The letter fell from his hands, his countenance assumed a deadly pale, and the sweat stood in large drops on his forehead. For many days he could not believe that Mary was married; and, in moments of forgetfulness, he spoke to his bosom friend of his intended union with her.

Martlet got his discharge from the army, and his friends procured him an humble situation in his native town, the scene of his early love. But his peace of mind was fled for ever. At night he wandered alone in the fields in which Mary and he, three years before, had spent their happiest moments.

It seems to be a characteristic of our nature to desire to fly from the spot of earth where we have experienced sorrow and disappointment. Whether it be that local scenes recall painful associations, or whether we imagine that, by leaving the theatre of our early dreams of happiness, we shall weep no more, I know not: certain it is, the feeling of the disappointed bosom is expressed in the words of Kirke White, "I must leave Nottingham." He uttered these words when he thought his bright

hopes of future fame were blasted by the chilling breath of the Monthly Reviewer. But ah! how poignant, how heart-rending must be the feelings of the youth, when she he holds most dear on earth forsakes him, or denies his love! He sees nothing around him save a wilderness of wo, and his first thoughts are,

"Thus doomed to ceaseless, hopeless love,

I haste to India's shore;

For here how can I longer stay,

And call thee mine no more?"

My only desire," he

Martlet resolved to leave L--; he thought of going to America. said, "is to spend the remainder of my days in peace and obscurity." His friends endeavoured to soothe his mind, and used every means to induce him to remain at L in vain.

but

One Sunday he passed by the chapel in which Mary and he had so often been, and where their united voices had been so often heard Martlet went in, merely as he thought to gratify curiosity-just to see whether the chapel was like it used to be. Martlet knelt—

the minister was praying; then the congregation arose, and the choir resounded the praises of the Almighty. It was long since Martlet had heard this choir. He listened-his frame shook his heart swelled when, oh, reader!

judge of his feelings, imagine his anguishamid the innumerable notes he clearly distinguished Mary's voice! It pierced his soul— that voice charmed another: he staggered out of the door almost bereft of life. That night he was missing from his usual place at the social fire-side; the strictest and most unceasing inquiry was made, but to no purpose. Three days elapsed, when his lifeless corse was thrown by the ocean on the western coast of Ireland, where it was discovered by some fishermen ; but in what way he met his fate is not known-all conjecture is therefore useless. He was buried by the kind hands of the fishermen, and a mound of earth is all that marks the spot where he sleeps

"Alike unkown

To fortune, and to fame."

CHAPTER X.

THE following letters and fragments were found in Martlet's pocket-book after his death, among very many of other papers, but which were too wet and torn to be legible. With respect to fragment Number I., it seems necessary to remark, that it must have been written during the unhappy disturbances in the manufacturing districts in England. I have had some doubts as to the propriety of inserting it; but I have at length given it a place, with the hope that it may possibly do some good, and the conviction that it cannot do harm, at least to any cause worthy of the support of an honest man. It may serve to shew rulers the opinions of one of that class of their subjects whom they often use as instruments of arbitrary oppression.

LETTER FIRST.

"DEAREST MARY,-The letter that I wrote

to you a short time ago was, I believe, safely deposited in your hands by my kind and excellent sister. In a letter to me she expresses her good opinion of you, and praises your modest and unassuming demeanour. She says, you appeared desirous of seeing her again, and I expected that you would see her, if it were only to ease the heart of your illfated lover; but this expectation, fondly cherished as it has been within my breast, has proved vain. Oh, Mary! have you forgotten me? Alas! have I forfeited all claim to your affection? Tell me, oh! tell me, is your heart attached, and your faith and constancy pledged to another? Has our early and first love proved as transient as the morning dew? Did we only imagine that we loved ?—were our feelings delusive? If so, I will henceforth deny that there is any such thing as love, and that all fidelity is fled from this cold world. If, Mary, you have given your heart to one for whom you have greater love than for the unhappy being who now writes to you, I will endeavour to bear my fate with all the fortitude with which an almost broken heart can be expected