Sometimes he would start from a
feverish dream, and look anxiously up until he saw her 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.
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 everything that the case admitted; and as the poor
know 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 ribbon 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
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.
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