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:
LETTER XXII.
Harriot to Myra.
Rhodeisland.
HOW frail is the heart! How dim is human foresight! We behold the gilded bait of temptation, and know not until taught by experience, that the admission of one errour is but the introduction of calamity. One mistake imperceptibly leads to another—but the consequences of the whole bursting suddenly on the devoted head of an unfortunate wanderer, becomes intolerable.