University of Virginia Library

17. CHAPTER XVII.

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 professiom 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, and cultivate a deep acquaintance
with her heart; as Cosmo de Medici, in his last sickness,
closed his 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 Pharmacopoeia 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 sun-shine,
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:—

“She is dead. Wherefore should I mourn? Can I
bring her back again? I shall go to her, but she shall not
return to me.”

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.”