 | CHAPTER III. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
The vernal year my better days have known;
Dim in my breast life's dying taper burns,
And all the joys of life with health are flown.
Bruce.
A few weeks before the death of Mrs. Elton,
a Mr. Lloyd, a Quaker, who was travelling with
his wife and infant child, for the benefit of Mrs.
Lloyd's health, had stopped at the inn in—.
Mrs. Lloyd was rapidly declining with a consumption.
On this day she had, as is not unfrequent in
the fluctuation of this disease, felt unusually well.
Her cough was lulled by the motion of the carriage,
and she had requested her husband to permit
her to ride further than his prudence would
have dictated.
The heat and unusual exertion, proved too much
for her. In the evening she was seized with a
hemorrhage, which reduced her so much as to
render it unsafe to move her. She faded away
quietly, and fell into the arms of death as gently
as a leaf falleth from its stem, resigning her spirit
in faith to him who gave it.
An extraordinary attachment subsisted between
Mr. and Mrs. Lloyd, which had its foundation in
the similarity of their characters, education, views,
and pursuits; and had been nourished by the circumstances
that had drawn and kept them together.
The father of Mr. Lloyd was an Englishman;
he, with his wife, and only son Robert, then eight
years old, had emigrated to Philadelphia. Mrs.
Elwyn, the sister of Mrs. Lloyd, a widow, with an
only daughter, accompanied them. The severities
of a long and tempestuous voyage, operating
on a very timid spirit and delicate constitution,
completely undermined Mrs. Elwyn's health, and
she survived the voyage but a few days.
Before her death she gave her daughter to her
sister, saying to her, “Let her be thine own, dear
Anne. She is but one year younger than thy Robert;
and, if it please God so to incline their hearts, let
them be united, that, as we have not been divided
in life, our children may not be. Keep her from
the world and its vanities, and train her for Heaven,
dear sister.”
Mrs. Lloyd loved her sister so devotedly, that
she would, at any time, have yielded her wishes to
Mrs. Elwyn's; but that was unnecessary, for in
this plan they perfectly coincided.
The children were educated together, and were
so much alike in their characters, that one seemed
the soft reflection of the other. The habits of
the family were secluded and simple; formed on
the model of the excellent leader of their sect,
his aim to follow, in all that he followed Christ.
Benevolence was his business, and he went to it
as regularly as a merchant goes to his compting-house.
He finally fell a victim to his zeal, in the
service of his fellow-creatures; or rather, to use
one of his last expressions which had in it the sweet
savour of piety and resignation, “He was taken
from his Father's work to his Father's rest.”
During one of those seasons when Philadelphia
suffered most from the ravages of the yellow fever,
Mr. Lloyd sent the young people to lodgings on
the banks of the Schuylkill, while he and his wife
remained in the city to administer relief to the
poor sufferers, who were chained by poverty to the
scene of this dreadful plague. Constant fatigue
and watchfulness impaired the strength of this excellent
pair. They both took the fever and died.
They were mourned by their children, as such parents
should be, with deep, but not complaining
grief.
Robert was but sixteen at the time of his father's
death. At the age of twenty-one he married
Rebecca Elwyn. As Robert led his bride out
of the meeting, where, with the consent and hearty
approbation of their Society, they had been
united, the elders said, they were as goodly a pair
as their eyes ever rested on; and their younger
friends observed, they were sure their love was as
“fervent, mutual, and dear,” as William Penn
himself could have desired. Three years glided
on in uninterrupted felicity. Excepting when
happiness was not darkened by a single shadow;
nor did it degenerate into selfish indulgence, but,
constantly enlarging its circle, embraced within its
compass all that could be benefited by their active
efforts and heavenly example. They lived
after the plain way of their sect; not indulging in
costly dress or furniture, but regulating all their
expenses by a just and careful economy, they seldom
were obliged to stint themselves in the indulgence
of their benevolent propensities.
Three years after their marriage Mrs. Lloyd
gave birth to a girl. This event filled up the measure
of their joy. A few weeks after its birth, as
Mr. Lloyd took the infant from its mother's bosom
and pressed it fondly to his own, he said,
“Rebecca, the promise is to us and our children;
the Lord grant that we may train His gift in His
nurture and admonition.”
“Thou mayest, dear Robert; God grant it,”
Rebecca mournfully replied; “but the way is
closed up to me. Do not shudder thus, but prepare
thy mind for the `will of the Lord.' I could
have wished to have lived, for thy sake, and my little
one; but I will not rebel, for I know all is
right.”
Mr. Lloyd hoped his wife was needlessly alarmed;
but he found from her physician, that immediately
after the birth of the child, some alarming
symptoms had appeared, which indicated a hectic.
Mrs. Lloyd had begged they might be concealed
from her husband, from the generous purpose of
The disease, however, had taken certain hold, and
that morning, after a conversation with her physician,
during which her courage had surprised
him, she had resolved to begin the difficult task of
fortifying her husband for the approaching calamity.
Spring came on, and its sweet influences penetrated
to the sick room of Rebecca. Her health
seemed amended, and her spirits refreshed; and
when Mr. Lloyd proposed that they should travel,
she cheerfully consented. But she cautioned her
husband not to be flattered by an apparent amendment,
for, said she, “though my wayward disease
may be coaxed into a little clemency, it will not
spare me.”
As she prophesied, her sufferings were mitigated,
but it was but too manifest that no permanent
amendment was to be expected. The disease
made very slow progress; one would have thought
it shrunk from marring so young and so fair a
work. Her spirit, too, enjoyed the freedom and
beauty of the country. As they passed up the
fertile shores of the Connecticut, Rebecca's benevolent
heart glowed with gratitude to the Father of
all, at the spectacle of so many of her fellow-creature's
enjoying the rich treasures of Providence;
cast into a state of society the happiest for their
moral improvement, where they had neither the
miseries of poverty, nor the temptations of riches.
She would raise her eyes to the clear Heaven,
would look on the “misty mountain's top,” and
were passing, and which were now teeming with
the summer's fluness, and would say, “Dear Robert,
is there any heart so cold, that it does not
melt in this vision of the power and the bounty of
the Lord of heaven and earth? Do not sorrow for
me, when I am going to a more perfect communion
with Him, for I shall see him as he is.”
From the Connecticut they passed by the romantic
road that leads through the plains of West
Springfield, Westfield, &c. There is no part
our country, abundant as it is in the charms
of nature, more lavishly adorned with romantic
scenery. The carriage slowly traced its
way on the side of a mountain, from which
the imprisoned road had with difficulty been
won;—a noisy stream dashed impetuously along
at their left, and as they ascended the mountain,
they still heard it before them leaping from rock
to rock, now almost losing itself in the deep pathway
it had made, and then rushing with increased
violence over its stony bed.
“This young stream,” said Mr. Lloyd, “reminds
one of the turbulence of headstrong childhood;
I can hardly believe it to be the same we
admired, so leisurely winding its peaceful way into
the bosom of the Connecticut.”
“Thou likest the sobriety of maturity,” replied
Rebecca, “but I confess that there is something
delightful to my imagination in the elastic bound
of this infant stream; it reminds me of the joy of
untamed spirits, and undiminished strength.”
The travellers' attention was withdrawn from
the wild scene before them to the appearance of
the heavens, by their coachman, who observed,
that “never in his days had he seen clouds make
so fast; it was not,” he said, “five minutes since
the first speck rose above the hill before them,
and now there was not enough blue sky for a man
to swear by:—but,” added he, looking with a
lengthening visage to what he thought an interminable
hill before them, “the lightning will be
saved the trouble of coming down to us, for if my
poor beasts ever get us to the top, we may reach
up and take it.”
Having reached the summit of the next acclivity,
they perceived by the road's side, a log hut; over
the door was a slab, with a rude and mysterious
painting, (which had been meant for a foaming
can and a plate of gingerbread,) explained under-neath
by “cake and beer for sale.” This did not
look very inviting, but it promised a better shelter
from the rain, for the invalid, than the carriage
could afford. Mr. Lloyd opened the door, and
lifted his wife over a rivulet, which actually ran
between the sill of the house and the floor-planks
that had not originally been long enough for the dimensions
of the apartment.
The mistress of the mansion, a fat middle-aged
woman, who sat with a baby in her arms at a round
table, at which there were four other children eating
from a pewter dish in the middle of the table,
rose, and having ejected the eldest boy from a
chair by a very unceremonious slap, offered it to
her meal. Her husband, a ruddy, good-natured,
hardy looking mountaineer, had had the misfortune,
by some accident in his childhood, to lose the use
of both his legs, which were now ingeniously folded
into the same chair on which he sat. He
turned to the coachman, who, having secured
his horses, had just entered, and smiling at his consternation,
said, “Why, friend, you look scare't,
pretty pokerish weather, to be sure, but then we
don't mind it up here;” then turning to the child
next him, who, in gazing at the strangers, had
dropped half the food she was conveying to her
mouth, he said,—“Desdemony, don't scatter the
'tatoes so.”—“But last week,” he continued, resuming
his address to the coachman, “there was
the most tedious spell of weather I have seen sen
the week before last thanksgiving, when my wife
and I went down into the lower part of Becket, to
hear Deacon Hollister's funeral sarmont—Don't
you remember, Tempy, that musical fellow that
was there?—`I don't see,' says he, `the use of
the minister preaching up so much about hell-fire,'
says he, `it is a very good doctrine,' says he, `to
preach down on Connecticut River, but,' says he,
`I should not think it would frighten any body in
such a cold place as Becket.' ”
A bright flash, that seemed to fire the heavens,
succeeded by a tremendous clap of thunder, which
made the hovel tremble, terrified all the groupe,
excepting the fearless speaker—
“A pretty smart flash to be sure; but, as I was
week.—Velorus, pull that hat out of the window,
so the gentleman can see.—There, sir,” said he,
“just look at that big maple tree, that was blown
down, if it had come one yard nearer my house,
it would have crushed it to atoms. Ah, this is a
nice place as you will find any where,” he continued,
(for he saw Mr. Lloyd was listening attentively
to him,) “to bring up boys; it makes them
hardy and spirited, to live here with the wind roaring
about them, and the thunder rattling right over
their heads: why they don't mind it any more
than my woman's spinning-wheel, which, to be
sure, makes a dumb noise sometimes.”
Our travellers were not a little amused with
the humour of this man, who had a natural philosophy
that a stoic might have envied. “Friend,”
said Mr. Lloyd, “you have a singular fancy about
names; what may be the name of that chubby
little girl who is playing with my wife's fan?”
“Yes, sir, I am a little notional about names;
that girl, sir, I call Octavy, and that lazy little dog
that stands by her, is Rodolphus.”
“And this baby,” said Mr. Lloyd, kindly giving
the astonished little fellow his watch-chain to play
with, “this must be Vespasian or Agricola.”
“No, sir, no; I met with a disappointment
about that boy's name—what you may call a slip
between the cup and the lip—when he was born,
the women asked me what I meant to call him?
I told them, I did not mean to be in any hurry;
for you must know, sir, the way I get my names,
over the mountain with tin-ware and brooms, and
books and pamphlets, and one notion and another;
that is, I don't buy out and out, but we make a
swap; they take some of my wooden dishes, and
let me have the vally in books; for you must know
I am a great reader, and mean all my children
shall have larning too, though it is pretty tough
scratching for it. Well, Sir, as I was saying about
this boy, I found a name just to hit my fancy, for
I can pretty generally suit myself; the name was
Sophronius; but just about that time, as the deuce
would have it, my wife's father died, and the gin'ral
had been a very gin'rous man to us, and so to
compliment the old gentleman, I concluded to call
him Solomon Wheeler.”
Mr. Lloyd smiled, and throwing a dollar into
the baby's lap, said, “There is something, my little
fellow, to make up for your loss.” The sight and
the gift of a silver dollar produced a considerable
sensation among the mountaineers. The children
gathered round the baby to examine the splendid
favour. The mother said, “The child was not
old enough to make its manners to the gentleman,
but he was as much beholden to him as if he could.”
The father only seemed insensible, and contented
himself with remarking, with his usual happy nonchalance,
that he “guessed it was easier getting
money down country, than it was up on the
hills.”
“Very true, my friend,” replied Mr. Lloyd,
“and I should like to know how you support your
farm.”
“No, Sir,” replied the man, laughing, “it
would puzzle me, with my legs, to take care of a
farm; but then I always say, that as long as a man
has his wits, he has something to work with. This
is a pretty cold sappy soil up here, but we make
out to raise all our sauce, and enough besides to
fat a couple of pigs on; then, Sir, as you see, my
woman and I keep a stock of cake and beer, and
tansy bitters—a nice trade for a cold stomach;
there is considerable travel on the road, and people
get considerable dry by the time they get up
here, and we find it a good business; and then I
turn wooden bowls and dishes, and go out peddling
once or twice ayear; and there is not an old wife,
or a young one either for the matter of that, but
I can coax them to buy a dish or two; I take my
pay in provisions or clothing; all the cash I get,
is by the beer and cake: and now, Sir, though I
say it, that may be should not say it, there is not a
more independent man in the town of Becket than
I am, though there is them that's more forehanded;
but I pay my minister's tax, and my school
tax, as reg'lar as any of them.”
Mr. Lloyd admired the ingenuity and contentment
of this man, his enjoyment of the privilege,
the “glorious privilege,” of every New-England
man, of “being independent.” But his pleasure
was somewhat abated by an appearance of a want
of neatness and order, which would have contributed
so much to the comfort of the family, and
He looked at the little stream of water we have
mentioned, and which the rain had already swollen
so much that it seemed to threaten an inundation
of the house; and observing, that neither the complexion
of the floor nor of the children seemed to
have been benefited by its proximity, he remarked
to the man, that he “should think a person of his ingenuity
would have contrived some mode of turning
the stream.”
“Why, yes, Sir,” said the man, “I suppose I
might, for I have got a book that treats upon hydrostatics
and them things; but I'm calculating to
build in the fall, and so I think we may as well
musquash along till then.”
“To build! Do explain to me how that is to
be done?”
“Why, Sir,” said he, taking a box from the
shelf behind him, which had a hole in the centre
of the top, through which the money was passed
in, but afforded no facility for withdrawing it, “my
woman and I agreed to save all the cash we could
get for two years, and I should not be afraid to
venture, there is thirty dollars there, Sir. The
neighbours in these parts are very kind to a poor
man; one will draw the timber, and another will
saw the boards, and they will all come to raising,
and bring their own spirits into the bargain. Oh,
Sir, it must be a poor shack that can't make a turn
to get a house over his head.”
Mr. Lloyd took ten dollars-from his pocket-book,
and slipping it into the gap, said, “There is
expended as to give to thy new dwelling such conveniences
as will enable thy wife to keep it neat.
It will help on the trade too; for depend upon it,
there is nothing makes a house look so inviting to
a traveller as a cleanly air.”
Our mountaineer's indifference was vanquished
by so valuable a donation. “You are the most
gin'rous man, Sir,” said he, “that ever journeyed
this way; and if I don't remember your advice,
you may say there is no such thing as gratitude
upon earth.”
By this time the rain had subsided, the clouds
were rolling over, the merry notes of the birds
sallying from their shelters, welcomed the returning
rays of the sun, and the deep unclouded azure in
the west promised a delightful afternoon.
The travellers took a kind leave of the grateful
cottagers, and as they drove away—“Tempy,”
said the husband, “if the days of miracles weren't
quite entirely gone by, I should think we had `entertained
angles unawares.' ”
“I think you might better say,” replied the good
woman, “that the angels have entertained us;
any how, that sick lady will be an angel before
long; she looks as good, and as beautiful, as one
now.”
It was on the evening of this day, that Mr. and
Mrs. Lloyd arrived at the inn in the village of
—, which, as we have before stated, was the
scene where her excellent and innocent life closed.
She expressed a desire, that she might not be
mind interrupted by any unnecessary agitation.
Whenever she felt herself a little better, she would
pass a part of the day in riding. Never did any
one, in the full flush of health, enjoy more than
she, from communion with her Heavenly Father,
through the visible creation. She read with
understanding the revelations of his goodness, in
the varied expressions of nature's beautiful face.
“Do you know,” said she to her husband,
“that I prefer the narrow vales of the Housatonick,
to the broader lands of the Connecticut? It certainly
matters little where our dust is laid, if it be
consecrated by Him who is the `resurrection and
the life;' but I derive a pleasure which I could
not have conceived of, from the expectation of
having my body repose in this still valley, under
the shadow of that beautiful hill.”
“I, too, prefer this scenery,” said Mr. Lloyd,
seeking to turn the conversation, for he could not
yet but contemplate with dread, what his courageous
wife spoke of with a tone of cheerfulness. “I
prefer it, because it has a more domestic aspect.
There is, too, a more perfect and intimate union
of the sublime and beautiful. These mountains
that surround us, and are so near to us on every
side, seem to me like natural barriers, by which
the Father has secured for His children the gardens
He has planted for them by the river's side.”
“Yes,” said Rebecca, “and methinks they enclose
a sanctuary, a temple, from which the brightness
of His presence is never withdrawn. Look,”
rose above the valley, and was a crown of beauty
to it; “look, how gracefully and modestly that
beautiful stream winds along under the broad shadows
of those trees and clustering vines, as if it
sought to hide the beauty that sparkles so brightly
whenever a beam of light touches it. Oh! my
Rebecca,” said she, turning fondly to her child,
“I could wish thy path led along these still waters,
far from the stormy waves of the rude world—
far from its `vanities and vexation of spirit.' ”
“If that is thy wish, my love,” said her husband,
looking earnestly at her, “it shall be a law
to me.”
Mrs. Lloyd's tranquillity had been swept away
for a moment, by the rush of thought that was produced
by casting her mind forward to the destiny
of her child; but it was only for a moment. Her's
was the trust of a mind long and thoroughly disciplined
by Christian principles. Her face resumed
its wonted repose, as she said, “Dear Robert, I
have no wish but to leave all to thy discretion, under
the guidance of the Lord.”
It cannot be deemed strange that Mr. Lloyd
should have felt a particular interest in scenes for
which his wife had expressed such a partiality.
He looked upon them with much the same feeling
that the sight of a person awakens who has been
loved by a departed friend. They seemed to have
a sympathy for him; and he lingered at—
without forming any plan for the future, till he
was roused from his inactivity by hearing the sale
the place with Rebecca, and they had together
admired its secluded and picturesque situation.
The house stood at a little distance from the road,
more than half hid by two patriarchal elms. Behind
the house, the grounds descended gradually
to the Housatonick, whose nourishing dews kept
them arrayed in beautiful verdure. On the opposite
side of the river, and from its very margin,
rose a precipitous mountain, with its rich garniture
of beach, maple, and linden; tree surmounting
tree, and the images of all sent back by the clear
mirror below; for the current there was so gentle,
that, in the days of fable, a poet might have
fancied the Genius of the stream had paused to
woo the Nymphs of the wood.
Mr. Lloyd had no family ties to Philadelphia.
He preferred a country life; not supinely to dream
away existence, but he hoped there to cultivate
and employ a “talent for doing good;” that talent
which a noble adventurer declared he most
valued, and which, though there is a field for its
exercise, wherever any members of the human family
are, he compassed sea and land to find new
worlds in which to expend it.
Mr. Lloyd purchased the place and furniture,
precisely as it had been left on the morning of the
sale by Jane and her friend Mary.
| CHAPTER III. A New-England tale, or, Sketches of New-England character and manners. | |