172 THE CHRISTMAS ROSE. 



ceeded by the starting tear, and half-uttered whis 

 per of, ' His poor Mother ! what must she feel V 

 It is true that the outline alone of this sad story is 

 impressed on my mind ; but it is strongly engraven 

 there : and from it I have drawn lessons of thank- 

 fulness under all my most trying afflictions. In 

 every case, I had at least a melancholy certainty : 

 I have not been left to endure the long torture of 

 mocking hope — of that wild, obstinate clinging to 

 bare and meagre possibility that the sorrows of 

 my soul might be suddenly turned into unspeaka 

 ble, worldly, joy. We do not half consider the 

 measure of mercy that is given to sooth our bitter- 

 est grief. We do not, as we might, take a survey 

 of what others have had to encounter, when worm- 

 wood has been added to their gall. There are 

 some who would barter all the comforts left in 

 their lot, for that which may be our deepest grief 

 — the sight of a quiet grave, where the heart's 

 most cherished treasure peacefully moulders be- 

 neath. They could be resigned, if they assuredly 

 knew that all was indeed over : but that cruel 

 phantom of hope for ever flits before their eyes ; 

 and the spirit cannot rest — cannot turn away from 

 the pictures that imagination is constantly pour- 

 traying, of what may be reserved of future dis- 

 covery, and reunion here. In ordinary cases, the 

 vacated seat is again occupied : and the heart 

 can struggle into acquiescence that so it should be: 



