Sketch of Connecticut, Forty Years Since/Chapter XVII
CHAPTER XVII.
Of some dire dream, waking the pious soul
To life and transport, makes amends at once
For all past suffering, in a moment all
Forgotten, in that plenitude of joy."
Age of Benevolence
Three weeks had elapsed since the first interview of the good clergyman with Oriana, during which period he had frequently seen her. He was one who found leisure both for duties, and for pleasures, because he systematically divided his time; and in his duties, his pleasures lay. Complaints of the toil which his profession! imposed, of the drudgery of writing sermons, and the labour of instructing the young, were never heard from him; for he loved to be about his Master's business. Content with a stipend, which the effeminacy of modern times would pronounce insufficient for the necessaries of life, he taught his family by example the art of cheerfully sustaining privations, and of sacrificing their own wishes to the good of others. He never studied to disjoin self-denial from benevolence; and his conduct, and even his countenance was an illustration of the inspired direction, respecting the sons of Levi—"Ye shall give them no possession in Israel, I am their possession: ye shall mete out to them no inheritance, I am their inheritance." In his intercourse with Oriana, his spiritual consolations were ever mingled with solicitude for her earthly comfort. His wife, to whom he had communicated what he knew of the interesting invalid, continually sent by him cordials, and little delicacies, which it was her pleasure to prepare for the sick. His little children, moved by kindness at once hereditary, and impressed by education, would add, what she always received with peculiar gratitude, a bouquet of the flowers, which their own hands had cultivated. He had occasionally proposed to Oriana a removal to his residence, hoping that a change of habitation might be beneficial to her health. But the idea was painful to her. She could not think of parting from those, who had cherished her with such undivided tenderness, and whose happiness had become interwoven with her presence. Thanking him for his fatherly solicitude, she would say—
"The pomp and circumstance of life, to one about to leave it, reveal their own emptiness. To have our necessities ministered unto by hands which are never weary, our pains mitigated by hearts which are never cold, is all which a disease fatal like mine can ask. Fear not that I am entirely burdensome to their poverty. My small stock is not yet expended, nor will it be until my animal wants are at an end. Yet more than the perishable part is provided for. Your prayers, your instructions, Father, strengthen my soul for her approaching flight. More than contented, grateful, and happy, she waiteth till her change come. Sometimes, while I lie sleepless, yet composed, thoughts so serene pass over me, that I almost think I hear the voice of my Redeemer, saying through the silence of midnight, "when I sent ye forth without purse, or scrip, lacked ye any thing? and I answer, nothing Lord."
The gentle sufferer requested of her spiritual guide, that her history might not be mentioned among his acquaintance. Visits of curiosity, she remarked, would only interrupt the short space allotted her, which she wished to employ in preparations for her departure; and those of charity were unnecessary to a being, whose ties to the world were so broken that her dependence upon it was annihilated.
"It can now give me nothing," she said, "but it may take something away."
He perceived that she wished to detach her mind from surrounding objects, arid cultivate a deep acquaintance with her heart; as Cosmo de Medici, in his last sickness, closed bis eyes that he might see more clearly. He could understand a desire, which some would be in danger of mistaking for affectation, or perverseness, or enthusiasm. He could sympathize in the aspirations of a soul, desiring to be alone with its God. He prevailed on her, however, to admit the attentions of a physician, who came, and inquired minutely into the progress of her disease, and the mode of treatment to which it had been subjected. He approved the light nutriment of milk, and fruits, which she had adopted, examined the herbs, and plants; whose infusions she had used, and seemed surprized at their judicious adaptation to the different stages of her malady. The knowledge professed by our natives of the virtues of medicinal plants was not at that period understood. Barton had not then given the world his researches, or enriched our Pharmacopoeïa with the discoveries of the children of the forest.
The physician recommended the continuance of the regimen which had been pursued, prescribing only some simple additions; and, on his return, told his reverend companion that the case of the invalid was beyond the reach of medicine.
"She probably has derived from her parents the poison which feeds on her vitals. Nature cannot long cope with an enemy, who has already entered her citadel. But, if I mistake not, there will be no struggle of the soul, when its tabernacle is dissolved."
"No," answered his friend, "she has long been convinced, that to depart, and to be with Christ is far better. It would seem as if this must always be the effect of mortal disease upon the Christian. Yet such is the weakness of faith, such the infirmity of man at his best estate, that sometimes fear predominates most, when hope is about to be changed into glory. I have supposed that your profession, which familiarizes man at once with the mystery of his own construction, and the indefinite varieties of suffering to which it is liable, would have a strong affinity with that piety, which points the mortal part to its Maker, and the immortal to its home. Why is it then that, among our many healers of the body, we find so few qualified to act as physicians to the soul?"
The disciple of Esculapius, who was also a follower of Christ, replied—
"Whoever penetrates into the secret springs of his frame, must be constrained to acknowledge that he is; "fearfully and wonderfully made." Anatomy, like Astronomy, points the eye to an infinite Architect. But simply to acknowledge the existence of a God is far from being the whole of Christianity. Thus far the devils believe, while they tremble. You have thought, Sir, that a constant view of the pains, and infirmities of our race ought to awaken piety. Thus the most eloquent apostle asserted, that the goodness of God ought to lead men to repentance. But the perverseness, which in one case produces ingratitude, in the other generates pride. He boasts that his science can arrest the ravages of disease, and tear the victory from death. So that "Him, in whose hand is his breath, hath he not glorified." Besides, our familiarity with all the modifications of distress blunts that sensibility, through which alone it can convey a lesson to the heart. Our danger is of materialism, of resting in natural religion, or of elevating the pride of science into the place of God. From all these His Spirit can deliver us."
This excellent man, who happily blended piety with professional skill, resided in the northern part of the town, and was the writer of that epitaph on a son of the departed royalty of Mohegan, which appeared at the close of the third chapter. His memory is still revered, and the celebrity which he acquired in the science of medicine, is still enjoyed by his descendants. Soon after the conversation which has been related, he stopped on a visit of charity, to which he was so much accustomed, that it was said his horse turned involuntarily towards the abodes of poverty. The divine, thanking him for his attention to the mysterious invalid, pursued his homeward journey.
Exhausted in body, but confirmed in faith, Oriana waited her dissolution. Such was the wasting of her frame, that she seemed reduced to a spiritual essence, trembling, and ready to be exhaled. Every pure morning, she desired the casement to be thrown open, that the fresh air might visit her. But at length, this from an occasional gratification became an object of frequent necessity, to aid laborious respiration. The couch, which she had been resolute in leaving while her strength permitted, was now her constant refuge. The febrile symptoms of that terrible disease, which delights to prey on the most fair and excellent, gradually disappeared; but debility increased to an almost insupportable degree. Smiles now constantly sat upon her face, and seemed to indicate that the bitterness of death had already passed. The irritation of pain, which had marked her features, subsided into a tranquil loveliness, which sometimes brightened into joy, as one who felt that "redemption draweth nigh." One night, sleep had not visited her eyes; for, whenever her sense began to be lulled into transient repose, the spirit in its extasy seemed to revolt against such oppression, desirous to escape to that region, where it should slumber no more, through fullness of bliss.
Calling to her bedside, at the dawn of morning, the old warriour, for her mother for several nights had watched beside her, she said—
"Knowest thou, Father, that I am now about to leave thee?"
Fixing his keen glance upon her for a moment, and kneeling at her side, he answered—
"I know it, my daughter. Thy blue eye hath already the light of that sky to which thou art ascending. Thy brow hath the smile of the angels who wait for thee."
Martha covered her face with her hands, and hid it on the couch, fearful lest she might see agony in one so beloved. Yet she fixed on that pallid countenance another long, tender gaze, as the expiring voice said—
"I go, where is no shade of complexion—no trace of sorrow. I go to meet my parents, who died in faith; my Edward, whose trust was in his Redeemer. I shall see thy daughter, and she will be my sister, where all is love. Father! Mother! that God, whom you have learned to worship, whose spirit dwells in your hearts, guide you thither also."
Extending to each a hand, cold as marble, she said—
"I was a stranger, and ye took me in: sick, and ye ministered unto me. And now go I unto Him, who hath said "the merciful shall obtain mercy."
They felt that the chilling clasp of her fingers relaxed, and saw that her lips moved inaudibly. They knew that she was addressing Him, who was taking her unto himself. A smile not to be described passed, like a gleam of sunshine, over her countenance; and they heard the words "joy unspeakable, and full of glory." Something more was breathed in the faintest utterance, but she closed not the sentence—it was finished in Heaven.
There was long silence in the apartment, save the sobs of the bereaved Martha, and at long intervals a deep sigh, as if bursting from the bottom of the breast of the aged warriour. Then he rose from the earth where he had stooped his forehead, and took the hand of his companion.
"We have heard," he said, "before we were Christians, that too much grief is displeasing to the Great Spirit. Let us pray to that God, to whom she has returned. She hath taught us to call Him Father, who was once terrible to our thought. She was as the sun in our path. But she hath set behind the dark mountains. Hath set did I say? No. She hath risen to a brighter sky, and beams of her light will sometimes visit us. Thou hast wept for two daughters, Martha. One, thou didst nurse upon thy breast. But was she dearer than this? Did not the child of our adoption lie as near to our heart, as she to whom we gave life? Henceforth, we shall be made childless no more. Let us dry up the fountain of our sorrows. Let us pray together to Him who maketh the heart soft, and bindeth it up."
The day seemed of interminable length to the aged mourners, who, long accustomed to measure time by the varieties of solicitude, felt that the loss of the sole object of their care had given to the hours a weight, under which they heavily moved.
In the afternoon, the clergyman, who for several days had not visited their habitation, was seen to approach it. Zachary went to meet him. The agitation, which had so long marked the manner of the grief-stricken warriour, had subsided; and he moved with the calm dignity which was natural to him. His deportment seemed an illustration of the words of the king of Israel, when his child was smitten:
Bowing to the clergyman, he said—
"She, whom you seek, is not here. She arose ere the sun looked upon the morning. Come, see the place where she lay."
Departing from the distant respect bordering upon awe, which he had been accustomed to testify towards the guide of Oriana, he led him by the hand to the apartment, as if he felt that in the house of death all distinctions were levelled, and all men made equal.
Martha lifted up a white sheet, and discovered the lifeless form clad in a robe and cap of the purest cambrick, which those beautiful hands had prepared, and preserved for the occasion. Rich, and profuse curls still clustered round an oval forehead, which bore no furrow of care, or trace of pain. Long, silken eye-lashes fringed the immoveable lids, which concealed, in their marble caskets, gems forever sealed from the gaze of man. But whoever has beheld beauty, which Death has blanched but not destroyed; or has hung over the ruins of the Creator's fairest workmanship, deserted by life, but not by love; may have realized that moment of thrilling tenderness, of speechless awe, which we should in vain attempt to describe.
"It is finished!" said the divine, lowering his head; but no tear stole over his placid countenance. He believed that if there is joy among the angels in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, there ought at least to be resignation on earth, when a saint is admitted to their glorious company. Kneeling down he prayed with the mourners, and after the orison, said—
"Great is the blessing which has been lent to you, my friends. Her prayers, her instructions, her example, how precious were they all to you! May they, through the aid of the Holy Spirit, lead you where she has gone."
"My heart is sorrowful," said old Martha, "because my ears hear no more the sound of her voice. Every place, in which she has sat, speaks the name of Oriana. I go to it, but she is not there."
The clergyman spoke kind words of comfort to them, as to his brethren; andere he departed, made arrangements for the funeral solemnities, that the bones of the stranger might rest in consecrated earth. Two days elapsed, and the scene changed to the burial ground of the religious community, to which he ministered. An open grave was seen there, and a few forms flitting among the Shades which environed the spot, as if watching for some funeral train. The passing-bell, echoing from rock to rock, fell with its solemn, measured sound upon their ear, as they roved amid the mouldering remains of their fellow creatures. There were here but few monuments, and none whose splendour could attract the attention of the traveller. It might seem as if those, who here slumbered, had realized the fallacy of those arts, by which man strives to adhere to the remembrance of his kind.
Perhaps, among this group, were some recent mourners, who felt their wounds bleed afresh at the sight of an open grave. Perhaps some parent might there be seen, bowing in agony over the newly covered bed of his child; some daughter, kneeling to kiss the green turf upon the breast of her mother; some lover, weeping amid the ruins of his hope, or casting an unopened rose bud on the grave of her who had perished in beauty. Alas! how many varieties of grief had that narrow spot witnessed, since it cast a heavy mantle over the head of its first tenant. How many hearts had there laid the idol of their worship, and withered over the broken altar. How many sad spirits had there buried the roses that adorned their bower; and passed the remainder of their pilgrimage under the cloud.
Here too, with the sigh of mourning perhaps mingled the pang of compunction: for how few can say, when the earth covers their beloved ones, between us, nothing has transpired at which memory should blush—nothing been omitted, on which regret can feed—nothing done, which tenderness would wish to alter—nothing left undone, which duty, or religion could supply? Perhaps some, amid that group, might realize that the thorn in the conscience can rankle, long after the wound of God's visitation had been healed. Others might there have wandered, in whose hearts Time had blunted the arrow of Grief. The shrine, once empty in the sanctuary of their soul, filled by some other image; and were it possible that the tomb should restore to their arms that tenant whom they once thought to lament with eternal tears, might there not be some barrier to joy, some change in love, wrought by the silent mutation of years? Yet of whatever nature were the reflections of the group, who circled with light footstep, the "cold turf-altar of the dead," they were soon interrupted by the approach of a procession. It was first seen indistinctly through trees—then winding over the bridge—then pacing, with solemn step, and slow, the base of one of the principal streets. Then turning obliquely, it entered the western road, which, skirting the banks of the river, led directly to that narrow house, where the pale assembly slumbered. As they pursued their course, the rough, broken rocks, towering on their right hand, and in their rear the bustle of the town, might seem an emblem of the paths and pursuits of the worldling: while, on their left, the pure, placid current, reflecting the brightness of a sun already approaching the horizon, typified the repose of the saint, when he "resteth from his labours, and his works follow him."
Next to the bier, walked the aged warriour, and his wife; like the patriarch, who would go down to the grave to his son mourning. The Chieftain Robert, and John Cooper followed, with heads declined; as those who had testified friendship for the deceased, without having been acquainted with her history. Many of the natives of Mohegan, two and two, in decent dresses, next appeared, wishing to shew respect to old Zachary, whom they all loved. A number of the inhabitants of the town were seen to close the procession. They had heard, from the benevolent clergyman, some notice of the departed; and had walked out a mile to meet those who came to discharge the last offices of respect to the mysterious stranger. He, ascending the steps, where he had so often preceded the trains of sorrow, uncovered a head where care had already begun to shed its snows. The peculiar melody of his voice was never more apparent, than when its soothing, and impressive tones poured forth on the silence of the funeral scene, "I am the resurrection, and the life, saith the Lord." The attention of the natives to this solemn service was almost breathless. It seemed as if their humbled, dejected countenances were an illustration of that pathetic portion of it, "Man that is born of a woman, is of few days, and full of misery." Tears rolled over the face of old Martha at the words, "He cometh up and is cut down like a flower, he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay." The hollow sound of the clods falling upon the lid of the coffin, and the voice, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust," drew a deep groan from the hoary warriour. John Cooper, who, strongly attached to the customs of Mr. Occom, had listened with some touch of sectarian feeling, was so much affected at the introduction of the passage, "write! blessed are the dead, who die in the Lord," that, forgetting he was in a burying place of the Church of England, he responded fervently, Amen. At the close of the service, the divine approached old Zachary, and took him by the hand. He stood like some tall tree in the forest firm at the root, but whose boughs are marked by a winter which can know no spring. His few silver locks waved in the light breeze that was rising; and his eyes, bent upon the grave, were tearless. Bowing down at the salutation of the clergyman, he said in a calm tone—"I look for the resurrection from the dead, for the life of the world to come." Martha, whose erect and dignified form, had never yielded to time, now bent with sorrow. Clasping the offered hand between both hers, she put into it a packet, saying, "she left this for you, and she blessed you, when the cold dew was on her forehead like rain-drops." John Cooper bowed reverently, and the chief, stalking with his majestic port toward him who had officiated, said "Father! thou hast spoken well. The Great Spirit is pleased with words like these, and with a life like thine."