University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

When the joyful sound of “Land—land in
sight,” was echoed in the ear of the wearied voyagers,
the Lady Eveline was sitting in her cabin
engaged in those refined and elevating studies,
which during her voyage she had found means to
prosecute. Ellen was seated on a low stool, beside
her, busily occupied with her needle, and
from time to time her eye glanced on an open
book which lay in the chair before her. There
were many other females present, but as the cabin
was large, it allowed them to scatter themselves
in various groups, as best suited their tastes.

“Do you hear it, my Lady?” said Ellen, throwing
down her work, and gazing earnestly on her.
“Was it not land they cried?”

They listened again, there was no mistake.
The loud “huzza for land,” echoed in the hoarse
voices of the sailors above them, and Ellen, with
many of the females, immediately hastened upon
deck. The former, however, soon returned with
a look of much disappointment, assuring her
friend that the object of their curiosity was only
visible through a glass and on the top of the mast.
This was nothing more than the lady had expected;

and had it been otherwise, she found that without
some preparation of heart, she could not even
now look unmoved upon the land of her voluntary
exile.

It was midnight, when the ships conveying the
Pilgrims approached the shore of their destination.
Ellen Wilson and her noble friend were standing
together on the deck, gazing silently before them
as they slowly neared the rock-bound coast. The
deck was crowded with Pilgrims, all looking
eagerly forward to catch a glimpse of their future
home. The dim light of the stars only, illumined
the scene; and even this was in part obscured, by
a few cold and broken clouds, that swept cheerlessly
across the heavens. Nothing could be discerned
but a faint outline of forest, rock and vale;
and the awful gloom which seemed to rest upon
them, the noise of the sailors, shouting and running
to and fro, and the damp midnight breeze
which moaned over the wave, all sent an icy chill
through the hearts of that gazing band. How
often amid the silence of midnight had this
long expected vision arisen before their sight.
Was it still a dream? Oh, no, the warmth of fancy
was gone, and over it all, there was a touch of
cold reality which fancy never brings. If there
had been enthusiasm, it was over now; if the
coloring of an ardent imagination had ever been
thrown over their enterprise, it all faded as they
leaned forward, and gazed on that dim shore, and
remembered that this dismal forest was now their
only home, and the cold blue heaven their only
covering. If tears dropped on the wave, it was not
strange; for some were thinking of the quiet and
loveliness of the pleasant firesides, far away over
the ocean; and some were there, whose dearest

kindred were at this moment sleeping in princely
halls, and who had been wont to rest beside
them.

The destination of the present colony was at a
considerable distance above the rock upon which
the first Pilgrims had landed, and was on many
accounts a far more eligible situation. It was
styled by the natives Naumeak; and when the
Pilgrims again looked upon it, in the pleasant
light of morning, there were no murmurs, nay, the
voice of praise was heard, that “the lines had
fallen to them in such pleasant places.”

After much preliminary business had been arranged,
about noon on the second day after their
arrival, the whole body of the emigrants prepared
to go on shore. The Lady Eveline leaned on the
arm of Ellen, as this strange procession moved
away through the untrodden paths of the forest.
During the preceding day a party had been despatched
to reconnoitre the place, and having selected
as a spot for settlement a small clearing
near the shore, they now acted as guides to the
remainder. A large temporary shelter had been
hastily thrown up of broken boughs and trees
which had been cut down for the purpose, and a
party of the settlers were soon employed in conveying
thither the articles of furniture they had
brought with them from England. All was now
joyful bustle and confusion. Many of the females,
with the gentle assiduity of their sex, were busy
in the interior of their new dwelling, seeking, notwithstanding
their various disadvantages, to give
it a cheerful appearance. Meanwhile another
party had arrived from the ship, with tools and
materials for building; and in a few moments the

noise of the axe and hammer resounded on all
sides through the forest.

There was something strangely animating in
their toil. The Pilgrim females stood around for
a while, gazing upon it with anxious silence, while
the sportive voices of childhood rang through the
wood, and even the babes themselves lifted up
their meek brows from their mother's arms, gazing
on the strange scene with smiles.

Under such auspices, it was not long ere a rude
village had risen instead of the waving forest.
A sanctuary for Him whom they had come over
the waves to worship in freedom of spirit, was
reared in the midst of their dwellings. Pleasant
indeed to the souls of the wearied Pilgrims, was
the light of their first New-England sabbath.
They could now fearlessly worship the Father of
spirits, in spirit and in truth; and as the voice of
prayer rose to heaven, from the depths of that
solemn forest, with no voice to childe, and no ear
to hear but the ear of a forgiving God, as the
rocks and vales which till now had listened only
to the hymn of the morning stars, echoed with
the loud sweet song of praise, and their souls
drank freely of that well of living water, of which
if a man drink he is athirst no more,—they felt that
they had not vainly abandoned all. And could
the worshipers in the proud cathedrals of Old
England, have glanced on that band, they would
have read on many a meek and beautiful brow,
and in the warm flush that lighted even the cheek
of manhood, the records of a devotion no less
lofty than their own.

The rude huts, which on their landing had
been hastily erected, were only considered as
temporary habitations. Each family soon made

efforts to provide its own dwelling place; and as
many of the colonists had possessed wealth in
England, some were able to do it in a style of
simple and becoming neatness; and the lovely
village of Salem with its pleasant church and cottages
and cultivated fields, ere long had risen in
the bosom of the forest,—so that, literally, in the
beautiful words of sacred promise, “The wilderness
had begun to blossom as the rose.”

A pleasant room in the dwelling of Mr. Wilson,
had been fitted up for the accommodation of the
Lady Eveline. Ellen had planted beneath the
window a rose bush from the forest, and a vine
of wild honeysuckle crept over the wall. Precious
indeed to Ellen was the happiness of that
noble lady who had come with her across the
deep, whom from her earliest childhood she had
regarded with that indefinite veneration inspired
by high birth, and who now, in the new and
endearing relations she sustained to her, was at
once the object of her love and admiration.

But as for the lady herself, she seemed well to
have learned that bitter lesson, which the sorrows
of her youth had inculcated;—her affections no
longer rested on the things of earth. Their
strong tendrils had been too cruelly torn, to fasten
on aught beneath the skies; and all that did
not still linger on the remembered and cherished
forms of her kindred far away over the ocean,
now bloomed in heaven.

Not that the lady regarded with indifference
the holy companions of her pilgrimage; she loved
them tenderly as the sharers of her toils and sorrows
on earth, and as those whom she hoped
would share her long reward, when these toils
and sorrows were over. But there was none of

that strong clinging of natural affection, which
had marked the days of her wealth and splendor.
There was no singling out of objects for deep attachment.
She was contented to love them all,
as children of the same heavenly Father. And
the lady was not unhappy. Long hours of calm
and pure enjoyment, were often her portion amid
the silence of her own apartment. Often as she
sat by her pleasant window, and gazed upon the
beautiful land around her, the near ocean, and
the bright skies above, such moments of holy
feeling, such exquisite conceptions of the purity
and tenderness of heavenly love were granted
her, that her soul seemed almost to participate
in the blessedness of that land, where the rivers
of pleasure flow unmingled. The events of her
life had been fitted to purify and elevate her affections;
and she felt that one moment of this
holy enjoyment was more than sufficient to reward
her for her painful sacrifice.

But the days of darkness were many. Famine,
disease, and death, came often to the cottages of
the Puritans, and sometimes their hearts failed
them and the path seemed too thorny for man to
tread. It was in such seasons that the tender exertions
of the Lady Eveline were peculiarly useful.
Her unwavering self-denial, her tenderness
and condescension, had won the hearts of the
colonists; and this influence, so nobly acquired,
was exerted only to relieve the afflicted, and comfort
those that mourned.

The second year after their landing, a large
accession of emigrants arrived from England.
They brought with them a charter, which after
much solicitation had been obtained from Charles,
transferring the powers of government into the

hands of the colonists themselves. One of the
ships also conveyed their first officers who were
appointed by the crown. In consequence of this,
their numbers during the succeeding summer
were greatly increased, and the emigrants at length
became so numerous that it was deemed advisable
for a large portion of them to settle themselves
at a place, called by the natives Shawmut, but
now well known as the site of a flourishing city.
And now approached the season of their severest
trial.

During the ensuing winter a dreadful mortality
prevailed among the colonists. Hunger, weariness,
and sickness they had borne unmurmuring;
but here was death in all its bitterness. Fathers
and mothers died; babes and children were laid
in the grave, while the bloom of life was scarce
cold on their young faces; the warm dreams of
youth were quenched in the stillness of the long
sleep; and many a voice, like the voice in Rama,
arose from among the Puritan cottages. Few
escaped the power of the raging sickness, and
every day the fresh turf of the burial ground rose
on some new made grave.

It was now that the religion which had softened
the heart of the Lady Eveline, was revealed in its
most touching light. The natural delicacy of her
frame, seemed all to have vanished. While the
strong lay prostrate with disease and death, fresh
energies seemed given to her; with a light unwearied
step, she moved by the couches of the
dying and the dead; and days of anxiety and
nights of sleepless watching, wasted not the bloom
of her countenance. The pillow of many a dying
child was softened by her attentions, and when
the mother had turned away in the depths of her

agony, the cold hand of the little sufferer rested
in hers; and her kind and gentle assiduities were
continued till the calm smile of death had settled
on its features. Her pure and elevated piety
gave her also unwonted access to the souls of the
bereaved, for her words were low and soothing,
and all of heaven, and of the blessedness of a land,
where sickness and death might not come, and
sorrow and sighing should flee away.

The long winter at length rolled by, and with it
the heavy calamities which had visited the colony.
Ships from England gladdened the hearts of the
wearied exiles; and as the pure spring air danced
freshly over the earth, it seemed to endue them
with health and vigor.

But there was one, to whom the spring in all its
freshness, bore no promise of future years. Slowly
and surely the frost of death was descending on
the brow of the young and beautiful. She who
had watched so tenderly by the couches of the
dying, was now herself to die; she who had so
often directed others to heaven, was now herself
to enjoy its blessedness. But the disease was
deep, and its secret work impaired not, at all, the
loveliness of the frail flower it was destroying.
To one who might have gazed, for a moment only,
on the lady, thoughts of decay and death would
have seemed strangely inappropriate. None of
her usual avocations were neglected. At morning
and evening she was still seen taking her accustomed
walk along the shady paths of the village,
or through her favorite forest walks, her
visits of kindness and sisterly love were still continued,
and those who passed the pleasant dwelling
of the pastor, might still observe her light

form through the honey-suckles, or see her rambling
with Ellen in the little green enclosure.

But they who watched her daily, with that intense
anxiety which the love of earthly objects so
surely brings with it, felt too truly that though
death was coming on forms of strange loveliness,
he had none the less surely marked his victim.
They saw that every day her step became slower,
her form more light and airy, and her low, thrilling
voice, yet more low and thrilling. They saw too
that whenever she spoke, her eye wore an unwonted
brilliancy; and instead of the pale damask,
a color all too deep and bright for earth, mantled
her cheek.

The lady herself felt that she must die; and
though at some moments, the sudden recollection
of this firm conviction, would bring the rich crimson
to her lip, in general the thought was peace.
She knew that she had not lived in vain. The
principles of holiness implanted in her soul, had
long been developed in high and holy action; and
though the love of heaven was her only hope,
these recollections were now inexpressibly sweet,
as evidences that this love had sanctified her affections.
Upon the first conviction that death
was approaching, the Lady Eveline had addressed
letters to her friends in England, informing them
of her illness, and repeating her solemn farewell,
till she should meet them again in the world of
spirits.

It was June—and a beautiful sabbath afternoon.
For some days past, the lady had been
confined entirely to her own apartment; and
now, supported by Ellen Wilson, she walked
from her bed to a seat by the open window, to
catch the fresh breeze that was springing up from

the ocean. Exhausted even with this slight exertion,
she leaned her head a moment on Ellen's
shoulder. The only contrast to the marble whiteness
of her countenance was in the hue of the
long eyelash that now lay in such deep repose on
her cheek. The rich coloring of life seemed
gone forever. Her cap had fallen carelessly back,
and the breeze played lightly among the long
and beautiful hair it released. Ellen had supported
her head with pillows; and now stood beside
her, gently fanning her brow, and gazing
with intense grief on the altered hue of her features.

“You are too ill, dear Lady, to sit up thus, do
not attempt it to-day,” she exclaimed, as the invalid
at length slowly opened her eye.

“I am better now, my kind Ellen,” replied the
lady. “I will sit here awhile, for I long to look
out once more on the green and freshness of
earth. Oh, how fervently have I loved it. I cannot
go away from this world forever without one
last look;” and as she spoke, she leaned gently
forward to gaze on the beautiful prospect.

A more quiet and lovely scene has seldom met
the eye. Perfect, sabbath stillness hung over
the cottages around; and far beyond stretched
the rocky shore, and the wave of the Atlantic.
It was the hour of afternoon service and the inhabitants
were now all assembled in the house of
God. This was near them, and as they leaned
upon the window, the loud hymn of praise rose in
rich swells on the air.

“Oh, Ellen, hear that holy music!” murmured
the lady faintly. “I could almost dream that the
airs of heaven already played on my ear. Surely
there was never so lovely a sabbath before; or,

Ellen, is it because the earth grows beautiful, as
it fades from my sight?”

She paused a moment, and some pleasant recollection
seemed to flit across her mind. “The
grass in the coppice, Ellen, must be green ere
this,” she suddenly exclaimed,—“and the shady
avenue. Oh, for a walk in that avenue to-day.”

Ellen was surprised. The lady had hardly
ever spoken of her former enjoyments, since the
period of their landing; but now all restraint
seemed over.

“Ellen, look over that blue wave, and far beyond,”
she continued. “You can see nothing—
and yet I have looked there, hour after hour, till
my eye has pierced the dreadful distance, and the
lovely valley, the castle, and the park, were all
before it; nay, I roamed through the halls of my
ancestors, and I heard the voices of those who
were dearer to me than life. But, Ellen, it is
over now, my eye is dim, and the pleasant land,
far away over the ocean, will rise no more to it,”
—and the lady wept.

“But you have long had grace from heaven, to
strengthen you in suffering. Oh, my Lady, will
it fail you in your need?'

“But to die, Ellen, far away from my kindred,
unremembered and unblest—my soul cannot endure
it. There is music and dancing in my father's
hall, my own Julia smiles gaily, my brother's
laugh rings through the castle as joyfully
as ever, and even”—she paused a moment and
a rich color tinged her cheek,—“and I, whom
they all once loved, am dying, alone, on this distant
shore.”

Ellen perceived that the unusual emotion which
the lady now exhibited, was fast exhausting her

strength, and she was intreating her to retire
again to her couch, when the appearance of a
ship entering the harbor, arrested her attention.
Though this had of late become a less rare occurrence
than formerly, still the sight of these
messengers from the land of their nativity possessed
strong fascinations for the eyes of the pilgrims,
and Ellen now parted away the clustering
vine, and leaned forward to watch the landing.
The eye of the lady was also directed to the same
point, and now and then a few brief remarks indicated
her interest in the scene. The deck was
apparently well crowded with passengers, and so
near was the harbor, that they could even distinguish
their figures as they walked separately across
the plank which had been thrown over, to facilitate
their landing.

“Ah, Lady Eveline, those are not all pilgrims,
believe me,” exclaimed Ellen, as a richly dressed
group, one by one, passed over. “That lady's
robe is all too gay, and her step too proud, and
those young cavaliers that are over now, and
walking with her, they are no pilgrims, my
Lady.”

At that moment a slight noise caused her to
turn her head, and she perceived with alarm that
the lady had fallen, fainting, on her pillow.

“Oh, help me to my couch, Ellen, for I am sick
and weary,” she murmured, as her eye slowly
reopened; and when her pale face at length rested
quietly on its pillow, Ellen saw that she was to
rise no more a living being. A deathlike slumber
soon sealed her eye again, and they who were
hovering around her couch, almost feared it was
death itself. Long and sorrowfully did Ellen
watch by her noble friend, until at last a deep

hectic began to brighten on her cheek, her lip
burned with a living glow, and when her eye
again opened, it shone with an unnatural and
dazzling brilliancy.

“Oh, where is Julia?” she said, gazing unconsciously
around her. “I have long been sick and
sorrowful, and she has not come to me, my sister,
my own beloved sister, where are you?” and she
looked wildly upon Ellen. “Nay, Ellen Wilson,
do not tell me that I am dying far over the ocean,
among the pilgrims. It was all a dream, a long
strange dream. Is not this my own apartment,
and is not this the pillow that the Lady Julia
sleeps on?—and these lofty walls, and those rich
curtains and hangings, do these belong to the
puritan cottage?” She smiled and shook her
head. “No—no—I saw none such in my dream.
“Ah, Julia, you have come at last,” she continued
after a few moment's pause, regarding Ellen.
“Now lay your soft hand on my aching brow, it
seems ages since I felt it last.”

Ellen gently laid her hand on her forehead.

“Ellen Wilson, do not mock me,” she exclaimed
after a moment's pause. “Your touch is light
and gentle, but it is not like the touch of a sister's
hand. Once more, Julia,” she added in a
tone of indescribable tenderness, “once more,
only for one moment, I pray you come to me.
Oh, she will not come, I have intreated and prayed,
and she will not come,” and again the dying
lady wept.

It was sunset, and the yellow light reflected
from without, had given a rich and mellow tinge
to the objects of the apartment. The lady's eye
had long been closed, but she had not slumbered.
Strange visions flitted across her mind. She had

heard many a light tread by her bedside, sweet
tones repeated her name low in her ear, warm
tears dropped on her cheek, soft lips met hers,
and faint thoughts of the bliss of other years
came over her like traces of faded dreams.

At last her eye opened. The small fair hand
that lay on the quilt was loaded with gems.
Slowly she raised her glance to the bedside. Ah,
whose was that beautiful and glistening eye that
now met hers? Was it still a deceitful vision?
She gazed slowly around. All illusion vanished.
She was lying in her own humble apartment, in
the cottage of the minister. The window by
which she had leaned a few hours since, was still
open. There was her little book case, her writing
table, and the cup of roses on it, just as Ellen
had gathered them in the morning. Ellen
too was standing at the foot of her couch
Her glance again turned to the pillow. It was
no vision. That eye was still on hers. There
was a quick and searching glance, one wild burst
of ecstasy, and the long parted sisters were
folded in each other's embrace. They who had
separated amid the splendor of the far distant
castle, were again united in a lowly cottage beyond
the ocean.

“Eveline, my blessed sister! say that you will
part no more from me. I have come over the
wide waters to see you. Eveline, do not call for
me again so mournfully. You are not indeed forgotten;
all that have ever loved you, love you as
tenderly now. Dear sister, this is no place for
one like you to languish and die; you shall go
back with us to our father's house, and we will all
love and cherish you.”

The lady calmly gazed upon the fresh and
blooming countenance of her sister. “No—no,
Julia,” she replied, “I shall go no more hence,
till I go to my long home, my bright home in
heaven. Do not weep, dear sister, that I am dying,
for my heavenly Father hath at last made
death lovely, even to me.”

“Do not think of dying, Eveline,” replied the
lady, with a shudder. “Now that fearful slumber
is off, your eye is bright, and your cheek far
more rosy than when I saw you last. Oh, Eveline,
you must not die.”

At that moment Ellen approached from the
door.

“They have desired to know if they may see
the Lady Eveline,” she whispered in the ear of
the sister. “I have told them that we thought
her dying.”

Julia regarded her with a look of agony. “Look
at that beautiful color on her cheek,” she whispered,
“you are surely dreaming.”

Ellen shook her head mournfully. “I have
known it long, my Lady, it is only the hectic
flush. Does she sleep?” and she bent her head
a moment to the pillow.

“No, dear Ellen,” murmured the lady faintly.
“Of whom were you speaking?”

“Eveline,” said her sister, in a voice almost
choked with emotion, “I came not alone to see
you, some whom you once loved, are now
in the next apartment; but you are wearied;
shall they wait till morning?” For a moment
strange energy seemed given to her frame,
her voice was strong, and she almost raised herself
from her pillow.

“Speak not of to-morrow, Julia, those whom

I would see again on earth, I must see now.
There was one over the wave whom my unweaned
affections have strangely clung to, and”—
At this moment the door gently opened, and
the forms of her dearly remembered brother,
and of him who had long ago loved her, arrested
her eye.

The soul of the dying Eveline, was now at
peace. Earth's visions were indeed over; but
the tones of human love were still sweet to her
ear. In one short hour from the time when she
had deemed herself a forgotten exile, the forms
of brother, and sister, and friend, surrounded
her couch, and her dying moments were cheered
and sweetened, with the kindest endearments of
earthly affection.

For a few moments, she spoke with earnestness,
and told them of the strong depths of her affection
for them, and prayed them to bear her dying
blessing to her father. Of heaven, too, she spoke,
and of the beauty and holiness of that religion
she had so honored, and besought them by the
strength of the love which had led them over the
deep, to meet her in that world. And just as her
beloved Ellen had bent to kiss her brow, while
she breathed the assurances of her grateful affection,
and her eye was yet bright with feeling, the
eye closed, the voice ceased, and something like
a beautiful and placid sleep, settled on her features.
The spirit was in heaven, and they who
had come so far to bear the lady to her princely
home, soon bore her in sorrow to her long resting
place, among the tombs of the Pilgrims.