The Sierra citizen., 1854-02-11

the grave: and never did hear the funeral
sevice. that sublime and touching ceremony,
turned into such frigid mummery OF words
| approached the grave. The coffin was
placed on the ground. On it was inscribed
the name and age of the deceased George
Somers, aged 26 years." The poor mother
had been assisted to kneel at the head OF it.
Her withered hands were clasped as if in
prayer, but ! could perceive by feeble
rocking of the body, and convlsive motion
of the lips, that she was gazing on the last
relics of her son with the yearning of a
mothers heart.
The service being ended, preparations
were being made to deposit the coffin in the
earth. There was that bustling stir which
breaks so harshly on the feelings OF grief
and affection; directions given in the cold
| tones of business; the striking of spades in
to sand and gravel; which, at the grave of
those we love, is, of all sounds, the most
withering. The hustle around seemed to
waken the mother from wretched revere
She raised her glazed eyes, and looked
about with faint wildness. AS the men
approached with cords to lower the coffin
into the grave, she wrung her hands and
broke into an agony OF grief The poor
woman who attended her took her by the
arm, endeavOring to raise her from the
earth, and to whisper something like con-
ISOLATION:
"Nay, now, nay, now-don't take it so
sorely to heart"
She could only shake her head, and wiring
her hands, as one not to be cOmforted.
| AS they lowered the body into the earth,
| the creaking of the cords seemed to ago
nize her; but when, ON some accidental OBJ
structiOn, there was a jOstling OF the cOf-
fin, all the tenderness of the mother burst
forth: as if aney harm could come to him
| who was far beyond the reach of worldly
suffering.
could see no mOre-my heart swelled
into my throat t-myeyes filled with tears
| felt as if were acting a barbarous part
standing by and gazing idly on this scene of
maternal anguish. | wandered to another
part of the churchyard, where | remained
until the funeral train had dispersed.
| When saw the mother slowly and painfully
quitting the grave, leaving behind her the
remains of all that was dear to her on earth,
and returning to silence and destitution, my
heart ached for her. What, thought |, are
the distresses of the rich? they have friends
to sooth, pleasures to beguile, world to
divert and dissipate their griefs. What are
the sorrows of the young? Their growing
minds soon close above the wOrld-their
elastic spirits soon rise beneath the pressure;
their green and ductile affections soon
twine around new objects. But the sorrows
of the poor, who have no outward appliances
to sOOth-the sorrows of the aged, with
whom life at best is but wintry day, and
who can look for no after-growth of joy
the sorrows of widow, aged, solitary,
destitute, mourning over an only son, the
last solace of her years; these are indeed
sorrows which make us feel the impotence
of consolation.
1t was some time before left the church
yard. On my way homeward, | met with
the woman who had acted as comforter;
she was Just returning from accompanying
the mother to her lonely habitation, and
drew from her some particulars connect
ed with the affecting scene l had witnessed
The parents of the deceased had resided
in the villrge from childhood. They had
| inhabited one of the neatest cottages, and
| by various rural occupations, and the asss-
tance of small gaden, had supported them
selves credtably and comfortable, and led
happy and blameless life. They had one
son, who had grown up to be the staff and
pride Of their age.
90, sir!' said the good woman, g he was
such likely lad, SO sweetly tempered, so
kind to every one round him, SO dutiful to
his parents! 1t did ones heart good to see
| him of Sunday, dressed out in his best, so
tall, so straight, so CHEEKY supporting his
old mother to church. for she was always
fonder of leaning on Georges arm than on
her goodman's; and poor soul, she might
| well be proud of him, for finer lad there
was not in the country round"
Unfortunately, the son was tempted, du-
ring a year of scarcity and agricultural
hardship. to enter into one of the small craft
that piled on a neighboring river. He had
not been long in this employ when he was
entrapped by press gang and carried otfto
sea. His parents received tidings of seizure
but beyond that they could learn nothing.
1t was the loss of their main prop. The
father who was already infirm grew heart
less and melancholy and sunk into his grave.
The widow, left lonely in her age and fee
bleness. could no longer support herself,
and came upon the parish. Still there was
kind feeling towards her throughout the
village, and a certainf respect, as being one
of the oldest Inhabitants. As no one applied
for the cottage in which she had passed
so many happy days, she was permitted to
remain IN IL, Wnefe she lNc0 SOltafy ana
| almost helpless. The few wants of nature
were chiefly supplied from the scanty pro-
ductions of her little garden, which the
neighbors would now aud then cultivate
| for her 1t was but few days before the
time at which these circumstances were told
me. that she was gathering some vegetables
| for her repast. when she heard the cottage
door which faced the garden suddenly open.
A stranger came out, aud seemed to be
looking eagerly and wildly around. He
was dressed in seaman's clothes,was emacia-
ted and CHASTITY pale, and bore the air of
one broken by sickness and hardships. He
saw her and hastened towards her, but his
steps were faint and faltering; he sank on
| his knee before her, and sobbed like
child. The poor woman gazed upon him
with vacant and wandering eye.
40, my dear, dear mother! don't yon
know your son! your poor boy George"
It was, indeed, the wreck of her once,
noble lad, who, shattered by words, by
sickness, and foreign Imprisonment, had at
length dragged his wasted limbs homeward,
to repose among the scenes fhis childhood.
L