CHAPTER XX. THE LAST. "The records of thy name and race Have faded from the stone, Yet, through the cloud of years I trace So many calamities in such quick succession, were calculated to prey heavily on my mind; and without the society and cheering conversation of my ever-dear uncle, I must have been plunged into the deepest melancholy. His experience was infinitely greater and more varied than mine; and he was enabled to draw upon it for unlimited consolation and support. "The young," he said, as we sat together one fine afternoon, while the long rays of the evening summer sun illumined with its bright tints the ancient oak furniture," the young are prone to think their sufferings cureless, immitigable. Hoary time, however, pursues his swift and ceaseless career, till insensibly we become startled at our own placidity. Evils at the bare possibility of which we once shuddered, are looked at with calmness and composure; and we would even experience them afresh could we thereby regain the once fresh feelings of the past. After all, who would exchange even dire misfortunes for the deadness of soul which views every bereavement with indifference, which sleeps never the less, eats and drinks never the less? So, dear son of my adoption, every trouble is allayed by considerations that blunt sorrow's sting, and temper the iron that eats into the soul. Some evils in truth, are so 66 terrible, that even time itself, fails to assuage their poignancy. These, my child,”—and here his eyes glistened and his voice faltered, are hardly to be mitigated, save by the glorious transition that brings life to a close, and opens forth a course perennial with time, and boundless as eternity. Nature kindly prohibits never-ending suffering; but the hidden grief will burst unbidden from the heart, and the sorrows of the past are renewed afresh. Come what may, however, life has its claims. We are not to inflict our miseries on others: every one, alas, has enough of his own! The daily duties and requirements of life furnish demands that are not to be evaded. Would we be wanting to ourselves, would we be wanting to others, would we be wanting"-and here his voice assumed a startling energy, "to the mighty Giver who made us what we are-granted us all we enjoy, and if he has exposed us to mighty inflictions, has also provided us with infinite amends? O gracious Being, who didst evolve me out of VOL. III. M nothing grant me patience for every infliction -gratitude for every good!" "Dearest uncle, I may not dissimulate; God give me patience and resignation when they are needed; but there are some things to which I can hardly allude, and where bereavement would fall as the sentence of death." "I understand you, my child," replied my uncle, pressing my hand. "May Heaven shield thy young heart from this misery. Thou hadst better set out and find thy Julia : it is long since thou hast heard of her, or from her; and God knows in what straights the darling girl may now be placed. It will further help thee to turn thy mind from thy poor friend's loss-go. I do not want thee, even if thou couldst, to forget him or her who may be said to have died for him; but it is only right that thou shouldst not grieve as one hopeless." These observations induced fresh courage, where indeed, it was greatly needed. The un certainty of Mrs. Hastings' conduct, along with her declining health, it might even be that she was dead, filled me with the most lively disquietude. I could not have borne to leave my uncle of my own accord, in the present juncture; but when he proposed it himself, I was not disposed to reject the overture. The generous Wriothesley, indeed, had repeatedly written during the course of past events; and now urged me in the strongest terms to visit him and witness the unalloyed happiness which he was extravagant enough to say he owed to me. But the kindly hilarity of his disposition however acceptable under other circumstances, would hardly have proved so in my existing position. But one feeling, one impulse indeed, governed me, and that was to behold the light of my life, to fold my long-lost Julia in my arms, whom once found, whatever might betide, I vowed never with my free will to part. I was entirely at a loss as to the proper |