Are they worth a sigh or tear?
What is parting?—transient pain,
Parting soon to meet again!
The second enclosure was the miniature of his grandfather. But that miniature! Gracious God! what were my sensations when I beheld the benignant, expressive lineaments of my early benefactor. The object of my long and anxious inquiries was thus miraculously discovered! 'Till that moment I had never felt true happiness. This cottage, dear Madam, with a moderate independence, the deed I now present secures to you; in return, I entreat that the miniature may be mine: and I hope some kind friend (glancing at his nephew) will, in death, place it upon my bosom.”
“What darkness so profound,” exclaimed the good pastor, “that the All-seeing Eye shall not penetrate? What maze so intricate and perplexed that our Merciful Father shall not safely guide us through? 'Throw thy bread upon the waters, and it shall return to thee after many days.'”
The village bells rang a merry peal; for the good pastor had given the charity children a holiday. They were entertained with old English fare on the lawn before the cottage, and superintended in their dancing and blindman's-buff by Norah Noclack and the solemn clerk. Nor were the aged inmates of the bountiful widow's Almshouses forgotten. They dined at the Parsonage, and were gratified with a liberal present from Uncle Timothy. And that the day might live in grateful remembrance when those who now shared in its happiness found their rest in the tomb, the Lauréat of Little Britain (some, like the sponge, require compression before they yield anything; others, like the honey-comb, exude spontaneously their sweets,) expressed his intention of adding two Alms-houses to the goodly number, and liberally endowing them.
Many a merrier party may have sat down to dinner, but never a happier one. It was a scene of deep and heartfelt tranquillity and joy. The widow—no longer poor—presided with an easy self-possession, to which her misfortunes added a melancholy grace.
Time passed swiftly; and the sun, that had risen and run his course in splendour, shed his parting rays on the enchanting scenery. Suddenly a flood of light illumined the chamber where we sat with an almost supernatural glory, beaming with intense brightness on the countenance of Uncle Timothy, and then melting away. Ere long in the distant groves was heard the nightingale's song.
“One valued relic” said the widow, addressing
Uncle Timothy, “I have ever carefully preserved. You, dear sir, were an enthusiast in boyhood: and when, as your senior, I once presumed to counsel you, this was your reply.”