The weekly clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1863-1882, 1873-05-29

T knew that her heart was breaking fror
that hour: but | never once heard CON
plant or murmur escape her lips.
1t was piteous spectacle to see tina
woman in the prison yard from day I
day, eagerly and fervently attempting
by affection and entreaty, to soften tn
hard heart of her obdurate son. 1t wa
in vain. He remained moody, obstinate
and unmoved. Not even the UNLOCKED
for communication of his sentence to trans
portation for fourteen years, sottened TO
an instant the sullen hardihood Of hi
demeanor.
But the spirit of resignation AID en-
durance that had 50 long upheld her, wa
unable to contend against bodily weak
ness and infirmity. She fell sick Sht
dragged her lettering limbs from the bee
to visit her son once more; but hel
strength failed her, and she sunk power
less upon the ground.
And now the boosted GOODNESS and In
difference Of the young man were tested,
indeed; and the retribution that tell
heavily upon him nearly drove him mad.
4 day passed away and his mother was
not there; another flew by, and she came
not near him; a third evening arrived,
and vet he had not seen her; and in
| four nd-twenty hours he was to be sepa-
rated from her-perhaps forever. o!
| how the long forgotten thoughts of for
mer days rushed upon his mind, as he
almost ran up and down the narrow yard
as if intelligence would arrive the
sooner for his hurrying and how bitterly
a sense Of his hopelessness and desolation
rushed upon him, when he heard the
truth His mother, the only parent he
had ever known, lay Tilt might be, dy-
ing-within one mile Of the ground he
stood on were he free and unfettered,
few minutes would place h IN by her
side. He rushed to the gate, and grasp
ing the iron rails with the energy of des-
peration, shook it till it rang again, and
threw himself against the thiclss wall as
if to force a passage through the stone
but the strong building Knocked his feeble
efforts, and he beat his hands together
and wept like child.
/ bore the mothers forgiveness and
blessing to her son in prison; and | car
ried his solemn assurance Of repentance,
and his fervent supplication for pardon,
to her sick bed. | heard, with pity and
compassion. the repentant man devise a
thousand little plans for her comfort and
support when he returned but | knew
that many months before he could reach
his place Of destination his mother would
be no longer of this world
He was removed by night. A few
weeks afterwards the poor woman's soul
took its flight, | confidently hope, and
solemnly believe, to a place of eternal
happiness and rest. [ performed the
burial service over her remains. She
lies in our little church yard There is
no stone at her graves head. Her sor-
rows were known to man her virtues to
God.
1t had been arranged previous to the
convicts departure, that he should write
to his mother as soon as he could obtain
permission, and that the letter should be
addressed to me- The father had posi-
lively refused to see his son from the mo-
ment Of his apprehension and it was
matter of Indifference to him whether he
lived or died Many years passed over
without any intelligence from him and
when more than half his term of trans
portation had expired, and | had receiv-
ed no letter, / concluded him to be dead,
as, indeed, | almost hoped he might he.
Edmunds, however, had been sent a
considerable distance up the country on
his arrival at the settlement and to this
circumstance, perhaps, may be attributed
the fact that though several letters were
none of them ever reached
my hands. He remained in the same
place during the whole fourteen years.
At the expiration of the term, steadily
to his old resolution and the
pledge he gave his mother, he made his
way back to England amidst innumera-
BILE difficulties, and returned, on foot, to
his native place.
On a fine Sunday evening, in the
month of August, John Admunds set
foot in the village he had left with shame
and disgrace seventeen years before.
His nearest way lay through the church
yard The mans heart swelled as he
crossed the stile. The tall old elms,
through whose branches the declining
sun cast here and there a ray of light
upon the shady path, awakened the asso-
Citations of his earliest days. He pic
tured himself as he was then, clinging to
his mothers hand, and walking peacefully
to church. He remembered how he used
to look up into her face, and how her
eyes would sometimes fill with tears as
she gazed upon his features-tears which
fell hot upon his forehead as she stopped
to kiss him, and made him weep, too, al
though he little knew then what bitter
tears hers WERE He thought how often
he had run merrily down that path with
some childish playfellow, looking back,
II, .
smile, or hear her gentle voice and then
a vail seemed lifted from his memory,
and words of kindness unrequited, and
warnings despised, and promises broken,
upon his recollection till his
heart failed him, and he could bear it no
longer.
He entered the church. The evening
service was concluded and the congrega-
ton had dispersed, but it was not closed.
His steps echoed through the low build |
ing with hollow sound, and he almost |
feared to be alone, it was so still and |
quiet He looked round him. Nothing |
was changed. The place seemed small |
er than it used to be, but there were the
old monuments on which he had gazed |
with childish awe thousand times the |
same pulpit, with its faded cushion; the |
communion table before which he had so |
often repeated the Commandments he |
had reverenced as child, but forgotten |
as man. He approached the old seat;
it looked cold and desolate. The cush-
ions had been removed, and the Bible |
was not there. Perhaps his mother now
occupied a poorer seat, or possibly she |
had grown infirm and could not reach |
the church alone. He dared not think |
of what he feared. A cold feeling crept |
over him, and he trembled violently as
be turned away.