There is a pang, beyond all others—a grief, which happily for human nature few have been called upon to encounter. It is when an erring but not hardened heart, worked up to excess of passion, idolized and flattered into security, madly betraying every sacred trust, receives all unlooked for, from the hand it adores, the dreadful punishment which its crime deserves. And, if there can be a degree still greater of agony, shew to the wretch who sinks beneath the unexpected blow—shew her, in the person of her only remaining friend and protector, the husband she has betrayed—the lover of her youth! Oh shew him unsuspicious, faithful, kind; and do not judge her, if at such moment, the dream dispelled, frantic violence impelling her to acts of desperation and madness, lead her rash hand to attempt her miserable life. Where, but in death can such outcast seek refuge from shame, remorse and all the bitterness of despair? Where but in death? Oh, God; it is no coward’s act! The strength of momentary passion may nerve the arm for so rash a deed; but faint hearts will sicken at the thought. Calantha durst not—no, she durst not strike the blow. She seized the sharp edged knife, and tried its force. It was not pain she feared. Pain, even to extremity, she already felt. But one single blow—one instant, and all to be at an end. A trembling horror seized upon her limbs: the life-blood chilled around her heart. She feared to die. Pain, even to agony, were better than thus to brave Omnipotence—to rush forward uncalled into that state of which no certain end is known: to snatch destiny into our own power, and draw upon ourselves, in one instant of time, terrors and punishments above the boundless apprehension even of an evil imagination to conceive. Calantha’s eye, convulsed and fixed, perceived not the objects which surrounded her. Her thoughts, quick as the delirious dream of fever, varied with new and dreadful pictures of calamity. It was the last struggle of nature.—The spirit within her trembled at approaching dissolution.—The shock was too great for mortal reason to resist. Glenarvon—Glenarvon! that form—that look alone appeared to awaken her recollection, but all else was confusion and pain. It was a scene of horror. May it for ever be blotted from the remembrance of the human heart! It claims no sympathy: it was the dreadful exhibition of a mind which passion had misled, and reason had ceased to guide. Calantha bowed not before that Being who had seen fit to punish her in his wrath. She sought nor vengeance, nor future hope. All was lost for her; and with Glenarvon, every desire in life, every aspiring energy vanished. Overpowered, annihilated, she called for mercy and release. She felt that mortal passion domineered over reason; and, after one desperate struggle for mastery, had conquered and destroyed her.