pression on my mind, that it was with no common feelings that I crossed its threshold for the last time.

Alas! alas!

when shall we see a thing like this in London !

LETTER OF AN ADVENTURER

TO AN OBJECT OF EARLY ATTACHMENT-WRITTEN ON THE NIGHT BEFORE HIS EXECUTION.

You will start at sight of this writing, with a sensation of pain: yet you will not at first recollect to whom it belongs. The characters resemble some which you once traced with delight, but they have lost their former freedom and strength.

I know exactly the hour at which this will reach you— seven in the evening. How often at that hour have we together inquired for letters, at the little shop near the church. You are sitting at your tea-table, encompassed by your two rosy boys, your smiling fairy girl, and your excellent husband. How well I know the room in the Parsonage. I see the green curtains, the blazing hearth, and the print of the Transfiguration over the chimneypiece. You perceive, that I am acquainted with all your habits; but you have long-lost sight of me: you do not even know the name which I now bear, and which you would to-morrow read in the papers with indifference, but for the sheet which now trembles in your hand.

A glance at the end will explain all, and awaken some scorching sparks of a flame, which, ten years ago, was light to your path, and warmth to your heart. Oh! Mary, during those years, on what waves have I been tossed! But I can accuse no one: the tempest was

raised by myself. Yet when about to plunge into the abyss of death; it is indeed a consolation to reflect, that no parents survive to shudder at my infamy, and that you have glided calmly along on gentle and sunny streams, far from the lightning and the hurricane.

It would be a vile selfishness to wring your kind heart with my hateful tale, if I were not anxious to bequeath an indelible lesson to your children. Your children! How these simple words make my hand shakewhat vain regrets, what deliciousness of once wellfounded hope do they not conjure forth before my aching sight! Your children! Is it possible that I am living— such as now I am-I, who might once have been their father?

Do you remember the night when we parted? We walked from your father's house along the path that winds by the lake: the moon was at her full-that moon, which gleamed so sadly on me then-on which I have never since had the heart to gaze.

Two days brought me to London; to an inn near the prison, where I am now immured. How rapturous was my first glimpse of the capital: it seemed the very atmosphere I was born to breathe. My enjoyment of its splendours was heightened, too, by the sweet expectation of soon sharing them in your society. For the first seven months I sent you a regular and faithful detail of all my feelings and actions; the tenth was to have returned me to Westmoreland: how eagerly I used to look forward to it!—but it came to you without me.

You cannot fail to remember one person, whom I painted to you in colours the most glowing. I early regarded him with a sort of instinctive admiration; for. he was one of those remarkable men of whom we encounter only two or three in the course of a life. His

figure was elegant and noble; but his features-it is difficult to express the union which they comprised of intelligence, sensibility, candour, firmness,-embellished by a peculiar versatility, freedom, and complacency of address, which the oldest pupils of refinement rarely possess, and irresistibly fascinating to an unpractised eye. Great attention was paid to him by all, for he was particularly active and skilful in the minutia of office. Gradually he observed me; apologized very effectually for some of my inaccuracies, and said I should gratify him by an application on any difficulty. One day, he mentioned in a casual manner, that he was going to support the new play of a friend, and asked me to take one of his orders, and accompany him. We dined at his chambers: here he led me to speak of my affairs, my wishes, my home,-subjects on which I had long been condemned to silence, and on which I burned to dilate. He knew every spot about Ambleside; shewed me some beautiful sketches he had taken there. You may conceive how this expanded my heart. In the course of the night he introduced me to the Green-room: the successful author insisted on our supping with him: we met several men of wit, literature, and fashion; and, amidst the flow of wine and of soul, I fancied myself the inhabitant of a new world. We grew very intimate. His conversation was inexhaustibly rich he had seized with ample grasp on all the broader outlines of nature and society, yet their most trivial features were equally revealed to him. I had hitherto studied books alone, and these superficially: he poured a flood of living light upon my mind. On one topic, indeed, we differed at first-I dread to add, that it was only at first. He often descanted on the credulity of mankind, on bigotry, prejudice, superstition,-the craf

tiness of priesthood, and the evidence of the senses. Insensibly I imbibed the contagion: my misfortune or my error had been, that I had never mastered the historical proofs of Christianity: I had breathed it in childhood, as the air around me: my belief was only built on the foundation of feeling, example, opinion. Through this breach he assailed, and conquered me. His learning was very extensive, and I could make but few replies to it on recorded facts. On natural religion (to use his own term) he expatiated with eager eloquence; until I was at length persuaded that I had never before felt the force of genuine piety;-and from that moment I was never actuated by any.

I write largely of this man, for he was the hinge on which my fate has turned. I had occasionally heard him allude to a sister, who was a teacher of music. My task was one day finished earlier than usual, while much remained on his hands: he was to have spent the evening with her, but now was unable: he asked me to leave his excuse at her lodgings, which lay on my walk homewards. I intended merely to leave the message at the door, but the servant insisted on conducting me up stairs. The apartment was one of those sanctuaries, which instantly whisper that we are treading a superior ground;-exhibiting in varied forms those graceful touches of an inventive taste, which are often sought in vain amid scenes of more costly splendour. From that day you never received more than one chilling letter from me; duped, capricious, sensual fool that I was, what have I not lost! Not you alone, but every charm of this world, and in the next

Adelaide was not a woman to be described; you should have seen her: yet to see her was not to know her; always fleeting from the view and touch of observance, she

was ever presenting herself as a new being. She was not the most beautiful woman I ever saw, but she was more-she was genius and sensibility embodied; all her looks, words, and gestures were emotions; there was an intense animation in her nature, which communicated sparks of life to every object that crossed her path. You smiled, you admired, you sighed, you forgot your existence, during a minute of her conversation. Intrepidity was a prominent ingredient in her composition, though not the most attractive one. She would launch forth into the boldest, bitterest ironies against falsehood, folly, corruption, perverted talents; and then would abruptly exclaim, “I am drawing my own portrait." But in this she spoke to one who could not believe. Why am I so tedious?—I caught the wildness of her spirit.-Her brother, at first, treated my raptures with indifference, insinuating the imprudence of an early union with a portionless orphan. This only fanned my flame. At length he consented with seeming reluctance; and, on the strength of our approaching relationship, condescended to borrow a thousand pounds of me, which were to be repaid in a month; and, in the interim, were to rescue from the horrors of a prison an afflicted friend of his bosom. The day was fixed for our marriage, and my five thousand pounds were settled on her. But my fever of delight was arrested by the following letter, which is engraven on my memory to the minutest syllable; a feeble sketch of the most extraordinary person I ever beheld.

"Our acquaintance commenced with an apology for my brother's absence. Is it to end in the same manner? He is very very sorry that he cannot have the pleasure of giving me away; his indisposition is peculiar-he sailed yesterday in the good ship Foresight for New York, there to be metamorphosed into a sober citizen. He is