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wish—all I wish to be. O, you know not what power you have over me !” “‘I cannot trust that power! All who have trusted it, have repented of it. In the past you have submitted to one temptation after another, and what security is there for the future ? And, could that security be given, it would not be sufficient for me. No-forgive me in saying it, duty imposes it on me—I could never give my hand to a person, allowing him to be reformed, who has, in former life, been familiarized with vice. This will convince you, that I never can be yours. No-And in withdrawing my hand from you, I do it with a resolution of never giving it to any other! Yes—my vain dream of bliss is followed by real sorrows! and I only blame my own indiscretion for it!” “The tears flowed freely as she ceased. Lefevre stood motionless. The struggle was deep in his soul. Hope expired—despair triumphed—the conflict of the passions produced a calm more dreadful than their violence. At length, raising his eyes, and forgetful for the moment of those about him, he exclaimed, with a tone as deep as his feeling, “O God! it is thine hand—and I deserve it!” Then catching her hand he pressed and repressed it to his burning lips, and dropping it, said. “There! now it's all over ! now I'm a lost man! The outcast of Providence!—I have no friend!—no—neither in heaven nor on earth!—O, weep not for me—I deserve it not! Best of women! I ought not to be yours—I am not worthy of you! Forget me— Tell me I have not power to make you unhappy—that alone can give me some comfort!’ “He paused—but was answered only by sobs and tears.

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He was passing to the door, but checking himself, he turned back, and said—"At least Miss D , do me the justice to believe, that, in my conduct before you, I was not acting a part. No-whatever I have been—whatever I may be—I was not a hypocrite. I acted uprightly—and really meant to be what I professed—Farewell—for ever

farewell!”
“So saying, he dashed the stale tears from his eyelids—
and hurried from the room and the house.
“‘Mr. Lefevre!' cried the agitated grandmother, “leave
us not thus.’
“‘O, stay! stay!”—exclaimed Miss D , roused by
the voice of her relative, to a sense of his departure, and
losing all restraint on her feelings.
“Lefevre did not obey—did not hear. He had fled to
the stable—thrown himself on his saddle, and, in an instant,
the shoes of the horse were ringing on the pebbled court
yard. The chords of her heart answered to every sound.

She hastened to a window that commanded a corner of the
road. She saw Lefevre turn the angle, and disappear—
she felt it was for ever!—She clasped her hands in anguish
—a sense of suffocation rose to her throat—she hurried to
her closet to weep and sigh in secret!
“Lefevre sighed not—wept not—spoke not—thought
not. The vultures of remorse and despair were busy at
his heart; and he surrendered it as a victim, without an
effort or a wish for its preservation. He was alive only to
a sense of wretchedness; and he hurried over the road,
which, an hour ago, had been so pleasing to him, as if he
felt that change of place might bring relief Wretched.

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ness, however, like happiness, is not the inhabitant of
places, but of persons; and Lefevre found himself at home,
without any mitigation of his pains. He locked his door,
and threw himself on some chairs that were near it, over-
come with that stupor which follows bodily exhaustion,
and acute mental sufferings. Thus he lay for some hours.”
Vol. II. page 49.
Reason and hope, no longer casting their occasional
glimmerings on the victim of forbidden passions, Lefevre
returns to intemperance. Intemperance disorders his busi-
ness—and his employers ask a statement of his accounts.
To be suspected after ten years of faithful services fill
up the measure of his sufferings: Indignant and self.
condemned, delirium and despair come next—despair of
all peace in this world, or in that to come! Despair settles
-down into melancholy—he escapes from his weeping
friends into the country, and is tempted by the sight of a
river to drown himself!
“The side to the water rose perpendicularly about four
feet above the surface, and descended several feet below it.
To this elevation Lefevre ascended. He walked to and
fro, agitated with those throes of passion, which, by the
torment they gave, biassed his mind to the sinister resolu-
tion. Weary of action, and weary of life, he sat himself
on the stones at the very verge of the river. This was the
moment of trial. The night had come on. Obscurity
had fallen on every thing but the waters; on them the
moon-beams played with most fascinating sweetness. Le-
fevre's frame was heated with fever and exercise; no
breeze was stirring to invigorate it; the river alone looked

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cool and refreshing, and seemed inviting him to its very bosom. He listened—not a sound was to be heard. He looked round—not a living creature was to be seen. His purpose strengthened—he started on his feet. His spirit shuddered with horror—not at the leap to the waters—but at the idea of rushing into the presence of the great God he had offended ! He walked about in agitation—sat down again. He postponed a purpose which he had not power either to break or ful&l—he would do it when the tide came to a certain height. His aching eye hung over the bank, watching the awful progress of the rippling waters. Now they ran over the stone, which was to fill up the measure of his time—but they sank again! The blood fell back to his heart, and the sweat drops sprang on his forehead! Now again the little waves ripple over the mark—and— subside no more . He rises from his seat for the last time! He starts to see a person in the path which ran along the bottom of the bank. He paused to get the stranger out of sight. This was not so readily done. He waited—and waited; and, at last concluding the intruder meant to watch him, he descended to the pathway, and left the place, full of indignation.” Vol. II. page 102. Thus happily discovered, he is restored to his distracted mother, but the solicitude of his friends moves him only to the determination of hiding his disgraced head. He finds an opportunity to abscond again, and enlists in a regiment ordered to Canada. The last glimpse of his native land effected what every other effort had failed to do— it is thus beautifully described. “The ship now stood out to sea, and every object was

distanced to his sight. He painfully felt each inch of the way the vessel made. Soon the light of day became fainter, and the distance more considerable; till England only appeared as a promontory on which nothing could be distinguished, except the deep fogs that surrounded its foot, and the dim, heavy glory that pressed its summit. Imagination still ran over its favourite spots, and his affections, so long inactive, obstinately clung to his friends, now the hand of time threatened to separate him from them for ever. His distressed thoughts flew from thing to thing, and from one beloved person to another, busy but restless; as though the opportunity of dwelling on them would be lost to him, immediately the receding point of land should sink in the dark horizon. The vessel heaved—and his eye was thrown from the dear spot on which it hung! He shifted his position—and strained every nerve of sight to recover it. Now he saw it! no, it was a mist! Now!— no, it was a wave Still his eye pierced to the line that bounded the sky and water; but, no—nothing could be found !—Indescribable anguish swelled within him. A thousand tender ties seemed snapped at once. All the smothered sentiments of friendship, of filial affection, of local endearment, invigorated by the love of country, a passion so often found to survive other attachments, rose in his soul. The depths of sorrow were broken up—tears gushed from his eyes—he sank down on the deck, and long and bitterly did he weep!" Vol. II. page 156. Salutary were the tears of Lefevre—They relieved the gloomy torpor of his soul. “The light of heaven seemed beaming through the

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