_Harriot_ to _Myra_.
_Rhodeisland._
WE arrived here in safety, but our journey is not without
incident—an incident which exhibits a melancholy picture of the
wickedness and depravity of the human heart.
WHEN we came to the house of Mrs. _Martin_, who I suppose you know is
cousin to Mrs. _Francis_, we were not a little astonished at the evident
traces of distress in her countenance; all her actions were accompanied
with an air of solemnity, and her former gaiety of heart was exchanged
for sad, serious thoughtfulness: She, however, put on a face of vivacity
upon our being introduced, but her cheerfulness was foreign to the
feelings of her heart.
MR. _Martin_ was equally agitated: he endeavoured to dispossess himself
of an _uncommon_ weight of remorse, but in vain—all his dissimulation
could not conceal his emotion, nor his art abate the continual
upbraidings of conscious guilt.
MRS. _Francis_ was anxious to enquire the cause of this extraordinary
change, but wisely forebore adding to the distress of her friend, by
desiring her to explain it, in a manner too precipitate. She was in a
short time made acquainted with the particulars of the story—which is
not more melancholy than uncommon.
SOMETIME after the marriage of _Martin_, the beautiful _Ophelia_, sister
to Mrs. _Martin_, returned from a European visit to her friends in
_Rhodeisland_. Upon her arrival, she received a polite offer from her
brother-in-law of an elegant apartment of his house in town, which was
cheerfully accepted—Fatal acceptation! He had conceived a passion for
_Ophelia_ and was plotting to gratify it. By a series of the most artful
attentions, suggested by a diabolical appetite, he insinuated himself
into her affection—he prevailed upon the heart of the unsuspicious
_Ophelia_, and triumphed over her innocence and virtue.
THIS incestuous connection has secretly subsisted until the present
time—it was interrupted by a symptom which rendered it necessary for
_Ophelia_ to retire into the country, where she was delivered of a
child, at once the son and nephew of _Martin_.
THIS event was a severe mortification to the proud spirit of _Shepherd_,
the father of _Ophelia_. His resentment to his daughter was implacable,
and his revenge of the injury from _Martin_ not to be satiated. The
blaze of family dispute raged with unquenchable fury—and poor _Ophelia_
received other punishment from the hand of a vindictive father than base
recrimination.
THE affection of _Martin_ now became changed to the vilest hatred.
THUS doomed to suffer the blackest ingratitude from her seducer on the
one hand, and to experience the severity of paternal vengeance on the
other—and before her the gloomy prospect of a blasted reputation—what
must be the situation of the hapless _Ophelia_! Hope, the last resort of
the wretched, was forever shut out. There was no one whom she durst
implore by the tender name of father, and he, who had seduced her from
her duty and her virtue, was the first to brand her with the disgraceful
epithets of undutiful and unchaste.
PERHAPS it was only at this time, that she became fully sensible of her
danger; the flattery and dissimulation of _Martin_ might have banished
the idea of detection, and glossed over that of criminality; but now she
awoke from her dream of insensibility, she was like one who had been
deluded by an _ignis fatuus_ to the brink of a precipice, and there
abandoned to his reflection to contemplate the horrours of the sea
beneath him, into which he was about to plunge.
WHETHER from the promises of _Martin_, or the flattery of her own fancy,
is unknown, but it is said she expected to become his wife, and made use
of many expedients to obtain a divorcement of _Martin_ from her sister:
But this is the breath of rumour: Allowing it to be truth, it appears to
be the last attempt of despair; for such unnatural exertions, with the
compunction attending them, represent a gloomy picture of the struggle
between sisterly affection and declining honour. They however proved
inavailable, and her efforts to that end, may with propriety be deemed a
wretched subterfuge.
IN the mean while the rage of _Shepherd_ was augmenting. Time, instead
of allaying, kindled the flame of revenge in the breast of the old man.
A sense of the wounded honour of his family, became every day more
exquisite; he resolved to call a meeting of the parties, in which the
whole mystery should be developed—that _Ophelia_ should confront her
seducer, and a thorough enquiry and explication be brought about.
OPHELIA exercised all her powers to prevent it; she intreated her father
to consent to her desire, but her tears and entreaties were vain. To
this earnest desire of his daughter, _Shepherd_ opposed the honour of
his family. She replied that a procedure would publish its disgrace and
be subversive of his intention: That she hoped to live retired from the
world, and it was in his power to accept her happy repentance: In
extenuating, she wished not to vindicate her errours, but declared
herself to be penetrated with a melancholy sense of her misconduct, and
hoped her penitence might expiate her guilt: She now beheld the sin in
the most glaring colours, the dangers to which she had been exposed, and
acknowledged the effects of her temerity had impressed her mind with
sincere contrition: “All persons,” continued she, “are not blest with
the like happiness of resisting temptation:” she intreated her father,
therefore, to believe her misfortunes proceeded from credulity and not
from an abandoned principle—that they arose more from situation than a
depraved heart: In asking to be restored to the favour and protection of
a parent, she protested she was not influenced by any other motive, than
a wish to demonstrate the sincerity of her repentance, and to establish
the peace and harmony of the family.
OPHELIA now became melancholy, and her intentions visibly bent on the
_manner of her death_. As the time drew nigh, her sensibility became
more and more exquisite: What was before distress, she now averred to be
horrour: Her conduct bordered on insanity.
THE day was appointed to bring to a settlement this unhappy business—the
time of hearing arrived—the parties met—the presence of _Ophelia_ was
necessary—she was missing—the unfortunate _Ophelia_ died by her own
hand.
MRS. _Shepherd_ entered the apartment of her daughter—she beheld her
pale and trembling—she saw the vial, and the cup with the remains of the
poison—she embraced her lost—“_My Ophelia!_ my daughter! return—return
to life.”
AT this crisis entered the father—he was mute—he beheld his daughter
struggling with the pangs of dissolution—he was dumb with grief and
astonishment.
THE dying _Ophelia_ was conscious of the distress of her parents, and of
her own situation—she clasped her mother’s hand, and raising her eye to
heaven, was only heard to articulate “LET MY CRIME BE FORGOTTEN WITH MY
NAME.—O FATAL! FATAL POISON!”
ADIEU! my dear _Myra_—this unhappy affair has worked me to a fit of
melancholy. I can write no more. I will give you a few particulars in my
next. It is impossible to behold the effect of this horrid catastrophe
and not be impressed with feelings of sympathetick sorrow: