"Loveliest of lovely things are theyOn earth, that soonest pass away.Even love, long tried, and cherished long,Becomes more tender, and more strong,At thought of that insatiate graveFrom which its yearnings cannot save."But where is she, who, at this calm hour,Watched his coming to see?She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower:He calls,—but he only hears on the flowerThe hum of the laden bee."Bryant.
"Loveliest of lovely things are theyOn earth, that soonest pass away.Even love, long tried, and cherished long,Becomes more tender, and more strong,At thought of that insatiate graveFrom which its yearnings cannot save.
"But where is she, who, at this calm hour,Watched his coming to see?She is not at the door, nor yet in the bower:He calls,—but he only hears on the flowerThe hum of the laden bee."
Bryant.
"The Lady Ursula was the daughter of an English nobleman, the proprietor of Grondale Abbey. She was betrothed, in early life, to a young man, an officer in the army. As she was an only daughter, and inherited from her mother a large fortune, her father disapproved of her choice, and wished her to ally herself with the heir of a noble family. He was rejoiced, therefore, when a war broke out, that obliged Col. Fowler to leave the country with his regiment, to join the army.
"The parting of the lovers was painful, but they parted, as the young do, full of hope, and agreed to keep up a very frequent correspondence.
"For a year, his letters cheered his faithful mistress; but then they ceased, and a report of his death in battle reached her. Her father then urged the other alliance. This the Lady Ursula steadily refused; and she was soon after relieved from all importunity, by the death of her father.
"She was an only daughter, but her father left several sons. His estate belonged to the eldest, by entail, and the younger brothers, having obtained large grants of land in this country, determined to emigrate to the new world.
"The Lady Ursula, disappointed of all her cherished hopes, after much reflection, decided to accompany them, and become an actual settler in the wilderness.
"She purchased a large farm on this beautiful part of the coast, and as she was much beloved by her dependents, she persuaded a large number to unite their fortunes with hers. She brought out twenty serving-men, and several young maidens, and created a little paradise around her. The garden was filled with every variety of fruit and flower then cultivated in England, and the strong fence around the whole was to protect her from the Indians.
"At the time the Lady Ursula came to this country, she very much resembled the beautiful portrait that has charmed you so much. It was painted after she parted from her lover, and was intended as a present for him, had she not soon after heard of his death."
"You have seen her, then, my dear father," said Edith. "You knew the beautiful original of that lovely portrait."
"I scarcely knew her," said Mr. Grafton. "Soon after I came to this country, I was riding, one day, near a part of her estate. The day was warm and sultry: under some large spreading oaks a cloth was laid for a repast. I stopped to refresh my horse, and soon after I saw the lady approach, drawn in a low carriage.
"She had brought her workmen their dinner, and after it was spread on the grass, she turned her beautiful eyes towards heaven, and asked a blessing. She then left her men to enjoy their food, and returned as she came, driving herself in a small poney chaise.
"Among the maidens who came over with her from England was one who had received a superior education, and was much in her lady's confidence. This young girl was often the companion of her lady's solitary walks about her estate. One evening they were walking, and the Lady Ursula was relating the circumstances of her early life, and said that till this time she had never parted with all hope; she had cherished unconsciously a feeling that her betrothed lover might have been a captive, and that he would at length return. The young girl said, 'Why do you despair now, my lady? that is a long lane that has no turning.' The lady smiled more cheerfully. 'My bird,' she said, 'you have given me a name for my estate. In memory of this conversation, it shall be calledLong Lane;' and it has always retained that name.
"The dews were falling, and they returned to the house. Her men and maidens were soon assembled, and the Lady Ursula herself led the evening devotions. They were scarcely ended, when a loud knocking was heard at the gate. It could not be Indians! No; it was a packet from England; and, O joy unspeakable! there was a letter from her long-lost friend and lover. He had been taken prisoner when half dead on the field of battle, had been removed from one place of confinement to another, debarred the privilege of writing, and had heard nothing from her. But the war was ended, there had been an exchange of prisoners, and he hastened to England, trembling with undefined fears and joyful anticipations. He would embark immediately, and follow his mistress to the new world, where he hoped to receive the reward of all his constancy.
"The lady could not finish the letter: surprise, joy, ecstasy,—all were too much for her, and the Lady Ursula fainted. As soon as she recovered, all was bustle and excitement through the house. The lady could not sleep that night, and she began immediately to prepare for the arrival of her lover. He said he should embark in a few days; she might therefore expect him every hour.
"Every room in the house was ornamented with fresh flowers. A room was prepared for her beloved guest, filled with every luxury the house could furnish; and her own portrait was placed there.
"She was not selfish in her joy: she told her men to get in the harvest: for whenhearrived, no work should be performed; there should be a jubilee. A fatted calf was selected, to be roasted whole: and every one of her large household was presented with a new suit of clothes. 'For this myfriend,' she said, 'was lost, and is now found; was dead, and is alive again.'
"When all was ready, the Lady Ursula could not disguise her impatience. She wandered restlessly from place to place, her eye brilliant, and her cheek glowing. At every sound she started, trembled, and turned pale.
"Her men were at work in a distant field; and she determined again, as usual when they were far from home, to carry them their dinner. When she took her seat in the little carriage, she said, 'It is the last time, I hope, that I shall go alone.'
"The repast was spread, and they all stood around for the blessing from the lips of the lady. It was remarked by her men that she had never looked so beautiful: happiness beamed from her eyes, and her usually pale cheek was flushed with joy. She folded her hands, and her meek eyes were raised. At that moment, a savage yell was heard; an Indian sprung from the thicket. With one blow of his tomahawk the Lady Ursula was leveled to the ground, and, in less than a moment, her long, fair hair was hanging at his girdle. The Indian was followed by others; and all but one of her faithful servants shared the fate of their mistress."
Mr. Grafton paused; Edith's tears were falling fast. "What became of her lover?" she said, as soon as she could speak.
"He arrived a few days after, to behold the wreck of all his hopes, and returned again, heart-broken, to England."
"And the picture," said Edith; "why did he not claim it, and take it with him, to console him, as far as it could, for the loss of his beautiful bride?"
"As she had made no will," said Mr. Grafton, "all the Lady Ursula's estate belonged to her own family. The lady we have visited to-day is a daughter of her brother."
Edith continued silent, and heeded not that the shades of evening gathered around them. She was pondering the fate of the Lady Ursula. That one so young, so beautiful, so good, should lead a life of sorrow and disappointment, and meet with so sudden and dreadful a death, weighed on her spirits; for Edith had not yet solved the mystery of life.
The sun had long set, when they reached their own door. Dinah had prepared the evening meal, and the cheerful evening fire; and Edith smiled her thanks.
As she helped her young mistress to undress, she said, "How pale you are, and how tired! You need a sweet, refreshing sleep to rest you again."
When Edith laid her head on the pillow, she called her humble friend to her: "Ah, Dinah," she said, "I have heard a story that makes me think there is no happiness on this earth."
Dinah had heard the story of the Lady Ursula.
"Was it not too sad, that she should meet that dreadful fate just as her lover returned, and she was going to be so happy?"
Dinah thought it was very sad. "But the lady was pure and good: the words of prayer were on her lips, and she went straight to heaven without much pain. Had she married and gone to England, she might have become vain and worldly; she might have lost the heavenly purity of her character."
"Yes," said Edith; "and Col. Fowler, having lived so long in the army, might not have loved her as well as she thought he did. Ah, who could live without love?"
Dinah thought many could and did. "Women depended too much," she said, "on their affections for happiness. Strong and deep affections were almost always disappointed; and, if not, death must come and sever the dearest ties;" and she stooped down and kissed Edith's hand, which she held in hers.
Poor Dinah! she little knew how entirely her own heart was bound up in Edith.
"But what can we live for, if not for love?" said Edith.
"For many things," answered Dinah, in her simple and quiet manner; "to grow better ourselves, and to do good to others; to make sacrifices, and to loveallgood works."
"I should not wish to live, were I to lose my father, and you, and"—Edith paused, and closed her eyes.
Dinah drew the curtain, and bid her, softly, "good night."
Edith could not sleep. She was reflecting on the fate of the Lady Ursula. With Dinah's assistance, she had begun to solve the mysteries of Providence;[2]
"Without, forsaking a too earnest world,To calm the affections, elevate the soul,And consecrate her life to truth and love."
"Without, forsaking a too earnest world,To calm the affections, elevate the soul,And consecrate her life to truth and love."
"A little cottage built of sticks and weeds,In homely wise, and walled with sods around,In which a witch did dwell, in loathly weedesAnd wilful want, all careless of her needes;So choosing solitairie to abide. Far from all neighbours."Spenser.
"A little cottage built of sticks and weeds,In homely wise, and walled with sods around,In which a witch did dwell, in loathly weedesAnd wilful want, all careless of her needes;So choosing solitairie to abide. Far from all neighbours."
Spenser.
I wish I were a painter, or a poet, to describe a little sheltered nook on the sea-shore, where devotion would retire to worship, love to dwell in thought on the beloved, or sorrow to be soothed to rest. It was a small cove, sheltered on the north by high, overhanging cliffs, that ran out into the ocean in a bold headland. Opposite these rocks the land sloped gently down, and the ocean, lulled to rest, came in like a spent and wearied child, and rippled on a smooth, white sand.
The top of the cliff was covered with many-colored shrubbery. The drooping branches of the birch, the sumac, and the aspen, tinted with the rich coloring of autumn, hung half way down the cliff, and were reflected, like a double landscape, in the water. At sunset, the entire glassy surface was burnished with the red and yellow rays of the setting sun; and when the young moon, like a fairy boat, just rested on the surface, it was a scene of beauty that could not be surpassed in any country.
Immediately under the cliff, and sheltered like a swallow's nest, was the smallest of human habitations; so dark, and old, and moss-grown, that it seemed a part of the rock against which it rested. It consisted of one room: a door and single pane of glass admitted the light, and the nets hanging around, and an old boat drawn up on the beach, indicated that it was the shelter of a fisherman.
The Indian summer still continued, and a few mornings after the little journey, Edith was induced, by the soft beauty of the weather, to visit the cove. It was a walk of two miles, but the inhabitants of the cottage were among the poor of her father's parish, and she was never a stranger in their cottages.
The brilliant sun gave to the ever-changing ocean the tints of emerald green, royal purple, crimson, and sapphire, and made a path of light, fit for angels' footsteps. The tide was out, and the smooth beach glittered in the morning sun. The ocean, as far as the eye could reach, was smooth as glass. It was not then, as now, white with the frequent sail: a solitary vessel was then a rare occurrence, and hailed with rapture, as bringing news fromhome. The white-winged curlew was wheeling around in perfect security, and the little bay was dotted, in a few spots, with fishermen's boats. The absence of the old boat from the beach showed that the owner of the cottage was among them.
Edith was sorry her friend the fisherman was absent, for the old woman who kept his house was a virago; and, indeed, was sometimes thought insane. Although Edith's moral courage was great, she possessed that physical timidity and sensitiveness to outward impressions that belongs to the poetic temperament.
She lingered in her walk, watching the curlews, and listening to the measured booming of the waves as they touched the shore and then receded. The obvious reflection that comes to every mind perhaps came to hers, that thus succeed and are scattered the successive generations of men. No; she was thinking that thus arrive and depart the days of her solitary existence; thus uniformly, and thus leaving no trace behind. Will it be always thus? she sighed; and her eyes filled with tears. Her revery was interrupted by a rough voice behind her.
"What have you done, that God should grant you the happiness to weep?" said the old woman, who now stood at her side.
Edith was startled, for the woman's expression was very wild, but she answered mildly, "Is that so great a boon, mother, that I should deserve to lose it?"
"Ask her," she said, "whose brain is burning, and whose heart is like lead, what she would give for one moist tear. O God! I cannot weep."
Whatever timidity Edith felt when she first saw the malignant expression of the old woman's countenance, was now lost in pity. She knew that the poor creature's reason was impaired, and she thought this might be one of her wild moments.
She laid her hand gently on her arm, and said, with a smile, "Nanny, I have come on purpose to visit you. Let us go into the house, and you shall tell me what you think, and all you want to make you comfortable for the winter."
Nanny looked at Edith almost with scorn. "Tell you what I think!" she said. "As well might I tell yonder birds that are hovering with white wings in the blue sky. What do you know of sorrow? but you will not always be strangers. Sorrow is coming over you; I see its dark fold drawing nearer and nearer."
A slight shudder came over Edith, but she smiled, and said, soothingly, "I came to talk with you about yourself; let my fate alone for the present."
"Ah! no need to shake the glass," answered Nanny; "grief is coming soon enough to drink up your young blood. The cheek that changes like yours, with sudden flushing, withers soonest; not with age, no, not, like mine, with age, but blighted by the cold hand of unkindness; and eyes, like yours, that every emotion fills with sudden tears, soon have their fountains dry, and then, ah! how you will long and pray for one drop, as I do now!"
They had entered the poor hovel, and the old woman, who had been speaking in a tone of great excitement, now turned and looked full at Edith: her beauty seemed to awake a feeling of envious contempt.
The contrast between them was indeed great. Edith stood in the narrow door, blooming with youth and health. Her dark hair, which contrasted so beautifully with her soft blue eye, had lost its curl by the damp air, and she had taken off her bonnet to put back the uncurled tresses.
The old woman had seated herself in an old, high-backed chair, and, with her elbows on her knees, looked earnestly at Edith. Her face might once have been fair; but it was now deeply wrinkled, and bronzed with smoke and exposure. Her teeth were gone, and her thin, shriveled lips had an expression of pain and suffering; while her eyes betrayed the envy and contempt she seemed to feel towards others.
"Ah," she said, "gather up your beautiful shining locks. How long, think you, before they will be like mine? But mine were once black and glossy as yours; and now look at them."
She took down from under her cap her long, gray hair, and spread it over her breast. It was dry and coarse, and without a single black hair. She laid her dark, bony hand on Edith's white arm.
"Sorrow has done this," she said,—"not time: it has been of this color for fifty years."
"And have you then suffered so much?" said Edith,—and her eyes filled with tears.
The old woman saw that she was pitied, and a more gentle expression came into her eyes, as she fixed them on Edith.
"My child," she said, "we can learn to bear sorrow, bereavement, the death of all that are twined with our own souls, old age, solitude,—all but remorse—all but remorse;" and the last word was pronounced almost in a whisper.
"And cannot you turn to God?" said Edith; "cannot you pray? God has invited all who are sinners to come to him."
She stopped; for she felt her own insufficiency to administer religious consolation.
"And who told you I was so great a sinner?" said the old woman, all her fierceness returning immediately.
Edith had felt herself all the comfort of opening her heart in prayer to God; but she was abashed by the old woman: she said only timidly and humbly, "Why will you not confide in my father? Tell him your wants and your misery, and he will pray for you, and help you."
"Tell him! and what does he know of the heart-broken? Can he lift the leaden covering from the conscience? Can he give me back the innocence and peace of my cottage home in the green lanes of England, or the blessing of my poor old father?" And, while an expression of the deepest sadness passed over her face,—"Can he bring back my children, my beautiful boys, or bid the sea give up its dead? No, no; let him preach and pray, and let these poor ignorant people hear him; and let me,—ah, let me lie down in the green earth."
Edith was shocked; and the tears she tried in vain to suppress forced themselves down her cheeks.
"Poor child!" said the old woman; "you can weep for others, but yours is the fate of all the daughters of Eve: you will soon weep for yourself. With all your proud beauty and your feeling heart, you cannot keep your idols: they will crumble away, and you will come at last to what I am."
Edith tried to direct her attention to something else. She looked around the cottage, which had not the appearance of the most abject poverty. The few articles of furniture were neat, and in one corner stood a comfortable-looking bed. A peat fire slumbered on the hearth, and many dried and smoked fish were hanging from the beams.
She said, very mildly, "I came, Nanny, to see if you did not want something to make you comfortable for the winter. My father sent me, and you must tell me all you want."
"I want nothing," said the old woman; "at least for myself. All your blankets cannot keep the cold from the heart."
At this moment, a little girl about five years old came running into the cottage, with a basket of blackberries she had been picking on the cliffs above the house. Edith was well known to her, as she was to all the children of the parish. The little girl went up to her and presented the blackberries, and then ran to her grandmother with the air of a favored child, as if she were sure of a welcome.
An expression that Edith had never seen, a softened expression of deep tenderness, came over the face of the old woman.
"I was going to speak of this child," she said. "I feel that I shall soon bethere,"—and she pointed towards the earth,—"and this child has no friend but me."
The little girl, meantime, had crept close to the old woman, and laid her head on her shoulder. The child was not attractive: her feet and legs were bare, and her dress was ragged and much soiled; but covering her eyes and forehead was a profusion of golden-colored ringlets; and, where her skin was not grimmed with dirt and exposure to the sea air, it was delicately white.
There was something touching in the affection of the poor orphan for the old woman; and the contrast, as they thus leant on each other, would have arrested the eye of a painter.
Edith promised to be a friend to her grandchild, and then entreated Nanny to see her father, and confide her sorrows to him. This she steadily refused; and Edith left her, her young spirits saddened by the mystery and the grief that she could not understand. As she walked home, she thought how little the temper of the old woman was in harmony with the external beauty that environed her. The beauty was marred by sin and grief. And even in her own life, pure as it was, how little was there to harmonize with the exquisite loveliness around her!
Edith was not happy: the inward pulse did not beat in harmony with the pulse of nature. She was not happy, because woman, especially in youth, is happy only in her affections. She felt within herself an infinite capacity of loving, and she had few to love, Her heart was solitary. Her affection for her father partook too much of respect and awe; and that for Dinah had grown up from her infancy, and was as much a matter of habit as of gratitude. She longed for the love of an equal, or rather of some one she could reverence as well as love. How she wished she could have been the companion of the Lady Ursula!
Edith was beginning to feel that she had a soul of infinite longings; but she had not yet learnt its power to create for itself an infinite and immortal happiness; and the beauty of nature, that excited without filling her mind, only increased her loneliness.
It is after other pursuits and other friends have disappointed us, that we go back to the beautiful teachings of nature; and, like a tender mother, she receives us to her bosom.
"O, nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her."
"O, nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her."
She alone is unchangeable. We may confide in her promises. I have planted an acorn by a beloved grave: in a few years I returned, and found a beautiful oak overshadowing it.
Nature is liberal and impartial as she is faithful. The green earth offers a home for the eyes of the poorest beggar; the soft and purifying winds visit all equally; the tenderly majestic stars look down on him who rests in a bed of down, and on him whose pallet is the naked earth; and the blue sky embraces equally the child of sorrow and of joy.
The teachings of nature are open to all. The poor heart-broken mother sees, in the parent leaves that enfold the tender heart of the young plant, and in the bird that strips her own breast of its down to shelter her young from the night air, the same instinct that teaches her to cherish the child of sorrow. He who addressed the poor and illiterate drew his illustrations from nature: the lily of the field, the fowls of the air, and the young ravens, he made his teachers to those who, like him, lived in the open air, and were peculiarly susceptible to all the influences of nature.
To return from this digression. Perhaps my readers will wish to know more of poor Nanny, as she was called.
Nothing was known of her early history. She had come from the mother country four years before, with this little child, then an infant, and had taken a lodging in the poor fisherman's hut. She said the little girl was her grandchild, and all her affections were centred in her. She was entirely reserved as to her previous history, and was irritated if any curiosity was expressed about it, though she sometimes gave out hints that she had been an accomplice and victim of some deed for which she felt remorse. As she was quite harmless, and the inhabitants were much scattered, she was unmolested, and earned a scanty living by picking berries, fishing, and helping those who were not quite as poor as herself. Edith visited her often, and Mr. Grafton, though she would not acknowledge him as a spiritual guide, ministered to all her temporal wants.
Thou changest not, but I am changed,Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged;The visions of my youth are past,Too bright, too beautiful, to last.Bryant.
Thou changest not, but I am changed,Since first thy pleasant banks I ranged;The visions of my youth are past,Too bright, too beautiful, to last.
Bryant.
More than two years had passed since Edith's visit to the old woman of the cliff. Changes had taken place in all the personages of my little tale; but in Edith they were most apparent. She who had sung all day as the birds sing, because she could not help it, at nineteen had learned to reflect and to analyze; a sensitive conscience had taken the place of spontaneous and impulsive virtue; and the same heart that could be happy all day long in nursing a young chicken, or watching the opening of a flower, or carrying food to a poor old woman, now closed her days withthinking, and moistened her pillow with unbidden tears.
It is the natural course of womanhood. Ah! that we could always be children. We have seen that after Edith had learned the story of the Lady Ursula, she began to solve some of the mysteries of life. She had since turned over many of its leaves, all fair with innocence and truth, but she had not yet found an answer to the question, "Why do we suffer?"
The change that had taken place in young Seymore was deeper and sterner, but not so apparent. Externally, he was the same beautiful youth that he was when we introduced him to our kind readers, in his attic.
Since then, he had had much to struggle with; but poverty had not been his greatest temptation. He could not indeed hope to be exempt from the bitter experience of almost all who at that time were scholars.
To this very day, the sons of clergymen, and many of the most distinguished men in New England, have held the plough in the intervals of their preparation for the university. How many poor mothers have striven, and labored, and denied themselves all but the bare necessaries of life, that their sons might gain that sole distinction in New England,—an education at one of the colleges.
Poverty was not his greatest trial. When he first saw Edith, her timid and innocent beauty had made an impression on his fancy, that all his subsequent dreams in solitude, and his lonely reveries, had only served to deepen. She seemed to embody all his imaginations of female loveliness. He had, indeed, never before seen a beautiful girl, and he had no acquaintance with women, except his grandmother.
The remembrance of his mother came softened to him, like something unconnected with earth; and when he thought of the darkened chamber, the pale, faint smile, her hand on his head, and her solemn consecration of him to the church, on her death-bed, he felt a sensation of awe that chilled and appalled him.
After his acquaintance with Edith and her father, life wore a brighter hue. His efforts to gain an education to distinguish himself were redoubled. Mr. Grafton aided in every way; and with the sympathy of his kind friend came the image of his beautiful daughter. His labors were lightened, his heart cheered, by the thought that she would smile and approve.
Thus days of bodily labor were succeeded by nights of study; and, for some time, with his youth and vigorous health, this was hardly felt as an evil. But we have seen, in our first chapter, that he had moments of despondency, and of late they had been of more frequent occurrence.
At such times, the remembrance of his mother, and her solemn dedication of him to the church, came back with redoubled power, and the time he had spent in lighter literature, in poetry, and even his dreams of Edith, seemed to him like sins. A darker and less joyous spirit was gradually overshadowing him. A morbid sensitiveness to moral evil, an exaggerated sense of his own sins, and of the strict requisitions of the spirit of the times, clouded his natural gayety.
His visits to the parsonage, indeed, always dissipated his fears for a little time. Edith received him as a valued friend, and he returned to his studies, cheered by her smiles, and sustained by new hopes.
He never analyzed the cause of this change, or the nature of his feelings: but, when he thought of his degree at the college, it was her sympathy and her approbation that came first to his mind; and, when he sent his thoughts forward to a settlement and a parsonage like that of his venerable friend's, it would have been empty, and desolate, and uninhabitable, if Edith had not been there.
It was in Edith's beloved father that a year had made the saddest change. The winter had been unusually severe, and the snow deep. His parish was much scattered, and it was his custom to visit them on horseback; and, in the deepest snows, and most severe storms, he had never refused to appear at their bedsides, or to visit and comfort the afflicted. He had lived, and labored, and loved among his simple flock, but he now felt that his ministry was drawing towards a close.
In March, he had returned from one of his visits late at night, and much wet and fatigued. The next morning he found himself ill with a lung fever. It left him debilitated, and much impaired in constitution; and a rapid decline seemed the almost inevitable consequence at his advanced age.
Pride,Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; and he who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used.O, be wiser, then!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love:True dignity abides with him alone,Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himself,In lowliness of heart.Wordsworth.
Pride,Howe'er disguised in its own majesty,Is littleness; and he who feels contemptFor any living thing, hath facultiesWhich he has never used.
O, be wiser, then!Instructed that true knowledge leads to love:True dignity abides with him alone,Who, in the silent hour of inward thought,Can still suspect, and still revere himself,In lowliness of heart.
Wordsworth.
It has been the fashion, of late, to depreciate the clergymen among our Puritan fathers. It is true they erred, but their errors belonged to the time and the circumstance that placed in their hands unusual power. There were among them men that would have done honor to any age; perfect gentlemen, who would have adorned a drawing-room, as well as consecrated a church.
The traits that constitutegentlessedo not belong to any age or any school: they are not formed by the conventions of society, nor the forms that are adopted to facilitate and give grace to the intercourse of equals. The precept that says, "In honor preferring one another," if acted on in perfect sincerity of heart, and carried out in all the intercourse of society, would form perfect gentlemen and ladies. We have heard Jesus called the most finished gentleman that ever lived. Undisguised benevolence, humility, and sincerity, would form such gentlemen, and the intercourse of society, founded on such principles, would be true, noble, graceful, and most attractive.
Such a gentleman was Edith's father; and while he was an honored and cherished guest at the tables of the fathers and princes of the colony, he seldom left his humble parish. His influence there was unbounded, and his peculiarities, if he had them, belonged to the age. In an age of persecutors, he was so averse to persecution, that he did not escape the charge of heresy and insincerity.
The clergy of that time loved to preach from the Old Testament, and to illustrate the lives of the patriarchs. An unlimited and implicit faith, that made each believe he was the especial care and favorite of God, was the foundation of the religion of the Old Testament. Our fathers had much of the same persuasion. To an audience of fishermen, and scattered cultivators of the sterile fields of New England, such a faith came home to their hearts; the one committing their frail boats to the treacherous ocean, the other depending on the early and the latter rains, and genial skies, for their support.
June had come, the genial month of June, and Mr. Grafton was not revived by its soft air. He declined daily, and Edith, his tender nurse, could not conceal from herself that there was little hope of his ever reviving.
Dinah had watched with him almost every night, but, worn out with fatigue, Edith had persuaded her to take some moments for repose. After a night of much restlessness, towards morning, her father fell into a tranquil slumber. Edith was alone in the darkened room, and as she sat in the deep silence by his bedside, an old-fashioned clock, that stood in the corner, seemed, to her excited nerves, to strike its monotonous tick directly on her temples. A small taper was burning in the chimney, and the long shadows it cast served only to darken the room. From time to time, as Edith leaned over her father, she touched his forehead with her hand: in the solitude and stillness, it seemed a medium of communication with the mind of her father, and held the place of language.
At length he opened his eyes, and seeing her bending over him, he drew her towards him, and kissed her tenderly. In a whisper, he said, "I feel, my child, that I am dying."
"Do not weep," said he, observing how much Edith was shocked; "you can trust in God. You can be near me in death, as you have been in life. Now is the time, my Edith, to feel the value of all those principles we have learned together through life. I feel that God is near us, and that when I am gone, he will be near to you."
Edith threw herself into his arms. Her father laid his hand on her head, and prayed audibly. She arose more calm, and asked him if she should not call the faithful slaves.
"No, my child," he said; "let the poor children"—he always named them thus—"let the poor children sleep. God is here. I hold your hands in mine. What more do we want? Let the quiet night pass. The morning will be glorious! it will open for me in another world."
It was a beautiful sight, that young and timid woman sustaining her aged father, and he trusting so entirely in God, and feeling no anxiety, no grief, but that of leaving her alone.
As she sat thus holding his hand in hers, his breath became less frequent; he fixed his eyes on hers with a tender smile. His breathing stopped—his spirit was gone!
Edith did not shriek, or faint. It was the first time she had been in the chamber of death, and a holy calmness, a persuasion that her father's spirit was still there, came over her. She closed his eyes, and sat long with his hand strained in hers.
The first note of the early birds made her start. She arose, and opened the window. The morning had dawned, and every leaf, every blade of grass, was glittering in the early dew. Her father's horse, that had borne him so many years, was feeding in the enclosure. At the sound of the window, he came forward: then a sense of her loss came over Edith, and she burst into tears.
"——Whene'er the good and justClose the dim eye on life and pain,Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust,Till the pure spirit comes again.Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,His servant's humble ashes lie,Yet God has marked and sealed the spot,To call its inmate to the sky."
"——Whene'er the good and justClose the dim eye on life and pain,Heaven watches o'er their sleeping dust,Till the pure spirit comes again.Though nameless, trampled, and forgot,His servant's humble ashes lie,Yet God has marked and sealed the spot,To call its inmate to the sky."
It was one of those brilliant and transparent days of June, never surpassed in any climate. The little church stood clearly defined against the deep blue sky. The ocean, as the sun shone on it, was gemmed with a thousand glancing diamonds, and here and there a light sail rose and fell upon it, like the wings of a bird. It was so still that the hum of the noontide insects was distinctly heard. At intervals, the slow tolling of the little bell sent its echoes back from the surrounding forest.
It was the day of the funeral of the beloved pastor, and small groups of the parishioners began to collect about the church and the house. Heartfelt grief seemed to shadow every countenance, but the severe and reserved character of the New England Puritans allowed them to make no demonstration of sorrow: they shut up within themselves every trace of emotion, and spoke only in whispers, with a stern, determined air.
The garb and appearance of the people was rough and homely. There were farmers with their wives, on pillions; fishermen with their rough sea-coats; aged women, bent and wrinkled, who had come to lay in the grave one whom they had hoped would have prayed at and blessed their own burial.
The house at length was filled with those who had the nearest claim, and the ministers of the surrounding villages darkened, with their black dress, the little apartment.
The two slaves stood near the bier, and the excitable temperament and violent grief of the poor Africans contrasted with the stern, and solemn, and composed countenances around them.
Edith at last came in. She was calm, but very pale; and, as she entered the room, she gave her hand to those who stood nearest. She tried to speak, but the words died on her lips. Dinah was in a moment at her side. Her delicate and youthful beauty contrasted by her sable friend, and her lonely, unprotected state touched the hearts of these stern, but also tenderly affectionate Puritans, and there were tears in many eyes, as they looked at her with respect and interest.
The windows were all open; the concert of joyous birds, in their season of love and happiness, showed no sympathy with man in his grief. It was so still that the silvery sound of the waves, as they touched the beach, was distinctly heard; and the voice of prayer, as it broke the silence, was the only human sound.
The voice of prayer ceased, and the quick hoof of a horse was heard. In a few moments Seymore entered. He had heard of the death of his friend, and, impelled by an irresistible impulse, he could not remain at his studies. As he entered he was violently agitated, for death and sorrow were new to him.
The color rushed to Edith's pale cheek, as she silently gave him her hand; but she felt a calmness which she could not herself understand. A change had been wrought in her character by that nightly death-bed, and by four days of lonely sorrow. She felt that she must rely on herself.
The changes that are wrought by sorrow and reflection in a timid woman are not less apparent than those wrought by love. They seem, at first, to take from the exquisite feminineness of the character, but they bring out the latent beauty and strength of her spiritual nature. It is said "that every wave of the ocean adds to the beauty of the pearl, by removing the scum that reveals its interior and mysterious light." It is thus with time and sorrow: they reveal to ones self the inward pearl beyond all price, on which we must forever rely to guide us.
The oldest of the parishioners now approached, to bear their beloved pastor on their shoulders to the silent grave-yard. The ceremonial of a country burial is extremely simple, but they had then an affecting custom which has since been discontinued. As they bore the body to the grave, they sang an anthem, and, as it entered the little enclosure, the groups on each side receded, and uncovered their heads. The boys were hushed to awe, as the anthem rose on the evening air; the sun sank behind the forest, and its last rays were reflected from the grave of this servant of God.
The exquisite beauty of the scene oppressed and wearied Edith as she returned to her solitary home. She felt that though nature may sympathize with our joy, there is nothing in her bosom that responds to our sorrow.
But she did not return alone: Seymore had followed her; and, as they entered the deserted room, her father's arm-chair was in its accustomed place: even his slippers had been accidentally placed ready for him. The curtain had been removed from her mother's picture, and as she approached it, she met its pitying eyes fixed upon her. The unnatural tension of the nerves, which had denied her, for the last four days, the relief of tears, gave way, and the very fountains of her soul seemed opened. She sank down on a chair, and yielded to the overwhelming emotion.
There are states of the mind when the note of a bird, the fall of a leaf, the perfume of a flower, will unlock the bars of the soul, as the smallest sound will loosen the avalanche. The unexpected sight of her mother's picture had overpowered Edith. O that we should receive a mother's love in infancy, when we cannot value or understand it; and, in after life, when we need it most, when we long for the heart that has cherished us, "we must go back to some almost forgotten grave," where that warm heart lies that loved us as no other will ever love us.
Seymore was terrified: he had never seen grief like this, and he walked the room with rapid and agitated steps.
Edith longed to be alone. She tried to conquer her emotion, but the sobs that came from the bottom of her heart shook her whole frame. At last she said, "Pray leave me; I wish to be,I mustbe alone."
Seymore could not leave her thus. He took her passive hand. "O," said he, "would that I could spare you one of these tears! If you could know how I reverence your sorrow, how my heart bleeds for you—O pardon me—if you could see my heart, you would see there a devotion, a reverence, such as angels feel in heaven. Might I dare to hope that you would forgive, that you would pardon the poor, unknown, homeless scholar, that he has dared to love you?"
Edith had become calm as he spoke thus impetuously, and her hand grew cold in his. She looked up: a beautiful and timid hope shone in her eyes; and, though her tears fell fast, a smile was on her lips. "We are both homeless," she said,—"both orphans."
He caught from her expression a rapturous hope. At this moment the faithful slave Dinah opened the door to look after her young mistress. It was the first time since her childhood, that the face of her sable friend had been unwelcome to Edith; but perhaps it was happy for both; it arrested their tumultuous emotions, and gave Seymore, who left the room immediately, time to arrange his thoughts, and reflect on the blissful prospect opening before him.
Edith held out her hand to her friend. I have before remarked the figurative expressions in which Dinah clothed her thoughts. Her language and her feelings were fervid, like her climate.
"I thought," she said, "the heartsease had withered in your bosom; but it has sprung up, and is blooming again." Then seeing the crimson overspread Edith's cheek, she added, "perhaps your warm tears have revived it." But, as if ashamed of having said something not perfectly true, she took Edith's hand, looked earnestly in her face, as if asking an explanation of this sudden change.
Edith was wholly overcome. She threw herself into the arms of the faithful slave, and longed to hide herself there. None but a mother could understand her feelings, or one who had been to her in the place of a mother, and knew every beating of her innocent heart.
There are moments when woman needs the sympathy of a mother, that first and dearest friend of every human being. Dinah could not understand the imaginative character of Edith's mind; she could not sympathize with her thirst for knowledge, her love of the beautiful and the unknown; but the tear in her eye, and her quivering lip, as she pressed her child closer and closer to her, as though she would cherish her in her inmost heart, showed that she understood her nature, and sympathized in her happiness with all a woman's heart.
That night, when Edith laid her head on her pillow, she felt a secret joy, a lightness of heart, which she could not understand. She reproached herself that she could feel so happy so soon after the death of her father. She did not know how insensibly she had suffered an interest in Seymore to grow in her heart, and that the sentiments of nature are weak when brought into contact with an absorbing passion. When she came to offer her prayer for guidance and protection, a feeling of gratitude, of thankfulness, overpowered all other emotions, and she closed her eyes, wet with grateful tears.