Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXXVI, No. 2, February 1850

by Various

And the old man, Raguel, with his beautiful daughter, moved onward in the path leading to the place of worship.

But more heavily than he was wont the father leaned upon the arm of his child. At last they reached the synagogue, and stood, as was their custom, under the pleasant shade-trees to rest, and to compose their minds for a moment before entering the sacred place.

Their prayers were made. From the “chambers of the east” came forth only the rising sun—the Messiah, the Counsellor, the Mighty King, the Prince of Peace, for whose presence and aid they so longed, came not; neither was there a sign given of his approach. Again were the hearts of youthful worshipers drawn to adoration of things earthly, as the lovely Myrrah stood once more with them to pray; again were the sighs of Jewish girls breathed almost audibly, as they gazed upon her, and caught their own lover’s eyes turned in watchful admiration to the place where she knelt; for well did they know that none among them could compare with the daughter and sole heiress of the wealthy and excellent Raguel.

With a leisure step the two set out on their return home through the rapidly-filling street. It was a sweet morning. A light breeze swept from the sea over the old town, wafting onward the fragrance of the blossoming trees and plants, which filled the air with their rich perfume. The sun rose in splendor, and the brightness which, as the smile of heaven spread over the earth, increased the light-heartedness of the young Jewess, as she moved on so soberly, so cheerfully, and with so much dignity of manner, with her father.

It was a pleasant home to which they were returning. A home of peace, and joy, and love, and Myrrah was its bright and never-failing star. Light-hearted as a bird—cheerful, unwavering in her affection and reverence for the aged father, she was, indeed, a model daughter and maiden for all Tangiers.

The morning repast, prepared by the old servant who had lived since Myrrah’s birth in her father’s employ, being made, the two at once repaired to the small but beautiful garden, which bore no little resemblance, on a small scale, to the Paradise Eden one is wont to conceive of. A stranger, passing through the small, mean street in which Raguel lived, would never have imagined, as he cast his eye carelessly on the unpromising, dismally high and dark-looking house, which stood close upon the side-walk, of the taste and elegance which reigned within those walls. Costly adornments filled the beautifully-finished rooms, which were befitting a palace; and the caskets of the Jewess held many a gem which a queen had not disdained to wear. But it was in the little garden, in the pleasant shade of whose trees the devoted pair invariably spent their mornings when the weather proved fine, that the most perfect arrangement of taste in the laying out of the limited grounds, in the disposal of the shrubs, and trees, and flowering plants, that the guiding hand of a woman essentially refined, was to be seen.

Ensconced in the luxurious chair, which Myrrah wheeled into the silent place, consecrated to the voices of singing-birds, and the fragrance of beauteous flowers, and the sweet sounds of his dear child’s voice, the hours passed swiftly on in blissful tranquillity to the old man. It was in such hours that Myrrah sat at her father’s feet, and read aloud in tones so musical and entrancing, the records their fathers of the old time had left, of God’s dealings with his loved people; of the marvelous creation—of the faithful and beloved Abraham, of Joseph, and of Jacob—of Daniel, and David, and Absalom—of the long line of kings and princes—of holy women, of prophets, and priests, and all their wondrous deeds, wrought through the power which God gave to them—of the first and momentous transgressions of the tempted, tempting Eve—of the too easily beguiled Adam—of the blessed hope which from the day of their fall from the height of excellence and purity, had been kindled, and had lived within the hearts of all the faithful until that day when they still looked with fond and hopeful and anxious eyes for His coming who would bruise the serpent’s head.

And when the old man grew sad, as the blessed promises were reiterated in his ears, whose fulfillment he had so long looked and sighed for, the reader’s melodious voice would grow fainter and fainter, the holy book be closed again, and with still softer tones, accompanied by her harp, she would sing of the great coming salvation—of the rescue which was surely drawing nigh, till the color would deepen on his aged, furrowed cheek, his eye grow bright again, and the trembling hand would be laid in blessing on his darling’s head.

On this morning, as Myrrah’s hand unclasped the precious books, they opened at the pages on which were recorded the beautiful and touching story of Ruth’s devotion to the mother of her dead husband. As with tremulous voice she read of the sudden and awful bereavement of the young, loving wife in the strange country, another listener approached, and stood, until the story was concluded, in the shade of the great trees. The new comer was also young, and his features bore witness that he was a descendant of the ancient Jews. But there was a gallant boldness, not often perceivable in that down-trodden people, in the frank, manly expression of countenance, in his garb, and the manner in which it was worn, in the very attitude he had chosen.

With a look of deepest love, his eyes fixed on the unconscious reader, his ear drunk in the sweet sounds of her voice, eagerly as the parched traveler in the desert bends to the cooling fountains; but he did not listen to the words she uttered; it was as though an angel were singing to him, and in the delight with which he heard her voice, he lost the burden of the song she sung.