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By Marian Hartog.
I
love old customs, if they are not quite absurd; and
there is a beautiful one among my own people that I
cling to, with a such reverence, that it would pain
me much to hear it ridiculed. It is a remnant of the
poetry and tenderness of feeling that existed among
our fathers, when they dwelt in their own sunny
eastern land, the land of the olive and vine, of the
date and fig-tree, the land of blue skies and
running streams, to which we belong, but which no
longer belongs to us. The custom I allude to, is
that of blessing the sick and giving them another
name, which name, if they recover, they bear during
the remainder of their lives. Surely no harm can
arise from the observance of this custom; whereas
the good is obvious, as it frequently rouses the
sinking spirits of the sufferer to renewed exertion;
for, if we may believe what is emphatically termed
the faculty the imagination exercises so powerful
an influence over the human frame, that some casual
circumstance acting upon this wonderful machine,
produces such strange effects, that a patient
considered at the point of death may rally, and
against all calculations recover, or on the
contrary, it may entail the most fatal consequences.
The ceremony is thus performed. When a Hebrew is
dangerously ill, a congregation (ten men) repair to
the Synagogue, and offer up solemn prayers for his
recovery. At such times offerings are made for the
poor, and, after the prayers, the reader of
<<367>>the congregation opens a Bible, and the first
name, male or female, as the case may be, which he
happens to read, is bestowed upon the sick person,
accompanied by a blessing.
There is a sad tale, for the truth of which I can
vouch, connected with this custom, which, perhaps,
has invested it with a charm over my imagination it
might not otherwise have possessed.
Many years ago, long before I was born, though
within the memory of many on whose truth I may rely,
there dwelt in my native town a fair sylph-like
girl, called Miriam, who was the belle of the
congregation. Her soft dove-like eyes, and the sweet
smile that wreathed her ruby lips, were the outward
symbols of a gentle and loving spirit, and within
her bosom throbbed as warm a heart, as ever beat in
a woman's breast.
She was the only child of a widow; and never were
mother and daughter more fondly attached than they
were to each other; and it was beautiful to see that
fair young girl, with her light step and blooming
face, supporting her decrepit mother to and from the
Synagogue, on the Sabbath and holy days; and many
paused, on their way, to admire and bless the gentle
and affectionate Miriam.
She had been early betrothed to one whom she loved
with a deep but quiet affection. The young man had
been long absent from his native land; for he was
not wealthy, and the British West Indies, in those
days, presented such an ample field for the
speculations of enterprising men, that Moses Samuel
left his home, in the hopes of realizing his golden
visions of wealth.
Ere he left England, he entreated Miriam to become
his wife and accompany him; but, though the heart of
the beautiful maiden was with her lover, she
resisted its fond whisperings, for she would not
leave her aged mother, who was partly dependent on
her for support, and wholly for the gentle offices
of love to poverty, and the means of Samuel were not
adequate for the maintenance of the widow.
“No, no, Moses,” she replied in answer to his
entreaties, and her voice was firm, though her eyes
were streaming with tears, “I cannot leave my
mother. If we could provide for the comforts of her
declining years, though it would grieve me much to
forsake her even then, I should not be so averse;
but as <<368>>we cannot, we must wait patiently, and
pray God to bless and prosper your undertakings.”
The lovers interchanged vows of mutual faith, and
parted; and God heard and blessed the orphan’s
prayer, by prospering the enterprises of her lover.
Four years elapsed, during which they had constantly
corresponded together; but, within the last twelve
months Samuel wrote less frequently, and Miriam’s
last two letters remained unanswered. Weeks sped
along, packet after packet arrived, and yet they
brought no intelligence of him; and the cheek of the
anxious maiden waxed pale, and her soft eyes grew
dim, and were often blinded by tears as she bent
over her work. She told not her mother of the sorrow
that was preying on her heart; for age and
decrepitude had rendered her unfit to be the
confidant of the young heart’s sorrows.
Day by day the widow grew weaker and more helpless,
and it required all Miriam’s gentle care to make
life supportable to her. Day and night the fair girl
toiled and watched for her mother; and even the
Sabbath was not a day of rest and joy to her; for,
unable longer to attend the Synagogue, she required
her daughter’s constant attendance.
With uncomplaining cheerfulness Miriam fulfilled her
daily duties; and though she sang not at her work as
she had formerly done, she took care that her mother
should not see her weep. So she bent over her needle
more constantly than ever; for the increased
infirmities of her aged parent demanded increased
comforts.
It
was a lovely summer morning, and Miriam, who had
just refused to join some young companions in a
walk, sat beside her mother, reading from the book
of prayer a portion of the beautiful service for the
Sabbath; and while she read the law, the soft tones
of her sweet voice sank deeply into her listener’s
soul, as she bent her dulled ear to catch the
sounds.
“Miriam, my dear child,” said the widow, laying her
shriveled hand on the youthful head of her daughter
as she closed the sacred volume, “those are blessed
words which thou hast read; but, I would speak with
thee of other things. Thou hast ever been good and
dutiful, and the God of Israel will shower his
blessings on thee. Thou hast strewed flowers on the
thorny path of my old age, and I would not pain thee
willingly. But age <<369>>and disease have done
their work upon me. My years are full, and we must
soon be parted. I would I had seen thee a wedded
wife; but God has willed it otherwise, and His will
be done. Do not weep so bitterly, my dear child; it
is necessary thou shouldst be prepared for a stroke,
to which all in turn must bow.”
“Oh mother, mother,” cried Miriam, wildly throwing
herself on her mother's neck, “do not speak to me of
parting; I will work for you! beg for you! starve
for you! but speak not of leaving me alone, in this
desolate world, without friend or comforter. What
should I do without you? My heart would break and I
too, should surely die.”
“My own Miriam,” replied the widow solemnly, “I too
thought my heart would break at that long parting
which knoweth no meeting on this side of the tomb;
yet I have seen father, mother, husband, and
children laid in the narrow house of death, and
survived them all, till the lamp of life is burnt
out, and years and infirmity have left me nothing to
live for, but to burden thee.”
“Burden me! mother; would to God you had left those
words unsaid. You have known many trials, and lost
many of your dearest ones, and yet God spared you
one. He did not leave you lonely, as I shall be when
you are gone from me,” exclaimed Miriam in a voice
of heart-broken misery, that touched her mother to
the soul; but kissing away her tears, she gently
said,
“Thou wilt not be quite alone, Miriam, when I am
low; remember, my child, thou art a betrothed bride.
Thou wilt be wedded to Moses Samuel, and he will
supply my place to thee. I must not deceive thee, my
dear child; I may linger a day or two, it may be
three; but the fingers of death are twined about my
heart, and I feel that when the next Sabbath sun
rises, it will be on thy mother's grave.”
Miriam had no voice to reply; but the tears streamed
down her face, and her slight frame was shaken by
her convulsive sobs. Moses Samuels, whom her mother
spoke of as a friend, when she was gone, had already
ceased to love, even if he had not quite forgotten
her. But she did not say this; for, though her heart
was deeply wrung, she would not pain her mother.
That night, when midnight slept in peace on the
tranquil waves <<370>>of the summer sea, a young
girl, robed in a thin night-dress, might be seen
rushing through the deserted streets, and
beseeching the Hebrew matrons, whom she roused from
their slumbers, to arise and pray by the side of her
dying mother.
Then followed the anxious watching, the heart-wrung
prayers, the vain lectures on fortitude, the parting
blessing, the fearful separation of widow and
orphan, and then— When the next Sabbath sun arose,
Miriam was motherless.
Weeks elapsed ere any one presumed to speak of hope
again to the bereaved orphan. Hers was that silent
grief which, betrayed by signs alone, awes the
voice of common-place consolation to silence. She
neither sobbed nor screamed when they rent her robe
and kindled the death-lamp; but there was that in
the large tearless eyes, and on the hueless face,
which told how deeply the soul was stricken, and the
gentle spirit crushed and bowed by its weight of
suffering.
When the week of the seven days of mourning were
over, Mrs. Samuel removed her from her desolate
home, and strove to win her from her sorrows.
“There are letters from the West Indies, Miriam,”
said Rebecca Samuel, about five weeks after her
mother’s death, as she entered the chamber in which
the unhappy girl was left to the indulgence of her
sorrow; “letters from Moses, and here is one for
you, dearest,” and kissing Miriam’s burning brow,
she placed it in her eager hand.
With trembling haste, Miriam broke the seal of the
long-expected missive and read its contents. “Oh,
he was not false; she had wronged him who remembered
and loved her yet.” And then, for the first time
since her mother’s death, she laid her head on
Rebecca’s bosom and wept profusely. The gentle soothings of Rebecca at length succeeded in calming
her emotion, and, wiping her dimmed eyes, she read
his letter through again.
“Forgive me, dear Miriam,” he wrote, “forgive me for
my seeming neglect; I have been absent from home,
dearest, on business which has prospered beyond my
most sanguine expectations, and they knew not where
to send your letters, so that I have only just
received them. It was very sweet to read the lines
your hand had traced, and how much sweeter will it
be to <<371>>clasp that hand in mine, and feel
united to you by a tie which only death can sever.
The obstacles to our union are removed. Miriam, I am
no longer poor; the prayer offered by you at parting
has been granted; I am wealthy; wealthier than I had
ever hoped to be. Come to me, then, and bring your
aged mother as the companion of your voyage. We will
make the remnant of her days, days of sunshine and
happiness; for she will have her sweet Miriam still,
and Miriam’s husband will be as a son to her. The
God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, bless you,
my beloved, and that He may shield and guard you
from every evil is the unceasing prayer of
“MOSES SAMUEL.”
The mention of her mother’s name made the tears gush
afresh to the eyes of Miriam, and the affectionate
girl threw herself once more into Rebecca’s arms and
gave free vent to her sorrows; but from that day she
gradually recovered health and beauty. Perhaps her
recovery was greatly facilitated by the kindness
with which Mrs. Samuel expedited the preparations
for her departure.
(To be continued.) |
