burst of the roused-up ocean, as it dealt the last stroke upon the groaning timbers of the wreck, and scattered the whole pile far and wide, in countless atoms, upon the boiling surface of the deep. And again, without turning in thought to the far-away homes at which the tale of the wanderers was never told-to the pale young widow that dreamed herself still a wife, and lived on, from morn to morn, in the fever of a vain suspense-to the helpless parent, that still hoped for the offices of filial kindness from the hand that was now mouldering in a distant grave; and to the social fireside, over whose evening pastimes the long silence of an absent friend had thrown a gloom, that the certainty of woe or gladness could never re move. Among those nameless tombs, within the space of the last few years, the widow of a fisherman, named Reardon, was observed to spend a great portion of her time. Her husband had died young, perishing in a sudden storm which swept his canoe from the coast side into the waste of sea beyond it; and his wife was left to inhabit a small cottage near the crags, and to support, by the labour of her hands, an only child, who was destined to inherit little more than the blessing, the virtue, and the affections of his parent. The poor widow endeavoured to procure a subsistence for her boy and for herself by gathering the kelp which was thrown upon the crags, and which was burned for the purpose of manufacturing soap from its ashes; while the youth employed his yet unformed strength in tilling the small garden that was confined by a quickset hedge at their cottage side. They were fondly attached, and toiled incessantly to obtain the means of comfort, rather for each other than for themselves; but, with all their exertions, fortune left them in the rearward of her favour. The mother beheld, with a mother's agony, the youthful limbs and features of her boy exhibit the sickly effects of habitual privation and habitual toil; while the son mourned to see the feebleness of a premature old age begin to steal upon the health and vigour of his parent. In these difficulties a prospect of certain advantage and probable good fortune induced the young man to leave his mother and his native country for some years. The distresses and disturbances which agitated that unhappy land pressed so heavily upon the fortunes of many families of the middle as well as the lower rank, that great numbers were found to embrace the opportunity of improvement which the colonization of the New World held out for VOL. II. their advantage. Among those who emigrated was the family under whom the Reardons held their little cottage; and with them it was that the young man determined to try his fortune in a happier region. Having arranged their affairs so as to secure his widowed parent against absolute poverty, they separated with many tears, the mother blessing her son as she committed him to the guardianship of Providence, and the son pledging himself to return to her assistance so soon as he had obtained the means of providing her the comforts necessary for her old age. His success, though gradual, was complete. The blessings of the young Tobias fell upon the work of his hands, and his industry, because well directed, was productive, even beyond his expectations. Instead of lingering like many of his fellow-exiles in the sea-port towns, where they were detained by idleness and that openmouthed folly which persuades men that fortune may be found without the pain of seeking, young Reardon proceeded at once into the new settlements, where human industry is one of the most valuable and valued commodities. In a little time he was enabled to remit a considerable portion of his earnings to his poor mother, and continued, from time to time, to increase his contributions to her comfort, until at length the abundance of his prosperity was such as to enable him to relinquish the pursuit of gain, and to fulfil the promise he had made at parting. He did not return alone. With the full approbation of the poor widow, he had joined his fate to that of a young person in the settlement where he dwelt, whose dispositions were in every way analogous to his own, and who only excelled him in the superior ease and comfort of her circumstances. Previous to his return he wrote to the poor widow, to inform her that in less than two months from that time, with the blessing of Providence, her daughter-in-law, her two grand-children, and her son, would meet beneath the roof of her ancient dwelling. Fancy, if you can, the anxiety with which the poor widow looked out for this long-expected time. The assistance which the affectionate exile had been able to afford her was such as to raise her to a state of comparative affluence in her neighbourhood, and to render her independent of the hard and servile toil by which she had been accustomed to gain a livelihood. Her cottage was wholly changed in its appearance, and had the honour of being frequently selected for a night's lodging by her landlord's agent and other great men who passed 28 through that lonely district. A few flowers sprang up in her sally-fringed garden, which were not the less tenderly cherished that the seeds from which they grew were transmitted from the emigrant's garden in the other hemisphere. Her life up to the moment when she received this joyous letter, had been calmly and sadly happy. She looked forward with a serene feeling of mingled hope and resignation to the day of her son's return, and never once suffered the eagerness of her affection to outstep her gratitude to Heaven and her entire dependence upon the divine will. But, forgive a mother's fondness!-There are few hearts in which the affections of the world and of nature are so entirely held under subjection by the strong hand of reason and faith, that they cannot be moved to a momentary forgetfulness of duty by a sudden and startling occasion. After the widow had heard the letter read in which her son announced his approaching return, the quiet of her life was for a time disturbed. She thought of heaven, indeed, and prayed even more fervently than before; but the burning fever that possessed her heart showed that its confidence was qualified. In the hours of devotion she often found her thoughts wandering from that Being whose breath could still or trouble the surface of the ocean, far over the wide waters themselves, to meet the vessel that was flying to her with the tidings of bliss. She shuddered as she went, morn after morn, to the cliff-head and cast her eyes on the graves of the shipwrecked voyagers which were scattered along the turf-mountain on which she | trod. In the silence of the night, when she endeavoured to drown her anxieties in sleep, imagination did but overact the part with which it had terrified her waking. Stormy seas and adverse winds-a ship straining against the blast, her deck covered with pale and affrighted faces, among which she seemed to detect those of her son and of his familywinds hissing through the creaking yardsand waves tossing their horrid heads aloft and roaring for their prey. Such were the visions that beset the bed of the longing mother, and made the night ghastly to her eyes. When she lay awake, the rustling of a sudden wind among the green boughs at her window made her start and sit erect in her bed; nor would she again return to rest until she had opened the little casement, and satisfied herself, by waving her hand abroad in the night air, that her alarm was occasioned by one of its fairest and most favourable motions. So indeed it was. The Almighty, as though to convince her how far she was from conjecturing aright the quarter from which calamity might visit her, bade the winds blow during the whole of that period in the manner which, had they been in her own keeping, she would have desired. Her acquaintances and neighbours all seemed to share in her anxiety. The fishermen, after they had drawn up their canoes at evening, were careful, on their way homeward, to drop in at the widow Reardon's door, and let her know what vessels had entered the neighbouring river in the course of the day, or had appeared in the offing. She was constantly cheered with the assurance that fairer weather for a homeward-bound ship, or more likely to continue, was never known before. Still, nevertheless, the poor woman's heart was not at peace, and the days and nights lagged along with an unaccustomed heaviness. One night in particular, towards the end of the second month, appeared to linger so very strangely, that the widow thought the morn would never dawn. An unusual darkness seemed to brood over the world; and she lay awake, gazing with longing eyes toward the little window through which the sun's earliest rays were used to greet her in her waking. On a sudden she heard voices outside the window. Alive to the slightest circumstance that was unusual, she arose, all dark as it was, threw on her simple dress in haste, and groped her way to the front door of the dwelling. She recognized the voice of a friendly neighbour, and opened the door, supposing that he might have some interesting intelligence to communicate. She judged correctly. "Good news! good news! Mrs. Reardon; and I give you joy of them this morning. What will you give me for telling you who is in that small boat at the shore?" "That small boat?-what?-where?" "Below there, ma'am, where I'm pointing my finger. Don't you see them coming up the crag towards you?" "I cannot-I cannot-it is so dark-" the widow replied, endeavouring to penetrate the gloom. "Dark! And the broad sun shining down upon them this whole day!" "Day! The sun! O my Almighty Father, save me!" "What's the matter? Don't you see them, ma'am?" "See them?" the poor woman exclaimed, placing her hands on her eyes and shrieking aloud in her agony "Oh! I shall never see him more-I am dark and blind!" The peasant started back and blessed him self. The next instant the poor widow was caught in the arms of her son. "Where is she? My mother! O my darling mother, I am come back to you! Look! I have kept my word.' She strove, with a sudden effort of selfrestraint, to keep her misfortune secret, and wept, without speaking, upon the neck of her long absent relative, who attributed her tears to an excess of happiness. But when he presented his young wife, and called her attention to the happy laughing faces and healthful cheeks of their children, the wandering of her eyes and the confusion of her manner left it no longer possible to retain the secret. to his bosom and wept aloud, while his wife, retiring softly to a distance, hid her face in her cloak. Her children clung with fear and anxiety to her side, and gazed with affrighted faces upon the afflicted mother and son. "I But they were not forgotten. After she had repeatedly embraced her recovered child, the good widow remembered her guests. She extended her arms towards that part of the room at which she heard the sobs and moanings of the younger mother. "Is that my daughter's voice?" she asked-"place her in my arms, Richard. Let me feel the mother of your children upon my bosom." The young woman flung herself into the embrace of the aged widow. "Young and fair, I am sure," the latter continued, passing her wasted fingers over the blooming cheek of the good American. can feel the roses upon this cheek, I am certain. But what are these?-Tears! My good child, you should dry our tears, instead of adding to them. Where are your children? Let me see The young man uttered a horrid and piercing-ah! my heart-let me feel them, I mean cry, while he tossed his clenched hand above let me take them in my arms. his head and stamped upon the earth in sudden anguish. "Blind! my mother?" he repeated "O Heaven, is this the end of all my toils and wishes? To come home and find her dark for ever! Is it for this I have prayed and laboured! Blind and dark! O my poor mother! Oh, Heaven! O mother, mother!" "My good, kind boy," said she, laying her hand heavily on his arm- -"you are returned to my old arms once more, and I am grateful for it but we cannot expect to have all we wish for in this world. O my poor boy, I can never see you-I can never see your children! I am blind." "Hold now, my boy-where are you? What way is that for a Christian to talk? Come near me, and let me touch your hands. -Don't add to my sorrows, Richard, my child, by uttering a word against the will of Heaven. -Where are you? Come near me. Let me hear you say that you are resigned to this and all other visitations of the great Lord of all light. Say this, my child, and your virtue will be dearer to me than my eyes! Ah! my good Richard, you may be sure the Almighty never strikes us except it is for our sins, or for our good. I thought too much of you, my child, and the Lord saw that my heart was straying to the world again, and he has struck me for the happiness of both. Let me hear you say that you are satisfied. I can see your heart still, and that is dearer to me than your person. Let me see it as good and dutiful as I knew it before you left me.' The disappointed exile supported her in his arms."Well,-well,-my poor mother," he said, "I am satisfied. Since you are the chief sufferer and show no discontent, it would be too unreasonable that I should murmur. The will of Heaven be done!—but it is a bitter -stroke." Again he folded his dark parent My little angels! Oh! If I could only open my eyes for one moment to look upon you all-but for one little instant-I would close them again for the rest of my life, and think myself happy. If it had happened only one day-one hour after your arrival-but the will of Heaven be done! perhaps even this moment, when we think ourselves most miserable, he is preparing for us some hidden blessing." Once more the pious widow was correct in her conjecture. It is true, that day, which all hoped should be a day of rapture, was spent by the reunited family in tears and mourning. But Providence did not intend that creatures who had served him so faithfully should be visited with more than a temporary sorrow for a slight and unaccustomed transgression. The news of the widow's misfortune spread rapidly through the country, and excited universal sympathy-for few refuse their commiseration to a fellow-creature's sorrow-even of those who would accord a tardy and measured sympathy to his good fortune. Among those who heard with real pity the story of their distress, was a surgeon who resided in the neighbourhood, and who felt all that enthusiastic devotion to his art which its high importance to the welfare of mankind was calculated to excite in a generous mind. This gentleman took an early opportunity of visiting the old widow when she was alone in the cottage. The simplicity with which she told her story, and the entire resignation which she expressed, interested and touched him deeply. "It is not over with me yet, sir," she con- | distinctness. The first on which her eyes recluded, "for still, when the family are talking around me, I forget that I am blind; and when I hear my son say something pleasant, I turn to see the smile upon his lips; and when the darkness reminds me of my loss, it seems as if I lost my sight over again!" The surgeon discovered on examination that the blindness was occasioned by a disease called cataract, which obscures, by an unhealthy se- | cretion, the lucid brightness of the crystalline lens, and obstructs the entrance of the rays of light. The improvements which modern practitioners have made in this science render this disease, which was once held to be incurable, now comparatively easy of removal. The surgeon perceived at once by the condition of the eyes, that, by the abstraction of the injured lens, he could restore sight to the afflicted widow. Unwilling, however, to excite her hopes too suddenly or prematurely, he began by asking her whether, for a chance of recovering the use of her eyes, she would submit to a little pain? The poor woman replied, "that if he thought he could once more enable her to behold her child and his children, she would be content to undergo any pain which would not endanger her existence." "Then," replied her visitor, "I may inform you that I have the strongest reasons to believe that I can restore you to sight, provided you agree to place yourself at my disposal for a few days. I will provide you with an apartment in my house, and your family shall know nothing of it until the cure is effected." The widow consented, and on that very evening the operation was performed. The pain was slight, and was endured by the patient without a murmur. For a few days after the surgeon insisted on her wearing a covering over her eyes, until the wounds which he had found it necessary to inflict had been perfectly healed. One morning, after he had felt her pulse and made the necessary inquiries, he said, while he held the hand of the widow: "I think we may now venture with safety to remove the covering. Compose yourself now, my good old friend, and suppress all emotion. Prepare your heart for the reception of a great happiness." The poor woman clasped her hands firmly together and moved her lips as if in prayer. At the same moment the covering fell from her brow and the light burst in a joyous flood upon her soul. She sat for an instant bewildered and incapable of viewing any object with posed was the figure of a young man bending his gaze with an intense and ecstatic fondness upon hers, and with his arms outstretched as if to anticipate the recognition. The face, though changed and sunned since she had known it, was still familiar to her. She started from her seat with a wild cry of joy, and cast herself upon the bosom of her son. She embraced him repeatedly, then removed him to a distance that she might have the opportunity of viewing him with greater distinctness-and again, with a burst of tears, flung herself upon his neck. Other voices, too, mingled with theirs. She beheld her daughter and their children waiting eagerly for her caress. She embraced them all, returning from each to each, and perusing their faces and persons as if she would never drink deep enough of the cup of rapture which her recovered sense afforded her. The beauty of the young mother-the fresh and rosy colour of the children-the glossy brightness of their hair their smiles-their movements of joyall afforded subjects for delight and admiration, such as she might never have experienced had she never considered them in the light of blessings lost for life. The surgeon, who thought that the consciousness of a stranger's presence might impose a restraint upon the feelings of the patient and her friends, retired into a distant corner, where he beheld, not without tears, the scene of happiness which he had been made instrumental in conferring. Richard," said the widow, as she laid her hand upon her son's shoulder and looked into his eyes, "did I not judge aright when I said, that even when we thought ourselves the most miserable, the Almighty might have been preparing for us some hidden blessing? Were we in the right to murmur?" The young man withdrew his arms from his mother, clasped them before him, and bowed down his head in silence. GERALD GRIFFIN REFLECTION AT SEA. See how beneath the moonbeam's smile 1 Tales of the Five Senses. THOMAS MOORE. THE MOUSE TURNED HERMIT. FROM PIGNOTTI. "O beata solitudo!" In winter, when my grandmother sat spinning To many a tale, still ending, still beginning, She made me list with eyes and mouth full wide, She told me how the frogs and mice went fighting, One night, quite sulky, not a word she utter'd, Once on a time there was a mouse," quoth she, To all terrestrial things he bade adieu, And his plump sides could vie with any friar's: "Just at that time, driven to the very brink "Then was a solemn deputation sent From one and all to every neighbouring house, Each with a bag upon his shoulder went, And last they came unto our hermit-mouse, Where, squeaking out a chorus at his door, They begg'd him to take pity on the poor. "O my dear children,' said the anchorite, 'On mortal happiness and transient cares No more I bend my thoughts, no more delight In sublunary, worldly, vain affairs; These things have I forsworn, and must, though loath, Reprove your striving thus against my oath. "Poor, helpless as I am, what can I do? A solitary tenant of these walls; What can I more than breathe my prayers for you? And Heaven oft listens when the pious calls! Go, my dear children, leave me here to pray, Go, go, and take your empty bags away.'" "Ho! grandmother," cried I, "this matches well This mouse of yours so snug within his cheese, With many a monk as snug within his cell, Swollen up with plenty and a life of ease, Who takes but cannot give to a poor sinner, Proclaims a fast and hurries home to dinner." "Ah, hold your tongue!" the good old dame screamed out, "You jackanapes! who taught you thus to prate? How is't you dare to slander the devout? Men in so blessed, so sanctified a state! I promise you 'twill be a bitter day!" A POET'S PRESENT. TO THE LADY OLIVIA PORTER. Goe! hunt the whiter ermine, and present A star, contracted in a diamond, Give it Endymion's love; whose glorious eyes Darken the starry jewels of the skies! Goel dive into the southern sea, and when Thou hast found (to trouble the nice sight of men) SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT. 1 Wife of the poet's friend and patron, Endymion Porter. |