ce of that failing eye, or
dreaded the power of that trembling hand! He tottered feebly along the
path, and had some difficulty in getting over a stile. I ran and
assisted him. He looked at me with surprise, but did not recognize me,
and made a low bow of humility and thanks. I had no disposition to make
myself known, for I felt that I had nothing to boast of. The pains he
had taken and the pains he had inflicted had been equally useless. His
repeated predictions were fully verified, and I felt that little Jack
Buckthorne, the idle boy, had grown up to be a very good-for-nothing
man.

This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told you of my
follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I was schooled for
them.

The most thoughtless of mortals will some time or other have this day
of gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on this occasion
as if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in
expiation of my past levity.

Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private path which
leads up a hill, through a grove, and across quiet fields, until I came
to the small village, or rather hamlet of Lenington. I sought the
village church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone on the brow of a
small hill, looking over fertile fields to where the proud towers of
Warwick Castle lifted themselves against the distant horizon. A part of
the church-yard is shaded by large trees. Under one of these my mother
lay buried. You have, no doubt, thought me a light, heartless being. I
thought myself so--but there are moments of adversity which let us into
some feelings of our nature, to which we might otherwise remain
perpetual strangers.

I sought my mother's grave. The weeds were already matted over it, and
the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away and they
stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too
severely. I sat down on the grave, and read over and over again the
epitaph on the stone. It was simple, but it was true. I had written it
myself. I had tried to write a poetical epitaph, but in vain; my
feelings refused to utter themselves in rhyme. My heart had gradually
been filling during my lonely wanderings; it was now charged to the
brim and overflowed. I sank upon the grave and buried my face in the
tall grass and wept like a child. Yes, I wept in manhood upon the
grave, as I had in infancy upon the bosom of my mother. Alas! how
littl