University of Virginia Library

LETTER XXVIII.
WORTHY to MYRA.

My melancholy meditations led
me yesterday to the same place where I had
seen the distracted Fidelia, and walking down
the hill I again beheld her by the side of a
beautiful spring—Before I could come up to
the place, she was gone—she went hastily
over the field—I followed her—after a few
minutes walk, I overtook her, and we both
went on together towards a small, neat, farm
house. An old man was sitting at the door
—he gave a sigh as she passed by him to go
in—I asked him if she was his daughter—
“Alas!” said he, “my poor child—she has
been in this state of affliction for near a twelve

month.” I inquired what cause produced
the loss of her senses—He looked down sorrowfully—the
question awakened the gloomy
sensations of past evils, the recollection of
which was painful, and opened wounds afresh
that were not yet healed. “She has lost
her lover,” cried the old man—“the youth
was the son of one of our neighbours—their
infancy was marked by a peculiar attachment
to each other. When the young people
danced together, Fidelia was always
the partner of Henry—as they grew up their
mutual tendernefs ripened into passionate
affection. They were engaged to each
other, and Henry saved all his little stock of
money to begin the world by himself. All
the town beheld them with pleasure—they
wished them success and happiness—and
from their knowledge of both their charac-ters,
were led to hope they would one day
become good members of society—but these
hopes are blasted, and they now bestow the
bitterest curses on the wretch who hath
crushed their expectations—who hath de-prived
Fidelia of her senses, and caused the
death of her lover.

“THE gay Williams comes among us, and
participates in our domestick pastimes—he
singles out Fidelia, and is affiduous in his at-tentions
to her—her little heart is lifted up
—but her prudence rises superiour to her
vanity. Henry observes the operations of
Williams and thinks he sees in him a power-ful
rival—the unhappy youth becomes me-lancholy—he
sickens with jealousy—the

pleasures of our country are forgotten by
him—his thoughts are continually employed
on his Fidelia.—To complete the measure
of his promised happiness he wishes to call
her his own—he declares the desire of his
soul—Fidelia pledges her faith. He now
fees the accomplishment of all his wishes in
reversion—his heart leaps for joy—but—as
the little paraphernalia is preparing, the ruffian
hand of the Seducer dashes the cup of joy
from their lips—Fidelia suddenly disappears
—Williams—the ungrateful Williams—betrays
her to a carriage he had prepared, and
she is hurried off. Henry stands astonished
—wild with grief and dismay, he appears
senseless and confounded.

“WHEN the heart is elevated by strong
expectation—disappointment and misfortune
come with redoubled force—To receive
pain, when we look for pleasure, penetrates
the very soul with accumulated anguish.”

THE old man paused—He endeavoured
to hide a tear that was stealing down his
cheek—and to check the violence of his passion.

I ASKED him how long his daughter was
missing—“Not long,” he answered—“the
young men, enraged at the insult, arm
themselves and pursue the robber—they
overtake him—Williams is wounded in the
scuffle, and is carried away bleeding, by his
servant—My daughter is regained—we

thank Heaven for her restoration. She enquires
for her Henry—alas! Henry is no
more! The object of his love had flown from
him, and with her, all the light of his soul—
Darkness and grief had encompassed him—
he had no resource, no consolation, no hope
—she whom his soul loved was stolen—was
wrested from his embrace. Who was there
to administer relief?—Who was there to
supply her loss?—Not one.—The light of
his reason now became clouded—he is seized
by despair, and urged forward by the torments
of disappointed love, he plunges into
the river—to close his sorrows with his
life.

“THE loss of Fidelia's senses followed this
tragical event.

“SHE hears the sate of her lover and becomes
petrisied—the idea of her sorrows—
her own agitation and care for her person,
are lost in the reflection of her lover's death.
—A while she raved—but is now somewhat
restored, and, as you see,the poor maniack
strays about the fields harmless and inoffenfive.”

THE old man proceeded to inform me of
the death of his wife—the idea of one misfortune
aroused in him that of another—or
rather there was a gradual progression in
them, and consequently a connexion—He
told me she did not long survive the death
of Henry. “O Charlotte!” he cried, “thou
wast kind and cheerful—very pleasant hast
thou been unto me. I will not cease to regret

thy loss, till I meet thee in a better
world.”

“OUR hearts,” continued the old man,
addressing me, “are loosened from their attachment
to this world by repeated strokes
of misfortune. Wisely is it ordered thus.
Every calamity severs a string from the
heart—until one scene of sorrow on the back
of another, matures us for eternity—Thus
are our affections estranged from this scene
of misery. The cord that detains the bird
is severed in two—and it slies away.

“FORMERLY as I sat in this place—in
the mild shade of the evening—when I had
returned from my labour and took Fidelia on
my knee, how often have I rendered thanks
to Heaven for the happiness I enjoyed, and

implored his power to make my child such
another as Charlotte—This sweet remembrance
yet swells and agitates my heart, and
in the midst of the distress which surrounds
me, I feel a consolation in tracing to you a feeble
sketch of the happy times that are pasted.”

THE old man was sensibly affected—he
delighted to dwell on what his child had
been—he thought of those times—and he
fighed when he contrasted them with the
present.

“IN her disordered state,” continued he,
“she knows me not as a father—I spread my
morsel before her, and she slies from it—she
forgets the sound of my voice—she is no
longer unto me as a daughter. She who

hath so often said, she would support me
with her arm, and lead me about, when I
should be old and decriped—to her I call,
but she returns me no answer. Is not the
cause of my woe, a melancholy instance of
the baleful art of the SEDUCER?—She is
deprived of her reason, and knows not the
weight of her misery; and I am doubly
burdened with her affliction, and the accumulated
misfortune of immature decripitude.”

“SEDUCTION is a crime,” I observed,
“that nothing can be said to palliate or
excuse.”

“AND wo to him,” added the old man,
“who shall endeavour to extenuate it—
They have taken away my staff”—continued

he, raising a look of imploring mercy to Heaven,
while a trembling tear rolled from his
swollen eye, “They have taken away my staff
in my old age.”

FREELY did my heart share in the sorrows
of the good old man—when I left him,
I prayed Heaven to compassionate his diftress—and
as I bent my pensive step towards
Belleview, I had leisure to animadvert on the
fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.

Adies!