I did not know how hard a thing it would be to eave my children, till now that the hour has come."

After a little while, she spoke of his father, and said, she had lived with the belief that he was mindful of her, and with the conviction, which grew stronger as death approached, that she should meet him in another world. She said but little more, as she grew weaker and weaker every hour. Arthur sat by in silence, holding her hand He saw that she was sensible he was watching her countenance, for every now and then she opened her dull eye, and looked towards him, and endeavoured to smile.

The day wore slowly away. The sun went down, and the melancholy and still twilight came on. Nothing was heard but the ticking of the watch, telling him with a resistless power, that the hour was drawing nigh. He gasped, as if under some invisible, gigantic grasp, which it was not for human strength to struggle against.

It was now quite dark, and, by the pale light of the nightlamp in the chimney corner, the furniture in the room threw huge and uncouth figures over the walls. All was unsubstantial and visionary, and the shadowy ministers of death appeared gathering round, waiting the duty of the hour appointed them. Arthur shuddered for a moment with superstitious awe; but the solemn elevation which a good man feels at the sight of the dying, took possession of him, and he became calm again.

The approach of death has so much which is exalting, that our grief is, for the time, forgotten. And could one, who had seen Arthur a few hours before, now have looked upon the grave and grand repose of his countenance, he would hardly have known him.

The livid hue of death was fast spreading over his mother's face. He stooped forward to catch the sound of her breathing. It grew quick and faint.-"My mother !”— She opened her eyes, for the last time, upon him—a faint flush passed over her cheek-there was the serenity of an angel in her look-her hand just pressed his. It was all over.

His spirit had endured to its utmost. It sunk down from its unearthly height; and, with, his face upon his mother's pillow, he wept like a child. He arose with a, violent effort,

and, stepping into the adjoining chamber, spoke to his aunt. "It is past," said he. "Is my sister asleep?-Well, then, let her have rest; she needs it." He then went to his own chamber, and shut himself in.

It is a merciful thing that the intense suffering of sensitive minds makes to itself a relief. Violent grief brings on a torpor, and an indistinctness, and dimness, as from long watching. It is not till the violence of affliction has subsided, and gentle and soothing thoughts can find room to mix with our sorrow, and holy consolations can minister to us, that we are able to know fully our loss, and see clearly what has been torn away from our affections. It was so with Arthur. Unconnected and strange thoughts, with melancholy, but half-formed images, were floating in his mind, and now and then a gleam of light would pass through it, as if he had been in a troubled trance, and all was right again. His worn and tired feelings at last found rest in sleep.

It is an impression, which we cannot rid ourselves of if we would, when sitting by the body of a friend, that he has still a consciousness of our presence, that, though the common concerns of the world have no more to do with him, he has still a love and care of us. The face which we had so long been familiar with, when it was all life and motion, seems only in a state of rest. We know not how to make it real to ourselves, that the body before us is not a living thing.

Arthur was in such a state of mind, as he sat alone in the room by his mother, the day after her death. It was as if her soul had been in paradise, and was now holding communion with pure spirits there, though it still abode in⚫ the body that lay before him. He felt as if sanctified by the presence of one to whom the other world had been laid open-as if under the love and protection of one male holy. The religious reflections that his mother had early taught him, gave him strength; a spiritual composure stole over him, and he found himself prepared to perform the last offices to the dead.

Is it not enough to see our friends die, and part with them for the remainder of our days; to reflect that we

shall hear their voices no more, and that they will never look on us again; to see that turning to corruption, which was but just now alive, and eloquent, and beautiful with all the sensations of the soul? Are our sorrows so sacred and peculiar as to make the world as vanity to us, and the men of it as strangers? and shall we not be left to our af flictions for a few hours? Must we be brought out at such a time to the concerned or careless gaze of those we know not, or be made to bear the formal proffers of consolations from acquaintances who will go away and forget it all? Shall we not be suffered, a little while, a holy and healing communion with the dead? Must the kindred stillness and gloom of our dwelling be changed for the solemn show of the pall, the talk of the passers-by, and the broad and piercing light of the common sun? Must the ceremonies of the world wait on us even to the open graves of our friends?

When the hour came, Arthur rose with a firm step and fixed eye, though his whole face was tremulous with the struggle within him. He went to his sister, and took her arm within his. The bell struck. Its heavy, undulating sound rolled forward like a sea. He felt a violent beating through his whole frame, which shook him that he reeled It was but a momentary weakness. He moved on, passing those who surrounded him, as if they had been shadows While he followed the slow hearse, there was a vacancy in his eye, as it rested on the coffin, which showed him hardly conscious of what was before him. His spirit was with his mother's. As he reached the grave, he shrunk back, and turned deadly pale; but, sinking his head upon his breast, and drawing his hat over his face, he stood motionless as a statue till the service was over.

He had gone through all that the forms of society requir ed of him. For, as painful as the effort was, and as little suited as such forms were to his own thoughts upon the subject, yet he could not do any thing that might appear to the world like a want of reverence and respect for his mother. The scene was ended, and the inward struggle over; and now that he was left to himself, the greatness of his loss came up full and distinctly before him.

It was a dreary and chilly evening when he returned home. When he entered the house from which his mothe:* had gone for ever, a sense of dreary emptiness oppressed him, as if his very abode had been deserted by every living thing. He walked into his mother's chamber. The naked bedstead, and the chair in which she used to sit, were all that was left in the room. As he threw himself back into the chair, he groaned in the bitterness of his spirit. A feeling of forlornness came over him, which was not to be relieved by tears. She, whom he had watched over in her dying hour, and whom he had talked to as she lay before him in death, as if she could hear and answer him, had gone from him. Nothing was left for the senses to fasten fondly on, and time had not yet taught him to think of her only as a spirit. But time and holy endeavours brought this consolation; and the little of life that a wasting disease left him, was past by him, when alone, in thoughtful tranquillity; and amongst his friends he appeared with that gentle cheerfulness, which, before his mother's death, had been a part of his nature.

Neglect of foreign Literature in America.—AMERICAN QUARTERLY REVIEW.

THE Curiosity of our nation in literature is not sufficient. ly expansive; our public refuses its attention to works writ. ten for another hemisphere, and a different state of society. This is natural, but it is not wise.

The facility of receiving enjoyment from a variety of sources is an advantage of high value. It is well to rejoice in every exhibition of genius. What should we think of the man, who not only clings to the pleasures rendered dear by habit, but denies that there are others to be set in comparison with them? And yet we hear hasty judgments on the merits of whole classes of writers. Every man has, indeed, the right to choose his own guides to the sum mit of Olympus; but we question the soundness of those who deny that there are more ways than one. Such ar

opinion could be explained, only as the result of mental imbecility, of a narrowness that submits to the shackles of prejudice. Born and bred in a temperate zone, we all admire the loveliness of our landscape, where the graceful foliage of our trees is mingled with the rich verdure of our meadows, and the abundance of our harvests. But shall we have no eye for other charms? Shall a Swiss scene, where the glaciers enter the fertile valley, and winter and summer are seen side by side, have no power to please us? or a scene beneath a southern sky, where the palm trees lift their heads in slender magnificence, the forests are alive with birds, and glitter with the splendour of variegated plumage, and earth is gay with all the colours that gain their deep tints under a tropic sun? The eye, that communes with nature, and understands it, discerns loveliness in all its forms. And shall we, who are certainly not incurious as to the concerns of this world, be indifferent to foreign letters? Must we be so engrossed with the language and concerns of business, that we cannot listen to the language of poetic inspiration? And must we forever and unceasingly be deafened by the din of congressional rivalries? Is there, between the acclamations and rebukes of partisans, and the hot warfare of canvass for office, no happy moment of tranquillity, in which Learning may raise her head fearlessly, and be respected, and the pursuits of contemplative life be cheered by the free expression of general approbation, and quickened into ex cellence by the benignity of an attentive nation? We cannot as yet be said to have a national literature; but we already have the promise of one, and the first fruits As the literary character of the country is developed, it should resemble our political institutions in liberality, and welcome excellence from every quarter of the world.