LETTER XXVIII.

WorthytoMyra.

Belleview.

MY melancholy meditations led me yesterday to the same place where I had seen the distractedFidelia, 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!” saidhe, “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,Fideliawas always the partner ofHenry—as they grew up their mutual tenderness ripened into passionate affection. They were engaged to each other, andHenrysaved 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 theywould 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 deprivedFideliaof her senses, and caused the death of her lover.

“THE gayWilliamscomes among us, and participates in our domestick pastimes—he singles outFidelia, and is assiduous in his attentions to her—her little heart is lifted up—but her prudence rises superior to her vanity.Henryobserves the operations ofWilliamsand 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 hisFidelia.—To complete the measure of his promised happiness he wishes to call her his own—he declares the desire of his soul-Fideliapledges 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 theSeducerdashes the cup of joy from their lips—Fideliasuddenly disappears—Williams—the ungratefulWilliams—betrays her to a carriage he had prepared, and she is hurried off.Henrystands 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 hischeek—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—Williamsis 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 herHenry—alas!Henryis 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, andurged forward by the torments of disappointed love, he plunges into the river—to close his sorrows with his life.

“THE loss ofFidelia’ssenses 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—Hetold me she did not long survive the death ofHenry. “OCharlotte!” 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 tookFideliaon my knee, how often have I rendered thanksto Heaven for the happiness I enjoyed, and implored His power to make my child such another asCharlotte—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 returnsme 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 towardsBelleview, I had leisure to animadvert on the fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.

Adieu!

End of Vol. I.

The Power of Sympathy.VOL. II.

The Power of Sympathy.

VOL. II.

Edited by Walter Littlefield.THE POWER OF SYMPATHY:or, the Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth.BYMRS. PEREZ MORTON(SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP).With Frontispiece.

Edited by Walter Littlefield.

THE POWER OF SYMPATHY:

or, the Triumph of Nature. Founded in Truth.

MRS. PEREZ MORTON

(SARAH WENTWORTH APTHORP).

With Frontispiece.

BOSTON: PRINTED·by·CUPPLES& PATTERSON·and·PUBLISHEDBY·THEM·at·THE·BACKBAY·BOOKSTORE·250·BOYLSTON·STREET

BOSTON: PRINTED·by·CUPPLES

& PATTERSON·and·PUBLISHED

BY·THEM·at·THE·BACK

BAY·BOOKSTORE·250·BOYLSTON·STREET

ByWalter Littlefield.

THEPOWEROFSYMPATHY:OR, THETRIUMPHOFNATURE.FOUNDEDINTRUTH.INTWOVOLUMES.VOL. II.

THE

POWEROFSYMPATHY:

OR, THE

TRIUMPHOFNATURE.

FOUNDEDINTRUTH.

INTWOVOLUMES.

VOL. II.

Fain would he strew Life’s thorny Way with Flowers,And open to your View Elysian Bowers;Catch the warm Passions of the tender Youth,And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth.

Fain would he strew Life’s thorny Way with Flowers,

And open to your View Elysian Bowers;

Catch the warm Passions of the tender Youth,

And win the Mind to Sentiment and Truth.

PRINTED atBOSTONby ISAIAH THOMAS and Company.Sold at their Bookstore, No. 45,Newbury Street,And at saidThomas’s Bookstore inWorcester.MDCCLXXXIX.

PRINTED atBOSTON

by ISAIAH THOMAS and Company.

Sold at their Bookstore, No. 45,Newbury Street,

And at saidThomas’s Bookstore inWorcester.

MDCCLXXXIX.

The Power of Sympathy.

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