“One of the first recollections I have of my mother,” says Mr. Plant, “was on a Christmas Eve, when she dressed me up neatly, took me on her knees, talked affectionately to me, and sang that beautiful vesper hymn, ‘Adeste Fideles’; even now, whenever I hear it, it brings tears to my eyes.” This explains tears the author has seen in his eyes while listening to the orchestra in the music-room, but knew not then what were their tender and sacred association. Little did that mother realize the mighty power, the subduing influence, the enduring benediction to her child of that simple act, the outgoing of the maternal heart. The hallowed influence of that sacred hour has never been effaced through long years, in the whirl of business, in the varied conflicts incident to a public life, in close contact with civil war, within sound of the booming cannon, and the groans of the dying, away in far distant lands, and on stormy seas. Yet amid all, the hallowed influence of that sacred hour, when a mere child on a mother’s knee, has never been effaced. How well it accords with what the poet wrote: “I had a mother once like you, Who o’er my pillow hung, Kissed from my cheek the briny dew, And taught my infant tongue. “She, when the nightly couch was spread, Would bow my infant knee, And place her hand upon my head, And kneeling, pray for me. “Youth came; the props of virtue ruled; But oft at day’s decline, A marble touch my brow could feel, Dear mother was it thine? “And still that hand so soft and fair, Has kept its magic sway, As when amid my curling hair With gentle force it lay. “That hallowed touch was ne’er forgot, And now though time hath set Stern manhood’s seal upon my brows, These temples feel it yet. “And if I e’er in Heaven appear, A mother’s holy prayer, A mother’s hand and gentle tear, That pointed to a Saviour dear, Will lead the wanderer there.”