_By Mrs. Opie._
We cannot fail to observe, as we advance in life, how vividly our earliest
recollections recur to us, and this consciousness is accompanied by a
melancholy pleasure, when we are deprived of those who are most tenderly
associated with such remembrances, because they bring the beloved dead
"before our mind's eye;" and beguile the loneliness of the _present_ hour,
by visions of the _past_. In such visions I now often love to indulge,
and in one of them, a journey to Y---- was recently brought before me, in
which my ever-indulgent father permitted me to accompany him, when I
was yet but a child.
As we drove through C----r, a village within three miles of Y----, he
directed my attention to a remarkable _rising_, or _conical mound of
earth_, on the top of the tower of C----r church. He then kindly
explained the cause of this singular, and _distinguishing_ appearance,
and told me the traditionary anecdote connected with it; which now, in
my own words, I am going to communicate to my readers.
It is generally supposed, that great grief makes the heart so selfishly
absorbed in its own sufferings, as to render it regardless of the
sufferings of others; but the conduct of her, who is the heroine of
the following tale, will prove to this general rule an honourable
exception.
I know nothing of her birth, and parentage, nor am I acquainted even with
her name--but I shall call her Birtha--the story goes, that she lived at
C----r, a village three miles from Y---- in N----, and was betrothed to
the mate of a trading vessel, with the expectation of marrying him, when
he had gained money sufficient, by repeated voyages, to make their union
consistent with prudence.
In the meanwhile, there is reason to believe that Birtha was not idle,
but contrived to earn money herself, in order to expedite the hour of
her marriage; and at length, her lover (whom I shall call William) thought
that there was no reason for him to continue his sea-faring life, but at
the end of one voyage more, he should be able to marry the woman of his
choice, and engage in some less dangerous employment, in his native
village.
Accordingly, the next time that he bade farewell to Birtha, the sorrow of
their parting hour was soothed by William's declaring, that, as the next
voyage would be his last, he should expect, when he returned, to find
every thing ready for their marriage.
This was a pleasant expectation, and Birtha eagerly prepared to fulfil it.
By the time that Birtha was beginning to believe that William was on his
voyage home, her neighbours would often help her to count the days which
would probably elapse before the ship could arrive; but when they were
not in her presence, some of the experienced amongst the men used to
express a _hope_, the result of _fear_, that William would return time
enough to avoid _certain winds_, which made one part of the navigation
on that coast particularly dangerous.
Birtha herself, had, no doubt, her _fears_, as well as her _hopes_; but
there are _some_ fears which the lip of affection dares not utter, and
this was one of them.
Birtha dreaded to have her inquiries respecting that dangerous passage,
answered by "Yes, we know that it is a difficult navigation;" she also
dreaded to be told by some kind, but ill-judging friends, to "trust in
Providence;" as, by such advice, the reality of the danger would be still
more powerfully confirmed to her. This recommendation would to her have
been needless, as well as alarming; for she had, doubtless, always relied
on Him who is alone able to save, and she knew that the same "Almighty
arm was underneath" her lover still, which had hitherto preserved him
in the time of need.
Well--time went on, and we will imagine the little garden before the door
of the house which Birtha had hired, new gravelled, fresh flowers sown
and planted there; the curtains ready to be put up; the shelves bright
with polished utensils; table linen, white as the driven snow, enclosed
in the newly-purchased chest of drawers; and the neat, well chosen
wedding-clothes, ready for the approaching occasion: we will also picture
to ourselves, the trembling joy of Birtha, when her eager and sympathizing
neighbours rushed into her cottage, disturbing her early breakfast, with
the glad tidings, that William's ship had been seen approaching the
dangerous passage with a fair wind, and that there was no doubt but
that he would get over it safe, and in day-light! How sweet is it to
be the messenger and the bearer of good news, but it is still sweeter
to know that one has friends who have pleasure in communicating pleasure
to us!
But Birtha's joy was still mingled with anxiety, and she probably passed
that day in alternate restlessness and prayer.
Towards night the wind rose high, blowing from a quarter unfavourable to
the safety of the ship, and it still continued to blow in this direction
when night and darkness had closed on all around.
Darkness at that moment seemed to close also upon the prospects of Birtha!
for she knew that there was no beacon, no landmark to warn the vessel of
its danger, and inform the pilot what coast they were approaching, and
what perils they were to avoid; and, it is probable, that the almost
despairing girl was, with her anxious friends, that livelong night a
restless wanderer on the nearest shore.
With the return of morning came the awful confirmation of their worst
fears!
There was no remaining vestige of William's vessel, save the top of the
mast, which shewed where it had sunk beneath the waves, and proved that
the hearts which in the morning had throbbed high with tender hopes and
joyful expectations were then cold and still "beneath the mighty waters!"
How different now was the scene in Birtha's cottage, to that which it
exhibited during the preceding morning.
That changed dwelling was not indeed deserted, for sympathizing neighbours
came to it as before; but though many may be admitted with readiness
when it is a time for congratulation, it is only the few who can be
welcome in a season of sorrow; and Birtha's sorrow, though _quiet_, was
_deep_--while neither her nearest relative, nor dearest friend, could
do any thing to assist her, save, by removing from her sight the new
furniture, or the new dresses, which had been prepared for those happy
hours that now could never be hers.
At length, however, Birtha, who had always appeared calm and resigned,
seemed cheerful also! still she remained pale, as in the first moments
of her trial, save when a feverish flush occasionally increased the
brightness of her eyes; but she grew thinner and thinner, and her impeded
breath made her affectionate friends suspect that she was going into a
rapid decline.
Medical aid was immediately called in, and Birtha's pleased conviction
that her end was near, was soon, though reluctantly confirmed to her,
at her own request.
It is afflicting to see an invalid rejoice in knowing that the hour of
death is certainly approaching; because it proves the depth and poignancy
of the previous sufferings: but then the sight is comforting and edifying
also. It is _comforting_, because it proves that the dying person is
supported by the only "help that faileth not;" and it is edifying, because
it invites those who behold it to endeavour to _believe_, that they
also may live and _die_ like the departing Christian.
But it was not alone the wish "to die and be with Christ," nor the sweet
expectation of being united in another world to him whom she had lost,
that was the cause of Birtha's increasing cheerfulness, as the hour of
her dissolution drew nigh. No--
Her generous heart was rejoicing in a project which she had conceived, and
which would, if realized, be the source of benefit to numbers yet unborn.
She knew from authority which she could not doubt, that had there been
a _proper landmark_ on the shore, her lover and his ship would not, in
all human probability, have perished.
"Then," said Birtha, "henceforth there shall be a land-mark on this coast!
and I will furnish it! Here at least, no fond and faithful girl shall
again have to lament over her blighted prospects, and pine, and suffer
as I have done."
She sent immediately for the clergyman of the parish, made her will,
and had a clause inserted to the following effect: "I desire that I
may be buried on the top of the tower of C----r church! and that my
grave may be made very high, and pointed, in order to render it a
perpetual land-mark to all ships approaching that dangerous navigation
where he whom I loved was wrecked. I am assured, that, had there been a
land-mark on the tower of C---- church, his ship might have escaped; and
I humbly trust, that my grave will always be kept up, according to my
will, to prevent affectionate hearts, in future, from being afflicted as
mine has been; and I leave a portion of my little property in the hands of
trustees, for ever, to pay for the preservation of the above-mentioned
grave, in all its usefulness!"
Before she died, the judicious and benevolent sufferer had the
satisfaction of being assured, that her intentions would be carried into
effect.
Her last moments were therefore cheered by the belief, that she would
be graciously permitted to be, even after death, a benefit to others,
and that her grave might be the means of preserving some of her
fellow-creatures from shipwreck and affliction.
Nor was her belief a delusive one---The conical grave in question gives so
remarkable an appearance to the tower of C----r church, when it is seen at
sea, even at a distance, that if once observed it can never be forgotten,
even by those to whom the anecdote connected with it is unknown
--therefore, as soon as it appears in sight, pilots know that they are
approaching a dangerous coast, and take measures to avoid its perils.
But if the navigation on that coast is no longer as perilous as it was,
when the heroine of this story was buried, and the tower of C----r church
is no longer a necessary land-mark, still her grave remains a pleasing
memorial of one, whose active benevolence rose superior to the selfishness
both of sorrow and of sickness; and enabled her, even on the bed of death,
to _contrive_ and _will_ for the benefit of posterity.
It is strange, but true, that the name of this humble, but privileged
being, is not on record; but many whose names are forgotten on earth,
have been, I doubt not, received and rewarded in heaven.
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