ht 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
sunk 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 little do we appreciate a mother's
tenderness while living! how heedless are we in youth of all her
anxieties and kindness! But when she is dead and gone; when the cares
and coldness of the world come withering to our hearts; when we find how
hard it is to find true sympathy;--how few love us for ourselves; how
few will befriend us in our misfortunes--then it is that we think of
the mother we have lost. It is true I had always loved my mother, even
in my most heedless days; but I felt how inconsiderate and ineffectual
had been my love. My heart melted as I retraced the days of infancy,
when I was led by a mother's hand, and rocked to sleep in a mother's
arms, and was without care or sorrow. "O my mother!" exclaimed I,
burying my face again in the grass of the grave, "O that I were once
more by your side; sleeping never to wake again on the cares and
troubles of this world."

I am not naturally of a morbid temperament, and the violence of my
emotion gradually exhausted itself. It was a hearty, honest, natural
discharge of grief which had been slowly accumulating, and gave me
wonderful relief. I rose from the grave as if I had been offering up a
sacrifice, and I felt as if that sacrifice had been accepted.

I sat down again on the grass, and plucked one by one the weeds from her
grave: the tears trickled more slowly down my cheeks, and ceased to be
bitter. It was a comfort to think that she had died before sorrow
and poverty came upon her child, and all his great expectations were
blasted.

I leaned my cheek upon my