induces. Almost insensibly, the lovers turned away from the groups of merry villagers, and directed their course to the village churchyard. Of all spots on earth, that containing the “short and simple annals of the poor,” is to a reflective mind most interesting, and that of Hastings is peculiarly so. From its mild and sheltered situation, its advantages of country joined to those of sea bathing, Hastings is recommended by the faculty to consumptive patients, and many a marble slab in the churchyard records the early exit of creatures in the spring and matin of their days, who have sought for health and found a grave. On one which this simple inscription,
“Emily Markham—Aged Nineteen,”
Mary sat down, and pulling a few wild flowers, strewed them reverentially on the grave.
“William,” at last she said, “burial is a frightful thing.”
“Death is, do you mean, my Mary?” answered he; “for after death, on this earth feeling is no more.”
“Are you assured of that?” asked Mary solemnly. “Does that conviction bear an if? Oh, God! To be shut down, away from light and warmth, to be straightened here, rigid, immoveable and stiff—to rot by scarce perceptible degrees, to have the flesh which in life we guard so carefully, mangled and gnawed by crawling vermin—nay, in our very selves to engender the foul life of corruption! It is too horrible!”
“Dearest Mary, this is a morbid feeling and a false fear. Our Creator made man in mercy, and could it be possible that the dead suffered by burial, it would long have been made manifest to the living. Now, for my part, this scene is one to me of rest and comfort—in this sacred spot the dead slumber in peace, the flowers grow here as sweet, and those graceful willows bend down their branches as if appointed by the Spirit of Holiness to guard the dead. And see—the evening star looks out upon this tranquil spot like a good angel calmly keeping
‘Watch o’er them till their souls should waken.’”
Mary shuddered and shook her head. Alarmed to see her so depressed, William fondly urged her to return home.
“William, dear William, I am well—fear nothing for me, but oh! My beloved, my heart quails at the thought of burial. I do not fear to die—thanks be to heaven I have no fear of death; but the grave—the grave to me is overwhelmingly horrible. Oh, dear William! Would that we lived in ancient Rome, where the mortal remains were consigned to the funeral pyre! Surely we have decreased in civilization to relinquish the burial by fire for the internment underground. Fire is a glorious element, free, mighty and immaterial as the soul! Fire is a purifier, and separates the grosser clay from its immortal spirit—fire even ascends to heaven—it is a type and emblem of the human soul, it is tangible to the senses only while it has earthly food, when the poor material is consumed, the invisible and unknown spirit passes away from human sight or knowledge, and returns to Him, the master of the elements! Would that my burial might be by fire!”
“Your thoughts and wishes are strange, dear Mary; the survivor’s heart would be more wrung to see the loved remains consumed by fire. When buried, they retain at least a knowledge that it is there, they can visit the spot and in memory recall its inhabitant.”
“Aye, William—but as what?” she asked, with a strange look of excessive horror: “As what? A livid and loathsome mass of rottenness! A decaying, revolting, putrifying corruption, from which every sense recoils in loathing! Let the fondest love pursue in fancy the buried dead—the lips they kissed are foul with decay—the breath that used to part them is changed to the stench of rottenness—the fair bosom on which lay the loving head is alive indeed, for the long, slimy grave worms are feeding on it—the eyes, oh, God! Dare imagination picture that eye once beaming with the soul of love, now glowing with the unnatural fire of putrefaction?”
“No more, no more, dear Mary!” exclaimed William, alarmed at the excitement of her fancy on such a theme: “your mother will be waiting for us.”
“Yet hear me out dearest; and oh, William, promise—promise me, that if God takes me from you, you will never lay me in the damp, cold ground to rot!—Think, oh, think how pure, how beautiful is the idea of resolving back each portion of our humanity into its native element! And then, how delightedly may fond affection weep over the consecrated ashes! The pure, inoffensive remains of all that was loved and lovely—while fancy dwells with rapture on the bright thought that the undying soul, the immortal mind, has mounted to its first essence on wings of ethereal flame! Come, let us go home. I shudder to tread this rank, rich soil, instinct with human corruption.”
* * * *
From this time it appeared that the health of Mary Stuart suffered under some secret excitement; at times, indeed, her cheerfulness would return, and the awful phantom that haunted her be put to flight by the voice of love; but too soon again the gloom returned over her soul, and by slow but sure degrees undermined her health and life. No words can picture the grief which wrung the honest heart of her lover, argument and caresses he tried in vain, and at last, believing that the coil lay in her body not her mind, he applied in despair to a friendly physician of eminence who resided in the neighborhood. Happy it is for science when such a man as Doctor John Burton is its professor; learned without pedantry; humane without ostentation; firm without brutality, he joined the skill of the best physicians to the feelings of the kindest of men; he saw Mary Stuart and at once pronounced her case to be monomania—that sort of “perilous stuff which weighs upon the heart,” and for which drugs have no healing and medical science no cure.
“You must take her from here,” he said gently but firmly to her mother. “She is of a morbid temperament, and the close retirement of her life together with the vicinity of the churchyard has aided a predisposition to nervous excitement. She must have a change of scene.”
“Alas, sir!” replied the mother, in tears, “I have not the power, my means are scanty—this little cottage is allowed us rent-free by the landlord, who was a dear friend of my husband—a single journey and moth’s residence in a strange city would consume all we have to live on for a year.”
Doctor Burton was not one of those Sir Oracles who content themselves by saying, “this must be done,” without endeavoring to point out the way how; he smiled benevolently and took the widow’s hand—
“Mrs. Stuart, I venture to predict a certain cure, if you will follow a pleasant and easy prescription, for your daughter; you must marry her at once to William Lindsay. Nothing so sure to chase ideas of death as the blushes of a bride.”
“Oh! Doctor! They are poor enough now—if they marry and have a family, the expenses of the children—”
“Will be better to bear than losing the only one you have!” interrupted the Doctor, gravely; “my dear, madam, Mr. Lindsay is very clever in his profession—he has industry and good will to work; but as long as your daughter’s illness distracts his mind, he can never be himself. He has friends, and the young couple will do well, I doubt not; but of this be sure,” he continued with solemn decision, as she was about to speak—“of this be sure—on my reputation as a physician, I affirm, that if Miss Stuart continues in this situation much longer, her reason or her life will pay the penalty.”
And without allowing the querulous old lady time to answer, he left her to ponder on his words. Great was the joy of Lindsay at this advice, and as the wise physician had truly prophesied, the startling proposal of immediate marriage, produced a reaction in the mind of Mary and very soon evinced its beneficial effects. Resolved not to do things by halves, the excellent doctor employed Lindsay professionally in copying specimens of morbid anatomy, and invited Mary to pass a few weeks with his wife and daughters and to consult them concerning her future arrangements. Oh! How much happiness can be conferred by a few kind words and actions of those whose fortune or skill raises them above their ordinary fellow-creatures! How little studious of their own enjoyment are such as never buy the dear delight of giving pleasure! What epicurean delight—what fashionable luxury—what expensive purchase ever conferred the soul-felt rapture called forth by unhoped-for benediction? What public fame or loud-mouthed huzzas—what sugared praise or subtle flattery—ever gave the heart the self-content derived from beholding the bliss itself has created?