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come so accustomed to her pale face and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I sobbed violently; but when,

day after day, I returned from school, and found her the 25 same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me; but they told me she would die.

One day when I had lost my place in the class, and done my

side outward, I came home discouraged, and fretful;—I went to my mother's chamber. She 30 was paler than usual, but she met me with the same af

fectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not to have

melted by it. She requested me to go down stairs, 35 and bring her a glass of water;-I pettishly asked why

she did not call a domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach which I shall never forget if I live to be a hundred years old, she said ' and will not my daughter bring a glass of water, for her

poor

sick mother?' 40

I went and brought her the water, but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I set the glass down very quickly and left the room.

After playing a short time, I went to bed without bidding my mother good night; but when alone 45 in my room, in darkness and silence, I remembered how

pale she looked, and how her voice trembled when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her

poor sick mother!' I could n't sleep. I stole into her chamber to ask forgiveness. She had sunk into 50 an easy slumber, and they told me I must not waken

her. I did not tell any one what troubled me, but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry

I

my conduct. The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hur55 rying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's cham

ber. She was dead! she never spoke more-never smiled upon me again—and when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold that

it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sob60 bed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought then I

wished I might die, and be buried with her; and old as I now am, I would give worlds were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave

was for

my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; 65 and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think

of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproach ful look she gave me, will bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.

EXERCISE 41. A Tale of Waterloo.-ANONYMOUS. About the middle of the night I received a visit from a young man, with whom I had formed an intimate acquaintance. He was the only son of a gentleman of

large property in the South of Ireland; but having form5 ed an attachment to a beautiful girl in humble life, and

married her against the will of his father, he had been disinherited and turned out of doors.*****

Depressed as I was in spirit myself, I was struck with the melancholy tone in which that night he accosted me. 10 He felt a presentiment, he said, that he would not sur

vive the battle of the ensuing day. He wished to bid me farewell, and to entrust to my care his portrait, which, with his farewell blessing, was all he had to

bequeath to his wife and child. Absence had renewed, 15 or rather doubled, all his fondness for the former, and

portrayed her in all the witching loveliness that had won his boyish affection. He talked of her while the tears ran down his cheeks, and conjured me, if ever I reach

ed England, to find her out, and make known her case 20 to his father. In vain, while I pledged my word to the

fulfilment of his wishes, I endeavored to cheer him with better hopes. He listened in mournful silence to all I could suggest; flung his arms round my neck; wrung

my hand and we parted. I saw him but once again. 25 It was during the hottest part of the next and terrible

day, when with a noise that drowned even the roar of artillery, Sir William Ponsonby's brigade of cavalry, dashed past our hollow square, bearing before them in that

tremendous charge, the flower of Napoleon's chivalry. 30 Far ahead even of his national regiment, I saw the man

ly figure of my friend. It was but for a moment. The next instant he was fighting in the centre of the enemy's squadron; and the clouds of smoke, that closed in mas

of

ses round friend and foe, hid him from my view. When 35 the battle was over, and all was hushed but the

groaus the wounded, and the triumphant shouts and rolling drums of the victorious Prussians, who continued the pursuit during the entire of the night, I quitted the shattered re

mains of the gallant regiment in whose ranks I had that 40 day the honor of standing. The moon was, wading

through scattered masses of dark and heavy clouds, when I commenced my search for my

friend.

The light was doubtful and uncertain; yet it was easy to keep along

the track that marked the last career of Ponsonby.. 45(Shuddering, lest in every face I should recognise my

friend, I passed by, and sometimes trod upon the cold and motionless heaps, which now looked so unlike the

fiery masses of living valour” that a few hours before,

had commingled, with a concussion more dreadful than 50 the earthquake's shock. Although I at first felt a certain

conviction of his fate, I afterwards began to hope that the object of my search had, contrary to his prediction, survived the terrible encounter. I was about to retire,

when a heap of slain, in a ploughed field, on which the 55 moon was now shining clearly, attracted my notice.

Literally piled on each other, were the bodies of five cuirassiers; and lying beneath his horse was the dead body of my friend. You may form some idea of my as

tonishment, on finding, by a nearer inspection, that his 60 head was supported and his neck entwined by the arms

of a female, from whom also the spirit had taken its departure; but you can form no conception of the horror I felt at beholding, in this scene of carnage and desola

tion, in the very arms of death, and on the bosom of a 65 corpse, a living infant, sleeping calmly, with the moon

beam resting on its lovely features, and a smile playing on its lips, as if angels were.guarding its slumbers, and inspiring its dreams! And who knows but perhaps they

were? The conviction now flashed on my mind, that 70 these were the wife and child of my unfortunate friend;

and the letters we afterwards found on the person of the former, proved that I was right in my conjecture. Driven aside by the gale of pleasure or ambition, or by the

storms of life, the affections of man may veer; but un75 changeable and unchanging is a true heart in woman.

“ She loves, and loves forever.” This faithful wife had

followed her husband through a land of strangers, and over the pathless sea; through the crowded city and

the bustling camp, till she found him stretched on the 80 battle field. Perhaps she came in time to receive his

parting sigh, and her spirit, quitting its worn-out tenement of clay, winged its way with his to Him who gave them being.

With the assistance of some of my comrades, I consigned this hapless pair to the earth, wrapped 85 in the same military cloak; and enveloping the infant,

this dear child of my adoption, in my plaid, I returned to the spot where our regiment lay.

Exercise 42. The Rightcous never forsaken.--New YORK Spectator.

It' was Saturday night, and the widow of the Pine Cottage sat by her blazing fagots, with her five tattered children at her side, endeavouring by listening to the

artlessness of their prattle, to dissipate the heavy gloom 5 that pressed upon her mind. For a year, her own feeble

hands had provided for her helpless family, for she had no supporter: she thought of no friend in all the wide, unfriendly world around. But that mysterious Provi

dence, the wisdom of whose ways are above human com10 prehension, had visited her with wasting sickness, and

her little means had become exhausted. It was now, too, mid-winter, and the snow lay heavy and deep through all the surrounding forests, while storms still seemed

gathering in the heavens, and the driving wind roared 15 amidst the bounding pines, and rocked her puny mansion.

The last herring smoked upon the coals before her, it was the only article of food she possessed, and no won

der her forlorn, desolate state brought up in her lone bo80 som all the anxieties of a mother, when she looked upon

her children; and no wonder, forlorn as she was, if she suffered the heart swellings of despair to rise, even though she knew that he whose promise is to the widow and to

the orphan, cannot forget his word. Providence had 25 many years before taken from her her eldest son, who

went from his forest home, to try his fortune on the high seas, since which she heard no note or tidings of him;

and in latter time, had, by the hand of death, deprived

her of the companion and staff of her earthly pilgrimage, 30 in the person of her husband. Yet to this hour she had

been upborne; she had not only been able to provide for her little flock, but had never lost an opportunity of ministering to the wants of the miserable and destitute.

The indolent may well bear with poverty, while the 35 ability to gain sustenance remains. The individual who

has but his own wants to supply, may suffer with fortitude the winter of want; his affections are not wounded, his heart not wrung. The most desolate in populous

cities may hope, for charity has not quite closed her 40 hand and heart, and shut her eyes on misery. But the

industrious mother of helpless and depending children, far from the reach of human charity, has none of these to console her. And such an one was the widow of the

Pine cottage; but as she bent over the fire, and took 45 up the last scanty remnant of food, to spread before her

children, her spirits seemed to brighten up, as by some sudden and mysterious impulse, and Cowper's beautiful lines came uncalled across her mind

Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,

But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning Providence

He hides a smiling face. The smoked herring was scarcely laid upon the table, when a gentle rap at the door, and loud barking of a 55 dog, attracted the attention of the family. The children

flew to open it, and a weary traveller, in tattered garments, and apparently indifferent health, entered and begged a lodging, and a mouthful of food; said he "it

is now twenty-four hours since I tasted bread.' The 60 widow's heart bled anew as under a fresh complication

of distresses; for her sympathies lingered not round her fireside. She hesitated not even now; rest and share of all she had she proffered to the stranger.

" We shall not be forsaken; " said she, “or suffer deeper for an 65 act of charity.”

The traveller drew near the board—but when he saw the scanty fare, he raised his eyes towards Heaven with astonishment—" and is this all your store?” said he

" and a share of this do you offer to one you know not? 70 then never saw I charity before! but madam,” said he,

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