"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 sorrow and joy 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 his native cottage would have been sufficient. He stretched
himself on the pallet on which 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 was too weak, however, 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.
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