There is a magic power in resemblance.  When one we love dies, we hope to see them in another state, and half expect that the agency of mind will inform its new garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture.  But these are ideas of the mind only.  We know that the instrument is shivered, the sensible image lies in miserable fragments, dissolved to dusty nothingness; a look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs similar to the dead in a living person, touches a thrilling chord, whose sacred harmony is felt in the heart’s dearest recess.  Strangely moved, prostrate before this spectral image, and enslaved by the force of blood manifested in likeness of look and movement, I remained trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and till now unloved mother of Idris.

Poor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she had cherished the idea, that a word, a look of reconciliation from her, would be received with joy, and repay long years of severity.  Now that the time was gone for the exercise of such power, she fell at once upon the thorny truth of things, and felt that neither smile nor caress could penetrate to the unconscious state, or influence the happiness of her who lay in the vault beneath.  This conviction, together with the remembrance of soft replies to bitter speeches, of gentle looks repaying angry glances; the perception of the falsehood, paltryness and futility of her cherished dreams of birth and power; the overpowering knowledge, that love and life were the true emperors of our mortal state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul with stormy and bewildering confusion.  It fell to my lot, to come as the influential power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves.  I spoke to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how her virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in her past career.  I praised her, the idol of my heart’s dear worship, the admired type of feminine perfection.  With ardent and overflowing eloquence, I relieved my heart from its burthen, and awoke to the sense of a new pleasure in life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy.  Then I referred to Adrian, her loved brother, and to her surviving child.  I declared, which I had before almost forgotten, what my duties were with regard to these valued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy repentant mother reflect, how she could best expiate unkindness towards the dead, by redoubled love of the survivors.  Consoling her, my own sorrows were assuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction.

She turned to me.  The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with a mild expression of face, and said, “If our beloved angel sees us now, it will delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice.  You were worthy of her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from me.  Pardon, my son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter words and unkind treatment—­take me, and govern me as you will.”