he had often, in the vehemence of his feelings, and the vacuity of his heart, wished himself dead. "I would not live over again those days," said he, shuddering, not for an empire!"

no

Then arose before his memory, pictures of another kind. Tears, genuine tears, were in his eyes, as he recalled his first dream of love; which, by its unfortunate termination, had given a wrong bias to all his after life. A high-born young lady, accomplished, unaffected, and beautiful, had visited at the house where he had found that he was dwelling solely by sufferance—a dependant, according to all the painful meaning of the term. He was carelessly introduced to her as a distant relative, who had been educated and maintained by them, and who was about to be placed in a merchant's office, with the hope that he might make his way in the world. The painful flush which rose on the handsome youth's fair cheek, excited the sympathy of the lady. She found him the most agreeable and intelligent individual in the house, and, little dreaming of the fatal inroads she was making on young Clinton's heart, did her utmost to chase from his countenance the pain she saw there. She played on the piano-forte and guitar to him; she sketched and painted for him; she walked with him; read to him; and sentimentalised with him. The result had been, his life had become bound up in her; he would have lived for her -died for her. But his attachment, as soon as seen, was ridiculed. He was told that it was the height of folly for him to think of her. She was high-born, he was low-born; she, when of age, would have a large fortune he was penniless. The lady said nothing, but obeyed the mandate of her imperious father, and returned

to her home. Clinton went into a London merchant's office. To assuage the anguish and mortification of his feelings he plunged into every gaiety within his reach. His employers remonstrated with him on the levity of his character; his relatives, who had brought him up, wrote to him didactic letters, written in a severe strain. All was of no avail. To supply the extravagant expenses he was incurring, he resorted to petty fraud; his career was mad and ruinous; he was, as it were, in a fever, a delirium, whirled along to destruction at headlong speed, in a vehicle of glitter, and noise, and intoxication. This could not last long. He was dismissed from the honourable post in the firm to which he belonged, and bade to leave the house. Now he saw himself without friends, and without means of subsistence, excepting only such as guilt might furnish. Before he delivered up the key of the desk which had been in his charge, he took therefrom a sum of money, which he thought would not be missed for some days, and absconded with it. A few hours before his departure, a letter was put into his hand, which, had he read before he left, would have saved him from the commission of the act. But he had reached Liverpool, whence he intended to embark for America with his booty, before he opened the important page. Ah! the sweat-drops trickled from Clinton's forehead

now, as he recollected his perusal of the letter. It was from the lady who had unintentionally bewildered his imagination, and made him reckless of reputation, health, and conscience. It was from the lady whose lightest word had still magic in it for him. And she had written to him a delicate remonstrance against the course she had heard he was pursuing; had begged him,

he had often, in the vehemence of his feelings, and the vacuity of his heart, wished himself dead. "I would not live over again those days," said he, shuddering, "nonot for an empire!"

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for her sake, to quit it; had enclosed him a check for a hundred pounds, and had given him a hint, which it was madness to him to understand, that if his affection for. her remained unchanged, she would bestow herself and fortune upon him as soon as she was of age, provided, also, that in the intermediate time (a year) she should hear, as a proof of his continued affection for her, that he had altered his way of life.

He threw himself into a post-chaise, and rode to the seat of the lady's father. Leaving it at the door of a village inn, he walked over the lawn, and entered the shrubbery of the mansion. There it happened, that he saw her alone, sitting thoughtfully, with a book of poems in her hand, which Clinton had given her. Three years had greatly altered, her. Her beauty was tarnished by the canker of grief, her eyes were languid and dim. She shrieked, as he suddenly stepped before her, wild, and haggard.

"Lady Hester," said he, "your letter came too late. I had just given the death blow to my character. I am come to take a hasty but an eternal farewell of you— you, who, I swear by all that is holy and true, have been my single, my only love, since the hour I saw you first. It has been my passion for you, which has ruined me. Ah! Lady Hester, do not forget that, when you hear me branded in the public annals as a villain-as a thief. I had taken nearly a thousand pounds from the desk of my employers, just before your letter was put into my hands. Had it, O cruel fortune! had it arrived a few hours before, I should have been here now, your penitent, devoted, and happy-too happy servant for life! As it is, I fly from justice. I go to a distant land. I