the first advances; and though modesty has long been a stranger to this breast, I blush at the recollection of the many shameful artifices and indecent liberties that I employed to ensnare your honest heart. I see you view me with horror after this discovery; but, unworthy and guilty as I am, do not execrate me as the sole perpetrator of such enormous villainy. No-the person whom you considered as my brother, a wretch, to whom necessity obliged me to attach myself, was the vile instigator and accomplice of my crimes. Oh! spare me, sir, the remainder of this tale of complicated wickedness. But justice demands it-the first consequence of guilt is detection; and let me not be exempted from the common lot of miscreants. The main object of all my pursuits was marriage; and had my endeavours succeeded according to our wishes, the effects would have been dreadful beyond description. Your bed would have been polluted by my unchaste embraces-your honour contaminated by so infamous an alliance-your fortune embezzled and ruined, by the fictitious bills granted by me to villains for that very purpose, which would daily have thronged upon you-your existence would have been miserable-and your end perhaps untimely, when you no longer proved the means of gratifying unbounded extravagance, and irreparable debauchery. I shudder at the thoughts of the abyss into which you would have been irretrievably plunged; but the interposing Providence of heaven prevented this catastrophe, and virtue, in the form of that fair lady, flew to rescue its beloved charge. Virtuous love was once the inmate of this bosom; but, for some time, alas! it has been inhabited by a very different guest. Awed, however, by its dignity, and captivated again by its charms, I became sensible of my own deformity; remorse seized upon me, and

the thrice happy moment arrived, when I formed the blessed resolution to prostrate myself at your feet. Oh! sir, may you never feel those pangs which now rend my soul-an outcast from Godan outcast from my relations-without a friend upon earth, and even abhorred and detested by myself. Of you I can hardly have the assurance to make a request; yet one glance of pity, one word of comfort and forgiveness, would serve to smooth the rugged path of penitence, and dart a ray of hope over my benighted soul. Your good and generous heart, I know, will forgive my past misdeeds, and tenderly contribute to my future felicity.

"The gracious benignity of that old gentleman's countenance, enables me to hope that he will rejoice over my penitential tears, and aid the resignation of a repentant sinner.

"But how shall I address this young lady, or with what entreaties can I hope to mitigate my of fences to her, or to awaken her mercy? Yet I perceive mild compassion beaming in her eyes; her sympathetic breast will disdain to triumph over the miseries even of an enemy, and will pardon the lapses of a fallen sister

"To err is human, to forgive divine.”

And the voice of nature exclaims-frailty! thy

name is woman.

"To walk at an humble distance in the lowly vale of life; to receive the benefit of your propitious instructions, of your fostering example, and of your soothing consolations, till I wipe away the stains of my youth, and recover long lost tranquillity, is now my utmost ambition. That serenity which is the constant portion of innocence and virtue, can no more be the lot of Amelia; yet the morning of her life was as gay, and her prospects 5.

as flattering, as those of the noblest daughters of

the land.

"Look on me, ye thoughtless fair ones, who was once bright as the orient sun, pure as the floweret that blows in the sequestered vale, and chearful as the songsters in the grove-look on her, and learn to be wise!"

Here Amelia paused; and Henry, whose attention had been too strongly arrested by her words, to permit him to observe her posture, now raised her from the floor. No sentiment but pity triumphed in our breasts; and our forgiveness was accompa nied with all these soothing expressions which the most delicate compassion could devise. We entreated her to compose her agitated spirits, and proposed afterwards to hear the whole of her affecting story. But, alas! she had told us too much already, not to endanger our future peace. For while we were forming a thousand little plans for her accommodation, and proposing many expedients to reinstate her in her former walk of life, we perceived a sudden change in Maria's complexion.

The black gulph of destruction, which Amelia had displayed, as yawning to receive her beloved Henry, and the miraculous escape which he had made, operated so powerfully on my daughter's imagination, that she fainted a second time. From this Amelia soon recovered her, but she had scarcely opened her eyes, when another relapse succeeded, and another, each of longer duration than the former, and attended with still more distressing circumstances. At length, by the aid of powerful restoratives, which, for some time, were incessantly applied, she was again brought to life, but in such an alarming situation, as excluded every ray of hope. What with the violent irritation of her nerves, the general discomposed state of her frame,

4

and the languid condition of her mind, she awoke in a strong nervous fever; which, in a few hours, was attended with delirium, and every death-like symptom.

In vain did Henry and Amelia use every effort to counteract the effects of the distemper. Prayers and tears were poured forth, but they were unavailing. Unremitted attention, and the aid of medicine we employed, but they proved ineffectual; for nought could porcure even a temporary relief, or mitigate for one short hour the fury of the raging disease.

On this occasion, poor Amelia, indeed, well atoned for her past failings; and gave signal proofs of her sincere repentance. Neither day nor night. did she leave Maria's bedside; but, with more than maternal care, watched over her, till fatigue and sorrow had exhausted both the vigour of her body and the powers of her mind.

As for Henry, he was incapable of any other thought but Maria-but let us not mock his woe by a faint description.

In this hopeless state she continued for several days; sometimes calling upon the name of her beloved father, sometimes of her dear Henry, and imploring heaven to rescue them from danger; for both ideas seemed alternately to agitate her breast. Often would she incoherently, and in a muttering accent, recount the happy scenes of her former days; then breaking short, as if we had been already dead, in a wild, but exquisitively plaintive tone, would she lament our unhappy fate.

(To be concluded in our next, }

Made at different times, but concluded in the month of July, 1801, in Three Letters to a Pupil.

By JOHN EVANS, A. M.

MASTER OF A SEMINARY FOR A LIMITED NUMBER OF PUPILS, PULLIN'S-ROW, ISLINGTGN.

-O famous Kent!

What county hath this Isle that can compare with thee!

That hath within thyself as much as thou canst wish, Nor any thing doth want that any where is good.

MY WORTHY YOUNG FRIEND,

AVING in my last letter conducted you into

H the ancient town of Dover-an account of

this place now calls for our attention. Its situation, extent, and history, offer many particulars to the inquisitive mind. We cannot fail of being gratified by enquiries relative to a spot frequently mentioned in the annals of our country.

DOVER, at the distance of 72 miles from London, is placed in a romantic situation. Entering it from Canterbury you pass through a valley of some length, in which stands the pleasant village of Buckland. The bills, on each side, have an interesting aspect-and being market-day, I met the good country folks jogging along this sequestered dale, encircled by the fruits of their industry. The entrance into the town has an antique appearance. The castle, on the left, frowns from on high, and the opposite hill boldly facing the ocean, has the town stretched at its base, in an