with his hat still over his brow, turned his glazed and dim eyes toward the setting sun. It was only the night before that he had heard his mother was ill, and could survive but a day or two. He had lived nearly apart from society, and, being a lad of a thoughtful, dreamy mind, had made a world to himself. His thoughts and feelings were so much in it that, except in relation to his own home, there were the same vague notions in his brain, concerning the state of things surrounding him, as we have of a foreign land.

2. The main feeling which this visionary world excited in him was love; and, as with most at his time of life, his mind had formed for himself a being suited to its own fancies. This was the romance' of life; and though men, with minds like his, oftentimes make imagination to stand in place of real existence, and to take to itself as deep feeling and concern, yet in the domestic relations, which are so near and usual, and private, they feel longer and more deeply than those do who look upon their homes as only a better part of the world which they belong to.

3. Indeed, to an affectionate and good man of a visionary cast, like Arthur, home appears to be even something mōre than an earnest of the fulfillment of his secretly cherished hopes and wishes; its daily acts seem to prefigure what he is looking forward to, and, while idealized by him, to impart, in a sort, to his ideal both distinctnèss and substantiality. Arthur's mother was. peculiarly dear to him, in having a character so much like his For though the cares and attachments of life had long ago taken place of a fanciful existence in her, yet her natural turn of mind was strong enough to give to these something of the romance of her disposition.

own.

4. This had led to a mōre than usual openness and intimacy between him and his mother, and now brought to his remembrance the hours they had sat together by the fire-light, when he listened to her mild and melancholy voice, as she spoke of what she had undergone at the loss of her parents and husband. Her gentle rebuke of his faults when a boy, her affectionate look of approval when he had done well, her care that he should be a just man, and her motherly anxiety lest the world should go hard with him, crowded into his mind, and he felt as if every worldly attachment was hereafter to be a vain thing to him.

5. He had passed the night before his journey between tumultuous grief and numb insensibility. Stepping into the carriage, with a slow, weak motion, like one who was quitting his sickchamber for the first time, he began his way homeward. As he lifted his eyes upward, the few stars that were here and there over the sky seemed to look down in pity, and shed a religious and healing light upon him.

6. But they soon went out, one after another, and, as the 'last faded from his sight, it was as if something good and holy had forsaken him. The faint tint in the east soon became a ruddy glow, and the sun, shooting upward, burst over every living thing in full glōry. The sight went to Arthur's sick heart, as if it were in mockery of his sorrow.

7. Leaning back in his carriage, with his hand over his eyes, he was carried along, hardly sensible it was day. The old servant, Thomas, who was sitting by his side, went on talking in a low, monotonous tone; but Arthur only heard something sounding in his ears, scarcely heeding that it was a human voice. He had a sense of wearisomeness from the motion of the carriage; but in all things else the day passed as a měl'ancholy dream.

8. Almost the first words Arthur spoke were those I have mentioned. As he looked out upon the setting sun, he shuddered and turned pale, for he knew the hill near him. As they wound round it, some peculiar old trees appeared, and he was in a few minutes in the midst of the scenery near his home.

9. The river before him, reflecting the rich evening sky, looked as if poured out from a molten mine; and the birds, gathering in, were shooting across each other, bursting into short gay notes, or singing their evening songs in the trees. It was a bitter thing to find all so bright and cheerful, and so near his own home, too. His horses' hoofs struck upon the old wooden bridge. The sound went to his heart; for it was here his mother took her last leave of him, and blessed him.

10. As he passed through the village, there was a feeling of strangeness that everything should be just as it was when he left it. An undefined thought floated in his mind, that his mother's state should produce a visible change in whatever he had been familiar with. But the boys were at their noisy games in the street, the laborers returning together from their work, and the

old men sitting quietly at their doors. He concealed himself as well as he could, and både Thomas hasten on.

11. As they drew near the house, the night was shutting in about it, and there was a melancholy gusty sound in the trees. Arthur felt as if approaching his mother's tomb. He entered the parlor. There was the gloom and stillness of a deserted house. Presently he heard a slow, cautious step overhead. It was in his mother's chamber. His sister had seen him from the window. She hurried down, and threw her arms about her brother's neck, without uttering a word.

12. As soon as he could speak, he asked, "Is she alive ?”—he could not say, my mother. "She is sleeping," answered his sister, "and must not know to-night that you are here: she is too weak to bear it now.”—"I will go look at her, then, while she sleeps," said he, drawing his handkerchief from his face. His sister's sympathy had made him shed the first tears which had fallen from him that day, and he was more composed.

13. He entered the chamber with a deep and still awe upon him; and, as he drew near his mother's bedside, and looked on her pale, plăcid face, he scarcely dared breathe, lest he should disturb the secret communion that the soul was holding with the world into which it was soon to enter. His grief, in the loss which he was about to suffer, was forgotten in the feeling of a holy inspiration, and he was, as it were, in the midst of invisible spirits, ascending and descending.

14. His mother's lips moved slightly as she uttered an indistinct sound. He drew back, and his sister went near to her, and she spoke. It was the same gentle voice which he had known and felt from his childhood. The exaltation of his soul left him-he sunk down-and his sorrow went over him like a flood.

ARTEBE

IV. 譬

53. MOTHER AND SON.

PART THIRD.

RTHUR went into his mother's chamber, the next day, as soon as she became composed enough to see him. She stretched out her feeble hand, and turned toward him, with a look that blessed him. It was the short struggle of a meek

spirit. She covered her eyes with her hand, and the tears trickled down between her pale, thin fingers. As soon as she became tranquil, she spoke of the gratitude she felt at being spared to see him before she died.

2. "My dear mother," said Arthur-but he could not go on. His voice choked, and his eyes filled. "Do not be so afflicted, Arthur, at the loss of me. We are not to part forever. Remember, too, how comfortable and happy you have made my days. Heaven, I am sure, will bless so good a son as you have been to You will have that consolation, my son, which visits too few sons, perhaps you will be able to look back upon your conduct, not without pain only, but with a sacred joy.

me.

3. "And think hereafter of the peace of mind you give me, now that I am about to die, in the thought that I am leaving your sister to your love and care. So long as you live, she will find you both father and brother to her." She paused for a moment. "I have long felt that I could meet death with composure; but I did not know-I did not know, till now that the hour is come, how hard a thing it would be to leave my children."

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4. After a little while she spoke of his father, and said she had lived in the belief that he was mindful of her, and with the conviction, which grew stronger as death approached, that she should meet him in another world. She spoke but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker ěvèry hour. Arthur sat by in silence, holding her hand. He saw that she was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every now and then she opened her eyes upon him, and tried to smile.

5. The day wōre slowly away; the sun went down, and the still twilight came on; while nothing was heard but the ticking of the watch, telling him, with a resistlèss power, that the hour was drawing nigh. It was now quite dark, and by the pale light of the night-lamp in the chimney-corner, the furniture in the room threw huge and uncouth figures over the walls. All was unsubstantial; and the shadowy ministers of death appeared găthering round, waiting the duty of the hour appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with superstitious awe; but, the solemn elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the dying took possession of him, and he became calm again.

6. The approach of death has so much which is exalting, that

our grief seems for the time suspended. And could one, who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked upon the grave and even grand repose of his countenance, he would hardly have known him. The hue of death was now fast spreading over his mother's face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint. "My mother!" She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him: a faint flush passed over her cheek; there was the serenity of an angel in her look; her hand just pressed his. It was all over.

7. His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sank down from its unearthly height; and, with his face upon his mother's pillow, he wept like a child. He arose with a softened grief, and, stepping into an adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt. "It is past," said he.-"Is my sister asleep? Well, be it so: let her have rest: she needs it. He then went to his own chamber, and shut himself in.

8. It is a merciful thing that the suffering of sensitive minds makes to itself a relief. Viölent grief brings on a torpor and indistinctnèss as from long watching. It is not till the violence of affliction has subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clearly what has been torn away from our affections. It was so with Arthur. Unconnected thoughts, and mělancholy but halfformed images, were floating in his mind, and now and then a gleam of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all was right again. His wōrn and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep.

9. It is an impression, of which we can not rid ourselves if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has still a consciousness of our presence; that, though he no longer has a concern in the common things of the world, love and thought are still there. The face which we had been familiar with so long, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make it reäl to ourselves that in the body before us there is not a something still alive.

10. Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was as if her soul was holding communion with spirits in Paradise, though it