your fancy as a more probable intruder into such a tender scene than a lion.” “Oh yes, sir, but let us go on.” “The lovers, to escape the questions of the watchman, cross the New Road into the fields near the Jews Harp. For several months the fond lovers have interviews, but ah the cruelty of destiny! poor Athalia finds a change in her shape, which a cruel and unfeeling world is so malignant as to censure. She is likely to be a mother without being a wife.” “Poor Athalia!” said the critic; “but one comfort to her is, her case is not singular.” “Alas! no,” said the author; and here she sighed, and was in some little agitation; but our hero either not noticing, or not appearing to notice her, proceeded, and read in the synopsis “a pathetic letter of Athalia to Carolino, on discovering her condition.” Hamilton turned to the place, and read as follows: “My beloved Carolino, How shall I communicate to you the fatal secret; alas! I am betrayed. I will not reproach you. I am betrayed into _mistake_ by the soft sensibility of too tender a heart. I cannot reproach you; I can only blame myself, and a worthless and malignant world. Ah! why (as the king of German moralists observes so strongly) should that be reckoned dishonourable in event which proceeds from no malevolent intention? Why should the indulgence of the sweetest of affections be reckoned a crime? Why should it be deemed shameful to obey the impulses of nature? Ah! when shall the corruptions of society suffer actions to be estimated according to the divine sentiments of the “Virgin of the sun,” even after the title ceased to be applicable. When, like Clara and Lindor, shall we look on such incidents as innocent and even laudable. I need not say, shall _we_ look, but shall a worthless and wicked world look upon such occurrences in the right point of view. Oh! sentiment, thou source of every thing that is great, and noble, and refined, how are thy rights violated! It was only last night, just as I had returned from meeting him that is so dear to my soul, my mother, I found, had discovered _the sacred secret of my heart_: alas, to be a secret no longer, for to her it was not long confined. These human monsters, these foes to all fine sentiment, these repressors of all delicate feeling!” “Who can these be,” said our hero. “Oh, sir,” said the author, “do not you know who it means. I thought that one of the best parts of my descriptions: but you will see as you go along.” Our hero still not discovering, she said in a half whisper, “I mean, sir, _the parish officers_, but I did not know how far they could with propriety be mentioned in a pathetic scene. Perhaps you would object to their introduction after interviews of sentimental love and tenderness.” “Their introduction,” said our hero, “frequently takes place after scenes of sentimental love: but let us go on with the letter. And they say that these brutes in human shape, are endeavouring