This is all very comfortless detail; but as I have told you of my
follies, it is meet that I show you how for once I was schooled for
them.
The most thoughtless of mortals will some time or other have this day
of gloom, when he will be compelled to reflect. I felt on this occasion
as if I had a kind of penance to perform, and I made a pilgrimage in
expiation of my past levity.
Having passed a night at Leamington, I set off by a private path which
leads up a hill, through a grove, and across quiet fields, until I came
to the small village, or rather hamlet of Lenington. I sought the
village church. It is an old low edifice of gray stone on the brow of a
small hill, looking over fertile fields to where the proud towers of
Warwick Castle lifted themselves against the distant horizon. A part of
the church-yard is shaded by large trees. Under one of these my mother
lay buried. You have, no doubt, thought me a light, heartless being. I
thought myself so--but there are moments of adversity which let us into
some feelings of our nature, to which we might otherwise remain
perpetual strangers.
I sought my mother's grave. The weeds were already matted over it, and
the tombstone was half hid among nettles. I cleared them away and they
stung my hands; but I was heedless of the pain, for my heart ached too
severely. I sat down on the grave, and read over and over again the
epitaph on the stone. It was simple, but it was true.
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