Mr. Hughes, from the London theatres, has taken the leader's chair in the orchestra; and from the exhibitions which he has already made of his skill, seems destined to fill it worthily. Our space will not allow us to speak of our old favorite, Mrs. Sharpe, who made her first appearance here for some years on the opening evening. She was greeted with a most hearty welcome, and played with all the spirit and vivacity which formerly characterized her efforts in comedy. Mrs. Chippendale also made her courtesy; and her efforts to please, as Isabella, in the 'Wonder,' were well received.
c.
Pathos.—True pathos is not only one of the most striking but the most durable attributes of real eloquence. It will live in the heart for years, recurring ever and anon to the memory, 'mournful and yet pleasant to the soul.' There is nothing so difficult to feign, as pathos. It is the language of the heart; and while the orator can 'pump up a feeling' of grandeur or sublimity, and wreak it upon expression, and the bard, under the influence of an imaginary afflatus, can excite a reader's pity for fanciful misfortune, yet neither can affect a pathos, which an intelligent auditory or reader will not at once detect. Of the many scenes or events which have aroused this emotion in our bosom, since childhood, there is not one which may not be called up from the dark backward of the past, with the vividness of an occurrence of yesterday.
These thoughts have been awakened, by meeting the following exquisite example of pathos in an ancient common-place book. Simple as it is, we venture to say there is not one under whose eye it will fall, who can read it for the first time, or re-peruse it, without emotion:
"MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
"I had a mother once, like you,
Who o'er my pillow hung,
Kissed from my cheek the briny dew,
And taught my faltering tongue.
But then, there came a fearful day—
I sought my mother's bed,
Till harsh hands tore me thence away,
And told me she was dead!"
"It was thirteen years since my mother's death, when, after a long absence from my native village, I stood beside the sacred mound, beneath which I had seen her buried. Since that mournful period, great changes had come over me. My childish years had passed away; and with them had passed my youthful character. The world was altered too; and as I stood at my mother's grave, I could hardly realize that I was the same thoughtless, happy creature, whose cheek she so often kissed in her excess of tenderness. But the varied events of thirteen years had not effaced the remembrance of that mother's smile. It seemed as if I had seen her yesterday—as if the blessed sound of her voice was then in my ear. The gay dreams of my infancy and childhood were brought back so distinctly to my mind, that had it not been for one bitter recollection, the tears I shed would have been gentle and refreshing. The circumstance may seem a trifling one; but the thought of it, even now, agonizes my heart—and I relate it, that those children who have parents to love them, may learn to value them as they ought.
"My mother had been ill a long time; and I had become so much accustomed to her pale face, and weak voice, that I was not frightened at them, as children usually are. At first, it is true, I had sobbed violently—for they told me she would die; but when, day after day, I returned from school, and found her the same, I began to believe she would always be spared to me.
"One day, when I had lost my place in the class, and done my work wrong-side-outward, I came home discouraged and fretful. I went into my mother's chamber. She was paler than usual—but she met me with the same affectionate smile that always welcomed my return. Alas! when I look back, through the lapse of thirteen years, I think my heart must have been stone, not to have been melted by it.
"She requested me to go down stairs, and bring her a glass of water. I pettishly asked why she did not call the domestic to do it. With a look of mild reproach, which I shall never forget, if I live to be a hundred years old, she said, 'And will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?'
"I went and brought her the water; but I did not do it kindly. Instead of smiling, and kissing her, as I was wont to do, I sat the glass down very quick, and left the room.
"After playing a short time, I went to bed, without bidding my mother 'good night;' but when alone in my room, in darkness and silence, I remembered how pale she looked, and how her faint voice trembled, when she said, 'Will not my daughter bring a glass of water for her poor sick mother?' I could not sleep; and I stole into her chamber, to ask forgiveness. She had just sunk into an uneasy slumber; and they told me I must not waken her. I did not tell any one what troubled me; but stole back to my bed, resolved to rise early in the morning, and tell her how sorry I was for my conduct.
"The sun was shining brightly when I awoke, and hurrying on my clothes, I hastened to my mother's room.
"She was dead! She never spoke to me more—never smiled upon me again! And when I touched the hand that used to rest upon my head in blessing, it was so cold it made me start. I bowed down by her side, and sobbed in the bitterness of my heart. I thought then I wished I could die, and be buried with her; and old as I now am, I would give worlds, were they mine to give, could my mother but have lived to tell me she forgave my childish ingratitude. But I cannot call her back; and when I stand by her grave, and whenever I think of her manifold kindness, the memory of that reproachful look she gave me, will 'bite like a serpent, and sting like an adder.'"
Near this beautiful fragment, in the time-honored receptacle of literary 'things lost upon earth' to which we have alluded, we find a kindred specimen, in the affecting 'Lines written by an East-India Officer on his Return from India.' They are as old as the hills, and as lasting; and we still sympathize as deeply and sincerely with the
——'Stranger in a stranger clime,
Where stranger voices mock his ear,'