Farewel!
LETTER XXVIII.
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.