OPHELIA exercised all her powers to prevent it; she intreated her father to consent to her desire, but her tears and entreaties were vain. To this earnest desire of his daughter, _Shepherd_ opposed the honour of his family. She replied that a procedure would publish its disgrace and be subversive of his intention: That she hoped to live retired from the world, and it was in his power to accept her happy repentance: In extenuating, she wished not to vindicate her errours, but declared herself to be penetrated with a melancholy sense of her misconduct, and hoped her penitence might expiate her guilt: She now beheld the sin in the most glaring colours, the dangers to which she had been exposed, and acknowledged the effects of her temerity had impressed her mind with sincere contrition: “All persons,” continued she, “are not blest with the like happiness of resisting temptation:” she intreated her father, therefore, to believe her misfortunes proceeded from credulity and not from an abandoned principle—that they arose more from situation than a depraved heart: In asking to be restored to the favour and protection of a parent, she protested she was not influenced by any other motive, than a wish to demonstrate the sincerity of her repentance, and to establish the peace and harmony of the family. 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._