with wonder a ceremonial which they could hardly comprehend. The female gossips next. rose to depart, and, with consideration for the situation of the parents, carried along with them the girls of the family, to give the unhappy pair time and opportunity to open their hearts to each other, and soften their grief by communicating it. But their kind intention was without effect. The last of them had darkened the entrance of the cottage as she went out, and drawn the door softly behind her, when the father, first ascertaining by a hasty glance that no stranger remained, started up, clasped his hands wildly above his head, uttered a cry of the despair which he had hitherto repressed, and, in all the impotent impatience of grief, half rushed, half staggered forward to the bed on which the coffin had been deposited, threw himself down upon it, and smothering, as it were, his head among the bedclothes, gave vent to the full passion of his sorrow. It was in vain that the wretched mother, terrified by the vehemence of her husband's affliction-affliction still more fearful as agitating a man of hardened manners and a robust framesuppressed her own sobs and tears, and, pulling him by the skirts of his coat, implored him to rise and remember, that, though one was removed, he had still a wife and children to comfort and support. The appeal came at too early a period of his anguish, and was totally unattended to; he continued to remain prostrate, indicating, by sobs so bitter and violent that they shook the bed and partition against which it rested, by clenched hands which grasped the bedclothes, and by the

vehement and convulsive motions of his legs, how deep and how terrible was the agony of a father's

sorrow.

66 'O, what a day is this! what a day is this!" said the poor mother, her womanish affliction already exhausted by sobs and tears, and now almost lost in terror for the state in which she beheld her husband ;—“ O, what an hour is this! and naebody to help a poor lone woman—0, gudemither, could ye but speak a word to him! -wad ye but bid him be comforted!"

To her astonishment, and even to the increase of her fear, her husband's mother heard and answered the appeal. She rose and walked across the floor without any support, and without much apparent feebleness, and, standing by the bed on which her son had extended himself, she said, "Rise up, my son, and sorrow not for him that is beyond sin, and sorrow, and temptation. Sorrow is for those that remain in this vale of sorrow and darkness-I, wha dinna sorrow, and wha canna sorrow, for ony ane, hae maist need that ye should a' sorrow for me."

The voice of his mother, not heard for years as taking part in the active duties of life, or offering advice or consolation, produced its effect upon her son. He assumed a sitting posture on the side of the bed, and his appearance, attitude, and gestures, changed from those of angry despair to deep grief and dejection. The grandmother retired to her nook, the mother mechanically took in her hand her tattered Bible, and seemed to read, though her eyes were drowned with tears. SIR W. SCOTT.

THE MISERIES OF A RETURN HOME

AFTER A LONG ABSENCE.

IT was now that I first felt the full force of the change which had taken place in me, and in those to whom I was returning; and I began to have misgivings as to how I might appear to them, and they to me. It is true that I had kept up a constant intercourse with my family by letters-but what are letters at a distance of thirteen thousand miles, and during an absence of a quarter of a century? Can a letter set the writer before you, and show the silent work of time upon his person? Can a letter, however affectionate, equal those little daily offices of kindness, which sink farther into the heart than even the greatest acts of friendship-as the continual dropping of water upon a stone makes the deepest impression? Can a letter convey the half-word, the passing look of tenderness?—or be unto us a watcher in sickness--a consoler in sorrow-a companion in enjoyment,-as he who wrote it would have been? Alas! No;-when absence exceeds a certain time, and when, added to this, months of distance intervene, letters may indeed waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole,"

66

but they will but feebly make known the daily life and feelings of correspondents to each other. They are as unsubstantial and imperfect, in comparison with actual intercourse, as are the shadows of physical objects with the forms which cause them.

My fears on this head were but too truly accomplished. When I drove up to the house, my sister was waiting on the steps to receive me, and in a moment I was in her arms. When, after some time, we drew back to gaze upon each other; there was indeed cause for pain. We could not expect that we should be unchanged: we knew that Time must have done his usual work; but still we lived in each other's recollection just as we had parted, and the reality was scarcely the less sad from its having been, in a great degree, foreseen. The same smile, indeed a smile never to be forgotten-still played in my sister's eye and lip; but the eye was sunken, and the lip grown thin,-and the smile itself was sadder and more aged, like the frames and hearts of both of us. The full blooming cheek was grown hollow and pale; and the luxuriant and beautiful hair, for which my sister had been remarkable, was entirely hidden-if, indeed, it still remained-by the widow's cap, which she had worn ever since her husband's death. This, and the gown of dark gray,—which was likewise, I found, her constant attire, completed the contrast with the light-hearted, brilliant, blooming, beautiful girl whom I had left. For myself, I believe I was sufficiently changed also. My period of absence had been passed under a burning sun, and my figure and my face bore ample marks of its corroding influAll the mental suffering, too, which I had undergone had given aid to the work of climate. I had left home a tall, florid, athletic boy of eighteen: I returned a withered, worn

ence.

out man of forty-five-thin even to leannessand my whole frame nerveless and relaxed. My cheek was of that yellow waxen colour, which long dwelling in a burning climate gives-and my white hairs were fast outnumbering those which had retained their original darkness. My sister and I read in each other's looks the shock we had mutually received, and we walked silently together into the house.

Here I was to experience a meeting still more bitter. I knew that my father had sunk almost into second childhood; but I had no expectation of finding his imbecility so complete. He was seated in an easy chair near the window, which reached to the ground, that he might enjoy the mild and grateful warmth of a July sunset. His limbs were wrapped in flannels, and he was supported by pillows on either side. His head shook tremulously his eye was vacantly fixed-and his jaw dropped in the extremity of dotage. This miserable wreck, which humanity could scarcely look at without a feeling of degradation, was all that remained of the hale and handsome man whom I had quitted-it was all that time and sorrow had spared of my father!-Our entrance attracted his attention, and he looked with surprise on the stranger! — -"Set a chair for the gentleman," he muttered, almost mechanically; "perhaps he would like to take something after his journey."

My heart swelled almost to completion of my return home.

bursting at this

This was what

I had looked to so fondly and so long; and now what was it but bitterness and sorrow? My sister