practicability of driving the merchant sovereigns from Hindostan. There was, as is the essence of my character, much boyish folly joined to dangerous passion; all of which took the guise in my own heart of that high heroic adventure with which I longed to adorn my life. A subaltern in the company's service, I could never gain my Alithea, or do her the honour with which I longed to crown her. The acquisition of power, of influence, of station, would exalt me in her father's eyes--so much of what was selfish mingled in my conduct--but I was too young and impetuous to succeed. Those in power watched me narrowly. The elevation of a day was always followed by a quick transfer to an unknown and distant province. "In all my wildest schemes the thought of Alithea reigned paramount. My only object was to prove myself worthy of her; and my only dream for the future was to make her mine for ever. "A constancy of ten years, strung perpetually up to the height of passion, may appear improbable; yet it was so. It was my nature to hold an object with tenacious grasp--to show a proud contempt of obstacles--to resolve on ultimate triumph. Besides this, the idea of Alithea was so kneaded up and incorporate with my being, that my living heart must have been searched and anatomized to its core, before the portion belonging to her could have been divided from the rest. I disdained the thought of every other woman. It was my pride to look coldly on every charm, and to shut my heart against all but Alithea. During the first years of my residence in India, I often wrote to her, and pouring out my soul on paper, I conjured her to preserve herself for me. I told her how each solitary jungle or mountain ravine spoke to me of a secluded home with her; how every palace and gorgeous hall seemed yet a shrine too humble for her. The very soul of passion breathed along the lines I traced--they were such as an affianced lover would have written, pure in their tenderness; but heartfelt, penetrating, and eloquent; they were my dearest comfort. After long, wearisome marches--after the dangers of an assault or a skirmish--after a day spent among the sick or dying--in the midst of many disappointments and harassing cares--during the storms of pride and the languor of despair, it was my consolation to fly to her image and to recall the tender happiness of reunion--to endeavour to convey to her how she was my hope and aim--my fountain in the desert--the shadowy tree to shelter me from the burning sun--the soft breeze to refresh me--the angelic visiter to the unfortunate martyr. Not one of these letters ever reached her--her father destroyed them all: on his head be the crime and the remorse of his daughter's death! Fool and coward! would I shift to other shoulders the heavy weight? No! no! crime and remorse still link me to her. Let them eat into my frame fiery torture; they are better than forgetfulness!