CHAPTER XXII.
May .-- Some months have elapsed since I noted down a line in this book.
Indisposition and its usual attendants, languor and lassitude, have caused me to throw it by.

Time that once rolled as pleasantly as rapidly along, seems now to pace as slowly as sadly; and even the approach of spring, that joyous season never before unwelcomed, now awakens only painful recollections.

Who can see the trees putting forth their leaves without a dread that, ere they have yet expanded into their full growth, some one may be snatched away who with us hailed their first opening verdure?
When once Death has invaded our hearths and torn from us some dear object on whose existence our happiness depended, we lose all the confidence previously fondly and foolishly experienced in the stability of the blessings we enjoy, and not only deeply mourn those lost, but tremble for those yet spared to us.

I once thought that I could never behold this genial season without pleasure; alas! it now occasions only gloom.
Captain William Anson, the brother of Lord Anson, dined here yesterday.
He is a very remarkable young man; highly distinguished in his profession, being considered one of the best officers in the navy, and possessing all the accomplishments of a finished gentleman.

His reading has been extensive, and his memory is very retentive.