MY MOTHER;
OR, EXTRACTS FROM A FASHIONABLE WOMAN’S DIARY.
BY MRS. M. A. DENlSON.
July 10th.
Henry handed me a letter. It is in my mother cramped, old-fashioned hand. She Mill be here the first of next week.
'Tis very foolish to think so, I know—rbut then those fashionable Hamiltons will be here. Mm. Hamilton dresses with such taste, and mother will wear that old, old silk. I almost wish she had decided to oome the week after— TU write and ask her if she can put it off as well as not.
My wretchedness is unspeakable—a world of misery has fallen upon me like a cloud. I am steeped in sorrow to the very lips.
Oh! my mother! my mother!
Life is alternately light and shade, they tell me. Alas! my life is all shadow, and I seem creeping slowly down its long vista, a reproach to myself and a trouble to those I lore.
My mother is dead. And I—oh! heartless! sent her 6uch a letter! Everything is black, blank around me. My heart sinks—oh! that I too could die!
The splendors by which I am surrounded mock me cruelly. The burden on my conscience tells me I hare neglected her—that I hare been ashamed of her dear, hard-working hands, her homeliness, her want of knowledge pertaining to this heartless world.
How carefully she brought me up, my widowed mother, with her slender means! How she de¬ nied herself comforts that she might minister to my little wants! How proud she was of what they called my beauty! It is faded now. And I—to think of her slender wardrobe, her close Quaker caps, her unpolished language, her old- fashioned ways! May God forgive me! ’Tis the only heartfelt prayer I have breathed since the days of my childhood.
AH is blank. The house seems like a vast tomb. Its splendor wearies me. Oh! could I bat fall on my mother’s bosom once more, and breathe ont my sorrow and my penitence there! Oh! that I could see her smile again—wind my arms abont her neck, feel her warm embrace.
Mother! word that I have abused, maternal heart that I have forsaken, wounded, now for¬ ever at rest in the grave.
On the llth.
I have seen my mother. Not soon shall I forget that meek, white face, and the lips, so mute!—the gentle lips, always ready to bless me. The eyes were dim that saw nought but perfection in me.
I have been to the little oottage where I was born. Doubly dear seemed every part of that old house. The floor in the wide kitchen was white and sanded jnst the same as when I was last there. But over opposite in the pleasant parlor she lies placidly.
Dreary sight! They wonder at my excess of grief. They would not, knew they my self-re¬ proaches, the crushing weight upon my spirit. As I stood by that coffin, I heard again the "God bless my daughter.” It was murmured through smiles and tears on the morning of my wedding day. I remember the Bad forebodings which sometimes sank in whispers in my heart when the rioh stranger sought the favorite child, my wayward self. How she implored me to be humble! to bear my exaltation meekly. Can it be that she will never speak to me again? So white that brow, so stony, so cold!
On the 18th.
They have laid her away. They have buried my living heart with her. It was in a storm. The rain dripped from the windows, the turf was soaked with water. The little, white church, where she has led me so often by the hand, looked grey through the mist. The very birds ohirped mournfully under their wet roof leaves. Black, and oh! so fearful, the grave yawned at my feet. Terrible! I thought she might not be dead, and I laid my hand again upon her fore¬ head. Cold! icy cold. I shrieked aloud—I could not restrain my feelings.
That dear, grey-haired minister! Servant of Jesus for nearly fourscore and ten years, he pitied me.
Touchingly he spoke of hlr sweet resignation, adding that as she died as she sang,
“Jesus can make a dying bed Feel soft as downy pillows are.”
He told, with unsteady voice, how tenderly she had spoken of her children—of me—far away, drowned in the pleasures of wealth.
