UNCLE CHARLES.
My uncle began his story as follows:--
"When I left Philadelphia, I had no definite object in view. I left
without seeing my brother, to avoid the pain of parting, for we tenderly
loved each other. His disposition and mine were widely different; he was
quiet, industrious, and very persevering in whatever he undertook; while
I, on the other hand, was rash, impulsive, and very impatient of
restraint. My adopted father apprenticed me to learn the art of
printing, without in the least consulting my wishes in the matter. It
seemed to me that he might have granted me the privilege of choosing my
employment; and, his failing to do so roused my indignation and doubled
the dislike I already felt to the occupation of a printer. It was very
hard for me to leave without seeing my brother; but I decided that, as
he was very well contented in his situation, I had best go away quietly,
so that, whatever might befall me, I should not be the means of bringing
trouble to him. I had decided to leave my master the first opportunity
that should offer for so doing. He one day gave me a sharp and, as I
thought, unmerited rebuke, and ended by striking me a blow. That blow
caused me to form the decision of leaving him at once, and that very
night I left Philadelphia. I made my way to the city of New York, where
I managed to live for a time by selling newspapers; but my profits were
so small that I soon became disgusted with the employment, and I
obtained the situation of waiter in a large hotel, where I remained for
some time. I often thought of writing to my brother; but I was aware
that the knowledge of my employment would be painful to him, for he was
of a proud and sensitive nature. Time passed on, and I at length sailed
as cabin-boy in a vessel bound for Liverpool, in England. I followed the
sea for many years; and, in the bustle and turmoil of a sailor's life, I
almost forgot my brother, from whom I had been so long separated. Yet
sometimes, in the lonely hours of my night-watch on deck, when out in
mid-ocean, would my thoughts turn to that once-loved brother, and tears
would dim my eyes as memory recalled the days of our early childhood.
"I rose in my profession till I arrived at the position of second mate.
It was at this time that, during a stay of some weeks duration in an
English port, I met with one who won my affections; and, one year after,
we were married. My wife resided with her friends in England, while I
continued to follow the sea. My wife was to me an object of almost
idolatrous attachment. Each time I visited England, I found it the
harder to bid farewell to my wife, and again embark on the ocean. We had
one child, a beautiful boy. I named him Henry, after my brother. When we
had been two years married, I made a voyage to the Indies, and was
absent nearly two years. When I returned, I learned that my wife and
child had both been for some time dead. When I learned the sad truth I
was like one bereft of reason. I could not reconcile myself to the
thought that, in this world, I could never again behold my beloved wife
and child. The very darkness of despair settled on my mind. I had not
then, as I have since done, looked heavenward for consolation amid the
sorrows of life.
"I can dwell no longer upon this dark period of my life, but hasten
onward to the close of my story. I continued to follow the life of a
sailor for some years after my bereavement. The hurry and bustle
attendant upon my calling served in some measure to drive away thoughts
of the past; but, after a time I even grew weary of the sea; and when I
heard of the famous gold regions discovered in Australia, I felt a
strong desire to visit the place. The desire of making money had less to
do with my decision of going there than had the wish for change and
excitement of some kind. Accordingly, I abandoned my sailor life, and
made my way among the hundreds who were crowding to the gold regions of
Australia.
"At that time I was poor, for I had never possessed the faculty for
saving money. I was unaccustomed to the labors of mining, and in many
instances, the knowing ones took me in, and for a long time I realized
but little from my labors. But, as I persevered, against many
discouragements, year after year, I at length began to be successful. I
finally bought a claim, which, quite unexpectedly to me, yielded a
golden harvest, and I soon found myself rich beyond my most sanguine
expectations.
"Year after year I determined to re-visit Philadelphia; but, by this
time my mind had become much engrossed by money-making, and each
succeeding year brought fresh claims upon my time and attention.
"Time passed on, till I found myself fast growing old. I felt an intense
longing to return to the land of my birth, and spend the few years which
might remain to me of life in my native city. During my residence in
Australia I met with a man who informed me that he was in Philadelphia
at the time of my brother's marriage; and it was a severe trial when I
found, upon my return, that my brother, and his wife had both been many
years dead. During my homeward journey, I had formed the decision of
spending my remaining days in the home of my brother, as I wished for
quiet and repose. When I learned that they were both dead, all the
affection of my worn and world-weary heart turned toward their orphan
daughter."
Turning to me my uncle said,--
"Will you go, my dear child, and make bright the home of your aged
uncle?"
I was about to give a joyful assent, when the thought of the kind uncle
and aunt I must leave, caused me to hesitate. It seemed to me that they
possessed a claim upon my affections superior to any other, and I was at
a loss to decide as to what was my duty. I therefore remained silent,
not knowing what reply to make. Observing my hesitation, my uncle
Wayland said,--
"Lonely as we shall be without you, my dear Clara, I yet think it your
duty to go with your uncle Charles, who is still more lonely than we. We
must not be selfish; and I think we should feel willing to give you up."
I was much relieved to know that my uncle and aunt Wayland were willing
that I should go, although I well knew their willingness was caused by
what they considered my duty to my aged relative.
Till I prepared to leave my uncle and aunt, I knew not how tenderly I
had learned to love them. I resigned my school at Mill Town, with much
sorrow, for I had become strongly attached to my pupils. As my uncle and
aunt tenderly embraced me at parting, my uncle said, while the tears
coursed down his furrowed cheeks,--
"Remember, dear Clara, there will ever be for you a daughter's welcome,
both in our hearts and home."