Mizora: A Prophecy by Mary E. Bradley Lane
CHAPTER VII.
Not long after my conversation with Wauna, mentioned in the previouschapter, an event happened in Mizora of so singular and unexpected acharacter for that country that it requires a particular description. Irefer to the death of a young girl, the daughter of the Professor ofNatural History in the National College, whose impressive inauguralceremonies I had witnessed with so much gratification. The girl was of aventuresome disposition, and, with a number of others, had gone outrowing. The boats they used in Mizora for that purpose were mere cockleshells. A sudden squall arose from which all could have escaped, but thereckless daring of this young girl cost her her life. Her boat wascapsized, and despite the exertions made by her companions, she wasdrowned.
Her body was recovered before the news was conveyed to the mother. Asthe young companions surrounded it in the abandon of grief that tenderand artless youth alone feels, had I not known that not a tie ofconsanguinity existed between them, I might have thought them a band ofsisters mourning their broken number. It was a scene I never expect andsincerely hope never to witness again. It made the deeper impressionupon me because I knew the expressions of grief were all genuine.
I asked Wauna if any of the dead girl's companions feared that hermother might censure them for not making sufficient effort to save herwhen her boat capsized. She looked at me with astonishment.
"Such a thought," she said, "will never occur to her nor to any one elsein Mizora. I have not asked the particulars, but I know that everythingwas done that could have been done to save her. There must have beensomething extraordinarily unusual about the affair for all Mizora girlsare expert swimmers, and there is not one but would put forth anyexertion to save a companion."
I afterward learned that such had really been the case.
It developed upon the Preceptress to break the news to the afflictedmother. It was done in the seclusion of her own home. There was nomanifestation of morbid curiosity among acquaintances, neighbors andfriends. The Preceptress and one or two others of her nearest and mostintimate friends called at the house during the first shock of herbereavement.
After permission had been given to view the remains, Wauna and I calledat the house, but only entered the drawing-room. On a low cot, in anattitude of peaceful repose, lay the breathless sleeper. Her mother andsisters had performed for her the last sad offices of loving duty, andlovely indeed had they made the last view we should have of their dearone.
There was to be no ceremony at the house, and Wauna and I were in thecemetery when the procession entered. As we passed through the city, Inoticed that every business house was closed. The whole city wassympathizing with sorrow. I never before saw so vast a concourse ofpeople. The procession was very long and headed by the mother, dressedand veiled in black. Behind her were the sisters carrying the body. Itrested upon a litter composed entirely of white rosebuds. The sisterswore white, their faces concealed by white veils. Each wore a whiterosebud pinned upon her bosom. They were followed by a long processionof young girls, schoolmates and friends of the dead. They were alldressed in white, but were not veiled. Each one carried a white rosebud.
The sisters placed the litter upon rests at the side of the grave, andclasping hands with their mother, formed a semicircle about it. Theywere all so closely veiled that their features could not be seen, and noemotion was visible. The procession of young girls formed a circleinclosing the grave and the mourners, and began chanting a slow andsorrowful dirge. No words can paint the pathos and beauty of such ascene. My eye took in every detail that displayed that taste for thebeautiful that compels the Mizora mind to mingle it with every incidentof life. The melody sounded like a chorus of birds chanting, in perfectunison, a weird requiem over some dead companion.
DIRGE
She came like the Spring in its gladness We received her with joy--we rejoiced in her promise Sweet was her song as the bird's, Her smile was as dew to the thirsty rose. But the end came ere morning awakened, While Dawn yet blushed in its bridal veil, The leafy music of the woods was hushed in snowy shrouds. Spring withered with the perfume in her hands; A winter sleet has fallen upon the buds of June; The ice-winds blow where yesterday zephyrs disported: Life is not consummated The rose has not blossomed, the fruit has perished in the flower, The bird lies frozen under its mother's breast Youth sleeps in round loveliness when age should lie withered and weary, and full of honor. Then the grave would be welcome, and our tears would fall not. The grave is not for the roses of youth; We mourn the early departed. Youth sleeps without dreams-- Without an awakening.
At the close of the chant, the mother first and then each sister tookfrom her bosom the white rosebud and dropped it into the grave. Thenfollowed her schoolmates and companions who each dropped in the bud shecarried. A carpet of white rosebuds was thus formed, on which the body,still reclining upon its pillow of flowers, was gently lowered.
The body was dressed in white, and over all fell a veil of fine whitetulle. A more beautiful sight I can never see than that young, lovelygirl in her last sleep with the emblems of youth, purity and swift decayforming her pillow, and winding-sheet. Over this was placed a film ofglass that rested upon the bottom and sides of the thin lining thatcovered the bottom and lower sides of the grave. The remainder of theprocession of young girls then came forward and dropped their rosebudsupon it, completely hiding from view the young and beautiful dead.
The eldest sister then took a handful of dust and casting it into thegrave, said in a voice broken, yet audible: "Mingle ashes with ashes,and dust with its original dust. To the earth whence it was taken,consign we the body of our sister." Each sister then threw in a handfulof dust, and then with their mother entered their carriage, whichimmediately drove them home.
A beautiful silver spade was sticking in the soft earth that had beentaken from the grave. The most intimate of the dead girls friends took aspadeful of earth and threw it into the open grave. Her example wasfollowed by each one of the remaining companions until the grave wasfilled. Then clasping hands, they chanted a farewell to their departedcompanion and playmate. After which they strewed the grave with flowersuntil it looked like a bed of beauty, and departed.
I was profoundly impressed by the scene. Its solemnity, its beauty, andthe universal expression of sorrow it had called forth. A whole citymourned the premature death of gifted and lovely youth. Alas! In my ownunhappy country such an event would have elicited but a passing phraseof regret from all except the immediate family of the victim; for_there_ sorrow is a guest at every heart, and leaves little room forsympathy with strangers.
The next day the mother was at her post in the National College; thedaughters were at their studies, all seemingly calm and thoughtful, butshowing no outward signs of grief excepting to the close observer. Themother was performing her accustomed duties with seeming cheerfulness,but now and then her mind would drop for a moment in sorrowfulabstraction to be recalled with resolute effort and be fastened oncemore upon the necessary duty of life.
The sisters I often saw in those abstracted moods, and frequently sawthem wiping away silent but unobtrusive tears. I asked Wauna for themeaning of such stoical reserve, and the explanation was as curious aswere all the other things that I met with in Mizora.
"If you notice the custom of different grades of civilization in yourown country," said Wauna, "you will observe that the lower thecivilization the louder and more ostentatious is the mourning. Truerefinement is unobtrusive in everything, and while we do not desire torepress a natural and inevitable feeling of sorrow, we do desire toconceal and conquer it, for the reason that death is a law of naturethat we cannot evade. And, although the death of a young person has notoccurred in Mizora in the memory of any living before this, yet it isnot without precedent. We are very prudent, but we cannot guard entirelyagainst accident. It has cast a gloom over the whole city, yet werefrain from speaking of it, and strive to forget it
"And can you see so young, so fair a creature perish without wanting tomeet her again?"
"Whatever sorrow we feel," replied Wauna, solemnly, "we deeply realizehow useless it is to repine. We place implicit faith in the revelationsof Nature, and in no circumstances does she bid us expect a life beyondthat of the body. That is a life of individual consciousness."
"How much more consoling is the belief of my people," I replied,triumphantly. "Their belief in a future reunion would sustain themthrough the sorrow of parting in this. It has been claimed that somehave lived pure lives solely in the hope of meeting some one whom theyloved, and who had died in youth and innocence."
Wauna smiled.
"You do not all have then the same fate in anticipation for your futurelife?" she asked.
"Oh, no!" I answered. "The good and the wicked are divided."
"Tell me some incident in your own land that you have witnessed, andwhich illustrates the religious belief of your country."
"The belief that we have in a future life has often furnished a themefor the poets of my own and other countries. And sometimes a quaint andpretty sentiment is introduced into poetry to express it."
"I should like to hear some such poetry. Can you recite any?"
"I remember an incident that gave birth to a poem that was much admiredat the time, although I can recall but the two last stanzas of it. Arowing party, of which I was a member, once went out upon a lake to viewthe sunset. After we had returned to shore, and night had fallen uponthe water in impenetrable darkness, it was discovered that one of theyoung men who had rowed out in a boat by himself was not with us. Astorm was approaching, and we all knew that his safety lay in gettingashore before it broke. We lighted a fire, but the blaze could not beseen far in such inky darkness. We hallooed, but received no answer, andfinally ceased our efforts. Then one of the young ladies who possessed avery high and clear soprano voice, began singing at the very top of herpower. It reached the wanderer in the darkness, and he rowed straighttoward it. From that time on he became infatuated with the singer,declaring that her voice had come to him in his despair like an angel'sstraight from heaven.
"She died in less than a year, and her last words to him were: 'Meet mein heaven.' He had always been recklessly inclined, but after that hebecame a model of rectitude and goodness. He wrote a poem that wasdedicated to her memory. In it he described himself as a lone wandereron a strange sea in the darkness of a gathering storm and no beacon toguide him, when suddenly he hears a voice singing which guides him safeto shore. He speaks of the beauty of the singer and how dear she becameto him, but he still hears the song calling him across the ocean ofdeath."
"Repeat what you remember of it," urged Wauna.
"That face and form, have long since gone Beyond where the day was lifted: But the beckoning song still lingers on, An angels earthward drifted.
And when death's waters, around me roar And cares, like the birds, are winging: If I steer my bark to Heaven's shore 'Twill be by an angel's singing."
"Poor child of superstition," said Wauna, sadly. "Your belief hassomething pretty in it, but for your own welfare, and that of yourpeople, you must get rid of it as we have got rid of the offspring ofLust. Our children come to us as welcome guests through portals of theholiest and purest affection. That love which you speak of, I knownothing about. I would not know. It is a degradation which mars youryoung life and embitters the memories of age. We have advanced beyondit. There is a cruelty in life," she added, compassionately, "which wemust accept with stoicism as the inevitable. Justice to your posteritydemands of you the highest and noblest effort of which your intellect iscapable."