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. “SHE hears the fate of her lover and becomes petrified—the idea of her sorrows—her own agitation and care for her person, are lost in the reflection of her lover’s death.—A while she raved—but this is now somewhat restored, and, as you see, the poor maniack strays about the fields harmless and inoffensive.” THE old man proceeded to inform me of the death of his wife—the idea of one misfortune aroused in him that of another—or rather there was a gradual progression in them, and consequently a connexion—He told me she did not long survive the death of _Henry_. “O _Charlotte!_” he cried, “thou wast kind and cheerful—very pleasant hast thou been unto me. I will not cease to regret thy loss, till I meet thee in a better world.” “OUR hearts,” continued the old man, addressing me, “are loosened from their attachment to this world by repeated strokes of misfortune. Wisely is it ordered thus. Every calamity severs a string from the heart—until one scene of sorrow on the back of another matures us for eternity—Thus are our affections estranged from this scene of misery. The cord that detains the bird is severed in two—and it flies away. “FORMERLY as I sat in this place—in the mild shade 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 happiness I enjoyed, and implored His power to make my child such another as _Charlotte_—This sweet remembrance yet swells and agitates my heart, and in the midst of the distress which surrounds me, I feel a consolation in tracing to you a feeble sketch of the happy times that are passed.” THE old man was sensibly affected—he delighted to dwell on what his child had been—he thought of those times—and he sighed when he contrasted them with the present.