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My melancholy meditations led
me ye&longs;terday to the &longs;ame place where I had
&longs;een the di&longs;tracted Fidelia, and walking down
the hill I again beheld her by the &longs;ide of a
beautiful &longs;pring—Before I could come up to
the place, &longs;he was gone—&longs;he went ha&longs;tily
over the field—I followed her—after a few
minutes walk, I overtook her, and we both
went on together towards a &longs;mall, neat, farm
hou&longs;e. An old man was &longs;itting at the door—
he gave a &longs;igh as &longs;he pa&longs;&longs;ed by him to go
in—I a&longs;ked him if &longs;he was his daughter—
“Alas!” &longs;aid he, “my poor child—&longs;he has
been in this &longs;tate of affliction for near a twelve

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month.” I inquired what cau&longs;e produced
the lo&longs;s of her &longs;en&longs;es—He looked down sorrowfully—
the que&longs;tion awakened the gloomy
&longs;en&longs;ations of pa&longs;t evils, the recollection of
which was painful, and opened wounds afre&longs;h
that were not yet healed. “She has lo&longs;t
her lover,” cried the old man—“the youth
was the &longs;on 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 tendernefs ripened into pa&longs;&longs;ionate
affection. They were engaged to each
other, and Henry &longs;aved all his little &longs;tock of
money to begin the world by him&longs;elf. All
the town beheld them with plea&longs;ure—they
wi&longs;hed them &longs;ucce&longs;s and happine&longs;s—and

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from their knowledge of both their charac-ters,
were led to hope they would one day
become good members of &longs;ociety—but the&longs;e
hopes are bla&longs;ted, and they now be&longs;tow the
bittere&longs;t cur&longs;es on the wretch who hath
cru&longs;hed their expectations—who hath de-prived
Fidelia of her &longs;en&longs;es, and cau&longs;ed the
death of her lover.

“THE gay Williams comes among us, and
participates in our dome&longs;tick pa&longs;times—he
&longs;ingles out Fidelia, and is affiduous in his at-tentions
to her—her little heart is lifted up—
but her prudence ri&longs;es &longs;uperiour to her
vanity. Henry ob&longs;erves the operations of
Williams and thinks he &longs;ees in him a power-ful
rival—the unhappy youth becomes me-lancholy—
he &longs;ickens with jealou&longs;y—the

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plea&longs;ures of our country are forgotten by
him—his thoughts are continually employed
on his Fidelia.—To complete the measure
of his promi&longs;ed happine&longs;s he wi&longs;hes to call
her his own—he declares the de&longs;ire of his
&longs;oul—Fidelia pledges her faith. He now
fees the accompli&longs;hment of all his wi&longs;hes in
rever&longs;ion—his heart leaps for joy—but—as
the little paraphernalia is preparing, the ruffian
hand of the Seducer da&longs;hes the cup of joy
from their lips—Fidelia &longs;uddenly di&longs;appears—
Williams—the ungrateful Williams—betrays
her to a carriage he had prepared, and
&longs;he is hurried off. Henry &longs;tands a&longs;toni&longs;hed—
wild with grief and di&longs;may, he appears
&longs;en&longs;ele&longs;s and confounded.

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“WHEN the heart is elevated by &longs;trong
expectation—di&longs;appointment and misfortune
come with redoubled force—To receive
pain, when we look for plea&longs;ure, penetrates
the very &longs;oul with accumulated anguish.”

THE old man pau&longs;ed—He endeavoured
to hide a tear that was &longs;tealing down his
cheek—and to check the violence of his passion.

I ASKED him how long his daughter was
mi&longs;&longs;ing—“Not long,” he an&longs;wered—“the
young men, enraged at the in&longs;ult, arm
them&longs;elves and pur&longs;ue the robber—they
overtake him—Williams is wounded in the
&longs;cuffle, and is carried away bleeding, by his
&longs;ervant—My daughter is regained—we

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thank Heaven for her re&longs;toration. She enquires
for her Henry—alas! Henry is no
more! The object of his love had flown from
him, and with her, all the light of his &longs;oul—
Darkne&longs;s and grief had encompa&longs;&longs;ed him—
he had no re&longs;ource, no con&longs;olation, no hope—
&longs;he whom his &longs;oul loved was &longs;tolen—was
wre&longs;ted from his embrace. Who was there
to admini&longs;ter relief?—Who was there to
&longs;upply her lo&longs;s?—Not one.—The light of
his rea&longs;on now became clouded—he is seized
by de&longs;pair, and urged forward by the torments
of di&longs;appointed love, he plunges into
the river—to clo&longs;e his &longs;orrows with his
life.

“THE lo&longs;s of Fidelia's &longs;en&longs;es followed this
tragical event.

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“SHE hears the &longs;ate of her lover and becomes
petri&longs;ied—the idea of her &longs;orrows—
her own agitation and care for her per&longs;on,
are lo&longs;t in the reflection of her lover's death.—
A while &longs;he raved—but is now &longs;omewhat
re&longs;tored, and, as you &longs;ee,the poor maniack
&longs;trays about the fields harmle&longs;s and inoffenfive.”

THE old man proceeded to inform me of
the death of his wife—the idea of one misfortune
arou&longs;ed in him that of another—or
rather there was a gradual progre&longs;&longs;ion in
them, and con&longs;equently a connexion—He
told me &longs;he did not long &longs;urvive the death
of Henry. “O Charlotte!” he cried, “thou
wa&longs;t kind and cheerful—very plea&longs;ant ha&longs;t
thou been unto me. I will not cea&longs;e to

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regret thy lo&longs;s, till I meet thee in a better
world.”

“OUR hearts,” continued the old man,
addre&longs;&longs;ing me, “are loo&longs;ened from their attachment
to this world by repeated &longs;trokes
of misfortune. Wi&longs;ely is it ordered thus.
Every calamity &longs;evers a &longs;tring from the
heart—until one &longs;cene of &longs;orrow on the back
of another, matures us for eternity—Thus
are our affections e&longs;tranged from this &longs;cene
of mi&longs;ery. The cord that detains the bird
is &longs;evered in two—and it &longs;lies away.

“FORMERLY as I &longs;at in this place—in
the mild &longs;hade 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 happine&longs;s I enjoyed, and

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implored his power to make my child &longs;uch
another as Charlotte—This &longs;weet remembrance
yet &longs;wells and agitates my heart, and
in the mid&longs;t of the di&longs;tre&longs;s which &longs;urrounds
me, I feel a con&longs;olation in tracing to you a feeble
&longs;ketch of the happy times that are pasted.”

THE old man was &longs;en&longs;ibly affected—he
delighted to dwell on what his child had
been—he thought of tho&longs;e times—and he
fighed when he contra&longs;ted them with the
pre&longs;ent.

“IN her di&longs;ordered &longs;tate,” continued he,
“&longs;he knows me not as a father—I &longs;pread my
mor&longs;el before her, and &longs;he &longs;lies from it—&longs;he
forgets the &longs;ound of my voice—&longs;he is no
longer unto me as a daughter. She who

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hath &longs;o often &longs;aid, &longs;he would &longs;upport me
with her arm, and lead me about, when I
&longs;hould be old and decriped—to her I call,
but &longs;he returns me no an&longs;wer. Is not the
cau&longs;e of my woe, a melancholy in&longs;tance of
the baleful art of the SEDUCER?—She is
deprived of her rea&longs;on, and knows not the
weight of her mi&longs;ery; and I am doubly
burdened with her affliction, and the accumulated
misfortune of immature decripitude.”

“SEDUCTION is a crime,” I ob&longs;erved,
“that nothing can be &longs;aid to palliate or
excu&longs;e.”

“AND wo to him,” added the old man,
“who &longs;hall endeavour to extenuate it—
They have taken away my &longs;taff”—continued

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he, rai&longs;ing a look of imploring mercy to Heaven,
while a trembling tear rolled from his
&longs;wollen eye, “They have taken away my &longs;taff
in my old age.”

FREELY did my heart &longs;hare in the sorrows
of the good old man—when I left him,
I prayed Heaven to compa&longs;&longs;ionate his diftress—
and as I bent my pen&longs;ive &longs;tep towards
Belleview, I had lei&longs;ure to animadvert on the
fatal tendency of SEDUCTION.

Adies!