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During my residence in the country, I used
frequently to attend at the old village church.
Its shadowy aisles, its mouldering monuments,
its dark oaken pannelling, all reverend with the
gloom of departed years, seemed to fit it for the
haunt of solemn meditation. A Sunday, too, in
the country, is so holy in its repose: such a
pensive quiet reigns over the face of nature, that
every restless passion is charmed down, and

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we feel all the natural religion of the soul gently
springing up within us.

Sweet day, so pure, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky!--

I do not pretned to be what is called a devout
man, but ther are feelings that visit me in a
country church, amidst the beautiful serenity
of nature, which I experience no where else; and
if not a more religious, I am certainly a better,
man on Sunday, than on any other day of the
seven.

But in this church I felt myself continually
thrown back upon the world by the frigidity
and pomp of the poor worms around me. The
only being that seemed thoroughly to feel the
humble and prostrate piety of a true christian,
was a poor decrepid old woman, bending under
the weight of years and infirmities. She bore
the traces of something better than abject poverty
The lingerings of decent pride were visible
in her appearance. Her dress, though
humble in the extreme, was scrupulously clean.

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Some trivial respect, too, had been awarded
her, for she did not take her seat among the village
poor, but sat alone on the steps of the altar.
She seemed to have survived all love, all friendship,
all society, and to have nothing left her but
the hopes of heaven. When I saw her feebly
rising and bending her aged form in prayer--habitually
conning her prayer book, which her palsied
hand and failing eyes could not permit
her to read, but which she evidently knew by
heart--I felt that the faltering voice of that
poor woman arose to heaven far before the responses
of the clerk, the swell of the organ, or
the chanting of the choir.

I am fond of loitering about country churches,
and this was so delightfully situated, that it frequently
attracted me. It stood on a knoll, round
which a small stream made a beautiful bend,
and then wound its way through a long reach
of soft meadow scenery. The church was
surrouned by yew trees, which seemed almost
coeval with itself. Its tall gothic spire
shot up lightly from among them, with rooks

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and crows generally wheeling about it. I was
seated here there one still sunny morning, watching
two labourers who were digging a grave. They
had chosen one of the most remote and neglected
corners of the church yard, where, by the
number of nameless graes around, it would
appear that the indigent and friendless were
huddled into the earth. I was told that the newmade
grave was for the only son of a poorwidow.
While I was meditating on the distinctions
of worldly rank, which extend thus down
into the very dust, the toll of the bell announced
the approach of the funeral. They were the
obsequies of poverty, with which pride had nothing
to do. A coffin of the plainest materials,
without pall or other covering, was borne by
some of the villagers. The sexton walked before
with an air of cold indifference. There
were no mock mourners in the trappings of affected
wo, but there was one real mourner who
feebly tottered after the corpse. It was the
aged mother of the deceased--the poor old woman
whom I had seen seated on the steps of the

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altar. She was supported by a humble friend,
who was endeavoring to comfort her. A few
of the neighboring poor had joined the train,
and some children of the village were running
hand in hand, now shouting with unthinking
mirth, and sometimes pausing to gaze, with
' childish curiosity, on the grief of the mourner.

As the funeral train approached the grave,
the parson issued out of the church porch, porch
in the surplice, with prayer book in hand,
and attended by the clerk. The service, however,
was a mere act of charity. The deceased
had been destitute, and the survivor was pennyless.
It was shuffled through, therfore, in
form, but coldly and unfeelingly. The well-fed
priest scarcely moved ten steps from the
church door; his voice could scarcely be heard
at the grave; and never did I hear the funeral
service, that sublime and touching ceremony,
turned into such a frigid mummery of words.

I approached the grave. The coffin was
placed on the ground. On it were inscribed

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the name and age of the deceased--"George
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother
had been assisted to kneel down at the head of
it. Her withered hands were clasped, as if in
prayer, but I could perceive, by a feeble rocking
of the body, and a convulsive motion of the
lips that she was gazing on the last reliques of
her son with the yearnings of a mother's heart.

The service being ended, preparations were
made to deposit the coffin in the earth. There
was that bustling stir, that breaks so harshly on
the feelings of grief and affection: directions
given in the cold tones of business; the striking
of spades into sand and gravel, which, at the
grave of those we love, is, of all sounds, the
most withering. The bustle around seemed to
awaken the mother from a wretched reverie.
She raised her glazed eyes, and looked about
with a faint wildness. As the men approached
with cords to lower the coffin into the grave,
she wrung her hands and broke into an agony
of grief. The poor woman who attended her
took her by the arm, endeavored to raise her

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from the earth, and to whisper something like
consolation--"Nay, now--nay, now--don't
take it so sorely to heart." She could only
shake her head, and wring her hands, as one not
to be comforted.

As they lowere the body into the earth, the
creaking of the cords seemed to agonize her;
but when, on some accidental obstruction, there
was a jolting of the coffin, all the tenderness of
the mother burst forth; as if any harm could
come to him who was far beyoind the reach of
worldly suffering.

I could see no more--my heart swelled into
my throat--my eyes filled with tears--I felt as
if I were acting a barbarous part in standing by
and gazing idly on this scene of maternal anguish.
I wandered to another part of the
church yard, where I remained until the funeral
train had dispersed.

When I saw the mother slowly and painfully
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the remains
of all that was dear to her on earth, and
returning to silence and destitution, my heart

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ached for her. What, thought I, are the distresses
of the rich! they hav friends to soothe--
pleasures to beguile--a world to divert and dissipate
their griefs. What are the sorrows of the
young! Their growing minds soon close above
the wound--their elastic spirits soon rise beneath
the pressure--their green and ductile affections
soon twine around new objects. But
the sorrows of a widow, aged, solitary, destitute,
mourning over an only son, the last solace
of her years; these are the sorrows which make
us feel the impotency of consolation.

It was some time before I left the church
yard. On my way homeward, I met with the
woman who had acted as comforter: she was
just returning from accompanying the mother
to her lonely habitation, and I drew from her
some particulars connected with the affecting
scene I had witnessed.

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The pareents of the deceased had resided in
the village from childhood. They had inhabited
one of the neatest cottages, and by various
rural occupations, and the assistance of a
small garden, had supported themselves creditably
and comfortably, and led a happy and a
blameless life. They had one son, who had
grown up to be the staff and pride of their age.--
"Oh sir!" said the good woman, "he was
such a likely lad, so sweet-tempered, so kind
to every one around him, so dutiful to his
parents! It did one's heart good, to see him of
a Sunday, drest out in his best, so tall, so
straight, so cheery, supporting his old mother
to church--for she was always fonder of leaning
on George's arm, than on her good man's; and, poor soul, she might well be proud of
him, for a finer lad there was not in the country
round.”

Unfortunately, the son was tempted, during
a year of scarcity and agricultural hardship, to
enter in to the service of one of the small craft
that plied on a neighboring river. He had

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not been long in this employ, when he was entrapped
by a press-gang, and carried off to sea.
His parents received the tidings of his seizure,
but beyond that they could learn nothing. It
was the loss of their main prop. The father,
who was already infirm, grew heartless and
melancholy, and sunk into his grave. The
widow, left lonely in her age and feebleness,
could no longer support herself, and came upon
the parish. Still there was a kind feeling toward
her throughout the village, and a certain
respect as one of the oldest inhabitants. As
no one applied for the cottage in which she had
passed so many happy days, she was permitted
to remain in it, where she lived solitary and
almost helpless. The few wants of nature
were chiefly supplied from the scanty productions
of her little garden, which the neighbours
would now and then cultivate for her. It was
but a few days before the time at which these
circumstances were told me, that she was gathering
some vegetables for her repast, when
she heard the cottage door that faced the garden

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den suddenly opened. A stranger came out, and
seemed to be looking eagerly and wildly around.
He was dressed in seamen's clothes, was emaciated
and ghastly pale, and bore the air of one
broken by sickness and hardships. He saw her,
and hastened toward her, but his 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 vacant and 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 the
scenes 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 old age! Nature, however, was exhausted
in him; and if any thing had been wanting
to finish the work of fate, the desolation of

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his native cottage would have been sufficient.
He stretched himself on the pallet where his
widowed mother had passed many a sleepless
night, 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 their humble
means afforded. He, however, was too weak
to talk—he could only look his thanks. His
mother was his constant attendant, and he seemed
unwilling to be helped by any other hand.

There is something in sickness that breaks
down the pride of manhood; that softens the
heart, and brings it back to the feelings of infancy.
Who that has suffered, even in advanced
life, in sickness and despondency; who that has
pined on a weary bed in the neglect and loneliness
of a foreign land, but has thought on the
mother “that looked on his childhood,” that
smoothed his pillow, and administered to his
helplessness. Oh! there is an enduring tenderness
in the love of a mother to a son that transcends
all other affections of the heart. It is

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neither to be chilled by selfishness, nor daunted
by danger, nor weakened by worthlessness,
nor stifled by ingratitude. She will sacrifice
every comfort to his convenience; she will surrender
every pleasure to his enjoyment; she
will glory in his fame, and exult in his prosperity:
and, if adversity overtakes him, he will be
the dearer to her by misfortune; and if disgrace
settle upon his name, she will still love and
cherish him; and if all the world beside cast
him off, she will be all the world to him.

Poor George Somers had known well what it
was to be in sickness, and none to soothe—lonely
and in prison, and none to visit him. He
could not endure his mother from his sight; if
she moved away, his eye would follow her.
She would sit for hours by his bed, watching
him as he slept. Sometimes he would start
from a feverish dream, look anxiously up until
he saw her venerable form bending over him,
when he would take her hand, lay it on his bosom,
and fall asleep with the tranquillity of a
child. In this way he died.

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

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

She had made an effort to put on something
like mourning for her son; and nothing could
be more touching than this struggle between
pious affection and utter poverty: a black riband
or so, a faded black handkerchief, and
one or two more such humble attempts to express
by outward signs that grief which passes
show. When I looked round upon the storied
monuments; the stately hatchments; the cold
marble pomp, with which grandeur mourned

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magnificently over departed pride; and turned
to this poor widow bowed down by age and
sorrow at the altar of her god, and offering up
the prayers and praises of a pious, though a
broken heart, I felt that this living monument
of real grief was worth them all.

I related her story to some of the wealthy
members of the congregation, and they were
moved at it. They exerted themselves to render
her situation more comfortable, and to
lighten her afflictions. It was, however, but
smoothing a few steps to the grave. In the
course of a Sunday or two after, she was missed
from her usual seat at church, and before I
left the neighbourhood, I heard, with a feeling of
satisfaction, that she had quietly breathed her
last, and gone to rejoin those she loved, in that
world where sorrow is never known, and friends
are never parted.

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