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The power of sympathy: or, The triumph of nature. Founded in truth. cover

The power of sympathy: or, The triumph of nature. Founded in truth.

Chapter 30: LETTER XXVII.
By William Hill Brown
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About This Book

An epistolary novel recounts a series of letters that expose a courtship and a concealed seduction whose revelation brings shame, illness, and familial ruin, used to dramatize the moral dangers of reckless passion. Through careful narration and moral commentary, the correspondence traces how social conventions, personal weakness, and misplaced sympathy produce personal and domestic catastrophe while urging prudence, female self-respect, and the restorative force of nature and truth. Written in a sentimental, didactic mode, the work blends realistic social observation with moral exhortation and is structured to instruct readers about the consequences of seduction and the virtues of restraint.

LETTER XXVII.

Worthy to Myra.

Belleview.

I AM just returned from a melancholy excursion with Eliza. I will give you the history of it—We generally walk out together, but we this time went further than usual—The morning was calm and serene—all Nature was flourishing, and its universal harmony conspired to deceive us in the length of the way.

WHILE we were pursuing our walk, our ears were struck with a plaintive, musical voice, singing a melancholy tune.—“This,” said Mrs. Holmes, “must be Fidelia—the poor distracted girl was carried off by a ruffian a few days before her intended marriage, and her lover, in despair, threw himself into the river,”—Eliza could say no more—for Fidelia resumed her melancholy strain in the following words:—

TALL rose the lily’s slender frame,
It shed a glad perfume;
But ah! the cruel spoiler came,
And nipt its opening bloom.
Curse on the cruel spoiler’s hand
That stole thy bloom and fled—
Curse on his hand—for thy true love
Is number’d with the dead.
Poor maiden! like the lily frail,
’Twas all in vain you strove;
You heard the stranger’s tender tale—
But where was thy true love?
Thou wast unkind and false to him,
But he did constant prove;
He plung’d headlong in the stream—
Farewel, farewel, my love!
’Twas where the river rolls along,
The youth all trembling stood,
Opprest with grief—he cast himself
Amidst the cruel flood.
White o’er his head the billows foam,
And circling eddies move;
Ah! there he finds a watery tomb—
Farewel, farewel, my love!

WE advanced towards the place from where the sound issued, and Fidelia, who heard our approach, immediately rose from the ground; “I was tired,” said she, “and sat down here to rest myself.”

SHE was dressed in a long white robe, tied about the waist with a pink ribband; her fine brown hair flowed loosely round her shoulders—In her hand she held a number of wild flowers and weeds, which she had been gathering. “These,” she cried, “are to make a nosegay for my love.” “He hath no occasion for it,” said Eliza. “Yes! where he lives,” cried Fidelia, “there are plenty—and flowers that never fade too—I will throw them into the river, and they will swim to him—they will go straight to him”—“And what will he do with them?” I asked; “O!” said the poor girl as she looked wistfully on them, and sorted them in her hand, “he loves everything that comes from me—he told me so”—“He will be happy to receive them,” cried Eliza. “Where he is,” said Fidelia, “is happiness—and happy are the flowers that bloom there—and happy shall I be, when I go to him—alas! I am very ill now”—“He will love you again,” said Eliza, “when you find him out”—“O he was very kind,” cried she, tenderly, “he delighted to walk with me over all these fields—but now, I am obliged to walk alone.” Fidelia drew her hand across her cheek, and we wept with her.—“I must go,” she said, “I must go,” and turned abruptly from us, and left us with great precipitation.

Farewel!