where I was groom, I could not help planting this tree for old acquaintance' sake." Here he drew his hand. across his eyes. "Then he was not a low-born man?" "Oh! no; his father was a clergyman, I think." "Indeed! poor man: was he living at the time?" said Vernon, deeply sighing. "Oh! yes; for his poor son did so fret, lest his father should ever know what he had done: he said he was an angel upon earth; and he could not bear to think how he would grieve; for, poor lad, he loved his father and his mother too, though he did so badly.” "Is his mother living?" No; if she had, he would have been alive; but his evil courses broke her heart; and it was because the man he killed reproached him for having murdered his mother, that he was provoked to murder him." "Poor, rash, mistaken youth! then he had provocation?" "Oh! yes; the greatest: but he was very sorry for what he had done; and it would have done your heart good to hear him talk of his poor father." "I am glad I did not hear him," said Vernon hastily, and in a faltering voice; (for he thought of Edgar.) And yet, sir, it would have done your heart good too." “Then he had virtuous feelings, and loved his father, amidst all his errors?" "And I dare say his father loved him, in spite of his faults." I dare say he did,” replied the man; "for one's children are our own flesh and blood, you know, sir, after all that is said and done; and may be this young fellow was spoiled in the bringing up." "Perhaps so," said Vernon, sighing deeply. "However, this poor lad made a very good end.” "I am glad of that! and he lies here," continued Ver non, gazing on the spot with deeper interest, and moving nearer to it as he spoke. "Peace be to his soul! but was he not dissected?" "Yes; but his brothers got leave to have the body after dissection. They came to me, and we buried it privately at night." "His brothers came! and who were his brothers?" "Merchants, in London; and it was a sad cut on them; but they took care that their father should not know it." "No!" cried Vernon, turning sick at heart. "Oh! no; they wrote him word that his son was ill; then went to Westmoreland, and-" "Tell me,” interrupted Vernon, gasping for breath, and laying his hand on his arm, "tell me the name of this poor youth!" Why, he was tried. under a false name, for the sake of his family; but his real name was Edgar Vernon." The agonized parent drew back, shuddered violently and repeatedly, casting up his eyes to heaven, at the same time, with a look of mingled appeal and resignation. He then rushed to the obscure spot which covered the bones of his son, threw himself upon it, and stretched his arms over it, as if embracing the unconscious deposit beneath, while his head rested on the grass, and he neither spoke nor moved. But he uttered one groan; then all was stillness! His terrified and astonished companion remained motionless, for a few moments, — then stooped to raise him; but the FIAT OF MERCY had gone forth, and the paternal heart, broken by the sudden shock, had suffered, and breathed its last. MUSINGS ON THE GRAVE.- Washington Irving. [An example of the deepest pathos.] Oh! the grave! the grave!-It buries every error, covers every defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can look down, even upon the grave of an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that ever he should have warred with the poor handful of earth that now lies mouldering before him? But the of those we loved grave - what a place for meditation! There it is we call up, in long review, the whole history of the truth and gentleness, and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheard in the daily course of intimacy; there it is we dwell upon the tenderness of the parting scene; the bed of death, with all its stifled grief; its noiseless attendants; its most watchful assiduities, the last testimonial of expiring love, the feeble, fluttering, thrilling-oh! how thrilling is the beating of the pulse! -the last fond look of the glazing eye, turning upon us from the threshold of existence, - the faint faltering accent, struggling in death to give one more assurance of affection. - Ah! go to the grave of buried love, and meditate! There settle the account, with thy conscience, of every past endearment unregarded, of that departed being, who never, never can be soothed by contrition. If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent; — if thou art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured its whole happiness in thy arms, to doubt a moment of thy kindness or thy truth;-if thou art a friend, and hast injured by thought, word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee; - if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to the true heart that now lies cold beneath thy feet, there be sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle action, will come thronging back upon thy memory, and knock dolefully at thy soul; be sure that thou wilt lie down sorrowing and repenting on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, and pour the unavailing tear,— bitter, because unheard and unavailing. THE GRAVE. J. Montgomery. [An example of vivid and varied “Expression."] There is a calm for those who weep, A rest for weary pilgrims found; They softly lie and sweetly sleep Low in the ground. From Wrath and Vengeance wouldst thou flee?— Ah! think not, hope not, fool, to find "Art thou a mourner? - Hast thou known The joy of innocent delights, Endearing days forever flown, And tranquil nights? Oh! LIVE! and deeply cherish still "Art thou a wanderer?- Hast thou seen "Though long of wind and waves the sport, "To Friendship didst thou trust thy fame? Who stole into thy breast to aim A surer blow? LIVE! and repine not o'er his loss, A loss unworthy to be told: Thou hast mistaken sordid dross For friendship's gold. "Seek the true treasure, - seldom found, With heavenly balm. "Whate'er thy lot-whate'er thou be,— Confess thy folly, kiss the rod, And in thy chastening sorrows see The hand of God. "A bruised reed he will not break; Afflictions all his children feel: He wounds them for his mercy's sake He wounds to heal. |
