# A New England Tale/Chapter III

CHAPTER III.
Now Spring returns, but not to me returns 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, ​William Penn, who, Mr. Lloyd used to say, it was 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 counting-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 ​they were called to feel for others' woes, their 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 ​saving him, as long as possible, useless anxiety. 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 ​then on the rich meadows through which they were passing, and which were now teeming with the summer's fulness, 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 underneath 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 ​Mrs. Lloyd and resumed her seat; quietly finishing 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 ​saying, it is nothing to that storm we had last 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 Rodolfus."
"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, ​I buy a book of one of those pedlers that are going 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 ​family here. You do not appear to have any 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 a year; 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 ​which, being a Quaker, he deemed essential to it. 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 ​a small sum, my friend, and I wish it may be so 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 angels 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 ​removed; she wished not to have the peace of her 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," ​said she, as the carriage passed over a hill that 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 ​of Mr. Elton's property spoken of. He had passed 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.