunt Mary's crown of rejoicing.

      The war opened up a new and wide field for her active sympathy; entire families of refugees, after days and weeks of peril and exposure, found their first safe and quiet resting-place under her roof. Exchanging as they did a Wintery sky and the protection of a wagon-sheet, for warm cheerful rooms, warmer hearts and cheerful faces, made an impression on their hearts that will never be erased; the children, too, of those strangers will never forget the kind welcome which gladdened their hearts after so much sorrow and trial; and though far from her now, when they ask blessings on those dear to them, they fail not to ask God to bless Aunt Mary.

      Her manner of conferring a favor is not a grand and stately one, making the objects of it feel their dependence to such a degree that the weight of it becomes oppressive; on the contrary, her kindnesses are performed so kindly that she seems to be receiving, rather than doing a favor.

      At Aunt Mary's I have seen a lady treated as an honored guest; taken round to see places of interest, her taste consulted in regard to materials for dress for herself, the best room in the house at her service, and all this in such a way as to make her feel perfectly at ease; and yet she was an entire stranger, suddenly reduced from affluence to poverty; but she was a lady, and was treated as if her vanished wealth were still hers. No out-of-the-way room, no seat at the second table, no embarrassment when visitors called, nothing, in fact, to remind her of her changed condition; at table her seat was next to Aunt Mary's, her every want anticipated; had she still been mistress of her former wealth and position she could have desired; and would have received, no better treatment.

      Another instance I well remember. Poor Lottie, an outcast, a Magdalen, was rescued from a life of shame; she was still quite young, but her health was broken, yet she lived long enough to give the best evidence that she was changed in heart as well as life. Aunt Mary had given her a helping hand, and after the dark night of sin and sorrow there came a bright morning of light and peace; but her end was near, yet death had lost its terror, and the peace of God which passeth understanding filled her soul. Her brother, whom she had not seen since her days of girlhood and innocency, and who had been absent in the army some three years, returned soon enough to hear from her own lips the sad story of her fall and rescue, and he could not but forgive and weep with her. The end came, and poor Lottie died in great peace; very few mourners followed her to her last resting-place; her brother, tender and forgiving, a few who had known her in her sinless days, one or two once as simple but now repentant, and the minister who performed the last sad offices, were there, and there, too, was Aunt Mary, who, in life, had helped her on in the path of virtue, ready to pay the last sad tribute to her memory.

      God bless you, Aunt Mary, such deeds are unnoted of men, but the great and merciful Father of all, whose mercy we all need, is not forgetful of such deeds as this. I have seen [327] her, too, at the bedside of the dying saint with tearful eyes, and lips overflowing with the sweetest consolation; every-where a comfort, every-where a blessing; in a word, I believe for her every day had its good deed. She is not, however, all tenderness and tears; impostors often quail before her searching, honest eyes and direct questioning. She knows the shortest way to detect feigned sorrow or distress, and many who were secretly rejoicing at the success of their well-told tale, and expecting the well-filled purse to be drawn forth for the relief of their fictitious sufferings, have been overwhelmed by Aunt Mary's quiet, "Well, I will get my bonnet and go with you, and see for myself if these things are so."

      Her charities are not all in money, given to get rid of importunity rather than from real sympathy with suffering. Once in the abode of poverty and distress, her quick eye discovers the most pressing necessity, and the well-filled basket which soon follows the visit, shows how perfectly she is mistress of the situation. Good advice goes with her gifts, work is procured when there is ability to labor, and the kind word that goes with the gift is prized more than the gift itself. I am writing no fulsome panegyric, and my wife, who knows her even better than myself, after hearing what I have written, says, "Yes, that is Aunt Mary."

      Of course she has her failings, but I have no inclination to notice them, they are such as belong to humanity in its best estate; but her virtues, her noble Christian life, throw them far into the background, and it is her virtues alone that we desire to see imitated.

      Aunt Mary is not far from fifty years of age. I trust that she may be spared to see fourscore, that she may never falter in her work of faith and labor of love. I pray that many Marys may imitate her example, and be ornaments to the Church, and blessings to the world. For myself, I trust to gain that blessed land for which she is striving; and if, after the storms of earth, I gain the calm of heaven, I feel well assured that I shall meet Aunt Mary there.

[The Ladies' Repository 26 (June 1866): 326-328.]

      William Baxter's "Aunt Mary" was first published in The Ladies' Repository: A Monthly Periodical Devoted to Literature and Religion, Vol. 26, No. 6, June 1866, p. 326-328. This volume, edited by I. W. Wiley, was published in Cincinnati and Chicago by Poe and Hitchcock and in New York by Carlton and Porter.

      Pagination in the electronic version has been represented by placing the page number in brackets following the last complete word on the printed page.

      Addenda and corrigenda are earnestly solicited.

Ernie Stefanik
Derry, PA

Created 18 April 2000.
Updated 28 June 2003.