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