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Where He Went

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Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jan 27, 1916

FromReview and Herald, Vol. 93, No. 5.

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Where He Went

By William H. Ridgeway

A Personal Story

A MAN famous the country over walked into his office one day and said to his associates: “I am going away for a week or so, and I do not want you or any one else to know where I am. Don’t worry about me. I shall be here when I get back.” And he disappeared.
The man took the train for the town where his mother lived in the old home.
“Mother,” said he as he took her in his great strong arms, and kissed her, “I have come home to spend a week all alone with you. This time I have not come merely to kiss you how-de-do and good-by and go again, but to stay with you a bit. I want to go back to the old days and be just your boy again, and have you treat me as if I were a little fellow once more.”
The wise little mother asked no question of the big son upon whom his country had lavished success and fame, but merely said to him, “All right, dear.”
“And I mean just what I say, mother,” persisted the son. “I want you to be my ‘mother, dear,’ just as you used to be in the old days. I want you to make me the little pie-dough cakes on the back of the stove just as you used to do, and the turnovers in the oven. I want the dear old gingerbread horses with the raisin eyes. Cook me the eggs in the ashes. Cut me the nice warm bread with the brown crust and the molasses soaking away down into it, will you, mother?”
“I certainly will, my son,” gladly replied the mother, wondering much but asking nothing.
The next day the mother was surprised to see her famous son go down to the swimming hole and roll in the mud puddle on the clayey bank and splash around with the pickaninnies. Later he was in the sheds, where once again he crawled all over the old gin and tried to “skin the cat” on the pole. He would hitch up to the machine and let the Negro boys drive him around as he used to drive old Pete, the mule. He loafed around the cabins and started his old mammy or some Uncle Remus to telling again the stories of Brer Rabbit and Brer Fox, which Joel Chandler Harris has retold so well.
In the lazy afternoons, after a nap, he would throw himself down on the porch floor at his mother’s feet; and, putting his head up in her lap, where she could play with his hair and smooth his cheek, he would say: “Mother, tell me the old stories you used to tell me about Joseph and his coat, David and his sling, Daniel and the lions, Elijah and the chariot, Elisha and the bears, and all those.” And the mother did.
At other times he would go to the mantel and bring the “Bible book,” and say: “Here, mother, read me again the sweet old story that you used to read about the little Baby that was born in a stable, the angels that sang, and the wise men who brought gifts and who followed a star; and how he grew to be a man and went about doing good and making the world better; and how men killed him; and how he is now up in heaven, and wants your son to be a good boy.”
And the mother would.
When night would come and he had gone up to bed, he would call to her, “Come, mother, and tuck me in and hear me say my prayers.” And, like unto the days that had gone, he repeated:—
“Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep; If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless mamma, and make me a good little boy. Amen.”
Then he would say, “Now, mother, will you put the candle out in the hall, and hold my hand and sing me the song you used to sing?” And many a man knows what the mother sang:—
“I think when I read that sweet story of old, When Jesus was here among men, How he called little children, as lambs to his fold— I should like to have been with them then.”
Thus for nearly two weeks the famous son lived his boyhood days over again in the old home with his mother. And then he went back to his work.
When he arrived at his office, he found waiting for him an invitation from the New England Society of New York to be the principal speaker at the society’s next dinner. He accepted the invitation, and went to New York and spoke.
His speech was called “The Old South and the New.” It thrilled the country from ocean to ocean. It was the first time the New South had had a chance to speak since the great conflict. And the words of the New South were words of love and perpetual peace. In this oration is that magnificent tribute to America’s great President, Abraham Lincoln.
Where did that inspired message come from? Said the orator afterwards: “When I found myself upon my feet, every nerve was strung as tight as a fiddle string, and all a-tingling. I knew then that God had given me a message for that assemblage. As soon as I opened my mouth, it came rushing forth.”
In the history of our country there have been three great orations, and they will be found side by side in every collection of masterpieces of eloquence. The first was by Patrick Henry, at Williamstown; the second by Abraham Lincoln, at Gettysburg; and the third by Henry W. Grady, at New York—the last by the man who went to his mother.
What induced Henry W. Grady to go back to his mother in her old home?
The reason is best told in another story:—
One evening after a meeting in Harrisburg, Pa., where I had told the above story, Mr. Harry McCormick came to me and said:—
“I was much interested in that story of yours about Mr. Grady. I think I am able to add the preface to it.”
“I was in Atlanta attending the international convention of the Young Men’s Christian Association. At the close of our conventions it is the custom for the men to take hold of hands, form a chain around the room, and sing ‘Blest be the tie that binds.’ Mr. Grady was there, and we asked him to join in with us. He refused, although we urged and insisted. He stood with bowed head, saying: ‘No, fellows, I can’t do it. I am sorry, but I can’t do it.’”
“The next day word came to our hotel that if it was not too much trouble, Mr. Grady would like to see Mr. Morse and some more of us at his office. When we got there, Mr. Grady met us with all the fine courtesy of the Southern gentleman, saying: ‘I hope you will pardon me for taking your valued time on the eve of your departure, but you noticed last night that I could not join hands with you and sing “Blest be the tie that binds our hearts in Christian love.” You fellows have something I do not have. I used to have it years ago, back home with my mother at Athens. But in the cruel war and the hurly-burly of a public life I fear it has got away from me. I want it back. I have asked you fellows to come here and tell me how I can get it back.’”
“We told him the old story. It was all we had to tell him.”
That day Henry W. Grady went back to his mother and to his God.—William H. Ridgeway.