I remain, if you permit me, Ever sincerely your friend, Henry Weston. To Miss Corinna Wilton. At four o’clock in the morning, I was in the stage, on my way to the nearest seaport town. I had made up my mind to embark for Europe. The packet ship A—— was ready to start, and awaited only a fair wind. I engaged a passage for Bordeaux; and the delay being transient, I was soon beyond the reach of Captain Wilton, and the wiles of Corinna. But alas! what hope is there for the unfortunate? I discovered to my sorrow that new troubles awaited me. As I sat one evening on the bulwark, brooding over my past career, a female voice of exquisite pathos, accompanied by the guitar delicately and tastefully touched, ascended from the ladies’ cabin. I fancied there was something heavenly in the soft, melancholy strain that was wafted from the lips of the songstress. The words were beautiful and touching, and entirely in unison with my feelings. Under any circumstances, the performance would not have appeared commonplace; but at a moment like this, sounds which alone were the soul and essence of poetry, borne to my ear so softly, so unexpectedly, entranced my senses, till I voluntarily exclaimed— “Can any mortal mixture of earth’s mould Breathe such divine, enchanting ravishment? Sure something holy lodges in that breast That with these raptures moves the vocal air!” Not a breath ruffled the calm, swelling ocean. The rays of a departing sun gilded every object around me, with a mellow lustre. A scene of such expanse and grandeur completed the effect which the music had wrought upon me; and I was overpowered with the tenderest emotions. Visions of Home and its happy associations, came upon me in rapid succession. But these “thick-coming fantasies” were verging me towards the melting mood. To hide my weakness, I entered into a sociable dialogue with one of my fellow passengers. “Yes—a very delightful voice,” he observed in answer to an observation of mine. “Is she ill?—I have not seen her at the dining table,” said I; for I felt more than ordinary interest in her. “Delicate, I presume, she prefers the solitude of her cabin.” “Ah, yes: her voice indicates a pensive disposition.” “Just hers, exactly, sir.” “Then you are acquainted with her?” I observed. “I ought to be,” said my travelling acquaintance. “Is she young?” “Yes—about nineteen.” “And pretty?” “Beautiful, _I_ think.” Now I really began to imagine I was deeply in love. This unknown songstress had created strange sensations in me. I had some thoughts of asking an introduction; but my acquaintance was almost too slight with my new friend. After a moment’s thought, I observed— “I should like to know her.” “Would you? I shall introduce you, sir, with pleasure,” was the generous reply.