 | A
LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. Myrtis |  |
A
LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA.
Ever full, yet ever shifting,
Blinded with the smoke of strife,
We, like battle-ships, are drifting;
While the startling thunders boom,
And wreck'd barques go down forever,
In the far horizon loom
Hopes that urge to new endeavors.”
Longfellow.
“Please, tell me a tale of the olden time,” said
a fair-haired girl, seating herself at her mother's feet,
and playfully seizing the knitting-needles so as to
suspend their operations.
Perceiving how fond was the glance that rested
upon her, she added, “Dear mother, you seldom mention
brother Edmund. I do so wish to hear more
about him. Pray speak of him now, in this sweet,
summer twilight, an hour so fit for all tender and
holy thought.”
“Do you not remember your brother, Malvina?
you were five years old when he was taken from us.”
“I remember him, mother, as we recall a vision,
beautiful and indistinct. Albert and myself used to
play all day long among the wild flowers, forcing
the smooth brook to fall noisily over the pebbles that
we placed in its channel. When he came to us,
there was a smile on his brow, like what we supposed
might be the smile of an angel; but he never
laughed with us. He drew us to his knee, and told
us that God was in every flower, and in the voice of
the tuneful brooks, and that he painted the wing of
the butterfly. We loved to hear his sweet tones, so
like a flute, but we wished that he would laugh as
awe mingled with our love. We almost feared him,
for his unlikeness to ourselves. But when it thundered,
and I quaked with dread, I drew closer to
him, and took hold of the skirts of his coat, for I believed
that no evil could touch one so good, and that
through his virtues I should be saved.
“Once I loved him better than ever. It was when
he took me under those tall elms, in a clear and quiet
evening, and pointed out the stars. He told me some
of their names, and that they were full of inhabitants,
over whom God ruled in his goodness. Then I
clasped his neck close, and wept violently, through
my very love and apprehension that he would die,
and go to those bright orbs, and I, for my faults, be
left behind, and never be found worthy to meet him
there. And I well remember a strange agony at being
told he was dead, and weeping at his funeral till
there were no more tears.”
The mother paused, as if to gather strength for a
narrative of pain.
“It is proper, my daughter, that our domestic history
should be fully known to you. Upon some of
its events I have forborne to dwell, lest they might
sadden your young heart. Perhaps I have been too
reluctant to open the sources of grief; I have kept
them sacred to Him who can alone heal the heart's
troubled fountains. Those bitter waters have so long
subsided, that I may yet pour from their once turbid
dregs a pure draught into your crystal cup.
“You know, dearest, that the birth-place of your
parents was in New England. Ten years have not
yet elapsed since our removal to Pennsylvania.
Then, with two hundred emigrants from Connecticut,
we became inhabitants of this fair Vale of Wyoming.
Never shall I forget its beauty as we first approached
it. Weary with the toils of our journey,
it burst upon our eyes from the brow of yonder
mountain, as the promised land stood forth in its robe
of brightness to greet the tribes long wandering in
the desert. Early spring had just tinted the green
hills, and the slumbering dells lay in silent beauty.
The Susquehanna rolled on in pride, as if claiming
admiration for its glorious domain. The young trees,
and the sweet birds, and the incense of early flowers
welcomed us to our goodly land. We blessed God
that we were not dommed, like the prophet from
Nebo, only to behold it with our eyes, but not to pass
over and take possession.
“You, Malvina, had numbered your fifth birth-day,
and your brother Albert was seven years old. At
the first view from the mountain-top, you both clapped
your hands, and shouted with a pleasure whose
rich elements you could not fully comprehend. There
was a gentle being near us who gazed deeply on the
scene of enchantment, but spoke not—your sister
Ellen. She pressed close and closer to my side, her
breathing became a quick sob, and tears of rapture
coursed down her cheeks. The sentiment of beauty
lay deep in her soul, and this Eden landscape thrilled
winters only had passed over her, but her mind partook
of the maturity of womanhood. She drooped
when we first left the banks of our own Connecticut.
Her affections were strongly clasped around her
young schoolmates, and the pleasant halls where she
had gathered knowledge in their company. In untwining
them, some of the tendrils were broken; but
we thought they would soon embrace other props.
We understood not that our frail flower could not
bear to be transplanted, that it was to bloom only in
heaven. We were deceived by the brightness daily
glowing upon her cheek; we could not believe that
it was the flattering hectic planting there its funeral
rose.”
“Mother, mother, were there no physicians in the
valley for my sweet sister?”
“They, like us, were lulled into false security.
One of them did, indeed, say that it was the `emigrant's
consumption that she pined with, a consumption
of the heart.' But she uttered no complaint;
she seemed to have no pain. She sighed continually
for her school—for her dear companions—for her
first home—for the Church of God. Her father constructed
for her a rude arbor, where the vines clustered
and made a thick shade. There she loved to
retire on a summer's day with her books, and around
it she planted the flower-seeds that she brought from
her own little garden. Especially she delighted there
to spend her Sabbath hours, and I could see that she
One cloudless Sunday morning she, as usual, resorted
thither. At parting, I recollected she threw back
her bright golden hair, and smiling, said, `Mother,
I am going to my home, to Connecticut,' for so
she called that favorite recess. But to her little brother,
whom she met and kissed, her words were more
ominous: `Albert, be a good boy; our dear Savior
says I may come home to-day.' I observed that she
walked slowly, but I was not aware of her increasing
weakness. Soon after I heard her sing sweetly
and clearly the hymn that she best loved. It was in
my heart to go and sing with her, but household occupations
hindered me. When I afterward went,
she was reclining against a turf bank, as if in slumber.
On the page of her open book lay a few violets.
I called, `Ellen, love;' she made no reply: I touched
her slightly-clasped hands; they were as marble. She
had found her home, and there was no returning.”
“Dear, blessed sister! when I have visited her
grave, I have ever wished that some memorial might
mark the spot. Let us raise there a simple stone,
with the inscription, `He calleth me home;' or that
line from your favorite poet, `Her spirit was exhaled
and went to Heaven.”'
“Still gird your heart, my dearest; other woes
remain to be told. As I thus point them out to you,
I seem once more to move among them, and to bear
their impress. You know that this Valley of Wyoming
has been emphatically debatable ground. The
by their respective state governments, maintained
opposing claims. Contention soon took the form
of border warfare. Your father bore a conspicuous
part in those times of danger. He was one of those
forty dauntless men from Connecticut who entered
this valley in the winter of 1769, and made preparations
for the present colony. With them, his family
removed the succeeding spring. Those settlers were
known by the name of the Susquehanna Company,
and came under the auspices of a council convened
at Hartford, and of the excellent Governor Trumbull,
who surely would have sanctioned nothing illegal
or unjust. But the permanent establishment which
we contemplated, was doomed to lay its earliest foundation
in blood. My anxiety for the safety of your
father it is impossible to describe. The activity and
fearlessness of his character made him indifferent to
peril, and obnoxious to his foes. Civil dissensions
are ever more relentless and tenacious than foreign
war, as diseases of the heart are more obstinate and
difficult of medication than those of the extremities.”
“The history of those days of discord is but too
familiar to me, dear mother. Will it please you,
rather, to tell me of my brother Edmund?”
“He was my first-born and my idol. The loss of
an infant son, three years younger than himself, bound
him still more closely to my heart. I made him my
constant companion, and early and continually infused
into him that knowledge which softens and beautifies
and overpowering to be counteracted, and we
left him in the collegiate institution of his native State.
His first visit was in the long autumn vacation, and
he moved among us like a spirit of light and peace.
He found me too deeply nursing the seeds of grief,
and ever, when we were alone, he spoke to me with
such a benignant smile of his beautiful sister and her
happy home, that I was comforted. He said that
Christians erred who invested death with gloom;
that they were thus untrue to their faith, which was
able to disrobe it of terror, and to their Savior, who
had vanquished it for them. He said, would they
but lay, without repining, their friends in the grave,
and go thither peacefully themselves, as to a pillow
of repose, worldlings might thus be won to seek that
strength which the world is unable to give. He
wondered how we could ungratefully withhold from
Him, who for our sakes was `contented to be crucified,'
a suffrage which, more than all others, would
establish, in the opinions of men, the excellence of
His Gospel. And when he thus reasoned, in a low,
flute-like tone, and smiled on me as a seraph, who
had felt no stain of earth, I blessed God for the piety
which, in his soul, had so grown and flourished,
that mine, as a dwarf plant, gladly drank the dewy
superflux that was shaken from its branches. His
morning and nightly supplication was, that peace
might again dwell in our valley, and his father no
longer be a man of war. There came an interval of
for earth.
“One evening I sat where we now sit, waiting the
return of my adored one from his accustomed walk.
I was finishing for him the same kind of stocking
which I am now knitting for Albert, and which you
just now beguiled from my hand, that I might spread
out to you this `scroll of mourning and wo.' I thought
with exultation of him for whose comfort my hands
were employed. His bright picture, expanded by
maternal love, seemed to enwrap and fold over my
whole soul.
“Suddenly, upon our grounds, was the report of
fire-arms. I hastened to the brow of the hillock.
There he lay, stretched at its base. His eyes were
fixed. The last convulsion had passed. Blood
poured from his mouth and breast, and covered the
book on which, but a moment before, he had meditated—a
silent student; how soon to be made a seraphic
one! I was spared the sight of the death-struggle;
but a horrible distortion of features marked this
violent rupture of flesh from spirit.
“The assassin had fled. The deed could never be
traced to its actor. I knew that the doings of war
were fiend-like, but had never imagined a crime like
this.
“Your father bore to this very bed the lifeless remains
of what had been his trust and glory, perhaps
even more than God. A strife of phrensied anger
first shook him, and then that fearful anguish which
forever. Woman can scarcely fathom a grief like
that. The willow may bow, and become prostrate
as a wreck before the blast, yet be raised up again.
It may live for years with a pierced heart, and even
put forth green branches; but what can it know of
the desolation of the scathed oak, lifting up naught
but a blackened beacon to the traveler, till it moulders
into dust?
“From the stupor that succeeded this paroxysm it
was impossible to arouse him. The powerful mind
which had ruled others, became incapable to rule itself.
Thenceforth, he walked as the dead among the
living. Reason dissolved fellowship with memory,
and thought with speech. He scarcely uttered a word
during the dreadful years that were appointed him,
save the name of his murdered first-born.”
“Mother, I remember him well, and always with
fear, for my playmates told me he was a madman, and
that madmen devoured children. His large black
eyes often fastened strangely upon me, and I sought
to hide myself from him. But you bade me carry him
food, and gather flowers for him, and call him dear
father, and it seemed to soothe him. Sometimes I
hoped he would speak to me; but then I heard him
repeating to himself, hoarsely and horribly, `Edmund's
blood—yes, Edmund's blood!' and that low
tone, blood, blood! haunted me both when I lay down
and when I rose up. I heard it in the sullen winds
that betoken storms, and when I stopped my ears it
became weak as a child, and you used to lead him
out into the sunbeam, or under the sweet shade of the
flowering trees, the voice was tender and plaintive
with which he so often moaned, `Edmund, dear Edmund!”'
Tears gushed from the mother's eyes, as, embracing
her daughter, she said, “It was this affliction that
humbled me. My other sorrows wounded and
shocked, without subduing my spirit. I strove to
bow to the All-wise, but I wondered why I, more than
others, should be thus bereaved. I believed myself
to be a Christian, yet I thought to nourish my sorrow,
like the anger of the prophet for his gourd, even unto
death. But the humiliation of the mind, in whose
strength I had garnered up my own, taught me true
submission. The tear with which I first acknowledged
that it was good for me to have been afflicted,
marked an era in my soul's history never to be forgotten.
Years of reflection have since confirmed the
precept, that `whatever God wills, we may be sure
is best for us; we can not be sure of what we will for
ourselves.”'
“Ah! was it thus you gained that meek expression
of countenance which I so love? and which,
more plainly than words, says, `Thy will be done.'
I have sometimes watched you in your slumbers,
and even then, those placid features are a comment
on our Redeemer's petition, `Not my will, but
Thine.”'
“Malvina, where can your brother Albert be?
He is not wont thus to linger at the village.”
The time occupied in sad narration had, indeed,
fled unconsciously away. The rising moon, silvering
the tree-tops, gave silent witness of the midnight hour.
They waited still longer in anxiety, and then reluctantly
retired to rest.
But the mother slept not. She ruminated painfully
on her absent son. He was ardent in his temperament.
She feared that he might have been beguiled
by unstable companions; and the prayer that only
widowed mothers breathe for an endangered child,
rose up, earnest and tremulous, that he might be
kept from temptation and delivered from evil.
Malvina, in her sleep, was beautiful. Her high,
polished forehead was partially veiled by curls of soft
brown hair, and under the slightly flushed cheek lay
a delicate hand, as in the helpless innocence of childhood.
As the maternal eye gazed on her with delight,
her repose became disturbed and broken. The
ruby lips quivered, and tears oozed forth from under
her long lashes. Such hold had grief on her spirit
even in dreams.
Morning had not far advanced when a female was
seen approaching. She was recognized as one of the
inhabitants of the village, whose time was principally
devoted to the transmission of news. More distinguished
for volubility than benevolence, it was observed
that her activity in imparting the intelligence
which she collected, bore proportion to its bitter
was eminently accelerated. Her feet, if they made
not haste to do evil, were at least swift to convey
it. To the question respecting the absent one,
the reply of Miss Polly Pierce was rapidly rendered.
“Your Albert? Why, where should he be, but
with the sogers that marched out of Wilkesbarre
before the dawn of day to `Forty Fort' to fight the
British and Indians. Have you not heard how they
have come down from Niagara, more than a thousand
strong, and took Wintermoot Fort just as easy as
you'd smash an egg-shell? I believe you never
would hear the leastest news in the world, if I did
not take the pains to find your queer out-of-the-way
place, and tell you.”
Observing the mute expression of anguish with
which the mother clasped her hands and raised her
eyes to heaven, she exclaimed,
“Why, the land's sake! Miss Dorrance, your children
are no better flesh and blood than other folks, I
suppose. I am sure Albert, being sixteen, is fully
able-bodied enough to do military duty. You did
not live in our valley when Ogden's block-house was
besieged and taken. The firing, and all the doings
there, was as grand as any we read about in history
books; and I dare say it will be grander to-day,
for at the head of the Wyoming people are Colonel
Butler, and Colonel Denison, both as bold as
lions.”
“Do you know any thing of the plan of the expedition?”
inquired the mother, faintly.
“Don't be so afeard, Miss Dorrance. I guess
Colonel Zebulon Butler knows what he is about.
There is no wiser nor better man than he. But the
expedition, as you call it, was got up something in a
hurry, I do expect. It was not worth while to wait to
mince matters, when Brandt, the fierce chief who tomahawks
every body, had floated down the Susquehanna
with a power of painted Indians. What way
was there but to go out and meet them, and kill them,
before they could get a chance to kill us? Why, I
am something of a soger myself. I remember as far
back as the old '63 war with the Yankees. I was
right glad when they were driven off, and their women,
so mighty delicate, who held their heads up so
much higher than the Pennsylvany people, had to
wade through swamps, and travel sixty miles through
an awful wilderness. I never liked them Connecticut
settlers; they felt so wonderful grand with their
larning, and made such a fuss about teaching the
children to read and write. But I beg pardon, I forgot
that you belonged to that class of bodies yourself.
“Well, I hope your boy will get back again safe
and sound. Why, you are turning as white as a
sheet! Now what's the use of making yourself sick,
Miss Dorrance? Here, Malvey! Malvine! what's
your name? run for some water, and throw it in your
mother's face. I must get away, farther up into
sons have gone to the battle, and who, I suppose,
knows no more about the news than you did, till I
took the pains to come and tell you.”
Hereupon Miss Polly Pierce prepared to take her
departure; yet, pausing on the threshold, added a
few words:
“You know to-morrow is the 4th of July, the second
anniversary of what they call their Declaration
of Independence. I always thought it was a wicked
thing. I do not believe it will come to any good.
Who can say but the coming of these British and Indians
is a judgment upon that very account? I approve
of wars, to be sure, but then the fighting ought
to be between equals, and not against them that the
Lord has anointed and set over us. Brandt would
be a terrible scourge to us if they should get the victory.
He knows every cross-path and lurking-hole
in the land. He calls himself the son of Sir William
Johnson, notwithstanding he is an Indian. They say
he has a great cave just on the edge of Canada line,
hung thick round with scalps, all fresh and green,
that he peeled off with his own hands from the heads
of young men and women.”
The lonely mother and daughter strove to comfort
each other, and to stay their minds upon God. It
was not appointed that they should long endure the
agony of suspense. That day, the massacre and conflagration
of Wyoming darkened the annals of our
land. The flight of the villagers from their burning
their toilsome way through pathless deserts and
morasses to the distant Delaware, are on the page of
history. Many sick and feeble ones perished. The
wilderness of their disastrous pilgrimage received,
and still retains, the appropriate appellation of the
“Shades of Death.” The timid Malvina clung to
her mother, and alternately lending and receiving
support, they at length reached a refuge among pitying
friends.
The tide of war continued to sweep with fierce
fluctuations through the Valley of Wyoming. In its
protracted struggles, it approximated to that state of
society where the “right of the strongest reigns, and
the idea of justice, if it comes at all, comes only to
be trodden under foot by passion.” The Connecticut
colonists evinced their national courage and tenacity
in defence of their homes, and what they
deemed their legal possessions. The Pennsylvanians
were equally inflexible in what they considered
their antecedent rights. The Aborigines contended
for their favorite dominion with a lion-like despair.
Each party, alternately dispossessed or triumphant,
kept in exercise those energies to which war supplies
so abundant an aliment. Every spot of that rich vale
required and brought its full price in blood. While
Nature there lavished her sweetest charms, man
darkly contrasted them with his own demoniac passions.
At length an interval of peace came, like soft blue
of General Sullivan, deputed in 1779 to proceed to
that devoted spot, awed the Indians, and restored
a period of tranquillity. The fugitive colonists began
to return and rebuild the ruins of Wilkesbarre.
But other years elapsed ere the widowed
mother and daughter, with whose fortunes our tale
began, were induced to re-inhabit their long-deserted
abode.
From its retired situation, it had eluded the eye of
the victors in the massacre, and thus escaped conflagration.
It was not till the midsummer of 1782 that
its little casements were observed to be raised, and
the white curtains that formerly shaded them, again
fluttering in the breeze.
But within its walls there was a change. A lady,
on whom disease and sorrow seemed to have done
prematurely and pitiably the work of age, sat in the
arm-chair where of old she had reclined. Around
her mouth was that unvaried, perpetual smile of fatuity,
which more than any frown of anger, harrows
the heart of love. She seldom raised her eyes, or
replied directly to any question. There she sat,
bowed over in partial unconsciousness, ever knitting,
knitting. The invincible industry and the causeless
smile were alike sad to the beholder.
At her side, ministering to her every want, was a
gentle being, whose exceeding beauty, early taking
the cast of pensive thought, was rendered more touching,
more sublimated. She hoped, in the warmth of
scenes might open some of those cells where the
mind was bound as in a prison-house. But the uncomplaining
invalid, whom severe sickness had deprived
of energy, drew no prompting from the most
powerful associations.
“Dear mother, here are some of the flowers you
were so fond of cultivating. They are in the very
same spot where they were wont to grow. Please
to see how fragrant they are.”
“Yes, yes, Edmund likes them. Save them for
Edmund.”
“Will you lean on my arm and take a walk in our
little garden? It is green and beautiful.”
“I'll wait for Albert. He will come soon. Your
arm is not strong enough. You are but a baby, Malvina.”
There was still a lingering, though feeble hope,
that the conversation of friends might touch some
chord of the slumbering intellect. But the broken-minded
one, welcomed each visitor with the same
kind phrase, greeted them with the same unmeaning
smile, and at their departure begged them to wait a
little, till her two sons returned.
It was therefore with less of shuddering than could
have rationally been expected, that Malvina saw
Miss Polly Pierce enter their abode. Who knows,
thought she, but a rough hand may best prevail to
loose the seals of that gentle sufferer's soul?
“Good morning—good morning, neighbor Dorrance;
you look! You love to see kind old friends, no
doubt. But how mighty thin and crooked you're
growin', and shrunk up short, like a little child.”
“Have you seen my son Albert?”
“Albert! Your son! The Lord bless you, my
good woman! Why, nobody could be sure of his
corpse after the battle, it was so dreadfully hacked
and hewed. But one of our old neighbors picked
up a dead hand, and he said it was shaped so exactly
like yours, Miss Dorrance, that he felt sure it must
have belonged to your child. And only think, it
was clutching a gun, notwithstanding it was cut off.”
Malvina convulsively caught hold of the speaker,
as one who anticipates a painful operation sometimes
grasps the arm of the surgeon.
“Why, what is the matter with you, Malvina? Belike,
they might have been mistaken in saying that
dead hand was Albert's. There was another story
about his being one of them who was killed at
Bloody Rock. The old squaw sachem had her son
shot by some of the white people, a year or two before.
So, after the battle, she was promised twenty
prisoners to pay the debt with, and she had her pick
and choice out of the finest-looking men of Wyoming.
The savage creature took the youngest and
handsomest she could find, and put them to death
with the most awfullest tortures. She made all the
blood in their bodies run out upon Bloody Rock, and
its dark, iron-colored stains are plain to be seen
there. Considering how spunky he was, I
don't think he outlived the battle.
“Well, it was hard for you to lose one that you
sot so much by, I dare say. But your loss is nothing
to be compared to old Miss Whittlesey's. You
surely can't feel so bad as she. Her two sons were
full out as good-looking as Albert, and older too.
On the massaker-day, as they call it, the youngest
one, Will Whittlesey that was—he with the great
blue eyes, and fair, curly hair—seeing that the battle
was likely to go hard with us, threw himself into the
water, and swum like a duck to Monockenoch Island.
But close behind, pursuing him, was a white
man and an Indian, ready to kill him as soon as they
were able to seize him. When poor Will reached
the island, his breath was e'enajust gone, and he had
scarce strength to hide among the bushes. The men
passed by again and again, searching for him. Then
he knew by the voice that the white man was his
brother Tom, who had joined the British, and his
heart beat freer, for he felt secure. He did not know
that a Tory brother was worse than an Indian foe.
So Tom found Will, and dragged him from his hiding-place.
The poor young man, alarmed at his
threatening and fiery face, knelt down, and cried, `Oh!
brother, save me! save me!' `There is no brotherhood
between us,' said the proud Tory. Then poor
William reminded him how they had played together,
and loved each other from their infant years; and
him without wages, if he would only spare his life.
Seeing that his brother looked still furiously at him,
he clasped about his knees, and begged for his life
for their mother's sake. But just as he was crying
`for our poor mother's sake,' the cruel dragon shot
him through the breast, and his blood gushed out
over his brother's feet as he fell dead upon them.
A black boy, who had hidden in a thicket near by,
and was not discovered, told the story, and directed
poor Willy's friends where to find his body. There
it lay, with its gaping, deadly wound, while Cain, as
I call him, Cain Whittlesey, fled away, and made his
home with the British in Canada.”
Perceiving how fast Malvina's tears flowed, the
narrator exclaimed,
“Now don't take on so. What I say is for your
good, that is, for your mother's benefit. I think it is fitting
she be made to comprehend that her two sons are
dead, seeing she professes to be a Christian woman.”
Then, advancing her chair, and raising her tone as
if to one hopelessly deaf, she vociferated,
“Good woman! can't you remember about Tedeuscund,
the great six-foot Indian, that had his
throat cut and his wigwam burned by the Tuscaroras
in '58, because he favored the whites?”
“Edmund remembers.”
“Edmund don't! for I take it he was not born;
at any rate, you had not moved to Wyoming. Why,
young woman, your mother will get to be a perfect
from the dead. Who are you so busy a knitting
stockings for, ma'am?”
“For my two sons. Malvina must have a pair
when they are provided for. Poor baby! she must
not be forgot when the boys' are ready.”
“If that don't beat all natur'! Knitting stockings
for men that are dead and gone, and can have no use
for them! It is truly awful! Look here, Miss Dorrance!
can't you be made to understand that Albert
was cut as fine as mince-meat by the British, and
that Edmund was shot through the heart by nobody
knows who?”
Malvina was sensibly relieved when the entrance
of other visitants put a stop to this harrowing narration,
though her mother had listened to it with that
fixed, inexpressive smile of the features in which the
soul has no part. Gradually and gently there was a
failing of strength, and a visible tending downward
to the tomb.
One night she was more than usually restless and
troubled. Toward the morning watch she called out
suddenly, though faintly,
“Daughter, daughter! my two sons have come for
me. Lay aside my work, and help me to get ready,
that I may go with them.”
And then, as if death for a moment lifted up the
crushed organs of thought, and poured a flood of light
into all the curtained recesses where the mind had
languished, she exclaimed, in ecstasy,
“Oh! the depth of the riches, both of the wisdom
and goodness of God! How unsearchable are his
judgments, and his ways past finding out! One more
kiss, dear Malvina. Angels wait for me. The Savior
will be thy comforter, and thou shalt come to us.
Beloved, it is but a little while—”
Her embrace relaxed, but the white lips still murmured,
“Yet a little while, and thou shalt come—”
A deep sigh wrought itself into the sound “beloved.”
It was the last, and the clay rested in peace.
Dawn came on with a chill shudder, like the grief
that paralyzed the daughter's heart. Sole mourner
as she stood by the side of the dead, she was not able
at once to receive the full sense of her afflictions.
Almost, it would seem as if the young spirit had taken
flight with the mother it had so long watched, so
pallid was the countenance, so immovable the eye.
But from the stupor of grief she was roused by the
pressure of duties that devolved upon her.
After the funeral obsequies, while the sympathy of
friends was earnest in proposing a change of residence
and proffering the requisite protection, it was
perceived that her plans were already formed. During
her exile from Wyoming she had become acquainted
with the sect of Moravians, and their simple
and soothing spirit of piety had conciliated her confidence
and regard. It had become her deliberate
decision to take refuge among them, when Heaven
should complete the bereavement for which it had
had visited their settlement of converted Indians at
Wyalusing, and witnessed the simple and solemn
worship in their chapel, and saw with delight how
the tenets of Zinzendorff might soften and elevate
even the rude red men of the forest.
After disposing of the small estate left in her possession,
she retired to Nazareth, a beautiful Moravian
village in Pennsylvania, and became a resident in the
house of the single sisters. The kiss of welcome
from that vestal train soothed her spirit to peace, as
the dove folded her ruffled pinions at the casement
of the ark, from a world of troubled waters.
The consistent, contemplative piety which breathed
its serene atmosphere around, soothed her affliction.
Unencumbered by any vow of celibacy, which,
in the institutions of the United Brethren, is neither
proposed nor permitted to be taken, she found the
spot which she had chosen, most congenial to her
brotherless and sisterless heart. The culture of
flowers was a favorite solace, and those which her
mother had peculiarly loved she taught to blossom,
or to curtain her window with their fair leaves and
clasping tendrils.
The education of children gave early prominence
to the Moravian establishments of Bethlehem and
Nazareth. One, by its system of instruction for girls,
and the other for boys, acquired deserved celebrity.
From different and distant parts of these states, then
newly united after the War of Revolution, parents
They felt it wisdom to intrust their nurture to those
who made religion, “without controversy,” the root of
all their teachings; appealed to it in sorrow as their
consolation; derived from it the rudiments of a self-denying
benevolence; mingled it, as a heightening
principle, with every joy; and wore its semblance
on their brow in the smile that childhood loves.
Nazareth, by its seclusion from temptation and evil
example, revealed peculiar facilities for a nursery
of the young mind. It has been mentioned that it
was distinguished by its excellent school for boys.
The female children of the village, and a few others,
were also favored in being placed under the immediate
charge of the single sisters. In this employment
Malvina found delightful scope for her active virtues
and her ever-growing benevolence. To the lonely
and chastened spirit, no vocation is more salutary
than that of instructing the young. Association with
the unbowed and healthful heart, imparts elasticity to
that which has painfully realized either the world's
emptiness or its own infirmity. To feel the consciousness
of doing good, to unfold the page of knowledge
to the enraptured mind, to gather those grateful affections
whose root is in that rapture, are unspeakable
privileges.
Malvina, by the gracefulness of true goodness,
taught her pupils the happiness that it inspires. She
walked before them as a good angel, willing a while
to leave heaven's bright heritage for their sakes. The
the holy smile that she wore, and the trusting prayer
that she taught them to breathe, both in sorrow and
in joy.
Thus years passed over her, leaving her still beautiful.
Time seemed to cast on her neither “spot nor
wrinkle, nor any such thing.” His commission respecting
her was to modify, not to extinguish or to
take away; for he has nothing to do with that beauty
which rests not on “a set of features or complexion,”
but on the tincture of the soul. In the trials and
causes of irritation which sometimes befell her (for
what earthly lot excludes them?), the subdued expression
of her calm countenance seemed to be, “I
am silent; I offer myself in sacrifice;” while the brightness
ever beaming from her eye, replied, as if in rebuke,
“No, not sacrifice, glad incense—a hymn of
praise.” Gathering around her the little group that
she so loved to guide, she sometimes said,
“My office reminds me of a dream that I once had
in my childhood. Methought I was feeding a white
lamb from a cup of milk. While it took the food, it
looked lovingly up to me as to its mother. Then a
voice, as of the harp, spake from the high clouds,
`Bring the lamb unto me;' and I said, `I will, Lord,'
for I thought it was the voice of the Lamb that was
slain for us.
“I awoke, and gave that sweet dream to Memory,
that she might keep it among her honey blossoms.
Now, when she brings it freshly back, it seems that
lamb. Then I pour out for you the `pure milk of
the Word,' and the spirit of my vision forms itself
into a prayer; and to the charge of my Savior, `Bring
them every one to me,' I answer, perhaps too fondly,
`I will, Lord.' Help me, blessed ones, that my
promise be not in vain.”
It was once, near the close of a long and cloudless
summer Sabbath, that the sun, drawing toward his
rest, cast upon the peaceful roofs and quiet shades of
Nazareth a flood of unwonted brilliance. A train
was seen slowly pursuing a path over the brow of a
verdant hill in the center of the village. Passing
without a glance the beautiful public garden, with
its deep recesses and glowing plants, and arbors, and
fountains, they approached the cemetery, whose gate
was near that of this ornamented domain, as if to
teach the reflecting mind that the exit and entrance of
life are scarcely divided, and that man every where,
as well as in ancient Judea, may find in his “garden
a sepulcher.”
They paused at the gate of the City of the Dead.
Music from wind-instruments, mingling with deeptoned
voices, swelled out on the soft breeze touching
the fountain of tender tears. At first it was
plaintive, as if bidding farewell to beloved scenes in
the name of the sleeper upon the bier. Then, thrilling
more wildly, it seemed to implore of the genius
of that hallowed spot room for a new habitant, a narrow
chamber where he might be troubled no more.
They entered the place of tombs. Neither weed,
nor bramble, nor shadow of gloom defaced it. Over
every grave flowers and aromatic shrubs clustered,
and were so thickly interwoven, that the horizontal
stone, bearing the name of the tenant below, was
partially hidden from view.
At an open grave the procession stayed. The solemn
service in the deep German intonations, from the
lips of the venerable pastor, drew deeper power from
the surrounding scenery. But when the expectant
tomb was about to take its treasure, there was such
a burst of melody, of Him who “conquered death,
and brought life and immortality to light through the
Gospel,” that the consignment of earth to earth was
not in tears, but in joyous hope.
Surely Music should consecrate the tomb when it
takes the Christian to its bosom. She hath a right to
stand wherever Faith plants an anchor. She announced
to the shepherds the coming of Him who is
our salvation; let her lift up her voice when the soul
returneth to His arms. It is fitting that the shrouded
form, which at the last day shall come forth in
glory, should go to its turf-pillow with a sacred song.
What right have despair and weeping to watch over
the body, while the spirit, rejoicing in its “exceeding
great reward,” tastes a bliss beyond earth's imagining?
The requiem ceased. Little children robed in
white pressed to the very verge of the grave. They
looked steadily into it, with calm, untroubled faces.
might be deprived of fear.
A group of beautiful girls stood near. They were
of that age when the blossom bursts the green envelop
of childhood, taking the first perfect rose-tint of
youth. Their heads declined toward each other, like
the bells of the lily of the vale, drooping and surcharged
with rain. They were long silent. Then
a low, tuneful tone breathed out,
“We will not sorrow as without hope. She was
an angel in our path. Will she not still be our
guardian spirit, watchful, though unseen?” Other
voices, tremulous and sweet, replied,
“It would best please her not to be remembered
by tears, but by the life of goodness she taught us.”
Of whom did they speak? Of Malvina, the beloved
and sainted one, who, by the meekly-endured
sorrows of earth, had been fitted for an abode in
heaven.
| A
LEGEND OF PENNSYLVANIA. Myrtis | |