winter, her step
is no longer quick, her eye has lost its lustre, and her hand is shaken
with the palsy of lost vigor. There are wrinkles in her brow and hollows in
the cheeks which were once so lovely that his father would have bartered a
kingdom for them. She is sitting by the side of the tomb waiting for the
mysterious summons which must soon come. Oh, young man, you for whom this
mother has suffered, you for whom she cherishes a love which is priceless
and deathless, you will not hasten her into eternity by an act, or word, or
look, will you? It would kill her to know that you had fallen under sin's
destroying stroke. Sometimes she goes to the portrait of your boyish face
and looks at it; at other times she takes down some worn and faded garment,
that you were wont to wear in those beautiful days of the past, and recalls
how you looked when you wore it; then she goes to the room where you used
to sleep and looks at the cradle in which she so often rocked you to sleep,
and, after all is seen, she returns to her chair--the old easy chair--and
waits to hear tidings of you. What would you have her know?

What news of yourself can you send her? Think of it well. Will you put your
wayward foot on her tender and feeble heart? Is her breathing so easy that
you would impede it with a brutal stab? Oh, if you know no pity for
yourself, have some for her. You will not murder her, will you? Yes, you
reply, and the laughter of mocking devils floats up from the caves of
hell--"Yes! give me more rum!" Now, hear the truth: The time will come when
the grass will seem to wither from your feet, pain will stifle your breath,
remorse will gnaw your heart and fill all your days and nights with misery
unspeakable; your dreams will torture you in sleep, and your waking
thoughts will be torments; your path will lie in gloom, and your bed will
be a pillow of thorns. You will cry in vain for that departed mother. You
will beg heaven to give her back, but the grave will be silent. The grasses
are creeping over her tomb, and the white hands have crumbled upon her
faithful breast. But no, you will not kill her. You will not call for rum.
I have wronged you, thank God! You will be a man. You are a man. You will
lay this book down, and swear that you will never touch the accursed,
ruinous drink, and you will keep your oath. By sobriety and good habits you
will lengthen your mother's days in the land, and smooth her troubled brow,
and give strength t