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of being soon lost one's self. But besides that no young age can be insured against this, even here is consolation in hope—the hope of living again, and in a better world joining the loved beings who have gone before us. I thank God that, far from having parted with this hope, it has increased with my years, and in the indulgence of it I wait with calmness the approach of the inaudible and noiseless foot of Time.'”

I could not, and indeed wished not, to reply to this, for I felt both its force and its pathos.

A pause ensued, which, from its solemnity, neither of us seemed inclined to interrupt, till, warming with his last sentiment, he asked me if I had ever seen some beautiful lines of Hughes, which he said should be written in letters of gold:

“ There let Time's creeping winter shed

His reverend snow around my head;
And while I feel by fast degrees
My sluggard blood wax chill and freeze,
Let thought unveil to my fix'd eye
A scene of deep eternity,
Till, life dissolving at the view,
I wake, and find the vision true.”


Printed by J. L. Cox and SONS, 75, Great Queen Street,

Lincoln's-Inn Fields.

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