Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland. Abigail Stanley Hanna
was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her teacher, or some of the older scholars. And so she came, year after year, mingling with the merry group. But where is she now? yon little mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel's wings.
As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can but realize the blessing of having "the common use of our own limbs." This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind her. But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.
It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit with us, in this favorite, place. Many have gone down to death--many still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation. The shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more sombre hue. But we will leave the dear old school house with all its treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in some other direction. It is hard to stop where so many images crowd upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear familiar scenes, adieu.
Chapter IV.
The Grave Yard.
Let us wander by this winding road to the place of graves, the great charnel house where so many, who were formerly actors on life's busy stage, have laid them down in the sleep of death. Many are the changes that meet the eye as we pass along, but there are many traces left that awaken memories of past friends and past years. Here are the dear old trees under which we have played; the rocks upon which we have sat, and the stream on which we have sailed; but which now is greatly augmented in size, as it is now an outlet to the large reservoir of water, into which the meadow above has been converted.
Crossing the bridge and ascending the hill, let us enter the grave yard, and contemplate the change that rolling years have made in this spot;
"Our fathers, where are they?"
Methinks the stones at our feet cry out--"All flesh is grass."
This is an ancient burial place; and as we look upon the dates of the headstones, how forcibly do we feel "one generation passeth away and another generation cometh." Many of the monuments have ceased to be a memorial; having crumbled away, and the inscriptions become entirely obliterated by the thick covering of green moss that has gathered upon them. Is not this a lesson that is calculated to humble the pride of man? But we will pause by the graves of the dear uncle and aunt, whose remains we saw deposited here many years ago, when our young footsteps bounded with all the elasticity of childhood. But though sweeping years have borne away the halcyon days of childhood, the golden days of youth, and the sobered and subdued period of middle life, and our sun has passed its meridian and is verging rapidly towards its setting, still this grief comes back again with all its first freshness. Here for the first time these eyes looked into an untenanted grave; for the first time saw the coffin let down into the "dark and narrow house," and heard the hollow sound as the earth fell upon it--and deep was the impression that was made upon the childish memory, and so faithful is she to her trust that at this moment, when standing upon this spot, she brings it back again, untarnished by the long years that have passed away. The little heaped up mound that covered their remains has sunk to a level with its kindred dust, and the inscriptions upon the headstones, though legible, are much defaced. Can it be that here are the dear forms whose voices I heard, upon whose knees I sat, and who led me by the hand, day after day? Even so. Were it not for revelation, "that light and immortality are brought to light" by the gospel, how dark would be the grave; who could fathom its mysterious confines, or penetrate its darkness? But the Saviour has shed a radiance around it, and assured us "the graves shall give up their dead; that we shall all come forth and be judged according to the deeds done in the body." Happy they, who learn this most important lesson, and live up to the great principles it inculcates.
Methinks the murmur of the summer breeze, as it sighs through the waving branches of the weeping willow, as it stands drooping over an adjoining grave, seems the gentle whisper of departed spirits, wooing us to the skies. As we glance far off in the distance from this elevated spot, we see the toil and turmoil of life--its struggles, cares and disappointments, and then contemplating the scene around us, we feel that, this must be the end of all who live. Here lie those for whom we sought in vain in the places where we formerly knew them. Here repose the remains of our family physician, who, for many years, was called in all cases of sickness, and was like a brother in the family. By his side sleeps his amiable wife; as we look upon their graves for the first time, we remember them as they were in life, and heave a sigh to their memory.
Here lies a school companion who died at a very early age; we had won prizes and received our little books from the hands of our dear teacher, and that is my only recollection of him. His seat was vacant, and they told me he was dead; but then I knew nothing of death.
Here, too, are the graves of Elizabeth Ann Prince, Julia Balcolm, the poor cripple, and many others, who have sat with me in the dear old school house. One in particular strikes the mind with peculiar solemnity. It is the grave of Edward Davis; he was a young man of superior talents, uncommon beauty and prepossessing manners. He was rich in this world's goods, and married an amiable young lady, in all respects his equal; they lived happily together several years, and had several children, but sickness came like a blight upon him, and he was soon conveyed to the silent tomb, leaving his wife and children to mourn his loss.
Here, side by side, are the graves of an entire household, consisting of the maternal grandmother, two sisters of the father, the father and mother, and seven children, with the wife of one of the sons. Not twelve rods from their own door they sleep side by side--that many voiced household, in the silence of death. No voice breaks the stillness; no words of love are interchanged; but their dust shall mingle together till the morning of the resurrection, teaching an impressive lesson to those that stand by their graves and read the inscriptions upon their tombstones.
Here is buried the dear old deacon and his wife, by whose bedside we stood when his forehead was wet with the damp dews of death, and his eye lighted up by faith, seemed to scan the glories of the upper world, and he felt it was "far better to depart and be with Christ." And even then came, "let me die the death of the righteous, and let my last end be like his." His devoted, pious wife soon followed him, and we feel, as we look upon their graves, there is rest in Heaven. At their feet lie children, grand-children and great-grand-children.
Clara Everett was a promising young girl, cut down at the early age of nineteen. She was left an orphan at the age of nine months, her father dying suddenly, and her mother a few weeks after, with consumption. She was tenderly cared for by her maternal grand-parents and a maiden aunt, well educated and had commenced teaching, when she was seized suddenly with an alarming fever, which in a few short days, was terminated by death. They bore her to the resting place with many tears, and placed her beside those dear parents from whom she was so early separated. Many here, that lived a life of dissipation, have gone down to fill a drunkard's grave;
"But we'll tread lightly on the ashes of the dead."
Why should we uncover the frailties of poor mortality, unless to hold them up as beacon lights to the rising generation? and for this purpose we would take the living example.
Here is buried an aged woman, who lived in poverty. She had the shaking