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198 craved for pleasures which, nevertheless, I did not enjoy. I grew bitter in my words—I believed the worst of everyone; nay, I sometimes doubted the affection of my kind, my indulgent parents. But let me hastily pass over this vain and profitless epoch,—the fierce tempest, and the weary calm, were but the appointed means by which I reached the harbour of faith and rest.

"During our stay at Bourdeaux, I accompanied my mother to a little convent, whither had retired an early friend, one who had been much trouble, and known many sorrows. I was aware of her history, and was singularly struck with her calm and gentle manner. I left the cell; and my chance wandering through the garden led me to the burial-ground. I sat down on one of the graves, at first from very idleness; but the still solemnity of the place gradually impressed my thoughts—the presence of the dead made itself felt. I looked over the numerous tombstones, so various in their dates:—the maiden reposed by the full of years;—all bore the same inscription—Requiescat in pace. I had before seen the words—I had never before reflected on them. What was this peace?—I felt that it was the peace of hope, as well as of rest. It was not only that the turmoil of this feverish life was at an end, but that