SMALL | MEDIUM
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 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 consump-
tion. 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 car-
riage, and she had requested her husband to per-
mit 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 cir-
cumstances that had drawn and kept them toge-
ther.
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 severi-
ties 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,
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 ex-
cellent pair. They both took the fever and died.
They were mourned by their children, as such pa-
rents should be, with deep, but not complaining
grief.
Robert was but sixteen at the time of his fa-
ther's death. At the age of twenty-one he marri-
ed Rebecca Elwyn. As Robert led his bride out
of the meeting, where, with the consent and hear-
ty 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
Three years after their marriage Mrs. Lloyd
gave birth to a girl. This event filled up the mea-
sure of their joy. A few weeks after its birth, as
Mr. Lloyd took the infant from its mother's bo-
som 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 pre-
pare thy mind for the `will of the Lord.' I could
have wished to have lived, for thy sake, and my lit-
tle one; but I will not rebel, for I know all is
right."
Mr. Lloyd hoped his wife was needlessly alarm-
ed; but he found from her physician, that imme-
diately 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
Spring came on, and its sweet influences pene-
trated 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 amend-
ment, 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 mitigat-
ed, 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 bene-
volent heart glowed with gratitude to the Father of
all, at the spectacle of so many of her fellow-crea-
ture'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
From the Connecticut they passed by the ro-
mantic 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 roman-
tic 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 path-
way it had made, and then rushing with increased
violence over its stony bed.
"This young stream," said Mr. Lloyd, " re-
minds one of the turbulence of headstrong child-
hood; 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 intermi-
nable 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 di-
mensions 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 eat-
ing 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
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
Our travellers were not a little amused with
the humour of this man, who had a natural philoso-
phy 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,
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 non-
chalance, 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
"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 peo-
ple 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 forehand-
ed; but I pay my minister's tax, and my school
tax, as reg'lar as any of them."
Mr. Lloyd admired the ingenuity and content-
ment 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 contri-
buted so much to the comfort of the family, and
"Why, yes, Sir," said the man, "I suppose I
might, for I have got a book that treats upon hy-
drostatics 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
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 ` en-
tertained 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 clos-
ed. She expressed a desire, that she might not be
"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 cer-
tainly 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 courage-
ous 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 en-
close a sanctuary, a temple, from which the bright-
ness of His presence is never withdrawn. Look,"
"If that is thy wish, my love," said her hus-
band, 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 pro-
duced 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 disci-
plined 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, un-
der 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
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 ta-
lent which a noble adventurer declared he most
valued, and which, though there is a field for its
exercise, wherever any members of the human fa-
mily 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.