第95章 THE SKETCH BOOK(3)

The parents of the deceased had resided in the village fromchildhood. They had inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and byvarious rural occupations, and the assistance of a small garden, hadsupported themselves creditably and comfortably, and led a happy and ablameless life. They had one son, who had grown up to be the staff andpride of their age.- "Oh, sir!" said the good woman, "he was such acomely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind to every one around him, sodutiful to his parents! It did one's heart good to see him of aSunday, dressed out in his best, so tall, so straight, so cheery,supporting his old mother to church- for she was always fonder ofleaning on George's arm, than on her good man's; and, poor soul, shemight well be proud of him, for a finer lad there was not in thecountry round."Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during a year of scarcity andagricultural hardship, to enter into the service of one of the smallcraft that plied on a neighboring river. He had not been long inthis employ when he was entrapped by a press-gang, and carried offto sea. His parents received tidings of his seizure, but beyond thatthey could learn nothing. It was the loss of their main prop. Thefather, who was already infirm, grew heartless and melancholy, andsunk into his grave. The widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness,could no longer support herself, and came upon the parish. Still therewas a kind feeling toward her throughout the village, and a certainrespect as being one of the oldest inhabitants. As no one appliedfor the cottage, in which she had passed so many happy days, she waspermitted to remain in it, where she lived solitary and almosthelpless. The few wants of nature were chiefly supplied from thescanty productions of her little garden, which the neighbors would nowand then cultivate for her. It was but a few days before the time atwhich these circumstances were told me, that she was gathering somevegetables for her repast, when she heard the cottage door which facedthe garden suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and seemed to belooking eagerly and wildly around. He was dressed in seaman's clothes,was emaciated and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one broken bysickness and hardships. He saw her, and hastened towards her, buthis steps were faint and faltering; he sank on his knees before her,and sobbed like a child. The poor woman gazed upon him with a vacantand wandering eye- "Oh, my dear, dear mother! don't you know your son?

your poor boy, George?" It was indeed the wreck of her once noble lad,who, shattered by wounds, by sickness and foreign imprisonment, had,at length, dragged his wasted limbs homeward, to repose among thescenes of his childhood.

I will not attempt to detail the particulars of such a meeting,where joy and sorrow were so completely blended: still he was alive!

he was come home! he might yet live to comfort and cherish her oldage! Nature, however, was exhausted in him; and if any thing hadbeen wanting to finish the work of fate, the desolation of hisnative cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched himself on thepallet on which his widowed mother had passed many a sleeplessnight, and he never rose from it again.

The villagers, when they heard that George Somers had returned,crowded to see him, offering every comfort and assistance that theirhumble means afforded. He was too weak, however, to talk- he couldonly look his thanks. His mother was his constant attendant; and heseemed unwilling to be helped by any other hand.

There is something in sickness that breaks down the pride ofmanhood; that softens the heart, and brings it back to the feelings ofinfancy. Who that has languished, even in advanced life, in sicknessand despondency; who that has pined on a weary bed in the neglectand loneliness of a foreign land; but has thought on the mother"that looked on his childhood," that smoothed his pillow, andadministered to his helplessness? Oh! there is an enduringtenderness in the love of a mother to her son that transcends allother affections of the heart. It is neither to be chilled byselfishness, nor daunted by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness, norstifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice every comfort to hisconvenience; she will surrender every pleasure to his enjoyment; shewill glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity:- and, ifmisfortune overtake him, he will be the dearer to her from misfortune;and if disgrace settle upon his name, she will still love andcherish him in spite of his disgrace; and if all the world beside casthim off, she will be all the world to him.

Poor George Somers had known what it was to be in sickness, and noneto soothe- lonely and in prison, and none to visit him. He could notendure his mother from his sight; if she moved away, his eye wouldfollow her. She would sit for hours by his bed, watching him as heslept. Sometimes he would start from a feverish dream, and lookanxiously up until he saw her bending over him; when he would take herhand, lay it on his bosom, and fall asleep, with the tranquillity of achild. In this way he died.

My first impulse on hearing this humble tale of affliction was tovisit the cottage of the mourner, and administer pecuniary assistance,and, if possible, comfort. I found, however, on inquiry, that the goodfeelings of the villagers had prompted them to do every thing that thecase admitted: and as the poor know best how to console each other'ssorrows, I did not venture to intrude.

The next Sunday I was at the village church; when, to my surprise, Isaw the poor old woman tottering down the aisle to her accustomed seaton the steps of the altar.

She had made an effort to put on something like mourning for herson; and nothing could be more touching than this struggle betweenpious affection and utter poverty: a black ribbon or so- a faded blackhandkerchief, and one or two more such humble attempts to express byoutward signs that grief which passes show. When I looked round uponthe storied monuments, the stately hatchments, the cold marble pomp,with which grandeur mourned magnificently over departed pride, andturned to this poor widow, bowed down by age and sorrow, at thealtar of her God, and offering up the prayers and praises of apious, though a broken heart, I felt that this living monument of realgrief was worth them all.

I related her story to some of the wealthy members of thecongregation, and they were moved by it. They exerted themselves torender her situation more comfortable, and to lighten her afflictions.

It was, however, but smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the courseof a Sunday or two after, she was missed from her usual seat atchurch, and before I left the neighborhood, I heard, with a feeling ofsatisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her last, and had goneto rejoin those she loved, in that world where sorrow is neverknown, and friends are never parted.

THE END

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1819-20