"
How precious are the mementoes of home! Memory needs such auxiliaries. That
lock of silken hair which the mother holds with tearful contemplation, and
wears as a precious relic, near her heart, what recollections of the
buried one it awakens within her!
"Thou bringest fond memories of a gentle girl,
Like passing spirits in a summer night!
Oh, precious curl!"
And that picture of a departed mother which the orphan child presses with
holy reverence to her bosom! As she gazes upon those familiar features, and
reads in them a mother's love and kindness, what scenes of home-life rise
upon the troubled thought, and what echoes of love come through the lapse
of years from the old homestead, touching all the fires of her soul, and
causing them to thrill with plaintive sadness and with painful joy. What
mementoes of a sad, yet pleasing memory are found in the chamber of
bereavement, where death has done his work; the empty chair; the garments
laid by; playthings idly scattered there;--these are pictures upon which
the eye of memory rests with pensive meditation. And our letters from home!
What sweet recollections they awaken as we read line after line; and what
volumes of love they contain from those dear ones who now moulder in the
narrow vaults of death! Oh, how miserable must he be who has no
recollections of home, who is not able to revert to the scenes of
childhood, and amid whose cherished memories of life, the image of a mother
does not glow!
Let us lay the foundation of a joyful, grateful memory.
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