ABSTRACT
It was one evening in autumn that I sat alone, a few weeks after the funeral of her who had for fifteen years been the partner of my bosom. The day had been close and sultry, and the hour of silence and retreat had been ushered in with a few heavy drops of rain. I was fondly cherishing my melancholy thoughts with the memory of her I had so lately lost. I had scattered before me fragments of her hand-writing, some of her personal ornaments, her miniature, and a lock of her hair. I had busied myself as I could during the day, with meditations for the advantage of my only son; he had studied in one corner of my apartment; I had talked to / him of his dear mother (I could talk of nothing else,) and had made him observe her portrait with attention. I wept over the dark and uncertain fortune that was reserved for him in the journey of life; for I still believed he would live, and that, as Selina said, ‘my administration of this our revenue and estate would be more successful than hers had been.’ I kissed him, and dismissed him to his pillow. And, now that I was at length alone, I occupied myself with all that could set his mother most vividly before me.
