_Worthy_ to _Myra_.
_Belleview._
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 farmhouse. An old man was sitting at the
door—he gave a sigh as she passed 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 enquired 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 tenderness 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 characters, 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 deprived _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 assiduous in his attentions to
her—her little heart is lifted up—but her prudence rises superior to her
vanity. _Henry_ observes the operations of _Williams_ and thinks he sees
in him a powerful rival—the unhappy youth becomes melancholy—he sickens
with jealousy—the pleasures of our country are forgotten by him—his
thoughts are constantly 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 sees
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 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 fate of her lover and becomes petrified—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 this is now
somewhat restored, and, as you see, the poor maniack strays about the
fields harmless and inoffensive.”
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 flies 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 passed.”
THE old man was sensibly affected—he delighted to dwell on what his
child had been—he thought of those times—and he sighed 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 flies 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 decrepit—to her I call, but she returns me no answer.
Is not the cause of my woes, 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 deadened with her affliction, and the
accumulated misfortune of immature decrepitude.”
“SEDUCTION is a crime,” I observed, “that nothing can be said to
palliate or excuse.”
“AND WOE 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 distress—and as I bent my
pensive step towards _Belleview_, I had leisure to animadvert on the
fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.
Adieu!