ruggle to guide you in
the right path. Alfred, I leave England--my heart is bursting; for
Mary's sake alone I live, and if she be taken from me, Alfred, we shall
never meet again. My son, oh, if you ever loved me, listen to me now,
they may be the last words you will ever hear from your mother's lips. I
implore, I beseech you to turn from your evil courses, Alfred!" and she
suddenly sunk at his feet, the mother before the son. So devoted, so
fervid was the love with which she regarded him, that had she been told,
that to lure him to virtue her own life must be the forfeit, willingly
at that moment would she have died. She continued with an eloquence of
such beseeching tenderness, it would have seemed none could have heard
it unmoved. "Alfred, your mother kneels to you, your own mother. Oh,
hear her; do not condemn her to wretchedness. Let me not suffer more.
You have sought temptation; oh, fly from it; seek the companionship of
those who will lead you to honour, not to vice. Break from those
connections you have weaved around you. Turn again to the God you have
deserted. Oh, do not live as you have done; think on the responsibility
each year increases. My child, my beloved, in mercy refuse not your
mother's prayer! reject not my advice, Alfred! Alfred!" and she clung to
him, while her voice became hoarse with intense anguish. "Oh, promise me
to turn from your present life. Promise me to think on my words, to
seek the footstool of mercy, and return again to Him who has not
forsaken you. Promise me to live a better life; say you will be your
mother's comfort, not her misery--her blessing, not her curse. My child,
my child, be merciful!" Longer, more imploring still would she have
pleaded, but voice failed, and it was only on those chiselled features
the agony of the soul could have been discovered. Alfred gazed on her
thus kneeling at his feet--his mother, she, who in his infancy had knelt
beside him, to guide on high his childish prayers. The heart of the
misguided boy was softened, tears filled his eyes. He would have spoken;
he would have pledged himself to do all that she had asked, when
suddenly the ridicule of his companions flashed before his fancy. Could
he bear that? No; he could see his mother at his feet, but he could not
meet the ridicule of the world. He raised her hastily, but in perfect
silence; pressed her to his heart, kissed her cheek repeatedly, then
placed her on a couch, and darted from her presence. He